Ducksworth

Noble Arms: The ASEAN War - Thread Three, the Darkest Hour

Archer “Griff” Griffin

---

Griff stood a little behind Mikey, hands in his pockets, eyes flicking between the tactical map and the faces around it. Arrows crisscrossed the screen, names and call signs stacked over a coastline he didn’t recognize. The Admiral spoke in measured tones, Callie filled in details, Cristina offered logistics. The rest followed suit.

Griff tried to follow. He really did. But most of it passed through him like static. He didn’t know ship classes or how long it took to breach a carrier deck. He didn’t know the distance between a good plan and a dead one. What he knew was that when things started, people screamed. That thirty seconds in a real fight could stretch into a lifetime, or vanish before you realized you'd missed it. They were going to hit a flagship. They were going to kill someone important. And if it went wrong, it would go wrong fast. That was pretty much all that he understood.

Griff’s eyes found the edge of the map again. Just a line. One more distance he’d be asked to cross. He shifted his weight and scratched lightly at the rim of the bracer clamped to his arm. It hadn’t shifted or changed since the camp. It just sat there, silent, cold, unmoving. Again. And still, the thought crept in. What if it didn’t respond next time? What if it did, and he lost control again? He swallowed it down, just like he had everything else since the breach. Instead, he stepped forward slightly and spoke. Not loud, not challenging. Just enough to be heard.

“If we’re landing on a bridge or a top deck, it’s not going to be open space. Not really.” His tone was steady, eyes locked on the map but not really seeing it. “Fighting that close... you don’t get a second chance if you slip. Especially not with all of us packed into one spot.” He tapped the table once with his knuckle, the motion brief and rhythmic. “And what happens if Cao Bao’s not there when we land? Do we have a plan for that?”

He didn’t expect an answer. Maybe someone would have one. Maybe they wouldn’t. He was used to that part, being the one who asked questions out loud that others didn’t want to say. He drifted back a step, eyes lowering slightly, and let the conversation move on. But his gaze found Mikey’s silhouette beside him again. The faint furrow of her brow. The way she stood with her weight shifted slightly forward, alert, even when exhausted.

She hadn’t said much either, she didn’t need to. Just having her there grounded him more than he wanted to admit. He wasn’t sure what had shifted between them exactly, not after the camp, not after that night on the roof, but something had. Something small, and quiet, and certain.

He wasn’t just standing here for the mission, he was standing here because she was too, just in case she needed someone steady beside her again. Without thinking, almost unconsciously, he shifted his stance. One foot slightly forward, like hers. Shoulders square, just like hers.

Fate/Edelweiss

Thalorian Kessler

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

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

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

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

“Are you my master, mister…?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

Aureus Deus Bellator

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Potential RP Ideas

I'd be down for Island survival! Sounds like a hoot

Fate/Edelweiss

Thalorian Kessler

The night before

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

Morning – The First Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fate/Edelweiss

The Druid's Son

Thalorian Kessler

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	Basic Info Titles: The Hedgeborn (derogatory nickname among traditional magi) The Druid’s Son Gender: Male Age: 20 Alignment: Chaotic Good Affiliation: None Clock Tower Rank: None Command Spell Extending from his left shoulder down his arm, hand, and fingers. Designed like intertwining tree branches and Celtic glyphs. Color: Forest Green

Background

Thalorian was born far from the Mage’s Association, but his roots run deep within it.
His mother, Elisabeth Varnhegan, was the second-born daughter of a prestigious English mage family known for their structured ritual magic, a system optimized around Norse runes, elemental theory, and legacy.
However, the Varnhegans had once been something older. Before politics and prestige, before efficiency became dogma, they were druids. They spoke to the land in Ogham, etched glyphs into stone circles, and lived according to the rhythm of ley lines.

By Elisabeth’s time, that tradition had become little more than myth, retained in old texts but dismissed as impractical compared to modern magecraft. She learned it, memorized it, and practiced it in secret, but her true education was in dominance, control, and the rigid inheritance of magic.

Eventually, Elisabeth walked away. She abandoned her name, her Crest, and the Association entirely.
In the years that followed, she fell in love with a mundane man, a kind soul untouched by mage society. Their time together was short but deeply cherished. When he passed, Elisabeth chose to remain in the countryside, raising their son alone and far from the reach of her former life.

It was early in Thalorian’s childhood that Elisabeth noticed something strange.
Even without formal testing, she could feel it. Mana clung to him, and the forest seemed to lean toward his voice when he laughed.
Though his father had no magical aptitude, Thalorian’s prana resonated with the world around him with unusual sharpness. It was not chaotic, but deliberate and vibrant.

Elisabeth understood then that the Varnhegan blood had not faded.
Somehow, against the odds, it had crystallized within her son, a presence more focused and more refined than anything she had seen even among trained heirs.

It frightened her.
She had abandoned her family to escape that legacy, and now, unknowingly, she had passed it on in a form even they might covet if they ever learned of him.

Perhaps it was this fear, as much as love, that led her to teach him magic differently.
Not as a tool for conquest, but as a conversation with the land.
Not as an inheritance, but as a joy.

She passed down the Ogham runes she had practiced in secret, showing him how to carve them into bark, how to listen for the thrum of old ley lines beneath his feet, and how to feel the changing breath of the seasons.
Magic was not obedience or control. It was reverence. Play. Curiosity.

It was during these early years that Thalorian met Tuthail, a fox-shaped forest spirit, old enough to remember the first druids, wary of humans, and reluctant to interfere.
Drawn by Thalorian’s purity, yet cautious of Elisabeth’s bloodline, Tuthail kept his distance at first. Over time, however, the spirit grew to trust the boy and began teaching him things even Elisabeth could not: how to feel resonance beneath words, how to hear the silent songs of the land, how to exist with magic rather than over it.

In time, Thalorian’s mastery of Ogham grew far beyond his mother’s.
Where she had only fragments, he had time.
Where she had secrecy, he had freedom.

But not all things remain still forever.

In the final year before the War, Elisabeth began to wither.
There was no visible cause, no curse, no injury he could see. Only a slow, terrible fading.
Her magic dulled. Her hands shook. Her laughter grew soft and strained.

Thalorian tried everything.
He blended salves and tinctures from ancient herb lore.
He inscribed healing runes beneath her bed and lined their home with bounding circles tuned to harmony and rest.
He performed quiet rituals, trying to draw gentle ambient mana into her from the nearby leylines, not to force healing, but to harmonize her spirit and slow the decline.

Though he tried every remedy and rune he knew, her spirit seemed to slip further from the world with each passing day.

And then, one night, the Command Spell burned itself into Thalorian’s arm.

Panicked, he ran to her, and for the first time in years, saw true fear in her eyes.

It was Elisabeth who explained the truth.
She told him about the Grail War, about Servants and Masters, and about the death that inevitably followed those chosen.

She begged him not to participate.
She told him to surrender the Command Spell, to sever the bond before it could be sealed.
She warned him that staying would mean certain death.

And for a moment, he agreed.
He nearly did.

Until she weakened further, collapsing into his arms, and he heard, from broken lips, her whispered fear:
"Don’t... throw your life away..."

And for the first time, Thalorian asked what the Grail truly was.

When she told him that it could grant any wish, he realized there was still hope.

Not for power.
Not for glory.

But for her.

And so, against her will, with a heavy heart and trembling conviction, Thalorian made his choice.
He would claim the Grail.
He would save her.
Even if it cost him everything else.

Though he did not fully understand how, he felt a pull. It was subtle but persistent, a resonance through the strange sigil seared onto his arm.
At the same time, the forest itself grew restless. The leylines that had always hummed quietly now stirred with unfamiliar tension, their currents shifting unnaturally.
Tuthail, ever watchful, confirmed it with a simple warning:
"The world is calling you. It will not wait."

Both spell and spirit seemed to point toward the same place.

Toward Sion.

And so, with little more than instinct, memory, and the silent support of an ancient spirit, Thalorian set out for where the leylines churned and fate awaited him.

Personality

Thalorian is a soul shaped by stillness, by soil, by old songs carried in the bones of the land.
Gentle, curious, and instinctively kind, he believes magic is a conversation, not a command. It exists to protect, heal, and grow, not to dominate.

He distrusts cruelty and resists the idea of controlling others, even his own Servant. He prefers collaboration, trust, and respect. Yet beneath his gentleness lies a quiet strength: those who harm life or twist nature will find in him an unyielding defender.

He is slow to anger, quick to trust, and vulnerable to betrayal. His bond to people and the land runs deep, and when hurt, he withdraws like a wounded animal rather than lashing out.

Though self-taught in many ways, Thalorian is intelligent and perceptive. He views the world like a puzzle made of rhythms—people, places, energy. He is most comfortable outdoors, grounded by the feeling of soil and sun, but adapts well when challenged. Cities overwhelm him at times; he finds them “loud in all the wrong ways,” but he does not fear them.

Despite his talents, Thalorian often underestimates himself. Having never met another true magus, he has no real context for how rare or potent his magical aptitude truly is. He does not see himself as powerful, just in tune. He doubts, second-guesses, and sometimes holds back out of fear of harming someone or disrupting balance.

He is deeply sentimental. He carries his mother’s scarf in the bottom of his pack. He plants seeds in forgotten places. He speaks to birds and trees without expecting answers, simply because it feels right.

In the context of the Grail War, Thalorian is completely out of his element. The ruthlessness of other Masters may horrify him at first. The brutality of Servant battles will likely shake him. But he will adapt, not by becoming colder, but by becoming clearer. He will fight, if he must. And if he wins, it will be with conviction, cleverness, and the quiet power of someone who knows exactly what he is trying to protect.

At the start of the War, his wish is simple:
To save his mother.

Magecraft Information

Elemental Affinity

• Primary: Earth
• Secondary: Air

Origin
Growth — His magic seeks to nurture, adapt, and restore.

Number of Magic Circuits
B

Quality of Magic Circuits
A

Magecraft
Thalorian practices Ogham Runecraft, an ancient and flexible form of druidic inscription magic based around resonance with nature and ley lines.

His magic focuses on the following:

• Subtle stealth through environmental blending
• Vine and root manipulation for mobility, ensnaring, or defense
• Minor healing through harmonizing his spirit with surrounding natural mana
• Simple bounded field creation tied to living wood and trees
• Detection of nearby disturbances in ley flow
• Creation of natural sanctuaries in the forest

While Ogham is highly adaptable, Thalorian requires a natural medium for carving or inscribing his runes. His style focuses more on harmony and control rather than explosive offense.

Familiar
Name: Tuthail
Type: Ancient Forest Spirit
Form: Fox-like being, leafy green fur flowing like leaves in the wind.

Tuthail:

• Senses leyline disturbances and changes in the land
• Carves simple runes and channels Thalorian’s prana into them
• Masks Thalorian’s magical presence against detection
• Teaches fragments of ancient druidic magic (through cryptic metaphors and parables)

Tuthail sustains himself primarily through ambient natural mana, drawing on trees, plants, and rivers. In urban settings, he can feed from potted plants and scattered greenery but must also rely partially on Thalorian’s prana when nature is scarce.
Although not directly combative, Tuthail acts as a spiritual guide and mentor figure. Their bond was formed naturally through resonance rather than ritual binding.

Bounded Field Creation
Thalorian grows hidden sanctuaries from forest trees rather than building artificial workshops.

Effects of his bounded fields include:

• Concealing his presence from magical detection
• Passive health restoration over time
• Creating unease or confusion in intruders
• Amplifying leyline attunement inside the bounded area

Mystic Codes

Many Branches Bracers:
Leather bracers carved with multiple Ogham runes, allowing Thalorian to activate minor magical effects.
Grants access to runes for vine whips, root entanglements, defensive bursts, and sensory dampening.
Effects are weaker compared to fully prepared runes on stones.

Girdle of Gort (ᚌ — Ivy Rune):
A finely worked leather belt carved with the Gort rune.
Grants the ability to summon vines or roots for binding and to blend into the environment for temporary camouflage.

Boots of Luis (ᚂ — Rowan Rune):
Sturdy travel boots carved with the Luis rune.
Grants the ability to perform two midair steps before landing, aiding movement and evasion.

Cloak of Nuin (ᚅ — Ash Tree Rune):
A travel cloak etched with the Nuin rune.
Slows falls drastically and allows short gliding descents from high places.

Spirit Whistle of Saille (ᚄ — Willow Rune):
A ritual-carved bone whistle embedded with the Saille rune.
Calls nearby lesser spirits (if willing), weakens illusions within a short range, and illuminates safe paths with ethereal blue wisps.

Nonmagical Assets

• Handmade ritual kit — Including carved stones, chalk, dried herbs, and basic ritual implements
• Basic survival gear — Satchel, waterskin, dried food supplies, fire-starting tools
• Sketchbooks — Containing rune designs, leyline resonance maps, and notes on natural observations
• Tracking and foraging expertise — Highly familiar with wilderness survival and resource gathering
• Mother’s scarf — A cherished keepsake, worn or tucked safely away

Fate/Edelweiss

The Arena's Champion

Aureus Deus Bellator

---

	Titles: The Golden God Warrior, Specter of the Eternal Arena, Glory’s Final Arbiter Class: Berserker Gender: Male Era: 1st–3rd Century CE / AD Alignment: Chaotic Neutral Attribute: Man Colour: D4AF37 Strength: A Endurance: B+ Agility: C Mana: D Luck: C

---

History

Rome’s Colosseum was more than a battleground, it was a theater of war, where blood was spilled not in sorrow, but in triumph. The gladiators who fought beneath its scorching sun were more than warriors; they were living embodiments of greatness, their skill refined through pain, discipline, and sheer will.

Among them, the most legendary warriors were hailed as gods upon the sand, their victories met with deafening cheers, their movements shaping the rhythm of battle itself. Some etched their names into history, but many more transcended individual legacy, woven into the very spirit of the arena itself.

Through these men, combat became art, and through their relentless mastery, a new entity was formed. Aureus Deus Bellator is the collected triumph of Rome’s greatest fighters, not a singular soul, but the manifestation of battle perfected. He does not lament those who fell, he embodies their glory, their final strikes frozen in time, their echoes lingering across history as a spectacle that would never fade.

Summoning him is not calling forth a lone warrior, nor is it summoning a slave seeking freedom, it is invoking the theater of war itself, the Colosseum reborn through living radiance, clad in gold and wreathed in legend. Aureus does not fight for survival, he fights for the roar of the crowd, for the perfection of battle, for the eternal stage where only the worthy may stand.

Personality

Aureus Deus Bellator is the embodiment of combat as spectacle, a warrior who does not simply fight but performs, shaping each battle into a grand display of mastery. Arrogant beyond compare, he sees himself as the pinnacle of martial prowess, a force beyond human limitation, forged from the greatest warriors of Rome’s Colosseum. Every movement he makes, every strike he delivers, is done with intention, precision, and showmanship, not merely to win, but to be witnessed.

For Aureus, combat is not survival, nor duty, it is art. A duel is not a contest between two souls, but a moment in history, a scene to be perfected before an unseen audience. He believes that warriors should be measured not by strength alone, but by presence, technique, and the spectacle of their execution. If an opponent lacks these qualities, they are beneath him, undeserving of acknowledgment.

He does not obey commands; he chooses when to fight, who to fight, and how to fight. His so-called "Master" is not his ruler, nor his superior, but rather a mere spectator, fortunate enough to witness his greatness. At first, he speaks around them rather than to them, treating their presence as incidental rather than meaningful. If they wish to earn recognition, they must prove themselves, not through words, but through action.

Even as time passes, Aureus never truly accepts the modern world. The absence of Rome weighs heavily upon him, and though his initial outrage fades, his discontent lingers in sharp remarks and dismissive gestures. He does not complain outright, but his dissatisfaction is evident in the way he continually critiques his surroundings, commenting on their lack of grandeur.

Beyond his arrogance, Aureus carries a deep reverence for true warriors, those who embody combat with presence, discipline, and honor. While morality holds no meaning to him, strength in battle does, and an opponent who fights with brilliance and dignity may earn his grudging respect. However, those who rely on deception, cowardice, or dishonorable tactics are seen as stains upon the battlefield, unworthy of his time. Against such opponents, his scorn is absolute, and his refusal to acknowledge them is sharper than any blade.

His speech is layered in grandeur, often interwoven with Latin phrases, spoken as though proclaiming divine truths. His voice carries weight, commanding, theatrical, undeniably authoritative. He does not waste words on pleasantries or meaningless exchanges; each statement is crafted for impact, a declaration of his presence rather than mere conversation.

Aureus is not irrational, nor blinded by madness, his Berserker nature manifests not in frenzy, but in unshakable conviction. He is not a man, nor a servant to be controlled; he is the Colosseum reborn, the arena made flesh, the spectacle of combat given form. He does not serve. He does not bow. He is witnessed, and that alone is enough.

Class Skills

Furor Theatricus (Rank D → Conditional Rank B)

"Theatrical Fury"

Aureus's Mad Enhancement does not manifest as mindless rage, but as an unshakable compulsion to fight in a manner worthy of history. His fury is not reckless, it is measured, disciplined, and driven by the necessity of combat remaining a spectacle befitting the Colosseum’s legacy.

• Baseline Rank: D – Provides a boost to Strength and Endurance, reinforcing Aureus's ability to endure prolonged combat and strike with unwavering force.
• Conditional Rank: B – If an opponent relies on cowardly tactics, stalling, fleeing, deception, or otherwise avoiding direct engagement, Aureus's battle fervour intensifies. In this state, his mana recovery increases, and his agility is pushed to Rank B, ensuring he can close distances and dismantle evasive foes with relentless precision.
• Retains eloquence, charisma, and tactical reasoning, as his madness is conviction, not chaos.

Personal Skills

Arma Colossei (Rank B)

"Weapons of the Colosseum"

Aureus does not wield a single weapon, he commands the arsenal of the Colosseum itself. Through grand gestures and calculated movements, he summons various gladiatorial weapons mid-combat, each materializing in bursts of golden light, their arrival carefully timed to enhance the rhythm of battle.

• Weapons Summoned: Trident, net, spear, cestus (battle gloves), and other gladiatorial arms.
• Theatrical Summoning: Weapons do not appear instantly, each is summoned through deliberate action, ensuring its arrival is as much a part of combat spectacle as the fight itself.
• Combat Timing & Showmanship: Aureus’s weapons arrive exactly when needed, appearing as the final step of a motion rather than a sudden event. Every action flows seamlessly into weapon conjuration, reinforcing his battlefield dominance.
• Manifestation Principle: These weapons are not illusions, but temporary physical constructs, forged from the unseen essence of the Colosseum, enforcing his belief that true battle demands variation and spectacle.

Imperium Spectaculi (Rank B)

"Dominion of the Grand Spectacle"

Where Aureus fights, the presence of the colosseum lingers, turning any battlefield into a grand stage for combat. Even where no arena stands, combat creates one, a contest of skill, presence, and spectacle, as if unseen spectators judge their every move.

• Battlefield Reshaping: Combatants instinctively feel drawn into duels and structured engagements, compelled to fight as if the Colosseum itself demands it.
• Unseen Spectators’ Judgment: Roars, gasps, and drumbeats begin bleeding into reality. Warriors who fight with dignity and presence feel a faint surge of power, while those relying on dishonourable tactics experience subtle disruptions, an unsteady grip, faltering words, mistimed movement.
• Aureus Thrives in His Arena: The battlefield strengthens him, his strikes heavier, his movements sharper, as if his presence alone commands the flow of battle.
• Endures Until The Final Strike: So long as the battle demands his presence, Aureus refuses to fall. Even when wounded, his sheer force of will keeps him standing until the moment the duel reaches its rightful conclusion. Though he does not fight for survival, the Colosseum will not let its champion fade before his performance is complete.

Memoria Gladitoria (Composite skill - Rank A)

"Memory of the Arena's Warriors"

Aureus is not merely one fighter, he is the sum of the Colosseum’s greatest warriors, their instincts and experiences ingrained within him. The echoes of thousands of battles shape his skillset, granting him the ability to shift between the combat disciplines of Rome’s many gladiatorial traditions. Through these inherited memories, he adapts fluidly to the nature of battle, proving his supremacy in any arena.

• Unyielding spirit: The brutal realities of the Colosseum have conditioned Aureus to withstand mental warfare. Fear, coercion, and psychological manipulation falter against him, as the countless warriors within him have long since learned that hesitation leads only to death.
• Instincts of the Besriarii: The memories of beast fighters grant Aureus natural advantages when facing non-human opponents, enabling him to read their movements and react accordingly. He holds inherent knowledge of how to evade, subdue, and kill wild creatures, from roaring lions to monstrous foes beyond Rome’s walls.
• Furor Gregatarius: Trained in the brutal contests of one-versus-many combat, Aureus excels when surrounded, his movements adapting to fighting multiple opponents at once without losing efficiency. He instinctively manages angles, spacing, and engagement tempo to avoid being overwhelmed.
• Adaptive Combat Mastery: Aureus instinctively recalls the battle styles of countless gladiators, enabling him to not only fight proficiently in various disciplines, whether mounted, unarmed, or armed with improvised weapons, but also counter those who specialize in them. He can unseat riders, suppress brawlers, evade beast-like aggression, and dismantle group tactics, ensuring his dominance in any combat environment remains undisputed.

Noble Phantasms

Arena Ludorum – Ludi Aeterni

"Games of Glory – The Eternal Spectacle"

Rank: A
NP Type: Reality Marble
Range: 0~50 meters
Maximum Number of Targets: 15

For Aureus, the battlefield does not exist, only the Colosseum, roaring beyond time, demanding its warriors uphold the grand spectacle. The moment his Reality Marble manifests, the world simply steps into the truth of Aureus’s mind, a gladiator who has never known anything beyond this eternal arena.

Aureus is not an individual, he is a legion, forged from the countless warriors who bled, triumphed, and died beneath Rome’s gaze, their spirits merging into one undefeated champion. In Arena Ludorum, there is no external force, no interference, only battle, as dictated by the expectations of unseen spectators beyond time.

• Reality Marble Activation: The battlefield reshapes into a vast Colosseum, enforcing the laws of its eternal spectacle, where Aureus alone commands the combatants within it.
• Legion of One: Aureus does not summon warriors, he becomes them, ensuring every combatant in the Colosseum faces not echoes, but purely him, in different forms, all motivated by the phantom audience’s approval.
• Absolute Combat Law: Upon activation, the Colosseum restricts battlefield conditions, preventing outside intervention, external magic sources, and abilities that manipulate reality outside of direct combat. Noble Phantasms tied to raw combat remain, but those reliant on external forces falter against the Colosseum’s demand for martial prowess.
• Oppressive Atmosphere: Every strike carries weight beyond mere force. Enemies feel the unseen audience’s judgment, their movements subtly pressured by roars and drumbeats, as if every action is scrutinized in real time. To falter is to be condemned by the spectacle itself.

Excidium Gloriae – Iudicium Ultimum

"The Fall That Crowns Glory – Final Judgment"

Rank: A+
NP Type: Anti-Unit
Range: 10 meters
Maximum Number of Targets: 1

At the conclusion of a worthy duel, Aureus raises his hand, releasing his gladius into golden light. For a few seconds, it vanishes entirely, and the battlefield falls silent, the unseen audience ceases its roar, the crowds roar fades, and judgment begins.
This moment of absolute quiet lasts just long enough for the verdict to be decided, not by Aureus, but by the unseen spectators.
Then, the weapon returns, taking one of two forms:

• Gladius Divinus – A radiant blade that pierces any defense, concept, or spell, an executioner’s sword designed to sever fate itself.
• Rudis Misericordia – A simple wooden training sword, given only to magnificent opponents, symbolizing their right to leave the battlefield in honor.

Aureus himself never decides which form appears, the Colosseum itself judges, rewarding glory or delivering punishment.
Once the choice is made, Aureus will not strike again. The judgment is final.

Fate/Edelweiss

The Arena's Champion

---

	Titles: The Golden God Warrior, Specter of the Eternal Arena, Glory’s Final Arbiter Class: Berserker Gender: Male Era: 1st–3rd Century CE / AD Alignment: Chaotic Neutral Attribute: Man Colour: D4AF37 Strength: A Endurance: B+ Agility: B Mana: C Luck: C

---

History

Rome’s Colosseum was more than a battleground, it was a theater of war, where blood was spilled not in sorrow, but in triumph. The gladiators who fought beneath its scorching sun were more than warriors; they were living embodiments of greatness, their skill refined through pain, discipline, and sheer will.

Among them, the most legendary warriors were hailed as gods upon the sand, their victories met with deafening cheers, their movements shaping the rhythm of battle itself. Some etched their names into history, but many more transcended individual legacy, woven into the very spirit of the arena itself.

Through these men, combat became art, and through their relentless mastery, a new entity was formed. Aureus Deus Bellator is the collected triumph of Rome’s greatest fighters, not a singular soul, but the manifestation of battle perfected. He does not lament those who fell, he embodies their glory, their final strikes frozen in time, their echoes lingering across history as a spectacle that would never fade.

Summoning him is not calling forth a lone warrior, nor is it summoning a slave seeking freedom, it is invoking the theater of war itself, the Colosseum reborn through living radiance, clad in gold and wreathed in legend. Aureus does not fight for survival, he fights for the roar of the crowd, for the perfection of battle, for the eternal stage where only the worthy may stand.

Personality

Aureus Deus Bellator is the embodiment of combat as spectacle, a warrior who does not simply fight but performs, shaping each battle into a grand display of mastery. Arrogant beyond compare, he sees himself as the pinnacle of martial prowess, a force beyond human limitation, forged from the greatest warriors of Rome’s Colosseum. Every movement he makes, every strike he delivers, is done with intention, precision, and showmanship, not merely to win, but to be witnessed.

For Aureus, combat is not survival, nor duty, it is art. A duel is not a contest between two souls, but a moment in history, a scene to be perfected before an unseen audience. He believes that warriors should be measured not by strength alone, but by presence, technique, and the spectacle of their execution. If an opponent lacks these qualities, they are beneath him, undeserving of acknowledgment.

He does not obey commands; he chooses when to fight, who to fight, and how to fight. His so-called "Master" is not his ruler, nor his superior, but rather a mere spectator, fortunate enough to witness his greatness. At first, he speaks around them rather than to them, treating their presence as incidental rather than meaningful. If they wish to earn recognition, they must prove themselves, not through words, but through action.

Even as time passes, Aureus never truly accepts the modern world. The absence of Rome weighs heavily upon him, and though his initial outrage fades, his discontent lingers in sharp remarks and dismissive gestures. He does not complain outright, but his dissatisfaction is evident in the way he continually critiques his surroundings, commenting on their lack of grandeur.

Beyond his arrogance, Aureus carries a deep reverence for true warriors, those who embody combat with presence, discipline, and honor. While morality holds no meaning to him, strength in battle does, and an opponent who fights with brilliance and dignity may earn his grudging respect. However, those who rely on deception, cowardice, or dishonorable tactics are seen as stains upon the battlefield, unworthy of his time. Against such opponents, his scorn is absolute, and his refusal to acknowledge them is sharper than any blade.

His speech is layered in grandeur, often interwoven with Latin phrases, spoken as though proclaiming divine truths. His voice carries weight, commanding, theatrical, undeniably authoritative. He does not waste words on pleasantries or meaningless exchanges; each statement is crafted for impact, a declaration of his presence rather than mere conversation.

Aureus is not irrational, nor blinded by madness, his Berserker nature manifests not in frenzy, but in unshakable conviction. He is not a man, nor a servant to be controlled; he is the Colosseum reborn, the arena made flesh, the spectacle of combat given form. He does not serve. He does not bow. He is witnessed, and that alone is enough.

Class Skills

Contemptus Arcanum (Rank C)

"Contempt for the Arcane"
Aureus does not recognize magic as a true force in battle, to him, it is a coward's tool, a feeble attempt to substitute mastery of the blade with deception. He refuses to acknowledge spells as legitimate threats, often attempting to shrug off magecraft simply by rejecting its significance rather than through innate magical resistance.

• He negates weaker magical effects, dismissing them as beneath him.
• Higher-tier magecraft still affects him, but his sheer force of will may allow him to fight through certain effects that would hinder others.
• The presence of magic-based opponents actively fuels his Berserker rage, if an enemy relies heavily on spells or ranged attacks, Aureus grows more furious, his conviction elevating his raw combat strength.

Furor Theatricus (Rank C → Conditional Rank B)

"Theatrical Fury"
Unlike typical Berserkers, Aureus’s Mad Enhancement does not manifest as mindless rage, but rather as theatrical obsession and unshakable conviction in combat. However, the presence of magic-users shifts this dynamic, causing his fury to escalate in response to their cowardice.

• Baseline Rank: C – Provides a slight increase to Strength and Endurance, reinforcing his unyielding battle presence.
• Conditional Rank: B – If facing opponents who rely heavily on magic and ranged combat, his Berserker state intensifies, pushing his physical prowess beyond its typical limits.
• Immune to fear, psychological interference, and commands that contradict his battle philosophy.
• Retains eloquence, charisma, and tactical reasoning, as his madness is conviction, not chaos.

Personal Skills

Arma Colossei (Rank B)

"Weapons of the Colosseum"
Aureus does not wield a single weapon—he commands the arsenal of the Colosseum itself. Through grand gestures and calculated movements, he summons various gladiatorial weapons mid-combat, each materializing in bursts of golden light, their arrival carefully timed to enhance the rhythm of battle.

• Weapons Summoned: Trident, net, spear, cestus (battle gloves), and other gladiatorial arms.
• Theatrical Summoning: Weapons do not appear instantly—each is summoned through deliberate action, ensuring its arrival is as much a part of combat spectacle as the fight itself.
• Combat Timing & Showmanship: Aureus’s weapons arrive exactly when needed, appearing as the final step of a motion rather than a sudden event. Every action flows seamlessly into weapon conjuration, reinforcing his battlefield dominance.
• Manifestation Principle: These weapons are not illusions, but temporary physical constructs, forged from the unseen essence of the Colosseum, enforcing his belief that true battle demands variation and spectacle.

Continuatio Proelii (Rank A)

“Battle Continuation”
Aureus does not fall easily, so long as the performance must go on, he endures.

• May resist death long enough for a final strike, last words, or sheer defiance.
• Even when mortally wounded, his sheer willpower and refusal to fade into obscurity allow him to linger on the battlefield, ensuring his final moment is worthy of his legend.
• He does not fight purely for survival, but for spectacle, meaning even his endurance reflects his need for battle to remain glorious.

Imperium Colossei (Rank B)

“Dominion of the Colosseum”
Aureus does not simply fight within an arena, he embodies it, commands it, and reshapes it in his image. Even in battlefields that do not resemble the Colosseum, his presence alone alters the flow of combat, imposing an arena-like structure upon the fight.

• Enemies find themselves instinctively constrained, forced into engagements that feel eerily like formal duels or grand spectacles.
• Opponents who rely on chaotic, dishonorable, or deceptive tactics experience slight disruptions in their flow, as if the battlefield itself rejects their methods.
• Those who fight with discipline, dignity, and theatrical prowess may feel a faint surge of empowerment, recognized as worthy combatants.
• Aureus himself thrives in this structured battle environment, his movements sharper, his strikes heavier, as if the arena itself strengthens him.

Ovatio Spectaculi (Rank B+)

"Ovation of the Spectacle"
Aureus does not fight alone, though unseen, the spirits of the Colosseum roar in approval, unseen spectators watching from beyond time itself. Their presence influences battle, reacting to combatants based on their dignity and conduct within the fight.

• Auditory Phenomenon: As Aureus grows invested in battle, cheering, drum beats, and gasps begin bleeding into reality. The sounds cannot be traced, but they intensify as combat becomes grander, more dramatic, and more honorable.
• Empowerment for Worthy Warriors: Fighters who engage with discipline, strength, and presence feel a slight surge in power, as though the arena itself recognizes them as combatants worthy of history.
• Rejection of Dishonorable Combatants: Those who rely on cowardice, deception, or humiliation face subtle battlefield disruptions, mistimed movements, uneasy footing, or hesitations that create openings. Noble Phantasms and dishonorable abilities may even misfire beneath Aureus’s glare.
• Aureus is affected more profoundly than others, where others might hear only faint echoes, he experiences the full weight of the ovation, feeding his power and reinforcing his dominance. The unseen crowd is not just watching him, they are judging him, exalting him, demanding his victory, amplifying his presence beyond normal limits.

Noble Phantasms

Arena Ludorum – Ludi Aeterni

"Games of Glory – The Eternal Spectacle"
Rank: A
NP Type: Reality Marble
Range: 0~50 meters
Maximum Number of Targets: 15

Aureus expands the battlefield into a grand Colosseum, its golden sands shifting beneath his feet. However, the true manifestation of this Noble Phantasm is himself, dividing into multiple warriors, each an extension of his will, his style, his strength, each wielding different weapons, perfectly synchronized to the rhythm of the unseen audience.

• Reality Marble Activation: The Colosseum erupts into existence, shaping the battlefield into a vast arena where Aureus commands all within it.
• Legion of One: Aureus does not summon warriors, he becomes them, ensuring every combatant in the Colosseum faces not echoes, but purely him, in different forms, all motivated by the phantom audience’s approval.
• Absolute Combat Law: Upon activation, all active magic, abilities, and Noble Phantasms are canceled. Spells unravel, enchantments cease, and supernatural advantages vanish, forcing every combatant into pure combat. No external forces can reassert themselves while the arena remains active.
• Oppressive Atmosphere: Enemies feel the weight of judgment, their movements subtly pressured by the roar of the phantom audience, as if they are being evaluated with every strike.

Excidium Gloriae – Iudicium Ultimum

"The Fall That Crowns Glory – Final Judgment"
Rank: A+
NP Type: Anti-Unit
Range: 10 meters
Maximum Number of Targets: 1

At the climax of a worthy duel, Aureus raises his hand, releasing his gladius into golden light. For a few seconds, it vanishes entirely, and the battlefield falls silent, the unseen audience ceases its roar, Ovatio Spectaculi fades, and judgment begins.
This moment of absolute quiet lasts just long enough for the verdict to be decided, not by Aureus, but by the unseen spectators.
Then, the weapon returns, taking one of two forms:

• Gladius Divinus – A radiant blade that pierces any defense, concept, or spell, an executioner’s sword designed to sever fate itself.
• Rudis Misericordia – A simple wooden training sword, given only to magnificent opponents, symbolizing their right to leave the battlefield in honor.

Aureus himself never decides which form appears, the Colosseum itself judges, rewarding glory or delivering punishment.
Once the choice is made, Aureus will not strike again. The judgment is final.

Fate/Edelweiss

@eugalB This is eerily similar to the idea I am just about to post!

'Floating' (Star Wars 2 BBY)

Jet hauled the heavy crate up behind him, the muscles in his arm straining under its weight. His grip was firm but trembling, every sinew in his body screaming at him to stop. He kept his stance wide and low, grounding himself to maintain balance as the crate threatened to topple. The exertion was beginning to wear him down, his reservoir of strength dwindling like sand slipping through an hourglass. He had abandoned his jacket earlier in the slog; it now lay crumpled over the edge of the crate. Beads of sweat glistened on his skin, catching the dim light like morning dew shimmering on blades of grass. The sweat had seeped through his battered top, forming dark, uneven patches that clung to his body.

He paused briefly, gasping for air as he raised the ramp, the sound of the hydraulics echoing in the bay. The final piece of gear was loaded. Relief flickered across his face, but it was short-lived. Jet turned to the others who were beginning to trickle into the bay. "That's the last of it," he announced, his voice hoarse and edged with fatigue. He let the cable of the crate slip from his hand, guiding it carefully onto the bay floor before stepping back. With a weary swipe of his forearm, he cleared the sweat dripping into his eyes.

"It's gunna take a bit to get these injectors installed," he muttered, nudging them with the toe of his boot as if sizing them up. "But first, I need to patch up that arm." He inhaled sharply, leaning against the workbench for support, nodding gently to it. "And," he added after a pause, his voice quieter now, almost to himself, "a spot of rest wouldn't go amiss, neither."

Fel was inscrutable as he helped set down the last bit of gear, not far from Jet. He was oddly angry at the mechanic, as if his injuries were in any way his own fault. (they weren’t, and Fel knew it…) He also understood how ridiculous his feelings were at that moment, but feelings and logic were seldom good bedfellows. He wanted to punch Jet in the shoulder, hard, and tell him if he had got himself killed out there, Fel would kill him! …but that was stupid, and even he was aware that it would do no good. Still, he was concerned for his friend, and stepped close to him, resting a hand on his shoulder and speaking low, quiet enough that it would be difficult to hear. “I can’t help you keep your word, if you go getting yourself killed on some rock. What the hell would Nova say? …go, get some rack. You need it. The engines will wait.” He spoke not from a perspective of actual mechanical knowledge, but as a pilot, who knew his ship as much by feel and sound, as by torque wrench and diagnostic – an esoteric connection that had served him well over the years. Now, his assertions about the condition of the UA had been met with raised eyebrows from Jet many times before. The same could be true now. But if Jet had rolled an insight check, he’d see that Fel was telling the truth. At least, the pilot fully believed what he had said. “You know you’ll do better work once you’ve had some rest, and with both arms, dammit. I need to talk to the crew, but what I have to say can wait till you’re upright, without fear of keeling over. You did good, partner. Real good. But you’re more important than any karking injectors.”

Jet opened his mouth to reply, but the words caught in his throat like gravel. His jaw tensed as silence filled the space where a response should have been. Nothing came out. He shut his mouth with a quiet exhale, the breath slipping past clenched teeth. Kark it all to hell. Fel was right, and the truth of it settled like a stone in his chest.

Nova’s name hit him low, twisting his gut without warning. If he had died here, alone and broken in the dirt... he shut the thought out before it could dig in. That road didn’t lead anywhere good.

And if she saw him like this? She’d come at him, flailing and furious, fire and panic spilling out in every direction. It wouldn’t be about the wounds or the blood or the close call, it would be about what he had nearly left behind. Fel would be standing beside her, arms crossed, saying nothing. He wouldn’t need to. That look of his would be enough to bury Jet in guilt deeper than any grave.

The two of them could make his life hell. Loud, relentless, impossible to ignore. But through all the noise and frustration, there was something steady in it. Something that held him up even when he tried to fall. Hell, maybe that was what home looked like for him. Maybe that was the point.

He gave a slow nod, shoulders heavy beneath the weight of everything left unsaid. “Yeah.” His voice barely made it out. “It can wait.”

He stood there beside the workbench a moment longer, shoulders hunched, sweat drying on his neck. His breathing had slowed, but only just. His prosthetic was gone, and the weight of that absence tugged harder than it should now. Fel’s words still echoed behind him, quiet but solid, the kind that didn’t need repeating.

As he passed Fel, he reached out and let his hand land on the pilot’s shoulder. Not a pat. Not a clap. Just firm enough to be felt, just long enough to say what needed saying. ‘Thanks. I hear you. You were right.’ He didn’t trust himself to put it into words, not with the burn in his throat and the ache behind his eyes. He gave the faintest nod as he moved past, then he left the hangar.

The jacket slung over his shoulder now felt like a wet tarp, every step down the corridor pulling harder at his bones. His boots thudded against the steel floor, rhythm slow and uneven. He didn’t limp, not exactly, but his body moved like a machine that had skipped too many maintenance cycles. Every joint felt like it needed oil. Every muscle told a story he didn’t want to hear. He had forgotten, for a little while, how old he really was. Fifty-four wasn’t ancient, not by spacer standards, but he used to feel younger. Moved younger. Thought younger. Today? Today had reminded him.

The corridor lights buzzed overhead, flickering in time with his steps. He didn’t bother going to the medbay. Not yet, That could wait. Everything could wait. He reached his quarters, the door slid open with a soft hiss. Inside, everything was still and quiet, the familiar room greeted him without judgment. He let the jacket fall where he stood, then toed off his boots, one at a time. Each motion sent a fresh jolt through his ribs, but he was beyond wincing.

He sat on the edge of the cot, the frame creaking in protest, then let gravity pull him the rest of the way down. His body settled into the thin mattress like it had found something close to peace. He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, watching nothing, and then he closed his eyes. The ship kept humming outside his door, the noise distant and soft, and Jet finally let it go.

Fate/Edelweiss: A Holy Grail War in Switzerland

Also interested if you still have space! I'm already thinking up Master and Slave ideas