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Suzerain of Sheol Suzerain of Sheol is offline
Desolation Denizen
Default Fate: Ragnarök   #1  
So. It will be here.

Avignon, for all its holy significance, seemed quaint, isolated by its ancient battlements from the wheelings of the world. Given its ties to the Church, Leila doubted most of the citizens here had even heard of the Mage's Association, let alone the Grail Wars. It certainly lacked in Zürich's metropolitan refinement, and the quarters were close. The College had arranged for her housing on the University grounds, procuring her an entire apartment as her base of operations on Le Roux Saint-Bernard, and on her trip over, the streets had been barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast. The idea of fighting a vicious mage-war here seemed ludicrous. Her Tarterus Tetragrammata alone would devastate the pale, looming buildings flanking every path through the city. With seven Servants unleashed, Leila doubted the city would survive at all.

So be it, she thought as she began to unpack her belongings. In pursuit of the Akasha, we are as Gods to these hapless people. They will die for our sins.

She had brought little with her from her home in Zürich, having already ceded the remainder of her worldly possessions to Johannes. Their last evening together before her departure had been... fraught; as absorbed as she was in her endeavors, Leila could not in sound conscience have kept the truth from her husband. Even now, she was not sure he truly understood. He had not come to see her off, and she did not blame him. For all she truly cared for Johannes, even the purest love was but meaningless noise against the cosmic cogency of the Absolute. It must be abandoned with all her other mortal trammels, or wilt upon the carcass of her failures. Irrelevant.

The thought came to her unbidden, then, of her forgotten family. Perhaps they had deserved more from their daughter, a return on the investment of their marriage. Grandchildren who might have proved less of a dissappointment.

No matter.

Leila opened her phone to the few contacts she possessed, found their number. It would suffice as her final mortal gesture, not that she knew what she would tell them.

Ringing once. Twice. Four times. Nothing. Leila shrugged.

Releasing the tiniest parcel of her internal mana, the Kabbalist called forth her Tetra, wrapping the phone in hundreds of minuscule chains of fire, watching it disintegrate in her hand. A deep breath, and a deeper sigh. She cast aside the ashes.

That left only the gift from the College, wrapped in night-blue velvet. Leila closed the windows to her loft and turned on the archaic interior lights to examine the summoning focus. It was heavy in her hand, angular, and as she quickly discovered, bladed. The knife was old, pitted with deep rust from the filthy blood that had once coated it. It might very well shatter if she attempted to use it for any practical purpose. Nonetheless, it would call forth the Servant with whom she would win the Holy Grail.

Leila wrapped the artifact once more, setting it carefully on the loft's table. She would have to clear enough space to work the ritual, and time was drawing short for the arrival of Ruler which would signal the commencement of the War.

Is this the time for fear? she wondered. For the anticipation of victory? Reflection on all I am about to lose, no matter how this ends? Leila smiled to herself, a small and final indulgence before it all began. She set about to work, inscribing the summoning diagram.

I think not.
Cold silence has a tendency
to atrophy any sense of compassion
between supposed lovers.
Between supposed brothers.
Old Posted 01-19-2015, 10:09 PM Reply With Quote  
Default   #2   Salone Salone is offline
Problem to the Solution
"Thanks love. That'll be all."

Isaac Hemlock gave a warm smile to Aïda, the proprietor of Le Clos du Rempart, the tiny and (from the outside) unremarkable Bed and Breakfast he had chosen to take lodgings in. He had rented out both rooms that the place had contained, citing that he was an enthusiast of privacy and quiet. The outside would have at first said that this would not have been the place for his type, but the small Bed and Breakfast was not all revealed at first glance. The interior was a far cry from the outside, and Isaac was basking in the central patio with a fresh cup of black tea. It had been remodeled over a decade ago, and was designed to give what a tourist might call a 'feel for Middle Eastern charm.' They had certainly tried, at least. Most of the sounds of outside were hidden far away, with the song of birds being the only real noticeable disturbance. If he had been on holiday, this would have been a wonderful retreat. The Papal Palace within walking distance, strolls by the waterside across the street, avenues lined with beautiful art that demanded a tourist to expose himself by taking large amounts of pictures, all would have been a lovely break from his work.

However, Isaac Hemlock was not on holiday, and while he appreciated the comforts around him, sightseeing was to be the least of his goings on here.

Rummaging within a pocket, he produced a fragment of...something. Chipped now and sharp once upon a time, it looked like it belonged in a bargain bin advertising souvenir arrowheads. It was weathered and beaten, and whatever weapon it might have belonged to had surely joined the earth it had helped put men in to by now. Still though, it had meant something to someone once upon a time. He turned it over in his hands, letting his tea cool while he studied it. It had been important to someone he had met by chance, nearly four decades ago...



Isaac sipped his tea. Nearly forty years. It hadn't really been at the forefront of his thought, but as the time had slipped away it had reminded him late at night, like a bill he had forgotten to pay earlier that day. Always there, but never really pressing until there was nothing left to occupy him. Several times he had nearly tossed the artifact in to the sea, but stopped himself. He had seen a lot of fighting. A lot of war. It had always been pointless. But if the power at the end of this war was real, then he had control over something. Perhaps this was a war he could have the power to end.

The tea brought him back to reality. It was bitter, off. It took him a moment to realize what was wrong with it: no milk. His faced soured to match the flavor of the tea. Tea without milk was so uncivilized, after all.

He stood from his table, leaving the shunned tea behind. The trinket disappeared in to his pocket once again, hidden away like it had been on its original owner. Or at least, the last owner to have it. Isaac hoped he didn't end up the same way. He called out to Aïda, backing away towards the stairs so as not to be caught fleeing from his tea.

"Aïda love, I'm not feeling right. Going to pop upstairs for a bit. Will be down after while."

He retreated upwards to the sounds of her acknowledgement. Within seconds he had climbed the few stairs to the room he had chosen for personal activities. It was small, but it would work. Removing the arrowhead from his pocket, he studied it once again. It had been worn from use, lots of use. It made him anxious to think of who had used it.

"Right. Let's see what poor bastard you might be."

He whispered to no one in particular as he began setting up the summoning ritual. He had kept the memories alive for this just in case. Going through the practiced motions of another person's experiences always felt odd, and this one was no different. With grim determination, Isaac Hemlock took his first steps in to the war for the Grail.
Old Posted 01-20-2015, 11:43 PM Reply With Quote  
Salone Salone is offline
Problem to the Solution
Default   #3  
The ritual had ended with little ceremony. Silence gripped the room in a stranglehold, swallowing anything audible. To the mundane eye nothing seemed to have happened. But to the flesh, the temperature had dropped several degrees, and was continuing to plummet. A light sheen of frost began to materialize over everything in the room, hanging as delicately as a fringe of lace from all surfaces.

The silence was shattered with a draft that would have merely stirred a candle. Upon its breath, a movement carried from the shadows, stepping from nothing but darkness. The tall form of a ragged man, head down and obscured by hood removed itself from their vague blackness, standing in a very real and material form.

The figure breathed in deeply, and the room began to warm. It wasn't exactly a rising of heat as it was a removal of the frost. His sucking breath lifted the ice from the room, drawing it upon the air and in to his lungs. The temperature returned shortly as the ice was drawn away. With a whisper like slowly crushed snow, it spoke without raising its head.

"Rasputin answers your call. Do as you will."

The last sentence was touched off with a hint of malice, as if the four words held the meanings of several different sentences altogether. The illusion of an upturned lip passed over his mouth before disappearing in to the shadows from which he had emerged. Grigori Rasputin walked the earth once more.
Last edited by Salone; 01-23-2015 at 11:12 PM.
Old Posted 01-23-2015, 11:06 PM Reply With Quote  
Default   #4   Quiet Man Cometh Quiet Man Cometh is offline
We're all mad here.
Grandmother Mia stood by the wood-framed bed and gingerly unpacked a few belongings from her bags while her daughter looked out the window, offering an excited narrative of the sites she could see from their small guest room. They were here for two days, long enough to perform their summoning ritual then move on to another location, taking some time to take in the sites they happened to pass. Ebby hadn't been to France before, and Mia indulged her excitement, offering the occasional comment and nod of her head as she placed her clothing and personal items into the bedside table on what she had designated as her bed, on the left, and away from the immediate morning sunlight.

From her paintbrush wrap, Mia pull out a small orb, glossy, and white, until she turned it so she could see the petrified iris and pupil staring at nothing. She had not taken a close look at it before pocketing it on her way out of the mage's academy from Ebby's last lecture. She had a fair knock for going about unnoticed when she wanted to. Rolling the eye in her hand, she felt the smoothness and wondered at the person to whom it was once a part.

It didn't matter. Not now. If he or she was a miserable character after they were successful, that would be dealt with at the time.

Mia clutched the eye in one hand and closed her bag. “Close the windows, Ebby. It's time to start.”
Old Posted 01-25-2015, 08:07 PM Reply With Quote  
Suzerain of Sheol Suzerain of Sheol is offline
Desolation Denizen
Default   #5  
Heinrich had arrived well before the manifestations would begin. His Holiness had seen fit to secure him full use of the defunct Papal apartments adjunct to the Cathédrale de Notre-Dame des Doms, and the Executor had taken the week to inscribe the Sacramental wardings he had been provided across every avenue of approach. The presence of enemy mages on the cathedral grounds would alert Heinrich wherever he was in the city, and the Forbiddings marked across the various entrances would detonate in contact with a magical circuit, if any of his targets were foolish enough to attempt to strike at his base of operations. He would need the defenses, as he intended to leave the titulus of the True Cross within the cloisters of the church, allowing him to move unseen by the scrying eyes of his enemies without its mana-signature to track.

His goal here was simple: locate the other masters, release Berserker upon their attendant Servant, and murder the mage while the battle raged. Heinrich did not know whose soul the Sacramental working would call forth from the Throne of Heroes, but he had no doubt that they would achieve their goal together. The threat presented by Berserker would be too much for the other factions to ignore, and once they revealed themselves, the Executor would strike. It did not matter who stood against them; there was not a magus alive whom he could not kill. With the artifacts he had been gifted, Heinrich possessed absolute confidence in the Church's victory. Even if he were forced to engage an enemy Servant, there were Mystic Codes within the Bible of Carcassonne that could match even a Noble Phantasm. He held every conceivable advantage.

It was now time. The sun was setting on the final eve before the dawn of the Holy Grail War, and before sunrise, the shackled souls of seven heroic spirits would make the Earth their battleground. Collecting the ingredients required, Heinrich proceeded to the cathedral's basement, every detail of the Sacramental summoning rite engraved in his memory.

Before the next sun set, the blood of mages and heretics would slake the streets of Avignon, and the Holy Grail would be that much closer.
Cold silence has a tendency
to atrophy any sense of compassion
between supposed lovers.
Between supposed brothers.
Old Posted 01-26-2015, 05:52 AM Reply With Quote  
Default   #6   Gallagher Gallagher is offline
It Won't Stop
"Mousse!" The click of the lock, a clink of dishes, and the clack of heels against wood. "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.

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 its head was the only answer. She arched a delicately plucked eyebrow and lifted it 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 it down on the floor. Lucienne tugged its heavy, patterned sweater off with care, one long ear flipped inside out. It spread its dark wings, wings attached to the thin body by a map of scars stretched over its spine and ribs. "Finish the circle before I've made myself presentable, Mousse. There's a long night ahead."







Old Posted 01-26-2015, 11:20 PM Reply With Quote  
Suzerain of Sheol Suzerain of Sheol is offline
Desolation Denizen
Default   #7  
There was a call.

Across the void of ages, through the eternity of anguish which he endured, it came: the first word, the first thought to enter his mind in fifteen-hundred years. He heard it, Pelles heard it -- yes, he began to recall himself, as he hung crucified and impaled to the side of the Throne -- and he considered. He considered the word.

Servant.

With the apprehension of its meaning -- like the opening of eyes until then blind -- came the crush of knowledge: implications of all the centuries that had passed upon his exile, the understanding of the magics that could breach the walls of death and pluck his mortified body from the branches of Hell itself, and the terms of the pact.

Pelles understood them all, and he cared not for any of it. There was but one fixation among the cataract of images that poured over his tortured psyche, a sovereign jewel among the dross of magecraft and scientia that pooled around him: the Grail.

And there was nothing else to consider.

With the sigh of one who had forgotten the absence of pain, Pelles tore himself from the Throne, one limb at a time, splintering bone and rending the annealed tissue of centuries from the conceptual nails that pierced his hands and feet. With shattered fingers, he reached to dislodge the spike driven through his mouth, piercing the back of his skull. His grip slid, coated with the leprous ichor that wept from his wounds, but he found his hold and wrenched it free. The Fisher King did not deny his stigmata, but embraced them in the full nobility of the wretched. He would bleed for the wounds of the world, wear the crown of every sin inflicted, breathe in once more bounteous air and exhale utter torment, the desiccation of all vital souls manifest within his flesh. He would live once more.

Pelles saw the grasping hand awaiting him, reaching across every conceivable boundary in an outstretch of True Magic, saw the beckon of the one who would name herself his Master, and with putrescent fingers seized hold with all his strength.

He had but one question for the sorceress, the same question that had echoed from the ramparts of Carbonec all the days of his mortal life:

"Whom does the Grail serve?"
Cold silence has a tendency
to atrophy any sense of compassion
between supposed lovers.
Between supposed brothers.
Old Posted 01-27-2015, 07:22 PM Reply With Quote  
Default   #8   Espy Espy is offline
Wanderer
Clack-clack-clack-clack-clack-clack-

Frej frowned. Even the noise reduction on his earphones did little whenever the train hit a section of older tracks, but the already-disapproving scowl from the old lady next to him drew his finger away from the Volume Up button.

Who knew old ladies didn't enjoy Imagine Dragons?

Then again, his precariously-stacked tower of lenses had invaded her lap just minutes earlier, toppling at a rather nasty jolt from the train, sending Frej scrambling to retrieve the packages before his precious equipment hit the rattling ground.

Or maybe she found the colored streak in his hair revolting. Or maybe it was the scars on his hands. Whatever.

Frej frowned again. "-t you something from avignon. will get you a teddy bear if i see one, ok? dont worry and dont forget to do your hw, or mom's gonna get mad." Sigi's Bear Army was formidable, he recalled, stomach churning as the train tried to pull the seat out from under him.

"ok gtg text you later when i can. -frej"

He hit Send, pushed everything from his lap, clamped a hand over his mouth, and ran towards the cramped bathroom for the fifth time.

---

Frej, armed with phone and map, had gotten lost three minutes after stepping off the train. Of course I had, he thought bitterly, now unpacking bundle after bundle from his duffel.

"I can't believe It chose you!" his father had told him, then sent him packing his bags. Why hadn't the Grail chosen Carina? She was, after all, the most powerful magus in the family, after her father had all but disowned his only son. Then again, Frej was pretty sure the von Straußheim family would be loathe to lose their new prodigy.

Apparently, according to the Grail, sending the poor starving Photography major to fight in the Grail War without so much as a single catalyst was a reasonable choice. How ironic.

What if the Summoning fails? But it had to work. The glistening blood-like Command marks ran down the length of Frej's forearm, and he didn't want to think about the consequences of a botched Summoning.

But rituals without a catalyst were very rare, and one thought ran circles in his mind as he began to set everything up:

What kind of poor, pathetic Servant was so similar to himself?
Last edited by Espy; 01-28-2015 at 07:22 PM.
Old Posted 01-28-2015, 03:21 PM Reply With Quote  
Gallagher Gallagher is offline
It Won't Stop
Default   #9  
They would be disappointed. Calling for a Hero that would never answer them. He had never been a Hero, but there had yet been a call for help that he had not answered. The world came together, sharp and strange, his consciousness drawing together before his body did the same. He would not begin as a child, not in this false life, but knowledge filled his mind just as it had so many years before. A familiar comfort, knowing the world he was suddenly a part of.

And that call.

The room was small, confined with not only one, but two women in it with him. Kutoyis blinked once. Twice. His body seemed to be functioning adequately. Despite, he glanced to a shut and covered window, the faint ebb and flow of mana passing through the only gaps it could find, human mana drowning the air. "War is no place for women."







Old Posted 02-05-2015, 02:50 AM Reply With Quote  
Default   #10   Quiet Man Cometh Quiet Man Cometh is offline
We're all mad here.
Ebby was shocked. She wasn’t sure what from, precisely; either the man’s dress or his blunt statement.
Mia frowned, but tilted her head slightly to one side. She had no idea who this man was, but if he was who they had, she was prepared to work with him.

"War is no place for women."

She smiled a little. “That is why you’re here.”

***

The world around him had changed but he seemed not to notice it. He was sitting on a stool, overlooking the city of Florence through a pane of glass and tracing the lines and angles of the rooftops with a black tipped brush. Leonardo looked down at his ink, then back up through the glass where the Florentine skyline had been changed for one entirely alien to him. His drawn lines disappeared, to be replaced by a plane glass window. He blinked, adjusting his gaze a moment before addressing the mage he knew to be standing behind him.

“So what do you expect to acquire with the grail?”
Old Posted 02-06-2015, 01:34 PM Reply With Quote  
Suzerain of Sheol Suzerain of Sheol is offline
Desolation Denizen
Default   #11  
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.
"
Cold silence has a tendency
to atrophy any sense of compassion
between supposed lovers.
Between supposed brothers.
Old Posted 02-06-2015, 04:46 PM Reply With Quote  
Default   #12   Espy Espy is offline
Wanderer
"I, uh."

Frej swallowed, and fifty-some hours of wakedness dropped his brain into his gut. The distinctive hair, lopsided hat. He sat down, hard.

The greatest artist and engineer of all time.

"I..." Well, come on, brain, speak up. But it didn't, and he was left open-mouthed, fishing for words while standing behind his Servant. And I thought I'd summoned a pathetic Servant?!

He started again, "Pleased to, uh. Plea..." Frej suddenly needed water, and scrambled for the canteen a couple feet left of the circle. Oh dear god what is he gonna think of me.

Deep breath, Frej.

"Pleased...to meet you." I summoned da Vinci. Leonardo da Vinci.

And then he fainted.
Last edited by Espy; 02-09-2015 at 11:11 PM.
Old Posted 02-07-2015, 06:37 PM Reply With Quote  
Espy Espy is offline
Wanderer
Default   #13  
Attila appeared, arms crossed, slightly scowling at the taller man. But the Hun was used to meeting the gaze of men of higher stature, and this was no different. His beady eyes took in the entirety of the person who had summoned him, assessing, calculating, as any good conqueror would both prey and predator.

The man in front of him wore what, to him, were clean, crisp clothes. Attila's scowl darkened. Nice clothes were hardly suited to battle. He himself preferred his fur cloak, fraying cloth tunic, and chestguard, and the weight of the bow and quiver slung over his shoulders. But his..."Master"...had an aura of battle about him; he had seen the bloody fighting and death and pain. Perhaps this Master wouldn't be so naive.

He rolled the word around on his tongue. Surely he wouldn't have to refer to this man as such, would he...?

He uncrossed his arms and rolled his shoulders back.

"So. Under whose name shall I conquer the world again?
Old Posted 02-07-2015, 07:07 PM Reply With Quote  
Default   #14   Suzerain of Sheol Suzerain of Sheol is offline
Desolation Denizen
Leila watched the spirit take form, heard its words, impassively. Calculating. The precise nature of her Servant's capabilities had been imparted to her in an instant, an intimate, intuitive understanding of this entity's nature as Caster and the powers it commanded.

"Grigori Rasputin." She spoke the name as though testing its temper. Satisfactory. She began to pace about the apartment, working through permutations of the different ways the Servant's skills and her own spells could interact.

Not necessarily interested in the spirit's response, she began to think aloud. "I see you cannot work magecraft of your own... one would think that a detriment to the Caster class, that you would be better suited to the role of Assassin, and yet... who would ever suspect us? Yes. We will kill them before they even know whom they face."

She turned to confront the Servant. Her Servant. Rasputin. "I am able to fend for myself, with my magecraft. I take the field, you work your work in the shadows, preparing our snares, and we murder them one by one. Is this amenable?"
Cold silence has a tendency
to atrophy any sense of compassion
between supposed lovers.
Between supposed brothers.
Old Posted 02-08-2015, 04:18 PM Reply With Quote  
Gallagher Gallagher is offline
It Won't Stop
Default   #15  
The ritual was a complete success, in no small part to her beloved Mousse. The War, the Grail, and Lucienne's very future were guaranteed.

Except.

"You- You filthy little beast!" the woman screamed, the furious flick of her wrist making a glob of pus and congealed blood slide down her fingers and squelch onto the floor. Her perfect, unstoppable Servant had splattered the room and all of its charmingly fake decor with rot. Worse yet, her frock was ruined, and not even her perfume could cover the stink. She gagged and covered her mouth with a shaking hand.

Luci's little Mousse, on the other hand, was content with licking dark stains off of the floor.







Old Posted 02-11-2015, 09:01 PM Reply With Quote  
Default   #16   Suzerain of Sheol Suzerain of Sheol is offline
Desolation Denizen
Pelles took in the quarters into which his Master had elected to summon him. Lavish. Exorbitant, even. He had once lived in such halls, framed by every luxury, but such thoughts were those of Adam as he gazed upon the burning portico of Eden, shivering upon the wasteland steppe, beset by the world's predations -- the reminiscence of the damned.

No, far more close to his wretched heart was the recollection of Carbonec's silent corridors, the dust of decades gathering upon its irrelevant throne, the incessant sigh of the sea and its indifference to the pathos of his shore-side laments.

The Fisher King took in all that surrounded him, and decided in an instant: this woman did not know what it was to suffer.

So be it. For nigh a century, he had borne the guilt of Camelot's collective sins; the weight of one more soul would be nothing new.

He unflexed the fingers of his left hand and called it to him, the weapon, the Dolorous Spear. The Godslayer. Gripped it tightly, and felt the familiar bite of the thorns. Yes. With it in his grasp, there was no Servant, no Heroic Spirit conjured from the dross of time, that could stand against him.

Pelles watched fresh blood run from his hand, down the haft, tumbling to floor. Saw the ears of the witch's creature prick at the scent of his perpetual dying.

"I bleed for the wounds of the land," he observed, lifting his one functioning eye to meet his Master's aghast gaze. "And it seemeth your brachez hath the taste for it. Such is the plight of Man, is it not? Abominations though we be unto nature, it shirketh not to consume us. Do you not, also, find this just?"



Cold silence has a tendency
to atrophy any sense of compassion
between supposed lovers.
Between supposed brothers.
Old Posted 02-11-2015, 09:55 PM Reply With Quote  
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