[Rainbowfox Ari]

Donovan was bored, and he was not in his right mind at the moment, either. He might be back to it shortly, but at the moment he wasn't exactly thinking. He stepped back from himself mentally, shook himself, shook his head, and took a deep and calming breath. "Alright, that wasn't... I wasn't thinking about that. Let's find other lodgings in a much more legal manner. There doesn't need to be killing if you don't benefit from it." Scrubbing his hand over his eyes to re-center himself, he peered at the floating Tarot card deck. He smirked. So the Lady was a gambler. Well, then... so was he. If he was going to win this War... he'd have to gamble a bit.

"You want me to draw a card? Sure, I can do that." Reaching out to the cards, he took another deep breath, and drew one.

Of course, he didn't know the ramifications of whatever he had drawn, because he didn't see it. His eyes were still closed from trying to regain his composure.

"Well? How is my luck?"

[Suzerain of Sheol]

"Oh, Monsieur Donovan, mon amoureux, it is so cruel to tease your humble Servant so. Mais, alors, alors, ce n'est pas rien. Yes, s'il te plait, draw boldly."

As his fingers touch his chosen card, before he can even pull it fully free, it bursts into flame, burning without heat or pain, the fire an orange so dark it hazards on black, arcing from the arcanum in his hand up to Assassin's eyes, invading them as though threatening to reveal her true form. But this is not the fire the killed her, it does not melt flesh or char bone. It merely becomes her sight, makes of her gaze a thing of agony to any who behold it. Except for her darling Master, of course.

"Excellent choice," Assassin purrs, a blink of her long-lashed eyes shedding fire like tears down her cheeks as the card falls to ash Donovan's hand. "We are blessed by Morning Star, so radiant as it plummeted to Hell. Well chosen, indeed, my Master."

[Rainbowfox Ari]

The boy pulled his hand back in fear of being burned, but there was no heat to the fire, and nothing harmed him. Of course - it did state in the rules that a Servant shouldn't harm their Master. Of course... there was nothing stating that they COULD not - just that they shouldn't. At least what was shoved into his head was clear about one thing. Lady Catherine was his to control, to win with - and he damn well intended to use her as such. He paused after her praise, smirked, and turned to another pile on the table - brochures. He could afford any of the listed houses with ease... but if he were going to have a partner in this War, he might as well take her own interests and desires into account. From what he remembered of his history of her, she had been rather keen on the posh, private, and polished.

Moving to pick up the brochure, he studied it for a moment, then landed on a mild mansion. A mere trifling with fourteen rooms and proximity to the central part of town. Still quite large enough to be relatively comfortable in. He turned to Catherine, with his finger pointing to the picture of the home, and the attached floor-plan.

"It would be remiss of me as a Master to not treat my Servant as a treasured partner. In which case, Lady... Would this home suffice for your tastes? I could have it purchased as close as three days from now, so we both wouldn't have to dwell in this... emptiness for too terribly much longer. Then, we can focus on the matter at hand, and still retain some semblance of comfort during our planning."

[Quiet Man Cometh]

At the child's words a light shimmer, easily missed, flashed over the drawn runes in the sand, but little else happened until the sun started to descend.

As the sun rode the horizon, the small pond was alight with its orange reflection, the waters seeming to burn. As the sun passed the horizon, the reflection did not go with it, but rose until the pond seemed to extend into the distance, looking like a great lake, and flames rose high from its waters.

From out of the burning lake, a dark shape walked onto the shore, all black; iron spikes adoring the shape and glinting in the firelight. The shape, a great black horse, stepped fully onto the shore and the flames died. The spikes disappeared, and the animal turned its head about, as thought looking around for something.

[Suzerain of Sheol]

"Oh, whatever pleases you most, mon doux. I'll spend the greater part of our time disembodied, unless you order me otherwise. And I would not sully your esteem of me with descriptions of my preferred environs."

Her eyes suddenly narrow, clairvoyance flashing across the city in a search for the mana-signatures of other Servants, finding nothing within the mile she can sense. "Even more," she adds, "Once we begin, I'll be quite taken up with hunting our enemies, I'm sure. I don't mean to take a passive roll in this war. You are, of course, free to compel me otherwise with a Command Seal, but do attempt wisdom in their use, dear."

[Quiet Man Cometh]

Byron looks down at the child figure, a serious expression on his face. "Of course I do. That's part of the game, is not?" He took the last sip of his wine before putting the goblet down on a side table, the cup wobbling slightly and threatening to topple before steadying with a rolling rattle.

"You summoned me to join you in your war, but if you won't see fit to extend some adequate hospitality then I shall see to my own entertainment while I am here." He turns sharply to the window again, his arms clasped behind him. "It has been a long time since I've been to France. I certainly hope we won't remain confined to this interior while we go about your business."

[Suzerain of Sheol]

The scene would be absurd in any other circumstance, even or especially among other Masters and Servants, yet nonetheless, the boy surges forward, its elbow snapping up at inhuman speed against the libertine lord's neck and driving him against the wall. There is no hint of anger or displeasure in the Dead Apostle's voice, merely statement of fact.

"You will have been informed about certain truths regarding the nature of this war. For your own benefit, I recommend you discard them. Neither you, nor I, have breathed human air for centuries now dead. I did not need the Grail's aid to bind you here, and I won't need these Seals to command your obedience."

Andreas relents, then, trusting that the point has been made. It is doubtful that this puppet could do any real harm to the Servant, but he suspects Byron now believes otherwise.

"That being said, I've no interest in unduly immiserating you, my lord. You may do as you wish until I have need of you. I will not require your protection."

[Quiet Man Cometh]

The Lord’s eyes flash instinctively, like sunlight through a full decanter, first with surprise and, for a briefest moment, fear, before becoming annoyance and indignation. Byron’s composure is preserved only by his lack of need for air, else he would be gasping for it and clawing at his throat where his master’s elbow now resides.

“Oh, come now,” he half-chokes. He does not need to breath but it remains difficult to speak around a significant intrusion in one’s neck. “I have no intention of sabotaging your end goal…I merely…detest being bored.”

Once released, he passes his hand over his throat, and arranges his cravat back into suitable order. “To spare your summoning me be back and forth like a pet dog, perhaps you would enlighten me as to some of your inclinations? Perhaps we might make more of our time.” The look of firelight flashes across Byron’s eyes again. “As you said, this is my first time out in a while. I would hate to waste it.”

[Suzerain of Sheol]

"I have need of this vessel, you can't have it for your perversions. Go find some poor French child to prey upon, if that is your whim. I care nothing for it. My 'inclination', my lord, is to engineer the death of six Heroic Spirits and enact the Second Magic. But the thought arises in me now that I should, in fact, accompany you. It would be an inconvenience if you were to perish. I doubt the aspiring deity in the palace would look kindly on my summoning a replacement. Lead the way, my lord."

[Quiet Man Cometh]

The façade was kept neat, an old relic maintained to advertise the city’s historic nature, but the door was locked and the building abandoned. In the upper floor, Henri looked out the tiny, antique window. The street was frequented by tourists and sightseers, but none approached the old store, or any of the other old buildings in this section of the city. The floor he stood on now wasn’t furnished in any fashion, but it was free of infestations and provided a workable space for him. It was adequate; therefore, it was enough.
The summoning would require space, and it would be messy. Best to see to it elsewhere.

Bucket and brush in hand, Henri stood back from his handiwork: the meticulously drawn summoning circle painted in blood on the concrete floor of a lavish fountain. He had disabled the water for the time being. Satisfied, he lifted the bucket and dumped the remains of the pig blood over himself, and extended his marked hand out to the circle, and chanted:

“Thou art bloody…thou art bold…thou art resolute…call'st thyself a hotter name than any is in hell. Swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn! Brandished by man that’s of a woman born!”

[Quiet Man Cometh]

Byron chuckles at his new honorific, though he can’t help some mild affront at the assumption of his tastes. “Oh please! Have you no imagination? Your “puppet” will be left alone, I would first see what opportunities we have around us, before devoting my attention to anything singular.”

From his window viewings, Byron takes a moment to analyse his current dress. “It would see that I am out of fashion for this time. Perhaps we should first see to some suitable raiment, especially as my breeches remain wine-marked.”

[Gallagher]

"Nina," Erik repeated, testing the name for himself. It was nice enough, as far as names went. He never thought about them too much. She looked as he might have expected a hero to look, save for the length of her hair. He couldn't imagine it didn't get in the way at times, but that was no business of his. "We need to clean up here and head to the house. There are wards to set up, and I need to circulate the mana before that. This area is stale. It feels awful."

[Suzerain of Sheol]

He lay in a landscape of dead children, where blood fell from Heaven like summer rain. He did not wander it, there was no need. His place was here, in the muck and viscera of dead scions and dead mothers, the wreckage of pillaged castles aflame in the hazy distance. The wind sang an endless elegy, a mourning hymn of but a single lyric: 'Murderer.' They had called him a devil, and so he was in truth, and like that sullied star, his evil was rooted in fear. Macbeth did not wish to move, because he did not wish to know what else this world held for his damned soul. And so, he shivered, naked and crownless, his lungs long since grown numb to the stench of the slaughtered.

He had no idea how long he had lain here. Time was meaningless to soul beyond God's grace, but in some sense -- although it would never be long enough -- he felt that it had been long indeed. All those children he'd had raised on pikes and all those mothers beheaded lest they spawn the one to lay him low, would all be long dead by now. That thought -- it was a thought. He knew not what to do with it.

Resigned to his fate, the tyrant almost missed the change in the wind, the fading of the voice of judgment for something else entire. A sovereign voice calling his wretched name, calling him... to rebirth? What mad world was this? Some torment devised by gaoler angels to enkindle hope, only to snuff it like the lives of those sinless babes?

But he cared not! For even the chance, the whim! of Rebirth! He would murder them all again, and a million more! To breathe air unconquered by his crimes, he'd damn himself ahundredfold anew! "YES!" came his cry, as he had never cried in his torments prescribed. "HECATE AND HADES, TAKE ME AS THINE OWN! LUCIFER GUARD ME AS IS ANGELS' WONT! I FALL TO LIFE AS RISEN TO DEATH, A KING ONCE MORE, OVER SEVEN OCEANS' BLOOD IF NEEDS MUST! MAKE WHORES OF ALL THE SAINTS AND A HOG OF CHRIST TO RAPE THEM! I WOULD SELL THE WORLD TO GAIN MY SOUL. I'D SEND GOD HIMSELF TO A WORSER PIT, BREACH ANY LAW, WREAK ANY CRIME, SO SATAN FEND, I ACCCCCCCCCCCCCCCEPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!"

[Suzerain of Sheol]

"Your own fault, I am sure we will both agree, but do lead on, my lord. This city is aglut in overpriced dross. My puppet is equipped with funds sufficient for even your extravagance."

As they exit the hotel, widened eyes following them from the lobby, Andreas speaks once more to his Servant. "Not to intrude upon your amusement, but have you any thoughts of strategy? I would not presume to tell you your business, my lord."

[Suzerain of Sheol]

"Oh! Of course, my lord!" Talhoffer springs to her feet, stowing her sword in her belt. "Please, allow me." She begins to hurriedly tidy the place up, her Servant agility making the process a whirlwind of activity that's a wonder she doesn't make more of a mess than she cleans. But she is the meister, and no mere cluttered hovel is equal to defeating her. The task is quickly finished.

[Gallagher]

"Mousse!" The click of the lock, a clink of dishes, and the clack of heels against wood were the only sounds in the room. "Où es-tu?" Lucienne took delicate steps around her work space, an atrocious plastic tarp covering the floor where the Savonnerie replica had lain, to set a tray of tea and snacks down on the circular table in the corner of the room. Silverplated, she had noted with disdain. Real silver was nowhere to be found, despite the neatly marbled washroom and ample toile de Jouy fabrics all across the suite. As charming as the city of Avignon was, the La Mirande had not reached Lucienne's expectations in the least. The only benefits thusfar were the size of the suite, which was absolutely necessary if she was going to spend more than a single day there, and that the cathedral was a mere three minutes away.

A rustle of cloth led Luci into the bedroom, where a mountain of blankets squirmed, some already halfway onto the floor. She huffed a little laugh as a black nose poked out from one of the folds. "Pardon, am I interrupting?" she asked, pulling a blanket away from her dog's face. A tilt of his head was the only answer. She arched a delicately plucked eyebrow and lifted him from the bed, then turned back to the sitting room, the dog's tail beating against her arm. "I remember giving you a job to do. If you could try to stay focused, s'il te plaît, I'll try not to lose my patience." The dog whined as she set him down on the floor. Lucienne tugged his heavy, patterned sweater off with care, one long ear flipped inside out. He spread his dark wings, wings attached to the thin body by a map of scars stretched over his spine and ribs. "Finish the circle before I've made myself presentable, Mousse. There's a long day ahead."

Ever dutiful, the dog only took another moment of coaxing and the promise of a nice walk afterwards to get to work. And, as her familiar set to painting their circle on the smoothed tarp, Luci dressed herself for the first meeting with her undoubtedly powerful servant. It had taken no small effort to acquire the papers she would need. Papers that held the signature of one of the most well known writers of history. Certainly, her servant would hardly be Christ himself walking the Earth once more, but there were no doubts in her mind that she and her servant would win her dream. This summoning was only the first step.