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There we go. This was meant to follow an Evil Council Meeting™, but I guess we should get the ball rolling before I worry about Black Faction roll call.
The Deacon Arms Tavern

-7:50 AM September 24th, 2017

“Morning person” was not a descriptor one might use to describe Albert Prelati. “Narcoleptic” might have been more appropriate tag, or perhaps “sleeps like a cat”, but Albert’s sleep pattern was never quite so consistent. It usually consisted of long bouts of uninterrupted activity and concentration followed by apocalyptic crashes into prolonged unconsciousness, much like a man with access to far too much cocaine, so for now we’ll call him a “burnout”. Adrenaline and not curiosity was the drug that had kept him going ever since the plan to foil Ayondale’s Grail War had begun, so sleep for him began shortly after Saber’s somewhat unexpected summoning, and ended... well, it hadn’t ended yet, anyway.

Albert awoke in a fugue, mired in that ethereal state between dreaming and wakefulness that had long-plagued those like himself. The brave men and women for whom sleep was more of a suggestion rather than a rule. When he got out of bed, he wasn’t even really paying attention to what he was doing. To his sleeping, half-dead mind, it was just what you did.

Concepts like “morning” or “awake” had no meaning to something when it was “just what you did”, so he got up and did it, blissfully unaware of the time or even the reason for the movement of his own body. He was a ghost who had once haunted the grimy room he’d slept in, and who was now moving on to the next life, blissfully insubstantial. A walking, talking dead man. A somnambulist.

He headed into the bathroom to relieve himself, and commence the set of vague, pre-programmed actions that were “just what you did”. Brushing his teeth and slipping into his new clothes, not bothering to comb over his messy, bedraggled black hair, Albert postponed any troublesome thoughts of things like calling Assassin (who was that again?) and decided he was going to go eat something, and then maybe probably go back to bed. Yeah, that sounded nice.

Five minutes later, he was saddled up in front of a cup of coffee, black, and a nondescript plate of buttered toast. Shoddy service to be sure, but he wasn’t in any state of mind to complain. Not when he could barely keep his eyes half-open. He picked up the toast and nibbled it, much the way a rabbit would, leaving the coffee to simply aerate his breakfast like an improv aromatic. It was simple, plain, and altogether not exciting, which was just fine by him until he could wake up properly. Too bad it also ended the moment he caught sight of the television above the bar.

The old, bulky monitor was showing the early morning news. Their top story? An overnight fire that had destroyed the remains of Urquhart Castle.

Albert stopped chewing, his brain clawing for the surface, a distant scream welling up inside him like an ocean swell. Images were splayed across the screen like an autopsy, dissecting the burnt and tortured remains of the historical site. The scent of the coffee went from black to acrid and burnt beneath his nose, and suddenly Albert was back there again, wide awake, running and crying and trying not to vomit while his comrades screamed and died around him.

Panic overwhelmed him. He was awake now, and alert. Far, far too alert. Heart thumping in his chest, he looked around for Ayondale or other signs of the enemy before his brain finally told him it was alright, that it had just played a trick on him. It wasn’t a funny one.

Suddenly queasy and capable of remembering everything that had happened, Albert looked at his continental breakfast with distaste. He... wasn’t very hungry anymore.

Eat it, he thought. You’ll need it for later.

Twisting his eyes shut, he made like a dog and tucked in, finishing the food as quickly as he could. Gasping and sighing, he looked up at the ceiling, and wondered. What the hell was he doing here? What were any of them still doing here?

Albert looked around for the other Masters. Were they awake yet?
Alright, I’ve got a pretty long post planned, and I just haven’t had the time to write it the last couple days. I can pair it down and just focus on finishing the part that’ll let everyone post for now, is that okay? It might make a little less sense out of order than it would otherwise, but I realize the only one holding things up right now is me.
@TurboshitterTurbo the rest of the party is waiting for you to post the part for the next day. No one wants to post before hand.

Apologies, I’ve been a bit busy. I’ll get on it.
<Snipped quote by Turboshitter>

two words.

Funeral Tuesday

We didn't forget, Charak. We're here for you.
<Snipped quote by Turboshitter>

Hilariously tragically enough. The RP that brings doon and gloom. Like some kind of anime. Heh.

My hand was almost parted from my arm, there's a slim chance I might have to amuptate it. A large chance I'll never have any feeling left in it. So ye.

Jesus what happened? Are you gonna sue the bastards? If you win you'll at least be able to live comfortably for awhile while you look for a new job (and get used to the inevitable kickass robo-fist that lies in your future should you have to amputate)

Pretty bad. My right hand will never be the same.

Oh my god. Seriously? I... my sincerest condolences. This RP seems like it's becoming a bad luck charm for a lot of us. Charak's had a death in the family, I need thoracic surgery and now your hand is crippled(?). I'm so sorry.
Alright, so I've been through a work accident. Can anyone take control of Genghis for now, as I'll be inelignible to post for a while.

I'm sorry to hear that. Is it bad? :(

Turbo is in charge of keeping track of the story however I believe we can just side line Hun for the moment if no one wants to pick her up for a time period.

That should work. Either that or we can hand custody to @Grey, since we have reasonable assurance you'll be back once you're finished being laid up by your injury, @KawaiiKyouko

@1Charak2 Are you still with us? I believe that'll be everybody once we hear from you. Also, I will work on a next morning post, but anyone who wants to post first may feel free to do so. You'll just be waking up in the inn and meeting downstairs (or at a cafe, depending on Collins' mood) for breakfast and debriefing.
Okay guys, because it seriously looks like things are beginning to stall, we're moving ahead to Day 1. Everyone who's still with us, I'd like you to post in the affirmative to let us know you're still onboard and paying attention to the RP.
Urquhart Castle Ruins

-12:01 PM September 24th, 2017

With nary but a whisper, the witching hour had set upon Loch Ness. The full moon hanging high in the sky illuminated the waters of the loch with an almost supernatural light, its pure and beautiful glow acting like a portal into the heavens. That light had been known to both bless and curse in equal measures, and although its true significance was different in every culture, the importance of a full moon had never been lost on any human who had ever stopped and stared at the night sky. This was a magical time. Midnight, beneath a full moon.

When the Servant designated Ruler arrived, it was with surprisingly little fanfare. There was no light, no sound, no big "whoosh!" that would have disturbed the tranquility of the night. If he did anything besides simply appear out of thin air, sword in hand, no one was around to see it. The Grail, evidently, had decided to dispatch with the fanciful niceties for the one Servant for whom no one would be waiting around for. Presumably operating under the same assumptions as the old saying, "if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it..."

The somber, elegant man clad head to toe in bronze armor had the look of a knight about him, an unusual attribute for the class to which was tasked the order of "keeping the peace". Indeed this man's appearance was rather intimidating and draconic, far from anyone's ideal image of a holy man or a knight in shining armor. However, despite this something about him just seemed... silly.

Looking around absentmindedly, as if searching for a horse he had not been summoned with, the man's overall appearance was somewhat comically contrasted with his current attitude, which was apparent confusion and an utter lack of urgency. He looked for all the world like a Renaissance Festival cosplayer who'd gotten drunk and forgotten who and where he was.

"No one's here," he said quietly. "Was the Grail... wrong? Hmmm..."

The poorly-dressed knight pondered this plainly, wondering aloud to himself with suspicious hmmming and hawwwing. He scratched his beard, then scratched his head. Finally, he grew frustrated and tired of it all. Waiting it out had evidently not caused the universe to correct itself.

"Well, it looks as though I'll be walking," he said finally, sighing and pining for his trusty steed. "The will of the Lord is not for me to question. Though I fail to see what point there was in summoning me to such an abandoned place as-"

The man's three-clawed boot stepped in something wet, squelching into the peaty soil with sticky unpleasantness. He looked down.

It was blood.

At that moment, Ruler caught a jarring glimpse of the past granted to him by the Lord. A Revelation, if you will. It showed an utterly one-sided battle between magi and Servants, and... no. No it couldn't be. Children? They were slaughtering children?

Ruler felt a righteous, glowing anger swell up inside him, a pain that burned in his throat until he fought it down with all the mental strength he could muster. Children... they had slaughtered children... Had. The battle was over. There was no way for him to protect them now, no matter how desperately he longed to. He could only see to his duty, and hope that he alone would be enough to deter anyone else from shedding the blood of the innocent.

Carefully, the knight Ruler raised his foot, and looked around. Bloodstains were scattered about the castle grounds like landmines, or the leftovers thereof. Some had been dragged through the grass, others had clearly been left lying long enough to bleed out in an ever-expanding puddle. They shone in the moonlight, a horrible, beautiful reflection. Whatever had happened, there was enough blood there to be from fifty people, at least. Though there were no bodies...

What had transpired here on the eve of the summoning? What great atrocity had marred the opening ceremony of the Holy Grail War? And how many... how many of these had been...

He did his best to swallow his strong emotions. Now was not the time to cry. Mourning the lives of these children could come later. For now, he had to abide by the wishes of the Holy Vessel, and surrender all evidence of this battle to the fires of Hell from whence such bloodshed had justly originated.

Touching the tips of his middle and index fingers to his sword, he whispered, Interfectum Dracones, and lit a spark across the flat of the blade. Immediately it took on a draconic aspect and was set ablaze, a flaming sword with which he could destroy all evil in the world. With a single slash, he scoured the castle grounds, releasing a deluge of flame which incinerated all traces of organic matter leftover from the battle. The castle walls baked and became brittle, and the dew that clung to the wet grass evaporated along with every drop of blood spilled that night.

The trees crackled and burned. It was gone now. All of it. None would know the truth of what had happened here, and the destruction of Castle Urquhart could be attributed to the fire which had cleansed this place of its sins. Others could now be spared from having to know of the terrible things which had transpired tonight. Ruler sheathed his sword, and strode calmly away from the battlefield. A fire as bright as the one behind him burned inside his heart.

Whatever strange things had happened here, whatever horrors he had yet to face in the days to come, he could bear it all gladly with the Lord as his guide. And with His help, he would shepherd the lost and the weak into the arms of Heaven, and bring what modicum of peace he could to this wretched Holy Grail War. His honor was his shield. For he was St. George the Dragonslayer, and no evil could know rest beneath his blade, nor good the sting of death behind his shield. He was an instrument of His divine will, sent to this Earth to love and to protect his fellow man.

And by God, he had work to do.

-DAY 0: END-
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