Sawyer's eyes narrowed to the point where they appeared shut. He grabbed the sword by its edge, making a shallow cut into his skin; the blood ran down the indent in the blade's center and congealed with the other fluids crusted onto it. "I know who you are, Garin. Don't pretend you don't know me, friend. See, whatever yo-[i]burp[/i]-u think you saw in New Haven was a fuсkin' hoax. I want out. Was hoping you or any of the other members of the peanut gallery wouldn't rear their ugly heads around here, actually, but here we are."

Garin would begin to slowly shake his head, his mind not believing what it was seeing. "The real Sawyer would have at least told us." Garin retracted his blade, cutting deeper into the old man's hand, and sheathed it. "You're not the same, Sawyer. I still don't trust you, but I won't kill you." Garin smirked, if only for a second, and muttered something under his breath. "Yet."

Sawyer looked at his palm, and thankfully, his buzz numbed the searing pain that came from it. His eyes dilated and a sort of adrenaline-filled euphoria worked its way to its brain. The blood spilled down his arm, and it became cold in the snow... And he stood with a tall, imposing demeanor, head craned downwards with shoulders high and square. His fists balled until they turned white.

"Aw, shit." Garin unsheathed one of his swords and flipped his revolver into his left hand. "Sawyer, if that is you, calm down."

Sawyer stared down the barrel of the revolver, and he nearly laughed. As his body uncoiled from its position on the ground and he grew and grew to the massive man he is, Garin began to look more and more insignificant to him. The man towered over his once-friend. Sawyer's arms rippled with well-toned muscle and veins bulging with adrenaline, neck as tense and solid as stone, eyes antimaterial, peering not at Garin, but [i]into[/i] him. The shackles of intoxication lifted, and Sawyer could think clearly, more clearly than ever. A gale of harsh wind made the snow swirl in front of the man, obscuring him in the thick powder, yet his silhouette expanded, widened and grew even taller. He stepped into view once again; he had donned his armor, that of the Warhand. His red sash fluttered in the bitter wind. his armor was colossal, onyx and vermillion running between the seams. The ringfingers of his enemies clacked against his breastplate, brushed against by the whistling gusts. The dome over his head was painted with the bared teeth and agape maw of the wolf, foam pooling over its tongue. Sawyer unsheathed his Saber with a flash of sparks and the sound of grinding metal that seemed to echo through the Dojo, its walls and elsewhere. The old, fragile blade was pointed directly at Garin's chest. It didn't quiver.

"Oh hell no." Garin batted away the blade with his sword and dashed back, emptying his revolver into Sawyer's form. He dashed farther back, discarding his revolver and unsheathing his other sword. "Oh HELL no. No way I'm dying to your sorry ass, old man."

Sawyer trundled forward, each step seeming to send tremors through the mountains flanking them, lumbering towards Garin. The strike against his blade was ultimately futile; it barely wavered, as Sawyer's grip on it was firm and tight. Underneath his helm, Sawyer let himself enjoy a grim, humorless smile and a deep chuckle as he approached Garin and heaved the heavy Saber over his head, bringing it down with unnatural strength and speed.

Garin brought both swords up to block and moved to the side, slashing at Sawyer's legs before dashing back and exchanging his swords for a shotgun.

[spoiler]Can you link me to Garin's bio fam?[/spoiler] Sawyer could not avoid the slash at his legs due to his weight, but the sword only scratched his armor lightly due to the quick and halfhearted nature of Garin's strike. He looked upon the shotgun with great disdain, swinging his sword towards it with a great heft.