[center][h2][color=f7941d]Archer[/color][/h2]

[@Krayzikk][/center]

Ah[url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vCOTWQexTjs].[/url]

So, it was his turn for the ritual. 

Within the Throne of Heroes, an inescapable pull was felt. It tugged upon his being, calling for his legend, his deeds, his impacts— the [i]essence[/i] of his remembrance. The marks he had left upon the world and the stories told of him were to be born again by a miracle. Not quite incarnate, but tangible. An embodiment of that myth who had died so long ago— or perhaps not such. It was wise to remember that his existence was that of one who stood adjacent to time, not within its flow. As were those of his peers— or perhaps his foes. The nature of this pull was doubtlessly a summons, and he was being called as a heroic spirit, but he knew not yet the context of this beckoning. There were few reasons the echoes of a legendary figure could be brought into the world————

Oh?

Rather than resist, for he knew such an action to be futile, he rode the wave of power that brought him forth, flowing with the magic that beckoned him. It bent his essence, twisted it, and he felt himself split and reform, split and reform, before he was cast into a vessel and awash with mana, filling it and filling it and...

Filling him with knowledge. Knowledge of import, such that would serve him for what was to come.

For instance, that his was the vessel of "Archer". So it was this type of summoning. Well then, things were about to get very interesting for the next week or two in the waking world. In Rome, at the start of a new millennium, in fact. In life, the language alone would have fascinated him, to say nothing of the armaments that the warriors of this age, weakened and astray though they may have been, wielded.

One, two, three bindings upon him were placed with his acceptance. Command Spells. Ones he hoped would be used without overmuch fervor. They were, after all his lifeline, his tether to this state of being. Perhaps he might, in a twisted quirk of fate, have a chance to see his son.

No. It was best to not hope for what was not likely at the best, and such was not his duty. For now, he was charged with ensuring, above all else, one person's safety and victory.
[hr][hr]

The circle, aglow with crimson power and guided by the catalyst, began to crackle with lightning as a torrent of mana, the Grail's assistance, was channeled through it and the catalyst within. It swelled in intensity, whipping the air into a dervish. Dave, though a mere neophyte, could feel the room steeping with otherworldly power that was carried upon the winds. Maxie, though a mere well-trained dog, could feel the same, and a low growl rose from his throat as he edged himself closer to his master, his friend, his packmate, and his protectorate from whatever force was coalescing there.

No, whatever [i]presence[/i].

It gathered together, became a single point——

————And [i]flashed[/i].

The tumultuous room stilled. There was a burning, a tingling upon the back of Dave's hand— One that a look would reveal a red pattern, of three distinct parts, that had been carved into his nerves by the Grail.

Command Spells, an undeniable badge of success.

He'd done it.

And in the center of his humble, thankfully cheap hotel room, the fruits of his labor stood tall and made himself known.

[color=f7941d]"Servant, Archer."[/color] rumbled a weathered voice, as piercing, sagacious eyes like old battleground soil studied the Australian and his pet. No, his partner. [color=f7941d]"I have responded to the summons of they who would seek the Grail."[/color]

The Hero's build was strong, and his skin darkened well by the sun of days at war. Through his black beard, he spoke with firmness and clarity. Perhaps too much, given that his welcome was at present coming in the form of a tense rumble from deep within the hound's throat, promising him hell should he make a false move upon the young man, no matter how much he was outranked in ability. Such loyalty. He had to admire it.

A gesture towards the dog earned him a bark of warning, but revealed more of the silvered armor he wore, with a hint of orange robe beneath. The movement was assured and purposeful, with the casual economy of motion that only a lifetime of training and fine understanding of the human capability could grant.

[color=f7941d]"I assume it wasn't [i]him[/i]."[/color] he said, with a dry and somewhat amused tone. [color=f7941d]"So I shall ask you instead, boy: Are you my Master?"[/color]