(Untitled)

[his_fathers_sin]

"All right, boys, what're we gonna do?"

"WIN!"

"For Cap'n Wakka!"

It's a plan, and sometimes--every now and then--Tidus is a fan of plans.

A man with a long red coat (high collar, it hides his face) walks up the steps with the rest of the crowd and finds a seat.

For the moment, he's there to watch.

And wait.

The Goers are asshole, Tidus

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[cycle_of_death]

The crowd is shrieking, yes, and running. And at first glance, it's exactly the kind of disorganised panic you'd expect, and here's why: a Vouivre is a fearsome-looking son of a bitch. It stands perhaps half as tall again as a tall man, leathery green skin sprouting armoured scales to cover its blunt face, its tail, each of its four stout legs. It has sharp teeth, and cold little eyes, and it's just found its way up the stairs and into the third tier of seating.

But panic is a funny thing. And what's driving it is a pressing desire to not wind up as fiend-food. People are shrieking, and running, but as the Vouivre rounds the top of the stairs, there's no milling, or confusion. The crowd simply turns as one, and flows smoothly (and urgently) in the opposite direction.

Well.

Almost as one.

One figure: the crowd parts around him.

He seems too solid to be swept away.

[his_fathers_sin]

He knows that coat.

He knows that--Tidus isn't eloquent, isn't given to thinking like this, because Tidus knows things that are real and here and solid, but he knows that presence, that way the man has of standing that is something solid, in and of itself.

He's running faster now, and Wakka's right behind him.

[cycle_of_death]

The third tier is all but empty now. The frightened screams are still filtering up from lower down, but it's quieter, too. The heavy sword, balanced over the red-coated figure's shoulder, creaks against the hardened leather of his shoulder-guard.

The Vouivre looks around, and its small, stupid eyes fasten on the only person still around.

A roar - that breaks the hush, rumbling the ground under sturdy black boots.

Inasmuch as it's possible to tell, Auron's single gold-flecked eye is smirking as he sizes the beast up.

He shrugs his coat off one shoulder, freeing his arm.

He moves like stone moves. Feet set wide apart, knees bent. Fighting stance.

[his_fathers_sin]

The thing is, he's not catching up in time to help Auron.

The other thing--the thing that makes him almost slow down, almost want to watch more than run and push through people and try not to hurt anyone who's just running for their lives--is that he doesn't think Auron's going to need it.