Breo

Fate/Moribund Swarm

Sigurd, Outside the Tohsaka Manor.

His companion manifested. His soul bared, his sword unleashed. Not enough, it seemed.

Ah, was this truly his death? It was not a bad one, not at all. He had enjoyed the time spent, he had felt his blood boil in a good fight, and now his eyelids closed as though this was but a distant dream. Yet, there was still more to do, there were things he would like to say.

He was not a hero that had a tale of surviving when he should have died. He was simply hard to kill properly in the first place, so the only thing he could do was hold to his consciousness and try to hold to those last threads he possessed, grasping them and not letting go.

He would not be so unsightly as to attempt to hold out and live when he should be dead—he would dislike it if an enemy did that instead of accepting the outcome with grace, so it would be quite hypocritical to attempt anything of the sort. Just some time for goodbyes was not wrong, however—at least, he did not think about it that way.

“Ah, man,” The words that came out of his mouth were slurred and he was making an effort to make them heard over the blood building up in his own throat. He spat to the side. “So this is how it ends, huh? Short run, I guess, but can’t say I regret it,” His tone was the usual upbeat, not losing an ounce of brightness in spite of the circumstances—though perhaps more pained than usual. “Though I guess it’s pretty selfish of me to say that. Real sorry, Master, seems like you didn’t summon as reliable a Servant as you thought, huh?”

Peals of laughter intermixed with coughs for an instant, as though he found peace in his own death. His horse approached, steps almost sedate, and the mare nuzzled her head against Sigurd, who ran a hand through her coat before she vanished in motes of light. “Sorry you only got to come to see this, really. But you’re still as wonderful as ever. Maybe next time.”

His gaze shifted to stare at his enemy.

“Yo,” He smiled. “Hey, don’t you think stealing a heart in the first date’s moving too fast? Sorry if that was the aim, though—afraid I already got someone,” He attempted a cheeky smile, but it came out mixed with a grimace. “Mind if I ask you not to go after my Master? I figure it’s about the only thing I can do right now, and it’s sort of my duty still.” Wounds are there, of course, but his skin also showed cracks—like shattering glass.

Gaze upturned towards the heavens, his smile still in place, he seemed to ponder his circumstances for a bit. “I feel bad for leaving them hanging, but I suppose it was a fated outcome. Still, sucks I didn’t even get to ascertain the identity of Lancer or Caster. . .hey if either is a woman with long white hair. . .no, never mind, it’s something I would have to do myself, anyway, it would be meaningless otherwise.” He shifted, attempting to find a more comfortable posture before recognizing that his thorax being caved in is probably not conductive to such. Thus, he resigned himself to spend his last moments like so.

“My name?” Sounding confused for an instant, realization dawned on his features. “Ah, that’s right, yeah, I didn’t actually introduce myself, did I? Well, no harm in it now, I guess. It’s Sigurd, son of Sigmund, Slayer of Fafnir. . .you know, the usual titles. Just Sigurd should do just fine,” Another bout of pained chuckles. “Normally it’d spell bad news to be so open about it, but I doubt it matters at this point. Thanks for a fun fight, at least, Mister Burial Agent.”

And it had been fun, to him at least. The man was probably a terrible matchup for him, but Sigurd was just the sort of idiot to not care, and it was certainly a better death than the original one. The only thing he regretted was that this chapter was so short, but even that feeling would vanish soon—one had to accept things as they came, and he shouldn’t let himself be embittered by something so petty. He had had his run, so it was only fitting.

The world of the present belonged to those who lived in it. Shades of the past like him—like all the Servants summoned in this War—had no say in it, and attempting to think it their own was foolish. In a way, this was certainly poetic—the heroes of today have the duty to surpass the ones of yesterday. . .or something like that. He had never been that good with words to begin with.

“Oh, well,” Resignation seeped into his tone, his lower body started to vanish. “Guess this is it. It was nice seeing the present is not as terribly boring as I thought it was, so thank you for that.”

Perhaps it was mind-boggling for someone to address his killer in such a way, but the fact of the matter remained that Sigurd had acknowledged his loss and he had never seen why being friendly exempted people from trying to kill each other. It was a rather strange notion of this modern world that he, once again, did not quite get. Shame they hadn’t gotten to share drinks.

He raised his hand towards the sky, as though attempting to catch the stars—something that he could never reach, something that he would forever chase. That was the Karma he carried, and this was but a simple intermission in that journey.

“Not this time around, I am afraid,” His smile carried not the jovial undertones of his usual expressions, and his tone had shifted from upbeat to something resembling longing. But there was a tenderness to his voice that could not be denied. “But I guess. . .the advantage is. . .that I can try again, and again, and again forever,” Letting it fall, he grasped the hilt of his sword, but made no further movements, gaze still drawn towards a dream perhaps only he could see.

A simple woman, a beautiful woman, a wonderful woman. It is true that shades of the past like them have no business in the present, but they could certainly have business with each other. His own present was with her, simple as that.

“One day, Brynhildr,” The last words passed through his lips as he breathed his last. “We will meet again, I swear.”

And thus, Sigurd died, though perhaps the haze in his mind conjured a memory of a time long past—of a smile like the sun.

And thus, Sigurd died—with a smile on his face.

Fate/Moribund Swarm

Sigurd, outside Tohsaka Manor

His body felt so crushingly weak.

For a man that had been born an oddity even for his time—someone for whom might was as second nature as breathing—the experience was no less than absolutely alien, and the pained widening of his eyes upon assessing his own status made such a fact as obvious as it could be. However, even though his movements were so dreadfully sluggish now, he came to his feet upon trembling legs, perhaps thankful that his kick had managed to stun his opponent for the necessary instants required to stand his ground.

Even if his current state still lied beyond the realm of ordinary humans, comparing him to what he had been before would be like comparing a house cat to a grown lion—nay, the difference could simply not be illustrated in such a metaphor. He was a shade, a phantom of what he had once been, and if one were to judge this state he found himself in—there was simply no two ways around it, he was indeed ‘the weakest’.

But nonetheless, Sigurd was Sigurd. Broken, shattered beyond recognition and torn down into the dirt, but his will was still that of the dragon-slayer that had carved his way into song and legend with his own two hands. And so, even if the act was futile, even if it was worthless, he was the sort to die standing and swinging away. That was his truth, simple as it could be. He reached down to grasp the handle of his sword—gods, had Gram always been this ridiculously heavy?—and proceeded to pull it up towards himself, leaning on it like a makeshift cane.

“. . .I don’t think I’ll be able to give you a good fight in this state,” He confessed without preamble or hesitation. The man had matched him moments prior, so the thought of engaging against him here and now and hope for victory was fantasy at best. “That hammer of yours really does a number on things, I see.”

Even if Saber was on the way, he doubted he would be able to hold out long enough for it to matter—at least now. So what else could he do but make small chat before he once again charged to his death? Perhaps it was a boon in its own way—at least, even if he should die like this, he would do so in battle rather than betrayed and ambushed in his own room. But even if he had made peace with the idea of dying, that did not mean he wished to, nor did it mean that a hunger for victory did not lurk into his heart still.

And then, he heard it.

Erase him.

Magical energy suffused him, a veritable torrent reaching through the link into his self, to be used as one should wish. While a Command Seal would normally be used to order a Servant and part of the energy turned into a compulsion for them to follow the order, the fact that Sigurd was in agreement meant he had all that power at his own disposal.

But what of it?

A cup does not grow in size when filled with water, a battery’s maximum does not change even if it remains plugged in. If it had happened earlier—before the hammer had done its mark on him—he would have been able to express his full power, since the problem had been that his Master simply did not possess enough to fill that cup, but now? Now it was just going to waste, for his current state was his apex, and all the magical energy in the world would not change that. Perhaps it would have been a waste of such a thing. . .were it not for Sigurd possessing the perfect outlet.

Yes, such a command should have been worthless, but it just so happened to also be exactly what he needed.

“You showed me yours,” The smile on his face was decidedly worrying, crimson eyes sharp. “Guess turnabout is fair play.”

Gram was a simple thing.

It was not a sword that boasted of curses to challenge karma, it was not a physical embodiment of any of Sigurd’s deeds, it did not have any sort of conceptual ability to bring his opponents low as the enemy’s hammer did. It was simply a weapon that carried the attribute of ‘amplification’. Magical energy could be forced into it and Gram would convert and amplify it in order to unleash an ‘Anti-Army’-class attack. Yet, simplicity did not mean that it lacked effectiveness.

While attempting to use it before he had been brought low would have consumed a high amount of his own prana and attempting to wield it after the fact was suicidal, however, this changed things. The ‘perfect outlet’ he had said—and he meant it. The magical energy of the Command was funneled into it without a second thought, and the vile crimson runes lit up, prana running throughout them with such force that one would think it impossible. More, more and more, he fed the greedy sword for this last dance. He might not have been able to do much by himself, he might have been the weakest.

But he was still a Servant with a Noble Phantasm.

And at this distance, with this timing. . .

“I said earlier that it really wanted to kill you now. Well, survive it if you can, I suppose,” The nonchalance of his speech stood fully at odds with the situation. “You said that hammer showed ‘the difference between myself and God’ when it did this, right? Alright then, Mister Gavel,” His smile stretched into a lupine grin. “Let me show you how much I care about your god.”

His arm tensed, rearing back.

Blade of Glory, Blade of Ruin.
“Gram!”

And with that declaration, he swung, releasing the True Name and letting the sword's fury loose upon the world, the crackling runes reaching their apex and power being unleashed.

It was not an elegant slash of gold. It was not searing twilight condensed in a proper shape, or even savage power turned into a swing.

Merely a torrent of crimson spawned from Gram, relentless, merciless and deadly. Light that promised no less than absolute destruction, powered by a grudge to swallow the world whole. Simple, raw energy with only the purpose of complete, utter annihilation of those in its path. It was fortunate, then, that there were so few people around here and that the place was relatively isolated—one shuddered to think what would have happened if he ever unleashed this in the center of Miyama or Shinto, or if he was just a touch less careful with aiming.

Let him witness then, if this man of God had any other miracle up his sleeve. Let him bear witness to how he dealt with this, diminished as it was, for he still faced the full wrath of the strongest demonic sword.

Let him witness, and if he possessed nothing, let him die.

Fate/Moribund Swarm

Rider, Outside the Tohsaka Manor

The force as they clashed was so thoroughly unexpected that it boggled his mind for the briefest of instants, feeling his arm clash against an unsurpassable wall—the man’s hammer. For a human to approach a Servant in Strength was baffling, for a human to match him—it flew in the face of any and all possibility to begin with. Not only that, but could he see the man—perhaps not necessarily overwhelmingly so but. . .was he just a touch faster?

Yet, at the same time, that accursed smile would not leave his face. Yes, that was it, of course. He had wished for exactly this, hadn’t he? Whether or not the enemy was a proper Servant did not matter, whether or not what was happening before his eyes was an impossibility did not matter, all that mattered was the glorious ringing of clashing steel. The hunger in his eyes became more intense, the inferno of his soul blazed with renewed strength. Surely. . .this was indeed a proof of his good fortune. His wolfish grin was firmly kept in place, and he opened his mouth to speak—

And so it happened, that Gram writhed in his grip, its curses contained, its grudge brought low, its evil repelled. The sword in his hand, which should have had all of one equal, was brought down to a level that, while still greatly superior to other blades, was nonetheless unbecoming of its status.

They were still there, whispering at the edges of his mind, but they had been subdued, as though there was a wall that separated them now, and for a single heartbeat, Sigurd’s incredulous gaze moved from his enemy’s hammer to his sword and back again.

Scratch matching him, what sort of tool did this one carry to diminish the work of the dwarf, to chain the grudge of [that thing] in such a manner? If anything, this impossibility surpassed—nay, dwarfed—the fact that the man’s strength equaled his own. And so, as a shockwave of air was released by the mere clash alone, Sigurd could not help but gape in disbelief.

And that disbelief, for an instant, gave way to a mix of respect and annoyance.

“. . .That’s my line you’re stealing, old man. This sword can be a handful, but it’s been with me through thick and thin, and you’re pulling this?” His brow furrowed, even if the smile did not vanish, as though confused about what to feel—whether anger over the state of his weapon or awe at the deed. “Tch, guess it can’t be helped. . .it really, really wants to kill you now, you know? Just a bit more than it wants to kill everything, I mean.”

The words were spoken casually—or as casually as one could under these circumstances. His crimson eyes analyzed the possible venues of action he had for the moment, and he realized that, bluntly put, it was not a time to carelessly risk either his body or his sword with a clash. Too little information to act upon, a whole lot of guesses that could be right or wrong and the chips he was betting were his life, carelessly tossed upon the table even though a single misstep would mean further peril to his weapon or worse. At the very least, he supposed he should be thankful to both Weyland and Regin—he did not want to know what would have happened if Gram’s quality was even a touch less outstanding.

Well, at least whatever had happened during the clash had apparently. . .hurt. . .the hammer, so he would count that as a minute win. Now, where was he? Oh, right, getting out of this mess alive and whole.

. . .Tricky, really. Both in range of each other, he could discern the man using the leftover momentum to prepare to strike once again. Thus, there were two venues—try to get even closer, try get out and attempt something else. Now, how should he go about this. . .

There were no words exchanged—just as the old man prepared his own attack, so too did he move again. However, this time, he had no intention of using his sword.

Perhaps that would be a strange statement to be spoken aloud, seeing as the blade had traveled to his right following the initial clash, as though he was about to make a follow up swing himself, but what happened was different.

Rather than a swing, he twirled the handle in his hand—as though the instrument was as light as a feather to him—and, at the same time, stabbed down towards the ground, burying part of Gram’s blade within. His objective was simple—once that was done, he needed only to use it as leverage and make the best out of the remaining momentum, allowing him a jump that should place him far enough away to reconsider how to engage. Fast as the enemy was, if he managed to pull himself up enough, he could perhaps use the enemy’s momentum against him—it should be difficult enough to stop or correct a strike from such a weapon once one has committed to it, and while it is certainly true that any Servant worth their salt should be able to subvert the normal rules, perhaps the suddenness would catch the man off-guard.

True, the chance of getting caught by the hammer was still there, but since they moved in the same direction and at that speed, perhaps that would soften the blow—though, considering how the man had recognized his nature and the way he had spoken about it moments earlier had most likely incentivized his decision to not trust absolutely in his ability. He could not be sure what would the weapon do against him if he was struck instead of Gram, but the thought that he would manage to avoid taking a single scratch throughout the entire fight was foolishness at best, and so, he would just need to do his best and deal with whatever came his way.

However, that did not mean he could let challenges go unanswered and be the only one losing something in the exchange—so if it just so happened that he chose to launch a kick towards the enemy’s face mid-jump, all the better. Whoever said he just had to use his sword, anyway?

@Over Illusion

---

Janika Edelfelt, Miyama Riverside

The evening glow framed a halo around her white hair, blue eyes reflecting the sky and dress fluttering gently in the breeze making her look the picture of an ideal lady.

Which is why the scowl on her face was all the more outstandingly, absurdly jarring, why the coldness in her eyes had made people get out of her way ever since she had left the church and that utterly damnable man and made her way here.

Just thinking about it made her crease her brow further. The ruffian’s nerve had been beyond question—not a single word of thanks, no appreciation, even if she had come specifically to help him, hurried by the urgency in her call and the simple desire to act like her station demanded. The fact that his critique was not without basis only annoyed her further, and so, she had spent the majority of her day looking like she was on a warpath.

Pausing to shoot a glance at the river, she tried to get her emotions under control—no, she most definitely could not go to the church right now and suplex the man. It would just not do. Count to ten, breathe in, count to ten again, let go. Attempting to use the image of the river—itself dyed by the gentle setting sun, reflecting its rays—to further calm herself, she found her attempts somewhat successful, though the sourness of her mouth did not just disappear. At least she doubted the day could get any worse.

As it turns out, when she answered the desperate calling of Emmerich, she had to wonder in the back of her mind if the world just had it out for them today. At first, her face showed absolutely no reaction—a finely crafted mask of marble and steel, but her eyes told a different story, as did her body. Dilated pupils, irregular breathing—almost as though she was on the verge of hyperventilating. Leaning against the wall around a nearby house’s garden, she felt her step lose its characteristic sureness and her mouth dry.

“Saber. Go,” They were the first words that left her mouth, and the sense of urgency could not be faked—not to this level. What had been said shook her to the core, and this would perhaps be the first time the terror she felt was so apparent. “Move now. Don’t worry about me, don’t think about it, just hurry it up to where those two are without a second’s delay. I should be fine, considering your ability, and I will go to rendezvous with my sister post-haste just in case, but if what Emmerich said is true, then they are probably in need of more help than Brauer ever was. Rider seemed exactly the sort of idiot to try and meet the problem head on alone, but this is way too risky. Run, fly, do whatever you want but get there as soon as you are able.”

The Burial Agency. Just thinking about it made her heartbeat quicken, and she gulped. Why here and now, of all possible times? Certainly, challenging the Church’s authority so early on must have been jarring, but why would they send someone like that even in these circumstances, why would they care about this backwater in the middle of nowhere enough to send someone like that so soon?

It made no sense, but perhaps, it just did not have to. Did the why really matter when one of those monsters got involved, in the end? No, no. At this point, searching for the root of the problem was far less important than just dealing with it.

“. . .One more thing. Do not die.”

@Yukitamas

Fate/Moribund Swarm

At least I promise to try and make it look cool.

Fate/Moribund Swarm

Rider, Outside Tohsaka Manor

Ah, well, it seemed that communications had certainly taken a turn for the worst, broken down so thoroughly that one could not help but marvel at it. And marvel he did, staring at the man for an instant that stretched into eternity.

The moment his offer for a drink was denied, however, he chose to shrug minutely and brought the bottle up to his own lips, drinking the remaining content with a seemingly unflappable expression. When there was simply no more, he lowered it, and a wolfish smile had set itself upon his features. He stepped in front of his contractor, body providing a shield, and his hand sneaked towards the handle that poked from out of his back.

“Hey, Master,” He called out, the trepidation in his voice easy to hear and recognize as he matched glares with Gavel, his crimson eyes no longer sparking—they definitely burned, like raging fires, a symbol of his state at the moment. He started to crouch into a stance, grin stretching and stretching and showing many more teeth besides. “I’d recommend stepping out of the line of fire for now. . .can’t reason with this one, and I don’t think any normal Magus would have fun against him, you know?

. . .Well, perhaps I also say this because I want to fight him myself, but this works pretty well overall. Yeah, I’m feeling it, I'm feeling it alright. I guess this is my lucky star shining through.” He laughed, though his words hardly invalidated his earlier point—fighting against this man was likely to be suicide for any magus in their faction to begin with. He, however, was cut from a far different cloth.

He’d have to reevaluate his strategy—he could not rely on his invincible skin as much as usual due to the cost it would mean for his Master, so that meant he would have to make efforts to dodge instead of blindly charging away and letting things sort themselves out—perhaps that was a boon, considering how boring it made fights at times.

And that made things all the more exhilarating, didn’t it? His heart beat with elation and he retrieved his chosen tool of murder, the gargantuan blade catching the gleams of the setting sun. The same putrid air gathered throughout it, runes ignited a cruel crimson that almost matched the shade of his eyes, and Sigurd brought the mind-boggling weapon to match against the hammer. The simple feeling one could get from just a look—it was sickening, now that he had let loose what laid within. It was terrifying, now that the grudges started to gather along the edge, and even if he had not called out its True Name, there could be no doubts about its own standing.

Noble Phantasms could also be ranked in a hierarchy, and what Sigurd held in his hand certainly was not some two-bit, trifling weapon like the sword that had been carried by a certain warrior-queen. No, this was certainly among the finest blades of the mythical era, a weapon crafted and remade for the sole purpose of standing at the top, as a pinnacle. If that legendary King of Knights could boast of carrying ‘the Strongest Holy Sword’ then Sigurd could certainly boast of being the wielder of ‘the Strongest Demonic Sword’.

Matching the other man’s stare with his own, he spoke—perhaps a tad too casually, considering the situation. “Honestly, refusing the drink was a bit rude, you know? There’s a time for everything, and drinking with someone and killing them are not mutually exclusive, you just do them in a certain order. . .don’t you think you move a little too fast?” He chuckled, but the humor did not reach that bloodthirsty gaze. So what if he was hypocritical? He had been longing for this for a while now, after all!

Ah, he could make as many excuses as he wanted, he could converse and pretend that he was not such a single-minded individual as much as he wanted, but if there was anything that he could not avoid, it was showing that ‘side’ when his battle lust was roused. “I’ve been restless for a while now, too, so if you don’t mind, I’m also going to take this opportunity to have some fun.”

Had his desire not been to cross blades with the heroes that would be called forth to this war for the Holy Grail? The man before him was no Servant, but his posture was unmistakable, and the air about him impossible to miss. Whether spirit or flesh, it mattered little—all he could care about now was to finally enjoy himself. His low chuckles reverberated around them and he threw the bottle away. His eyes seemed to flash for the briefest instant, the color of molten gold replacing the crimson before vanishing—perhaps a trick of the light, or something else?

“Let’s have a good fight, Mister Gavel. If you need to address me as something, I guess Rider will do. . .well, my mount is not around to prove it, so you’ll have to take my word for it. I’d rather not bring it out so early in the dance, you see.”

And, just like that, he charged. Pavement broke underneath his footfalls, and the mere swing of a blade unleashed a raging gale. To fight as a Servant meant to defy common sense, and even if he had been diminished, even if he was now just one step slower, he was confident to say that his strength was still as it should.

And Sigurd certainly possessed much strength to bring about.

The strategy would then be to first test how Gavel’s specs compared to his own. While he certainly possessed the aura, there were differences between each Servant, and so, the best way to assess the man was to strike hard, fast and see how he answered. His hammer could prove to be the most troublesome thing, but perhaps that could be mitigated if he got close enough to deny him effective use. . .but then again, considering the prana that emanated from it, the way it had been wrought—as well as the fact that, if this man was truly past that threshold, he would certainly be able to subvert the ‘rules’—Sigurd had to be ready for anything to happen.

He could not wait to see what fate had in store, really. This was just the sort of man he was.

Ah, surely, this was no less than excellent fortune.

@Over Illusion @Angry Hungarian

Fate/Moribund Swarm

Rider, Outside the Tohsaka Manor

Certainly, the evening was shaping up to be fun. Taking advantage of the reduced amount of potential witnesses, Sigurd had elected to phase into physical form as soon as they were near their objective—which was certainly risky, but nonetheless, feeling the fresh breeze instead of the stale air of the hotel room was certainly a welcome change of pace. His footsteps were heavy, certainly, but not nearly as much as one would suspect a man of such size that carried his weapon guilty of, and he cradled in his hand one of the various bottles his Master had brought along for the trip. Already down to half—though that meant there was still a good half a liter within—the Servant took another swing, savoring it.

At the very least, it was not some terrible brew like what the man had told him was created in this country in an attempt similar to someone trying to weave a horror story. Chuckling lightly at the memory, he filed it away for later—now it was time for a different kind of amusement.

And what fun he would have, indeed, with whatever it was that lied within the Manor. His lips upturned into a grin that showed far too many teeth, and red his eyes seemingly sparked on their own, like flickering flames, as he could not help but notice the sword at his back was getting heavier and heavier at just that single thought. It was harder and harder to contain that joy—who knew, perhaps a fight with whatever it was the Master had summoned would prove itself to be what he needed to shake off that annoying feeling that had been plaguing him through this second chance so far, preferably for good.

However, it seemed that he was going to take longer than he should have, courtesy of a third guest planting himself in the middle of the little gathering beyond his Master and he. Taking in the looks of the man—certainly old, although it felt hypocritical of him to say that—he certainly did not much look the part of threatening, but appearances could deceive. He wondered how to approach this, but his Master was so kind as to blatantly walk up to him and start demanding papers for some reason or another.

Certainly, by the looks of things—two Europeans meeting in a Japanese town, one of them looking like he was ready for war and yelling at the other in German—it was already shaping up to seem like a comedy skit, and it wasn’t like he had to kill ‘Tony’, as he had introduced himself—since his Master so brazenly revealed himself, he guessed that he was not some civilian the soldier could shoo away with just one spell or other.

Walking up to the pair of them, bottle in hand, he stood beside his Master, ready for whatever it was the other man would say in response to seeing his appearance as of now. For whatever reason, however, he had not been expecting him to suddenly focus so keenly that Sigurd felt, for a single instant, like his soul was being stared at, so penetrating was that glare. Shrugging the feeling off but determining this was certainly no simple man, he matched the stare with his own.

“Demon, you say?” His voice came out light and jovial, much like always, almost as if offending him was an impossibility, and he brought a hand up to his face to sniff—as though taking the words with humor. The change in the old man’s demeanor was certainly something else, but the fact of the matter was that it’d take yet more than that to make a fool like this one drop the amicable façade, but he nonetheless stepped a touch closer to his Master just in case their new acquaintance tried something. “Well, I’ve been called one, but never really got told I smelled like one. . .and I’m not really sure whether the definitions we’re using are the same, either.” He certainly seemed carefree enough still, however, to jest at a time like this, but his head soon turned towards the Manor, his eyes narrowed a touch and the smile on his face diminished somewhat.

Turning his head back to meet the man’s gaze again, his next words sounded regretful. “Not to offend or anything, though, but we kind of have a prior engagement, and it might take a bit to sort it out,” He said, chancing a look at the bottle in his hand and then holding it out for the other man to take. “If you choose to stay, though, I’m pretty sure we can give you directions afterwards.”

Well, at least he would try. He had little clue what his Master would do with the man if he caught him again after they were done with. . .what was it he had heard the term was. . .house-warming party? Sounded pretty good, so it was probably that. Speaking of. . .

“Hey, Master, are we going to get on with it? If we’re going to do it, might as well hurry it up, unless you want to deal with possible friends they’ve called up or losing whoever is in there for now.”

The only situation where he’d find that last one acceptable was the scenario in which whoever greeted them was of the ‘stick-in-the-mud’ type. He certainly had had enough of dealing with those for a lifetime, and he did not wish for that to extend into the second, however short-lived it might be.

@Over Illusion @Angry Hungarian

Fate/Moribund Swarm

I'll admit to that having caught me by surprise. That said, though. . .

What the fuck did you just fucking say about me, you little Hǫgni? I’ll have you know I graduated top of my class in the Regin Foster Children Program, and I’ve been involved in numerous secret raids on dragon nests, and I have over 300 confirmed berserker rages. I am trained in dragon warfare and I’m the top swordsman in the entire Norse myth. You are nothing to me but just another target. I will wipe you the fuck out with prejudice the likes of which has never been seen before on this Earth, mark my fucking words. You think you can get away with saying that shit to me over the Internet? Think again, fucker. As we speak I am contacting my secret network of Valkyries over the Backside of the World and your ass is being traced right now so you better prepare for the storm, maggot. The storm that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your life. You’re fucking dead, kid. My horse can be anywhere, anytime, and I can kill you in over seven hundred ways, and that’s just with my bare hands. Not only am I extensively trained in unarmed combat, but I have access to the entire arsenal of the SS, a guy who makes primordial soup, beamswords and dragons and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your miserable ass off the face of the continent, you little shit. If only you could have known what unholy retribution your little “clever” comment was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have held your fucking tongue. But you couldn’t, you didn’t, and now you’re paying the price, you goddamn idiot. I will shit fury all over you and you will drown in it. You’re fucking dead, kiddo.

If you want meme wars, by all means. Let's get on with it

Fate/Moribund Swarm

Rider, Miyama Hotel

A noncommittal noise originated from the back of the Servant’s throat as he peeked through the curtains, crimson eyes looking down at the people carrying out their lives below. This was certainly livelier than the fields and, even if he still found himself restless, at least he could somewhat remedy it, pacing about the room in physical form while it was only himself and his Master there.

His appearance alone would likely draw too many looks, ashen hair, great stature and tan skin already marking him as an oddity even if he were to bother with attire fitting to the times, so it was better if they simply did not bother and he stuck to remaining non-corporeal—and he endeavored to enjoy the small freedoms for as long as they lasted. Still, as much of a problem as it would be, he could not help but wonder what would happen if the current scene in the room—a man working through some paperwork while a lumbering giant, by the standards of this country anyway, paced in the background looking ready for war—were to be witnessed by any worker at the hotel that had the misfortune of opening the door without knocking first. Surreal was certainly a word to describe it.

His footsteps were heavy, though not devoid of grace, and he limited himself to listen to the curious tunes his Master seemed to be fond of while waiting for something to happen. Considering that at least one of their three allies had already made contact with the enemy, he wondered when would it be their turn, shamelessly admitting that he was someone who enjoyed trading sword swings more than he should. Speaking of. . .

His gargantuan blade was not slung across his back this time, having left it propped against the wall while he was allowed to stretch his legs. Sitting down on the edge of one of the two single beds, head supported by his right hand, he stole a glance towards the thing and realized that, even after all the years that had passed, the faint feeling of revulsion had not gone away. Smiling mirthlessly, something that did not quite reach his eyes, he wondered how his father would react if he saw what had become of his prized sword at his own child’s behest. Not that he could do much else when the only thing he had been left were the fragments, anyway.

Still. . .it was not a particularly nice sight, no matter how much power had been built through those actions.

Ah, this was bad. He had thought the ability to move and feel, interacting with the normal world, would be enough to tame his boredom, but he could only do it for so long before he fell prey to his greatest enemy once again. So.

“What’s it you’re muttering, Master?” He asked the question as he picked out some random magazine the staff had left and started to flick through the pages. “A hundred what?”

How precious little he had to do, and while the songs were not necessarily bad, he could not find it in himself to be entertained by music alone. Perhaps he simply lacked the refined tastes of others. Humming to himself, he wondered what he could do to remedy this. . .

“By the way,” A smile grew on his face as a thought appeared. “How much of whatever currency they use around here do we possess, Master? Maybe it might not be too late to try and find out what passes for ale around here.” There was nothing quite as effective to get to know each other as a good tankard accompanied by decent food, and if he could grade whatever alcohol they had around here in the interests of furthering his knowledge, all the better.

Hopefully they would at least have the strong stuff. There was nothing quite as irritating as weak swill that did not even tickle the throat.

@Angry Hungarian

Fate/Moribund Swarm

Rider, Eastern Fields

“Ah, I didn’t mean to offend you at all, sorry, sorry,” Rider’s answer was delivered with an odd mix of sheepishness and amusement, perhaps at the situation. After all, to be able to laugh at others, one should also learn to laugh at their own blunders. “It’s just, y’know, how the expression goes, and I really don’t like standing around, no offense. Perhaps if you had summoned the me of a different time, maybe it’d have been more bearable for him but. . .” His rambling, akin to a stream of consciousness, continued on for a bit before he trailed off again. Perhaps someone who was listening, rather than merely hearing, would notice his odd habit in terms of speech – one moment, the man was attempting to sound educated and dignified, whereas the next he would break the façade and slip into rougher patterns, and back again, as if he was sometimes unsure about the proper way to conduct himself.

As his Master continued his explanation, however, the Servant remained quiet, soaking in the explanation, as well as the man’s reaction to his slip. For a few seconds, he let a comfortable silence stretch between both of them before breaking it once more, talking with the same upbeat tone he had carried until then—though there was something else to it this time, a hint of the same wistfulness.

“So, you liked my tale? Well, I suppose that is also a good reason—and I think it might speak well about its continuation into modern times, honestly,” He let out a small chuckle at the thought, finding the conversation to be a rather comfortable one. “Well, do not worry, for you have summoned quite the spirit to show you those bygone heroics you spoke about, and I hope I will not disappoint.” He would admit that he was getting enthusiastic himself. Perhaps, however, he should also address some of what his Master had apparently found odd.

“That said, Master, were you honestly surprised about my outburst?” He asked. It was rather easy to tell that, had he been corporeal, he would have been smiling. “Did you perhaps think that legendary heroes and love do not mix? Considering my own tale, and those of various others, one would think you’d have been disabused of that notion long ago, if you are so fascinated by it.” The words carried no bite, merely what Sigurd considered to be a small ribbing in good fun.

Perhaps it was the relaxation, perhaps it was the boredom getting to him, perhaps he was simply one of those fellows that wore such emotions on their sleeve, he seemed rather comfortable as he addressed the man and told him about that flame in his heart.

“I think love at first sight defined it pretty well. Or maybe that was just lust at first,” He chuckled, reminiscing of a time long past, a time when things had been so easy and so clear, only for it to end so abruptly. “You could bring me a thousand women from all corners of the world, none would have been more beautiful than the one I set my eyes upon that day, and I guarantee you, none would even approach her in either prowess or fierceness. She was. . .a goddess. An ideal. Perhaps others would say I exaggerate, but. . .at the very least, that is how I saw her. And then, I got to know her.”

He lost himself in memories of happier times.

“Idyllic, really, but all good things come to an end. She warned me, I did not listen. I left on yet more adventures, arrived at that court and drank the potion, and then those moments were lost, and Gudrun became my wife,” By the looks of it, he seemed to carry no grudge towards her—if anything, he sounded exasperated with himself, rather than anyone else. “She was a fine woman, and I’m sure she could have been very happy but I. . .never really saw her that way, much to her disappointment. She was dear to me, but not like that. And then the tale continued,” The emotions carried by his words had yet to slip into anger or any other that would be expected, considering the event he was surely talking about. If anything, he seemed more resigned about it than anything. “Gunnar asked me to take his place, I agreed, and the rest is history. But you know, Master? While before I saw her I just felt that the ruse left a bad taste in my mouth and was an insult to her dignity. . .I was never so tempted to betray my Lord and the vows I had exchanged as when I saw her face for what felt like the first time.”

But he had not. He could not. And that was that—he had made his choice, and so, he had had to live with it.

“Our tale was always destined to end in tragedy, thrice-damned potion or not, I suppose,” His words now were no longer directed towards the soldier that kept him company, but perhaps they were more of a simple declaration. “A Valkyrie loving the very Hero she should carry to Valhalla? Madness. Yet, at the same time. . .even if I had died in her embrace a thousand times, I would have never considered it an unfair price for what she gave me,” It was corny, childish and altogether a foolish notion—for who would be so steadfast in their love towards their own killer, who would consider their life to be so small a price? However, apparently nobody had ever bothered to tell Sigurd that he had to adhere by the standards of common sense. “And yet, as my life was ended, I did not even know. I had forgotten, and that potion was the culprit.” And there was the anger, though perhaps the object of it was different than what some people would have guessed. He sounded enraged, certainly, but apparently that anger burned not towards those who had made him drink the potion, nor towards the woman that had killed him. But rather, towards himself.

“I could not tell her, Master. And that is the one thing I carry on my shoulders, why I wish to see her once more. To say now what I could not say before. I pride myself in not having any regrets, and surely, if it were just for my sake, I would not feel like so. . .but it is also for hers, Master. To answer her honestly like she deserves.”

He let the silence stretch on for a bit after he had spoken the last word, solemnity taking over wistfulness and washing away the anger. Perhaps there was also a touch of sorrow in his tone, but he apparently attempted to not allow it to get to him. Regardless, he was soon brought out of his musings by the news of what Brauer and his own Servant, as well as his Master’s own analysis of the situation. While he was indeed disgruntled about the fact that they would not interfere—his standard persona quickly overriding the side he had shown moments prior, as though it had been a dream—he understood his Master’s reasoning and, for better or worse, he was a loyal man, even if he disliked the orders.

“Understood,” He answered. “If we are to remain here, then, I will continue guarding while you set up the Bounded Field—might as well make this a worthwhile investment of our time if we are not joining in on the fun. Though,” Once again, judging by his tone, one could not help but feel that his expression, had he been corporeal, would have been a crooked smile. “Do not begrudge me if I kind of want someone to come crashing against us at some point, Master. I do want to stretch my legs.”

Fate/Moribund Swarm

@Yukitamas

Janika Edelfelt, Bridge

Choice. Hah, easy for the Servant to say, he did not have to carry the consequences of whatever path she took on his shoulders. But nonetheless, the lion-headed man had a fair point—whatever it was she was going to do, she had to make up her mind now.

Tapping herc fingers against the railing, she felt the urge to sigh once more. Her orders were rather explicit—take this location for the sake of their continued efforts, and she understood the reason, of course. Besides, who was to say there were no others lying in wait around Shinto, wishing for them to congregate and witness what they were capable of, if not use the chance to kill more than one of them?

Yet, at the same time. . .

She trusted—wholeheartedly believed—that her sister would be able to handle herself. She was always the better of the two when it came to this sort of thing, and Janika could admit that much, but at the same time, the risk of the enemy Master and Servant getting away with whatever they did to Brauer and Archer was not so low that she felt as confident as she could have been.

That was the thing, precisely, wasn’t it? Attempting to take all the locations as quickly as possible was a fine opener, but it also left them somewhat isolated from one another. For Brauer and Archer, this meant greater trouble—if the enemy was canny or simply powerful enough, they would be able to crush the pair before Frederica had reached them, and that would leave them down to six versus eight. Not odds she fancied, especially considering the lack of knowledge on those eight. Yet, what could she do? Foolish though it might have been, Frederica was closer than she, and if her sister did not make it in time, what chances had Janika to accomplish anything?

She should just stay put and carry out her orders. That is what the rational part of her mind told her.

And yet. . .

She did not have any particular ties towards either Brauer or Archer. She had not much in common with any of them, nor were they people she necessarily liked or even respected beyond what she afforded as their current status of colleagues required. However, just because she did not like them, that was no reason to sit by and do nothing while they were in trouble, and just because she was better than them, it did not mean she was free to not care if they were slaughtered. She would lose no sleep over their deaths, but there were certain things she had to take into account in this situation.

Noblesse oblige, as it were. She, who had greater power and status, also had greater responsibilities thrust upon her shoulders. To leave their allies to potential demise and to leave their would-be-killers free to escape would be a stain upon her own reputation and the Edelfelt name as a whole. She could not—would not—allow for such things, and so, for the second time, her features hardened and her eyes gleamed.

“Saber,” Her voice was cold and clipped, a hint of decisiveness breaking through. Janika was gone, Lady Edelfelt took the reins. “Carry me to the church grounds, as swiftly as you are able without breaking my neck in the process. This bridge—this entire side—can be taken later, when we are sure no allies will be lost this embarrassingly early.”

And it would be so dreadfully embarrassing. At least it could be washed away somewhat if Brauer took the enemy with him, but as things stood. . .

No matter, fixating on that was not important. What mattered was taking action.

“Do make sure to be careful with our approach,” She said as she came to stand by her Servant, facing in the direction of the church. “There is a nonzero chance they will attempt to make their getaway via the shortest paths straight towards the river, considering my sister will be approaching them from Shinto. Even if we cannot discern the Servant him or herself, if two Masters pass by close enough. . .” She traced the Command Seals on the back of her left hand, hidden by her glove. “Well, suffice to say, we will know, and that might make things all the easier.”

Nothing else needed to be said.

---

@Angry Hungarian

Rider, Eastern Fields

“You might feel me, Master, but I can’t really say that makes me feel much better,” The spirit sighed. Perhaps he should have been more careful with his words, but now that his Master had engaged him in conversation, his nature reared to a head. “Misery might love company, but I’m not infatuated with misery.”

Standing guard around the car, he could practically feel the dullness of the situation attempt to shatter his mind, but he did try to endure. At the very least, he now had someone to actually talk to, and his Master was an agreeable enough man, even if he did not particularly seem to share in his interests. He dearly did wish to become corporeal, if only for a scant few instants, in order to actually stretch his legs, feel the crisp air on his skin and the blades of grass bend underfoot, but for now, he would stay like this. Throwing some sideways glances towards the people walking about the place—few as they were—he realized it would not be wise for a man that looked straight out of raiding a museum exposition to suddenly materialize from nothingness. He had toyed with the idea that maybe one of them would also be a Master, but at this distance and considering his own’s lack of care, he knew it to be an empty hope.

He had also toyed with the idea that, perhaps, if the Lancer was still unknown, he could. . .

“Do you think a small wish would become true if you believe in them hard enough?” The question was posed so softly it was almost boggling to think that it came from the same man. Oh, how he wished to meet her again, to make that declaration once more and, if nothing else, even if she killed him again in the end, it would make any pains worth it. But then he shook his head. “Ah, never mind. My luck’s never been that good, anyway, and the odds are, what, a million to one?”

For a second, it seemed as though he had forgotten about his Master, tone wistful, speaking as though he was the only one there. For a second, his Master was privy to a side of Rider few had ever seen. But it only lasted that much, and vanished like the morning dew. In a heartbeat, his standard persona had returned.

“Say, Master, I never did get a chance to ask, is there any particular reason you chose me?” He seemed curious as to the answer, perhaps wanting to know what had the man seen in him to grant him this second chance. “Was it just my strength and my dashing good looks or did something else also play a factor in it? Can’t say I’m the greatest expert, but I’d have though someone like you would have been fonder of a subtler sort—though maybe that’s just because I don’t yet know you very well, I suppose.”

Indeed, his Master so liked the part of the soldier he would have guessed he would have gone for a less overt and—dare he say it—less demanding Servant. He did not much care for the fact that the man had diminished his own abilities, but considering the fact that their faction seemed rather keen in attaining victory, he wondered if he shouldn’t have picked a Servant he would know for sure he would be comfortable with, or one he could utilize to the fullest extent without worries.

Oh, well, it mattered little, in the end. At the very least, it would fill up the air with some more chatter to distract him from the growing boredom—

And then he heard his Master’s mutter. Quickly growing restless, he made his way to the other side of the car, looking in the direction of the place their ally had been ordered to take.

“Are the magus and Archer in trouble?” He asked, gazing in the same direction as his Master. “If so, we could always move in to help them, I suppose—then again, considering the distance, perhaps it would be better to leave that task to our other allies. Grani is swift, but not as swift as a Servant proper in most cases, and if I were to attempt to move at full throttle. . .” He stopped rambling, but it was rather easy to understand that he felt concerned as far as his Master stood. A human body would not really be able to withstand Sigurd’s full speed, diminished though it may have been. Furthermore, it was one thing to employ it in the thick of battle, but such a sustained burst from one end of the city to another would not be good for the man even if he could handle the forces he would be subjected to, and Rider would guess his Noble Phantasm would fall to a similar pitfall, considering the circumstances.

Not for the first time, Sigurd found the fact that he was so reliant on someone so. . .fragile to be irritating. Grumbling, he resumed his position.

“I’ll keep my eyes peeled in case any of them show up around here, though I doubt it,” He said. If he was trying to conceal his disappointment over the fact that the first run-in with enemies was not his, he did a poor job of it. “If you decide to move out, just say the word.”