The sounds of the crowd- of people exclaiming disappointed noises, and some, apparently more than a couple of drinks in, berating those that decide to exit- can be heard in faint bursts around them. Yet Cloud's not listening to them. He's turned his gaze away from Goro, his stance rigid, face unmoving, but his gaze flicking between the remaining fighters. Two, three, four, five remaining?
A larger, bearded man possessing two viciously curved axes looks unsure. He's staring at Goro's back- and it's clear on his subject's face- the way his lower lip seems to quiver underneath his mess of a beard seems he's having a word with himself. But the way his body trembles under the influence of what he's taken, the way his veins on muscled, filthy arms stand up from the skin, the voice of reason is deeply embattled against the substance he's taken to amp himself up.
He roars, suddenly- deciding to establish his masculinity by grabbing the man closest to him- a strange-looking man with a bald head and a scimitar that looks well beyond what he could possibly hope to afford- and forcing his face into the wall. Then he retreats under the rope to open booing.
...Okay, he thinks. So three remaining. That's good. Less opportunity for someone to an injury that's going to follow him into the next match, but there's Goro. That's going to be an ordeal unto itself. He shifts on his feet, reaffirming his gaze upward. Even though Goro's leaning down, he still has to crane his neck to do so.
"I ain't here to trade compliments." He responds, tone brisk enough to infer indifference, yet if Goro were attentive, he'd easily see how uncomfortable he was. It's characterized clearly. The way his fingertips dig into his arms, the way his breathing hitches- but he still stares upward. It's as if he's experienced unwanted attention from someone that frankly? scares the shit out of him before.
His discomfort with... well, said compliments, stem from the fact they're coming from someone who clearly looks capable of ending him. Not just winning a tournament, but actually breaking him in two. And that kind of attention, from someone like that? Yeah, it's turning into a regular thing.
Instinctively, he moves his gaze away when his eyes are mentioned. Great. He can't help but think, sardonically- as a vague strategy of exploiting a preconceived notion of brawn equalling stupidity slips away from him. He's big, but he's not stupid.
"... You done yet?" He asks, hopefully dismissively. Though in all actuality? More in the manner of a small dog trying to present itself as a big one. And failing.
no subject
A larger, bearded man possessing two viciously curved axes looks unsure.
He's staring at Goro's back- and it's clear on his subject's face- the way his lower lip seems to quiver underneath his mess of a beard seems he's having a word with himself. But the way his body trembles under the influence of what he's taken, the way his veins on muscled, filthy arms stand up from the skin, the voice of reason is deeply embattled against the substance he's taken to amp himself up.
He roars, suddenly- deciding to establish his masculinity by grabbing the man closest to him- a strange-looking man with a bald head and a scimitar that looks well beyond what he could possibly hope to afford- and forcing his face into the wall. Then he retreats under the rope to open booing.
...Okay, he thinks. So three remaining. That's good. Less opportunity for someone to an injury that's going to follow him into the next match, but there's Goro. That's going to be an ordeal unto itself. He shifts on his feet, reaffirming his gaze upward. Even though Goro's leaning down, he still has to crane his neck to do so.
"I ain't here to trade compliments." He responds, tone brisk enough to infer indifference, yet if Goro were attentive, he'd easily see how uncomfortable he was. It's characterized clearly. The way his fingertips dig into his arms, the way his breathing hitches- but he still stares upward. It's as if he's experienced unwanted attention from someone that frankly? scares the shit out of him before.
His discomfort with... well, said compliments, stem from the fact they're coming from someone who clearly looks capable of ending him. Not just winning a tournament, but actually breaking him in two. And that kind of attention, from someone like that? Yeah, it's turning into a regular thing.
Instinctively, he moves his gaze away when his eyes are mentioned. Great. He can't help but think, sardonically- as a vague strategy of exploiting a preconceived notion of brawn equalling stupidity slips away from him. He's big, but he's not stupid.
"... You done yet?" He asks, hopefully dismissively. Though in all actuality? More in the manner of a small dog trying to present itself as a big one. And failing.