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Laison suddenly lost interest, this guy was just too much. stood up and quickly made his way to the door, patting Aluria on the shoulder as he walked past. He felt bad for the Arana, knowing that if he wanted to take this body it would carry with it a past most likely filled with various homosexual encounters.

This is pretty lame bro, I'm out.

He waved the Xindhi creature as he walked by, not really put off much by the fact he was an armored skeletal creature, seeing as his heart was in the right place in all. Well, if the thing had a heart anyway. Laison carried himself out the door and turned to see Tiresias stalking about the outside of the bar. He motioned with his hand towards the door as it closed behind him.

Things are getting pretty gay in there, I'd just move along if I were you.

OOC: This is my first post on Roleplay Gateway, so I hope you like it. If not then... tough I guess.

Meanwhile, though right within the middle of the small fuss caused in the Pilot's Bar, Voltaire had himself established his presence, but strangely enough, he was in fact within disguise for a mission; instead of enjoying the services of the bar, he was providing the services. Voltaire had secured the position as bartender for the night so that he can move in closely to his selected target, the regular bartender having suffered a rather "unexpected" incident during his break several minutes ago. Regardless, here he was, tending to the bar stand in the uniform that all bartenders shared, though his particular outfit was a tad loose upon him, since the old bartender was a heavy man who lucky was at least somewhat close to Voltaire's height. Other than this, and his still unkempt hair which he refused to style even for this disguise, his disguise was perfect, so much so in fact that when the Aiden came up towards the counter, the man was utterly oblivious towards Voltaire's true identity, which was imperative for this mission.

However, when the Aiden waltzed up and began to ask for service in a rather unpleasant tone, Voltaire realized something he had not perceived when he took upon the facade of barkeeper; he didn't actually known anything about alcohol. On his origin planet of Kunuzoha, alcohol was not a highly favored drink, as the Kaiser had strict laws on drinking, such as making the legal drinking age 25. Being 4 years minor of that, Voltaire was still ignorant in the knowledge of wines and brews, and thus when asked for a Normandien wine, he was speechless. His true identity, with only the utterance of two words, would be found out, and his entire mission would be ruined. Luckily, he had the fortune of having been assumed as mentally incapable, and as odd as it may seem for such to be regarded as anything else as an insult, the Aiden now had offered to lower his standards with mere water. To keep with the newly implemented disguise of a foolish bartender, Voltaire also began to adopt the slowness of speech the Aiden had.

"Y...yeah." Voltaire stuttered. "Wa-ter. Right away."

turning away from the fellow, Voltaire couldn't help but turn red in embarrassment. Had he sunken so low as to shroud his identity as a lesser being? Was the job truly worth sacrificing his dignity. Then, almost systematically, the mercenary remembered the payout given from his client, of which made even the one giving out the mission to stutter and babble on like the fool he had just played. For 236,000, he was willing to act like a dog, which at the thought of such he did so, barking a chipper, though quiet, sound of glee as he fulfilled the Aiden's request and set it upon the counter. With a new found smile, Voltaire was ready to act as the best mentally challenged barkeep he could be, not faltering from this even after the smirk comments of his service given by the Aiden.

"Thank you! Come soon!" Voltaire uttered unintelligible with a wave, the sounds of the signature "cha-ching" of money ringing throughout his mind.

However, his thoughts were abruptly stopped entirely as what appeared to be a ghost emerging from behind the Aiden, the very sight of the whirling miasma of energy radiating from the Xindhi's eyes causing his own eyes to widen in fear as he stepped back. He instinctively reached for his twin revolvers, Sol and Luna, before he ceased his actions entirely. If he were to have reacted to the situation in such a violent manner, his entire facade would be revealed, and he could not afford to risk such a possibility. With a hesitated nod, Voltaire simply decided to watch in paralysis for the time being, as the two odd beings began to display the signature sign of oncoming battle..

"Excuse please, I am merely curious as to this interaction of service rendered and anger at such service requested."

"...um...K..."

With a certain amount of interest Synjyn watched as the man materialized a weapon from the very air itself. Framing the whole scene in the holon, storing it for further examination and understanding the by the great dreamer, Synjyn raised a gauntleted hand, “Pray I mean you no harm. I merely inquired as to your behavior to the bar keep.”

Stepping back from the agitated man, the Xindhi thrummed the resonance and began to identify the area. Gathering the subtle nature of the darshan to him, Synjyn thrummed his sword slowly infusing it with the gathering energies. Raising his sinistral hand so the palm faced the man, the voice rasped again, “I am a stranger in this land and I only seek to understand your interactions. I seek not to confront you.”

Even as the words expelled from the skeletal being, even as his heavily plated foot touched the floor, the nearly invisible whorls of darshan surrounded Synjyn’s body. Had anyone the ability to see such energy signatures, they would have been hard pressed to explain the increasing ionized air around the being. They would have assumed that an electrical storm was brewing outside as the charged air continued to rise.

Synjyn’s dextral hand flexed and closed into a fist. Within the mailed hand an ever folding Calabi-Yau manifold began a series of intricate alterations of space and subtly affected the darshan, altering it to take into account the unseen energies the man had used to conjure his weapon. The subtle blue-energy ball, the only visible signature that anything was occurring, was so dim and concealed that only someone paying close attention would notice it visibly. But anyone with proper equipment or with some understanding and control of the resonance or aether would feel the energy manipulation.

Again the brilliant-blue energies flared and illuminated the bar where the man and the barkeep had been standing a moment before. Again the gravelly voice rasped, “I mean no harm. I merely seek to understand your behavior.”

Once again the Xindhi stepped back slowly, the dusky cloak flowed and settled upon the onyx and crimson armor, the skeletal visage, a seemingly mocking deaths head. The eye sockets swirled with the brilliant blue energy that comprised Synjyn. The sinistral hand still held up, the dextral hand shifted subtly, so the closed hand was now facing the man. A blue flicker, every so delicate flashed between the fingers, the flash was so quick, that many would have never seen it, never noticed it, nor would they have understood what was occurring. The ionized air was rapidly approaching the same state as an electrical storm; an infrasonic thrum cascaded from Synjyn, as he planted his foot firmly upon the floor.

Thanks to Graven's hasty departure, the Eudemonian's convenient disappearance and the sudden lack of her fellow Anai, Skogul seemed hopelessly alone in the face of yet another ridiculous display of violent destruction in yet another run down drinking establishment. Great. She scowled at both the Kyrioi man and the Xindhi he had begun to focus the majority of his ever-flowing vitriol on. These people, always so quick to flagrantly show off their mystical abilities. How obnoxious and patently inconsiderate of them.

Still glowering toward the bar, she barely bothered to register the new guy jockeying the selection of liquor in the building; she was not even really listening to the exchange between the man with the blade and the skeletal being. However, she did notice the seemingly arrhythmic tapping upon the floor coming from somewhere behind her. Not really wanting to take her eyes off the encounter happening in front of her, she willed herself to allow for a quick glance down the back corridor to find Tiresias trying to stay as far out of sight as possible and apparently attempting to signal her, much to her surprise. Skogul doubted he was trying to earn the attention of the Ardren-esque man, or else he would probably be more forward and conspicuous about it. Regardless, she did indeed feel relief when she realized she was not quite as alone as she had assumed.

Carefully, she slipped back into the hallway a ways, but not completely unless her sudden absence should somehow trigger suspicion and some sort of explosive reaction out of either Michel or Synjyn, who were still in plain view and would be able to still see her if they turned in her direction. Gingerly, she bent down, rolled the brandy bottle back behind her so that it came to rest “safely” in a corner nearby and turned somewhat, calling back to Tiresias, her voice not quite as low as it probably could have been in retrospect.

Who the hell is this Aiden reject asshole? Can't you Selekusions reason with one another?

It was pretty obvious she was unenlightened on the nature of the Kyrioi, their reputation for ruthless acts of destruction and their strained history with the “proper” peoples of the Commonwealth, specifically the Ardren knights. She would definitely not know the potential harm in what she considered a fairly harmless comment.

Despite any attempts for either the seemingly dim barkeep or the skeletal xindhi to get a simple explanation from him, he continually descends into an increasingly volatile state of horrified panic. He knew coming into the den of heathens was a bad idea, and now there was a beast, intent upon his blood assaulting him. It should come as no surprise that despite these attempts, he's still scrambling back away from Synjyn, while frantically stabbing his smallsword into the air before him. Anything to keep the heathens away from him!

So, stumbling and nearly tripping over himself he makes his way first across the bartop, and then off into the middle of the room while adopting a wide legged stance. He wants to be prepared for when the numerous heathens and sinners inevitably descend upon him. Surprisingly, he seems to collect himself significantly at this point, though a certain strained look in his eyes shows that he's still distinctly disturbed.

"Back away, beast! I won't be lured in by your false pretense of civilization! Your very body shows what lies in that cavity where a soul should reside!"

He declares, spit actually flinging from his mouth as he slowly edges towards the door. It seems that he's more intent upon leaving the place than anything else. That is, until he hears a single phrase which causes that semi calm expression to tighten up. "Aiden Reject" is what he hears through significantly sensitive hearing, and he slowly draws a wide eyed look over towards Skogul. The comment does seem innocent enough, though apparently those simple words struck a nerve deep within him.

"Aiden...reject?"

He states in an almost pleasant manner while bringing himself to fully face the headtailed woman.

"Aiden...."

He states plainly again, before his eyes widen even more while his pupils dilate.

"REJECT?"

He shouts aloud, his voice actually cracking abruptly.

"I am far beyond the Aiden! Any of them! With their foolish chivalry! And their immoral attempts at altruism! What a joke! What a bunch of fools! Their blasphemy knows no bounds! Actions and mindsets in this world being the key to Salvation? PREPOSTEROUS! They actually think they can impress GOD? The lowliest Lord is far greater than even the highest Aiden! WE ARE RIGHTEOUS JUDGES."

The kyrie screams in his frantic, cracking voice before the Aether abruptly seems to swell around him. A swift look is then turned around, before he lifts his left hand up towards the plethora of liquor bottles behind the bar which abruptly seem to defy gravity. This telekinesis then brings every bottle in at least a quarter of the bar high into the air before he slashes his hand through the air towards Skogul. Those airborne bottles then gain speed and hurtle down towards the impudent woman.

As if the frenzied Kyrioi's response to the largely innocent approach of the Xindhi weren't evidence enough of his mental instability, the fact that even in his crazed scramble to flee the “beast”, as it were, he managed to not only hear what Skogul had said, but to comprehend it enough to completely turn his furious attentions on her was more than enough to prove he was at least a few cards short of a full deck.

If not for the aether pouring off of Michel, the Anai woman would have found his grave response to her offhand comment highly entertaining, probably enough to get a fairly sizable chortle out of her. Unfortunately, he was dripping with that shimmering aura that she was so easily able to detect, and she knew as soon as he turned his gaze on her that she had seriously fucked up; his enraged tirade and subsequent shriek would have driven it home it it were not so blatant otherwise. Her wit and sharp tongue had gotten her in trouble yet again.

At first, she simply expected him to fume at her from afar, and kind of stood there staring at him, looking somewhat addled. The words themselves meant little to her; she was not one to have ever subscribed to a proper formal religion and especially not the faith of the Ardren or those who branched off of them. The dropping of such buzzwords as salvation, faith, lords and judges were as hollow as Synjyn's chest cavity appeared to be in her mind.

However, once that hazy, liquid-like aura began to swell like an ethereal tide, the hope that only words would be thrown at her shattered like those glass bottles would. As they rose and were essentially flung at her en masse, she dropped, covering her head with both hands, headtails lifting and facing toward the onslaught with their circi's broad sides forward to provide some sort of solid barrier between her and the glass. The thick chitin that composed the outer shell of the wicked pincers would be hardly scored by mere glass fragments, even hurled at an impressive speed. Although her coherent thoughts consisted largely of, “FUCK!” She found it somewhat ironic she would be assaulted with a variety of liquors when she herself had such an affinity for booze. Alcohol and glass cluttered the air around her, some shards cutting into what unarmored flesh she couldn't cover before she found enough of an opening to scramble hastily around a corner of the corridor to put some kind of solid matter between her and the rampaging Michel.

She was closer to Tiresias now, but his proximity offered no real comfort in light of the assault on her. She didn't even look at him, keeping her attention trained on the stretch of hallway she was just in as she frantically, in so many words, demanded to know what in the world was happening. It did not even occur to her that she was not only soaked with liquor, but covered with a good amount of her own bright red blood from the largely minor cuts and scratches the shattered bottles caused.

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH THAT PSYCHOPATH?!

OOC: By chance, is there any set currency used in this universe? I don't know if they would still use the dollar or not by this time period.

As he stood there without motion, a single drop of nervous sweat running down his temple, Voltaire contemplated his next moves. He certainly could not simply pull out his revolvers from the holsters placed about his waist, so that they would be concealed under the bartender vest, and start dishing out bullets across the Pilot's Bar floors. To many bystanders, and too great a chance he would kill someone who was not registered for an assassination by the Crimson Fears, the mercenary group Voltaire Cervantes was a part of. His license would be revoked if anyone was shot for unnecessary reasons, and thus he knew it was not possible to shoot just yet. Perhaps reasoning with the two brawlers would prove more effective.

"Look, we don't want any troubles, k?" Voltaire stated in a stupified voice, trying to continue with the disguise as an ignorant, low class bartender for as long as possible. "Can't we just get 'long?"

Not wanting to be targeted by their weaponary, Voltaire was quick to place his hands above his head in arrest fashion, not about to die before he picked up his 236,000. Ah yes, the money! It was hard to forget, and all he had to do was to get close enough to his target. Unfortunately, he was not given a picture of the person, or even a description, but instead a name. A rather odd name at that. Still, it was not the first thing that picked up Voltaire's attention, perferring instead to be infatuated with the grand reward in store for a mission well done. In fact, all was going according until these two began to bicker and trash up the joint, though at least now Voltaire wouldn't be expected to offer service.

One minute the oddly rambling man was threatening Synjyn, the next he was expending energies to hurl bottles of alcohol towards a woman. Framing each and every moment in the memory of the holon, the Xindhi slide to his left into a space recently vacated by some patrons.

“Forgive me…why do you attack this woman? I have scanned the holon memory and your behaviors seems very erratic and psychopathic. Is this a normal state for your race? For you…rejects? Are you a reject as the woman suggests?” Synjyn rasped as again an infrasonic thrum resonated from the skeletal being.

Standing easily so that he was observing the man before him, the swirling energies flare as Synjyn focused on the woman drenched in liquor. Scanning the image as he searched the holon he found a framed scene where Jessi the Aeryn faced this female in another tavern. Focusing on the memory Synjyn played back the reactions the woman had to the Aeryn’s appearance.

With a slow and deliberate action, the mailed fist that held the every shifting Calabi-Yau manifold merely released the clenched fist, as the hand opened a flare of energy swirled between the fingers to seemingly dissipate. Another infrasonic thrum flowed from Synjyn, everywhere the energy touched a slight hum or buzz could be heard. The broken glass scattered along the floor shifted and vibrated as the wave washed over the shattered remnants.

The myriad of runes upon the iron hilt and cross bar on the blue crystalline sword flared and came to life as darshan filled each of them. A slight bluish tint appeared upon the worn iron, the energies scintillated the settled into a soft blue glow that emanated from the runes.

“I have accessed the holon definition of reject, as I understand it you are a … person or thing that is rejected or set aside as inferior in quality. Is that correct? Can you explain why you are inferior? I seek to understand.” Synjyn rasped as he readied himself to defend against a possible outburst from the psychotic man who had his back to him. Clearly this race of beings certainly was offering the great dreamer a slew of new experiences in relations.

OOC: Nah, just multiple different currencies. Some nations don't even use currency.

After that brief outburst and demonstration of aetherial powers, he seems to calm down significantly. Both his hsands slowly returning to his sides, and his breath slowly coming in a relaxing series of deep breaths. It seems he's vented his frustration, and appeased his own sense of superiority. For now, the crisis is averted, and he simply offers that same sort of condescending glare towards Voltaire. He makes no efforts against the foolish man, or any of the others in the room. At least until Synjyn speaks, at which point he quickly tenses up, and balls his hands into fists.

"What...did you say?"

He hisses out through gritted teeth, not even turning to face the Xindhi. At this point his fury once again boils up, and he makes absolutely no attempt to check it. Why should he? He has a right to his emotions, after all. But for a surprising amount of time he just remains in that tense, trembling state. Never moving, never retaliating. Those lights do however start to flicker as the Aether swells around him once again, right up until the point where several of those lights actually shatter. At the same time, the ambient temperature in the room starts to rise, while several isolated pools of alcohol around him actually ignite into small ponds of fire.

Michel then abruptly tilts his head back to elicit a loud bellow, which is complimented by the presence of a sudden plume of fire which actually puffs out from his mouth at the same time. This is actually an involuntary aetherial response, garnered by the fact he's actually losing it at this moment. Immediately after, he lifts a quaking hand over towards Synjyn in an accusing manner, while he narrows his eyes.

"YOU! Pathetic creature! You've just spoken your last! Prepare for judgement!"

He sharply declares in that same high pitched shriek before abruptly outstretching his fingers while a distinct orb of flame appears before his palm. It then swells within the air before his trembling palm, before suddenly launching itself forward while swelling and blossoming as it makes its way towards the Xindhi. In that moment, he swiftly dashes forward behind the cover of that flame. Michel then wastes little time in swiftly drawing that pointed tip up into the air towards the Xindhi's chest, intent upon impaling him.

Voltaire couldn't exactly believe what he was viewing. Magic? It seemed odd that such a practice, especially one that he grew up believing did not exist, was occurring just before his eyes. No, he was positive magic was just a fairy tale; it was far to nonsensical to be real. As his eyes grew wide and his body tensed in confusion, he pondered whether or not they could also have it. The blessed power of Inari. He had been told by the leader of the Crimson Fears that only one person was given such a power every one thousand years. That would make Voltaire that person, that single person. And yet, they seemed to possess a similar ability, though certainly not the same. Less powerful, though more accessible. It couldn't be the same. Voltaire instinctively remembered the hoshi no tama charges available to him that day; still three available. He could possibly stop all this madness with a single charge, however he would not risk using one without the situation becoming desperate.

It was then that the situation was indeed growing dire. Michel was charging towards the skeletal character, which if his attack succeeded would cause a death, of which he may be blamed for. Though he did not care about the Xindhi's life, he did care about the money, the 236,000 credits. Voltaire then remembered the mission's specifications. Do not allow a single innocent bystander be harmed This was true for any mission, though now it was especially imperative. Thus, finding no other method of turning the situation around other than using that blasted power of his, Voltaire unholstered Sol and Luna, pulling them forward with a quickness that showed expertise a normal bartender would have be without. With his right revolver aimed towards Michel's head, and his left revolver towards his left, Voltaire began to fully lose his disguise as the ignorant barkeeper.

"Just hold your position, Sir." Voltaire said in a calm voice, emphasizing the word "sir" for mocking purposes. "No one has to get hurt, just place your hands above your head. On second thought, just stand still; and no magic business."

Voltaire would not give chance for Michel to move further, even to place his hand above his head. He did not know much about their brand of magic, however he did know enough not to take any chances with them. Placing his index fingers about the triggers of his guns, he awaited Michel's reaction, prepared to silence the man at the slightest hostility. In his mind, Michel was not an innocent bystander, and thus as long as he did not kill the man, he wouldn't have gone against the parameters of his mission.

The slight, almost inaudible sound of the gun's lazer was faint, but Voltaire, with his expertise in firearms, was able to precept it, even if just barely. And with that noise, he instinctively ducked for cover, losing his aim upon the Kyrioi, who at this point may very well be doomed if the strike penetrated. As he crouched there, senses flaring up so that he may sense any further oncoming danger, he couldn't help but fuss of the unbelievable circumstances he had tread into.

God damn it! He bellowed within the confines of his mind. I always get the difficult cases! Why couldn't it have been a simple assassination? This is all so pointless; I should have taken care of this person when I had the chance. I may very well have to use a charge here. I still have three charges... but the risk is too great. The outcome would most likely be uncontrollable, and at this point I do not even know where to begin. Wait...

As his thoughts seemed to rush into his head at the speed of light, he remembered the name he was given. Could the Kyrioi be the person he was looking for? If so, if someone else killed him, his entire mission would be jeopardized. No recognition; No paycheck. The paycheck of 236,000 credits, which could very well pay for the repairs on his spacecraft, which at the moment was towed at a private garage. It had taken insurmountable damage from his last job, involving the assassination of an influential member of the galaxy's marketplace. If he didn't get the money, he couldn't possibly leave this dreadful planet, or even pay for his substandard living conditions. At this point, there was nothing that was too much of a risk.

As Voltaire closed his eyes, and concentrated, finding it somewhat difficult to do so with the conditions of circumstance, his body emitted a thin, white aura, of which displayed a small amount of light from the reflection of the glasses around him. Soon, the aura separated from Voltaire's body, and rolled itself into the image of three white orbs, the hoshi no tama, each swirling around his shoulders at a languid rate. Afterwards, Voltaire opened his eyes one more, allowing his vision to perceive his surroundings. He hadn't the time to save the Kyrioi at this point, and hoped that Michel would be able to used his "magic" to save him before the effects of the laser took place.

The world seemed to stop as the ball of fire left the crazed man’s hands. Synjyn watched, stared, framed and focused this event. The man was attacking, using a form of darshan to create and manipulate the elements to cast the orb of flame. Even as the flame accelerated towards the skeletal being the man was already in motion, a thin pointed sword was being drawn by the raving man.

Brilliant blue energies flared in the eye sockets, illuminating the area in the light. The sinistral hand which had been held up and out in a gesture of peace was in motion, falling to the double wrapped sword belts, the gauntleted fingers reaching for the pommel and handle of the seax that was nestled in its sheath. Even as those actions took place, the Xindhi stepped back and into a ready stance. Right leg forward, left leg back. Both feet rose so the heels were off the ground, the weight balanced on the balls, allowing for ease of movement.

With a subtle move, almost imperceptible the right hand which had conjured the Calabi-Yau manifold now released that conjured power. The room shifted and shook slightly as a low, deep rumble seemed to ripple from the skeletal being. The floor boards warped and flowed as the energies washed over them. Unbroken glasses and bottles began resonating a deep thrum as if a great being were blowing in them. The pale blue energies released flowed upward in a thin sheen around Synjyn. Swirling and roiling faster the now unfettered manifold sought to extinguish the air around the skeletal being to a distance of 1 meter from him.

The flame raced forward, unknowing about the trap that had been released to contain it. As the roaring orb of fire entered the vacuum it faltered then extinguished, simply gone. The heat aspect of the conjured attack had been dealt with; however the kinetic force still existed. Turning his torso to offer as small a target as possible, the impact slammed into the plate mail of the knight. It was far stronger than he had imagined as Synjyn found himself lifted and tossed back toward a table, the energies in the eye sockets coalesced as the armored being slammed atop the fine oak table, shattering it under his weight.

As the wood exploded around him, the hands were already in motion, the seax being drawn from its sheath; the right hand shot down and connected with the floor. As the Xindhi hammered the dirty, shard infested floor, he was already scrambling to stand. With a heave the right hand steadied him and assisted him as the mailed legs shoved the body upwards.

Standing, slightly hunched over the eyes swelled with energies and flared once again, the right hand that had been used as a lever darted for the hilt of the crystalline blue sword. With a slight tug the blade susserated from the sheathed and swung wide and forward into a defensive position. In a single movement of practiced perfection the hands were darting into their place, the legs and feet sliding into the famous right rear guard position that marked the fighting stance of the Xindhi.

“I wish no harm to you…I merely seek to understand.” Whispered the Xindhi as the weapons shimmered and sparked to life as electrical charges flowed along both blades.

Michel seems surprised when his sword meets nothing but open air as that fireball sends the skeletal being back through the air, and into that oaken table which failed under his weight. He hadn't expected that, though inwardly he chastises himself for thinking the barbarian creature could even match his own Godly gift. Nonsense, he tells himself while slowly raising to his feet. That smirk leaves his face as he suddenly finds himself at the business end of Voltaire's guns. The audacity, to aim guns at a Kyrie? However even as he turns to face this new assailant, he senses danger being transmitted through the aether, so even as Voltaire dives behind the cover of the counter, he himself leaps to the side, where he then rolls into a crouched position. The laser does burn right through the bar beside him, a fact which he merely narrows his eyes towards. The thought of his own body suffering such a fate is nearly unthinkable. From there, he turns a rapid gaze from the already recovering Synjyn, to Voltaire, to where Tiresias is. He suddenly slams a fist into the ground before shouting.

"All of you? FINE. Come on!"

The crazed Kyrioi declares, already standing upright while thrusting his hands out before him, that same sword still held aloft. The Aether swells around him then, and he gives something of what he thinks is a mighty roar. In reality, it's far more cracking, and more convincing of his mental state than his fierocity. Perhaps it might still have the desired effect though, as in conjunction with this sound nearly every glass surface within twenty feet of him starts to crack if not shatter abruptly. He's already summoned forth a good deal of energy, and so now he's burning so 'hot' he's nearly about to burn himself out. This fact is evident by the fact that his eyes actually roll in his head, and he almost seems to lose himself in a daze. At this same time, he essentially overlooks every word being offered by the Xindhi. It is not even worth paying attention to, he decides with the increasingly powerful cloud of Aetherial Euphoria enveloping his judgment.

He does however have enough judgment to figure out that this is a disadvantageous position, so he quickly steps back, and abruptly dives backwards. One would expect him to impact the glass, and shred apart his own flesh from the contact. However, what is unusual is that the glass gives a swift ripple, and before he even touches it the glass bubble away from him, and actually shatters into thousands of pieces which simultaneously sail away from his own, tender flesh and into the street behind him. Are there others there, to be torn apart by the numerous shards? He doesn't care, and so he simply lands on the ground while brandishing that same sword. A single, challenging glare is given to the people within the establishment. He awaits their actions.

Damn.

She muttered it under her breath as she watched the attack on the crazed Kyrioi fall ridiculously short of its intended level of destruction. She was quite disappointed and really did hope to see him injured, if for nothing else than to knock his ego down a couple of notches. She felt no sympathy for the Xindhi as he was thrown into some of the bar's worn and aged furniture, although she did find the skeletal being less deserving of such abuse than the Ardren outcast.

An eyebrow quirked as Michel threw himself out the window. She hoped he would be lacerated seven ways to hell and back by the glass, but to her additional chagrin, he somehow managed to breech the pane before his body actually impacted it. Damn again. She stood, slowly, feeling the dull throb of fatigue as well as the burning, itchy sting of her wounds, still remaining mostly behind that corner that offered such slight, but welcome comfort and security from possible attacks but that hand still rested on the half-covered hilt of one of her knives. Her nose wrinkled as the thick scent of her own blood mixed with the remnants of the alcohol soaked into her clothes filled her senses as a result of her movement.

Now that the psychopath was outside of the bar proper, puffing himself up like some kind of belligerent fowl trying to intimidate competitors during a mating rut, she looked to Tiresias, her gaze uneasy as she wondered if he were going to take the man's challenge and venture into harm's way. He was not stupid, but he seemed to have some kind of personal vendetta for these Kyrioi that might cloud otherwise logical and careful judgement. She thought back to the cantina earlier that day and the combat mode the Eudemonian slipped into somehow once things had degenerated into such a standoff. Her growing anxiety about the issue alarmed her; why should she care so much?

Shaking off her internal musings, she considered the options, looking down the other end of the hall, toward the corridor leading to the back entrance. It would likely be unlocked and the alley behind the building relatively devoid of loitering bystanders. It would be easy enough for both of them to slip out without drawing the unwanted attention of Michel and she highly doubted the Xindhi would care much – However, that guy behind the bar seemed a bit odd and his intentions eluded her. Odd that a lowly bartender should be wielding such fancy firearms.

Don't tell me you're actually gonna take him up on that... This guy is out of his mind!

OOC: I'll make a post later today, don't wait up for me.

Even as the man leaped through the window into the area outside, Synjyn was becoming weary with this cat and mouse game. Surely with the great time that had passed since the Xindhi last walked the worlds the behaviors of sentient beings must have changed. But it had not; pride and arrogance, fear and hatred still consumed the eternal flesh. The brilliant blue energies flashed as the crackling challenge rippled along the air, carried clearly through the window to those inside the tavern.

This had become dangerous to those within and without now, the energies that consumed the crazed man had rippled through the darshan, causing the Xindhi knight to increase his own control of the energies that made up the physical aspects of the universe. A very definite hum started to resonate and roll away from the skeletal being, the electrical energies of the swords increased and flared so that the blades were hidden by the intense blue-silver light which flowed and crackled around them. The energies illuminated the room, casting weird surreal shadows from the shambles.

Anyone who glanced in would see the ruinous interior, the tall plate mail clad skeletal being and the intense, electrical display that seemed to flow from his hands to a point just ahead of him. The air popped and sizzled as minute debris which floated made contact with the powerful electrical discharges.

So the man wanted to fight, to face the fury of the Xindhi, to test the strength of the sleepers. So be it, Synjyn strode forward, as he did so the very air around him shimmered and flowed as if it were water, the intensity of the electrical energies increased. The hum resonated deeper, ferrous metals within the tavern were becoming affected by electrically induced ferromagnetism. A highly charged magnetic field surrounded the skeletal being now. Ferrous metals swirled and spun wildly around the skeletal knight as he approached the window the man had escaped through.

Each step brought Synjyn closer to the wildly crazed individual; each step framed and resonated in the holon memory so that all Xindhi would understand why such an overt display of power was needed.