[hr][hr][center][color=ed1c24][b]Andrew // Graves[/b][/color]
[color=598527][sub][b]LOCALE[/b] // Outskirts of the Dungeon
[b]TIME[/b] // Afternoon[/sub][/color][/center][hr][hr]

Graves T. Bludd had never been lauded for being of good report. He had a reputation among anyone that had run into him for being crude, crass and volatile. The man had made more than one sexually charged joke in his time playing Pariah. He found it humorous to watch other people squirm, and it tended to be an effective means of making people with good intentions avoid him- after all, who'd want to spend time with a creep? His strategy of making himself as rude and unapproachable as humanly possible worked with most players. Graves's attitude was widely considered as toxic beyond repair. Only a select few tolerated his bullshit behavior, and the number of people whom did it in any way Bludd appreciated was even smaller. Elian was a good example of running with how he acted in the right manner. She carried on just long enough for the interaction to not grow tiresome, and the dancer rarely moved into territories Andrew was uncomfortable with. However, it was quite easy to play around with Graves incorrectly. He turned on people quickly, having no qualms showing hostility toward someone for one misinterpreted joke or side comment. The Blood Knight's explosive anger was a defining trait that he had little control over.

Mirage's innocent enough jest hit all of his buttons just in the wrong way. She suggested that the two of them had some kind of deeper connection in the past as lovers. That was her first mistake. It went against every barrier he had ever tried to put up. In a handful of words, the ranger had managed to bring his whole persona under questioning by everyone else- he'd [i]have[/i] to do something drastic to reset the scales. He couldn't have people thinking there was any truth to that statement. Her second, more grievous mistake was painting him as inadequate. Andrew Gray's self esteem had always been fragile. He tended to keep it protected through a false devil-may-care attitude. After all, if he pretended to be cool and strong and brave for long enough, everyone else might start to see him as those things. To have his ego put under the microscope by a total stranger made the warrior's skin crawl. Compound both of these together with the normal pre-dungeon stress that weighed on the tank, Mirage had unknowingly created the perfect storm for pissing the tall man the hell off.

The Blood Knight slowed to a halt. He closed his eyes, taking a handful of deep breaths in an attempt to keep his anger under control. The halberd found itself stabbed deep into the soft earth, top half first. He started to remove his steel gauntlets, tossing the metal vambraces to the ground alongside his large weapon. [i]Look pissed off.[/i] He mentally prepared himself. He had to play up how easily enraged he was. Andrew, while a hot head by nature, was not nearly as explosive as Graves showed himself to be. Everything was apart of a clever, almost subconscious attempt to be someone he was not. In a way, Andrew was playing a character. He didn't think of it as Roleplaying, but it was quite clear in his mind that Graves and Andrew were two different personas he swapped between whenever he played Pariah. It was funny. He could be himself in real life because he never had to drive unwanted attention away. Nobody in his bumfuck, backwards town cared about him. Even his parents were distant. He'd never say it, but...honestly? He liked having to fight off people's attention. In some twisted way, Andrew didn't actually want to be alone.

The huge crimson fighter turned around to face the group at large. His intense gaze locked onto the woman's. One could tell a lot about someone by looking into their eyes. And looking into Graves' eyes was like staring into the sun. They burned with an intense passion, fueled by unquenchable anger, as they directed themselves toward her own gaze. He stepped forward, his face contorting with indignation. [color=ed1c24]"Liar!"[/color] The fury in the tank's voice was unmistakably. It thundered, loud and deep, directly from his very soul.[color=ed1c24] "I don't even know you, you little fucking whore!"[/color] Graves reeled his arm back in the most telegraphed punch ever thrown. Anyone with even an ounce of combat experience could have seen it coming and reacted accordingly. It was an impossibly sluggish movement. Even as he rocketed his fist forward, one might swear they could see it aimed [i]past[/i] his target's head. His footwork was all wrong, too. There wasn't any twist of momentum in the blow, so it lacked a significant amount of force behind it. It was all a finely crafted act. The anger, the incompetence, all of it- an attempt to show everyone that he was an asshole and a monster that no one in their right mind would want to associate with.