It was decided, the group were to get moving through the forest routes; but to where exactly hadn’t been specified. This didn’t concern Hannibal though. He didn’t need to set a location; the freedom to travel was alone privilege and pleasures enough to satisfy Hannibal. Years restricted to the battling ring had built up a firm appreciation of the outside world and now that he had it, there was no way he was going to surrender it for the hunger of zombies. When the muzzle was removed, his fantasies would become reality. He sighed lightly, glancing to the zebstrika who had moved to alert the flying types of the group’s plan. It seemed everyone was eager to get moving, and Hannibal was no exception – he was growing to dislike the size of the thicket. There wasn’t enough room, no escapes – it reminded him of the ring. At that moment, he got to his feet, forgetting about the berry he’d claimed and preparing to stretch out his legs.
"Infected!"Hannibal’s head raised at the outcry, his body tensing slightly as the rufflet came crashing through the thicket, clearly panicked. He couldn’t have been lying, the fear was so pure, so intense. Hannibal disguised a smirk, as he listened to the bird’s description. Five infected, and apparently they were all going to die. He snorted. He was tempted to ask their species but decided that he fancied a bit of a surprise. The old adrenaline from his battling days kicked in, and Hannibal was eager to silence the urge to fight. Of course, it was a hell of lot harder when he was restricted to a short-ranged, concentrated flamethrower and the weight of his body – but he’d always loved a challenge. He’d survived the ring, he killed hundreds to keep himself alive and he’d learned the hard way that only the strong would live. Stretching out his legs, his eyes flickered to each of the pokémon in the thicket, attempting to read their thoughts. Would they fight or flee? Cash would obviously take the opportunity to demonstrate his strength, his worth; Sil didn’t seem the type to run off, nor did Etai, and from what he’d seen of the flying-types, they’d assist in any way they could.
“Well,” He purred lazily.
“Are we waiting for something?” Hannibal didn’t wait for a response and practically strolled out of the thicket. His instincts told him that this was a perfect opportunity for them to use him as bait for the infected, but he wanted it. He wanted to experience the sheer terror of knowing you’re outnumbered, that you’re likely to die. It was probably the last thing Mischa ever felt.
As he exited the thicket, his eyes flicked up to the bat, Wesley, and he offered a friendly smile. He had nothing to say though, and simply continued to walk onwards. When he finally spotted the infected a good distance away, his fur bristled in anticipation. He didn’t recognize the species, a feline variety probably native to the region. Out of the five he saw, he presumed three were the evolved species of the other two – perhaps a family, how quaint. He stood his ground for a moment, watching the group run in his general direction, growing closer with every frenzied footfall, perhaps enticed by the cut on his face. It had been a few weeks since he’d had to fight an undead, and every time the risk sent a marvelous thrill down his spine. The muzzle only made it more interesting – he’d managed to kill with the muzzle twice before, he sincerely hoped he’d be able to do it again.
He ran then, slim legs carrying him agilely towards the creatures intent on slaughtering him. His mind transformed the lead liepard into an arcanine – the murderer of Mischa provided a greater incentive to kill. As the space between was rapidly filled, Hannbial pushed himself into the air, flames licking around his muzzle as he collided with the first liepard. He unleashed a small flamethrower directly into the feline’s face, his forepaws pushing against its chest to allow him a comfortable landing on top of the monster. The feline screeched in pain, its face alight with fire as its eyeballs burst and sizzled at the intense heat. Hannibal had no time to finish it off as before he knew it, another creature had rammed into his side, knocking him to the ground. He snarled, infuriated at his own lack of judgment as he struggled back to his feet. Almost as soon as he was back in a standing position, a purrloin had begun tearing at his face. It stung and he aggressively shook the creature away, several gashes appearing to suddenly coat his face with blood. The bastards always had to miss tearing the muzzle. Another snarl erupted from his gut accompanied by a short-ranged flamethrower to temporarily distract his latest attacker. It wouldn’t be enough though. The eyeless liepard was already recovering but fortunately turning to attack its fellow undead in its confusion, leaving the houndoom mobbed by the remaining three. He could only pray that no more would appear. He was putting up a surprisingly good fight for a muzzled, injured and outnumbered creature, but his luck would soon run dry.
(( Sorry. Very long post :B ))
