[After a while, Gilgamesh's feet no longer even touch the ground, or else move so fast they give the illusion of it. He glides as if on air, as if a road has been paved by his own will stretching on forever. His laughter echoes, just like from the halls, and he runs, and he runs, and he runs, the King in golden armor who'd never dream of doing this back home, who revels in it now. Like he was born for it, sprinting across the snowy plains with not an ounce of shame to show for it.
Diarmuid, of course, ranks among the sharper Servants and so refuses to slouch on any front. He closes the gap through clever means, and what would've once earned fierce rebuke just gets a cocky grin pitched at him now.
Still, Gilgamesh won't give in. He challenges him at the top of his lungs:]
You won't catch me with cheap tricks like that!
[...but really, it's more like overt courtship with how he dances around and behind him, just out of reach. He's showing off, the gracefulness of his class, that boundless energy which won't allow him to tire for anything or anyone. The mana surrounding him swells again, then he's rocketing off in a completely different direction.
He could be leading them to nowhere else save the spot of that heated encounter, the spring. On occasion, Gilgamesh can hang up his tyrannical coat to don a far more romantic—and borderline sentimental—one.]
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Diarmuid, of course, ranks among the sharper Servants and so refuses to slouch on any front. He closes the gap through clever means, and what would've once earned fierce rebuke just gets a cocky grin pitched at him now.
Still, Gilgamesh won't give in. He challenges him at the top of his lungs:]
You won't catch me with cheap tricks like that!
[...but really, it's more like overt courtship with how he dances around and behind him, just out of reach. He's showing off, the gracefulness of his class, that boundless energy which won't allow him to tire for anything or anyone. The mana surrounding him swells again, then he's rocketing off in a completely different direction.
He could be leading them to nowhere else save the spot of that heated encounter, the spring. On occasion, Gilgamesh can hang up his tyrannical coat to don a far more romantic—and borderline sentimental—one.]