[Doctor Gabriel]

“Wine,” Mr. Kite corrected dismissively, stuffing his phone back into his pocket and finally making his way toward the shift in Ruler’s Barrier he’d just sensed, “Not grog. I knew you were uncultured, but I thought you at least had enough common sense to know the difference between a fine Pinot Noir and common swill, ya goddamn philistine.”

The more Berserker spoke, the easier it became to simply ignore her. He was quickly becoming accustomed and desensitized to her particular brand of defiant harassment, thanks in no small part to his special trail mix of narcotics.

Besides, he had been much too focused on the other nearby Masters to pay enough attention to her smug taunts in the first place. He’s been absent mindedly tapping and swiping the same picture of an old girlfriend for the better part of an hour, all the while surveying the area through the corners of his eyes.

Most them weren’t exactly hard to spot, though he had jumped higher than he’d liked to have admitted when the elderly gentleman in armor made from scrap metal came barreling past him, screaming at the top of his lungs. The two women who were chatting by the nearby motorcycle dissuaded his fear that he would be the only one under the age of 50 participating in this Grail War, one even seemed not much older than he was. The younger of the two had rode in with what seemed to be a college student; a Fine Arts Major, judging by all the brushes, paint stains, and what he suspected, though they were too far away for him to see it clearly, was that famous picture of the four armed naked guy Leonardo Da’vinci had drawn.

Wish I’d stumbled upon one of them first instead of Grumpy McOldAsShit. Looks like they’re being being downright civil to one another.

He could vaguely sense the presence of a few other spirits close by, but considering that they weren’t as easy to spot as Sir Demencia of the Renaissance Fair Table back there, he couldn’t pick them out of the crowd.

Nonchalantly, he reached into the folds of his dandelion yellow double breasted trench coat as he wandered the Papal Palace’s winding corridors. His fingers drew one of the many razor’s he’d stitched into its lining and nimbly slit one of the blood packs hidden within. The motion was subtle enough to be mistaken for a man checking to make sure he’d remembered his keys and was accomplished in the blink of an eye.

“Irrefragabilles Juggernaut Coagulation…” he whispered, coaxing the pint of his own blood to life. The crimson ichor slid through the sliver he’d made in its plastic prison and snaked it’s way over his back before dripping down the nape of his neck under his shirt collar. He effortlessly commanded each cell with the mana he’d infused the substance with, willing the blood to paint every inch of his body without leaving so much as a drop on his clothes. The iron within condensed and spread out across each contour of his form as it hardened into skintight armor that covered every inch of him besides his visible extremities. He left the joints thinner and more flexible than the rest of the full body scab he’d just made for himself so he would be able to move naturally.

There’s no telling how much longer this whole, “Play nice, kiddies!” shtick is going to last. Hopefully none of them brought any heavy artillery.

“I know you’re not a big fan of following orders,” Mr. Kite spoke to his servant once the spell had been cast and he neared the secluded meeting place, “But I’d appreciate it if you’d keep an eye on things outside while I mingle with the folks that’ll be trying to kill us before the end of the day.”

With that said, he opened the door to the room where Avignon’s Holy Grail War would finally begin.