[i][u][b]Elsewhere, elsetime, elsewise[/b][/u]

Across the vast expanse of the kaleidoscope, in a faraway land in a faraway time, the Dark-tainted Tyrant awoke.

How long had it been? How long since she last heeded the call of that accursed cup?

She surely thought she would have passed on by now; salvation was meaningless, and beyond her reach at that. Two wars had enlightened her to that much; the dark taint covering her now was all too much a token of that. 
And yet, the light of the Grail beckoned to her once more; another fool desired the taint-filled cup, unknowing of how meaningless it was. Had that boy not succeeded in his mission? Had All The Evil Of The World triumphed in the end?

For a moment, the Dark-tained Tyrant sat in thought, upon her hill of death and desolation. Her eyes narrowed, squinted in the now-harsh light of the beckoning Grail.
She made her decision. It mattered not. 

Ignoring the wound in her side and the hesitation in her soul, she rose and stepped into the cold light of summoning, to be born again into the modern age.[/i]
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[u][b]Avenger, Septum[/b][/u]

Within the shed, the blinding light of the circle gave way to a black light in the last moment of its existance; for a moment, the brilliance of the circle was swallowed up by purest black darkness, swallowing up what little light had been in the tiny wooden room before.
A cold air permeated the shed. A stench of death and metal crept out from the unseen circle of summoning, as the air twisted and turned, as something took form.
A sound of metal upon wood. A sound of breathing. A sound of metal scraping upon metal. A sound of cloth flapping in the wind.

And then the light cleared, and Vilka's Servant was beheld to her. 

A blonde figure encased in dark steel, eyes covered by a visor. Cloth was equally swallowed up by the steel as the figure; and what was visible was eerily still and unflowing in the wind. 

A few seconds passed as the figure stared at Vilka from behind its visor. A few seconds that felt like a creeping eternity. Its face never slipped from the impassive mask of an expression adourning it-

But then it shattered the sense of creeping eternity by opening its mouth.

"I ask of you. Are you my Master?" It- she, judging from the coldly feminine tone of its voice- asked, with no great deal of enthusiasm or feeling.