Fate/Undertow

[LupineVolt]

"The water in a vessel is sparkling; the water in the sea is dark. The small truth has words which are clear; the great truth has great silence."
...........................................................................– Rabindranath Tagore
​

The year is 1934, and Fuyuki city is in flames.

Lancer ran along the riverbank, a long, golden battleaxe held in one hand, leaving a deep gouge in the street behind her. Under her other arm was Hifumi Tohsaka, having abandoned dignity out of necessity.

<Can you make it?!> Trying to be heard over the roar of the wind was futile. Thankfully, Masters and Servants had other ways of keeping in contact with one another.

<I will need to set you down, Master. I cannot charge at their vessel, attack, and keep you safe all at once.> He couldn't make out her expression, with her face hidden by the horsehair helmet. But she was the one who would be doing the charging, after all.

<Then do it. If they reach the open sea, we'll never catch them.>

The world lurched to a stop as Lancer deposited her Master on the riverbank. A moment later, she was gone, a golden blur against the devastated city. Hifumi, woozy from the sudden deacceleration, leaned against the harbormaster's office and watched their quarry.

It was an unusual vessel, almost like a tiny galley. Four oars went at the river with astonishing speed, churning the water white around it, moving faster than any coal burning vessel could ever dream. Its owner stood at the rear, his great, muscular bulk doing nothing to upset the balance of the speeding craft. The rest was covered with a canopy, undoubtedly hiding his Master and their plunder.

Lancer reached the banks and broke across the river, throwing up a fine spray of white in her wake. Rider turned as he felt her approach, weapon materializing in his hands. This would have to be decided in a single strike.

"By my command seal, Lancer, stri-" Hifumi held up one clenched fist before something small and heavy slammed into his shoulders. The Tohsaka champion was flattened to the ground, nose bloodied after making contact with the street. Someone gripped him by his hair and yanked his head up. Through the pain, he could see the golden figure on the water and the fleeing vessel. He tried to croak something out to Lancer.

"Zabaniya-Cyber Phantasy" A small thumb came around and touched the center of his forehead, and then Hifumi's world vanished in a bright, hot flash.

Hassan stood from the remains of the Tohsaka heir, and watched as, on the water, Lancer's speed failed her. The armored woman stumbled and slipped beneath the surface. A moment later, she resurfaced, helmet discarded, desparately paddling after the Rider's vessel. Eventually, she faded away, swallowed by the river, a brief starburst of mana that vanished back to the Throne of Heroes.

The Rider thought to flee Fuyuki? A foolish strategy. Even if they escaped, they would have to return eventually, would they not? This was the place the Holy Grail rested, after all.

And so Hassan left to report to his Master. With the Tohsaka family eliminated, the rest of the war would be far, far simpler.

---

Sixty years passed. Fuyuki was rebuilt, and the destruction faded away into a simple talking point for tourists. Without anyone realizing it, Fuyuki had become a perfectly normal city. The people living there had perfectly mundane lives, and would never again be put in harm's way by uncaring mages.

For most, the Holy Grail Wars passed into irrelevance. A brief, interesting footnote in the history of magecraft.

Yet here you are.

Dawn is rising on the Pacific Ocean, throwing the horizon into a mixture of yellow and red. The stars to the west were fading out, one by one.

You've almost reached your destination. You can feel it, tugging at the brand that marked you as Master. Any moment, you'll see it on the horizon. And then the real work can begin.

​

 

[TenfoldShields]

Then
The grand ballroom was empty. The polished wooden floors swept and cleared. The homunculi dismissed to line the halls outside, stone-faced and still.

Inside was just the two of them, wrapped in the warm glow of the lamps. A great scarlet sigil stretching out at their feet, still slick and gleaming in the gaslight. In the distance the crash of waves. The restless heaving of the sea. The deck beneath their boots rose and fell by half a foot as the Naglfar crested a swell.

Theodoric Isenberg Yggdmillennia clapped his compatriot on the shoulder. His laugh a boisterous thing. Quite loud, natural to his size. He was a large man after all, in the shoulders and the stomach both. His formed paunch pressed against immaculate white cloth of his coat, shaking with the force of his mirth. The golden buttons straining alarmingly. Too pleased to notice or care about the faint, involuntary scowl that quirked the corners of his companion's mouth.

"I say my boy, you have done fine work! Very fine work. Dear Darnic will be most pleased! Most pleased indeed."

"Yes." The reply was curt. The other man, the significantly younger man, was Theodoric's contrast in nearly every way. Skin deeply tanned where his elder was pale-pink. Lean and muscled where the senior Magus was soft and rotund. Dark hair shorn close to the scalp, practicality against Theodoric's flowing, luxurious vanity.

Jagged crimson tattoos peeked past the cuff of his sleeve. Skin stretched tight over his clenched fist. Silence fell between the pair. Indulgent affability pitted against frozen politeness. The inked skin stretched tighter, whitening at the peaks of the knuckles. A second. His grip relaxed. No, no it wouldn't do to be in a sullen mood like some skulking child. Theodoric's detestability aside the supercilious swine (Darnic-may-I pfa) had no real role here. No real part to play now. He was a watcher, a handler, but this moment? This was his.

The moment that Jahangir Safavi Yggdmillennia brought glory to the tree of a thousand realms.

Jahangir knelt without prompting. Theodoric discretely stepped back, clearing the space. A moment to center himself. A perfunctory second. He knew the words by heart, they leapt to his tongue.

"Silver and iron," he said "Alighted wind becomes a wall."

The space within the summoning circle began to...flex. The air began to roil. Somewhere between heat distortion and agitated water. Mana gathering, energy coalescing, ruffling his hair as it passed. Flowing into the spinning, cycling clot in the center.

"Fill and seal, one of the seven. Fill and seal, shatter the path. I am your anchor. I entrust my fate to your sword. Answer the Holy Grail's call, answer my call."

Glass shattered. Naked flames guttered. Portholes cracked one after the other, splinters of glass flying. The scent of the sea. The reek of salt. Shadows looming at the edges, sapphire fire burning in the core. Rising and clawing and feeding, the flames barely contained. Jahangir's voice rose above the keening wind, the rising gale. A strong, clarion shout.

"Pledge your true name, I offer my oath!"

Light ignites, pure and painful-bright. Jahangir grits his teeth and squints his eyes. Tears trickling down his cheek. In too much pain to look. Too unwilling to look away.

Slowly, mercifully, the light begins to fade. The white hot embers dying away until only the dark remains.

His Servant arrives. Space where there was once nothing solidifies, sizzling power condensing into material form. He arrives kneeling, rising to his feet in one smooth movement, stretching the kinks out of his newly-formed muscles. Vertebrae clicking section by section. Fingers and toes flexing, each tipped in a claw like an obsidian chip. Scales the colour of ink armour his hands and feet like gauntlets and boots, the natural protection thinning as it rises up his limbs. Turning to artful swirls of darkness across bright scarlet skin, stretched over an athletically-muscled frame. To Jahangir's rapidly-mounting horror, his brand-new Servant is in fact entirely naked. His scales are the only thing preserving even a modicum of modesty.

A reptilian tail waves languidly between his legs, idly curling around his armoured shin. The Servant stretches, groaning with satisfaction has he limbers up. He rolls his neck, the glossy onyx horns curling from his forehead scything through the air like a pair of hooked daggers. When he opens his eyes he reveals sclera as black as pitch, irises even redder than his skin, bright enough to glow. His lips part to reveal fangs. Curiosity flits across his inhumanly handsome features as he looks down at his Master. Thoughts cross behind his eyes, notions Jahangir can only guess at. A smile slowly spreads across his face, wide and revealing far too much of his fangs to be reassuring.

"I ask of you, are you to be my Master?"

The grand, epic moment, carefully rehearsed in the private confines of Jahangir's thoughts, entertained at length in the quiet hours since his Seals appeared doesn't so much peter out as get unceremoniously knifed and rolled into a ditch.

The man slowly pushed himself to his feet. Ignoring Theodoric's soft "Oh my" as he stood straight. Ignoring the flush climbing in his cheeks, clamping down on rising frustration with manacles of cold professionalism. Ignoring the instinctive, roiling revulsion that climbed in his throat and the twinge that tugged his gut as he eyed the Servant -his Servant- from taloned toe to curving horn. Ignoring the bitter, pitiful thoughts that chattered in his head.

A Saber! A Lancer! A dragonblooded hero, flush with ancient power! After everything wasn't he owed at least that? Wasn't he owed something in exchange for what he had sacrificed? Something more than this...this beastly marriage of the alluring and the profane.

Nails bit into the heel of his palm.

No.

No he wasn't.

He wasn't entitled to anything.

All suffering was caused not by malign chance but by human insufficiency. He was not insufficient. He would succeed, whatever the burdens laid upon him.

"Yes." Jahangir said. His words flat, almost emotionless. "I am."

The smile remains on Assassin's face. What he finds so amusing is for him and him alone. His eyes seem to slowly peel away the layers of Jahangir, idly inspecting what he finds underneath. He tilts his head, the movement almost coquettish, and lets out a little chuckle.

"Mm. Not quite as ready as you might have hoped, I don't think," he remarks. "But don't fret. We'll soon fix that. Let the contract be sealed, Master."

Now
The stateroom was, in a word, luxurious. Wood paneling, soft rugs, a four postered bed. The Reinforced windows to the outside were open, the sea breeze wafting through. An aromatic accompaniment to the rising sun.

Jahangir laid flat on his back, dark circles under his eyes and a faintly nauseous expression on his face. His underclothes were damp with cold sweat. The sheets clinking to bare skin. Light pulsed along his right hand. Tracing it's way up swollen veins, vanishing into the meat of his arm. He wordlessly clenched his fist. Focusing for a moment. The blue-green glow winked out. After a few seconds the outlines of blood vessels faded as well. Slowly, he closed his eyes.

A minute passed. Two.

He opened his eyes.

He sat up with a sigh, swinging his feet over the side of the bed. Hands outstretched, steadying himself for a moment as the deck rolled beneath his feet. Rubbing his face he crossed to the bathroom. A second of bleary fumbling and then he was cupping cold water in his palms, rinsing away the worst of the sleep. Freshly invigorated (for a given value of invigorated) he returned to his room and the dresser therein. Crisply folded clothes within. A set of matching uniforms. He pulled a pair of slacks, socks, fresh underclothes, a gold-trimmed military jacket. Things that, all told, wouldn't have been terribly out of place in the great European courts at the turn of the century.

"Watching me sleep is one thing. Do you plan on watching me get changed as well?" He didn't turn around. He didn't have to.

@ZerbanDaGreat

 

[ZerbanDaGreat]

"Yes."

The voice swooped lazily from the armchair in the corner of the bedroom. An armchair that was very pointedly empty when Jahangir saw it last. Assassin lounged in it, tail draped over the armrest. Closing his eyes and enjoying the scent of the salty air through the open windows briefly.

"A Servant must be constantly vigilant, you see." The chair creaked as he shifted his weight. "I have to guard you against any possible attackers. Protect your virtue. Things such as that. Your group has excellent design sensibilities, I must say. You look very dashing in that jacket."

He stood and strolled over to the window, claws clicking on the floor, and leaned against the sill. "Sleep well?"

@TenfoldShields

 

[Revlid]

Grigori's ears pricked at the delicate chime from within the boat, and he stood from his hunched, half-dozing slump at the bow. The night air was crisp and chill, and if it wasn't midnight it was close – he'd timed this well. Stretching to a chorus of cracking old joints, he stomped inside, ducking under and through the baleen string-beads hanging from the door's arch.

The light was a soft, watery luminescence, easy on the night vision. Moving through a rudimentary kitchen filled with mismatched crockery, he paused to check a device hanging from one wall. It resembled an antique pendulum barometer, right down to the mercury bulging inside a tall glass tube – but its acid-etched measurements corresponded to no common notation of pressure, and additions like the central constellation dial and circumference of planet-tipped clock-hands would have raised eyes at any naval society.

The device measured atmospheric mana, its star-sealed wax cap forming a spiritual Torricellian vacuum that forced the cocktail of blood and mercury within to rise and fall. By this reading, the boat was now in proximity to a truly potent leyline. He'd arrived – well within range for the conjuration.

The sea swelled below, but the mercury remained steady as mechanisms within the Goethe device shifted to perfectly compensate. Satisfied, Grigori delicately reset the bell which alerted him and tucked the device under one arm. Scratching a beard shot through with grey and white, he moved further toward the stern of the ship, to a sealed door. It took several moments to handle the locks, and then he shuffled inside, setting the device down on a desk lined with tools that at once suggested a car mechanic's garage and a surgeon's practice.

One swift tug removed the tarpaulin draped over the centre of the room to reveal a summoning circle, a closed logarithmic spiral carefully inked onto the floor, its curves divided into seven nautilus-like chambers each filled with a different glyph. A cheap plastic pouch was retrieved from one pocket of his waterproof trousers, the tarnished metal inside clinking as he gripped it. He took a moment to centre himself, focusing on the stigmata occupying the back of that hand, and emptied his mind. Spiritual evocation was nowhere near his specialty, but this ritual was supposed to be extremely basic. He'd even waited to enjoy the assistance of the thaumaturgical territory itself.

With a sharp breath, he'd opened his circuits, still waters disturbed into ripples from below, and a bare trickle of prana moved through the dormant Command Seal into the waiting circle. The reaction was immediate and violent, like a drop of acid hitting a powdered base, as the lines of the circle shone with a distant, powerful light. Squinting against the sudden brightness, every scar and wrinkle picked out in the harsh light, Grigori poured his words into the imaginary cauldron.

"Toestaan zilubra iyi isarn, werthan kern. Toestaan steien iyi eth, werthan romp."

A figure began to coalesce within the circle, like fireflies gathering into a genderless mannequin.

"Thuro middefan pridjo-stam. Thuro middefan sivun-baan."

Motes of light piled together with each passing, broadening the shoulders, piling on the height.

"Ik zal ondugeth te omarmen. Ik zal himil te raken."

Features emerged, a nose, a brow, fingers, clothes, white-hot clay moulded by some invisible hand.

"Mijn lot vurtruwi-van-uw krakt. Vuw gidrag vurtruwi-van-mijn wunsk."

Colours washed in, the blinding flush of life to a long-dead legend, material textures scabbing over the molten spiritual core.

"Voortkweman, aan kring. Voortkweman, aan werold. Voortkweman, Dionaar!"

The glow of the summoning circle cut off, in a silent instant, and Grigori's Servant stood there. The ritual's consumption of mana had dropped the ambient temperature, and in the sudden dark and chill he seemed a grim image, a spectre suited to herding lost souls through foggy nights. A long velvet coat hung off his broad-shouldered frame, over what might have once been a uniform, long-since blackened and bruised.

The spirit took a step forward, countless weapons clattering on his chest and inside his coat, knee-length boots reverberating on the metal floor. Another step and he loomed over Grigori. Slowly, deliberately, he reached up and removed his wide-brim hat, revealing a face like a frostbitten slab of iron. His mouth twitched, once, beneath a thick beard tied into countless strange knots.

"Servant Rider," he finally rasped, voice cold and hollow, and offered a rigid half-bow before donning his cap once more, expressionless. "State your name, rank and purpose."

It was a curt command, the dispassionate and mechanical words of a business that needed to be concluded, and Grigori's brow crinkled slightly. The attitude wasn't what he might have expected. According to the materials he'd rummaged through, the customary call-and-response for finalizing the contract was 'I ask of you, are you my Master'. Still, 'name, rank and purpose' seemed a decent substitute.

That understood, the magus fell back on a youth spent alongside seafaring officers of all stripes. Such engagements were practically a contest to see who could be more terse.

"Name?" He huffed, breath clouding in the now-cold air. "Grigori Gorizia Grensan. The rest should be obvious. My rank... is Master. My purpose is the Grail."

He raised his left hand, half-formed seals straining to take proper shape, an embryonic crest struggling beneath the skin, just waiting for the contract to be finalized.

"We have an accord?"

@The Out Of World

 

[The Out Of World]

Grigori's ears pricked at the delicate chime from within the boat, and he stood from his hunched, half-dozing slump at the bow. The night air was crisp and chill, and if it wasn't midnight it was close – he'd timed this well. Stretching to a chorus of cracking old joints, he stomped inside, ducking under and through the baleen string-beads hanging from the door's arch.

The light was a soft, watery luminescence, easy on the night vision. Moving through a rudimentary kitchen filled with mismatched crockery, he paused to check a device hanging from one wall. It resembled an antique pendulum barometer, right down to the mercury bulging inside a tall glass tube – but its acid-etched measurements corresponded to no common notation of pressure, and additions like the central constellation dial and circumference of planet-tipped clock-hands would have raised eyes at any naval society.

The device measured atmospheric mana, its star-sealed wax cap forming a spiritual Torricellian vacuum that forced the cocktail of blood and mercury within to rise and fall. By this reading, the boat was now in proximity to a truly potent leyline. He'd arrived – well within range for the conjuration.

The sea swelled below, but the mercury remained steady as mechanisms within the Goethe device shifted to perfectly compensate. Satisfied, Grigori delicately reset the bell which alerted him and tucked the device under one arm. Scratching a beard shot through with grey and white, he moved further toward the stern of the ship, to a sealed door. It took several moments to handle the locks, and then he shuffled inside, setting the device down on a desk lined with tools that at once suggested a car mechanic's garage and a surgeon's practice.

One swift tug removed the tarpaulin draped over the centre of the room to reveal a summoning circle, a closed logarithmic spiral carefully inked onto the floor, its curves divided into seven nautilus-like chambers each filled with a different glyph. A cheap plastic pouch was retrieved from one pocket of his waterproof trousers, the tarnished metal inside clinking as he gripped it. He took a moment to centre himself, focusing on the stigmata occupying the back of that hand, and emptied his mind. Spiritual evocation was nowhere near his specialty, but this ritual was supposed to be extremely basic. He'd even waited to enjoy the assistance of the thaumaturgical territory itself.

With a sharp breath, he'd opened his circuits, still waters disturbed into ripples from below, and a bare trickle of prana moved through the dormant Command Seal into the waiting circle. The reaction was immediate and violent, like a drop of acid hitting a powdered base, as the lines of the circle shone with a distant, powerful light. Squinting against the sudden brightness, every scar and wrinkle picked out in the harsh light, Grigori poured his words into the imaginary cauldron.

"Toestaan zilubra iyi isarn, werthan kern. Toestaan steien iyi eth, werthan romp."

A figure began to coalesce within the circle, like fireflies gathering into a genderless mannequin.

"Thuro middefan pridjo-stam. Thuro middefan sivun-baan."

Motes of light piled together with each passing, broadening the shoulders, piling on the height.

"Ik zal ondugeth te omarmen. Ik zal himil te raken."

Features emerged, a nose, a brow, fingers, clothes, like white-hot clay moulded by some invisible hand.

"Mijn lot vurtruwi-van-uw krakt. Vuw gidrag vurtruwi-van-mijn wunsk."

Colours washed in, the blinding flush of life to a long-dead legend, material textures scabbing over the molten spiritual core.

"Voortkweman, aan kring. Voortkweman, aan werold. Voortkweman, Dionaar!"

The glow of the summoning circle cut off, in a silent instant, and Grigori's Servant stood there. The ritual's consumption of mana had dropped the ambient temperature, and in the sudden dark and chill he seemed a grim image, a spectre suited to herding lost souls through foggy nights. A long velvet coat hung off his broad-shouldered frame, over what might have once been a uniform, long-since blackened and bruised.

The spirit took a step forward, countless weapons clattering on his chest and inside his coat, knee-length boots reverberating on the metal floor. Another step and he loomed over Grigori. Slowly, deliberately, he reached up and removed his wide-brim hat, revealing a face like a frostbitten slab of iron. His mouth twitched, once, beneath a thick beard tied into countless strange knots.

"Servant Rider," he finally rasped, voice cold and hollow, and offered a rigid half-bow before donning his cap once more, expressionless. "State your name, rank and purpose."

It was a curt command, the dispassionate and mechanical words of a business that needed to be concluded, and Grigori's brow crinkled slightly. The attitude wasn't what he might have expected. According to the materials he'd rummaged through, the customary call-and-response for finalizing the contract was 'I ask of you, are you my Master'. Still, 'name, rank and purpose' seemed a decent substitute.

That understood, the magus fell back on a youth spent alongside seafaring officers of all stripes. Such engagements were practically a contest to see who could be more terse.

"Name?" He huffed, breath clouding in the now-cold air. "Grigori Gorizia Grensan. The rest should be obvious. My rank... is Master. My purpose is the Grail."

He raised his left hand, half-formed seals straining to take proper shape, an embryonic crest struggling beneath the skin, just waiting for the contract to be finalized.

"We have an accord?"

@The Out Of World

Click to shrink...

"Aye." Rider's words, rough and simple, scraped at walls of the room with a scratchy echo as a surge of power crackled between the two and snapped the bond between Master and Servant into place. With no purpose for further conversation apparent, the Servant wordlessly drifted his attention away from Grigori and marched toward the room's exit, toward air and away from the confines of soulless metal, shifting into Astral Form to phase through the door and emerge on the other side in full physicality.

The summoned Heroic Spirit marched from the stern to the bow with pure economy of motion, never wasting so much as a step. He surveyed the horizon, and more importantly, the stars, with eyes that pierced the world with cruel sharp analysis.

He stood out there, observing the sea in absolute silence. A man alone with his thoughts, alone with the world of lapping waves and glimmering stars.

 

[TenfoldShields]

"Yes."

The voice swooped lazily from the armchair in the corner of the bedroom. An armchair that was very pointedly empty when Jahangir saw it last. Assassin lounged in it, tail draped over the armrest. Closing his eyes and enjoying the scent of the salty air through the open windows briefly.

"A Servant must be constantly vigilant, you see." The chair creaked as he shifted his weight. "I have to guard you against any possible attackers. Protect your virtue. Things such as that. Your group has excellent design sensibilities, I must say. You look very dashing in that jacket."

He stood and strolled over to the window, claws clicking on the floor, and leaned against the sill. "Sleep well?"

Click to shrink...

"I am more than able to supply you if that's your concern."

Stripping down, peeling damp fabric from tanned flesh. Geometric tattoos exposed to the air for a moment, angular and jagged; lines of formalcraft intersecting with faintly smouldering circuits, mana-laced tissue burning deep beneath the skin. Jahangir donned his uniform with quick, practiced motions. Seals shining as he fastened his buttons. Scars stretching over his knuckles as he adjusted his collar. A moment to check himself in the mirror. Serious eyes stared back. Hollowed out and hungry. The ghost of stubble clinging to his jaw and chin, long enough to be an inconvenience and not worth shaving. For now all it did was highlight the sharp lines of his face.

...He really should eat.

"In any case," he said, turning to the Servant, "Assassin is noted as being one of the most mana-efficient of Classes. It shouldn't be a problem regardless."

A pause. Jahangir sighed and averted his eyes from the mostly-nude demon currently leaning out the window like a dog.

"We're landing today. Theodoric will want to speak with me, to make final preparations. You should accompany me."

@ZerbanDaGreat

 

[ZerbanDaGreat]

"I am more than able to supply you if that's your concern."

Stripping down, peeling damp fabric from tanned flesh. Geometric tattoos exposed to the air for a moment, angular and jagged; lines of formalcraft intersecting with faintly smouldering circuits, mana-laced tissue burning deep beneath the skin. Jahangir donned his uniform with quick, practiced motions. Seals shining as he fastened his buttons. Scars stretching over his knuckles as he adjusted his collar. A moment to check himself in the mirror. Serious eyes stared back. Hollowed out and hungry. The ghost of stubble clinging to his jaw and chin, long enough to be an inconvenience and not worth shaving. For now all it did was highlight the sharp lines of his face.

...He really should eat.

"In any case," he said, turning to the Servant, "Assassin is noted as being one of the most mana-efficient of Classes. It shouldn't be a problem regardless."

A pause. Jahangir sighed and averted his eyes from the mostly-nude demon currently leaning out the window like a dog.

"We're landing today. Theodoric will want to speak with me, to make final preparations. You should accompany me."

@ZerbanDaGreat

Click to shrink...

Assassin chuckled. "It was just an innocent question! Why so defensive? I already know about the classes. The Grail told me. As well as plenty of other interesting things, but that's neither here nor there. Unless we're feeling testy because perhaps we were hoping for a Saber? Oh well. I'm sure a smart young man like yourself will think of all sorts of effective strategies for us."

The Servant exhaled slowly, lacing his clawed fingers together and stretching until the joints clicked. He leaned back, propping himself up on the windowsill with his armoured elbows, the sunlight and sea spray across his scarlet shoulders. The tips of his horns gleamed in the light as if polished.

"Of course I'll be accompanying you. What would I do otherwise? Sit in the bathroom and play with the faucet?"

Assassin had already done this while Jahangir was asleep.

"Oh, and ask Theodoric if I can have a uniform like yours!" he added. "I want to look dashing too."

@TenfoldShields

 

[IKnowNothing]

The captain drummed his fingers on the wheel of his ship, trying desperately to ignore the sight in front of him.

The old sailor had been through a lot in his life. Walked out of Vietnam, his brother made it through Korea, and his son was enjoying a fantastic life in America. All in all, the old sailer was content just using his connections and helping out his old war friends. Of course, helping out those war friends ended up with him in charge of a ship that carried some, questionable cargo. Nothing as bad as human trafficking, but nothing as innocent as simple exotic spices either.

The ship itself was a proud vessel that held a crew of thirty, strong loyal men that would give their lives for the good of each other like the great crews of old. A few of the men joked that they were the second coming of the argonauts, but such a thing only served to fill the young one's heads with illusions of grandeur. Never the less, the captain was proud of the adventures the crew had made it through, and the jobs they had managed to pull off.

You'd think with a strong crew, and an equally strong captain would be able to take almost any job and not even bat an eye. Well, you'd be right. So why? Why did the captain feel so damn terrified when he looked at his current employer.

She wasn't tall, only about five and a half feet with pink hair, crimson eyes and skin paler then the Arctic snow. She wore a red and yellow jacket along with a set of jeans that defiantly weren't made for sea travel. She had a golden handbag and, if the captain was speaking plainly, the innocence of a newborn. She paced the deck of the ship, jumping and twitching each time she saw one of the crew.

It was the strangest thing, the crew was supposed to have the week off. But this girl tracks them down and gives them an offer. Follow a map to the middle of no where ocean for a little over five million dollars. When he had gotten the offer, the captain was to surprised to say anything. Little girls didn't make this kind of money, they could, but those kind of woman were strong, not fidgeting collage girls. The captain never really questioned it, where she got the money from doesn't matter, the fact that she was paying them did.

So the crew instantly set sail from London's many harbors before heading along the way to the location their new employer drew out. The captain rolled his eyes and took a drink from the liquor he always kept in a flask on his person. He checked the coordinates himself, there was nothing but open ocean for hundreds of miles.

But this was the biggest paying job the men had gotten in a long time, so the Captain wasn't allowed to say no. What really bothered the old man wasn't the destination, it was the employer. She looked, like a girl in over her head. But every time the captain had talked to her, he always felt something. A presence, a shimmering power so great that it unlocked some primal fear in the captain. The girls name, was Amelia Trueheart, and if she was human, she had a titan watching over her every move.

On the deck of the ship, Amy jumped out of the way as yet another sailor walked passed her. She shivered from her own nervous nature before running to the bow of the ship. As soon as she was there, she marveled at the view. The entire ocean was open before her. Amy had never seen anything like this, always working in her workshop in London.

Amy let out a laugh and brushed a strand of hair out of her field of vision "This is amazing, have you ever seen anything like this Berserker?"

@Deadly Snark

 

[Deadly Snark]

Amy let out a laugh and brushed a strand of hair out of her field of vision "This is amazing, have you ever seen anything like this Berserker?"

Click to shrink...

"It is a shame, but I cannot say that I have my Lord, my duty had always kept me too busy for anything more than the simple pleasures in life. Though even if I had gotten the time, I wouldn't have been able to, there were no ships like this one in my days." Came the answer from Berserker, his voice melancholic and wishful.

There was no way for the Captain to know, but he was completely correct. There was indeed someone shadowing the steps of his client. Fortunately for him, he was unable to actually perceive the Warrior, as Berserker was currently in ethereal form, for if he could, he likely would have started heading for the lifeboats. A giant Asian man clad in ornate heavy armor and carrying immense weaponry, bare arms and legs bulging with muscles, and all of it topped with a wild mane of hair blowing in the wind is a sight that no one wants to see. Especially if said man looked like he was displeased with you.

Berserker had been ill at ease ever since they had first boarded this ship. He did not trust a single member of this crew. No man whose help could be bought was trustworthy, such shifting loyalty could easily be swayed against his lord. His lord had assured him that everything would be alright, and while he certainly trusted her judgement, that did not stop him from his vigil. It did not stop him from looming over everyone as he observed the sailors scurrying about on the ship. Just waiting for one person to slip up. Just waiting for an excuse.

As of now he had caught sight of nothing wrong, that could change rapidly, but that was fine he could wait. He briefly entertained the idea of taking physical shape for a moment, in order to gauge their reactions and actions. It would certainly be a enlightening experience. However, he quickly dismissed that idea. While it would no doubt give him the information he desired, it was true that his Lord still needed these people to take her to her destination. His presence, even if lasted only for a second, would no doubt impact their abilities to perform their task. That was unacceptable. So yes, he could wait, at the end he had the advantage in this sort of situation.

But his Lord did not. "My Lord" Began Berserker softly. "I do not wish to presume, but perhaps you should go back to your cabin and rest up. I have gathered from the men that there is still a great deal of distance before we reach our destination. Today has been a long day for you already, you should replenish your strength before doing anything else."

 

[TenfoldShields]

Assassin chuckled. "It was just an innocent question! Why so defensive? I already know about the classes. The Grail told me. As well as plenty of other interesting things, but that's neither here nor there. Unless we're feeling testy because perhaps we were hoping for a Saber? Oh well. I'm sure a smart young man like yourself will think of all sorts of effective strategies for us."

The Servant exhaled slowly, lacing his clawed fingers together and stretching until the joints clicked. He leaned back, propping himself up on the windowsill with his armoured elbows, the sunlight and sea spray across his scarlet shoulders. The tips of his horns gleamed in the light as if polished.

"Of course I'll be accompanying you. What would I do otherwise? Sit in the bathroom and play with the faucet?"

Assassin had already done this while Jahangir was asleep.

"Oh, and ask Theodoric if I can have a uniform like yours!" he added. "I want to look dashing too."

@TenfoldShields

Click to shrink...

"No." Flat, final, all encompassing. Lips pressed thin, the corners of his mouth turned down in the barest impression of a frown; his face could have been carved by stone. Granted it tended to look like that regardless but one shouldn't complain about such things. Especially when natural stoicism proved a fairly effective counter to Assassin's...Assassin-ness. His unsightly appearance. His crude behavior. His fumbling, skin-crawling attempts to play the flirt.

Something so vulgar and gaudy had no business trying to act coquettish. Ugh.

At least if he was a Saber it would have been suffering in the name of a good cause but- no no. Musn't think such things. This was his lot, his burden, and Jahangir would bear it well.

The Magus opened the door, the hall outside still draped in soft shadows. The orange-yellow haze of the gaslight doing little to push them back. The homunculi outside stood at attention. A synchronous motion: booted feet clicking together, oversized halberds at their side.

"And it would be highly inappropriate to plan strategies now, when we know so little about the terrain or other participants. An utterly useless pointless use of our time, bordering on outright self-defeating." An impatient pause. "Out."

@ZerbanDaGreat

 

[Pyrosage]

Basking in the soothing warmth of a fireplace, the elderly man reclined in his chair, takes a measured sip from his cup of tea before resting the glass table. He shifted his reading glasses slightly up his nose as he read the letter in his hand, a look of disinterest plain on his face.

"Please, I implore you on behalf of the Hayger family to leave the Crest behind at the very least. To go into something as dangerous as the Holy Grail War with it is madness! The odds that our family's magecraft will be lost or stolen is astronomical and you haven't taught Maxwell anything yet! You can't just…."​

Letting out an exasperated sigh, Grant Renard Hayger crumpled the letter and tossed it into the flames. Letting the crackling fire incinerate his sister's letter. "Such a worrisome woman. She acts as if I'm already dead." Nostrils flaring a bit at that, he readjusted himself, finding a more upright position on his chair. "The adventure hasn't even begun yet and she wants me planning for its failure, the nerve. I have half a mind to-!"

He stopped talking and reach for the pen and paper next to him, hastily beginning to write a fitting response to his sisters concerns about what she thinks is right for the family. He stops abruptly when he hears the tapping of dress shoes against the wood floor. An elderly looking butler carefully opens the door to the study. Ancient looking, with barely any semblance of hair remaining atop his pale head, save for a few long strands cropping out from the middle and curled along his forehead in a dignified fashion. Grant peaks his head up immediately, dropping the pen to the floor in sudden anticipation, waiting for the old man to say the words. All thoughts of his family completely exiting his head as he does the room.

"Sir Hayger" He takes a deep bow that would leave one concerned the older gentleman might injure himself doing so. He shows no signs of pain however, gracefully bringing himself back to attention. "It is time sir, the men are waiting at the docks."

Hayger leaped from his chair as soon as the man finished his sentence, grabbing his cane resting on the side of his table in his rush. His smile was wide and his brown eyes filled with excitement that emanated a sort of youth from the man despite the wrinkles formed on his head and his grey hair, only recently balding. The older butler stepped to the side respectfully without missing a beat.

"I have your coat and hat waiting by the door, sir. The second party you said would be arriving today has yet to make an appearance however, sir. Are you certain they are coming?" The butler asks concerned.

"Of course he will! I'm off to retrieve them right now in fact!" Grant boasts as he shuffles quickly down the stairs, barely containing his excitement. Arriving at the circle that will unlock his destiny.

No.

He held up his right hand, examining the crimson marks upon it. This is what marked him as destined for greatness. Now to go about obtaining it. He clutched the catalyst in his hand tightly, as if to squeeze the legendary hero he needed out of it. Sadly, the actual process was far more complex than that.

"Let silver and steel be the essence….."
"Let silver and steel be the essence." At first there is nothing but a faint glow upon the marks on his hand
"Let ancient stone and the archduke of contracts be the foundation" The room dims as the blood circle begins radiating power.
"Let Red be the color I pay tribute with" The air seems to grow short and sparks begin to form around the candle lit circle.
"Let a wall rise against the winds that oppose us" Lighting began to crack through the room as mana began to gather in the center.
"Let the four cardinal gates close!" Concerned calls from upstairs were now rendered mute to him, chanting and the pulsating power taking all his attention from the external world.
"Let the three-forked road from the crown reaching unto the Kingdom rotate
Let it be filled. Over and Over. Over and Over.
Let it be filled fivefold for every turn, simply shattering with every filling." Already he begins feeling the Grail's reach, connecting his power to his approaching Servant. His smile growing broader as he nears the final verse.

"I declare our adventure start here! You shall be my guide, knowledge our destination! I swear I shall obtain all the Heavens have to offer and forsake that given from Hell. If you shall adhere to the will of the Grail and my own, come forth from the ring of restraint, Protector of the Balance!" Then a blinding flash, bright enough to make most turn away. Not Grant however, his eyes remain fixated on the form before him. Fascination, curiosity, admiration, all contained behind those brown eyes that begin examining the man before him.

Revealed before the elderly, adventurous magus was another elderly man, albeit one that looked very tired as opposed to Grant's enthusiasm. The newly summoned man wore a worn down armor, with a blue-and-white toga wrapped around his armor, fastening over his left shoulder. A white robe slightly peeked out his armor skirt. reaching a little over his knees. The old man knelt down on ones knee, his shinguards shining slightly in the dim lighting of the room. Laying his bronze spear on the ground, the man returned Grant's fascinated stare.

"Servant Lancer." The man spoke, no hints of warmth, only resignation. "Summoned forth from the grave to fight once more. I ask of you magus, are you my Master?"

A time passed and silence began to hang in the air as Grant inspected his newly formed Servant.

Extraordinary. Simply exquisite. The form before him, a legendary hero of old made flesh...of a sort. A million questions raced through his mind until he noticed he had yet to answer the man's question.

Grant cleared his throat before proudly proclaiming, "Yes. Yes! From here forth my friend we are destined to do great things!"

A rehearsed line perhaps, but the passion he put into it made the whole thing feel genuine. He offered his hand to the kneeling Servant excitedly. It was time they embarked on their journey.

The newly summoned Lancer nodded his head and took up the magus' hand. Rising to his full height, Lancer reached for his spear with his other hand and used the spear's butt to push himself upward.

"And with that, the contract is sealed." Lancer said, quirking a smile at the other man's boundless energy. "Now, Master, let us not dally here any longer and go fulfill our destiny of obtaining the Grail."

Present:

Waves crashed against the old boat, rocking back and forth with a gentle but steady regularity. Grant watched the horizon at the mast of the ship, his gaze nigh unwavering. That is except a few glances he spares his Servant. He still had many questions to ask of him, but they had time to spare, and quite frankly, his nerves were running too fast for him to conduct a proper interrogation. Ever since the command seals appeared life seemed to go so much faster. All his life's work, everything he worked towards could now be obtained in what very well may be a week's time. His anticipation was unbearable, he had to watch the horizon, and he needed to see when the island first came to view. However, still it has yet to appear. He knew they drew close. Yet as time passed he only felt further away. Already he was hearing murmurs of discontent with the crew he had hired; doubts of their destination.

Grant deflated slightly. Inclining his head towards his Servant he asked, "Lancer, do you believe it is fate that has chosen us, or are we the one's choosing our own fate?" His tone was more relaxed than normal, but hardly flat or lacking his usual spirit. His hands smoothed out wrinkles in his white safari jacket; still fresh and prim, like he had just bought it and his matching hat the other day. A slight smile played across his face.

 

[Wade Garrett]

Seven Days Ago

"Now, just let me make sure I understand you." The old woman pursed her lips together, the thin scar at the edge of her mouth puckering slightly.

"You've been having bad dreams, and now you want to take my boat and sail it out to the middle of the ocean...because you think there's gonna be one of those dreadful Grail Wars out there. In the middle of the ocean."

Jolene considered the other woman's words, her eyes narrowing. The two of them might have been sisters, both of them pared down to rail thin, wrinkled revenants by almost ninety years of living...not that anyone who knew them would have dared to suggest a kinship between Dorothy Morrow and Jolene Cash, even if they had buried the hatchet for thirty years and counting.

"That's exactly right."

"Well of course, Joli. I can be packed in about four hours, when do we leave?"

"Dee..."

"What? You thought I was gonna pitch a fit? Now that hurts my feelings. You're just about the last friend I have left, I'm not gonna drop you just because you've lost your mind."

"Oh, Dee..."

Jolene's wheelchair whirred softly as she rolled up to Dorothy and took her hand.

"I know you mean that. And that means a lot, but..."

"Jolene Cash, if you think I'm just going to sit here and let you go off on and do this damnfool thing by yourself...!"

"Dee, you still owe me one. This is it."

"That is horse hockey and you know it! You don't get to call in a marker so I have to watch you go off and die!"

"Go off and die?" Jolene snatched her hand away from Dorothy's, eyes hardening like a drawn sword. "Seventy years. Seventy years you've known me! And you still! Still! All those times I whupped you fair and square, and you still sell me short! You listen here, I'm going off, and I'm coming back, and I'm gonna call my great grandkids...and my mediocre grandkids, and my no good grandkids, and I'll have a new story for all of'em, and I'll owe you one."

"Two."

"Excuse me?"

"If. If. I let my crazy best friend go off all alone on my beautiful, family heirloom, has sentimental value boat that I love so much..."

"Have you taken the damn thing out of the harbor even once since you got it?"

"If I do that, when she comes back, she owes me two. Take it or leave it."

Jolene scowled, then spit in her hand and held it out. Dorothy smiled like the cat that had eaten the entire bird section of the pet shop, then spit on her own hand and shook.

"And of course I get to help stock the provisions, and you'll need some maps, and I'm sending one or two of my familiars along...you know, I believe I have something to help with that...summoning Phantasmal Beasts, whatever the Grail does? Let me call Blanche and check up, it's been so long since we've had to handle something about a Grail War..."

"You are not my boss on this. I'm doing this for me, you're an adviser, maybe, you do not get to take all the credit when I win..."

"Whatever you need to tell yourself to feel better, Jolie."

Now

She was seasick, a hundred miles away from everyone who loved her, and the name of the ship Dee had ended up foisting off on her was the Uwana Buyer.

Jolene was in the perfect mood and mindset to do a ritual she barely understood and call up a spirit from beyond the grave. Her chair remained solidly in place despite the gentle bobbing of the deck, the wheels locked to one of the rests she'd had installed. The summoning circle was cut into the table in front of her, and so she slapped the focus Blanche had dug up down in the center of it, holding it in place with her hand as she began to chant. It didn't look like much, just a glass jar and some dust, but given that Blanche had provided it, she'd take her chances. Was taking her chances. Well, not like she was getting any younger...

"Let skill and will be the essence.

Let the great Master Agrippa be the foundation.

Let thy hands move as mine hands.

Let thy eyes move as mine eyes.

Yet not with hand nor eye shall our enemies be struck be struck down, for mind is the master of all.

In the darkness, a light.

In the light, a shadow.

In blood and steel let our pact be made. I shall walk the Road of Heaven, though it pass through the fires of Hell.

If thou would travel with me on my path, I say Come! Come! Come! Arise and be known!"

@Mortifer

 

[ZerbanDaGreat]

"No." Flat, final, all encompassing. Lips pressed thin, the corners of his mouth turned down in the barest impression of a frown; his face could have been carved by stone. Granted it tended to look like that regardless but one shouldn't complain about such things. Especially when natural stoicism proved a fairly effective counter to Assassin's...Assassin-ness. His unsightly appearance. His crude behavior. His fumbling, skin-crawling attempts to play the flirt.

Something so vulgar and gaudy had no business trying to act coquettish. Ugh.

At least if he was a Saber it would have been suffering in the name of a good cause but- no no. Musn't think such things. This was his lot, his burden, and Jahangir would bear it well.

The Magus opened the door, the hall outside still draped in soft shadows. The orange-yellow haze of the gaslight doing little to push them back. The homunculi outside stood at attention. A synchronous motion: booted feet clicking together, oversized halberds at their side.

"And it would be highly inappropriate to plan strategies now, when we know so little about the terrain or other participants. An utterly useless pointless use of our time, bordering on outright self-defeating." An impatient pause. "Out."

@ZerbanDaGreat

Click to shrink...

"Well you're no fun. Unless you want me to stay naked with my shame hanging out. Which is just fine too. I'm just trying to feel you out, Master. One or the other." Assassin chuckled to himself.

He arched an eyebrow at the second rather snippy response and order. "I would've thought at least the basics would be acceptable. Or would you prefer I restrict myself to 'yes/no' responses? I'm only thinking about your wellbeing. Things will get very boring very quickly for you if we keep this up. But for now I suppose I'm sworn to your service."

Assassin stepped through the door ahead of Jahangir, glancing at the guards as he passed. "Well hello there, gents. How are you this morning?" he asked the homunculi.

@TenfoldShields

 

[Mortifer]

If thou would travel with me on my path, I say Come! Come! Come! Arise and be known!"

Click to shrink...

One moment, there was nothing. And in the next, the girl appeared.

She was a small one, looking to be within her teenage years, and was dressed in a blue gown that left her left shoulder bare. Her blonde hair was tied back, a bun in line with her dagger-like ears, with the sole exception of an ahoge that hung over her green eyes.

In the girl's right hand was a wooden wand, with an extremely simple design. There was no decorations or symbols at it's end, like some wands.

For a moment, the girl looked to the side, and simply watched the ocean, a scowl on her face.

Of course she'd be summoned into a Grail War under these conditions. Nobody would want to summon her for a Grail War taking place in a city, or a forest. No, it had to be an island.

A moment passed, and the girl turned to her Master.

An old woman wasn't the most ideal Master, but it was still a favourable situation. The type of Magus who took part in a Grail War wasn't the sort of Magus to live a quiet life, and most old Magi didn't get to where they were by being easy to kill.

Still... Those Command Seals were annoying. Should the old woman be a disagreeable sort, those three absolute orders wouldn't be something the girl wanted hanging over her head.

With that in mind, the girl smiled, and took a step towards their Master.

"Greetings, Master." She said. "I, Servant Caster, have come at your call. Might I know the name of the one to summon me?"

 

[Wade Garrett]

One moment, there was nothing. And in the next, the girl appeared.

She was a small one, looking to be within her teenage years, and was dressed in a blue gown that left her left shoulder bare. Her blonde hair was tied back, a bun in line with her dagger-like ears, with the sole exception of an ahoge that hung over her green eyes.

In the girl's right hand was a wooden wand, with an extremely simple design. There was no decorations or symbols at it's end, like some wands.

For a moment, the girl looked to the side, and simply watched the ocean, a scowl on her face.

Of course she'd be summoned into a Grail War under these conditions. Nobody would want to summon her for a Grail War taking place in a city, or a forest. No, it had to be an island.

A moment passed, and the girl turned to her Master.

An old woman wasn't the most ideal Master, but it was still a favourable situation. The type of Magus who took part in a Grail War wasn't the sort of Magus to live a quiet life, and most old Magi didn't get to where they were by being easy to kill.

Still... Those Command Seals were annoying. Should the old woman be a disagreeable sort, those three absolute orders wouldn't be something the girl wanted hanging over her head.

With that in mind, the girl smiled, and took a step towards their Master.

"Greetings, Master." She said. "I, Servant Caster, have come at your call. Might I know the name of the one to summon me?"

Click to shrink...

It took all of Jolene's self control to keep a pleasant smile on her face and not hurl the summoning focus over the railing first class Catalyst connected to dozens of powerful heroes get you a good one for sure Blanche Morrow I am going to knock the REST of your teeth out, I have great grandchildren (possibly even great-great grandchildren if they aren't being careful) older than this girl! But no, it wasn't Caster's fault. It was her fault, for trusting those bastard Morrows!

"My name is Jolene Mandrell Cash. But you call me "Mimi" if you want to, sweetie." She looked the girl up and down, and a sigh slipped out before she could stop it. Good God in Heaven, she's so young....

"Sweetie....Caster. Do you know why you're here?"

 

[Mortifer]

It took all of Jolene's self control to keep a pleasant smile on her face and not hurl the summoning focus over the railing first class Catalyst connected to dozens of powerful heroes get you a good one for sure Blanche Morrow I am going to knock the REST of your teeth out, I have great grandchildren (possibly even great-great grandchildren if they aren't being careful) older than this girl! But no, it wasn't Casters fault. It was her fault, for trusting those bastard Morrows!

"My name is Jolene Mandrell Cash. But you call me "Mimi" if you want to, sweetie." She looked the girl up and down, and a sigh slipped out before she could stop it. Good God in Heaven, she's so young....

"Sweetie....Caster. Do you know why you're here?"

Click to shrink...

She has no idea who I am.

The thought ran through Caster's head as she looked at Jolene. Her Master had no idea who she had summoned. No idea who she was.

Jolene had no clue that Caster was older than she appeared.

...There was no real need to correct her on that, was there? If Jolene thought that her Servant was a young, she'd treat her better. Be less likely to cause issues. Less likely to use Command Seals.

This partnership would be a lot smoother, if Jolene thought she was an innocent young girl.

Time to play the part, then.

"I know." Caster replied. "The Grail told me. I'm here to fight. Win the Holy Grail. Make my wish come true."

The witch looked out to the ocean for a moment, doing her best to look timid. "I hope I'm good enough for you, Mimi..."

 

[Revlid]

As dawn began to peek over the horizon, the island came into view.

Vertebrae cracked as Grigori leaned over in his simple flip-chair, reaching down to the plain cooler-box by his feet. There was a slight tingle as he flipped the catch, the thaumaturgical seal opening in concert. Inside, half-a-dozen fish lay pristine on a bed of ice – trays stacked beneath this layer each held their own "school", a fishmonger's mortuary. Each over ten inches long, with bright blue-dappled scales and remarkably broad, long fins. Exocoetidae, the so-called "flying fish", albeit modified beyond any recognised genera.

He drew each one out in turn, firmly running his index finger down their backs before placing them on the side of the ship. The trickle of od conducted down each spine, jumpstarting frozen nervous systems. Tiny hearts began to beat, pumping a cocktail of non-nucleated blood and glycerol around cold bodies, the flow steadied by the bulbus arteriosus. Mouths gaped and fins flexed.

Then each fish relaxed, and the three pneumostome-like indents that ran down each of their sides bulged with sudden pressure. After a moment the flesh dilated, and a rigid length slid free from each gap, unfolding into clawed, jointed pereiopods that flipped the fish upright.

They stood there, stiff on their unnatural legs, awaiting his command. A thought had them flex their wings, wider than any fish of their breed, a membrane of translucent ether stretched between each delicate bony spine. A moment, and they were gone, buzzing like hummingbirds toward their target. Fish had little room for brains, but these familiars were at least intelligent enough to operate at the lowest level of autonomy. They'd arrive at the island, spread out, and await his command. They were likely to be outpaced by the boat, certainly, but the sooner they spread out, the harder it would be to track him through them. Grigori hoped to arrive early and unseen.

Testing his connection to Rider suggested that the Servant was still in spirit form. He'd watched the sea in physical form for some time through the night, seeming to immerse himself in the atmosphere of the darkened ocean. Grigori had caught a quick nap, instead, but he was satisfied with a Servant who wouldn't pester him with talk or constant questions.

Grigori took a minute to toss or kick any loose materials inside the boat, tying off one last rope and then hefting the box back inside. With the doors shut and locked, he performed a similar operation in the kitchen, shoving any crockery haphazardly into cupboards and flicking their latches shut. His hammock was taken down and rolled up, the toilet lid firmly shut and sealed. The workshop could take care of itself.

That done, he returned to the indoor controls. He'd half-expected Rider to try and take the wheel at some point, especially now they were mere minutes out, but he'd seemed to realise that, by and large, the Jonah IV could handle herself.

A muttered command made the boat lurch beneath him with a structural groan, and the sea steadily rose against the window. Within moments, they submerged, and the water's surface was empty once more.

 

[Wade Garrett]

She has no idea who I am.

The thought ran through Caster's head as she looked at Jolene. Her Master had no idea who she had summoned. No idea who she was.

Jolene had no clue that Caster was older than she appeared.

...There was no real need to correct her on that, was there? If Jolene thought that her Servant was a young, she'd treat her better. Be less likely to cause issues. Less likely to use Command Seals.

This partnership would be a lot smoother, if Jolene thought she was an innocent young girl.

Time to play the part, then.

"I know." Caster replied. "The Grail told me. I'm here to fight. Win the Holy Grail. Make my wish come true."

The witch looked out to the ocean for a moment, doing her best to look timid. "I hope I'm good enough for you, Mimi..."

Click to shrink...

"I suppose we might as well start off being honest with one another." Jolene held the jar up and scowled at its contents.

"It's not your fault, Caster, but...taking a contract on six other Magi of unknown power and skill and the legendary warriors they'll be commanding, I honestly can't say I wanted a thirteen year old- or are you fourteen?- a child as my partner.

Of all the Servants this could have summoned...Blanche Morrow I will... I'm sure you're a very talented Magus, but this isn't a duel of incantations or Mystic Codes, and this isn't a fight...it's six to twelve murders of people who will be trying to murder us. That takes a certain kind of talent and temperament.

So...I'm going to need you to listen to me and to do exactly what I tell you to do. Even if it seems treacherous, unfair and dishonorable. Which it almost certainly will. Because given the prize at stake...I'll be very surprised if any of the other Magi participating would balk at slaughtering their own daughters for that kind of power.

They certainly won't hesitate to gut you or have their Servants do it for them. Do you understand me?"

 

[TenfoldShields]

"Well you're no fun. Unless you want me to stay naked with my shame hanging out. Which is just fine too. I'm just trying to feel you out, Master. One or the other." Assassin chuckled to himself.

He arched an eyebrow at the second rather snippy response and order. "I would've thought at least the basics would be acceptable. Or would you prefer I restrict myself to 'yes/no' responses? I'm only thinking about your wellbeing. Things will get very boring very quickly for you if we keep this up. But for now I suppose I'm sworn to your service."

Assassin stepped through the door ahead of Jahangir, glancing at the guards as he passed. "Well hello there, gents. How are you this morning?" he asked the homunculi.

@TenfoldShields

Click to shrink...

The homunculi didn't react, didn't acknowledge him. Scarlet eyes fixed at points on the far wall. They were identical, perfect replicas in every way. The same snowy skin stark against bone-white uniforms, the same hard muscle beneath the tailored cloth. Berets set at the same angle, collars folded in the same razor creases. Their eyes the precise same shade of red: bright rubies or fresh blood. The guards returned to rest stance in unison after the Magus and his Servant passed.

Jahangir didn't spare them so much as a look, his attention was reserved for Assassin. His expression caught between curiosity and reproach. But only for a second and then it slipped back into the usual blank lines. He faced forward. Leading the way into the Naglfar's bowels.

"You won't get a response, they're combat homunculi. Tools." He shrugged. "Inferior Magecraft compared to the great houses of alchemy but they serve well in their limited role. You...understand that don't you?"

A bewildered sort of curiosity, mixed with something that might have been actual concern now.

"They're built to fight and die. We have other models below, to supply auxiliary mana" less necessary now that he hadn't summoned an energy intensive Servant, "and augment our casting ability. It is what they're for. Just as you're meant to strike from stealth. Just as I'm meant to command this enterprise in the field."

Their footsteps swallowed by the rugs underfoot. Drowned out by the sounds of the sea and the distant rumble of mechanical engines.

"It's what we are for."

@ZerbanDaGreat

 

[IKnowNothing]

"It is a shame, but I cannot say that I have my Lord, my duty had always kept me too busy for anything more than the simple pleasures in life. Though even if I had gotten the time, I wouldn't have been able to, there were no ships like this one in my days." Came the answer from Berserker, his voice melancholic and wishful.

Click to shrink...

Amy pressed her lips together ever so slightly, pouting. It was sad, Berserker deserved to enjoy everything this world had to offer.

He had gone through so much already.

Amy smiled reassuringly at the servant next to her "Well, you can enjoy the ocean now."

Amy's eyes shined, like a child looking at a diamond "Take it all in Berserker, this is the part of the world that you weren't able to see."

In the captain's cabin, the captain shivered slightly at the sight. His employer was talking to thin air, and enjoying every second of it. He quickly unclasped his flask and took a big swig of the heavy liquid.

But his Lord did not. "My Lord" Began Berserker softly. "I do not wish to presume, but perhaps you should go back to your cabin and rest up. I have gathered from the men that there is still a great deal of distance before we reach our destination. Today has been a long day for you already, you should replenish your strength before doing anything else."

Click to shrink...

Amy looked at Berserker in shock but nodded her head. The trip so far had been, interesting for her to say the least. Amy had learned the hard way why the Trueheart family doesn't ever leave London, she didn't have anything even remotely resembling sea legs. And Amy trusted Berserker's judgement more than anything. If he said she needed some rest, she probably needed it more then she knew it herself.

"Ok Berserker. But while I'm resting I want you to enjoy the sights. You deserve much more then that, but it's all I can give you right now."

With that, Amy made her way across the deck and down into the ship. She made several turns, two of them being wrong ones, before she arrived in the room the crew had set up for her. The room was big, almost as big as the captains corders. Clearly, they wanted her to feel welcome with a queen sized bed, mini fridge and her own wardrobe filled with the little clothes she had packed for the trip.

Going straight to bed per Berserker's advice, Amy more or less flopped atop the bed before closing her eyes. Sleep came a little bit too easy for her, and she smiled "I'm almost there. Don't worry, I'll see you again, you aren't still angry? Are you? Mommy?"

 

[ZerbanDaGreat]

The homunculi didn't react, didn't acknowledge him. Scarlet eyes fixed at points on the far wall. They were identical, perfect replicas in every way. The same snowy skin stark against bone-white uniforms, the same hard muscle beneath the tailored cloth. Berets set at the same angle, collars folded in the same razor creases. Their eyes the precise same shade of red: bright rubies or fresh blood. The guards returned to rest stance in unison after the Magus and his Servant passed.

Jahangir didn't spare them so much as a look, his attention was reserved for Assassin. His expression caught between curiosity and reproach. But only for a second and then it slipped back into the usual blank lines. He faced forward. Leading the way into the Naglfar's bowels.

"You won't get a response, they're combat homunculi. Tools." He shrugged. "Inferior Magecraft compared to the great houses of alchemy but they serve well in their limited role. You...understand that don't you?"

A bewildered sort of curiosity, mixed with something that might have been actual concern now.

"They're built to fight and die. We have other models below, to supply auxiliary mana" less necessary now that he hadn't summoned an energy intensive Servant, "and augment our casting ability. It is what they're for. Just as you're meant to strike from stealth. Just as I'm meant to command this enterprise in the field."

They footsteps swallowed by the rugs underfoot. Drowned out by the sounds of the sea and the distant rumble of mechanical engines.

"It's what we are for."

@ZerbanDaGreat

Click to shrink...

Assassin's smile faded away. He remained exactly where he stood, still looking at the homunculi, even as Jahangri walked on.

"No one is 'for' anything," he said, the good humour of the past hours gone. "Perhaps they were once. A long, long time ago. Not any more."

He took one of the homunculi by the chin, turning its - his - head to meet his gaze. Assassin's claws were gashing natural weapons, like black razors, but his grip was delicate and gentle. He looked into the homunculus' eyes with the intensity of complete and undivided attention, scarlet meeting scarlet.

"Living things produce od," he went on, mirthless. "Od comes from the soul. By necessity these homunculi must have them. Perhaps your craft is too poor for you to remember it. The things you've created in your own image are too flawed to live long, so you treat them like tools that just happen to wear out far too easily. But these are people. They're alive."

He released the homunculus' chin and rested his clawed hand on the guard's shoulder. Assassin turned his gaze back on Jahangir. "But then again, what do I know, right? I'm just a Servant. Technically I'm not alive either. So I'm sure you're safe to ignore me completely."

@TenfoldShields

 

[Deadly Snark]

"Ok Berserker. But while I'm resting I want you to enjoy the sights. You deserve much more then that, but it's all I can give you right now."

Click to shrink...

Bersker's voice was warm when he answered: "Thank you for your concern my lord, I will gladly accept this task.", and as the magus walked away, he stayed behind, staring at scenery. After-all, despite his concerns, there was no one on this ship who could actually threaten her, that much he understands very well.

Minutes passed by as the roars and movement of the waves lightly cradled the ship. The rays of the sun turned the scenery into something reminiscent of a sea of crystals as the light found itself were reflected by the ocean. This was a moment filled with tranquility and peace of mind which was only marred somewhat by the racked produced by the crew. Yet Berserker paid no attention to any of that. His mind focused on another far more vital affair.

The moment he felt his lord drift into sleep through the link they now shared. The Warrior began to move, his form drifting seamlessly through the corridors of the vessel, bypassing solid metal and flesh in order to reach his desired destination as fast as possible.

Soon, his form settled right outside of his Lord's room. Placing himself directly in front of the door, he turned his sight towards the endless sea anew, yet his mind ready to jump into action at a moment's notice. Thus Berserker continued his duty and he waited.

 

[The Out Of World]

As dawn began to peek over the horizon, the island came into view.

Vertebrae cracked as Grigori leaned over in his simple flip-chair, reaching down to the plain cooler-box by his feet. There was a slight tingle as he flipped the catch, the thaumaturgical seal opening in concert. Inside, half-a-dozen fish lay pristine on a bed of ice – trays stacked beneath this layer each held their own "school", a fishmonger's mortuary. Each over ten inches long, with bright blue-dappled scales and remarkably broad, long fins. Exocoetidae, the so-called "flying fish", albeit modified beyond any recognised genera.

He drew each one out in turn, firmly running his index finger down their backs before placing them on the side of the ship. The trickle of od conducted down each spine, jumpstarting frozen nervous systems. Tiny hearts began to beat, pumping a cocktail of non-nucleated blood and glycerol around cold bodies, the flow steadied by the bulbus arteriosus. Mouths gaped and fins flexed.

Then each fish relaxed, and the three pneumostome-like indents that ran down each of their sides bulged with sudden pressure. After a moment the flesh dilated, and a rigid length slid free from each gap, unfolding into clawed, jointed pereiopods that flipped the fish upright.

They stood there, stiff on their unnatural legs, awaiting his command. A thought had them flex their wings, wider than any fish of their breed, a membrane of translucent ether stretched between each delicate bony spine. A moment, and they were gone, buzzing like hummingbirds toward their target. Fish had little room for brains, but these familiars were at least intelligent enough to operate at the lowest level of autonomy. They'd arrive at the island, spread out, and await his command. They were likely to be outpaced by the boat, certainly, but the sooner they spread out, the harder it would be to track him through them. Grigori hoped to arrive early and unseen.

Testing his connection to Rider suggested that the Servant was still in spirit form. He'd watched the sea in physical form for some time through the night, seeming to immerse himself in the atmosphere of the darkened ocean. Grigori had caught a quick nap, instead, but he was satisfied with a Servant who wouldn't pester him with talk or constant questions.

Grigori took a minute to toss or kick any loose materials inside the boat, tying off one last rope and then hefting the box back inside. With the doors shut and locked, he performed a similar operation in the kitchen, shoving any crockery haphazardly into cupboards and flicking their latches shut. His hammock was taken down and rolled up, the toilet lid firmly shut and sealed. The workshop could take care of itself.

That done, he returned to the indoor controls. He'd half-expected Rider to try and take the wheel at some point, especially now they were mere minutes out, but he'd seemed to realise that, by and large, the Jonah IV could handle herself.

A muttered command made the boat lurch beneath him with a structural groan, and the sea steadily rose against the window. Within moments, they submerged, and the water's surface was empty once more.

Click to shrink...

Rider, meanwhile, stayed by his Master's side and still remained incorporeal to minimize prana expenditure for fueling his existence. He wordlessly hovered near the magus at all times, keenly observing his care of the vessel.

Back in his days, the idea of captaining a ship that traveled beneath the waves rather than across them was only something dreamt of in bedtime stories. Oh, how the world had changed...

 

[Mortifer]

"I suppose we might as well start off being honest with one another." Jolene held the jar up and scowled at its contents.

"It's not your fault, Caster, but...taking a contract on six other Magi of unknown power and skill and the legendary warriors they'll be commanding, I honestly can't say I wanted a thirteen year old- or are you fourteen?- a child as my partner.

Of all the Servants this could have summoned...Blanche Morrow I will... I'm sure you're a very talented Magus, but this isn't a duel of incantations or Mystic Codes, and this isn't a fight...it's six to twelve murders of people who will be trying to murder us. That takes a certain kind of talent and temperament.

So...I'm going to need you to listen to me and to do exactly what I tell you to do. Even if it seems treacherous, unfair and dishonorable. Which it almost certainly will. Because given the prize at stake...I'll be very surprised if any of the other Magi participating would balk at slaughtering their own daughters for that kind of power.

They certainly won't hesitate to gut you or have their Servants do it for them. Do you understand me?"

Click to shrink...

Caster closed her eyes, in what she hoped would look like an effort to convince herself what needed to be done.

"I..." She began, before trailing off. Milk that hesitance for all its worth. "I understand."

Caster opened her eyes again, and looked at Jolene. "It's us or them, right? And... I don't want to die again."

Once more looking out at the ocean, trying to look contemplative, Caster continued. "Mimi... Can't we just try to avoid everyone else? I can make a territory, and if we stay in it..."

Caster sighed. "I know. Even if we wait for everyone else to... To finish each other, there'll still be one left to look for us."

Looking to the ground, the Servant spoke quietly. "I'm sorry, Mimi. You should have gotten better than me."

 

[Khawy]

Waves crashed against the old boat, rocking back and forth with a gentle but steady regularity. Grant watched the horizon at the mast of the ship, his gaze nigh unwavering. That is except a few glances he spares his Servant. He still had many questions to ask of him, but they had time to spare, and quite frankly, his nerves were running too fast for him to conduct a proper interrogation. Ever since the command seals appeared life seemed to go so much faster. All his life's work, everything he worked towards could now be obtained in what very well may be a week's time. His anticipation was unbearable, he had to watch the horizon, and he needed to see when the island first came to view. However, still it has yet to appear. He knew they drew close. Yet as time passed he only felt further away. Already he was hearing murmurs of discontent with the crew he had hired; doubts of their destination.

Grant deflated slightly. Inclining his head towards his Servant he asked, "Lancer, do you believe it is fate that has chosen us, or are we the one's choosing our own fate?" His tone was more relaxed than normal, but hardly flat or lacking his usual spirit. His hands smoothed out wrinkles in his white safari jacket; still fresh and prim, like he had just bought it and his matching hat the other day. A slight smile played across his face.

Click to shrink...

Lancer stared at the midnight horizon ahead of him, watching the waves ebbed and flowed around the ocean going vessel. The salty wind blowing against his grey hair, bringing back memories of bygone days. Ah, the good old days. Sailing through the ocean on his small wooden boat, harvesting the bountiful gifts of the sea, and just spending his leisure time in the water. The memories. Sailing on the ocean once again really brought it all back. What he would do to get it all back.

Scratching his scruffy, grey beard, Lancer was brought out of his remembrance when his Master came up to him. Lancer's hand paused upon hearing the question. Ah, memories of another time, less pleasant than his earlier nostalgia trip. Going through meaningless hurdles, fighting beasts for purposes not his own, all his efforts going to waste no matter what. What a bitter taste in his mouth. Lancer sighed, turning his attention back to his Master.

"Master, who we were, are, and will be was decided long before we were born. Our Fate has already been set in stone. The gods have us in their palm. Mankind is nothing but a plaything for them. Their machinations stretched far beyond our limited, mortal comprehension. Fate is an absolute power that we cannot hope to defy." He answered solemnly, his hands clutching at the boat rail. "It is a rather sad state of affair. Like one big joke, really." He smiled despite himself.

Lancer turned his eyes back to the sea, watching the waves weaving by the ship.