[h2]Rider, Miyama Hotel[/h2]

A noncommittal noise originated from the back of the Servant’s throat as he peeked through the curtains, crimson eyes looking down at the people carrying out their lives below. This was certainly livelier than the fields and, even if he still found himself restless, at least he could somewhat remedy it, pacing about the room in physical form while it was only himself and his Master there.

His appearance alone would likely draw too many looks, ashen hair, great stature and tan skin already marking him as an oddity even if he were to bother with attire fitting to the times, so it was better if they simply did not bother and he stuck to remaining non-corporeal—and he endeavored to enjoy the small freedoms for as long as they lasted. Still, as much of a problem as it would be, he could not help but wonder what would happen if the current scene in the room—a man working through some paperwork while a lumbering giant, by the standards of this country anyway, paced in the background looking ready for war—were to be witnessed by any worker at the hotel that had the misfortune of opening the door without knocking first. Surreal was certainly a word to describe it.

His footsteps were heavy, though not devoid of grace, and he limited himself to listen to the curious tunes his Master seemed to be fond of while waiting for something to happen. Considering that at least one of their three allies had already made contact with the enemy, he wondered when would it be their turn, shamelessly admitting that he was someone who enjoyed trading sword swings more than he should. Speaking of. . .

His gargantuan blade was not slung across his back this time, having left it propped against the wall while he was allowed to stretch his legs. Sitting down on the edge of one of the two single beds, head supported by his right hand, he stole a glance towards the thing and realized that, even after all the years that had passed, the faint feeling of revulsion had not gone away. Smiling mirthlessly, something that did not quite reach his eyes, he wondered how his father would react if he saw what had become of his prized sword at his own child’s behest. Not that he could do much else when the only thing he had been left were the fragments, anyway.

Still. . .it was not a particularly nice sight, no matter how much power had been built through those actions.

Ah, this was bad. He had thought the ability to move and feel, interacting with the normal world, would be enough to tame his boredom, but he could only do it for so long before he fell prey to his greatest enemy once again. So.

“What’s it you’re muttering, Master?” He asked the question as he picked out some random magazine the staff had left and started to flick through the pages. “A hundred what?”

How precious little he had to do, and while the songs were not necessarily bad, he could not find it in himself to be entertained by music alone. Perhaps he simply lacked the refined tastes of others. Humming to himself, he wondered what he could do to remedy this. . .

“By the way,” A smile grew on his face as a thought appeared. “How much of whatever currency they use around here do we possess, Master? Maybe it might not be too late to try and find out what passes for ale around here.” There was nothing quite as effective to get to know each other as a good tankard accompanied by decent food, and if he could grade whatever alcohol they had around here in the interests of furthering his knowledge, all the better.

Hopefully they would at least have the strong stuff. There was nothing quite as irritating as weak swill that did not even tickle the throat.

[@Angry Hungarian]