[ Gray can't say she's surprised by the extreme ultimatum. It seems to her that warrior Servants seem the most satisfied settling things with their fists... or swords, as it were. ]
Alright. You wanted to fight.
[ Words won't help this situation any further. In a way, this is easier for Gray too; trying to navigate a complicated situation verbally just isn't her forte.
Even so, it isn't wise of her to fight a Servant alone. If she were thinking of her survival in a strict sense, she'd call on someone like Rin, who might be able to persuade Mordred to back off, or Quetzalcoatl, who would be an ideal match for Mordred. But Rin delaying this confrontation or Quetzalcoatl acting as Gray's champion wouldn't address the core of Mordred's complaints. At best, her complaints would only be buried to fester further.
Better take care of this now. It's a bit hypocritical of Gray, who just said she'd ask for help if she were in a life-threatening situation, but she isn't interested in running away from Mordred. Running away from Mordred might actually be the worst thing she could do. At the very least, Gray is far from defenseless.
She unsticks from the counter and moves to leave the house, the teapot left to cool on the counter. ]
[ She lets Gray pass by with a snort. ] At least you won't die a coward.
[ It'd be easy to stab Gray in the back — wouldn't be the first time she's killed someone that way — but Mordred follows behind her, silent after her derisive comment. The sun outside feels painful against her skin, and she hisses under her breath, unwilling to turn into spirit form or don her armour to avoid the burning sensation. Instead, she lifts a hand to shield her face; her expression one of discomfort as much as irritation. ]
First, some ground rules. I'm fighting you as a knight, not a Servant, which means avoiding harm to commoners. There are other houses close by, so I won't use my Noble Phantasm, or any of my abilities. My sword alone will suffice.
[ Mordred lowers her hand, and as it passes through the air, Clarent's blade begins to take form in a shower of golden sparks. Once the hilt is solid in her grip, she points the tip at Gray. ]
Second, there's no way you can actually beat me. That much would be obvious to a blind and deaf fool. [ As was probably obvious from the start, this isn't about the fight itself. It's about something far more important. ] But if you can survive five minutes, it's your victory. Are we in agreement?
[ Those are more generous terms than she expected given how angry Mordred was. With Gray already agreeing to the fight, it would have been an open invitation for Mordred to give her a one-sided thrashing. It seems Mordred's pride stands above her mood... and above the disadvantage she suffers from the sun. That said, Gray notes dryly that the odds would still be impossibly stacked in Mordred's favor if Gray were as unarmed as she appears to be now — and probably even if Gray only had a "normal" weapon. Clarent may have been a ceremonial sword in legend, but Gray has no doubt it now enjoys all the hidden benefits of being a Servant's weapon.
With an internal thank-you to Gen, Gray reaches into her cloak and withdraws Add. Fighting a Servant, whatever the terms, remains a daunting prospect that would make her tremble if she stopped to think about it. But with Add in hand, there's always a chance. Her most constant hope, her dearest friend.
Add looks at Mordred silently, golden eyes set into blackness, before unraveling to reform into a large, elaborate scythe in Gray's hand. Perhaps its many faces and motifs will look familiar to Mordred from a fight in the fog many months ago. ]
I agree. I'll fight by the same rules... and this scythe will be my only weapon.
[ It's not the first time she's seen a weapon similar to the one in Gray's hand, but it's the first time she's seen it... well, in Gray's hand. Despite the different form, it raises her hackles, both from the unexpected disadvantage she's found herself at, and the even more sudden, painful feeling of betrayal in her chest. ]
You... [ The sneer on her face looks equal parts angry and hurt, hands turning white from the force of her grip. ] Ha! So, the mouse thinks she can roar like a lion, does she? We'll see about that—!!
[ With no further warning, she launches herself at Gray; swinging her sword in a wide arc (too wide, designed to draw attention rather than connect), and following up with a kick to the other girl's sternum. Rules are rules, but she's the Knight of Rebellion; Gray's a bigger fool than she thought if she expects her to stick to them completely. ]
[ There are a lot of reasons why Mordred could be displeased with Gray right now, so Gray won't attempt to puzzle things out. She needs to devote all of herself to the simple task of survival. When she was young and all she wanted to do was die, a gravekeeper managed to teach her how to survive instead — a powerful conditioning that crowds out her fear and sympathy alike in the present.
Mordred launches herself forward. Something feels wrong about how wide Mordred swings her sword, but Gray doesn't have the luxury of ignoring it. Her scythe whips to deflect Clarent along the hard curve of its blade. It means she isn't expecting the kick to her chest, and she goes tumbling backward with a punch of pain.
Still Gray rolls fluidly to her feet, and wastes no time rushing back in to go on the offensive. Her scythe whirls at Mordred in attack after attack, quick and dexterous in her hands as she gambles on trying to overwhelm Mordred enough to prevent a counterattack. That said, Gray's fighting style is as honest as she is, lacking Mordred's raw force and trickery. ]
[ The ease at which Gray regains her feet is impressive. Watching her, Mordred wonders if in another time and place, the other girl could have carved out a life for herself on the battlefield, and how fast it would have broken her. How much violence and bloodshed would have been too much? How much meaning would she have been able to find in the meaninglessness of war, the futility of peace? Would whatever was left even be recognizable, or would it be as different as the child who looked upon a glorious king, and the monster who fell at the end of his lance years later?
(Still a better hypothetical to ponder than the other, far more obvious one: if Mordred had never been born, if Camelot had never fallen, would Gray have needed to learn these skills in the first place? Or would she have lived a peaceful life, with her own face, and never had to know such cruelty?
Isn't this another of her own sins, in the end?)
Deflecting Gray's attacks is simple enough, though not as simple as she expected it to be going in. (One thing she should have learned long ago: nothing is simple when it comes to Gray.) If she were to use a fraction of her real strength, she could surely end this fight in an instant, yet she finds herself unable to do more than defend. When, after a minute of barely holding her ground, she's forced to take a step back under the onslaught of blows, something snaps. ]
More! Faster! I'm freakin' falling asleep over here! [ A frenzied madness rises, threatening to overtake her — she lets it out with a roar. ] What's the point? What's the point of you having that, if you can't even kill me?
[ Sealed or in a different form, it's still the same weapon, wielded by someone with the same face, on the opposite side of the battlefield from her. She can practically hear Morgan's laughter, a mocking taunt echoing in the back of her mind, louder and louder, until it drowns out the sound of everything around her; already half-blind with rage, and now half-deaf too.
With wild eyes and a wilder expression, she abandons Clarent altogether — throwing the sword to the ground beside her — and moves in to grab Gray's hands instead, to lock the two of them into a more primal struggle. No doubt it'll mean taking a scythe-blow to the shoulder, the side, or somewhere more deadly, but she doesn't care. ]
[ Gray is genuinely putting her all into her offensive; even if Mordred is handicapping herself by withholding her abilities, she's still a Servant and Gray won't forget it. So when Mordred begins to goad her, Gray takes it to heart. The roar of Mordred's voice penetrates her chest, putting a flame to her heart even as her expression grows steelier.
She isn't clever enough for mid-battle repartees, so she leaves Mordred's question unanswered. Instead she falls into a familiar trance of ringing steel and harsh impact. Her doubts and insecurities have long fled the stage, giving way to single-minded survival. As Mordred throws Clarent aside, Gray wastes no time trying to take advantage of that brief moment of vulnerability, uninterested in stopping to see what trick Mordred might be up to. Her scythe gets as far as biting into Mordred's shoulder before its trajectory is wrenched to a halt by Mordred's grip.
Gray's jaw clenches hard, her eyes finding Mordred's wild look over the shaft of her weapon. She knows immediately that she won't win any contest of raw strength, so she'll need to make speed her advantage. She pushes forward to try and headbutt Mordred sharply, an effort to loosen Mordred's grip. ]
[ By any standard, Mordred's head is hard. But, by the same measure, Gray's head is equally as hard, and she has striker's advantage.
With an audible crack, the skin in the middle of Mordred's forehead splits open. Blood starts to trickle down into her eyes; vision blurring into a literal red haze. Pain-wise, it's nothing compared to the scythe buried in her shoulder, but it's distracting, and that's what counts. It's certainly enough to loosen her grip like Gray wanted. ]
Damn... you...! [ Gritting her teeth, Mordred swings a wild uppercut at Gray's chin, before wobbling once, twice, and dropping to her knees. Her left arm hanging limp and useless, she gropes in the dirt for Clarent, fury radiating off her in violent, practically tangible waves. Though she's threatened to kill Gray multiple times today alone, this is the first time it feels like she honestly might carry through with it, if she gets the chance to regain her feet and weapon. ]
[ Mordred's fist connects with Gray's jaw with a muted crack, and Gray tastes blood as she staggers a step backward. When she blinks past the stars, she sees Mordred on the ground, reaching for Clarent.
She should take advantage of Mordred's position and strike while the knight is low and unsteady with her weapon. If Mordred were a simple ghost, Gray would be ruthless about eliminating her. A fight for survival: that was Sir Kay's condition for approval with regards to Rhongomyniad, and Mordred's malice would seem to make this such a fight. Suitably, Gray's motivation for learning to fight was also survival.
But it isn't her motivation this time, and Mordred isn't a simple ghost. This is a battle for worthiness. She won't have Mordred coming out of this complaining about Add making it easy. Gray flings her scythe down, its wicked point biting into the earth so that its shaft juts upward. She abandons it to launch herself at Mordred with a tackle that hopes to roll her away from Clarent, fists flying in a less than precise manner to sock at that all-too-familiar face. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Alright. You wanted to fight.
[ Words won't help this situation any further. In a way, this is easier for Gray too; trying to navigate a complicated situation verbally just isn't her forte.
Even so, it isn't wise of her to fight a Servant alone. If she were thinking of her survival in a strict sense, she'd call on someone like Rin, who might be able to persuade Mordred to back off, or Quetzalcoatl, who would be an ideal match for Mordred. But Rin delaying this confrontation or Quetzalcoatl acting as Gray's champion wouldn't address the core of Mordred's complaints. At best, her complaints would only be buried to fester further.
Better take care of this now. It's a bit hypocritical of Gray, who just said she'd ask for help if she were in a life-threatening situation, but she isn't interested in running away from Mordred. Running away from Mordred might actually be the worst thing she could do. At the very least, Gray is far from defenseless.
She unsticks from the counter and moves to leave the house, the teapot left to cool on the counter. ]
no subject
[ It'd be easy to stab Gray in the back — wouldn't be the first time she's killed someone that way — but Mordred follows behind her, silent after her derisive comment. The sun outside feels painful against her skin, and she hisses under her breath, unwilling to turn into spirit form or don her armour to avoid the burning sensation. Instead, she lifts a hand to shield her face; her expression one of discomfort as much as irritation. ]
First, some ground rules. I'm fighting you as a knight, not a Servant, which means avoiding harm to commoners. There are other houses close by, so I won't use my Noble Phantasm, or any of my abilities. My sword alone will suffice.
[ Mordred lowers her hand, and as it passes through the air, Clarent's blade begins to take form in a shower of golden sparks. Once the hilt is solid in her grip, she points the tip at Gray. ]
Second, there's no way you can actually beat me. That much would be obvious to a blind and deaf fool. [ As was probably obvious from the start, this isn't about the fight itself. It's about something far more important. ] But if you can survive five minutes, it's your victory. Are we in agreement?
no subject
With an internal thank-you to Gen, Gray reaches into her cloak and withdraws Add. Fighting a Servant, whatever the terms, remains a daunting prospect that would make her tremble if she stopped to think about it. But with Add in hand, there's always a chance. Her most constant hope, her dearest friend.
Add looks at Mordred silently, golden eyes set into blackness, before unraveling to reform into a large, elaborate scythe in Gray's hand. Perhaps its many faces and motifs will look familiar to Mordred from a fight in the fog many months ago. ]
I agree. I'll fight by the same rules... and this scythe will be my only weapon.
no subject
You... [ The sneer on her face looks equal parts angry and hurt, hands turning white from the force of her grip. ] Ha! So, the mouse thinks she can roar like a lion, does she? We'll see about that—!!
[ With no further warning, she launches herself at Gray; swinging her sword in a wide arc (too wide, designed to draw attention rather than connect), and following up with a kick to the other girl's sternum. Rules are rules, but she's the Knight of Rebellion; Gray's a bigger fool than she thought if she expects her to stick to them completely. ]
no subject
Mordred launches herself forward. Something feels wrong about how wide Mordred swings her sword, but Gray doesn't have the luxury of ignoring it. Her scythe whips to deflect Clarent along the hard curve of its blade. It means she isn't expecting the kick to her chest, and she goes tumbling backward with a punch of pain.
Still Gray rolls fluidly to her feet, and wastes no time rushing back in to go on the offensive. Her scythe whirls at Mordred in attack after attack, quick and dexterous in her hands as she gambles on trying to overwhelm Mordred enough to prevent a counterattack. That said, Gray's fighting style is as honest as she is, lacking Mordred's raw force and trickery. ]
no subject
(Still a better hypothetical to ponder than the other, far more obvious one: if Mordred had never been born, if Camelot had never fallen, would Gray have needed to learn these skills in the first place? Or would she have lived a peaceful life, with her own face, and never had to know such cruelty?
Isn't this another of her own sins, in the end?)
Deflecting Gray's attacks is simple enough, though not as simple as she expected it to be going in. (One thing she should have learned long ago: nothing is simple when it comes to Gray.) If she were to use a fraction of her real strength, she could surely end this fight in an instant, yet she finds herself unable to do more than defend. When, after a minute of barely holding her ground, she's forced to take a step back under the onslaught of blows, something snaps. ]
More! Faster! I'm freakin' falling asleep over here! [ A frenzied madness rises, threatening to overtake her — she lets it out with a roar. ] What's the point? What's the point of you having that, if you can't even kill me?
[ Sealed or in a different form, it's still the same weapon, wielded by someone with the same face, on the opposite side of the battlefield from her. She can practically hear Morgan's laughter, a mocking taunt echoing in the back of her mind, louder and louder, until it drowns out the sound of everything around her; already half-blind with rage, and now half-deaf too.
With wild eyes and a wilder expression, she abandons Clarent altogether — throwing the sword to the ground beside her — and moves in to grab Gray's hands instead, to lock the two of them into a more primal struggle. No doubt it'll mean taking a scythe-blow to the shoulder, the side, or somewhere more deadly, but she doesn't care. ]
no subject
She isn't clever enough for mid-battle repartees, so she leaves Mordred's question unanswered. Instead she falls into a familiar trance of ringing steel and harsh impact. Her doubts and insecurities have long fled the stage, giving way to single-minded survival. As Mordred throws Clarent aside, Gray wastes no time trying to take advantage of that brief moment of vulnerability, uninterested in stopping to see what trick Mordred might be up to. Her scythe gets as far as biting into Mordred's shoulder before its trajectory is wrenched to a halt by Mordred's grip.
Gray's jaw clenches hard, her eyes finding Mordred's wild look over the shaft of her weapon. She knows immediately that she won't win any contest of raw strength, so she'll need to make speed her advantage. She pushes forward to try and headbutt Mordred sharply, an effort to loosen Mordred's grip. ]
no subject
With an audible crack, the skin in the middle of Mordred's forehead splits open. Blood starts to trickle down into her eyes; vision blurring into a literal red haze. Pain-wise, it's nothing compared to the scythe buried in her shoulder, but it's distracting, and that's what counts. It's certainly enough to loosen her grip like Gray wanted. ]
Damn... you...! [ Gritting her teeth, Mordred swings a wild uppercut at Gray's chin, before wobbling once, twice, and dropping to her knees. Her left arm hanging limp and useless, she gropes in the dirt for Clarent, fury radiating off her in violent, practically tangible waves. Though she's threatened to kill Gray multiple times today alone, this is the first time it feels like she honestly might carry through with it, if she gets the chance to regain her feet and weapon. ]
no subject
She should take advantage of Mordred's position and strike while the knight is low and unsteady with her weapon. If Mordred were a simple ghost, Gray would be ruthless about eliminating her. A fight for survival: that was Sir Kay's condition for approval with regards to Rhongomyniad, and Mordred's malice would seem to make this such a fight. Suitably, Gray's motivation for learning to fight was also survival.
But it isn't her motivation this time, and Mordred isn't a simple ghost. This is a battle for worthiness. She won't have Mordred coming out of this complaining about Add making it easy. Gray flings her scythe down, its wicked point biting into the earth so that its shaft juts upward. She abandons it to launch herself at Mordred with a tackle that hopes to roll her away from Clarent, fists flying in a less than precise manner to sock at that all-too-familiar face. ]