A clamor rises from the audience, a myriad pairs of eyes - some of them red, belonging to those far more invested in this particular fight than the remaining audience - looking at the arena, at each other. What began with excitement turned into the beginnings, the fraying threads of impatience. Certainly a tournament with such a collection of oddballs would have its hitches and strange moments, but the rears in the seats expected these to be at least amusing or dramatic.
His little intercom stunt in round one, along with that Sol-Badguy-esque figure's, had gained a few laughs. But being a few minutes late? This was costing him popularity. As big an advantage to a fight as any.
The guards by the entrance, his entrance suddenly shifted, motioned towards eachother and move aside from the iron gratings blocking off the tunnel to the waiting rooms. The more eagle-eyed watchers noticed this, and soon, impatient rumors had scaled back to roars of support, growing even more in volume as his muscular form finally stepped into the sands.
It was him, certainly, one of him. A form like a burly barbarian warrior, long blonde mane cascading around his shoulders and running over his back, combed and braided with extra special care just for this occasion. But something else was far more noticeable - something also changed just for the occasion.
He had exchanged his usual clothing, practical and worn, with a heavy backpack always with him, for something more... Appropriate. Solemn, ceremonial, perhaps fitting with the rest of his body; he now donned, as sparse as it was, alabaster vestements worthy of a barbarian chief of legend. A cape flower from his shoulders, a heavy belt around his hips from which was attached a wide, decorated appron donning the coat of arms of Vialattea. It would not protect him from hits, but he never saw much point in armor, any way.
And resting on his shoulder, a flagpole shining white in the glaring sun, great hand wrapped around it, at the end flickering a vast, long pennant flag, a guidon-flag with the colours and crest of the Vialattean kingdom, alongside its motto. Together, onward.
As he reached the middle of the arena, the crowd urging him onward with their ravenous cheers, their wait already rewarded plenty, he stabbed the pole upon the sands with one single, forced motion. He stood tall, grand and powerful, arms crossed over his muscular bare chest and chin tilted forward, eyes closed and brow furrowed in the semblance of a silent brute.
Yet... The dark-blue, striped tail behind him wagged at impressive speeds, lifting up a cloud of sand; his fingers tapped impatiently on his bicep, and his eyes opened ever so often to peek at his opponent, a giddy smile threatening to break through.
He could truly try his best to look cool, but his excitement betrayed him...
Little him! His younger self! Oh, so much ahead of him, so much he could say, but he couldn't say anything at all! He had to look cool, for him, so his little self could know he would grow up to be truly awesome, no matter what.
