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Salone

#17

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."

Salone

#18

"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.

Suzerain of Sheol

#19

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.

Cold silence has a tendency
to atrophy any sense of compassion
between supposed lovers.
Between supposed brothers.

Salone

#20

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.

Gallagher

#21

"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."

Quiet Man Cometh

#22

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."

Tea?

Gallagher

#23

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.

Gallagher

#24

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."

Suzerain of Sheol

#25

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.

Cold silence has a tendency
to atrophy any sense of compassion
between supposed lovers.
Between supposed brothers.

Gallagher

#26

"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!"

Quiet Man Cometh

#27

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?"

Tea?

Quiet Man Cometh

#28

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.

Tea?

Espy

#29

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?"

Suzerain of Sheol

#30

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.

Cold silence has a tendency
to atrophy any sense of compassion
between supposed lovers.
Between supposed brothers.

Gallagher

#31

"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."

Espy

#32

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.

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