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.