[color=007236][centre][h2]Berserker[/h2][/centre][/color]

The summoning circle Shou had drawn was slow to respond to his incantation. For a moment one my even think that it had failed before all at once, like the rumble of thunder and breaking of dark clouds in a previously clear sky, magical energy began to fill the room. A shudder passed through the floor and lashing tongues of red lightning struck the walls and the air in the room seemed to press down with sudden weight.

With a boom of violently displaced air, Berserker appeared.

Standing tall, the Servant towered over the seated mage as he rolled his shoulders. Berserker stretched out muscles that felt like they had been resting for too long, or perhaps had never been used at all since this was not his real body. The burnished golden disks that decorated his dark clothing jangled slightly as they shifted with the movement. Letting out a sigh, the Servant looked around the room and examined the room he had been summoned to; it was nothing to look at, literally, unless you counted blank walls covered with accumulated dust and dirty floors.

A frown creased his face, an expression made more severe by the large scar that marked his face as he scanned the room but could not find what he was looking for. Until he looked down and was surprised to see his summoned sat on the floor of this dingy abandoned building. The mage broke the silence first, introducing themselves and holding out a hand in greeting in an unexpectedly casual manner. [color=007236]“You…”[/color] Reaching out to take Shou’s hand, Berserker paused as he spotted the remains of a shattered crown in his hands.

Feeling a weight at his hip, Berserker’s outstretched hand dropped to land on the hilt of a weapon that was not his, should never have been his, at yet was. A weapon he had drawn in pursuit of a tyrant’s death and had surrendered back to its rightful owner before it was plunged into his chest. Gripping it tightly he ripped it from its sheath and beheld the blade, feeling that sense of invincibility flow through him again as he did so. For Hang Jebat to be standing here again holding this blade once more, there could only be one reason; another tyrant needed their blood spilled.

Lowering the dagger, but not reaching out another hand in greeting, Berserker sized the mage up with newly focused eyes and opened his mouth to speak in a tone that carried a threatening undercurrent. [color=007236]“Are you my… [i]master[/i].”[/color]

[@Iamme]