Azmot sat at a Cafe, sipping his drink slowly as he awaited the Number I to arrive. He wore his regular clothing, pondering the events that were about to unfold. He had sent a letter to Alex for a one on one, non-violent meeting in a neutral area, mainly because Yima would surely not appreciate a conflict in his world, which was incentive. He would hope that the King would show up soon, as the MCP would quickly become anxious being alone in such a public place; it made him vulnerable. Though he wasn't really alone, being out in the open was still dangerous. Alex would need to be here soon.
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Alexander came armed.
He was not bearing weapons in his hands, but he made it evident that he had weapons on his back. Three Gunblades strapped to his back clanged lightly in their straps as he strode forward, chest high and eyes glaring at the man he had come to met. Bitterness welled up in his cheeks, the pain and sorrow of the betrayal of a former friend now made distant foe's contact stressing him.
He walked up to the table, his arms crossed, his black pants swaying lightly as his steps halted with the sudden ending of war drums. A gray t-shirt showed off Alexander's toned, slender left arm while he wore a covering over his metallic grotesque right arm. He stared at the Dark Blade sipping tea before him, harrumphing the man to announce his indignation and arrival alike. "Azmot," he spat angrily. "So we meet."
The future is not fair to the past because by definition it has already surpassed it.
"There was a sickness."
Post Count : 2131
MAG : 1
The snarl that Azmot had dawned when Alexander arrived was hidden by his glass, the slow slurping of the liquid resonating in the silence of the area. When the young man greeted the Darkblader, Azmot placed his tea down gently. Waiting for the blonde headed youth to finish, the MCP also responded.
As time still goes. Please, sit; enjoy a drink from one of the menu's selections; the tea is great.