DISCLAIMER: Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and the staff of TYPE-MOON. Exalted, Scion and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of White Wolf/Onyx Path Publishing. Forgotten Realms is the creation of Ed Greenwood, and presently owned by Wizards of the Coast/Hasbro. Dead or Alive, DOA Xtreme Beach Volleyball and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Team Ninja and Koei Tecmo.
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Outside the Tohno Estate
Misaki Town, Japan
July 8, 2004
The half-elven druid who had made his home on the Tohno estate’s grounds had freely admitted a distaste for Kohaku’s presence (if one chose to obliquely call it that, rather than bluntly naming it the outright terror of her that it truly was). Despite this, she had arguably had the most frequent interaction with him, of all the mansion’s inhabitants, since it was her garden that he (literally) worked his magic on—if indirectly, as she only ever dealt with the results of that work, or the occasional note.
As such, Kohaku could not tell her mistress where precisely the druid laired, though she could certainly guess, as the grounds were, after all, only so large; the fact that she, specifically, found an area of the surrounding woods impassable was another clue. That the trees of said area seemed remarkably resistant to blades, fire and any herbicide she had on hand (or could think to mix up)—she’d gotten bored one day and decided to experiment—was another.
As a result, however, Kohaku could do little but wait for Akiha to return from her errand—which took, somewhat to her surprise, well over an hour.
Could he warp the space within the grounds, to make them larger? Kohaku wondered. Or were his defences hostile to everyone, rather than just me . . .? No—Hisui-chan never had problems going through that part of the grounds . . .
Her train of thought was interrupted by the heiress’ sudden reappearance; her face tight and her stride swift and purposeful—no, it was more than that. Akiha’s movements were almost manic as her legs ate up the distance between the forest and the main house, her arms wrapped around a cardboard box with an air of desperation.
“Kohaku,” Akiha said sharply, “fetch Hisui—and Nii-san, if he’s back yet—and meet me in the parlour at once.”
“Yes, my lady,” Kohaku said, almost automatically, her eyes scanning her mistress, and the box.
It was an empty laundry soap box, one of the ones she’d put out for the trash, last month, she realised. Why would the druid have kept a box . . .?
And then, Kohaku remembered.
The Tohno Estate
Six weeks ago
“Wouldst thou be so kind, Lady Tohno,” asked the foreign half-breed of the native, “as to attempt to slake thy dark appetites ‘pon me?”
Akiha stiffened, making her rapidly paling face achieve the look of polished marble, before she began to redden even more swiftly, her expression twisting in repugnance.
“I beg your pardon . . .?” she demanded icily—and his own countenance twisted into a grimace before the words had finished leaving her mouth.
“A plague ‘pon this cursed tongue, that it doth ever twist my meanings out of joint,” he muttered. “I abash myself before thee, fair maiden; I am bound by the limits of the words I know, which are akin though not always alike to the tongue of thy sinew. Prithee, give me leave to begin anew.”
Kohaku, despite herself, suppressed a smile at her mistress’ expression; his words were so flowery and archaic that they were ridiculous, yet the tone was so earnest, and the face so exotically pretty, in a bishonen kind of way, that Akiha-sama seemed genuinely uncertain of what to do.
Apparently taking her silence as assent, he continued, “The path I trod yields many gifts; powers which might turn pallid and sickly when placed afore the marvels of Lady Arcueid, the lady knight, or e’en Tohsaka Rin—and yet, I am not without strength. My ilk are accounted priests, after a fashion; while true miracles lie far beyond my grasp, still, in the healing arts, I account myself fairer than most. And whilst spring’s first bloom is still visible ‘pon my cheeks, to my mind, that time is far beyond my grasp. In the passing since, I hath learned that cunning may carry the day where strength falters.”
He gave Kohaku a knowing glance as he said it, and apparently read Akiha’s incomprehension at a glance, because he sighed.
“Matters of the spirit lie beyond my ken,” the druid said, visibly and audibly choosing his words with care. “I am cloistered, by preference, but no man of the cloth. Yet when it comes to preserving limb or health—or restoring it—I have no small talent. I wouldst heal thee, and thy brother, if ‘tis within my power; yet I must know more of the affliction, afore I possess the courage of my convictions. I must know wherefore thy nature does as it does, and the manner of its actions.
“And so, I ask again,” he said gently. “Feed thy darkest desires ‘pon myself, that I might have the proof of my suspicions.”
“. . . You don’t know what you’re asking,” Akiha said, though her voice was shakier than Kohaku suspected anyone but herself, Hisui, or Shiki might realise. And having observed Akiha for as long as she had, Kohaku believed that at least part of the girl’s uncertainty came from the fact that it was a rather attractive man asking. The demon in Akiha hardly cared where its nourishment came from, but the heiress tried so hard to be human, and humans liked pretty things.
And she ought to know—hadn’t Makihisa had called her such, often enough . . .?
(At the beginning, at least . . .)
“I, in many ways, am less human than thee,” he chided. “The world will not mourn my loss—nor should it. ‘Tis its way . . . And should I prove aright, sweet child . . . Thou wouldst have no need of a Holy Grail.”
Once more, he sighed.
“In a time and place thou can scarce imagine, she who is named for the inevitable slumber, thy brother was a source of comfort and inspiration; and above all else, I despise being indebted. I wouldst cleanse the slate between us, even if he sees aught owed; I beseech thee to allow me to try.”
And so it went, and Akiha, who despite her position, was still a teenage girl, found herself surrendering to the older being’s arguments . . .
And it was shock, as much as anything else, that allowed her to regain control over her demonic impulses when her attempt to drain him failed.
For his own part, the druid nodded in satisfaction. “As I’d hoped . . “
“What had you hoped?” Akiha demanded, her eyes wild, and all attempts at decorum tossed to the wind. “HOW did you DO THAT?!”
“Thou draws sustenance through blood, but the true nature of thy feeding hath common roots within what is named the ‘Negative Energy Plane,’” the druid said—which explained nothing at all, of course. “And amongst the many spells at my command, there is that which is named ‘death ward . . .’”
He smiled. “I know not whether the cure for thy ills lies within my power, Lady Tohno, but of this much, I can say ‘certes’—that protecting thy loved ones from thyself is most assuredly amongst my limitations . . .”
In the present, secreted with her mistress and her sister. Kohaku locked eyes with her mistress.
“He did it.” It wasn’t a question.
“He did it,” Akiha repeated, by way of affirmation, before setting out two woollen collars—there was no other word for them—sewn with leather patches.
“These are ‘gorgets,’” the heiress said, pronouncing the word with some care, “or what we would call nodawa—”
Kohaku corrected herself; apparently, there were other words for them.
“And they are enchanted to protect the wearer from the sort of life-draining performed by the Tohno bloodline,” she finished heavily. “Though they will not protect you from injuries caused by such, like impalement by fang, or claw”—or hair, she didn’t say—“they will prevent any sort of ‘death spell’ or ‘negative energy’ from afflicting you, which should offer you a chance to flee, if nothing else . . .” Her face fell, for a moment, before firming and she continued, “As such, I want you to wear these as part of your standard uniforms from now on—ideally, always.”
“Of course, Akiha-sama,” Hisui said, bowing.
“They will clash terribly with our outfits,” Kohaku observed with a smile, as much to twit her employer as anything else.
(In truth, the child that had existed before the doll would have given much for such protection . . .)
Akiha’s face cracked a small, amused smile. “Oh, indeed—but with a word . . .” She picked up one, narrowed her eyes in concentration, and said carefully, “Rykiir.”
With a shimmer like moonlight on water, the leather-and-wool piece became a slender, lace-ruffled choker, ideal for Hisui’s standard European dress.
“It means ‘jade gem’ in the tongue of his species of yokai, apparently,” Akiha said, examining it. “Simple enough to remember, not too difficult to pronounce—and not something to say in casual conversation. It apparently loses none of its protective qualities in this state, but will assume its heavier, armoured configuration in response to sufficient force, like a car crash, or a sharp edge swung at your throat.”
She turned to Kohaku. “The command for yours is ‘fetekiir,’ or ‘fire gem’—I assume that he either doesn’t know the word for amber, or it’s too close to a Japanese one you might say accidentally.”
She passed the collar to Kohaku, who repeated the word, and saw it change into a short silken scarf—closer to a bandanna in length, but something would go unnoticed amidst her usual kimono.
“Between this and Nii-san’s item,” Akiha said decisively, “I would say he has more than paid for his brief tenancy here . . .” Her face set determinedly.
“And now we absolutely must find him, wish or no,” the heiress continued firmly. “Because like him, I very much despise debts.”
“And because Akiha-sama is now feeling bad for disparaging him before the others,” Kohaku added cheerfully, “because he actually did come through before surrendering those powers . . .?”
The heiress flinched, and Hisui gave her a look, but Kohaku chose to twist the knife just a little.
“Or perhaps,” she added in a thoughtful tone, “Akiha-sama is feeling bad for disparaging such a good-looking, if unusual, man . . .? My, my—whatever will Shiki-san say . . .?”
“. . . You know, Kohaku,” Akiha said in an almost conversational tone, “it occurs to me that I’ve been remiss in making proper preparations for your future—you and Hisui both, in truth. If you are so taken by him, then surely—”
Hisui paled, Kohaku stared, and the three teenagers traded ominous looks in silence.
“. . . I understand that Sakura-san and Ilya-san”—neither girl being fond of their family names, Kohaku used their given ones despite the implied intimacy—“consider Tohsaka an auspicious match . . .?”
Akiha relaxed and accepted the peace offering for what it was.
“I see no issue with sponsoring a wedding, should it come to that—it seems the least the Tohno clan could do.”
For items that prevented their wearer from being fed upon, Kohaku expected that Akiha meant every syllable—they would be a treasure beyond reckoning to the clan as a whole, never mind to her . . .
No doubt, the heiress of the Tohno clan would apply every resource available to her to make such a wedding happen, without flaw or fail.
Avalon Castle, Phantasmagoria Island (Grail Works. Ltd. Headquarters)
Beyond the boundaries of time and space
As the most awful chill shot up her spine, Rin was at a loss to explain her sudden desire to do violence to something—or someone . . .
Zack Hotel
Venus Islands, South Pacific
Zack couldn’t believe his luck.
And honestly, that statement could describe several of the events of the last few years, because it applied to both the good and bad aspects of his luck . . .
For example, he’d failed to win the third “Dead or Alive” tournament, his third attempt to do so—and then proceeded to clean up in Vegas. He’d used his winnings to open his first “island of love” . . . And it was summarily destroyed by a volcanic eruption. Zack then went on a treasure-hunting expedition with his girlfriend, Nikki, and found the lost tomb of a crazy-wealthy pharaoh—which turned out to be guarded by the undead. He and Nikki (barely) escaped, and he managed to use his restored wealth to build “New Zack Island,” to revive his dream . . .
And then a freaking meteor landed on his resort—and ignited a second island-destroying volcanic eruption, just to add insult to injury.
Still, despite all the damage, nobody had gotten hurt—except for one guy, who Zack found floating in the water during the evacuation of New Zack Island. Judging from the flash in the sky prior to the meteor strike, he must’ve been skydiving over the island when it destroyed his plane. The resulting fire had torched all his gear, his clothes—and the impact with the water had done him no favours. Still, the stranger had actually managed to survive the fire, and the fall—even if it was only Zack’s intervention that kept him from drowning . . .
The stranger was at least as lucky as himself, in Zack’s opinion—which was a very good thing, as it turned out, and not just for the stranger.
Contrary to a lot of his behaviour, Zack wasn’t an idiot; fun-loving and clownish, sure—he was a D.J., it was part of the expected persona—but not stupid. A freak volcano eruption destroying his island once? Bad luck, sure; but twice? And having it happen by dropping a meteor out of the sky . . .?
He’d done some poking around while acting as an agent of DOATEC, as reformed under Helena Douglas—and could’ve smacked himself. Really, with the guardians the tomb had had, Zack should’ve figured there was a curse.
And to anybody who thought believing in curses was nuts, he would point out that the tomb had been guarded by animated skeletons. And if they tried to argue “animatronics,” or crap like that? Zack had been knocked out of every DOA tournament at some point by an honest-to-God ninja of one sect, clan, or another—several of whom had shown the ability to teleport during the match.
. . . At that point, accepting the existence of an actual curse wasn’t all that far-fetched, really.
It had taken a while to narrow down the specifics of the curse; or for DOATEC to, anyway—that kind of thing wasn’t really Zack’s strong suit, though he could if he had to (like, for example, to impress Nikki). Still, DOATEC, under Helena’s father, had been the ones looking into the ninjas and stuff; they had a lot more experience when it came to the idea of researching curses. What had eventually been dug up was enough to give Zack a way out—even if it meant spending all of what he’d had left of the treasure. Because the curse, as it turned out, was laid on “he who profited from the theft; until Osiris’ judgement.”
It sounded like a lot more complicated of a curse than those old movies made them out to be, but it also sounded like so long as Zack didn’t actually make any money off the island, he ought to be fine. Still, he’d thought of a couple of workarounds, and done his best to put them into play. First, while Zack did the hiring and whatnot, the actual profits went to Helena, to be reimbursed from another account—because the curse did say “he,” and stuff like that could be surprisingly literal . . .
The other factor was to put somebody else in charge of running the place, just in case—and the candidate of choice was obvious . . . Hey, the stranger had been lucky enough to survive the curse once, when by all rights he should have been collateral damage; Zack reckoned that if anybody could manage to do it again, then this was the guy!
Besides, he wasn’t completely heartless; he’d built the new resort on the Venus Islands—not far from New Zack Island, true, but a place with a reputation of being divinely protected in its peace. And he believed there was some truth to that. Why else would a South Pacific archipelago be named for the Roman goddess of love, of all things . . .?
More than that, though, Zack could feel something special about the place—he might’ve chosen to start again here even if he hadn’t known about the curse. As it was, though, he thought he’d given the stranger his best chance of beating the curse, by setting up everything here. It was just a matter of persuading him to accept the job.
And while he was far more confident in its efficaciousness regarding the ladies, Zack had full faith in his charm, nonetheless . . .
“How,” Frid asked of himself under his breath, “did I manage to let myself get talked into this . . .?”
Because no matter what’s happened to you, you’re still a sucker for a pretty face—and especially one in distress, retorted that cynical voice in the back of his head.
While unwelcome, Frid supposed the statement was in no way untrue. Though he felt that the “distress” part could be debated in this instance, going by the letter he’d been handed.
“To the new Owner,
Welcome to the Venus Islands. Upon your arrival, please proceed to the pier at Nikki Beach. Your personal staff will apprise you of your duties, as well as the details of the Venus Festival. We eagerly await your arrival.”
Far from being a plea for help, the message was professional, in fact, downright corporate in its contents; it was remarkable only in the fact that it was written in Japanese, and Frid could still read it, on top of understanding it conversationally. If nothing else, that proved that the whole “Grail Works” scenario hadn’t been a dream, after all . . .
(And neither had Erik, and all the meta stuff that his existence implied—but Frid was never going to poke THAT particular anthill, if he could help it . . .)
Of course, that raised the question of where the hell he actually was. That sunglasses-wearing lunatic had had the “dual-overlay” quality to his voice that Frid heard whenever he dealt with a dubbed Japanese property. In point of fact, the English aspect had been so cacophonous that he suspected multiple voice actors on that side, on par with Arturia if not worse . . .
Needless to say, Frid had concentrated on the Japanese—it gave him less of a headache. But the very circumstance implied that this was someone he ought to know, if the property was that well-developed and/or widespread . . . Unfortunately, “fit, good-looking black guy in sunglasses” wasn’t exactly a rare character design—and he couldn’t think of one who had a penchant for wearing suits.
I know the voice wasn’t deep enough to be Rodan—not to mention that Rodan prefers leather—so I’m not in the Bayonetta universe. But other than that, I’ve got no clue . . .
Regardless, Frid had been willing to tolerate the man’s clowning as long as he was in the room (ignoring someone willing to manhandle a patient in a sickbed did not strike him as wise), and then promptly forget his existence . . . And then he’d handed over a photo of the letter writer, who was the aforementioned “personal staff” (and implied to be the only staff, at that) a gamine Japanese woman—or girl, more probably, but Frid had always been terrible at guessing ages.
As with the lunatic, she wasn’t someone he recognised—though she was pretty, in a waifish sort of way—but the simple look of her had the polite, neutral language of the letter take on an earnest, “desperate to be taken seriously” tone in his head.
A sucker for a pretty face, the voice repeated tauntingly.
Regardless, he supposed he owed them for the medical help, at least; he didn’t seem to be injured anymore, but Frid had seen the notes detailing his condition when he’d been brought in, and—well, been promptly horrified. Not just for the state of him, but for what it had meant.
If he’d had anything like sufficient Essence left, Halting the Scarlet Flow would’ve activated—because it could be activated while he was unconscious. Even if his Charms were somehow rendered inoperable, Exalts, like Scions, healed four times faster than mortals as a baseline; that kind of recovery differential should absolutely have been noticed by somebody in the hospital.
And cutting him off from regaining Essence shouldn’t be possible, either, because it was generated by the Exaltation grafted to his soul, not drawn in from the environment. The only thing he could think of that might hypothetically accomplish that would be a seriously “low mana” environment, where magic and similar forces didn’t exist at all. In that case, without one of Ilya’s “paradigm shields” to prevent it, the sheer vacuum would draw the Essence into the general environment as the universe sought to stabilise the imbalance.
That would prevent his healing at any kind of accelerated rate—but there was no way he’d NOT notice the Essence being sucked away from him . . .
It was gone.
That was the only possible conclusion. His Exaltation had been stripped from him, and he was just a lowly mortal, once more.
A kaleidoscope of emotions ran through him at the realisation. Hollowness, at the loss: he’d had the Exaltation for mere days, and now it was gone—and so swiftly after the loss of his druid identity and its powers; he’d barely started getting used to the difference . . . This was followed swiftly by panic—what was he supposed to do NOW?! He was a useless, middle-aged weakling who, to quote another such, was among the number who “historically speaking, people like me have been victims and FOOD . . .” He had no equalisers at all; no powers, no way to contact the Works, not even a truly legal identity—!
It was followed swiftly by anger—how dare Astraea do this to him . . .?
I knew that Luvia could be petty—Prisma Illya made that RIDICULOUSLY clear, with how she couldn’t seem to go thirty seconds without insulting somebody, when she was first introduced—and the Olympians go without saying . . . But I’d honestly expected better of Astraea, and maybe even more so when she was using Laeticia as a host; the more fool me, I guess . . .
But it was more than that—it was the fact that it might not have been a true Exaltation, but he had fucking EARNED it. The memories of actually doing it, the details of how and why, had been taken from him as part of the price, but Frid knew that the Seldarine had considered the Exaltation an equivalent exchange for whatever services he’d ultimately rendered. No one, least of all gods (and less still elven gods, to a human), would simply give away the kind of power that represented; and he had done something that they considered worthy of it . . .
And now it was gone.
I’m back to square one, if not square ZERO—
Frid stopped, as a horrifying possibility suddenly occurred to him.
I wanted a chance to prove that I could do the Works’ job—to save people—when there wasn’t any outside interference in my attempts to do so. No gods or forces from beyond time and space meddling to screw my plans or my chances . . . And also, no supernatural powers, or meta-knowledge about what I’d be facing . . .?
He silently apologised to Astraea; he’d apparently disrespected her without cause. It appeared that the goddess-turned-Ruler had, indeed, been scrupulously fair, as he’d initially expected of her, and balanced the scales precisely—and all the while, as per his luck, still managing to incidentally screw him into the proverbial ground . . .
So, he was in an unknown place, with no resources to speak of, save for what appeared to be a body in much better condition than his original life, and an identity he’d apparently bargained for fairly enough to be allowed to keep. To further frustrate him, said identity did not come with the Magic Circuits, Mystic Eyes, and thaumaturgical knowledge that went with it, nor could he contact the Works—most probably because this was a universe without magic altogether. All the same, Frid presumed this was a place that had a Works-level problem, because why would Astraea send him anywhere else, given what he’d asked for . . .?
This is really, really bad, remarked his inner voice.
Still, lacking better options or directions, what else was he supposed to do . . .? He’d manage the resort, as best he could, until something turned up to point him along whatever path Astraea expected him to try to walk—and with luck, maybe the Works would actually turn up at some point, if there was the kind of problem that they were meant to solve involved in all this.
With that in mind, Frid stepped out of the building’s confines, onto the island proper—
And was promptly assaulted by a full-body tingling across his skin that practically screamed “magic.”
“. . . OH, COME ON!”
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My only solace is that they do seem to eventually work.
Originally Posted by Arbitrarity
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