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Erik didn't pay much attention to the second older man until he was addressed. It looked like the man had brought his own snacks to share. Before he could reply to him, however, his own servant came plowing into the room, and the refreshment table. Erik blinked, looked down at a splatter of gooey pastry on his shirt, and wiped juice off of his face. "The war doesn't start until Merlin says so, Saber."
|
Though he cannot sense what must be the titanic mana-presence of the boy's Servant, the hulking fool is impossible to miss as he storms into the cathedral. Heinrich watches through narrow eyes as the creature makes itself comfortable. He has no care for whatever historic personage it might be; it appears to be of the Lancer class, though that, too, is irrelevant. A small obstacle for his Archers, of little consequence. Fitting that he should be paired with such an incompetent Master.
The priest's gaze then slides to the other occupant of the room, a man of his age, and seemingly effecting the pretense of friendship. Already, the Executor assesses him as the most dangerous person in the room. And where might his Servant be...? "So," his cutting voice strikes out. Heinrich stows his rosary away once more. "This is not a children's crusade, after all. What path of sin has brought you to this house of Christ, I wonder?" |
“You want the list chronologically or alphabetically?” Mr. Kite answered the stranger's question before the man he'd been speaking to had a chance to. He casually barged his way into the conversation and the room simultaneously, sizing up the men inside with his hands in the pockets of his coat and a carefree smile on his lips.
The forced grinning was really started to hurt the corners of his mouth and his jaw was getting sorer by the minute, but it was necessary to keep up the facade of relaxed incompetence. Assassin's Geezer... Preachy Geezer... And I guess we know who Mr. Society for Creative Anachronism’s Master is… His evaluation complete he turned his attention to table covered in must have been one long ass night of Trick-Or-Treating and pulled out one of the chairs on the opposite side to the group. Leaning back, he kicked his feet onto the table and got comfortable, but not before noticing a stray candy bar lying on the floor nearby and reached down to unwrap it. “By the way,” he addressed the only other person in the room who didn’t look like they were late for an Early Bird Special, munching away on a hunk of chocolate, caramel, and nuts all the while. He pointed the candy bar at the Coffinstuffer from before in accusation, “Don’t accept that geezer’s candy. It’s a trap, all he does is make fun of your dick and give you a lecture. Then he keeps the candy. Totally not worth it.” |
Father Heinrich takes in the presence of this newcomer with no real reaction, allowing him to parade his bravado without interruption. When it truly comes down to it, the Executor cares almost nothing for the desecration of sacred ground. Under the Eighth Sacrament, victory in this war surpasses anything in Heaven or Earth. Were it not for Ruler's compulsion, their corpses would already be profaning this hallowed hall.
As the young man settles in, Heinrich's gaze snaps to him, predatory and restrained. As he begins to quote Scripture at the blatantly-heretical mage, he briefly entertains the thought of what sort of devastating weaponry he could call forth from the Black Bible with this particular verse. He paces around the table as he pronounces. "And he said to me, 'I shall give to drink without cost from the spring of the water of Life. He who is victorious shall inherit all this, and I shall be his God, and he shall be my Son. But to the cowardly, the unbelieving, the vile and abominable, the sorcerers, the murderers, idolaters, and all liars, their portion shall be in the fiery lake of burning sulfur. This is the Second Death.'" He holds no illusions that this brash man will hold any regard for his words, but at least now he shall know the why of his impending destruction. |
Mr. Kite sat through the sermon with the closed eyes of a man feigning attention to humor the elderly. He savored his chocolate methodically, allowing the flavor to dampen the urge to rip out the old fuck’s tongue, shove it down his throat, and then drain every drop of blood in his shriveled old body as he choked on it.
“I believe a wise man once said,” he responded, finishing his snack and allowing the first real smile he’d had in days to play across his lips, “Religion is like a penis. It’s fine to have one and it’s fine to be proud of it, but don’t whip it out in public and start waving it around. And, please, don’t try to shove it down my child’s throat.” If he’s going to spout scripture, he could at least do the Samuel L. Jackson bit from Pulp Fiction…. Though I doubt he’d be able to do it justice. Mr. Kite's smile was gone with the candybar and his eyes were open, meeting the Executor’s gaze in cold defiance. The gleaming stare of an overconfident youth had been burned away by a fiery bloodlust and hatred beyond the capabilities of any divinity for which this condescending, naked mole rat fucked his bible. The man gave off the air of a predator, and a seasoned, merciless one at that, but Mr. Kite’s eyes conveyed one simple message in response to that presence: I am not prey. “Although,” Mr. Kite sneered at the man, briefly wondering if he’d been there on that fateful day twenty years ago, “I suppose you people are fonder of slitting children’s throat, rather than shoving anything down them…” |
It is a testament to the Executor's self-control that he betrays nothing of the incredulity the young man's words elicit. A lesser man might laugh in dismay.
"You are aware, yes, that you've entered the Holy. Grail. War? Where more fitting to exercise the tyranny of God on Earth than here? A curious man might wonder what you were expecting." The effort of communicating is almost painful for the old priest. If he were prone to fits of rash judgment, he'd burn through St. Peter's Shroud here and now, shatter Ruler's Command Spell and rip the quivering brain from the degenerate's skull, crush it in his hand before invalidated eyes, and send his useless soul to the agony it was due. It would be so insultingly easy. Does the mage take him for some thug of the Inquisition, sent out to round up petty sinners for extermination? Heinrich Antonius Rosenbach was annihilating Dead Apostle Ancients decades before that small, squalid mind had ever first apprehended this wretched world. The arrogance of mages never ceases to rival Satan's own. How do they ever get so far in life bloated on such self-aggrandizing delusions? And that is precisely why the other man, the quiet one with the gifts, is by far the most dangerous of his enemies in this room. A mage cured of the hubris of power is at their most fatal. As much as Heinrich already despises the blond one, it would be nothing less than a mistake to target him first. Let him parade about in self-satisfied impotence. More likely, one of the others will stamp him out like the ant he is long before Heinrich will ever have to deal with him. That leaves only the question of the other three Masters yet to arrive... |
In her old life, Leila might have noticed that the four Masters who'd arrived before her were all men, but death had a way of effacing distinctions, and they would all be dead soon enough. She has to repress a shudder at the sight of the armored Servant among them, feeling already the threat he might pose as soon as the ban is lifted, with her own seemingly so very far away. The numerologist then mentally reprimands herself for not feeling a similar fear of the unassuming Servant she had met outside. He will surely prove no less deadly once the War began. The simple truth of her situation is that she's surrounded here, outnumbered, and alone. She hadn't been planning to unleash her Annulus this early in the conflict, but if she was to get cornered and cut off from Rasputin...
Taking a seat at the far end of the table, Leila tries to size up the opposition. She cannot bring herself to make the pretense of ease in sampling any of the delicacies spread out on the table before her. Noticing first the potent mana-signature of the dark-haired young man, she studies him; he looks almost as uncomfortable in this setting as she is. Having such a high mana-reserve can be as much of a detriment as a benefit, if he hasn't trained to use it effectively. Impossible to tell at this juncture, though. And then the other youth, seated to her left with his legs disrespectfully on the table. A man with no respect for decorum or authority, clearly. Overconfident, perhaps, or more likely aware of the potency of his own abilities. Having heard his harsh words as she entered, Leila has little trouble envisioning him as a cold, merciless killer. She suddenly worries that, for all her training with such powerful magics, all-too-human fear might prove her undoing. She can only hope that when the time comes, she'll find the strength of will to stand and fight. Nearby, still standing, is the third of her enemies, an older man, and seemingly of a pleasant demeanor. She wonders what could have brought such a kind soul into this miserable War, but how likely is it that that kindness is genuine? She can tell almost nothing else about him, which is far from comforting... And finally, the Executor, circling them like a hunting shark, speaking the holy words of their death warrants. Only a fool would think him anything less than a catastrophic threat. She can sense literally no magic within him, and yet he is the chosen envoy of the Holy Church sent to win this War in the name of their God. Tales of Executors shrugging off deadly spells thanks to their Shrouds are in no short supply among her fellow mages. Surely this man is equipped with such a defense. A decades-honed murderer immune to magic... she would not be surprised if he is among the highest-ranking of his Order. Surely they would trust this mission to none less. Leila feels her heart accelerate in sudden terror -- Rasputin could not feel farther away. She must seem horribly awkward, eyes flicking between them without even a word of greeting. Leila briefly closes her eyes in an effort to ground herself. Her strategy is still sound... she just needs to properly enact it. |
How have we so far fallen from Eden? Didst thou ever envision this, in thine high Providence? Murdered by thine own children, but what is murder to a God? Merely another treason, another rejection of the branch of peace. The dove riseth like the phoenix only to be shot from its flight by the hunter, again, again and again. How long ago wast it, thy decision to forsake us? I will not say that it wast unearned. The human genius is a miracle of self-enforcing damnation. Thou didst all thou couldst.
But I cannot forbear. I cannot accept that this punishment is just. Thou wert our GOD and we didst spurn thee, trod upon thy name, nail thee to the rood as one of our own! Indifference is not sufficient. The pulling back of thine hand that bringeth salvation representeth only humanity in its basest state: godless, and the masters of this world. And this cannot stand. There must be recompense. Retribution. I remain thy frail servant, but I demand this. For mine own mortal vindication, if thou wouldst deny the tribute I offer. I will walk to Hell behind those my Spear delivereth, and closeth the Gates behind me. I accept the doom of all mankind, and for this becometh the angel of eradication, with thy sanction, or without. If vengeance so displeaseth thee, o' Lord, then here striketh me dead. If my destruction might break thy silence, then let fall my utter ruin! Let thy voice splitteth Heaven in thy wrath. Maketh me the martyr for thy Second Coming, else I shalt slayeth them entire. This I pray. |
"Right, mates. Let's settle down for a spell."
Isaac chuckled at his unintentional pun as he held his hands up, asking for peace between the fiery zealot and the edgy child from earlier. With casual ease he produced two of his trademark candy bars, offering one in each direction. "Right Creampuff, maybe I was harsh to you before. I didn't have my tea this morning and I cannot tell you how that ruins the rest of the day. Here's a peace offering. For about the next twenty or so minutes anyway." He turned his head, giving the Tosser With Religious Background a wry grin. "Oh I'm sure I've sinned lots if you dig far enough. Hell, I suppose magic and sorcery are enough for damnation, no matter their use. Curly Wurly, mate?" |
"You will find me difficult to tempt." Heinrich replies to the older man, but his gaze has wandered to the woman who has joined them. By her uniform and reserved demeanor, she is doubtless a mage of the Association, a professional heretic. Relations between the Church and the Association have always been sordidly intertwined, but the Executor cares nothing for such things now. Every act henceforth until he retrieves the Grail will be considered expiatus a priori, in extemis.
That aside, however, he can see in an instant that she is nearly cracked with fear, unable to even look him in the eye. No doubt, she is well aware of what he is, unlike the idiot boy. And yet, to have sent a mage of such weak will to fight in the Holy Grail War... she must be a prodigy of some sort, her arcane skill hoped to outweigh her spinelessness. Unlikely, that. |
Lucienne could hear distant chatter as soon as she passed those doors. It seemed she was among the last to arrive, though that, of course, was no concern of hers. A table covered in refreshments, an entire section of which had already been made a mess of, stood surrounded by six of her enemies. Enemies that displayed their strategies in their very demeanor here, among one another. An Executor that will, no doubt, approach this war as they all do. Without either hesitance or honor. A servant protecting a young master, neither of which would be any threat to her or her Lancer. A young blond with clearly more confidence than experience, not to be underestimated until his servant has been revealed. An older mage, with as much confidence as the blond, but likely just as much experience. And the other woman.
"Bonjour, bonjour," Luci called, meeting the others at the table. "Where is our Ruler?" |
Mr. Kite ignored the Executor's condescending words with some effort. He was growing quite tired of everyone asking why he was here. He doubted they would quite understand the answer, considering it was rather vague and idealistic almost to the point of naivety. Besides, the fact that he didn't seem to recognize the Gabriel Family's infamous golden eyes and yellow hair meant the old fart hadn't attended their massacre personally. Thus he turned to other man and banished the malice from his eyes, strapping on the smile once more.
“See, that’s all I was hoping for when I approached you earlier,” he accepted the piece of candy and pocketed it for later. I doubt the he put some kind of poison or hex in or on it, but better safe than sorry. Maybe I can get Berserker to turn it into a map leading to something useful, if she’s feeling uncharacteristically charitable. “Apology accepted and I’m sorry for my rude, not to mention childish response. I do thank you for informing me of my zipper issue, by the way. Damn thing seems to have a mind of it’s own. Still don’t get the Creampuff bit though, what part of me strikes you so creamy and pufflike?” |
“Here, here!” Saber spoke up, relaxing his stance while still ensuring he was between the rest of them and Erik, “Tis a rare opportunity to meet thine adversaries face to face before a noble war such as ours!”
The old knight failed to notice any hint of sarcasm or insincerity in the man’s words, due to his idealistically naive trusting nature. He searched the table before them and found a bottle of what he believed to be called sody-prop. He struggled with the concept and removal of a twist-off cap for a minute then grabbed the nearest glass. Styrofoam goblet in hand, he raised the glass to his fellows in a toast just as he finally noticed the new woman who had seated herself at the end of the table. “May our battles be honorable! May thy cause be just!” he cheered, grinning like an idiot to all of them, “And may my Lord be merciful when I triumph in our duels!” Don Quixote raised the cup to his mouth and drank deeply before promptly spitting it out again in surprise. Having never encountered carbonation before, he had not been prepared for the fizzing bubbles and sweetness that had assaulted his tongue and throat. He hacked and wiped his mouth, staring in disbelief at the cup he held hand through watering eyes as though it had betrayed him. He was able to recover his composure just before the next woman arrived and asked for Ruler’s whereabouts. The idiotic, senile expression returned to his face and he bowed to the room. “I present ye thine ruler and sovereign: King Eric, First of His Name!” announced Don Quixote, completely misundering whom she was referring to, “May thee serve him with devotion and honor! Long may he reign!” |
That makes five of his six enemies now gathered here in front of him, and to all appearances, not one of them has any kind of martial training. The scholar might know spells of destruction, but with that glaring lack of confidence, she will be helpless before him even if she proves somehow powerful enough to overwhelm the Shroud. And this newcomer, she certainly does not lack in assurance, but he'd bet his immortal soul that it comes from narcissism and vanity, not from the validation of decades of laying her life on the line in battle after fatal battle.
How do any of them hope to possibly oppose him? Do they not understand what it means to be an Executor? The only eventuality with which he need concern himself is the presence of the enemy Servants, but with two of his own, even that will be of no consequence in eliminating these hapless challengers. Naked and alone, Heinrich has no doubt that he could kill them all with little difficulty; armed as he is, this will be a massacre. His Holiness clearly overestimated the caliber of mages drawn to this absurd conflict. Perhaps all the true wizards had more sense than oppose the Church in a Holy Grail War. Setting aside any further concern for analysis, Heinrich at last seats himself at the table, directly across from the blond imbecile. It cannot be much longer, now. |
"You're making a mess," Erik said to his servant as he wiped flecks of spit and soda from his arm. He was already getting sticky from all of these snack disasters. It wasn't very polite of Saber in the least. "I'm not a king, or Ruler. I have a cousin that's a duke, though. I have a lot of cousins."
|
There was something exceedingly comforting about not recognizing a single one of the mages in the church. Killing, or being killed by, someone she might consider a friend was always at the bottom of Ell’s list of fun and exciting things to enjoy.
She was content to just linger near the door for a while, waiting for someone to fully snap. They didn’t, and she was almost disappointed. She might have an easier time with not getting herself dead. Maybe there was still a chance. |
"It's your hair, mate. Just your hair." Isaac gave a sidelong look at the youth before his eyes caught a much more...pleasant spectacle. Completely abandoning the young man and the murderous priest, he made his way over to the French woman who had entered. He produced a Curly Wurly from his bag with a flourish, giving her a devilish grin as he offered it to her.
"Can I offer you a...Curly Wurly? And speaking of sweets, what's a sweet young thing like you doing in a war like this?" He spoke in a breathy tone, not nearly coming off as suave as he imagined he was. |
Precisely what the Devil do you think you're doing, o maître mienne? No, nevermind, you're a grown man, make your own decisions, but alors, aidez-moi Dieu en le nom du Diable, if you bring that salope hâve back to our bedroom, dear Isaac, I will vivisect her. Actually... quelle idée magnifique. Comment ingénieux! Carry on, mon doux!
Catherine sends Isaac a sadistic giggle through their bond at the last, for emphasis. |
As Rider and Ell approach the entrance to the cathedral proper, he stops her just outside.
"I would like to see the other masters and what servants may be present, but I think it would be prudent if they do not see me. I will be in my spirit form from here on, but I will remain right next to you." DaVinci fades into insubstantial air, but remains as though standing next to Ell, as she stands just inside the door. His immediate attention is drawn to the priest, intimidating in his mannerisms and appearance. Perhaps he is the master to the one outside. It would be fitting. I wonder if he is the same in his devotion? The loud voice he heard outside no doubt belongs to the flamboyant one in the piecemeal armour, a servant, too. What's a curly wurly? |
Hmm... I was really hoping more of them would come inside. Zut! Blech. I mean, darn! Oh, well.
Merlin has been attempting to decide, all this time, whether to get changed into something more presentable to greet her guests. Ultimately, though, she decides that the answer is: no. If her dumpy old robes had been good enough for the Greatest of All Kings Who Ever Lived (tm), they were perfectly good for these lovely people! (Albeit, to call her outfit a robe might be a bit of an exaggeration, but really, nobody back then would have wanted to see that shriveled-up, mangy old man prancing around half-naked. Really, nobody; EX Clairvoyance, bitches. As if the Grail had needed more reasons to forsake Camelot! Not that it was a suppressed fantasy or anything to channel that latent incubus blood just tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiny bit, definitely not. The great wizard was just... you know what! Her party, her dress-code, damn it! If you don't like it, you can leave!) She idly wonders, as she stalls for even more time, how long she might be able to keep them from unleashing Hell upon each other if she just burned through all her Command Seals. Can Grail Wars be canceled? Hmm... Merlin imagines a resonant, dispassionate NO. in the ensuing silence from the holy vessel, and sighs. |
“HA!” Don Quixote slapped his Master on the back jubilantly and with a little more force than was necessary, “See how humble he is? Truly only a man who denies he is a king is worthy of the title!”
Saber continued his hearty laughter as he tilted his head down toward Eric with his fists still planted heroically on his hips, elbows jutting at almost perfect ninety degree angles. He intended the action to be inconspicuous, but, to any who cared to notice, seemed to be doing a rather unnatural rendition of I’m A Little Teapot, minus the spout. “Just play along, Sancho,” the Mad Knight spoke in the closest thing Don Quixote de La Mancha could manage to a whisper in his ever dramatic voice, “We can’t have them catching on to our ruse, lest we lose the element of surprise!” |
The last son of the Gabriels shrugged at the candyman as if to say fair point, then did everything in his power to not burst out laughing like a golden hyena when the wizened Casanova strode toward the newest arrival and tried to put the moves on her.
Fucking hell… I’m almost starting to like him. But Mr. Kite didn’t have time for the entertaining spectacle of a doomed Senior Citizen's Romantic Comedy pilot, there were more important matters at hand. Toronto hadn’t burned because of the actions of Mr. Kite, who’d been lounging about in a garage for the past week getting too drunk to see straight and chasing anything within sight wearing a skirt. It had been brought to it’s knees by the man behind that mask, Benjamin Francis Gabriel, and that man was not about to let an opportunity to hear his Servant’s impressions on the enemy slip through his grasp. Beggin’ your pardon, Captain, he sent out in a thought that rode the mana encompassing the church like an autumn leaf along a trickling stream, but I’d like to hear your thoughts on this lot. Mind phantasmining your way in here? I want to see if you notice anything about em we might be able to use to our advantage. For that matter, think you could create a map to something that’d give us a leg up? I don’t doubt our chances as is, the Preacher will probably be the biggest hurdle, but it never hurts to have an Ace or three up your sleeve. It took a tremendous amount of willpower to address Mary as Captain, even in his head. But his pride meant nothing if he failed to notice a crucial detail and wound up dead because of it. There was no point in participating in this war if he didn’t win it. And he planned to win it, even if it meant getting on his knees and deepthroating Berserker’s filthy boots till they shone like stars. |
Approached by the older mage, Luci arched a delicately plucked brow, her lips curving into a smile. He was, perhaps, the most threatening other than the Executor and herself, but he was still a man. "Ah! You are too kind," she replied, smoothing a few stray brown hairs into her fringe. "I simply could not. I have a figure to watch, after all."
|
"That makes two of us, Love." Isaac grinned wolfishly, giving her an obvious once over look. "The Rules of Engagement say to know your enemy. How would you like to get to know yours over dinner?"
Catherine, he spoke to his Servant through their bond, weighing the pros and cons of attempting to wine and dine and possibly bed his enemy. This one's pretty. Gives an old man like me the honey glow, if you know what I mean. Maybe we can put the war off for a few extra hours? I'm old, I wouldn't last that long away. |
You have three Command Seals, Isaac. You don't need to ask my permission.
But, if rational thought should happen to invade you, I reiterate: vivisection. And perhaps a side of castration will be in order, too. You do comprehend that if you win the Holy Grail you can simply wish for a world of infinite maidens willing to please your every whim? While that may seem to conflict with my own wish for the Kingdom of Satan on Earth, I assure you we can make it work, if that it is what is needed. It isn't so much that she's disappointed in her Master as suddenly, shockingly aware of her own total lack of libido. In her lifetime, she'd have been doing much the same as Isaac, but this vessel called Assassin cares nothing for carnal distractions. The only passion to incense her now is for the tearing down of God's works and the raising up of her lord's. But, for what? What does she care if the powers of Hell reign supreme over the earth from which she long ago expired? The woman Catherine would have cared not a whit, but this unholy specter shackled into the form of a Heroic Spirit... it desires nothing else. And where does that leave her? Hollow, someone's reverie of the life she'd once lived. A perverse reflection lacking substance. It would trouble her immensely, if only the killing in which she was about to indulge wasn't so immediately delicious. |
Maidens expressly made to do his bidding. What was the point? What was the point to paradise knowing there was no reason to continue on? To live out his days in prosperity with no struggle, no end goal. It sounded sickening. No, Isaac was ready for something different.
As he smiled and flirted with the woman in front of him, Isaac finally realized what he wanted most from this war. He wanted to die. He had lived a full life, and from his view he was sick of continuing it. He had been places, done things, and now it was time for him to go. But his own cowardice prevented him from taking his own life. Simply letting the sickness and disease festering inside his body to do their nature was not within him. Painting his brain across the wall was something he could not bring himself to do. To exacerbate the issue, any death from Isaac would cause consequences for several square miles. Disease and plague would ravage everything around him. Diseases thought long extinguished flourished in his blood. To kill him would be to kill hundreds, perhaps even thousands. He wanted to die. And that was his wish. To die in a place where he could harm no one. To cease to exist. He communicated as much to Catherine, continuing his conversation full of life with the pretty lady while he spoke suicide with another. I don't want that Catherine. I want to die. I want to simply cease to be, in a way that won't but a black scar across the world. I am a pandemic, a virus that has not yet run its course. To kill me would be to kill countless others who have nothing to do with this. I plan to win, and then I am going to die. |
Isaac... mon chère, I did not know you to be so unimaginative. You're a man of such humble means, surely you know you don't need the Grail for something like that. There are so many places you could have your death -- deserts, tundras, leaping into a volcano -- if that's what you truly want, we could arrange for it this instant.
Besides, the Grail does not deal in vagaries. You'll need a more precise idea of what you have in mind than that, if that's really what you plan to wish for. In the mean time, though, I truly do recommend seducing that charlatan harlot. Eradicating one of our enemies with such ease would be nothing but a tremendous advantage this early in the war. Think on it. |
The Berserker quelled her instinct to harshly laugh at her poor master, settling instead for a snort that was only a small prelude to the nonexistence smirk. Sincerity or sarcasm... Mr. Kites title dipped into both sides of the coin. Unable to contain herself with her answer, she spoke from the old Latin prayers from which this church was inspired. Refusing to pacify his fears with physicality, the voice inside his head retorted "Ave Maria, gratia plena, Mr. Kite, Dominus tecum."
As for the others, the truce kept her from really knowing how much of a threat they could potentially be, though if the boy was already shivering in his tight pants. Mary’s thoughts distractedly turned to ruminating how easily it would be to shoot the one that boldly showed himself. Too many of the servants went unaccounted for, including the lovely Archer. The Assassin, and other masked players left too many questions. There was a small intake of imaginary air as the Berzerker made to voice her opinions, but she paused. What came out was more of a tsk as the mana presence continued to observe. The only masters Mr. Kite could immediately conquer would be those appearing of his own youth. "The Executioner will hang ye." It was simply stated that even the Berserker did not nix the words with her antiquated accent. "The Assassin will scuttle ye long afore ye reacheth f'r anoth'r crisped wurly, The Lad- hmm," pausing to consider , King Eric as he was announced, and continued "A child, but his s’rvant be unpredictable.” Mary paused long enough to take in the newest guest. If Mr. Kite was ready to prove his valor, then he could take a simple wenches throat. “Kill th’ Lass, nay M’lady, but th’ plain Lass. She looks easy enough t’ sully yer hands with while the oth’rs destroyeth themselves.” Mary did not mention servant floating around the girl. She shifted attention focusing instead on the misunderstanding yet again of what her powers were. "I scourge, I plund’r, 'n I keepeth wha’s dutifully mine. I be no map maker. Me collection be mine fer th' rummagin'. Wha' gives ye, yer flatt’ry any rights t' it” |
“Adversus Solem Ne Loquitor, Berserker,” Mr. Kite snapped back internally. The Spirit seemed unwilling to let a conversation in any language slip by without a jab or dismissal at his expense. His pride demanded he fight it, but his reason overshadowed that inclination. Despite their mutual animosity, they were allies in this battle and there was nothing either could do to change that. So he simply took a quiet, deep breathe and ignored the nagging feeling that told him she had mistaken his caution for cowardice.
As much as I’d love nothing less than to rip his spine out, you’re right. The Executor can wait. I’d take no joy in letting another end fanatically arrogant existance, but if that is how the cards fall, it’ll be a small blessing from his imaginary Lord. Mr. Kite eyed the young woman Berserker suggested. She was the one he had seen ride in on the motorcycle with the Fine Arts Major, who was now certain was her Servant. She looked easy enough to eviscerate, but the painter was an unknown element. Failure to grasp his capabilities could mean an early end for the Blood Mage. How wonderfully convenient it would be if that had been Rider… Knowing his class would at least allow for easier strategizing, but I doubt it’s quite that simple. Mr. Kite wanted to poke several holes in Berserker's “I’m a strong, independant buccaneer and I don’t need no man!” but something occurred to him as she waved her translucent, nonexistent dick about that was far more appealing. He could glean information by draining the mana of others through their blood, so why wouldn’t a straight transfer work just as well? He’d no longer have to deal with the profound inconvenience of not understanding her abilities nor her gripes regarding that fact. Doing his best to appear relaxed and casual as they all awaited Ruler’s arrival, he closed his eyes and began to drink back some of the mana he was feeding his Servant. He made sure not to deprive her of any amount that would be detrimental to her tether to this realm and once he’d gotten what he wanted, simply sent it back, like a filter straining information rather than grime. He stifled a gasp from the rush of knowledge that overcame him. Images, emotions, memories, and details crashed and trickled through his mind like a hurricane inside his skull. But he finally understood who his Servant was and what she was capable of. He couldn’t help but smile sinisterly once it all fell into place before him. Oh… This is going to be fun. |
**There is another servant present, hidden, like myself,** Rider imparts to Ell through their link. **Not all are here though, even counting the one outside, by the statue.**
Rider thinks again to the strangely wounded servant he saw praying at the statue. He showed himself then, so I'm not sure he would bother to hide himself now. **That servant outside, he was praying. If he is not with us here, than perhaps he cares more about his faith than he does his master. So what then, would be his aim with the Grail? And the priest...it can't be assumed they are master and servant...perhaps a collision...** Rider's drifting link becomes clear again. **How would you feel about visiting that library soon?** |
More of the Beserker’s laugh intruded the thoughts of her master. The young man seemed to only answer her question in the form Latin beyond her context to understand. Without another word, the mana presence left the side of Mr. Kite in favor of impatient curiosity. Drifting past the party, free of the eyes of the church Mary gathered herself into her physical form striding around the church. Her intent was to find Archer. May they revel in peace while it last. Instead she found, Jesus… lamenting over … Jesus, profusely speaking prayers to himself? The absurdity of the notion amused her along with a growing sense of doom for her poor novice master.
The Beserker interrupted his string of words for her own. “Ah’y, well aren’t yer a load’d caliver. Which cockswain brought th’ L’rd t’ feedeth the fishes eh?” |
"Brought here? I am afraid you are mistaken. I am all those things that remain when the plagues have fled, when the last sword falls from hands too weak to raise it, when the ravens grow morbid and bored in their glutting." Rising with grim, burdened dignity, the Fisher-King casts a final gaze to the image of his Lord. "When Adam took his first tremulous step from the portico of Eden, I was there in the wastelands to greet him. When Satan crawled fettered from the burning lake, I awaited on the shore."
His head swivels languorously to regard his visitor. Suddenly, the Spear is in his hand. "Brazen spirit, you stand before damnation incarnate. With every breath, I echo the abandonment of God. The adamantine gates to the inferno stand unguarded, and of all the Tarterian horrors that shall soon issue screaming forth, I am the first, as I was always the first." And then, with sudden, inhuman speed, Lancer strikes, his arm snapping like lightning to drive the Spear into the stone side of Christ. A flare of mana along the blade awakens the indelible blood upon it, which begins to seep and spread across the passionless effigy. A hollow act of consecration, but thus is the plight of every martyr upon this earth unparadised. Never breaking his stare upon the intruding Servant, Pelles grates, "What is your purpose here?" |
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