[notDEADyet]

Whatever she'd been expecting from the other mages, this stranged lady wasn't it. She seemed so... Uncomfortable. Putting a name or face to people you were sure you were going to kill couldn't be easy. The woman hadn't been expecting to see a face. It probably wasn't an advantage, they weren't about to be bosom buddies or anything.

"What?" She frowned and looked over, not sure why so many people insisted on talking to her when she was busy thinking. Her expression smoothed and she nodded, "Yeah, sure thing. And, good." She shrugged, looking back towards the church, "I love meeting new people."

[Gallagher]

"Do as you will, Lancer," Luci said to her servant, idly adjusting the many bracelets on her wrist. It had been a long morning between her two companions bothering her and dressing appropriately for this... meeting of rivals. She was prepared, with Pelles nearby to look after her well-being, and Mousse left in their rooms to alert her if anyone should find their way in. "Just don't wander too far. I'm not interested in wasting a seal to bring you to me should you decide to go sight seeing."

[Suzerain of Sheol]

"Remain vigilant nonetheless, for all the power granted me by the Grail, I do not discount that our enemies will be ruthless and puissant."

As his Master enters the church, Pelles strides across the sprawling grounds, ascending the parapet wall to where the effigy of an all-too-familiar scene awaits. Some crudity of twisted iron encircles the memorialized Calvary, but the Fisher-King steps over it with ease, standing close enough to kiss the stone foot of the agonized Christ. A dark stain discolors the alabaster at the touch of his lips.

Overcome by a sudden onslaught of sorrow, Pelles falls to his knees, on one side overwatched by the yearning despair of the Blessed Virgin, on the other Joseph of Arimethea, as though he were frozen in time, never able to lift the Son of God from the Cross. As he casts back his head to look through blighted eyes at the impaled doom of his savior, the King of Carbonec weeps openly, blood from his crown of thorns mingling with the tears that roll down his ancient cheeks.

In a rattling voice, he begins, "In nomine... patris dominae... Sabaoth Elohim... et sui filioque... et spiritus omnipotentis sanctae..." but the words are choked, strained by the impossible burden that presses upon him.

"Why Lord," he begs, barely more than a whisper. "Why did you ever let them live at all?"

[Quiet Man Cometh]

"Excellent! I must confess,I am new to all of this," he waves his hand in a circle as though turning an imaginary cog, "grail business. I hope the other masters are indulging of discussion, but if the competition is a cut-throat as that woman claims, than it may be a dismal crowd."

Rider follows to the left of Ell, but keeps eye on the figure now kneeling in front of the statue of Christ. Dropping his pace a little, he pays as close attention as he can get away with to the servant's prayer.

Interesting.

[Salone]

Isaac sidled in to the Church from one of the smaller side entrances, whistling to himself conspicuously. He waved sheepishly to catch the attention of the other two. Or at least, the one that wasn't praying.

"Morning mates, morning. Tell you what, this a bit awkward."

He smiled at the young man, offering him a raised eyebrow. My word he thought, He's just a kid. Like that other cheeky bloke. What kind of holy cup sits around and makes kids fight kids?

He frowned as he watched the praying man. He seemed all seriousness and self righteousness. That was a horrid combination. This one would be the biggest thorn in his side. If the two he had already met were any indication, it would be the same for any of them. He turned his attention to the young man once again, giving him a devilish grin as he exposed the contents of his bag - a whole mess of Curly Wurlys.

"Hey lad, fancy a treat before things get started?"

[Salone]

Rasputin observed with unseen eyes as the servants and masters tread his turf. Things would be underway soon. His Master would have need of him. He would spirit her away and proceed to entrap and dispose of the other Servants. It was time to set the final mark of his territory in motion.

With a flow of mana from his territory, he broke access to the river running through Avignon. It swelled as it ran through trenches and ducts, crisscrossing paths mirrored on the streets above as riverbeds suspended themselves through emptiness. To any other observer, they would be senseless tributaries. But not to Rasputin. Seven paths, seven streams flowing towards the Church. At the empty spot where they met the church grounds, the streams stopped abruptly, the water tumbling in to the black oblivion down below through the openings of the hung cathedral. As the water moved deeper in, it began to chill and form icy flows. It would suck the very warmth and life out of a regular person at this temperature. It had certainly done the same to Rasputin. He grinned without a mouth at the work he had completed, checking the routes of all the tributaries and where they began.

Seven paths...but including his own, only six Servants. It seemed another was adept at masking their intents. So be it. Rasputin would choke the life out of all who would oppose him.

[Doctor Gabriel]

Saber sprinted toward his master’s presence like it was the Grail itself.

He sped past the tourists surrounding Palais des Papes who gawked at the old man in the suit of armor, screaming with a suitcase above his head.

Past the women talking by the motorcycle.

Past the young man in the golden coat who reeked of blood.

Into the church proper, paying no mind to the diseased and bleeding man overhead.

He raced through the archways and corridors until he finally reached the room where his King awaited him and slammed the suitcase onto the table, sending junk food and beverages flying. Some delicious debris careened straight into the faces of the nearby individuals Erik was conversing with.

Panting, Saber dropped to one knee before his Master and bowed his head.

“Mi Rey! I come bearing your forgotten treasures, I hope their retrieval pleases you!”

He lifted his head beaming up at Erik, eyes gleaming with tears of joy that his King had called for him and brow glistening with sweat. It was only then that he noticed that there were others in the room.

In an instant he was standing in front of Erik, hand at the hilt of a lance that wasn’t there on his belt, and a cocky smile splitting his lips.

“Be these Brothers In Arms or Villains seeking your demise, Master?”

[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.

[Gallagher]

Erik didn't pay much attention to the second older man until he was addressed. It looked like the man had brought his own snacks to share. Before he could reply to him, however, his own servant came plowing into the room, and the refreshment table. Erik blinked, looked down at a splatter of gooey pastry on his shirt, and wiped juice off of his face. "The war doesn't start until Merlin says so, Saber."

[Suzerain of Sheol]

Though he cannot sense what must be the titanic mana-presence of the boy's Servant, the hulking fool is impossible to miss as he storms into the cathedral. Heinrich watches through narrow eyes as the creature makes itself comfortable. He has no care for whatever historic personage it might be; it appears to be of the Lancer class, though that, too, is irrelevant. A small obstacle for his Archers, of little consequence. Fitting that he should be paired with such an incompetent Master.

The priest's gaze then slides to the other occupant of the room, a man of his age, and seemingly effecting the pretense of friendship. Already, the Executor assesses him as the most dangerous person in the room. And where might his Servant be...?

"So," his cutting voice strikes out. Heinrich stows his rosary away once more. "This is not a children's crusade, after all. What path of sin has brought you to this house of Christ, I wonder?"

[Doctor Gabriel]

“You want the list chronologically or alphabetically?” Mr. Kite answered the stranger's question before the man he'd been speaking to had a chance to. He casually barged his way into the conversation and the room simultaneously, sizing up the men inside with his hands in the pockets of his coat and a carefree smile on his lips.

The forced grinning was really started to hurt the corners of his mouth and his jaw was getting sorer by the minute, but it was necessary to keep up the facade of relaxed incompetence.


Assassin's Geezer...

Preachy Geezer...

And I guess we know who Mr. Society for Creative Anachronism’s Master is…

His evaluation complete he turned his attention to table covered in must have been one long ass night of Trick-Or-Treating and pulled out one of the chairs on the opposite side to the group. Leaning back, he kicked his feet onto the table and got comfortable, but not before noticing a stray candy bar lying on the floor nearby and reached down to unwrap it.

“By the way,” he addressed the only other person in the room who didn’t look like they were late for an Early Bird Special, munching away on a hunk of chocolate, caramel, and nuts all the while. He pointed the candy bar at the Coffinstuffer from before in accusation, “Don’t accept that geezer’s candy. It’s a trap, all he does is make fun of your dick and give you a lecture. Then he keeps the candy. Totally not worth it.”

[Suzerain of Sheol]

Father Heinrich takes in the presence of this newcomer with no real reaction, allowing him to parade his bravado without interruption. When it truly comes down to it, the Executor cares almost nothing for the desecration of sacred ground. Under the Eighth Sacrament, victory in this war surpasses anything in Heaven or Earth. Were it not for Ruler's compulsion, their corpses would already be profaning this hallowed hall.

As the young man settles in, Heinrich's gaze snaps to him, predatory and restrained. As he begins to quote Scripture at the blatantly-heretical mage, he briefly entertains the thought of what sort of devastating weaponry he could call forth from the Black Bible with this particular verse.

He paces around the table as he pronounces. "And he said to me, 'I shall give to drink without cost from the spring of the water of Life. He who is victorious shall inherit all this, and I shall be his God, and he shall be my Son. But to the cowardly, the unbelieving, the vile and abominable, the sorcerers, the murderers, idolaters, and all liars, their portion shall be in the fiery lake of burning sulfur. This is the Second Death.'"

He holds no illusions that this brash man will hold any regard for his words, but at least now he shall know the why of his impending destruction.

[Doctor Gabriel]

Mr. Kite sat through the sermon with the closed eyes of a man feigning attention to humor the elderly. He savored his chocolate methodically, allowing the flavor to dampen the urge to rip out the old fuck’s tongue, shove it down his throat, and then drain every drop of blood in his shriveled old body as he choked on it.

“I believe a wise man once said,” he responded, finishing his snack and allowing the first real smile he’d had in days to play across his lips, “Religion is like a penis. It’s fine to have one and it’s fine to be proud of it, but don’t whip it out in public and start waving it around. And, please, don’t try to shove it down my child’s throat.”

If he’s going to spout scripture, he could at least do the Samuel L. Jackson bit from Pulp Fiction…. Though I doubt he’d be able to do it justice.

Mr. Kite's smile was gone with the candybar and his eyes were open, meeting the Executor’s gaze in cold defiance. The gleaming stare of an overconfident youth had been burned away by a fiery bloodlust and hatred beyond the capabilities of any divinity for which this condescending, naked mole rat fucked his bible. The man gave off the air of a predator, and a seasoned, merciless one at that, but Mr. Kite’s eyes conveyed one simple message in response to that presence: I am not prey.

“Although,” Mr. Kite sneered at the man, briefly wondering if he’d been there on that fateful day twenty years ago, “I suppose you people are fonder of slitting children’s throat, rather than shoving anything down them…”

[Suzerain of Sheol]

It is a testament to the Executor's self-control that he betrays nothing of the incredulity the young man's words elicit. A lesser man might laugh in dismay.

"You are aware, yes, that you've entered the Holy. Grail. War? Where more fitting to exercise the tyranny of God on Earth than here? A curious man might wonder what you were expecting."

The effort of communicating is almost painful for the old priest. If he were prone to fits of rash judgment, he'd burn through St. Peter's Shroud here and now, shatter Ruler's Command Spell and rip the quivering brain from the degenerate's skull, crush it in his hand before invalidated eyes, and send his useless soul to the agony it was due. It would be so insultingly easy. Does the mage take him for some thug of the Inquisition, sent out to round up petty sinners for extermination? Heinrich Antonius Rosenbach was annihilating Dead Apostle Ancients decades before that small, squalid mind had ever first apprehended this wretched world. The arrogance of mages never ceases to rival Satan's own. How do they ever get so far in life bloated on such self-aggrandizing delusions?

And that is precisely why the other man, the quiet one with the gifts, is by far the most dangerous of his enemies in this room. A mage cured of the hubris of power is at their most fatal. As much as Heinrich already despises the blond one, it would be nothing less than a mistake to target him first. Let him parade about in self-satisfied impotence. More likely, one of the others will stamp him out like the ant he is long before Heinrich will ever have to deal with him.

That leaves only the question of the other three Masters yet to arrive...

[Suzerain of Sheol]

In her old life, Leila might have noticed that the four Masters who'd arrived before her were all men, but death had a way of effacing distinctions, and they would all be dead soon enough. She has to repress a shudder at the sight of the armored Servant among them, feeling already the threat he might pose as soon as the ban is lifted, with her own seemingly so very far away. The numerologist then mentally reprimands herself for not feeling a similar fear of the unassuming Servant she had met outside. He will surely prove no less deadly once the War began. The simple truth of her situation is that she's surrounded here, outnumbered, and alone. She hadn't been planning to unleash her Annulus this early in the conflict, but if she was to get cornered and cut off from Rasputin...

Taking a seat at the far end of the table, Leila tries to size up the opposition. She cannot bring herself to make the pretense of ease in sampling any of the delicacies spread out on the table before her. Noticing first the potent mana-signature of the dark-haired young man, she studies him; he looks almost as uncomfortable in this setting as she is. Having such a high mana-reserve can be as much of a detriment as a benefit, if he hasn't trained to use it effectively. Impossible to tell at this juncture, though.

And then the other youth, seated to her left with his legs disrespectfully on the table. A man with no respect for decorum or authority, clearly. Overconfident, perhaps, or more likely aware of the potency of his own abilities. Having heard his harsh words as she entered, Leila has little trouble envisioning him as a cold, merciless killer. She suddenly worries that, for all her training with such powerful magics, all-too-human fear might prove her undoing. She can only hope that when the time comes, she'll find the strength of will to stand and fight.

Nearby, still standing, is the third of her enemies, an older man, and seemingly of a pleasant demeanor. She wonders what could have brought such a kind soul into this miserable War, but how likely is it that that kindness is genuine? She can tell almost nothing else about him, which is far from comforting...

And finally, the Executor, circling them like a hunting shark, speaking the holy words of their death warrants. Only a fool would think him anything less than a catastrophic threat. She can sense literally no magic within him, and yet he is the chosen envoy of the Holy Church sent to win this War in the name of their God. Tales of Executors shrugging off deadly spells thanks to their Shrouds are in no short supply among her fellow mages. Surely this man is equipped with such a defense. A decades-honed murderer immune to magic... she would not be surprised if he is among the highest-ranking of his Order. Surely they would trust this mission to none less. Leila feels her heart accelerate in sudden terror -- Rasputin could not feel farther away.

She must seem horribly awkward, eyes flicking between them without even a word of greeting. Leila briefly closes her eyes in an effort to ground herself. Her strategy is still sound... she just needs to properly enact it.

[Suzerain of Sheol]

How have we so far fallen from Eden? Didst thou ever envision this, in thine high Providence? Murdered by thine own children, but what is murder to a God? Merely another treason, another rejection of the branch of peace. The dove riseth like the phoenix only to be shot from its flight by the hunter, again, again and again. How long ago wast it, thy decision to forsake us? I will not say that it wast unearned. The human genius is a miracle of self-enforcing damnation. Thou didst all thou couldst.

But I cannot forbear. I cannot accept that this punishment is just. Thou wert our GOD and we didst spurn thee, trod upon thy name, nail thee to the rood as one of our own! Indifference is not sufficient. The pulling back of thine hand that bringeth salvation representeth only humanity in its basest state: godless, and the masters of this world. And this cannot stand. There must be recompense. Retribution. I remain thy frail servant, but I demand this. For mine own mortal vindication, if thou wouldst deny the tribute I offer. I will walk to Hell behind those my Spear delivereth, and closeth the Gates behind me. I accept the doom of all mankind, and for this becometh the angel of eradication, with thy sanction, or without.

If vengeance so displeaseth thee, o' Lord, then here striketh me dead. If my destruction might break thy silence, then let fall my utter ruin! Let thy voice splitteth Heaven in thy wrath. Maketh me the martyr for thy Second Coming, else I shalt slayeth them entire.

This I pray.