[Gallagher]

While his servant turned herself into a blur of cleaning and sorting, Erik only watched for a few seconds before heading for the door to their room. With one foot keeping the door from shutting all the way and a hand planted against the door frame, he stretched to grab the very top of one of the chairs he'd set outside an hour before and dragged it back inside. "You're very good at that."

[Suzerain of Sheol]

Smoothing the last crease out of the bedspread, Talhoffer rounds on her Master, bowing in stiff military fashion. "You honor me, Master." She straightens, brushing her hair from her face. "Is there aught else you've need of, or shall we depart now? I must admit, I'm eager to begin."

[Rainbowfox Ari]

"I would not seek to compel you otherwise, Lady." Donovan said smoothly, choosing the home with a sense of finality once he finally decided between the two for-sale estates. "Nor would I presume upon your physical form, if it weren't required. I know very little about this Grail War - only what I've managed to glean from being connected to you. I aim to win - but that does not mean I don't need to take time to plan. Pardon me for a moment."

He held up a finger to Catherine, and got on the phone with the broker, settling on a fair price for the estate he'd chosen, and sealing the deal in minutes, thanks to his influence... and his father's money. They'd be able to move in tomorrow - he'd bought the place furnished. Once that was done, he turned back to Lady Catherine.

"I don't know about you, but I'm jet-lagged, and very tired. I'm going to curl up on the bed and have a nice long nap before dinner. I am not going to compel you too, because I suspect you would anyway... but please keep an eye out and protect me while I snooze some. I'm not entirely sure if you guys sleep, but if you do - wait until I'm awake to do so, so someone's on guard? I'll hire chefs and servants to move in with us when I get up, or tomorrow afternoon - whichever is first."

[Rainbowfox Ari]

Kiki was quite asleep when the lake burst into fire - which woke him up, and a beautiful black horse walked out of it. As well as the horse, the entire knowledge of the Holy Grail War was shoved into his young head, and a fiery pain in his hand and arm showed him that it wasn't a dream. He hated war! Hated, hated, hated! But there was a nice prize. A wish. He did have a wish, and now... now, he had a steed!

Rising, he moved over to where the horse had appeared, and reached up to stroke the soft, fuzzy nose. There was an extra apple in his pants pocket, and he offered it up to what he now knew was a Heroic Spirit. Such a beautiful horse! "I'm gonna call you Midnight." Kiki said, wrapping his arms around a relatively un-spiked part of the horse's frame, and giving him a huge hug. He buried his head into the warm fur, shivering, and giggled. "You really are my noble steed, huh? My drawing came to life." Another couple of giggles, and his energy-drain caught up with him. He managed to lead the horse a small way away... before he just collapsed against him, fast asleep again, murmuring, "My pretty horse. My bestest friend."

[Rainbowfox Ari]

Vik, otherwise known as Victor Frankenstein, was perfectly content hovering in the expansive darkness, deep inside what was called the Creative Void. It was where creations of other people - authors, mostly - relaxed and simply... were. It was hard to explain, and the feeling that flowed through him was hard to place, for sure. But that didn't last as long as he expected it to.

While he was floating there, he heard a voice call out to him - calling both his name, and something else that he didn't quite get. There was a light, then - wrapping around his limbs, tugging and tugging. Of course, he wasn't resisting. He knew nothing of Gods and Beasts up until that moment, and he might have stayed content to have never learned. The knowledge of who he was, and what he was meant to do washed over him like a tidal wave - making it hard to concentrate on any one thing. He almost felt the madness slipping back into place, but grabbed a firm hold of his psyche and told it to behave. His Master - such as it be - was calling him, and he needed to make himself presentable.

Of course, pulling one out of the Creative Void took a vast deal of extra mana, and more than could be wielded without visible effect. Thus, when he arrived from out of the void, it was spectacularly. The papers that had been used to call him were - of course - untouched. But anything else within a five foot radius of the summoning circle that was not living... was fried beyond recognition. That included the tarp underneath him. He came to the world in a great flash of lightning, with the smell of burnt chemicals, hair, and clothing accompanying the sheer blast of mana-charged energy.

He landed in a bit of a crouch, with his hand to the floor to steady himself, and aid his landing. Standing on the ground was new, but came naturally to him - as did speaking for some reason. He didn't yet, turning around to meet the one who would bear his mark. Surely it wasn't that dog? ... With wings. Oh, now that was adorable. He smiled involuntarily, eyes traveling the area before him, until he met the gaze of his Master - or rather, Mistress. She KNEW she was his Mistress, and he knew it too. Hard not to, with that steely gaze.

Putting forth his best manners, he bowed toward her, before straightening up, and blowing a hank of pure-white hair out of his eyes. "Greetings, Master. My name is Victor Frankenstein, but you can call me Vik if it's easier. I will do my best to aid and serve you in whatever way I can. I am the Archer, you are my Mistress, and I obey only you... Might I ask, though..." He crouched, and held his hand out to Mousse. "Who is this adorable little chap?"

[Suzerain of Sheol]

"I'll sleep in the burning tombs of Dis when this is through. Until then, my vigil will be without end. Take your rest, Master. I'll send any who attempt you on a swift flight to Hell." Assassin rather hopes the chance to make good on that promise will present itself. This is already becoming a bore.

[Gallagher]

"Well," Erik said slowly as he considered their list of things to be done for the day. He set the chair back down next to the drawn window curtains before looking back over to her. "If you can get the other chair and table back inside, I'll check us out so we can leave."

[Suzerain of Sheol]

The thought passes the great swordsmistress, that perhaps her Master is taking her role as his Servant somewhat too literally, but she has no objection to obliging, there does not appear to be any pressing threat.

Talhoffer follows Erik out, the heavy door hinging closed behind them. She finds the discarded furniture and rolls the table back to the room, coming to the sudden horrid realization that the door has locked. Her eyes widen in anxious dismay as she tests it again, and yes, it is in fact locked tight. Her Master seems to value orderliness, and it would not do to approach him around other humans without permission. Her options are few, and it is seeming prudent that her course be to hide this grievous error, which will entail rather unknightly behavior.

Checking the hallway for anyone watching, Talhoffer proceeds to the far end and cautiously slides open the window, keeping what she hopes is a mental count of how many rooms she's passed from theirs. The distance to the ground does not dismay her; she is reasonably confident that she could leap the dozen stories below with no ill effect, but she was never the best climber in her life before.

There is no balcony, and almost nothing to grip, and it is with some consternation that the newly-summoned Saber climbs out on the sill, searching for purchase. Of course, there's little to find.

"I'd not thought my first trial would be of such a nature, but all is as the Lord wills." Securing her belt, the lithe woman crosses herself and leaps from the sill toward the next room over.

And overshoots somewhat, passing five or six, instead, but thankfully catching hold. She is not quite used to this.

Judging her next jump more carefully, she's nearly startled into a plummet by a piercing feminine scream from the other side of the window. Talhoffer jumps frantically away even as the silhouette of a large and nude man is leaping from its bed to investigate.

"By the Saint, what have I gotten myself into?" she mumbles, attempting to peer into what she believes is their hotel room. Deciding against all precedent to trust her luck, Talhoffer awkwardly unsheathes her sword and levers the window open with the tip, rolling inside with a sigh of relief. No one immediately leaps to arms to confront her.

Jamming her sword under the damnable door, Saber rapidly finishes her task and hurries down to the lobby to meet her Master, hoping the flush in her cheeks will go unnoticed.

[Gallagher]

s l o w l y


drops fell

plip plip

beneath a moonless sky

plip

disappearing into dark waters

plip

undisturbed

plip

nothing

plip

no one

plip

dexsxxoxxxlxxxxaxxxxxtxxxxxxixxxxxxxoxxxxxxxxn

plip

plip


plip

A rustle of feathers.

plip

Light broke.


With naught but endless waters above and below, misery draped endlessly across both earth and heavens, the first moon of the ages rose. Its light, glimmering off of still waters, blinded the solitary queen. Wings spread, and fingers that were once feathers covered her face. The silence

silence of all

plip

all but her breaths

plip

and water

plip

The flesh beneath the thin sheet of her skin writhed, every inch burned with that cold light. She hid from it, hid behind long, delicate fingers as her chest heaved, as she fell

and she

screamed

as her knees hit not her black waters, but wood, the hard wood of a floor that caught her with a resounding thud and echoed the shriek that tore from her throat. And with the sound came a wave of magic, rising and bursting from under her kneeling form.

Then, in the mere breath it took for the Queen to appear — for her magic to break over the room, to throw aside anything and everything it met to crash against the walls — soft footfalls appeared on either side of her, unheard against her cries.

Two more figures shimmered into being, rippled and shining like reflections upon the water until they were as whole as their Queen. Figures identical in every way but for the hue of their eyes. They stood apart from one another, but brushed hand to hand and finger to finger in mirrored arabesque. Together, they folded, no sooner letting their feet touch the floor that they drew close to one another.

"Pitiful," one said as wails turned into ugly sobs.

"A tragedy," the other agreed.

Neither looked at the woman on the floor.

[Suzerain of Sheol]

Now, she isn't totally sure -- magic is a very complicated process, after all -- but she has two hypotheses: either it worked perfectly, or something has gone horribly horribly wrong. Slumped against the door, and not totally sure how she got there, her hair either standing on end or singed off her head, cause she can't see it and that would seriously suck, Emilie is very slowly trying to piece together exactly what her next move should be. Not as slowly as poor Rupert is trying to piece himself back together from every corner of the room and possibly out the window too, but...

Okay, she thinks she has step one figured out. Her supplies on her belt seem miraculously intact, so she retrieves a pair of syringes, one empty and the other loaded with the amazing gift of God that is heroin. It's a little awkward without a tourniquet, but that's hardly going to stop her now is it? She fishes around for a vein until blood flashes in the chamber, then with the deft hands of a master druggie, swaps it out, hammering that fucker into her bloodstream because she can literally not even deal right now.

A minute or twenty probably go by with Emilie twitching and whimpering her happy sounds, but that's okay. Everything is super okay now. Once she's ready, she pushes herself to her feet with a grin, swaying back and forth but not quite toppling over. Nope, there it goes. Swaying back and forth on her knees now, that's cool, IT'S COOL PEOPLE, SHE'S COOL! She giggles a little. A lot.

She decides to sit back against the door again. That was a good spot. Okay, okay, here she goes, she's gonna do it. "Hey babes." Does that sound flirty? They're pretty hawt. She'd go for it. Maybe not right as this second, though. "You know what's lit?" She tells them the answer. "Meeeee. Aww yeahs, little Mousie's lit as fuck. Anyway, howzit? I've got some coke somewhere, oh wait you probably spilled it. That's cool. Booze is in the fridge. I'm just, uh, I'm just gonna sit here for a minute. You be cool, now. All... three of you. Swag. Blaze it."

She faints.

[Quiet Man Cometh]

“Strategies? Outside of bribing the others to go home?” He examines a rich gold blouse before finding something minute wrong with it and drops it half onto the rack before sweeping to the next display, a trail of discarded fare behind him being picked up by the flock the poet has already managed to gather. “I’d as soon hear what you have to say about it, -do you mind? “Byron hands the vessel a garment he has deemed acceptable. “I find this shop rather lackluster…perhaps the clothier across the street?”

Byron moves through the walkways and alleys with little thought to the actual direction of traffic, maintaining at least half a conversation as he peruses stores, greets ladies and no few men, and overall takes in Avignon’s “demeanor.” The collection of bags and packages grows steadily. “I find it difficult to think of a sound approach without first getting to know something of substance about our competition. Satire means nothing if it can’t hit what it is aiming at.”

[Quiet Man Cometh]

The fountain roared, gouts of blood rushing the faucets and raining down over Henri and the figure that crashed into the concrete basin, nearly toppling the assassin. Coughing and hacking up blood that may or may not have been his, the figure in blood drenched robes stood and looked about madly for his “master.” The fountain stopped.

[Suzerain of Sheol]

Andreas elects to continue their discussion via telepathy, though his Servant's gathering harem appears to draw more eyes -- and bodies, for that matter -- than the sight of the insensate child that the Dead Apostle embodies.

"Your strengths seem to favor seduction and chaos over direct confrontation. I would suggest that you target the enemy Masters and overwhelm them quickly with your Mystic Eyes. This vessel will suffice to distract opposing Servants, except perhaps for Saber if a strong Heroic Spirit has taken the role."

Andreas chooses to ignore Byron's indulgent ramblings, continuing, "Further, I would advise you take stock of your magics. Not every enemy will be susceptible to your charms."

[Suzerain of Sheol]

It is time.

Seven noble souls have filled the seven vessels of the Grail. Soon, these ancient streets will run with the blood of mages. Death with glorify those who fall, and the divine endowment of God on earth will crown the victor. It is her honor to facilitate this tribulation. Beneath her auspice, they will strive, and suffer, and die, and in so doing kindle the holy spirit anew in the sacred soil of France.

Rising with imperious grace, Ruler's hand extends forth, surges of godlike mana leaping like lighting from the Command Seals sheathing her arm. Her voice reechoes a thousandfold from the palace vaults.

"By my supreme Command and the authority of the celestial Father, I, Charlemagne, Empress of Saints, do hereby forbid each Servant and Master from meeting in violence until I declare the commencement of this war. You will arrive in my court three hours after dawn on the second day to treat and parley, and from the thence the battle shall begin. This is my decree."

[Suzerain of Sheol]

Macbeth's first sense on returning to life is not unlike the last on which he left it: the sour tang of blood, though blessedly not his own. He is drenched in it, but that is only fitting. Climbing from the basin to stand before the one who summoned him, the tyrant is unsure what to think of the man, though he has the aura of one well-used to murder. They should get along famously. Or well enough, at least.

Without uttering a single word, Macbeth sembles into his newfound demon form, partly to dry himself off and partly to test his Master's reaction. Sparks of dark green mana crackle in the air around him.

[Gallagher]

It was with a mighty bolt and a veritable typhoon of mana that Lucienne's servant appeared. A crackle and burn of magical energy that ate straight through the tarp she'd laid down and left an array of branching scorch marks on the floor. Unfortunate, but nothing, she hoped, that laying down that poor imitation rug wouldn't cover.

Neither Luci nor her familiar seemed particularly impressed by the man's entrance, despite the start it gave Mousse. And, despite that start, Mousse wasn't particularly hesitant about approaching the man's hand when it was offered.

Luci did her best not to sigh.

"That would be my familiar. You'll be seeing a lot of one another. I assume that won't be a problem?"