Fate: the Granada Grail War (Fate/stay night)

[meloncan]

Your world is a swirl of hazy dreams and half remembered realities up until the moment the jolt of awakening hits you along with the fresh air engulfing your skin from forehead on down. Your hair mats on your back as the suspension tank fluid drains away with the sound of a blowdrier in your ear as the pumps replace it all with air. Sensors, electrodes, straps and tubes fall loose and you collapse to your knees and tumble out, blind and naked, wincing from the gargle of thoughts that all come at once. Your magecraft, such as it is. Your preparations. The Grail War. The summoning. The latter, by necessity, an automated process you preset when you arrived and set up your atelier weeks ago. You are a magus who cannot cast. That is your lot and you are here because you want another.

The gravity of the present returns to you. The Now. You flail incoherently on the slippery wet floor like a newborn, gasping air into weeks disused lungs, trying to relearn movement. Your first sensation from the outside world is no more than the vague thereness of another being.

[ ] Immediately use a command seal to bind your Servant!
[ ] Stay calm and carry on.

 

[meloncan]

[X] Stay calm and carry on.

After a handful of gasps, you're more gathered than you were seconds ago. The bare, smoothed stone floor under you becomes crisp under your fingers and knees. There is light. A congealing mass of blurs. The sound of pumps, rushing air and settling mechanisms stop with an echo, leaving just an electronic hum. This is Granada, Spain and you, Shiri Awanic, 19, second year Clock Tower student, are here to fight for the Grail, that legendary omnipotent wish granting device that is the magecraft world's newest craze. One supposes this, then, is the 'Granada Grail War'.

Your first attempt at words come out as an uncontrolled cough, a retch and a slurred mumble as your tongue gets moving again.

At one time, the Grail Wars were a secretive affair - a matter between a trio of reclusive magus households and their select invitees that took place only in a certain small, semi-obscure Japanese city. Over the decades, details regarding the ritual gradually leaked out into the greater thaumaturgical world but despite several notable attempts, it was never duplicated. That is, until it started happening on its own. First, a suspected case in Kathmandu in 2001, and then verified cases in 2008 and 2011 at Weizhou and Namie. That was when the Grail Wars 'went from hipster to mainstream' as a friend of yours put it. Rather than an obscure ritual that some Clock Tower professor or other was rumoured to be participating in, it became a 'legitimate' aspiration. Something for the young, the untalented, the downtrodden of the magecrafting world to dream about that would flip their lives around.

At first you thought nothing of it. Then you thought about it whilst pretending not to. Then you researched and planned, as if you knew, absolutely, that the Grail would select you. And then it did. You came to Granada before the rumours could even get going and repurposed an unoccupied cave home in the hills of Sacramonte into an atelier for you and your gear. No longer able to consciously cast spells through your own circuits like other magi, you've always put a lot of effort into your workarounds. The result of your research, design and planning culminated into this suspension tank and computer system - your unique Grail War Preparation Mystic Code. With this, you placed yourself into a medically induced coma and slept, hidden, gathering mana from the leylines until, at the precalculated time, the system executed the prepared summoning ceremony and woke you. As for the summoning catalyst...

[ ] four interlocked silvery rings
[ ] a fragment of a black runestone
[ ] a tiny shard of metal, once part of a weapon
[ ] an intricately carved piece of siltstone
[ ] a diagram depicting flows of od in interlaced fibonacci spirals
[ ] Jack the Ripper
[ ] leave it to the Grail

 

[meloncan]

(X) a diagram depicting flows of od in interlaced fibonacci spirals

You blink away at the fog until the stone floor and the shadow hanging over yours comes into focus. The image of the catalyst you used flashes in your mind. That scrap of centuries old paper. A diagram of the flow of od - the internal magical energy of a person - depicted in interlaced spirals. Like a sunflower. This feeling. If they weren't matted against your skin, your hairs would be standing on end. Your heart thumps up to your throat as a shudder travels down your spine.

You have never been in the presence of anyone or anything as dangerous as this in your life.

You're grabbed. Slender, supple, strong. Fingers lift your chin up. Your eyes go as wide as they will. Liquid red light flashes from the marks on your hand. They look like tattoos but are far more than that. They are the proof of your participation in this Grail War and your right to command a Servant. Driven by your instinctive sense of danger, the command spells surge with mana like an armed warhead. Ready.

But for a split second, you're not sure what command you have in mind and the words never come to your lips before another set meets them. A foreign tongue snatches the sounds from yours as your Servant - it must be your Servant - steals a long and deep kiss. Your vision, briefly focused, fogs once more, obscuring their face. Tall, dark and oriental. A beautiful man? A handsome woman. Your eyes dim, lids drooping. Energy drains from you like a reservoir through a burst dam. In the time you spent in hibernation, your unique Mystic Code had drawn mana from the surrounding environment and stored them in your circuits while continually autocasting Reinforcement to enable them to retain it. Dangerous and foolhardy for an ordinary magus, but you've nothing better to do with your circuits. If it weren't for that, you would be dead. In fact, you feel certain that they could still kill you. They simply aren't. This is merely a test. A taste. The red light of the command seals sputter out and your arms, and then your entire body, goes limp. Shadows overtake you once more and the last thing you feel during your brief consciousness is something small and round going down your throat.

*****

You wake with a start, this time in a cold sweat and with none of the gradual coming to of recovering from the induced coma. It's rather more like waking from a nightmare you can't remember.

You gasp as you remember it.

"Oh. Oh crap…"

You get up on an elbow. It's dark save for the slices of warm light coming through the gaps between door and doorframe - especially the bottom. This is the second bedroom of the cave home, surrounded by rough hewn stone walls covered in white plaster, though you can't make much out in the gloom. The bed is too soft - much softer than home - and not great to elbow on. You flip over and the first thing you scrabble for with shaking fingers is your phone. You left it on top of your laptop on the night table, but all you find is the cool fabric of the second pillow - you're sleeping on the opposite side you usually sleep. You slide over, displacing a pile of folded clothes along the way, yank the phone free of the USB charger and turn it on. As it boots, you sit up and feel through the clothes without being sure which ones they are and pull whatever you can on as quickly as you can before your phone reaches home screen and you can check the time and date. It's eight in the evening and you've been asleep twenty hours.

Now you put the rest of your clothes on that were on the bed. One of the skirts. A shirt - the white one - practical fingerless gloves that cover the command seals, and so forth. You slow down, trying to get your thoughts organized before your rising excitement gets out of hand. This is it. The Grail War is on. It's here and now. How do I win? No, first, what's our position? We haven't been found yet, obviously... Or have they found us, and they dispatched them? My Servant... The memory of the kiss sends another shudder down your spine. Your face heats, flushed. Confusion. Wait, what about that thing you swallowed?

Oh. Oh crap.

You clench your fists and release; give the shoulders a shrug; get rid of your shaking as much as you can, and then step into your shoes. Hair is a horrendous, tangled mass but it can wait. No, actually it can't. Comb. You feel around for it but don't find it, then feel around, tapping at the plaster walls for the light switch. Your eyes squint tightly in the resulting glare.

There's no doubt they know you're awake now. Light aside, you've made plenty of noise, but they haven't come into your room nor made any noise. Are they dematerialized? The comb is on top of the dresser. You go through your hair until it's in some semblence of order before replacing the comb and turning the light back off. Then, you take a deep breath, put your hand on the knob, twist, and pull.

The adjoining room is the main space of the apartment, a sort of sitting room with the walls covered by shelves and cabinets and the center of the floor dominated by a small round table with chairs. It doubles as a dining space for the open kitchenette as well, together with which it is just about big enough for two or three. Like many of the cave flats, this place isn't a big affair.

They are sat at the table with the overhead light off and candles lit in the holder, dressed as a Chinese woman of the imperial era, with flowing sleeves and long hair dressed and partly held by pins, with the rest flowing far, far down. The bottle of vermouth and tumbler they've found are rather incongruous. They turn and you catch their face again, gentle and terrifying.

"C-Caster…"

You almost stumble over the word. The wrenching fear of their presence is back. It's not as intense as when they were right on top, with you in their clutches. Even so, at this moment, you can't bring yourself to take another step past the doorway.

"Yes. How are you feeling, my Master?"

[ ] Confront them about what they made you swallow.
[ ] Pretend you didn't notice.

 

[meloncan]

Just testing out this use of a Threadmark in another category.


True Name: Dongfong Bubai
Region: China
Alignment: Chaotic Evil
Class: Caster
Background:
A transcendentally powerful martial artist from late Ming China. Once second in command of the Sun Moon Mystic Cult, they usurped the leadership in order to acquire the forbidden martial arts tome, the Sunflower Manual and then allegedly castrated themself in order to master it, becoming completely unrivaled in strength.

Class Skills:
-Item Creation: C
Can produce poisons and antidotes. Unlimited needles and string.
-Magic Resistance (False): A-
Is not immune to magecraft, but internal energy is so powerful even high thaumaturgy is disrupted, simulating Magical Resistance.
-Territory Creation: C
Able to recall the Sun Moon Mystic Cult stronghold of Blackwood Cliff. Dramatic, but not too practical.

Personal Skills:
-Battle Continuation: C
Can fight on despite mortal injuries and being outnumbered.
-Demon King: B+
The skill for those called a monster in life and were subsequently twisted in legend. Terrifying presence. Able to change appearance to an extent.
-Mana Burst (Qi): A+
Immensely powerful magical energy. Even miniscule objects can become weapons. Can kill with aura alone.
-Projectile (Needles): A+
Their iconic weapon of flying needles with red thread.
-Transcendental Martial Arts: EX

Noble Phantasm -
Name: Mastery of the Sunflower Manual
Rank: -

 

[meloncan]

(X) Confront them about what they made you swallow.

"Oh?"

Caster puts down their tumbler and looks at you, elbow on table, head tilted on their hand.

"You noticed? Of course, for one who can call upon this Invincible East must not be boring or mundane. It looks like your magical energy is not bad. Actually, for someone your age in this era, it's very impressive. I was expecting you to be at death's door but you've slept for less than a day."

"You can stop with the flattery." There's a definite part of you that doesn't mind the flattery, even if what they're lauding is sort of a tricksy workaround. There's another part of you as well that is always appalled at the alternately lame and grandiose words that come out of your mouth in a crisis but it's not the part that does the fast talking. Either way, this isn't the time. "Answer my question."

Caster's eyes narrow dangerously. Your instinct is to back away, maybe get on your knees and cower or be knocked over backwards and cower, but you refuse. Actually, you hadn't let go of the doorknob yet and that helps. Also, whenever someone tries to get overbearing with you, you've learned a trick where you just pick an eye and stare into it, ignoring everything else. It works. Dongfong Bubai is terrifying but their right pupil alone isn't that scary.

They give a chuckle.

"What you swallowed you already know. You're clever enough to put together the contraption in that other room and to arrive well prepared at this battlefield. You must know about me, who you have summoned and what I am capable of. What you swallowed was the same poison pill I used to control my subordinates after I overthrew the original master and took over the cult. Left unattended and you will die a slow and agonizing death. I have the antidote right here of course." They hold a small black lump up between their fingers. "You can either try to take it. Or, I suppose, you could use a command spell. Of course, if you tried to do it right now, I hope your tongue is quicker than it was yesterday."

Geh.

"What's the point?" you blurt, turning indignation into a spurt of courage.

"The point?"

They tilt their head quizzically.

"There's no point to this," you say, quickly cobbling together words while wondering how you can talk without looking like you're about to use a command spell. The doorknob rattles under your grasp. You're quite certain if you did or if they thought you did, you would lose your left hand in an instant. "We're on the same side."

"And so?"

"So we should be working with each other. Also I'm your anchor in this world."

"Hah. You shouldn't sell yourself so short. An anchor doesn't need arms or legs, nor, come to think of it, a tongue."

"I would bite off my own tongue off before you could and send you back to the Throne with nothing!"

Actually, you would do nothing of the sort and hope fervently it doesn't come to that. But your words seem to have tickled them as they laugh wildly. If you'd awoken now, you'd think you'd summoned a Berserker by mistake. You didn't, but you realize that doesn't mean a given servant of another class is always completely sane. Not that you think Caster is insane, exactly. In life they had both a rational, meticulous, manipulative and ruthless side that brought and kept them in power but also a passionate and emotional side that led to their downfall.

"Then you'd be dead. It's up to you."

"And you'd lose your chance at a wish same as me."

"Why need I have a wish?"

"You have a wish," you affirm. "In order for a Heroic Spirit to answer the call of the Grail, they must have some desire strong enough to be carved into their soul. You might be trying to pretend to be aloof but you aren't. Your existence here proves otherwise."

"You're naive," they say, grasping you under the chin and lifting you up to your tip toes. Their glaring face is right in yours. You didn't even see them stand up or move it was so fast. You reach up and grab their wrist with both fingerless gloved hands. Unsurprisingly it's like grabbing an iron pole.

"Of course I lived with desires and died with desires and so my spirit responds to the call of the Grail. However, right now, I am not merely a soul but a person manifest in this cold, dark world. People are more than desires. Eventually you will understand that some desires are never meant to be fulfilled. They cannot be granted. Cannot be wished for. Should not be wished. I have many unfulfilled desires, but that is not the same as a wish for the Grail."

They drop you to the floor, gasping, fuzzy vision having to refocus as they turn away. They're different now, presenting as a man, though their face is the same, hair bound behind a hat, garish robes of four or five colours over trousers and shoes.

"On the other hand, you and I both know what you want. Power of course. Convinced you are deserving. Convinced that with you it belongs. I have been there. We are all the same. And so, you shall have it. No matter what other heroes are summoned, none can oppose me. Rejoice, girl. Be satisfied with that. Be a good cat and stay here. Do not lift a finger to oppose me or get in my way. When this is over, I'll naturally give you the antidote and you can be on your way."

"I won't let you belittle what I want or how I'm going about it."

You sit back up and raise your left fist. They pause, though they don't turn back to look.

"This is a partnership. I won't allow you to turn down your share. If you don't have a wish, you'd better hurry and think of one."

"Hmph."

They disappear.

You give it a few seconds, breath held, before slumping over backwards onto the floor gasping. You lie there for a minute, wondering what other Servants have been summoned into this Grail War and whether any are as hard to deal with as Caster.

I doubt it, but if I'm wrong, my condolences.

Still, you didn't get to where you are now by lamenting mistakes. You get up, hit the bedroom light switch and move the laptop to the little desk where you plug it in. In fact, this isn't even a mistake. You knew from the start that they'd be hard to deal with. However, you also wanted strength. So here you are now. It's time to take stock.

I want to follow Caster out but it's not worth doing just to upset them. I've been in suspended animation for most of the time the other participants will have been chosen and begun preparing. I'm way behind on intelligence and logistics. Master-Servant relations will have to wait.

[ ] Search online for news and rumours and so forth and research any leads you find.
[ ] Catch up on your mail and communications, talk to your connections and make inquiries. Riskier, especially if someone catches on and spills that you're here, but you're pretty confident in your tech abilities.
[ ] Deploy the drones. There's no online substitute for active reconnaissance and you might catch action as it happens.

 

[meloncan]

Deploy the drones. There's no online substitute for active reconnaissance and you might catch action as it happens.

It's a cool and dry autumn evening outside. Sat (sunk into) the oversized armchair in front of the little desk in a cave house in Sacromonte with your headset on, you can keep track of the four modified quadrotors you have airborne. Besides the temperature and humidity, they're also monitoring the area for fluctuations in mana, spirit traces and even hiding themselves. Mixing magecraft and modern technology in mystic codes is neither glamourous nor easy, but also not as difficult as most magi think.

That's because they haven't had to try.

Still, it took you about an hour to get the ducks in a row and, indeed, in the sky. It's been another twenty, twenty five minutes since then and the only reading that's really concerned you so far is the battery life.

All that extra weight's not helped I guess. That and streaming all that data back…

At this rate, you won't be able to keep this many aloft around the clock. You'd kind of imagined yourself doing just that - a disadvantaged but enterprising Master with an eye in the sky at all times like a military force - but you have to admit you can see why the grouchy old Clocktower hags prefer spirits. Spirits can be persnickety, sure, but they tend to self manage by nature. These things, you have to make sure not to lose, land them, get them turned around. That's sort of why aircraft carriers have so many people on them and even this will only cover a fraction of the city at a given time.

Could really use an assistant right about now.

You do have a few friends you can trust but only Hoshie - hipster-to-mainstream girl - knew you were preparing in the hopes of getting chosen for the Grail War and she was hurriedly recalled by her stuffy Japanese family and fell out of contact just before you put yourself under.

Wonder what she's up to…

You check what Caster is up to. They're in the city proper, far below and to the west. Manifested but not expending mana. You guess they're sat in a bar drinking or sat on a ceiling or whatever it is moody wuxia anti-heroes get up to on cool autumn evenings. Thinking about them still makes your heart rate go up. It's not like you want to spy on them. Their presence simply had to be calibrated for in order for the drones to be of any use as detectors.

Okay. So I've got eyes in the sky. Now what? What do I do with them?

You've always been more an ideas girl than...any of the other steps after ideas. You'd vaguely imagined having eyes in the sky as an advantage and maybe just sweep them around until some mana fluctuated-!

That's a spike! Unit three. The Alhambra? No, further up.

Your fingers skip across your keyboard like raindrops as the indicators on unit three's readings flash periodically. The mouse slides audibly across the worn desk surface because you forgot to bring a mouse pad to your Grail War. An obscure tourist spot located higher up the mountain.

The Moor's Chair. A ruined castle that overlooks both the Alhambra and the Generalife. It's an advantageous position. Are they competing for it or did they stumble into each other while scouting it?

The place would be a walk and a half on foot but your quadrotor can just flit across the valley and up the slope. There's another spike and a clang and a crash of captured audio as it's still in flight with tree canopy blurring across the cameras' fields of view. These things don't fly nearly as quickly as people imagine.

The Silla del Moro isn't much. A bunch of centuries old stone walls raised with heavy-handed restoration work combined into a few walkable platforms with a nice view. Ground lights. Stairs. Some rocks and signs. With the major tourist area closed down 'for restoration' through the influence fo the Mage Association, there isn't anyone here. It wouldn't be a bad place for an Archer to camp out aside from the fact it's so obvious that two other servants have come up here at the same time.

On the lower level, illuminated by the entrance lighting atop the first flights of stairs, you see a disgustingly cool, bebuckled black longcoat. The shoulders sport silvery pauldrons and he has a gleaming longsword held over one of them. A day into the Grail War and the man is wearing sunglasses at night with a smirk on his face. Around him, there's already obvious evidence of destruction. A shattered park bench; an exploded trash can with contents scattered across the hillside; an ornamental stone halfway chopped through. On the high ground of the upper platform, there's a tall woman with long, flowing hair. You can't tell what colour in the worse lighting but she seems to be wearing a form fitting, full body suit of mail. In her hands she holds a spear.

"Whoa whoa, honestly now," the woman is saying. "This really is a bit overwhelming for poor old me. You should take it easy now, on a ho-hum Lancer like me."

"Hah. You're a funny one, lady. But you couldn't convince anyone being so composed."

He crouches and takes a leap to the top platform and then the two Servants both vanish, replaced by a storm of stone shattering footfalls, clashing metal and flashing sparks. A gash opens in the concrete here, and there a railing is torn off its bolts, twisted and ruined.

"Haa…" Your breath escapes.

This is… So this is a battle between Servants.

You crank up the frames per second and the bitrates up as far as they'll go. The drone's predicted battery duration drops accordingly. Even then, you can only just follow them at all - just enough to tell that the black swordsman is dominant. He's pushing the Lancer back.

Then that, is that the Saber? Cripes.

Straight away, an incredibly powerful looking Servant. He's fast, precise and strong, launching a furious storm of blows at the Lancer who, forced onto the defensive, seems just about able to keep dodging or parrying them. Wherever the sword strokes are deflected, concrete, metal and masonry alike are ripped apart instantly. He's right though, the Lancer looks pushed, physically, but mentally she seems quite composed still. Then again, the swordsman also isn't even breaking a sweat.

It's early. Most likely neither of them intend to finish the fight tonight and just want to find the other's identity without revealing their own. In fact, they might not play around for very much longer. In this case, I should…

[ ] Ask Caster to come back. If they see what you can do, maybe they'll be more interested in actually collaborating.
[ ] Inform Caster of the situation and see how they react. The problem is, you don't know how they'll react.
[ ] Concentrate on what you can do. Close in and observe as much as possible while it lasts.
--[ ] Afterwards, try to track the Kirito looking swordsman.
--[ ] Afterwards, try to track the ho-hum Lancer.
[ ] Keep your distance and observe the area in case anyone else reacts to the fight.

 

[meloncan]

Inform Caster of the situation and see how they react. The problem is, you don't know how they'll react.

You clear your throat and take a deep breath.

"Oiy. Caster."

There's a pause but you know it went through. You glance at your left fingerless glove's wearable tech wristband and can see the little blinking indicator LEDs. A telepathic connection with their Servant is something of a given for a decent magus but you've had to be a bit more clever. This gadget links the two of you through your command spells' connection rather than the one supplying mana since you actually had time to work and test on the command spells well before actually getting a Servant. You imagine them pausing mid-drink, maybe looking up into the air.

<Cunning girl. Again with the gadgets.>

"Thanks," you say. "More importantly, there's two Servants fighting here right now."

<Near you?>

"Yeah," you say. "No. It's kind of- I'm using a drone to- It's like a-"

Ugh! You feel your face flush a bit.

"Anyway, they're fighting near a ruined castle at the top of the mountain! One of them is Lancer."

<And?>

They pause. You glance briefly again at the melee. Still going. It's almost certain to draw attention if it hasn't already. Heck, you wouldn't be surprised if Caster noticed too and was just being aloof and ignoring it.

<Finding me and speaking to me like this… Are you trying to prove you're useful? Or do you want to see and know the power of the Sunflower Manual?>

[ ] "Yeah. You may think I'm just a nuisance who's in the way but we're partners. This is what I can do and I'm not ashamed of what I can't!"
[ ] "Yeah. You may think I'm just a pet, but I'm your Master and I'll keep doing what I can do. Here and now, show me what you can do."

 

[meloncan]

"Yeah. You may think I'm just a pet, but I'm your Master and I'll keep doing what I can do. Here and now, show me what you can do."

There's a few seconds' pause. The machine is putting your words spoken at the mic into their mind but you can't very well read it in return, or even see their expression.

<Very well. But don't regret it.>

"I won't."

And then the skin under your glove, under your command spells, crawls for just a moment. Far below in the distance, Caster materializes amongst the orange tiled rooftops and bounds across the city towards the eastern hills, spirit form phasing between near invisible and near material repeatedly along the way. All along the way, passers by glance up at the strange sounds reverberating through the narrow streets and alleys, only to see nothing but an indifferent night sky. The two Servants atop the mountain however, soon interrupt their battle and break apart, sensing the intrusion on a near instinctive level. Caster skips out of the buildings and up the slope from treetop to treetop, robes billowing around them. Magical energy thrums out of your being with every blurred footfall, drained and replaced by a thickening apprehension.

All you can do now is watch.

When they alight on the highest platform, the three Servants wordlessly form a triangle, the tension palpable between them as the monument's surviving lights flicker and buzz in the night.

Caster is presenting as the beautiful man you briefly saw silhouetted in the bedroom doorway a couple hours ago, features concealed or exaggerated by cosmetics, shape camouflaged beneath relaxed Chinese robes resplendent with numerous vibrant hues. Their hair is a solid, inky black and long, coming down past the waist after coming out of a traditional looking topknot.

The Lancer is a tall woman - taller than Caster - and likewise has waist length hair; hers is a splotchy and uneven dark brunette, the colour of dried bloodstains and with more than a touch of chaos along its length. Her body is well built without being overbearing and certainly better endowed; the form-fitting, full suit of mail leaves little of her shape to the imagination. She seems as much a warrior as any Servant, but her movements are, as far as is possible for a Servant, almost ordinary - certainly a little slower and less powerful than her opponent's. Her spear as well, seems remarkably unremarkable. The only thing that sticks out is her solid composure and unconcerned smile, steady enough to project only a professional admiration even whilst being pushed. Given the circumstances, you have to consider how much or how little she could be holding back but your uncertainty is hard to shake. No one who qualifies to be a Heroic Spirit is anything but an exceptional person. On the other hand, the Grail War is no longer the exclusive invitational event it once was but is almost a series of surprise parties held by, for all anyone knows, the world itself. On such short notice, even a powerful and established magus with connections and resources might not have the time to come up with a good catalyst and wind up with a 'weak' Servant.

Either she's a heroine known for being composed as iron, or she must be hiding something.

The remaining Servant is a man, handsome, perhaps an inch or two shorter than Caster and probably no heavier. Like Lancer, he's composed and in good humour but he has good reason to be. His movements are lightning quick and his sword thrums with power behind every thrust and swing. His buckle-adorned boots, pants and black longcoat flap in the wind, looking look like he picked them out yesterday from some tired teenage fashion outlet in the basement of a former factory; the sunglasses definitely aren't period. Between the weapon and his obviously high parameters and overall strength, especially against a Lancer of the knight classes, you're coming around to concluding that this Servant must be the Saber of Granada.

The only question now is who?

"And how about that," Lancer says. "Three in an evening. Well, I suppose this isn't a city full of subtle places. You don't seem like the Archer we were both poking around for though. In fact, if I'm not mistaken..."

"I know, Lancer," the Saber says. "Surely this is our Berserker."

Lancer tilts her head. You blink, behind your goggles. He's wrong, but you drift the drone nearer to try to hear his reasoning better.

Saber steps forward as Lancer takes a few steps back. Caster remains where they are but turns their gaze coolly on Saber as well. Step by step, their triangle deforms and stretches out until the next two opponents are face to face.

"My noble phantasm can gauge any opponent," Saber says. "It tells me that Big Sis here is weak of body but strong of heart. You on the other hand, are exactly the opposite."

"Quite an impudent scrap of iron then," Caster replies evenly.

"Mmm, am I wrong then? Well, you aren't Rider because I've already met her. However, if you aren't Berserker then aren't you in an unfavourable position regardless of which other class you are?"

"As it happens my Master has me here to collect a couple heads so why don't you find out for yourself?"

"Hear that, Saber?" Lancer said, smiling, spear across her shoulders. Now would you like to call it a draw?"

The Saber shrugged and unshouldered his sword, slashing through the air, once, twice with a ringing hum.

"I'm sure we'll have plenty of chances in the coming days, Lancer. As for you…"

The exchange occurred in a split second. Caster lowers themself, responding to the attack with a palm strike. Saber flashes forward, impossibly quick, splitting the evening wind with a sonic boom, sword outthrust and in the moment before impact, you recognize the blade from the replicas that still exist to this day in museums.

The sword of El Cid, Tizona!

Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar, or 'El Cid'. The man head and shoulders the most famous of Spanish heroes and an obvious choice of Servant for this Grail War - for a magus with the means at least. It was impossible to prepare and research for the Granada Grail War without coming across and entertaining the possibility of confronting him. He was most famous as a tactician and peacemaker across the religious divides of Spain at the time - perhaps strongest as a Rider - but with his famous swords Tizona and Colada, there was always the possibility of him being summoned as a Saber. It would be the natural fallback if the Rider class were no longer available.

You come to this realization. The hung moment just before Saber's thrust will pierce Caster seems to drag on and on. And then you realize that it is dragging on and on. His eyes are hidden by his shades but his teeth are gritted. Saber, and Tizona's tip, are halted dead in midair by the distortions in front of Caster's palm. The mana measuring instruments on your drones spike all the way up and then drop all the way back to zero as they overload. And then a great shockwave erupts outwards with a colossal thunderclap. Dust and rubble fly in every direction and Saber El Cid is thrust backwards, crashing through the low parapet and smashing into the mountainside.

What?

A shiver starts in your shoulders and propagates, unbidden to your fingertips and toes. True, El Cid isn't the sort of hero to be mentioned in the same breath as Herakles, Charlemagne or King Arthur but with the parameters of the Saber class and the boost from being in his home country, you might still have guessed him among the strongest Servants participating in the war. You blink out of your stupor and quickly review the frames you captured on camera.

There wasn't even contact. That was just the power of Mana Burst...

You lean forward unconsciously, jaw agape. Your hands go from gripping the armchair to, after a few moments to find it blind, to holding the edge of the desk in front of you. Even the rock steady Lancer loses her smile and takes a couple steps back.

Caster glides towards the edge of the platform, fingers delicatedly brushing stray locks of hair from their face. Saber clambers back to his feet and leaps back up to the top level, undaunted. He unleashes a flurry of blows, faster than he had against Lancer. But fast as he is, Caster is, absurdly, even faster. Their figure is a surreal blur of dodges and sidesteps and flying, outthrust hands and fingers, punctuated by the occasional deafening, high pitched impact. Ringing metal on metal even though one combatant seemed at first glance to be fighting empty handed. They steadily give ground - allow ground - until abruptly Saber is stopped again and forced to one knee, concrete and cobblestone cratering beneath him with a thunderous boom.

"Ugh!"

Barely visible in the flickering lights, red threads extend from Caster's fingers to a trio of needles each piercing Tizona's blade, entangling. Another half dozen lie crooked and bent, glistening on the ground, corresponding to the ringing blows that failed to penetrate.

"Hmph. Hard blade; squishy wielder. I knew a man once who could, without a doubt, be summoned as a Saber. Compared to him, all you westerners do is a lot of infantile flailing about.

No, it goes way beyond being 'hard' blade! Tizona is half of Saber's noble phantasm. If they can pierce it... That means every needle Caster throws is itself on the level of a minor noble phantasm.

Though his brow was furrowed and beaded with sweat, El Cid managed one last smirk and swiped off his anachronistic eyewear, revealing dark and sharp eyes.

Caster's eyes narrowed. Their fingers flickered.

Your drones' mana sensing instruments are still down but there's no mistaking the dual red and green glow of visible prana as a second sword appears in his left hand along with a massive surge of mana. The waves of energy slash through Caster's red threads in an instant.

Saber El Cid's noble phantasm - Tizona & Colada… Wait- No!

The blow does not come. The swirls of prana die away, ending the ruse, and instead gathers in Saber's legs.

"The skill Disengage! He's trying to escape!"

Red threads and silver needles lash out like a hundred little beams of light. There is a storm of plinks, tiny clatters and grunts of pain as El Cid's swords flash through the night. Broken and deflected needles rain down onto the shattered ground. Blood splatters all over the surface of the Silla del Moro, splashing from wounds and dripping from the threads suddenly piercing through Saber's limbs. But the swords keep cutting and then Saber bounds backwards and away, still trailing lengths of crimson thread from the holes pierced through him.

[ ] Try to tell Caster to chase Saber.
[ ] Try to tell Caster to face Lancer.
[ ] Let them do their thing.

 

[meloncan]

Let them do their thing.

Power overwhelming! We've got this. They've got this.

Caster leaps after Saber, arms raised, fingers splayed, face an icy visage of killing intent. Needles fly out in engulfing arcs, trailing scarlet lengths of thread beneath the moon, until a surging flash of solid red light engulfs Saber in midair. His body dissipates and vanishes as Caster lands amongst the torn rubble of the ruins' lower level, hands empty.

<A command spell. His Master had to scoop their dog out of trouble.>

"Yeah," you reply. "That's fair enough. Good work."

Actually, it wasn't all that fair. Normally, a Saber's high Magic Resistance makes them difficult even for a Servant's magecraft if targeted directly. Caster, however, didn't use magecraft at all. They fought only with martial arts enhanced with magical energy - a complete reversal of the norms. And on top of that, their sheer power. To just run into two Servants and force one of their Masters to expend a command spell without anything in return had to be a good result.

We really could win this. If I've really, actually summoned the strongest Servant. In that case...

<Hmph. 'Good work', is it?>

"It was stunning, Caster. You're strong. Way beyond what I expected."

<...>

They turn and jump back up to the level where Lancer still stands. She starts, backpedals a step and raises her hands quickly.

"Hey hey! My head's not worth very much! Shall we just call this a night? Maybe I can bribe my way out of this?"

She smiles with theatrical innocence and tosses over a paper bag, which Caster snatches out of the air with a glassy clang.

Wine?

Caster narrows their eyes.

"Hmph. The Throne of Heroes truly is rife with alcoholics."

"It takes one to know one," Lancer replies cheerfully, starting to back away. "When travelling, I always try to sample local varieties. Overall though, the wine of this era isn't so bad. I wouldn't mind a few extra days to try some more. If you would be so kind."

"I'll take this as worth your head for the time being," Caster says. "But perhaps not worth a command spell. Or is your Master not keeping track of you?"

"They are. Is yours?"

"Perhaps," Caster says. "I don't think it matters nearly as much for me as for you though."

"Well… It might matter more than you think," Lancer says, halting at the far parapets. Her back is up against the drop and her voice is even. "My Master would need to expend a command spell for me to survive, I'll concede that. I'm just a ho-hum Lancer as far as Servants go, to be honest. But. Maybe they won't use it to order me to escape. And unlike all them Celtic heroes, I wouldn't count on an Irish backstop for my Noble Phantasm. What my spear does can't be undone by snapping it in half. So. Will you let me go?"

[ ] Call Lancer's bluff.
[ ] Fold for the evening.