07-09-2017, 08:24 PM
[align=center]![[Image: tumblr_nkgy8yHb6s1s7hgo3o1_500.gif]](https://68.media.tumblr.com/67851513a7690b511aaceee29b8e8428/tumblr_nkgy8yHb6s1s7hgo3o1_500.gif)
Well--he was an active force in the Badlands. At least, generally. Sometimes he might have felt his importance to the group was a bit out of proportion to the reality of the situation, but even he could realize when he had to step up in some areas. He wasn't really just the welcome wagon, after all. He did it himself, without appointment--but it wasn't his job. He was warchief, and he had earned that title, in part due to his loyalty to Tatiana. He wanted to prove that he could handle the job for its more ruthless implications as well.
Mettaton wasn't a violent man, or at least--not by intention. He preferred alliances to enemies, and he was a sociable and friendly creature. But he wasn't without skill when it came to combat, and when it was down to necessity, he could be a deadly opponent. He may have had some issues with...temper. Whether that would ultimately make him more dangerous or more easy to trip up--or both--was yet unseen. But today he could help the Badlands be ready to prove their worth. After all--the group carried out raids often. When the day came that they were unpracticed and lazy, another group could swoop in and wipe them out. They needed to be ready.
"All right, grunts!" He crowed, voice ringing loud and clear over the square. The warchief had his more practical and combat-ready garb; the boots weren't even heeled, and his clothing, though still skin-tight, was breathable, with his makeshift armor over the torso and legs--it was loose fitting pieces of leather, worked to stay in place but not a cohesive piece of clothing; he wanted as much freedom to move as possible, protecting only the most vital spots; organs, arteries, and the like.
"You're all gonna have to step up your game around here, all right?" He grinned, baring his teeth in a sharky grin. He eyed them sharply, but looked far from irritated. "I know that includes me. We've been far too placid. Now, I know we have a gladiator event coming up--and I want to see you all doing your best. So today we're going to be sparring. I'd train you one on one, but--it's much more fun to just get into it! I think for now, we're going to stay hand-to-hand. I'd love to do something a bit more dangerous, but I haven't seen most of you fight and I don't want any maimings. Save that for the gladiators."
He hopped down from the old stone fountain where he'd stepped up (no heels, so he needed another way to boost himself even further above the crowd) and cracked his knuckles. "I'd like to spar with a few of you--so who's first?"
going to the discotheque -- getting high and getting wrecked
Well--he was an active force in the Badlands. At least, generally. Sometimes he might have felt his importance to the group was a bit out of proportion to the reality of the situation, but even he could realize when he had to step up in some areas. He wasn't really just the welcome wagon, after all. He did it himself, without appointment--but it wasn't his job. He was warchief, and he had earned that title, in part due to his loyalty to Tatiana. He wanted to prove that he could handle the job for its more ruthless implications as well.
Mettaton wasn't a violent man, or at least--not by intention. He preferred alliances to enemies, and he was a sociable and friendly creature. But he wasn't without skill when it came to combat, and when it was down to necessity, he could be a deadly opponent. He may have had some issues with...temper. Whether that would ultimately make him more dangerous or more easy to trip up--or both--was yet unseen. But today he could help the Badlands be ready to prove their worth. After all--the group carried out raids often. When the day came that they were unpracticed and lazy, another group could swoop in and wipe them out. They needed to be ready.
"All right, grunts!" He crowed, voice ringing loud and clear over the square. The warchief had his more practical and combat-ready garb; the boots weren't even heeled, and his clothing, though still skin-tight, was breathable, with his makeshift armor over the torso and legs--it was loose fitting pieces of leather, worked to stay in place but not a cohesive piece of clothing; he wanted as much freedom to move as possible, protecting only the most vital spots; organs, arteries, and the like.
"You're all gonna have to step up your game around here, all right?" He grinned, baring his teeth in a sharky grin. He eyed them sharply, but looked far from irritated. "I know that includes me. We've been far too placid. Now, I know we have a gladiator event coming up--and I want to see you all doing your best. So today we're going to be sparring. I'd train you one on one, but--it's much more fun to just get into it! I think for now, we're going to stay hand-to-hand. I'd love to do something a bit more dangerous, but I haven't seen most of you fight and I don't want any maimings. Save that for the gladiators."
He hopped down from the old stone fountain where he'd stepped up (no heels, so he needed another way to boost himself even further above the crowd) and cracked his knuckles. "I'd like to spar with a few of you--so who's first?"
NOTES ; mettaton ;; warchief ;; other tags here