As Thomas watched the abrupt end to the meeting, his own arrival going more or less unnoticed by those gathered, he couldn’t help but note that the dynamics that were at play in this group were… interesting, to say the least. A motlier assortment of mages could hardly be imagined, which begged the question of why the director had chosen to recruit this particular group to combat the Grey’s as opposed to simply forming the Black Faction using like-minded and trustworthy magus from within the Clocktower.
Perhaps Orson was the type to value individual strength over team cohesion, and though their particular talents were worth the potential issues that might come from infighting or disagreements between them. Or maybe he had other motives in mind. The presence of back-up Masters at this summoning, not to mention the fact Orson apparently had at least one catalyst on stand-by, did nothing to assuage Thomas’ suspicions; they only proved that the Director would be more than capable of replacing them if need be.
Thomas nodded in greeting to both the young student and the American casino owner as they were introduced, reaching up to adjust his glasses as he examined both of them in turn. Back-up Masters, prepared in case one of them should have failed to arrive, refused the invitation or should one of them, per chance, expire before this war was over?
How interesting.
Walking over to one of the pre-prepared summoning circles Thomas examined the ritual diagram laid out before him; not how he would have drawn it, not the medium he would have used, but unlike the mathematician of the artist he was not overly concerned with such details. “It’ll suffice.”
Placing his heavy carrying case on the ground, laying it flat, the Magus undid the clasps and opened the lid. The inside was lined with red fabric, most of the interior filled in so that the object inside wouldn’t jostle as he carried it, not that he would be able to damage the thing in any way if it did. Reaching inside the case Thomas pulled out a heavy oaken club, clearly quite old, six feet in length, banded with iron and bearing the scars of battle; notches and grooves lined its length, where it had clashed with swords and axes and other weapons and won, dark stains covering most of it where blood had soaked the weapon and not been wiped clean afterwards, the hue of the wood changing over time.
“Twelve hundred years old and still on one piece... whether or not this is the genuine article remains to be seen. If it is, then I’ll have Zealand’s mightiest King on my side.”
The club was placed in the centre of the circle, or as much in the centre as it could be when it was nearly wider than the diagram itself. Stepping back, Thomas cleared his throat and began to intone the words of the summoning ritual.
Let silver and fury be the essence.
Let stone, and the archduke of contracts be the foundation.
Let black be the colour I hold the standard for.
Let rise a wall against the wind that shall fall.
Let the four cardinal gates close.
Let the three-forked road from the crown reaching unto the Kingdom of heaven itself rotate.
Let it be filled. Again. Again. Again. Again.
Let it be filled fivefold for every turn, simply breaking asunder with every filling.
Let it be declared now;
Your flesh shall serve under me, and my fate shall be with your might.
Answer, if you would submit to this will and this truth.
Wind howled within the confined space of the hall, centred around the glowing lines of Thomas’ summoning circle so as not to disturb the others despite its intensity; only Thomas’s clothes were whipped up, only he felt their chill as it ran down his spine. It was an unusually violent reaction, perhaps due to the unusually violent nature of the Servant being summoned.
A boom of thunder tore the air apart as the Servant appeared. There was no fanfare, no sparkling lights or glorious entrance; just what was once an empty space finding itself suddenly occupied by a bloody-minded Viking as a sound like the world exploding rang out. The mana which had lit the circle slowly faded out, seeing to take some of the light out of the room with it, at least in the vicinity of the summoning, the red marks on Thomas’s hand and the glint of barely restrained fury in the Servant’s eyes glowing all the brighter for it.
The new arrival stood tall, taller than Thomas, and imposing; he wore nothing but a fur pelt around his waist and a cloak fashioned from the plundered fur of a bear, the rest of his body bare to expose a muscular form untouched by blade or spear or arrow. Not a single scar could be seen. Berserker, for with that appearance he could be nothing else, wielded a solid oaken club in each clenched fist, the weapons held with white-knuckle intensity as if the warrior was already eager to bludgeon something. The weapons were nearly identical to the one still lying at the Servant’s feet.
“I am your Master.”
From the moment he had been summoned Berserker’s eyes had been locked on Thomas’ own; the Servant gave no impression of understanding the sentence that had been spoken, there was nothing within his eyes to suggest comprehension, acceptance or rejection of the declaration. Only rage.
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