Board Thread:Role Plays/@comment-5999656-20190205035159/@comment-25582638-20190818123507

Wynston relaxed his shoulders seeing that the brown-haired Huntress had somewhat calmed down herself. For a second, he was ready to restrain her, having sensed her preparing to attack head-on which, thankfully, didn't happen. But it proved that the young woman was more dangerous and hostile than the older gentleman. If he were to choose who he'd negotiate with, Dust seemed to be the better option; the man looked like an angel if put beside the Huntress.

Without thinking, he grabbed on to the railings as his feet staggered backwards. The boat had tilted forward, groaning at the sudden shift of its weight, something Wynston waved off, initially. They were in a boat floating on the sea, so that was an expected occurrence. However, as the clock ticked away, the yacht hadn’t returned to its position, its stillness becoming more difficult to escape everyone’s notice, and Wynston’s grip on the railings was becoming proportionally harder. The rest of the group  It was only when Wynston peered over the boat, using his faunus eyes to survey the murky waters, that his breathing came to a halt.

"We need to move…"

The others hadn't noticed, perhaps because none of them had the same eyes as his, the slimy black things moving in the same manner as the waves, camouflaging their movements for who knows how long. It didn't help that the boat was poorly lit.

As he was about to turn to warn the others, Wynston caught glimpse of a few tentacles pointing at the boat- no, at the spot where they all stood.

"Move!"

In an instant, a dark blur lanced the wall, missing Diaboli’s head by a hair’s breadth. Wynston tried to dodge the tentacle coming his way, but something grazed his shoulder, sending him skidding across the floor instead, towards the front. He didn't notice that a tentacle had sneaked up the boat.

His back slammed against another tentacle, his head hitting the floor. He scrambled to his feet- tried, anyway- then found himself rolling back to the other side of the boat as he heard his mask cracking. Did the boat tilt? Or was he hit again? Wynston could taste the sea water and blood in his mouth, his vision pulsating in sync with his erratic heart beat. Then he heard a loud gunshot.

The invading appendages coiled at whatever they can hold inside the boat, the grate of metal contorting and ripping echoing. Groaning, Wynston squinted through the wobbly HUD. His hand had grabbed onto the railing, thank god. But right now he needed to get to his cousin.

In his attempt to get to steady himself, the yacht was suddenly covered in long, thick shadows, freezing the king cobra faunus in place. It must be the tense atmosphere of the group, or the hangover from gorging itself on the countless lives that had failed to escape death, or outright confidence, that the Grimm had brandished its remaining tentacles, clad in hard white scales. Fencing in the yacht, the tentacles pointed their tips at the prey as if condemning them to execution by firing squad. The white scales bulged, making the appendages bigger than it appeared, with the moonlight tracing the red-stained edges in which torn fabric and crushed bullets remained stuck.

One of the black tentacles near the group writhed, a portion of its skin ripping apart to reveal a blood-red eye spasming. The rest followed, eyes popping and blinking rapidly along the tentacles, allowing the Grimm to assess the situation. When it steadied itself, a red eye found itself staring back at a frail, injured girl, the most vulnerable prey amongst the people in the boat.

An easy meal.

The squid Grimm whipped its tentacle at the girl's torso to drag her down to its waiting maw.

A few minutes earlier…

Brunhilde couldn’t help but grin at Diaboli's parting words, shaking her head as he descended down the deck. So, this was the anti-social man rumored to be on par with the Ninth dragon. If there was anything she’d gotten out of their conversation, that would be the grand discovery of how close the two mob bosses were. So close that Zanipher had promised that no Dragons would encroach his territory, from what she could interpret from Diaboli’s sneer at Maris.

It was as though they’d dug up a forbidden affair, for lack of a better term. And the man seemed ready to throw them all to their deaths, caused by the Ninth’s apparent betrayal and failure to speak to the Dragons about the arrangement. Even so, the Engelnacht heiress found no reason to feel alarmed nor to attempt to take control to turn the tide.

As a Dragon agent, she’d work with another Dragon agent, protect each other even just as what she did back in the auction. But if the two Syndicates would remain as nothing more than passive wimps like how they are now rather than talking to her, that can be reasonably and subtly overturned.

Chuckling, Brunhilde lifted the mask's mouthpiece and took a sip, letting the heat burn fiercely in her throat, settle in, until she let out a satisfied sigh. In a blink of an eye, she gulped nearly half of the  alcohol, gloved hand gripping the bottle’s neck firmly, the tang of whiskey buffeting her nose. It wasn't as strong as her mother’s home-brewed sake, but she couldn’t afford herself to get too drunk for now. Whoever owned this boat must be very lucky to have snagged such an expensive whiskey, she thought.

As she moved closer to the window glass, her mask’s HUD started acting up, vaguely pinning red dots at random spots on the waters. Annoyed, Brunhilde switched off the system’s motion detection and moved towards the door, to get some fresh air and check the situation below.

The door swung open. A large, scaled tentacle greeted her.

Then Brunhilde slammed the door close, jumped to the side, pulling out her main weapon. And the tentacle smashed down the door, the hinges tearing off. Then a sniper bullet, in a coat of purple and green Dust, struck the scales.