Nobody is born a king. However short or straight their path to the crown there are always steps that must be walked first before they can wear it. It had been a king that Diaofei had called to, and it had been a king that she needed. But it was not a king that she wanted, and it was not a king that could mete vengeance the way the situation demanded. 

The links on Saber's mail coat groan and snap from the inside out at the insistence of some unseen pressure. She walks her steps backwards now, to the time when her father had been murdered and she sailed with her brothers across the sea not to enrich themselves (not [i]just[/i] that), but to choke the rivers of England with the blood of their damned. She did not don her armor until she wore the crown. She had no need of it when it pinched against her rough and spiny skin and got in the way of proper motion. 

A king required armor because a king must fill her men's hearts with devotion and confidence. She had a duty to impress, and so she had. But before that, when there was no crown upon her head, her family had better uses for her misshapen body. It was the Great King's command that she wear no covering from her waist at any moment when a battle could be expected or a march was called for. It would have obstructed her true duty. 

The armor crumbles from her body like a shed carapace. Underneath it was a wall of flesh, breasts mounted proudly atop iron, sinewy, stretched out muscle. Hard power and an unyielding body built long instead of wide, with every last centimeter of her flesh covered in intricate, jagged runes: crossing diamonds and instructions written in spirals in the language of her people. For in life, Saber was a living map. It had been allowed of her that she could join in the thrill of battle for herself, because any idiot could see that she was a match for any man alive. But her true duty had been the role of the Valkyrie for those not yet dead. The guide that led the armies of Ragnar Lodbrok to destiny and deeds worthy of admission to the halls beyond the gate of death. 

Saber's smile is truly hideous. Her laughter is the insane barking of the aggrieved hunter finally confronted with the beast they've been chasing. Yapping Master and dragon still pinned atop her shoulders, she leaps toward the figures in shadow with speed and zeal that surpasses simple recklessness. The idea that she could fail in a scrap with mere assassins simply does not occur to her. If they shoot a bolt she will dodge it. If she cannot, she will survive it. If her Master dies she will simply find a way to continue existing without her. In this moment everything is about blood. 

Her runes shine like beacons as she pounces, and the shadows still consuming her body leap off of her skin at their guidance. The vague shape of men, great brutish beasts of men both smaller than her and much more stockily built, constructed half of light and half of darkness take shape to either side of her, swinging grand swords shaped for cutting mountains about like they were toys. 

"Our mighty father lies dead," she intones, "Brothers! We go now to war!"

This is the first of her noble phantasms. She invokes it without consideration of the cost. Together they descend like a pack of wolves, gnashing and tearing shadows to bloody bits without a thought toward decorum, safety, or self gain. All is vengeance. That was the privilege of the uncrowned.