[ The loss is misery enough, but the gloating on top of it earns a soft groan of annoyance and disapproval. Not just the fanfare—one he's heard hummed a hundred times if he's heard it once—but the photoburst to commemorate this. One wide hand comes up to block his face, as if it won't be obvious enough from the tattoo scrawled along his arms and chest. At least it's over relatively quickly; small favors that come alongside Prompto's penchant for photography. Unfortunately, though, the relief is short-lived when his suspicions and, indeed, concerns are validated. ]

It's not poison.

[ His tone is dismissive, in lieu of hands that want to bury the skewer before shoving Prompto off in the other direction. It's also defeated in a way that becomes clearer as he elaborates, the explanation coming reluctantly. He's trying to find a delicate way of putting things since the last thing he wants to deal with is panic alongside the side effects, although he knows that's sort of a hair trigger for Prompto either way.

Instead of burying the skewer or rolling him into the sand, however, Gladio simply grabs his wandering hands at the wrists, holding his arms steady and aiming to lock eyes with him. ]

This isn't a normal resort. You can't trust the food and drink here without seeing what it does to other people first. [ A sigh, closed eyes, and a glance toward the water, behind Prompto, at a pair of guests without a care in the world. One on all-fours in the sand, the other behind her on his knees, neither of them with a lick of clothing or shame to be seen. ]

A couple months ago, there was some shitty "game" that had everyone running around acting like idiots because they were assigned different animals. Some of them were rabbits...and needed to do what rabbits do best.

[ He hopes the message is clear enough, though he's been a bit delicate with the explanation. Mostly because he'd been unfortunate enough to have been one of the rabbits, and isn't exactly keen to relive some of his most embarrassing moments. ]