[center][color=Chartreuse][h2]Bailey Clarke[/h2][/color][/center]


[center]Wednesday, November 17th, 2015[/center]
[center]An apartment in Cusco[/center]


There, that should do it.  The young man--only slightly more than a child, really--stepped back from his handiwork, looking it over one last time.  He reached up and wiped his forehead, then winced.

[color=Chartreuse]"Shit,"[/color] Bailey muttered as the chicken blood ran down his forehead.  He hadn't thought about that.  It was bad enough that he was spreading actual chicken blood all over these poor people's kitchen--thank god for tile floor, but he had no idea how long the smell would last--but now here he was smearing it all over his face.  He couldn't meet his Servant like this!

A quick run to the bathroom later, he once again stood before the summoning circle, this time with a clean face and hands.  He picked up a battered old book on the kitchen counter and opened it to a page bookmarked with a scrap of paper.  He glanced between the book and his setup on the floor, comparing the two. As far as he could tell, it matched perfectly.  It should, after all the work he put into it.  Now to perform the actual ritual.

He read over the words of the ritual one last time--he didn't really need to, he'd read it so many times he was pretty sure he'd recited it in his sleep, but he wanted to go over it one last time--then positioned himself in front of the circle.

[color=Chartreuse]"Fill, fill, fill, fill, fill..."[/color]  As he began to speak, he felt power surging through him.  He could do this.  He had to do this.  If he didn't manage to summon a Servant here, it would be over.  He would lose his chance to prove to his father, to the world that he had a future in magic.  If this didn't work, he may as well just go back home and beg his father's forgiveness.

The circle began to shine, some of the light coalescing around Bailey's hand, burning an emblem onto it.  It was working!  He was summoning a Heroic Spirit!  Still, he continued his invocation, afraid of what would happen if he let something like excitement stop him.  

As he finished, the light flared, then faded, leaving a mist obscuring the humanoid figure now standing in its center.  Bailey slouched against the counter, half in relief, half in exhaustion.  He'd done it.  He had no idea which Heroic Spirit he'd summoned; he had no catalyst, but that didn't matter right now.  What mattered was that he'd succeeded.

Now all he had to do was win the War.