The Grail Works Mission Dossier (Discussion & Ideas)

[Vigilantia]

As I said, it was a whim. I'd been reading a number of Kantai Collection fanfic crossovers that were intriguingly written, so I thought it might make for an interesting empowerment; depending on how I did it, it had a number of possibilities. And since I've actually managed to acquire Fate/Grand Order: First Order (by paying $2 a minute ), I thought it might be a decent option for reintegrating with the TYPE-MOONiverse.

. . . Of course, I've recently learned that the company behind Kantai Collection also has a gender-flipped series with sword boys - and a storyline suspiciously similar to F/GO . . .

Paying $2 a minute? What horrible data plan are YOU on? Besides, I don't think you have to. Can't you just play when connected to wifi? Also, what do you mean by "reintegrating with the TMverse?

[Kieran]

Paying $2 a minute? What horrible data plan are YOU on? Besides, I don't think you have to. Can't you just play when connected to wifi?

*Chuckles* I bought the OAV - I don't own a phone.

Also, what do you mean by "reintegrating with the TMverse?

Well, since things in TYPE-MOON have expanded quite a bit since I started working on the Works a decade or so ago, and my last story was based in Final Fantasy X, I thought a more canon-based tale to take advantage of that would be nice. The fact that Chaldea, to an extent, mirrors the Works' mission statement helps, too.

. . . Besides, Kurai still needs a Nasuverse character to partner with. Nero is still my favourite choice (others include - in no particular order - Miyu Edelfelt, Anastasia Romanov, Mashu Kyrielight and Jeanne d'Arc), but we've already done a Fate/Extra story; while it might be interesting to see how the events of Fate/Extella would play out in that universe, I dislike stealing somebody else's work. Ergo, the setting of Grand Order is the easiest explanation as to how they come into contact.

[Vigilantia]

*Chuckles* I bought the OAV - I don't own a phone.




Well, since things in TYPE-MOON have expanded quite a bit since I started working on the Works a decade or so ago, and my last story was based in Final Fantasy X, I thought a more canon-based tale to take advantage of that would be nice. The fact that Chaldea, to an extent, mirrors the Works' mission statement helps, too.

. . . Besides, Kurai still needs a Nasuverse character to partner with. Nero is still my favourite choice (others include - in no particular order - Miyu Edelfelt, Anastasia Romanov, Mashu Kyrielight and Jeanne d'Arc), but we've already done a Fate/Extra story; while it might be interesting to see how the events of Fate/Extella would play out in that universe, I dislike stealing somebody else's work. Ergo, the setting of Grand Order is the easiest explanation as to how they come into contact.

I presume you're not doing Extella with Altera's route? If I recall correctly it gets weird... really weird.

[Kieran]

Yeah, more than a little bit . . . Mind you, that scenario would be ideal as a sequel to "Melancholy of One": after all, Shiki technically "won" the Grail War, but didn't fulfill the Moon Cell's purpose for holding it. Since that's the case, either it needs to hold another one, to find a "ruler," or Kurai gets latched onto as a stand-in.

. . . Meaning, basically, that by the Moon Cell's logic, since he comes from the same place as Shiki, obviously he holds the same potential for solving the problem of the Umbral Star . . . And that Servant was that red one, right . . . ?

[Vigilantia]

Which reminds me, Kieran, did you ever figure out what your character was going to be? I think we've got about 8 archetypes now ranging from a ship to Kamen rider.

[Xamusel]

Actually, Vigilantia, Kamen Rider's my idea.

[Kieran]

Not quite what he meant; I was, at one point, playing around with a "Kaleid Liner" idea - the shonen counterpoint to "Prisma Illya's" magical girls. I was going to have him go after the "Forbidden" Class Cards: Avenger, Ruler, Shielder, Alter Ego, Moon Cancer, Beast and Foreigner . . .

. . . And no, I'm still trying to sort that out. Part of it, I'm hoping, can be resolved if and when I can decide on a partner; that way, I can pick something appropriate to match. Certain combinations, for example, don't work - if I went the simplest route and allowed Kurai to keep his druid powers, he'd likely clash with Nero, as she ordered them exterminated during her reign (historically, at least). On the other hand, if I went back to the Lunar Exalt idea, she'd make an ideal Solar . . .

[Xamusel]

...okay, point. I should've remembered that, come to think of it.

Also, to be sure, I plan to really rework the system I used to randomize my character generation system for this setting. I'm going to be posting it again here either while I'm on vacation (starting tomorrow) or after I get back (starting the day after I get back [I get back on the 13th]).

Hopefully, things will look up for me to do this while I'm on vacation, so... I'll see if I can't keep you posted.

[Xamusel]

...so much for that. I couldn't get my planned idea to come to fruition just yet. (/)_-) Oh well.

Now, I'm currently returning home from vacation, which will mean that I can have more internet time on my end soon enough. I'll be getting in late, mind, so don't expect me until tomorrow.

[Kieran]

Arvandor
The Olympian Glades of Arborea, the Outer Planes








The Seldarine gathered, to wield their powers as they had not for dozens of millennia, though they were mere shadows of what they’d once been. They gathered, to heal a world, to lay a foundation for that world’s future . . . And in so doing, save a race of their children that, until recently, had been thought long since lost: the Ssri-Tel’Quessir, the dark elves who had become the drow, redeemed by sacrifice to become dark elves once more.

Unfortunately, that “race” represented a very small fraction of the drow; most of them remained corrupted by the demonic blood that had created them, to say nothing of the influence of their goddess, Lloth the Spider Queen. As such, they were at terrible risk—Lloth had never been one to take challenges to her rule over the drow lightly, and the Ssri-Tel’Quessir had earned her wrath when they had been drow elves, merely by worshipping her daughter, Eilistraee, over herself. That they had now disassociated themselves from the drow—and thus, from her—entirely . . .

No, Lloth would see that as an insult she could never bear. She—and by extension, her followers—would not stop until all traces of the Ssri-Tel’Quessir’s very existence had been utterly eliminated from the face of Aber-Toril. And that was not a fate that Corellon Larethian was prepared to countenance. Not in his role as leader of the Seldarine, the gods of the elven peoples, and not in his role as the Father of All Elves . . . Nor would he tolerate it as Eilistraee’s father, either.

His brilliant, beautiful daughter was gone—a great and terrible loss to a mortal elf, much less an immortal one. All that remained of her were the elves she’d sacrificed herself to save. He would not allow them to fall before Lloth’s evil.

Labelas Enorath knew this, of course. The Lord of the Continuum was, if not omniscient, as close to it as any god could truly claim to be. He had to be: the realms of fate, time and history were his to shepherd. He knew more of the future, and the secret workings behind it, than even Corellon himself—it was why he had allowed the solar to respond to the summons of a mortal, and grant the wish that mortal made. Because he knew what would have been the fate of the dark elves, without that wish . . .

“. . . You’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to arrange this, Labelas,” Corellon remarked. “Are we now to find out why?”

The scholar winced. He had thought he was being rather subtle, actually—he had to be, as he was working in realms normally forbidden even to deities . . . Or at least, deities of his level. It was normally restricted to Lord Ao alone; thus, he’d had to be exceedingly careful in his actions, lest he draw the Overgod’s attention—or worse, alert others to the existence of the path he’d used to reach those places. Only chaos could come from that . . .

“I merely sought to fulfill my duties as a member of the Seldarine, Lord Coronal, and protect a tribe of the mortals we oversee,” Labelas replied lightly. “That they are a tribe previously lost to the memory of any mortal living, and barely recalled even in history, made it a duty I thought required any and all efforts I could exert.”

And because, the god did not add, very soon now, as elves and immortals would reckon such things, the great upheavals that had plagued their world would culminate in a truly mighty cataclysm. And in response to that chaos, Lord Ao, the Overgod, would rewrite the very Tablets of Fate, changing the history and very nature of the Seldarine, but restoring the Realms to much as they had been before. Dead deities, including Eilistraee, would be restored to life; and the Dark Maiden would take up her work of attempting to redeem the drow once more—because the dark elves which had already been restored would cease to be, in any significant fashion.

The drow would be all that remained of them once more.

His task was to ensure that history was neither forgotten, nor altered. Labelas would not have stopped the Overgod from performing the act he would, even if he had possessed the power to do so . . . But neither did he wish for such a momentous event as the restoration of the true dark elves (as opposed to the drow, who were often referred to by that name) to be lost. It was an impossible dilemma, even for a god . . .

And in confronting it, he had discovered the existence of a Door—and what lay beyond it.

The mortals there were not yet prepared to deal with the scale of the problem that lay before him; not in the time which remained. But through them, he might be able to allow someone who was to act. And so, Labelas had sought a cat’s-paw, and made his transgressions—and the result had been everything he could have hoped.

“It is a truly beautiful world,” remarked Deep Sashelas—and as a god of beauty, as well as knowledge, magic, and the sea, he ought to know. “Perhaps the Alu-Tel’Quessir could benefit from it, as well?”

Labelas nodded. The sea elves were, in their way, as isolated from most elves as the dark elves would be, should they be returned to Toril. While they had no love for the drow, they had less history of conflict with them, as well; and as the world of Spira was mostly oceanic, such a world potentially offered them vast new territories, away from their traditional enemies. Likewise, they too would be less affected by the coming cataclysm—though not unscathed—and have less effect on it. Entire tribes of them could disappear, and not be missed in the histories—mostly because they would disappear, anyway.

“. . . Do you truly intend to kill the mortal, Lord Coronal?” inquired a feminine voice, and hearing it drew all male attention towards its source.

Hanali Celanil was the goddess of love and beauty among elves—their answer to the humans’ Sune Firehair, and a rival of Aphrodite, on the rare occasions when the Seldarine and the Olympians contested with one another. Her most common features, as now, were those of a sun elf: golden hair and eyes alongside porcelain-delicate features. She paired these with a body built to draw the eye, as her voice drew the ear—though she was not above taking other appearances, where and when she deemed it necessary; or simply for fun. She would hardly be the goddess of desire, otherwise.

Labelas coughed lightly. “He hardly seems your type, Hanali.”

The frown that crossed her features somehow failed to mar them in the slightest as she shot back, “He isn’t . . . Well, that half-elven aspect is kind of attractive, in a rugged sort of way—but there’s a human under it, and he’s not pretty at all.”

“Does he have a lover, then? Or perhaps he possesses some especial talent for artisanship?”

She snorted delicately, her expression answer enough.

Now it was Corellon’s turn to frown, as he understood the point Labelas was making. “Then what is your interest, Hanali? Gentle though you are, it’s unusual for you to be so concerned over the fate of a mortal—and a human, at that.”

“I’m concerned because he does love,” she answered. “That is at the core of this: that he is willing to die because he loved Eilistraee, in his fashion, as he loves all elves.” She shrugged. “It’s not romantic love, really—little more than the wondrous fascination we evoke in humanity. To some extent, that’s also true of Spira itself, and of those people he works for . . . But given the service that he’s performing for us in its name, I would find his death to be a poor repayment of that love.”

“So long as his resolve holds,” Corellon replied, “it should not be necessary; ’twould hardly be a worthy test, otherwise. But the question would then remain, of what to do with him afterwards . . .”

“Toril is no place for him,” Labelas said firmly. Had any of the other gods—even his fellows among the Seldarine—known even half of the sort of knowledge that was in that mortal’s head, or even just known of it . . .

Toril would not survive the ensuing conflicts.

“Nor, would consigning him to Spira do our cause any favours,” he forestalled the next obvious choice, not unkindly. “Should the truth of his nature be revealed, it would undo all the groundwork laid for the Ssri-Tel’Quessir . . . And in truth,” he added, doing his best to sound off-handed, “he does not fit well with his compatriots, either. He is no more of their world than ours, and the differences, though often subtle, leave him somewhat adrift.”

Hanali smiled, and it brightened the whole of the glade. “Then perhaps we can change at least that?” She turned to a fellow goddess. “Sehanine, what would you say to the idea of trying to catch his spirit for a little reincarnation . . .?”

The moon goddess raised an eyebrow in response, her expression intrigued.

Labelas very carefully kept his own expression blank. From here, things became very delicate . . . But, handled carefully, it would place the mortal safely away from Toril and its associated planes—for a certain value of safe, at least. Moreover, it would return the mortal to his people and his work, which was best for all concerned.

All that aside, however, he had to admit to some amusement about what was about to happen.

After all, in all his tens of millennia of life, he’d never had the opportunity to meddle before—and it always seemed to be so much fun . . .
 








Somewhere else
Unknown time








Cold. Wet. PAIN!

He came awake with a start as someone dumped a bucket of ice-water over his body, thunder rolling in his ears—no, it was raining; storming, in fact.

While a corner of his mind asked himself why he was lying on what appeared to be a wooden dock, in a thunderstorm (naked!), the rest of his brain was pulling him to his feet, and sending him towards the big stone structure—lighthouse, he realised abruptly—in the distance.

Running pell-mell across the dock, he barely even paused at the door, one hand slamming against it with all his momentum even as the other went for the knob he could barely see. To his relief, it opened without resistance, and he hustled inside, absently registering the sound of tearing paper as he did so, before slamming the door behind him.

“Hello?” he called out, to the mostly-dark structure. “I’m s-sorry for b-barging in—”

Bugger, he thought, now that I’ve stopped moving, the chill is setting in. Need to find clothes—towels and a fireplace first, preferably, but definitely clothes.

“Ilya,” he whispered, “I could really use a Door right now . . .”

Nothing—and that was even more disturbing than the silence of the lighthouse. Was this one of the automated ones, then? But why leave the door unlocked?

Reaching up to rub his arms and chest, he realised there was a scrap of paper in his hand that read “IRL.” Thinking on it, he realised what had happened—and with extreme reluctance, he reopened the door behind him, and put it together as quickly as he could, so he could shut the damned thing again.

DEWITT—
BRING US THE
GIRL AND WIPE
AWAY THE DEBT.
THIS IS YOUR
LAST CHANCE.

“Oh, that’s reassuring,” he whispered, noting the blood spatters in the bottom-right corner, and suddenly regretting calling out.

Then again, he was currently lost, naked, highly confused and courting hypothermia; getting shot to death by mobsters, or whoever had left the note, would at least fix one of those problems.

Reluctantly, and as quietly as he could—which wasn’t very, given that he was shivering and dripping water—he took a look around.

Faint music drifted from somewhere up above; big band type, he thought. Not his preference, but better than several alternatives. The central pillar of the lighthouse interior, which also served as the base for a metal spiral staircase like the one in the Venice library in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, had a table in front of it with a lit candle, some hand towels, and a bowl of water. Hung on the pillar itself was a crocheted sign that said OF THY SINS SHALL I WASH THEE.

“Wet enough, thanks,” he muttered, though he did his best to dry off using the towels, at least. It wasn’t ideal, but it was definitely better than nothing.

Looking past the pillar showed him a buffet like he had at home, but nothing in the drawers of it resembled clothes, or anything he could use as a weapon in case of trouble—unless you counted a jar of pickles, anyway. There were some loose coins, but no rolls, so even an improvised set of brass knuckles was out of the question.

Creeping carefully up the stairs, he passed another crocheted sign: FROM SODOM I SHALL LEAD THEE.

Oh great, mobsters threatening a fundamentalist Christian nut-job. I definitely need to find some clothes . . .

The next level appeared to be the lighthouse keeper’s living quarters, as evidenced by the bed, desk, working electric lights in the wall over the desk, bookshelves and the radio which was the source of the music he’d heard. Over to the left was a cabinet, washbasin and laundry basket—jackpot!

It took some doing, and he felt both ridiculous and ashamed doing it, but digging through the basket’s contents eventually netted a pair of socks, pants, and a shirt. No underwear, for which he was almost grateful—but at least he didn’t feel as ridiculous as he had.

And in all this time, there was no sign of the lighthouse keeper, though there very evidently was one.

A quick search of the desk revealed it held an old rotary phone (dead), and very old-fashioned typewriter. A map on the wall above the desk displayed the United States; on it was drawn out an elongated shape in pins and threads that he couldn’t make sense of. It looked like some giant moth or bird, stretching from New York almost to the other end of the country.

Not a waterway, not with that range; it doesn’t follow any roads . . . The closest I can think of is a radio tower’s broadcast range, but the shape’s too big – and way too uneven. Is this guy trying to track a serial killer or something . . .?

The note pinned to the corner of the map lent some weight to that theory. It read: BE PREPARED. HE’S COMING. YOU MUST STOP HIM—C.

The other paper of note was what looked like a train schedule, or something similar; all he could make out at the top was “Columbia,” though. Was he in Washington?

Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to be back on Earth—but why the hell would I have wound up there?

Liking this less and less, he took a closer look around, and found the lighthouse keeper’s wallet on the bedside table. It contained no identification of any kind, just cash.

I might not have a driver’s license, but even I have ID cards; and that radio looks like one of the old crystal models, now that I’m paying attention. Did I jump back in time, too?

It still wouldn’t explain why he couldn’t contact Ilya and the Works—they were supposed to be based fairly close to the Root, and/or outside of normal space-time. She should be able to find him anywhere.

“OK,” he asked himself, sitting down on the bed to take stock. “What do I know?

“I’m still alive, so the Seldarine didn’t need to drain me to death in order to bring the dark elves to Spira. I’m pasty-white again, so I’m not the 3.5 edition of Kieran Holt—but I don’t need glasses, and I have abs, so I’m in a hell of a lot better shape than I was as myself. Ergo, something has obviously happened . . .”

A quick brush of his fingers over his ears revealed a distinct lack of pointed tips.

“And I’m still human, not an elf,” he concluded. “So unless this is an Earth where they’re the dominant species, I should be able to fit in—and just because I said that, this is going end up being the Four Lands of The Shannara Chronicles, isn’t it?”

It would be his luck . . . He glanced around, before shaking his head. “Nah—everything’s too intact.”

So, where did that leave him . . .? In a hell of a lot of trouble, to be honest; he needed to contact the Works, or at least figure out why he couldn’t. And the first step towards that would be figuring out where and/or when he was. The map was America, but in addition to the oddness of that elongated shape, it didn’t exactly have a “You Are Here” written on it, either.

Getting off the bed, he moved over to the next round of the staircase, over which hung the crocheted sign: TO THINE OWN LAND I SHALL TAKE THEE. There was also, further up the stairway, a bloody handprint on the wall, which caused him to freeze in place.

Is that the lighthouse keeper’s blood, or is it from the guy he “must stop,” according to the note? And now I’m wishing I had taken the pickle jar—even a useless improvised weapon is still good for my morale, at least . . .

The top of the staircase revealed a golden cup of some form lying on the stairs themselves, along with broken bits of wood and a trail of blood at the very top. Said trail led to a man tied to a chair, with a burlap bag over his head and a sign hung around his neck, written in blood:

DON’T DISAPPOINT US.

Before the body—and it had to be one, with the amount of blood on the floor—was a stool, with a knife and what looked like a chisel resting on it. The knife’s blade was bloody, but not nearly as gore-soaked as he’d have expected, given the mess on the floor. The chisel was oddly clean.

OK, presumably the body’s not “DeWitt,” since the message is likely for him—the lighthouse keeper, then? Which means that DeWitt isn’t the lighthouse keeper . . .

It also meant that this “bring us the girl thing” was serious, and likely to be starting soon, since the blood was still looking wet—and the kind of people who’d leave a message like this wouldn’t let it just sit around . . .

He grabbed the chisel (not as handy as the knife, but also not obviously a murder weapon) because he wanted to be armed, and went back downstairs to help himself to the lighthouse keeper’s wallet and the loose change he’d spotted while working his way upwards. Was that a cold reaction? Yes, without a doubt; but the dead man didn’t need it anymore, whereas he almost certainly would.

Then he made his way up the final staircase, hoping he’d catch sight of something familiar from the top of the lighthouse—a skyline, a particular building . . . Heck, at this point, he’d settle for knowing the direction of land!

. . . Of course, he passed yet another crotched sign in the process: IN NEW EDEN SOIL SHALL I PLANT THEE.

I’m noting a theme, here—is this based in some kind of cult? Is “DeWitt” a deprogrammer, maybe?

Nice thought, but it wouldn’t explain the Russian-mafia-style tactics . . .

The storm was still ongoing when he got to the top, making seeing anything a difficult task. Worse still, the catwalk was narrow; he brushed something as he turned to try and manoeuvre on it, and heard a solid ringing as a result.

Bells . . .? Too small to be intended for warning ships—and what on earth are they attached to . . .?

He frowned, and paused to look closer, lifting the still pair for closer inspection; it seemed as though the bells were engraved.

“A key and a sword . . .?” Odd symbols to be using, and they meant nothing to him, so he set the bells back, letting them ring—why were there lights flashing in sequence with the ri—

A gigantic noise, like a tugboat’s horn or whale’s song, filled the air before the bells’ last notes had even cleared, loud enough to shake the top of the tower. At the same time, red light shone from somewhere unseen, turning the sky to blood. Doing his best to walk around the catwalk, he saw no source for either beyond up, though realised that the light was pulsing in tune with the notes of the horn—and it was a horn, of some sort. Was this some kind of recognition signal . . .?

With a series of mechanical clicks, the lighthouse’s bulb itself began to flash red in a pattern, which was met again by a brief exchange from the sky. Then mechanisms began to whir, opening the cage which contained the beacon, even as it was drawn upwards, out of reach, and the floor of the chamber rotated to reveal an unfolding dentist’s chair, or something like it.

“. . . Oh, sure,” he muttered sarcastically. “Get in the crazy fundamentalists’ chair—what could possibly go wrong with that idea?!” After a beat, however, he sighed. “ . . . I just had to see the note about the girl, didn’t I? Damn it all . . .”

It was a stupid idea. It was the worst idea he’d ever had, if not the worst idea in the whole long, sad history of bad ideas . . . But there was an implied hostage situation going on, possibly involving a little girl. He could walk away, but he could he live with himself if he did . . .? The Works certainly wouldn’t approve—assuming that he hadn’t just dreamed the whole thing, or wasn’t dreaming now.

. . . And besides—at this point, where else did he have to go?

“And this,” he announced to the world, “will henceforth and forevermore be known as ‘Mistake Number One.’”

He sat in the chair.

Manacles sprang up out of the armrests to imprison his wrists.

“Of course,” he muttered. “Because why not?”

The floor opened up, and panels began to spring out and encircle him as a female voice—recorded, but not electronic—announced, “Make yourself ready, pilgrim. The bindings are there as a safeguard.”

More panels shifted, including the floor, giving him a glimpse of rocket engines.

“This is going to suck . . .”

“Ascension,” replied the voice, gaining a second, male tone as it continued, “Ascension in the count of FIVE . . . Cont of FOUR . . . THREE . . .TWO . . . ONE . . .”

The newly-revealed rocket capsule blasted off, streaming through the storm-clouds as the recording continued, “Ascension . . . Ascension . . . Five thousand feet . . . Ten thousand feet . . . Fifteen thousand feet . . .”

“Oh, God, I must be out of my mind . . .!”

“Hallelujah,” was the only response.








The man stopped rowing in mid-stroke, seeing their boat’s intended destination blast off into the clouds.

“I didn’t see that coming,” he remarked to his female companion. “Did you?”

“. . . No,” she admitted finally. “No, I did not.”









Writer's Notes: I wanted to write something related to Fate/Grand Order, and this came out, instead. Based on several old ideas, because the SI may be a Lunar Exalt, as well as in Columbia; so far it's the most compatible and adaptable power-set, if one of the hardest to get going (because explaining the Exaltation is tricky).

My other preferred option is a Changeling from Changeling: The Lost - a low power threshold, requiring subtlety, and even explains his origin (the Works found him escaping from Arcadia, and the whole "druid" thing is a masque they unwittingly reinforced), but I'm not sure I could portray the Clarity issue correctly . . .

[Xamusel]

...would have said something sooner, but I got waylaid, and I had to reload the page when I tried to say something just a few minutes ago.

*ahem* Anyway, I think Changeling might be the better option, so to speak... though a question first. oWoD or nWoD?

[Kieran]

New. While I prefer the classic werewolves, I've found Changeling: The Lost to be far superior to Changeling: The Dreaming.

And hey, there's actually a Court that feeds on Hope, so he'd have a ready-made excuse to spread it!

. . . Unfortunately, as noted, the mechanics may be a little tricky to properly portray . . .

[Xamusel]

I'm sure you can pull it off, Kieran. After all, it's not like you have to pull a me on this subject and do everything the extremely hard way... and I feel like I just shot myself in the gut.

Okay, maybe I should explain what I mean. I'm redoing my character concept, and this time I'm contemplating making a few character sheets for different versions of the same character concept. Of course, one of those sheets is going to be for the Anima: Beyond Fantasy tabletop RPG, which I really need to find a way to play properly... *ahem* anyway, this will mean that I need some extra planning time, since I plan to switch character sheets between arcs. On top of that, I'm going to be recycling each character sheet twice, in order of what arc they show up in first.

...perhaps I should explain the concept of an arc in this circumstance. Think of it like a shounen manga. A volume of the manga would equal a book, while a story arc would be akin to a series of books, only the series itself isn't actually done at that point in time. The series would only complete when the author says it's done... if you get my meaning.

Now... better get to work on filling out these character sheets. I have Anima: Beyond Fantasy, as already mentioned, on top of Dungeons & Dragons (both 4e and 5e), Pathfinder 1e (they still need to playtest 2e at this point), Star Wars (both the Fantasy Flight Games version and WotC's Saga Edition), Starfinder, Genesys, 13th Age, and Numenera.

[Kieran]

Sounds like a decent plan. Oddly enough, I had similar thoughts with the Lunar Exalt version of my character: he could be portrayed as a lycanthrope in D&D-type universes, and a Demigod in places where the Palladium Megaverse system seems more appropriate (i.e., anywhere with giant robots). It wouldn't be a perfect transition - read: "exploitable flaw" - but it would allow me to be somewhat more adaptable; one of the reasons I favour the concept.

[Xamusel]

...maybe I should've been more specific. I meant it to be more like this:

Story Arc 1: Two stories minimum, would use the Anima: Beyond Fantasy Character Sheet for the first time.

Story Arc 2: Three stories minimum, would use the Dungeons and Dragons 4e Character Sheet for the first time.

Story Arc 3: Two stories minimum, would use the Dungeons and Dragons 5e Character Sheet for the first time.

Story Arc 4: Three stories minimum, would use the Pathfinder 1e Character Sheet for the first time (more specifically for the Reign of Winter AP).

Story Arc 5: Two stories minimum, would use the Fantasy Flight Games Star Wars Character Sheet for the first time.

Story Arc 6: Four stories minimum, would use the Wizards of the Coast Star Wars Saga Edition Character Sheet for the first time.

Story Arc 7: Three stories minimum, would use the Starfinder Character Sheet for the first time.

Story Arc 8: Two stories minimum, would use the Genesys Character Sheet for the first time.

Story Arc 9: Five stories minimum, would use the 13th Age Character Sheet for the first time.

Story Arc 10: Three stories minimum, would use the Numenera Character Sheet for the first time.

Story Arc 11: Four stories minimum, would use Story Arc 1's character sheet again.

...you get the point, right?

[Kieran]

Sounds complicated - which might be the reason you're having so much trouble.

[Xamusel]

...maybe I should keep things simple. Honestly, why I never learned that lesson, I've no idea.

[Kieran]

. . . Because you have far too many ideas to be able to focus on just one for any length of time?

[Xamusel]

That's probably it, yes... crap. I need to quit doing this to myself, pronto!

[Kieran]

Writer's Note: Following pretty much any iteration of my "reincarnation" openings . . .








To understand the reasons behind the sequence of events, certain knowledge was required.

First, the Seldarine sought to reward Kurai; not merely for successfully passing their test, but for doing them greater service than any living mortal—much less human—in arguably the whole of their history. Secondly, that they were not human, much less mortal, and their thought processes were doubly alien to mortal humans for being such. They were perhaps more relatable than extradimensional beings such as the Great Old Ones, or the Titans who were primordial forces incarnate, but they still thought and processed things in ways that would be highly confusing, at best, by comparison.

Comprehending the third reason required out-of-context knowledge that of those present, only Kurai really knew. In the fourth edition of Dungeons and Dragons, Hanali Celanil would be revealed as being the “faerie aspect” of Sune Firehair, the human goddess of love and beauty, rather than a deity in her own right; and Sune’s initial character had been modelled on the Greek goddess Aphrodite.

And as any serious student of Greco-Roman mythology—to say nothing of several female Servants, first and foremost a particular blue-haired Caster—could tell you, having that particular goddess’ attention was not by any means a good thing.

In any case, having successfully persuaded her fellow deities to allow the human to survive—with improvements!—she cast about for a more personal reward. After all, acts of love such as this deserved love in return . . .

Unfortunately, as he wasn’t staying in Toril, it made little sense to gift him with one of her followers—or any from the new world, Spira. A pity, she thought, given the feelings she sensed from that one in particular . . . .

Still, from what she’d seen, there were any number of females in his general vicinity; not elves, sadly, though one or two seemed fey-touched, so perhaps one of them would be an adequate substitute . . .?

Hanali frowned; she needed to work quickly, as their links to these particular planes would not last overlong. This, she regretfully admitted to herself, left her only recourse being asking the old fuddy-duddy for help.

Labelas Enorath seemed amused by her request, which was at least an improvement over his general (and mutual) sense of irritation when their spheres of influence overlapped. Whether it was in response to her own discomfort, or something else, she wasn’t entirely sure . . . At least, not until he spoke.

“I’ve just the maiden in mind,” he answered with an out-of-character grin. “We’ll need Sehanine’s help, to a degree—getting hold of the girl retroactively will be somewhat difficult, and her power over dreams and death will be an immense aid—but it will close a nasty little time loop paradox I’ve noted in their particular line. Not my responsibility, of course; but it irks my professional pride to see it.”

Hanali smiled. That was easier than she thought it’d be. And with three of the Seldarine working in concert, there was no doubt this would be a reward worthy of any mortal, elf or human—and hopefully, a love to last the ages . . .








Grail Works Limited Headquarters
Phantasmagoria Island
Some time later








“You know,” Ilya said thoughtfully, “it just occurred to me: in most universes we’ve seen—or that Kurai knows of—the Grail is contaminated by Angra Mainyu. Did we ever figure out why ours wasn’t?”








Another plane of existence
Same time








“Servant, Avenger,” the armoured warrior said crisply, “Summoned upon your request.”

Taking in her summoner’s silent, wide-eyed gaze, Jeanne d’Arc Alter frowned, her golden eyes narrowing. “. . . What’s with that look? Come on, here’s the contract . . .”