I'm tempted to ask but I think I'll just do some yelling.
What the hell does this have to do with anything? Seriously, go sit in the corner and think about what you've done. Don't come back until you can stay on topic
I meant that if there are a medieval version of the Agency, it would make you wonder why they gotten killed by demons. Unless it is a modern era and we're talking about the Einzburn Agency Department.
I meant that if there are a medieval version of the Agency, it would make you wonder why they gotten killed by demons. Unless it is a modern era and we're talking about the Einzburn Agency Department.
[X] Infiltrate backstage. You'll be under lesser scrutiny from the water-demons, but you have no idea what could lie in wait backstage at a demonic drama such as this. On the one hand you could bump straight into one of your targets for an easy kill on Corday's part. On the other, you could bump straight into one of your targets and hand them an easy kill. You may be able to pass off your shield as a prop. Maybe.
[X] Infiltrate backstage. You'll be under lesser scrutiny from the water-demons, but you have no idea what could lie in wait backstage at a demonic drama such as this. On the one hand you could bump straight into one of your targets for an easy kill on Corday's part. On the other, you could bump straight into one of your targets and hand them an easy kill. You may be able to pass off your shield as a prop. Maybe.
"We go in through the back," you decide. "It's our best chance of getting in undetected and finding Jeanne before this escalates any further. Corday, can you get us disguises?"
"I won't be a moment." Corday vanishes once more, little more than a shadow on a moonless night, slipping soundlessly through the streets of Paris. Nevertheless, you think you're getting used to Presence Concealment.
"Well," says Luvia. "I've always wanted to go to the Paris Opera, but this wasn't exactly what I had in mind."
"Nor I," you agree.
"May we go to an opera one day, Master?" Saber asks.
"Ah... sure, I'll see what I can do."
***
It's not quite as simple as it was with Reynard and his plan to get you into Orléans. The water demons may not be the brightest bunch, but you're sure even they would recognize you in your unaltered Shielder garb. So this time you dress for the occasion, like Luvia. Corday managed to find you some clothes in roughly your size - smelling awful, of course - that feel like they're woven out of nettles. Perhaps in another situation you would feel self-conscious about stripping down and getting changed around two women, but right now exaggerated embarrassment couldn't be further from your mind. The potential dozens of hostages are a mite more pressing. There's nothing you can do about the shield - it can't be dismissed or recalled, you've tried - so you decide to own it. If there's one thing you learned from Father, it's that confidence is everything. It doesn't matter if it's fake so long as it convinces the right people. You still think you'd prefer to greet a room full of magi rather than the water demons, but not by much. Luvia thrusts her sword into your grip to complete the look of a random peasant bearing props.
"Are we all ready?" Corday asks.
"I believe so," you lie.
"Not even close, but we don't have any time so let's move," Luvia says. Corday nods.
It's an odd feeling as the three of you stride towards the back entrance, bold as brass. You get the feeling that the water demons are just as confused, ponderously turning what might be considered a 'head'-ish cluster of tentacles in your direction to watch you approach. You force yourself to keep your eyes down, quickening your pace to keep up with Luvia and Corday. Each second that passes makes you surer and surer that your disguise will be seen through, that soon you'll hear the gurgling keening of alarm and cold, wet tentacles squeezing the life out of you. Your heart beats faster and faster with every step. You've drawn level now. They'll sense you. They'll spot you. They'll...
... let you pass without incident. You sigh with relief. Luvia elbows you in the shoulder. You bite back a comment and hurry on, crossing the threshold.
'Pandemonium' is the word that springs to mind as you witness the scene backstage. It's at once astonishingly massive and incredibly cramped. People rush back and forth shoulder-to-shoulder, clutching props and costumes, pieces of scenery shouldered and dragging along behind them. The water demons are spread thinner here, left standing around dumbly at irregular intervals.
"How many people are back here?" you whisper.
"Hundreds," she replies, as if she had taken a census between eyeblinks. "I slipped inside earlier to ask around. At least five hundred people, actors and stagehands, likely more. We'll blend right in."
"Maybe if we didn't have the 'Moor'," Luvia points out. She's right, of course. But then again, most of the peasants you pass are more concerned with the strong possibility of dying tonight than a person with darker skin than them, so it doesn't seem quite so pressing a problem.
You keep a tight grip on your shield and Luvia's sword as you carefully edge your way through the crowd, trying your best to keep up with the others. It's not easy. Your eye is drawn away from their backs almost magnetically. There's just so much everywhere. Somehow even the backstage area has its own sense of opulence and grandeur. There must be a hundred - no, a thousand - ropes crisscrossing the space and rising high towards the ceiling, fastened to various pegs set in the wall. You can't even begin to imagine what they all must do and connect to. There are backdrops, so massive and lavishly painted that only as close as you are can you tell that they're merely wood. The 'costumes' you spy are no mere costumes. You see real functioning sets of fullplate, gilded and etched. You see robes of silk and velvet. You see a reproduction of Jeanne's banner, almost as good as the real thing. You see a full squad of armoured knights standing in four neat rows of six, clutching weapons polished to a mirror sheen just like their plate. They're as still as statues. More familiars? Perhaps. You can't linger. A to-scale reproduction of part of a castle wall rolls past, forcing you to jump out of the way. The back side has enough scaffolding to support as many armoured knights as is necessary to fight and die on its battlements. There's a whinny off to your right, and before you know it you're nearly bowled over by a pair of horses being led by a very sweaty and nervous page.
Mercifully, you feel Luvia grab you by the arm and pull you to safety.
"We're never going to find Jeanne in this mess," she hisses.
"Patience," Corday urges. "We still have time. We must not do anything rash."
Half of a house rolls past. A fully functional exterior and interior, no doubt for the Domrémy scenes in the first act. You glimpse something through its window at first. Once it passes, you get an especially clear look. There's a man back here with you, nearly entirely still despite the hustle and bustle of the cast and crew all around. His skin is dark, darker than yours, his hair brittle white and long enough to obscure unseeing eyes. He's a wizened man, bent nearly double, hunched over his gnarled walking stick. He wears an old, weathered robe of animal hide with the hood pulled down as far as it will go. All you can see of his features is his muttering mouth. You can't hear what he's saying over the near-deafening hubbub of shouts in French and movement, but it involves the word 'damn' a lot. He notices you looking.
"Stop staring and work!" he snaps, his voice weathered and hoarse with age. You see his bright blue tongue past his lips. He brings his walking stick down on the floor with a loud crack, sparks flying from the point of contact. And then he's off, hobbling away, not pausing to check if you're actually obeying the instruction, muttering to himself once more. He leaves dark, smoking footprints on the floorboards were his bare feet touch down. There can be no doubt about what he is.
Class: Caster
Master: Jeanne Alter
True Name: ???
Noble Phantasm: ???
Keyword: Blue tongue, fire
Strength: E
Endurance: D
Agility: C
Mana: A
Luck: D
Skills:
Territory Creation: B+
The ability of a Caster-class Servant to establish an area of operations favourable to their magic. Caster of Ash's rank in this skill is situationally increased in some aspect, but you can't be sure as to what yet.
Item Creation: B
The ability of a Caster-class Servant to craft wondrous magical items. Caster of Ash's rank in this skill is well-suited to the class, but incapable of constructing truly legendary artefacts.
Further skills remain hidden.
Noble Phantasm(s):
All Noble Phantasms remain hidden.
"We know what Caster of Ash looks like, at least," Luvia murmurs.
"I should kill him now," Corday hisses to herself, grasping at the spot beneath her dress where her knife hangs. "One more dead, the balance redressed even more."
You put a hand on her shoulder. "No matter how silently you kill him, Gilles and whoever created this place will sense a Servant fading away. Then what do we do to save the hostages?"
"..." Corday takes a deep breath and slides her hand away. "Yes. You are right. I know of no spirit who could construct an edifice such as this while looking like that. My blade is reserved for Gilles or the Servant who remains yet unidentified."
"It could be an Assassin?" Luvia suggests. "There are a multitude of factors which may contribute to a seemingly incompatible class holding a Noble Phantasm that can perform such a function. Byrnhildr conjured that ring of fire only yesterday, yes?"
"Unlikely," you counter. "We still have not seen the full extent of Gilles' Noble Phantasm. This must be a construct of his - he possesses Item Creation, does he not? Perhaps his Noble Phantasm can mimic Territory Creation too."
"But what about the music?" Luvia asks. "You heard what Mozart said; that's not his style."
"I... I will have to get back to you on that."
You keep moving, alternately against and with the tide of rushing people. It's nearly complete sensory overload. You've never been around this many people before, especially not like this. You're sticking closer to Corday and Luvia as you might have liked. Your breath doesn't seem to be coming right. The air's too thick to go into your lungs properly. You try to keep it under control, do some of the breathing exercises Father taught you. They're not working right. Your heart is pumping away too fast, throwing off your timing. You stagger away from the other two, nearly tackling two men coming the other way with a pair of banners. You cover your head with your hands and keep moving, by some instinct drawing away from the crowd and towards the only empty space available. When you finally feel the press of bodies stop, you sigh in abject relief and lower your hands.
Jeanne is right next to you, her unconscious form lying limp in a chair. Her armour is gone, replaced by a fairy tale's idea of what peasant girls might have worn in this era. It's crafted by a master tailor, making her seem like the absolute pinnacle of rustic innocence and wholesomeness. You kneel beside her, checking her pulse out of reflex. She seems to be hale and hearty, but what sort of enchantment could have pierced her Magic Resistance? Before you know it Luvia is beside you, and Corday is crouched on the other side of Jeanne. She gently but urgently calls the saint's name, cupping her chin, turning her head this way and that. Jeanne's brow creases slightly, a soft groan escaping her. Corday quickly checks for bindings and, finding none, whispers in Jeanne's ear. Something about escaping quickly, no doubt. You look around in confusion - why set her up here, in the middle of nowhere?
"Mnn..." Jeanne's eyelids flutter, her brow furrowed as she fights off whatever it is that knocked her out. "You... have to go... it's..."
The curtain rises behind you.
The three of you turn. The play house, the opera house, stretches out before you. Rows upon rows upon rows of seats, far too many to have fit in the real Notre Dame. Tiered balconies and boxes stretching up to the ceiling, like strata from a cross-section of the great building. Everything is gilded and what isn't gold is scarlet, so rich and vibrant as to seem unreal. A grand chandelier hangs overhead like a sun in its own right, near-blinding you with its brilliance. The edge of the stage is lit equally as brightly, white-hot globes at regular intervals that serve the cordon off the audience. Every seat is filled, every occupant looking wide-eyed and pale-faced towards the stage. Water demons dot the aisles and balconies, ready to strike at the slightest command. Above all, you see Gilles de Rais' back. He turns to look at you. You see the shock on his face, of course. Disbelief that you could have slipped right past him. But next is the real surprise.
He's happy.
"Oh look, look, look at the three of you!" he exclaims, striding forward with hands held high. He's changed out of his earlier garb, now wearing gilded robes of brilliant white silk embroidered with a cross and scripture. You can't even see his sword anywhere. The three of you flinch back, but he shows no sign of noticing or caring. "You heard tell of our preview night and you wanted to join in before you lost the chance! Oh how I doubted you but deep down I knew you would see the light!"
"What... what is this, Gilles?" Jeanne demands, still shaking off the fog over her mind.
"Isn't it obvious, my Jeanne? Le Mistère du Siège d'Orléans!" Gilles raises his hands high into the air, proclaiming the title joyfully. "All this time I had been agonizing over casting the main character's role. I had wondered through long and sleepless nights who could possibly capture even a tenth of your glory. But a new friend and benefactor, a wonderfully artistic and insightful soul, spoke the truth. No one could play the role but you, Jeanne! And now, here we are, the preview night!" He lowers his arms and steps closer, stooping slightly to see Jeanne eye-to-eye. "I know I promised to only show you when it was done but you see, you see now it can be even better! For who can know her own story better than the Maid of Orléans herself! Once you are satisfied with your part we can tell your story to the world, shout it to the heavens! It will be so beautiful, Jeanne!"
"Fine!" Jeanne exclaims. "Fine Gilles, I'll be in your play, just let these people go!"
"Oh. Oh but Jeanne." Gilles has the gall to look hurt. "A preview needs an audience. This is no mere... mere dress-rehearsal. I would never dream of insulting you with such a... such a banal waste of your time. The audience must experience this masterpiece we will craft together."
"I made you promise not to hurt them. I gave you a strict order!" Jeanne pleads. "You weren't to harm them!"
"I won't! I swear to you I would never willingly harm a hair on their precious heads my Jeanne." Gilles places a hand over his heart. "But these demons, their purpose must be served. They have to protect the sanctity of this production. What if one of them were to get the wrong idea, go out into the word and spread the incorrect version? The English version? That simply would not do. You see, Jeanne? It isn't out of malice at all. I take no pleasure in it. You won't force anything like that to happen, will you?"
"Gilles-"
"Oh and please do not think of using a Command Seal, or formulating a plan via the Master bond," Gilles pre-empts her, tapping his temple. "In fact, call them inside! It may be standing room only but I must put my own biases aside if this play is to be worthy of you." He glances at you. "Yours too. You wouldn't want to force me to do anything I would not want to, would you?"
Time seems to slow to a crawl. The Marshal of France's eyes, ink-black pools of incomprehensible madness, bore into your own.
[ ] Comply with Gilles' commands. Bring Rider and Saber inside. So long as you go along with his mad little play, nobody gets hurt.
[ ] Attack. It's worth the risk, especially now when he's off-guard. If you all work together, you can take him and his new friends.
[X] Comply with Gilles' commands. Bring Rider and Saber inside. So long as you go along with his mad little play, nobody gets hurt.
In the end it comes down to whether or not we want a blood bath on our hands, a fight is inevitable, but if we comply we might manage to save more lives in the long run. Also I may actually get my wish for Reynard to kill Gilles, just not the one I originally thought he would
As I'm reading it; it's not so much that Gilles brute forced his way past the Command Seal, he Gilles-logiced it.
"I cannot harm the people of France. But having them take part in and attend my play celebrating the glory of Jeanne cannot be called harm, it's a wonderful opportunity well worth dying for! On with the show!"
As I'm reading it; it's not so much that Gilles brute forced his way past the Command Seal, he Gilles-logiced it.
"I cannot harm the people of France. But having them take part in and attend my play celebrating the glory of Jeanne cannot be called harm, it's a wonderful opportunity well worth dying for! On with the show!"
I think it's more like Vlad bite.
Achilles is practically invincible to almost anything.
But a vampire bite technically is not a act to harm
So Gilles is not harming them, he is helping the poor ignorant people of Paris to see the light! And he is not using the Demons as a way to force Jeanne, for him the only real problem is that people could spread the English version, so he want to show the show to all demons and people and Servant and... Oh my god.
I'm almost sure Gilles invited Jeanne alter.
On the other hand, if it does go loud we'd have to Command Seal Rider and Saber in anyway, trying to rumble with Berserker Gilles, Caster of Ash, unknown Servant of Ash and their demonic stage hands and production assistants while keeping the people of Paris from getting splattered all over the opera house by collateral damage is going to take more than Rostam, Luvia, Corday, and Jeanne.
.
