Post by Deleted on Dec 23, 2018 19:21:51 GMT -5
Locale: Silver City Tournament, Silver City, 25 miles north of West City.
Another city, another tournament.
Another clueless group of martial artists who understood nothing of sacrifice.
Cress stood in the midst of a group of fighters, all jostling for position near the registration booth at the head of the line. They were fighters of all shapes and sizes, and from what Cress could sense, a few of them even worth his time. As far as he could tell, he was the only Namekian. He stood enshrouded with his tattered white cloak, hood pulled low to shield his face from the bright sun overhead. It was a warm day, a clear blue sky unobscured with grey clouds, often an omen of bleak, impending weather.
All around him were the usual sounds of tournament fare. Vendors crooned and cawed, attracting attention to their wares. There were several food booths as well, creating a miasma of fried smells that stank like noxious fumes, causing his lip to curl in a semi-permanent snarl. Families gathered, gawking at the fighters. Most of the children ducked behind their mothers' skirts at the sight of Cress.
In fact, most other fighters gave him a wide berth. He seemed to exude an aura of malice, one some of the more experienced and sensitive fighters could sense. Others balked at his massive frame and steered clear out of pure cowardice.
None of it mattered to him.
Cress continued to wait patiently, arms folded before him -- a lone Namekian sentinel standing guard in the midst of the busy plaza.
Though he despised venues such as this, Cress reminded himself it was but a means to an end.
He needed more power. More than what he could get back on Planet Namek. More than what he could obtain participating in these tournaments.
It was terribly frustrating.
Tag: Majin Ala | Word Count: 311