Fate/Reclamation (IC)

**Mellon** · March 28th, 2018, 04:32 PM

Arwyn Cadfael Penrith & Saber
15th of December, 2004
Night (Phase 1-3)
Lee Valley Park

The snow crunched softly under Arwyn’s feet as he made his way off the beaten path.

It didn’t take long for the perfectly manicured exteriors to melt away and reveal something that could conceivably be called a traditional forest. It took you ten minutes of walking before you found a location you were truly satisfied with. Judging by the pristine white snow that covered the black, almost maze-like forest in front of you, it was unlikely that anyone had passed through this area for at least a couple of days. It was also quite distant from all the nearby walkways and other recreational facilities. That should hopefully be enough to keep it hidden, especially during the winter months, when there were far fewer visitors in the park, to begin with.

Now your only hope was that was that the ground ice wasn’t too bad.

Half an hour of back-breaking shoveling later and you had a hole that you could use to bury the body… barely. The frozen and terrain ground had proven to be remarkably obstinate, only allowing you to dig a hole a meter in depth. Sweat streamed down Arwyn’s forehead, as he threw the last shovelful of dirt into the pile next to the hole, with the shovel itself following some moments later. The winter clothing didn’t help much either, making you feel as if you were in a sauna. Clambering out of the hole, the white-haired prosecutor rolled the heavy, wrapped body into the makeshift grave, where it fell with a resounding thud. Taking a second to collect himself, Arwyn grabbed the shovel, picked up a shovelful of dirt and threw it down into the hole below.

A soft, childlike voice suddenly echoed through the glade.

“What are you up to, Mister?”

One of the maids accompanying the strange white-haired girl looked Arwyn with an empty expression.

“Burying a bone?”

She looked Arwyn straight in the eyes, before cocking her head in apparent puzzlement.

“... a dog?”

The younger red-eyed girl descended into a fit of giggles, as the second, a much more stern looking, maid let out a loud sigh.

“Leysritt, it is obviously not a dog.”

“It is a suspicious-looking, disgustingly sweaty man digging a deep pit in an abandoned part of the woods during a winter night.”

“Its either a murderer or lunatic. Both, perhaps.”

**Leftovers** · March 29th, 2018, 06:01 PM

Berserker of Blue
16th of December, 2004
Night (Phase 1-3)

At times it felt as though Freogan's mind operated on autopilot and he only looked back on his behaviour as an afterthought. The man who clinically examined the details of the Holy Grail War and set out to join a battle that could cost him his life - the one who confidently spoke with Berserker and commanded her as a familiar - would in one moment, as if belatedly struck by a revelation, be overcome by awkwardness for his words and rapidly run his mouth to gloss them over.

She understood his predicament: for all that she had presented herself as a tool for her Master to compete with in this ritual, those words had difficulty sinking in as they conflicted with the image she presented. If she was a raving beast in body and mind there would be no quandary; however Servant Berserker was, by all indications, a person much like Freogan. His abrupt adjustments could only be the result of him attempting to reconcile the two, or so she imagined.

Yes, and she would show understanding. She was certainly not having fun watching Freogan fumble with the cutleries while looking anywhere but at her. He had done absolutely nothing to deserve that.

"Hmm?"

Berserker gave the man no real retort, picking and prodding experimentally at another chip with a fork, before finally spearing it and plopping it into her mouth. Each thoughful chew pointedly drew out the pause - and the fidgeting - further.

"That is most reassuring," she finally deigned to speak. "Your eagerness to protect a maid's honour, that is. As expected of a man tasked with serving his Lord. However, I must amend a misunderstanding of yours while it is still in the making."

Her fork pointed accusingly at Freogan, the blue-haired woman took on a serious tone.

"I know not of the fashion of this era, but I will have you know that I am, in fact, the bride."

In the silence that followed she held his eyes for as long as she could without letting her stern expression slip. When she could feel a laugh rising to her lips she smothered it with more of the fried potatoes. The salty morsels had proven as delicious as they were addicting, and she spared a thought for her unchangeing container that would not let her experience any of their drawbacks. Perhaps her unladylike conveyance of entire mouthfuls of the chips helped Freogan shake off his own breach of etiquette as he once more composed himself and spoke with only a slight tinge of red on his cheeks.

"Anyways, uh... I might be being bloody rude again, or something, but I do have to say one thing. Whatever your class as Servant, I'm glad to have you on board this Crazy Train to Kent. Might be just my first impressions, but you're a good gal, have a good head on your shoulders, and seem to be good in a scuffle. So outta all the possibilities, I gotta say I'm dead chuffed to be working with you. So............ thanks."

And then, not even waiting for a response - or rather preempting one - he dove into his food with renewed ferventness. What answer Berserker had to give him died in her throat and she only shook her head bemusedly in response before turning her own attention to the basket, prodding a piece of fish gingerly. Finding it disagreeable she returned to her potatoes, and the fish soon found its own way in Freogan's clutches.

"Anyways!"

Lifting his head from the now empty basket, the magus met the Servant's eyes with a grin and a raised glass of beer. She needed no translation; a more universal gesture there never was.

"Densawlığıñız üşin, wes þū hal, whatever. In other words: Cheers!"

Yes, he's a good man.

With a small smile of her own she lifted her glass in salute.

Hopefully he will remain one until the end.

That was because...

The clink of glass echoed in her mind, a drop disturbing the tranquil pool.

"To victory, Freogan. For it seems the time has come to claim it."　　　　　　　　　　　

**canaki** · March 30th, 2018, 09:21 AM

Archer of Blue
16th of December, 2004
East London - Creekmouth
Night (Phase 1-3)

It seemed to be that not only did his underhanded attempt to throw Rider off balance fail to do so, but it greatly backfired. If the dark knight had any ounce of arrogance, fragile pride, or even simply a short temper, being insulted in such a manner could have lead to enraged attacks, inviting mistakes.

Originally Posted by Rider

"Though I commend you at being able to survive the strike of my blade, it is clear to me that you have not seen many a conflict. After all, if you had you would not deign to utter such ignorant tripe that insults those who have lived and died on the battlefield."

But he did know.
Even if you survived battles, even if you clung to life, ultimately, there was only death. Ideal, honor, purpose… you could decorate spilled blood with words, but in the end, there was no rightful way to kill. All lost lives were equally lamentable, and all dead were equally silent in their judgement.
The impassive disappointment radiating from the sigh resembled--

Originally Posted by Rider

"You are a coward."

Archer stopped in his tracks.
Fury clouded his mind. Loathing blurred his reasoning. Turning on his heel, he swiveled back towards Rider, a curse on his lips.

-- Only to be faced by a pack of hounds bounding towards him, eager to rip apart their prey, and the sight of Rider turning away. The red hot rage instantly cooled, leaving self-disgust in its wake.
“Master, I am now being rather swamped by summoned canines, and the servant is walking towards the river unchecked. The situation is far from ideal, my apologies.”

Archer’s eyes darted over the eight creatures, instantly taking in their positioning. Four went for higher ground, most likely to pounce upon him when he stopped. Four were headed directly this way, spreading out and attempting to cover multiple angles.

As if attempting to outrun the hounds, he yet again spun away from the dogs, sprinting towards a seemingly dead end in the labyrinth of steel containers.
As the four closed in upon him, he accelerated into a jump toward the wall, kicking off to leap over the hounds. The first two veered off from their courses to avoid colliding into the wall. The two bounding behind pounced towards his exposed throat.

The one from the right met his sword as he was soaring mid-air, his swiping blade deflecting the claws away.
The other, as if seeing the sword in his right hand, struck from the left.

Even as a spirit summoned, he did not want to chance being mauled in the throat.
In a split second decision, Archer thrust his left arm up, an attempt to elbow the hound in its nose while shielding his own face.
As his feet met the ground, his elbow glanced off the hound’s nose, only weakening the charge marginally.

The sensation of sharp teeth sinking into his arm was a good reminder.
He was far too vulnerable to his own emotions; it was better to have physical pain ground him.
Immediately, he swung his sword down upon the hound, in an attempt to separate the head from its torso.

For all he had struggled to be an honorable knight in life, he had been a failure, a coward.
He hated Rider for recognizing him for what he was. But more than anything, he hated himself for being the same, flaw-riddled blunderer, despite having trampled over what he would have valued.

Wise up

**Verg Avesta** · March 30th, 2018, 01:44 PM

Freogan Deofolgeat
16th of December, 2004
Night (Phase 1-3)

Originally Posted by Berserker

"To victory, Freogan. For it seems the time has come to claim it."

Freogan stopped in the middle of taking a swig of his beer and his eyes asked an unspoken question from Berserker. These words she said... there was really only way to interpret them. And after seeing an affirmation in the gaze of the blue-haired woman, Freogan knew his guess was right. A predatory grin spread to his face and he gulped down the beer in one go before slamming the pint to the table. The loud noise gathered some attention, but Freogan didn't seem to mind. Instead, he wiped his mouth and light up a cigarette.

"Well then! Let's get to work," Freogan said with a rough edge to his voice. "Bloody wankers, interrupting my date like this...! Should hang the lot of them!"

Perhaps it was the beer or perhaps it was the electrifying spark of tension that had ran around the table; nevertheless, Freogan's confidence seemed to skyrocket momentarily. He motioned to the waitress and rummaged through the pockets of his beaten up leather jacket. From there he pulled a crumpled tenner and slipped it to the woman, whispering a request for her. She looked at him with a quizzical face, but agreed nonetheless. He was hardly the first customer who had asked for something like that.

"Let's see what sort of muppets we dragged up. Hopefully the sane kind. I mean, there are all these gormless civvies present," Freogan muttered to Berserker. "But if they decide to use unfair tactics, well... Fight fire with fire. I'll make this place into a scene out of the Cannibal Holocaust."

With almost natural look, Freogan took up his second pint, already filled. In one fluid motion he rose up and stood on the wooden bench, gazing upon the terrace, Thames and the streets around them. A focused look in his blue eyes told that he was scanning the groups of people here and there. The smoke of his cigarette rose up to the night sky as a vibrant cloud as he took a drag from it, pinprick light of the roll looking like a cat's eye in the darkness. The cold night-time wind ruffled his hair, a pleasant feeling before something as drastic as he was about to do.

Then.

Out of nowhere - Or rather, through the PA system of the pub.

A song began to play.

To anyone else, this electro-pop song that echoed out of the pub and into the surrounding areas with a loud volume, just as Freogan had requested, would have been meaningless. Just local color and song from way back when, of times that were simpler and rougher than those of today. Some, like Freogan, found it even nostalgic. This had been their childhood, their years of growing up in the Eighties. A throwback to a time that, in some ways, Freogan seemed to be stuck in - at least in his looks.

Yes, to many, this song would have been just that and nothing more.

But not to all.

For anyone with that special knowledge in the pub, its vicinity or the nearby streets... this song was a clear proclamation. A modern horn of war calling for battle, or perhaps even sneering announcement of: "Yeah, I know you're there you knob heads." It was a shameless way to announce one's existence, very fit for Freogan; a magus who cared not for rules and tradition this was almost natural. Add in the fact that Freogan was now swaying from side to side while standing high up on the bench, dancing to the beat of the repeating, metallic rhythm... there was no way anyone who understood the message of the song could miss him.

In other words, with one favor and by standing up, Freogan put all eyes, especially those of Masters and Servants in the area, unto himself.

And if that wasn't enough...

"Oh come on, prick up your ears all you plonkers and pillocks, mingers and maggots! I know you're bloody well earwigging on me anyway!" Freogan roared, his voice echoing over the riverside. One could almost smell alcohol from his laughter. "Quit skulking around and join in on the fun! Ale's flowing, taps are singing... we've got here the makings of a good lil' scuffle!"

But his grin... was that of a hunter.

"Let's play Masters and Servants!"

A declaration that was just drunk's ramblings to civilians, but clear challenge to participants of the Holy Grail War - Declaration accompanied by Freogan lifting his beer towards the north star.

**I3uster** · March 30th, 2018, 06:06 PM

Lancer of White
16th of December, 2004
Night (Phase 1-3)

It almost blew out her ears. The entire area was now filled with what could only be called aural filth. It seemed that the the time were the sounds of a perfectly harmonized union of wood and string or the gentle winds beckoned out of a carefully crafted implement were what brought elation were long gone. The songs of this era were a permanent droning. An unending sensation of vertigo translated into what could only tenuously be described as music. The sounds of nature are what is said to have inspired man to strive to compose music for themselves. The song of the birds, the blowing of the winds and the gentle rattling of the leaves by itself assembled vocals, wind and percussion.

Contrary to the beauty inherent in such an arrangement, this sounded like stone cutting. Like an avalanche breaking loose. Like a headache being pressed into notes.

The riverbank both her and her Master had chosen to stay on for the purposes of trailing their enemy had now become a stage to debauchery. The comparative silence of the night, interrupted by the noises of the city and the running water had been violated in the most crass way.

And then the lyrics set in.

There's a new game
We like to play you see
A game with added reality
You treat me like a dog
Get me down on my knees

We call it master and servant

It was not an unfamiliar sensation. Her first reaction was one of immediate repulsion and visceral disgust of course, but that was not what really dominated her thoughts at the moment. No, that was the sensation that she had been proven right. And as many times before, being proven right had not exactly been grounds for celebration for that woman.

She had a hunch. A passing glance leveled at Buckingham Palace, showing congregations of screaming foreigners and not a single local paying any sort of reverence to it. The knowledge that the god-given rights of Europe's monarchs had been eroded to meaninglessness in this system of mob rule. The betting shops at every corner. The sheer amount of drunks in its streets at this time of the night.

And now this. This is what they called music. She felt ashamed to ever have even listened to chamber music. The recreational song in itself was a minor evil, and as morals and values eroded it had become a disaster. People no longer chased an innocent excitement, they had surrendered to their very base instincts. Aesthetics had washed away in favor of raw drive. The musical equivalent of two people mating in the streets like animals, completely freed from morals and dignity.

"Master. Prepare yourself. If they are our allies, they should reveal themselves. If they are not, I will have to stop this either way. One more second of this and I will go insane."

She rose to her feet. Still, she wore the workers outfit. Still, to most she registered as a mere human, someone who was not worth their consideration. Still, the few looks she caught were mocking or pitying in nature, some even lustful.

Until she opened her mouth, anyway.

There was but one way to really clean out the filth of human desire, and it was faith. Nothing else would restrain the base impulses of the weak flesh. And if music had to be the battlefield, then she would be glad to oblige. For she had both of their best interest in mind, be they friend or foe.

For no foe deserved eternal damnation unless they chose it. And so, she gestured at her Master as she moved in closer to the other duo.

"Do-Re-Mi..."

A sharp inhale followed before the droning affront to all that was beautiful was drowned out by a voice so clear and tuneful it could be mistaken for a choir of angels.

"
Glory to God in the highest
Gloria in excelsis Deo

And Peace to his people on earth
et in terra pax hominibus bonae voluntatis.

The volume fit an opera singer, a profession that had only acoustics and a powerful lung to rely on before the soulless amplifier had enabled any peasant to produce a tone loud enough.And in her fight against it, she had been the clear winner.

A song to base instincts had been drowned out by a hymn to God's glory. And as the receiver of his grace, its purpose was not only aesthetic.

It heralded her coming and announced her status for all the onlookers the broadcaster of this music so clearly desired.

The time of the freewheeling peasants had ended. Their mocking of the world's order would not continue as long as she drew breath.

A queen had arrived.

Wiseup!

**Dranes** · March 31st, 2018, 06:22 AM

Gendou Matou
16th of December, 2004
East London - Thamesmead
Night (Phase 1-3)

...I hope I don't get a cold from this.

That single thought crossed Gendou's mind as the minutes passed by and the fight between Rider and Archer abruptly ended, the disdain in the Knight's voice as plain to Gendou as it was to the enemy servant. It was an anticlimactic but it was better than being dragged into a trap or at least that was the only reason that Gendou could assume the enemy had gone to run and taunt tactic. It was simple but effective against the unseasoned and those who valued their pride more than victory itself, a slippery slope that once stepped into would undoubtedly lead to one's destruction. While the hounds may not have Rider's strength and individually were little more than a nuisance for an experienced melee combatant, send enough of them and even the weak can overwhelm the strong... just like humans really but to make that comparison was a mistake, after all one of these two creature's could actually be trusted.

The snow had begun piling up quite high on Gendou at this point, a soft blanket of snow covering his body.

It was too damn cold.

But he had to deal with it, like so many other things in life.

And then, there was a shift in his posture.

He had noticed something, something that made him hate the day all the more. It paralyzed him, turning him more into a stone statue.

And like a stone statue in the wind, without resistance his body smashed into the snow to the left of him, head first.

The cold finally forcing him to open his eyes, glancing left and right for effect. It's not like he was out of danger yet or at least he had to keep playing the part.

"Hell am I doing here? Walking back and then I black out..."

He grasped at his flask and took a sip from it, the familiar taste of alcohol warming him. There was no need to act this part out, he was sick of being out here for so long.

Seems you got company Rider or a couple out on a late night run that is just happening to be heading your way.

A genuine yawn now escaped him as he shakily got off the grass.

Can't say if there's a servant or not, ain't got your senses for that stuff but doesn't matter. If they're Association, give them a warm greeting and if they're not...

Gendou thought on his next words for a moment.

It's not our mess to clean up whatever happens.

He started walking at a normal pace.

Your hounds can play, I'm sure they can handle themselves and if not...well, I got a request.

His eyes closed again but a thousand more opened.

Try not to kill the girl.

Because as much as he tried to make sense of the situation, as much as he hoped this was a mistake and as much as this caused more problems for him.

He could not answer the one question he had posed to himself now:

Why the hell was Erika here?!

**Zagrin** · March 31st, 2018, 07:33 AM

Rider (White)
16th of December, 2004
Night (Phase 1-3)

...

Rider paused his march across the river as he received the message from his Master. According to him two individuals were running towards the location of the ongoing battle between the enemy servant and his hounds. The manner in which he had identified these targets eluded Rider, however he did not believe this information to be incorrect. In fact, considering the position that he had left the enemy it would make sense that the cretin that served as that servant's master was finally coming out of the woodwork to lend some sort of aid.

However it was strange that there was not one, but two of them. What purpose did the other serve? Perhaps he or she was a lackey from the Mage's Association, conscripted to provide aid to their chosen combatants. Then again, this was a war between two groups rather than a battle royale so perhaps the masters on the other side had the sensibility to actively work together unlike those fools that seemed to be compose the faction which Rider and his Master formed a part of. There was one final possibility, slim as it might have been, that the two were nothing more than innocent bystanders, magi or otherwise, who had the unfortunate fate of having caught Gendou's "Eye" and been deemed by him as threats to be eliminated.

Still none of that really explained the final request Gendou had made of him, after the words he had heard from him but a scant few hours ago to hear something like that from his Master was...troubling. To show mercy this early in the game... perhaps he had misjudged Gendou, perhaps his conviction was not as strong as he had initially thought it was or perhaps there was something else to this strange appeal of Gendou's. After all, from the short time he had known him it was clear to Rider that his Master was not one who wore his heart on his sleeve.

Very well, Master, however I cannot make any promises. My hounds were never taught to be gentle with their prey, as you well know.

Once more space warped and another bone-white hound appeared by Rider's side before dashing off, skipping upon the water like a stone, towards the direction that his Master had said company would arrive from, but that was not the only welcoming party those interlopers would need to deal with.

With his Master's warning answered, once more Rider rode back toward the opposite end of the river, reaching it in but a few seconds. Gracefully he dismounted, whilst patting his horse on the muzzle. He then gave it one final nod, before watching it return back into the dark abyss of the waters.

You realize that with my return here, the chances of us claiming this land becomes...far more difficult. True my hounds are noteworthy beasts, but without my aid defeating that servant, let alone those reinforcements you spoke of is unlikely, at best.

Wise up!

Hounds
16th of December, 2004
Night (Phase 1-3)

The hound that had latched onto Archer's arms tried to pull back after it had seen Archer's blade raised. However it was too late, the blade came too fast and it bit into the hound's neck. There was a yelp of pain, however no blood had been drawn nor had its head been detached from its body. In fact, no visible damaged seemed to have been done to the beast, rather as it fell from the strike its body began to slowly dissipate before finally disappearing as it touched the ground, leaving no trace that it had even existed in the world.

There was a snarl of anger from above and below, as all of the hounds looked at their prey with newfound contempt after having witnessed what had occurred to their kin. They would make this man pay for what he had done. The first to act were those circling above their target, three of them growled and lowered their backs, before finally pouncing upon the young man from different directions, completely fearless of the blade that he held. The other three on the ground however growled, before suddenly doubling back to whence they had come from the same moment their brothers above had pounced. Were they looking to gain some sort of advantage similar to that of their brothers above, or was there something more to it?

Finally there was one last hound atop the containers, who continued to watch the swordsman's next move. It could not be said for what he was waiting for, but it was certain that should the opportunity that it waited for presented itself, it would grasp that chance in an instant.

Wise up!

**canaki** · March 31st, 2018, 10:46 AM

Archer of Blue
16th of December, 2004
East London - Creekmouth
Night (Phase 1-3)

For spectral beings that simply fade away when defeated, the yelp and the snarls were very alive.

Not stopping to inspect the disappearing hound, Archer continued to sprint and leap -- staying stationary in this situation is suicide -- towards the end of the containers.
While he kept note of the three hounds that dashed off, and the one that followed from above yet did not pounce on him immediately, the three that were keeping up with him from atop the containers, jumping down at him were not making this easy for him.

The two from his front were relatively uncomplicated, as he could swerve under their trajectory and dodge them entirely. The third from behind was a problem. Which was most likely the reason they attacked in waves, rather than blindly swarming him.

In an action somewhat alike a spinning top, Archer spun to strike the third hound, as it snapped its jaws, threatening to bite his neck from the behind. Blood splattered as he thrust his blade towards the open maw of the hound, and the claws grazed the existing wounds on his left arm.
He should have brought a decent shield, or at least some proper armor. This was not how archers are meant to fight. His arm was going to be useless at this rate.

These hounds seemed to be trying to wear him down. Clearly, they were well trained. Perhaps they were preparing for something.
While he had experience in both hunting wildlife and being hunted by men, the art of dealing with a large packs of hounds was not quite something he’d perfected.

Archer thought of his own hunting dog, his other companion in his days of wandering the wilderness. Its absence was felt deeply.

Wise Up

**Sunny** · April 2nd, 2018, 02:28 PM

Caster of Blue
15th of December, 2004
East London
Night (Phase 1-3)

Resting her arms on the windowsill, and her chin on top of her crossed forearms, Caster leaned over the window and looked out, doing her best not to spoil the moment. She was quite enjoying what was going on outside and had no desire to cut the experience short. Occasionally, her lens switched to another filter, to better appreciate the show.

She hadn’t been sure what to expect when she’d first detected the two of them - though Erika had given her enough details to form an educated guess, her assumptions were at odds with the vehicle in which they arrived. She had little experience with enforcers, of course, but she hadn’t imagined they were quite so… well, big. If anything, the gentleman beside him - Archer, was it? Archer looked much more like she imagined an enforcer to look, based on the smoothness of his mannerisms. Handsome, but sharp and reserved, even when distracted. The beefy one didn’t look nearly as at ease.

Still, a charming pair to watch fuddle through their preparations so differently. The girl had to wonder, though.

Goodness, bow ties are still in style?

Erika, people still wear bow ties? Really? Really?

She grinned to herself, kicking one of her legs behind her absently and balancing on the other foot. It looked like they’d rung the bell. Far be it for Caster to answer the door as a houseguest. She watched and waited as Miss Natsuki opened the door for them…

And before she knew it, the tall blonde servant couldn’t contain her laughter, doubling over in great peals of helpless giggles as she watched the misunderstanding unfold. She finally couldn’t wait any longer, phasing through the window and wall and hopping through the boundaries of the house. Caster tilted her head, inspecting them more closely, even as she tried and failed to stop her laughter. “Aha… Though I do think you’ve made my night already!”

Ahahaha... They're here... haha...They thought... ha...!

Introductions were pleasant enough, despite the task ahead of them. Erika’s allies so far seemed like nice people and the girl bounced on her heels, pleased to be working with them. Of course, matters grew more somber by the time they were on their way to their destination - Erika had a plan and it had to be explained to the two.

Caster stayed silent, content to let the one who came up with it make her case. It wasn’t that she disagreed with their reservations, but… “Isn’t that what makes it worth trying?” She commented, leaning sideways to look across at Michael. She folded her arms behind her back, walking beside Erika and swinging her legs cheerfully despite the topic of conversation. “Most dangerous things have equally promising results if you succeed.”

Originally Posted by Archer

“Taking unclaimed territory is not only a gain for yourselves, but a loss for the enemies. Unless the cost of maintaining ownership is too great, this is a rather reasonable venture. Dealing with any angered rightful owners can be considered after you survive this ordeal and proper order is regained within your organization.

“Though, I’m afraid I’m not very familiar with what exactly this ‘claiming a leyline’ business entails, and how we may be of help. If this was an enemy base we were to infiltrate, or even a task to capture some person or object… but I don’t suppose capturing leylines involves direct combat?”

It seemed Archer was more or less in agreement, Caster thought, turning her attention to the other servant. She pursed her lips, falling a few steps behind the others. This was the first time she’d really seen a servant other than herself - surely it was fine to collect just a bit of data, so long as she was subtle and surreptitious.

That’s why she stayed quiet as she inspected him, switching different lenses and filters as she peered intently at the lithe bowman from head to toe. She stepped sideways around him, tilting her body to get a different angle… Stealthily, of course.

Oh, how interesting...

Huh. Say, Erika. You think he had a body this nice when he was alive?

Caster mused through her mental connection with Erika. A few entirely too lengthy seconds later, she clarified.

Like a servant’s, that is. I wonder… Some heroic spirits manifest exactly as they did in life, based on what I know from my own summoning. They may be diminished in the current day and age, but essentially they are as they were in flesh and blood, as fearsome as that is to imagine. Others, on the other hand, are a bit different from their mortal days… Their legends influence and even overwrite who they actually were, for good and ill.

A momentary pause, her thoughts trailing off. Caster clasped her hands together behind her back, looking down. Nice measurements, she added finally, taller than I thought at first glance, actually...

Wise up!

Satisfied, she committed the data to memory, returning that fragment of her attention to the conversation at hand. Not that she wasn't paying attention to that too - the girl had been following the discussion throughout her musings, even answering while she was collecting data, interjecting with a cheerful hand on her heart when Mr. Blackmore --no, he said he preferred Michael, right-- when he continued to worry. “I may not be much for combat, Mister Michael, but I don’t intend to leave my companion in danger all the same.”

...Though she had to admit, she was planning to begin collecting data on Michael next, but the topic that came next demanded her full attention. She said nothing, looking straight ahead, but her goggle lens was locked onto Erika’s face. Her body language. Her expression. The movement of her eyes and facial muscles. Caster took it all in intently, her shoulders set with a serious expression. She was quite interested in her master’s thoughts, when it came to this, no matter what her answer was. Caster knew well enough her own answer, but she turned her master's words over in her mind, thoughtfully.

Ah, but for the moment, she was Erika’s servant, so she had to focus on the task ahead of them. She needed to know what the more experienced warriors had to say about their plan and the battleground ahead of them - she valued experience and outside expertise and had no arrogance about her own breadth of knowledge.

I am, of course, exactly and eminently qualified to know about my specialties, without a doubt.
Ahaha, but war games were never really among them.

Originally Posted by ”Archer”

“I consider myself a rather simple warrior. Seek and destroy: I can only observe the enemy, then strike at the best moment, in the best way I know of. As an Archer, charging in blindly isn’t a choice. On the other hand, I do have some help from feathery friends, any situation of being entirely unaware of enemies should be fairly unlikely.”

“Feathery fri--” For a moment, Caster was speechless, blinking rapidly. She half-turned to look at Archer, the white pinpoint on her goggle widening.

What did he say? I didn’t hear that wrong. I definitely didn’t hear that wrong! You heard that too, right? Ooh, what do you think that was about? A historical anecdote? An ability? Actual friends? Can he fly!? Oh my, if he can fly... Aah, I’m curious…! I want to ask right now! I want to--

Caster shook her head, making an annoyed noise and exhaling with almost a pout. “No, no, I know I need to wait,” she muttered out loud with an exasperated cough. She collected herself with a deep sigh, hands at her side, and relaxed. “For the moment, at least, I would say I’m better at a distance as well. The more information the better.”

She grinned, digging through the pocket of her coat to produce what she’d been able to make for tonight. She wished she’d had more time before their first engagement, but if it was this, she was confident enough indeed.

She waved as Archer went ahead to scout, returning it until she needed it.

-------------------------------------------------

Caster of Blue
16th of December, 2004
East London
Night (Phase 1-3)

That being said, she hadn't thought she'd need it quite so soon. Caster walked ahead of the others, one hand in the pocket of her coat. They had reached the entrance to the container park. She was no stranger to the shipment of goods, but a dissatisfied sniff suggested she wasn't used to a facility quite this dirty. She glanced back at the others, then ahead of her again. Whirring, her goggle lens rotated a pale blue lens over it, the pixel eye flicking from side to side, uneasily.

At the same time, the girl looked up at the containers ahead, tilting her head up high. "I wonder what they're shipping..." she asked herself softly, pausing for a moment and leaning against one of the containers. A surreptitious glance from side to side preceded the servant phasing and sticking her head in, then back out. "...Oh. At least I couldn't smell it, I suppose." No sense to have unsatisfied curiosity weighing on the mind.

She coughed lightly, turning back to wait for the others to catch up. "Difficult terrain, nevertheless. It wouldn't be hard for me to go ahead, but..." That would leave the other two alone, and her a relatively poor chaperone. She held a hand in her pocket, fixing her hair with the other glove. "I don't suppose we know where Mister Archer is, specifically, in this veritable maze."

**Katie** · April 2nd, 2018, 07:29 PM

Erika Kanzaki
15th of December, 2004
East London
Night (Phase 1-3)

To be honest, it was a mistake to let Natsuki answer the door. Doing last minute preparation, only to arrive and see that Michael has mistaken my idiot roommate for Caster… I can’t tell who’s meant to be more embarrassed here. But introductions are done quickly enough, and mentally I tell Caster that bow ties are hardly fashionable these days, and we continue on, walking as I go and explain what we’re doing.

-------

“So, to start from the beginning, if you thoroughly read the packet Mr. Velvet most kindly provided, it would be apparent that the Grail has affected all of the leylines of London. Normally, they would be under the dominion of their respective Second Owners, gifts for their service to the Clock Tower… But you can feel it in the air, can’t you?” I look at Michael, because this should be obvious to any magus worth their salt. Then again, it occurs to me that he’s an Enforcer. With all the rumors abound, it’s hard to know how exact their magical education is, so maybe I’m aiming a bit too high.

“You want to use them? That’s a dangerous proposition,” he says, brow furrowed. Well, normally that would be the case, but…

“Isn’t that what makes it worth trying?” Caster pipes in with her usual cheer, and I’m rather thankful that my Servant and I are on the same page. “Most dangerous things have equally promising results if you succeed.”

“If we don’t claim them for the Clock Tower themselves, anyone else can. Our foes are probably well-aware that the Grail has usurped the spiritual authority of the major leylines in London—as of now, the only leyline still firmly under Clock Tower control is the one in Central governed by our esteemed Director. If we don’t do anything, they’ll claim it for themselves. Besides, Lady Chimaeragenos has backed up this plan, so we have an excuse for the irate Second Owners with no land to their name,” I explained, hoping this would be sufficient enough to get him on board. Then again, he seems surprisingly formal? No, that’s not the word. Straightlaced?

“The risk of angering a Lord, even with another’s backing…” Michael frowned, probably at the thought of disobedience. “No, you’re right. It’s a solid plan. Forgive me, Miss Kanzaki; I just didn’t expect to hear it from you.”

“We are returning they leylines to their proper owners when all this is done, so I don’t think you need to be too worried. And, honestly… I specialize in leyline studies and I have a Caster-class Servant. This entire request was a bit selfish of me. But I figured it was practical enough.” I feel a bit embarrassed at the last part. I figured this would be my only chance to be a Second Owner for any sort of study, so I thought I could seize the opportunity. Rather than having anything practical in mind, I just wanted to grab the leyline before anyone else could. How useful it would be only came to me after the conception of the idea…

“Taking unclaimed territory is not only a gain for yourselves, but a loss for the enemies. Unless the cost of maintaining ownership is too great, this is a rather reasonable venture. Dealing with any angered rightful owners can be considered after you survive this ordeal and proper order is regained within your organization.” Archer, who has been quite the entire time, finally speaks in agreement, stifling the slight protests of his Master. Though, I don’t think he fundamentally disagrees with the plan. The true nature of his disagreement, I think, lies somewhere else.

-------

“Miss Kanzaki, you shouldn’t even be out here in the first place. You understand that, don’t you?”

Michael’s voice rings out in the dark. His concern is evident, but something about it rubs me the wrong way. There’s nothing wrong with his viewpoint, that I’m most likely the least qualified to go wandering about in the Holy Grail War, but there are certainly other members of our team that could need more help than me. Say… Mr. Velvet or even the Lords. Who knows if their magecraft is even suitable for defending one’s self. Even with millenia behind their crests, if it had no bearing on their research, they could certainly end up in the modern day with a lack of offensive options, only protected by the weight of their name.

But that’s enough musing about hypotheticals.

“...I shouldn’t, but I am. My fate was sealed when I summoned Caster, you know. It’s not like there are any options, are there? Do you want me to sit around and let everyone else put their lives at risk?”

“I wouldn’t hold it against you if you did just that. But you won’t, will you?”

“We’re all victims, aren’t we? And in the end, I made the decision to summon a Servant of my own. Doing that but refusing to put even a finger of effort to help her achieve her wish… I’m not that cruel.” Ultimately, the pact between Servant and Master is a partnership. Caster had a wish and responded to my summons in kind. Even if I’m unsure of what I may desire, Caster must no doubt have something concrete within her heart.

Though three infallible orders may be etched on my body… Caster is someone who has entrusted me to help her achieve her dream, whatever it may be. I can’t imagine betraying that trust by sitting back and doing nothing. Though my sense of empathy has dulled with the years, I refuse to abandon someone who chose to place their faith in me.

“Nobody who chooses to fight is a victim. Whether that choice was made years ago, or just now. Miss Kanzaki, if you want to fight, you’ll have to be cruel. Cruel enough to step over someone else’s dream. Can you do so?”

It’s then that I truly notice the biting cold of December air. A short breath comes out as a fog of mist. For a brief moment, I think about everything I’ve done so far, and then sigh.

“...You’d be surprised.” My voice grows soft yet firm, like I’m trying to console someone. Perhaps it’s just myself. “I haven’t stopped climbing the Clock Tower ladder out of lack of ambition. If I could… I’d trample over everything until I was content.”

There are certainly nice people in the world. But the world I have chosen to be in has no place for nice people. And from the start, I was never a particularly kind child. As long as I was ahead of everyone else, it didn’t matter if they cried. The only kind of person that is truly generous is the one certain they have everything they want.

And I know I still don’t have everything I want.

“But that’s a dream, and this is reality.” I give a faint smile as I walk. Even as this topic started, my pace hasn't changed at all. “There might be things I’ll hesitate to step on and things I’ll gladly crush beneath my feet. But in the end, if it’s them or I, there’s really only one choice.”

If they’re in my way, I won’t be merciful. That’s the only way to advance.

“I really hate losing, you see.”

-------

Erika Kanzaki
16th of December, 2004
East London
Night (Phase 1-3)

Containers and warehouses without end. Finding Archer without separating Caster from the two of us would no doubt be difficult… And extremely dangerous. I doublt Michael and I could survive if we got blindsided by something with the caliber of a Servant. Thankfully, Caster hasn’t moved yet, so it’s best that I get this done with now.

Stay close, I tell her, before walking over, glancing at my Servant. I’d taken a good look at her before in the workshop, but now required a bit more thorough examination. Do you mind taking off your eyepiece? This will be quick, I promise.

She does so hesitantly, and I’m a bit surprised at how the eye underneath seems rather normal. But, I promised it would be quick. I make her look down a bit, bringing us into eye contact, and focus.

Water trickles down the rocks.

The gift I was born with kicks in, streams of color entering my vision. At once I can see the direction the winter gales blow in, they way prana flows through my Servant. Mystic Eyes of Flow, my master once said, many years ago. Whether it’s water or prana, I would know what direction it would go in and how fast.

But most importantly, because I can see all of Caster’s magical intricacies with a glance, just like when I examined students, I can figure out what I can tamper with. Reinforcement is simple—you fill in the gaps with prana, and the world adjusts to strengthen the attributes of whatever the target was. The only sort of finesse involved is knowing how much prana is enough and how to get it into all of the “cracks.”

Alteration, on the other hand, is like trying to alloy a metal. To change the properties of iron so that it becomes steel, you need a certain amount of carbon injected with a certain process. Similarly, I have to fill Caster’s blue eyes in just the right way so that not only is the intended effect achieved, but also so that it does not hurt.

Though, I pause. From what I gleaned with my earlier conversation with Michael, he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. Magecraft is magecraft in his eyes, no doubt. But for Caster, doing this in front of her...

She’d definitely know there is something wrong with my magical foundation. She has a strong grasp of the basics and the ingenuity to enhance them with technology, so there’s no way I could hide something I’m doing to her very eyes.

But even so, we’re in a bit of a rush, so I shouldn’t dawdle. For Archer.

And after another second of intensely looking into Caster’s eyes, I wave my hand over them, giving them a little boost.

Wise up!

**canaki** · April 3rd, 2018, 01:54 PM

Michael Blackmore
15th of December, 2004
East London
Night (Phase 1-3)

He didn't need to think very hard about what to do.

The sea of containers was as unconventional a battlefield as any Michael had found himself in. A maze decipherable only to a lifelong dock worker, it offered to the three intruders plenty of blind corners, flimsy walls, and ambush locations. It didn't need to be said that his Servant would be at a disadvantage in such an environment, but...

Archer. We're nearby. If you need support immediately, you'll have it.

The man's response didn't surprise Michael in the slightest.

No need, Master, came Archer's calm reassurance. I'll be fine.

No more needed to be said. The advance would be careful and considered, rather than reckless. From Archer's frenzied reports, Michael could surmise that multiple enemies were present, perhaps even more that Archer hadn't encountered. Uncountable eyes meant uncertain information, and most importantly...

The fight was likely to come to them.

As Erika whispered instructions to Caster and cupped her Servant's face, Michael politely averted his eyes and kept to his own business. He would only need one weapon, and it was already in his hand. It merely needed to be prepared. A waste of magical energy, perhaps, but he would gladly waste that instead of a life that could've otherwise been saved.

With a snap Michael closed the umbrella, and with another snap his magic circuits opened.

He whispered, under his breath, a short couplet in trimeter:

"A rainy tear flies true;"
"Through me, my heart, from you."

The strength of his conviction was made manifest, flowing from his body into the length of wood, cloth and plastic clutched tightly in one hand. It would not break, he knew, until he did. In Michael's hand was a weapon to banish Servants, ghosts, and nightmares without distinction.

His spell spent, Michael calmly stepped backwards, placing himself near Erika. If any of them was vulnerable, it was most certainly her.

Come, he seemed to say to the invisible enemies dwelling in the shadows.

I am waiting, and I am ready.

Wise up

**Zagrin** · April 3rd, 2018, 03:24 PM

Dog Team Alpha
16th of December, 2004
Night (Phase 1-3)

Once again the hounds had been able to land a strike against their target, however minor it may have been. Though they were incapable of unleashing the same sort of devastation as their master, what they lacked in strength they were clearly making up for in both number and tenacity. Where one powerful blow may very well have been stopped by this opponent, it was clear that even he could not completely keep up with the flurry of strikes that now assailed him. Still that did not mean to say this was an opponent to be taken lightly, each attempt to wear him down came with it the danger of a deadly counter, one which had been proven capable of felling one of their kind with a single blow.

Now it seems that once again one of them would pay the price for the blood they'd drawn...or would it?

Right as the blade was about to make contact with the hound, it's body suddenly shifted to the right. It couldn't be said whether it was by some form of sorcery, or sheer bestial instinct that had caused it to react as it did, but the result of its actions was clear. The man's blade missed the hound by just a hair's breadth and so the dog emerged from the encounter completely unscathed. As it landed on the ground, it turned towards its prey and growled menacingly. This man would soon regret having failed to kill the beast with that strike.

Once again the three of the hounds launched themselves at Archer, now two from behind whilst the lucky survivor came from the front. The one from the front seemed to be aiming for the man's throat, intent on gouging it out and ending this little hunt. The other two however seemed to be focusing on his legs, intent on wreaking the same kind of harm that they had on their target's arm.

As for the last hound, it finally made it's move once the other three had finished their attacks, leaping from the container towards the man below, intent on ripping into him with tooth and claw.

Dog Team Bravo
16th of December, 2004
Night (Phase 1-3)

They had broke off from the battle on their Master's orders, they had left their brethren to battle an opponent that clearly outmatched them. However much they may have disliked it, they knew their Master always had good reasons for the commands they issued and so they traversed the maze of containers, even meeting up with another hound that their master had summoned.

It was not long before they reached their target, before they had found them.

Their Master had told them that they were to hunt down two humans, a male and a female, who had been running to their immediate area. They were to stop them from coming near the ongoing battle, by whatever means necessary, but that wasn't the only thing they found. Another female, one whose scent was clearly not that of a human, but rather that of a spiritual body, in other words...a servant.

They had struggled in taking down one of these beings, now another had shown itself and this one was not alone, unlike the other. It was a troublesome situation, however they had been instructed by their master to stop this group, and so they would, even with the tables turned so clearly against them.

Thus, one by one, they began to split off, attempting to circle around and readying themselves to strike at their enemy's blind spot.

Rider (White)
16th of December, 2004
Night (Phase 1-3)

"I see..." Rider muttered, as he contemplated the situation across the river. It appeared as though things over there were becoming more and more complex with every moment. Though Gendou had spoke of withdrawing, Rider still held some hope that they would be able to claim they leyline within the river. Such a scenario seemed even more unlikely now that there was not one, but two servants present on the other side of the river.

If he wanted to win this battle, he could not rely on half-measures, but to do so would be incredibly risky as he had already expended a considerable amount of Prana.

Unless...

His gaze shifted to the two drunks that lay on the bench in blissful slumber and lingered on them. It seems they had fallen prey to his enemy's song, unlike his master. It wouldn't take much to end their pitiful lives, here and now, and dine upon their souls. It would provide him with the boost of prana that he so desired and besides, it would require more work on the Clock Tower's part to cover up the fiasco of a double murder by the river where a leyline is located.

The grip on his blade tightened, as those thoughts entered his mind, tempting him to do the deed.

...

...

...

Moments passed, yet he did not strike at the two humans. Rather his grip began to soften and soon his sword was back in its sheath.

To play his trump card this early in the war was pure folly in the long-run, and so there was no need to take the lives of these fools to fuel his power. Not tonight at least. It was true that they would lose this battle, but such an outcome is to be expected when one is outnumbered as they are. If those fools actually wished to win this war they would have done more than settled for each Master working independently from the others.

Thus did Rider de-materialize into spirit form and make way towards his master's location, however not before gently slapping the two drunks into (Hopefully) consciousness. It did him no good sparing the lives, just for them to be lost thanks to winter's chill.

**Dranes** · April 3rd, 2018, 03:57 PM

Gendou Matou
16th of December, 2004
Night (Phase 1-3)

A shame but that's how it goes. Though, there's other ways to make someone lose their rights over the land y'know?

The implications of tonight's battle weren't lost on Gendou, far from it. He had given up the opportunity to be a Second Owner and with it, ownership of the leyline... it was a blow to be certain but if they had fought for it, would they have won? Two servants, one with a blade and the other a complete unknown along with two (likely) Masters. Regardless of how powerful Rider was, such a battle would be simply too costly to afford without a one hundred percent chance of victory and as things stood now, even fifty-fifty chance was being generous. No, it was unnecessary to charge in on the first night of the war, to give up more than they already had.

This is just the first battle. Even if we don't get this leyline, there are other paths to victory in this war... just have to find the best one.

As Gendou continued the wordless conversation, he rubbed his hands together. He had never been a fan of the cold and being stuck in this weather was far from ideal, what bad luck did the two of them have to have to be stuck out in this weather with not one but two enemy Masters? Really, this is why waiting to get lucky never works, you have to make your own luck.

As far as I know, they didn't connect the two of us. On the other hand we know their faces and perhaps a bit more by the end of the night.

Yes, though the initial plan had fallen through, there was a bright side. Gendou had wanted information to be a priority but was shot down earlier but in the end, he had gotten his wish even if the results were unpleasant. He had to give out a sigh as he gathered his thoughts, the last person he expected to be here was somehow here and it seemed she was friends with a macho man who looked like he wrestled with bears. They were also both masters, both magi of the Clock Tower unless there had been a mistake, meaning enemies of the Three Families. Conflict was inevitable in that case, the usual ending to this all being death.

Why did things always have to be such a drag?

Leave 'em a few scars. It'll make things less troublesome in the future.

As he finally gave the go-ahead to Rider, the thousand eyes turned back to the two fateful battles.

**Sunny** · April 3rd, 2018, 08:13 PM

Caster of Blue
16th of December, 2004
East London
Night (Phase 1-3)

"Quite the courteous date," Caster giggled as Michael stepped ahead of the two of them, tilting her body to the side. It wasn't her first time being escorted by parasol, but never under these circumstances, for certain.

The girl's goggle was still drifting left to right, independent of her own gaze, but her own gaze was on the back of the tall enforcer in this engagement. She wondered if he was being mindful of her expressed limitations, letting her stay behind him. How thoughtful. Though I'm not sure how long it would hold, against a servant...

A pity she couldn't take his measurements right now, while she had the opportunity, but since she was busy scanning for something else, the girl settled for "a lot." She was preparing to eyeball a figure before she heard Erika's voice.

Originally Posted by Erika

Stay close.
Do you mind taking off your eyepiece? This will be quick, I promise.

Hm? Of course, Eri-- She began, looking back with a quick and ready smile, only for her expression to freeze when she heard the request that followed. Both of her eyes looked sideways, hesitantly. ...Ah, I suppose it's not a problem, per se, but...

A glance back at Michael, then at Erika, then at no one in particular. Caster coughed into her glove, as though a bit embarrassed, her expression every bit a demure maiden, rather than a Heroic Spirit.

Is it okay? I have my reservations, but I suppose it should be. After all...
She'll ask about that eventually.

Ah, how embarrassing, ahaha... I prefer to keep it covered, to be totally honest, but...

She shrugged, nodding shyly.

I'll endure it if you ask. We're partners in this, after all.

Caster reached behind her head, loosening the strap holding the device over her eye, and carefully pulling it loose from her hair and the ribbon she wore. She held her right eye shut, before tentatively opening... a large, warm blue eye every bit the same as the left. She blinked her eyes several times, as if unaccustomed to it, but then opened both wide. The tall blonde looked down as directed, straight into the eyes of her master, recovering her relaxed half-smile.

As Erika began, however, the girl reacted with slight surprise. Not much, but noticeable. An exhale of breath. A raised eyebrow. A small twitch of her eyelids as she pushed back the urge to blink. The look in her blue eyes didn't sway or change at all, however. That held steady and certain, even as Erika's eyes looked intensely into hers, and even as her own eyes changed, just a bit.

Blinking rapidly, Caster glanced this way and that, arms folded behind her back. Her gaze was wide-eyed and curious, her lips parted. "Useful. Very useful." she breathed, peering at the containers around them in cheerful delight. "Ah, but--" Her eyes turned back at Erika with a familiar curiousity still on her face. The girl had swallowed her interest several times already tonight, quite reasonably she thought, but this time, she simply had to ask--

Suddenly, she blew hair out of her eyes, annoyed. The girl's gaze flicked sideways as she carefully reapplied her goggle and strapped it on. The lens stayed dark and inert, her own vision more useful by far, for the time being. "Ah, but it would seem we already have company."

It wasn't long before the white beasts were in sight, slowly encircling their group. Caster whistled, impressed. "I'm not sure what I expected, but... Goodness, what lovely creatures. I daresay I've never seen a coat so fair," she spoke softly, the same measured, caring tone she had used the previous night with Natsuki's fairies. "How nice it would be if they just wanted to play."

She took a deep breath in, steeling herself. With brisk steps, the girl strode ahead, lightly clapping Michael on the shoulder. "I quite appreciate gallant company, but if it's all the same, I'll take the lead for a bit," she smiled brightly at him from the side, and turned an even brighter smile on the hounds as they took stock of her.

Compared to Archer, she must have seemed like easier prey. A thin, tall young girl dressed in light gloves, boots and stockings, and a white lab coat. Little to protect her from tooth and claw. Playfully, she gave the circling dogs a curtsy, lifting the edges of her coat. However, her eyes were always locked on them, watching the movements of each hound she could see.

"Ahh... Hello there, doggies," she exhaled a warm puff of air, and stuck out her cold gloves.

An open window.
The dynamics of flight.

Her circuits began to hum.

Closing her uncovered eye, her lips began to move. To a listener, it was a rapid, incoherent string of syllables and variations in tone, like a tape sped up to the point words were no longer intelligible. It was painful. It was grating. It was a warbling, unnatural pitch entirely unsuited to be coming out of the delicate girl's mouth.

"▂▄▄▂▃▄▄Unbind."

Those strange words hung in the air, heavy and palpable, as prana crackled up the girl's forearms in the form of visible electricity arcs. She released the current from her left arm, a powerful surging bolt that crackled out towards the left dog's body, to carry out the unpleasant work she'd crafted it to do.

Her goggle lens flicked to the closest hound on her right.

"▂▄▄▂▃▂▄▃▂▃▄▃▄▄▅▃▄▄Repeat."

Another discharge of electrical energy, as large as the first, lashing out savagely at a second hound.

Caster coughed lightly, clearing her throat and shaking wisps of smoke from her gloves.

Wise up!

**Leftovers** · April 4th, 2018, 03:09 PM

Berserker of Blue
16th of December, 2004
Night (Phase 1-3)

Gleeful laughter rang clearly over the noise. Laughter in the face of common sense, exhilarated at the breaking of rules, intoxicated with the promise of battle. It was the laughter of a warrior, goading and menacing alike, at the cusp of bloodshed. Perhaps the rhythmic swaying too was a sort of war dance, an outlet for nervous energy aimed to provoke. And there—the cup was raised. A consecration, to victory or death.

Such a thing could be found at any moment in history where humans sought the highest pleasures of life in its mutual extinguishing. Nonetheless, Berserker highly doubted that a scene like that of Freogan dancing on top of a table to an electronic tune, calling out a taunt concealed in altogether lascivious lyrics to their foe, had ever been replicated. Sheer absurdity, and brazen to the point that she was past surprise, yet a challenge all the same.

However unconventionally, almost like a farce, the hidden Servant was beckoned into the limelight.

More surprising was that she obliged.

Her head snapped towards them before they had announced themselves, one pair of eyes diverted from the singular point of attention that was Freogan Deofolgeat. They did not emerge dramatically from the shadows, but merely stepped out of the shapeless, uniform crowd that lent anonymity to those that comprised it. Like strangers one could have crossed by a thousand times before and never taken notice, the cadence of their spiritual presence set them apart from the world around them like a splash of colour against a black and white canvas. Before there was no recognition, but now there was no mistaking. Not for the commonplace clothes, the unassuming bearing.

A Servant had entered the fray.

There was purpose in her step, that much was certain. Bearing no weapon she approached the balcony and the pair upon it, a girl - perhaps a Master? - trailing her hesitantly a few paces behind. Did the Servant intend to strike amidst the crowd, or did her lack of hostility hint at an intent for communication? Her lance was at her fingertips, on the cusp on manifestation, but Berserker could honestly not tell. After all, the Servant...

...she isn't even looking at me, is she?

Yes. There was obvious intent in her eyes, but it was not directed at one person. Rather, the sneer that rose to her face when she came to a stop near the veranda seemed to be directed at the revelry and clamour unfolding before her eyes. As if that scene of modern nightlife was a direct affront to her she took a deep breath that, were she not a Servant, could very well have preceded a sharp rebuke at Freogan's vulgar display.

And perhaps, Berserker thought, her song was exactly that.

A voice so high yet rich that it scarcely seemed a human's lungs could produce. It travelled through the cold air crisply; the droning music blaring out of the bar's speakers was sliced apart so neatly that it no longer registered in the listeners' ears. It wasn't a matter of overpowering it though sheer volume: every pair of ears on the riverbank simply rejected any other sound in favour of the Servant's song. It spoke, after all, of a transcending Truth that a mere lustful ditty could not compare with.

The hymn of the angels, extolling the glory of God and His divine ordinance. From the moment the sweet supplication issued forth from the Servant's lips those chanting angels might as well have descended to the riverbank of the Thames. The bar's patrons, passersby, and even the birds roosting on the trees of the Ait across paused their nightsong to listen as the majesty of the heavens dawned upon those who heard the Servant's song.

Just what was it that they were doing until now? Their merrymaking, their materialism, the base pleasures that they drowned themselves with—how had they been so blind that they could not see themselves stray further from God's light every day?

They had forgotten their place in the grand design. It was no wonder that their lives had become voids that no food, drink, or material acquisition could fill. But they had heard the voice of the angels again, reminding them of what was right for man. It almost brought tears to their eyes.

Glory to God and those who carry out His will.

It was all, so very...

Laughable.　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　

Amidst the heads lowered in reverence stood a soul unbowed. For what was there to bow to in that lofty song?

Man's rightful place? As if a god could decide that. Merciful deliverance? And who could ordain such a thing?

Berserker's tensed up from the moment the Servant began to weave her charm, but in another time and place she would have fought the Truth that her opponent recounted arduously.

Man's rightful place was not bowed at the knees in prayer to some almighty God. His life's meaning was not fulfilled by submission. The dignity of his spirit - his Fate - rested in no other hands but his own.

She knew this, for she had seen it. Against the grinding gears of time she had seen men steer the reins of their destiny to their furthest horizons. Even when they were buried in the sands of the past their names were carved indelibly into memory, a testament to their worth - their unconquerable spirit. Their immortality was not won by the favour of God. Their triumphs were those of human spirit.

But this was merely the truth. A harkening to abandoned faith was not in itself galling. It was what it implied, the undertone of this hymn to divine power that impressed itself with every word on the minds of the listeners that nagged at Berserker's mind.

"Know thine place before me", the Servant commanded, "for I rule by the grace of God".

And though she would not put it into words the maiden in white shook her head. Because--

That is not something given, but earned.

--true nobility could not be further from that imperious call for submission.

It was not her place to speak of these things. Instead of words, she would answer with actions. That was what befitted a Servant.

Azure hair fluttered as an arm was thrown back with a flourish. Its long fingers formed a cage, grasping at nothing but for a moment. Then, strands of light were woven from nothingness, a shaft of pale blue light coalescing within Berserker's palm.

"Oh please, hold your tongue."

With a flash in her eyes the woman thrust her arm at her adversary. As though to mirror her movement the swirling light solidified into a lance, and from its glinting tip a great column of water sprouted forth, racing with deadly speed towards the opposing Servant--!

Wise-up!

**Mellon** · April 4th, 2018, 03:30 PM

Aila Einzbern & Caster (White)
16th of December, 2004
Night (Phase 1-3)

"I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle anyone. I-It's just that I'm visiting this country and I wanted to see this museum while sight-seeing. I... I wouldn't happen to be too late to see the exhibits... Would I?"

Aila’s voice made the beam of the flashlight jump around erratically, before focusing on the trio hidden in the darkness, illuminating their figures. It was quite self-evident that the guard hadn’t actually expected anyone to say anything, and had simply been expecting his presence to be sufficient to scare away whoever had approached the closed museum. No doubt he was expecting the intruders to be a bunch of rambunctious youths, not… well, not the three of you at least. The pudgy guard’s beady eyes narrowed a bit as he tried to make out the figures of the three people there.

“Eh? A woman...? Lady, I don’t know where you come from, but visiting hours have been over for some time. Come during the day if you want to see the exhibits. Besides…” His flashlight suddenly flickered over to Ushabti’s large form, as visible discomfort appeared on the guard’s face. “...Either way, I’m not allowed to let anyone into the Museum outside opening hours.”

The dusky-skinned butler’s facade of geniality broke for a moment as he let out a disparaging snort.

Shaken for a second, the guard gave another glance at the suited butler and then gave a, clearly self-assuring, nod.

“Please leave and return to your hotel. Opening hours are between 10 AM and 6 PM.”

Lapis gave a glance towards Aila.

“Milady?”

Meanwhile...

The falcon of gold glided through the empty hallways of the London Science Museum.

The large exhibit halls were filled with items the flying avian could not fully comprehend. After all, it was a being made for a specific purpose and a specific goal and truly understanding the meaning behind the objects that it gazed at was not one of them. It was akin to knowing the pronunciation of letters, but not understanding words. The capacity to see and observe was there, but the spark to tie it all to understanding was nowhere to be found.

After all, even if he was a product of a magecraft born from the Age of Gods, the picturesque avian was merely meant to replicate the sentience of a common falcon.

With a flap of its wings, the construct of light landed on a contraption of steel wheels and wood.

A small sign with the words “Firgrove Mill Steam Engine” lay below.

It was then that the bird sensed the approaching presence of another living being.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

With calm and collected steps, a figure emerged from around the corner.

“So I was to meet another in this palace of steel wonders, after all.”

“Hmm… I thought it was a mere superstition of a rambling augur, but he ended up being correct nonetheless. A comedic twist of fate if I have ever seen one.”

The figure let out a mirthless chuckle.

“In hindsight, I should have paid more attention to the soothsayers, even if their words were forbidden.”

The golded bird tilted its head in slight confusion. It did not understand human speech, after all, only how to convey it.

The black robes of the mysterious being fluttered as he turned towards the bird perched on the steel waterwheel.

“Come, sahir. I will wait for you inside.”

**zikari8** · April 5th, 2018, 04:06 PM

Mori Shiori
16th of December, 2004
Night (Phase 1-3)

Many words could’ve been used to describe the blond man’s speech. Garrulous, pugnacious, intoxicated, crude, wild. But in the eyes of Shiori, the content and style mattered not; the meaning was clear enough. This was a declaration of war.

Had she devoted her life to the calling of the blade, perhaps the young girl would’ve responded immediately with shouts and banners, but no such code of honor or pride bound her wings. Whether cheap or sly, the tactics that best suited the situation would be the only ones she would choose. Such an ideal was only rational.

For what it was worth, the situation wasn’t too bad. Although it was evident that the dynamic duo had detected their presence, they weren’t exactly trapped between three walls. With a number of civilians around in this public area without a bounded field, open combat wasn’t about to break out in seconds. No number of options existed before Shiori; she simply had to choose the best.

The azure woman was evidently a servant, perhaps a Caster or Lancer, maybe even Rider or Saber. Thus, the blond man must be her Master. From simple glance and thought, it was clear he was not one of Shiori’s allies by process of elimination. He was definitely not a Tohsaka, he was clearly a foreigner of some sort so not a Matou, and he did not match the description she had of Einzberns. Hence, he must be her enemy. Now, the two of them did seem pretty strong but not overwhelmingly so. The Servant could not be too out of Lancer’s league. The Master seemed powerful, definitely stronger than Shiori, at least three times as much, if not four, but that wasn’t a large issue.

If they took the proper measures with a cautious attitude, Lancer and she could easily turn this situation around.

Which is exactly why they were doomed to fail.

Originally Posted by Lancer

"Master. Prepare yourself. If they are our allies, they should reveal themselves. If they are not, I will have to stop this either way. One more second of this and I will go insane."

Caught up in her brooding, Shiori failed to notice the clear irritation that Freogan’s music was causing Lancer. By the time she recognized what Lancer meant, it was too late to object.

The voice of Heavens drowned out her thoughts. Like light, Lancer’s notes spread across the dark streets of London in no time, chasing away the dark. No one, not even her own Master, could ignore such a sweet melody. Although it was nothing Shiori had heard before, it felt oddly familiar and nostalgic. Just having the privilege to hear such a hymn made her feel like getting to her knees and pray. Nothing in the city Opera that Akechi was probably listening to at that moment could possibly compare. Here was a queen; here was God. It is said that there is music you listen to with your ears and music you listen to with your culture, but this was a harmony that reaches one’s soul.

However, therein lied the antithesis to everything Shiori was banking on. No soul on earth could possibly resist such a stunning tune. As such, no soul had not paused to take a sample of the nightingale’s majesty. Position revealed, cards on table, enemies provoked. By the time the enemy Servant was throwing her arm back and manifesting her spear, likely nettled, Shiori was stunned for reasons other than her highness’s high notes.

A blast of water erupted from Berserker’s lance and Shiori was ready to throw in the towel.

“Tonight’s not going to be very subtle, is it?”

A drunkard’s war cry, a divine opera, a magical water blast, each one competing for the title of most over-the-top display, the winner to be featured on a double-page spread in Shonen Jump. With these competitors, Shiori might as well just sulk in the corners with a bucket on her head. Oh well. Caution to the wind! Time to win an Oscar.

She began to walk briskly before picking up speed until she was in a full-on sprint in seconds. Trusting Lancer to not immediately keel over and die, she rushed towards their opponents as quickly as she could, running parallel to the trajectory of Berserker’s attack. While Lancer was catching everyone’s attention with her song, she might as well also show off. Most importantly, though, she pulled from her purse her greatest weapons, a piece of paper and a pencil, while running.

In mere moments, she closed the small distance between her and the enemy and then leapt forward, over the veranda railing. But although her display of athleticism was impressive, it was overshadowed by the poise with which she performed. Soaring over the remaining distance, she kept a dainty little posture, her dress fluttering in the wind. And, in one smooth, graceful motion, she landed, spun a few times, and stopped just a little away from the table Freogan and Berserker were using with an elegance befitting a ballerina.

Had it not been for her earlier speed-demon approach, she would’ve resembled a princess getting off of a horse-drawn carriage. Even as she crudely stood among greasy plates and empty mugs, she could’ve been mistaken for a noble lady in a garden of roses. Cute as a button in her cheap violet dress, Mori Shiori leaned against the bar furniture, suddenly calm in proximity to her supposed enemies. Perhaps one might call her beautiful and another might consider her charming, but few could deny the grace with which she stood.

Nonchalantly, as if they were nothing more than close acquaintances, she turned to Freogan and smiled.

“Hello, mister. I heard you were looking for someone to play with.”

Her natural sweet voice was accentuated with a slow, provocative accent as she addressed the other magus. Neither aggressive nor mild, she spoke with an almost cheerful, inviting tone, like a fool telling a riddle or a salaryman trying to be modest about good news but wanting people to ask anyways. It was the type of speech that was left intentionally vague and intentionally happy. Such did Shiori greet the gentleman before her.

“I’d be happy to oblige, but... we should play somewhere more… private.”

She leaned in a little closer as to allow the man a better look at her features and winked knowingly at him. Such little gestures were all to clue him in on what she really wanted to say. With her left hand, she discreetly held up the piece of paper from earlier, a sheet slightly larger than a woman’s palm, just above her chest at an angle and distance that only he could see clearly. On it was written in large neat font, what she needed him to understand, from one magus to another:

There’s too many people here.
We should take this somewhere else.

Wise-up

**Verg Avesta** · April 5th, 2018, 07:00 PM

Freogan Deofolgeat
16th of December, 2004
Night (Phase 1-3)

Things had went to hell in a handbasket almost immediately.

Not soon after the song of Depeche Mode had blared out, along with Freogan's own declaration, and a challenger already made themselves known. Sure enough, Berserker had informed him that they were in the vicinity, but the boldness of the arrival made him raise a questioning eyebrow. No, perhaps not the boldness - the total disregard of the time and place where they were. It was almost as if their opponent did not care about the fact that they were surrounded by civilians all around them. While most of them might have been inebriated, it didn't mean that they would have mistaken the arrival of this opponent as anything normal.

And what an opponent it was.

Strolling out of the darkness like some sort of Adidas Amazon, the redhead challenged the industrial electronic beat of Depeche Mode with her own song. Or rather, her own screeching. That's what it felt like to Freogan at least. It was a mental attack to be sure, a song laden with an idea that it tried to drive into the heads of those who listened to it. He felt it momentarily try to take a hold of his own mind, despite that order of 'subjugation' being the last thing he would have succumbed to. Not to mention the song itself was just as stuffy and fashion of yesteryear as the Servant herself - because yes, that had to be a Servant. Even Freogan realized that. He hadn't even gotten a chance to sit back down and immediately a Servant had pounced upon them, announcing her manner with all the pomp and circumstance of a branch-family royalty who still thought titles like that meant anything; or a British MP. Both were equally bad in their presentation.

Freogan gripped his pint hard enough to make a crack run through it's glass surface as he glared at the approaching Servant, her song ringing in his ears. He didn't like this. He hated this. This boisterous yowling of a cat too big for her breeches, looking down on lowlives and downtrodden people like he and the other patrons of the bar made him sick in his stomach. Two ideas fought in his head; one that demanded he acquiesced to the song's demands and threw himself to his knees before the God and the Queen. The second rebelled at a mere thought of that, rightfully pointing out that a Queen or a God were nothing without the masses, without the peasants. A royalty is only that because everybody agreed to hold that one bloodline in special regard, because they agreed to play by the rules like a pretend game of house in kindergarten. That did not make them unique in any way, nor did it make them the authority of heavens.

Heavens had no authority in a world such as this.

"----!"

But before Freogan could even react, Berserker had moved in to stop the song, and indeed the advance of the Servant. Her white, almost delicate hands gripped the empty air and produced an instrument of war - a lance big enough to cleave a man in half or skewer them to the ground permanently. And unlike the blonde magus expected, she didn't attempt to ram it towards the redhead Servant, no; instead her magical energy soared and formed into a spear of water that cut through the night air in front of the confused and befuddled bar patrons. The aim was squarely at the Servant who had arrived, intending to cut her song apart right then and there.

And this all, the song and the attack, happened in front of the completely normal civilians.

In other words, and to repeat: Things had went to hell in a handbasket almost immediately.

"Jesus," Freogan muttered as he took a swig of his beer to steel his mind. "What a shitshow."

Yet the surprises were far from over.

From the shadows after the Servant sprinted forth a young girl who must've been this redhead Servant's Master. Small, dressed elegantly yet without overt tones of luxury, black-haired and with Asian features, it was easy enough to put two and two together. There weren't many people from the East in the Association and least of all in the group of Masters that were in Alexandra's report. Just one and Freogan, as a staff member and a lecturer, would have recognized her. This was not that woman. Unknown Master and unknown Servant meant only one thing - enemy.

Which is why it was a bit surprising that Freogan was content with merely watching her mad-dash approach, agile and graceful leap over the railing and controlled landing that left her leaning against the table. He merely took another swig of his beer, still standing on the bench, and cocked an impressed eyebrow. There really were people of all sorts in this mad war for the Holy Grail. If anything it might allow him to meet the type of magi and other various loons that he would not have crossed paths with otherwise. In that sense, Freogan even felt it a bit of a shame that all these meetings happened under such circumstances.

Originally Posted by Girl

“Hello, mister. I heard you were looking for someone to play with. I’d be happy to oblige, but... we should play somewhere more… private.”

What he really hadn't expected, though, was that instead of an immediate attack, she chose to approach him with words. From a Master of such an impulsive Servant, that was a... welcome surprise. Not to mention the piece of paper that she flashed him, revealing much more about her character than Freogan had expected to learn. But as nice as that was, Freogan couldn't help but to notice that the girl wasn't... exactly behaving properly. Coyly inviting and with slight flirt in her smooth gestures, she knew exactly what she was doing with the way she almost presented herself to Freogan. The blonde magus frowned and downed his beer in one go, attempting to once again calm his nerves. Too bad that this, in more ways than one, was a mental attack he was much less prepared to handle the redhead Servant's song.

Despite the slightly dim light of the veranda, even Shiori could see flustered redness tinting Freogan's cheeks as he tried to find some way to look at the girl that wouldn't be rude.

He eventually ended up staring straight at her forehead like a moron.

"F-fine. Shouldn't get totally newscasted anyway if I'm to watch the game tomorrow," Freogan answered, scratching the back of his head. "Plus those two arseholes are gonna make a bloody mess here if we let them."

During the latter sentence Freogan's eyes turned towards the place where the two Servant confronted each other in the full view of every Tom, Dick and Harry who wasn't so utterly wasted that their eyes could function. Something like this was still within the realm of what the Association could handle... but they shouldn't press their luck. The less people got to witness two wee lasses, one red and one blue, fight like monsters out of movies the better. Therefore he was in agreement with this girl's plans...

... But at his own terms, not hers.

"Hey, Bridesmaid!" Freogan yelled, aiming his words at Berserker as he lit up another cigarette. "You and Queen Chavette take your bout to Syon Park! That should be enough of a playground for you two."

To emphasize his words, he jabbed his thumb towards north-east, where the place in question was.

"Me and Betty Boop over here will leg it on foot."

Freogan then jumped down from the bench and took a drag from his cigarette, letting a cloud of smoke be exhaled towards the night sky. The Servants might not have even heard him. Theirs was a battle he didn't want to get involved with, if he was completely honest. A duel between magi was much more up his alley, even if this girl gave off a vibe she wasn't exactly the typical type of magus. That sent all sorts of alarm bells ringing in his head, but he tried to quiet them down for now. Instead, he made a 'shall we?' type of gesture to the girl and started towards the staircase on the opposite side of the veranda, one that would take him to the Swan Street.

He was somewhat worried that the girl might have just done this to make him drop his guard, but when she followed him, he let out a small sigh of relief.

As they descended the stairs, leaving behind what might have been sounds of an intensifying combat, Freogan felt that the situation was, at least partially, under control. It had gotten so chaotic that it was hard to tell what was happening. Therefore, maybe to catch his breath and get back his bearings, or just to enjoy his cigarette, Freogan slowed down his pace. Then again, it might have been out of consideration, since his stride was much bigger than the shorter girl's and she might have had hard time keeping up with him. In any event, as they got down to the street, he turned to look at the girl. Or rather, her forehead once more.

"Aaaaanyways," Freogan started, trying to dispel what was a pretty awkward mood. "Name's Freogan. That bridesmaid over there was my partner-in-crime, like I expect the Tracksuit Terror to be yours. Bloody cocked-up attire for Heroic Spirit, but what do I know? I suppose there's all sorts of weirdos in this war."

Freogan flicked the cigarette with his finger, shaking some of the ash from the tip to the pavement. He went in to take another drag, and for a moment, his expression grew a bit troubled; almost as if he had been thinking about something, unsure whether or not he should say it, before coming to an eventual conclusion.

"Thanks for that, by the way," he started. "I know I came across like the original tough guy, but I don't wanna put the bloody muggles in danger. They got enough on their plates without becoming collateral damage for us. Ain't not the usual magus way to care about shit like that, but... yeah, you seem to have your priorities straight, kid. I can respect that. Even if it's just to hide your Magical Mystery Tour. Glad to see not all you bloody youngsters are straight up tossers."

**Kirby** · April 7th, 2018, 03:46 AM

Saber of 『　』
15th of December, 2004
Night (Phase 1-3)
Lee Valley Park

It’s snowing.

Why does that seem so weird to me? It’s all I can think of, as I step out of the carriage— no, car— on the way to wherever Master is headed, deep into some sort of small forest. He brings the body in a large bag, slung over his shoulder, face solemn and deep in thought. A thoroughly grim situation. But you know what? I feel almost giddy, beside myself with excitement. Inappropriate for this situation, and I have at least that much tact to not show it. But I almost want to laugh aloud.

It’s just felt like an eternity since I’ve seen snow.

And, in the end, hasn’t it been?

I breathe out slightly, and my breath fogs in the air. Like a scene from a distant memory, an eternity ago, a land far, far away. Faint familiarity. Recollections stirring. All these landscapes, these people in my memories— the villages, the valleys, the forests— probably don’t exist anymore.

Arwyn doesn’t seem moved. Of course, why would he be? He lives here, after all, and probably sees things this every day. And yet despite it all, despite its utter mundanity, despite that I’ve seen and traveled so many more picturesque sceneries and landscapes—

Crunching beneath my feet. Drifting like petals in the wind. Glinting under the moonlight like thousands of little stars.

—I can’t help but find such a thing beautiful.

So despite the whole “disposing of murder bodies” thing, I’m in a good mood, is what I’m saying. Which means, for a while, I’m content with simply silently walking along the snowy forest. And Arwyn seems content with it too, neither speaking nor blinking nor doing anything other than, well, stiffly trudging along. Like he’s on edge, like some sort of scared animal. My mind wanders; there’s not much else for it to do. And, at some point, I begin to wonder how he managed to kill the man in the bag in the first place.

So as we walk along the path, I start to gather snow hanging from the tree branches, collecting it in hand. Recalling a long-past childhood memory. I lag a bit behind him, patting the snow together, shaping it in a small ball the size of my fist—

“Think fast!”

—And chuck it at him, as it smacks him in the back of his head. He just turns and stares at me, and continues to walk along.

I tut, somewhat disappointed. No defensive mechanisms. No bothering to dodge or block. Barely even reacted. This is a war, y’know? Imagine if that snowball had been an enemy arrow, he’d be bleeding out on the dirt. Given how much he’d called himself a killer— not that that’s a good thing, of course— you’d think he’d have the reflexes to dodge a snowball, yeah?

In other words, me aside, he’s (probably) utterly defenseless. I sigh. Of course, this is nothing new to me, and I could probably train him up into something respectable; this weakness can be amended.

But, as I watch him continue to trudge along, the remains of the snowball just sorta sloughing off his face…

We’ve got a long way to go.

◆

And this, clearly, is why I’m just going to laze around on the tree branches and let him do all the work, while he spends thirty minutes digging a ditch.

Can you really call me lazy? This is just episode one of the training regime. All part of the master plan, of course. I mean, he doesn’t look like he works out or goes outside much, so a bit of shoveling as exercise seems reasonable, no? Work those muscles, build up that endurance. He’ll need it.

In the meantime, I find myself seated on a tree branch up above, a small hunter’s knife in hand. I carve at a piece of wood I found, a decently hefty chunk about the size of my fist, shaving off bark and strips of wood. I carve out a section for a head, and a section for a torso. I poke out holes for eyes, and fashion it limbs and paws. A small figurine in the shape of some sort of animal— what kind, I don’t even recall— a charm of sorts.

And when all’s said and done, and I come to admire my handiwork, I remember I was never great at wood carving anyway. I can barely make out what I even carved, or what I was trying to make, other than it must be some sort of animal. But, this should be enough. Satisfactory for my purposes, anyway.

Arwyn finishes up too, and I jump down from the tree, landing softly in the clearing.

I place the wood figurine by the body of the man, and clap my hands together in prayer. A burial offering, to provide some comfort to this departed soul, help guide it to the afterlife. Given that I’ve already died, I already know it’s a hollow sort of gesture.

But, hollow as it may it be, I feel as if it will help.

**I3uster** · April 7th, 2018, 04:54 PM

Lancer of White
16th of December, 2004
Night (Phase 1-3)

We praise you
Laudamus te

We bless you

benedicimus te

An abrupt inhale interrupted her hymn. The woman she faced, the Servant's presence that she had detected had not simply submitted to her song. What was it that she did not understand? Many rebellious spirits had folded before the divine right. Before her. Even the contemporaries that had nothing but contempt for her at least had the dignity to respect her position. But it seemed that this woman's reaction was simple repulsion at the mere idea of submitting to her.

She had expected no physical resistance. Neither of them held a weapon after all, so retaliation with brute force would be unseemly by either of them. But to a philistine who did not understand the high praises sung to god, her jubilation and laudation of him, the sheer display of it seemed to have been an affront.

This woman had to be a heathen. A soul already lost to superstition and simple falsehoods. As a person rejecting the order that follows in Lancer's wake she deemed her to be a threat immediately, and responded in a rather insulting manner. For that woman mocked her preferred choice of armament with one of her own.

To add to this insult, the Servant attempted what she could only speculate was a form of witchcraft. Any song that praised what was good and orderly would after all cause such a visceral reaction in those that were in league with nether forces, perhaps even the devil himself.

No, maybe this was too quick a judgment. But she had to keep her wits about, and the eerie glow in the woman's hand certainly demanded a response herself. So, she braced herself for an impact, interrupting her hymn.

Forgive me, father, but this poor sinner has to interrupt her lauding of your name. I beg of you, grant me the strength to press on, and protection from whatever malediction she wishes upon me.

A hurried prayer that could not be spoken accompanied a quick gesture of her hand, forcing the gnarled, branch-like lance to appear in her hand once more. She did not have the time to alter her outfit just yet in the split second this action was taken. All she could was to take position, holding the lance diagonally to cover most of her tracksuit-clad figure.

I hope to be worthy of the gifts you bestowed upon me. May my actions praise you to the highest even as my mouth is shut.

A squall of water closed in on her, so forceful that it would threaten to rend the very flesh from her bones. But, as anyone who had even the slightest brush with war, the woman relied on a very simple rule of warfare. A heathen opponent would always be at a disadvantage against her due to that very simple fact.

Amen.

She simply outnumbered her. This was a fight of Berserker on one side, and Lancer and the very being that had granted her her place in this world on the other.

With a forceful arcing motion of her arm the bone weapon cleft the incoming squall in two, causing what had been a destructive deluge to turn into a soft drizzle upon the small pub area.

"Oh please, hold your tongue."

"Are worldly songs more to your tastes? Of fornication and sodomy?"

She now locked eyes with the Servant. This was a close brush with death. She had never been much of a fighter, and this certainly was not a situation that allowed her to rely on a great amount of experience. And yet, her unease was relieved by an unwavering conviction.

That those who did not recognize her authority stood in the way of the world itself. They were as mere floating leaves, wishing to run against the current of a river. But a wish was not a prayer, and no miracle would happen without one.

Her riposte had taken all of her attention, as such she barely even realized that her Master had taken matters in her own hands. Only now she realized that she had begun talking to what she assumed to be the Master of this unruly woman. She was about to call out her name as she had made herself too openly attackable to the opponent, and yet...

It seemed like she actually arrived at an agreement.

Lancer raised her now free left hand. With her right hand she rammed the gnarled lance into the ground. It was a signal of good will. She was no fool, but she was willing to extend it as far as the woman's Master had shown her. If he did not seem too interested in hurting her Master right now, there was no need to retaliate just yet.

“Hello, mister. I heard you were looking for someone to play with. I’d be happy to oblige, but... we should play somewhere more… private.”

Upon her own Master's statement, the Servant smiled. She had not merely lied to appease her earlier. She really did care about the onlooker's lives...

Yes, she had made the right choice to accept the girl. The uncouth response by the woman's master however soured her high spirits immediately.

"Well...Mister...Freogan. Allow Us to introduce Ourself then. We regret that We can not offer you a name in return, but for the purposes of this bout, you may address Us as Lancer as by the rules of this contest, though Her Majesty is more than acceptable. And while We consider your etiquette more than lacking..." A phrase she emphasized so much one could not be faulted for thinking she would start shouting any second now "...your unwillingness to attack Our most appreciated...attaché when she talks to you is a mark of honor. As such We are willing to suspend this bout for now."

She cleared her throat as she once again locked eyes with Berserker.

"However, while you have demonstrated honorable behavior, We can not tell if the same could be said of all of your associates. As such, We will not let Our Master walk alone while We fight this woman. Either allow Us to escort her, or We will have to consider this a most deceitful feint, and will respond accordingly."

Thread: Fate/Reclamation (IC)

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