[center][h1][color=fff200]Archer — Parthenopeus[/color][/h1][/center]

[center][h3]Matou Residence, Foreigner's District[/h3][/center]

It isn't a plea or begging that calls out the shape of the hero called Archer — perhaps something so desperate would hardly reach his ears. It isn't a quite a singular, focused drive that calls on him, though, of course, it may be there, it isn't something that he responds to. Perhaps a man more noble might. Perhaps a hero more dedicated to the 'justice of children', or 'growing a dream' or something along those lines may.

But those are not the Archer she calls upon. Ha, can one even call this a 'man'? This is scarcely more than a boy - thin, lithe. He can't be older than fifteen, at the very, very oldest, but he's most certainly younger. But there's an edge there — he doesn't let it rest on his fair features for long, but there's a certain tilt to his lips as the room is filled with golden light, and thick smoke. A certain look in his eye. There's a question unanswered. If not to fulfill the dreams of his new Master, or to fulfill some honored duty of protecting youth (There is something to be said of his Master being older than he, but it isn't something worth uttering!), then what?

[i]"Most importantly let's do what we want to while we can!"[/i]

He steps forward, eyes darting around the room. It's plenty to take in — but none of it means much to him. There's a singular thing worth paying attention to, so far as he's concerned. The girl who called him here. His features soften on that, and he raises his left hand in a lazy, casual, playful wave. [color=fff200]"Oh, hi hi, Master~!"[/color] It's like watching a chameleon shift in color, between the moments of predatory precision and the snap swap to jovial friendliness and energy. He bounds to her, looking her over from head to toe — leaning closer to her than even some of the loosest bounds of propriety might allow, to say nothing of Japanese custom. His nostrils widen.

He is smelling her. There's no doubt about it. None at all. His tail — twists around behind him, as he leans back. Is he pleased? He pads around her, his finger to his lip, tail swishing behind him, ears twitching slightly. It's a full enough inspection of the girl who called him down, for reasons he scarcely cares for. [color=fff200]"Ah, wait, hold on, I think I'm supposed to say something else, aren't I?"[/color] Ah, he caught himself. That's probably for the best.

He steps back in front of her, and falls to a knee. Finally, some real sign of obedience, and a more than tacit acknowledgement of their bond.

[color=fff200]"Archer, Parthenopeus. Just tell me who to kill, Master."[/color]

Perhaps she did not realize what she was doing, saying it quite like that. Perhaps she wasn't aware of what promise she was offering that boy. The consequence of that question — if they're truly to do what they want, while they may, then he will kill. He will taste that glory of combat, on a battlefield far greater than any he's ever seen before.

[color=fff200]"Of course,"[/color] he adds, breaking the position he's taken, and glancing up, eyes shining bright, their pupils catching even the meager light and making them stand out clearly, glimmering even in the shadow, to stare into his Master's own. [color=fff200]"If you can keep up, that is."[/color]

[hr]

[center][h1]Pumak[/h1][/center]

[center][h2]A small clearing, Outskirts[/h2][/center]

A knife through flesh. The work is exact, but not by way of necessity, only by way of expertise. The blade works through the abdomen, carving vertically, across the stomach and then higher, up the ribs. It's a good start to a long process. Cleaning kills is something that takes a long time, but it's something that takes a long time out of respect for the animal. There's no good cause to rush. There's no good reason to butcher an animal without respecting the life it lived, or to waste something in your blind rush for good meat. Kills are spoiled by the way of letting them be, not by some freak accident. And, so, Pumak will make no such mistake. The hide is cut away from the meat, and set aside. The entrails are set aside, as is the heart. He'll use those today, but the use of the ribs and the horns will come later, as will the hide. By the end of his hour of careful carving, what's left is a sorted pile. A pile of organs — the heart, the brain, the entrails. Meat, sliced into large, bloody chunks. Bone — only the bone he can use effectively. The antlers, the ribs, the larger leg bones. Everything else is either buried or burnt.

He wipes his knife off, and puts it away. A few pieces of venison on a large, thin stone, set over the fire won't take too long to cook through. It's easy work. Easy breakfast. ... It's also definitely illegal, he realizes. Isn't this poaching? He looks at the fat bubbling off his kill, as the meat starts to turn less pink, and starts laughing. Ah, what of it, really? It's not wrong to take what the Earth offers you, so it's not worth holding a law like that highly.

He's about ready, then. Once the meat is cooked, he takes it off the fire. A few new branches are loaded on, that smoke more heavily, setting off a darker, blacker plume of smoke into the air. He lays the heart, the brain, and the entrails near the base, so they burn quickly, catching on fire and crinkling dark. A sacrifice, even if he's rather certain that doesn't do much of anything for him. ... Well, he wasn't going to eat those parts, anyway, so it isn't a great loss to him.

He focuses on that smoke, close enough that it's all he can see, all he can smell. It's enough to make his eyes water, but he keeps his face there regardless. He does not call out in English, or Japanese, to try to address the Grail in such a way. Instead, he'll speak it from the heart, in his own tongue. A dialect long forgotten, from a small tribe, a forgotten subgroup that's been lost to the stresses and marching of man.

It's almost a song, really. He does not sing well at all —  certainly not while breathing smoke, for one. But he sings truthfully. He sings of his life. Of the wars that he's fought for his people, of the great spirit hunts he's been on. Of the people he's saved from sickness and death. He even talks about those things they hardly ever tell outsiders — of the funerals he's attended to, of the family he's been allowed to eat, and the family he's been forced to bury. About the battles he's fought, and the men he's killed. Of the enemies he's consumed. But also of the life that he's helped foster to the world — of the babies he's tended to, and the mothers he's saved. Of the loss of his home, to an inexorable force. Of the flight away. Of the years of solitude, communing only with the dead and gone, and the creatures of the rainforest. Of his integration into 'civilized society'. He sings his life story in a rough voice, calling out for a hero that suits him.

[color=00a651]"And as my dreams are true - I'll make yours true, too."[/color]

Hardly a standard chant, but there's little value in that to this man. Power doesn't come from that kind of thing, he knows. A formal call like that doesn't reach any hearts, he's seen. But history, but painful memories — that's the nature of what it is to call for a hero. To call for an ally, in whatever form they take.

[@Kyoka]