|
[M] FATE: Ragnarök Revival
Sooooo.... right, physicality. Objective reality. Matter and molecules and... all those dull things. Only a dim mind would stoop to call them chains. Still, a change of state for the unfettered intellect, the immortal spirit...
"Okay, enough of that, brain. Focusing. Why are we here??? It was... it was... oh. Right. The Grail. Right." Merlin begins pacing around the room she's found herself in, and promptly walks into a shelf. An easy thing to do, inside a lightless janitor closet. "Well, I never!" she says, blinking a mage-light into existence as she smooths her skirts. "Is this your idea of a joke?" she asks to no one in particular. "I look like a clown and a whore made a very poor decision together! Though, I suppose we are in France... ugh." She is rather more pleased to notice the litany of Command Seals decorating her entire body. More power is always appreciated. "Actually... skin me like a saint! I'm one belle dame sans merci!" She immediately claps her hands over her mouth in shock and disgust. "Oh lord, where did that come from?! French? Seriously? Ughhh it tastes like frog vomit. Damn you, clairvoyance! Damn you!!!!!" She shakes her fist impotently at the low ceiling. "*ahem* What was I doing again? Hmm... new body, new clothes, Command Seal... the Grail! Right, right." |
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. |
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 his Servant upon theirs, 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. 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 were the only sounds in the room. "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. As charming as the city of Avignon was, the La Mirande had not reached Lucienne's expectations in the least. The only benefits thusfar were the size of the suite, which was absolutely necessary if she was going to spend more than a single day there, and that the cathedral was a mere three minutes away.
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?" |
"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 weathered and beaten glass vial. Its contents sloshed about, the unmarked bottle offering no indication as to what it held. Isaac could only assume what it was. If the whisperings were true, it was powerful stuff. Important people had fallen to its use by other important people. At least 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. After a few minutes, he nodded in satisfaction to the summoning circle he had laid out. He made a mental note to remove it once this was all over, as he would most likely not get his deposit back on the room. He chuckled, worrying over something so small in the face of something much greater than him. Everything was ready. Now all that was required was the vial. He unceremoniously twisted and tossed the stopper from the vial across the room. The black liquid shifted, and with a grim determination he knocked the contents back in to his mouth. The taste was vile. It burned down his throat, and he could feel it quickly eating away at him, attempting to kill him. His mana flowed through both him and the circle, pulling at the spirit of the Servant that would use such a horrid thing while also working his power through his own body. The poison was isolated, refused to allow itself to metabolize. Sequestered away inside his own body, he quietly cheated death as he brought another life in to this world. |
She remembers fire, consuming a calm, Parisian morning even as it devoured her eyes, her flesh, the final sensation of her mortal existence the smell of her own melting skin as it sloughed from brittle bones, before the flames reached her brain. And that had not been the end, oh no. Greater fires, immortal fires, awaited La Voisin as bitter old eyes closed on one world and opened on a new, the insatiable pyre of her unholy master. Sealed within a coffin of stone, packed tight with burning coal, eternity is smoke and pain for the great murderess, the greatest murderess! How many had she slain, gutting them upon the altar, tearing lifeless children from eviscerated wombs? And how many more dead from the bane she peddled: infidel lovers and cuckolds alike, all to glut the diseased passions of those people, her people! Yes, she had killed them with glee, dozens becoming hundreds becoming thousands, oh the terror! Was she not La Voisin? Damnation was a formality for the greatest slayer who had ever lived.
How bizarre, then, how sickening to have her smoldering cairn smashed open above her, invaded by light, disastrous light! The coals suffocated at its touch, leaving her cold and naked beneath its hovering judgment. It felt holy. And to hear it call to her, her! La Voisin! Oh, the irony! How sick was that lecher God, to bind her to this righteous purpose? She, who had swept across Paris as a plague, turning love to treacherous death wherever she should pass... to frame that now as some sort of Heaven-spawned punishment, making her the instrument of divine castigation... preposterous! Ribald and gross! She was a tool of the Devil, vile, obscene, bane to all mothers, and now to be called upon by Almighty God? Heinous obscenity! Catherine shrieks within her burnt-out skull as the light wraps about her like chains and hauls her from her charnel seat. And suddenly she is once more in France -- she would know its corrupt air anywhere, it never changes. Home. Standing before the man who would now function as her Master -- she knows this now, imparted knowledge by the wretched light. Studying him, Catherine cannot but nod in approval at his brazen, suicidal magics. To use his own body as a catalyst... well, he isn't Sathanas Domini, but he might suffice for now. La Voisin curtsies in proper fashion, in the same motion proffering the Deck to her master. "Draw boldly, monseigneur" she implores him, "But know, every card is Death! We will murder them all!" Her cackle is cacophonous. |
The circle is prepared, a task of rote precision for her, impossible to get wrong. Woven of divine Words forced to conform into sublime equations, it is a perfection of magecraft, self-reinforcing. Leila carefully places the dagger in the center of the construct, its fetid aura almost palpable in the still air.
Tracing over the scar of foreign magic branded into her hand, Leila uses the Command Seals to ground herself for the ritual. Her voice, normally so reserved in university halls, cries out with authority. "Heed my words, for I am the speaker of the Truth Ineffable. I set aside all good in the world, and turn my back upon all evil in the world! My will creates the Logos, my soul expresses the Kosmos, I give voice through the Grail and bind you to my purpose! Accursed spirit, rise to my call and let us ascend to the Absolute! I pronounce perfection through the Circle of Godhead! Enter the axis of Time and be bound to my command!" |
Falling through blackness, surrounded by the infinite dark of churning ice. The void is broken by light, by bright flashes and cold tables, then returned to the black embrace of the soil, only to be disturbed once again by the dark of sky and fire. The unceremonious pyre burns away what the ice took, the remains scattering across the skies. The world turns, and the ash scatters eternal. Through famine, through prosperity, through tumultuous oceans and the continents between them, the ash bears witness to the struggles of all mankind. To the falls of empires, to the rising of others, to furious atomic desolation of those before. The winds blow the ash across all lands, and throughout the span of one hundred years the ash sees all. And throughout this span of the century, the ash does not rest. Is not allowed to rest, by its own words from when the ash was still dust that walked upon the Earth.
The ash is whirled by wind, and it flurries for a moment before it is pulled along the skies of the world. The continent rolls below it, civilization and its absence running together as it is forced upon the cityscape that is Avignon. The ash is rushed through the streets, through pipes and chimneys, tossed about and dispersed in to nothing. With eyes that are not eyes, it observes the woman occupying the lone bedroom. With a voice that is not a voice, words formed without a throat, the emptiness speaks in a tone rendered hoarse by river and fire. "Grigori Rasputin answers the call of the Master." Cold grips the room at the words spoken with no mouth. Each breath with no lungs spreads small lattices of thin ice across every surface. With no body, The Ash of Rasputin bows to its Master. |
Isaac stared for a moment, taking the Servant in before his brain could manufacture a response. He did not expect them to be so...easy on the eyes.
"Right, well. Nice to meet you too. Cards eh? Can't say I was ever great with them. Back in the day, the boys called me 'The Goldmine'. But let's see..." Isaac's hand fluttered across the deck that was offered before him, feeling along the top of each card as though they would tell him their secrets. He pulled at one, ignoring the mental version of alarm bells in his head before he remembered that a servant tied to the Grail was most likely not offering him a mere pack of dollar store playing cards. In this particular case, his hand was faster than his brain, and old fingers tugged away a card from the rest of its brethren. "Silly me. It's what I get for being an old fool. Well Voisau- Voisa- Voi-oh confound it, Catherine, what happens now?" |
"A Servant who cannot take physical form... I wonder if there has ever been such a case before?" Leila does not insult the Heroic Spirit by attempting to look in the direction of the voice, instead electing to set about cleaning the scattered ritual supplies.
"The Grail has granted me knowledge of your abilities," she says to empty air. "We will need to formulate a strategy, something unconventional as we cannot engage in open battle like the other contenders. I believe our first order of business will be to establish intelligence on each of our opponents. You are capable of this, yes?" The numerologist kneels over the now-useless summoning circle, extending her palm with eyes closed. Computed to an infinitesimal thinness, her Tarterus Tetragrammata flashes for an instant of singular fire, a matriced square of flame imposed over the magic circle, incinerating the reagents without touching the floor below. "I must attend Ruler's summons in the cathedral come morning. We have been forbidden to strike until the meeting closes. Take no overt action until then, though I trust you can handle yourself without direct orders from me. You know your role in this." |
The Ash of Rasputin sighs, more for the expulsion of air than actual exasperation. Drawing upon mana from his master, the ash is disturbed as something is forged from the pure aether flowing through the air. Through a bright light, a tall jointed mannequin clothed in the humble black of a monk stands before her. Its visage is of Rasputin himself, although twisted in mockery upon such an uncanny display. With dead eyes it looks down upon its Master. There is no mouth, yet sound issues from wherever the ash may be.
"I am more than capable of such a task. I have my ways. By your morning matters shall be attended to. With your permission, I may lay claim to the lands of Avignon." |
"Oh! Ohoho, monsieur! It seems I was gravely mistaken. We are not forsaken, after all! The Devil lurks even as the shadow to this light of God called the Grail! Behold!"
La Voisin holds out her now empty hand, reaching, and the card levitates free of Isaac's grasp, hovering in the air between them, where it bursts into flame. Burning the fabric of reality itself, the fire spreads into a churning gateway, flames describing utter nothingness at its center. And in the depths of that nothingness, three pairs of infernal eyes stare back, growing nearer. Nearer, until the shapes of unearthly things can be discerned, prowling toward the gate, sometimes loping on four legs, sometimes striding like kings on two, bodies made of horns and thorns, impossibly-hinged jaws drooling lightning that coruscates in rings down their inhumanly-articulate limbs. They step through, and they make no sound, merely writhe in mind-bending motions, arraying themselves around their newfound master. "See! A token of blessing from our Infernal Lord. Each of these fiends is near in strength to a Servant. Such powerful weapons at our disposal!" And again, the laughter. |
"Very well. Begin your labor, there is much to be done. I am going to rest."
What am I going to tell the cleaning staff when they see that puppet he's created? Far be it from I to question his methods, I suppose... |
Isaac gripped at his chest as his body forcibly drained mana in to the Noble Phantasm of La Voisin. The change caught him unaware, and for a brief moment all of his mana was diverted in to her. The diseases he held at bay assaulted him for a brief moment, sending him in to a horrendous coughing fit before he recovered. Cancers and carcinogens expelled themselves from his mouth as the flow of his own mana attempted to stabilize itself. With minimal effort he recovered his body, sealing away the diseases inside of him in their own little tumors in case of another drain. This time had caught him off balance, but it wouldn't happen again.
Coming back to the world before him, Mr. Hemlock took in the...things in front of him. Their impossible physiology baffled him, and all his knowledge on the workings of humans and animals gave him nothing as he studied them. "Bloody hell, what are those things? Is that what that does? Summons demons? I was expecting more along the lines of the Seven of Diamonds or something, not the...the Three of Devils or what have you. Are they trained? Can you command them?" Isaac continued to cough a bit, reaching back out as his circuits recovered to steal back the disease he had breathed back in to the world. Rummaging through a bag, he produced a a few candy bars and opened one as he watched La Voisin, giving his body something to process as his mana began to smooth out once again. |
"Oh, but of course they are, mon chéri. Totally obedient to my every whim. They will slaughter on command, and they are frightfully good at it. Shall we unleash them? Hmm?"
Catherine watches her master flounder in the passing death-spasm. "Oh, but look what a mess you made. Not to worry!" At some silent impulse, the nearest of the fiends coils downward, a bulbous, sparking tongue inhaling the ruinous bio-matter. "And, you should know, mon bonhomme, my Arcana hold many secrets. This is but the first you've seen unveiled. Prepare yourself for wonders, and you shall not be disappointed." |
With a gust of wind the windows were thrown back. The air rattled the mannequin from its balance, and its form was mere dust before it reached the floor.
Upon the night sky, the ash whirled and drifted downward. In to the drains and sewers it went, down in to the bowels of the city. And as Rasputin moved, he labored. He dug. And yet he did not. He burrowed, but did not disturb. Deeper in to the ground, Rasputin channeled his strength in to these holes that were 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. It was crude, and yet refined in its simplicity. For everywhere but the grounds of the palace and the nearby church 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 ash 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. |
"Think so eh? You're a lady full of surprises."
Isaac took a bite from his candy bar, studying the demons and the Servant as he chewed ponderously. "No, I don't think we should unleash them just yet. As much as I would enjoy laying waste to the others, we're bound by a few rules. One of them is no mucking about with the other blokes until some sort of awkward meet and greet on holy ground tomorrow. So, we've got a night to strategize, and er...get to know each other, I suppose. What all do you know about the modern world anyway?" |
The bruises appeared shortly after Jasper and Benedict had asked him. The Holy Grail War. A fight for an object that was said could grant any wish that was asked of it. A true prize, for any mage that was willing to risk their life in the pursuit of it.
"Will you join?" Erik had no wish. He had everything he wanted, here in the Clock Tower. He could live, and he could study, and there was nothing else he could want. "A lot of resources have been spent on you as it is, after all." It looked a bit like a gecko. His hand raised to the overhead light, he blinked at the faint red marks. White spots danced on the edges of his vision, where the lamp shone from around his fingers. Erik had found his proper clothes and started to pack his supplies when he'd noticed it. A gecko. Or, maybe a rabbit. Clouds looked different from above. It wasn't a long flight, but it was long enough for his eyes to get tired. Scraps of paper and a couple stained napkins littered his lap, each with intricate summoning circles drawn onto them. It would be important to get it right the first time. He had to practice. There was nothing to do for those two hours, nothing but practice and watching the clouds. He could probably make clouds of his own, if he practiced. Water wasn't his best element, but he'd been getting better with it. Maybe he could keep one in a jar. He may not have spoken a word of French, but Erik, bags and all, managed to find a small place to eat in time for dinner. There was a house he'd been told he could set up in, but it was already far too late in the evening for that. The mana here was much different than home. Stagnating. There weren't mages here to make the earth breathe, to use its power and remind it, every now and then, to freshen the air. There was enough money for a room in a nearby hotel. The house could wait for another day. Erik's bags went unpacked and his clothes unchanged when he fell into bed. He had no wish. But he was to summon his servant that day. He sat in bed, his legs crossed under him, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he considered what the day held. There wouldn't be time for breakfast if he was going to get everything ready. He didn't like skipping breakfast. The bed was pushed up as close against the wall as it would go, the small table and pair of chairs that had once sat at the window now shoved out of the hotel room completely. The entire floor was taken up by the circle he'd drawn, the same one he'd been drawing for three days. The catalyst, given to him by Benedict, was prepared in the center of it all. He was certain nothing could go wrong. Every step, every line, was as perfect as he could possibly make them. Erik hoped it wouldn't be a rabbit. |
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. |
"Yes, now that you mention it, I do feel a strangely powerful urge not to act. Am I invited to this soirée of yours? I'd like to meet the putain-petit who thinks she can compel me. You just know it's a woman. They're all jealous, all begging me for love potions, and then they come back asking for poison to kill their paramours!"
Catherine stares blankly at her Master for a second. "What was your question again? Oh, this modern world. The... Grail... if we must name it, saw fit to educate me about the nature of the times. I suspect this country is just as corrupt as the last time I appalled it with my presence. We'll find out, I suppose." With a wave, La Voisin dismisses her familiars and takes a seat for herself. "And what of you, monseigneur? What do you know of this world? Do you know what men and women will do to each other, in the decadence of too much time? Do you know the name of La Voisin? Why exactly are you seeking that execrable chalice?" |
Having successfully conquered the closet (by definitely not melting the door off its hinges), the great wizard now explores the cathedral at large. It's fittingly ostentatious, one thing the French are good for, she supposes. The Grail should have no trouble manifesting here.
But what to do about all the people? "Hmm..." she mutters, striking a pensive pose while she studies the various nobodies gawking at the architecture. And that one ill-mannered lad gawking at her. "Go ahead and stare!" she shouts at him from across the vestibule. "It's not like I dressed myself!" Hmm... I wonder if I'm cute. I bet I'm cute. I should find a mirror. Merlin walks off toward the deeper recesses of the church, away from the crowd. "Okay, now I'm supposed to do something. It's... it's... okay, let's try this." The wizard squares herself, holding her left arm out and focusing her mana. The sudden surge of godlike power knocks her off her feet. "Ohhhhhhhhkay, I'm really, really badass. Got it." She climbs back to her feet and assumes the position once more. "Dialing it back just a hair, and there we go... ATTENTION ALL GRAIL WARRIORS (heheh, that's good), BY MY ULTRA-SPECIAL AMAZING META-GALACTIC COMMAND SEAL WITH GLITTER, I FORBID ANY OF YOU FROM FIGHTING UNTIL WE HAVE OUR MEETING TOMORROW. ...AND SOMEBODY BRING DRINKS! OKAY, THAT'S IT, SEE YOU SOON. ~Lin" She lets out a contented sigh. "Okay that should do it, and as for the crowd, a simple bounded field ought to do the trick. That shouldn't hurt anything, right HG? HG? Aww, I guess you're busy. Oh well, what's the worst that could happen? ... ...okay, well, a lot of things, but I'll be careful! You just... keep doing your thing, summon those Servants. I'll be fiiiiiine. I'll be fine!" |
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?" |
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 all of my plans!" Not to mention the frock that she'd worn for this very moment. "I am not going to spend my evening cleaning up your... your filth!" |
Pelles tilts his head to one side in consideration at the woman's outburst.
"Pray, forgive me, Mistress, how precisely may I make amends?" A welter of pale blood and infected ichor runs from the lesion on his thigh, down his leg to the floor. The muscles around his ruptured eye twitch in the approximation of a blink. |
"I do not want to hear that tone coming from you! Amends? Honestly!" 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. "This is where I'm living, you know. I won't have you dripping everywhere and leaving that awful smell. Tidy yourself up!"
|
Mr. Kite’s teeth sank deep into the burger he’d procured from a local bistro he hadn’t bothered to get the name of. The deep crimson of the ketchup blob that oozed its way onto the corner of his mouth mirrored the hue and shine of the blood that danced from his palm like steam caught in a breeze above a hot spring in mid December. It swam through the air, conforming to the shape of the circle he’d found in his father’s journal before gently descending upon the same image caked in dried blood from the previous nights.
He’d spent almost every night in this fashion since his arrival in Avignon. Standing in the crudely furnished garage he’d procured to serve as his lodgings, illuminated by a menagerie of candles and lamps as his blood danced through the air before falling into the necessary shape and alighting on the concrete floor. Hypothetically, he could have finished the circle in one night, but the journal had strongly warned against it. The repeated rituals served two purposes: Firstly, ensuring that he didn’t risk dying of blood loss. And secondly, ensuring that circle would be all the stronger from the layering. It was the same principle as using multiple coats of paints. Ensuring the first wouldn’t be stripped away by the elements and adding to the deepness with each additional layer. Shoving the last bits of beef and condiments into his mouth, Mr. Kite wiped his face with a thin paper napkin and bandaged the gash in his palm. He fell into one of the numerous armchairs that littered the abandoned auto repair shop and compared the symbols on the ground to the ones in the journal. Satisfied, he snapped the old leather bound tome shut and let out a deep sigh. “Seven should be enough,” he muttered to himself before taking in the stage for the most important part of the ritual. He liked Avignon. Having spent the majority of his adult life working in alleys, the cramped nature of the city felt welcoming to him. Originally, he’d rented an apartment to serve as his base of operations, but upon seeing how small the accommodations were and thinness of the complex’s walls, he informed the super he would not be staying there after all and shook her hand with an apology. The trickle of blood unleashed by the small prick on the underside of his ring told him that the woman also managed this abandoned mechanic’s shop and after some persuasion, he was able to convince her to rent him that space instead. Thankfully, the space still had the running water and bathroom the workers and customers had used in it’s hayday. And though the plumbers had been hesitant and more than a tad perplexed when he asked them to install a shower in the old garage, a handshake and hefty sum of Euros was all he’d needed to assuage their concerns. So he’d spent his days furnishing his secret base with all the used furniture and appliances he could get his hands on and his nights repeating the ritual to craft the strongest summoning circle he could manage. He eyed the clocks that adorned the walls around him. Nine out of twelve of them proclaimed the time 11:58 PM. He rose from his seat wearily and flipped to the needed page in the journal. “Alright, let’s see if this works,” he spoke to the empty room. He was about to begin before remembering that he’d forgotten an important detail. His bandaged hand grabbed a remote from a nearby table and a button press later the garage was filled the cacophonous thumping and guttural wails of Rage Against The Machine. “Perfect,” he grinned to himself as he stretched and adjusted his posture to ensure the blood and magic circuits that it utilized would flow easily. He extended the hand that had minutes before unleashed the dancing blood that made the circle he now loomed over and raised the journal to his eyes before he began reciting the words of the summoning between the cries of the ever enthusiastic Zach de la Rocha. “Heros antiguis.” “Fuck you, I won’t do what ya tell me…” “Audient vocem sanguinis mei.” “Fuck you, I won’t do what ya tell me…” “Veni foras! Enim sanguis meus novi postulata…” “Fuck you, I won’t do what ya tell me!” “Victoria!” “Fuck you, I won’t do what ya tell me!” “Servus meus es tu! Et ego…” “FUCK YOU I WON’T DO WHAT YA TELL ME!” “VIR DOMINUS!” The red glow of the circle illuminated the smug grin upon Mr. Kite’s face as he quivered in anticipation to see what great hero his blood had called forth. |
The Fisher King stares at her for a moment longer, bows his head and suppresses a sigh. She is 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 raises his head, and as he does, power streams from his sores, his lacerations and stigmata, his eyes and mouth, forming around his cadaverous frame in a chrysalis of dun feathers. It lasts merely an instant, the inverse molting sheathing his entire body until the magic subsides, taking form and hardening into his kingly armor. So very, very regal... Fresh blood runs 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 is, it will have to suffice. |
"Some birds can be a bit barmy, aye. What do I want with the Grail eh? That's...a good question."
What did an old tosser like him want with the Grail? He had spent all this time wondering if the thing was even real, he had never even thought that far ahead. He had always been wrapped up in his work, he had never given himself time for a wife. There had been girls, yes, but never one to bring home. No time for a family. He had grown old now, old and alone with his thoughts. He pondered for a moment as he chewed at his candy bar. "I think" he said, "I would wish for a lot of Curly Wurlys. Not as a serious wish mind you. I just don't know what to want for in this world. Who knows how it grants wishes? You wish for peace, peace can be achieved by wiping out all life. Ask to remove all the bad from the world and people can become soulless vegetables. I don't really know how a magic cup tackles conceptual wish granting, but until I know I plan to keep my wishing very materialistic. I'm not much of a greedy man mind you, I just haven't the foggiest. Ah well, I suppose there's time, right?" |
Most Servants are summoned into our plane of reality with at least a general idea of their purpose in being there and the state of the world they’re entering.
Don Quixote was not most servants. As such when the eyes of the aging Spaniard standing proudly in his shoddily homemade suit of armor blinked open to take in the room, his first reaction was to let out what must have sounded to him a triumphant laugh. In reality, it was closer to the cackle of a mad man. “Rejoice, people of the world!” he declared to the empty room with a sweeping gesture, “For the Holy Grail has bid Don Quixote de La Mancha to return from Avalon and once again battle the forces of evil on God’s Green Earth!” The self proclaimed knight stroked his greying goatee in a pensive sense of accomplishment before finally noticing that he was not alone. The Mad Knight beamed and embraced the young man like a long lost brother. “Sancho!” he proclaimed, pulling away to get a good look at the lad, “My the years have been kind to you! I dare say you look younger than when we parted!” Don Quixote suddenly remembered himself and quickly adopted a chivalrous bow, still grinning like an idiot. “I am overjoyed that I was summoned by you, my friend! El Santo Grial has selected me to be the Saber at your side! I will serve you with honor and unshakable loyalty as you did I in life!” He was on his feet again in the second, striding proudly toward the exit while grinning back at his master. “I almost feel sorry for our opponents! That heavenly chalice is as good as ours! Come Sancho, I shall saddle Cervantes and we will make haste-” THUD Saber was suddenly on his back, having failed to notice the door he’d just slammed into in his excitement. He furrowed his brow and crossed his arms with a pout, still staring at the ceiling. “Ah, our enemies are clever! Careful Sancho! Some dastardly mastermind has trapped us with a most deadly snare: a door!” |
Easy peasy. No one’s looking. Don’t make it obvious. It certainly wasn’t the first thing she’d stolen. But, perhaps the most secure. She had taken care that no one really saw her when she made off with her new item a week ago. If only someone could use, say, magic, that sure would be nice.
She bit her lip to keep from smiling, she didn’t need anyone in the station stopping to talk to her. Not the security guard she just passed, not that shifty looking man in a suit. Now,helooks suspicious. They might ask to look in her bag. And that might, probably, lead someone to finding her newly acquired piece of paper. A special piece of paper. Probably. No, no. She smoothed her hand over the strap of her bag, looking perfectly natural as she walked out onto the street. Special. Ell wasn’t an art historian. She wasn’t any sort of historian. In actuality, giving her any manner of official title would be a serious misstep on the part of someone's administration team. On her best days she was a freelancer. On her worst, a homeless mage. She'd had enough forethought to do just a small amount of planning. She'd planned out the theft. She'd planned out a place to live. That really was all the planning she had gone through. Her response to being called out on such a lack of plans was always the same. I hate being tied down. As true as that might have been, the honest truth was that she couldn't be bothered. She’d never even been to France. She'd never been a lot of places outside the States. The continental states. She pressed her fingers against a yellow stone necklace, Sammy'd like Hawaii. Not being able to speak French would, more than likely, not end well for her. It might have been easy enough to grab a recording that taught basic French before she left. But, she hadn’t. Not that it really mattered, she had been far too busy on the three hour ride over. Attractive. So busy. It was too late for that, though. It shouldn’t really matter. The nice couple she had rented the studio from had spoken English. Hopefully anyone else she needed to talk to would also. Not being arrested on her way to her new home for the duration of the War was a good sign. “Won’t be arrested,” she muttered, unpacking her single bag carefully, “Won’t be eviscerated summoning my new friend.” She took the sketch page out of the folder she’d been keeping it in. “Pft,” she nodded, satisfied with it’s state, “Not even smudged. I’m amazing.” After patting her own back she cleared space in the sitting room, hoping the nice couple wouldn’t notice the mess she was about to make. “I’ll just repaint… Re… Put new hardwood…” She shrugged and began putting together what she’d need to get things right. |
La Voisin is silent for a time, considering her Master's words. "If you've no use of the Grail, I'll happily take charge of our wish. Twisting the artifice of God to some unholy purpose would be profoundly satisfying." She snickers at the thought. "The hour grows late, though. I will take leave of this flesh while you rest, and keep watch for assailants."
|
It started with a low rumble, hardly enough to turn any heads. The sound didn’t follow clouds, sour weather, or even a single breath of wind. A crack of thunder rattled windows. Despite the lack of storm clouds, a third crack of deafening thunder brought with it a bright flash. The light didn’t blink out as it sudden arrival should have dictated. Instead, it exploded into points of brilliant light that fell through the air slowly, more dust than rain. The light shifted and shimmered, catching every bit of reflective light possible, a thousand colors shone over the pair who had been called.
No sooner had Askr settled into his new form that he ran a hand back through his hair, the movement sending more glittering specks down to the floor, and heaved a sigh. "Gods, what an awful ride." Embla twisted her new skirt straight, the last specks of light dancing down to the floor. “I don’t know,” she turned her attention to her other half, “I thought it was thrilling.” "Eh, yes, but, my darling Fallow-tail, you thought the same of mounting that boar." “Must you constantly look so sourly upon our adventures, my Light?” "That was no adventure. That was an overfed beast getting all the plumper on my cabbages and breaking all of my traps." “We must make every misadventure positive, by viewing it as an adventure.” |
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. "That's... something of an improvement. Are you going to be bleeding like that constantly?"
|
Unperturbed by the rain of light, the Executor studies his Servant, or Servants, as has proven to be the case.
"I take it, then," he intones in a neutral voice, "That the two of you, together, comprise my Archer-class Servant." He begins to pace around the pair, making a rhomboid shape as he passes around the chamber's pillars. "You must be aware by now, that I am atypical for a master, being unable to work magic of any kind." He gestures to the cloth-shrouded shape of the Titulus upon the low altar nearby. "This artifact is your anchor to this plane, and must be protected at all costs, even above my own life. As such, one of you will remain here to guard it at all times, while the other will engage the enemy in the field. As you do not require me to support you, I will be operating independently to destroy the enemy masters. I leave the details of this strategy to the two of you, to work out between yourselves. If all goes to plan, we should scarcely see each other. Is this acceptable?" |
"So long as the Holy Grail remains stained by the sins of the Prodigal King, I shall never be healed. For there are none worthy. Do you comprehend this? None. You may have your wish, whatever it may be, I permit this -- no further ill done in the Grail's name can make any difference now-- but when you are through, my Master, I will take the Cup of Christ, and none shall ever touch it again. Not until all the world is redeemed. If I had a wish, it would be thus, but I am not the savior who was promised. I am merely one fit to carry all the world's evil. I weep to think what cost true salvation will carry, if ever it comes."
Suddenly, Pelles is brandishing the Spear, poised halfway between Lucienne and the sky. His bloody gaze affixes her. "I swear this, by the blood of God upon this Spear: I will destroy the unworthy who stand as our enemies. I have mourned the death of my soul for far too long. This coming dawn shall see a sun of utter wrath rise for your maiméd king. Nothing on Earth will stop me." |
Erik, without the least bit of trepidation, was fond of this servant. But more than that, he was... confused. He only blinked when he was hugged so suddenly, so fiercely, and watched as the older man proceeded to walk right into the door. "My name is Erik," he remarked, crouching down where he was on the opposite side of the summoning circle. His gaze was stuck on Saber's face. "We have to clean up after ourselves before we go anywhere."
|
“Eh? You intend us to wage war apart from one another?”
She crossed her arms over her chest and glanced to the man who was suggesting such an offensive thing, “I must have misheard.” With a short bark of a laugh, Askr took the single step he needed to wrap his arm around Embla's waist. "You must have, my beloved. Surely our Master isn't so foolish, or so bold, as to order us apart." |
“Astute as ever, Sancho!” Saber cried as he sprang to his feet once more, the vile machinations of the door already slipping from his mind, “Cleanliness is next to Godliness after all! At least, I think it was… No matter, let us tidy this space!”
The Mad Knight took in the room with wizened, yet strangely soft eyes and finally focussed on the bed, seemingly missing the large summoning circle he’d materialized in. He gallantly strode toward it and heaved the everything but the mattress itself into his arms. The mountain of linens with iron legs turned toward Erik and asked in a muffled voice, “Which way is the washbin?” |
Something in Heinrich's face twitches. His eyes narrow on the pair.
"Was there an alternative strategy suggested there, or was I correct in hearing nothing but facile petulance? This is a war, not some lovers' retreat." What were the Church fathers thinking in providing him such an obstinate Servant? Surely they could have contrived one more suited to his methods... "Let us try once more. I will first introduce myself. I am Father Heinrich Antonius Rosenbach, Grand Executor of the Holy Church and its representative in this Grail War. You will find me frightfully short on patience. While I may seem a poor choice of Master, with my inability to work magic, I am possibly the greatest human warrior alive in this age, having killed countless mages and otherworldly creatures, and the Church has seen fit to arm me with an arsenal of holy weapons for my task in this city. As such, the best strategy available to us, in my estimation, is one in which the two of you act as support to myself, drawing the attention of enemy Servants while I work to assassinate their Masters. We possess a terrible vulnerability in the form of the True Cross relic that binds you to this world. I cannot risk damaging it by carrying it into battle, thus it must be protected. Comparatively, we have an advantage in that, for whatever reason, there are two of you functioning in the role of Archer, and should therefore employ that asset to its fullest. What possible objection do you have to this?" |
| All times are GMT -4. The time now is 10:40 AM. |
Powered by vBulletin®