It's difficult to ignore a six-foot-four medieval-looking warrior sporting a giant hammer and bits of his own blood, and so Bruce doesn't; he doesn't stare, either, just notes the fact that he's been joined.

And while ignoring is difficult, it's not impossible, so for a spell, Bruce forgets - absorbed as he is in watching what he's watching, when the tone of the routine shifts, he tilts his head, unconsciously drumming his hand against his bicep, arms crossed. (There's still that funny awareness to him, even then, taken in for a bit by his interest.)

The cadence is familiar in degrees, the orthodoxy alien. It's fascinating, and already being spun into his memory.

After a time, when the sounds of unified shouts and sandals sliding over stone have begun to dull, edging on the break-up of levels and other activities, Bruce looks over at his mysterious companion. It's a little odd; there's not a moment when he seems to stop paying attention to what's before them and start in on the other man. He just is, now, like some shadowed footnote.