[center][h1][color=aba000]Lancer[/color][/h1][/center]
[@Pie Flavor]
The Ring pulses red, light emanating from the runes and lines, as if responding to your chants. Crackling, scarlet, eldritch energies fill the air as magic is pumped into the circle. A wind begins whipping around your frame, picking up dust in its wake forming clouds of debris that blow past your feet. As you finish your chant, a bright crimson sphere of light begins expanding from the circle's center, slowly filling the basement. Exploding outwards with a bright flash and loud bang, you lose coherency for a moment. As you recover, you gaze into rusty miasma highlighting the tall proud figure that looms over you. He looks the part of a hero reborn. Through the poor lighting, you can make out the glint of bronze, and you begin to make out more details. Clad in a gold-trimmed black muscle cuirass with the crest of boar on his breast, his face is completely obscured by his light blue crested Corinthian style helmet, the only discernible feature being his grey eyes that stare at you like an owl. His arms are bereft of armor, and you can see his olive, tawny skin serving to highlight the myriad of pale scars that speak of a lifetime of battle that crisscross his limbs. HIs legs are clad in bronze greaves that gleams like the rest of his armor and weapons. On his back he carries a spear with a leaf-shaped blade and a large round shield. Silence falls as your servant regards you.
[hr]

The first thing that filled his mind was his purpose. A Grail War, his class, Lancer, a torrent of information. Millennia of cultural and historical information flooded his mind as he remained studied his Master. Tall, only an inch shorter than himself Lancer noted, built strong, with features that Lancer's new memories traced to "Europe". His aura was one of caution of restrained excitement, good a careful master was one who lived longer, which meant more time for Lancer to fight.

[color=aba000]"A fine master."[/color] Lancer muses silently as he as his small smile goes unseen behind his helm. Flexing his right arm up to his face, Lancer makes a fist, before pounding it into his breastplate, [color=aba000]"A fine master to serve indeed."[/color]

[color=aba000]"I am Servant Lancer, and I ask of you."[/color] Lancer's low voiced rumbled, resembling the growl of a lion more than a man, "[color=aba000]Are you my Master?"[/color]