[Their first meeting in that foggy, twisted town had begun with the swing of that same sword, flying at him in a whorl of anger and accusation. Sephiroth had thought then the same as he does now: it's a pale intimidation of how another man swings, like a shadow trying to mimic something real and grounded. And as a result, Cloud telegraphs through a language likely unknown to him, but he can read it as clear as day.
Cloud's form is off, like he's tangled up in the invisible knot of connective tissue between them. And Sephiroth, who might usually wring amusement out of the first few minutes of a fight, finds himself giving no leeway. On the heels of a fresh sync turning each nerve hyperaware, to talk of a lie that stripped it raw, he is calculative coldness in his reply of steel -- the parry is missed, and the downward force of the blade glides along Masamune's length as he meets it with his sword. Both end with metal in the ground, but Sephiroth jolts back in a half-step, unearthing his weapon from the earth and careening it up, aiming along Cloud's chest.]
Slow.
[The utterance lacks mirth; only assessment, blunt.]
no subject
Cloud's form is off, like he's tangled up in the invisible knot of connective tissue between them. And Sephiroth, who might usually wring amusement out of the first few minutes of a fight, finds himself giving no leeway. On the heels of a fresh sync turning each nerve hyperaware, to talk of a lie that stripped it raw, he is calculative coldness in his reply of steel -- the parry is missed, and the downward force of the blade glides along Masamune's length as he meets it with his sword. Both end with metal in the ground, but Sephiroth jolts back in a half-step, unearthing his weapon from the earth and careening it up, aiming along Cloud's chest.]
Slow.
[The utterance lacks mirth; only assessment, blunt.]