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Fate/Ethereal Order

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[X] He'd known about Avenger, that much is clear enough—why didn't he tell you? Why didn't he explain who she was?

See Avenger vote, pick it. Simple as.
 
[X] He'd known about Avenger, that much is clear enough—why didn't he tell you? Why didn't he explain who she was?
 
[x] Buné was powerful, without question, but not infallible—Caravaggio has to know something about him, anything at all. Anything to help.
 
[X] It's selfish, especially after the revelation you've just had, but—you have to know. Why you? Why did he see you, and not Galahad? Why did he want you to be his muse above any of the others?

Welcome back!
 
[X] It's selfish, especially after the revelation you've just had, but—you have to know. Why you? Why did he see you, and not Galahad? Why did he want you to be his muse above any of the others?
 
[X] He'd known about Avenger, that much is clear enough—why didn't he tell you? Why didn't he explain who she was?
 
[x] Buné was powerful, without question, but not infallible—Caravaggio has to know something about him, anything at all. Anything to help.

Eyes on the prize I think
 
Squirtodyle said:
It feels like looking through stained glass—everything smudged, blurry, distorted. A memory that doesn't belong to the knight, a story told second-hand and imagined with all the flaws of a copy's copy. Even so, that hair is familiar to you—not a perfect match, but familiar. The red eyes beneath, you've seen those before too, when the woman who called herself Briar Rose stood in the light of the flames.

The boy before you couldn't be more than thirteen, a lavish dinner of meat and vegetables drowning in some fragrant sauce set before him as the dining hall is filled with sound and heat and people, all muted until he can barely perceive them, roar and laugh as they may. Just across the table sat another boy, younger, perhaps seven or eight. The same meal sat in front of him, but where he ate it happily, the older boy merely picked and prodded at his dinner, the knife in his hand used more to poke at the meat than anything else.

He should start to cut the meat soon. Claudas was a kind jailor, but if the boy chose to act out, it wouldn't take much to change that. After all, he had destroyed their lives once before, when they had had parents, friends, an entire castle and a kingdom to go along with it. Even when they had been hidden, Claudas had wormed his way into their lives once again, tore them away from the gentle knight who had kept their secret as their mother's final request before she was forced into exile. In the face of such naked greed and ambition, a simple cruelty such as reminding the boy of his imprisonment would be as easy and effortless as breathing.

The boy hated. Hated Claudas, of course, the man who had plunged them into this nightmare, but such hatred wasn't content with but a single target. It bubbled and seethed inside the boy, latching on to each and every person he could find the slightest justification for. He hated Dorin, Claudas's cruel son, who was as free with his blade and his fist as he was with his foul mouth. He hated Pharien, who had let this injustice happen when he had allowed his wife to have the secret seduced from her. He hated himself for letting this farce continue with a smile, living as a dutiful ward to the man who destroyed his life, solely for the sake of his brother.

The knife in his hand stilled, and he dared a glance across the table.

He would not hate Bors. He refused to. But in the face of this torment, this imprisonment, being forced to look at the man who usurped his father's kingdom and brought about his death through sheer grief and then smile and nod and swear loyalty for when he would inherit Gannes—

All for the sake of a little boy who could not even remember his parents, who had never known what he had lost, what had been stolen from him before his fourth birthday.

The boy's grip tightens, and once more he pokes at his dinner with the knife.

He should start to cut the meat soon, lest Claudas ask if something is wrong.

Dorin is speaking—shouting, really. It's the same drivel as always, except tonight was the celebration of Claudas finally knighting him, and so it seemed his puffed-up chest held inexhaustible breath. Extolling his virtue and prowess, as if he did not spend his time killing men and beasts for pleasure. As if it hadn't taken so long for him to be knighted because Claudas worried he would simply revolt. As if he wasn't a wretch too in love with himself to even consider that he was a monster, just like his father, and that everyone he spoke to knew that.

He should cut the meat soon. Bring down the knife and slice.

Dorin is calling him—never his name, always his title. Prince. A cruel joke, even knowing Claudas intended for him to inherit Gannes once he came of age. The boy ignored him and his jeers, his hatred boiling beneath the skin, young Bors too absorbed in the delicious dinner to pay attention, too young to share the nightmare. The boy said nothing, did nothing, simply allowed the words to pass over and through them as they had done so many times before—

Dorin spoke of the boy's mother, and how she was likely spreading her legs for a room and food.

Dorin spoke of the boy's father, and how he was burning in hell for his cowardice and weakness.

The boy gripped his knife tighter.

Rising to his feet, he lunged forward, too fast for anyone to stop him, too fast for Dorin to do anything but open his eyes wide as he saw the glint of steel.

The boy cut the meat.

Hot, wet blood stained the boy's finery, splattered across his face, but he didn't blink. He watched Dorin's eyes bulge as his hands went to his throat, far too late to stop the blood that flowed like water, listened as he gurgled and choked as he sank to his knees, breathed deep as the scent of copper flooded the room a heartbeat before the screams did.

He looked at Claudas, at the man's shocked face, and he smiled.

The boy and his brother were whisked away after, the Knight of the Lake had said, transformed into greyhounds and spirited away to live with the faeries, with him. He and the boy had become sworn brothers there—they had already been cousins twice over, it was no grand leap. He told the story mournfully, regretfully, as though he might have done something to stop it despite being no less a child.

He simply could not hate the person that little prince had become, no matter what he did. Not him. Not—
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Damn, I was way off with my predictions, but man has Avenger had a rough time of it - even got their gender transed by the phantom-ing.

as the bonfire dims it seems like Alter's flames grow more and more intense. They consume her sword, extending every swing and forcing Circe on the defensive as the whiplike blaze whirls around her, and from the sword they spread further and further, burning across the black chestplate of her armor and down her other arm until it too is consumed, transformed from a limb clad in armor to one clad in flames, her hand sheathed in, replaced by an enormous burning claw. Circe is powerful, versatile, skilled beyond measure—but she isn't meant for this, and Jeanne Alter knows it.

[...]

The dark saint doesn't pay you any heed, whirling to face Marie and grinning a savage grin, her teeth growing sharper until it echoes Buné's shark-smile, drawing her sword back to her side and grabbing the blade with her claw, the flames bleeding red, then purple, then deep, all-consuming black.
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damn alters really do be hotter than their baseforms fr fr

"Jeanne, do it."

There's no time between the words and the roar of flame, the blackened saint thrusting her blade forwards as the torrent of hellfire rushes forth, black as sin and hot enough to make your eyes water. You watch as the cobblestone beneath is consumed and sublimated in an instant, watch as the air itself catches ablaze before the lesser flame is devoured by the unholy conflagration. The bonfire has shrunk, dimmed, but not enough—if the fire reaches them, Gilles, Sanson, and Marie will be consumed utterly, but what can you do about it? None of your Servants besides Circe can defend against something like that, and without your powers you'd need a miracle to save them in time.

"Dumas!"

One moment, there was nothing between the firestorm and its victims—and then Jeanne appeared, armor shimmering brighter than ever, her standard set against the ground as the flag began to unfurl. At her side materializes Dumas, pen flicking rapidly across the heavy book he carries in his hand, a magnificent smile on his face as he looks up at the saint and gives her a nod. In the instant before the flames strike, he whispers something—something drowned out in Jeanne's roar.

"Luminosité Éthérée!"

Jeanne's flag unfurls with a blinding rush of pure, golden light, so bright and intense that you have to shield your eyes. It meets the oncoming darkness of her Alter's flames and splits the inferno clean in two, the black flames carving twin burning trenches to either side of the bonfire. It lasts only a moment until you see Jeanne's face again, but you recognise the way she trembles, the way sweat beads down her neck, the near-manic look in her eyes—she held out against a sea of destruction, just like you did in Fuyuki.

[...]

He whips his head round to Jeanne, standing beside Dumas, and his lips curve up to reveal a few more teeth.

"Especially not with her. You've been a very poor excuse for a saint, Jeanne. You should know I wasn't fooled for an instant."

She doesn't move, doesn't blink, doesn't breathe. Buné is relishing this, relishing the confusion—everything is back in his control now. Everything resting in the palm of his hand, everyone dancing along to his tune. His tantrum is over—now it's all about punishment, about revenge. About putting his toys in their place.

Beside you, Niamh shudders softly.

"Your words will not sway me, demon. The Lord is with me." Jeanne lifts her standard towards Buné, the white-and-gold flag fluttering softly in the wind, her pale armor resplendent in the gentle morning light. Her voice is strong, but there's—something. She stays close to Dumas, who doesn't vanish into spiritual form despite the threat. Her breath comes quicker than usual, her gaze focused but—afraid?

"The Lord was with her. Not you. Never you. Oh, how she must loathe watching you blaspheme while bearing her name—do they know? The silly little playthings you'd have fight and die for the Maid of Orléans?"

The implications aren't lost on you—on anyone. Sanson and Marie glance towards her from the edge of the bonfire's ashen markings, confusion writ on their faces, and just the sight is enough to draw another spurt of cruel chuckling from Buné.

"This, this is why you couldn't ever win. Just one reason among thousands. Your precious little saint was lying to you the whole time—"

"Be silent." Jeanne's voice cuts through the air, but Buné continues.

"Lying! Such a disgusting thing to do, such a human failing! But we don't lie, Jeanne, not us, not the Goetia—we're better than you! Isn't that right, Jeanne? Isn't that right—"

"Shut up!"

"Faker!"

There's no flash of light, no roar as the deception unveils before you. One moment, you see Ruler, wreathed in gentle radiance and standing strong against a demon who had devoured its own kin for power—then you blink, and she is gone. Her armor is simple steel, grey and dull. Her standard bears an empty white flag, the golden symbol simply gone. Her golden hair, so like a halo, is just a simple, ordinary brown. She does not move, does not lower her standard, but you can see the despair in her eyes.

The spell is broken. You know who stands before you—and it is not the Maid of Orléans.
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>using a small borrowed fragment of galahad's power, a human was able to stand as king arthur's equal
>using a small copied fragment of jeanne d'arc's power, an imposter wassusable to stand as the real one's equal
>pure pottery A M O G U S

There is a moment's peace before the dragon begins to roar.

Buné's skyward scream of rage swells in intensity and power until it feels less a sound and more a force, a physical thing pressing on you from all sides as if to crush you with the sheer force of his wrath itself. It's an ugly, brutal sound, a cry born of purest anger, enough to make you all flinch away—even the saint. When he drops his head once again, those black-and-scarlet eyes are wide with rage, flicking between each and every one of you, the draconic demon seemingly trying to figure out who to vent his anger on first.

"Buné?"

Gilles speaks, his voice quiet, and seals his fate.

"YOU! FAILURE!"

A sound fills the air—like glass breaking, but sharper, more painful. One moment, Gilles de Rais stands with his eyes wide, staring at Jeanne Alter, and the next he collapses to his knees. You see her watch dumbly as Gilles's head bursts into scarlet flames, his sword clattering to the ground as Jeanne and Dumas take a step back from the horrific sight. He doesn't scream, doesn't speak—there is no noise at all, save for the crackle of the flames. He slumps forward and hits the ground with a dull thud, and the flames grow more and more intense, consuming his skull until nothing remains—and then darting back towards Buné, coalescing in his outstretched hand. It isn't hard to understand what it was, not after seeing how Gilles survived Sanson's blow. Buné's blessing, his "head", torn away the instant Gilles had failed him.

"You—!" Jeanne Alter whirls, sword held at the ready as she lunges at Buné, but she can only manage a single step before she freezes in place, eyes bulging in her skull as her flame-clad arm wraps itself around her throat and tightens its grip. He rounds on her, footsteps scorching the ground beneath him as he thrusts his hand forward and shoves the poisonous scarlet fire into her stomach.

"You do not get to talk, you miserable little thing. I created you, I made you out of that idiot's delusions, and you belong to me. You will speak when I tell you to, do what I tell you to do, and nothing else!"

She fights it—you can tell. The power she'd already had mingles with the power Buné forces on her and she fights it with everything she has, but it's useless. The whites of her eyes slowly fade to pitch, and even from the distance you're at, you can see them shift from human to reptilian. She stills once again, seizing up and letting out a sharp hiss, before her stance relaxes and she turns to face you all—eyes empty, expression utterly blank, and even Jeanne takes a step back at the sight. What Buné had done went beyond a simple Command Spell—if he was telling the truth about what she was, if she really was a fake he had created, then he'd snuffed her out just as easily, made her an extension of himself, just for daring to snap back at him.

The thought makes you sick.

Sparks fly from behind his teeth as his chest heaves, his rage burning so hot he's practically panting from the sheer intensity. His demonic eyes flick back and forth, searching for a new target, and as soon as they land on you he freezes. With Archer's arms still wrapped tightly around you you can't move even as familiar strength starts to flow into your limbs, the exertions of your battle with Caravaggio feeling slightly more distant as Shielder's power returns—but you can't defeat Buné. Not like this, not as you are now. Escape is the only option.

The thought to kill you crosses his mind, you can practically feel it, see the way his clawed hands curl, see the tension in his muscles—but then he laughs, his razor-sharp teeth glinting in the morning light as he shakes his head and just laughs. The manic flash in his eyes is still there, you can practically feel the rage rolling off him like a heat-haze, but he's found something funny in the situation, something funny enough to not gut you right there and then.

"You…oh, you poor little fool, you thought you had me! You really, really thought you did it, didn't you? That you could just waltz up to my perfect plan and ruin it all—that I'd be helpless if you ruined my blaze, didn't you? Didn't you!?" One of the eyes set in his chest opens wider, writhing against its confines, but a moment later it seizes up and stops in place. "Let me tell you a little secret, Chaldea. Oh yes, I know who you are—Bael was very eager to broadcast his success!"

The name makes your breath catch in your throat, and from the savage grin Buné gives you you know he could hear it.

"You haven't beaten me—you can't beat me, you miserable human filth. You can't. All I have to do is start over…oh yes, the forest will make nice kindling, all the souls trapped there…all I have to do is burn it once again and this, this meaningless setback will be nothing but a bad memory." His breathing starts to return to normal, his fury residing as he raises a hand to clutch at his skull, massaging it with slow, gentle movements. "Each and every one of you is going to die, and then I'll just do it all again, make myself new toys, make sure they won't break this time, won't disobey. And—and you know what? You know what? Even if you did kill me it wouldn't matter."

He brings a hand to his chest, the eyes of his fellow demons glowing scarlet as he does.

"The Goetia are many but our power sings to that of our brethren—we can't be killed the same way you wretches can. Someone would find me, us, and they'd just take up our power. And if you tried to hide us away, we'd find your precious Chaldea and burn it to cinders. Do you understand, Chaldea? Do you? Do you?" The gleam in his eye turns spiteful, his reptilian visage twisting into a cruel approximation of a smirk. "Even if you "won", you'd still lose. You can't beat us. You can't beat me. Especially—"
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Getting mood whiplash here as I am simultaneously endlessly amused by Bune shitting and pissing and crying and seething because he got owned, overwhelmed by just how hard Gilles got owned, and as unsettled as Ed was by how he #mindbreaks Jalter for being upset about it. Between this and the way he basically selfdestructs all over the rest of his team later, Bune really looks to be corncobbing at record pace with the potential for actual negative consequences and I always like stories where the antagonist malding into overdrive after a displeasing event goes in that direction.

She is knelt on the ground, her hands clasped around the hilt of her sword as thorns erupt from it, piercing through her gauntlets and eagerly feeding on her blood, and when she raises her head to look at you with her beautiful violet eyes, you see for just an instant the barest whisper of regret.

"...So be it. This was not the outcome I desired, Sir Edward, but it was sure to happen all the same. The rotten tree tests the hero's resolve—perhaps Buné's idea of a joke." She shudders, crimson lightning arcing around her as Buné's final order, and the look in her eyes as she glares at you keeps you fixed in place—not that you could move much regardless, not with your injuries. That lousy excuse of a battle with Buné was the limit for you.

"I well and truly hate you, Edward Dempsey. I loathe it all—your kindness, your loneliness, your sickening heroism—I loathe everything about you, for they are the qualities that lead him to choose you." Despite her words, her lips curve into a small smile. "The purest of us all. The most peerless of us all. Fear not, Edward Dempsey. Have faith in the judgement of Sir Galahad."

The name rips through you like a bolt of lightning—the final remnants of your ignorance torn away in an instant, the connection inside you surging as she names the man who gave you your strength—revelation searing the pain from your body as you stare at her in shock, wordless and frozen still. The brambles that surround you shudder, whether from their growth or from something outside, but in your trance you can't think about a single thing besides her gentle voice and the words she speaks.

"Have faith. The painter is an irritating man, but he is perceptive. Sir Galahad has made a good choice. You are yourself a good person, Edward Dempsey. A hero, who must fell the villain to claim their rightful place as a champion of virtue." She closes her eyes, her smile growing wider, and you take a step forward before you can stop yourself. "So come now, O knight of Chaldea. Come do what is righteous—put an end to me, to the hatred that gouges my heart like a thousand thorns. Prove that you are worthy, or be slain by my hand."

"Wait—"

"Prove yourself as worthy as my brother." Avenger's eyes snap open, glowing a fierce scarlet. "I am Sir Lionel de Gannes, bestowed with the power of Briar Rose. I have slain the innocent and holy alike, solely that I may whet my blade with my brother's blood, that I may claim vengeance upon him for what he did to me! Come, hero, and slay this villain!"

She raises her head skyward, mana surging, and speaks—

"Briar Rose, Castle of Thorns!"

Thorns erupt from the ground, endless brambles surging forth, and as they pierce your skin you find yourself fading away—your eyelids heavy, your bones weary, your body too heavy to move. Before you, dark, diseased wood pierces through Avenger's torso and begins to drink of her blood, the foul tree growing moment by moment as her eyes drift closed once more—a rotten tree growing out of her sleeping body. Your own eyes drift shut involuntarily, and for a moment all you can feel is the writhing vines around you, your exhaustion so complete you can't even feel the pain of the thorns—

And then, nothing.
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DEATH BLIGHTED

but damn that's a pretty metal NP from Miss Lionel (and no wonder she had a fucky wucky reaction to him, I was right about being contemporary to Galahad but way off base on what that actually meant lol)

​
"How are you—" You turn to Caravaggio, looking for an explanation, but he cuts you off.

"No time, Edward, no time! I must be quick—you made sure of that, oh you most certainly did! Hell of a fight, hell of a fight…"

He should be dead—you pierced his heart. But the man had not finished his work, and you almost smile at the absurdity of it all—if ever there was someone who would not die until the last brushstroke had set, it was him.
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dude same, i get in the zone and then look at the time and it's 5am and go "oh no", you could probably stab me in the chest and i'd ignore it as well

but anyhoo

[ ] He'd known about Avenger, that much is clear enough—why didn't he tell you? Why didn't he explain who she was?

Because he's a dramatic bitch and wanted to see what would happen when it came out naturally.

[ ] Buné was powerful, without question, but not infallible—Caravaggio has to know something about him, anything at all. Anything to help.

He's a dramatic bitch and Bune's inability to cope is already pretty self-evident, I don't know if we need much in the way of extra hints.

[X] It's selfish, especially after the revelation you've just had, but—you have to know. Why you? Why did he see you, and not Galahad? Why did he want you to be his muse above any of the others?

Mostly picking this because on the one hand Caravaggio might say something encouraging to Ed by accident, and on the other hand he might just viciously shittalk Galahad which would be hilarious
 
[X] It's selfish, especially after the revelation you've just had, but—you have to know. Why you? Why did he see you, and not Galahad? Why did he want you to be his muse above any of the others?
 
[X] It's selfish, especially after the revelation you've just had, but—you have to know. Why you? Why did he see you, and not Galahad? Why did he want you to be his muse above any of the others?
 
[X] It's selfish, especially after the revelation you've just had, but—you have to know. Why you? Why did he see you, and not Galahad? Why did he want you to be his muse above any of the others?
 
Bune is a bit of a little shit, huh. Threw a tantrum when things didn't go their way.

[X] It's selfish, especially after the revelation you've just had, but—you have to know. Why you? Why did he see you, and not Galahad? Why did he want you to be his muse above any of the others?

Under the situation, given Avenger's loathing of Edward being heroic, a moment of selfishness may be helpful.

Plus, given how Caravaggio acts with other people, this may be the most in-depth answer.
 
[X] It's selfish, especially after the revelation you've just had, but—you have to know. Why you? Why did he see you, and not Galahad? Why did he want you to be his muse above any of the others?
 
[X] It's selfish, especially after the revelation you've just had, but—you have to know. Why you? Why did he see you, and not Galahad? Why did he want you to be his muse above any of the others?
 
Voting closed, the winning vote was to ask Caravaggio about yourself.
Scheduled vote count started by Squirtodyle on Apr 11, 2022 at 4:19 PM, finished with 18 posts and 16 votes.
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[X] It's selfish, especially after the revelation you've just had, but—you have to know. Why you? Why did he see you, and not Galahad? Why did he want you to be his muse above any of the others?
Edit:
Ah.
Task Failed Successfully.
 
i remember checking this out a long, long time ago, when people were voting for edward or niamh, back when i only had vague ideas of what fgo was. reading it now, i'm thoroughly impressed-- the clever AU changes that make me think through every detail, the potency and concision of the descriptions (i sigh every time niamh's there... that aesthetic), the original flavor of your creations like faker. it's really good!!! it's got that "epic in the making" feel.

Squirtodyle said:
The boy and his brother were whisked away after, the Knight of the Lake had said, transformed into greyhounds and spirited away to live with the faeries, with him. He and the boy had become sworn brothers there—they had already been cousins twice over, it was no grand leap. He told the story mournfully, regretfully, as though he might have done something to stop it despite being no less a child.

He simply could not hate the person that little prince had become, no matter what he did. Not him. Not—
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so some cursory research tells me bors is one of the knights that went on the quest for the grail with galahad
Early British Kingdoms: Sir Bors said:
He was living an austere life at the time, eating only bread and water and sleeping on the floor. During the night, he had two dreams showing him the choices he would face the following day. Should he save his brother, Lionel, from captivity and torture or a virgin from deflowerment? Should he make love to a temptress or allow her and her maidservant to jump from their tower? He chose the latter option in each case. Lionel was not happy at being abandoned by his brother and later attacked him in a blazing rage. Bors refused to defend himself, but a hermit was killed when he tried to intervene and Bors was forced to take up his weapon. A column of fire from Heaven finally stopped the fight. Along with Galahad, Percivale and Amide, Bors became the third of the Round Table Knights to achieve a viewing of the Holy Grail. He was the only one to return alive to Arthur's court.
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i'm not sure who the final part of the passage is referring to. think it's avenger talking about his little brother (and by extension edward), thus the "little prince"?

Squirtodyle said:
"I well and truly hate you, Edward Dempsey. I loathe it all—your kindness, your loneliness, your sickening heroism—I loathe everything about you, for they are the qualities that lead him to choose you." Despite her words, her lips curve into a small smile. "The purest of us all. The most peerless of us all. Fear not, Edward Dempsey. Have faith in the judgement of Sir Galahad."
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one of the things i love most about this fic is how integral galahad is to our demi-servant shielder. the (probably) merlin & galahad dreams, the decision to lend only his power to the service of humanity, the otherness & inhumanity that accompany his legend & people's reactions to his legend. one of the most iconic characters that ask what it means to be as good as one can be, as a human, with seemingly none of the love or warmth associated with saints, despite their similar elevation/lack of relatability.

Squirtodyle said:
"Prove yourself as worthy as my brother." Avenger's eyes snap open, glowing a fierce scarlet. "I am Sir Lionel de Gannes, bestowed with the power of Briar Rose. I have slain the innocent and holy alike, solely that I may whet my blade with my brother's blood, that I may claim vengeance upon him for what he did to me! Come, hero, and slay this villain!"
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the fusion with briar rose and the many versions of arthurian myth mean that i'm at a loss for why lionel is so driven to hatred, since the sources i consult have lionel forgiving bors eventually, and briar rose doesn't have siblings in any of her retellings either. interesting, interesting. guess we'll have to see.
 
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Chapter 41: Castle of Thorns
  • Threadmarks
    • "Why me?"

    No sooner than the words slip past your lips than you regret them—Caravaggio is dying, unfinished painting or not, and you're wasting his time with that of all things? There were a thousand other questions you could have asked, you maybe should have asked, but then…

    The regret fades, far faster than it should. It was selfish, foolish, monumentally stupid compared to begging Caravaggio to reveal his master's weaknesses or anything you might need to learn about Avenger.

    And it was something you wanted, needed to know. You know who chose you, now. Know that it was Sir Galahad himself, the Grail Knight, the purest and greatest of all the Knights of the Round Table—a knight who has never been summoned as a Servant, though all others had made their appearance at least once.

    Why now? Why here? Why you?

    Caravaggio flicks his eyes up, the dim candlelight illuminating the murky browns, and his brush stills for a moment. Whether or not he meant it as an encouragement to keep going, it doesn't matter. You do anyway.

    "Why did you pick me? Why, why not Galahad? Was I just in the right place at the right time, or—"

    "Imbecile. Do you think yourself special, that I chose you for some profound exceptionality? Curb your arrogance!" Caravaggio cuts you off, eyes boring into you with an intensity you've never before seen. "You were indeed merely in the right place at the right time—but I shall say this much as well. You were the right person too."

    Brushstroke after brushstroke fills the small, thorny hollow with an almost hypnotic sound, nothing like the calm and practiced motions you'd seen before. Caravaggio paints like a man possessed, slashing at the canvas like he's in the middle of a duel and focused on carving his opponent to pieces. You can't help but watch—it's mesmerizing.

    "You were the right person—and yet you understand nothing of why. Such damnable ignorance is as pervasive among man as darkness amidst light, but you are rarely fortunate! For you stand before the greatest of painters, Caravaggio, valent'huomo, so shut your mouth, listen close and listen well." His voice is soft now—not gentle, never gentle, but where once he may have yelled now he simply murmurs. "Your sister's stupidity is nakedly apparent, and all contents of that vacuous mind are more vile than they are virtuous. And the others, the so-called Servants once as mundane as you before me—they are a perversion, a sickening stripping of humanity, paraded upon a pedestal and put beyond mere man's reach. That knight of yours demonstrates it too damn well—undoubtedly once a man, but now an icon of supposed purity, the very blood and tears he shed made holy water, his flesh torn away and replaced with immaculate light. Even I am not immune to this repugnant lionization, the loathsome price of finally getting the appreciation I deserved only in death, but at least I am deserving of some elevation."

    The sudden swerve makes you cough a short laugh despite yourself, and Caravaggio's lips curve into a smirk as he works.

    "Legends can go fuck themselves. It is the people they were that my eyes are drawn to and my hands depict. To remind the world saints were men is thankless work—loathe as I am to admit to a failing, it's just so fucking difficult to clear away the cruft sometimes. Those fools in power create the narrative of the destined and powerful, and my paintings will do little for that—but you, Edward Dempsey, are merely a man. Merely, magnificently, a man." He sets his brush aside with a flourish, reaching up to jab his ink-black finger at you. "When I look at you, I see someone beaten but unbroken. I see someone with the world dropped in his lap, told to save it without so much as a minute to prepare, and who stood up and fought. You fight like a fucking devil, Edward Dempsey, clawing your way through everything that you face and spiting everything that wants you to fail, and I admire that, but, but but but, that alone wouldn't be enough."

    "That shield of yours—yours, not Galahad's, is cracked. Dented. Beaten until it looks like it should cave in, and yet it doesn't. You've made choices you hate, succumbed to your fears and your rage, made mistakes, given in to pettiness and bitterness and a thousand other things, but you're still here. You're nothing like the Grail Knight Sir Galahad, the legend they so cruelly forced him into—but you are everything like a man should be."

    He stands, blood still pumping sluggishly from the heart you pierced, and starts to clear away his paints, careful not to nudge the canvas even slightly as you sit and wait—you can barely breathe, so caught up in all he's saying.

    "You're angry. You're bitter. You're full of guilt and regret and wrath, and you let all of them drive you—but you're gentle, too. You've got a sense of humor, a sense of honor. You push yourself because you can't imagine not doing so, and because you feel duty-bound to. You chain yourself up and shut out the world and then spend hours talking with a witch just to pass the time." He turns to you once again, finally, a warm smile on his face.

    "You are one of the greatest idiots I've ever had the pleasure to meet. You are everything I have said, and ten thousand things more besides. In short, you are merely a man. Nothing more, and nothing less. Here."

    He reaches out and lifts the stand, turning it around so that you can see, and offering just a few words to warn you—

    "Let me show you what I see, when I look at you."

    You wanted to be a knight when you were a boy.

    It was the sort of foolish, childish, wonderful dream all children have—you realised that once you'd escaped your family's hold and actually experienced the world around you. Children growing up, wanting to be doctors, firefighters, astronauts—for you, you wanted to be just like the gallant, brave heroes in the stories that kept you company in your quietest, loneliest moments. When you grew up, you decided, you knew exactly what you wanted to be.

    A knight in shining armor.

    The man on the painting knelt on one knee, one arm held out to his shield to steady himself, the other resting atop his thigh as he stared upwards. All around him burned a dark flame, crimson tongues lapping at his heels, and from eyes the colour of dried blood came streaks of tears, his cheeks a pale red and his mouth open ever so slightly, as if in a silent plea. He wears an ornate set of plate armor, deep purple and glimmering in the light, but it is dented and scratched and broken in places, the chunks gouged out of the chestplate, gauntlet crushed against his arm, sabaton marred almost beyond recognition.

    He knelt alone on a burning field, the sky above him a void without a single star—the only thing above were six burning rings, their deep red almost consuming light rather than giving it. There was no life around the man save for the tiniest blades of grass beneath him, the barest hint of growth in the wasteland that the knight found himself in. They and the man were illuminated in almost painful contrast to the darkness that surrounded them, a familiar sight for someone who had not too long ago been the victim of Caravaggio's Noble Phantasm—burning so brightly that even in the cavernous darkness of the piece, they glimmered as if to replace the stars that had been consumed.

    The man was not a knight in shining armor—not a proud hero, not a noble, pure, chivalrous ideal. The man was just a man.

    No more. No less.

    "Careful, careful." Caravaggio's voice draws you out of your stupor, and you realise with a start that your vision has gone blurry. You blink once, twice, then reach up to rub your eyes, your gloved fingers coming away slightly wet. "Cry on one of my paintings and you will ruin a masterpiece beyond measure, you daft creature."

    "I…Caravaggio, I—"

    "Save your inane babble. My time is valuable." He takes the painting and starts to roll it up, careful not to disturb his pigments or mar the work in any way. He slots the rolled up canvas into a wooden tube lying at his side, before capping the end and sealing it tightly, holding it out towards you with a look so expectant your hand is moving to grasp it before you can think. Still, he holds onto it as you grip the other end, and the intensity in his eyes pins you in place.

    "This is no gift, Edward—make no mistake, I will have compensation for this. So listen well!" He looks at you, stares at you silently for a moment—and then he smiles at you, an expression so soft and fond and proud that you can hardly imagine it came from this whirlwind of a man.

    "When we meet again, and we will meet again, you must allow me to paint you once more."

    You laugh—you can't help it. A short burst of nervous, baffled laughter that quickly transitions to an ugly hiccough, your eyes burning as you try to hold back the sudden surge of grief. Minutes ago, you fought him with full intent to kill—and now that he was dying, you were mourning him? You really did break yourself. You've only known him a few days, and now you're crying over the loss of a Servant of all people.

    It doesn't make sense, but your heart continues to ache all the same.

    "Well? I'm waiting, Edward, and I refuse to be kept so." Caravaggio's eyebrow raises, and you reach up to rub at your eyes again—you don't want his last memory of you to be that, of all things.

    "Yes. I promise." Caravaggio's grip goes slack, and you take the canvas and holder in your arms just in time for Caravaggio's arm to start dissolving into glimmering golden sparks.

    "Ah…what an irritating dream after death. Summoned by an arse, surrounded by annoyances, and dying at the hands of a wannabe knight! I'd almost want to paint again, if I had the time." He lets out a low sigh, slumping back into his stool before waving you off with his remaining hand, the one made of black paint.

    "Go on, go on. No need to wait for me. Go be a knight, Edward. Go be my muse. And for the love of God, don't forget yourself along the way."

    You don't want to leave. You don't want him to go. You want to offer him a contract and order him to stay and call on Circe's aid but it's too late, been too long since you pierced his heart and destroyed his spiritual core—it's a miracle that he lasted until now.

    Then you look in his dark eyes, see the twinkle in them, and your chest hurts a little less. It's not gone, not entirely, but it's…better.

    "I'll see you again soon, Edward Dempsey."

    "...Goodbye, Caravaggio."

    You tuck the canvas into your belt and walk towards the single opening in the thorny room, into the depths and darkness ahead, and you hear a quiet whoosh of air as the valent'huomo vanishes.

    —

    The meager light of Caravaggio's candles lasts only a few seconds into the gloomy corridor of vines, and in between heartbeats you're plunged into darkness. The earthy, heady scent of sap floods your senses, the thorns tearing apart the vines they curl around around only to be replaced with fresh growth so the cycle can continue. Your circuits still feel raw and burnt from the battle with Caravaggio, but with Galahad's powers supporting yours you can dredge up enough mana to Reinforce your eyes and piece through the murky blackness. Thick, dark green brambles and roots surround you, their initial explosive growth replaced with a more sluggish, leisurely expansion, though none have stopped entirely. Even the plants you're standing on are shifting slightly, your footsteps taking you further than you intended them to every now and then as your foothold shoots forward mid-stride. Your hand flicks back to the canvas every now and then, making sure its case is still intact, and when you touch it you feel that same dull ache in your chest, that same warmth in your belly. It hurts, but it's pushing you forward all the same.

    You can't just ignore Caravaggio's last wish, after all.

    The thorns prick you now and then, brushing against the bare skin of your arms, or your face, or some particularly large ones puncturing through your boots. Each time one breaks your skin, you feel a wave of exhaustion for just a moment, then Galahad's protections purge the curse as easily as they do its mistress's' charm. The thought occurs to you that you might be the only one who could possibly have resisted this long enough to solve the problem, but so soon after Caravaggio's death you can't find it in you to laugh at the irony of Buné trapping you specifically here.

    You, who can remain unaffected by Avenger, by Lionel's charm even when she sleeps. You, who can delve deeper and deeper into this thorny castle without fear of being consumed by it. You, who remembers her story.

    The fairy tales your sister was so enamored by had become your comfort as well, but you craved more. You read about the Knights of the Round Table and their exploits, imagining yourself sat at King Arthur's side, going on hunts with Sir Gawain, jousting with Sir Lancelot - but the lesser knights held your attention too. You thought of joking with Sir Dinadan, of helping Gareth Beaumains with his deception in the Camelot kitchens, of helping Sir Ywain care for his courageous, terrifying lion.

    And you remember nights spent reading Sir Lionel's tale, and spent pondering his fate.

    King Claudas's cruelty and cunning had destroyed Lionel and Bors's father, and had left them trapped as his wards. Even knowing he was to inherit his promised kingdom of Gannes, Lionel murdered Claudas's monster of a son in a fit of anger, and would have condemned him and his brother both to death had the Lady of the Lake not spirited them away. Sir Bors became a shining beacon of all that a knight should be, while Sir Lionel faded into obscurity - fit for little more than a step on Bors's journey as a knight.

    You remember reading of Lionel, beaten and dragged away in plain view of his brother - and you remember reading that this was a test sent by God himself, for Bors to prove that he was worthy. You remember your disbelief as Bors turned from his brother, naked and bound in brambles, beaten with thorns and briars, and went to save the innocent maiden that had been taken at the same time. As the years went on, your discomfort only grew. Bors was the chosen one, blessed by God and destined for greatness - and Lionel was little more than a test, used and discarded and slain once his wrath drove him to kill, to take vengeance upon his brother for having been abandoned.

    Once the thought of leaving solidified itself in your mind all those years ago, you could find nothing but sympathy in your heart for Sir Lionel.

    The thought quickens your step as you move through the pitch-black caverns of thorns, following the flow of mana towards their core. Everything she said, to you, to others, as idle chatter, all of it started to click the minute she made her request. A rotten tree, fit only to be struck down by a true hero - that was what God declared Lionel to be. That was what Lionel herself believed. Her nobility hadn't been tarnished - she had stood up to Buné, even knowing it would mean death, and it had taken nothing less than a compulsion of absolute obedience to force her to deceive you. Those who had nothing, she took under her wing to save, even knowing her Master wanted to kill them for his vision. Even with your twisted view of her, even with your mind poisoned by your own foolishness and forcing connections you wished you could deny - you know that she is a knight, no matter what.

    A knight, bound in thorns, waiting for the hero who will slay her.

    A knight, bound in thorns, waiting for his brother to rescue him.

    A knight, bound in thorns, waiting for you to make a choice.

    Brambles thicker than tree-trunks block your path to the core of the thorny castle, but the blades of your chains make quick work of the barrier. Inside the very heart of the structure, the darkness is so thick you can almost touch it—but with your enchanted eyes you can see Lionel still, resting on a bed of roses in the centre of the chamber, see the rotting tree that is the source of this prison erupting from her chest. Even now, you're struck by how beautiful she is - but that charm wears off you immediately, and all you can see is the knight you spoke with in a peaceful, beautiful clearing, who claimed herself to be worthless evil in one breath and gave sanctuary to those with nothing in the next.

    You step towards the bed of roses, blade held tight in your hand. Like this, she can't defend herself at all. All it would take is a single motion, and she would pass away in her sleep, comforted by the knowledge that she had played her part to perfection. That a true knight had cut the rotten tree to pieces, and in doing so had proven himself worthy of the title. With her contract severed, she can't last much longer anyway - it would practically be a kindness to stop her suffering from this torturous Noble Phantasm.

    You know what to do. You've known it since the moment you started your path towards the core.

    Kneeling beside the bed of roses, you take one of her pale hands in your own. Sir Lionel was her name, but this castle came from the story that had been bound to her, and you know exactly how to bring an end to it. Briar Rose's curse was broken in the simplest way you can imagine - all you can hope for is that this will be enough.

    Gently, slowly, you bring her hand to your lips, pressing a chaste kiss to her knuckles.

    There's no sign at first that you were correct—no great upheaval of the roots you stand on or sudden conflagration to destroy the castle of thorns. There's nothing, for just long enough to make you fear that you had misjudged Lionel's Noble Phantasm, just long enough to make you fear that there was only one way to end this. You almost let go of her hand—Almost.

    Slowly, ever so slowly, her eyes start to flutter open.

    Something above you cracks and creaks, and from the tip of the rotten tree growing from Lionel's chest, you see the tiniest ray of sunlight peek through an opening no wider than a fingernail, illuminating the hollow of her throat.

    The enchantment shatters all at once, the drowsiness pawing at the back of your mind receding immediately as the barrier between your mind and those of your Servants vanishes, a tumultuous cascade of thoughts bearing down on you all at once. You can barely pick out anything from the hurricane of emotions and words besides that Marie is turning her carriage around, but you had a priority then and there that you couldn't ignore, not even for your Servants.

    As the final roots and brambles of Avenger's Noble Phantasm recede, you're left kneeling on the ground, cradling the knight in your arms, one around her back to support her while the other lays her hand over her stomach. Lionel's gaze is dreamy, her lips half parted in surprise and confusion as she looks up at you, and when she speaks you can't tell if it's quiet due to her grogginess or how weak she must be, having lost her Master and the power of the Command Spell that had fuelled her.

    "Sir…Sir Edward? What…what did you…"

    She blinks and reaches up to rub her eye—then freezes. The look in her eyes goes from uncertain to hateful, and you only barely manage to block the titanic slap she aims towards your face, the impact still leaving you shaken after your battle with Caravaggio. She wrenches herself away from you and pushes herself to her feet, unsteady but still standing, and you notice that she bears no wound from the tree that erupted from her chest—even her armor is pristine. It's as if the whole thing had simply never happened, nothing more than a bad dream.

    "You…you…!" Avenger hisses her words, sparks in her eyes—you'd expected anger, but this was a little more than you'd been prepared for.

    "Lionel, I—"

    "You were to kill me, Sir Edward! To slit my throat and end my threat and step forward as a knight! That is what you were meant to do, the only thing I am meant to do, and you would deny me that?! Deny my purpose, my reason for being?!" She snarls at you, seeming to gain strength with every word—some small, clinical part of you notes that it's probably her nature as an Avenger. Hating you so much for letting her live is extending what little time she has.

    Go figure.

    "What possessed you to make such a foolish decision? Are you that enamored with this form of mine, thinking with nothing but your base urges? Or are you simply a weakling, incapable of doing what must be done? Did you think that your pity would be well received? I have never asked for your mercy! I am a rotten tree, an affront to the world—kill me and be done with it!"

    "No!"

    Avenger falls silent, her eyes widening just a bit at the sudden shout—you don't blame her, honestly. You're a little shocked at how vehement it was yourself—but you continue anyway, scrambling to find the words to keep her from just running out the clock and fading away. After your battle with Caravaggio, and especially after your talk with him, you feel…raw. Unfiltered. Like the distance you'd carefully drawn between yourself and everything around you had been burnt to nothing.

    "I'm not Bors. I'm not being guided by God. I'm not—I'm not going to kill you just to prove that I'm a hero or something insane like that. I grew up learning about you. About what happened to you. And I just…I can't. I can't do it to you again." It's the truth, every word, but Lionel's expression twists into a sneer regardless.

    "I do not want your pity, Sir Edward. I understand my role, I understand the only part I may ever play—do you wish for me to strike you down? I may be weak, but against someone who refuses to do what must be done, I'm certain I could manage." Her blade appears in her hand, though she doesn't point it at you just yet, still staring at you with a cold, quiet rage. "Did you expect me to thank you? To praise you? To aid you? I am an Avenger. A loathsome existence beset with rot and evil. I have no place but the grave—the only help I can offer is to sharpen your blade for the evil before you."

    "So you're just going to run away?" You speak without thinking, your own frustration rising. Lionel sucks in a breath, fury writ on her face, but you speak up again—you're far from finished. "Buné summoned you. He's still there, ready to start his ritual all over again, and if he does and we can't stop him that's it. History is gone. We're gone. You're gone. Bors is gone. And even if that wasn't the case—you're a Knight of the Round Table! Whatever you did, you're still a knight!"

    Every word you say makes Lionel tighten her grip on her blade, but she doesn't interrupt. The others will be here soon, and if they see her like this then they won't hesitate—if you're going to convince her, it needs to be now.

    "Are you really satisfied leaving it like this? I don't care how rotten you think you are—are you really going to leave Buné and the others without fighting them yourself?" You reach out your hand, palm upwards, a note of desperation entering your voice. "Stay. Fight with us. That'll help more than killing you ever could."

    A moment passes in silence, followed by another. On and on the quiet seconds pass, Avenger's face a mask of utter inscrutability—until finally, her blade disappears, and she reaches her hand out slowly, resting it atop yours. Staring right at you, she makes no effort to hide the loathing in her eyes, but she speaks nevertheless.

    "Sir Edward Dempsey, vessel of Sir Galahad, Knight of the Shield. I ask of you—are you my Master?"

    An electric current passes from her armored fingers to yours, and you feel the Command Spells on your arm burn in anticipation—there's a sound like thunder drawing closer, crystalline hooves beating on the cobblestone roads.

    "Yes."

    The contract snaps into place like a bolt of lightning, and you stumble forward—the added drain from Lionel would usually be nothing, but with how exhausted you already are you hadn't been able to brace yourself properly. Lionel steps forward to catch you, pushing you up and gripping your shoulder tightly as she glares at you.

    "Do not think I did not see your base manipulation for what it was. True as it may have been, you said so only because you wished to keep me from a deserved death. I will fight with Chaldea, I will cooperate in the felling of these demons more craven than even I, but understand this—I am an Avenger. My hatred is all that I have left. It gouges at my heart like thorns, slumber my only respite from it. I will not abide by a hero too weak and naive to do what needs to be done, to abandon what ought to be abandoned. Do not think to avoid a reckoning forever, Sir Edward." She pushes you to your feet, steadying you, and then all of a sudden her demeanor changes completely—her glare fades, her lips curve into a polite smile, and she claps her hands together just in time for Marie's carriage to arrive, Archer and Circe all but throwing themselves out of it towards you, naginata and staff at the ready. You reach out to hold them back, but Avenger's timing couldn't have been more perfect—her final comment spoken just in time for them to hear.

    "Please guide me well, Master. I look forward to fighting by your side."

    Archer's eyes go so wide you think they might fall out, and Circe lets out a half-strangled noise of shock as she turns to you, eyes burning with…well, you hope it's curiosity, because the alternative is that you just pissed her off too.

    Still, you wouldn't have done anything different.

    Class: Avenger

    True Name: Lionel du Gannes


    Stats:-
    STR: C
    END: A
    AGI: C
    MAG: B
    LCK: E


    Skills:-
    Avenger: B+
    Class skill of the Avenger class, marking an existence that lives only to accumulate hatred and claim vengeance, that will never rest nor forget until burnt to nothingness. This skill allows Avenger to recover moderate amounts of mana simply by existing, and boosting the rate of generation while acting towards fulfilling her personal revenge. Clinging desperately to life in defiance of all logic, existing only to destroy themselves as they seek to sate their impossible hunger. Such is the lot of an Avenger, a fate that cannot be avoided.

    Princess of Loveliness: B+
    A Skill somewhat similar to Charisma, but rather than denoting the capacity for leadership, this instead represents the ability to draw those around them to the bearer. When awake, Avenger is difficult to part from and holds the attention and affection of others far more easily than normal. However, when Avenger falls asleep, this Skill receives a rank up, increasing from a mundane ability to a powerful supernatural charm. Those around her are struck dumb by her beauty and find themselves incapable of harming her, and those of a knightly character will be drawn to her as a protector, willing to fight and kill for her sake.

    Additionally, while a powerful blessing, it is also curse. Avenger requires as much sleep as the average human, and will suffer from the same afflictions as them should she be unable to fulfil this requirement.

    Protection of the Faeries: A-
    A Skill that denotes a blessing from the Elementals known as the faeries, typically bestowing increased luck upon the bearer on the battlefield. Where it is possible to perform feats of arms, Avenger may temporarily raise her Luck by one rank. Avenger's ties to the Lady of the Lake, her foster mother, would grant her this Skill regardless, but due to the composite nature of Avenger's existence, she also benefits from additional blessings such as those of beauty, wit, grace, dance, song, and goodness—boons granted by the myriad faeries of Briar Rose's tale. However, the curse which bestowed the name to Briar Rose's legend was inflicted by a faerie as well, and as such the stability of this Skill is negatively affected—Avenger cannot control when the effect ends, for better or for worse.

    Unbridled Heart: A
    A Skill that denotes Avenger's unmitigated fierceness of heart and indomitable strength of mind. Avenger bears a natural resistance to both physical and mental damage, reducing the effectiveness of wounds dealt to her and allowing her to ignore any and all pain. Additionally, mental interference that attempts to affect Avenger through fear or despair are utterly ineffective.

    In life, Avenger was known as the Unbridled Heart, a title earned through their unyielding tenacity. Even when bleeding from a hundred wounds, Avenger did not flinch, and though he was smote down more than once, he always returned to the battlefield. The sole exception to this protection is the pain of abandonment or betrayal—such agonies drove Avenger to murder and hatred in life, and will subject Avenger to uncontrollable rage and despair as a Servant.

    Noble Phantasm:-

    Briar Rose, Castle of Thorns: The Rotten Tree Yet Dreams (Fortress - B+)
    Avenger's sole Noble Phantasm, the crystallization and composite of her own horrific experiences in life and the anecdotes concerning the Phantom composited with her Saint Graph, her vengeance made manifest in the very thorns that pierced her flesh and deemed her unworthy of being saved.

    Avenger is capable of summoning enchanted thorns, briars, and brambles at will, conjuring them from the tip of her blade Florent and all it has pierced, or from within her own flesh itself should she be disarmed. While she bears direct control of them, the thorns also act as an automatic defense, attempting to snare and entrap any threat that draws too close to Avenger, even should she be asleep or otherwise incapacitated. Due to the fusion with the Phantom of Briar Rose, Avenger's thorns are imbued with a powerful curse—though they cannot deal much damage physically, they are capable of enforcing an enchanted sleep upon those whose bodies are pierced by the thorns. Victims of her thorns without some form of resistance to mental interference will be struck with intense drowsiness, and upon being pierced enough times they will slip into a dreamless slumber, the thorns continuing to feed on the blood and mana of their victims in order to spread.

    This expression, however, is only a partial release of her Noble Phantasm. Upon invoking the true release, Avenger falls into a slumber of her own as she is consumed by a rotten tree, an eruption of thorns instantly creating a vast castle of cursed growth to entrap those around her. This castle will expand indefinitely as long as it has victims to drain—the more blood and mana it drinks, the swifter its grounds spread. The curse of slumber is magnified while this castle is active, with even a tiny prick of the thumb capable of lulling a Servant into endless sleep.

    So long as Avenger herself remains alive, the castle will regenerate from any and all blows—but should the inner sanctum of the castle be breached, Avenger is left utterly helpless, asleep and incapable of defending herself, dreaming of the hero who shall cut down the rotten tree she has become and grant her eternal rest.

    [ ] Justify yourself—you need all the help you can get, and Lionel has proven herself a capable warrior with no love for Buné. With how disastrous the battle against him went, it can only be a good idea to increase your forces.

    [ ] Admit to them both the truth—you couldn't let her die. Lionel might stab you if you say it out loud, but confessing through your shared connection as a Servant might let you avoid that particular fate.

    [ ] Avoid bringing it up at all—Lionel's identity wasn't the only one to be revealed in that battle. Jeanne being a Faker wasn't a priority for you back then, but now that you have room to breathe, you need to talk to her about it—as does everyone, you expect.
     
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    • I'll refrain from giving too long a comment—suffice to say that due to a busy life and some other reasons, I took a break from writing for a long while.

    Barring a trip to the States for two weeks, I'll be working overtime to ensure this has regular update schedule. Thank you for sticking with me!
     
    [X] Admit to them both the truth—you couldn't let her die. Lionel might stab you if you say it out loud, but confessing through your shared connection as a Servant might let you avoid that particular fate.

    Excellent civilisation
     
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    [X] Admit to them both the truth—you couldn't let her die. Lionel might stab you if you say it out loud, but confessing through your shared connection as a Servant might let you avoid that particular fate.
     
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