[@SSW] [@Yankee] [@Gracefully] [h3]Overlooking a Flow. District V[/h3] A sudden burst of speed, faster than her run? [i][b]Ridiculou-[/b][/i] Cracks in wood and metal from his-, the shadow’s arm that raised to block the blow. A single blow? A claw parries and breaks, his black keys like toothpicks in her wake. He… [i](beyond)[/i] Couldn’t… [i](his) [/i] See… [i](sight)[/i] Battered down, the ghostly but oh too real arms [i](weapons)[/i] of the shadow were already breaking apart, and the sheer force at which splinters and shards were sent flying from his weapons was enough to whip forth and cause skin-rending gashes through him. His robes were painted where the snow was untouched, having no time to spill onto the ground with his blood. It was [i][b]ridiculous.[/b][/i] The kidney punch that rushed past his shattering defense was intercepted by an ash-lock clad fist. The weapon, and his hand with it shattered in a explosion of shards and blood. None of his puppets would get there in time, and none of the would have any use, any purpose against them. Perhaps if it was one of the greater heirs of the history of the Lacrignoia then there’d be a chance with their one and only trump card. He had met such force before. He was taught by such force, but this was something that held more than just that force. A heretic with the raw power to contend with mage-killers was something all the more dangerous and damning than a zealot with, as much as it could be called that, ‘only’ physical brawn and faith. How much did she know of magic, to what end did she use it? As far as he could tell she wasn’t utilizing anything notable, and she was far beyond the means of mere reinforcement. Was she a monster born with a body that simply had as a given the heights that those crazed prayers attained with their resources and training? Or was she simply a link in the chain that bred true in their own ways to mimic a family? Or was there some trick, some technique that gave birth to a miracle? Something of this level could not be born from something as paltry as a tool supporting one. Could it be the gifts of the servant? No, she was moving too normally, too used to this. This was simply how she was at war. If he could put his feelings in one word, it was loathing. He loathed this woman who was gifted with a body that was strong. He loathed that confidence of knowing that she was able to do what was asked of her, by others, herself. [h3]I. Hate. You.[/h3] A cold sort of scorn, yet it was the only thing that perhaps truly riled his blood. To a man such as he there were three courses. To hate others, to hate magic, or to hate one’s self. To hate one’s self was simply a waste of time, to hate others could be fuel, as legends showed. To hate magic, was in truth, the idea of hating the past, or was it hating humanity? His answer was it was both. The present was built on a countless amount of pasts. Of course the present simply existed without caring about the past. The present was simply the present and it existed because it was the present. But one who lived in the present with simply just the present was not a human, and one without a future. To hate the past was human, but to know of the past was also human. He did not hate the past or magic, for it was not the past, or the future, or even the present that led to his lacks. It was simply that he was. He did not hate humanity, he simply held no interest, for it would not be meaningful. IT would simply be a pointless expenditure of his already storyless life. The one to blame then... Another punch was blocked as he put in his best attempt at an escape. A function of his shadow was divulged as one of its claws burst out as a missile as soon as they clash, heading straight towards her chest while the claw tried to occupy one of her fists for that moment. Would it even slow her down? He wondered as, lashing out with the puppet, he moved to propel back towards the streets, behind his crusading soldiers with a speed that while not matching that of the priestess, was greater than what he could normally achieve. Perhaps the only solace was that even in such a short pitiful… clash, that at least his servant was one that was strong enough to wage an entire war in that time. “Already useless after one blow…” he stated on the condition of his hand that he’d have to take a good amount of magical energy and time to heal. To begin with something like the curse of self-restoration was not going ot hela something like that so swiftly for even someone above his level. "This one isn't that much better either..." as he looked upon the condition of his shadow. “Are the tight gun laws in the east a courtesy to your sinners and criminals?” he called out, as he recalled the showcase of an Ash Lock blocking a Wesson’s Magnum with ease. “Brawn over faith, or is brawn faith? Regardless..” The question would be how he could survive long enough for an entire battle with such a thing, let alone at all. It didn’t matter how powerful Rider might be, or how weak that opposing servant might be if it was impossible for him to be at the field. “...” Would they have to retreat so soon? Could they even retreat? Would one of those have to be used? If he were here… Could he oppose her at all? The thought crossed his mind as a possibility even as his knowledge gave an answer “Of course not.” Somewhere deep inside he imagined, and hoped.