Maybe it's the grasp of his hand on the collar; maybe it's the way the man twists on his heel-- nearly dislocating it as he turns-- eyes crazed in their violent jerk as he raves a wordless scream. The cacophony must have dragged attentions on them, but the man hardly cares, lunging with all of his weight at the swordman.

It's clumsy as far as attempts go, forwards in a simplistic way-- few of the refugees have ever seen a single battle in their lifetime, and it makes them both slow and predictable if they do not hold the edge of a surprise to their attack. But he tries with the demented edge of a rat trapped into a corner, going for the throat.

More are already gathering; rushing in from in-between tents and canvas, feet pounding across the unsteady earth as it rolls once more. One, middle-aged, has silver hair at her temples, and her smile would almost be a comfort if her eyes were seeing anything at all. A gangly teen with freckles across his nose hits the open area running, doesn't even slow as he rushes Tidus just a few seconds behind the first, swinging a mad fist high at his opponent as soon as he is within reach.

Esteban is just as colourful in his curses some steps away, but even with the both of them, there are too many refugees to make casting an easy option. Not in this mess.