Insanity Loves Company

Beroli'm heard of this arena through the grapevine. Since the Espada were not governed from their own independent actions, he was looking forward to flexing his newly-earned number. The number four was tattooed on his palm, just for the mere thrill and pain of its engraving into his body. It was also dyed into the glove by his own blood, the blood that seeped through the weakened skin in order to make the mark that says he is the Cuarto Espada, full of ambition to the point of insanity's great noose.

Walking through the threshold of the arena, Beroli'm feels a wave of weakness that he has never felt before; he hasn't even imagined it. It was as if he was gripped by his own Nightmare Aura, feeling all his power ripped away from him; he couldn't even fire a Cero to attempt escape. He was that panicked. Reducing his emotions to that of a feral beast, he starts trying to throw himself back the way he came, only to be thrown back in. On his last attempt, Beroli'm is thrown by this repulsor field, for lack of a better term, into the wall across from it. He slumps to the ground in a heap, feeling like he did when he fought Arngrim.

He fought his fear and got to his feet. Pinching his skin, he feels that all his Hierro was still there. It was a sigh of relief that he had all of his defences still. It was strictly physical strength now, and he had plenty of it. With the thickness and strength of his Hierro, he would give any opponent a run for his money.

After everything the Beroli'm had done, the announcer says, "Ladies and Gentleman, I'd like to introduce you to Beroli'm's foe for today, and his name is Heathcliff Earnshaw, the Bount!"

With that said, the doors open and a very tan looking man with shoulder length, almost pure black hair, and black eyes (irises and pupil are same shade of black, the whites of eyes are still white) walked into the room. He looked like a skinny, mediocre fit man from his main body and his legs, but his arms were built with muscle. If there was a (stereotypical) word that could describe Heathcliff, it would be that he was a gypsy, and that is true. And, as he walked towards Beroli'm, he had a very, very dark look on his face.
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NPC Floor Fight; First floor for Beroli'm


Name: Heathcliff Earnshaw
Height: 6' 3"
Weight: 187lbs
Race: Bounto
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"Let's get this over with so you can get outta my hair," Heathcliff says with a growling, rasp voice. It was clearly apparent that Heathcliff was upset, but that was his mood everyday. He hated everything, everyone, and didn't care for anything.

After saying this, Heathcliff runs to Beroli'm and aims a diving kick for the man's face.

Beroli'm's eyes glowed, the reiatsu still flowing through his body. It might not be usable beyond his ability to fight, but his blood still boiled. He listens as the random voice of the announcer ((Fritz, that's just tacked on and you know it.)) crackles on a speaker and introduces his opponent. His eyes quickly turn to the approaching person, this Heathcliff. What kind of name is Heathcliff? "Out of your hair, kid?" Beroli'm says, his hands tensing and rigid, as if ready to tear through this man's flesh. "I'll be ripping it, and your flesh, from your skull!"

Beroli'm charges forward and, through his natural abilities, catches Heathcliff as he is in the air, leaping himself to drive a boot into the man's midsection. Beroli'm wished he has his Nightmare Aura. As he and the opponent were at equal strength, Beroli'm would have this man cowering like a child in front of a menacing stranger or a glaring pedophile ready to claim his quarry.

As Beroli'm lands on the ground, he turns and goes to kick Heathcliff in the ribs as he attempts to get to his feet. This does give Heathcliff the chance to slip away with a somersault, unless he landed on his back as a result of Beroli'm's aerial axe kick; he should at least take some damage from Beroli'm's foot making some form of contact. If Heathcliff does a somersault since he landed on his stomach, or if he has a high enough agility to get away from Beroli'm after landing on his back, Beroli'm pounces on him and squarely punches him in the face before backing off. Beroli'm runs his fingers through his hair. "You're out of my hair, it's safe to say..."

((Okay so I figure there will be no Flash Step and no Doll, as a Doll counts as an ability that requires activation as well as a weapon.))

(Heathcliff... He looks around 36... and is a strength and defense specialist... now I'm gonna mention this stuff about my npc's from now on... And yes, I know that the announcer is tacked on, but yeah... I still do it)

Heathcliff was a little caught off guard at first, and got hit by all the attacks that Beroli'm used. Heathcliff felt some pain, but was able to endure it. While the Arrancar made his comment, Heathcliff quickly shot up to his feet and launched himself at the Arrancar. He made a jab with his left fist aimed square for Beroli'm's face, while, at the same time, he grabs Beroli'm's right arm with his right hand, twists it, and pulls the arm towards him and hopefully causing the arrancar to be pulled into the punch.

After the attack, Heathcliff backs off and says in a disrespectfully, dark, gruff tone, "Who're you calling 'kid', kid? I know that I am a lot older than you. Wiser too. You might want to re-evaluate your strategy, cause if you are trying to seem as if you're a monster... hahahahaha... You are a joke..." With this said, his eyes bored into the eyes of Beroli'm, showing nothing but pure hatred in his stare.

After what he said, he cracks his neck and aims a punch for the adam's apple of Beroli'm's neck. If he wanted to seem menacing, he would need to be more menacing than the devil that the arrancar was fighting himself...

Beroli'm smirks as this person attempts to take the offensive. Just as Heathcliff looks to trap Beroli'm in an unavoidable shot to the mouth, the Arrancar's quicker reflexes come in, as he grabs Heathcliff by the fist using his own left hand, shoving it aside; the knuckle on Heathcliff's pinky finger shaves past Beroli'm's ear, merely swiping at the very light, peach-fuzz like ear hair. Beroli'm goes to kick him away, but Heathcliff jumps back and starts talking trash. Beroli'm ignored everything he had to say, but merely smiled as he saw this KID's deep, resentful hatred. "You talk like you might be older," Beroli'm says, keeping his stance very open, "but the hate behind your eyes tells me that you're as immature as someone half MY age, KID."

The attempted punch to Beroli'm's throat, considering their proximity to each other, was to be expected. In fact, Beroli'm already lifted his hand as Heathcliff cracked his neck, catching the fist as he commits to the strike. Beroli'm smirks, the fist not moving another inch as soon as he takes hold of Heathcliff's attempted strike, licking his lips in relish. "Feed your hatred," he says. "Come now. You're going to let me win? With everything you've thrown at me thus far, it seems as if you aren't strong enough to truly make a difference in this fight." Beroli'm's ear, the one that Heathcliff scraped past when the Arrancar turned his fist, began to turn red; the fist did more than Beroli'm had expected, but a little sore patch of flesh on his ear was small pickings for this opponent of his. "I suggest you tap out now or retreat, because if you don't, I'll make sure there is nothing left of your soul after I rip your throat open with my bare hands..."

Beroli'm throws Heathcliff aside and takes a couple steps back as his opponent stumbles forward. The punch that Heathcliff threw was more powerful than expected, but Beroli'm's reflexes were faster and his strength was in the upper echelon of the Espada based on the size and weight of his sword, which was nowhere to be found. To be sure that he kept his energy up, and to perturb this easily-emotional opponent of his, Beroli'm kept his distance. "I bet you don't even have the speed or the intelligence to keep up with me, BOY. You're better off breaking your own neck than continuing to live and disgracing the God that created you."