[color=gray][center][img]https://i.imgur.com/AS2MEph.png[/img]

[color=gold]Time:[/color] Evening, Ignis 2
[color=gold]Location:[/color] Tough Tavern
[center][youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wtz8GNEyI68&list=RDWtz8GNEyI68&start_radio=1[/youtube][/center]
[sub][@Tae][@CitrusArms][@Potter][@Lava Alckon][@Samreaper][@Tpartywithzombi][@ReusableSword][/sub]
[img]https://i.imgur.com/PsKHmMI.png[/img]
[color=#997657][h1]₱₳Ɽ₮ 4 - ₮ⱧɆ ĐⱤł₦₭ł₦₲ ₲₳₥Ɇ[/h1][/color]
[img]https://i.imgur.com/4YhzjaR.png[/img]
[img]https://i.imgur.com/PsKHmMI.png[/img]
[color=#997657][h1]ⱤØɄ₦Đ ₮₩Ø
[/h1][/color][/center]

Garran lifted his hand. [color=#997657]“Alright,”[/color] he said calmly. [color=#997657]“Round two.”[/color] 

His eyes flicked once to the still-smoking brand on Drake’s back, then returned to the table, lingering only long enough to watch the looter step in front of the stairs.

[color=#997657]“Same rules,”[/color] Garran continued. [color=#997657]“Faster this time. No pauses. No mercy for mistakes.”[/color]

He nodded toward the hearth.

The poker slid back into the coals with a hiss.

[color=#997657]“Tankards up.”[/color]

Ariella glanced down at the stein as the table and glass seemed to move like a wave of the ocean. Her eyes slowly blinking then opened as she attempted to focus, but it was no use.

Just before they began, Marius’s giggling stole the room’s attention. Some had already noticed him snickering through the first round—barely holding it in.

His pupils were wide. A soft, childish delight warmed his chest as his eyes stayed fixed on Kalliope.

He drifted close enough that she could catch his sour breath and set his blood-smeared fingertips on the bar with a wet, casual tap.

[color=#99546F]“Mm.”[/color] The sound was small—almost appreciative. His gaze moved over her patiently: hands, throat, eyes. Then his mouth curved, faintly.

[color=#99546F]“You spoke before as if you’re untouchable.”[/color] He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

[color=#99546F]“That’s sweet,”[/color] he murmured, as if confiding in an old friend. [color=#99546F]“Makes it easier to pick the moment you finally understand you’re not.”[/color]

His eyes drifted past her shoulder—to the table, to Drake bound at the post, to the trembling barmaid, to the men watching with their hands flat—then returned to Kalliope with a wretched smile.

[color=#99546F]“Garran,”[/color] he said softly, polite as anything, [color=#99546F]“let me have the ones who fail.”[/color] A pause followed his words—just long enough for the room to imagine what that meant.

[color=#99546F]“Not now,”[/color] he added, almost thoughtful. [color=#99546F]“Later. When they’re tired.”[/color]

His gaze dipped, briefly, to Kalliope’s hands.[color=#99546F]“And her,”[/color] he finished, [i][color=#99546F]“She’s mine.”[/color][/i]

Then Marius stepped back, letting the razor chain sway once as he turned away, as if she’d already been handled.

Garran’s expression didn’t change. He simply nodded to Ox—who raised his hand, and the room drank.

Ari’s heart was a drum in her chest, hammering faster with every scream, every cruel strike that echoed from Drake through the bar. Her eyes shifted to Charlotte as she struggled, knowing what was coming next as her own hand trembled, attempting to lift her glass.

Charlotte was the first to raise her tankard, her hand shaking as she lifted it. The panic from the last round still sat heavy in her chest, her breathing uneven, no matter how she tried to steady herself. She drank anyway, driven by desperation not to fail Drake again.

But even the first swallow went wrong. She spluttered, coughing as foam spilled over the rim, and instead of stopping, she forced herself to keep going, tilting the tankard higher in a frantic attempt to make it work, but her throat locked.

She lurched forward as she started choking suddenly, and the chair tipped beneath her. Then she collapsed off the chair, palms on the floor, the tankard clattering away. Charlotte clawed at the ground, chest convulsing, tears streaming as she gasped uselessly for air that wouldn’t come.

Laughter blurred around her, her world narrowing to nothing but the desperate need to breathe. 

Ari’s heart dropped into her stomach as her glassy eyes shot to Drake, the color disappearing from her face.

Drake softly mouthed a single word as he watched her fumble. [color=greenyellow]”No…”[/color] 

He had watched with horror as rough hands had suddenly seized the back of Charlotte’s dress and yanked her upright as Winston hauled her hard like dead weight. The sudden movement made the room spin violently; bile surged up her chest before she could stop it.

She deliberately managed to turn her head before she retched—it splattered across Winston’s face and chest, right into his eyes. For a brief moment, despite herself, the corners of her lips twitched upward at the sound of his furious roar. 

Immediately, blinded and still roaring, he grabbed her by the hair and drove her forward. Then he smashed her head into the tabletop.

The impact broke through the noise of the tavern.

Across the table, even while she continued her chug, golden light glinted in Stratya’s eyes, her gaze straining to track Winston as her head tilted back with her drink.

[color=greenyellow]”Hey! Such manners are not-GAH!”[/color] Drake’s protest was cut short by the heat of the poker riding against his skin. As the tool pierced and threatened to break the first layer, he was reminded that these games—these “rules”—are all a farce. An excuse to do wicked against the kinder people of the world.

He looked at Charlotte’s head as it came back up from the impact, making a note of Winston’s outlandish strike against a lady. Each sin they committed, another strike in Edwards' mental book of judgment. 

A sharp sensation split his posture, as flesh gave way to metal, trickles of blood seeped into Drake’s clothes. Burning pains were mixed with stings unlike anything he had experienced as the spike slipped and took more than the man bargained for. Drake’s binds pushed against the pillar—his back arching in protest to the new wound. 

[color=greenyellow]“Are you just resorting to stabbing me now? Is burning me not enough?”[/color] In a snide rebuttal, the man simply pushed the hot metal into the wound as Drake shouted in pain. “Just shut the hell up you whiney lil git.” 

Dropping her glass, Ari barreled through the chaos, her bare feet slipping over spilled ale and shattered glass, cutting up her skin as she trailed blood behind her. Her fiery hair whipping wildly as she weaved her way with unsteady movements towards her brother.

There he was, Drake, tied to the chair, bruised, bleeding, and utterly exposed to the cruelty of these men. The sight made something inside her snap as the man pressed the metal into his wound. 

[color=slateblue]“No.[b][i]No!”[/i][/b][/color] she hissed, tears stinging her eyes. Without thinking, she threw herself at Drake, wrapping her arms tightly around his chest, catching the man off guard, so that he stumbled just enough. 

Her body pressed against Drake’s, shielding him from them, every ounce of her strength focused on keeping him safe. The blood from his wound stained her dress and hair as she held onto him for dear life.  Her forehead buried in the crook of his neck, her hands clenched around his broad shoulders as if sheer force could stop the torment.

She whispered, low and trembling, words meant only for him, barely audible over the din of chaos. Through her muffled, drunk whimpers and tears, knowing everything was about to change. 

[color=slateblue]“I’m sorry…I love you…” [/color]

The following words came to her with ease, as if she always knew them. As if they were always there just waiting to be said…

[color=slateblue]“Mentis Fulgur.”[/color]

[i]Silence followed.[/i]

The syllables slipped from her lips like sparks igniting a storm. The bar went silent for the briefest heartbeat, a vacuum that sucked all sound into the sudden stillness. And then the air tore.

A wave of telekinetic energy burst outward from Ari, concentrated, fierce, and wild. Chairs flew, tables splintered, and some of the attackers were hurled back like rag dolls. Nearby patrons got thrown out of their chairs, screaming in surprise.  Wine tankards smashed midair; screams of surprise and pain reverberated off the walls. Every thought and focus of her enemies scattered, disoriented by the sheer force of her power.

And Ari… collapsed.

Her tiny frame went limp, her body falling slowly at first as her grip on him loosened. She finally crumbled against Drake’s feet, her limbs slack as exhaustion claimed her. Her hair spilled over the floor, like a pool of molten red that spread across the ground. 

The power she had unleashed lingered like an echo in the air. The bar was wrecked, attackers were bruised and dazed. And in the center of it all was Ari, collapsed along the floor in front of her brother.

The second Ariella’s words had left her mouth, Garran had felt the air change—and then the force hit him full in the chest. It ripped the ground out from under him; his boots slipped, and he was thrown backward, shoulder and spine jarring against the boards as the breath was punched out of him in one hit. For the moment, he lay there stunned, ears ringing, watching the ceiling beams wobble above him while chairs scraped and something shattered nearby. 

Ox took the blast too—his boots skidding out, his balance breaking for the first time all night. His huge mass went lurching backward in a stagger as he tried to plant himself and hold, but the slick floorboards betrayed him, and he slammed back into the pillar. 

The very same pillar Marius had already claimed as his.

The moment the air snapped outward from Ariella, Marius had reacted upon hearing her words the way a dock rat does when the tide yanks at him: not by fighting the pull, but by grabbing something. The razor was already in his hand, and he drove it fast into the post near his stool with a solid thunk, burying steel deep into the wood. The chain followed immediately—slicking around the pillar in a quick loop, links rattling as he hooked it fast, using the weight of that embedded blade as an anchor point. The blast still hit him; it slammed into his ribs and shoulders and tried to peel him off the floor anyway, boots sliding, coat snapping, his body yanked taut against the chain. Marius clung there with both hands like a delighted parasite, and he laughed—tipped his head back against the pillar and let out another chuckle like being nearly blown off his feet was the funniest joke in the world.

And Ox recovered fast—too big to stay down. He shook it off with a roll of his shoulders as he hauled himself upright again, legs braced wide, jaw set, eyes snapping back toward Ariella and Drake. 

Behind the bar, Moira had slammed hard into the shelves, while Maelen had dropped low, ducking under the counter with her hands over her head.

Then there was Merrill—his scream climbing, cracking, turning animal as he thrashed inside the hearth while the fire ate away at his flesh. 

He’d been unlucky enough to be thrown straight into it, his head clipping the stone hard enough to knock the breath right out of him, and in that same instant, the flames climbed his chest and shoulders like they’d been waiting. He tried to scramble out on instinct, palms skidding, elbows jerking, but every movement only dragged him through more heat. The tavern erupted into horrified screams as people bore witness to his agony; they saw his skin blister and char, his face becoming a gruesome, raw red under the peeling burn, his pupils blown wide with pure, helpless agony. And then the smell hit—burning cloth, burning hair, that sickening sweet reek of someone being cooked alive—it was so thick it felt like it slapped the whole room. Patrons gagged, eyes watering, throats closing up. The room felt suddenly smaller.

[hr]

[center][youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rsz9_y2QKNw&list=RDX55hMiDQbfA&index=11[/youtube][/center]

By the time the smell reached her, Stratya was already in motion. When Ariella had gotten up to run to her brother, Captain Durmand had taken that as a cue, and rose from her seat as she chugged. She was just about done. Whatever happened, this incident was going to come to an immediate end. Amber disappeared down her throat. When the magicked shockwave hit her, her footing was already quite wide, it gave her the foundation she needed to stay upright while her hand snapped to grip the edge of the table.

And what luck, her chug was freshly done. Her ammunition was ready.

As the heavy vessel fell from her lips, the Fury began to flow. The crackling golden light that filled her eyes told of a raging magic that filled her body and made the urge to act nigh irresistible. As Fury in her bones rose into her muscles, as it flowed from her heart to her fingers and toes, her training kicked in. Her body did not tense with the raging wave of magic and emotion; her judgment remained above the intoxicating ocean of frustration and anger and wrath. Compassion gave her the buoyancy to stay above the poisons of even Righteous Fury, and an entire childhood of training let that compassion withstand the tempest. 

Her flagon was guided down, back, up, and at last around, its course aligned with magicked strength for the archer high in the rafters. She did not watch for it to make an impact; there was no time.

With her left hand, Stratya pointed her palm at the archer on the stairs and made a show of spinning about once as though she were catching something from the air while she whispered,[color=peru] “Objicerre invocarre.”[/color] The bolt from the archer’s crossbow appeared in her hand along with a singing pain. She passed the object to her right hand.

Armed now, the captain rounded the table and stabbed Winston with the stolen bolt before kicking out his knee and driving her left elbow into his back. Her eyes snapped to Ox, who’d been pushed between her and Marius, and the big lug even turned to face away. Big mistake. And yet..

By then, she had registered the screaming from the fire. Her eyes caught sight of the man. The Fury wanted him to burn, but..

Years ago. They had spotted great plumes of smoke, the sign they were already too late. Indeed, when they arrived, the remnants of what had been were slowly toddling and crying aimlessly away from the horror, burned and hopeless, deep in despair.

Captain Durmand bolted past Ox and to the fire. She reached in with a gloved hand fearlessly and grabbed a limb before she pulled him up and out, high over her head where she could hold him aloft with both hands. She pivoted sharply and called,[color=peru] “OX!”[/color] and threw the poor fellow at the beast of burden of a man.[color=peru] “[abbr=You work for me now. Put that man out!]You werrk ferr [b]me[/b] nao. Pu’ tha’ mahn ou’![/abbr]”[/color]

[hr]

Every sound and action around him threatened to break his concentration as they were served the next round. Roman knew he couldn’t stop what he had started; the magic was pooled and ready to be released. When he saw Charlotte start to choke from the corner of his eye, he felt himself straining, resisting the rage that boiled inside him. When Winston grabbed her, he felt himself nearly crush the mug in his hand and shut his eyes in an attempt to steady himself.
 
It was an attempt that made him miss what happened next: the shuffling of feet and moving chairs beside him. Ari and Stratya were moving. Caught off guard, he opened his eyes to see Stratya making moves against the archers first, judging by her posture, while Ari threw herself onto her brother.
 
Roman pivoted low out from behind the chair when the blast hit him, pushing him off balance. He rolled and recovered against the wall just in time to lock eyes with their witch and cast his spells. In his experience, the wordless spells he used were always powerful, yet not as refined as a spoken spell. This always added some randomness, some unknown metric, some wild magic to his spells. The cost was always higher—the cost of making the will and voice of the gods manifest.
 
The first of these spells only the witch could see. His glowing yellow eyes fixated on her like a predator hunting its prey. For her, all light in the room vanished. Those same yellow eyes fixated on her in the dark, then one pair became many, then hundreds. Unblinking, filled with hatred and rage, they were followed by the sound of laughter, first from her companions, then growing to a cacophony of hundreds of voices laughing at her, loud enough to deafen her to the world around her.

The second spell shifted. It was still a distraction but focused on causing fear and panic. He would need it to be big, draw attention, and be monstrous.

[color=f26522]“YOUR SHADOWS ARE MINE!”[/color] Roman shouted, his body shaking with rage and adrenaline he could not contain. Shadows rushed from all across the floor to him, coating him in a flat darkness that began to bulge and pool. It enveloped him in a growing mass of writhing and swirling shadows. Human and animal forms alike formed in the mass, trying to escape it, pulling at each other, pushing and growing the mass further.

Hand, foot, and claw latched, pushed, and pulled like a nightmare manifested and growing. A menagerie of moans, screams, and growls emanated from the mass until it crawled its way to the ceiling. Roman’s form could not be seen in the mass that engulfed that portion of the room. Then, all at once, it stopped. Stopped moving, stopped screaming. Every single one of countless forms and masses, every eye small and large, every face and snout snapped to one person at the same time with unnatural movement and precision. Marius.
 
Then, as one unified mass of endless abyss, it charged. The screams and growls sounded more like an oncoming train. It ripped, grabbed, and moved with speed something that size wouldn’t—shouldn’t—be able to do. Darkness intent on devouring the one it set its eyes on.

Roman moved in the center of the mass unseen; his movements, like the mass, were unnatural. Mostly moving on all fours, the color in his left eye drained and his right ear muted. He could barely maintain his focus as his mind fought not to be consumed by the very nightmare illusion of light and sound he had created. He reminded himself that it wasn’t real, reminded himself that he had to protect Drake.
 
His head and shoulder found the pillar first. The illusion was mostly focused on Marius, engulfing him in darkness. A darkness he knew wouldn’t last much longer. Some of that writhing, screaming darkness still enveloped him as he searched for the chain with a splitting headache and blurred vision. When he finally found it, he began to twist and pivot it against itself in an attempt to break the links and free Drake. Only now did he really start regretting not seeing how they had locked Drake to the pillar.

[hr]

When the shockwave of Ariella’s power ripped through the room, Kalliope didn’t fight the force; she leaned into it. The iron-bound oak tray was up in a heartbeat, a heavy buckler caught in a white-knuckle grip as she skidded across the slick, ale-soaked floor. She didn't wait for the dust to settle or the screaming to stop. While the others were dazed by the blast, she bolted for the bar, holding the tray high and angled toward the rafters—a silent, tactical precaution against the crossbowmen in case they tried to find their marks in the chaos.

She moved through the wreckage with a cold, rhythmic intensity, the phantom echoes of a burning palace wing pushing her faster. As she closed the distance to the bar, she weaponized her momentum. With a snapping rotation of her torso, she frisbeed the heavy oak tray toward Marius; it cut through the air, a spinning disc of wood and iron aimed to catch him while he was distracted by Roman’s shadow-mass.

Kalliope reached the counter and didn't slow. She drew a dagger in a silver flash and vaulted over the bar in a single, athletic arc. Maelen was a huddled mass beneath the counter, and Kalliope landed on her with the full weight of her fury. She grabbed the woman’s hair, yanking her head to the side, as she buried the blade deep into the fleshy junction between the witch’s neck and shoulder, Maelen’s scream turning into a wet, choked gurgle as the steel was ripped free across her throat.

In a fluid, predatory spin, Kalliope leveled her gaze at Moira, who was scrambling behind the bar. With deadly precision, she flicked her wrist, sending the blood-slicked dagger whistling through the air. The blade buried itself in Moira's throat with a sickening [i]thwack[/i].

Kalliope didn’t go to retrieve it. Instead, she pulled a second, heavier blade from her belt. Beneath her, Maelen was still twitching, her hands clawing feebly at the floor. Kalliope didn't offer mercy; she offered a message. With a brutal, rhythmic hacking, she worked the blade through bone and sinew, her expression locked in a mask of jagged, focused intent. She worked quickly, and when the task was done, she stood, the front of her clothes and the tan skin of her face splattered in a gruesome, warm map of Maelen’s lifeblood.

She rose from behind the bar like a ghost born of a slaughterhouse. Her green eyes, shimmering with a terrifying, unhinged light, locked directly onto Garran’s. A sadistic grin spread across her crimson-stained lips. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed Maelen’s severed head over the counter. It tumbled across the floor, leaving a grisly trail before coming to a rest near Garran’s boots. [color=#8D3B72]“You let the wrong woman roam freely.”[/color]

The scene exploded. Olivia’s eyes widened at the telekinetic blast. Before she could react, she was blown from her chair onto the floor. Silverware, napkins, plates and other objects went flying. Poor Kazumin had taken a bowl of mildly hot soup to the face with a yelp, his wet, blonde hair now clinging to his skin. 

Luckily, she ducked and wrapped her arms around her head and pulled her knees up to her chest. A few loud [i]clinks[/i] told her how close she was to having been stabbed. When it ended, her eyes opened and she unraveled herself. With debris in her hair and scratches on her skin, Olivia felt as if she were stepping back into Persephone’s shoes.

Then, Olivia grasped a knife laying at her feet and noticed another one. Her eyes trailed to Charlotte and she bumped her hand gently with her own. She slipped it discreetly into both Lottie’s and her own pocket and then stood up quietly. 

Her eyes traveled to Merrill on fire, who was tossed at Ox by Stratya (who used magic? How many of the king's employees used it?); the illusion from Roman, who was now trying to free Drake. It was then her gaze snapped toward the bar as Kalliope beheaded Maelen (which made her want to throw up-what the hell?). Winston was keeled over on the ground in pain. This left Kazumin, Lottie and her to react next. Her gaze traveled to Kazumin and a wry smile curled up her lips. She gestured to the archers and the others.

[color=8FBC8B]“Banana split!”[/color] She yelled, causing mass confusion, and ran around the side of the table toward the pillars nearest the staircase to the balcony. She scrambled out of the way of terrified bargoers and stayed low to the ground, moving like a rocket. Once she was near the staircase, she ducked low and out of sight of the archers. She knew one of them would come.

[hr]

Charlotte pushed herself up on her palms, the feeling of the damp wood at her fingertips. However, her arms trembled so badly she wasn’t certain if they were holding her up at all, or what even was happening entirely around her; the roar of the tavern was distant and muffled, as if she had been submerged underwater. Her wide blue eyes were locked on the hazy view of the floor. She had been watching as red blots seemed to form before her with an audible, heavy drop every few seconds. It took a moment for her to register that she was the source of them—that blood had been trailing from not only the gash on her forehead, but from burning nostrils as well. She saw each one land—saw the way they darkened the wood. Charlotte realized that her face had become a canvas for the streams of blood that had painted it.  

She shifted her weight, her elbows quivering with the movement as she lifted her gaze in time to watch a severed head tumble past her, the slack features embedding themselves in her mind as her pupils dilated. For a long moment, Charlotte simply stared, her breath stuttering as if her lungs had forgotten how to work. Tears burned hot in her eyes and spilled freely down her cheeks, streaking through the blood and dirt. But she couldn’t look away. The horror had her rooted in place, and it brought upon an unsettling epiphany… This was not a nightmare they could just wake from—there was no guarantee any of them would get out of here alive.

Then Olivia had yelled something, something so familiar, and Kazumin had answered with a code word of his own. Her nails scraped slightly at the wood beneath her. Her jaw suddenly set and so had her mind. 

No more hesitation.

She didn’t allow herself to think upon it further, and she pushed off the floor, surging forward, drawn only by raw necessity and adrenaline. Her world narrowed into the space of just her and the man guarding the stairs. Her vision swam as she forced her body onward. His gaze had been drawn elsewhere when Charlotte suddenly slammed herself into him with a force of desperation.

They went down, their bodies crashing hard against the stairs.

Olivia watched as Lottie tackled Paul (the looter) by the staircase. She seized the opportunity and raced up the steps, taking two at a time until she reached the top. She passed by a man who eerily resembled Felix, but she didn’t have time to check. She ran straight for the wall, kicked off, and spun into the air, her fingers grasping around the rafters. 

After a moment of confusion, Kazumin was hot on her trail and ran in the opposite direction. He broke at a low sprint, then dropped even lower as he slid beneath one of the tables. He paused to orient himself as someone crouched nearby, their eyes widened and frozen—and staring right at him. 

Meanwhile, she pulled herself up and waited. Her breathing was slow and controlled. Olivia assessed the situation, calculating her chances, and then acted. She raced for the archer nearest her like a bullet, with the knife now in her hand. She spun the knife in her hand and then pierced him between his shoulder blades. 

He screamed, shock and pain tearing from his throat, and Olivia seized the moment, wrenching the crossbow from his grasp. She pulled it around herself securely. The guy whirled around and faced her, but as he went to attack, she was ready. Olivia sprang into a backflip like a cat and landed on her feet. 

With a wild grin, she gestured for him to come at her. [color=8FBC8B]“Come on, hotstuff. Show me what you got,”[/color] She grinned and pointed at the crossbow.  [color=8FBC8B]”Finder’s keepers, eh?”[/color] If she knocked him down and he was able to recover or fight, then she was endangering others needlessly. No, she’d finish him on her own when the time was right. What if he fell near Charlotte? 

Under the table, Kazumin reached out and clamped a hand firmly over the man’s mouth before a sound could escape. The man’s cheeks puffed beneath his palm, eyes wide with terror.

He leaned in just for the man to hear and murmured, [color=limegreen]“Shh. Don’t give me away.”[/color] With his other hand, he plucked a torn piece of bread from a fallen plate beside him and offered the man a reassuring look before slipping out from under the table as easily as he’d come. He made his way beneath another table, where he took a moment to bite into the bread and chew. His expression sharpened, a serious look overtaking his features. He rose just enough to get a clear line of sight and then made a sprint up the stairs after Olivia.

After a running start, he jumped onto a barrel like it was a stepping stone, vaulted, and caught the lip of the rafters with both hands. For a moment, he hung there, muscles burning, then hauled himself up and went again. He saw Olivia already in motion. He tackled the other crossbowman much like a spider monkey would, all limbs and momentum. Kazumin wrapped an arm around the man’s shoulders and drove his weight into his center, boots scrabbling as he clung on. The sudden impact knocked the wind from the man’s chest; his arms flailed as he tried to recover, but Kazumin shifted his weight deliberately, dragging him sideways. One foot slipped off the rafter. Then the other followed.

The crossbowman pitched forward with a startled shout and went over the edge entirely. He hit the wood of the balcony below with a painful thud and a groan. In the same motion, Kazumin tore the crossbow from his hands as he fell, the weapon wrenching free just before the man disappeared from view.

His fingers caught, and he stumbled with it, nearly dropping it. After getting a grip, he fumbled with it immediately, brows knitting.

[color=limegreen]“How do I—”[/color] he muttered, turning it like it might explain itself. [color=limegreen]“Eh. Whatever.”[/color]

Next, Kazumin stood up on the rafters and lifted the crossbow into the air. 

[color=limegreen]“RUIN OUR DRUNKARD’S DAY, WILL YA?”[/color] he bellowed at the room, his voice tearing through the chaos. [color=limegreen]“YOU FUCKERS!”[/color]
Without a second thought, he flicked the last of the bread he’d pocketed toward Olivia. [color=limegreen]“Popcorn!”[/color] he called to her.

[color=8FBC8B]“Popcorn noted!”[/color] Olivia yelled back and caught the bread with an outstretched hand. With a lazy grin, she bit into it and stuffed the rest into her pocket. 

[/color]