Birdsong in the Northern Hemisphere is beautiful. Soft, lyrical, sedate, the twittering of thrushes and the chirping of robins.

Birds from the Southern Hemisphere sound like angry dinosaurs.

The sky fills with screeching. There's nothing like it, no human throat could make a sound as harsh and metallic. One could wake a drunk from sleep. A flock could raise the dead. White birds emerge from every tree, blotting out the sky. Ten thousand pairs of wings fill the air, ten thousand throats screeching their warcry. Together their sound shakes the underworld. These are the soldiers of Princess Jezara, a weaponized mass migration, the swinging jaws of a trap meant to isolate a foe most terrible.

Fallweaver smiles mutely and gives you the thumbs up. Blue lights in her ears - some noise-cancelling technomancy? A weakness. Leaving her unprotected would have left you with no way out.

But before you can exploit it, the machete swings down. One of the screaming birds has transformed into a warrior, bright in full-body warpaint. She attacks in chereographed sequence before taking wing and rejoining the whirlwind of the flock, lost in the storm of birds - as behind you another bird changes into a second handmaiden who launches her own offensive. This is the shapeshifter's chosen battleground: to hide amidst a storm of birds, where any feather might conceal a blade.

Among the class containers, there are none better suited for close quarters combat than the Saber. Their reflexes tend toward the impressive even by supernatural standards. Their instinct is rarely wrong and enables baffling sight reads of opponent move sets in a way that makes them seem even faster than they are. And of course, to qualify for the class in the first place they must be paragons of the blade. In short: the skill to move a sword as though it were a third arm, the vision and the speed to respond to a mortal duelist after their strike had already reached the point of commitment, and the battle sense to shift out of the way of attacks that come directly from their blind spots. And all of this was just the container itself, before even considering the particulars of the legendary warriors that qualified to be summoned within it.

The strongest. So often the very last one standing, or at minimum the last of two. But nothing about this ambush is as pretty or effortless as these facts would lead an observer to believe.

The simple truth of it is that Saber is losing. Her sweeping, minimum effort combat style and oversized body both cut against her in a fight where her opponent might well number a thousand and can approach from as many angles with the advantage of perfect stealth and disguise. Sometimes she bends her sword as if it were liquid to catch an attack at an impossible angle and fling her assailant a full dozen meters away from her, but they never strike the ground. More often she steps into a long swing to bat down a handmaiden (what a violent term that has become since the ancient days) and takes a sharp cut across her back or her leg or an arm in the opening she leaves.

Being so long and so tall, even moving faster than all of her opponents still has her maneuvering in the outside circle, so to speak. She has further to travel and can only make herself so small in the end. There are always openings, and a perfectly choreographed attack will find them every time. Meanwhile the death screeching pounds her ears and disguises the movements of the warriors beyond her ability to get ahead of them with prediction. Impossible to even think straight, let alone make a play for the technomancy protecting the Baroness she keeps pinned to her shoulder through everything.

More than once she swings her prisoner instead of her sword, as though holding a shield that can ward off some of the pressure that is overwhelming her. But her prowess as a warrior seems at odds with this kind of desperate coward's tactics, and every time she shifts Fallweaver she also steps in a way that carries the woman away from the direction of attack and buries another knife in her own flesh, instead. She is accumulating a horrifying collection of them across the minutes she fights the swarm.

The one thing in her favor is that she has not been stopped from running. She continues speeding across the countryside, attempting to break free from the swarming, screaming flock. Wing travels faster than foot no matter how confident that foot may be, but in this way she is at least able to keep the jaws of the trap from swinging fully closed on her. She takes another step forward, and another, and another. They chase, and she leads. Suddenly she lifts Fallweaver over her head to the full extension of her massive arm. In that moment no fewer than four handmaidens pierce her from the cardinal directions in perfect synchronicity. It is a brutal attack, but such is war.

Here at last, Saber's wounds have become severe enough that it is possible to observe the miracle of them. It is not blood that seeps from the many openings left in her runecarved body. It is shadows: swirling darkness that swallows the light of her perfect compass and devours the hundred knives embedded in her flesh. As they drip to the ground, they spread around her feet until she is standing on a ragged pit of night. The metal has all melted on her skin; a hundred empty handles clatter to the ground, while a dorsal fin as sharp as one of Lancer's vaunted katanas glints on her back. The proof that she has given herself over and irrevocably to battle: her own approximation of wings.

She does not smile. Vengeance is not a sweet thing. There is no room for pleasure in the act and no point to it in the first place. There are only the endless calculations and sacrifices needed to make it happen, and the will to pursue it in the face of impossible odds. Saber cracks her neck. The braid that shifts along the ground and the hair atop her head has been completely drained of color. A gray that defies description, no longer faded gold but an attack on the mere idea of color. A void of hues bound in wrought iron clasps that offer sickening contrast to this impossible sight.

"Warriors," says the Valkyrie without hint of fatigue, anger, or pleasure, "I commend you. It was a trap well laid and a battle excellently fought. My lone sorrow as its witness is that you did not spring it on the one you meant to catch."

She jerks downward with surprising suddenness and plunges her ruined sword into the shadow-stained ground beneath her. The air fills with screaming of a kind that gives even southern birds something to aim for. Her grip on Fallweaver tightens.

"Noble Phantasm, partial activation."

When she tears her sword free again, it is whole and wrapped in runes that speak only of death and endless rivers of blood. And from the wound in the ground she leaves behind, the earth bleeds. Torrents of hot red liquid erupt in a wide circle, enough to catch the flock and even partially block its retreat. Everything is blind. Everything is pain. Everything is terror. Everything is red.

The rain falls, and feathers fall with it. It clears quickly, just a passing storm after all. But in the moment where the world resolves itself properly again and shudders at its torture, the Servant and her prisoner have vanished entirely.

Once upon a time there were lions.

They were kind of mid to be honest. Dog software on cat hardware, pack hunters who picked off the old and sick members of mass herds, overseen by vestigial patriarchs. Kind of plain tan brown colour. But the next continent over had heard stories about them and adopted them sight unseen as the animals of kingship. They drew pictures of how they imagined they might look, then they drew them holding swords and axes, and then they put those drawings on their flags.

A certain set of assumptions may have come to mind when you heard that Princess Jezara was a 'lioness shapeshifter' if you are even passingly familiar with irl lions. It was something that frequently caught out modern day princesses with access to the internet and nature documentaries who went after the Lady of the Western Plains. Jezara was most certainly not that kind of lioness. She was the other kind.

She rises up taller than the trees, painted in alien greens and reds, and roars so loudly it shakes the autumn leaves from their branches. The sound silenced and scattered the bird flock whose departing screeches echoed through the air like tears in the soundscape. Her sword is the size of a longship as she gestures towards the horizon, her flocks spreading in every direction - no longer weapons but scouts, searching everywhere for the warrior who stole their mistress' prize.

Aeglesia looked up at the distant titan and swallowed hard.
"Hey," said Lancer.
She couldn't look around. She was frozen with fear and determination in equal measure.
"Hey," said Lancer. "You ever read about these "Polanders"?"
"What?" she said through a dry throat.
"They had winged horses, and their cavalry was so good that it went toe to toe with armoured vehicles," said Lancer thoughtfully. "And they had a bear carry their ammunition. They only lost because they were outnumbered forty to one. I think we can learn something from them."
"... sure," said Aeglesia, gripping her tower shield so hard it hurt. Winged lancers. She'd take all the help she could get right now.

She hoped that Saber was safe.

So that was the creature Angelesia had chosen to challenge.

Saber had lived in an age of gods and monsters. Most people she had met counted her among them, in fact. All the same, hers had been a campaign against the world of men. It was exceedingly rare for her to meet another warrior she even needed to not look down upon, let alone up: among the more lamentable deficiencies of England had been its near total lack of giants. Detestable.

So this? A rare thing. A beautiful thing. From the shadows cast by the sea of falling autumn leaves, Saber pauses to gaze upon the shape of this Princess, this "lioness" who shook the earth with her terrible roars of anger. For a moment even thoughts of vengeance and Actia are driven from her mind, so captivated is she by (in particular) the towering blade that sweeps through the air demanding her own head for her brazen act of thievery.

How her body quivers! She'd never had the chance to test herself against a creature like this in life! Even now, counting only her vision and her instinct against the knowledge of the full potential power of her ghostly body she is not sure if she'd even win a fight against the gorgeous and majestic Jezara. Saber's entire fighting style hinged on being the larger combatant; her strength was even contingent upon leverage. Could she be fast enough to outmaneuver a foe who outranged her? Could she be clever enough to outwit a creature who commanded armies in the form of flocks of birds and held the hearts of beautiful witches in her palm?

With a command seal powering her, she could-- no, that did not warrant thinking about. Not because it would never happen, though it wouldn't. And not because it would be "cheating", though in several senses it would be. The problem was that it skipped past the value of the exercise to the end. But now that the idea had entered her mind she was having difficulty mapping the scenario without it. It felt like poison in her mind; even this tiny indulgence skipped straight to "win". And she knew exactly who to blame for that poison.

Diaofei Actia.

If her Master's heart had simply been whole, none of this would have been necessary. If that garbage bitch hadn't inflicted so much pain the flame of vengeance would have found nowhere to catch in the first place. And if she hadn't, she would also have had a Master with pure magical circuits and a clean flow of mana and she would not have even needed to worry about engaging in these pointless mental exercises to strengthen herself in the first place; she could simply have fought what she wanted to. No matter how she chased the problem it only ever came back to Actia. She needed to die. Everything would be fine once she was dead. The only thing that mattered was following the path that best lead to that happening.

Her grip on Fallweaver had tightened without her realizing. Not until the yelps of pain threaten to expose her position. Quickly she adjusts her grip on the witch, no longer tossed over the shoulder but nestled so she can sit comfortably in the crook of Saber's elbow. Easier to secure the familiar this way, and simpler to clap a hand over the offending mouth as well.

"Apologies," she says, and means it.

This truly was a beautiful world. Everything about the planet after Ragnarok was just as the poems had described it. It would have been such a joy to conquer it. With a sigh, she turns her back on the majesty of her surroundings and runs on. Every color near her seemed like it burst off of the leaves and grass and even the dirt before her foot trampled all of it into the same dull ash. Light filled every corner of her vision ahead of the shadows that creep across it all and take the vague shape of new warriors; mere shells of her brothers with only one task set to them this time.

They carry something like torches in their hands. Saber pays them no mind, but merely sprints in a straight line toward the place where Angelesia and Lancer awaited her return. She had a job to complete. And dreams to forsake. Not for the sake of the world, but for Actia. In the name of the woman who burned her Master the forest catches too, for no higher purpose than another moment's distraction.

"We're here," said Lancer.
"What do you mean?" said Aeglesia. This was an unremarkable expanse of open ground - dry earth, sparse trees. Open savannah.
"I mean we're here," said Lancer, taking a seat on a low rock. "This is where you fight."
"But -" Aeglesia froze. "But that doesn't make sense. This is open ground."
"Mmhm," said Lancer, flicking open her book.
"But - but have you seen her?!" said Aeglesia desperately. "I can't fight that in the open! I thought you were going to take me to a - a cave or something so she'd at least have to shrink down to fight me!"
"Hmm," said Lancer, flicking up her eyes. "You seem to have thought about this a lot."
"Of course I have!" said Aeglesia. "I've been planning this for ages!"
"Let me ask you a question," said Lancer. "Why did you pick Princess Jezara as your opponent?"
"I - I mean, I wasn't planning on fighting her this quickly -" said Aeglesia shiftily.
"Why didn't you pick Princess Qiu?" said Lancer, turning a page. Aeglesia started.
"Are you kidding!? I can't beat Qiu! She's the strongest of the Princesses -"
"What about Chen?" said Lancer.
"She's a prodigy, I can't keep up with -"
"Kikil?"
"Technomancy is scary and -"
Lancer snapped her book shut. "So you picked Princess Jezara because you thought that she was the weakest," she said. "And there's no shame in that, but let us be direct: you are not a strategic mastermind, and you are not alone in wanting the easiest fight. What I'm saying is that right now you are nothing special - Princess Jezara knows that she's the weakest too and as a result she's surrounded by climbers like you all looking to steal a quick win and get their names on the board. Fight her in a cave? As if that's not the first thing every insecure wannabe will do to try to even the odds against the warrior who advertises herself as fighting in open spaces. She probably has more experience fighting in tight areas than you do."
Aeglesia looked down, cheeks burning with shame. Lancer didn't seem to notice, flicking her book back open to the bookmarked page.
"Do you know what I bet she doesn't have a lot of experience with?" said Lancer. "Fighting in this giant terror monster shape. Everybody who sees it will be terrified - oh no, there's no way I can fight something that big! They'll hinge their strategy around not letting her use the big lion and in so doing play into her actual strengths. It's human nature. People see a giant cathedral with stained glass windows and their brains overflow. They can't see that it's just a wasteful building made by humans. They flinch in cowardice before the big thing and then call it spirituality. It's the same simple trick that Saber uses. It's why I feel confident in having her as an ally - because I can see through that ridiculous lurching combat style to the fragile, unarmoured girl underneath."
Aeglesia's cheeks burned hotter. She'd thought that Saber was cool. Maybe unbeatable. But she hadn't seen Lancer fight, so she'd probably just been taken by the illusion again.
"Anyway, here's my advice," said Lancer, standing up and approaching. "You want to be a Roman? Then be a Roman. Meet the enemy army in the field and destroy them. Fight barbarian size and strength with discipline and formation. Mark your brow with the blood of Mars and go to war as a crimson star of battle. Do not steal your victory, seize it! It is your due and your destiny. Rome only fell the day Hadrian sinned against Terminus and accepted a smaller, more 'practical' Empire. Do better! Accept no limit! Cross every milestone! Become the greatest and never flinch from it! That alone is Rome!"
She held a silver bowl before Aeglesia, filled with the dark blood of an ox. She saw her face mirrored in the vitae.
"Will you accept the mark of eternal conquest?" Lancer asked.
Aeglesia took a deep breath. She looked up.
"I will," she said, and drew a line of blood across her face, shadowing her eyes in Imperial crimson.

Saber arrives on the field, unbent and unbothered but completely drenched in blood with no apparent source. Cradled in her arms is Fallweaver, tastefully disheveled though otherwise clean and unblemished. She dumps the sorceress on the ground at Angelesia's feet with a quiet smile.

The sword at her hip which had been broken when she left is now pristine. Saber brushes past the young master now dabbing herself in war paints and crosses the distance to the other Servant she found herself relying on. No words pass between them before Saber bends down to grab a jug of water from Angelesia's supplies without bothering to ask. She upends the entire container over her head and lets the water soak into her hair and splash down her body with slightly too much curve to her back for it to be an entirely innocent act on her part. She twists her body in ways that at once seem impossible and alluring, highlighting muscles and the long, graceful curves of her body under the guise of cleansing herself in a way that highlights her beauty more than a warrior should need to bother with.

The blood does not wash away. Rather, it falls. Rather, it gathers across her tattoos and then shatters, falling at her feet in a neat pile of needles and broken shards like dark red ice. One particularly large piece tumbles from her chest in the exact shape of a dagger, and this she plucks out of the air with one hand and lets it roll between her fingers.

It is the crystallization of a grudge. The ill will she absorbed from the trap trickled uphill toward the king (that is to say, the princess) that had ordered it, small though it was. Jezara was not Actia and Saber could only manage to care so much, but even so pain was pain it demanded to be returned. Saber steps across the field again and towers over Angelesia. The idea she was fragile in that moment seemed absurd. If that was an illusion, it was a powerful one indeed.

She places the dagger in the young woman's hand. It is uncomfortable to touch, at once hot and slick and somehow sticky feeling, though it was none of those things and left no stain in the hand that held it. A gift. A tiny fan to feed to spark.

"You look a warrior, now. And you have earned my respect. Another gift, fit for your mantle. A warrior's last resort, and nothing more."

She turns her hollow eyes on Lancer, but only nods to acknowledge her existence. If she'd heard anything said about her, she gives no sign. Shows no interest in any developments that have happened here, in the choice of battlefield, or the dynamics of their alliance. These things have no bearing on her goals. Her work was finished, for the moment. The only thing that mattered now was waiting for her chance to cleanse herself of this ridiculous obsession that burned away even jealousy toward a superior tactician with a superior student. This freedom from desire thing did not suit her at all, and she could not wait to split Actia's skull open and have done with it.

She bends to pick up Fallweaver, as gently as she'd held her on arrival, and crosses away from the proper Master and Servant pair to sit with her hostage. Her teeth peek out from behind her lips as she makes a strange face, like a smile that died halfway to her cheeks.

"Well then. Here we are, little treasure. I thank you for your silence during our trip together. How now shall I reward you for it?"

"Okay," said Aeglesia. She took a deep breath and banged her sword against the edge of her shield. "Okay! Here I go!"

*

"You can - duck!" shrieked Fallweaver as the spear came in.

It was a halfhearted throw, entirely lacking in killing intent - it wouldn't have made contact even without the warning. The balance of it was off - something was tied to the end. A flask? Lancer grins, modern clothes starting to burn away in emerald light to reveal the elaborate armour of an Emperor.

"So, Saber, I was thinking," she said, foot sliding wide, tracing a long arc through the rough dirt in front of her with the javelin she was holding. "We're not allowed to directly interfere in that Princess battle - but there's nothing that says we can't have a friendly duel of our own at the same time. And if," Lancer said, tying a leather wineskin to the end of the javelin, "we happen to get a little drunk while we fight, and if that has implications for our accuracy, then I don't see how anything that comes of that would be our fault."

She took a deep draught of wine herself. Then her easy grin hardened and her stance became sharp and focused. Still playful, but with an edge. The play for her Master's affection had not gone unnoticed and this was her opportunity to establish her superiority.

"Very well then."

A moment, spent staring into the sky. A second moment spent sitting Fallweaver comfortably where Saber herself had been seated a moment ago. A third on patting her head, though with the sort of care and gentleness one might expect from looking at her. A fourth inspecting the lance, a fifth taking her own long swallow of liquor.

She does not return the smile, hard edged as Lancer's is. She does not scowl or set her brow or her teeth. If a word can be put to her expression, it is boredom.

It should not be so: the joy of testing a warrior should be sacrosanct for a Valkyrie, even an artificial one such as herself. But all she sees looking at Lancer is a waste of resources. Mana spent on movement that cannot be replenished, injuries that would take even greater concentrations of magical energy to heal when she was already running out of tricks to keep restoring herself. The possibility that their duel would distract from Angelesia's and swing the fight in the incorrect direction. All for what? Servants could not improve themselves merely through training. Neither could they become properly drunk (though wine was famously mana dense as far as drinks went). There were endless reasons why this was pointless, even detrimental. Dozens of justifications for rolling her eyes and picking up one of Lancer's books on foreign culture to pass the time, instead. But she grips the javelin that had been thrown at her and takes her stance.

"For the sake of our alliance," she says.

The shaft disappears behind her back as Saber dips into a wide, three point stance that stretches her body until her posture somewhat resembles a siege engine. She neither throws nor pounces, but simply waits.

"I accept the wisdom of your thought. We will drink and we will duel in the custom of your class container. I will allow you to curry favor with your Master by demonstrating your superiority. Let us become accustomed to one another's movements; I continue to require your cooperation to achieve my goals in this war. A logician such as yourself is doubtless aware that the reverse is equally true. If you should injure me beyond the point of recovery I will simply take this as the proof that your true name is Actia."

Finally, she grins. Now her heartbeat quickens. What is your move, Lancer?

In her left hand she holds her second javelin. In her right she holds a book. Lancer's emerald rimmed glasses glint as she shakes an escaped tress of brown hair out of her eyes. All of her attention is on the book as she hefts, and throws.

Another weak and halfhearted throw, as idle as the first.

It is almost a relief. After the barrage of Bohemond, the assault of the Handmaidens and the ferocity of Berserker it is pleasant to be fighting someone who is clearly your inferior. Whoever Lancer was in life, she was no legendary hero. The skill on display here slew no dragons.

Her hand freed, she brushes the escaped hair behind her ear. It does not fit into her elaborate braids but it is enough for her to take another sip of wine, conjure another javelin and with her eyes never leaving her book for a second, she takes another throw. It has the force of her Class container behind it, more than mortal strength, but nothing from her own legend adds to this. Time enough to gain position, to gain every advantage, to bring this play battle to a close against this unserious competitor before -

- her emerald eyes flick up from her book. It tumbles from her emerald-painted nails towards the ground. Her leg sweeps out to the left, sweeping out her dress into a flowing cascade, bringing her down into a crouch.

Her left eye winks shut. It helps her focus through the sights.

Her next javelin is a FGM-148.

Missiles streak up into the sky, pivoting on a dime and raining down a cascade of anti-armour shaped charges. Explosions and fire fall like rain.

"Did you know?" said Lancer, silhouetted by fire as she picked her book up, snapped the page back open, and hefted her rocket launcher over her shoulder. "that these weapons were so effective at destroying the atheist Soviet Union that the Church worshipped them as saints?" Lancer's eye flicked up from her book to look through the sight again, and she thumbed the trigger from top fire to direct fire. "Once again, they ascribe religious meaning to a perfectly serviceable spear."

"No, indeed? I fail to see why that should surprise you."

It is difficult, even for a Servant, to debate as equals with someone when you are scrambling across the ground in every way you can manage to dodge a rain of rocket fire. But that is what Saber puts her energy into anyway, because what else is she going to do? Counterattack is, if not impossible, wildly impractical without betraying all of her goals and motivations. What is she meant to do, ride the explosions into the sky where she hid her attack helicopter?

Should she, should she... reveal her trump card? Pull Lancer across the field to her with the grappling hook she keeps hidden in her elbow? Open her mouth and spit lasers? Ah, perhaps she should don her summertime beret and mow down the field with its attendant SMG? If only she were not an artificial Valkyrie carrying the title on behalf of a mortal such a thing might have been possible.

If only.

"When a sword is forged there is often very little to distinguish it from its peers. A remarkable blade is one that doesn't shatter when you split a man's skull with it. If it holds an edge past that the smith should have songs sung about them. But really, what is one sharpened piece of metal from another? Nothing, except what a man has done with it."

She cannot run fast enough to keep entirely from being burned. She cannot block with anywhere near the degree of skill required to parry every bit of shrapnel and debris. Thus, she bleeds. Because flexibility is not a replacement for pinpoint shapeshifting or teleportation or invincible flesh bathed in the blood of a dragon or even properly drawn runes to protect the body from arrows. Skill at arms did not measure up to an entire world filled until it was spilling over with clever tricks.

A tactician? A battle sage? A swordmaster? A sea monster that had twisted herself into the shape of a human for the sake of love and admiration? Ha! These things counted for nothing. Every piece of her had grown obsolete before she could ever be materialized. She was now ordinary, and the whole world and its brilliant peacock feathers of destruction had been arrayed against her ahead of time.

"But the sword that survives in the hand of a warrior through ten battles becomes special. The sword that slays a monster becomes famous for it. To rush into battle alongside the weapon that slew a dragon gives every man that knows the tale the strength to move mountains. If your lance was as effective as you say it is only natural that legends would spring up around it. You can only take issue with the shape of that story, if a better told legend might have made men stronger. You can only question if clinging to specific divinity invites weakness or strength in the heart that cradles it. But that they should refuse to classify it as merely a serviceable weapon is a credit to their lot, whatever you may say."

Direct fire? Very well. Saber tears the wine flask off her own spear and guzzles thirstily from its neck. Head tilted up in appreciation for the drink, every bit as distracted by libation as Lancer is by reading, she hurls her spear. Saber's legend is not that of a demigod or a world famous hero. Her deeds were replicated elsewhere in the world, and often even surpassed by the true shining lights of humanity. She was merely a monster that became a weapon for the love of a great king. And a weapon who transformed herself into a king for a love of her people when they had no more need for a weapon. Nevertheless, she was a warrior. A renowned one, worthy of every treasure buried with her and every lie told about her by the people she'd supported even beyond her death. And that was enough to make an ancient javelin more than a match for an unrespected munition.

When the explosion clears, Saber wipes her lips on the back of her wrist. She gestures for another weapon, bleeding only where the rain had kissed her previously.

"Yours, however, I believe has earned its reputation for plainness. You have a keen eye, Lancer."

"But that's exactly wrong!" cried Lancer. "To take all the glory of the age and attribute it to a specific weapon - that's sick! An act of historical illiteracy, a decision to crush the feats of an entire civilization down into a single point so that it can be wielded by a single person! The whole idea of a legendary hero is an act of violence against the soul of humanity, taking what is great about every age and ripping it out so that one person can carry it!"

Lancer cast aside her rocket launcher and leapt into the air. Beneath her conjured a painted horse, barded with silks of red and yellow. She rushed across the distance, firing arrow after arrow. "To praise Genghis Khan for her use of horse archery denies a civilization's collective efforts at the development of a tactical weapon system!" she leapt from the horse, lunging into close combat, encased in heavy bronze armour and with a shining spear. "To deify Achilles makes men think that they could not fight as he did!" she whirls in green, casting her spear with great force before rolling away, coming up armoured in the bright red battlegear of a Roman legionary. "Men obsessed over Emperors. Emperors obsessed over God! Nobody noticed that Rome had fallen. Nobody had the eyes to see the golden age when they were in it, nobody had the will to restore it when had passed!"

She raises another unrespected javelin to her shoulder. Lancer does not love this specific spear - she loves the culture, the system, the civilization that gave rise to it.

"Humans will read history books with the same carelessness with which they read the lies of poets," said Lancer. "They think they can no more return to those days than they could become Musashi or Alexander. I refuse to accept that! The glory of the past lies exactly where it was left abandoned, waiting for someone to pick it up again!"

Arrows whistle as they sail across the sky. She stands still and allows them to stick her where they may. Superficial damage at the worst; one at the shoulder and another in her hip. She glances down before plucking them free with lazy contempt. A moment later they clash in the manner of legends, and she is forced to draw her sword. But that is the extent of the story, all that the whirling green can draw out of her. Tucking her arm tight against her side is enough to bend her blade to cover every spot that attacks can reach her from. The impacts are not bone rattling, not that they ever could be, but neither are they metaphorically so sharp as to accomplish the feat. It is more akin to play fighting, and when Lancer rolls away it is with a boost from a slow swat of that black sword.

Now she stares down a Roman legionnaire and for a moment the battlefield returns to stillness. For her, it hardly feels different from the flashy displays of a moment prior. Nothing held the impact of those rockets. Nothing pushes her the way that surprise could, the perfect tactic calculated from outside her capabilities. In the attempt to prove that the world of the past was available for plunder, Lancer had lowered herself to its standards, and there Saber was still a king. Or a warrior on the path to becoming one - the difference in the path of a fight made surprisingly little difference, one might realize if they happened to be observing this.

"Nobody could fight like Achilles," she scoffs, "What does that matter? Merely donning his armor in his stead was enough to turn the tide of a battle. And in the end it was the rest of that army that accomplished what he could not, or so I've heard it said. Was their reverence for him a hindrance?"

She waits. She knows the shape of this next throw. It will not be weak, it will not be halfhearted. It will be the shape of the same lance that pierced -- that crushed -- Bohemond. It comes, straight and true and swift and predictable. The cut that defeats it hardly looks like some great act of martial prowess, but the stance she is forced to take is (for once) a proper warrior's grip and follow through. Her sword carves a fresh scar into the earth even as it snaps that javelin in half. And there are those who would praise her for this! Had the two of them been lucky enough to meet in life this would have been a page in Saber's legend, the proof that she was raised by her Father not for her monstrous form but because he saw in her a warrior who could lead a nation in his wake.

She twists at the hip across the edge of her own cut and whirls forward at hunting speeds. Have all the clever tricks you like, world, in this aspect alone Saber remains unmatched. She is upon Lancer as though she were the one fired from a rocket launcher. She does not cut. She does not challenge the armor or the shield. Her arm bends and extends forward, her hand closes around the logician's throat. Her body straightens, and she lifts Lancer off the ground entirely.

"When I died, I told my people they would never know defeat so long as my remains lay undisturbed in the cold earth. I kept that promise, Lancer. As I keep every promise. We are not history. We are what the people compress history down to because we and our weapons are small enough to be carried into the future."

Her arm lowers enough to reach her hip. She steps forward, and throws Lancer like a skipping stone across the battlefield. All her anger and irritation make the force of it harder than was wise, but even in this she has at least held back enough that they could lie and call this friendly sparring, if they had a mind to.

"Did Rome collapse? Then let it lie, you fool. We went to our graves praying a world like this one would grow overtop our corpses. What kind of idiot would try to reclaim the old glory when they could build a new one now to surpass it? Is that not the point of your Master?"