Fate/Broken Thorns [Grail War]

[Namer]

The Holy Grail War has come to York.

Snow falls gently outside the basement window, turning the pale white sunlight into a hazy shifting curtain that lays out an uncertain pattern on the floor. One look through the cavernous room makes it obvious it is the workshop of a Magus. There are scrolls and paraphernalia strewn all over, beside shelves lined with books. Some random foci litter upper shelves, pieces of shrubbery and long broken branches covered in thorns. The roots of a great tree, so dark as to be black, creep down one wall and across the floor.

You close the circle, setting the last piece of iron in place. Some magi preferred to draw their rings in blood, chalk, or ink, but you believe in cold iron. It had been hard to get made, but you had been prepared for a long time.

After the travesty in Romania nearly fifteen years ago, the Magus Association had retrieved the Greater Grail and planted it in York, hidden and safe in the heart of Britain. You had wondered why hadn't they dismantled the Grail, but you weren't privy to the inner workings of the Clock Tower. Nor could you couldn't care less, considering your bloodline stretched back longer than most of theirs'. Who in the Association could boast thirteen generations of magecraft? It made you a neutral party, yet one closely tied to them.

So here you are, bloody crest etched onto your right hand. The Holy Grail War has come to your hometown, and it fell to you, Alexander Thorn, the last Thorn heir, to maintain the sovereignty of your territory.

The last two days had been shameful for you. Your Catalyst, bought in from London, had been delayed. Six Servants had already materialized, and you knew all the other Masters had already arrived in the city. You had felt them, passing over and past the bounded field that surrounded the entire city of York. For an ordinary Magus a for almost field of such size would be an impossibility, but not for you.

For almost two millennia, since before the Age of the Gods had ended, your ancestors had lived here, off the land. The land knows your blood, and answers your call when you ask of it.

Now you're ready to summon. With the strength of the Leylines under York, your own abilities and your catalyst, the War might as well as be won. It wouldn't be easy, though. You had sensed a Workshop set up near the edge of the forest to the north outside the City, and a second large Territory at the south side of the town. To make matters worse, you only have information on two of the participants: both Magi, one of the Clock Tower and the other from Atlas.

And finally, the biggest and most dangerous issue: Einnashe had taken root to the west, slowly crawling it's way to York. Your power is not inconsiderate: you could ward it off your city, but not in the middle of the Grail War.

The preparations complete, catalyst in hand, you begin chanting:

Let Silver and Iron be the essence.
Let Stone and Bone be the foundation of the Contract.
Let the Thorns guide the way, by my ancestor.
Let rise a wall against the falling winds.
Let the gates of the four cardinals be shut.
Let the forked road unto the kingdom come turn.

Your body shall be my weapon.
My fate shall be in your hands.
If you accept this contract, then I bid thee, answer the Grail's Call!

This oath I swear,
That I will be all the Good of the Heavens.
That I will defeat all the Evils of the World.​

Out of nowhere, there's a spike of mana, so incredibly huge. Attuned to the leylines as you are, you feel it literally tug at you, threatening to sweep you off your feet. Your voice wavers, and the shining summoning circle seems to dim a little.

Your eyes widen. There's a resistance. Someone else is attempting to summon, and the tether the ritual sets up connecting to the Throne of Heroes strains, swaying as you pull it in a desperate magical tug of war. You choke out the next line of the ritual.

T-thou who art in the seven heavens, clad in three words of power,​

There is a sound. It's like glass breaking, if your eyes and ears were glass. Your vision seems to blur, and then snap. The world turns to an array of jagged spikes. You scream. Behind you all the branches and the great roots are thrown into a frenzy, whipping around, smashing the shelves and the tables and scattering everything.

One more line to go. You are no stranger to pain. You utter it, still clutching at your bleeding eyes and ears.

C-come f-f-forth from the Throne of B-Balance, Guardian of the Scales!​

The light of the circle expands, covering you entirely. Your vision goes. You slump back, breathing hoarsely. After a few moments, you slowly open your eyes. At first you think your vision is still fucked up, but a look around the devastated workshop tells you you can see normally.

You turn back to the summoning circle.

A shadow stands on it. Humanoid, with proportions you describe as absolutely average. Faceless, featureless. It's like the silhouette of a human.

It stands absolutely still, not even breathing, not even looking at you.

"What the hell was that…" You whisper. Someone had tried to hijack your summoning ritual, something that should've been impossible. You own the command seals. There are already six servants and six masters.

You look at your servant, gazing into his face. No reaction.

"Are you my Servant?" You ask firmly.

No reaction

You slowly reach down and touch the silhouette's forearm warily, holding a fistful of thorns behind you in your other hand. As your hand comes in contact, your command seals flash.

"What?" You step back, "The contact has been fulfilled?"

Narrowing your eyes, you focus at the silhouette.

Spoiler: Servant Lancer

Class: Lancer
Master: Alexander Thorn
True Name: NULL
Noble Phantasm: NULL

Parameters

Strength: E
Endurance: E
Agility: E
Magical Power: E
Luck: E

Skills

Magic Resistance: E
Class Skill for Lancer. Slightly alleviates the effects of magecraft, but at this rank even a modern Magus could damage Lancer through magic resistance.

Noble Phantasm

Lance - Broken Phantasm - E
A blank template for a Lancer's Noble Phantasm. Can be treated as a Noble Phantasm for all intents and purposes. Only distinguished from an ordinary spear by its ability to become a Broken Phantasm.

"...no."

You take a step back. Impossible. This- this couldn't be.

"NO!" You howl, "No, no, NO, damnit, NO!"

The branches behind you are whipped into a frenzy, as you fall to your knees.

This is your territory. This is your war. This couldn't be happening. You couldn't have nothing but an empty shell instead of a servant. This couldn't be. You won't lose this. You won't lose the city. You wouldn't lose your one chance at the Holy Grail. You wouldn't let your people be devoured.

There is a knock at the basement door, startling you out of your mania. You look at the door and Lancer looks at it simultaneously. You think about how to order Lancer to dematerialize, but he does it just as you think it.

[ ] "C-come in!"
[ ] "H-hold on."

---

Ah, the sweet sound of a Grail War quest. Haven't seen many around in a while.

 

[Namer]

"H-hold on!" You call out. The knocking stops.

Can't fall apart. Your town. Your war. Two-hundred thousand lives. You tell yourself. You steel your mind.

The workshop's a mess. There's nothing to be done about that. You stagger over to one of the desks and grab a mirror, checking your face and your left arm and shoulder. Your magic crest, long thorny vines embedded into your flesh, twisting and coiling all the way from your palm and arm to up past the shoulder and to the side of your face, is glowing dimly red. The struggle during the summoning ritual has caused thorns to spike erratically, slicing past your eyes and jutting into the ear canal.

Taking long, slow breaths, you reverse the course of prana flow. The thorns shrink, leaving only bleeding holes. Grabbing a cloth to hold over the injuries, you make your way to the door. Taking care to step around broken glassware and scattered brambles, you climb up the stairs. You sense Lancer behind you, an invisible, nearly non-existent presence.

Alice takes one look at your bleeding face and has her hands all over you. She glances at the wrecked workshop, then drags you out to the ground floor and sits you in a couch, then begins to work her magecraft.

You let her work her healing on you. After a few minutes, she steps away. Your wounds are covered in pale new skin, though the sensation of pain is still there.

"You fight one of those Treants you're always telling me about down there?" Alice quips, stepping back. She's wearing her blond hair at her shoulder, with casual clothes.

"Where the hell have you been all week?" You glare at her.

She raises her hands, stepping back. "Just visiting my folks up in Scotland! I left you a note, Master."

"Never found that." You mutter. "Doesn't matter, you need to be out of the city by tonight. Take your mother and sisters with you."

"What? Why?" She protests. "What's going on? I can help-"

You cut her off and hold up your command seals for her to see. "The Holy Grail War is here. Not one of those minor ones, but the True Grail. Seven Magi summon summon seven familiars and battle to the death. The last one standing will have one wish, whatever wish, fulfilled." You leave out any mentions of the immortal vampiric forest crawling towards York, perhaps a greater threat to its population than the War itself.

Alice's eyes widen. "The Holy Grail? Blood of Christ and all that? I thought you didn't believe in Christianity, older than it and all."

"No, not the same Cup. It's a part of an ancient ritual by three Magus families, with the purpose of reaching Akasha, the Swirl of the Root."

"Right, you told me all about that Root stuff. Where do I sign up?" Alice looks eager.

"This is not a game. People are going to die. The city's about to become a battlefield. Get your family and friends out. Trust me on this."

"But… I can't leave you alone for something like this!"

You raise an eyebrow, "How touching."

Alice sputters, "I mean, sure, you're the Lord of York and all, but you're my Master too. I can't leave you to fight on your own…"

You sigh.

Alice was a great apprentice,, but she was terrible at obeying commands. Her great-grandparents had been attendants to your grandfather and picked up a small amount of magecraft, though Alice's abilities were practically insignificant compared to yours.

"Master Thorn. Please. I'll get my family out of town, but please let me stay by your side. I can be useful."

"I'm sure all those pitiless magi and legendary heroes will cower as you give them rashes." You meet her gaze. "Clean up the workshop, then I'll decide."

Alice nods fervently and heads downstairs.

Lancer materializes next to you, looking precisely like the empty shell he is. You place a hand on him, channeling prana through to sense its properties. You know a little about the Grail System and the Summoning.

The servant you have is just the shell. A finely crafted familiar, courtesy of the magecraft of the Einzbern and the Makiri, but nothing exceptional to you. What was exceptional was how it was capable of holding even the tiniest fragment of a Heroic Spirit pulled forth from the Throne of Heroes. The shell was connected to you mentally, and lacking free will of its own obeyed your every command.

You have no Heroic Spirit. The Spirit to be summoned must've been… torn loose. One question remained: how to find him?

There was only one culprit for whoever could have disrupted your summoning ritual so. Servant Caster. You knew where they were based, from the Territories you had sensed being claimed. But you doubt have anywhere near the firepower to engage a Mage of Legend, not with a practically useless Servant at your side. You dematerialize Lancer.

"Damn it all…" You collapse back into the chair, holding your head in your hands, giving a sideways look towards the phone.

[ ] Contact the Clock Tower. You need to let them know you're participating anyway.
[ ] Contact the Church. Both the Eighth Sacrament and Burial Agency should be taking interest.
[ ] Don't contact anyone. Not yet.

Alice comes back up after a while, taking a seat opposite you. You glance at her.

"I swept up most of the lab and set the shelves again. I didn't touch the Blackthorn or that ritual circle you had set up. Oh! Did you summon your familiar? Is that what caused the mess?"

You glumly nod, "Yes."

Meeting her eyes directly, you continue, "Why do you want to stay for the Holy Grail War?"

She looks serious, "I- I want to be useful. You've kept me sheltered from the rest of the world, teaching me trickles and dribbles here and there. I want more."

You look at her, surprised, "And you think a deathmatch is the best place to prove yourself?"

"Um…"

[ ] "Alright, you can stay."
[ ] "No, I can't let you."

 

[Namer]

You shake your head, "No, I can't let you."

Alice pouts.

You glare at her. "The very fact that you'd pout at this proves you're not ready." She wipes her face instantly.

Walking over to a desk by the wall, you take out a sheet of paper and a pen. "I'll write you directions to the Clock Tower, as well as a letter. I have friends there who'll house you until I've won the War. Take a bus and be out by nightfall."

"That's when all the things that go bump will come out to play?" Alice asks.

"Yes. The Grail Wars are fought universally under the cover of darkness, to avoid giving away our world. That rule will be doubly followed here, lest the Association crack down."

"Why haven't they already?" She says.

"Already cracked down? They have. Every town in Yorkshire's crawling with Enforcers, from Leeds to Hull, and even all the way down to Nottingham. But they won't enter York. Against Servants, they might all as well be fodder."

"But- what about you?" Alice's concern is touching.

You smile, "I'm the Lord of York. Of course I have a few things up my sleeve. Now, off you go." You beckon her towards the door.

Alice looks torn, but she finally scarpers off with a "G-good luck, Master Thorn!"

You watch her walk out the gardens, stop at the gate for a quick hesitating look back, then leave. You give out a sigh of relief. It would be difficult enough to fight with your situation, let alone do so while babysitting her. You close your eyes and reach down, your presence seeping into the trees branches and hedges along the side of the road, following Alice. The trees don't see or hear or smell anything, just sense. You stay with Alice until she hops onto a bus several blocks away, and then you lose her.

With your apprentice's safety… hopefully… assured, you turn your thoughts to other matters.

Your contact in the Church answers on the sixth ring. Father Michael was a catholic priest in York, and apparently fairly high up on the church hierarchy.

"Thorn." He greets you without fanfare.

You cut right to the chase as well. "The Holy Grail War is happening in York, and the Forest of Einnashe is headed right for the city. What's the Church doing?"

"The Burial Agency will deal with the Forest, the Lord will it. If they cannot annihilate it, they will drive it towards the city faster-"

"What?" You barely stop yourself from shouting into the phone. "An Ancestor cannot be allowed to reach the city."

"Certainly not. If the situation becomes dire, a ceasefire will be called and the Masters in the Grail War requested to lend their firepower."

You narrow your eyes on hearing that, "It had better not come to that. After the fiasco of the last War, trust in your Church is short." You begin pacing around the room. Outside, dark is falling.

Father Michael seems to sigh, "Yes. Shirou Kotomine's actions were… problematic."

Snorting, you ask, "Who's the mediator for this war? You? You're not a member of the Assembly."

"In fact, I am the Mediator." He proclaims, "The Assembly already has a representative participating in the War."

"Oh?" Your curiosity is piqued. A member of the Church participating in the war? "What's his name?"

The priest hesitates. After a moment, he answers. "Kirei Kotomine."

"Another Kotomine?" You exclaim.

"Kirei is not Shirou Kotomine. He's been a member of the Church since childhood. His devotion is indubitable-"

You change tacks, "Doesn't matter. What do you have on the other Masters?"

"-I am an impartial mediator. To give out information on the other masters-"

"You understand not one of the mediators to date has followed that rule, even in the Subcategory wars?" You tell him.

"Nevertheless-" He protests.

"I will make your life difficult."

"Kirei Kotomine has summoned a Berserker with close ties to the faith, though I do not know his identity. The Master of Saber visited me after arriving in the city. Japanese, by the name of Tohsaka, female, early twenties, a strong magus, though no ties to the Association as far as I could tell."

That was actionable information. Your mind is already whirring, trying to figure out where a priest and a foreign magus might be lodging, how they might act knowing they're in unfamiliar territory. The name of Tohsaka sounds familiar, too...

"What about Caster or their master?" You ask. Caster is the most important enemy you have.

"Nothing. My apologies."

"Hmph." You won't get any more out of him at this time. "Please keep me informed on both the Burial Agency's and the Grail War's progress."

Father Michael sounds almost relieved to have the end of the conversation. "God be with you, Thorn."

You head back down to your workshop, mind working on diffusing the information and making plans and contingencies. Information on two masters was better than nothing at all. While the floor's been swept clean by Alice, your reagens are still in disarray. Alice didn't know the proper way of handling them and had simply shifted them off to the side.

It suddenly hits you as you're in the midst of sorting through them. The three founding families of the Grail Ritual had been the Einzberns, Makiri and Tohsaka. You'd thought they had all died out, but apparently not...

Before you know it, it's full dark.

All seven servants have been summoned, and the Holy Grail War has begun.

[ ] Bunker down. Going on the offensive without a proper servant would be exceedingly dangerous. Reinforce the defenses around the perimeter of your house and observe the night through the trees.
[ ] Head out. You can't simply sit down and let foreign Magi and Servants run roughshod all over your city. It sends a message of weakness that you have no doubt others would be quick to pick up and capitalize on.
—[ ] Avoid engagement. With so little information and a nearly-useless servant, it would be far too risky to fight at this time.
—[ ] Engage the enemy. You're confident you're the strongest Magus in the city, regardless of the quality of your servant.

 

[Namer]

You are the Lord of York. There's no way you can cower behind the walls of your fortress like a caged rat.

Recalling the likely locations of magical activity you had sensed through the trees, you gather your tools, shrug on a thick furred coat over your shirt and pat it down to make sure all the magical equipment were securely placed, then head out. As you leave the grounds of your manor, the hedgerows condense and close in behind you, and the vines along the walls shift and grow until they cover the windows and doors.

This night would be dark and full of terrors, for anyone but you. You know the surrounding areas well, and you had researched several high end hotels were you suspected the Tohsaka might be living in. You'd need to get closer to confirm where exactly.

After all, the Tohsaka and her Saber might just be the second most dangerous enemy in the War, after Caster.

The wind is colder than you'd expected. It bites at the exposed parts of your face. The temperature had been hovering just above zero degrees for most of the day and has dropped even lower by now.

All in all, a perfect night to hunt interlopers, were you in any shape to do so.

You keep to the rooftops, reinforcing your legs to leap from one side to another. Lancer follows behind you in astral form, an invisible presence at your back. With Lancer's having no independence, you have to shift your focus to him to check through your senses so often. Otherwise, you rely on your own senses, regularly reaching down to the branching and twisting hedges and trees everywhere in the city. From the Blackthorn in your house, you can vaguely sense the entirety of the city, but outside your sense drops down to just a couple kilometers.

No servant comes into your range for two hours.

Nobody else seems to be patrolling tonight, which is fine by you. It gives you the chance to stake out potential enemy bases.

Your route takes you southwards in a meandering route, staying to the south side of the River Ouse. You grab a cup of coffee from a late night cafe and take a few minutes to sip it in the shade of an old tree.

Eventually, you reach an old, dilapidated building. It's a hotel, though one pathetically low class. Barely ten floors tall, but there's a distinctive, and massive, aura of magic around it. Multiple layers of Bounded Fields, condensed and merged, around the north side of the hotel's tenth floor. What Magus would live here? You observe from the shadow of a thick wooded bough nearby, hiding as far inside the briar as you could. The vines and thorns withdraw to give you just enough space.

Frontal assault too risky, can't crack those Bounded Fields either. Not unless I wanted to blow the whole building up. Not enough trees around and inside the building either.

"Not a bad place to hide, eh." A voice comes from your left. You feel the unmistakable presence of a Servant.

You spin around faster than you ever have in your life, ripping off the glove over your left hand in one smooth motion and barking out:

Droigheann Naisg!

Prana courses through your veins and into the Brambleheart. It flashes green, writhing and coiling, thorns exploding from beneath your skin in a spray of blood. The brambles you're hiding in erupt all around you, ripping themselves free of the ground and lashing at the Servant, coiling around him. The thorns tear into his clothesAt the same time, Lancer materializes behind them, spear poised to thrust straight through.

Then the Servant utters one word. The brambles around him are wrenched out of your control, dropping to the ground limp. At the same time, he spins his staff in a backhanded grip,, battering away Lancer's thrust with the first rotation and hurling him five meters away with the second. He stabs his implement into the ground and speaks again.

"Please, stop. I'm not allowed to engage in combat, merely scout."

True to his word, he doesn't attack, simply standing there with his arms raised. You get a good look at him now: well built, with a British cast to his features. He's wearing an old, dirty set of metal armour under a loose brown-and-green leather tunic that's sewn with multiple pockets, as well as pouches hanging from it. An old sword, seemingly rusted from disuse by the look of the pommel, hangs at his hips. He takes a step back from you, leaning heavily on one leg.

You narrow your eyes. "Why would I believe an enemy servant?"

"I give my word. From one druid to another." It's telling that he lets slip one hugely important fact about him. He speaks with a Welsh accent.

"You're Caster?"

He shakes his head, "I wish I were. I am Servant Rider."

Lancer materializes next to you. He appraises Lancer, "There's naught I can tell about your servant. That veil is incredible, even as a magus myself."

Veil? What veil? Then it occurs to you he was assuming being unable to see any features on Lancer as a veil. But a Master would immediately know something was amiss.

"Where's your master?" You ask, still wary, your left arm raised in front of you. Drops of blood run down it and drip onto the ground from your elbow. The pain is barely noticeable.

"Elsewhere." He answers. "I was merely observing this lodgehouse, as you are."

You lower the Brambleheart. "Well, you've seen it. I'd like you to leave now, or I might be forced to take you down."

The servant smiles, "And I would welcome such a contest! But not tonight-"

The sky explodes bloody red.

You stagger as the ground itself shakes beneath you. Far to the south, there's a storm of scarlet and crimson, a great pillar of light so bright it hurt to look at, brighter than the noonday sun, red with wrath expanding upwards into the sky. The city rings with the sound and fury of it, and you see buildings around you groan and tremble. The light rages in the sky for several moments, turning the night crimson. All the clouds around the area are swept away, the sky wiped clean and repainted.

You grit your teeth. Was that a Noble Phantasm?

Rider seems to echo you. "Such a Noble Phantasm…" And then his eye widens. He's gone still, his face blanching. He slowly turns to you, as his grip on his staff tightens.

"We are enemies, but you must know this, for our mutual benefit." He says slowly.

You tense too. Rider pauses for a moment. "I know that light," he says at length.

"What is it?" You venture.

"It was a light of promised peace, borne by our King. But when he was betrayed, it was stolen. The thief twisted and perverted, with his rage and treachery. It sings only of blood now."

"The name," You press him, "Tell me the name."

"Clarent. There is only one who would bear it now: Mordred, Knight of Treachery." He grips his staff so hard the you think the wood might burst apart. "I must report to my Master. We'll meet again."

He vanishes, returning into spiritual form. You release a long breath and glance at Lancer, who looks back impassively.

"Quite a pickle, huh." You say.

You know Servants gain power based on fame, and this effect was especially amplified if they were summoned in their homeland. The Yggdmillennia in the previous Great Grail War had summoned Vlad III in Romania for precisely this reason, and by all reports you've heard the Lancer of Black had been monstrously powerful.

One of the most famous he- villains in history, summoned in his birthplace, almost certainly as a Saber. Rider hadn't been threatening, but Saber…

[ ] Approach the battlefield, it's only a few kilometers away.
[ ] Retreat to safety, you've learnt enough for one night.

[Rider and Saber Information Matrices Updated]

 

[Namer]

Despite the information you've gleaned from Rider, it's not enough for one night. You haven't learned anything you could use, other than 'Stay the fuck away from Saber'. Something you were planning to do all along.

Finishing up your long distance examination of the motel, you move on, jumping up onto the rooftops again. The hustle and bustle of the city slowly disappears, the light falling away beneath your feet with the meters. This area is lonely, filled with dilapidated warehouses and old relics of a time when the nation had been at war for its life.

There are no people out and about, not at this time of the night and the year. These were good battlegrounds.

Then the city begins to fall away as well, giving way to woods and fields. You slow down as you reach the place where you'd marked the light of Clarent. Reaching down into the roots, you sense the power of the bounded field surrounding the edge of the forest. It is the territory of a Caster-class servant, you're absolutely sure. The magecraft around it seems impossible to you.

You feel for it, sending a sliver of your consciousness down branches and roots older than the city itself. And in return, you scent flowers, sunshine and a glimmering sun shaded by dark clouds. You feel a light breeze, blowing towards you from some everdistant sky.

You feel yourself take a step forwards, unwilling. Your eyes are drawn to the edge of the forest, and to what lies beyond it. It should've been dark and foreboding, but it isn't.

Another step.

Your father, grandfather and their great-grandparents save you. You feel the Brambleheart writhe suddenly, the pain jolting you out of your reverie. Out of the enchantment. Falling to your knees, you clutch your bleeding arm and neck.

It can't be..

You know of it. How could you not, descended from the shepherds of the woods of Britain.

This was Faerie magic. Something out of the realm of mortals or gods. From a bygone age of Britain. Faeries had walked the land in the days of the Once and Future King, in the twilight of the Gods. Their twilight came too, not long after, but they had left behind a legacy that had shaped the world forevermore onwards.

This was everything you'd ever-

You stumble.

The fall is not overly long, nor is the slope steep. But it was a fall, and that surprises you most so. In the darkness, you hadn't noticed the ground you're walking on.

The entire street below you, separating the city from the forest, and then a good dozen meters of grass and dirt, have been scoured away. In the night amidst the shadows the channel had blended into the rest of the ground, and the faerie magic had kept you from noticing it until now. You hang in the air for a brief instant, then Lancer materializes at a thought, catching you, then jumping to lift you out clear of the crater.

The blasted area is almost ten meters wide and half a dozen deep. Along the center, the rock seemed to have been vaporized completely, leaving no rubble. Yet it stops, abruptly, just before the treeline. You're afraid to approach it any further, out of fear of your mind being ensorcelled again. The barrier must have nullified the power of Clarent completely.

As you're examining the surrounding areas, you keep your senses sharp in case anyone else attracted by this shows up.

True to your expectations, barely a few minutes have passed before you sense two more individuals enter your range. One is human, the other a servant. Then you sense a third Servant. Glancing back towards the silent forest, Caster's territory, you decide to not engage in a fight.

Prana blazing, you set off at a dead sprint, not right in the direction of home but at a northwesterly angle, one that would curve you a safe distance around from the Master-Servant pair. Lancer is close behind your heels, his E-Ranked Agility meaning he's actually a hair slower than you are when you've fully Reinforced your body.

You run past dark streets, keeping your attention as much as you could on the three enemies. You hurdle over a parked car, take a shortcut through a warehouse that had been left open and empty, then jump up to the rooftops to make faster pace. You sense the Master-Servant pair reach the location you were at, and the second servant stop as well.

The second servant is closer to you than to the other two.

You have barely a moment to process this information. The sky blazes golden, red and yellow flames rising from several blocks away. You chance a glance in that direction, but the Servant is too far away to make out any details, save for their body, standing still, flickering corona of fire ringing them. There's no weapon in their hand.

At that range, the Servant could only be Archer.

A projectile smashes into the ground bare feet behind you, exploding. A wave of fire and concrete shrapnel blasts out. Lancer materializes behind you, taking the brunt of the explosion. There is a curved blur of orange, then a second explosion to your left. You drop out of the rooftops, landing on the streets. This area of time, industrial as it was, is dangerously bare of trees. Only long abandonment had allowed some life to creep up the walls and pavement-cracks for you to sense through.

Out of the corner of your eyes you see another bolt of light come at you, not straight but curving in a high arc, fast and accurate enough to catch you even when you're going at nearly thirty miles per hour. At a mental command, Lancer leaps up, spear spinning. The projectile is deflected, but Lancer is also blasted right into a warehouse wall.

Through your bond with it, you can sense the huge damage he's taken. Its blank and featureless body is now pockmarked, with a wide, black gash burned in a line in the middle. Without any response from it, though, it's hard to know how much more it can take.

Another comes right behind it. You reach into your pockets and pull out a thick, thorny obloid of tightly coiled wood, twice the size of your fist. You only have six of these, but you couldn't make them count if you're already dead.

You channel prana into it as you throw it back over your shoulder. The coil of wood expands, unwrapping, unfurling into a thick wall of onyx vines and branches bearing thorns all over. The projectile hits it and the wall shields you from the resulting explosion, bursting into flames as it does. You duck into the cover of a warehouse just before the next shot can come at you.

Archer doesn't pursue any further. You've entered populated areas and his master likely doesn't want collateral damage.

You take one more glance back, then head home.

Sleep doesn't come easy to you, though. You spend time doing your best to heal Lancer, do a double-check of the defenses around your house, then go to bed just before dawn.

You wake the next day at mid-morning. Your body still hurts from the exertions of the night.

[ ] Spend the day resting for the night.
[ ] Make preparations for the night.
[ ] Head out to scout during daylight.

 

[Namer]

The first night may be past, but there will be many more. Holy Grail Wars usually lasted anywhere from a week to two, and you'd already burned valuable equipment on your very first night out.

So you spend the rest of the day planning and preparing. You'd burnt through a lot of prana over the night, keeping your senses up and reinforcing your limbs, as well as the encounter with Archer. Your body throbs with a dull ache.

This… this wasn't sustainable. You couldn't fight a battle for two alone.

The first thing you do is check out your defenses. There's no telling if Assassin had come around last night to snoop around. But fortunately, everything seems in order. There are no gaps in your hedges. None of the grass - thick and concealing sheets of barbed thorns underneath - has been trod upon. None of the doors or windows have been forced open. Security circuit completed, you go back inside and fix yourself a quick breakfast.

Your afternoon is spent out in your gardens. You sit in the shade of the great Blackthorn and meditate. The branches of the tree reach down and wrap themselves around your body, thorns cutting small furrows over your body and filling you with Prana drawn from the Leylines below York.

The Leylines.

The Greater Grail.

You sit up with a jolt, nearly tearing your way out of the vines. The Brambleheart twitches in protest, its 'meal' interrupted.

With the Greater Grail being the source of the ritual, surely you could figure out a way to fix Lancer's condition and find the original Heroic Spirit there. You head back inside to think, up to your study. The catalyst is in a small box on your desk, though you have no other use for it except to roll it around in one hand and marvel at how small a thing.

The more important things here are the maps. You had been too young to know when the Association had transported the Greater Grail here, but your father should've left some information, some notes, about where it had been placed.

An hour's search through the entire study, the attached library and multiple maps detailing the underground and leylines of York brings you no closer. Not once is it mentioned.

You glance at the shelves as you search for information. You remember these from your childhood, from long hours spent poring over fairy tales. There's an authentic copy of the Brothers' Grimm dating back over two hundred years to 1815, and handwritten books even older than those. Your family lore said that the first Thorn had loved a woodland sprite, from those days when Fae still walked the earth.

They still whisper to you in your dreams.

Your mind flashes back for a moment. An autumn glade. Songs on the wind. Green leaves on the dead grass.

What you wouldn't give-

It takes you a while to wrestle control back. To focus on the present and the Grail War. There would be no fulfillment of wishes without victory.

Your search in the library is fruitless, however. Scowling in defeat, you head downstairs again. It's late afternoon. You check the news, but other than some reports of 'gas leaks' in the south end of the city overnight, there's nothing illuminating about the Grail War. Either the Masters were being careful about collateral damage, or there hadn't been much action last night. Saber had used their Noble Phantasm against Caster's barrier, then Archer had taken potshots at you as you fled. Perhaps they had engaged the other master afterwards…

You're about to head out to the garden to see if any more of the bramble-grenades had matured. It took months for them to grow into that tight and coiled shape, when the phone rings. It's from the church.

"Thorn," Father Michael says as you pick it up, "I do hope I'm not bothering you."

You reply drolly, "Certainly not. The world is at peace and harmony. Do you have anything useful for me?"

"I only bring a message."

You raise an eyebrow at that, "A message from whom?"

"Kotomine."

Huh. The Master of Berserker wants to meet with you? You rack your mind and come up empty. "Why does he want to meet?"

You almost hear Father Michael's shrug. "My church, tonight."

"This is a trap, isn't it?" You ask him.

He sounds positively aghast, "I am the Mediator of this war. I'm not allowed to take sides. A priest would not lie-"

"You know I'm not Catholic, right? You're just a member of the same organization as Kotomine, who happens to be my enemy." After a moment, you add, "but fine, I'll come."

Despite your reservations, you do trust Father Michael to a certain degree. The man isn't a liar. The Church was quite-a-ways from your house, though. You'd need to traverse the city in the middle of the war. But the name of Kotomine, the man who'd almost singlehandedly undermined the previous war, is too great an allure and your curiosity is spiked.

You make one additional phone call. Alice should be outside the city by now, but you want to make sure she's safe.

You dial her number. Her phone rings for a few seconds, but she doesn't pick up. Then it goes to voicemail. Hello-w, this is Alice Harrow. I'm probably busy, so maybe leave me a message?

"Alice, if you don't pick up in the next ten minutes, you're fired."

She doesn't pick up. Outside, the sky begins to darken, though it's still late afternoon.

You're starting to worry, though most likely she's just left her phone behind and gone off somewhere. It wouldn't be the first time.

[ ] Head out to look for Alice right now. You'll burn a lot of energy if you want to search the area in any reasonable time, and you'll miss your meeting with Kotomine.
[ ] Alice should be fine. You sent her away for precisely that reason. Wait till night and meet with Kotomine, and check up on Alice again tomorrow in the morning.

---

So I caught the second season of Apocrypha, so I can actually state what point the divergence is at. It's a pity that character development explicitly doesn't carry over Grail Wars; it'd be nice to write Mordred as of the end of Apocrypha.

Also people hype Sieg vs Karna and Achilles vs Chiron, but I liked Jeanne vs Atalanta far more than either of those two fights.

 

[Namer]

You sigh. Alice needs to be a lot more responsible. But you have a War to fight, and must believe she's fine. It's too late in the day to do anything. You mentally note down to try again tomorrow morning, and settle down to wait for the cover of darkness.

Night comes soon.

You head out as soon as it's full dark. Tonight is colder, cold enough to make you shiver in your coat. You travel in the same manner as previously, using your reinforced legs to propel you across rooftops in great bounds. It's a Saturday night, and the city is still lively, but not many people bothered looking up in their revelry.

You avoid the south side of the city and more sparsely inhabited neighbourhoods - both possible battlegrounds. You can't show up to a meeting with an enemy just after going through a fight, considering how you'd come out.

The run to the church is, mercifully, uninterrupted. You softly land on the road in front of you. The Church isn't grand or ornate, but it's large and commands an imposing view. But that's not what grabs your attention.

A man stands in the middle of the road. You know from the instant you lay eyes on him that he's a Servant.

Lean, more in a ragged manner than athletic, though old muscles are still evident. His body has the tanned, dirt-crusted skin of someone who's seen long travel and campaigning. Under those you think his skin is close to olive than white.. He's dressed in a loincloth and loose, dirty wraps like you'd expect some pilgrim to wear. But the most striking thing about his appearance is the dark red blindfold over his eyes. Despite being seemingly bereft of his eyesight, his head still moves to track you.

Berserker looks up at you as you approach. There's no weapon in his hands, though you suppose he could materialize it at anytime. He stares you up and down, then slowly steps backwards silently, as if to let you pass.

Lancer materializes next to you, holding up the spear. You don't attack Berserker either, but you keep a wary eye on him for the few seconds it takes you to walk past and head inside the Church grounds. Lancer remains outside, staring Berserker down.

You leave the servants to their silent standoff and go inside.

The Church's empty, save for two men at the end of the room, kneeling before the altar, both dressed in dark clothes befitting their profession.

"Ah, welcome, Mister Thorn. I hope you didn't run into any trouble on the way here." Father Michael rises and turns around as you approach. He's large and well built for a priest, stocky with age and living.

"That's Lord Thorn to you, " you mutter.

The other has shoulder length hair and is leaner. You can't read his body language: it's simultaneously peaceful and predatory. When he moves towards you, it's with all the grace of a man who is nothing.

"Kirei Kotomine." You say by way of greeting. He returns it.

"Alexander Thorn."

"I admit, it was quite a surprise. This is no Great War, so I find there are no need for alliances."

Kirei gives a smile that doesn't go any further from his lips. "No, I merely wished to ask you a question."

You pause. "That's all?" You cross your arms.

"Why do you fight?"

You stiffen. "What kind of question is that?"

"A fairly simple one. You battle in this war, risking life and soul. There has to be a reason for you to so." He clasps his hands behind his back and moves to pace around you.

"There's a pretty common saying among us Magi." You reply. "To be a Magus is to walk with death." You shift on your feet, just changing the your center of mass just so that he can't walk past you.

"I'm well aware." Kirei answers.

"Classical magecraft training?" You guess, "Hm. Tell me about your brother. You asked first, but, well, I own this place. Humour me."

"Shirou? We certainly weren't close. My actions could never compare with those of a living saint. He was perfect in all matters, but I'm grateful that he stepped away to give my father space for the both of us. "

"Is that all?" You ask, "A pity. Brother to a saint, but it makes sense .I was curious about him: a Servant reincarnated in a physical body with a plan to, what was it…"

"The Salvation of the World."

"A pretty lofty goal. Don't you think so too?" You gesture at Father Michael, who's seated on one of the benches listening in intently. He starts as you bring him into the conversation, "A-ah, yes. "

You turn back to Kirei. "What's yours, then?"

He fixes you with a glance. You can feel him wrestle internally. For all his years, more than twice your age, you don't quite feel the sense of sameness from him. Something's missing.

His wish.

Even as you think that, the atmosphere shifts. There's a sense of alacrity and danger in the air. It takes you a moment to realize you're sensing those through your bond with Lancer, and it in turn is observing Berserker.

Berserker, who has a spear in hand casually deflecting fiery bolts of light away.

Kirei rises to his feet, "Berserker is under attack."

"This is meant to be a neutral zone." Both of you turn to father Michel, who looks perplexed.

You shake him by the shoulder, "What're you going to do about it?" He's a good man, but he's not decisive. You've known that as long as you've known him. Now that he's facing a very real crisis, his inability to act fast is turning out to be a detriment.

While he's still sputtering, staring at the command seals on his arm, you…

[ ] Assist Kotomine and Berserker against their assailant.
[ ] Assist Berserker's assailant. It's nothing personal.
[ ] Stand by the sidelines. Just observe the battle for now.
[ ] Retreat for the moment. The absolute safest choice.

---

Actually, the Heroic Spirit in the Throne still experiences the wars, just second hand. For people like Cu and Gilgamesh, a war doesn't affect them much, but someone like Mordred who underwent lots of character development might still be summoned having some of the experiences from Apochrypha.

Click to shrink...

I recall hearing the analogy of 'reading a newspaper', but, hmm. That works out anyway.

 

[Namer]

It's strange.

The man is your enemy, and you sense something just off about him, yet after just a few minutes' conversation you've begun to think of him as acquaintance. Enough that you're considering helping him.

Certainly, you could simply stab him in the back, but honour demanded you stay your hand. The same went for simply standing by and letting him fight. Simply leaving was an option, but ultimately one that'd leave a bad taste in your mouth.

You turn to Michael, "In past Grail Wars, those who broke the rules were designated bounty targets. The overseer would reward whoever collected the bounty with additional command seals. You should do that."

Outside the Church, Berserker and Kotomine are nowhere to be seen. You exit the church grounds and have Lancer fall in line behind you. Reinforcing your eyes, you look around.

Archer is on the roofs again, at least a block away, lobbing bolts of fire towards the next building. You squint at the other building and realize Berserker is scaling it. His hands are literally carving handholds into the sides of the building, assisted by a long spear he's using as leverage for larger leaps. In the building's shadow, out of Archer's line of sight, Kirei watches his servant.. You head towards him.

"Archer hit me as well last night." You tell him, at his questioning look at your approach.

"So, it was you by Caster's Territory last night?" Kirei questions.

You nod. "We're not allies, but if Archer and his Master don't respect the rules of the war, they're an issue and need to be killed. What's your plan?"

Kirei pauses for a moment, looking like he wants to say something but thinking against it. Finally, he says with agonizing simplicity, "Berserker will take care of him."

"That's it?" You ask.

"Of course. Archer is not a problem."

"I lack your confidence. I'm going to back your Berserker up, but I need to trust you."

"Do as you wish. I won't take any actions against you tonight, upon my word as a priest." His mouth curves up in a tiny smirk as he finishes and turns back to look up at his Servant.

You run along the street. Berserker's nearly reached the top of the skyscraper he's been climbing, which is only a few stories shorter than Archer's building. This area has a few high-rise office buildings, but older ones. They wouldn't have security cameras, which saves you the trouble of having to cut the neighbourhood's power or else risk publicity. You enter the lobby of another building, right next to Archer's building, close enough that a bridge connects the two.

Normally a Master shouldn't engage in close combat, but with Lancer, you have no other option. It was time to test your capability as a Magus.

The building is dark, save for a light at the corner of the lobby where an uniformed security guard is snoozing. You slap him awake and push a compulsion on him, hypnotizing him. He heads towards the door and home, believing his shift to be over already, and you're running past him. The elevators are all on the ground floor, but you don't much fancy being in a metal box in the midst of a battling servants.

The building rattles, groaning, as a great impact hits its neighbour and the shock is transferred. The staircase groans beneath you and dust falls from the ceiling. You speed up, taking the stairs three steps at a time.

Another impact shakes the building. You're crossing the skybridge between the two buildings when the building shakes again, far more violently than before. The glass along the walls all shatter simultaneously with an incredible cacophony, and as the entire structure buckles the midsection of the skybridge groans, snaps and disintegrates. The ground falls away beneath your feet. You jump but don't have enough footing.

Throwing out your left arm, you give out a let out a cry of 'Snathgail!' The brambleheart pulses, then erupts out of your skin, growing from the tendrils that were already outside your skin. The vines wrap around a steel bar and you swing over to the other side, crashing onto the hard, tiled floor.

You're on your feet as soon as possible. At your command, Lancer's spear slices down, cutting away the vines extending out of your arm. Nursing the limb, you begin to run up the stairs again, this time directly below your target. The whole building shakes at regular intervals, by Archer's battle with Berserker. You wonder what caliber of servant is capable of keeping up with a melee-specialized Berserker despire being an Archer themselves.

Your question is answered a few minutes later as you break out onto the rooftop.

The entire area is scorched and cratered. Long gashes have been cut into the rooftop. A water talk on top of a nearby building has been sliced in half, water fountaining out of it.

Archer is oriental and young, barely more than a child. The contour of their body and face leaves their gender indeterminable. Their red hair hangs loose over the simple chinese-style dress they're wearing.

A thin corona of fire dances on her skin. It's probably the only thing that saves her.

Berserker is on the other end of roof, hunched over, gripping his spear like its a lifeline. The tip of the spear is red: crimson like blood and as it moves through the air it leaves behind streamers and droplets of blood in its wake. The blindfold is still on, though as you look at it it seems to shimmer and flow, like it too was made of blood.

The blood is everywhere. It floats in the air, like drops of water on the most humid day. The entire rooftop is hazy from it.

Even as you approach, the two servants make another exchange. Berserker snarls in a way reminiscent of a wounded lion, and shoots like a bullet towards Archer. Both of Archer's chakrams are in hand, and when she moves, it's with the unnerving grace of a martial artist with her weapons.

True to that, Berserker comes in howling and she dances out of his way. Her Chakrams aren't blazing with fire anymore, but with swirling air. Berserker stops his thrust immediately, turning around the spear mid-charge and digging his heels in to swing at Archer. She ducks under the swipe cleanly and kicks out, sending Berserker staggering back. Even as her opponent falls back, the blood swirling all around them reshapes itself into spears and blades that shoot at Archer.

She twirls and spins on her feet, her clothes fluttering like a lotus. Some of the blood is thrown off course, others are vaporized into mist as they come into contact with her.

As you step out onto the rooftop, looking for an opportunity to jump in, she glances at you and calls out.

"Master of Lancer! My Master wishes no further enmity with you. He acknowledges you as the Lord Thorn and the master of your sovereign territory upon which he wages this war-"

Berserker leaps at her once more, cutting her off. She sends two of his blows careening off to the side. The third nearly grazes her, but fails to draw any blood. She cartwheels, leaping back and hurling both chakrams forward at nearly point blank. Berserker raises his spear to block and is thrown back from the force of the blow amplified by wind.

"If you will hear him out, he wishes to make a proposal to you-" Archer calls out, bending backwards to avoid a javelin of blood that rockets off into the night. "You cannot trust Berserker's master, but mine will deal with you fairly on his honour as a Magus!"

You can't help but pause at that. Archer had attacked you previously, but now said 'no further enmity'. And though you don't know who Archer's master is, you know he's avoiding collateral damage

[ ] Hesitate.
[ ] Engage.

---

I think both Archer's and Berserker's identities should be apparent by now.

 

[Namer]

You hesitate for a moment. "Your master has already broken one of the cardinal rules of the war. Why should I care for any proposals from him?"

"We had good reason for it. If you agree to talk with him, he'll explain everything."

"Fair platitudes, but unfortunately not one I can accept tonight." You say. Beside you, Lancer readies his spear, "Berserker's master and I made a truce for tonight to eliminate you, and I can't exactly go back on my words now, can I?"

Archer flashes you a rueful grin, "Just for tonight? I see."

Lancer moves into action at the same instant Berserker does. Twin spear stab at Archer, bloody first, plain second. She seems to have deemed yours a lesser threat, as she focuses her energies on deflecting and dodging Berserker's blows, letting Lancer slip in tiny cuts here and there.

The two servants aren't working in tandem, it becomes obvious to you after the first few seconds. Lancer is painfully slow compared to Berserker's blistering speed and brutality. Where the former's spear merely slices through the air, the latter's spear creates explosions of sound as it breaks the sound barrier with every other thrust, streaming blood from its tip. The servants battle within a dome of swirling blood that stretches out several meters centered around Berserker. The blood all around in the air rises up, floating in the same motion simultaneously, forming long, wispy streamers. The streamers suddenly snap taut in midair, then whip forward at Archer like bullets.

She dodges out of the way. Lancer is still in the way.

Your servant is grabbed bodily by the sheer force of one of the streamers of blood. It wraps around their waist and before they can reach down to slice it off they're hurled straight across the rooftop like they've been slapped away by a giant. The offending blood dissipates as they crashed down onto the ground, plowing a small concrete trench.

Berserker growls. It's a soft sound, coming from vocal cords long disused. It's likely the closest thing to an apology you'll hear from him.

Lancer's hasn't taken much damage from the friendly fire. They're up and running back into the action in a moment, though you position them further away from Berserker now, making strikes of opportunity rather than actively attacking.

The entire rooftop is drenched in blood. It runs in rivers to the sides, falling off the edge of the building like a waterfall. Every step the servants make scatter that crimson lifeblood everywhere. Even off to the side further away from the action, you suddenly realize the soles of your boots are drenched. That realization sparks you to action. You may have been considering meeting Archer's master, but that doesn't mean you won't give it your all in a fight.

Splash, splash, splash, goes the sound of your boots on the ground. Archer is preoccupied with the attacks of the two spearmen. She doesn't notice you until you're practically within spear-range of her yourself, just outside the dome. Out of the corner of your eyes, you see a distant flash of red light.

First her eyes widen with surprise, then shock.

Your bramble-grenade explodes nary a foot from her face even as she's pirouetted in midair away from Berserker and landed. There's no way she can escape this, and you've channeled a lot of prana into it too. The twisted mass of ebony wood and black thorns, a gyrating mass that could've turned a whole cow to minced beef at that range expands like, forces Archer to back up, right into Lancer's spear. At the same time, you yell out 'Droighnean gearradh!'

All at once every branch lashes out, shooting for Archer. She yelps as her shoulder is pierced through by Lancer, then your thorns wrap around her feet and arms, slicing the pale skin. Blood runs down her limbs, joining with the blood on the ground.

Then she hardens her eyes and mutters something in a language you don't recognize. The chakram in her left hand loses the wind swirling around it, and blazes instead with a flame so intensely bright and scorching you throw your arms over your face and stagger back. The flaming chakram slices through your vines like they were smoke. You see the entirety of the bramble-grenade incinerated to ashes in a second. Even Lancer is repelled by the heat, slowly stepping back.

Berserker presses on and is incinerated for it. You see him push through the flames like the maddened creature he is. His clothes burn away and his skin and flesh underneath bubbles, turning to black charcoal in moments. New skin instantly grows over it, crawling across the burns like flowing oil... or blood.

His regeneration is the only thing keeping him alive. All the blood around is vaporized, leaving nothing but a faint reddish-yellow mist.

Archer says another word, and the other chakram's wind begins to rotate faster and faster along its edge. The blade of wind turns into a miniaturized cyclone. She brings her weapons together, Fire and Wind, and the resulting inferno washes across half the rooftop. You throw yourself face down into the blood at the firestorm engulfs Berserker completely. The heat is unbearable. You're sure something on you is burning.

After a few endless moments, the firestorm ceases. You groan and roll over to your side, mentally ordering Lancer to pick you up. There's an enemy servant just mere feet away. You can't be lying down like this. You stagger to your feet, entire body caked in blood. It drips off you.

Berserker kneels on the ground, spear thrust downwards. The firestorm has scorched every centimeter of his body with fourth or fifth-degree burns – you can see bones painted ash. And yet he's already healing, blood flowing forth from the tip of his spear to cover his injuries and flow over them, transforming into flesh. And for all his injuries, the blindfold covering his eyes is untouched. Somewhere at the back of your mind, all the clues are coming together. You know who Berserker is. How ironic.

Archer leaps and lands gracefully a few meters away, on the far side of the roof, poised on the edge. Her chakrams held at her side in an unfamiliar stance. She surveys the three of you and the devastation she's wrought. The entire rooftop is… sagging. The center of the roof is covered in gooey melted concrete that's dipped dangerously below the level of the rest of the floor. Her attack must've melted the supporting pillars themselves.

"I am Nezha, Third among Lotus Princes, General of Heaven and Guardian of the Central Altar. I will not fall to a mad dog and a nameless spearman!" She proclaims.

There is a pindrop silence.

"Oh?" Another voice comes from behind you, the other end of the rooftop directly across from Nezha. "What about me, then?"

Your head slowly turns.

The voice is distorted. It continues, "I have been spoiling for a fight, and you had such a great one going on here."

Clad in crimson plate from head to toe. Polished, gleaming slate lined with scarlet. The plates seem almost too heavy for a normal human, layers on top of each other leaving not one joint, not once piece of whatever is underneath exposed. The helmet is built into the armour, painted and horned like the visage of a demon who has feasted recently. The only gap in the armour is eye-slit, as thin as possible. A great red sword hangs by their side, held in a loose steel-clawed grip. A soft red glow emanates from it.

There's a moment of silence. Saber does not pay you one iota of attention. His gaze is solely for Archer. Nezha, to her credit, doesn't flinch or turn away from the new arrival, even though it's not a good idea for her or her master to engage in another fight against a fresh servant. Not after using their noble phantasm.

A cold wind blows through the roof. Holding onto Lancer, you stagger to your feet and stumble towards the edge. With a start, you realize Berserker is gone. Kotomine's cut his losses for the night. It's a wise choice, now that Saber is here.

[ ] You're done for the night too. Head for home.
[ ] Not yet. Maintain a safe distance and observe.

 

[Namer]

Lancer puts you down three rooftops away. Far enough to be out of the battle, but not so far that you can't see what happens.

It's hard to see the details of Saber and Archer at this distance, but reinforcement of your eyes gives you just enough acuity in vision to make out what's going on.

Nothing. Neither servant has moved yet.

"Where's Saber's master…?" You mutter, trying to sense around. There isn't much plantlife around, and the amount there is isn't enough for comprehensive coverage. You sense Kirei and Berserker simply leaving, but no one else. Neither Saber nor Archer's masters.

Red lightning shatters the sky.

Saber vanishes from your eyesight at the same time Archer slaps her noble phantasms together, screaming its true name. The cry is loud enough for you to hear from this distance. She had held back against Berserker. She does not hold back now.

Revolving Heavens of Wind and Fire!
"Kenkonken!"

It's a grand gesture.

A firestorm the size of a mountain, tall whirling pillars of fire, rises up into the sky and through the clouds, scattering them. Multiple firestorms, converging on each other and rotating around Archer with dizzying speed, grinding away the roof of the building chunk by chunk, hurling them out into the sky with tremendous force. One boulder lands on the roof you're on, and another crashes through a window a few stories below you. You throw up your arms, though it's a futile gesture. The cyclones of fire begin to spin faster and faster, some of them turning from red to white-hot. In the midst of that inferno is Nezha, General of Heaven. Her chakrams are gone, but in place she holds a long, thin spear. She's floating several meters off the surface of the roof.

But it's just a gesture.

Red lightning strikes the building and the entire structure buckles. One corner of the roof caves in completely as a bolt strikes it, though it's more like a huge explosive force had hit it. Another section is blasted away. It takes you a moment to realize what it is.

It's Saber, his body aglow with red prana so brightly. His speed upped to unbelievable levels by the prana burst. He moves so fast you can't even come close to seeing him, only the red flashes like lightning he leaves behind.

Watching Saber wants to make you fall to you knees and laugh. How could you ever have thought you had anything more than a snowball's chance on a summer beach. You don't even want to look at Lancer, standing beside you. Your coat still reeks of burnt leather from your failed attack on Nezha.

Archer was a strong servant. Saber put her to shame.

He vanishes in lightning once again, practically dancing through the firestorms as if they weren't even there. The fire holds no dangers for him. One sweep of Clarent, not even a swing, merely held at his side, cleaves one of the cyclones apart in a single movement. The twister unravels, dissipating into the air.

Nezha levels her spear, shooting great bolts of fire at Saber. Saber slides left and right, dodging every single bolt. Archer howls in frustration, pouring on the rain of fire. At the same time, the fiery cyclones begin to shift, grinding their way through the roof and the floor below, seeking to consume Saber.

The entire building they're battling on creaks ominously. Your eyes widen.

Saber and Archer's battle carves out entire floors of the building. The roof is gone and floor immediately below are gone. They're fighting within the mangled ruins of the next. Archer is still in midair, though only two tempests of fire remain swirling around her. The rest have all been cloven asunder.

There's no relent to be seen from Saber. He cuts aside the bolts of fire Archer sends his way almost casually, barely a mark to be seen on his armour. He leaps on the broken stump of a pillar. Prana swirls around him. Then it rises like a red sun, prana burst stronger than any you've seen so far, so bright it lights up the night sky.

Saber leaps. Clarent rings.

Archer screams. Foundations disintegrate

A great slash of blood paints the sky directly behind Archer. Saber rises into the sky through it, flying like a meteor. The spear falls from Nezha's hand. The force of the blow sends her flying backwards, her back arching high against the moon.

Before she can finish the arc and fall, her body pulses a faint red and she vanishes in a shower of dust. You don't think she's dead. Her master must've used a Command Seal to save her at the last moment.

The loudness of a skyscraper falling apart isn't easy to describe. There's no definition to the sound that comes as a thousands of tons of brick, concrete and cement shake off their restraints and become unto ash and dust. The dust rises up in great plumes, blanketing everything as it explodes upwards. Through the dust, you see the red comet begin to plummet..

You don't wait for Saber to land. You just stagger to your feet, stumbling a few times as the ground continues to shake, then jump off the edge of this building to the next one, a lot lower. Lancer catches you midleap and helps you land safely.

You can't fight Saber. You just need to run.

You look back, expecting to see the red lightning and steely death coming for you. But there's nothing there, only a wall of dust flying towards you. You cover your mouth and keep running.

Somewhere at the back of your mind, you wonder where you're running. You're not sure of the direction. The streets around you are dark. None of the houses are lit; The street lamps are dim; The parked cars are silent. The world all around you seems to have receded into the darkness there was, in a time from before God said 'Let there be light.' But that's not the thing that weighs in on you. Something else does.

Death.

Death comes for you.

You run until you can run no longer.

Saber isn't chasing you, but you can't stop now. Can't stop, ever.

Your heart pounds, beating so hard it feels like it would burst at any time. Your palms are sweaty. The Brambleheart is quiet, dark and drooping. You drop down to street level and lose your footing, crashing onto the ground. The asphalt is cold; cold and dark. You don't want to keep running. What's the point? In the end you will die.

Your heartbeat stills. In the distance of the cold night, you hear nothing. No voices, no cars, no people.

No life.

You are already dead.

In the distance of the cold night you hear a single sound. It comes to you as if from down a long, empty tunnel, slow and echoing, from so far away yet from all around you.

Ding, dong.

A bell rings.

The sound echoes all around you, pounding in your ears. You moan and curl up, but you can't even hear your moans. You squeeze your eyes shut, your last sight being Lancer standing still, blank and empty as ever.

Ding, dong.

The bell tolls, ringing the gong of death.

Ding, dong.

Ding, dong. Die, die.

It continues to ring.

What is death? You ask.

You've never seen death. They say to be a magus is to walk with death. Oh, you know what it is. You know it took your mother, and your grandfather, and your uncle. But they all died before you were born, or with your birth. It can't take you, oh no. The true bloodline of the Thorns did not die.

You remember your father, once a proud man, laid low and wasting by his sickness. It hadn't been so long ago, and you remember his last day as clear as you remember the sun that shone down brilliantly at you this afternoon as you worked in your gardens. But he did not die. He could still walk, at the end, even if it was by the aid of his Brambleheart more than anything else. The vines grew past his arms, covering his torso and wrapping around his legs to support him. He still taught you until his last day.

Never too strict, but never slackening on you. Not even as he parted his last lessons to you, then stepped into the great Blackthorn in the workshop. The tree opened up, a tiny hollow within it, and once he was inside it sealed up again.

That was the last you saw of your father. One day, you'll join the Blackthorn too, after you've passed on your own Brambleheart to your child.

So you can't die here.

You stagger to your feet, looking up at Lancer. The blank face stares back at you, unhelpful. You grit your teeth and grab on his arm, pulling yourself up straight. Your legs are still weak and shaky, but you get your feet under you and start walking. A few tottering steps turn into brisk trotting. At the same time, you pull up your left sleeve, holding your Brambleheart at ready.

Then Death comes for you once more.

Your steps falter, but you don't fall. You keep moving, running. Fleeing Death. You aren't even sure what direction you're running in. You hope you're headed for…

[ ] Your Home. The furthest away, but it's a fortress. It'll keep you safe.
[ ] The Church. Not too far away. It's neutral ground, so you'll be safe.
[ ] The Forest. It's the nearest, and it's where you can make a stand.