As he always has and always will, Hector takes the response a shade too close to heart. A fleeting, almost child-like sense of guilt dulls the ever-present edge in his eyes, making him appear somehow younger than his twenty-five years. Remorse is by no means a quality for a proper Devil Forgemaster to have, but the thought beads away like water on glass, leaving only faint impressions on his mood; Hector doesn't consider himself a hand of Dracula. Not now, and hopefully never again. Softly, he places a hand upon his breast. "My apologies," he says, eyes falling shut. "I did not mean to offend."

After a deep breath, he nods and gladly diverts his attention to the more pleasant of their topics. "No, it is not. In the time needed to swing it, you may very well find yourself without your head. That, and zweihanders are quite exhausting to carry, let alone wield."

The massive sword obviously wasn't brought to clearing, but if Firo wishes, he supposes he could drag the heavy old thing from his cellar. It's not seen the sun since his time in the vampire's castle, after all.