The Manhattan Project II

[Satehi]

Pretty sure the guy in the bar was Odysseus.

Omake was great. All of the servant reactions were priceless, lol.

Assassin continues to be obscure in his motives.

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE! ~

[Five_X]

I'm glad you enjoyed it, Satehi!!

[Spinach]

... Knowing you Berserker's not actually dead, and he'll show up again somehow and blow my mind by actually being the last thing I expect.

[Five_X]

inb4 Berserker solo's the Manhattan War, is stopped only by Charlemagne, who gains a harem of Caesarko, Amelie and Ilse

[Spinach]

I'd read it.

[Sherrinford]

Good, good, good chapter, Five.

I'm waiting for the Mysterious man to properly show up!

At first I thought Berserker suffered the same fate of Boudicca (RIP Boudicca), but we'll see him again, right?

*sniff*, Enkidu...

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

WOHA.

WOHA.

And it has also a professional-like style (with all the aspects detailed)!

[Five_X]

Welcome back, Sherrin!!

[Lycodrake]

Well, read through most of the 119 pages of the thread, and I thoroughly enjoyed it all.
Also, the picture of Caesarko might have gotten me even more hooked.
I need more Caesarko in my life. =w=

[Five_X]

Everyone needs more Caesarko in their lives.

I'm glad you enjoyed the story, and took the time to read it all!

[Five_X]

Since my physical description of the characters has been for the most part lacking, as I must admit, I shall ask you all this: what are your mental images of the characters in the story, regarding their appearances?

[SeiKeo]

All women are hot.

[Satehi]

Everyone is naked.

/jk I'd have to reread the fic to remember what I thought they looked like

[Bloble]

Um... I only see James as a generic brown haired dude. Sorry man. Could we get a description of him or something?

Oh, and I see Nigel as a British gentleman with a suit and top hat and all that.

[Five_X]

No, I'm wondering what y'all think of the characters and their appearances, since I have neglected to give ye any.

[Spinach]

Everyone is Roa. Except James. James is a tattooless, taller version of Jacuzzi Splot from Baccano. But in all seriousness(not that I wasn't being serious, mind you), my mental images of Ramesses, Blackbeard, and Charlemagne are glorious.

Especially Ramesses. I see him as a tanned, shirtless man about six feet in height(yeah, the real Ramesses probably wasn't that tall, but this is the Nasuverse), wearing a golden mask like it was simply broken off of an Egyptian sarcophagus and latched onto his face, and behind it long locks of dark, braided hair fall over his shoulders. He's also shirtless, exposing a chiseled, tanned chest as well as muscular arms covered in gem-laden golden armbands and bracers. Around his waist he wears a velvet half-cloak thing(like the red ones Gil/Archer wear, I'm not sure what they're called). The half-cloak has a break near the front, revealing a white robe that falls covers him down to his knees on the front side, and on the back it falls down to his calves, where it ends.

And, naturally, the King of Kings is barefoot. No shoe or sandal or whatever the Egyptians wore could contain his glorious, kingly feet.

Oh and I imagine Ma'at as a much larger, less blue lookalike of Shadowmourne.

Blackbeard and Charlemagne you described rather vividly, so the image for them is there. If you ever gave Ramesses an in depth physical description my mind probably completely skipped over it in preference of this one.

[Five_X]

Well, Ramesses does indeed wear a burial mask, and when in his Reality Marble sometimes opts for the double crown. Your description is pretty rad.

[Five_X]

Hello, everyone! I heard you like Servants and stuff, so I've got a new Servant or two as well as three fight scenes, because where Gabriel Blessing has tons of Slice of Life, I just keep the 'slice' part and run with it.

So, I hope you all enjoy!


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

CHAPTER XXXI

The night's peak was marked by the clashing of blades, the sparks of steel on steel flying about, and sharp ringing that could be heard almost all throughout Georgetown.


Two men fought, one with long, bluish hair and dressed in a strange blue suit with silver pauldrons and heavy boots; the other wearing heavy chainmail underneath an orange tunic with a maroon cape draped over his shoulders. The man in blue held his red steel spear in two hands; his stance was determined and strong, with his knees bent and his spear held forward as to prevent his opponent from coming too close, making for an excellent defensive position.


The knightly duellist opposite him, wielding his two ornate swords with unmatched expertise, circled about, unable to make any aggressive action lest the spearman strike him right through his ribs as he advanced. It was a stalemate position.


Their boots crunched through the night's new snow, and their gazes were locked on each other. Both fighters were at the top of their class, the kind of people that were known as the best warriors in their respective countries. One, from Ireland, wielded his spear with beautiful efficiency, not making a single excess step or thrust, his actions all light and nimble; the knight, the greatest champion of Spain, could be easily understood as a practised duellist and a man well attuned to the ways of the sword, fighting with two at once. The pattern of his footsteps was intentionally complex and hard to follow, and he used this to give himself some advantage over the man known as the 'Light of Ireland,' perhaps the greatest Gaelic hero.


“Oi, you. Gonna make a move now, or are ya just going to glare at me like that?” Taunted the man in blue, who in truth wasn't being any more active than the Spaniard.


In the midst of battle, the knight shrugged. “It's good for warming up, I'd say. I can get a good jog in if I just keep this up, can't I?”


The spearman Cuchulain laughed. “Oh really, eh? It seems more like you're trying to make me dizzy here, if that makes any sense.”


“Heh. I doubt any hero has been defeated by lightheadedness, or at least I haven't heard of any. It'd be pathetic if someone like you just dropped without taking a single blow, wouldn't it?” The knight, El Cid, chuckled along with his opponent.


“I'm not the kind of man to just fall to exhaustion, y'know.” Said Cuchulain, tracing the tip of his spear through the snow as he turned about to face El Cid, who had made another sudden move. “You could send at me a whole army, full of thousands of men, and I'd just hold 'em off until they or I was left a bloody, gutless corpse in a ditch somewhere.”


El Cid narrowed his eyes. “That sounds oddly specific. Is it a part of your tale, my foe?”


“Ha, perhaps it is!” The spearman yelled as he gripped his weapon tighter, the memories of an old battle flooding through his mind, pumping him full of adrenaline. “Let's get on with it, then!”


“If you insist.” Nodding curtly, the Spanish knight spun his swords about in his hands in a small but impressive flourish, and he swung them side to side as he walked ever closer to the Irishman, his eyes still locked onto his target. The sounds of weapons clashing again could be heard in Georgetown as El Cid made an attempt to knock aside Cuchulain's spear with one sword and thrust in with the other.


Cuchulain followed through with the knight's one sword, letting his spear be deflected to the side, but then bringing the blunt end of his weapon straight up and forward, catching El Cid's other sword, knocking his attack off balance and rendering it useless. The spearman stepped back a foot or two, almost sliding through the snow that had accumulated on the ground.


He chuckled as he watched El Cid's feet kick up the high snow with each sidestep and dash he made. “Oi, you want me to make this little playing field of ours a wee bit fairer?”


The knight shrugged. “Do as you wish; I've fought in hailing blizzards and in rushing waters, so it makes no difference to me.”


In the moments before El Cid closed in again on his foe, Cuchulain with the tip of his spear engraved a small mark in the snow a few feet in front of himself. A scorching red light emanated up from the rune, and light, dazzling flames spread outward, licking at El Cid's boots and clearing a swatch of ground; the dull grey asphalt was clearly revealed.


El Cid rushed in once more, using both of his blades to ensnare the red spear, hooking it on the flat crossguards of his swords and pressing forward, bringing the cursed weapon closer to its master. The Lancer was unimpressed, and with one mighty push kicked back the knight and reclaimed use of his spear, his heavy boot striking El Cid right in his gut.


“The spear, as a weapon, excels due to its reach.” Explained El Cid, a master of arms and a man with a wide breadth of military knowledge. “The mounted soldier naturally fails due to the size of his beast and the ease with which the spear can dismount him; the foot-soldier, similarly, can be struck by the spear before he reaches a space where he can hit the spearman. Therefore, you most certainly have the advantage in this fight.” He kept his eyes trained on the red lance, an old and deadly weapon.


“I prefer flattery when it comes from a young, fair lass, but I can accept this much.” Cuchulain laughed, and this time was the one to make the first strike, closing on El Cid.


With the sword in his right hand El Cid blocked the spear from striking him, pressing it to the side, and came in on Cuchulain's flank with the other blade. He tore a thick gash on his opponent's shoulder, blood coating his weapon, but that was the only attack he could land. The spearman leapt back as soon as he had been hit, not letting the knight get even the smallest advantage over him. For all of his casual talk, he was taking this battle with as much seriousness as he could muster.


“It's a good thing,” Said he, “To not be held back by anything!”


Instead of a single, heavy thrust, he followed up his backward step by crouching down and dashing forward, then pointing his lance up toward El Cid's face, jabbing at him with an almost innumerable number of strikes in a rapid flurry. It could hardly be seen by the naked eye.


El Cid twisted his body around, taking a blow of the spear right through his thigh; the red tip of the weapon could be seen jutting out the other side of his body for just a moment before being torn out. The wound, as if festering, would not close over, and blood seeped freely from it. The Spaniard clenched his teeth and half-limped to the side, negating the rest of Cuchulain's attacks.


The man nodded, stepping backward a pace and holding his spear right by his side, his one hand holding the wound in his shoulder, which went right to the bone. “I don't think we're going to get anywhere like this. You're sure as hell not gonna be able to heal from that wound, but I'm slipping a bit myself.” He gripped his lance tight with both hands, elegant yet brutal. “It's been a nice tussle we've had here, but it really ought to end now.”


The knight readied his swords, holding them defensively. He knew what would happen next, though he knew not what form it would take.


Cuchulain crouched down. “Gae-”


He dashed forward, just as he had before. El Cid made an attempt to dodge this one, final strike, but there was no use, not against the spear held by the hound of Ulster himself.


“-Bolg!”


In that moment, with the weapon's name spoken aloud, its true power came to the forefront. It was a lance that would pierce the heart no matter what barriers prevented its progress, and could only be stopped by the grace of its victim's luck. Instead of merely stabbing and piercing the heart, the core of one's bodily existence, Gae Bolg would manifest itself within its foe's heart and then strike them, reversing the idea of cause and effect to bring excruciating death.


It was, then, a matter of luck that Cuchulain had been matched up against an especially fortunate man, El Cid. Instead of striking the heart the cursed spear went far, becoming little more than a breeze underneath El Cid's arm. It was a moment that lasted barely a few seconds in real time, but for El Cid was just long enough to make his own strike. The Irishman was so close that they could see the very smallest colours in each others eyes, the spearman's own a deep, devilish red. Just as red was the blood that poured from his chest as two blades pierced him, running him through right past his ribcage. His forward motion was stopped entirely, his weight and inertia pushing El Cid backward a foot at most. All he could do then was to hang limply on the knight's two swords, stuck like a wild boar. He felt a tearing motion and searing pain, and El Cid ripped Tizona and Colada upwards, releasing them from Cuchulain's flesh; the man fell to his knees, being hardly able to move his body in any significant way. He had been cut in such a manner that left his arms, still holding his spear, just gently hanging onto his bloodied frame. The blue of his suit had been stained all across the front, turned a dark and unsettling crimson colour.


El Cid let him go for a moment, preparing to hack off his opponent's head. “You were a skilled opponent, Cuchulain, and it was an honour to fight you. I am sure that the Lancer class has no equal to find for you, and you should rest in peace.” He sheathed one sword and placed that free hand over the gentle, curved features of his face in a sign of respect.


Just as he solemnly nodded, Cuchulain traced a few vague lines on the ground with his finger, and there was a blast of smoke and light. El Cid held up his arm, swords still in hand, taking up a fighting stance, but it was for aught. The greatest hero of Ireland, Cuchulain, had escaped to fight another day, his shadowy figure being absorbed into a mass of darkness in the night. Hanging his head, but still proud of his victory, El Cid began his return to his Master, who was waiting in a building nearby, having watched the entire fight.

-- --

“How pathetic, my love.” Said a sultry, feminine voice to the haggard Cuchulain amidst a thick shadow in a deep, dark, impassable forest. “You truly are a dog, and not a mighty, fine one at that. Shall I fetch you some feed? I believe in this modern day you would receive a thing these people call 'kibbles'. How delightful, no?”


The woman, dressed in a dark robe made with all the colours of nature a decked with deadened old leaves laughed, her arms crossed. She held her wide-brimmed, dark red hat in one hand, placing it gingerly on her Servant's head. His appearance only made her giggle even more, and the man just accepted it, knowing her personality all too well.


He clicked his tongue. “You can be a real bitch, you know that, Scathach?”


Her eyes like gilded coins narrowed slyly. “Oh ho, really? I should've expected my Setanta to be so belligerent, but at least Aife isn't here to make things too much worse. I merely wish for your loving attention, and the power of your spear.” She chuckled. “Well, perhaps both spears, my love.” Her words were cooed, almost mockingly, but had a hint of affection to them.


“I was outmatched, milady.” Cuchulain pulled the witch in for a deep kiss, and just as suddenly let her go. “I'm sorry that I couldn't win for you like you wanted, but such is life. I appreciate you summoning me, but my time might be running out.” A set of shadowy vines rolled up the spearman's shoulders and torso, wrapping him in their strange embrace, and upon letting him go his wounds had been healed, as if they had never at all existed.


Taking back her hat, Scathach became much more serious. “Well, then, I'll keep you around as long as you'll last. So long as you're in my territory, it's unlikely that you could be beaten. It would take a truly grand hero to topple you here, and that would be most delightful to see, wouldn’t it?” She smiled at Cuchulain, and he just scoffed. The witch of the shadows really was impossible to deal with.


“Easy for you to say. You're not the one getting ripped to pieces on a daily basis. You're always ripping other people to pieces, especially since you made the smart move of killing off your Master.”


“Oh, but that was necessary!” Scathach remarked as if her Servant had genuinely offended her. “He was boring and unattractive, and of no use to either of us. You're all I need, and the idiots who wander into my domain will provide far more than enough energy for us both to sustain ourselves here for the duration of this silly war.”


Cuchulain just sighed and shook his head, taking up his spear in both hands once more. “If you say so. You'd best have some of that 'friendship of the thighs' ready for me later, though, or I'll just mutiny.” He looked up at the woman, a bored expression on his face.


“Oh, I wouldn't allow you to disobey me.” The witch said, her lips curling up into an evil smirk.


The shadows all around trembled and began to dissipate, immediately catching the attention of both Cuchulain and Scathach as they spoke within her dark, wooded fortress. Her territory had been intruded upon, and this could not go unpunished.


“It seems to me like that grand her you were talking about might be coming here sooner than you'd thought. You ready?” Cuchulain asked his Master, readying himself for another tough battle.


The witch didn't even need to answer. The shadows of her realm all but disappeared, leaving a huge, dreadful forest plain in sight, with the sky turned a sick reddish-brown. The trees, though visibly dead, had brown and black leaves adorning their branches and grew in thick patches along a dirt road. The grass looked at times to be a deep green; at other times it was brown and decayed like the trees and the thin path. There were some spaces in the dense foliage, but otherwise, there was nothing but a cruel imagination of a dead forest, the very realm of shadows itself. Scathach, borne on a column of vines, was raised into the air, granting her an unimpeded view of the battlefield. She laughed, mockingly, at whomever would dare to enter Dun Scaith, and prepared herself for their death.


There was the rustling of branches from deep within the woods, and then out rushed a man, clad in old and battered armour and wielding in one hand a great, dark sword that gleamed. In the man's other hand were the reins to a pale greyish horse whose eyes were red, and Cuchulain noted most of all one strange detail: the horse upon which the man rode had power in his limbs and a fire to his mane like no other beast, and a sense within the hound of Ulster surged up, a sense that had remained dormant for far too long. This horse was far from usual; it was in fact a sort of monster in itself, and Cuchulain would relish this fight.


For Cuchulain was known as a renowned hunter and slayer of beasts and monsters, and against such things he had a strong affinity. This horse, as it bore down upon the Lancer, was menacing and strong, but to a true hero, it was little more than an obstacle to break down, a monster like many before it that men had slain and gained legends. This horse was of the stock of the gods, and would make a good piece of tribute for Scathach. Cuchulain kept that thought in his mind, and raised his spear.


“The mounted soldier naturally fails due to the size of his beast and the ease with which the spear can dismount him....”


Those words came back to Cuchulain at the strangest time, and he chuckled as he recalled them.


Instead of waiting to the horse to charge right at him, as would be natural for a spearman, Cuchulain turned just a little to the side, coming alongside the rider's flank, allowing the mighty horse to pass by, but not without a wound. The red lance was swung just as the horse passed by its tip, and it gouged into the beast's flesh, letting its blood spill out onto the blackened ground. After galloping for a few yards more the mount and rider came to a tumbling halt as the horse was unable to survive, barely able to keep its organs from spilling out of the deep gash that had been cut all the way along its length. The beast crumbled down in the dust of the dirt path, taking its rider with it, but that rider was not so foolish as to rely just on his horse's own strength.


The match was an unlucky one for the warrior who now gripped his greatsword with both hands. He hadn't expected to fight a slayer of monsters such as Cuchulain, someone who could with ease topple his mighty horse. Then again, he had just regained his sanity not long ago, and his faculties were not in proper form. This battle, in a way, was sobering for him, and he hoisted his blade up, ready to bring it down on the spearman who had slaughtered his favourite horse and companion.


Cuchulain was surprised at the warrior's speed. Though his armour was of a weighty, ancient iron, he was able to run as if unhindered. His thick, light hair tossed about in the heavy winds like the leaves all around, and he closed the distance between himself and the Irishman in just a matter of seconds. Rage burned in his eyes alongside the gleam of sanity that remained there, and with the parrying hooks on his blade he caught the red spear Gae Bolg and tossed it into the air, ripping it from its wielder's hands as if he had expended no effort at all.


Gae Bolg flew up like a bolt of red lightning, and the iron warrior did not know the implications of this, instead just charging for the weaponless spearman.


That, perhaps, was a fatal mistake. He reacted too brashly, and before he could react Cuchulain had leapt into the air after his spear, calling it into his hands. He landed several metres behind his foe, his boots skidding on the wet, bloody grass. Crouching with his spear tucked close to his body, Cuchulain made one rapid dash forward and, when he was close enough to the armoured warrior to smell the sweat on his body, he yelled, “Gae Bolg!”


This time, the spear hit its mark without delay or obstruction. It pierced right through the warrior's bulky armour, tearing a hole in it, and jammed itself into the man's skin, not letting go at all. As soon as it had struck it latched itself inside the man with hundreds of thorns that coursed through his veins, killing him from the inside out. He screamed in pain and in rage and it could be seen from where Cuchulain was standing the devastation occurring to the warrior. The thorns tore up his flesh and bones, visible right underneath the surface of his skin like innumerable insects burrowing about at a lightning pace. His heart had been obliterated in not even a fraction of a second, and the man fell forward, his entire body ruined within by the cruel power of Gae Bolg, the cursed spear of death.


The man disappeared into a haze of dark shadow, the spear Gae Bolg falling harmlessly onto the grass. The bloody outline of the warrior could be seen even in the thick darkness, and Cuchulain, at last, had his victory. He turned, smirking, towards Scathach, and was promptly cut in half.


More blood soiled that already corrupt grass and dirt.


Those shadows from the death of the fierce warrior had reformed directly behind Cuchulain into an invisible form, that of an armoured man wearing a long, black cloak. He could not be seen at all, even by Scathach, and it was only the very act of cutting Cuchulain into two halves and slamming a blade through his heart that revealed his presence.


The witch had a scowl of absolute disgust on her face as she returned to the ground, her vines sinking back into the ground. The earth rumbled for a few moments, moments that lasted all too long. The bloodied warrior, now having become clearly visible, was nothing before the great witch of the shadows. Thick vines curled about his limbs and body and neck, restraining him with a power Scathach had not shown in a very, very long time. She turned her attention away from the foolish man and to another, who had been unaware at the worst time.


He was a tragic figure, Cuchulain, and the light in his crimson eyes had already disappeared. Scathach held his top half to her body, feeling the deepest sorrow for him, but not shedding a single tear. She glanced up at the iron warrior, then stared back into her lover's eyes.


“Setanta, you fool...” She said, her red hat falling from her head.

-- --

The greatest champion of Spain fared little better that night, having encountered another foe on his way to his Master's home. Enrico had taken cover in a nearby building, staying out of sight and searching for this new Servant's Master, a rifle visible in his hands. The barrel of the gun could be seen vaguely, peeking out from a dark second-story window amidst some pale curtains.


El Cid, however, was on the ground, fighting against this foe. The man was surprisingly courteous and even showed signs of chivalry, bowing when the fight commenced and fighting evenly against El Cid with one sword, a thick, curved weapon much like a scimitar. He was clean shaven and had black hair; he wore no helmet and was dressed in rich pelts and royal-looking, loose clothing like a prince or even a king. His thickly muscled arms were bare, and on his back was a fur cape with a pattern and colour palette resembling that of a tiger's striped coat. Though he fought fairly and even smiled, the huge man had a fierce look in his eyes, and El Cid could easily determine that he was someone who would not allow himself to suffer a defeat.


Their blades clattered against one another in a whirling dance, with the new fighter matching every single one of El Cid's dual strikes. It was a sight that was breathtaking even to Enrico; the two duellists matched each other so flawlessly that their battle appeared, to those who could actually perceive it, as some complexly choreographed scene they had both memorized perfectly. Somehow with but one sword the opposing fighter was able to fend of El Cid's two, no matter what strikes or strategies he used. Even with the slowing effect of the Egyptian relic, El Cid could only fight on roughly the same level as this man, never being able to best him, and in fact the hourglass was really only able to bring the men to a roughly even playing field, with El Cid's opposite being taken down to a speed that the Spanish knight could actually keep up with. Without that artifact, El Cid would have lasted perhaps a few minutes before being overwhelmed by the fighter's flurry of blows.


It was truly a battle of the ages, and it seemed almost like pure, incredible luck that these exact two fighters had met each other, both the absolute champions of their respective lands, regardless of how far apart their homes were. One would almost think, beyond their appearances, that these men were actually long lost brothers or great friends who had come upon each other once again after ages of separation, and to mark their reunion they crossed blades. Their duel was a true dance, with sword meeting sword, ringing out in the night in a way very reminiscent of music; in fact, it almost looked like the fighter in his loose clothes had been trained not as a warrior but as an entertainer and dancer; the sounds made by his sword as it clashed against those of El Cid made an exotic and beautiful melody. The two duellists smiled at each other, their grins wide. This was the kind of fight that they had always sought in their lives, and finally they had found it.


The man's clothes fluttered about in the wind; he ran up walls and jumped to get on the other side of El Cid, who performed mid-battle rolls and feints to keep in time with this one man, truly an impeccable swordsman. El Cid could feel no hatred towards him even though he was far superior, and he started panting, getting tired after nearly an hour of nonstop battle.


The duel became faster more intense, relegated to the two men in close combat, rarely leaving each others reach, the brilliant reverberation of their blades a constant and wondrous sound.


Then, right at its peak, the music stopped.


The two men sheathed their weapons and bowed, with El cid actually get down on his knee to show the immense respect he had for this foe. They didn't even need to speak a single word to each other, and they parted ways without a single sound, each going his own direction.


Shortly thereafter Enrico, out of breath just from trying to keep up with watching the duel, climbed down a rope from his perch, falling down a couple feet into the soft white snow. He took in a deep breath and met up with his Servant, and although normally he would have some stern words prepared for a situation such as this, there really were none he could muster. The duel between the champions had been a once in a lifetime event, and it had nearly moved Enrico to tears with its sheer, magnificent beauty.


“Rodrigo, I have something to do just now, and I have to leave you. Do not follow me for the rest of tonight; instead merely return to our base of operations.” Said Enrico, nodding to his Servant.


“Hm.” Wondered El Cid, scratching his chin. “Are you sure what you are doing is right?”


Enrico sighed, pulling his thick white coat close to his body. “I understand that it's dangerous, but I do know what I'm doing. In the end, despite the risks, it will aid us.”


The champion of Spain reluctantly left his Master, walking slowly through the snow that crunched under every one of his heavy steps. He didn't know exactly what his Master was aiming to do, but the seriousness that could be seen in his eyes was peculiar, and in fact El Cid had to wonder if he could stop his Master even if he had the mind to. Enrico was determined, and there was truly nothing that would stop him.

-- --

In Arlington near the memorial bridge across the Potomac, an eerie figure cloaked in black appeared directly behind a man, walking without haste and with his hands casually pressed into his coat pockets. This man let out a breath, watching the cloud of vapour disappear into the air.


He felt a touch on his shoulder, and he lost all senses in his body.



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


Remember, everyone, to do those Master profiles if you want to! The deadline is next chapter (whenever that is, lol) since the Master will probably be appearing in it!

Again, comment on the chapter and what you liked - or, what you didn't like. Personally, I enjoyed writing the fight scene between El Cid and the new guy, since it's specifically meant to have few details, and is really sort of "artsy," you could say.

[SeiKeo]

hahahahahaha Lancer smokebomb. Also, do we have another Assassin here?

[Lycodrake]

My first reaction: "Lancer died!" "You're not human!" XD
My second: Scathach showed up, and not just as a memory...my idea doesn't feel all that original now...

[Bloble]

Lancer! ;___;

Ah well, I suppose it would've happened eventually. At least he actually killed someone this time.

And that person who killed him... Was that a Rider or Assassin? I couldn't tell. For a moment I thought it was Guts... or even the Grim Reaper.