Ciato's body pulsed from all the exercise. While his companion was a bit more tactful in his approach, the alabaster bastard adopted a more brutal way to dispatch his enemies. Vincent's uniform seemed a little more clean than his paler ally, who was covered from the neck down in the red crimson of his trance induced enemies. The grey stone of his blade matched its master's makeshift visceral camouflage.

The red moon above did nothing to curb the bloodlust of the Mystic. The moment anything that looked remotely unfriendly came within arms reach, the middle Orlouge title would quench his weapon's thirst with further gore. The orc was easily holding her own against their foes and would even occasionally use one of the bodies as a club against the others. It would have made the ivory killer laugh were he not so busy with his own enemies.

"For every one that falls, there are four more to replace it," Ciato spoke as he looked down towards his breast pocket, "there is only one way we're going to get out of this alive."

His voice brought about the heads of Erirag, Vincent, and the small chick that resided by his chest. "What's that?" the younger man asked.

"I have an idea..." the azure eyes of the alabaster bastard settled on his prize from Lornius' tournament.