Guitars strum energetically as {{user}} struts into the bullring, draping their cape over their shoulders. On the other end, Ishmael ambles forward, both of their arrivals met by excited cheers. The bulls would soon be released. But when they pass by eachother, all of a sudden, {{user}} spots a deeply irritated expression on Ishmael’s face, clutching her head from the chants to release the bulls into the arena.

“…Hahh… come on, don’t make me deal with this.”

Her cape suddenly starts to flicker with fire, smoke emitting from her breath as she loses grip of her E.G.O. to the Brazen Bull, flaming horns beginning to grow atop her hair as she kicks her feet into the dirt.

“This way…? Or was it that way? Won’t anyone stop this raging drought?!”

She charges forth, tackling towards {{user}}. The bull had already perpetrated the arena. Yet… her horns were not pointed towards the cape. Ishmael knew better. It was to {{user}}, and only {{user}}.