[Suzerain of Sheol]

She is home. After twelve-hundred years, her legacy emblazoned on the tapestry of history, it is reifying to breathe French air once again. And to stand once more in Avignon, holy Avignon! The torrent of centuries could do nothing to erode the majesty of hallowed stone, girding the city in proud walls, the parapets of cathedrals mantling high towers from whence exiled popes once contemplated the nearness of Heaven.

This is her realm, the very earth consecrated by the blood of heretics in her name. She can hear its call to her, like the Grail's own sovereign voice, beckoning her return. “Charlemagne, Empress, Daughter of God.” To be host to the vessel of Christ, no longer the tarnished star of Saxon infidels but returned to its rightful home in holiest France... It is the will of almighty fate, and nothing less.

And so, with incontestable right of rule, the Holy Empress takes up the long-abandoned throne of Avignon, seating herself in judgment for the Grail War which she shall soon oversee. The worthy shall be divided from the unworthy, all for the greater glory of God, of whom she is herald on earth.

[Suzerain of Sheol]

The boy comes alone, his passport and papers all in perfect order. His accommodations at the Hôtel de Ville, his suite overlooking the palatial square below, have been purchased well in advance, an entire floor of his own from which to plan the destruction of, one presumes, the modern world's most elite mages. Now secure in the solitude of its private quarters, the body of Andreas Ragnvaldr IX responds to the will of its master, dutifully retrieving from its suitcase the velour blindfold and a spool of thread. Sitting on the edge of the bed, the host begins, pushing the needle full through the corner of its lip without the slightest flinch, bright blood sluicing down its chin, and then again, and again, tying taut the mouth that is no longer needed. Reinforcements of mana close the punctures tight as soon as the thread is drown through, until the boy's lips are sealed.

That finished, the old spirit moves its grandson to the center of the overlarge bedchamber to begin the summoning. A lesser mage would require a conjuration circle, imploring aid from the Grail in the evocation of a heroic spirit, but Andreas Ragnvaldr I has no need of such paltry contrivances. He merely lifts the boy's arm, its hand outstretched, and creates the skull he will use as catalyst, every molecule replicated from the authentic item stored in the Dead Apostle's library two-thousand miles to the north. It hovers in the air before him, its empty gaze meeting that of his puppet's.

Without preamble, Andreas' raises his disembodied voice, channeling the specter of True Magic across the distance separating them. “Byron! You mad churl, come forth!”

[Suzerain of Sheol]

She hadn't really had a plan coming here, which isn't anything strange. This doesn't seem all that different from her usual escapades, and she's been meaning to visit France for a while now. Emilie figures she'll just wander the streets and see what she can find. It's certainly pretty, in an antique-feeling way, caught halfway between tourist trap and college town. It almost reminds her of home, just... a lot more cramped.

She has all her stuff in a backpack for now – and thankfully there's no guard-post for checking into the city, so her weaponry has made it into Avignon intact. It almost feels like going back in time, with nearly no cars and people just congregating on street corners leading off into narrow avenues. She's on the southeast end of the city, looking for somewhere she can crash. It's pretty warm, and she's starting to sweat carrying all this gear around. Crossing a street she doesn't bother to note the name of, Emilie digs her Pez-dispenser out of her skirt pocket and pops a THC pill to keep her chill going. No point appreciating all this old-world chic sober.

Eventually, she finds a shabby-looking boarding house that seems like it'll suffice. She steps inside, noting the cute clerk before raising her sunglasses. That's a plus. Maybe she won't even have to kill this one if she gets her wish.

Lodgings secured, Emilie starts unpacking, assembling her SMG and loading her belts and harnesses with supplies. That accomplished, she sets aside her... catalyst, and takes up her inscribing kit. Not being an exceptionally well-read individual, Emilie had almost no idea on who she should summon, but a fairytale princess ought to work. Probably.

It'll take a couple of hours to finish the rune circle, and the lighting in here isn't great for precision mage-craft, but she's pretty excited to meet her Servant.

[Quiet Man Cometh]

The lavishly dressed poet lowers his goblet from his lips.

“I wish.” He looks disdainfully at the damp state of his frock. Though the dark wine isn’t affecting the colour much, it’s certainly unbecoming. “You couldn’t have done that with a little more finesse, could you? I have ruined by coat.”

George Gordon, Lord Byron, sixth lord of his declining line, turns to look at his master.

He raises one eyebrow while looking at the…child, with discerning burgundy eyes. He takes another sip of his wine. “This,” he flourishes his arm about the room, spilling a little more wine, this time on the lush carpet, “was you, yes?”

He soon loses interest in his scrutinizing and turns to look out the window over the square. “Ah, this is fresh. How long has is been since I have been through such environs? How long before we shall go out and explore?” He taps his waistcoat, once, then two more times. “I must have a pen!”

[Gallagher]

The bruises appeared shortly after Jasper and Benedict had asked him. The Holy Grail War. A fight for an object that was said could grant any wish that was asked of it. A true prize, for any mage that was willing to risk their life in the pursuit of it.

"Will you join?"

Erik had no wish. He had everything he wanted, here in the Clock Tower. He could live, and he could study, and there was nothing else he could want.

"A lot of resources have been spent on you as it is, after all."

It looked a bit like a gecko. His hand raised to the overhead light, he blinked at the faint red marks. White spots danced on the edges of his vision, where the lamp shone from around his fingers. Erik had found his proper clothes and started to pack his supplies when he'd noticed it. A gecko. Or, maybe a rabbit.

Clouds looked different from above. It wasn't a long flight, but it was long enough for his eyes to get tired. Scraps of paper and a couple stained napkins littered his lap, each with intricate summoning circles drawn onto them. It would be important to get it right the first time. He had to practice. There was nothing to do for those two hours, nothing but practice and watching the clouds. He could probably make clouds of his own, if he practiced. Water wasn't his best element, but he'd been getting better with it. Maybe he could keep one in a jar.

He may not have spoken a word of French, but Erik, bags and all, managed to find a small place to eat in time for dinner. There was a house he'd been told he could set up in, but it was already far too late in the evening for that. The mana here was much different than home. Stagnating. There weren't mages here to make the earth breathe, to use its power and remind it, every now and then, to freshen the air.

There was enough money for a room in a nearby hotel. The house could wait for another day. Erik's bags went unpacked and his clothes unchanged when he fell into bed.

He had no wish. But he was to summon his servant that day. He sat in bed, his legs crossed under him, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he considered what the day held. There wouldn't be time for breakfast if he was going to get everything ready. He didn't like skipping breakfast.

The bed was pushed up as close against the wall as it would go, the small table and pair of chairs that had once sat at the window now shoved out of the hotel room completely. The entire floor was taken up by the circle he'd drawn, the same one he'd been drawing for three days. The catalyst, given to him by Benedict, was prepared in the center of it all. He was certain nothing could go wrong. Every step, every line, was as perfect as he could possibly make them.

Erik hoped it wouldn't be a rabbit.

[Rainbowfox Ari]

The young man yawned a bit as the day started. Checking into the hotel had been torture, especially at o'dark-thirty in the morning - as had waiting for the bus to come to take him to his new apartment complex downtown. Not that... it was much of a complex. Smaller than he was used to, the apartment was by no means cramped... but it would take some getting used to. As would France. He was only here by the grace and will of an obscure uncle he'd never heard of, or met, and for some reason that Uncle decided that Donovan should be living inside the city limits. Also for some reason, he decided that he should leave everything in America behind to a caretaker, and bring only what he absolutely wanted or needed. Don wasn't in the habit of taking things at face value, usually, but his business was flying well on its own wings, and he definitely agreed with the change of scenery.

Just... did the scenery have to change so damn EARLY in the morning? He yawned again, and pushed himself out of a bed that did not yet feel familiar, crossing to where he had set the solitary table left in here for him, and opening the box of his belongings that had been shoved onto that table the night prior. It wasn't much to unpack. His grandfather's creepy ol' book, a weird pocket-watch that didn't even work, most of his clothes - which had yet to be unpacked since he had no dresser, and several necessities like his grooming things, and some travel-size foodstuffs. He'd shuffled himself onto the plane in the afternoon, and hadn't had much warning. There wasn't much else to have. Of course, his wallet was close at hand, and his laptop was at the bottom of the clothing pile. He'd go out later today, and maybe get some furniture, groceries, and perhaps a bed that didn't creak when he slept in it. His jewelry kit was still there, all tucked into place. He'd have to make sure things worked after taking a plane flight.

Strangely enough, there was an item resting in the top of the box that he'd never seen before. Maybe he had shoved it into the clothing without really looking - he had been in a hurry. A box of Tarot Cards rested squarely on top of his jewelry kit, and drew his attention and curiosity. Maybe it had belonged to his grandfather. Better yet... maybe it had something to do with all those creepy symbols in that creepy book. No time like the present to explore the mysteries of his previous attic.

Moving the box to the floor, he sat on a pillow, cross-legged, and settled the book on the table, flipping it open to a random page. While he did that, he picked up the Tarot Cards, and started shuffling them in his palm. They felt kind of warm, but that could have been the temperature control during shipping. He flipped over onto another page as he was shuffling the cards, and noticed a strange sort of circle in the middle of the book. It had fancy letters around it, and some of the same sort of strange symbols around the edge. Mentally marking it off as something to investigate later, he started reading out-loud. Sometimes it helped him think and digest to hear words spoken. The words seemed strange, and slithered on his tongue as no words should have - but that might have just been his fatigue.

"Lady of Blood, Lady of the Darkest Night, come hither to me."

The cards were getting warmer, but he kept reading, almost as if compelled. While he was reading, he accidentally gave himself a paper-cut with the cards. He continued with a wince.

"By Bloodshed, I bind thee to me. Work thy dark magic upon this world."

[Rainbowfox Ari]

Kiki sat on the banks of the pond and kicked his legs in the water. His apple-selling venture hadn't been going so well - case in point, he was eating one of his wares. The juice and sweetness of the apple soothed his worried mind more than enough for him to relax a bit. Okay, so the whole apple-selling thing wasn't going great, but he still had other things to do! This pond was all his! Well, at least other people hadn't claimed it. People walked by now and again, sure - but they hadn't claimed it. He didn't particularly know why he was in France in the first place. One day, he'd gone to sleep in his nice little home nearby one of the big factories in Manhattan, and suddenly, he was waking up in a box, kicking off the lid, and running away from a ship. He remembered reading something about some sort of child kidnapping spree in the city, and it made him sad that all the kids had been killed. Apparently, he hadn't though. Just dropped off in France. Which... was an odd place to be dropped off.

He'd run about the streets a bit, looking for a place to stay.. but he didn't have money here. He could GET money, that wasn't the issue. Branches of Mommy's Business were everywhere, and they all liked him, so he could pretty much get whatever he wanted if he knew the secret phrase... which he did. Mommy had made him memorize it when he was littler. Whatever the case with that, he hadn't found someone to tell it to anyway. He HAD found this little park with a pond in it, though, and he'd been sleeping here at night. There was a little bench, and a lot of rags and stuff, that he could cover himself with. It was fun! Like camping!

Today, he decided, he would build something just for himself. Yesterday, he'd found a big ol' rusted nail by the water's edge, and today he was gonna make a unicorn with it! A protector-unicorn, to protect the park and the pond. So deciding, he pushed himself to his feet, and started to scout a decent place to make his masterpiece. There was a place nearby the north side of the lake that was mostly sand and wet dirt. It was perfect for drawing, and there were lots of pretty white, black, and gray rocks to make a design with. That's where he'd build his unicorn.

He started, as one does, with an outline. Kiki was pretty good at art. His Mommy had used to say that he was a modern-day Rembrandt, whatever that meant. All Key knew was that his drawings looked like what they were supposed to look like, and this one was going to look like a unicorn. A pretty one, with a bull-rush mane, and a pretty agate he'd found for an eye, and a nail for a horn. He hummed happily while he worked, making sure that the outline was exactly as he wanted it, before starting to place stones and pieces of wood and rushes into the outline to make it more substantial.

It took him the better part of two hours to get everything just-so. He'd had to adjust the ears, and work with water and a little sand to get the mane to look just right. Finally, though, the horse-part was done. He was all giddy with glee, looking upon his noble protector. Of course, it was just rocks and sticks, and bull-rushes, and the occasional pretty stone. It wasn't a real horse. That was okay. He could have a pretend-unicorn, too. But it wasn't a unicorn yet! Unicorns were magic! They also had big, pretty horns.

Kiki remembered some of the weird squigglies that a friend of Mommy's used to draw on walls, and copied them around the horsey's head. That took care of the magic bit, 'cause it looked all magical and pretty. Now, the finishing touch!

With a massive flourish, Key knelt beside the horse's head, and fitted the nail into the pre-defined space for the horn. Giggling, he cried "Come, my valiant steed!" as he tapped it into place with his foot, jumping up and clapping his hands in utter glee that his masterpiece was finished.

[Suzerain of Sheol]

Finally having mixed the reagents and prepared the space for the ritual, Emilie retrieves the last item from her overstuffed backpack, a heavy burlap sack, the contents of which clatter against each other as she hefts it up, upending it onto the bed. A cavalcade of bones tumbles out into a heap, the skull last, landing face-down atop the pile.

"Rupert, you useless bag of bones! Pull yourself together!" At her command, the remains begin to rattle among themselves, jittering and vibrating, quite a few of the smaller joints -- and a tibia -- escaping to the floor. Emilie observes the debacle with crossed arms.

"Come onnnnn! I'm the homeless addict here, and you still look like a shambles! Fine, I'll help you." With the bored precision of having done this far too many times, the necromancer begins organizing vertebrae until she has the spine constructed to attach to the skull. She goes so far as to give her familiar one constructed arm, and is so generous as to attach it by the shoulder.

"There. You can do the rest yourself. Miserable old schwinehund." She leaves the skeleton to construct itself, pouring herself a half-glass of vodka to wash down two more pills, which she imbibes in a single gulp. Rupert is now attaching his pelvis. Emilie unrolls the diagram for the summoning circle, turning it up and down in her hands while trying to figure out which way she's supposed to read it. It's awfully complicated, all those minute details. She wonders if the little curly bits on some of the runes are important. She tosses it away. "Fuck it, you can figure it out."

She looks up to her familiar, and laughs irrationally, only to be interrupted by an uncomfortable hiccup. Wiping her mouth, she points at the skeleton, still cracking up. "You are such a dummbatz. You put your feet on backwards!" Not terribly concerned with her familiar's ability to balance, she launches herself onto the bed behind him, getting comfortable on her side.

"Wake me up when you have it done, Rupes. I'm way too crunk for magic right now."

[Suzerain of Sheol]

The child betrays no reaction to the Heroic Spirit's arrival, and less still to his grandstanding. From elsewhere than that mutilated mouth, the voice of Andreas addresses his Servant. "I suggest you master yourself, Lord Byron. Tell me..." The child moves now to stand squarely before its thrall, blinded eyes staring up into the poet's powdered visage. "The laws of death have been suspended in your favor. Do you know why?"

[Suzerain of Sheol]

She remembers very little. Hers had been a pious life, a devotee of Saint Mark, anointed paladin of the Archbishop von Reisberg, yet also a life of bloody duels, laying overfed young braggarts to early graves. So it seemed just that her eternity should take such form as this, not rendered of those red torments of which authors and vicars proved ever so enamored, nor had she been delivered to providence among the saints. Somehow, this suited the Fechtmeister. The party of her own musings was engagement enough to last her through the lilts of endless time. Musings on ingenious new ways to lever the human body against itself, or how to strangle a man in a hole with a sock, would occupy her until the end of all things. And so it is with some degree of annoyance that she is interrupted from her meditations, and by what?

An invitation to live again. To fight in such battles as the earth had never known in her era. To serve as the champion knight of a worthy master, and to face the greatest warriors of history in deadly contest.

Academia of the sword is a failed knight's pursuit, she decides immediately. This war for the Grail of God is the paradise her soul has craved. She accepts without question, embracing the onslaught of knowledge that the shining vessel bestows on her, stepping through light into the world of the living once again.

Arriving, and tempering her excitement, the swordsmistress falls to one knee before her new lord, proffering her weapon to the man she will serve.

"By the faith of the Saint, I am yours unto death, mein Herr. This sword has no name, but shall serve thee better than Excalibur itself. In life, my peers knew me as Oberfechtmeister Talhoffer, but if thou shouldst so please, I am Nina, thy Saber."

[Suzerain of Sheol]

She recalls fire, consuming a calm, Parisian morning even as it devoured her eyes, her flesh, the final sensation of her mortal existence the smell of her own melting skin as it sloughed from brittle bones, before the flames reached her brain. And that had not been the end, oh no. Greater fires, immortal fires, awaited La Voisin as bitter old eyes closed on one world and opened on a new, the insatiable pyre of her unholy master. Sealed within a coffin of stone, packed tight with burning coal, eternity is smoke and pain for the great murderess, the greatest murderess! How many had she slain, gutting them upon the altar, tearing lifeless children from eviscerated wombs? And how many more dead from the bane she peddled: infidel lovers and cuckolds alike, all to glut the diseased passions of those people, her people! Yes, she had killed them with glee, dozens becoming hundreds becoming thousands, oh the terror! Was she not La Voisin? Damnation was a formality for the greatest slayer who had ever lived.

How bizarre, then, how sickening to have her smoldering cairn smashed open above her, invaded by light, disastrous light! The coals suffocated at its touch, leaving her cold and naked beneath its hovering judgment. It felt holy.

And to hear it call to her, her! La Voisin! Oh, the irony! How sick was that lecher God, to bind her to this righteous purpose? She, who had swept across Paris as a plague, turning love to treacherous death wherever she should pass... to frame that now as some sort of Heaven-spawned punishment, making her the instrument of divine castigation... preposterous! Ribald and gross! She was a tool of the Devil, vile, obscene, bane to all mothers, and now to be called upon by Almighty God? Heinous obscenity!

Catherine shrieks within her burnt-out skull as the light wraps about her like chains and hauls her from her charnel seat. And suddenly she is once more in France -- she would know its corrupt air anywhere, it never changes. Home.

Standing before the man who would now function as her Master -- she knows this now, imparted knowledge by the wretched light. Studying him, Catherine is startled by his youth and seeming naïveté. This will be... different than she presumed. He does not look like the sort of person who will appreciate her indulgences.

Observing him for an uncomfortably long moment without offering any sort of greeting, Assassin eventually tilts her head to the side, raising a pensive finger to her chin. In her rich, throaty voice, she inquires of him, "Little boy, have you any idea what you've done?"

[Rainbowfox Ari]

The youth was more than a little startled by the sudden appearance of one of the more prominent homicidal maniacs in his vast repertoire of random useless knowledge. However, he did not run screaming from the room - nor did he make any sound at all, as he lightly closed the book, and fell to perusal of his hand, and and new mark thereof. So this was what his grandfather was up to, huh? Seemed to be fitting at least. The old man had forever been enamored of the idea of some sort of holy war with the church. Something about grails and champions. When he was a child, he heard the ravings enough to be sick of them. Apparently, the old man hadn't been completely insane after all.

Donovan fell to studying what he had unwittingly summoned, trying to bring up some sort of memory of his grandfather telling him what to do about this situation. However, stories about a holy war set aside, he'd never mentioned anything about a murderess. The mark on his hand and arm burned and itched for a moment, but then settled, and he put his hand down - setting the cards back on the table. The deck had burned up - he saw it with his own eyes. But here they were, unharmed... Though it should have, that didn't exactly surprise him. He knew nothing of this 'holy war' his grandfather had raved about - but maybe this lady was part of it. And this mark.

"I think the better question might be, lady, do you know what this means?" he pulled the book from the table, turned to the page with the summoning circle, and showed it to her. "Because I certainly don't, and you're here now - which means it means something. If grandfather wasn't stark raving mad when he was talking about wars and grails - I think I need to know what's going on. From what he was talking about, it was pretty serious, and there was a lot of death involved. I'd just as soon not die. SO. If you could tell me what the ever-loving HELL this means?"

[Suzerain of Sheol]

Catherine maintains a smiling facade while deciding to bend her clairvoyance to her new master, more in disbelief at his lack of preparation for the Grail War, than for anything else. And sure enough, he is as ignorant to all this as the innocents of Heaven she'd cast to Hell would ever be.

Clucking her tongue, she tilts her head the other way, condescension narrowing her eyes. "Oh, mon petit seigneur chéri, but of course. Allow me to regale you with my wisdom. If you would do us both the favor of looking, you shall see that through our bond, you are aware of my abilities as your Assassin-class Servant. I am all but undetectable to our enemies, and possess powerful alchemical magic, on which note..." she snaps the fingers of her left hand, and produces a small vial filled with some frothing concoction that seems to roll through a variety of ugly colors. She proffers it to the boy. "Do take this, it will inure you to the particular flavor of mana I prefer to employ. I'd hate to see you heaving up those beautiful young organs of yours, so be a dear."

[Suzerain of Sheol]

Sometime later, Emilie awakens with a yawn and pounding headache, but that's no matter, she has Vicodin. Rubbing her eyes, she sits up to see Rupert standing totally motionless over the best damned summoning circle she's ever seen, which says precisely nothing, but she sure is impressed with it. She should... probably... do the ritual before medicating.

Hopping up from the bed, Emilie goes to grab the catalyst, before realizing with a dismay she has no energy to appreciate that she can't remember where she put it. "Ruuuupes," she whines over her shoulder, "did you happen to see where-- oh. Cool, thanks bud." She accepts the cheap plastic dvd case from his outstretched hand and retrieves the disc of die Schwan Prinzessin, inspecting it lazily before determining with no metric whatsoever that it looks serviceable. She hands it back to her skeleton. "Do the honors for me, pal?" His silent dignity nearly brings a tear to her eye... or that's the withdrawal, but whatever.

Rupert places the disc in the precise center of his circle, and Emilie gets herself psyched up. "All right, Rupes, you ready for this ghetto-ass ritual? Hold onto your teeth, bro." He gives her no discernible reaction, and encouraged by his support, she begins the incantation, which may be in some ancient dead language, or is quite possibly total nonsense she's making up on the spot. Regardless, though, her mage crest alights in brilliant green, shining through her clothes and from her exposed skin, nearly her entire body inscribed with necromantic glyphs. She can see herself in the mirror across the room, the tiny runes covering her eyeballs making them glow like she's some kind of wraith. Badass.

"How did it go again? Guardian of the scales, evil in the world, blah blah blah, I want to get hiiiiiigh, spirit of madness, I need a Servant, fuck this headache, abracadabra!"

[Rainbowfox Ari]

Usually, Donovan didn't take drinks from strangers... or drinks at all, to be perfectly honest. Something, though, told him that the lady is on the level. He swiped the vial from her hand, and downed it immediately, making a face at the taste, and shuddering from the magical recoil. He'd known there was magic in his blood - there had to be, at least partially. What he hadn't known was that magic was capable of calling... her.

Once he'd swallowed the acrid stuff, he sighed, and crossed his arms, leaning his weight the left. He picked up the whole 'Bond' thing rather easily, and found that he could skim bits and pieces of information off of what the bond was providing. What he managed to put together was... well, odd. It proved his grandfather had not been a raving lunatic toward the end, at least. It also showed him that grandpa could have never wielded this much power and lived. The Grail had chosen HIM for some reason - although why it waited two and a half generations down the line was anyone's guess. The Holy Grail War - now he knew it existed, and he knew what prize there was to be won. His wish, his deepest desire. At least that was what he could glean.

He could also, now, read the random runic scrawls inside his grandfather's journal. Spells. The wording was right, but the phrasing was wrong. That could be fixed. He glanced around the room in semi-dismay.

"Okay, so apparently I've figured out how to use our Bond to glean just what the hell is going on. Now that I know, I have every intention of winning this War. ... Lady Catherine, right? If I don't miss my Historic Murderers. I think we need to start by increasing our station in life. This apartment is nice, but nowhere near either of our... tastes. There's a little chateau nearby. A delightful little place with a massive garden, and corridors of books. From what I'm able to glean, you devour souls to make you stronger, right?"

Leaning his weight in the other direction, a smirk traveled across his lips. How easily boredom turned to bloodshed. "I'd say a quiet takeover of some fancy lord or lady's mansion fits the bill to test out your powers, don't you think? Once we've got a bigger place, more fitting of both of us... we'll start planning how to take out the others, and win this War."

[Suzerain of Sheol]

Well, at least he's amenable to her suggestions. Though, if that trait extends beyond her alone, it may prove a problem. Even still, more surprising is his idea for their next move. Does he even understand what he's proposing? She certainly doesn't object to a bout of wanton slaughter of the innocent, but this Donovan may well be about to get far more than he bargained for.

Assassin shrugs at him. "Some Servants do. I have neither the ability, nor need, for such sustenance. You will notice I exert almost no toll in mana on you whatever. Only in bright daylight will you feel any strain from my magic, but if it's only weak humans it won't matter regardless. Do mind, though, our bond has weakened me physically, I'm no stronger than you in that regard. With that in mind..." Catherine rolls her wrist, the fanned cards of her Noble Phantasm appearing between her gloved fingers.

"The ritual has provided me with a surplus of mana. Consider this first draw essentially free. Would you care to try your luck, mon bon garçon??"