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

The force as they clashed was so thoroughly unexpected that it boggled his mind for the briefest of instants, feeling his arm clash against an unsurpassable wall—the man’s hammer. For a human to approach a Servant in Strength was baffling, for a human to match him—it flew in the face of any and all possibility to begin with. Not only that, but could he see the man—perhaps not necessarily overwhelmingly so but. . .was he just a touch faster?

Yet, at the same time, that accursed smile would not leave his face. Yes, that was it, of course. He had wished for exactly this, hadn’t he? Whether or not the enemy was a proper Servant did not matter, whether or not what was happening before his eyes was an impossibility did not matter, all that mattered was the glorious ringing of clashing steel. The hunger in his eyes became more intense, the inferno of his soul blazed with renewed strength. Surely. . .this was indeed a proof of his good fortune. His wolfish grin was firmly kept in place, and he opened his mouth to speak—

And so it happened, that Gram writhed in his grip, its curses contained, its grudge brought low, its evil repelled. The sword in his hand, which should have had all of one equal, was brought down to a level that, while still greatly superior to other blades, was nonetheless unbecoming of its status.

They were still there, whispering at the edges of his mind, but they had been subdued, as though there was a wall that separated them now, and for a single heartbeat, Sigurd’s incredulous gaze moved from his enemy’s hammer to his sword and back again.

Scratch matching him, what sort of tool did this one carry to diminish the work of the dwarf, to chain the grudge of [that thing] in such a manner? If anything, this impossibility surpassed—nay, dwarfed—the fact that the man’s strength equaled his own. And so, as a shockwave of air was released by the mere clash alone, Sigurd could not help but gape in disbelief.

And that disbelief, for an instant, gave way to a mix of respect and annoyance.

“. . .That’s my line you’re stealing, old man. This sword can be a handful, but it’s been with me through thick and thin, and you’re pulling this?” His brow furrowed, even if the smile did not vanish, as though confused about what to feel—whether anger over the state of his weapon or awe at the deed. “Tch, guess it can’t be helped. . .it really, really wants to kill you now, you know? Just a bit more than it wants to kill everything, I mean.”

The words were spoken casually—or as casually as one could under these circumstances. His crimson eyes analyzed the possible venues of action he had for the moment, and he realized that, bluntly put, it was not a time to carelessly risk either his body or his sword with a clash. Too little information to act upon, a whole lot of guesses that could be right or wrong and the chips he was betting were his life, carelessly tossed upon the table even though a single misstep would mean further peril to his weapon or worse. At the very least, he supposed he should be thankful to both Weyland and Regin—he did not want to know what would have happened if Gram’s quality was even a touch less outstanding.

Well, at least whatever had happened during the clash had apparently. . .hurt. . .the hammer, so he would count that as a minute win. Now, where was he? Oh, right, getting out of this mess alive and whole.

. . .Tricky, really. Both in range of each other, he could discern the man using the leftover momentum to prepare to strike once again. Thus, there were two venues—try to get even closer, try get out and attempt something else. Now, how should he go about this. . .

There were no words exchanged—just as the old man prepared his own attack, so too did he move again. However, this time, he had no intention of using his sword.

Perhaps that would be a strange statement to be spoken aloud, seeing as the blade had traveled to his right following the initial clash, as though he was about to make a follow up swing himself, but what happened was different. 

Rather than a swing, he twirled the handle in his hand—as though the instrument was as light as a feather to him—and, at the same time, stabbed down towards the ground, burying part of Gram’s blade within. His objective was simple—once that was done, he needed only to use it as leverage and make the best out of the remaining momentum, allowing him a jump that should place him far enough away to reconsider how to engage. Fast as the enemy was, if he managed to pull himself up enough, he could perhaps use the enemy’s momentum against him—it should be difficult enough to stop or correct a strike from such a weapon once one has committed to it, and while it is certainly true that any Servant worth their salt should be able to subvert the normal rules, perhaps the suddenness would catch the man off-guard. 

True, the chance of getting caught by the hammer was still there, but since they moved in the same direction and at that speed, perhaps that would soften the blow—though, considering how the man had recognized his nature and the way he had spoken about it moments earlier had most likely incentivized his decision to not trust absolutely in his ability. He could not be sure what would the weapon do against him if he was struck instead of Gram, but the thought that he would manage to avoid taking a single scratch throughout the entire fight was foolishness at best, and so, he would just need to do his best and deal with whatever came his way.

However, that did not mean he could let challenges go unanswered and be the only one losing something in the exchange—so if it just so happened that he chose to launch a kick towards the enemy’s face mid-jump, all the better. Whoever said he just had to use his sword, anyway?

[@Over Illusion]
[hr]
[h2]Janika Edelfelt, Miyama Riverside[/h2]

The evening glow framed a halo around her white hair, blue eyes reflecting the sky and dress fluttering gently in the breeze making her look the picture of an ideal lady.

Which is why the scowl on her face was all the more outstandingly, absurdly jarring, why the coldness in her eyes had made people get out of her way ever since she had left the church and that utterly damnable man and made her way here.

Just thinking about it made her crease her brow further. The ruffian’s nerve had been beyond question—not a single word of thanks, no appreciation, even if she had come specifically to help him, hurried by the urgency in her call and the simple desire to act like her station demanded. The fact that his critique was not without basis only annoyed her further, and so, she had spent the majority of her day looking like she was on a warpath.

Pausing to shoot a glance at the river, she tried to get her emotions under control—no, she most definitely could not go to the church right now and suplex the man. It would just not do. Count to ten, breathe in, count to ten again, let go. Attempting to use the image of the river—itself dyed by the gentle setting sun, reflecting its rays—to further calm herself, she found her attempts somewhat successful, though the sourness of her mouth did not just disappear. At least she doubted the day could get any worse.

As it turns out, when she answered the desperate calling of Emmerich, she had to wonder in the back of her mind if the world just had it out for them today. At first, her face showed absolutely no reaction—a finely crafted mask of marble and steel, but her eyes told a different story, as did her body. Dilated pupils, irregular breathing—almost as though she was on the verge of hyperventilating. Leaning against the wall around a nearby house’s garden, she felt her step lose its characteristic sureness and her mouth dry.

“Saber. Go,” They were the first words that left her mouth, and the sense of urgency could not be faked—not to this level. What had been said shook her to the core, and this would perhaps be the first time the terror she felt was so apparent. “Move [i]now[/i]. Don’t worry about me, don’t think about it, just hurry it up to where those two are without a second’s delay. I should be fine, considering your ability, and I will go to rendezvous with my sister post-haste just in case, but if what Emmerich said is true, then they are probably in need of more help than Brauer ever was. Rider seemed exactly the sort of idiot to try and meet the problem head on alone, but this is way too risky. Run, fly, do [i]whatever you want[/i] but get there as soon as you are able.”

The Burial Agency. Just thinking about it made her heartbeat quicken, and she gulped. Why here and now, of all possible times? Certainly, challenging the Church’s authority so early on must have been jarring, but why would they send someone like that even in these circumstances, why would they care about this backwater in the middle of nowhere enough to send someone like that so soon?

It made no sense, but perhaps, it just did not have to. Did the why really matter when one of those monsters got involved, in the end? No, no. At this point, searching for the root of the problem was far less important than just dealing with it.

“. . .One more thing. Do not die.”

[@Yukitamas]