[Suzerain of Sheol]

These conditions were intolerable.

Leonard understood the necessity of subtlety in an operation like this, maintaining secrecy, keeping one's cards close, but to be housed in this... this pauper's den was nothing less than a mortal insult to his honor. He was a lieutenant-general, damn it! And a graduate master of the Royal Academy of Magecraft, to boot. To throw him into this wretched sty of a domicile -- some kind of communal residence or boarding house in the southeast quadrant of the city, complete with a filthy playground for all the squawking French bastard-babies to congregate on outside his window, disrupting his work -- but alas! Suffice it to say, General Cartwright would be filing for a larger stipend before he handed the Grail over to his masters, that was to be sure. Royal etiquette be damned!

He had done what he could to shut himself off from the vile rabble of his neighbors, sealing the door and windows with rather blatant applications of earth magic, blocking all ingresses with thick slabs of polished marble, but the effort to do so had set him back by hours, even if they were rather picturesque to gaze upon... but no! The mere thought of the brutish lots outside, staining the air with their peasant breaths, was enough to drive him mad.

The sacrifices one made for their country.

The ritual was all but complete, waiting only on the final influx of his mana to ignite the catalyst that would call forth his Servant. The Sword of Mercy stood precisely in the center of the summoning polygram, driven with great care through the floorboards to stand upright, accepting the energies of the overlapping channels of mana. It would be a flawless invocation -- no surprise there, he was trained by the very best after all. And now to get down to it.

The General took a slow, deep breath and gathered his mana, imagining all the pitiful, pathetic floristry outside wilting as he tore the life from it, laying bare the plight of these ignoble ingrates for all to -- no! Concentrating, now! He allowed his energy to enter the polygram at the point nearest him, watched and guided the flow as it spread to fill the intersecting vertices, allowing it to build upon itself as it circulated through the construct.

And then, he spoke his command.

"Tristram of Lyon, First Knight of Cornwall, Peer of the Table Round and Rightful Wielder of Curtana, by this rite and by my authority as Magus, I summon you! By the Name of the Invincible King whom once you served, and by the majesty of our beloved Britain, come thee forth!"

There was a moment of nothing happening -- the mana cycling around and through the sword -- but Leonard was not worried. He allowed the power time to bond with itself, strengthening the whole, and sure enough, something else stood before him, at once separate from and fed by the magecraft of the summoning construct. It began as a formless outpour of light, but with each passing second it coalesced into human shape, until the light faded entire and only the form of his Servant remained, resplendent in his chivalric dress.

Leonard said nothing, waiting the Spirit to orient itself. He watched as Sir Tristram flexed his gauntleted fingers and reached to seize the hilt of his holy sword, drawing it free from the floor. Pearlescent fire fell in droplets from the blade as he rotated it through the air.

The knight, with his other hand, lifted his visor, revealing a youthful face, softly smiling as he looked upon the weapon. "I have missed you, old friend," he murmured, sliding the sword into the empty scabbard at his side in what appeared to be an act of reverence. He met the General's eyes and fell to one knee, bowing his head.

"My fealty forever to Britain, and to the King Who Shall Come Again." Raising his gaze once more, he continued, "My liege. My commander. My Master. For the memory of Camelot, together let us win the Grail. Sir Tristram de Lyonesse accepts this pact. May we prove worthy of each other."