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Fate: Ragnarök
So. It will be here.
Avignon, for all its holy significance, seemed quaint, isolated by its ancient battlements from the wheelings of the world. Given its ties to the Church, Leila doubted most of the citizens here had even heard of the Mage's Association, let alone the Grail Wars. It certainly lacked in Zürich's metropolitan refinement, and the quarters were close. The College had arranged for her housing on the University grounds, procuring her an entire apartment as her base of operations on Le Roux Saint-Bernard, and on her trip over, the streets had been barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast. The idea of fighting a vicious mage-war here seemed ludicrous. Her Tarterus Tetragrammata alone would devastate the pale, looming buildings flanking every path through the city. With seven Servants unleashed, Leila doubted the city would survive at all. So be it, she thought as she began to unpack her belongings. In pursuit of the Akasha, we are as Gods to these hapless people. They will die for our sins. She had brought little with her from her home in Zürich, having already ceded the remainder of her worldly possessions to Johannes. Their last evening together before her departure had been... fraught; as absorbed as she was in her endeavors, Leila could not in sound conscience have kept the truth from her husband. Even now, she was not sure he truly understood. He had not come to see her off, and she did not blame him. For all she truly cared for Johannes, even the purest love was but meaningless noise against the cosmic cogency of the Absolute. It must be abandoned with all her other mortal trammels, or wilt upon the carcass of her failures. Irrelevant. The thought came to her unbidden, then, of her forgotten family. Perhaps they had deserved more from their daughter, a return on the investment of their marriage. Grandchildren who might have proved less of a dissappointment. No matter. Leila opened her phone to the few contacts she possessed, found their number. It would suffice as her final mortal gesture, not that she knew what she would tell them. Ringing once. Twice. Four times. Nothing. Leila shrugged. Releasing the tiniest parcel of her internal mana, the Kabbalist called forth her Tetra, wrapping the phone in hundreds of minuscule chains of fire, watching it disintegrate in her hand. A deep breath, and a deeper sigh. She cast aside the ashes. That left only the gift from the College, wrapped in night-blue velvet. Leila closed the windows to her loft and turned on the archaic interior lights to examine the summoning focus. It was heavy in her hand, angular, and as she quickly discovered, bladed. The knife was old, pitted with deep rust from the filthy blood that had once coated it. It might very well shatter if she attempted to use it for any practical purpose. Nonetheless, it would call forth the Servant with whom she would win the Holy Grail. Leila wrapped the artifact once more, setting it carefully on the loft's table. She would have to clear enough space to work the ritual, and time was drawing short for the arrival of Ruler which would signal the commencement of the War. Is this the time for fear? she wondered. For the anticipation of victory? Reflection on all I am about to lose, no matter how this ends? Leila smiled to herself, a small and final indulgence before it all began. She set about to work, inscribing the summoning diagram. I think not. |
"Thanks love. That'll be all."
Isaac Hemlock gave a warm smile to Aïda, the proprietor of Le Clos du Rempart, the tiny and (from the outside) unremarkable Bed and Breakfast he had chosen to take lodgings in. He had rented out both rooms that the place had contained, citing that he was an enthusiast of privacy and quiet. The outside would have at first said that this would not have been the place for his type, but the small Bed and Breakfast was not all revealed at first glance. The interior was a far cry from the outside, and Isaac was basking in the central patio with a fresh cup of black tea. It had been remodeled over a decade ago, and was designed to give what a tourist might call a 'feel for Middle Eastern charm.' They had certainly tried, at least. Most of the sounds of outside were hidden far away, with the song of birds being the only real noticeable disturbance. If he had been on holiday, this would have been a wonderful retreat. The Papal Palace within walking distance, strolls by the waterside across the street, avenues lined with beautiful art that demanded a tourist to expose himself by taking large amounts of pictures, all would have been a lovely break from his work. However, Isaac Hemlock was not on holiday, and while he appreciated the comforts around him, sightseeing was to be the least of his goings on here. Rummaging within a pocket, he produced a fragment of...something. Chipped now and sharp once upon a time, it looked like it belonged in a bargain bin advertising souvenir arrowheads. It was weathered and beaten, and whatever weapon it might have belonged to had surely joined the earth it had helped put men in to by now. Still though, it had meant something to someone once upon a time. He turned it over in his hands, letting his tea cool while he studied it. It had been important to someone he had met by chance, nearly four decades ago... Isaac sipped his tea. Nearly forty years. It hadn't really been at the forefront of his thought, but as the time had slipped away it had reminded him late at night, like a bill he had forgotten to pay earlier that day. Always there, but never really pressing until there was nothing left to occupy him. Several times he had nearly tossed the artifact in to the sea, but stopped himself. He had seen a lot of fighting. A lot of war. It had always been pointless. But if the power at the end of this war was real, then he had control over something. Perhaps this was a war he could have the power to end. The tea brought him back to reality. It was bitter, off. It took him a moment to realize what was wrong with it: no milk. His faced soured to match the flavor of the tea. Tea without milk was so uncivilized, after all. He stood from his table, leaving the shunned tea behind. The trinket disappeared in to his pocket once again, hidden away like it had been on its original owner. Or at least, the last owner to have it. Isaac hoped he didn't end up the same way. He called out to Aïda, backing away towards the stairs so as not to be caught fleeing from his tea. "Aïda love, I'm not feeling right. Going to pop upstairs for a bit. Will be down after while." He retreated upwards to the sounds of her acknowledgement. Within seconds he had climbed the few stairs to the room he had chosen for personal activities. It was small, but it would work. Removing the arrowhead from his pocket, he studied it once again. It had been worn from use, lots of use. It made him anxious to think of who had used it. "Right. Let's see what poor bastard you might be." He whispered to no one in particular as he began setting up the summoning ritual. He had kept the memories alive for this just in case. Going through the practiced motions of another person's experiences always felt odd, and this one was no different. With grim determination, Isaac Hemlock took his first steps in to the war for the Grail. |
The ritual had ended with little ceremony. Silence gripped the room in a stranglehold, swallowing anything audible. To the mundane eye nothing seemed to have happened. But to the flesh, the temperature had dropped several degrees, and was continuing to plummet. A light sheen of frost began to materialize over everything in the room, hanging as delicately as a fringe of lace from all surfaces.
The silence was shattered with a draft that would have merely stirred a candle. Upon its breath, a movement carried from the shadows, stepping from nothing but darkness. The tall form of a ragged man, head down and obscured by hood removed itself from their vague blackness, standing in a very real and material form. The figure breathed in deeply, and the room began to warm. It wasn't exactly a rising of heat as it was a removal of the frost. His sucking breath lifted the ice from the room, drawing it upon the air and in to his lungs. The temperature returned shortly as the ice was drawn away. With a whisper like slowly crushed snow, it spoke without raising its head. "Rasputin answers your call. Do as you will." The last sentence was touched off with a hint of malice, as if the four words held the meanings of several different sentences altogether. The illusion of an upturned lip passed over his mouth before disappearing in to the shadows from which he had emerged. Grigori Rasputin walked the earth once more. |
Grandmother Mia stood by the wood-framed bed and gingerly unpacked a few belongings from her bags while her daughter looked out the window, offering an excited narrative of the sites she could see from their small guest room. They were here for two days, long enough to perform their summoning ritual then move on to another location, taking some time to take in the sites they happened to pass. Ebby hadn't been to France before, and Mia indulged her excitement, offering the occasional comment and nod of her head as she placed her clothing and personal items into the bedside table on what she had designated as her bed, on the left, and away from the immediate morning sunlight.
From her paintbrush wrap, Mia pull out a small orb, glossy, and white, until she turned it so she could see the petrified iris and pupil staring at nothing. She had not taken a close look at it before pocketing it on her way out of the mage's academy from Ebby's last lecture. She had a fair knock for going about unnoticed when she wanted to. Rolling the eye in her hand, she felt the smoothness and wondered at the person to whom it was once a part. It didn't matter. Not now. If he or she was a miserable character after they were successful, that would be dealt with at the time. Mia clutched the eye in one hand and closed her bag. “Close the windows, Ebby. It's time to start.” |
Heinrich had arrived well before the manifestations would begin. His Holiness had seen fit to secure him full use of the defunct Papal apartments adjunct to the Cathédrale de Notre-Dame des Doms, and the Executor had taken the week to inscribe the Sacramental wardings he had been provided across every avenue of approach. The presence of enemy mages on the cathedral grounds would alert Heinrich wherever he was in the city, and the Forbiddings marked across the various entrances would detonate in contact with a magical circuit, if any of his targets were foolish enough to attempt to strike at his base of operations. He would need the defenses, as he intended to leave the titulus of the True Cross within the cloisters of the church, allowing him to move unseen by the scrying eyes of his enemies without its mana-signature to track.
His goal here was simple: locate the other masters, release Berserker upon their attendant Servant, and murder the mage while the battle raged. Heinrich did not know whose soul the Sacramental working would call forth from the Throne of Heroes, but he had no doubt that they would achieve their goal together. The threat presented by Berserker would be too much for the other factions to ignore, and once they revealed themselves, the Executor would strike. It did not matter who stood against them; there was not a magus alive whom he could not kill. With the artifacts he had been gifted, Heinrich possessed absolute confidence in the Church's victory. Even if he were forced to engage an enemy Servant, there were Mystic Codes within the Bible of Carcassonne that could match even a Noble Phantasm. He held every conceivable advantage. It was now time. The sun was setting on the final eve before the dawn of the Holy Grail War, and before sunrise, the shackled souls of seven heroic spirits would make the Earth their battleground. Collecting the ingredients required, Heinrich proceeded to the cathedral's basement, every detail of the Sacramental summoning rite engraved in his memory. Before the next sun set, the blood of mages and heretics would slake the streets of Avignon, and the Holy Grail would be that much closer. |
"Mousse!" The click of the lock, a clink of dishes, and the clack of heels against wood. "Où es-tu?" Lucienne took delicate steps around her work space, an atrocious plastic tarp covering the floor where the Savonnerie replica had lain, to set a tray of tea and snacks down on the circular table in the corner of the room. Silverplated, she had noted with disdain. Real silver was nowhere to be found, despite the neatly marbled washroom and ample toile de Jouy fabrics all across the suite.
A rustle of cloth led Luci into the bedroom, where a mountain of blankets squirmed, some already halfway onto the floor. She huffed a little laugh as a black nose poked out from one of the folds. "Pardon, am I interrupting?" she asked, pulling a blanket away from her dog's face. A tilt of its head was the only answer. She arched a delicately plucked eyebrow and lifted it from the bed, then turned back to the sitting room, the dog's tail beating against her arm. "I remember giving you a job to do. If you could try to stay focused, s'il te plaît, I'll try not to lose my patience." The dog whined as she set it down on the floor. Lucienne tugged its heavy, patterned sweater off with care, one long ear flipped inside out. It spread its dark wings, wings attached to the thin body by a map of scars stretched over its spine and ribs. "Finish the circle before I've made myself presentable, Mousse. There's a long night ahead." |
There was a call.
Across the void of ages, through the eternity of anguish which he endured, it came: the first word, the first thought to enter his mind in fifteen-hundred years. He heard it, Pelles heard it -- yes, he began to recall himself, as he hung crucified and impaled to the side of the Throne -- and he considered. He considered the word. Servant. With the apprehension of its meaning -- like the opening of eyes until then blind -- came the crush of knowledge: implications of all the centuries that had passed upon his exile, the understanding of the magics that could breach the walls of death and pluck his mortified body from the branches of Hell itself, and the terms of the pact. Pelles understood them all, and he cared not for any of it. There was but one fixation among the cataract of images that poured over his tortured psyche, a sovereign jewel among the dross of magecraft and scientia that pooled around him: the Grail. And there was nothing else to consider. With the sigh of one who had forgotten the absence of pain, Pelles tore himself from the Throne, one limb at a time, splintering bone and rending the annealed tissue of centuries from the conceptual nails that pierced his hands and feet. With shattered fingers, he reached to dislodge the spike driven through his mouth, piercing the back of his skull. His grip slid, coated with the leprous ichor that wept from his wounds, but he found his hold and wrenched it free. The Fisher King did not deny his stigmata, but embraced them in the full nobility of the wretched. He would bleed for the wounds of the world, wear the crown of every sin inflicted, breathe in once more bounteous air and exhale utter torment, the desiccation of all vital souls manifest within his flesh. He would live once more. Pelles saw the grasping hand awaiting him, reaching across every conceivable boundary in an outstretch of True Magic, saw the beckon of the one who would name herself his Master, and with putrescent fingers seized hold with all his strength. He had but one question for the sorceress, the same question that had echoed from the ramparts of Carbonec all the days of his mortal life: "Whom does the Grail serve?" |
Clack-clack-clack-clack-clack-clack-
Frej frowned. Even the noise reduction on his earphones did little whenever the train hit a section of older tracks, but the already-disapproving scowl from the old lady next to him drew his finger away from the Volume Up button. Who knew old ladies didn't enjoy Imagine Dragons? Then again, his precariously-stacked tower of lenses had invaded her lap just minutes earlier, toppling at a rather nasty jolt from the train, sending Frej scrambling to retrieve the packages before his precious equipment hit the rattling ground. Or maybe she found the colored streak in his hair revolting. Or maybe it was the scars on his hands. Whatever. Frej frowned again. "-t you something from avignon. will get you a teddy bear if i see one, ok? dont worry and dont forget to do your hw, or mom's gonna get mad." Sigi's Bear Army was formidable, he recalled, stomach churning as the train tried to pull the seat out from under him. "ok gtg text you later when i can. -frej" He hit Send, pushed everything from his lap, clamped a hand over his mouth, and ran towards the cramped bathroom for the fifth time. --- Frej, armed with phone and map, had gotten lost three minutes after stepping off the train. Of course I had, he thought bitterly, now unpacking bundle after bundle from his duffel. "I can't believe It chose you!" his father had told him, then sent him packing his bags. Why hadn't the Grail chosen Carina? She was, after all, the most powerful magus in the family, after her father had all but disowned his only son. Then again, Frej was pretty sure the von Straußheim family would be loathe to lose their new prodigy. Apparently, according to the Grail, sending the poor starving Photography major to fight in the Grail War without so much as a single catalyst was a reasonable choice. How ironic. What if the Summoning fails? But it had to work. The glistening blood-like Command marks ran down the length of Frej's forearm, and he didn't want to think about the consequences of a botched Summoning. But rituals without a catalyst were very rare, and one thought ran circles in his mind as he began to set everything up: What kind of poor, pathetic Servant was so similar to himself? |
They would be disappointed. Calling for a Hero that would never answer them. He had never been a Hero, but there had yet been a call for help that he had not answered. The world came together, sharp and strange, his consciousness drawing together before his body did the same. He would not begin as a child, not in this false life, but knowledge filled his mind just as it had so many years before. A familiar comfort, knowing the world he was suddenly a part of.
And that call. The room was small, confined with not only one, but two women in it with him. Kutoyis blinked once. Twice. His body seemed to be functioning adequately. Despite, he glanced to a shut and covered window, the faint ebb and flow of mana passing through the only gaps it could find, human mana drowning the air. "War is no place for women." |
Ebby was shocked. She wasn’t sure what from, precisely; either the man’s dress or his blunt statement.
Mia frowned, but tilted her head slightly to one side. She had no idea who this man was, but if he was who they had, she was prepared to work with him. "War is no place for women." She smiled a little. “That is why you’re here.” *** The world around him had changed but he seemed not to notice it. He was sitting on a stool, overlooking the city of Florence through a pane of glass and tracing the lines and angles of the rooftops with a black tipped brush. Leonardo looked down at his ink, then back up through the glass where the Florentine skyline had been changed for one entirely alien to him. His drawn lines disappeared, to be replaced by a plane glass window. He blinked, adjusting his gaze a moment before addressing the mage he knew to be standing behind him. “So what do you expect to acquire with the grail?” |
These conditions were intolerable.
Leonard understood the necessity of subtlety in an operation like this, maintaining secrecy, keeping one's cards close, but to be housed in this... this pauper's den was nothing less than a mortal insult to his honor. He was a lieutenant-general, damn it! And a graduate master of the Royal Academy of Magecraft, to boot. To throw him into this wretched sty of a domicile -- some kind of communal residence or boarding house in the southeast quadrant of the city, complete with a filthy playground for all the squawking French bastard-babies to congregate on outside his window, disrupting his work -- but alas! Suffice it to say, General Cartwright would be filing for a larger stipend before he handed the Grail over to his masters, that was to be sure. Royal etiquette be damned! He had done what he could to shut himself off from the vile rabble of his neighbors, sealing the door and windows with rather blatant applications of earth magic, blocking all ingresses with thick slabs of polished marble, but the effort to do so had set him back by hours, even if they were rather picturesque to gaze upon... but no! The mere thought of the brutish lots outside, staining the air with their peasant breaths, was enough to drive him mad. The sacrifices one made for their country. The ritual was all but complete, waiting only on the final influx of his mana to ignite the catalyst that would call forth his Servant. The Sword of Mercy stood precisely in the center of the summoning polygram, driven with great care through the floorboards to stand upright, accepting the energies of the overlapping channels of mana. It would be a flawless invocation -- no surprise there, he was trained by the very best after all. And now to get down to it. The General took a slow, deep breath and gathered his mana, imagining all the pitiful, pathetic floristry outside wilting as he tore the life from it, laying bare the plight of these ignoble ingrates for all to -- no! Concentrating, now! He allowed his energy to enter the polygram at the point nearest him, watched and guided the flow as it spread to fill the intersecting vertices, allowing it to build upon itself as it circulated through the construct. And then, he spoke his command. "Tristram of Lyon, First Knight of Cornwall, Peer of the Table Round and Rightful Wielder of Curtana, by this rite and by my authority as Magus, I summon you! By the Name of the Invincible King whom once you served, and by the majesty of our beloved Britain, come thee forth!" There was a moment of nothing happening -- the mana cycling around and through the sword -- but Leonard was not worried. He allowed the power time to bond with itself, strengthening the whole, and sure enough, something else stood before him, at once separate from and fed by the magecraft of the summoning construct. It began as a formless outpour of light, but with each passing second it coalesced into human shape, until the light faded entire and only the form of his Servant remained, resplendent in his chivalric dress. Leonard said nothing, waiting the Spirit to orient itself. He watched as Sir Tristram flexed his gauntleted fingers and reached to seize the hilt of his holy sword, drawing it free from the floor. Pearlescent fire fell in droplets from the blade as he rotated it through the air. The knight, with his other hand, lifted his visor, revealing a youthful face, softly smiling as he looked upon the weapon. "I have missed you, old friend," he murmured, sliding the sword into the empty scabbard at his side in what appeared to be an act of reverence. He met the General's eyes and fell to one knee, bowing his head. "My fealty forever to Britain, and to the King Who Shall Come Again." Raising his gaze once more, he continued, "My liege. My commander. My Master. For the memory of Camelot, together let us win the Grail. Sir Tristram de Lyonesse accepts this pact. May we prove worthy of each other." |
"I, uh."
Frej swallowed, and fifty-some hours of wakedness dropped his brain into his gut. The distinctive hair, lopsided hat. He sat down, hard. The greatest artist and engineer of all time. "I..." Well, come on, brain, speak up. But it didn't, and he was left open-mouthed, fishing for words while standing behind his Servant. And I thought I'd summoned a pathetic Servant?! He started again, "Pleased to, uh. Plea..." Frej suddenly needed water, and scrambled for the canteen a couple feet left of the circle. Oh dear god what is he gonna think of me. Deep breath, Frej. "Pleased...to meet you." I summoned da Vinci. Leonardo da Vinci. And then he fainted. |
Attila appeared, arms crossed, slightly scowling at the taller man. But the Hun was used to meeting the gaze of men of higher stature, and this was no different. His beady eyes took in the entirety of the person who had summoned him, assessing, calculating, as any good conqueror would both prey and predator.
The man in front of him wore what, to him, were clean, crisp clothes. Attila's scowl darkened. Nice clothes were hardly suited to battle. He himself preferred his fur cloak, fraying cloth tunic, and chestguard, and the weight of the bow and quiver slung over his shoulders. But his..."Master"...had an aura of battle about him; he had seen the bloody fighting and death and pain. Perhaps this Master wouldn't be so naive. He rolled the word around on his tongue. Surely he wouldn't have to refer to this man as such, would he...? He uncrossed his arms and rolled his shoulders back. "So. Under whose name shall I conquer the world again? |
Leila watched the spirit take form, heard its words, impassively. Calculating. The precise nature of her Servant's capabilities had been imparted to her in an instant, an intimate, intuitive understanding of this entity's nature as Caster and the powers it commanded.
"Grigori Rasputin." She spoke the name as though testing its temper. Satisfactory. She began to pace about the apartment, working through permutations of the different ways the Servant's skills and her own spells could interact. Not necessarily interested in the spirit's response, she began to think aloud. "I see you cannot work magecraft of your own... one would think that a detriment to the Caster class, that you would be better suited to the role of Assassin, and yet... who would ever suspect us? Yes. We will kill them before they even know whom they face." She turned to confront the Servant. Her Servant. Rasputin. "I am able to fend for myself, with my magecraft. I take the field, you work your work in the shadows, preparing our snares, and we murder them one by one. Is this amenable?" |
The ritual was a complete success, in no small part to her beloved Mousse. The War, the Grail, and Lucienne's very future were guaranteed.
Except. "You- You filthy little beast!" the woman screamed, the furious flick of her wrist making a glob of pus and congealed blood slide down her fingers and squelch onto the floor. Her perfect, unstoppable Servant had splattered the room and all of its charmingly fake decor with rot. Worse yet, her frock was ruined, and not even her perfume could cover the stink. She gagged and covered her mouth with a shaking hand. Luci's little Mousse, on the other hand, was content with licking dark stains off of the floor. |
Pelles took in the quarters into which his Master had elected to summon him. Lavish. Exorbitant, even. He had once lived in such halls, framed by every luxury, but such thoughts were those of Adam as he gazed upon the burning portico of Eden, shivering upon the wasteland steppe, beset by the world's predations -- the reminiscence of the damned.
No, far more close to his wretched heart was the recollection of Carbonec's silent corridors, the dust of decades gathering upon its irrelevant throne, the incessant sigh of the sea and its indifference to the pathos of his shore-side laments. The Fisher King took in all that surrounded him, and decided in an instant: this woman did not know what it was to suffer. So be it. For nigh a century, he had borne the guilt of Camelot's collective sins; the weight of one more soul would be nothing new. He unflexed the fingers of his left hand and called it to him, the weapon, the Dolorous Spear. The Godslayer. Gripped it tightly, and felt the familiar bite of the thorns. Yes. With it in his grasp, there was no Servant, no Heroic Spirit conjured from the dross of time, that could stand against him. Pelles watched fresh blood run from his hand, down the haft, tumbling to floor. Saw the ears of the witch's creature prick at the scent of his perpetual dying. "I bleed for the wounds of the land," he observed, lifting his one functioning eye to meet his Master's aghast gaze. "And it seemeth your brachez hath the taste for it. Such is the plight of Man, is it not? Abominations though we be unto nature, it shirketh not to consume us. Do you not, also, find this just?" |
Rasputin bowed slightly, keeping his face leveled evenly at his Master. Inwardly he seethed. The descent from the Grail to the world had gifted him with knowledge. He remembered his death, as well as the time after his death. But even after he had been frozen in the river Niva, a legacy had lived on in his name. But, no! It was wrong! All wrong! Twisted, forged in to something vile, something foreign and alien reshaped by his enemies. A mere humble man had been turned in to a monster of debauchery, a demon wearing the mask of a god fearing servant to the throne. A lie spread and remade and spread again so much that the truth would have been much less believable. Rumors of dealings and sorcery lived in the shadows from which he had emerged. This would all be dealt with. Now, Rasputin had the power. He only had to work this around the obstacle standing before him: His 'Master'.
"You will find that not all is as it appears. Magic takes many forms, forms alien to even you. However, your strategy is approachable. I will make arrangements." He stepped backwards, melding in to the shadows from which he had manifested. As his body met the hard wall, he had the appearance of melting in to it. The air carried his chilled voice on a whispered draft. "I will be watching. Always...watching." |
"Darby, let's leave it at just 'Darby'. And you'll be working on a smaller scale this go around."
Isaac Darby Hemlock walked around the man slowly, as if sizing up a patient of the equestrian variety. He made 'hm' and 'hrm' sounds here and there, as if checking for various things before he threw his hands up. "Forgive me, where are my manners? Can I offer you anything? You must be hungry after your, er, journey I suppose is the word. Would you like a um...a Curly Wurly?" Isaac produced the treat from his pocket before looking slightly abashed. Here before him stood a man who looked as if he had conquered the world many times over, a man so legendary he had been taken up by the Grail itself to participate in a legendary war, and Isaac had just offered the man a child's snack bar. He decided to double down however, and figured it would be best to continue the offer instead of rescinding in the face of such a person. |
Leilah frowned, vexed at the Spirit's retort. She had assumed she would be in control in this relationship, and Rasputin apparently considered himself her equal, if not her superior. She closed her eyes and focused for a moment on the mana running through the Command Seals concealed under her glove. She would likely need them before this was through.
"Assuming you will always be listening, as well," she answered, "then I believe our first task should be one of espionage. I expect nothing less than flawless observation of all six other masters and their Servants, while I am engaged in parley at the Palace." Leilah turned to where she knew the Spirit still hovered, his presence apparent only through the contractual bond they shared. "Do not under any circumstances engage the other Servants in combat. Our war must be a war of shadows, and with that in mind, take extra care around Assassin. He may be a match for your black arts." Her orders given, Leilah stepped into the washroom to make herself presentable for the meeting. She did not expect most of the other Masters to even accept the invitation, but the opportunity to take measure of those who did was too valuable to pass up. |
A breeze rolled lazily over the furnishings in the room, caressing the runner on the bed until it finally rose upwards to drift across Leilah's ear, carrying the hint of Rasputin's voice.
"I hear and obey. Matters will be arranged." His tone was a mix of calculated obedience and just the slightest shade of impatience. With another sigh of air, he was off. But he would always be watching. The invisible figure floated through the night. The palace was his destination, but he must set to work. He had little time. He would have to start small. But it was a start. And it would grow. Always watching. Rasputin plunged downward through the night, extending out on to the streets that were well before the palace. Off to the side of these ancient pathways rested even older soil. The dust from which Man had been formed. The dust that which Man tread upon. And eventually, the dust that Man would return to. For this minor blip on the timeline of the world, the dust here was simply dirt serving as the anchor for greenery. It would suffice. Here he would break ground. Rasputin drew in upon himself, siphoning the mana flowing in to him through his bond with Leilah. Through his 'limited' magic, he wrought the power in to material form. In his unseen hands, he held a shovel. A mere shovel. But he had also been a mere man. With this peasant's tool, he would move the very earth. He would stir the dust. The dust had seen all, would see all that there was. And for this mere flicker of time, he would see as it saw. He dug. And yet he did not. He burrowed, but did not disturb. Deeper in to the ground, Rasputin channeled his strength in to this hole that was not. It outgrew its definition, shaping and molding to become a series of passages. They crisscrossed, running in to each other, spiraling out deeper in to the lower groundwork, tendrils of hollowed halls snaking around the hallowed walls of the palace, only to branch further outward. The tunelling voids grew slowly as the hours progressed, feeling tenderly through the works and infrastructure of the city that lay before them. They pressed in to nooks and crannies, mere inches to basements and cellar doors, of forgotten Avignon passages and ducts and sewers. Openings that could be cut off or exposed at a moment's notice. For the limited time he had, Rasputin worked. He had only extended his network of territory to a fifth of what he was capable of around the palace. It was crude, and yet refined in its simplicity. For everywhere but the grounds of the palace, he could feel the footsteps and life of all. He extended his lair's roof to mere feet and inches to the ground where he could, sensing the slice of city teeming above him. For the time being, he would do as he was told. He would watch. He would observe. All would stand above him, as so many had thought they had done before. All would trod above his sanctum of twisted paths that played mockery to those above. He would note from where each Master approached as they entered the area above him. And after business was over and when the time was right, he would see where they ran to. Rasputin's grin was lost to the shadows in which his sightless body resided. He would be among the station that mankind had forgotten had once been theirs. He waited. For the time being, that is what he would do. Rasputin would be waiting. And always watching. |
"I am here because no other would answer your summons." Dark eyes turned from the older to the younger. "Open the windows. Your ritual is done. The mana here is stale and disgusting."
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Ebby's jaw remained slightly opened, and she looked as though she wanted to make a move towards the window, but paused mid-motion and looked at her mother, whose eyes remained fixed on their 'servant.'
"Nonetheless," Mia replied, "here you are and that will do." She looked Assassin up and down, gradually catching up with the influx of information as it worked through her mind. She had made no plans regarding which servant they would summon. Now it was time to think strategy. "Yes, Ebby, open the window, dear. It is stuffy in here." Mia turned back to Assaasin and decided to introduce herself, at least formally. "My name is Mia, and this" gesturing to where Ebby was opening the window and still remaining quiet, "is my daughter, Ebseba. If you have any suggestions about how the three of us can win the grail, we are happy to talk. However," she eyed him up and down again, "we might want to get you some new clothes." |
Your brachez hath the taste for it.
Luci gasped and swept towards her familiar, scooping it off of the floor. "Mousse! Non!" The instant that the animal was in her grasp, however, she couldn't bare to hold it anywhere near herself, especially with its tongue lapping at the sticky mess on its nose. Mousse wiggled and squirmed with the pleased wag of its entire rear and the flutter of its wings. "You horrible little thing," Luci scolded, then looked back to her oozing mess of a Servant. "And you! You're ruining our entire schedule!" Not to mention the frock that she'd worn for this very moment. |
The incline of his head was Kutoyis' only reply to the suggestion. What he did or did not wear hardly mattered. "I had thought that we would slaughter our enemies to win, yet neither of you seem... capable."
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Pelles tilted his head to one side in consideration at the woman's comment.
"Pray, forgive me, Mistress, how have I caused any delay thus far?" A welter of pale blood and infected ichor ran from the lesion on his thigh, down his leg to the floor. The muscles around his ruptured eye twitched in the approximation of a blink. |
"How? I can hardly be seen in public like this! Don't you realize that we have a meeting to attend?" Luci huffed and stormed into the bedroom, where she dumped Mousse onto the bed. She smoothed her hands over her skirt before turning towards her Servant once again. "Now, that's quite enough of that. I won't have you dripping everywhere. Tidy yourself up!"
|
Mia looked at Kutoyis. "If by that you mean can we kill an enemy face to face, then no, we probably can't, but there are other ways."
"First things first. There is a meeting planned between all the masters at Ruler's consecrated ground. Shall we go?" |
Leonardo would have been shocked if he hadn't felt his summoner's own misgivings when he entered the plane. Instead he sighed, and proceeded to pick the slight young man and put him on the nearest cozy-looking surface, and waited.
Picking up his notebook, he began sketching a few simple designs for some items that might be of some use. |
Attila looked the man up and down. Was this Darby...mocking...him? Yet he sensed no malice, and as much as he loathed sweets, it seemed the reasonable option was to accept this offering. He took the candy in one gloved hand and nodded slightly, unwanted memories of the his downfall rousing themselves from their deep slumber. Having choked to death, this food made him rather uncomfortable, and he slipped the bar into a fold on his cloak.
"So tell me. Why is it that you reek of blood and war, and yet seem such a...timid person? Humble..." No, there's something more than that... But Attila couldn't quite figure what it was, what this man was hiding. He shook his head. it was of no consequence. "...And what is your plan for this war? What did you have in mind for me?" |
The Fisher King stared at her for a moment longer, bowed his head and suppressed a sigh. She was his Master, after all.
"Merely know, my lady, that covering such wounds doth naught for the anguish that I bear. I prefer to wear my suffering as a mantle, spun by cruelest fate, but for thy sake, I shall gird myself more befitting of thy noble company." Pelles slowly raised his head, and as he did, power streamed from his sores, his lacerations and stigmata, his eyes and mouth, forming around his cadaverous frame in a chrysalis of dun feathers. It lasted merely an instant, the inverse molting sheathing his entire body until the magic subsided, taking form and hardening into his kingly armor. So very, very regal... Fresh blood ran from beneath the crown of thorns upon his brow, trickling into the ruin of his eye, down his stained and battered armor. Such as he was, it would have to suffice. |
"You intend for me to join you?" He crossed his arms, his weight shifting to one side. "With new clothes. Join you... with new clothes. I see. I am not just a Servant, but a doll as well."
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That feels like a bed.
...Oh. It is a bed. ... ...Wait, how did I...? He did remember someone carrying him over, but the only person... Frej sat bolt upright, the sudden movement draining blood from his strangely heavy head. "Shoot. Sorry. I'm awake. Sorry. Haven't slept in, uh, days." He realized he was speaking to a blank wall, and turned around to find himself face to face with a pile of books, and his Servant just behind it. "I, uh. Hi. Sorry. ...Ooh. What are those?" he wondered aloud, leaning over the books as da Vinci's sketches caught his eye. |
The impatient tap of heels against the floor and a critical eye awaited The Fisher King once his change in appearance had finally completed. To think that this was her perfect Servant. Laughable. But Lucienne could still feel his power, his potential. This war would be a true struggle, but it would be theirs to win. "Something of an improvement, at least. This get-together is to welcome the Ruler and to witness the start of the war, and thanks to you, mon agneau, I need to dress again."
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"Ruler... yes, I can feel her edict upon us even now. She has forbidden the Servants from joining battle until this summit reaches its conclusion." Pelles shrugged, the gesture almost imperceptible beneath his pauldrons. "A pity. I would have liked to test the temper of our competition." He looked about for where Lucienne had gone to dress herself, realizing that she likely could not hear him.
"With that in mind, have you given any thought to how we will proceed in approaching our enemies?" |
Isaac, or "Darby" as he was going to go by for the time being, produced a second snack candy from a pocket and unwrapped it. He took small bites out of it as he spoke.
"The nail that sticks out gets hammered, mate. And if this war is going to be up to snuff there's a lot of nails with names sticking out and everyone involved is carrying a rather large hammer." He took another bite from his candy. It was fattening, but that was fine. He needed the fat. He had been putting some of it away, but he would most likely need it by the night's end. If he survived the night's end. "I fancy myself a daft old codger, and if all goes well they will too. I don't know about these other so called 'Masters', but I don't plan on cackling and pointless exposition and open fighting. That's a young man's game and frankly I don't have the grit for it. No." He sat down at the edge of the bed, removing his shoes for a battered but serviceable pair of boots. They looked as if they had been everywhere. He continued to speak as he tied them up. "Sod the other servants. I'm not worried about them. You shan't either unless they just really get in our way. But I think we shall be gunning for these silly 'Masters' instead. He finished tying his boots, standing up and giving Atilla the classic shit-eating grin that all old men adopted from time to time. "'sides, why fight the fangs and get bit when you can just cut the head from the snake, am I right?" |
"Merde, my hair is ruined. Mousse!" The call from the washroom had the dog's head shoot up from its nest of blankets. "Start cleaning up that mess, and no eating it." There was a pause while Mousse untangled itself, hopped down onto the floor, and trotted back to the front room. Running water, the rustle of clothing. Flowery soaps and expensive perfume had no real hope of cutting through the stench her Servant had left.
"There's no rush for us to make our move," Luci eventually answered. "If the other participants can eliminate one another, all the better." And if her familiar went ahead and licked up a dark, congealed glob sliding its way down the wall, she was none the wiser. "You're more than enough to destroy the weaker of our enemies as you are now. There's only so many places in Avignon to hide. This soirée will be the perfect opportunity to see who we shouldn't waste our time with." |
Pelles heard her words, caring little for most of them.
"That being so, I must ask, then, mistress, if you chance to be in possession of a reality marble, should the need for it arise. I presume you are aware of my reason for asking." |
Attila blinked, taking in the man's rapid chatter. Had he just been likened to a hammer? All in all, it was a good plan, but with one basic, massive flaw:
"And if all the other "Masters" think the same way? Surely you do not intend for me to stay with you every minute of the day, Dar-...Master." |
"Why not? It's good country here. See the sights. Good dining I'm told. In the day time we can be tourists, and at night, give everyone else a good what-for and all that."
He clapped his hands together, the synapses in his brain misfiring and giving him a horrid, awful idea. "You can even play the part. You can by my, er, wossname...manservant, even! Aye, aye, just an old fool and his manservant, taking in the scenery on holiday. We could even stop for an ice cream. Don't think they'd really be so bold as to attack us in broad daylight in the crowded streets, do you?" |
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