[h2]Rider, Outside Tohsaka Manor[/h2]

Ah, well, it seemed that communications had certainly taken a turn for the worst, broken down so thoroughly that one could not help but marvel at it. And marvel he did, staring at the man for an instant that stretched into eternity.

The moment his offer for a drink was denied, however, he chose to shrug minutely and brought the bottle up to his own lips, drinking the remaining content with a seemingly unflappable expression. When there was simply no more, he lowered it, and a wolfish smile had set itself upon his features. He stepped in front of his contractor, body providing a shield, and his hand sneaked towards the handle that poked from out of his back.

“Hey, Master,” He called out, the trepidation in his voice easy to hear and recognize as he matched glares with Gavel, his crimson eyes no longer sparking—they definitely burned, like raging fires, a symbol of his state at the moment. He started to crouch into a stance, grin stretching and stretching and showing many more teeth besides. “I’d recommend stepping out of the line of fire for now. . .can’t reason with this one, and I don’t think any normal Magus would have fun against him, you know?

. . .Well, perhaps I also say this because I want to fight him myself, but this works pretty well overall. Yeah, I’m feeling it, I'm feeling it alright. I guess this is my lucky star shining through.” He laughed, though his words hardly invalidated his earlier point—fighting against this man was likely to be suicide for any magus in their faction to begin with. He, however, was cut from a far different cloth.

He’d have to reevaluate his strategy—he could not rely on his invincible skin as much as usual due to the cost it would mean for his Master, so that meant he would have to make efforts to dodge instead of blindly charging away and letting things sort themselves out—perhaps that was a boon, considering how boring it made fights at times. 

And that made things all the more exhilarating, didn’t it? His heart beat with elation and he retrieved his chosen tool of murder, the gargantuan blade catching the gleams of the setting sun. The same putrid air gathered throughout it, runes ignited a cruel crimson that almost matched the shade of his eyes, and Sigurd brought the mind-boggling weapon to match against the hammer. The simple feeling one could get from just a look—it was sickening, now that he had let loose what laid within. It was terrifying, now that the grudges started to gather along the edge, and even if he had not called out its True Name, there could be no doubts about its own standing.

Noble Phantasms could also be ranked in a hierarchy, and what Sigurd held in his hand certainly was not some two-bit, trifling weapon like the sword that had been carried by a certain warrior-queen. No, this was certainly among the finest blades of the mythical era, a weapon crafted and remade for the sole purpose of standing at the top, as a pinnacle. If that legendary King of Knights could boast of carrying ‘the Strongest Holy Sword’ then Sigurd could certainly boast of being the wielder of ‘the Strongest Demonic Sword’.

Matching the other man’s stare with his own, he spoke—perhaps a tad too casually, considering the situation. “Honestly, refusing the drink was a bit rude, you know? There’s a time for everything, and drinking with someone and killing them are not mutually exclusive, you just do them in a certain order. . .don’t you think you move a little too fast?” He chuckled, but the humor did not reach that bloodthirsty gaze. So what if he was hypocritical? He had been longing for this for a while now, after all!

Ah, he could make as many excuses as he wanted, he could converse and pretend that he was not such a single-minded individual as much as he wanted, but if there was anything that he could not avoid, it was showing that ‘side’ when his battle lust was roused. “I’ve been restless for a while now, too, so if you don’t mind, I’m also going to take this opportunity to have some fun.” 

Had his desire not been to cross blades with the heroes that would be called forth to this war for the Holy Grail? The man before him was no Servant, but his posture was unmistakable, and the air about him impossible to miss. Whether spirit or flesh, it mattered little—all he could [i]care[/i] about now was to finally enjoy himself. His low chuckles reverberated around them and he threw the bottle away. His eyes seemed to flash for the briefest instant, the color of molten gold replacing the crimson before vanishing—perhaps a trick of the light, or something else?

“Let’s have a good fight, Mister Gavel. If you need to address me as something, I guess Rider will do. . .well, my mount is not around to prove it, so you’ll have to take my word for it. I’d rather not bring it out so early in the dance, you see.”

And, just like that, he charged. Pavement broke underneath his footfalls, and the mere swing of a blade unleashed a raging gale. To fight as a Servant meant to defy common sense, and even if he had been diminished, even if he was now just one step slower, he was confident to say that his strength was still as it should.

And Sigurd certainly possessed much strength to bring about.

The strategy would then be to first test how Gavel’s specs compared to his own. While he certainly possessed the aura, there were differences between each Servant, and so, the best way to assess the man was to strike hard, fast and see how he answered. His hammer could prove to be the most troublesome thing, but perhaps that could be mitigated if he got close enough to deny him effective use. . .but then again, considering the prana that emanated from it, the way it had been wrought—as well as the fact that, if this man was truly past [i]that[/i] threshold, he would certainly be able to subvert the ‘rules’—Sigurd had to be ready for anything to happen.

He could not wait to see what fate had in store, really. This was just the sort of man he was.

Ah, surely, this was no less than excellent fortune. 

[@Over Illusion] [@Angry Hungarian]