Honestly a wise decision. While Sephiroth is clearly skilled and able to dodge with relative ease, all it would take is a simple mistake for everything to change and quickly. The beast is not likely to tire, and with no means to harm it, that would simply be a game of endurance and there is no real prize to be found.
The ice serves its purpose, however, and while the behemoth shows that it has the mind to know better than to try to crash through it. Not for fear of its thick hide being pierced, but rather it might find itself spinning off into the water. Thus it conjures flaming comets to crash into the ice, breaking it up and melting itβthough by the time it does so, Sephiroth has gained considerable time on escaping.
Which doesn't mean the behemoth has given up. It hasn't. With a bellowing roar, it gives chase, its muscular form clawing its way forward as it rushes after him. Though, as Sephiroth gets closer to the fortress itself, to the bridge's end, he will find that he is not alone after all.
There is a man there, standing at about six-feet and one-inch, he has black shaggy hair and scruffy facial hair. Dressed in a black jerkin over a deep high collared shirt which ties in the middle, donning black pants and leather boots, he is dressed rather finely. He stares at him with sharp, steely eyes, his expression neutral and observant. He does nothing, reacts to nothing, standing almost perfectly still and if it weren't for the obvious markers for life, one might think him a statue. Even as the behemoth draws nearer, he does not seem remotely concerned, his grey eyes tracking Sephiroth with muted intrigue.
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The ice serves its purpose, however, and while the behemoth shows that it has the mind to know better than to try to crash through it. Not for fear of its thick hide being pierced, but rather it might find itself spinning off into the water. Thus it conjures flaming comets to crash into the ice, breaking it up and melting itβthough by the time it does so, Sephiroth has gained considerable time on escaping.
Which doesn't mean the behemoth has given up. It hasn't. With a bellowing roar, it gives chase, its muscular form clawing its way forward as it rushes after him. Though, as Sephiroth gets closer to the fortress itself, to the bridge's end, he will find that he is not alone after all.
There is a man there, standing at about six-feet and one-inch, he has black shaggy hair and scruffy facial hair. Dressed in a black jerkin over a deep high collared shirt which ties in the middle, donning black pants and leather boots, he is dressed rather finely. He stares at him with sharp, steely eyes, his expression neutral and observant. He does nothing, reacts to nothing, standing almost perfectly still and if it weren't for the obvious markers for life, one might think him a statue. Even as the behemoth draws nearer, he does not seem remotely concerned, his grey eyes tracking Sephiroth with muted intrigue.