Something stirred in Sion, and the flow of everything was changed.

It was not something that just anyone could identify. From the perspective of those who lived in the town, the river still carried on in the same direction it always had. The trains were running on time, the birds sang in the morning, the sun rose.

However, if one inquired with any person in the town, they would be informed that "today feels different". It was nothing meaningful to the people of Sion, and not a single person thought to discuss the feeling with anyone else, but it remained there from the moment light touched the sky and began to wash over the valley. It changed the way they breathed. It changed the way they looked at the sky and the mountains.

The reason, of course, was that the life of each person in town now sat on the balance of a razor's edge. Starting from today, any one of them could be crushed into nothingness with barely a thought, obliterated from this world as an aftereffect of the movements of beings that defied the logic of their lives.

The location was perfect for this. Great mountains bordered Sion, preventing escape. The land was like a bowl waiting to be filled to the brim.

A seed had been planted, and blood was needed to water it.

---

The First Day. 15th of November, 2016. 11:30AM.

---

From the Seventh Heaven, attended to by three greet words of power,

Come forth from the ring of restraints,

Protector of the Holy Balance.

The Priest mused over those words as he carried groceries up the steep walkway up the hill of Valère. They were none of his business, really. It was the station of the Masters to concern themselves with bringing Heroic Spirits to this time and place.

Nonetheless, the words held some charm for him. Holy Balance. He could almost smile.

Approaching the gateway into the Basilica, the Priest took a glance over his shoulder, acknowledging the castle on the hill that rose even higher than the one he was presently on. Someone had already taken control of Tourbillon, or so it seemed. On a clear day like this one, it would have been entirely possible for them to see one another from hill to hill, if one looked carefully. Of course, there was no need for visual confirmation in order to be aware of one another's existences.

For a neutral sanctuary, the hill's position was rather central. In truth, it was possible for just about anyone in any part of town to lay eyes on Valère, and in turn to lay eyes on the Priest.

He was a slightly gaunt man with short, light-coloured hair whose glasses flashed in the sunlight. A chilled breeze raked across him, but he seemed comfortable enough in just his priest's cassock.

Passing through the courtyard and approaching the doorway to the church itself, the Priest laid his bag of groceries on the ground and approached the door. To open it, he needed his right hand free. His left sleeve, folded and pinned against his side, held no arm. It was an injury that he was more than willing to bear, inconvenient as it sometimes became.

The Priest held the handle of the door, but did not open it. Something was there. A red pincushion flower had been tucked between the double doors. The moment he took it between his fingers, the flower twitched and echoed the words that had been encoded upon it.

"Please remain on the hill from this point forwards. For your safety, and to ensure all guests receive a proper welcome, do not stray from your place again."

"You're watching me too, hm?" He squeezed the stem in annoyance. "Well, I needed tea and cakes to offer the participants, so there was nothing else to do about it."

He answered her, but of course there was no reply. Whether or not she had heard him, it was difficult to say.

With that, he opened the door into the dark interior of the church. Before picking up his groceries, the Priest considered the flower. Would it be too much to throw it to the winds? He tucked it into his pocket reluctantly, taking his bag and entering within.

He wanted to be ready to receive any visitors on this, the neutral ground of the ritual. Perhaps no one would come, although it was generally considered good form to offer some form of introduction to the overseer before the rising of the moon and the beginning of the bloodshed.

---

@eugalB @Double D @Crusader Lord @Ducksworth @Yukitamas @GOATPlumber @n0cturnal1 @Cocojoe @SSW @Letter Bee

It was a nice idyllic place.

Too peaceful, too calm. It pretended as if the world wasn't on the march to its final boring slumber. It pretended that it was surrounded in the beauty of nature even as it coddled those who threw away their value, who said they were done with life and walked about as shambling aged corpses.

Retirement was a silly thing. Simply grazing for no reason, stopping their pulse of hunger as Cull Yow.

The mountain overlooked the town, but the town wasn't quiite separated. It wasn't the best of land for a ritual despite the robustness. It seems like they were more trying to make it a dam rather than anything.

Was the distortion of this land really enough for something so great compared to the other rituals?

Well, at the very least a servant did descend.

"Those who don't work don't eat, or something like that. But the kind of work you do I guess is more like a lion king~" Phoebe had a few choice words, prodding at Rider and especially his friend. But the master had never truly pushed the issue. It was a small little quabble that seemed more insisted upon less because Phoebe believed in it but more because it was a fun point of conflict to push on.

Well, even Rider could understand that his master was just the most troublesome sort who actively chased that sort of meaningless strife and egging on.

It was a good warm up for the actual battles to come.

The magic energy and awareness that spread out from the fallen leyline, and the threat sensing diviniations that illuminated magic energy and aggressors left Phoebe idly hopping and skipping up the walls, rising on pillars and stairs that formed out of the dirt in response to a playful yet powerful voice, speaking out with the ease of a child in play, yet projecting loud enough to fill the entire space carrying the will of a singer.

Trained, intentional and enough of an expert in all that to make it almost sound like happenstance. Innocence that was grasped through all the things that weren't. To know and speak of these things was not to be it after all.

But at the same time there was still an innocent charm, a dark innocent charm to Phoebe even as the sheeply beauty took a lute in hand and leaned in against the massive strange sheep that stood waiting in the tall ramparts. Phoebe strummed and hummed as magic circles formed around spilling out from the magic crest.

"Rider, you're already on the way huh? Well, I'll be engaging first. I'm not gonna tell you its a signal but do what you think is right. I want to see how you differ from Lancer~"

The shape of the lute wavered like jelly, distorting and drooping away as if it were melting. For a moment the core and truth of the object could be seen in the shape of a string that curled around the mages hand before the ether resolidified in the shape of a bow. The bow was beautiful, carrying tweaks and ornamentation of wood and grooves and circuits that evoked the rays of the sun and lightning.

Yet the string that strung up an arrow forming out of ether was bloody red, almost cruel in how magic energy danced along its length.

"Witness me."

Phoebe incanted.

"Graze. Drawset long, wide barrel"

Another magic circle formed in front of Phoebe, one that'd increase the range of the magic bullet far enough to reach and storm against the ones radiating the signature of magus and servant. The magic bullet released with small dainty fingers that seemed smooth and kind yet gripped with a unrelenting uncompromising strength and intent letting it release with the grace of casting a dove out to fly. The arrow blazed through the air sizzling with magic energy before curving and splitting off into dozens of arrows that bombarded the area Berserker and his master marched.

It was one thing to be shot at in a open field with nothing obstructing the sun or the arrows. It was another to be marching up towards a castle, to walk around fields, to climb rocks, or move through the cliffside that held unkind terrain.

Yes, marching like this they may as well have been coming to their deaths. You didn't need an Oracle to tell you that.

The next step was to weave prophecy, curse. As Rider began his full engagement Phoebe watched with reinforced eyes not the master, but the servant that opposed them. Master Clairvoyance activate Would they be one that could be felled? Regardless, it was only natural to begin weaving a Prophecy (curse) that the guardian of the oracle would slay one with enough hubris to intrude upon a gods temple.

He was trying to avoid people. One could say Jerome had been doing this for most of his life at this point. But this specific point was different from anything else. A ritual few mages would ever experience, partly because it isn’t easy to get included but mostly because the risk was too big for a reward which may never come.

But maybe he was here for the risk rather than the reward.



On the previous day, he passed the border with a somewhat heavy cargo. He didn’t bother with the customs as he was used to bypassing them. His target lied in the town of Sion.
He arrived after midnight. There, an apartment had been rented already. The third floor of an unremarkable building in the industrial district. The buildings were big, or at least as big as he could hope for in such a small town, and they were packed. Walls were like doors to him and such a building would hardly seem like the home of a mage. For him, this was ideal.

A central room combining living room and kitchen separated by a counter, a small bathroom and two bedrooms. Already furnished. He didn’t even really look at any of it. The moment his hand touched the door, he knew all he needed.
Disconnection of all sensation of touch. Connection to earth though the thaumaturgy of geomancy. Earth is a fundamental basis of the body. The body is earth. Reconnection of touch displaced unto earth. Ground Touch.
One of the few things he had to thanks his parents for. He may have rejected the life of a magus, but that trick was something he practiced so much it was second nature to him. In a few instants, he felt the walls and foundations of the building. Through vibrations, he could how many people were in the building as well as their physiologies and positions. Even after reconnecting his senses properly, he would not need to see anymore to move within this building.

He moved his belongings to his appartement, including a sizeable and very heavy box. Most humans wouldn’t be able to lift it, even less so through the stairs. But it was not him that did. There was something(someone?) else with him. His one true ally in this deadly ritual.
Jerome knew him for two days at that point, yet he barely tried to open any conversations. That is just the kind of man he was.

That box was meant for this ally however. It just needed to be set-up before it could be used.
He emptied one of the bedrooms from its furniture and placed the box at its center. Then he opened one of his suitcases. It revealed a large number of strips of paper, resembling eastern talismans, though they also used some western magecraft techniques. It was the produce of a young mage family living in a village close to London. Not very powerful, but reliable and discreet, and so were their products. They were seals meant to disperse magical energy in such a way that it would look like natural, ordinary mana. It also contained the excess so that one couldn’t notice the incongruence. A mystic code meant to hide magical power.
And he had a lot of it to hide.

He plastered the seals all over the room. The walls, the ceiling, the shut windows, the floors and even the door, though he had to be careful to leave room to walk. The exterior window shutters were closed and the room was drowned in darkness. For the average mystic code, one or two of these would suffice, but it was anything but.
Once the room was fully sealed, he could deploy it. The covers taken off, the box turned out to be a large contraption with many interconnecting pipes. Multiple openings were available. From another suitcase, he pulled a few bottles. He had a rough Idea of the nature of their contents but didn’t know how to produce them himself. Thankfully, there was more than necessary for the duration of this ritual.

First bottle contained a thick jade colored fluid. He emptied it into the right pipe and it traveled to container at the center of the contraption. Through a small glass panel, one could see the color filing in. And with a closer look, they would notice the mass of flesh inside, floating inert in the strange liquid, connected by a number of tubes to the pipes which linked the whole contraption.
Then, a crimson powder which he poured into a reservoir on the side. Filtered, enriched nourishment for the lump.
Finally, two seemingly empty bottles. But in fact, they were filled with a special gas, meant to recreate Age of Heroes mana as accurately as possible, at least with the means of modern magi. A firestarter, a reminder of what the unrecognizable flesh used to be. Jerome placed them in their designated spots, where needles pierced through the caps.

The machine ready, he placed his palm upon a small panel where a magic circle was engraved. The gentle light of his od briefly illuminated room. Then, it was overtaken by the sound of air being pulled in on one end and the misty, musty gas coming out the other. The breath which started to fill the room was rich in a pure magical power, the kind which couldn’t normally be found outside of a leyline in the modern day.

“Here you go. This should keep you going much better than my od. Please use your spirit form to move in or out. The seals must not be disturbed at all, so no touching the door.”

His words were addressed to the presence that accompanied him so far. And yet, Jerome didn’t even look in his direction. His tone was somewhat dismissive, but there was neither aggression nor fear. Just a long, cold distance.
Instead, he shuffled toward the wall connecting to the other room and extended his hand. The moment after he touched the wall, he was pulled into it. In an instant, he was in the other room, as if he had always been there.

He considered his bed for a few seconds. Then he pulled the sheets and put them on the ground beside. He took his clothes off and rolled himself in the blanket laying down.

“Should have taken a sleeping bag.” He muttered to himself.

Ground Touch. It had been a while since the last time he did this, but he maintained the skill in his sleep. Doing so would make him aware of any vibration or temperature change in the building. This didn’t make sleeping easier, but Jerome was a cautious man sleeping in the middle of a soon-to-be warzone.
Without even noticing, his fingers passed on his command seals. He didn’t even feel it due to Ground Touch. This was nothing more than a subconscious action.
He didn’t feel safe, but that was nothing new to him. Rather, it was troublesome to him to trust another with his own life. Servants are powerful. Much more so than a modern magus. And Jerome was far less combat-ready than most well-trained modern magi.
Even so, he gave his partner free access to the Draconic Reactor. He wasn’t too familiar with the details, but it should be possible for a Servant to rely on it to maintain itself without a Master, at least for a while. To Jerome, this was a terribly risky but necessary bet. He had to give himself all the chances he could take to face the other participants on equal footing, even if it meant giving a path for betrayal.

Eventually, slumber took him and his doubts.

Jerome woke up after the sun rose into the sky. At this time of year, he did not need to check the hour to know it was late to get-up. After quickly getting dressed, he headed for the exit.

“Let’s grab some grub and get familiar with the surrounding while we’re at it”

He planned to set a large Bounded Field around the neighboring building. Something to warn him of the presence of anything with magical power, but large enough to not give away his appartement.
However, he had barely taken a few steps into the street when he noticed some powerful magical energy in the distance, towards one of the hills. Someone put their base in Tourbillon. Not surprising as it was home to a local leyline. What was surprising was the hostility. It seemed as if they were getting ready for a fight.

“In the middle of the day?! They’re not even trying to hide...
-What do you think of that, Lancer?”

Since they arrived in Sion, Jerome didn’t address him much words, and those were the first which invited an answer.
Similarly, there was a spark in his eyes which was previously absent. A bit of confusion, an apparent disdain, some fear at the thought of the monsters which were about to clash. But this new light was something different, something that he didn’t feel in a long time.
He was genuinely excited.

The forest above Saint-Léonard was quiet by the time Thalorian arrived, dusk slanting through the pines in long golden bars, the scent of moss and wet bark hanging in the air. Mist clung to the trees. Beneath his boots, the soil softened, still holding the melt of a recent snow.

He paused at the ridge, where the treeline opened just enough to see the faint scatter of village lights down in the valley. The underground lake slept beneath him somewhere. He could feel its stillness, cool and resonant, beneath the slope.

“This is it,” he whispered. “The pull ends here.”

Tuthail padded silently to his side, barely disturbing the underbrush. The spirit’s leafy fur shifted like wind-touched reeds, his presence more felt than seen. Together, they moved inward.

Thalorian’s campsite was a modest hollow tucked between three old trees, each grown at such an angle that their roots had formed a natural cradle in the earth. He placed one palm against each trunk, eyes closed, listening, not to words, but to rhythm. The way the mana rose and fell with each breath of wind. The way the roots whispered across stone. It was old here, slow, alive.

He unshouldered his satchel and unpacked what he needed, the components he'd carefully chosen for turning this space into a sanctuary. Ritual stones, polished seed-charms wrapped in his mother’s scarf, a bundle of horn-blades and chalk. Everything had a place, and everything he placed had a purpose. This was only the beginning. The forest wouldn’t open itself to him all at once. Tonight, he’d lay the bones, quiet work with careful rhythms.

He wouldn’t finish tonight, not properly. That would come after the summoning. After he knew what kind of presence the forest was being asked to shelter. Laying wards, tuning the leyline, completing the field. He knew the order of operations by heart. The plan had been forming for days, long before the scale had begun to sing.

The firepit he made was small and circular, built of old river rocks carefully chosen for their lichen patterning, sun-sleepers, Tuthail had called them once. Before lighting the flame, he laid out three stones: one carved with Luis (rowan, protection), one with Coll (hazel, insight), and one blank. He placed the blank one between the other two and pressed two fingers to its surface.

“Luis to watch. Coll to know.
Stone to remember. Let this place learn.”

As the words sank into the grove, the stones took on a faint gleam, and the air quieted. The triadic ring was meant to be subtle, a low hum of order and memory. Not a true barrier, but a circle of stillness, something to help the land recognize what did not belong. It was also the first anchor in a larger spiritual lattice he would finish tomorrow.

While Thalorian worked, Tuthail moved along the grove’s edge in wide arcs, a small pouch slung around his neck by a loop of braided reed. From within it, he retrieved thin rune-etched tokens, wooden slats and flat stones that Thalorian had pre-carved and imbued with his mana. With quiet care, the spirit buried them into the earth at intervals between roots and under moss, placing them where they would harmonize with the grove's rhythm.

With the fire lit, Thalorian began the grounding chant, not sung, but intoned in a breath-like cadence. He knelt, pressed his forehead to the soil, and recited:

“By ash and thorn, by wind and moss,
Let this place forget its noise.
Let roots grow inward.
Let breath fall low.
Let nothing here be found.”

Each verse was paired with motion. One hand drawn through soil. One circle carved around the firepit with a bent ash branch. Three pebbles moved clockwise around a lichen patch. It took an hour to complete.

Afterward, Thalorian walked the grove’s perimeter and buried three seed-charms, hazel, ivy, and willow, at points that formed a rough triangle. They weren’t to grow tonight. Only to listen. Later, he would awaken them.

By moonlight, he carved Duir into the fallen tree nearby, a straight line intersected by two slashes, like the gateway it symbolized. He traced it with fingertips soaked in creek water and whispered a silent promise.

When at last he unrolled his blanket beside the roots of the old ash tree, the forest was still. Tuthail curled nearby, nose tucked beneath his fern-fringed tail. Thalorian stared up at the canopy and watched the branches sway. Sleep came slowly, but without fear.

---

He woke with the first light of dawn seeping through the trees, casting everything in pale gold. Fog clung low to the soil. His fingers were damp from dew and his breath visible in the cold air. Thalorian sat up and took a moment to breathe. The birds sang, and the wind stirred the leaves overhead. He placed a hand on the soil and felt the threads he’d woven the night before. They held.

He moved carefully, checking the stone ring, refreshing the glyphs, and whispering quiet harmonics into the hidden charms. Tuthail moved with him, planting his paws deliberately, releasing quiet waves of natural stillness, coaxing the grove to hold its breath and mask the disturbance in its own rhythms across the grove’s spiritual surface. Together, they veiled the space.

Once everything was still, once the forest held its breath, Thalorian stepped to the center.

From his satchel he withdrew it, the scale. Green-black, slick like polished stone, and strangely warm. Veined like leaf marrow. He had always assumed it was from a forest beast. Something old. Something aligned with the wilds. He knelt and placed the scale in the exact center of the cleared circle.

Tuthail padded to the edge of the ritual space and lay down, nose to the earth. His leafy tail coiled around a tree root as he exhaled slowly, syncing his breath with the stillness of the grove, urging the trees and undergrowth to hush in sympathy.

Then, quietly, Thalorian knelt on hands and knees at the edge of the ring, fingers splayed against the soil, eyes closed. He began the summoning, voice low, steady, tuned to the grove’s rhythm.

“Spirits of strength, of skies and roots.
I offer life, I offer shelter.
I ask, not for power, but for help.
Let one who walks with will… walk here.”

The glyphs around the stones lit faintly. The air thrummed. Leaves spiraled upward without wind. The scale brightened, brighter, and then broke into light.

Thalorian held still, hands pressed to the earth, eyes gently clasped shut. He felt it before he heard it: a cluster of impacts rippling through the soil. Fast, heavy. Four... no, five. Only then did he lift his head and open his eyes, as the light was fading. The pressure eased. The ground stilled. The air quivered.

And when the light cleared, a girl stood in the centre of the ring.

A small, dark-eyed, and unassuming girl. But the air bent strangely around her, as though the grove itself couldn’t quite decide how to hold her shape. Thalorian blinked, stunned, but didn’t move immediately. Slowly, he shifted back from hands and knees to kneeling, lifting one hand from the soil, palm open, fingers loose. It took him a moment to speak.

“…Welcome,” he said softly. “You’re… not quite what I expected.”

The quiet morning finds itself swiftly interrupted by a man’s voice, cutting through the air like razors through paper. It overcomes the very sound of the forest, as if the domain of nature were making way for a soon-to-be-master over all. Given what was about to occur, it would be a most appropriate reaction, after all.

All things considered, it was rather an unconventional ritual compared to the usual procedures used to summon a Heroic Spirit.

But not ineffective! Even this method would suffice, and the proof that it was not to be a waste was soon clear to see. Bright lights and crackling multi-colored lightning arcs across the earth originating from the summoning circle, which glows an iridescent rainbow-ish hue. A gale picks up as leaves and idle debris are tossed asunder, such is the force of it all.

That mighty scale from a once-great creature calls forth its owner, long consigned to the furthest corners of mythology.

A great flash shines even over the glorious morning sun-- basking all around in the deepest of shadow against the purest of white.

…What emerges is, to put it bluntly, not what one may expect.

When utilizing catalysts, usually the part of a great beast calls forth its adversary or companions in its former life. Whether it be the greatest of heroes with a glimmering blade and armor to match, or a conniving villain with a domineering silhouette and similarly intimidating force of personality to match. History has always drawn attention to the strong, noble, or cruel, not often focusing on the weak and feeble unless to illustrate a hero or villain’s greatness at their expense.

Instead of getting any of these potential options, whether it be a beast-slayer or a beast-wrangler, or even the beast itself, what beholds the magus is instead the visage of a smaller girl, with unkempt black hair and dark, dark red eyes. She appears before him dressed in rags not even fit for a beggar, obviously once a decent dress but long resigned to absolute neglect and decay. To top it all off were a pair of seemingly wooden cuffs in horrendous condition, literally rotting at the corners and rusting in what few metal parts could be seen-- holding her arms in front of her.

Those wide eyes blink as the girl seemingly snaps out of an idle state of mind, quickly glancing around before her gaze rests upon the very young man crouched in front of her. She thinks to say something for just a moment, before her thoughts are quickly interrupted.

“…Welcome,” he said softly. “You’re… not quite what I expected.”

What…? What did he mean by ‘You’re not what I expected’?

A litany of thoughts rushes through the girl’s mind as she continues to stare wide-eyed at this individual before her. Sure, she looked weak. Sure, she wasn’t some great sword, spear, or bow-wielding warrior. Sure, she was locked up in a pair of cuffs and dressed in rags. That didn’t mean she was weak! She was a Servant, after all!

And so, a pout forms upon her face as she closes her eyes angrily and quickly turns her head.

"Well, that's not a very nice how-do-you-do, mister!"

Reopening her eyes, they’re rather narrowed, in stark contrast to her more curious expression from moments ago.

“Hmph… I had a cool introduction planned, but I don’t want to do it anymore.”

One gets the feeling that if she could cross her arms, she would.

“But I gotta do one, so I guess I’ll do another one.”

Closing her eyes, the girl clears her throat dramatically, puffing her chest out.

“I’m Rider! A Servant, Heroic Spirit, whateveryoucallit. Here for the holy grail! And, whoever my Master is, I guess! So…”

She reopens her eyes, tilting her head somewhat.

“Are you my master, mister…?”

posted in error

Thalorian blinked again. Then slower, once more, as the girl before him scrunched her face into a pout and turned away with a huff. She muttered something sharp and small, something clearly wounded, as though his words had hit harder than intended, and suddenly he found himself in one of the most mystifying positions of his life: being scolded by a little girl in rags who had just emerged from an arcane ritual bathed in forest light. He sat there, kneeling, stunned, mouth half-parted in an expression older than apology but no less helpless.

“Wait-I…” he started, then stopped, his hands lifting instinctively in front of him like he might shield himself from the weight of her indignation. “I didn’t mean it like that.” His ears were definitely red. Possibly his whole face. Spirits, he’d offended her already.

The longer he looked at her, the more confused, and fascinated, he became. She was pouting, yes, but not in a way that was meaningless. She puffed herself up, chest out, spine straight, and glared at him like she was trying to reclaim the stage he'd accidentally trampled. The ruined cuffs at her wrists didn’t clink so much as creak as she shifted, held in place by rot and rust and… symbolism, maybe? His eyes darted to them briefly, brows tugging together in concern.

And then came the introduction, theatrical, proud. The exact opposite of what one might expect from someone who looked so… displaced. Not because she was small. Or young. Or strange. But because she wasn’t afraid to be all those things. She stood there, cuffed, frayed, furious, and declared herself Rider like the whole forest should kneel. And somehow, part of him wanted to.

“Are you my master, mister…?”

The question hung in the air like dew before dawn. Thalorian’s expression softened, his body relaxing just enough for a breath to slip out. He glanced around the grove, checking for any shift in wind, in roots, in birdsong. Nothing had fled. The earth hadn’t buckled. The moss still reached toward the morning sun. She was not a disruption. The land had accepted her, even if his mind hadn't caught up.

He smiled, awkward but warm, and rubbed the back of his neck. “I suppose I am, yeah.” He paused, then added with a bit more certainty, “Though ‘Master’ feels a bit grand, doesn’t it?” He rested his hand lightly over his heart. “I’m Thalorian. And if it’s alright with you, I’d rather be your partner.” There was no flourish in it, no command. Just an offering.

As he looked at her again, the words she’d used echoed back: Heroic Spirit. He could feel it now, the pressure of her existence, the weight that seemed so out of place for her form. His circuits whispered in response, not in fear but in recognition. There was power there. Not uncontained, but caged. Softly pulsing beneath skin that shouldn’t hold it. A mismatch in every possible way, and yet…

The cuffs, his gaze drifted back to them. “Do those hurt?” he asked, quiet again. “You don’t have to wear them here. Not if you don’t want to.” He reached into the fold of his cloak and gently tugged loose his woolen scarf. Soft, hand-dyed green with trailing embroidery faded at the edges. It smelled faintly of rosemary and forest smoke. His mother’s.

He shouldn’t offer it but she looked cold. Not because of the air. But because something about her felt like it hadn’t been warm in a very long time. Thalorian held the scarf out toward her, both hands open, fingers curled beneath it like offering bread to a cautious animal. “You can borrow this,” he murmured. “It’s not much, but it’s warm. And it’s yours for as long as you need it.”

She wasn’t what he expected. But that didn’t matter anymore. Because the forest had already made its decision, and so had he.

---

The climb was steady. Stone crunched beneath armoured boots, dust curling in the morning air. The path wound upward in switchbacks and crags, but Aureus Deus Bellator did not stumble. Each step was deliberate. To the world, it might look like a slope. To him, it was absence. Silence. A path without cheers, a hill without purpose. But he did not walk in the world as it was, he walked in the Arena. Because if the Arena no longer existed, then he would carve it back into the world with every step.

Behind him, his Master followed with robes, relics, and riddles, his presence strange and faintly sacred, like incense trailing from a forgotten altar. Aureus did not look back. The man was not his master, but a spectator. The only master here was glory.

High above, from the ramparts, a figure loomed beside a massive ram-like beast—cloaked in beauty and flanked by light. She did not descend but stood apart, above, not out of honour, but avoidance. She had no dust on her feet, no danger at her throat.
She raised her hand, not in challenge, but in comfort, and conjured her strike from behind stone and sky. Aureus watched her conjure the storm. A barrage, not a duel. Arrows of radiant energy, spilling from her and soaring downward. His lip curled.

"Feather-light arrows, and a heart no heavier. Talis pugna, talis virtus.” He did not flinch. Instead, he stepped backward, grasped Minoru by the robe, and yanked him in beside him. "Come here, unworthy one. Lest your death in the first act drown out the ovation I am owed."

With one sweeping motion, he traced an arc in the air—light bleeding from the motion like paint on canvas. It coalesced into a curved wall of radiant bronze: Scutum Victoriae. The shield, engraved with latin laurels, thudded into the earth, Wide and towering, and then the storm struck. Magic collided with bronze in bursts of shrieking light. Arrows cracked, shimmered, and burst, some sliding off the shield’s curve, others breaking in blooms of hot wind. But none passed and the shield held.

And as the final arrow died against bronze, the first sound came, a rising roar, the crowd had stirred. Cheers, calls, and the stamping of phantom feet. The air pulsed with the rhythm of breath held no longer. Not for victory, but for survival, for spectacle, for the promise of more. The Arena was awake now and Aureus felt the pull behind his ribs, the rising rhythm.

The arrows had not sought contest. They had sought distance. As the final arrow clattered and died against the bronze, Aureus released his grip. The shield began to dim, not discarded but fading, its duty fulfilled. He did not watch it vanish. The Arena had seen the act. The curtain could rise again.

“They attack from safety. This is not glory.” He moved forward. Footfalls struck in rhythm, echoed back by the unseen crowd. He did not look back at Minoru again, he had given the man the shadow of his shield and now he would give them the show.

---

It had taken a bit of time to find a proper spot for setting up the summoing ritual, but he'd take the chance while he had one at least. Summon well away from Sion, and then take the time to get to know his servant a little along the way. Get an idea of their mindset, their motives, their...desires, even. See if there was anything he needed to get along the way there. Etc. Such was the general plan he'd tossed together at any rate after entering the Swiss border proper. From what he had gathered of other 'subspecies Grail Wars', though, doing this would give him a chance at survival and to get started on a base of operations once they got there proper. No time wasted on other things, just getting to the bloody point of it all before it got dark outside and they had more than a few problems to watch out for at their doorstep potentially.

Still, it was a clear and beautiful day to be in the wilds of a fine mountainside, hmm? The air felt clearer up here than it normally would down below, where the impurities loved to settle as did humans, and yet to go too far up the mountains would be to court the dangers of the wilderness and ferocity of the thinning air as one's lungs sought to drag in what the body needed to survive. Ah. But he couldn't get too distracted in the heat of the moment either, now could he?

The crumpled and limp corpses of several small animals lied discarded into the brush nearby, already having been carefully used to form the proper ritual magic circle for the summoning on the cleared and compacted dirt of the ground lying before Rhodri. Stones marked out the outermost boundary just beyond the circle's edge, even, having been placed to help him mark out the space needed for preparing this summoning ritual. But...would the ritual, even with all of this effort, bear true fruit?

He had found evidence of wraiths appearing rather than proper heroic spirits, after all, shadows of heroes of old in imperfect recreations of the original ritual. Other rumors and details of his research had spoken of half-baked, weaker 'servants' whose power paled in comparison to other more successful endeavors...or had those claims been falsehoods to cover up the weakness of other magi who tried to enter this sort of thing? Perhaps he'd get unlucky enough that this ritual of the Nadekliss produced some kind of unstable visage before him at that. Ah, in any case he would gain something out of the endeavor. A nice compensation wraith to contain as a prize before returning home, an unstable mess he could try to use to his own ends, or perhaps...perhaps...even get his hands on a real heroic spirit of some sort to work along with for this 'war' he had become part of after those Command Seals had appeared on his hand.

The mage's lips pursed slightly as the edges of his mouth came up into a sort of amused expression, his gaze breifly taking note of the grudge-filled knife stabbed into the dead center of the magic circle before returning to the whole of the magic circle itself. There was only one way to find out in the end if this ritual was the 'real deal' or not, wasn't there?

Thus the right hand of the mage now came up as his palm opened and his hand was opened up while pointed at the ritual circle. Yet even as his left hand sat lazily in one pocket, the words of the incantation began to flow from his lips.



What emerged, however, did not come in a great flash of light. There was no eruption of smoke and shock and awe before his eyes. Rather, mana surged from the earth, resembling a fog, thick and cold and yet in some capacity vaguely familiar to the Welshman. It hid everything emerging within it, however, even as he could sense and feel the small but growing concentration of pure magical energy at its center. Yet his Command Seals responded as it formed, forming a link to....something...or was it-

"Hmm?"

He couldn't believe what stood before him to a certain extent, and yet a proper smile crept onto his face all the same. It wasn't overzealous a smile, nor was it an exclamation of joy. Neither was it a creepy thing that grinned down at the target. It was simply that: A basic, run-of-the-mill smile of the most average sort...but perhaps was ultimately tinted with the midlest of amusement all the same.

This...yes. This was going to be an interesting Holy Grail War indeed~

---

---

They were a greater whole composed of many parts...parts that normally didn't form such a whole as this was. A true miracle of the Nadelkiss' Holy Grail in this case indeed. Without a doubt it was an existence that was undeniably a 'servant' at a higher level of power and status, and yet at the same time was composed of things he was more than familiar with conceptually and in his line of 'work' as it were. Already it had him imagining ways to recreate such a thing, potentially, even as the one who chose to represent the whole spoke once more to him.

The Unknown Soldier. The Unknown Soldier. It had come to make some greater sense to him sooner than alter, yes. Much as a certain 'round table' was the place around which heroes of fame and glory gathered in days of yore, and a Holy Grail was 'something which drew heroes toward it and generated miracles', so too was this name itself a 'place where others gathered'. Just not those of the famous, legendary kind. It was a title and a 'name' that, as he pondered it, was filled with the bodies of the forgotten and suffering of wars that once tore up the fabric of Europe, the vengeful, sorrowing, regretful, and other forms of wraiths of the dead whose anonymity likely ate away at them terribly. It was the title of those that were fogotten, yet remembered. Those that were honored, yet dealt death inglorious. Like a walking paradox, in a sense, that was yet still just as real as anything.

Ah! But he had found himself mulling about in his concealed tent, one set up to rest and live out of for now, after gathering enough grudges and doing his part in the setup of their base of operations. He had ideas for later, depending on what came into play tonight and the following day, but he had a plan for how long to mull about in the night before retiring from it all the same. For the last thirty minutes, he had been using his primary phone and doing a more normal bout of 'grudge gathering'....and making a few new accounts after a bit of experience with the good-old banhammer today as well. So, all in all, normal activity for the magus himself on the average in that sense.

But now? Now it was dark, truly and fully so, and the time for hunting and studying and such like was ready to begin.

Getting up from the padded matress-like setup underneath his sleeping bag, Rhodri would unzip the front of his tent, slip on his shoes, and would step out into the fresh night air of land to the south of Sion proper. From here, he'd try to find the nearest body of Archer's to talk to. Well, one that didn't seem too busy at least if he could help it. He'd already jotted down his familiar's observations on his phone and sent a copy to the backup, at least, now pulling out the former and flicking it on to scroll down to the information he had at hand as his right had now came to rest in his right-side pants pocket in a rather relaxed manner.

Sure he could have sent this via their link, but right now he wanted to get up out of the tent and get going down into town proper.

"Any updates on things getting set here? Are we good to go?

Ah, and I've already got the familiars put up for the night as well, though, so if any others get too close for comfort here you all know what to do."

The mage took out his right hand and made a temporary finger gun with it, even winking as he did so, before letting it rest again in his pants pocket once more as if nothing had happened.

"I wanna' head into town, see if we can go visit a spot or two depending on what pops up down there. But I've also got some information of some locations to keep an eye on from here with some binoculars or such, aaaaand maybe some potential leads can be found in this to get us started tonight if nothing else. Maybe.

So I'll just hand you this phone to read it over, maybe get it jotted down or something, but I'll need it back before headin' out."

Rhodri's eyebrows popped up, then, and he got a small grin on his face.

"Oh yeah, I'm thinkin' of getting some special big stew pot goin' tomorrow for you guys if we make it outta' tonight in one piece at least. Big one-pot stew type of thing from home depending on the stuff they sell around here, but cheap enough ta' pay for since its simple. Warm, good, fills the belly! All the good stuff. Buuut we'll have to get stuff for it from a few locations to avoid leaving hints for the competition out there, but once I get it we can get it cookin' here while I have the time to maybe get other important mage-y stuff done.

That sound good?"

Sure it wasn't fancy, but it was food. Food that would feed him, and food that'd also at least be morale stuff for Archer simultaneously (he hoped). Feeding enough of those bodies though? Er, they'd have to negotiate how many were out here for the meal at a time. He'd paid for enough cigs to keep a steady supply for the coming few days as it was! That wasn't mentioning the wire he'd had to pay for either. But, well, it was trying to make compromises to keep them working well together, hmm? He was trying to work with them a bit and to have their back, and they worked with him in return and had his back, yeah? It was a mutual partnership of sorts, as well as being a game of give and take and the like just like anything else in some sense.

In that sense it'd all be worth it once they got things rolling, but they had to avoid blowing their cover and cards at the wrong time too. Sitting on their hands and doing nothing wasn't good either, but if they painted a target on their backs in a hurry it wasn't going to be a good thing either. Luckily, it seemed those leyline campers had done a bit of that on their own already in a basic sense~ Now all they needed was to be a good hunter and find the riiiiight spot to get things started, and he figured their first stop of the night would be a visit to somewhere and someone that would be plenty enough to at least get in a good spot to see things from....fairly so, of course, without getting shot at unless people wanted to make trouble for themselves out of it. Same went for them on that last part, though, so it was ultimately a two-way street of sorts there anyways.

@eugalB

Hagen von Tronje

{As you say, Master.} Jerome would feel a presence, something brush across his shoulder like a chill wind. The only indication that his servant was there outside of the karmic bond. Despite the Draconic Reactor set up to supply him with energy, it seemed he was still focused on conserving as much as possible. An invisible guardian that had lingered around the apartment and building, ensuring his master's safety.

{Last night, I took the liberty of observing the immediate surroundings. Anything further out would have put you at risk.} The voice that echoed through their bond and into his head was surprisingly soft. It carried no tone, as if it came from one without emotions. Yet it had a melodic quality, like a voice more used to song and poetry. {There is a breakfast shop not too far away that you can eat at. It doesn't seem of good quality, but it appeared edible from what the other tenants ate.}

The voice stopped as it felt the magical energy signature as well. The formless presence almost wrapped around Jerome protectively, a nearly physical weight on his shoulders. His attention was not on his master, however, but the obvious battle in the distance. A slight hum carried through their bond, carrying with it an emotion—a detached curiosity.

{Depending on the servants in question, they might not need to worry overly much about exposure. Or the Masters may have set up measures to hide whatever their encounter.} Compared to before, his voice carried a slightly different tone. His interest was piqued. {There is every chance, as well, however, that they don't care. The castle is vaguely out of the way, which might be enough for them.}

He went silent as he considered whether it mattered. His attention turned back to his master, who had summoned him. A man he'd never expected or wanted, but who he would serve loyally all the same. One who he knew would get himself into danger if given the chance, especially if he believed he could get away with it. All he could do was give his advice. {If you intend to get involved, I suggest utmost caution. While I don't doubt my abilities, there's every chance for someone to catch you off guard. I may not be able to be beside you.}

Frederica von Gotzen

"... Well, they're having fun over there. Think we should join in?"

The tone made it fairly obvious it was only partly a joke.

A cold wind blew past the pair, sending her long white hair and scarf billowing past her. Her leather jacket was zipped tight against the wind. Rather than staring at the distant light flashes, she was staring down at her hand. She held a silver cylinder in one hand, covered in numbers that rapidly spun about its surface. On the other hand, she had a mundane smartphone with which she rapidly typed information. Recording everything the Rangefinder Luna gathered from that distant battle.

If any of those taking part in the battle had bothered to look, they would have noticed them. Frederica and her Archer were not exactly subtle. Positioned at the top of one of the spotlight towers at the Tourbillon Stadium, it gave them a grand view of the battle at Tourbillon Castle. It loomed over them even from their perch. It was a position she would have loved to take with Archer, but it did have one massive downside.

Putting yourself on a pedestal meant placing a target on your back.

Humming as she continued to write down the information gained from Rangefinder Luna, she put her mind to the Archer beside her. He was no hero of the greatest renown, but his legend was nothing to scoff at, and his abilities, while simple, were great. Perhaps because of their simplicity, they were great—a mastery of the fundamentals left very few weaknesses. With his gracious and easy-to-work-with personality, she knew she had lucked out in terms of her partner.

"If you see a chance to remove one of the combatants from over there, feel free to take it. If they're going to leave themselves so open, might as well punish them for it." She glanced away from Rangefinder Luna to look at him momentarily before turning to the surrounding city. Scanning it. "Unless you happen to see a better target, that I might be missing?"

Alfonso X 'The Wise'

Modern English was such an unwieldly language, playing by its own rules. Alfonso X was capable of absorbing the wisdom and knowledge it had to offer, but Dios Mio, the language itself was such an unwieldly abomination of exceptions and borrowings and inconsistent rules. Esperanto, which was based on the Iberian Languages, was a nobler tounge. But alas, needs must be met, and Caster was not willing to admit that restoring Spanish into the primary language of the world was a selfish goal unworthy of a great king - Yet.

He would, however, admit that it was too small. Where was he now, though? Well, by the grace of his Master, he had been summoned into an old military bunker that was easily repurposed into his territory, a Workshop for Golemancy and the translation of Magical Texts, as well as windows that opened to the night sky for Astromancy. This was not impenetrable, especially against a dedciated Servant of the 'Knight Classes' or a Berserker, and he worried enough about his Master not to leave him alone and defenseless.

So he decided to spend the hours after his summoning reshaping the bunker into something more fitting of Scholars like his Master and him; was he, who was old inside, fussing over someone else? Of course he was; he had nothing better to do.

And so Caster began turning the old bunker into a proper military base in miniature form, using territory creation to reshape concrete into marble, loam into the finest clay, ordinary rock into marble, and shrubs and grasses into fine furniture of silk and velvet for his Master's aging body. He did this with inhuman speed, as the environment responded to his 'Territory Creation' Skill.

But his masterworks, the 'Mechs'? He would work on those by hand, starting with the 'Stealth Model', a black flying humanoid machine that was 4.51 meters tall and equipped with an Optical Stealth Field that bent light so that Nonmagi won't see it, a Railgun that fired slugs of explosive clay that was so hot it can be compared to lava, and a monomolecular sword, plus light machine guns, albeit ones that fired magical clay bullets. After that were three more models, one for his Master to use and two more for situations that needed less finesse and more brute force.

The model for his Master, he named El Rey, and it was a model that specialized in energy barriers; forcefields that negated physical force and magical attacks. It can also, by sacrificing those defenses, fire an energy beam against an attacking foe, although that was not recommended.

Either way, he'd ask his Master, one Tomás, if he wanted to pilot one of his creations this night; if not, well, he'd take the Stealth Model out on a sky-ride -

Actually, no, best to control it remotely from the safety of his Workshop...

@ManyThings

11/14/2016, day, outskirts of Sion.

Mana surged from the earth, resembling a fog. A small concentration of pure magical energy at its center. Then, it grew as it gained in power. An ethereal ball, getting increasingly menacing. Shapes emerging, becoming arms and legs.
The fog was thick and cold. It hid the being emerging within.
As the shape became more humanoid, it lost in stability. It started to flicker from one silhouette to another. It was short then tall, thin then broad, feminine then masculine.

Whispers could be heard, all covering each other. Many voices, many languages, all unintelligible.
Then it stopped. And a soft but deep voice spoke.

“Alright, I’ll represent us then.”

The fog cleared, seemingly absorbed into the figure. It now was a tall man in his fifties. He had red short hair, thick eyebrows, a short beard and a large mustache. He wore a white old-fashioned British Navy uniform, though it was missing the vest. As such, his rank was not displayed.
He performed an exemplary military salute to the mage and spoke with a clear and confident tone.

“The Unknown Soldier, class Archer. I assume you are our Master. Pleased to meet you, sir?”

"Hmm?"

That wasn’t a reaction they expected.

On one hand, they were fully ready for a Master who wouldn’t understand the true nature of The Unknown Soldier. After all, they weren’t exactly what was supposed to come out of the summoning. Most likely they would then have to show what they are capable of while hiding this nature, as it would be safer for them.

On the other hand, a more capable and knowledgeable Master was both better and worse. It would certainly give them stronger strategic options, but they weren’t sure what reaction the Master would have. The soldiers really didn’t want their darker, weaker side to be observed so easily. Maybe they’d have to fight a bad first impression, showing they can deal with more powerful servants. Maybe that Master wouldn’t want to work with a servant running on curses. Maybe something worse. After all, while they didn’t know much about mages, even them were aware that those often had a warped morality.

But he smiled at them. A soft, simple smile. After a quick introduction, he just seemed lost in thoughts.
He saw through them. Immediately. They could tell. They could also feel the curses surrounding him, empowering his tools. He was familiar with wraiths, with beings of their nature. They could see that they sparked his curiosity and imagination. Surely, his magic was one well suited to them.

And surely, he must have had one of those warped morality. But, at least, he seemed happy with them.



They decided to install their base on the mountainside, that way the cliff to their backs would reduce angle of ennemy attacks while the difference in elevation would grant them a defensive advantage. Rhodri Bowen focused on his mage affairs for the rest of the day. The soldiers didn’t know much when it came to magecraft, but they could feel small but abundant grudges appearing from elsewhere into the tent, so it seemed obvious this was simple productive time. Thus, they did their own work.

First, they had over a dozen of them materialize one by one. As they did, they familiarized themselves with the od they were receiving from their Master and made an estimation of how well it could support them.
It was pretty good. They could deploy over a third of the soldiers they had on hand, without counting the heavy-duty equipment. The next step was testing the aforementioned.
Of course, they couldn’t fire anything without blowing their cover. But they could materialize each piece of artillery and vehicle to inspect their state and test the time they would need to set-up using their skills as Servants. One at a time of course, to not put any unnecessary strain on Rhodri.

Two of them were dedicated to this task, both engineers. They were quick to be amazed with the possibilities. In life, they needed complex lines of supply just to move the ammunition, let alone the machinery. Now, they could make it appear out of thin air.

Ten of them were developing the base into something more combat ready. They planned a labyrinth of trenches, not to stop the enemy, but to direct them. Discreet but visible weak points here and there were meant to bait the enemy into “killpoints” where they would be surrounded by heavy fire power. While they didn’t have the guns deployed at all time, they were preparing fortified positions to quickly deploy them when the time would come.
While some were digging, others were cutting trees, both to clear space and line of sight and to provide building materials.

Finally, three of them were scouting the vicinity. Their Master had deployed familiars for that purpose, but they weren’t familiar with how they worked, including their strength and weaknesses. So they kept on eye out both for others servants and to observe those familiars at work.

As the night took over, Rhodri came out of his tent and approached the closest soldiers.

"Any updates on things getting set here? Are we good to go?

Ah, and I've already got the familiars put up for the night as well, though, so if any others get too close for comfort here you all know what to do."

He then went on to explain his plans for this little first expedition into town. The soldiers listened attentively. And so did all of The Unknown Soldier through them. Rhodri offered a phone, so one of the two engineers took the phone to inspect it while the other one turned towards him. It was a young blonde woman with a strict attitude.

“There will always be more to do. Get us better material and we do better obviously, but even without this, it’s not work that we’re missing here. For starters, I’d really like to swap that for a solid bunker.” She pointed at the tent. “The trenches are getting along well, but we can always dig more of them. Really could use barbed wire though. And it’d be a waste of energy to use our stock to keep some constantly materialized, so we need the good old physical stuff. Also some sandba… Hum? OK, you’re right, too much to move around, that would attract too much attention. No sandbags, then. We’ll just work with dirt, stone and wood.“

It was as if she was talking to herself, but she was in constant conversation with her unmaterialized comrades. As if to confirms it, another soldier appeared out of thin air to her side.
He was a relatively short man with sharp features. Short hair slicked back and a plain steel breastplate, marked by bullet impacts and a symbol representing a skull adorned with a laurel crown which held the blade of a knife between his teeth.

“Wait a second, that is fine and all, but I heard something about a pot. Are you confident in your culinary skills, signor Bowen? I’d love to see it but be warned, I have high standards. After all, I’m a pretty good cook myself.”

Another one, with a scruffy appearance and what was definitely not a proper uniform of any army, appeared to interject too.

“Oh, first things first, monsieur Bowen will need a guide to go to Sion. I hear it’s a mostly French-speaking town. Are you good with la langue de Molière, monsieur?”

“Hey don’t try to get a leg up!” Another intervened.
”Ah, mister Bowen, can you get us some cigs while you’re at it?” A fifth one asked.
”Tobacco for me, I prefer the pipe.” The other engineer said over his shoulder.
”Hey, what about some whiskey?”
”You idiot, we said no alcohol until the end of the war! Servants get drunk too!”
”I heard the Swiss got some good chocolate. Oh, and cheese too!”

They were coming one after the other and didn’t leave any room for their Master to answer any of them.



The heavily mustached officer was observing the city of Sion through binoculars, his face locked in an introspective scowl. His gaze had been stuck to certain point for a few minutes.

A massive, unmistakable target.

An enemy had taken a Leyline, one situated on a local castle. The Unknown Soldier didn’t have much of any experience when it comes to battle between mages but, even then, it was easy to see what was going on. A Leyline is a supply spot of magical energy, and that castle above the hill is a strong defensive position. A prime spot to install a base in such a conflict. Hell, The Unknown Soldier could make good use of it, if it weren’t for a single but undeniable disadvantage.

It was basically asking for opponents to come.

The Unknown Soldier is a servant with intermediate fire-power compensated by quantity. That quantity was both their greatest strength and weakness. Any skirmish put them at risk of losing men or equipment. Unlike a real war, they could not count on resupplying, so they had to choose their battles carefully. And this was a good example of a difficult choice.

It was so easy to strike them. They could easily set up artillery a few kilometers away, and their artillery would have no problems hitting such a clearly defined target. They didn’t even need to do close recon at this point! Not only that, but they could even turn that castle into an advantage. Mustard gas shells were by far one of the nastiest weapons in their arsenal, put it was not without flaws. The gas was heavier than air and would go downhill when possible or be pushed away by wind, but that castle was like a cup just waiting to be filled! No matter the Servant’s resistances, the Master would have to come out in the open to avoid being poisoned.

“There’s no way in hell it’ll be that easy.” He muttered to himself.

Then, as he was about to get lost in his thoughts again, he noticed the noise of his fellow soldiers harassing the mage who called them. He was almost relieved to have something else to do, even though he had to play the bad guy.

“Enough! Can’t you see you are bothering Sir Bowen? Just make an orderly list of demands. I’ll take care of presenting them.”

His tone was stern but calm. Authority without aggressivity.
The soldiers disappeared, except for the two engineers who went back to their task and the man with the mustache.

“My excuses, they are too used to talking over each other. Oh, and you should expect something similar if you use that link which allows us to share thoughts. Do not hesitate to ask for silence.
On more important matters, we can go whenever you desire.”

As he spoke, a motorbike of an old design but in perfect condition appeared besides him. It had a sidecar for one passenger attached. The man put one hand on the handlebar and lifted the other one towards Rhodri as a steel helmet manifested in his grasp.

“Oh, if you have any preference as to who would accompany you, let us know. The Frenchman from earlier, his name is Jules by the way, wants you to know that his offer still stands.”

---

Lancer was calm, discreet and objective. Qualities which Jerome liked. And yet, there was something which bugged him.
No, it didn’t come from Lancer himself. The Master just couldn’t figure out what was bothering him.
He pushed the issue aside, there were more important things happening.

“It’d be real nice if they were so overconfident they didn’t put proper protections on that castle, but I doubt it. I got a feeling I know the kind of mage who set up there. A little prodigy from a fancy family who thinks their little tricks put them above all. As overconfident as those are, they know how to make themselves some secure little nest.
But I know my way inside those. The problem is getting to the castle itself.”

He scratched his chin, while walking towards the hill. There were all kinds of mage flocking to subspecies Grail Wars, both mediocre and greats. But the Nadelkiss did attract higher profiles than the usual, according to his contacts. Though he had to take this information with a grain of salt as he was lacking any concrete evidence as to the participants, it was a safe bet that one or the other impressive magus would join.

But even so, they could only have had so much time to set-up in this castle. Those defenses had to be flawed!
But he also wouldn’t get much time for preparation himself. He wasn’t used to such rushed jobs.

At some point, he passed into a small alley where nobody could see him. There he swiftly but discreetly used his Traceless Traversal to get into a house. He knew from Ground Touch that nobody was inside it at the moment, most likely gone to work or school. He grabbed some food in the cupboards and fridge, knowing already were to pick it up, and left as he came. It didn’t take him more than a few seconds, all of it was natural to him.
His petty larceny done, he shoved a snack into his mouth as he went back to his previous itinerary.

“Mhm, Lancher, take schome if you want.”
{Oh, sorry, I forgot I could just use the Karmic link. Anyway, we’ll do recon. It’s too good of an opportunity. I’ll try to stick to where there is some buildings. I can hop a few meters away through the ground, but it’s not terribly efficient for evasion. I’m better off sticking to walls. Don't push yourself too hard though, I just want you to take a look at the land and Servants. We’re not looking for a fight, only intel. That castle in particular is interesting, but we’ll need to figure out how to approach it safely.

Oh, and if the attacking ones there don’t get themselves killed, we’ll want to figure out what we can. They might be dangerous too.}

As Lancer showed concern for his Master’ safety, Jerome replied with a tone which carried a strange sense of pride.

{Don’t you worry about me. I’m not the best Master around, sure, but I won’t be killed so easily. My one talent is to run away, after all.}

On these words, he entered another empty house. As soon as he got in, he climbed on a chair to touch the ceiling, transporting himself to the next floor. Then it was using a bed frame. He smoothly traveled between the rooms to the rooftop where he sat beside the chimney, one palm resting on the rooftiles in case he needed to get back in urgency. In a few instants, he had moved from the streets to this observation point.

It looked like the buildings were getting smaller and rarer the closer they got to Tourbillon Castle. In fact, the whole hill was basically bare of buildings. There were only some fields and a lightly wooded area between it and Valère.

Then Jerome had a thought. Valère was the neutral ground of the Church. It would make a perfect observation point while Lancer would check things on site. And if it got too heated, he could have him retreat there.

{I think I know how to go about this.}

---

“Perhaps trying to climb up the castle walls wasn’t exactly the greatest dish that we could have prepared for our feast.”

The voice in his head spoke, in a way that reminded him of old writings of long-dead poets combined with the attitude of some sort of food-obsessed monk. Minoru had gotten accustomed to the ramblings of the often mournful Tengoku, to the point that he had completely blanked out when his Servant proposed the plan to raid the castle that another pair of Master and Servant were occupying.

The strangely-dressed boy merely did a mental nod in the space that both he and Tengoku occupied. In his view, the monk’s attitude was merely a way to cope with his failures, hearkening back to the pleasures that he had rejected in his life in order to distance himself from his ascetic atrocities.

“So what exactly are we doing, old man?”

The reply of the old monk was instantaneous, instructions given to the inexperienced boy in a time and efficiency that rivaled that of advanced supercomputers in speed and bandwidth. It was the result of their symbioses, the dissolving of their true essences into one mixture.

“Ah…”

The boy would visibly be perturbed with the game plan that the centenarian had concocted, further exacerbated by the grim look that the old one gave him in their mental space.

“...If that’s how it’s going to be…”

Something stirred within both of their hearts, an object that they had both learned to despise to varying degrees joining them in their mental space. Previously, it was the massive corpse that hung over them like the distant horizon, but now, the space’s clear waters had become black and blood-red alike, like the puss and ichor that came out of a rotting body’s various stages of death.

It was unusual, intensely so, for them to resort to such a thing, but the opponent that they were facing was far too much of a threat to go easy on. The impact of their arrows against their Servant’s shield was enough to tell them that.

“Then I guess we shouldn’t pull our punches…”

The corpse of the infant-like mummy revealed its faces, smiling with rot and puss as it dripped down a torrent of vile matter upon the two of them. In the material world, a small hiss could be heard, as if a pipe was about to burst from released pressure, before a massive torrent of red gas and curses would release itself from Minoru’s body.

A portion of Ryomen Sukuna’s power had been harnessed within the mind and body, resulting in the release of countless curses. Those very same curses would be re-absorbed into the body of the hosts as the stabilization would continue, resulting in the great pillar reaching slightly into the sky to recede until the form of Minoru could once again be seen.

But there was something far too different about his form.

Instead of the long, silver hair that flowed down to his shoulders, spiky fields of black hair grew from his scalp. And instead of his modest height and build, a monster that stood over two meters tall and with a body that could be compared to that of the depictions of an Asura— four arms, two faces and two mouths, and muscular beyond belief— was present within the aura that was slowly dissipating.

Just as quickly as the nightmare was conjured, the Vajra that he held in his right hand would pulse, letting out an electric current into his new form. The phurba that was previously in his left hand was now sheathed on his hip, as it had no need in a battle of pure offense.

Daemons— deities— of a furious nature would be conjured up from the corpse of Ryomen Sukuna, converted through the countless wishes that were stored within. Their goal? To imitate the countless “gods” that surrounded the imitation of the god known as “Indra.” It was a lacking imitation, but it was the best that the two minds could create, the two pairs of Buddhas united together as if it was one whole deity surrounded by their mandala.

Their goal was rather simple: to increase their speed beyond the reckoning of modern man. The lightning would represent Indra’s victory over the beast’s that threatened mankind, a blinding speed that caused multiple booms to emanate from the monstrous Asura as it leaped forward and sprinted towards his target, lightning being embodied with every step, the Vajra further reinforcing the speed and elemental nature of his current form.

Magical circuits were enhanced, Od regeneration was bolstered, and the overall performance of magecraft was further pushed beyond the limits of normal mages. All, powered by the chanting and hand signs of two faces, three arms and two mouths that spoke of destruction in the way of the Buddha, for a single goal of striking down an opponent.

Spirits were released, formed and molded into a shape, a individual ran at great speeds and magic energy.

Mhm, it’d take quite a while for him to even get close to the castle. But it could be a problem.

Phoebe was incredibly confident, held no fear. “Mhm, I wanted to watch how Rider did things but I guess I have to take care of this.”

So the sun took forth another arrow and sang.

It was not as if Phoebe was idle as the other master revealed his object, or prepared the magecraft to change his body. Already another powerful arrow was mostly ready. The distance that proved such a burden for Minoru was in a way his protection preventing him from being shot down as he prepared such a thing. However at the same time it also meant that Phoebe took the route of simply taking the time to prepare a higher count spell.

If the earlier shot had been a volley that turned into a shelling attack that blew holes in tthe ground and hunted down the targets mercilessly while hounding them into each other, setting the stage for Riders attack, even if those shots were merciless bullets that aimed to kill and surely would have struck down an average magus as mere “herding” strikes.

Then this one was…

This one was coiled on itself and built up in a focused condensed way. The magic energy brimming with the potent force of Phoebe aimed at its target and so those fingers let loose letting fly a smiting sunbeam as the man burst into motion. However.

It was not the rushing man that was the target. It was the bundle of spirits formed and molded into a shape, into a mold.

Indra was shot, struck down with what served as its core being struck through. The pinpoint accuracy against this secondary target was frightfully merciless, eyes that could glimpse further than mere sight, and knowledge directed by prophecy grasping where to strike and unravel it.

Even if it was a mass of spirits, the moment they were molded into a shell, into a familiar or existence of a singular existence then it held a core, a lynchpin to its existence. For humans it was a brain, to vampires the heart, for servants and all sorts of spirits a spiritual core and even gods held a divine core. No ghost, no familiar, and no mass was an exception.

In a battle where the herd was not with Phoebe then it was best to undermine any boons that the enemy was attempting to place. On top of that it was no small amount of spirits prepared quite clearly. The enemy had a large weakness in his attempt to be flexible, to be malleable. He did not prepare the spirits and have created familiars for he wished to create them as needed.

However that meant that he had to put them together in a more incomplete matter than crafting a proper familiar. It meant that he could not bring forth any great familiars of great age and careful work. It was much easier to strike them down as they rose. It was much easier to strike him as he prepared his creations. The fact that he had to bring such things and prepare them meant that losing such a mass of materials so immediately would be a loss for him now and in the long run that could not so easily be recovered.

That is why Phoebe waited for the right moment, the start of his charge as if making the sunbeam arrow the gun that signaled the mans sprint.

The second arrow was prepared and aimed at the slowed and now alone master.

He began chanting, so did Phoebe.

The magic circles around Phoebe changed as the arrow prepared focused on power and distance. That is to say, a divine decree of the distance between man and god. The cursed arrow became one soaked with the distortion that this man would be pushed away, repelled from Phoebe as it aimed, and grasping his movements, grasping his flow, fired.

It crashed into him, it burned into him. It was enough to rip through a car with its heat and power. But more than that it buckled his charge if he survived. Yes, he’d surely be repelled, and his approaches to the walls would surely become easier to see, easier to grasp. For he was cursed, and the oracle grasped fate.

“This isn’t a fight~

You’re just trying to get here without dying~”

@GOATPlumber

“Hm, aren’t you focussing on the wrong thing there, Servant?” A voice rang out. His presence and approach was obvious enough, and he wasn’t doing anything to make it any less so.

An oddly dressed man was seated on a large sheep with a white-gold weave of fur.

He wasn’t riding it like a horse, though. No, his legs were folded across its horns, and his back was slightly reclined, like he was doing nothing more than relaxing in a comfortable chair. He was tossing a stone up and down, catching it in a single hand as another lazily stroked at the sheep’s fur.

Without a doubt, this was the enemy Servant.

“You should let your Master seek his own glory. He’ll have a hard enough time of it, nyohoho~”

It seemed almost lazy, the motion with which he let the stone fly -

And yet, it was a pair of rocks that flew from his hand. One went left, and the other went right, like a pair of trick pitches. They curved and spun, thrown to pass the enemy’s shield in a vicious fork.

The stones spun with a terrifying force, flying faster than the naked eye could track, and displacing the air around them with a powerful wind.

Even to someone who was used to fighting with weapons alone could tell that this was no mere child's play. The small stones might as well have been great boulders.

He had the advantage of range and distance. But he didn’t seem to be pressing it beyond the initial opening volley…

“Hey, sis! What do you think of this one?”

A tiny fairy poked her head up from the sea of wool. “Oh. You don’t need my advice for this one, do you? He’s flashy, but not much more,” She said, dismissively.

“Oh, how cruel… The harsh words of a woman can be so much worse than slings and arrows, eh?” The Servant chuckled to himself, his voice rich and melodious.

Hagen von Tronje

{Overconfidence is a slow and insidious killer, master.} As much as it was a comment in agreement with what he was saying, it was a warning. To avoid falling for the same trap that he said others fell into. It would kill him just as easily as it would kill someone else. As he walked, he would feel the presence sitting over his shoulder.

{I will pass, Master.} There was a faint note of disapproval in his voice. He wasn't one to talk about dishonorable actions, but resorting to stealing from commoners for food? It would be a blow against what little pride he had left.

{Scouting. That is something I can do well and master.} The presence left his side and surged through the alleyway. Then, it made its way into the air towards the battlefield. Ignoring the neutral ground of the church, he made his way to a tree along the hillside. Frankly, if either servant were paying attention, they could sense his presence even if they couldn't see him in his spirit form.

What he relied on was that they were too busy to pay him much attention. Or perhaps they would appreciate an audience for their battle?

Hm, yes, that Berserker would appreciate an audience. Was he the most honest man he'd ever met, or perhaps he was living in a lie? Berserker made sense for him, in its way. He would be a predictable one. Not an actual threat because of that, something to work around at the worst.

Rider... He sighed as he saw the little one of his kin. That would be a far greater problem. He would be unpredictable. The opposite of his old friend, for sure. Predicting what he would do would be difficult... Yet at the same time, that was something that could be used. Make him want something, and perhaps his defeat could be set up.

Settling in on the branch in his spirit form, he hummed softly. The battle should be an interesting one to watch, at the least. He'd never seen someone fight from the back of a gigantic sheep.

@SSW @eugalB @Ducksworth

A sound, not a war-cry but a chuckle. It drifted lazily down the slope, smug and strange. Aureus turned his head. There, not high upon the battlements, not rooted in the glory of combat, but seated like a lounging noble. Draped in odd garb, with posture unbecoming of a warrior, he reclined atop a creature of wool and gold. A sheep. A throne of fleece.

He was tossing a stone in one hand, as if weighing the idea of mischief. The other hand idly stroked the beast’s back like a cherished pet. And then, without so much as a battle stance, the man threw. Not one, but two. They spiralled outward. Trick-pitched arcs that curved opposite each other in the air, crafted to slip around a typical guard. Not brute force, but mastery.

Aureus didn't flinch, he didn't braced, but he moved, stepping forward. A single stride, measured and poised, right between the diverging rocks, slipping through the narrow window before the arcs split wide. The wind of their passing swept behind him, rustling his cloak. They had missed him, not by luck or lack of skill, but by judgment. He turned his head slightly, watching the path they took as they screamed past and decimated the ground behind him. His lips curled in derision.

“Truly? Stones, not steel?” he said, brushing the fleck of dust from his leg, slow and disdainful. “Are you mason or child?” The crowd had gone silent, listening. The Arena, ever unseen but ever present, hung in the breath between provocation and performance. Not yet stirred, but watching.

And somewhere beyond the haze of sunlight and dust, another gaze joined the silence. Unseen by most, unfelt by many, but not by Aureus. He had fought for kings, for slaves, for gods, and above all, the crowds. Let them watch. Let them weigh his glory against their own. All battles deserved spectators.

He turned to face Rider fully, the low sun framing his golden armor in an unforgiving glare. “You ride wool and throw stones… is this what passes for glory in your land? And still, you dare think to challenge me? Or shall I name it plain? That the mount is stronger than the man? That the sheep leads the shepherd?”

He stepped forward. His boots struck with weight, with rhythm, as though answering the unseen drums that beat faintly behind the veil of reality. “I do not know your name, O rider of sheep,” he continued, his tone silk-wrapped steel. His arms spread, not in threat, but like a conductor summoning the next act. He halted. “I am the arena. And this… This is not a performance,” He gestured toward him, “This is farce. Return to your flock; I waste no bronze on sheep in lion’s hide. But if you claim the right to battle, then descend. Meet me not with tricks, but with bronze and steel. Show me not your flock, but your fangs.”

@SSW @Double D @GOATplumber

The problem with giving a child the body and capabilities of an adult was that their movements would be sluggish, their hands not used to the burden of adulthood, and their mind far too feeble to realize the burden of a true man.

The shooting down of the divine chariot that was Indra was a testament to the failure of a naive youth.

Tengoku should have never given the child that was Minoru a chance in combat. He was no great magus, nor was he a prodigy in combat, no matter how much his pride told him so.

Flames would wash over him. It was enough to shatter concrete, reducing it into ash and soot. It was special, yes, it was special enough that Tengoku could recognize it as Minoru writhed in agony within their mental landscape, the mummy of Ryomen Sukuna ever-so-slightly dripping more of its puss into the interior domain with every cry that the boy would let out.

For Tengoku, it was simply another pain that could be added to the endless, overflowing pot that was his mind.

It did damage, that was to be sure, burning the skin and muscle that was present on Minoru’s chest. Bone was even singed and cracked, threatening to expose the heart that the both of them shared to the outside world, and more severely, the flames that threatened to consume it.

But as Minoru panicked, Tengoku merely wrestled away control from the foolish child.

Tengoku scoffed, seeing as Minoru forgot to apply the principles of Ösel and Gyulü to his body before the moment of impact.

The old man had a level of respect for the boy, for his intuition and his ability to learn fast, but there was one thing that truly held him: hesitation.

And indeed, even though the old man could not hear the sheep girl’s thoughts, her sentiment was indeed acknowledged by him. There was no great familiar that he could conjure, but as the principles of Ösel and Gyulü washed over him and his wounds began to heal with speed that would shock even seasoned mages, Tengoku would merely stare at the distance between him and the girl that the boy had so foolishly targeted.

Only one thing was given to him in both the fields of magecraft and combat: unrivaled flexibility.

And in this particular case, as the flames began to dissipate, he could think of many options for him to embody, but one in particular seemed interesting to him.

He was reminded of the distance between gods and humans, heaven and earth, insects and man. Such things could never be crossed because of one thing: death. Humans could never climb the mountain that separated them from divinity, lest they gain the ire of the gods and be erased from existence.
The earth could never hope to reach the sky, as the distance was impossible to cross, the touching of earth and the heavens ultimately resulting in the death of all creatures.

Likewise, an insect could never hope to attain the status of a man, as the information and wisdom of mankind would flood its feeble brain and leave it dead.

It was a bridge that could never be crossed, or in a more accurate sense: a bridge that never existed at all.

That was, until some two thousand years ago, when a sage and prince brought forth a bridge that would allow mankind to cross into and past the realm of the divine. He was sure his opponent knew it, even as they were most likely a mage that focused on western traditions.

God could never be crossed, Olympus could never be peaked, and the kami could never be escaped from.

A number of hand signs and chants were spoken forth into existence, even as the body of Minoru was struggling to move. Two mouths, two faces and four arms brought forth the possibility that Gautama Buddha brought forth into existence with the invocation of one particular deity and his mandala.

The broken mandala of Indra would fade away, and in its place, the spirits and daemons of Ryomen Sukuna begin to form a new one.

Instead of the torrent of lightning that greeted Indra, only a calm wind would emanate from Tengoku’s form, obfuscating his transformation.

In the end, the Phurba would be once more unsheathed, held in the right hand, while the vajra was held in the left. When the hand signs and chants were finally completed, they settled on a particular one: Ksepana, the sprinkling of the nectar of immortality upon mankind.

“No longer would mankind be held back by the cycle of death, for an escape throughout eternity had been found.”

It was as if those words were spoken with the invocation of the mudra. It was the first thing that could be found, but as the wind settled and faded away, the two faces would find themselves with another eye between them.

It was the eye of the destroyer, the one that conquered death in order to save a follower. The mandala floated behind his head, like a wheel of perfect harmony.

The once Asura-like form had transformed into one of a divine countenance: Yamantaka, Shiva, the conqueror of Yama. It had many names, but the deity had been invoked within his physical form. Instead of the furious and cursed appearance, golden hair would flow down his shoulders, and his five eyes would glow golden with a divine radiance.

His skin was a silver that would not be touched by death. Indeed, it seemed as if the sun itself had descended into the battlefield to face his opponent.

The mandala served to be the thing that allowed the bridge of death to be crossed. Practically, this meant that injuries would healed, adapted to with every turn of the mandala, fueled both by the magical energy of the magus it was being wielded by and the spirits within Ryomen Sukuna. The regeneration would be absurd, even more so than the gifts of the Gyulü would already allow, further bolstered by a boost in physical capabilities that further enhanced what the Ösel would conjure forth.

Furthermore, both the Generation and Completion stages were being used, further boosting the capabilities of the mandala. Meanwhile, the fifth eye that graced Tengoku’s form would serve as an offensive and defensive implement that would both shoot at his opponents and intercept projectiles to protect him from instant death.

His mind had been dissolved, fully immersed in the role that he was playing. There was no longer Mononobe Tengoku, but only the deity that had taken hims place. Only a shadow as left as both Tengoku and Minoru watched in their mental landscape, both engrossed in their little play.

His first action as the deity that conquered death was a single step forward, followed by a beam of crimson energy aimed at the archer that shot at Minoru’s feeble body. It was payback, even if Tengoku would never acknowledge his vengeance for his host.

@Yukitamas

“There will always be more to do. Get us better material and we do better obviously, but even without this, it’s not work that we’re missing here. For starters, I’d really like to swap that for a solid bunker.” She pointed at the tent. “The trenches are getting along well, but we can always dig more of them. Really could use barbed wire though. And it’d be a waste of energy to use our stock to keep some constantly materialized, so we need the good old physical stuff. Also some sandba… Hum? OK, you’re right, too much to move around, that would attract too much attention. No sandbags, then. We’ll just work with dirt, stone and wood.“

“Wait a second, that is fine and all, but I heard something about a pot. Are you confident in your culinary skills, signor Bowen? I’d love to see it but be warned, I have high standards. After all, I’m a pretty good cook myself.”

“Oh, first things first, monsieur Bowen will need a guide to go to Sion. I hear it’s a mostly French-speaking town. Are you good with la langue de Molière, monsieur?”

“Hey don’t try to get a leg up!” Another intervened.
”Ah, mister Bowen, can you get us some cigs while you’re at it?” A fifth one asked.
”Tobacco for me, I prefer the pipe.” The other engineer said over his shoulder.
”Hey, what about some whiskey?”
”You idiot, we said no alcohol until the end of the war! Servants get drunk too!”
”I heard the Swiss got some good chocolate. Oh, and cheese too!”

Archer was....certianly a handful, that much was to be sure. Though some of these other questions would already have been answered by the modern day information servants were in possession of, no? They were still a servant collectivelly, after all. Or pehaps the individual wraiths were keen on making their own input regardless of information or situation. Hmm. He had come prepared for one servant and himself, even coming with extra money to ensure his trip was as smooth as he could make it (could be his last, after all), but this scenario still had him a bit off-guard financially with the whole affair.

He didn't want to be taken wrongly, of course, he still was trying to compromise properly enough to keep him and Archer on good terms, but even then there was limits.

Did none of the spirits recognize he didn't have the wealth of a small nation under his belt? He'd purchased cigarettes already for them in bulk the other day, getting a few odd looks for it to boot, not to mention the sudden call for pipe tobacco of all things. The barbed wire had taken some work using magecraft to ensure the purchase and more discreet movement of just to get it to Sion and to where they'd set up base at that as well. Archer was technically a small army, and while he wanted to pitch some things their way to show appreciation for working with him too he couldn't get too exhaustive in getting things....both financially, and to keep their location and otherwise a blasted secret for as long as he could manage to do so with magecraft moving forward.

A sheepish grin came to Rhodri's face as his free hand rubbed the back off his hair, trying to play off the sudden outbursts and situation a little as he kept his head cool. But as it were-

“Enough! Can’t you see you are bothering Sir Bowen? Just make an orderly list of demands. I’ll take care of presenting them.”

His tone was stern but calm. Authority without aggressivity.
The soldiers disappeared, except for the two engineers who went back to their task and the man with the mustache.

“My excuses, they are too used to talking over each other. Oh, and you should expect something similar if you use that link which allows us to share thoughts. Do not hesitate to ask for silence.
On more important matters, we can go whenever you desire.”

Ah, he was taking a liking to this one. Strict and an officer, but much like the lady was at least acting like this was a warzone a bit more. Not that humans ceased to be human even as servants, he supposed, but hey it took a little strain off of him to handle things if there were some of these bodies of Archer who could help uphold a command structure. At the same time, however, there were perhaps....certain advantages to having this many bodies and minds to throw at a situation, no? And he'd been thinking about that since the whole affair of Archer's summoning the prior day as well.

"Ay, humans will be humans even when in the container of a servant it seems. A list will be fine. However, it'd be good to have a few of you I can communicate through our link with in a hurry for a number of potential reasons. Especially in case I get ambushed, or a situation where we are trying to coordinate strikes appears. E-t-c~"

He couldn't have them trying to overcome each other in talking so badly all of the time, it'd make coordination and such far worse for the wear....if even feasible under such circumstances. He had to admit, it was a litle patience-wearing to think about, but all the same he tried to keep a relaxed enough mood about it all. After all, when one traveled all this way to meet death face to face they had to at least give him a nice familiar smile and handshake, eh?

As he spoke, a motorbike of an old design but in perfect condition appeared besides him. It had a sidecar for one passenger attached. The man put one hand on the handlebar and lifted the other one towards Rhodri as a steel helmet manifested in his grasp.

“Oh, if you have any preference as to who would accompany you, let us know. The Frenchman from earlier, his name is Jules by the way, wants you to know that his offer still stands.”

"Ah, perhaps I can give Jules some of my backup clothing to wear into town, then, during the day tomorrow. I've had no trouble navigating Switzerland and its lovely lands so far, but it would pay to be prepared and have a second set of hands for grocery shopping, perhaps, if he's good with that an' bein' a potential translator too. Would be more discreet as well.

But to tha' cook who appeared prior, I can say that its a simple big pot stew recipe. Something ta' fill many bellies, keep you warm, and for me be a bit more of a taste of home to bring here at least. I can give him the rundown on the whole thing, if he wishes to be in charge of the cooking of it tomorrow and enough of you are in agreement on the matter."

Accepting the steel helmet offered to him, and plopping the old-fashioned brain bucket onto his head, the magus went and sat in the sidecar of the motorcycle. Not the most comfortable by far, but it was motorized transportation all the same. A bit of convenience for this servant indeed, though some negotiation on what to do and not do would need to be had. In particular officer talks so he could disseminate more information on familiars and such, etc, for later....well, if they were alive for later, but still it needed to happen it seemed!

"But I'd like to speak to ya' as we travel, if you'd be so inclined. A few thoughts on a couple o' matters or so to share in the meantime, though out of a desire for some secrecy and safety on our part I do have a few things to ask for. Might sound a bit harsh, but ah' want to ask that anyone else followin' us into town to get in spirit form and keep in it unless our hand is forced if possible. No pot shots at stuff, eyes and ears bein' open for trouble, the works.

As for where we're going....well, we're first headed to the Basilica in town. The neutral ground of this war, the Church. Going ta' pay the priest there my respects and stuff for a short bit. Also see there if some of the bodyguard comin' along can get a view of things and observe from that hill a bit, mindin' that its neutral ground and all of course still."

His tone shifted to somewhat more serious in this last bit of talking for his part, looking to the red-haired body of Archer's with a look that sought to communicate such. He wasn't trying to be 'an ass' on purpose in this case, no he was more than capable of doing that without Archer or this war outright, but as a magus and someone in a new magical warzone there were things he couldn't let to chance or mere whims on Archer's part without saying his piece on it all and trying to keep them in a good direction here. Any bodyguards had to keep a level of discretion, and discipline, for this, else they could get themselves in trouble faster than anything. This was a war, after all, and one wrought by magi instead of just the hands of mundane men and women for that matter.

Besides, maybe a few of the bodyguards would like heading to a Church, eh? Few more religious folks who'd get some comfort out of it for the first stop while being a protection detail in-town in general.

@eugalB

Going To:

---

It was a cool night by his standards, even as they stood atop one of the spotlight towers observing the goings-on the first night of this Holy Grail War. In some ways, it was almost reminiscent of home, and yet it also lied so far from anywhere he'd ever seen in his life before. Mountains grew and climbed up toward the heavens, only to cascade down into valleys and plains and rain down snow from their mind-dizzying peaks. Ah. In that sense it was a mixture of the new and the familiar, a blending of things that along with barbarian languages and peculiar foods certainly was a step beyond anything from his old life.

For that....heh, for that he had to thank his master most certainly for bringing him this far. Perhaps once the war was over, he could go find other places and travel about with bow in hand once more, eh? Just not over any oceans. Or to any islands. At least for a while.

On the other hand-

"...Well, they're having fun over there. Think we should join in?"

"Eh, and lose our entertainment for the night? Maybe."

His own calm and level tone seemed for the moment being to partly joke and even tease the same back, a tiny smirk coming to the edges of his lips for a moment while his eyes remained trained on the battle afar that he and his master were watching.

"Guy throwing the boulder isn't a joke, doesn't seem to be too serious though, but he's sittin' on a sheep straight outta' Apollo's tastes. Maybe a Rider? Not from Greece as far as I can tell though, at least not my lifetime. Plus the moron running up there might as well be either cocky as hell for it, or he's a Berserker too mad to see past the dangers coming at him if I had to take a guess.

Arrows like sunbeams are coming from the castle too pretty consistently, so I don't doubt whoever's there's the master of the boulder guy. Guessin' as a mage the leyline's giving em' enough juice to just do this almost as much as they want. The other master runnin' with the idiot is-...well he's turned into somethin' lookin' a bit straight outta' Hades' turf, but isn't something from my neck of the woods either.

I'm getting a big sense of deja vu here though, so you might wanna look through my eyes to get a read on those two servants too."

Archer knew something about all of this situation he was watching was pissing him the more he watched, the more he observed, the more details of it all he took in. It was on the edge of his tongue, as if ready to roll out with just the slightest prodding of the right words.

There were arrows that bore the sizzling heat of the sun and shone with their radiance, assiling those who dared assault the walls of the castle. Such shafts that, here and now, bore the unmistakeable sign of a certain someone for sure. There was some sort of bulging in the walls of the castle as well, an old human-wrought fortress that seemed to be more than met the eye as mundane construction bulged with the weight of something...more. Didn't take a mage to see that much in his eyes, but neither would it be clear to mundane people either perhaps.

It was a veritable fortress upon a hill, in the end, defended by shafts seemingly derived from the sun god's that rained down upon those foolish enough to assail its walls. By the underworld, the servant was sitting on a giant-flipping sheep with a white-gold weave of fur for pity's sake! Sunbeam-like arrows and attacks, the giant stupid sheep, like-...like...wait. It all fit together way too good to be mere coincidence at this point in time. The parallels and the pattern were all too obvious, and the evidence was far too real before his eyes to ignore either.

"....Son of a-"

Surprise and a mild burst of acute frustration rippled through his tone now as he spoke, but not without reason in this case. Even so, his eyes remained on the situation and oversized bow remained in his hands.

It finally clicked into his mind just after the entire metaphor did, and the pieces fit perfecctly in his mind. The 'deja vu' of this whole bit he was watching made more than enough sense! A 'city' on a hill that was fortified to hell, some prick invoking Apollo-type shenanigans to fire attacks at people from safety, and all of that nonsense being up on a hill as some idiot charged toward suicidally? It was more than concidence, and something in his gut told him so as memories began to flood back...ones both good and bad alike. At this point, a connection of sorts was clear as crystal to him.

"The oversized sheep. The sunlight arrows. The castle walls seeming a bit different. Everything set up on the top of a hill. Arrows goin' after the other guys without the archer havin' to aim, like they're guided toward em' like that prince asshat's were back in the day. That master is fiddlin' around with Apollo-type stuff over there for sure, then, and that castle might as well literally be Troy right now for all we know!"

Of all the things he had to run into in this war, of all the things he'd end up seeing so far from that place, and he got to see a recreation of what the others had described of the Trojan War before he'd arrived. It was poetic, in a sense, but his knee-jerk reaction to it all was to heartily laugh aloud from where he stood. Laugh at the irony of it all. Laugh at the tragedy of it all. That master back there might as well have been Paris all over again as far as he was concerned right now, but this time was wise yet scared enough to stay behind the walls this time to fire his arrows.

How could he not laugh aloud at it all? Ah, but it did get him thinking about things a bit more now too. Still, he worked to calm himself once more, running a hand through his hair before it returned to his bow, before taking a brief glance at his master to see her thoughts on the matter as well. His eyes would, thereafter, return to watching the unfolding battle once more to avoid missing anything.

Well, at least this time he wasn't stranded on some stupid, even if sacred to one of the gods, island.

@Double D

If there ever was a Master most unexpected to the odd girl of not-so-grand stature, it would be this one. Rather than be rebuked and 'shown her place by her better' for such abrasive behavior, Rider instead observed an earnest apology and a serious attempt at dialogue. Though she had initially assumed the worst out of this man due to his initial reactions, it seemed as if her face scrunched up further. Not in anger, but out of some kind of deep self-contemplation.

“Though ‘Master’ feels a bit grand, doesn’t it?” He rested his hand lightly over his heart. “I’m Thalorian. And if it’s alright with you, I’d rather be your partner.”

Wait...

Partner...?

With this word, the girl's attention was rapidly piqued, as her eyes darted back to offer him her full attention, now wide as they had been since her initial summoning, rather than glaring vicious daggers. There was no malice nor sarcasm in that tone, which caused Rider to indeed consider the potential weight of her next actions. The prospect of being 'partners' rather than simply a Servant to a Master, whilst attractive, was entirely unconventional. The rules gave the magus unlimited authority over their Servant, and Rider would know better than anyone that absolute power corrupts even the purest of hearts.

For just a few moments, she seems to be entirely at a loss for words.

But as a soft breeze rolls by, brushing through her somewhat messy black bangs, a smile does not return, but those eyes most notably don't seem to narrow. A look of curious caution, perhaps...?

“I... I guess that's doable...?”

The response seems to come almost subconsciously, absentmindedly. The balance of power that Rider had spent all that time upon the Throne of Heroes preparing for was now entirely null, all thanks to one man, perhaps just as odd as Rider herself. In spite of her obviously overwhelming presence as a Servant, Rider still found it a bit strange that someone so magically capable would act in such a humble manner. She had been so lost in this train of thought in fact, that she had missed the fact that her Master was staring down at her cuffs, which creak and groan with almost every minor movement.

“Do those hurt?” he asked, quiet again. “You don’t have to wear them here. Not if you don’t want to.”

Why... Why did he care so much about her...? About some 'ghost liner' that he had just met? Even if she looked like someone to be underestimated, most certainly one would expect her to be strong enough not to worry about such things, right?

She stares, beady-eyed up at the druidic forest-dweller, blinking as she receives yet another generosity, as if she were royalty setting foot upon her new domain for the first time. A very comfortable-looking and very well-made scarf. Looking it over, those curious eyes never lose their shimmer.

“It’s not much, but it’s warm. And it’s yours for as long as you need it.”

For just a moment, the girl feels her heart grow warmer, even amidst the frigid morning.
She once again turns her gaze upwards back at the one whom had summoned her, and finally wears a smile of her own, the first seen since she had been summoned.

The board of moldy wood holding her wrists together suddenly glows a bright blue, before shattering into flakes which quickly dissipate. With her hands now free, she runs them across the soft embroidery, holding the tapestry to her face. Most curiously, with this positioning of her hands, her Master can make out three small sigils on one of her wrists.

“You know... You're not quite what I expected, Mast-- er, mister!”

She joins her hands in front of her, smiling warmly up at her new master as her eyes close happily.

"And that's a good thing...! You know-- so many magi tend to be absolute meanies. But you...?"

Reopening her eyes, the girl steps forth, and grabs one of Thalorian's hands with both of her own.

"You're a good person, Thally! I've decided! Yes, I will be your partner!"

The girl in decaying rags thrusts a fist high into the air, closing her eyes happily once more. Now that Rider had seemingly gotten comfortable with the one who claimed the forest, it could now be asked; is this what Rider's true personality is like?

"Let's beat up all the bad guys and win the Grail together, Thally!~ Beat beat beat 'em up! Let's do our best, Okay?!?"

Insight and a piercing gaze calmly watched his transformation.

The flow of magic energy, the stance and the presence of that man changed. Was he getting serious? Was he, now that he was facing danger making his proper “switch”? Some people were hardly all that good at properly flipping to their roles. It was the mark of a immature magus or someone with an incomplete preparations if you asked the oracle.

There was a great difference between someone who was magecraft, and someone who wielded magecraft, someone who held power and someone who was a magus.

He played at being a destroyer, at being a sun.

But the sun was already shining, wasn't it?

As he wove his next stage, his next spell and “changed” himself Phoebe had already been preparing another arrow.

Hunting scourging ribbons carrying the notion of calamity and plague flew forth. They split and danced through the sky, streaks that lit up the clouds in the night and flew in search. It was a worthy follow up to the beam that burned through him earlier, but it was not the end of the onslaught. In the wake of Apollos whispers of vengeance and justice, the Furies followed.

The second volley was prepared as the eyebeam shot forth.

The walls before Phoebe rose and shifted in response to the attack. Ilion met destroyer, blocking off the shine of magic energy from the bow that continued to bare its fangs at the charger.

The enemy was wielding no small amount of magic energy, but it could only output so much at a time especially without a longer incantation, magic circles or further mystic codes to amplify the energy. Using channels inferior to Phoebe’s own circuits and lesser than Phoebe’s access to mana, in a battle of raw power in their spells he wouldn’t be able to compete. The enemy healed well yet they had still spent vitality and were tormented by pain.

The spirits were being used as coin, yet the purse he held had already been pillaged in part. Yes, that opening was perhaps crippling in a battle between great foes.

If the battle was an even field instead of assaulting a fortress, a temple, and if he had not suffered such losses immediately then perhaps it would have been more of a proper battle. But no injury could be shrugged off, and no magecraft came without cost. He might survive a second blast, but how much more could he restore himself? Twice? Thrice? Perhaps even four times, but how much of his coin would be spent? His stores of spirits exhausted?

It was clear that he was the challenger, a struggling underdog even as a new shine of red washed away the dustclouds that came from wall meeting blow. The magic energy had not been stopped, had not diminished and in fact only grew.

The offshoot of the wall half crumbled in the wake of the beam of ether, exposing the archer that was aiming down with a baleful glow. Blood for blood, red for red. As the streaking sunbeams continued to hound the man directed both by their own aiming and also the curse that more and more twisted his fate towards the inevitability of being smote for his transgressions as he approached, they were joined by cursed bolts of dark red. Screaming Erinyes flew forth in retaliation as a second volley, almost like a shotgun blast aimed at his movement.

If the sunbeams that moved to blast his limbs apart and strike him with sickness were a grasping claw then this was a peerless spear aimed straight to impale and strike him down.