He utters a quiet little sigh as he draws out his gunblade. Lately, he's been desiring his old greatsword, but it is taking some time to grow used to bearing the weight. Besides which, nimble movement is preferable when facing a nimble enemy.

He ignites a ceruleum cartridge and shears through the set of vines that Felih is wrestling with. The separated tendrils fall, burning bright blue inside and out; the severed ends writhe and try to retreat.

"They're fast," he growls. As he attempts to pursue, other vines get in his way.