"I can't see," he comments as the bright orange fog pours out of the mouth and nose of his new friend in plumes. It smells faintly of cake and more strongly of those orange candies he'd shoved a handful of into his mouth at the plaza in Disney Town for a quick bit of energy.
And now he can't speak, either. Smelling the sweet stuff has stripped his voice clean out of his throat.
He somehow can't say it's the weirdest thing to happen to him this week.
The cloud cover slows him down, so he hopes it slows Voltaire down too. He offers only a nod to Oranssi's voice, squeezing him a little tighter to show he's heard and understood the instructions.
Before he can get much farther, though, a new voice cuts through the dense orange fog.
"I should have killed you the first fucking time!" a man shouts from somewhere overhead.
There's the gusty feeling of someone passing by him - someone fast. The man, he presumes.
"Varjo was enough! Keep your hands off my KID!"
Ah. So they know each other, somehow. Presumably.
But if Oranssi is food, so is his family, right?
Another body makes a firm impact with his own and Oranssi is wrenched out of his grasp in the chaos of it all.
"Get your hands OFF him," another man growls. "Don't touch my fucking bond."
How can they see in this mess?
At least his hands are free now. And, while he's no Ventus about it, his own wind magic is good enough to clear a path to see what he's doing.
This guy is about to learn not to cross a keyblade wielder or their friends ever again, if he has any say in it.
His strategy is Aero, charge forward until he can't see anymore, and repeat until he reaches Voltaire.
It takes all of about two seconds to find the freak and run at him with Earthshaker readied. Electricity crackles menacingly along the metal of the keyblade as he leaps into the air, bringing it down from over his head for Stun Edge. He follows through when it connects, twisting in mid-air to land firmly on both feet.
He gives Voltaire no break between blows, following it up with another two firm swings of his keyblade. Some other blade cuts through the fog from behind, glowing purple as it comes down from the sky on the beast's back.
So it's him and some mystery man, then. Not the team he'd thought he'd make, but when has anything gone according to plan lately?
The man - who appears lightning fast in flashes of brilliant indigo - is aggressive and reckless in style, but still efficient enough to clearly think of his own polearm as an extension of himself. He keeps striking at the whip and the bags at Voltaire's belt, screaming what sounds like it could be profanity in some language he's never heard.
The rain starts suddenly and heavily as if the bottom's fallen out of the sky, eliminating any opportunity for fire-based spells. Unless he wants to use ice or Diamond Dust, which is risky in slick conditions, he'll have to mainly get up close and personal.
He'll ask about the weird weather and the language later. For now, he continues to rain down decisive blows upon Voltaire whenever there's an opening. Stun Edge. Quick Blitz. Once, he even throws his keyblade for Strike Raid when it doesn't seem the man will be struck by accident.
He still can't speak, but damn it, he can kick ass in silence. So be it.
Tuulta seems like he's slipping on the wind levels of furious at Voltaire, so he supposes the Knight has it handled as he tugs his bond into the nearest hiding spot he can think of. A dead, hollowed tree - because he certainly would rather die and get eaten than hide in live brush - will do just fine for both of them.
He gets no chance to ask questions before he is forcibly tugged backwards into the depths of his own mind. Vaguely, he is aware of Lord Haya's voice booming out of his own mouth.
"I told him to back OFF."
And then it's cold and dark all around them, cold like Misterica used to be, as if they're encased in a blizzard and cocooned in a wall of solid ice.
So much for making sure Sitriini is okay on his own.
