[Poggio]

The Berserker quelled her instinct to harshly laugh at her poor master, settling instead for a snort that was only a small prelude to the nonexistence smirk. Sincerity or sarcasm... Mr. Kites title dipped into both sides of the coin. Unable to contain herself with her answer, she spoke from the old Latin prayers from which this church was inspired. Refusing to pacify his fears with physicality, the voice inside his head retorted "Ave Maria, gratia plena, Mr. Kite, Dominus tecum."

As for the others, the truce kept her from really knowing how much of a threat they could potentially be, though if the boy was already shivering in his tight pants. Mary’s thoughts distractedly turned to ruminating how easily it would be to shoot the one that boldly showed himself. Too many of the servants went unaccounted for, including the lovely Archer. The Assassin, and other masked players left too many questions.

There was a small intake of imaginary air as the Berzerker made to voice her opinions, but she paused. What came out was more of a tsk as the mana presence continued to observe. The only masters Mr. Kite could immediately conquer would be those appearing of his own youth.

"The Executioner will hang ye." It was simply stated that even the Berserker did not nix the words with her antiquated accent.

"The Assassin will scuttle ye long afore ye reacheth f'r anoth'r crisped wurly, The Lad- hmm," pausing to consider , King Eric as he was announced, and continued "A child, but his s’rvant be unpredictable.” Mary paused long enough to take in the newest guest. If Mr. Kite was ready to prove his valor, then he could take a simple wenches throat.

“Kill th’ Lass, nay M’lady, but th’ plain Lass. She looks easy enough t’ sully yer hands with while the oth’rs destroyeth themselves.”


Mary did not mention servant floating around the girl. She shifted attention focusing instead on the misunderstanding yet again of what her powers were. "I scourge, I plund’r, 'n I keepeth wha’s dutifully mine. I be no map maker. Me collection be mine fer th' rummagin'. Wha' gives ye, yer flatt’ry any rights t' it”