Mount Apikuni and he wrote it down RIGHT THERE (HIGHLIGHTS!)

Keyed-up Vercingetorix was a lot like a prize fighter in the ring. On his toes, bursting with adrenaline, energy coursing through him like the lightning that had so apparently ravaged this place. Perfect, then. His charcoal pelt blended against the charred rock; he trotted along, bright eyes darting, looking for competition.

Diaspora hadn't given him many opportunities to spar, so he took his talents outside the lake today. It was only fair, after all. He'd leave and beat up someone out here, and they could just, like, do their own thing or whatever there.

God, he was excited for the kids to be old enough to learn to fight.

Back in Trigeda, he'd helped to train goufas. Some took to it naturally, others were a challenge. He himself had taken to it like a fish to water, and it was something that he didn't necessarily flaunt--but he didn't have to. He was fucking huge; who was going to fuck with him? Anyway, the humor was a defense mechanism, he supposed, trying to put people at ease.

Because if you were standing and talking to the lupine version of the Incredible fucking Hulk, you'd better hope that he was laughing and smiling and not about to blow a gasket.