10. Stall for time. We should ask about Sakura to get Caster talking, but we should also pay an equal amount of attention to examining the room for possible escape routes, structural weak points, or even holes that could lead to the surface, even if they aren't climbable. For the time being, our priority should be to reach out to Maria. We should be able to give her a better idea of where we are the closer she gets. Once she's close enough to hear us, then all we need to do is get her underground, which will be easy. Rider's firing everything he's got at her, so she can have him dig a hole by having him blast the same spot several times. As for cave-ins, Maria can break us out, if we get trapped.
- - - Updated - - -
Told you I'd come up with a plan. I mean, it's risky, but we're already in a pretty bad situation.
Likes attention, shiny objects, and... a ball of yarn?
F/GO Supports
I joined two years too late...
Originally Posted by Hymn of Ragnarok
That makes me think of Rin as a loan shark.
Originally Posted by Hymn of Ragnarok
Admittedly, she'd probably be the hottest loan shark you'll ever meet. She'd probably make you smile as she sucked you dry.
The zombie might as well speak to the air. Maria Westinghouse is on her knees, hollow irises and unshaking pupils fixated on the distant, smoking ruin of the Drake residence—rather, the rising smoke that elevates above the city’s very uneven skyline. Oliver Drake’s screams are abruptly interrupted as Feuerball drones rush towards their source. The tip of her blade rests on the ground, the weapon heavy in her hand. Maria is an open book, or perhaps Liria Colhuán simply has a superior grasp of people—even through the lifeless eyes of her familiar, she can perceive the blame punishing her mind, tainting her thoughts and shackling her to the spot.
“I could have stopped this.”
“I let this happen.”
“I delayed facing off against Rider.”
“I put Javier’s wellbeing above every else’s.”
The thoughts swirling in the girl’s mind are obvious to the one watching her.
“GiRL—”
Maria exhales; a long, ceremonious sigh. A heavy gesture matched by the closing of her eyes. She raises her sword in front of her, the tip still pressed against the ground, so she can rest her forehead on the pommel.
“…I screwed up.”
“It wasn’t your fault.” Such words will not come from Liria Colhuán. She has knowledge of what truly happened inside that house moments before it was obliterated, but she hesitates to share it. Liria does not trust easily, so she will not hand over the secrets of the Servant inhabiting her body.
“Well, I hope Javier had his fun down there, ‘cause playtime is over. Assassin—no, I mean, Liria.”
She looks straight at the zombie.
“Please help Mr. Drake and the others out there. And make sure they stay out of my way. Wouldn’t want them to get caught in the mess.”
After that she boldly stands, presenting herself to Rider and the world. For the few moments of piece before Rider and his drones catch up to her, Maria walks calmly through the rubble.
“WHat’Re You Gonna Do?”
“Hmm…”
(BGM STOP)
Maria rests her sword on her shoulder, acting like she needs a moment to ponder the question. While the zombie is lurking behind her, Liria has the means to see Maria’s serene, steeled face—the look of one who is ready to take on all under heaven.
“I guess…I’m going to break the world a little.”
*** ***
Caster’s Workshop Day 03 Evening Phase – 09a Severe Cold (-30 °C/-22 °F; external temperature)
It does not take a minute to reach what can only be Caster’s living space. It is very humble, like something out of an earlier era, but also much adorned, with all sorts of small details to look at. Translucent red curtains separate the main living area from a smaller side room; an alcove likely used as bed space. The only exit aside from the tunnel we have come from is a small wooden door on the opposite end of the cavern.
The air is filled with white smoke—no, water vapor (why is it so white?). It is even stuffier than would be expected of an enclosed space lit by strategically placed candles and torches, but it is not nearly as hot nor as hard to breathe as it should be. It is only extremely humid, and I almost drop down Nomikata so I can take off our clothes before I sweat to death. Does this place even have ventilation?
There is no sign of Sakura.
“Are we your only prisoners? You didn’t catch a girl before us?” I ask, looking at the wooden door with mistrust.
“No? You are the only ones who walked through my wards,” replies the Servant without bothering to look at us. They then gesture to the left side. “Senta dear, you may drop that one on the couch. Oh, I’m sorry for the humidity; I was using vapor as a scrying medium, so…”
That really doesn’t tell me anything. So Sakura is either still somewhere in those tunnels, or…what?
“You didn’t notice somebody else in these tunnels?” I insist. I wish I could somehow tell if they are telling the truth, but right now I cannot even see their face.
“Oh, you will have to excuse me, but I lack the scouting abilities of sweet Liria and, while I do check on the scrying foci in the tunnels from time to time, today I have paid more attention to the happenings on the surface. Would you like an herbal infusion? I am rather proud of them.”
While we carefully set Nomikata to rest on the “couch” (a raised wooden surface covered in cushions), Senta and I have a chance to exchange whispered thoughts.
“I don’t catch a hint of ill will from this person,” says the homunculus, who is now hurriedly unbuttoning her uniform’s shirt. It is easy to agree, but I’m not gonna start trusting a Servant from the Nazi side. And it turns out homunculi do sweat.
“She said we are prisoners, Senta. I think it doesn’t get clearer than that.”
Yeah, I don’t need thick winter clothes in this place. Rather, if I keep all these layers I’ll die.
“Oh, stop it with the hushed words, it is so very rude,” says Caster from mere steps away, where she is filling two clay cups with hot water from a pot boiling on a fire pit. “The two of you need to take a break, so infusions for you it is. Here, towels.”
Free of the thick jacket and sweater, I hurriedly rub the sweaty skin under my black shirt with a towel before just a hurriedly take off my pants—
“Seriously, Senta?”
“What?” replies the woman ogling with shame or restraint. I can only roll my eyes. Senta has only taken off her black shirt, revealing a very standard, sleeveless white undershirt. It cannot hide the straps of her also white bra.
“Especially you, mister,” continues the Servant more interested in whatever it is they are adding to those cups than in our undressing. “You are most definitely going to need to rest, now that Saver is going to fight seriously.”
“Maria’s awake!?” I exclaim before I can stop myself.
“Oh, I do not know about ‘awakening’, but she is certainly out there. She can deal with Rider’s attacks easily, but she has no apparent means to attack the pseudo-Vimana, so there was a bit of a standstill for a while. If I had to guess, she seem more intent on looking for you than on fighting Rider until just now.”
Caster shrugs.
“I guess Rider killed enough people to deplete the girl’s patience.”
The words offhandedly delivered send a chill to linger in my chest.
“…what?”
“Well, yes. Rider’s attacks have destroyed several houses. There must have been people frozen inside.”
I…yes, I see.
“Where is she now?”
“She is moving towards the sea. If she is going to go all out, she might be trying to minimize collateral damage.”
“You speak like you know what she is gonna do,” points out Senta.
“I speak out of awareness of what she can do.”
“So you know her true identity.”
“I do, yes.”
“And you never told Rider or the Sovereign.”
Caster shrugs again as she walks away to a distant cupboard, from where she collects a small, plain linen bag.
“It has been a long time since they last sought my counsel. Besides, the Sovereign does not need my help. If he deigned himself to go out there and face Saver himself, that abnormal Clairvoyance of his should lead him to the answer.”
“Could you tell us?” I interject. “Saver’s identity?”
“I could but I will not. That girl, Maria, must learn Saver’s name from Saver herself. But I take it you wish to see what is happening.”
Before either of us can say a word otherwise, Caster flings an unrecognizable powder into the boiling water, which immediately evaporates, filling the cavern with even more thick vapor—so it is that powder that makes the clouds of steam so starkly white.
“Oh, it is so very convenient,” speaks Caster from somewhere within the steam. “Those who came after me aggrandized my name to such a degree than I can even use forgotten arts like this as a Servant.”
Her words make sense soon enough: the steam acts as a screen, which soon reveals the recognizable image of a seemingly endless expanse of ice. It is the frozen Pacific Ocean, and a familiar figure stands on its shore.
Maria…how the hell are you going to fight that?
*** ***
Errázuriz Avenue, Valparaíso Severe Cold (-30 °C/-22 °F)
“My way is merely to dance. Things like victory, death and destruction are nothing but byproducts. They are all born of me and revere me as their origin.”
Those were Saver’s words before she began that particular dance inside their shared mindscape.
Maria stands straight on the city’s main thoroughfare, well wracked by Nazi artillery and Archer’s bombardment. She looks at the frozen ocean, a most suitable stage for what she is about to do. Rider’s Haunebu zips well over her head, raining electromagnetic beams that are effortlessly dodged. The speed of their attacks is irrelevant; her visual acuity is such that she can track the position of the spinning saucer’s cannons. She always knows where and when Rider is firing.
Saver is strong. Saver is too strong. Rider never stood a chance. It scares Maria that there is at least one Servant out there who can pose a threat to the monster inside her—the one Saver acknowledges as her nemesis.
To do as she intends, Maria not only needs copious magical energy. She will also open herself to Saver. She must let enough of the demon seep in and take over, otherwise her power would also be her doom.
Saver and Maria Westinghouse ae stuck with each other. Saver cannot possess a lifeless corpse, and Maria cannot shatter this singularity without Saver’s absolute power. However, the might of a demon god is not something that should be held by the hands of a mere mortal. Worrying about whatever it is Javier is trying to pull off only makes her the biggest hypocrite.
“Don’t worry, Saver,” she murmurs even as she dodges and parries Rider’s barrage almost inadvertently. “This body won’t fall apart before everything’s over.”
Maria lets golden radiance sheathe her body, and magical energy flood her insides. A part of her would like to check on Sakura and the others, but she can only trust Liria Colhuán innate goodness. Saver is not a knight who protects; she is a demon who unmakes everything in its path.
The flying saucer hovers high in the sky above the frozen sea. For once it remains still, but Maria knows better than to try “Aura Slashes” again. Electromagnetic beams are fired again. With a swipe of her blade, the beams are not deflected, but bent by the very physical force that is her melam, and explosions rock her immediate surroundings, digging even more holes in the disaster area that is Errázuriz.
Her heart beats fast. Thinking is hard. Her body and her mind feel like lead, burdened with the weight of what she was shown in her mind, and she now must do. Perhaps she has finally become a true magus, now that she is fully aware of the immensity—and the futility—of their endless quest.
However, right now, the only thing that matters is her utmost desire to destroy the enemy in front of her.
Drones shaped like ice cream cones hover around her but do not attack. Maria knows Rider can listen to her words through them, so she holds nothing back.
“Nazi pieces of shit like you don’t deserve this. But I surely as hell gonna enjoy showing it to you.”
She plants her feet firmly on the ground, as if to strongly feel the presence of the earth beneath the wrecked concrete. Her sword points towards the sky, as if it could become an antenna for the blessings of the heavens. And her eyes look towards the frozen sea, the name of the primordial one she must beseech.
Two people stand in silent watch in that throne room. The rumblings outside do not reach them; they only know of Rider’s attack from the Servant’s own announcement and from Ortrud’s regular reports. The room clad in vibrant gold is enveloped in silence, as it often happens when the Sovereign immerses himself in meditation.
Hexensoldaten I, code name Brünnhilde, fidgets impatiently behind the throne; a guarded most unsuited to her job. Her body is compact, in lack of a better word. Her pretty face and the thick fabric of her uniform in no way conceal her carefully nurtured body: strong, firm, unbreakable. Anybody who looks at her well-defined musculature and her fiery, challenging gaze can tell: this is a woman is a fighter.
Hexensoldaten II, code name Isolde, is seated on the Sovereign’s lap. Before the lord and master of New Asgard sank into his profound meditation, this one was feeding him grapes mouth-to-mouth.
Isolde could not be more different from her elder, lean and petite with hair like a curtain of gold; truly like a doll, a little princess, or a trophy wife of questionable age. Isolde’s most notable characteristic are probably the perpetually wide eyes like a deer in headlights. The second of the homunculus siblings always looks afraid.
The throne room is silent, but not for much longer.
Sovereign (Berserker) of the Black Sun
“The land is unsettled,” murmurs the Sovereign in a grave voice as he opens his eyes. “It’s been stirred by an ancient power.”
Neither homunculus says a word in response.
“Rider will probably lose,” declares the man. He does not sound particularly bothered by this. This is confirmed by his very next words.
“Good riddance. The man didn’t know his place.”
Seemingly dismissing one of his allied Servants with a few words, the Sovereign of New Asgard instead centers his gaze on the one still on his lap. His right hand reaches for a broad chin, caressing soft skin with carefulness that does not suit him.
“It seems that Servant Saber is a little bit strong, after all. She survived Archer’s attack, and now it looks like she is going to defeat Rider. What do you say, Isolde? Are you interested?”
The man cannot see it because Brünnhilde stands behind him. He cannot see her jaw shake, her hands clench into tight fists, her neck muscles become taut. He cannot see her eyes glow with passion, with hunger bordering in desperation. He does not see her snarl like something completely inhuman.
Isolde sees all this. Isolde’s expression does not change. The Sovereign smirks.
“No response, huh. Stupid child, trying so hard to hide your emotions.”
The delicate hand caressing a jaw becomes a rough, demanding claw seizing Isolde by the back of the head. A muted gasp escapes from a swan-like neck.
“As if I do not hear you moan every night.”
Isolde’s doe eyes do not leave the Sovereign’s. Eventually, the Servant relents on his challenge, presenting the one on his lap with an approving smile.
“Good. Truly, you are the ideal woman, Isolde: silent and obedient. Oh, if only…”
Isolde has no response for the Sovereign’s apparent amusement, either.
“Do your best to learn from your sister, Hilde.”
When the Lord of New Asgard looks at the one behind him, he finds a perfect posture; a woman soldier with eyes firmly fixated straight ahead of her.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” promptly responds a firm, unwavering voice.
The Sovereign nods and looks away, easing down on his large throne. Isolde shivers for a moment when a hand settles around his slim waist, but offers no resistance.
“Now, if Rider will not be around any longer, that means I will have to supervise the work at the temple personally. Remind me, Hilde: which among you is in charge of the temple?”
“Hexensoldaten VI Elisabeth, Your Majesty.”
“Right, right. I guess it is as good a time as any for that one to learn her place.”
Nodding to himself, the Sovereign of the Black Sun reaches his decision.
“Very well, let us wait until it is over. No reason to get in the way of Rider’s glorious battle.”
When the Sovereign closes his eyes seemingly to return to his relaxed, meditative state, Hilde and Isolde exchange glances. There is a hint of something like compassion in Isolde’s big eyes, but that only makes the elder sibling click her tongue and look away in irritation.
Naturally, The Maid is the first to notice. The gate which has been opened, and the future about to be unleashed. It has always been within the scope of her
divinations
calculations
. This should be obvious but, as these events have always been within the realm of possibility, The Maid has of course prepared for them.
To achieve triumph despite and beyond personal failure. That too is part of her legend, is it not?
“Now, I know you wanted to witness everything until the very end, but I cannot in good will let you watch this, Master.”
There is even a hint of something like warmth in her voice as she approaches the wheelchair and adjusts the thick blankets for the umpteenth time this day.
“I do not think your feeble heart can take it, you see. That is why, with your permission, it is time for this face mask~”
The chuckling (which comes out in a perfectly even tone) women carefully covers the man beyond decrepit with the kind of facemask used by air travelers the world over. The corpse-like figure leans dangerously to the side in the process, but The Maid’s service is flawless in its attentiveness, stopping the imminent fall and settling him comfortably on his wheelchair for the time being.
“It is a long time since I have been stared so passionately, Avenger. Do you long to be pampered like you were as a child?”
Indeed, the Servant Avenger stands in one of the corners of the main chamber atop the temple. He stares at The Maid and her labor with the fixation of a cat on its prey.
“…the homunculus woman approaches with an unknown.”
“Thank you for the warning.”
Avenger knows it is an unnecessary warning. He has seen enough and learned enough to know nothing escapes this woman.
“Come on, Avenger. Let us watch the pitiful Star of Creation together.”
The polearm-bearing Servant has his expression well concealed behind his helmet. They only need to step outside to be buffeted by strong winds, notably stronger than the usual. The forgathering storm stirs the sky of Valparaíso, all the way to their location.
“Help them, Avenger,” commands The Maid, gesturing towards the two women struggling to climb up the stairs of the ziggurat.
“That brutish one really has not changed her ways,” murmurs The Maid as she gazes at the cyclone rising on the distant shore. “It is embarrassing to watch.”
Avenger returns to the top of the ziggurat holding a scowling dark-haired beauty and a shrieking redhead. The homunculus, The Maid notices, is doing an excellent job of concealing her trepidation at the growing storm and the distant accumulation of power.
“Beloved daughter, you have done well,” The Maid thus welcomes Elisabeth. “Salutations to you as well, inheritor of the Moon.”
“What the hell is going on!?” howls the girl pointing at the tornado rising on the coast. “What the hell is that!?”
“That, my dear child, is the beginning and the end of all things, as bothersome as it is to admit it.”
The Maid plants a single hand on Maria Magdalena’s shoulder, and the magus girl finds herself pinned to the floor at the top of the ziggurat. The Maid’s hold is gentle, but the Villarrican does not feel like she could move a single step. It makes her shudder.
“We will have just enough time to talk afterwards. For now, you would do well to watch; I doubt you will enjoy a second opportunity to witness something such as this in your short life. You as well, daughter mine.”
The call jolts an Elisabeth who would rather stay inside the shrine. Nevertheless, the homunculus does as told and with hesitant steps joins The Maid by her side.
“Did you not meet Archer on the way here?”
“Um, yes, we did,” answers Elisabeth. “I just told him you were expecting us and he let us pass.”
“Hmm. That is uncharacteristically lax of him, but not unexpected. It appears those children have correctly concluded that Rider will be defeated. They will make a move tonight.”
Unlike Magdalena, who is all but transfixed on the distant scenery as it is tainted red, Elisabeth and Avenger jerk their heads to stare at The Maid, their questions left unvoiced.
“Do not fret, children. Everything moves towards its proper conclusion. For now, let us bear witness to that poor girl’s reckless effort.”
*** ***
Errázuriz Avenue, Valparaíso Severe Cold (-30 °C/-22 °F)
“The dance of the wind is the dance of the world.”
Maria remembers the words Saver gave her in that strange mindscape, when she showed her this technique. Ferocious winds spiral around her, concealing her twirling, gyrating body. She dances, and the golden melam spreads and colors the concentrated air currents as they feed the growing storm. Scattered snow and debris are swallowed by the storm, making it opaque and impenetrable to outside eyes. Larger blocks of fallen structures and abandoned vehicles are also swept away, scattered like dry leaves in every direction. Yet the wind further accelerates, every instant faster than ever before. Within the eye of the storm, Maria’s silhouette in unrelenting motion is barely distinguishable.
The Feuerball drones cannot stay close to the violent winds, but Rider does not need their sensors to perceive the growing accumulation of magical energy. Assuming she is preparing her Noble Phantasm, the Nazi Servant immediately opens fire to disrupt the ritual. Beams of collimated lightning descend upon the ruined avenue at godly speed, yet they all bounce away from the growing tornado. Is the wall of wind “solid” enough to reject his electromagnetic cannons? Is Saber parrying the beams while inside that tornado? Rider cannot tell. However, he is not out of options.
“The dance of the world is my Divine Authority.”
Bearing a Divine Authority does not a god make; such is the mystery of her powerful Servant: bearing Authority, yet not a goddess herself. Authorities are no longer things which can clearly manifest in the world defined by the rationality of man. Therefore, the power Maria is about to unleash is not the power of Divine Authority, but merely a manifestation of her natural capabilities (?).
“I offer myself, this body, as the instrument of separation!”
Maria enunciates the chant without ever interrupting the dance. Upon success—as in, not biting her tongue or whatever—, Saver’s melam undergoes a transformation: the vivid gold becomes an ominous red, the baleful color rapidly painting the storm around it in the color of blood.
“Know the dance, and you will know my Authority. Know my Authority, and you will know me, for we are one and the same.”
Finally, at long last, Maria has taken a step closer to that beautiful, awkward demon’s heart.
The larger cannon at the very bottom of the flying saucer, thus far unused, finally takes aim at the base of the red tornado. It fires not lightning, but wind—a rune of air propelled by a cyclone fueled by compressed hydrogen.
A tongue of red radiance lashes out of the tornado, intercepting the wind attack halfway to its target. The dance cannot be interrupted by the likes of this; directing melam to intercept incoming attacks is a trivial addition, for the dance does not have a pattern or a rhythm, and therefore cares not for things such as unnecessary movements.
“I am the foundation of the perpetuation of life; a shape bestowed upon me by my divine progenitor. I am the initial movement that governs the creation and destruction of all living things. The inescapable principle of separation.”
The melam spreads together with the growing storm, but Maria stops for a moment. This dance follows no rhythm, but some requisites must be fulfilled. The pause lasts an instant, only long enough for Maria to gather her breath and start spinning in the opposite direction with a kiai.
A new current of wind and power rises opposite to the original; a second cyclone distinct from the first one. Where the two opposite currents collide and flow through and around each other, sparks jump and the air vibrates.
“Behold, the beginning!”
Lightning roars. The frozen ocean groans. Ice cracks, countless irregular lines spreading like spider webs. Maria’s changed melam seems to seep into the air itself, tinting Valparaíso’s sky with a carmine hue.
“Heaven and earth are separated; shapelessness celebrates shape! I am the principle that engenders ‘rupture’; that which tears all things apart!”
The friction of the opposite currents ignites the air. Maria Westinghouse is enveloped in tornadoes of flame.
*** ***
Caster’s Workshop Day 03 Evening Phase – 09b Severe Cold (-30 °C/-22 °F; external temperature)
Struck with a sudden and crippling bout of weakness, I can no longer remain even seated on the so-called couch. Senta is forced to bear with my weight as I lean on her right side, and I am struck again by the subtle scent of formaldehyde.
“Told you you’d need to lie down.” Even with their face half-covered, the smug is obvious. This Caster is…flighty. That’s the image they project, at least.
Seriously, I still can’t tell if I am looking at a man or a woman. It’s not like I’m paying much attention to them, anyway. How could anybody look at anything else?
Servant or whatever, Caster too is fixated on the image projected in the steam (we are all sweaty—my face is now resting on Senta’s sweaty undershirt—she is actually bigger than I thought—those Nazi uniforms are deceiving—holy crap then Elisabeth is amazing—how old am I, fourteen?).
The crippling weakness doesn’t matter. The dizziness doesn’t matter. The blurry sight doesn’t matter. (Senta’s breasts most definitely don’t matter.) I cannot take my eyes off the sheer spectacle.
The howling wind. The roaring flames. The shrill of lightning. The blood sky. Senta and Caster probably cannot perceive, but I receive another faint sensation: the song-like hum of the earth, almost as if celebrating Maria’s performance.
Power.
Maria is gathering power to an obscene degree. Her brilliant plan, it seems, is to mow down Rider and his flying saucer with incomparable, overwhelming might. It is blatantly thoughtless; Maria Westinghouse at her best. But I cannot make fun of this. Even if only through a magical screen, I can tell that Maria is pulling off something truly amazing. It is rather childish, but a part of me is happy my magical energy is part of that.
“That…looks like it’s gonna be quite the Noble Phantasm,” Senta comments—don’t think I haven’t noticed you wrapping that arm over my shoulders, girl.
“That is the scary part; that is not Saver’s Noble Phantasm.”
“Now you’re fucking with me.”
Caster shakes their head.
“It is the most powerful technique, yes, but it cannot be said it is the primary signature of her legend, just like my prided herbal infusions are not my Noble Phantasm—oh, those should be ready!”
The distraction of Maria’s performance apparently also hampers Caster’s prowess as host.
“My bad, Senta,” I say while Caster is away. I can only imagine my weight must be uncomfortable.
“No problem; I’m taking it as a learning experience.”
The eyes behind those glasses glint with the devilishness only a woman can project.
“To think even subtle stimuli like scent and accidental contact can trigger sexual arousal; most enlightening.”
In the depths of my thoughts, nobody can hear me scream.
*** ***
Errázuriz Avenue, Valparaíso Severe Cold (-30 °C/-22 °F)
“Heaven and the Underworld belong to the gods. The realm in between is where mortals toil. Yet the principle is one and the same.”
Maria Westinghouse is working on instinct and remembrance. Her vision has tunneled to what is straight ahead of her. Her skin does not feel the intense heat that surrounds her. All body and brain resources are allocated to the persistence of the dance; all unnecessary processes are disabled. She cannot even see the flying saucer past the firestorm, but that same tornado of flames impregnated with divine radiance has become an adamant wall that cannot be broken by Haunebu’s lightning cannons.
She can no longer perceive her own pain. The dance will not be stopped by the likes of overexerted muscles, torn blood vessels or bone strains. If her ankle makes a nasty crack when the girl brings her rotation to an abrupt halt, but there is nobody present to acknowledge it, not even the girl herself, then did it really happen?
Maria here learns how hard it is to speak when you cannot hear your own words, or even feel the vibrations of the words in her throat and skull. However, as she resumes the maddening gyrations after changing direction, she feels her success through the flow of melam: a new, third countercurrent.
Heaven, Earth, and Underworld. And in the midst of It all, the great creator
Ea
Enki
who is one with the primordial waters. Thusly was defined the cosmology of the ancient Mesopotamians: through the division of the fundamental absolute; the supreme source of all that was
Tiamat
Nammu
.
The earth splits open like a blossom. Shattered islands of ice slide over and under each other as the turbulent ocean no longer matches the name given it by Ferdinand Magellan. Everything that is sucked into the trinity of vortexes is ground into dust, further increasing the heat and friction in their midst. It is a positive feedback loop, and Maria is ready to act upon its breaking point.
“This cradle of hellfire…is a coda…for the advent, of genesis!”
In that moment, all three torrents of wind and power pull each other inward. Maria’s dance is over, its result self-perpetuating. The tendrils of blood red melam pull the spiraling currents like fishermen hauling in nets heavy with the catch of the day. With the cataclysmic phenomena compressed and restrained, Maria’s form is once more revealed to all who would see her.
“My dance is not my own; it is the dance of all things in this world.”
*** ***
Hotel Brighton, Atkinson Promenade 151-153, Valparaíso Severe Cold (-30 °C/-22 °F)
“Maria, you poor girl,” muses the former magus watching through the highest window in the hotel building. “How far are you willing to go?”
It is only because of the devastation of the previous days that Fiore can see all the way to the shore from the hotel atop Concepción Hill. It is too far to see Maria with any detail; with a little bit of Reinforcement, however, Fiore can see enough: her posture, how bent her legs are, the inclination of her head, the need to plant one foot ahead of the other to maintain balance. Maria is crying blood—she has been for some time, but previously it was all taken in by the whirlwinds.
Fiore cannot see Maria’s right arm; rather, the power concentrated around that sword distorts its surroundings to a degree that hampers normal sight. There is only a swirling, humming, vibrating dislocation; a small region of space that simply looks off.
However, it is hard for Fiore to criticize Maria’s recklessness, for it has saved her. The thing in the cave, which had climbed up the cliff to reach that very building, was intimidated by Maria’s immense power that impregnates the very air over Valparaíso. The intelligent thing would be to leave this place and get as far away from that cave as possible, but Fiore cannot. To look away from what is taking place at the shore is a sin. To look away would invite everlasting regret. It has nothing to do with her knowledge as a former magus, nor with her experiences in the Great Holy Grail War. What unfolds before her eyes is greatness transcendent that beckons every living thing in this planet.
Her worry for Sakura, Javier, the Drakes and Marco Ahrens; her wariness about the demon in the cave; her fear for her survival in this frozen world; all these things are subjugated by the inescapable pull of absolute might. It is too powerful to reject, too beautiful to ignore.
Thus, Fiore Forvedge remains transfixed, hopelessly enraptured in a world were only she and the scene outside the window exist.
*** ***
Errázuriz Avenue, Valparaíso Severe Cold (-30 °C/-22 °F)
Her arm feels like it’s made of rock. Brittle, cracked rock punished by the strain of tectonic waves. Maria cannot find it in herself to look to her right. She knows what she will—or will not—see there: three intertwined whirlwinds concentrated around her sword, their unfathomable speed and friction distorting the very space they contain.
She sighs at length, as if she could banish her tiredness; expel it through her mouth. Her eyes glow with an unusual, beastly amber luster; perhaps Saver’s melam has seeped into her body as well.
Just how much of the person standing there is in fact Maria Westinghouse?
She feels a vast amount of magical energy circulating around and especially beneath the stationary saucer. The sensation is familiar to a degree that it can be interpreted in such a way, yet also somehow different. Maria, however, is not bothered or made uneasy by this. She has already figured out all of Rider’s tricks.
Besides, how could anybody feel threatened by anything while wielding that power in her right hand?
A trinity of Feuerball drones approach now that the rampaging storms have receded—or rather, have concentrated in an impossibly small volume of space. As they surround her, she feels their interference field enveloping her, attempting to hamper her ability to circulate magical energy. It makes her want to shake her head; even if it worked, it is already way too late for that. If anything, the ability to make her words heard by the Servant piloting the saucer may be the greater convenience.
“I presume that’s the theoretical culmination of Mario Zippermayr’s weapons research.”
There is energy back in her voice and true spirit in her mien. Of course, the question stands: how much of the person standing there, tired yet confident, is in fact Maria Westinghouse?
“…I give credit where due. You sure have studied us well, girl.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, jerkwad.”
“…then I take it I will remain at a disadvantage and you will not tell me about that sword of yours.”
“I’ll do you one better and show you in excruciating detail.”
Fiercely, decisively, Maria brings her right foot forward, stomping the much battered concrete flat.
“Recede, as you come to know death!”
The concentrated currents lash and lacerate her right arm, which screams in burning pain. Maria grasps the adjoining shoulder with her free hand, because recoil is a goddamn thing.
Saver made it look effortless inside that mindscape, but Maria is not a complete idiot.
Inside the air-conditioned comfort of the flying saucer, Rider has centered a target scope and is about to press a single red button.
“
Thorshammer
High-Output Atmospheric Disruption Vacuum Bomb
, fire.”
In an instant, the atmosphere between the flying saucer and Maria Westinghouse is literally destroyed. A vacuum has been created, its volume defined by an invisible bounded field. Maria’s Endurance parameter is put to the test as her body fights the hostile environment and her lungs resist rupture. It makes the girl falter, if only for a moment.
Rider’s defeat comes from the very simple fact that this trump card is a two-stage attack. He will not get the luxury of unleashing its full power. The arm has already been pushed toward, the tip of the blade pointing straight at the aerial vehicle.
Her mouth vocalizes a name. In a vacuum, however, no sound can be heard.
Spoiler:
“Behold, idiot girl: the origin and the end of all things.”
*** ***
Spoiler:
The world screams a newborn’s first cries. Atop a distant ziggurat, a Villarrican beauty blasted by a reality far beyond her comprehension also screams. A uniformed beauty no longer unflappable grabs her shoulders and shudders at the weight of a reality she could have never been prepared to face. Servant Avenger remains unreadable through that helmet of his, while The Maid merely looks bored.
“…there might not be a lecture tonight, after all. Most regrettable,” she muses to herself.
Three roaring spirals are unleashed, tearing brutal gashes on the carmine sky. Fiore Forvedge is not even aware of the tears leaving her eyes, for they are blown away by the violent wind rushing into the lifeless hotel. Her hands grip the window frame to a degree that should be painful were she aware of it. Her heart beats like a metronome, the desperate screams of her animal fight-or-flight instinct smothered to an imperceptible whisper by something even more ancient and powerful beyond compare.
Not too far beneath Fiore’s feet, the howling air and the tremors of the earth stir a sleeping hound awake.
Spoiler:
The very air is dragged along and ripped apart by the spiraling emanation. The world’s birthing cries exude utmost agony. The nearby drones are utterly unmade, twisted like wet rags before being broken apart, nothing but individual atoms sucked into the tripartite calamity. As camera feed after camera feed shuts off before her eyes, one smiling Ortrud in the safety of New Asgard prides herself for not joining Rider in his saucer’s maiden flight.
No weight is sufficient to resist the all-consuming attraction of the spatial dislocation. It is a testament to Saver’s titanic strength that Maria herself is not undone by her own technique. What few structures remained standing in the immediacy are pulled at their foundations, quickly shattering into truck-sized blocks, then into pebbles, and then into less than that, countless particles dragged into oblivion.
Spoiler:
Oliver Drake cannot look at it. He is on hands and knees at the end of Atkinson Promenade, wishing for this scene of the end times to claim him and snuff him out of a world without his loved one. By his side, Marco Ahrens watches in stunned silence, no longer caring about ambushes or whatever. A part of him longs for a smoke, but it feels blasphemous to devote an iota of his attention to anything other than watching this magnificent, maddening scene.
Far away atop the bell tower of the Church of Saint Aloysius de Gonzaga, Father Ricardo Scherer holds his hand to his chest as if that could ease the beating of his heart. Instinctively, he knows what he is witnessing, even if his conscious mind rejects it. The howls of the wind smother his ears, but not enough to keep him from hearing urgent screams coming from right under his feet. Someone made it into the church unnoticed, and is no crying desperately for help. It is to the old priest’s credit that he immediately turns his eyes away from the apocalyptic scene at the shore and runs down the stairs.
Maria lied to Rider. The man only manages the slightest glimpse of what she has unleashed before he consumed by the annihilating storm. Firing that Thorshammer took away any possibility of evasive maneuvering. However, not even Haunebu’s impressive acceleration would have prevented escape from the absolute severance of space. How can anybody dream of evading something that tears apart the world itself?
Click
There are no windows left in Valparaíso to be shattered by this onslaught that stirs its sky. Thousands of roof tiles are blown away, leafless trees are uprooted, and abandoned vehicles are flung in every direction. Vibrations reach all the way to the depths of New Asgard. The tall Brünnhilde glances around impatiently, clearly restraining herself from dashing out to see what’s going on with her own two eyes. Small, lithe Isolde presses herself against the calmly seated Sovereign, who wraps an arm around her in a protective gesture exuding masculine superiority.
Neither Servant nor elder homunculus notice the petite girl’s faint smile.
Inside a cavern turned workshop, Javier Lucero vaguely feels the trembling of the woman by his side. By this point his exhaustion and her fear push them to lean on each other, a more two-sided distribution of effort.
Status Change
Stamina: Poor -> Critical
No words are said. No thoughts are shared. Caster’s face is trapped in a rictus that grotesquely combines religious ecstasy with abject horror. Even if they knew what was coming, to actually witness it has proven to be a wholly different experience. Senta’s head shudders uncontrollably, torn between her utmost desire to look away and her apparent inability to do so. Her lips tremble, incapable to producing sound. Does she want to demand Caster to dispel the magical screen? Does she wish to beg for mercy? Does she wish to plea for death? Nobody will ever know.
The flying saucer was engulfed. The world itself has been engulfed. Neither sea, land, nor sky can be seen anymore. The Valparaíso singularity has been replaced by a
nightmarish
miraculous
Hadean vision.
Spoiler:
In the midst of it all, a single star. It stands lonely and proud in the midst of the belligerent chaos, declaring itself the origin and principle of the world. All destruction is born of it and perpetuated by it, and thusly it has been since the beginning of time. The life-giving god gave her shape and self-awareness, but she was older than the world: obvious and fundamental, loathed and longed for in equal measure. Becoming a “demon god” was a restraint; from the beginning of everything, she was pristine and almighty.
Wise Up! (Saver)
Enûma Eliš
The Star of Creation That Split Heaven and Earth
Rank: A++ Type: Anti-World Range: 1-99 Maximum Targets: 1000 people
Spatial severance through forceful dislocation by means of alternating clockwise, counterclockwise and then clockwise rotations of air imbued with magical energy and divine radiance. The physical foundation of the technique is mere friction, propagated to a degree impossible by any known physical phenomena. It is not a targeted attack, for it mows everything in its path and condemns it to absolute annihilation.
The tear in space splits the earth and the sky, and the principles governing the current World, offering those privileged enough to witness it and not be slain by it a glimpse of the Truth predating Genesis. It is the miracle of destruction and recreation, both governed by the same fundamental principle sovereign above all. It is this principle that lies at the very foundation of Servant Saver’s being. While the average power Saver can output should be superior to that of the King of Heroes based on her greater STR parameter, she lacks both the nation-building Authority inherent within the original Sword of Rupture, and the support of the golden king’s treasury. Therefore, when it comes to maximum output, Saver lags starkly behind, thus the reduced rank.
For all its tremendous power, this is not considered Saver’s Noble Phantasm, for it is not an expression of the legend that renders her “a savior of mankind”. It is merely a technique she can do “because she is who she is”, not unlike the signature technique of that one Japanese wraith with an issue with swallows, or that one Gorgon’s ability to summon a Phantasmal Beast with her blood.
*** ***
Spoiler:
The Maid called me privileged for having the potential to walk her Path of the Human God.
It feels like a joke now.
Even an ignorant idiot like me can tell: this…this whatever it is Maria is doing, it surpasses both humans and gods. It transcends everything, and mocks everything that would dare reach out to its level before unmaking it. Maria is displaying power in its most pristine, most overt, most absolute and most unquestionable form. Nothing can top this. I need to believe this is the absolute pinnacle, or I might just go insane.
Power has a price, Maria. You have to be aware of that, right?
What did you relinquish to reach that point? Why go even that far? Was this really the only way? Is it really that important to defeat the Nazis so thoroughly and overwhelmingly?
I am only human. No, I am someone who was also offered power. Of course I can tell; more than anybody else, I can definitely tell. The fierce beating of my heart is not merely a response to that destruction. The raggedness of my breathing is not just an echo of my exhaustion as I am drained of magical energy. The sweat running on my skin is more than the result of this cave’s humidity.
Damn you for making me fear for you like this, Maria…!
Critical Choice
And now I, Javier Lucero, will…
…surrender to my exhaustion and rest.
…stay in the cavern but make the effort to remain awake. Gotta look after Senta and Nomikata, and figure out just what Caster’s game is.
…leave Caster and return to the tunnels. We still haven’t found Sakura.
…go to Maria. There’s no way I can leave that idiot alone after this…!
Write-in.
Last edited by Daneel Rush; July 22nd, 2019 at 02:01 PM.
Ok, so first thing's first. Great update. You built up the hype train, we hoped on and you absolutely delivered I thought I went high with my last update but you just had to push the bar that much higher. 11/10 would get
Enûma Eliš'ed
again.
Now as for choices, let's think.
1 - This would stop us from getting sucked dry of mana and prevent us from dropping dead and probably recover some much needed stamina and mana, however this would leave everyone else without the Protagonist to assist and although I know Nomikata's a tough nut to crack, I'm less certain about everyone else's durability right now.
2 - Rather than recovery I think this one would just stop us expiring like day old milk. We're starting to build up something with Caster so to ditch them seems like a poor idea. Especially if that would leave an unconscious Seigi and mostly defenceless Senta.
3 - Now as much as I want to go back and find Best Girl from /stay night, we so much as bump into anything more harmful than a baby mouse we're gonna go down. This seems like a shoo-in for a Dead End which would be such a damn shame after this lovely scene.
4 - The Protagonists choice and would certainly further the Maria route, maybe we'll even bump into Sakura if we're lucky? However we would be ditching three people for one and this is a pattern that hasn't really worked for Javier all that well.
Therefore I propose 2 but if we have that master/servant connection (please correct me if I'm wrong) then we use that to commune/strategise with the limited 5* Triple Buster Gorilla Gal while we figure out Caster's game and keep an eye on Nomikata and Senta.
(That said if Daneel uses some material from some more recent QoF updates then I guess we'll probably have to change our plans after a few more updates.)
hmm... I agree with Hermes ditching them all after we going this far to them is pretty shitty. Though I actually worried about Maria and Saver despite they are currently in their moment.
Originally Posted by SpoonyViking
Posting Permissions
Reply With Quote
