The marble floor shattered under Berserker’s feet as he threw his battered body forward, heedless of the damage he had already taken or of the guns that awaited him. His only thought, as it always was, was of destruction.

With great strides the Viking closed in on the Russian Empress, his lopsided body and the heavy weight of his weapon making his movements clumsier than before but no less daunting. His eyes practically glowed in the darkness, their mad glint catching the light from Rider’s shimmering crown, and his breath steamed in the cold winter air that had descended on the battlefield.

Unseen in the dim confines of the palace’s hall, a shadow slipped through the shattered remains of the entranceway and rapidly made its way towards Berserker with unerring precision. The shadow streaked towards the Servant until it merged with his own shadow, melding with it and turning it a shade darker as it continued to creep towards his body. There was no obvious, immediate effect as the shadow returned to Berserker’s body, bringing with it the divine curse that Caster had imbued it with. The mad Servant didn’t break stride or slow his movements as a chill ran up his spine, nor did he shudder or break out in goose bumps at the change it brought about in him. He continued to charge at Rider regardless.

An observant soul might notice a slight change to his pallor, a slightly unhealthy greyish tinge that overtook him, or notice that the cuts and bruises that still covered his body seemed to have stopped healing. The true effects of the curse wouldn’t be seen until the next time Berserker took damage, only then would the damage done by Caster become apparent.

[@DrowsyPangolin][@LukasVolkov]