Fate/Clusterfuck (Fate/Stay Night)

View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2y1yGfFtMeM


This is the first of several sidestories that will be going on in the background, not all of them will have multiple chapters. But all will be plot relevant… eventually. This one is one of the main stars of the clusterfuck.

No, nothing else has qualified so far as to the extent I'm going for.

—

Solomon would not answer. No matter how he was called, no matter with what catalyst, the great king of Israel would not answer so little a mage as that of Marisbury Animusphere. A mage of middling power, one who had their dream taken away in a chase for an impossibility, 'Chaldea', no funding, no resources. His pleas were ignored until he was but put away in a corner of the false utopia that was the clock tower. The walls, ancient, proud, brick that had weathered the storms of the world and of man mocked him as much as they protected him from the world at large, casting deep shadows instead of pleasant old comfort as he stood in his study.

The curtains were drawn, allowing only the faintest amount of life granted by that of an oil lamp to light up the space. Revealing a room filled with books, texts, tomes and scrolls both mundane and eldritch in origin. They fluttered and flitted about as the magic circle in the room activated, alien lines of red runes erupted with power both physical and metaphysical, causing the curtains around the room to snap against the walls, their old wooden rods cracking against the brick as countless tomes tore themselves open. The books swung their pages, fanning out like a spectral hand was perusing their contents.

Then the magic flared again, tossing them aside in a windstorm of paper as the circle was given everything the mage had to offer. He was just that, a mage, a trifling thing that claimed to have mastery of spellcraft in a world lacking mystery. The overabundance of technology made them weak, too weak for those from the age of gods to pay any attention without a promise of some reward.

There was no reward here, just the desperate attempt by a mage, stricken from others of his kind, casting his power into the void to try and summon another, a caster of grand stature and status that would allow him to seek his goals in other ways. Ancient knowledge, promises of power, a being from the age of gods. To achieve his dreams, his… desire.

Solomon would not answer, nor would Merlin, Zhuge, Longshanks, Da Vinci, and Hattim. None would answer. None would, not for such a wish, not for such a paltry master… But one, one took notice.

The room exploded with heat as the summoning took hold, causing Marisbury to take a stuttering step back from the power unleashed. A fire, a piercing fire fanned over everything, effervescently bright and hotter than the sun itself, yet it did not burn. It was a black, balefire that washed over everything… and brought it all to a deathly calm. Books feel shut with a clatter, the curtains stilled, and the oil lamp flickered before coming to light once again. But a dimmer light, like it was… afraid.

A man stood then in the center, or, perhaps an elf. With long flowing robes of black with decorative golden trim. His hair, white, trailed down all the way past his waist, and it faintly shifted as he stared down Marisbury. A small smile was present on his face, and his eyes glowed with a faintly golden light that seemed to flicker almost in sync with the faded golden hue of the lamp.

"Servant," Marisbury said, standing himself straight once more. "I am your master, declare yourself."

The servant stared at the man, the mage, then his eyes flickered down to the mark on the back of the man's hand. The contract that bound them both together. The servant then smiled a small, sincere smile.

"Greetings my master, I am Oberon." Annatar lied.