[Center][I][B]Pascale Isadora Buckley[/I][/B]
—[I]♫♪ Pendant le Faveur de la Fortune, Il Faut se Préparer à Sa Défaveur ♫♪[/I]—[/Center]

Eventful.

Well, if you call two broken ribs, a fractured ulna, multiple bruises, a large, stitched up gash that ran the length of her side, nearly crushed lungs, a concussion, and near full dehydration due to overexertion and complete and utter exhaustion to the point where she was no longer able to use her legs without falling over in pain eventful, then you must be one crazy mother fucker. But, that didn't quite near the harm that came to some of the other teams and, in spite—no, especially because of what she'd done (numerously sacrificing her well being for a complete stranger), Pascale was among the luckier ones. And to see that stranger currently stuck to another team, in spite of the rules stated she belonged to theirs, well that irked her to no end. She'd not tell the girl her frustrations, not tell her she hated her guts, which she didn't, but she'd make it known through her silence.

Nearly get killed two times, one of which was her fault, and then having to help her other team do their job, only to be brushed off because she wasn't 'one of them' meant she had every right to be pissy and angry and peeved and everything in be-fucking-tween. Oh, she was livid and she didn't give two shits about the stares she was getting and the angry pokes and quiet boos that assaulted the back of her head when the clips were shown and the applauds were giving. And when Alistair gave up the microphone after Oliver's entire shpeel, she couldn't help but launch up, trudge over there, push the lady's man over—earning her some very nasty hisses from the local harem surrounding him—and promptly looked at Arrun, Oliver, and then the entire freshman class.

"Fuck this," she said, earning her silence in return, "I'm getting drunk and I don't give two shits about some damn law. How old... never mind, that's not important—"

Still peeved by the assault on her dear Alistair, a young, female cat Faunus dove forward to clamp down on Pascale's leg. She yowled, shook the girl off, and planted a powerful kick square to her face (Pascale - 1; Alistair Harem - 0). "I'm not done, you bitch; your damn, precious harem boy is perfectly fine," Pascale hissed back, flashing a glare down at Alistair.

"No, I'm not standing for some measly school dance shit," she continued, "If we're going to celebrate us, [i]all of us[/i], surviving the hardest fucking test we'll take in our lives, or rather our freshman year, and kicking ass—kicking ass, ass kicking to the max, super fucking death punch to a fucking Unicorn's prissy ass face, going fucking treant tipping out in the fucking woods of dath—then we deserve... No. No, no. We have every right to celebrate until we bleed out, drink until we fall unconscious in a pile of our vomited entrails, eat until we're fatter than a fucking slutty ass siren, and scream our lungs out until we sound like some two-bit hooker who's smoked all her damn life."

Pascale paused, looking at Arrun now; she was heaving her breaths, desperation tinting her voice. "I came into this thinking I didn't deserve to be here because I have cat ears, a tail, and a tendency to get comfy on someone's laptop while they're still using it. I didn't attend any academy outside of Beacon; I did all my training by myself. If you're telling me that I don't get to party my fucking socks off after doing something I've been told I would never be able to do in my entire life, as a subservient being, then I have a few things to tell you, Mr. Arrun Tower."

"Shove it up your ass," she held the microphone out, paused, and brought it back to her face, "I'm going to find the biggest keg of alcohol and I'm going to tow it myself to the cafeteria. If you want to stop me, then you're gonna have to pry that thing from my cold, dead, fingers." And finally, with that last remark, she dropped the microphone and promptly began stomping down the aisle, pins and needles shooting up her entire body.