Student, RPer, videogame and anime fan, movie guy. Also memist, but that's par the course. In other words, your garden-variety nerd. Not much else to say, really.
Yeah, I'm a rather bogstandard individual, sue me.
She hummed, gloved fingers tracing the railing by her side, white dress gently swaying with the breeze, looking towards the rising sun from her position at the bridge. There was admittedly not much that she liked about this backwater place she and her sister had journeyed to, but in the end, she guessed the dawn was much the same in every place—and it was always a beautiful sight she could admit to frivolously enjoy. The air was crisp, though not uncomfortable by any means, and the early morning was overall refreshing.
But she couldn’t really stop to just dawdle around, now could she? Alas, her stay in this place would hopefully be kept short and smooth—but for that to occur, she needed to get to work, and so, Janika Edelfelt tore her gaze from the rising sun in order to look at the bridge she and her Servant had set up shop at.
To be certain, she guessed it was more correct to say they had been ‘ordered’ to set up shop there, but she did not particularly like thinking about it that way—and it was far from the only thing that rubbed her the wrong way. Her sister, who had for most of her life stood side by side with Janika was now on a different part of the district, likely securing her own little piece of land. She wasn’t worried for her, not really—Frederica was more than able to deal with most anything that came her way, even in (or perhaps especially because of) her current state, but that did little to diminish the fact that not having her sister by her side in this situation felt just odd.
Though she assumed it was a feeling she would need to grow accustomed to over time. Nothing would last forever, and she knew that better than plenty.
Sighing and banishing such gloomy thoughts from her mind, she simply focused on her task to the point he forgot about other worries. The bridge was not one of the fallen leylines, but as the ‘proper’ path between Shinto and Miyama, it had some value regardless—which is why she and her own Servant had been sent to secure it. Twirling the cane she held in her left hand, glimmering silver catching the sunlight, she scoured the area again—though the lack of feeling from the Command Seals indicated that she was apparently on her own, familiars were a different matter. Nonetheless. . .
“Well, then,” She began, tone even and attempting to keep the air of aristocracy about her without fail, even if there were no others around them. “I suppose we shall begin for now. Saber, please, be a dear and keep your eyes peeled for any possible interruptions, though it seems we’ll be free of those for the time being—which means we should start establishing our territory for now, no?”
It was not a statement she expected a response for, given that their situation and set of goals were plainly obvious, but she was the sort of woman that apparently did not mind small talk, idle as it were, and she would admit to not being sure as to how to initiate the conversation otherwise—even if it made her grow frustrated with herself. Here she was, alongside a hero of antiquity, legend made flesh by the very miracle she and her sister and their collaborators sought to steal and she could not think of any suitable topics?
Truly hopeless.
Regardless, she attempted to not let such things show—instead keeping her placid smile in place, even as she began to walk down the bridge to assess the perimeter of the Bounded Field. Considering the nature of the position, she could not be too careful, but there was a small hint of boredom cracking through her façade, features smoothing into a blasé mask.
The peace, however, was not to last as she received Brauer’s report. Her placid expression grew cold, brow creasing, and her eyes shone with unnatural sharpness. The hand twirling her cane stilled, knuckles perhaps white beneath the gloves, and she took a deep breath.
“Understood,” She called out on her own. “Do call if you need any more backup, but expect us to try and make our way there as soon as we are able.” And that was that. She kept her silence for a second before bringing a hand to her face.
“No plan survives contact, huh?” She muttered, voice muffled. “Argh, how annoying,” Huffing as though it was more a minor setback rather than anything else, she moved to continue her task—but her steps now were quicker, more decisive. The question, then, was ‘for the sake of what?’. “Saber, do you have any input? I could really use some advice right now.” A position, an ally, and her sister. She trusted Frederica to handle herself completely, but the fact remained. . .
Which was more important at this moment?
Rider, Eastern Fields
Outside of the black car, Rider stood, for lack of better terms. The man was not particularly fond of staying in Spirit Form—he much preferred having a body to walk around with and enjoy the breaths of fresh air he had been granted for as long as this second chance endured, but he understood that his Master was not particularly the most gifted among magi, and so, he chose to do this as his token favor. It was small, and probably worthless in the end—the man could have just as easily told him to and Sigurd would have obeyed, even if lacking in enthusiasm—but he liked to think these gestures had greater meaning when one did them on their own will.
The fields were mostly empty and quiet, some people here and there carrying out their daily lives, and they made Sigurd wish to grimace just by standing around. The sleepiness permeating the place, bluntly put, did not agree with him. A man of action rather than words, perhaps he could have seen the value of peace and quiet in his older years, but as it was? Frankly, the fact that he took longer than five minutes before starting to bemoan the current situation was no less than a miracle. Shooting a glance his Master’s way and finding the man busy with his toys, he asked the gods to give him patience and resigned himself to watch people pass by, attempting to ignore that gnawing feeling that quickly grew within him.
What wouldn’t he give for an opponent to show up and cross blades against. . .right then.
. . .No? Oh, well. It was worth a shot. He had known there would be moments of respite within the timeframe of the War, but the lack of anything to do with this time drove him restless to no end—truly, idleness was one of his greatest enemies. Had he been allowed, he would have certainly gone to get whatever passed for drink these days and enjoyed himself in that manner, and if he ran into enemies, all the better. There was nothing that said he could not enjoy drinks with anyone he fancied, being enemies just meant they’d have their weapons at each other’s throats once the mugs were finished, but that apparently was no longer the norm.
It sure became a boring world while he was not around.
No people to fight, no drinks and his only possible venue for conversation was busy fiddling with that toy of his, he wondered if this was actually some form of punishment, before deciding that, at the very least, the weather was far too nice, and there was no Regin in sight. He had not particularly minded the dwarf’s plan to kill him—it had been par the course, really, he should have seen it coming even without that thing—but by whatever gods listened, had he almost talked Sigurd’s ear off with the chatter about ‘Fafnir’ and ‘Fafnir’s treasure’ and ‘gold’, repeating the terms so much he was fairly certain they made up more than half of the conversation’s content (if you could even call the dwarf raving about the untold riches and Sigurd answering some rhetorical questions and otherwise nodding along and shrugging noncommittally a conversation)
. . .
“Hey, Master,” Deciding that staying quiet was most likely not the best course of action for his continued sanity, Sigurd spoke up, addressing the man that had summoned him. Their countenances could not be more different, but he hoped he would be able to establish what could, at the very least, be considered a ‘working relationship’. He had little desire to be stuck with a stick in the mud, but a more traditional magus would have probably managed to be even worse, and so far, the man had not offended him in any manner, so that was fine. Maybe the small talk would be just what they needed at this time. “So, do you think any one of our enemies will pass by? Being completely honest, I feel like we should hurry up with the preparations as it is and set up shop as quickly as possible—if you all are so keen on preparing this side as a base of operations, we should also be quick about things and press on the offense.”
Seemingly mulling on the facts, he pondered whether he had overstepped his bounds before deciding he did not care much and continuing.
“Lancer, Assassin, Caster and Berserker—those four and their Masters are still mostly unknown, right? Perhaps I’m rushing too much, but. . .I think we should start attacking as soon as we’re able, and that we should make sure we are able soon, lest they use the time to prepare more traps for us to deal with. We don’t know what tricks they might have up their sleeve, and I won’t say that I wouldn’t like facing someone of worth, but I’d like to think my words are not devoid of sense because of that.”
He would freely admit that he enjoyed battling, perhaps too much, but he was also someone who had lived long enough to admit it, and he would also say that he had learned from that life.
Whether the Master listened or not was another matter—though, really, he just wanted to get some talk out of the man, because the silence would otherwise drive him up a wall.
Personality: At a glance, she appears to be the ‘perfect beauty’. Soft-spoken and amicable to those that approach her, Janika could very well be called a ‘kindly Ojou-sama’ type — she sometimes appears to thoughtlessly flaunt her wealth, and the way she speaks and acts certainly lends credence to the image of ‘high-class lady’ she appears to cultivate just by existing, but if questioned, she would say with absolute honesty that such things are not her intention, and she is merely acting how she was taught to.
Sometimes, however, that perfectly cultivated image of class just. . .cracks. Perhaps it is a word spoken out of turn. Maybe it is her tone taking on a rougher tilt. Maybe it would just be the way she holds herself. This is perhaps a reminder that, no matter how hard one tries, some tendencies just cannot be curbed. Nonetheless, she attempts to live by the ideas her family instilled in her.
Grace in her every step, elegance in her every motion and eloquence in her every word, beauty in each gesture. Ruthlessness in her every decision, coldness against every enemy, cunning in her every deal.
Those were the principles she was raised with, those were the principles she would follow to her last breath, even if she might sometimes stumble along the way. Her nobility is easily seen from a mile away — and her words would do little more than reaffirm it, regardless of her being in one of the rougher moments or not.
In the end, however, she is not cruel.
Calculating, perhaps. Manipulative even. And she would not deny to be pragmatic enough to exploit her own appearance and hide her intentions beneath a beatific smile and a kind word. But she has never taken any pleasure in deceiving anyone, and most likely she never will, nor has she ever thought to lord her superiority over others.
It is not that she is humble — far from it, in fact. But what is the point of spouting what should already be known as a fact? Yes, she is better — family, connections, wealth, talent. . .if it is conceivable, she would possess it, but that is no reason to gloat — it is simply how the world worked. You would not be proud of getting up every morning, so why should she be proud of something equally natural? To be superior is merely the way things are. At the same time, she is also not kind — she would give no second thought to the idea of leaving someone behind if they proved a dead weight, and she would certainly not lose any sleep over any betrayal, but those weren't things to be proud of — merely tasks to get done. No more, no less, and she has never seen the world any differently.
Rather, it is her duty to do as she sees fit, it is her duty to further herself and her family even at the expense of others, it is her duty to be the proper Lady Magus of there ever was one — and that is really all there is to it. Sometimes she ponders if it could have been any different if life had thrown her a different lot, but she always dismisses the thought with the same quickness as it came — to bring glory to the family name, to perpetuate the line, to further their work. Those are the duties she has taken upon herself, the responsibilities thrust in her hands from an early age, and there is no reason to shirk away from them or ponder on useless ‘what ifs’. The only thing that matters is the here and now, and those who try to run away from it are no more than fools.
Perhaps most interestingly, she lacks any real wish to make upon the Grail — her sole desire is to bring glory to her family and further their standing, so any one thing she could ask for would be ‘for the sake of the Edelfelt name’ should she achieve victory. Or at least, so she tells herself.
Biography: Relatively young, she is one of the two current heirs to the Edelfelt family of magi, a proud lineage of Finnish descent. There is not really much to say about her other than the obvious — from the moment of her birth, her life had been set ahead of her, and all that was expected was that she’d follow through the motions.
And so, she did, with nary a complaint. While in her younger years she often snapped at people with a fiery temper and a glare to match, she was soon taught to hold her emotions locked deep within instead of wearing them on her sleeve — even if sometimes the task proves a tad harder than others. She dedicated her life to follow the path of the Magus, pursuing the ideal with her full efforts, perhaps out of a sense of filial love, perhaps because it was the only thing she had ever known. Regardless, the fact remained — she excelled, though that much was already beyond doubt.
Growing up as she did would perhaps be called boring, though she preferred the term ‘safely predictable’. Her life was confined to a small set of variables — and that, she could work with. Never really giving much thought to what awaited her beyond the obvious, she seemed content to study the craft and quietly continuing to work. However, when the news came to them of the opportunity to wage war against the Tohsakas, Einzberns and Matous on their precious backwater, to steal from them that great artifact, their vaunted ‘Holy Grail’, it was an injection of ‘something new’ into what was once a drab, colorless world.
She did not dislike the idea, not really. The thought of summoning legendary figures from ages past in order to engage in battle for a wish, stealing everything those three owned in the process? It might not have been her that devised the plan, but she certainly found it an interesting venture — and if that required her to get her hands dirty, it was something she could live with.
Perhaps, a voice in the back of her mind whispered, she could even learn to enjoy it.
Family History: Edelfelt
Origin: Duplicity
Elemental Affinity: Water and Fire
Number of Magic Circuits: B
Quality of Magic Circuits: A
Od: A
Magecraft:
Conversion: Family attribute of the Edelfelt. Strictly speaking, the name covers the concept itself, but it is best known for its conduciveness to Jewel Magecraft. The capability that allows for the Edelfelt to place magical energy into other substances, enduring outside of the body.
Ore Scales: Sorcery Trait of the Edelfelt. The Crest is shared. The two Masters are one. The moon in the night sky is mirrored in the surface of the lake. Two sisters multiply each other's power.
Scandinavian Curses: Simply oriented around physical effects of harm. Does not include those other possibilities such as attacking the mind, causing decay, inverting causality, resonating with similarities, and so on. The specialization is, of course, the single-action curse known as Gandr. Through overcharging, release of a more powerful "Finn Shot" is possible. At the maximum output, even stopping a heart is possible.
Conversion (Traits): Deals with the ability of shifting the nature of something into something else, more appropriate to deal with the situation at hand. Generally, this could be a called a mix of the Conversion trait of the Edelfelts with Jewel Magecraft and Alteration — in simple terms, storing preset spells in Jewels in order to be able to Alter something at a moment's notice, a habit that doubtlessly owes to her nature as ‘someone who changes according to the situation’. Akin to enchantments in a video game, the Jewels are able to confer ‘traits’ or ‘attributes’ to what she sees fit, such as ‘a sword becoming a fire-sword’ or other such examples. There are, of course, limits depending on the quality and number of jewels at her disposal, but she would like to think that those are the last two things she would need to worry about.
It is hardly anything flashy — but that is fine by her as is.
Equipment:
Jewels: Eight Jewels that doubtlessly can be called ‘A-Rank’, suffused with Magical Energy, although they do not yet hold any Alteration spell. At the same time, she also possesses four others, two of which have been supercharged with both her elements, her mother’s own Lightning suffusing the other two. Though she has crafted two more through excess Prana throughout her lifetime and inherited another as a last gift, however, those remain tied to her Mystic Code.
Mystic Code: Argent On the surface, a lady cane — certainly high quality silver and of fine craftsmanship and make, decorative enough. However, the three jewels inset on the handle and body allow her to quickly and efficiently summon forth elemental barrages against those that cross her. She will admit to not be the sort of savant her sister is — but that is just fine, and her efforts are mainly oriented towards ‘support’ more than anything else.
Skills: She shines in terms of negotiations, by far the more gregarious and diplomatic of the two, and although her raw physical power — even if cheating herself — is outshone by her sister, she does have a fair grasp and training on hand-to-hand and knows how to use her body and her cane to great extent — she can (and oftentimes does) aptly wield it as a staff. In terms of ‘skill’, she ranks higher — after all, it is also a Lady’s duty to know how to properly put down undesirables.
STATUS
Class: Rider True Name: Sigurd Gender: Male Alignment: Lawful Neutral
APPEARANCE
Though it is perhaps cliché, Rider’s own appearance makes it rather easy to tell for anyone that looks upon him that he is ‘a great hero’. A lean frame that brims with confidence and strength, his height allows him to tower over most, easily standing at nearly two meters tall, features seemingly carved from marble, no less handsome for it and set into a permanent amused smirk. His skin is tan, taut muscles seemingly bereft of scars despite the notion that the man that boasts of them is a born warrior, and his ashen hair falls down, almost reaching his back, in a mess that is not devoid of its own grace. Though the blood is far too diluted to mean much, he still boasts the red eyes of those who possess the ichor of the divine flowing through their veins, set alight akin to twin crimson pyres, a wild air about him that is his constant companion wherever he goes.
Cutting an imposing figure, he is clad in the armaments of antiquity, a warrior displaced in time. A silver cuirass with blue accents – like breaking waves – along the edges covers his upper body, fashioned into the peak of human physique, made of a certain material long since unavailable to the modern world. Vambraces of the same make and pattern, greaves and boots comprise his armor alongside it and glimpses of fur can be seen, perhaps indicating the wearer is more used to colder climates, black leather pants underneath.
PARAMETERS
STR: A END: A AGI: C MGI: D LCK: E
*Parameter corrections have taken place due to the place of the summoning and the Master in question.
CLASS SKILLS
Riding: A+. The hallmark of the Rider class, accounting for expertise in handling vehicles or animals. Rider can freely manipulate the simplest vehicles or state-of-the-art technology with ease, and at this Rank, even Phantasmal Beast or Divine Beast-class creatures may be commanded and used as mounts, though it does not apply to members of the ‘Dragonkind’.
Magic Resistance: -. A Skill that determines the level of inherent resistance the Servant possesses against Thaumaturgy that attempts direct interference upon the self.
. . .However, it has been lost.
PERSONAL SKILLS
Revelation: X. An anecdote of his story tells of his consumption of the dragon’s blood and later, heart, and following this, he was able to know of the dwarf Regin’s plan to murder him and have Fafnir’s hoard entirely for himself thanks to the birds warning him ahead of time, after which Sigurd killed the dwarf. He is not truly talking with them – rather, upon consumption, he artificially inherited a sort of ‘wisdom’ that manifested itself as a strange connection with the world. He is able to interpret the song of birds, the caress of the wind upon blades of grass and the thrum of mana in the air as warnings or advice on ‘what is the best path’ or ‘what will come next’.
However, Rider seems to have willingly sealed it away, or is otherwise ignoring it wholesale. The only leftover is a persistent sense of ‘déjà vu’. Perhaps it is not something that should be said, but Rider seems to be less than fond of this.
Prana Defense: A+. A variation of the skill known as ‘Prana Burst’. The fundamentals remain unchanged – use of prana as fuel to accomplish greater feats, but this variation is oriented purely towards defense. Effectively, it is ‘magical energy translated into armor’. The act of bathing in Fafnir’s blood changed the nature of his existence to that of a ‘dragon’, and the act of partaking in its flesh and organs gifted him with the so-called ‘Dragon Factor’ – effectively, Rider is constantly wrapped in magical energy reminiscent to that of such creatures, suffusing the entirety of his physical form, and even without accounting for any physical protections, his body alone is already on par with the Dragonkind – such is the true nature of ‘the hero Sigurd’s invincible skin’ so often praised. However, this invulnerability possesses the same caveat that would be expected – a linden leaf stuck to his back while bathing, and made that place the only one of his body the blood would not reach, and thus, the only true weakness in a defense that should have been, by all rights, absolute.
Due to this, his Saint Graph as a whole manifests the nature of a ‘Dragon’, and thus, he is liable to be more vulnerable against heroes or weapons associated with ‘Dragon Extermination’. It is quite ironic that the bane of one of the greatest dragon-slayers would be ‘kindred spirits’.
Berserk: C. An ability that results of the combination of Mad Enhancement and Bravery. While under its effects, Sigurd becomes ‘as a savage animal’ – rather than mechanically obeying the Master like Berserkers with higher Ranks of Mad Enhancement, he becomes obsessed with ‘the fight itself’, devoting himself to the complete annihilation of those classified as ‘the enemy’. Though he was not known to fly into such frenzies within his legend, he has gained this skill due to distorted views – such things are ‘what is expected’ from ‘Norse heroes’, and so, it is only natural that ‘the archetypal hero of Norse origin’ possesses the ‘archetypal skill of Norse origin’.
Inversion Impulse: E. The urge to give in to an impulse that is both 'inherent to the self' yet 'completely alien to the self'. In the case of Sigurd, this impulse speaks to the nature of 'Dragon' that pervades his Saint Graph, the blood running through his veins and drenching his skin. Fafnir was not a two-bit lesser drake – but rather, an archetypal existence that burned the meaning of 'dragon' in generations to come, only rivalled by one other. Tapping into this forbidden well causes a surge in STR not too dissimilar to the effect of Monstrous Strength.
However, every time it is used, there will be a Rank-up to the Skill. Through E to B, no changes will occur in the physical sense – though the Servant's psyche may be compromised, if still functional – but, as the grudge of his blade grows and this Skill attains its apex, should it be used for one last time when it reaches A Rank, a shift will be made manifest upon Sigurd's Saint Graph, turning him into something far removed from the man he is now.
NOBLE PHANTASM
Grani – Through the Flames, Nothing shall Bar Our Path
Rank: B Type: Anti-Unit (Self) Range: 1-99
A fantastical existence known as Grani, Sigurd’s much beloved gray mare. The horse itself is of magnificent stock – a gift from Odin while disguised as an old man, through its veins runs the blood of Sleipnir. Though it has attained ‘only’ Phantasmal Beast status, it should be noted that its age and lineage make it an incredibly strong specimen. Sigurd may call Grani during combat in order to supplement his mobility and attempt to trample his enemies under powerful hooves, but in the end, this is not the true use of ‘Grani, Sigurd’s Noble Phantasm’, so much as it is a use of ‘Grani, Sigurd’s powerful mount’.
Rather than ‘combat’, the Noble Phantasm could be said to be a combination of both Sigurd and Grani in tandem used for ‘travel’. A certain fragment of his legend speaks of how one of Gunnar’s tasks was to pass the ring of fire in order to court Brynhildr, and it is noted to be a task only Grani could accomplish – and only with Sigurd using it as his mount. There are no mentions of why such a thing was required or how such a feat was accomplished beyond the implied ‘Grani was the best of horses, and Sigurd the best of heroes’, and the Noble Phantasm is both a crystallization of the feat and the implication it carried. No matter how treacherous the path, complicated the Bounded Field or well-defended the fortress, should the True Name of the Noble Phantasm be activated, Sigurd and Grani will inevitably appear at their set destination as though by spatial transference – effectively ‘Grani and Sigurd must travel through treacherous ground in order to arrive’ shifts into ‘Grani and Sigurd travelled through treacherous ground in order to arrive’, forcing the world to conform to such ‘truth’ and skipping the ‘journey’. So long as Sigurd knows where the place he wishes to travel to is located, they shall ‘certainly reach their destination’.
It could be said to be similar to a writer’s own laziness in not figuring out a means through which the hero could have bypassed the traps in his way, and simply insisting that he did because ‘this is one of those situations where the destination is more important than the journey, isn’t it? Just get on with the story!’. Of course, the flipside of such is that the farther away the destination and the more dangerous the path (interesting from a storytelling standpoint), the more magical energy will be consumed if the Noble Phantasm is used.
Audiences are truly merciless.
Gram – Blade of Glory, Blade of Ruin.
Rank: A++ Type: Anti-Army Maximum Number of Targets: 500 Range: 1-99
The fabled ‘sword in the tree which grants sovereignty’, a prototype of the arguably more famous ‘sword in the stone that selects the king’, doubtlessly among the strongest of magic swords and the very strongest blade of Norse origin. Originally crafted by the gods and retrieved by Sigurd’s father, Sigmund, it was broken by Odin’s Gungnir during battle. An episode of his legend tells of his quest to find a sword ‘worthy of a hero’ that will permit him to slay Fafnir. Regin forged for him two meager blades, which broke upon testing due to Sigurd’s phenomenal might, and in the end, the youth handed the dwarf the remnants of his father’s blade in order to remake it for the son. However, this is not the end of the tale.
Indeed, it was first forged by the gods. Indeed, it was remade by the dwarf – inhuman in both make and size, boasting enormity only such hands could confer. Yet, at the same time, it was weak because it had been remade – Mystery, once lost, cannot be regained. Such is the way of the world, and Gram’s was lost the very moment Odin broke it. Thus, although first-rate and able to withstand Sigurd’s strength, the blade itself was still a shadow of its former self – its self when it was unbroken and unsullied, which could never be attained again regardless of the smith being the lowest wretch of the mortal realm or the highest among gods. Instead, a different route was taken.
Its nature shifted. Its form shifted. Its identity shifted. Gone was the elegant Sword in the Tree – make way now for the blade that would bring about glory beyond measure and ruin beyond measure, a sword that collected into itself the hatred and curses of the fallen, a demonic blade steeped in the grudges of those slain by Sigurd. Those grudges are the chief source of its power – for hatred that lasts beyond death is no small thing, promising ‘glory on the battlefield’. Yet, at the same time, they also bring about the ‘ruin’ of the wielder – causing Sigurd’s Luck to plummet.
In practical terms, the blade will absorb Mana from the surrounding area and passively feast upon Sigurd’s magical energy upon being wielded, accumulating it within. Thus, the longer the battle goes on, the faster it can be activated, which can be useful under certain circumstances. Runes carved upon the flat of the blade channel and augment – ‘amplify’ – the prana within, and True Name invocation will cause an explosive release of magical energy for the purpose of ‘destruction’ alone. Compared to the elegant gold slashes of certain Holy Swords and the semicircle of searing twilight unleashed by one in particular, Demonic Blade Gram’s release is shaped like a raging, unreasonable cone of vivid crimson that even Sigurd has great difficulty controlling, and it would be no less than ruinous if loosed carelessly.
Physically, the blade is shaped like a truly gargantuan greatsword, almost longer than Sigurd himself is tall and as wide as two and a half adult hands pressed flat. Unlike the more ornate weapons of the era said to be wielded by this man, Gram carries nothing to disguise its true nature – a masterfully crafted killing tool, lacking even a guard, and devoted solely to bringing about the deaths of those in the path of the swing. Though razor sharp – Regin was indeed a master of his craft – its enormity makes it seem more like it would be used as a giant, bladed club than an actual cutting tool like Sigurd can – and indeed, any man that does not possess the strength of the aforementioned dragon-slayer would find it nearly impossible to even lift it, much less wield it, and would likely decry it as far too massive to be called a sword – more like a lump of metal with a handle that would be more at home displayed as a parody. As mentioned, various runes are carved upon the blade and are key to its use as a Noble Phantasm – though they also accomplish a ‘warding’, keeping the grudges of the slain Gram so greedily feasts upon contained within the steel. An unwieldy demonic weapon that one would think to be the tool of a villain, nonetheless owned by a first-rate hero that passed on to the annals of history.
Owing to the nature of its most famous kill, the blade possesses a bonus against those who exhibit the nature of a ‘Dragon’, such as a certain King from a certain island.
Incidentally, it would be renamed ‘Balmung’ at a later date, most prominently within Wagner’s Nibelungenlied and Ring Cycle in general, suffering a change in appearance and a revision to its origins, shifting its nature once more. One cannot help but be thankful for this – after all, ‘that man’ already had enough troubles heaped upon him.
DETAILS: BACKGROUND
The great hero of the Völsunga Saga, and oft regarded as the greatest and most famous within Norse mythology, Sigurd, Son of Sigmund and Slayer of Fafnir. A mortal that lived during the Age of Gods, one through whose veins still ran the blood of Odin, he fostered under Regin, the brother of Fafnir, who would be the one to both give him his famous sword and egg him on to slay the dragon, thereby starting the chain of events that would lead to the episodes depicted in his legend. He would meet a certain woman – a Valkyrie by the name of Brynhildr, whom he would exchange vows with, yet she would nonetheless foretell his doom and marriage to another woman. Eventually parting ways, he would arrive to a certain court, where the queen would slip by him a potion that would force Sigurd to forget all about Brynhildr, and thus render him amenable to marriage with Gudrun.
He would be fast friends with (and loyal to) his brother-in-law, Gunnar, who would attempt to woo Brynhildr herself, but the tests of the Valkyrie would prove too much and, exchanging oaths of secrecy and with a heavy heart, Sigurd would supplant him. He did not remember Brynhildr – he simply felt the acts went against his sense of honor and her own dignity, yet he remained steadfast in his loyalty and successfully passed her tasks, exchanging places with Gunnar once he was no longer needed.
Life would be kind, for a while. But lies, as we all know, cannot last. Eventually discovering the truth, feeling cheated out of the man she desired and burning with indignation, Brynhildr succumbed to her love for Sigurd.
. . .Yet, for a Valkyria that ferries souls to Valhalla, ‘to love’ is synonymous with ‘to kill’. And so, she did, arranging for the death of the man she held so dear. That was the sad end to a sordid tale, and eventually Brynhildr would willingly commit suicide by throwing herself to Sigurd’s own funeral pyre, their ashes scattered and mixing in the winds.
DETAILS: PERSONALITY AND DISPOSITION
Summoned as Rider, he takes the form of his younger years – one he doubtlessly prefers the most. Compared to the more meditative Saber, the Rider incarnation is still a youth that thirsts for excitement and battle, and even though he attempts to sound relatively dignified, he often slips into rougher speech patterns, most prominently when his battle-lust is roused – perhaps part of the fault lies with the distortions of his culture sphere across time, but Sigurd would readily admit to his nature as a hoodlum even while alive. In short, he gives the ‘delinquent older brother’ impression.
Boastful, proud and nonetheless agreeable, Sigurd is what some would not hesitate to call an odd individual – though one who was aware of his tragic life could be led to believe that he would be the type that carries a somber air about him, the reality is far different, being the sort of man one could not help but bond over drinks with, someone who lives in the present, chasing the moment with all his being. He possesses pride, of course – pride as a hero, pride as a man. His entire life was spent thirsting for adventures like a man lost in the desert would thirst for water, whether recorded in the runestones or not – for is it not the duty of a hero to be grander, to live a life more exemplary than anyone else? To seek challenges in the morn, fight the strongest in the afternoon, make merry with one’s companions at night and do it all over again the next day?
Indeed, much like ‘that one’, Sigurd’s life was spent doing ‘what a hero should do’, but unlike ‘that man’, who believed that heroes should merely limit themselves to doing as other asked, dangerous existences that they were, Sigurd’s own belief was that a hero should strive towards greatness and follow his own heart more than anything, accomplishing great tasks not because it was requested, but because that was their very nature, how things were meant to be.
He has no personal grudges about how his life turned out, even though it was one that was not lacking in wrong turns. ‘I did my best, I think, so I will not sully my pride and their memory with regrets.’, or so he would say. He met two women he loved with all his heart and forged priceless friendships – so long as those moments, ephemeral as they were, remain engraved into his heart, Rider personally thinks that there is no point in regrets and letting them chain him to the past, since they made the precious memories all the sweeter for it.
Thus, although summoned in a War for the Holy Grail, he does not find the price particularly enticing. To him, crossing blades and testing his mettle against legendary heroes from different eras is a reward in and of itself, and as far as he is concerned, his wish has been granted upon summoning.
He respects courage, sticking to one’s principles and the drive to improve and achieve one’s goals most of all, and thus looks down on those with weak wills. He accepted long ago that the world is an unreasonable mess most of the time, uncaring about what is just and what is not, and that bad things happen to good people and vice-versa. Thus, even though he personally leans towards justice, unless he finds the Master that summoned him to be incredibly disagreeable or completely opposed to his beliefs, he will follow orders out of loyalty, and can appreciate the qualities he admires even in the bitterest of enemies, praising them without reservation if he believes they deserve it. This means he has great flexibility in terms of lords he will serve under, but nonetheless, accounting for his own personality and tastes, it would not be wrong to say that he has the greatest compatibility with the sort of dunderheaded idiot that does not know when to give up.
As previously mentioned, he does not think he has a wish worth using the Grail for – and he will certainly not consider changing anything about his life. However, now, with his memories intact, he cannot help but perhaps wait, and hope, that a certain woman would also make an appearance in whatever battlefield he is called to, so that he could bear his sincere feelings one last time. Perhaps that is the only thing that weighs in his memory.
Personality: At a glance, she appears to be the ‘perfect beauty’. Soft-spoken and amicable to those that approach her, Janika could very well be called a ‘kindly Ojou-sama’ type — she sometimes appears to thoughtlessly flaunt her wealth, and the way she speaks and acts certainly lends credence to the image of ‘high-class lady’ she appears to cultivate just by existing, but if questioned, she would say with absolute honesty that such things are not her intention, and she is merely acting how she was taught to.
Sometimes, however, that perfectly cultivated image of class just. . .cracks. Perhaps it is a word spoken out of turn. Maybe it is her tone taking on a rougher tilt. Maybe it would just be the way she holds herself. This is perhaps a reminder that, no matter how hard one tries, some tendencies just cannot be curbed. Nonetheless, she attempts to live by the ideas her family instilled in her.
Grace in her every step, elegance in her every motion and eloquence in her every word, beauty in each gesture. Ruthlessness in her every decision, coldness against every enemy, cunning in her every deal.
Those were the principles she was raised with, those were the principles she would follow to her last breath, even if she might sometimes stumble along the way. Her nobility is easily seen from a mile away — and her words would do little more than reaffirm it, regardless of her being in one of the rougher moments or not.
In the end, however, she is not cruel.
Calculating, perhaps. Manipulative even. And she would not deny to be pragmatic enough to exploit her own appearance and hide her intentions beneath a beatific smile and a kind word. But she has never taken any pleasure in deceiving anyone, and most likely she never will, nor has she ever thought to lord her superiority over others.
It is not that she is humble — far from it, in fact. But what is the point of spouting what should already be known as a fact? Yes, she is better — family, connections, wealth, talent. . .if it is conceivable, she would possess it, but that is no reason to gloat — it is simply how the world worked. You would not be proud of getting up every morning, so why should she be proud of something equally natural? To be superior is merely the way things are. At the same time, she is also not kind — she would give no second thought to the idea of leaving someone behind if they proved a dead weight, and she would certainly not lose any sleep over any betrayal, but those weren't things to be proud of — merely tasks to get done. No more, no less, and she has never seen the world any differently.
Rather, it is her duty to do as she sees fit, it is her duty to further herself and her family even at the expense of others, it is her duty to be the proper Lady Magus of there ever was one — and that is really all there is to it. Sometimes she ponders if it could have been any different if life had thrown her a different lot, but she always dismisses the thought with the same quickness as it came — to bring glory to the family name, to perpetuate the line, to further their work. Those are the duties she has taken upon herself, the responsibilities thrust in her hands from an early age, and there is no reason to shirk away from them or ponder on useless ‘what ifs’. The only thing that matters is the here and now, and those who try to run away from it are no more than fools.
Perhaps most interestingly, she lacks any real wish to make upon the Grail — her sole desire is to bring glory to her family and further their standing, so any one thing she could ask for would be ‘for the sake of the Edelfelt name’ should she achieve victory. Or at least, so she tells herself.
Biography: Relatively young, she is one of the two current heirs to the Edelfelt family of magi, a proud lineage of Finnish descent. There is not really much to say about her other than the obvious — from the moment of her birth, her life had been set ahead of her, and all that was expected was that she’d follow through the motions.
And so, she did, with nary a complaint. While in her younger years she often snapped at people with a fiery temper and a glare to match, she was soon taught to hold her emotions locked deep within instead of wearing them on her sleeve — even if sometimes the task proves a tad harder than others. She dedicated her life to follow the path of the Magus, pursuing the ideal with her full efforts, perhaps out of a sense of filial love, perhaps because it was the only thing she had ever known. Regardless, the fact remained — she excelled, though that much was already beyond doubt.
Growing up as she did would perhaps be called boring, though she preferred the term ‘safely predictable’. Her life was confined to a small set of variables — and that, she could work with. Never really giving much thought to what awaited her beyond the obvious, she seemed content to study the craft and quietly continuing to work. However, when the news came to them of the opportunity to wage war against the Tohsakas, Einzberns and Matous on their precious backwater, to steal from them that great artifact, their vaunted ‘Holy Grail’, it was an injection of ‘something new’ into what was once a drab, colorless world.
She did not dislike the idea, not really. The thought of summoning legendary figures from ages past in order to engage in battle for a wish, stealing everything those three owned in the process? It might not have been her that devised the plan, but she certainly found it an interesting venture — and if that required her to get her hands dirty, it was something she could live with.
Perhaps, a voice in the back of her mind whispered, she could even learn to enjoy it.
Family History: Edelfelt
Origin: Duplicity
Elemental Affinity: Water and Fire
Number of Magic Circuits: B
Quality of Magic Circuits: A
Od: A
Magecraft:
Conversion: Family attribute of the Edelfelt. Strictly speaking, the name covers the concept itself, but it is best known for its conduciveness to Jewel Magecraft. The capability that allows for the Edelfelt to place magical energy into other substances, enduring outside of the body.
Ore Scales: Sorcery Trait of the Edelfelt. The Crest is shared. The two Masters are one. The moon in the night sky is mirrored in the surface of the lake. Two sisters multiply each other's power.
Scandinavian Curses: Simply oriented around physical effects of harm. Does not include those other possibilities such as attacking the mind, causing decay, inverting causality, resonating with similarities, and so on. The specialization is, of course, the single-action curse known as Gandr. Through overcharging, release of a more powerful "Finn Shot" is possible. At the maximum output, even stopping a heart is possible.
Conversion (Traits): Deals with the ability of shifting the nature of something into something else, more appropriate to deal with the situation at hand. Generally, this could be a called a mix of the Conversion trait of the Edelfelts with Jewel Magecraft and Alteration — in simple terms, storing preset spells in Jewels in order to be able to Alter something at a moment's notice, a habit that doubtlessly owes to her nature as ‘someone who changes according to the situation’. Akin to enchantments in a video game, the Jewels are able to confer ‘traits’ or ‘attributes’ to what she sees fit, such as ‘a sword becoming a fire-sword’ or other such examples. There are, of course, limits depending on the quality and number of jewels at her disposal, but she would like to think that those are the last two things she would need to worry about.
It is hardly anything flashy — but that is fine by her as is.
Equipment:
Jewels: Eight Jewels that doubtlessly can be called ‘A-Rank’, suffused with Magical Energy, although they do not yet hold any Alteration spell. At the same time, she also possesses four others, two of which have been supercharged with both her elements, her mother’s own Lightning suffusing the other two. Though she has crafted two more through excess Prana throughout her lifetime and inherited another as a last gift, however, those remain tied to her Mystic Code.
Mystic Code: Argent On the surface, a lady cane — certainly high quality silver and of fine craftsmanship and make, decorative enough. However, the three jewels inset on the handle and body allow her to quickly and efficiently summon forth elemental barrages against those that cross her. She will admit to not be the sort of savant her sister is — but that is just fine, and her efforts are mainly oriented towards ‘support’ more than anything else.
Skills: She shines in terms of negotiations, by far the more gregarious and diplomatic of the two, and although her raw physical power — even if cheating herself — is outshone by her sister, she does have a fair grasp and training on hand-to-hand and knows how to use her body and her cane to great extent — she can (and oftentimes does) aptly wield it as a staff. In terms of ‘skill’, she ranks higher — after all, it is also a Lady’s duty to know how to properly put down undesirables.
Class: Rider True Name: Sigurd Gender: Male Alignment: Lawful Neutral
APPEARANCE
Though it is perhaps cliché, Rider’s own appearance makes it rather easy to tell for anyone that looks upon him that he is ‘a great hero’. A lean frame that brims with confidence and strength, his height allows him to tower over most, easily standing at nearly two meters tall, features seemingly carved from marble, no less handsome for it and set into a permanent amused smirk. His skin is tan, taut muscles seemingly bereft of scars despite the notion that the man that boasts of them is a born warrior, and his ashen hair falls down, almost reaching his back, in a mess that is not devoid of its own grace. Though the blood is far too diluted to mean much, he still boasts the red eyes of those who possess the ichor of the divine flowing through their veins, set alight akin to twin crimson pyres, a wild air about him that is his constant companion wherever he goes.
Cutting an imposing figure, he is clad in the armaments of antiquity, a warrior displaced in time. A silver cuirass with blue accents – like breaking waves – along the edges covers his upper body, fashioned into the peak of human physique, made of a certain material long since unavailable to the modern world. Vambraces of the same make and pattern, greaves and boots comprise his armor alongside it and glimpses of fur can be seen, perhaps indicating the wearer is more used to colder climates, black leather pants underneath.
PARAMETERS
STR: A END: A AGI: B MGI: C LCK: E
CLASS SKILLS
Riding: A+. The hallmark of the Rider class, accounting for expertise in handling vehicles or animals. Rider can freely manipulate the simplest vehicles or state-of-the-art technology with ease, and at this Rank, even Phantasmal Beast or Divine Beast-class creatures may be commanded and used as mounts, though it does not apply to members of the ‘Dragonkind’.
Magic Resistance: -. A Skill that determines the level of inherent resistance the Servant possesses against Thaumaturgy that attempts direct interference upon the self.
. . .However, it has been lost.
PERSONAL SKILLS
Revelation: X. An anecdote of his story tells of his consumption of the dragon’s blood and later, heart, and following this, he was able to know of the dwarf Regin’s plan to murder him and have Fafnir’s hoard entirely for himself thanks to the birds warning him ahead of time, after which Sigurd killed the dwarf. He is not truly talking with them – rather, upon consumption, he artificially inherited a sort of ‘wisdom’ that manifested itself as a strange connection with the world. He is able to interpret the song of birds, the caress of the wind upon blades of grass and the thrum of mana in the air as warnings or advice on ‘what is the best path’ or ‘what will come next’.
However, Rider seems to have willingly sealed it away, or is otherwise ignoring it wholesale. The only leftover is a persistent sense of ‘déjà vu’. Perhaps it is not something that should be said, but Rider seems to be less than fond of this.
Prana Defense: A+. A variation of the skill known as ‘Prana Burst’. The fundamentals remain unchanged – use of prana as fuel to accomplish greater feats, but this variation is oriented purely towards defense. Effectively, it is ‘magical energy translated into armor’. The act of bathing in Fafnir’s blood changed the nature of his existence to that of a ‘dragon’, and the act of partaking in its flesh and organs gifted him with the so-called ‘Dragon Factor’ – effectively, Rider is constantly wrapped in magical energy reminiscent to that of such creatures, suffusing the entirety of his physical form, and even without accounting for any physical protections, his body alone is already on par with the Dragonkind – such is the true nature of ‘the hero Sigurd’s invincible skin’ so often praised. However, this invulnerability possesses the same caveat that would be expected – a linden leaf stuck to his back while bathing, and made that place the only one of his body the blood would not reach, and thus, the only true weakness in a defense that should have been, by all rights, absolute.
Due to this, his Saint Graph as a whole manifests the nature of a ‘Dragon’, and thus, he is liable to be more vulnerable against heroes or weapons associated with ‘Dragon Extermination’. It is quite ironic that the bane of one of the greatest dragon-slayers would be ‘kindred spirits’.
Berserk: C. An ability that results of the combination of Mad Enhancement and Bravery. While under its effects, Sigurd becomes ‘as a savage animal’ – rather than mechanically obeying the Master like Berserkers with higher Ranks of Mad Enhancement, he becomes obsessed with ‘the fight itself’, devoting himself to the complete annihilation of those classified as ‘the enemy’. Though he was not known to fly into such frenzies within his legend, he has gained this skill due to distorted views – such things are ‘what is expected’ from ‘Norse heroes’, and so, it is only natural that ‘the archetypal hero of Norse origin’ possesses the ‘archetypal skill of Norse origin’.
As it should be expected, due to the reckless abandon he fights with while under the influence of this Skill, his upkeep costs are proportionately heightened. Please, exercise caution.
Inversion Impulse: E. The urge to give in to an impulse that is both 'inherent to the self' yet 'completely alien to the self'. In the case of Sigurd, this impulse speaks to the nature of 'Dragon' that pervades his Saint Graph, the blood running through his veins and drenching his skin. Fafnir was not a two-bit lesser drake – but rather, an archetypal existence that burned the meaning of 'dragon' in generations to come, only rivalled by one other. Tapping into this forbidden well causes a surge in STR not too dissimilar to the effect of Monstrous Strength.
However, every time it is used, there will be a Rank-up to the Skill. Through E to B, no changes will occur in the physical sense – though the Servant's psyche may be compromised, if still functional – but, as the grudge of his blade grows and this Skill attains its apex, should it be used for one last time when it reaches A Rank, a shift will be made manifest upon Sigurd's Saint Graph, turning him into something far removed from the man he is now.
NOBLE PHANTASM
Grani – Through the Flames, Nothing shall Bar Our Path
Rank: B Type: Anti-Unit (Self) Range: 1-99
A fantastical existence known as Grani, Sigurd’s much beloved gray mare. The horse itself is of magnificent stock – a gift from Odin while disguised as an old man, through its veins runs the blood of Sleipnir. Though it has attained ‘only’ Phantasmal Beast status, it should be noted that its age and lineage make it an incredibly strong specimen. Sigurd may call Grani during combat in order to supplement his mobility and attempt to trample his enemies under powerful hooves, but in the end, this is not the true use of ‘Grani, Sigurd’s Noble Phantasm’, so much as it is a use of ‘Grani, Sigurd’s powerful mount’.
Rather than ‘combat’, the Noble Phantasm could be said to be a combination of both Sigurd and Grani in tandem used for ‘travel’. A certain fragment of his legend speaks of how one of Gunnar’s tasks was to pass the ring of fire in order to court Brynhildr, and it is noted to be a task only Grani could accomplish – and only with Sigurd using it as his mount. There are no mentions of why such a thing was required or how such a feat was accomplished beyond the implied ‘Grani was the best of horses, and Sigurd the best of heroes’, and the Noble Phantasm is both a crystallization of the feat and the implication it carried. No matter how treacherous the path, complicated the Bounded Field or well-defended the fortress, should the True Name of the Noble Phantasm be activated, Sigurd and Grani will inevitably appear at their set destination as though by spatial transference – effectively ‘Grani and Sigurd must travel through treacherous ground in order to arrive’ shifts into ‘Grani and Sigurd travelled through treacherous ground in order to arrive’, forcing the world to conform to such ‘truth’ and skipping the ‘journey’. So long as Sigurd knows where the place he wishes to travel to is located, they shall ‘certainly reach their destination’.
It could be said to be similar to a writer’s own laziness in not figuring out a means through which the hero could have bypassed the traps in his way, and simply insisting that he did because ‘this is one of those situations where the destination is more important than the journey, isn’t it? Just get on with the story!’. Of course, the flipside of such is that the farther away the destination and the more dangerous the path (interesting from a storytelling standpoint), the more magical energy will be consumed if the Noble Phantasm is used.
Audiences are truly merciless.
Gram – Blade of Glory, Blade of Ruin.
Rank: A++ Type: Anti-Army Maximum Number of Targets: 500 Range: 1-99
The fabled ‘sword in the tree which grants sovereignty’, a prototype of the arguably more famous ‘sword in the stone that selects the king’, doubtlessly among the strongest of magic swords and the very strongest blade of Norse origin. Originally crafted by the gods and retrieved by Sigurd’s father, Sigmund, it was broken by Odin’s Gungnir during battle. An episode of his legend tells of his quest to find a sword ‘worthy of a hero’ that will permit him to slay Fafnir. Regin forged for him two meager blades, which broke upon testing due to Sigurd’s phenomenal might, and in the end, the youth handed the dwarf the remnants of his father’s blade in order to remake it for the son. However, this is not the end of the tale.
Indeed, it was first forged by the gods. Indeed, it was remade by the dwarf – inhuman in both make and size, boasting enormity only such hands could confer. Yet, at the same time, it was weak because it had been remade – Mystery, once lost, cannot be regained. Such is the way of the world, and Gram’s was lost the very moment Odin broke it. Thus, although first-rate and able to withstand Sigurd’s strength, the blade itself was still a shadow of its former self – its self when it was unbroken and unsullied, which could never be attained again regardless of the smith being the lowest wretch of the mortal realm or the highest among gods. Instead, a different route was taken.
Its nature shifted. Its form shifted. Its identity shifted. Gone was the elegant Sword in the Tree – make way now for the blade that would bring about glory beyond measure and ruin beyond measure, a sword that collected into itself the hatred and curses of the fallen, a demonic blade steeped in the grudges of those slain by Sigurd. Those grudges are the chief source of its power – for hatred that lasts beyond death is no small thing, promising ‘glory on the battlefield’. Yet, at the same time, they also bring about the ‘ruin’ of the wielder – causing Sigurd’s Luck to plummet.
In practical terms, the blade will absorb Mana from the surrounding area and passively feast upon Sigurd’s magical energy upon being wielded, accumulating it within. Thus, the longer the battle goes on, the faster it can be activated, which can be useful under certain circumstances. Runes carved upon the flat of the blade channel and augment – ‘amplify’ – the prana within, and True Name invocation will cause an explosive release of magical energy for the purpose of ‘destruction’ alone. Compared to the elegant gold slashes of certain Holy Swords and the semicircle of searing twilight unleashed by one in particular, Demonic Blade Gram’s release is shaped like a raging, unreasonable cone of vivid crimson that even Sigurd has great difficulty controlling, and it would be no less than ruinous if loosed carelessly.
Physically, the blade is shaped like a truly gargantuan greatsword, almost longer than Sigurd himself is tall and as wide as two and a half adult hands pressed flat. Unlike the more ornate weapons of the era said to be wielded by this man, Gram carries nothing to disguise its true nature – a masterfully crafted killing tool, lacking even a guard, and devoted solely to bringing about the deaths of those in the path of the swing. Though razor sharp – Regin was indeed a master of his craft – its enormity makes it seem more like it would be used as a giant, bladed club than an actual cutting tool like Sigurd can – and indeed, any man that does not possess the strength of the aforementioned dragon-slayer would find it nearly impossible to even lift it, much less wield it, and would likely decry it as far too massive to be called a sword – more like a lump of metal with a handle that would be more at home displayed as a parody. As mentioned, various runes are carved upon the blade and are key to its use as a Noble Phantasm – though they also accomplish a ‘warding’, keeping the grudges of the slain Gram so greedily feasts upon contained within the steel. An unwieldy demonic weapon that one would think to be the tool of a villain, nonetheless owned by a first-rate hero that passed on to the annals of history.
Owing to the nature of its most famous kill, the blade possesses a bonus against those who exhibit the nature of a ‘Dragon’, such as a certain King from a certain island.
Incidentally, it would be renamed ‘Balmung’ at a later date, most prominently within Wagner’s Nibelungenlied and Ring Cycle in general, suffering a change in appearance and a revision to its origins, shifting its nature once more. One cannot help but be thankful for this – after all, ‘that man’ already had enough troubles heaped upon him.
DETAILS: BACKGROUND
The great hero of the Völsunga Saga, and oft regarded as the greatest and most famous within Norse mythology, Sigurd, Son of Sigmund and Slayer of Fafnir. A mortal that lived during the Age of Gods, one through whose veins still ran the blood of Odin, he fostered under Regin, the brother of Fafnir, who would be the one to both give him his famous sword and egg him on to slay the dragon, thereby starting the chain of events that would lead to the episodes depicted in his legend. He would meet a certain woman – a Valkyrie by the name of Brynhildr, whom he would exchange vows with, yet she would nonetheless foretell his doom and marriage to another woman. Eventually parting ways, he would arrive to a certain court, where the queen would slip by him a potion that would force Sigurd to forget all about Brynhildr, and thus render him amenable to marriage with Gudrun.
He would be fast friends with (and loyal to) his brother-in-law, Gunnar, who would attempt to woo Brynhildr herself, but the tests of the Valkyrie would prove too much and, exchanging oaths of secrecy and with a heavy heart, Sigurd would supplant him. He did not remember Brynhildr – he simply felt the acts went against his sense of honor and her own dignity, yet he remained steadfast in his loyalty and successfully passed her tasks, exchanging places with Gunnar once he was no longer needed.
Life would be kind, for a while. But lies, as we all know, cannot last. Eventually discovering the truth, feeling cheated out of the man she desired and burning with indignation, Brynhildr succumbed to her love for Sigurd.
. . .Yet, for a Valkyria that ferries souls to Valhalla, ‘to love’ is synonymous with ‘to kill’. And so, she did, arranging for the death of the man she held so dear. That was the sad end to a sordid tale, and eventually Brynhildr would willingly commit suicide by throwing herself to Sigurd’s own funeral pyre, their ashes scattered and mixing in the winds.
DETAILS: PERSONALITY AND DISPOSITION
Summoned as Rider, he takes the form of his younger years – one he doubtlessly prefers the most. Compared to the more meditative Saber, the Rider incarnation is still a youth that thirsts for excitement and battle, and even though he attempts to sound relatively dignified, he often slips into rougher speech patterns, most prominently when his battle-lust is roused – perhaps part of the fault lies with the distortions of his culture sphere across time, but Sigurd would readily admit to his nature as a hoodlum even while alive. In short, he gives the ‘delinquent older brother’ impression.
Boastful, proud and nonetheless agreeable, Sigurd is what some would not hesitate to call an odd individual – though one who was aware of his tragic life could be led to believe that he would be the type that carries a somber air about him, the reality is far different, being the sort of man one could not help but bond over drinks with, someone who lives in the present, chasing the moment with all his being. He possesses pride, of course – pride as a hero, pride as a man. His entire life was spent thirsting for adventures like a man lost in the desert would thirst for water, whether recorded in the runestones or not – for is it not the duty of a hero to be grander, to live a life more exemplary than anyone else? To seek challenges in the morn, fight the strongest in the afternoon, make merry with one’s companions at night and do it all over again the next day?
Indeed, much like ‘that one’, Sigurd’s life was spent doing ‘what a hero should do’, but unlike ‘that man’, who believed that heroes should merely limit themselves to doing as other asked, dangerous existences that they were, Sigurd’s own belief was that a hero should strive towards greatness and follow his own heart more than anything, accomplishing great tasks not because it was requested, but because that was their very nature, how things were meant to be.
He has no personal grudges about how his life turned out, even though it was one that was not lacking in wrong turns. ‘I did my best, I think, so I will not sully my pride and their memory with regrets.’, or so he would say. He met two women he loved with all his heart and forged priceless friendships – so long as those moments, ephemeral as they were, remain engraved into his heart, Rider personally thinks that there is no point in regrets and letting them chain him to the past, since they made the precious memories all the sweeter for it.
Thus, although summoned in a War for the Holy Grail, he does not find the price particularly enticing. To him, crossing blades and testing his mettle against legendary heroes from different eras is a reward in and of itself, and as far as he is concerned, his wish has been granted upon summoning.
He respects courage, sticking to one’s principles and the drive to improve and achieve one’s goals most of all, and thus looks down on those with weak wills. He accepted long ago that the world is an unreasonable mess most of the time, uncaring about what is just and what is not, and that bad things happen to good people and vice-versa. Thus, even though he personally leans towards justice, unless he finds the Master that summoned him to be incredibly disagreeable or completely opposed to his beliefs, he will follow orders out of loyalty, and can appreciate the qualities he admires even in the bitterest of enemies, praising them without reservation if he believes they deserve it. This means he has great flexibility in terms of lords he will serve under, but nonetheless, accounting for his own personality and tastes, it would not be wrong to say that he has the greatest compatibility with the sort of dunderheaded idiot that does not know when to give up.
As previously mentioned, he does not think he has a wish worth using the Grail for – and he will certainly not consider changing anything about his life. However, now, with his memories intact, he cannot help but perhaps wait, and hope, that a certain woman would also make an appearance in whatever battlefield he is called to, so that he could bear his sincere feelings one last time. Perhaps that is the only thing that weighs in his memory.
The winds buffeted against him, even with Lancer’s own aid. It was imposible to not feel the strength behind the blow, even if it hadn’t reached him, even if he was still alive and whole.
There was an jolt of fear. This is the sort of battle he would be facing from now on? It seemed ridiculous, it was ridiculous, and he wondered if he would be ready to deal with that sensation in the coming days. He gulped, feeling like he had been dunked into cold water, as though his limbs had lost all feeling, almost as if he was drowning –
And then he forced the feeling down and decided that no, it was not an appropriate time to panic or break down, not now at least. The past could not be changed, but the future could, and if he did not want to end up dead before the night was over, a calm state of mind was more conductive to that sort of objective tan the madenned ramblings of someone consumed by fear.
Yeah, yeah. Break down later, survive now. Good starting plan.
The first thing he noted – and arguably the most worrying, of course – was that what the golem possessed technique. This was more tan the brutish swing from a being that knew no better – the positioning, the angle, the way it flowed. Wonderful, more things to worry about. It had been rather clear this was not something that could be called ‘average’ in any way, but showcasing this now? Ah, damnit. This was bad, this was bad, if it can do this, then what other tricks did it have hidden as of now?
Ah, useless, useless, he could not rule out possibilities yet, whatever plan was made would not have a 100% guarantee of success. If only. . .
“Lancer, I am afraid—I do not really have much to tell you right now.” He’d have chuckled if he found any humor in the situation, but honestly, he wasn’t the sort that could carelessly laugh at the prospect of one’s own death. Call him a coward if you must. “First, I would request that you leave me a safe distance away. I will be no more than a hidrance if you have to worry about my safety while fighting this one. That said, I will still hopefully be of assistance, at least as far as mending any wound you might take.
That said I don’t presume to know enough to tell you what to do. It would be regrettable if you had to reveal your aces in our first battle, but I Will not tell you otherwise if you deem it necessary. In short: feel free to go wild.”
There was no small chance someone had seen the symbol Lancer displayed anyway. So while ideally those tools would not need to be wielded so soon. . .
. . .Well, ideally, he doubted they would be fighting this thing in the first place. So what was that about going with the flow? Or however that line was supposed to go.
“Join up with the others and coordinate forces – seems the most prudent course for the moment.”
Even as he felt the aftershock of the strike, he did not flinch—in fact, if anything, his scowl only deepened bit by bit as he observed that their enemy might, in fact, not be as simple-minded as he had hoped it to be.
Troublesome, troublesome. But now it was not the time to worry about such things—instead, he tightened his grip on the sword kept his Master behind him—the role of guardian was, at least, something he excelled at. Capitalizing on the opportunity offered by the fact that it had chosen to momentarily focus on the other group, he continued to carry Marguerite to what would hopefully be a safe place. He was not the fastest of Heroes, but he liked to believe he was not too shabby when it came to aspects outside of his resilience.
. . .He would not retreat, he knew that much—whatever it was, it needed to be put down, and it needed to be done fast. At least if his Master was safely out of the line of fire, he could fight with less worries looming over him. But even so. “. . .It is probably going to be one of those nights.” He muttered. “Ah, well. I will do my best against that, Master—so please be safe. Not much else to say at this point in time.”
And with that, he turned back towards the battle, trying to formulate a plan inside his head. There was always, of course, his own Noble Phantasm—but he was leery of using it, for his own Master’s sake if nothing else. However, should the worst come to pass, it might very well be the only option.
Then again, he hoped the night did not get any worse than a Castle-Golem dropping like a literal bomb amidst what was supposed to be a relatively peaceful setting. Perhaps that was a bit too optimistic. Sharpening his gaze, he decided to choose carefully his next target and see if an average attempt bore fruit. A test, so to speak.
The towers were, of course, the first to catch his attention. What would happen, he wondered, if he tested his sword against one of them?
As far as plans go—well, not the most elaborate thing, but he had to start somewhere, didn’t he? Perhaps much too simplistic, but at least if he could get a measure of its defenses, then he could judge a more appropriate course of action. Of course, the main ‘body’ would probably require to be annihilated in order to truly best this foe, at least with no more esoteric means at hand, but. . .
Taking a breath he did not really need, he charged into battle again, sword held tightly with both hands, displaying his form in a manner that could only be called brazen, as though daring the foe to attack.
Baby steps. Let us test the waters first before fully commiting.
Siegfried’s eyes had slid towards the towering behemoth that addressed him, more akin to a giant than a human in size, if not in demeanor. Looking at everyone else and then at his choice of attire, he realized that, yes, he was quite out of place in that regard – but well, there was not much that could be done regardless. He would catch the eye of normal people either way, and it was not like he could conceal his back, so it was simply less of a headache to just carry on like this. That said, there was no reason not to be courteous.
“I—”
Until there was, he supposed. The breeze kicked him first, the hair in the back of his neck stood on end, almost like a jolt of electricity had shot through him, his eyes turned towards the source, a hand making its way towards the handle of the greatsword at his back.
His fist clenched, his heartbeat stilled as he observed it draw closer and closer upon them, almost a single moment stretched into infinity. This was. . .
No good. No good, no good at all. Ah, damnation, he had expected a simple affair and he should have known better than to tempt fate like that. But those were thoughts for another place, another time – what mattered now was that Ruler’s sole warning had not fallen on deaf ears.
Indeed, he moved. With quickness beyond normal men, he turned and practically lunged towards his Master in an attempt to get her out of the line of fire. Certainly, it would be a somewhat disorienting experience, but better be alive to lament that than dead, right? His features bled into a frown, looking over his shoulder towards the newest monstrosity to have arrived. In spite of himself, he felt his heartbeat quickening yet again, but he reminded himself – before engaging, it was paramount to ensure his Master’s safety. If it was required, he would fight, but not until he completed that task. Good thing, too, it would give him time to formulate possible strategies to employ in his head.
That said – he had a feeling he would not particularly enjoy this fight at all. Give him an enemy his own size to battle one on one against, he would be a happy man – or he would have, a long time ago, before he bathed in Fafnir’s blood.
“. . .But a literal moving fortress? That is not nearly as fun.”
The irony of the statement did not escape him. He just failed to care for it. Regardless, now it was not the time to either jest or dawdle. His eyes narrowed as he noticed it taking in the Prana of the surroundings, almost greedily, accruing that light. . .
That. . . Could not possibly mean anything good.
“Master, apologies if I was too rough, but will you be fine by yourself? I don’t believe we can let that thing be, so it seems we will be rushing into battle sooner than I would have liked. At least this time it won’t be by our lonesome. . .even if the enemy seems far harder to take down.”
Well, at least this one seemingly did not insult him with its mere presence. Small steps. Even then, however, he knew those words rang true. Balmung could be said to be overkill against one individual opponent, his own greatest weapon was something suited to battle armies with, but even if this was one individual opponent, he could hardly say it was the average. So. . .he was not particularly certain about its capacity to take the castle down. For the first time, he felt that perhaps a different kind of Holy Sword would have been better suited to the task than his own.
To say nothing about the unease he felt as it absorbed more and more magical energy. That did not bode well, at all.
“That said. . .I think the first order of business should be trying to stop it from gathering more mana. Or kill it before it does.”
A disgustingly simple plan. Then again, he did not have much else to go on.
Of course, it was easier said than done, considering the amount of question marks said course of action still left them with. Ah, well, he supposed he could think as he fought, or at trust his Master to figure something out.
At the very least, he would not allow her to fall here.
He froze for an instant, feeling as though the world slowed down around him. The wind caused him to stumble, almost fall, but his Circuits opened and, with single word spoken almost in a trance, something he had managed to accomplish after turning it into a true reflex, he felt magical energy flood his limbs to an extent, giving him the ability to stand on his feet.
Fat lot of good it would do him if that thing managed to catch him. Without even thinking, he ran, dignity thrown out of the window in the face of a much more pressing need – that of surviving to see another day. He knew which battles to pick, and right now, as he frantically sought to put as much distance as possible between himself and that golem, that castle, he knew it would do him no good to try and stand his ground, fight here. It was not an enemy he could take advantage of, at least that he could see, and therefore, the most efficient course of action was to not get killed and leave Lancer without a Master.
At least they were not alone, and even though a small part of his mind told him they could be put at a disadvantage if they revealed too many cards right now, he told that part to shove it and retreat into the darker recesses of his conscious. For the moment, what mattered – what actually mattered – was dealing with this uninvited guest in whatever manner was the quickest and easiest.
They just had to find it.
Considering its lack of care for discretion, they had to do it fast, as well.
Ah, he had hoped his first battle in this ritual to have been perhaps a more dignified affair, instead here he was, running for his life, his back to the enemy and already going on tangents. Mother and Father would be – actually, he was not sure. At least it seemed to work out, as far as getting out alive went, so maybe they would not mind too much. Decorum was secondary right now, and he hoped they would agree.
“Lancer!” He said, perhaps heard perhaps not. Who could tell, amidst these roaring winds? “I’ll be counting on you today, too!”
Nothing wrong with relying on his partner, he guessed. He did feel a little disappointed that he would be unable to provide much aid beyond healing, but it was better than nothing. Or so he hoped.
Sundown, Eastern Fields. The message had been clear and brokered no room for argument, and considering the nature of the sender, he could not very well refuse. It put him on edge, in a way – at least on a certain level, to be surrounded by so many potential enemies, and his eyes narrowed at the thought of how his last confrontation had gone down.
In that regard, he knew it was not really a pressing concern – after all, to attempt something at that time would be almost guaranteed to be suicidal, but he was cautious nonetheless. It was a matter of how he was as an individual, and simply could not be helped. At the very least, it’d allow them to actually scout the competition, even if it would be the same for them. And so, at the appointed time, in the appointed place, he approached the gathering with certainty in his step. He made no attempt to hide his presence – at least in so far as this temporary ceasefire would be concerned, it would serve no purpose. He materialized with little fanfare, lacking any sort of modern fashion choice that he could have used to blend in at any one point. Balmung was slung across his back, resting in its sheath, and he hoped he would not have to retrieve it in the following hours, but. . .
Well. Better be prepared anyway.
It shone softly, that greenish sigil etched across his entire chest, reaching his cheek and making his appearance all the more striking. Certainly, to someone looking at him right now, he could very well seem a knight straight out of a fairy tale. Looking at the other attendants, he tried to force the tension to ebb away and act polite – after all, common courtesy should be observed, correct? “Good evening.” His voice was firm, but soft – nothing like a boastful bellow, or a haughty declaration. Merely a simple greeting, before he fell silent once more. Perhaps he was just not much of a people person, perhaps he saw no point in saying further at the moment. Or maybe both. Not much one could tell when he sported that grim, stony-faced façade that seemed to fit him like a well-worn cloak.
It probably was like one. After all, a tragic hero can’t ever really escape being one, can he?
But, well. . .no time to dwell on that. His piece said, he awaited to be addressed or for his Master to give a command. Subservience was not a habit he had managed to break within his lifetime, and he seemed to be unlikely to break it now of all times.
A shame, really. Perhaps he would be better off if he was just a more outgoing man. But, well – words were never really his forte, anyway.
To say he was expecting to be called would be a lie. And for an instant, it had worried him – like so many things tended to, these days. But it seemed he was not in trouble – and, in fact, this appeared to be a wonderful time to scope out potential adversaries. Plus, he would be able to confer about the presence Lancer had felt, though the thought was pushed to the back of his mind for the moment.
He had considered whether it was wise of him to go, obviously, but he could not help but feel it was the right choice to attend in person instead of looking through Lancer’s eyes. He surely felt it would, at least, serve to build up his relationship with his Servant – and he could not very well stay cooped up in that house for the duration of the war, anyway. He would have to leave, eventually, for one reason or another – might as well take the chance and see the city by himself while the opportunity of risking little by doing so presents itself so graciously.
The arrival could have been better timed, perhaps early to try and get a gauge of the overseer of the war himself, but alas, that was not to be, and it seemed quite a little party had formed by the time he stepped foot into the clearing.
Quaint, so very quaint. They had provided snacks, even! Very nice of them, though his first thought had been checking them for poison before deciding that he could lower his guard a bit – attempted assassination would not be a smart thing to attempt here and now, of all times, would it? So, with what he hoped was a relaxed smile, he approached the group. Lancer would keep watch for both of them. . .or so he hoped, anyway. It’d be quite embarrassing to die because he was too trusting, of all things.
“Hello, sorry if we are running late.” He offered an awkward chuckle, or what passed off as one, anyway. At least breaking the ice could be the first step.
That, however, did not really stop him from still being somewhat on edge. So many things could go wrong, so many potential problems that could arise. . .
Calm down, get your act together, and try to scout some of the competition while you are here anyway.
He seemed content to stare out from the window, scanning the horizon with eyes that saw much, yet nothing. He had been on edge — that much was clear by his gait, from the more prominent frown adorning his features to the way his very posture seemed more stiff, arms folded before his chest as he sought a foe that might or might not have been there. The methodical tapping on his finger against his arm was the only sound that came from the Servant, lost in thought as he was. Perhaps a certain other would have had better chances of discovering any hidden observer, but Siegfried was not that man, and so, pondering such matters was pointless.
Rather than an actual act of surveillance, it seemed it was simply the posture he had chosen to think last night’s events over.
It had been unbecoming of him. Shameful, even. Normally he always held his emotions in check, but those few hours ago, he was afraid to say he had almost been swallowed up by them. It was not even something that thing had done, he had merely felt so completely disgusted by its mere existence that he had not thought twice about other moves that could have been made.
A victory was a victory, but at what price had this one come? His frown deepened, and the rhythm of the tapping increased. It was not even something that thing had done, rather, it felt as though he simply had no choice but to detest it for what it was.
If nothing else, that had been new.
Perhaps there is some truth to a certain statement — things that are too alike do end up repelling each other. His jaw twitched, as though the idea itself, though not spoken aloud, caused him to flinch. Surely…
His Master spoke behind him, and he left those thoughts aside for a later moment. There were more important matters at hand than what ate at him, and it would not be a problem until it impaired his ability to act as a Servant.
Forgetting about one’s problems is much easier than confronting them.
“If that is your wish, Master, then let us depart when you are ready. I will keep to myself in Spirit Form unless my presence is required — there is little need to have other Masters and Servants catch a glimpse of me, should we run into them.”
Of course, it would also allow her to gather her strength further after the events of last night. Balmung was not a toy to be wielded carelessly, and in a way, he felt ashamed to have needed to use it so early even though she had given permission.
Sorry, Master. It seems you did not contract with as good a Hero as you had hoped.
He paused, at the exit, humming to himself a tune he had picked up some years ago, its name forgotten already, but still memorable enough to have him subconsciously do this when thinking at times. Looking down the street, he felt he could safely bet he would not be the only one to attend the meeting with the Overseer today. Though it was the norm to present oneself after a successful summoning, it was also something he felt people would ignore if it was too inconvenient. And certainly, he felt there were few who would disagree with the idea that there were more productive things to get done in the first night than visiting the church when that could easily be pushed to a later date with little complaint.
Taking that into account, he considered what his Servant had asked. Certainly, staying materialized would allow an even quicker response should the need arise, but…
“Well.”, his tone contained a small flicker of unease. It seemed that her report last night had shaken some alarm into him, even if the investigation they had attempted afterwards had not borne fruit. “I would suggest that you keep to Spirit Form when we approach the church unless your presence is required, Lancer. Stay vigilant, of course, but I do not think — or, at least, do not want to think — there are Masters or Servants that would chance an attack in broad daylight, much less in the accorded neutral ground when we arrive. It should be fine so long as we do not veer into the more isolated areas. At least this early, that is.”
Witnesses, after all, were such a bothersome affair to take care of. Really, it was by far easier to everyone involved to keep the secrecy that had been made the norm, even if one did not take the Overseer into account.
So all considered, he felt his orders were reasonable. Hiding as much of his Servant as possible before the actual engagement would be the most beneficial in both the short and long run. He had been dealt his hand, so it was up to him to make the most optimal plays he could with it.
Losing was not an option. His family’s — his pride had already been placed as chips upon the table. To lose would be the same as dying even if no hero of antiquity or magus of modern times actually took his head.
But that was fine. He had already known that the moment he arrived in this town, and he had accepted it.
Student, RPer, videogame and anime fan, movie guy. Also memist, but that's par the course. In other words, your garden-variety nerd. Not much else to say, really.
Yeah, I'm a rather bogstandard individual, sue me.
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;">Student, RPer, videogame and anime fan, movie guy. Also memist, but that's par the course. In other words, your garden-variety nerd. Not much else to say, really.<br><br>Yeah, I'm a rather bogstandard individual, sue me.</div>
