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    1. Anza 8 yrs ago

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Alba

Atalanta's arrows struck several flying shadows out of the air, shattering them into hundreds of tiny black shards. Not quite bats after all, but winged obsidian golems, though they had certainly looked lifelike enough until their untimely destruction.

The remaining constructs immediately scattered, fanning out over a wide area and diving between buildings to make themselves harder to hit. Alba was going for a scattershot approach, now: she couldn't know where the enemy's Servants or workshops actually were, but by separating her familiars and methodically combing through the streets she would inevitably begin to find them. Archer of Red's attack had likely been meant to distract her and divert her attention, but Alba wasn't going to fall for that one. It didn't matter how many golems she lost; information was a far more valuable resource than mere disposable familiars.

Her mental landscape branched out into ten separate streams of thought, most controlling pairs of golems while one compiled their separate observations and mentally filled in a map of the area. It wouldn't be long before Rider of Red and Maeve Dóeltenga would spy a small shadow passing overhead, circling at first and then diving straight towards them.

"I've found them," Alba sent to her Servant, with a hint of grim satisfaction. The drain on her mana had tangibly intensified, which could only mean that he'd found and engaged his counterpart. In the meantime, that left her with another unoccupied enemy Servant on the field... and their Master. She'd no idea what that girl thought she was doing out there, but such a blatant opportunity was not to be missed.

Her pale fingers splayed open, and a long ivory knife flew across the room into her hand. Time to wipe a player off the board.
Lancer of Red

“I see…”

She saw the moon shining down on a red gazebo, half-shrouded in mist. A flock of winged hounds flew overhead, barking in terror as a cat leapt from a nearby tree and snagged one in its jaws. In the distance loomed a tower made of bones, rising up out of a bottomless black abyss, where twin pairs of glowing eyes stared out from the shadows like tigers waiting in the night.

“…I see nothing that would threaten us at present, Master.”

Lancer opened her eyes, watching the oracle bone crack and crumble between her fingers. The spirits were lively tonight, excited into a frenzy by the coming conflict. A good omen, she thought. They would have their blood soon, and plenty of it.

With a smile, she leaned back against the roof of the Red faction’s manor, savoring the feeling of cold raindrops shattering against her skin. It was pleasant, being alive again. Even if it wasn’t quite the same ‘her’ as it had been before. Perhaps she was nothing more than an echo, but even this echo had a purpose of her own: enemies to slaughter, allies to lead, a Master to whom she could devote herself.

”You may tell the Master of Archer this: there is a strange presence waiting in the open gardens not far from here.” That boy had seemed so weak at first, but she’d taken a liking to him since her summoning. Letting him be the one to convey her prophecies would elevate his status among the Masters of their faction, perhaps even raise him up as a leader. ”And be wary of the mine up in the mountains, where a tall tower rises from the earth. The night there is stained with Black.”

A part of her itched to go there and seek out the darkness herself, but she calmed her mind, easing the tension slowly out of her muscles. There would be plenty of opportunities for her to fight in this war regardless, and she was curious what her Master would do with the knowledge she’d given him.
Alba

"So the great hero of myth is unwilling to take a risk."

The voice in the Black Archer's head did not speak in anger, nor even irritation. It could have been an earnest impression or a sarcastic barb; Alba's childike intonations were so dry and dispassionate that it was often hard to tell what she was trying to convey. It hadn't helped that she'd been on her own for most of the last hundred years, and was severely out of practice when it came to speaking with others.

"These are not your Argonauts, Archer. Our so-called faction cannot be trusted, nor can it be relied upon. Child mages without an inkling of experience, a menagerie of zealots and madmen plucked from history: you think that this rabble can hold against a competent and unified enemy?"

A pause. She gave him a moment to consider her words, and at the same time considered them herself. In truth, she didn't particularly mind letting her Archer follow his own course of action; a warrior like him knew battle more intimately than a mage ever could. On the other hand, he had been raised in the shadow of heroes bound together by strong leadership and united in purpose, which was a far cry from their current situation. His history colored his perceptions, and that was a flaw she aimed to counterbalance.

"If you will not draw the enemy's attention, then take care to protect the Servants of Black. I've little confidence in them surviving an assault nearly so well as you would."

In the cold house with its dead hearth, the lady in white unclasped her hands. Raising one arm, she snapped her fingers, unleashing a sharp crack that echoed through the darkened rooms.

In its wake came a growing rustle, as small, dark shapes shook themselves into motion. Like a swarm of rats, they scuttled downwards, crawling between floorboards and into the basement. There were tunnels there, small burrows dug by familiars and small golems over the past week, leading far away from Alba's workshop. Down and down the many holes the shadows crawled, until they eventually emerged into the rain, spreading sharp wings and thin as wafers and taking flight. To any unsuspecting passerby, they would seem like nothing more than a flock of bats, fluttering about in the dark.

To a mage, however, they were death on the wind, a host of tiny killers and spies streaking south in search of their prey.
Alba

In the spacious living room of a creaky old homestead in Blackrock’s most ancient district, there stood an empty hearth.

For a long time, it had been the beating heart of the household. Strong young men would go out into the woods and chop down a big old tree, then hack it all to pieces and drag the lot back home, ready to serve as nightly fuel for a warm and welcoming blaze. For generations, tongs and pokers had stirred the flames, whipping them up as the sun sank out of sight and the cold night winds swept in from the east. And all together the family had gathered around, warming their hands and faces, staring in quiet wonder at the fiercely dancing flames.

Then, slowly but surely, things had changed. First it was the regulations on logging, forcing the use of splintery store-bought timber. Next it was a swarm of grunting construction workers, tearing apart the creaky house to install a new heating system. Last came the slow but steady erosion of family itself, as men and women died and divorced and moved away to seek their fortunes somewhere other than this sad backwater town. One by one, the fire-lit faces faded away into nothingness, until all that remained was an old man quietly stirring the embers of a dead, forsaken flame. Until he too had passed on, and all became cold and silent. Old burn marks, stray flakes of ash, a rusted poker leaning uselessly against a wall.

Life had long since left this house, and in its wake a ghost had taken up residence. A porcelain doll, with a voice like silk and an angel’s face that stared out at the world with melancholy indifference. She stood in front of the hearth, feet apart and hands clasped behind her back, her eyes fixed on nothing at all. It had been ten minutes since she had last made a conscious effort to move.

From time to time her eyes would blink, and now and again some faint tremor seemed to shiver from her neck all the way down to her pale fingertips, but for the most part she remained motionless, seemingly unaware of the seconds ticking by. She had no need for light, and still less for warmth. Such things were useless at best and impediments at worst when it came to careful thought and calculation, and right now Alba was thinking very hard indeed.

With no less than thirty potential players, of uncertain allegiance and nearly completely unknown abilities, this so-called War was shaping up to be the most irritatingly complex trial she’d faced in centuries. From a certain angle, one could even glimpse a small frown upon her delicate features, as she mentally reviewed her plans and preparations, searching for gaps. She had been working hard these last two weeks, and it was imperative that she did not let it go to waste.

Where some mages were satisfied with a single room as their workshop, aeons of self-imposed isolation had left this girl fussier than most. Unwilling to even share a building with the other Masters of her faction, she had quietly taken over a nearby residence and turned the entire thing into her personal studio. What had been a charming home now resembled some bizarre form of military stockpile: etched symbols sprawled across every available surface, golem shells loomed immobile in the shadows, and myriad materials stood stacked up in neat little towers next to completed mystic codes and weapons. It was all very orderly and well-kept, with an almost finicky precision to its general organization, though the number of sharp objects lying around was perhaps a little unnerving. As for the building’s exterior, it looked completely ordinary, all its anomalies disguised by a cunning Bounded Field. Alba had taken care not to let herself be seen moving to and from this place, preferring to have it pass completely unnoticed rather than test its defenses against history’s greatest killers.

Archer…

She still hadn’t moved, but the word echoed out through a deeply rooted mental connection, sounding across the city to where her Servant waited. She’d sent him out over an hour earlier, with instructions to position himself wherever he thought it best.

You may begin.

***


“Draw their attention.”

That had been her order. Spoken aloud to her Servant, and then later explained to those allies of the Black faction who’d seen fit to make contact with her before tonight. She had notified them of her intentions, so that they might take advantage as they saw fit, though frankly she wasn’t expecting much out of those idiot children.

“It doesn’t matter how. Excepting my workshop, any location will suffice. Just make sure it’s something they won’t miss.”

Archer was to be the bait, the signal, the opening salvo. It was perhaps the riskiest move one could make at this stage of the game, but Alba had her reasons, and trusted in her chosen warrior.

“Killing them is not our primary goal. What matters most is that you return to me alive at the end of the night… You should be able to do that much, no?”

According to legend, Philoctetes had escaped certain death on more than one occasion. Fortunate, that, given what he was likely to be up against tonight.





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