[ Part of it might be an act, he realizes, trying to look so cool, calm and collected, because the weight of whipping that mace up nearly unbalances him--he's trained with swords, guns, shields, fists and feet, but never something like this. This had been far beyond Shinra, the sort of crude tools that they would turn their nose down on. So there's a curse under his breath as he swings the mace over his shoulder and down; he hopes he isn't about to crush his companion with it.
Luckily, she listens. Immediately, she drops to the ground, crouched small, and the guard seems torn on where to direct his attention: his chin dips down, and Cloud can't reel the mace back, despite knowing now its trajectory will collide with--
Rather than his chest, or his shoulder, the guard takes the steel, spiked ball to the top of his head; it cascades down, tearing at his face, slicing at the side of his neck, before it catches there, stubbornly. Blood splatters, a rain over the girl's body, and stunned at himself, Cloud's stubborn hand pulls at the handle of the mace. It stays rooted there, as the guard stumbles, staggering against the wall; he drops it, lets it clatter against the stone as he feels the resistance.
Finish him! his shadow howls at him, pleased, enraged, as though the sight and the smell of blood--different from the almost sickly sweet smell of the girl's blood, on his hand--encourages even more violence. Cloud grits his teeth, crouching down so that he can take the girl by the arm as though to help her up. He doubts she needs it, but he needs the touch to steady himself, his pale face spattered with flecks of red. ]
Let's go. [ It's in a soft, low voice, as he glances at her face with his glowing eyes, darting between the sight of her and the darkness of the corridor beyond. ] We'll find a way.
no subject
Luckily, she listens. Immediately, she drops to the ground, crouched small, and the guard seems torn on where to direct his attention: his chin dips down, and Cloud can't reel the mace back, despite knowing now its trajectory will collide with--
Rather than his chest, or his shoulder, the guard takes the steel, spiked ball to the top of his head; it cascades down, tearing at his face, slicing at the side of his neck, before it catches there, stubbornly. Blood splatters, a rain over the girl's body, and stunned at himself, Cloud's stubborn hand pulls at the handle of the mace. It stays rooted there, as the guard stumbles, staggering against the wall; he drops it, lets it clatter against the stone as he feels the resistance.
Finish him! his shadow howls at him, pleased, enraged, as though the sight and the smell of blood--different from the almost sickly sweet smell of the girl's blood, on his hand--encourages even more violence. Cloud grits his teeth, crouching down so that he can take the girl by the arm as though to help her up. He doubts she needs it, but he needs the touch to steady himself, his pale face spattered with flecks of red. ]
Let's go. [ It's in a soft, low voice, as he glances at her face with his glowing eyes, darting between the sight of her and the darkness of the corridor beyond. ] We'll find a way.