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At least, at the moment, Warwick wasn't performing: between groups, he'd decided to take the moment to bask in the sun and catch his breath, sprawled out with his back to the grass and sweat finally starting to dry. It was too hot. Once upon a time, he'd been used to this weather, to shockingly humid and sweltering climates -- but after a good decade of travel, he found himself more inclined to the north. Snow was still the enemy, but a good spring rain would have been amazing, right now.

His eyes on the clouds, tracking shapes that moved through them, and his hand on the bag that was his livelihood, Warwick was entirely oblivious to the approaching youma that swung from one tree to the next, working its way around the edge of the park and in toward the grove where he'd set up camp. It wasn't until the creature let out a monkey-like screech, a hoot of victory, preparing to drop down onto its pray, that he blinked out of his reverie and up at the hairy creature.

By then it was too late. He only had time for a sharp noise of panic before it was on him.

Warwick was oblivious, but not entirely so, at least; the shadow had fallen over him and stirred him slowly from his skywatching, hauled his eyes from the clouds and away toward the trees just as Valhalla burst out into the open. One look at the man, and the monster moving above him, and Warwick was in motion himself. He rolled to his feet in an expert, thoughtless way, catching the strap of his bag even as he stumbled a few steps away.

He was still clinging to it when he dragged to a halt, gaping at the monkey as it swung higher and higher upward, unsure what to make of its crooked body and far-too-human hands. Monkeys didn't usually have thumbs, did they? Nor did they usually occupy parks like this one.

"...escaped from the zoo?" His accent came out strong in the panic, tinging the words, blue eyes gone wide as saucers as he just watched. Like an idiot.

The problem was that Valhalla was looking forward when he should have been looking up. The youma had caught a branch and disappeared into the foliage, long arms easily dragging himself up and up to hide behind trunks and leaves. Biding its time, sharp eyes picked through the retreating crowd in search of easy victims, for the moment it avoided the two young men who hadn't fled immediately in terror.

If not for a gust of wind that blew leaves aside, that let Valhalla catch sight of the dark bulk against lighter bark, it might have remained well hidden.

Warwick made a noise with his eyes on the trees, already working the bulk of his bag up onto his shoulder, fidgeting like he was unsure if he should run or help and -- mostly, really, he wanted to know what was going on. Wanted to see, a bit.

"...Sorry but, uh, how exactly are you going to kill anything?" It was careful, delicate, and the question made sense in context. Valhalla looked like an off-duty actor more than anything else, looked like he'd stumbled off the grounds of a Renaissance Festival -- and forgotten his sword at the metalsmith's booth. That thought made Warwick fidget and shift, fumbling at the zipper of his bag.

"You're unarmed."

"Uh. Well, actually...." Caught the zipper, finally, pulled it open -- and when he straightened, Warwick was wielding a knife as long as his arm. In the moment, it looked rather impressive, dangerous, especially considering how he was wielding it. At a glance it was impossible to notice that the thing was actually completely dull, a show piece more than an actual weapon.

Though, if you stuck it into someone hard enough, it would probably still do a bit of damage.

He cleared his throat, offering Valhalla a crooked, somewhat-uncertain grin. "I have some uh. I have some fuel, too, for setting things on fire, and some clubs that catch up right quick..."

"Oh, yes, it'll get dangerous, but some crazy kid in a viking costume's going to take care of it." He shook his head at that, grabbing at Valhalla's hands as the young man tried to push him away, toward 'safety'. Warwick wasn't exactly a hero but -- but he could recognize ridiculous when he saw it. He was good with ridiculous.

Instead of running off himself, he fished around for another knife -- longer and duller -- and shrugged the bag off his shoulder. With his other hand, he fished around in his pocket for the pre-paid cell phone. It was for emergencies only. He thought this probably qualified.

"How about I call nine one -- " Except he didn't have time to finish the sentence. The youma swung down out of the tree to grab the phone out of his hands with nimble toes, and Warwick was left gasping and slashing uselessly after it.

"...took my phone!" If it hadn't been for the outrage that the creature had stolen his phone like that, Warwick might have protested Valhalla's hands on his bag, poking through his things. Rude to snatch it away from him like that, but even worse that the creature had made off with Warwick's cell. He wasn't loaded; he couldn't afford a replacement, and he damned well wanted it back.

With some effort, he blinked back onto the knight, and pushed his hands away in a frustrated sort of way. The bag was a mess, full of everything Warwick might need for a performance, up to and including the rickety wood structure he usually balanced on -- broken up into smaller pieces, for the time being. And yet. He dug out somewhat-singed juggling clubs in a matter of seconds, came up with the bottle of lighter fluid, frowning at Valhalla.

"You know how to light a fire?" Warwick could throw the knives, definitely, though who knew exactly how much good that would do? They weren't exactly sharp. Cops might have objected, were they sharp.

"Eh, here." He shoved the clubs and fluid into Valhalla's hands anyway, snatching up the knives and taking after the creature. If some costumed kid could handle this, why shouldn't he help out, too?

Warwick's plan had absolutely not been to get the monster down out of the tree; instead his goal had been to haul himself up beside it. There were a couple of low-hanging branches, and he didn't think it would be hard to run up the first few steps, catch ahold, hop and shimmy his way out onto the perch.

Except the monster seemed to get in the way some. He ducked one of the tumbling clubs with a yelp, half-turning to blink back at Valhalla, and winced as the second hit home on the youma's shoulder. Distracted, still fumbling with his own makeshift weapons, he missed as the creature dropped down onto the tree, much too close beside him.

All his bravado meant very little when the creature was a couple arm's lengths away and opening its mouth in a rather wild snarl. The sound it made wasn't terribly monkey-like, despite its appearance: instead it was loud and rattling, one of its great arms swinging out to knock a knife from Warwick's hands. He brought up the other one, uncertainly, hesitating, looking pale and nervous.