No One
Nowhere
Nowhen

It rocks softly to and fro, its consciousness drifting between waking dreams and restless nightmares. And such dreams they are, dour and somber, full of death and loss. Perhaps somewhere, in a dream within a dream, an answer can be found. And so the slumbering soul explores the life that once was, wandering from memory to memory, a labyrinth of single moments stretched into eternity.

Watching.
Studying.
Reliving.

It searches for different paths, wondering where it all went wrong, wondering how it could all be fixed, wondering, and wondering. Over and over again, until the memories, both happy and melancholy, are ground to dust.

A birth.
A funeral.
A small step forward.
A crushing failure.
They are all one and the same.

The faces of comrades lost.
The names of those held dear.
They all fade with time.


And yet the pain lingers.

The grains of sand that once formed the rock of this nameless soul’s very being scatter and joins the ebb and flow of the formless sea, raising and falling without end until—

A soft light pierces the darkness, resonating, and bringing shape to the formless sea. The scattered soul reforms and the eternal moment is lost.

Someone is calling and something demands an answer.

And thus the nameless soul awakes.



Assassin of White
15th of December, 2004
Himitsu to Hanazono “Akechi’s Apartment Complex”
Afternoon (Phase 1-2)

The silver circle pulsed with power as the words of power were spoken. Mana flowed freely from the gems into the liquid metal and the air grew thick and hot with ether. A white light began to glow from the catalyst that lay in the center of the mercury circle, a small dagger as pitch-black as the night. Sparks of pure energy crackled in air and Akechi could feel her hair standing on end.

The atmosphere was absolutely electric as the white light filled the room, papers scattered as a whirlwind of ether crashed into being. And as the light and the wind and the heat died down, a robed figure stood in the center of the silver circle, a white hood obscuring its face.

The figure knelt on the hardwood floor, instinctually grasping the black dagger from the circle and scanned its surroundings, looking for threats and avenues of escape with a trained eye. And as the Grail filled her head with information of the modern era—for indeed it was a she—clarity dawned. She had been summoned to fight in a war, a Holy War like no other. One between magi and their Heroic Spirits.

She stood to face the lone woman, to whom the study—what else could it be but a study—belonged to. She smiled as she thought of the interesting times that lay ahead, of this second chance that Allah had seen fit to give her.


“ArE yOu My MaStEr?”