Minali.

A city of glitz and glamour; festivity and fanfare.

Here denizens from every direction have flocked in a congestion of chattering cacophony to enjoy the solstice with all manner of trinkets, culinary delights and its hallmark combat tournament; the metropolis as much a melting pot of nationalities and fashions as the bubbling stews perfuming the humid, grill-smoked air with appetizing aroma. Hypnotic electric signs both plainly lettered and intricately designed beckon those with burning pockets toward their vice of choice as the myriad merchants await happily to accept their credit card swipes and stack coin.

However the heart of Minali beats to a different drum; its massive stadium packed shoulder-to-shoulder almost shaking to the indiscernible ruckus of its occupants as musicians pound to a steady pulse. Soon the trumpets join triumphantly to declare formal beginning of the event; the sudden hush of spectators is filled with metallic medley of cymbals and chimes to craft a charming concerto complete with the crowd's roaring cheer. Only when its deafening din dims do the speakers shout with a man's sensational speech.

[b]"Welcome one and all to Great Tournament V, Minali's fifth annual contest featuring the galaxy's greatest as they fight for pride, glory more riches than most will spend in a lifetime!"[/b]

The crowds comes alive like animals famished for flesh and blood before falling quiet once more.

[b]"First up, we have a lady by the name of Hisame Atsukawa of Earth; a newcomer from a planet well-known for its ability to wage war! Let's hear it for her!"[/b]

Like puppets they cheer on command and await entry along an electric guitar's welcoming riff; a wicked shred slowly sliced into silence by a terrible grinding shrill from the arena's ingress. 

The nail-on-chalkboard screech drowns all other sounds as the woman enters view: an Oriental dame of elegant royal purple kimono whose long black locks frame her fetching face as the rest splits her back in a tied tail; the shriek's source seems to be the rusty, unkept katana she drags openly by the violet cordage of its unwrapped hilt while it carves a line into the ground; muted sandaled steps carry straight gait and her somber charcoal stare appears infatuated with but listless upon the polished titanium flooring; the indifferent line of her lips match the apathy she adorns like a melancholic mask.

She is the antithesis of celebration and soon takes center stage; a sore thumb whose dress cannot be more unlike the modernized wardrobe has long made hers antique. Hisame not so much as lifts her head when she stops at an appropriate place further down the will-be battlefield and her halt likewise shuts her sword up; soon the immediate, angry mutterings at her impromptu eardrum incision also slip away to renewed guitar and the announcer's return.

[b]"That sure was a noisy entrance; let's see if her opponent is as reluctant to keep quiet! Without further ado..."[/b]

So Hisame awaits adversarial arrival; mayhap the one to at long last bestow her most coveted but elusive desire.