Even as he spoke, the other began to move - and honestly that was just rude. Interrupting a man mid-sentence, especially when all they wanted to do was drink beer, dick down some hookers, and enjoy an evening out without the madness of some upstart warrior trying to tackle him to the ground and pummel his head in. Eh, you can't win 'em all, they say, and they'd be right in most circumstances. This wasn't most circumstances. Even as the man began to turn his body, the shadows around them began to react. Not just his own, but every single shadow in the room. All of them. The people standing, the chairs, tables, even the shadow of the door itself. They all reached out, moving imperceptibly fast. The Flash himself couldn't catch those shadows on his best day. They all latched onto a singular point - and that point was their master. The man who wielded them with such insane efficiency, that it would be almost impossible to wretch them away from him. All the math in the world, all the strength in the world, wouldn't be of any use here. 

The shadow of the door itself reacted at the speed of instinctual though - which is to say that even as the brutish man began to turn, and it became all the more clear what was happening - it began to create the biggest drag effect a man could have ever seen. That same drag amplified itself as it left the others hand, as the monstrous man's own shadow reached from behind him and grasped it - putting as much force the opposite way as it had going forward. The man had no need to move his body from the shrapnel, because by the time the shrapnel reached him its velocity was less than that of your average tree-sloth. The shards of wooden door meant nothing, and the concussive blast of the other's hands was strong - he'd give him that. But, Lysander once stood in the event horizon of a black hole, turned, and then walked away. That concussive wave had nothing on the force of that particular singularity. 

It reached him, and he withstood it. His arms shifted a bit, his hair blew back - but other than that he came out of it completely unscathed. Not too shabby, really. Good thing he didn't rely on reaction times or complicated mathematical issues to determine how he moved or what he did. He was a warrior, born and raised. From the moment of his birth, he began training. Fighting, and the control over his magic, was an instinct. And nothing happens faster than instinct. The other would do well to learn that, but that was something that came with time. With experience, and this one? He was still fresh to the scene. Anyway, as the sharpnel came to its halt - the shadows released and they fell one by one to the floor in front of him. Though, the same couldn't be said for the people in the room. Afterall, they weren't really all that important. They lay dead, their bodies pierced or shattered. Their blood seeped out onto the floor, pooling beneath themselves - some touching others. It was a pretty gory mess, but a mess none theless. 

All in all, the man put a lot of power into his attack - and Lysander did feel kind of bad about it being so insanely ineffectual. So, to make up for it in some small way, he reached to the table and grabbed a splinter. Pricking himself on the pad of his left thumb, allowing a minor amount of blood to drain, and then the wound resealed. Finally, though, he was beginning to consider this guy something more than a minor annoyance. He shifted his body a bit, pulling himself out of the booth. His sword remained unharmed on the wall, the precious materials making it up far stronger, and nearly as durable as Lysander himself. His eyes closed for a moment, and he took a deep breath. And though he could have done it with nothing more than a thought - he decided to voice the command. 

[i]"Come,"[/i] was all he said, and come they did. The shadows coelesced upon him. Coming in droves, hordes. Thousands, millions. Shadows from the rain, shadows from the building. Shadows from the place where shadows were but moved. They bore down upon him furiously, some coating his body - shifting theirselves over his flesh. They formed not his Shadow Queen Armor, but the Godhand himself. Wrapping over him, clothing him in their darkness. Finally, they settled - at least the ones upon himself. If this one wanted to go all out, then he - to - would go all out. The sword floated on a sliver of shadow, touching his right hand before the wrappings fell away revealing the blackened blade. A sinuous red line the only contrast to it, as the gargantuan sword forged in the very spaces between Universes, with the blood of those 'verses themselves shimmered. The bar no longer held light, no, the lights were gone - and yet the shadows remained. 

[i] "You want a fight, gruesome? Well, you got one. I just hope you know what you're asking for."[/i] 

The shadows not laying upon him floated behind him, tendril-like whips shifting to and fro constantly moving, constantly acting. Almost as if they held their own sentience, and maybe they did - or maybe they reacted on the pure instinct that Lysander harbored in his centuries old mind. Regardless, their constant motion created the perfect defense. Always ready to lash out, always ready to strike. Lysander, himself, was ready. His right foot shifted - and in the span of a heartbeat he was upon the other. His sword shifted behind him - the tip buried in the monstrous mass of the Shadow Well, and just as he began to swing the sword forward he shifted. That shimmering blackness overtook him, and as the sword swung toward the other something seemed...different.