Alastair let the other rush in ahead, his breathing coming in hard and fast after exerting himself for that short spasm of violence. He pushed his hair back from the holes in his mask and slicked it back with the sweat that had gathered on his brow. He watched as the group pushed through the door, each of them going alone in an attempt to show what they could do to the others. This fight for control had becoming nothing more than a giant pissing contest. Alastair smirked and slowly walked towards the door, his completely white apparel splattered with dark red along the hem of his dress pants. He would have to wash them after this. Thirty men had started this fight against the rag tag bunch that busted in to claim territory. Alastair watched the action unfold, catching his breath for the shortest moment.

The white haired man that stood above the violence and watched as the man wielding the tonfas in the group wheeled around and spun the thick black steel poles. The sound of crunching bone and thick slaps of flesh colliding with the weapon would be sickening to most, but to those that fought it was one of two things. It was either a job well done or the pain of a comrade. The bright emerald eyes scanned along the carnage further and fell upon the capoeira artist, spinning legs connecting with bodies in a violent dance that ended with his targets spitting teeth and blood. Alastair recognized a martelo and gave a short smile. That was something he and that man could fight together with…Again the emerald eyes searched and fell upon the man of obvious Spanish decent. The way he moved and the way he fought was odd. Something…odd about it and Alastair realised that he was a mixed martial artist too. The karambits he held was more than a threat that Alastair needed. His eyes continued looking around and he caught the sight of the one girl in the group. She bounced quickly between attacks and pulled them off with almost surgical precision. He shook his head gently and walked down the steps that separated him from the carnage. He wasn’t about to be out-pissed. 

Alastair strode through the centre of the grunts the others had engaged and stood alone. He looked at the remaining nineteen that stood off to the side, looking to opportunistically strike if someone made a mistake. Alastair grinned under the white slate mask and held a hand out, beckoning them to attack him. Six of them gathered the gall to attack the man all in white. Alastair tilted his body forward as they rushed, his hands going out and planting onto the floor. His body followed with the momentum and he hooked his feet around the neck of the closest thug that had run at him. Letting his body swing with the momentum, he came into a sitting position on the man’s shoulders. Another quick motion cause his body to be thrown back out and spinning. He collided into another man as he brought his first target down with a vicious head scissors. Alastair growled as he landed wrong and felt the tell-tale snap of a rib. Ren always chastised him for being showy. The Dragons leaped on their fallen target, fists and feet striking Alastair. A soft throaty growl ripped from the man’s throat as he pushed the group off in a rage. His hands finding their way to his ground, twisting his hips violently and catching the group in his spinning kick. He fell back to the ground, breathing hard “fuck…” he swore gently.