[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/VuLUHbY.png[/img][/center][center][h1]Alba[/h1][/center]
In the spacious living room of a creaky old homestead in Blackrock’s most ancient district, there stood an empty hearth.

For a long time, it had been the beating heart of the household. Strong young men would go out into the woods and chop down a big old tree, then hack it all to pieces and drag the lot back home, ready to serve as nightly fuel for a warm and welcoming blaze. For generations, tongs and pokers had stirred the flames, whipping them up as the sun sank out of sight and the cold night winds swept in from the east. And all together the family had gathered around, warming their hands and faces, staring in quiet wonder at the fiercely dancing flames.

Then, slowly but surely, things had changed. First it was the regulations on logging, forcing the use of splintery store-bought timber. Next it was a swarm of grunting construction workers, tearing apart the creaky house to install a new heating system. Last came the slow but steady erosion of family itself, as men and women died and divorced and moved away to seek their fortunes somewhere other than this sad backwater town. One by one, the fire-lit faces faded away into nothingness, until all that remained was an old man quietly stirring the embers of a dead, forsaken flame. Until he too had passed on, and all became cold and silent. Old burn marks, stray flakes of ash, a rusted poker leaning uselessly against a wall.

Life had long since left this house, and in its wake a ghost had taken up residence. A porcelain doll, with a voice like silk and an angel’s face that stared out at the world with melancholy indifference. She stood in front of the hearth, feet apart and hands clasped behind her back, her eyes fixed on nothing at all. It had been ten minutes since she had last made a conscious effort to move. 

From time to time her eyes would blink, and now and again some faint tremor seemed to shiver from her neck all the way down to her pale fingertips, but for the most part she remained motionless, seemingly unaware of the seconds ticking by. She had no need for light, and still less for warmth. Such things were useless at best and impediments at worst when it came to careful thought and calculation, and right now Alba was thinking very hard indeed. 

With no less than thirty potential players, of uncertain allegiance and nearly completely unknown abilities, this so-called War was shaping up to be the most irritatingly complex trial she’d faced in centuries. From a certain angle, one could even glimpse a small frown upon her delicate features, as she mentally reviewed her plans and preparations, searching for gaps. She had been working hard these last two weeks, and it was imperative that she did not let it go to waste.

Where some mages were satisfied with a single room as their workshop, aeons of self-imposed isolation had left this girl fussier than most. Unwilling to even share a building with the other Masters of her faction, she had quietly taken over a nearby residence and turned the entire thing into her personal studio. What had been a charming home now resembled some bizarre form of military stockpile: etched symbols sprawled across every available surface, golem shells loomed immobile in the shadows, and myriad materials stood stacked up in neat little towers next to completed mystic codes and weapons. It was all very orderly and well-kept, with an almost finicky precision to its general organization, though the number of sharp objects lying around was perhaps a little unnerving. As for the building’s exterior, it looked completely ordinary, all its anomalies disguised by a cunning Bounded Field. Alba had taken care not to let herself be seen moving to and from this place, preferring to have it pass completely unnoticed rather than test its defenses against history’s greatest killers.

[i]Archer…[/i]

She still hadn’t moved, but the word echoed out through a deeply rooted mental connection, sounding across the city to where her Servant waited. She’d sent him out over an hour earlier, with instructions to position himself wherever he thought it best.

[i]You may begin.[/i]

[center]***[/center]

“Draw their attention.”

That had been her order. Spoken aloud to her Servant, and then later explained to those allies of the Black faction who’d seen fit to make contact with her before tonight. She had notified them of her intentions, so that they might take advantage as they saw fit, though frankly she wasn’t expecting much out of those idiot children.

“It doesn’t matter how. Excepting my workshop, any location will suffice. Just make sure it’s something they won’t miss.”

Archer was to be the bait, the signal, the opening salvo. It was perhaps the riskiest move one could make at this stage of the game, but Alba had her reasons, and trusted in her chosen warrior.

“Killing them is not our primary goal. What matters most is that you return to me alive at the end of the night… You should be able to do that much, no?”

According to legend, Philoctetes had escaped certain death on more than one occasion. Fortunate, that, given what he was likely to be up against tonight.