The Weeper looked on with something close to a melancholy amusement. Of course he would enter the fight before he understood. Why were they always so willing to test The Weeper? Had they not learned that one so old must have killed so many?

Perhaps they had all learned in the end, but it was not a lesson one could survive.

Sparks in his palm, signalling that he fought one with magic. Oh how The Weeper had hoped this would be a difficult conflict, yet even as he watched the strange power grow in his foes hand he felt no fear. His arrogance would consume him yet, that was certain. Waves of debilitating aura shot from The Weeper, intensifying with each sonar-like pulse. Unfortunately for Mikael the effects would feel all too personal to notice, until it was likely too late. His eagerness to fight was to be his first elevated emotion, would he resist the tendency to surrender to adrenaline and blood, to go beserk as it were? Time would tell…

The Weeper moved with an unnatural grace, drawing his sword across his body with his right hand as he ran forward on nimble and sure feet. The ashen ground at his feet provided a number of dangerous pitfalls he avoided with apparent nonchalance, as he closed the distance in a second and a half he noted the man’s magical object had grown slightly, though he had certainly reached him faster than expected and so it was unlikely it could be complete in time. Regardless, The Weeping Blade swept across the man’s left side, with the deft slash of a shortsword aimed to incapacitate one’s arms with sharp, and more importantly incredibly quick, cuts. 

Regardless of the outcome of his attack The Weeper was planning to use his momentum wisely, cancelling it out with his left foot coming forward, the sudden halting motion allowing him to swing his right leg across in a quick follow-up kick to the outside of his opponent’s knee (provided he was still within range.)