[ There's a certain heat to his companion that he thinks he recognizes--it's exactly the kind of thing that he's used to failing against, the sort of foolhardiness, stubborn and sure, in someone that pivots them to help instead of flee; he's been exasperated before, trying to coax a friend from doing what she shouldn't, trying to convince others to leave him to the battles. If something happens to him, it isn't really a problem, but: to have something happen to someone else feels unforgivable, precisely the sort of thing a hero would never allow.
And what kind of hero are you?--the voice is smug, completely sure of itself. You've never managed to be anything of the sort.
It's his gaze that jerks, watching the guard drag the mace back to him, and it's there he realizes the chance to disarm him, maybe knock him unconscious, could be their best bet. The weight of the mace is taking the guard a long time to recover--by the time he does, it's another shot that lands between Cloud's bare feet, purposefully delivered in the hopes of sticking solidly into the stone. By the time he's thought to pivot himself in, there's a blur of movement from behind him; it's the girl, and he curses under his breath.
She's done a damn good job, he can't fault her that: the guard tumbles, knocked off balance, but there isn't quite enough momentum to tumble back. The guard brushes up against the wall, sparing him his lack of balance, but that isn't a problem: with hard hands, Cloud reaches for the end of the chain, pulling it sharp with his weight; the handle of the mace gets dragged out of the guard's grip in his confusion, and immediately he takes it up in his palm. Gives it a good squeeze, testing the weight of it: compared to hauling the buster sword around, it's no problem. ]
Careful. [ He calls out to his companion--and there's even a little humor in his voice, dry as it is. One arm flexes, winds the mace up out of the stone, preparing to loop it around and over his shoulder to hit the guard in the head; there's only one shot he's going to get at this, no pressure or anything, and the last thing he wants to do is split her head open, too, so: ]
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And what kind of hero are you?--the voice is smug, completely sure of itself. You've never managed to be anything of the sort.
It's his gaze that jerks, watching the guard drag the mace back to him, and it's there he realizes the chance to disarm him, maybe knock him unconscious, could be their best bet. The weight of the mace is taking the guard a long time to recover--by the time he does, it's another shot that lands between Cloud's bare feet, purposefully delivered in the hopes of sticking solidly into the stone. By the time he's thought to pivot himself in, there's a blur of movement from behind him; it's the girl, and he curses under his breath.
She's done a damn good job, he can't fault her that: the guard tumbles, knocked off balance, but there isn't quite enough momentum to tumble back. The guard brushes up against the wall, sparing him his lack of balance, but that isn't a problem: with hard hands, Cloud reaches for the end of the chain, pulling it sharp with his weight; the handle of the mace gets dragged out of the guard's grip in his confusion, and immediately he takes it up in his palm. Gives it a good squeeze, testing the weight of it: compared to hauling the buster sword around, it's no problem. ]
Careful. [ He calls out to his companion--and there's even a little humor in his voice, dry as it is. One arm flexes, winds the mace up out of the stone, preparing to loop it around and over his shoulder to hit the guard in the head; there's only one shot he's going to get at this, no pressure or anything, and the last thing he wants to do is split her head open, too, so: ]
...Duck down, way down!