She's walking -- or, at least, she thought she was. She's already taken one step on air before she's realized that there's something pulling her up, at which point her attention snaps back to her companion. It's frightening, really, the difference in power between Masters and Servants; and perhaps between herself and this one in particular.
The petite female hangs in the air without much effort from his muscled arm, his hand easily holding her by the collar of her kimono as his knuckles barely graze the skin of her neck. Contract or no, she can feel the power of his fists, even from this small contact: the massive amount of energy which flows through him is impossible to miss. Only when he has her held up like this does her gaze slack and her eyes cloud over in thought.
Before long, his parameters are visible to her -- and it's apparent that his fists are exactly where she doesn't want to find herself again.
Rank A strength, at the total sacrifice of magical power. His endurance will keep him fighting for long, though mediocre agility and low luck will mean quite a few injuries to mend after every battle, particularly since he doesn't seem much like the type to head for a draw. Luckily for him, he's currently holding a Master with a particular over-specialization in healing: traditional healing magic enhanced by the precise study of alchemy and the flow of life.
She nods, calmer than she ought to have been because of a mind preoccupied with letters other than the ones coming out of his mouth. When he sets her down, she gives a shallow nod. "I apologize: had I known it was an insult to you, I would never have said it."
Chizuru says nothing about continuing to think it, though.
Dusk is beginning to break on the horizon, and yet crowds of tourists still marvel at the sight. Even she pauses for a moment in silent reverence, drinking in the hard work of all those who had built this monument -- and, later, all those who had died within it for the sake of sport. She can't say she's fond of it, though the hypocrisy would be too much to bear if she, a gladiator's Master in her own right, lashed out against it.
"It's a very old building: time may have taken its toll but, inside, the spirits of those who fought and died will still form a potent magical field." A proper Magus would understand how to tap into such a network, but she leaves this bit unspoken. "Often, it's the things which look a little mismatched on the outside that hold the greatest value." Whether she's speaking of his own physical imperfections -- his mask, the hole in his abdomen -- or the two of them standing one by another, she does not seek to clarify.
She gives a light, airy laugh, though one filled with more melancholy than levity. "Conquest." It's an odd word to bring up, though she'd be remiss if she didn't admit that the building's aura wasn't already enveloping her -- perhaps, even, giving her a taste of what it meant to have a fighting spirit. "Is that what you seek here?"
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