#all excaliburs just have Issues:tm: gil that's how it is

[duunswitch]

The first few new weapons are smacked aside, or in the case of one in particular, back at their master as the sword takes the opportunity to study its opponent back. It's fairly clear it's never fought on its own like this before, movements stiff and almost stumbling even if only to an experienced eye. Equally clear, it's a fast learner–movements smooth in increments between seconds.

"I was a weapon forged for «one» alone and I will not allow that vow to be forsaken a second time. You are «not enough». I won't accept you."

A flicker of rage at its core drives it closer, the very idea of being coveted by one unworthy to possess it enough to disgust it. More so by the waste of weapons being thrown at it, the dozens or more hidden behind those golden gates that lay collecting dust for a collector. They probably hated him too.

No such thing as fair in battle it remembers, a lesson learned well by someone long ago and it swings one leg through earth to kick up dirt and follows with another–bladed despite its appearance as a normal leg, this time.

"Who said I can't make my own face? I simply chose this one because «Master» thought it was cute. Though now I'm hesitant to see why. The person wearing is it so ugly. Coveting other's belongings for your own, how vulgar."

“Ironic, isn’t it? You call me a parasite, yet you can't even make a face of your own.” 

     SO this wasn’t easy prey — all the better, for this would make conquering it all the more thrilling and worthy of his time. Every dodge the sword enacts does nothing but whet Gilgamesh’s desire to possess it, an impulse that was more innate than instinctual yet powerful all the same. He watches the sword’s every movement with the precision of a raptor, not even the minor movements of its physiognomy and footwork beyond his scrutiny; there was no such thing as ‘minor’ movements in the field of combat, not where even a millimeter’s misstep could be the deciding factor between breathing and being buried in the dirt. Watching a facsimile of his physical form transmogrify its forelimbs into blades was its own sort of wretched amusement. Two swords? Cute. As if he didn’t have more of those than it could count — as well as the means to fire them at the speed of thought. 

                But that wouldn’t be rewarding, would it? 

     THAT would likely be far too easy, and his prey had yet to demonstrate that it was worthy of such displays of power — and he wanted to test the durability of this phenomenon in a manner more direct than all-out annihilation would permit. No, Gilgamesh would test it first, experiment with its nuances before pinning it like an insect to a board, provide it a drizzle before the storm. 

     “IT’S quite funny you say that, because that’s exactly what I intend on making you.” His smile is still hauntingly there, steadfast like a perennial yield or a monument reigning pristine whilst its surroundings crumble with the vicissitudes of time, his eyes twin blades of scarlet whose succulence spills forth in rays of luminescence unmitigated and unbounded, a sanguinary gaze of bloodsoak ash that perfectly compliments the manifestation of even further aureate ripples in the spacetime fabric — twice in number, this time, than their last assault — the emergence of storied blades from their apertures consuming the air with the sleek scent of iron. 

     AND with the forward flick of Gilgamesh’s wrist — an unneeded action, the pomp more a herald of bombardment than an accessory to the directive  —  the swords rain down upon Calesvol, a fusillade that might seem bereft of restraint to anyone but the boy who sent it.