The acolyte dragged behind his mentor by four paces, fascinated with every treasure – real or imagined – that the Church held near to its chest.

While it would be rational to assume that this amazement was a madness that possessed many younger clergymen, Giuseppe Pelagatti knew that whatever madness gripped the boy behind him could never be tempered by experience. The acolyte, who was born with the name of Francesco Atra, had been a thorn in Pelagatti’s side since the day he had been sworn into the Assembly of the Eighth Sacrament. He had a talent and a reverence for the artifacts that fell under the Assembly’s purview, but such qualifications went without saying for every clergyman that swore to uphold their sub-agency’s sacred trust; such qualifications were also where the patience of Cardinal Pelagatti, who stood 42nd in rank among the Church and thus stood ironically fitting to head the Assembly, wore thin with the flighty young man. Though he looked local, with a shock of swoopy blonde hair and bright eyes that stuck out among the lifelessness of the veteran clergy, Francesco had done nothing but gawk around the Church like a tourist. He would dress the part too, often sporting the bizarre regalia of wherever he had just arrived from. Recently he had traveled across the Atlantic on Church business and had returned sporting a long beach, cerulean-and-gold towel with emblems of an American basketball team festooned across its surface. He preferred to wear it as a shroud, wielding that comparison to such a holy garment like an excuse.

The young man’s oddities made explaining the gravity of the upcoming situation even more difficult.

“Francesco.” The Italian name did not flow elegantly from the cardinal’s lips. His voice was thin and reedy, and didn’t carry well in the bowels of the Church’s vaults, so even Atra began to quicken his pace to keep up. “You were not present when we first retrieved the artifact five years ago.”

“Not quite, Your Eminence,” Francesco replied, now dragging behind Pelagatti’s hurried steps by only a single pace. “I was probably traveling somewhere at the time, knowing me. I’ve read up on it since, though. The Holy Grail—”

“—the artifact—”

His Eminence, Giuseppe Cardinal Pelagatti, delivered the correction swiftly and brutally.

“—The Holy Grail,” Francesco insisted cheerfully, “was discovered five years ago in the trophies of a certain tycoon. Most of it was junk, tourist trash, like all of my favorite stuff is. Maybe there was something that could have served as a catalyst or two out in the Far East, but mostly junk. Until something happened out in the Far East, right? The old Grail was destroyed by magi, and then the one here kicked in?”

Kicked in, thought Cardinal Pelagatti. Sweet Father, have mercy on us all.

“Isn’t that the gist of it, Your Eminence?” Francesco insisted. His superior gave a begrudging nod.

“We learned thus not long after the events you describe. The artifact here was dormant for years, a trinket among many, until this year. This is around when you joined us, so no reading should have been required for you to understand our present…situation. You helped to secure the Grail, yes?”

Francesco Atra looked absurdly proud to have been recognized by a cardinal of such eminence, and he nodded with puppy-like eagerness. The motion only emphasized the flapping and billowing of his towel when Pelagatti opened a very particular door on the right-hand side of a very particular hallway; the vaults were stuffy and rarely explored, so a draft of wind was a rare treat for those clergy who kept their custody. Francesco couldn’t help but peek around the door to check if she was still there.

The 727th Holy Grail. The true Holy Grail. He just knew it.

“She is still right where we left her,” Francesco said proudly. “You didn’t have to come all this way to ascertain that, Your Eminence. I could have told you that myself, or one of the others who helped me set stuff up. Nobody is laying hands on her without us knowing.”

The use of gendered pronouns for an artifact of any kind was clearly grating on Giuseppe Cardinal Pelagatti, but he swallowed his tongue this time as he admitted that the Grail did seem to be secure. Normally, he would have taken a more veteran member of the Church to help, but Francesco had done the lion’s share of the work on securing the Grail for the Assembly after its activation, and such were the Church’s defenses that it seemed even the Mage’s Association of London was choosing not to get involved. Such an action was wise on their parts, for it would not do to have the Grail molested, but even so, their inaction was well-understood among clergy gossip due to fear of the risks involved in obtaining the Grail from the heart of the Church. Such a fear was well-founded mainly due to the diligence of Francesco and other young acolytes like him. In that spirit, the cardinal had thought to bring the young Father Atra along to get his measure, acquire a sense of perspective on the young man’s talents.

Unfortunately, the boy was a savant. Pelagatti was thoroughly unimpressed. He was one step above what the younger clergy called a…

Fanboy.

Yes, that was exactly what he was. Francesco Atra was a fanboy.

As Pelagatti watched the young man grin lovingly into the storage room like an idiot, another realization struck him. There were seven magi out there, somewhere in the world, who the Church knew to have acquired markings akin to those of the magi in the Far East, who had fought to the death as champions of their own wishes. There was a very real possibility that a Holy Grail War would spark here, right in the heart of the Vatican. For their line of defense to be staffed by callow boys such as this…

“Your Eminence? Everything seems alright with her. Why are you staring? Do you smell something funny? Is there a rat in the room somewhere? I can ask. Hellooooo? Is there a rat in here? It’s okay if there is!”

We will just need more lines of defense, then.

In an alley in the city of Rome, a man stood outside an old pawnshop, occasionally taking puffs from the cigarette in between stealing glances at the main street. It was a cool Spring evening, and it was reflected by the coats and jackets the pedestrians still outside wore over their clothes. The green polo shirt and cloth pants he wore, coupled with a receding hairline and hints of a belly stretching his clothes made for an exceedingly inconspicuous sight.

Turning from the main path, another man walked into the alley. This one was younger, with a head of dark, wavy hair framing his handsome features. He walked with one hand in the pocket of an elegant, tan overcoat, and shirt visible underneath was speck-free and smooth as though recently ironed. His other hand held onto a suitcase that swayed at the rhythm of his spotless black shoes clacking against the road. The man would not have looked out of place in a commercial for men’s clothing, and the picturesque cobblestone streets did much to enhance that image.

Perhaps more attention grabbing than the man’s distinguished aura, was the radiant smile that he directed to the drab individual by the tired old pawnshop when he caught sight of him.

The older man matched his smile, flicking the cigarette away as he turned towards him, arms wide in welcome, and the two met in a tight hug.

“Alonso!” exclaimed the younger one. “It’s good to see you!”

“It’s good to see you too, Ricardo, it’s good to see you too.” The man laughed heartily and motioned towards the shop. “Come on, let us talk inside. You came all this way to see me after all.”

The two entered the pawnshop, the older man bidding the cool outside breeze goodbye as he led the younger one deeper inside, exchanging pleasantries all the while. ‘A nice day, is it not?’ ‘How was the trip?’ ‘Have you found a place to stay?’ and so on. The two deftly danced around the matter that had brought them together, as was expected of them.

Of course, Alonso knew the man had business of his own to take care of. Ricardo had met Alonso through his father many years ago, when the boy was still a teenager and Alonso had more hair to lay claim to. His father had been an affluent member of the Spanish nobility, with numerous business ventures that often brought him overseas.

Perhaps predictably, in that manner in which affluent people sometimes seemed drawn to particular, eclectic tastes, the man had taken a liking to certain esoteric articles and artefacts. Alonso assumed he held a collection of such objects in an estate somewhere.

He himself was a facilitator for the acquisition of such products. Or, perhaps more accurately, he was a middleman. Throughout their activities, the Sicilian Mafia sometimes came into the possession of specific art pieces or relics. These often made their way to auction houses, but occasionally, a buyer would be found before reaching those places. In turn, this meant someone was needed to perform the trade.

It was perhaps fortunate that the younger man had inherited his father’s tastes.

Alonso brought the pair to an isolated room deeper in, the only accommodation within being a small table with a pair of chairs.

Ricardo gave Alonso a warm smile as they took their respective seats. “How are the girls?” he asked, at the mention of which pride suffused Alonso’s expression.

“Marina—the eldest—was accepted into an interpreting university this year. She’s been studying in the US.”

“Congratulations. I’m happy for you. What about la niña?”

“Visiting her sister with her mother,” Alonso sighed. “They grow up so fast. By the time you realize they’ve left home and are doing their own thing. The little one wants to go into engineering, can you believe that? She’d be starting in just two years. You’re all leaving us in the dust!” At that, his smile lost some of its joy. “I heard about Marcelo. He was a good man. My heart goes out to you.”

“It was a shock to all of us.” Ricardo’s features took on a mournful cast, but only for a moment. “That said, I did not come here to mourn. Perhaps we can move on to business?” The tap of a finger against leather brought Alonso’s eyes to the suitcase resting by Ricardo’s leg. He had come prepared, as expected, but this made the situation rather awkward, in fact. While knowing that the young man was well was a blessing in itself, it would have been easier to rebuff him otherwise. Alonso’s hesitance must have shown on his face, because Ricardo’s pleasant smile was marred by a puzzled frown. “Is something the matter?” he asked.

“I am afraid there is a slight problem,” began Alonso. “The article you wish to purchase has not yet arrived. I cannot entrust you with something I do not have in my possession.”

The man’s expression froze. “I beg your pardon?”

“Perhaps you would prefer waiting for some days while I take care of this issue? You are in the city of Rome, after all. Take it as a chance to enjoy all that the city has to offer.”

Ricardo brought a hand to his face, rubbing pensively on the stubble covering his chin. After a moment, he slowly placed it on the table. “While that does sound lovely,” he said. “I do not think you’re being quite honest with me, Alonso. After all, I’m told that the package reached you yesterday.”

It was Alonso’s turn to be taken aback. He was about to ask what he meant by that, but something in the man’s expression stopped him. Even though he was still smiling at him pleasantly, there was something in the cast of the man’s eyes that unnerved him. Where he would normally scoff at the thought of a young rich boy threatening him, the younger man’s posture suddenly reminded him of a shark that had tasted blood.

“I assure you,” he tried to appease him, “whoever told you that was wrong.”

He wasn’t sure when it had happened, but at that moment, Ricardo had a coin in his hand. It glided over his fingers as he deftly turned it over from one end to the other.

“Oh no, I have every reason to believe it. I know that you do not always sell your packages to the agreed buyer, Alonso. Sometimes you’ll find one who pays better and keep the difference. It’s a miracle to me how you’ve avoided drowning so far.” Even as he stared at the spinning coin, Alonso flinched at that. ‘Drowning’ was a euphemism among Mafiosi for making someone disappear. “However, I do not care so long as our own business is conducted in the proper faith. That was how you and my father conducted themselves, and hoped that that would be the case now with me.”

Alonso’s eyelids felt heavy as he listened to Ricardo’s voice. He found it difficult to focus on anything other than the man’s voice. That, and the coin spinning in his fingers. He had the vague feeling that something out of the ordinary was happening, but he could not place what it was. “Please, Ricardo.” He felt like his tongue was weighed down by lead. “You know I—I would never do that to you! I held Marcelo in the highest esteem.”

Ricardo let out a sigh. “Yes, well. I suppose I’ll know, won’t I?”

By then there was no escaping the fog obscuring the older man’s thoughts.



Ricardo stopped spinning the coin in his hand and held it up. Alonso stared at it vacantly, lips parted in a dumbstruck expression. Waving the hand made the older man turn his head to follow it. Only a stream of drool was missing from the image.

“So,” Ricardo began. “You were saying you’d never spurned the official buyer and found another one to pawn off your merchandise?”

When Alonso’s only reply was a vacant stare and an actual thread of drool, Ricardo grunted and snapped his fingers.

“Wh-Uh?” The man jumped as if started. “No, no. I definitely have. Numerous times. God, how do you think I’m paying for my daughter’s education?”

“Did you pawn off the relic to somebody else?”

“Of course not,” he sniffed. “I actually liked your father. I wouldn’t do that to his boy. I simply never got it.”

Ricardo scowled. For a moment, he thought Alonso may have simply been lying while pretending to be under his influence, but that was not possible. Alonso was not a magus, and neither was he wearing anything that might serve as protection. He was sure of that. Which meant that the man believed he was speaking the truth.

Of course, belief only carried one so far. Ricardo decided to change tacks.

“Where were you yesterday at noon? That was when the package was supposedly delivered.”

“I was—” the man paused. “I was… what was it?”

Alarm bells rose in Ricardo’s mind as he saw Alonso’s struggling. Such a thing should not happen in the state in which he was in. As he was, he could have asked him about something that happened decades ago, and as long as it was not particularly traumatic or the man was not too young of age, he would have been able to answer. For him to be unable to speak of the past day only really left one possibility.

Ricardo snapped his fingers again, and the man slumped like a puppet with its strings cut. Rising over the table, the mage reached over and grabbed onto the man’s arm. In his mind, he heard the tinging noise of metal being struck, followed by the thin humming of a spinning coin and a familiar heat beginning to rise from the depths of his body.

He murmured a word and noise immediately struck him. He saw himself on the chair, smiling pleasantly at the person who was watching him, the image overlaid over the figure of the slumped Alonso. He felt the taste of the smoke in his mouth, and the vague heat of his surroundings in a body too large to be his own. Ricardo shook his head, filtering out the unnecessary senses until only the image was left.

He walked back down the man’s memories, past their encounter outside the store, past the uneventful day at the counter that had preceded it, past night time. He began inspecting the memories of the previous day, receding into the proper time of day. Until he had skipped it. Ricardo felt a twinge of pain at the jarring change. He repeated the process to confirm his suspicions.

There was a sizeable gap of awareness around the time his package should have been delivered. It was as if rather than altering the memory, someone had pulled that time out and forgotten to leave a replacement. People forgot things all the time, but such a thing was not truly a complete removal of records. A cut at a person’s psyche such as he was seeing was a wound bound to leave scarring behind. Or, at the very least, unobscured tracks.

And tracks he did find. He would have wondered if this had been the work of an amateur were it not for the fact that Alonso still seemed hale after this treatment.

Slowly, he began piecing what he could together. Fragments of a shattered memory slowly came together until they formed a small, cohesive whole.

Ricardo dove into the fragment, eager for clues on the one who had taken his prize. He felt a shiver in his magic, as though it had stumbled over something.

“Step away from this.”

Ricardo gasped and pushed himself away, severing the connection and sending his chair clattering backwards. A gun had appeared in Alonso’s hand at some point, likely snatched from under the table. Ricardo gathered magical energy, preparing to deflect an assault, but it immediately became clear that had been the wrong course of action.

Rather than pointing it at him, Alonso placed the weapon against his temple.

Before Ricardo could do anything, thunder boomed inside the room. Blood splattered against the nearby wall. The weapon slipped from what had been the older man’s fingers as the corpse slumped off the seat.

Ricardo stared at the scene with wide eyes. Then, after a moment, he realized he was still holding his breath and let it out in a long, shaken sigh.

“Me cago en Dios…” he murmured, finally forcing himself to move. He did not approach the corpse beyond for a cursory inspection that yes, indeed, there was a bleeding hole on the side of its head. Losing him like this was a terrible waste. Not only due to the loss of a useful contact, but because the ones holding his reins may well seek reparations, and any organization with such history and spread would have mages under its employ. That, however, was not his foremost concern.

He had been too careless, he realized. He should have expected a trap the moment he sniffed another mage’s influence, but he had not stopped to think, and he had no clues on where his catalyst was supposed to be. It was a heavy blow before he had even gotten started, but at least he knew for a fact that what he had gone looking for was not the only item that could qualify as a catalyst within this store. He would have to make do with what he could find.

The message he had received while in the man’s memories was still a matter of concern. It could have been another magus involved with the war, but those were not the only ones who might target him at this time. It seemed that he was much sought after as of late, for some reason or another. Ruling out an ill-fated coincidence, the fact that whoever had taken his prize had known when and where to find it worried him as well. Perhaps he might have to have a talk with the servants.

He considered sending word home, but quickly dismissed the idea. For the time being, he needed to conclude his business before someone thought it a good idea to explore the noise.



By the time the man left the pawn store, he was carrying two suitcases. It had not even occurred to him that he could have been better off following the warning left behind in the dead man’s memory.

---

The room was lit by candles.

Not because there was a blackout, or because electrical lighting was unavailable. It was simply that such a thing was not conducive to the specific atmosphere he sought. There was a certain gravitas required by the scene he wished to enact that was more cleanly conveyed by the flickering light of a dozen small fires that casted shadows into the room.

Or perhaps it may be more accurate to say that I would rather not draw undue attention to the fact that I brought forth a Heroic Spirit in a dreary basement.

The spacious room, clearly used as storage for the family that occupied the house, was full to the brim with old furniture, abandoned toys and other odds and ends. Cleaning up, making space for his activities, and tossing cloth coverings over the piles of paraphernallia, had taken almost as much effort over the past days as laying down wards around the place. Now, the cloth-covered mounds created a barrier that shrouded the ends of the room in a heavy gloom, such that the fire illuminated only an open space with a circular glyph inscribed atop it in a silver-hued pigment.

Ricardo stood before it, a worn article of clothing held in one hand. He knelt, avoiding smudging the summoning circle as he went, and deposited the catalyst at its center.

He stepped back steadily, heart thumping rapidly in his chest as he examined the arrangement. The object at its center struck him as painfully out of place, but there was little to be done about that now. If he was going to entertain thoughts of retreat, he should have done that before he had pilfered it from a corpse.

The thought helped him stifle his nerves, but bubbling excitement was quick to take their place. If what he was doing succeeded, he would bear witness to the summoning of a Heroic Spirit. Ordinarily, a magus would never be capable of such a feat, never mind going as far as binding one to their will.

Though if what he had read before coming to Rome was accurate to the current circumstances, this ritual only pretended to go quite that far on the surface.

He harbored a secret fear that he might be killed by the very individual who would be his one ally. Then again, if his end truly came so quickly, he could only chalk it up to a horrendous starting hand, and that was hardly his fault at all, was it?

Driving the thoughts away—he realized he was delaying—the man raised a hand, feeling the energy circulating within him and within this room.

“Plata y Hierro como esencia…”

A private flight, a small sized jet chartered under the name 'Remus Tulius', landed without incident, fanfare, or even the standard inspection or check-in one expected of all fights. A man and woman disembarked together with an entourage of one dozen much larger men, all in black suits sans the callow and fair leading man's gray and the long white dress of his even fairer associate.

Waiting for their arrival were two white vans and a piano black luxury car, and all three were promptly loaded with the drop-cloth covered crates from the planes underbelly. The gray man's underlings worked a startling efficiency and endurance despite the size of some of the crates while he stood by with no involvement beyond a somewhat anxious expression. Throughout the process the woman gestured grandly and spoke loudly, but the affair was else-wise silent.

After the apparent lackeys finished loading the vans, five to one van and five to another with two left behind, they drove off through the private access generally reserved for equipment rather than civilian vehicles. Each departure was spaced out by fifteen minutes, first one van and then the other, which left the four remaining standing by the exit for another seemingly excruciating fifteen minutes.

"Maurius, it's time." The gruff voice of one of the apparent bodyguards snapped the man in gray back from his idle contemplation, and he looked to see him holding open the rear door of the car and gesturing towards the backseat. Maurius Oscuro, a magus without peer in his field of study and a master in the holy grail war. The woman with him, his Servant, had already claimed the driver's seat. They departed at once and by the grace of God, or perhaps just sheer luck, evaded any polizia despite a near complete disregard for any rules of the road.

---

---

Everything was well ahead of schedule and beyond expectation despite the long drive, and the building was already secure once Maurius arrived. It was as simple as linking the intercom with one of his music boxes to fill the hotel with something that sounded like a pleasant mix of Vivaldi and complete submission to the magus and his cause, carried out by the crew in the first van by the time the magus had even departed. Rather than assuming direct direct control over his victims it was better to merely change the allegiance of the victims, they would be less conspicuous as themselves than as mindless drones, and more importantly make less dreary company when encountered in the halls.

With the help of the staff and other guests now procured unpacking was continuing apace and Maurius found himself with little and less to do that wasn't better done by someone brawnier and less important than himself. After a cursory security checkup and a couple other minor preparations he had made his way downstairs away from the panorama suite and the chirping of birds to meet with his servant, to make light of their quaint little holiday while they still had the chance. Once night fell they would begin war in earnest so it was best to make good use of what little time he had to properly determine what kind of person his servant really was, especially since their flight had been so short.

---

---

A gloved hand deposited his next to a not quite empty plate, the pasta gone down to the noodle along with most everything else sans the arugula which he had decided must be for decoration. "So, Berserker, are these accommodations to your liking?" As he spoke he poured, a slightly dry red wine that by his metric cost thrice its worth, topping off her glass before refilling his own from emptiness. While it may have been more proper to have their server pour he was so used to drinking alone that it was second nature to simply snatch the bottle by the neck the second his glass was empty, an unfortunate barbarism poking out of his otherwise posh facade. "I would be absolutely loathe to know the hospitality of this age was..." He trailed off and took a sip, a long thoughtful sip. Maybe just a bit too long, a second barbarism. "No no, that's not right. I would be absolutely loathe to know that my hospitality was in any way lacking." He wasn't a kissass, but the quality of the drink had him feeling quite self-conscious even if there had been no complaint yet.

He took another sip, long but not thoughtful, and the glass returned to the table as their second course arrived, heralded by the smell of seared meat decorated with much harder to place but even more luxurious scents. The smell of the food alone had already done wonders to make up for the less than stellar wine. "For you sir, grilled filet of beef, wild mushroom velouté, and Swiss chard with anchovy sauce and pistachio." Despite the state of hypnosis the server was lively and bright eyed as he delivered the plate in his right hand, entirely normal and as expected to any onlooker. "...And I will be right back with a second bottle of the house red." Maurius decided then that he was too cogent of his normal habits if he had brought out house stock when asked for 'whatever you recommend', but that could be overlooked.

Tastes and recommendations aside service was especially good when you had the place to yourself, but the sea of empty tables in the hotel restaurant's otherwise lonely dining room was not the strangest thing about this scene for anyone in the know. "And for the lady we have..." Wait. What kind of a fool wines and dines a Berserker, and what kind of Berserker makes it to the second course of the meal without incident?

---

@Red Alice (Edited to add color to text and correct a couple grammatical issues)

The room'd do fine.

Facing east, away from the center of the city and thus away from hostile intent. Probably. Honestly, the odds that anyone came at him from the east were pretty low. Let alone that they looked for Dave here. It was the cheapest hotel with a full kitchen he could get in the district. That was its other big selling point. Two tickets on an international flight had already been murder on his wallet, y'know? Maxie wouldn't have taken being in a kennel for the flight well at all. He had to have his own seat. Poor guy already hated being cooped up that long, but he was a disciplined mind, that pooch. He could handle staying in his seat. He was still very, very relieved when they were finally off the plane. Part of why they took the stairs up, not the elevator. Burn off a little of that excess energy. He'd have plenty to do when this was all underway, but he was gonna have to be patient just a little longer.

The Shepherd bounded around the room as soon as they reached it. Sniffing like mad, that one. Was a good thing. If there was anything Dave needed to know about, Maxie'd find it. He didn't really expect anything, but...

Well, he was dealing with magi. Real magi. He didn't even know what he could do, he had no idea what they might be able to pull. Until he did, he was assuming the worst. For everything, mortal and supernatural. That was why he drew the curtains immediately, to prevent anyone seeing into the room. He didn't think there was anyone posted with a high-powered rifle that could see the window, but assumptions make asses out of you and me. Dead asses, if he was wrong. Wasn't the plan.

But there was a schedule to keep, so he got to work.

"Maxie, ya better not chew up the place. Your picky ass already cost me two tickets." He rebuked the dog gently, grinning a little at the positively innocent look he got in response. "And a checked bag, mate. I coulda just had a carry-on, y'know. But noooo. We need all your favorite chew toys."

"And," He added, zipping open the bag and beginning to retrieve the carefully hidden components he knew were secreted inside. "A place to hide this. So I guess that's not all on you, mate."

Maxwell chuffed his indignant response, and looked reproachful until the spot behind his ears had been scratched. Then he hopped up onto the bed next to the two bags and circled once, laying down with his paws tucked under his chin. Maxwell, smarter than the average bear, clearly knew his master was talking just to talk. Chattering at his dog was something Rogerson could do, something to keep him focused. Most of his prep was routine, stuff he knew by heart. Talking filled the silence, kept him from overthinking. First thing was to reassemble his weapon. The Glock came together like it had never been taken apart at all, put back together with practiced methodology. Dave could've done it quicker, but who was he gonna show off to? Do it thoroughly once, then you don't have to worry about getting it wrong. His clothes went up in the closet, Maxie's toys and bed on the floor, so on and so on. Simple stuff, when you first moved into a hotel room.

His carry-on was where it got interesting.

He wasn't much of a magus. He got most of the theory fine. The journals that had made up the brunt of his inheritance taught him a little more, as did the wards set up on his abode decades earlier. Those he could recreate, in simplified form. Enough to cut off the inside from the outside, magically speaking. It was a key first step before he proceeded. This gear had traveled with him every step of the way, it was nothing he was going to entrust to an airline's care. The markers for the field, set up at the furthest corners of his hotel room. Then came the tarpaulin.

As absolutely, completely ridiculous as it made him feel.

He didn't own any land in Italy. He couldn't afford to buy it, either. And the hotel would have some very real questions if he started drawing on the kitchen floor. So the tarp went down first, pinned at each corner with something heavy enough to hold it steady. Then the same with a smaller square of canvas over it. That would actually be able to take the markings he had so painstakingly practiced, over and over, as soon as he understood what the marks on his hand were. He couldn't afford to get it wrong. His skill was so utterly lacking that he had to take refuge in procedure, practicing every minute detail. Precision was his only hope. It was the work of half an hour, easily, to replicate what he had practiced at home. The circle took place stroke by painstaking stroke, almost reverently rendered on the canvas. Black marks on white canvas, three feet across. Room enough for what was to come.

No more putting it off.

"Alright, Maxie, you're gonna stay out of the kitchen, pal." He was serious, this time. Maxwell could tell, and regarded him solemnly from the bed while he withdrew the last bundle from his carry-on. His grandfather had prepared it, he knew. It wasn't a very good catalyst, as they went. It wouldn't do much more than point the summoning in the right direction. The rest... The rest would be fortune. All of his preparation. The circle. Practicing every last inflection of his incantation.

It all came down to elements he couldn't possibly control.

Such a small item, for such a key factor in deciding his future. It was so light, without the cloth carefully wrapped around it. Dave laid it reverently in the center of his circle, then withdrew to its edge. There was no more delaying.

"Heed my words." He began, mustering his strength. It felt... Strange. It was still an unfamiliar sensation, feeling it stir within him. He was aware of it, but guiding it was still very much beyond him. But there was little guiding to be done, this time. Its presence was what mattered. The confluence of catalyst, circle, power, and his spoken word. He worked to infuse as much of his will into every word as he could, falling back upon the structure of the ritual to focus his efforts. There had been no testing it, no way to further influence the outcome. He would speak the words, and what happened would happen. One deep breath, before he continued. "My will creates your body, and your sword creates my destiny."

"If you heed the Grail's call and obey my will and reason, then answer me."

Another breath, to keep his focus.

"I hereby swear that I shall be all the good in the world."

Power wasn't the problem; he could feel enough of it within him. Keeping it focused, unwavering, was.

"That I shall defeat all the evil in the world."

He could feel it. The power moving, the work's gears beginning to grind to life. It was working, even if he couldn't understand how. This was it. The moment of truth. All of his determination, in these last words.

"Thou Seventh Heaven, clad in the three great words of power, come forth from the circle of binding, Guardian of the Scales!"

Screams were heard throughout the brewery. Everyone there expected it, for their boss hated when people stole from him. Now, he was punishing the thief's messenger.

In the poorly lighted, cold room, a young street dressed man sat, chained, to a very bloody chair. He was covered in cuts and bruises. A hulking man in a dress shirt, vest, and pants, with black bulky boots, stood over him. "Where is my shipment?" the man said. The beaten boy spat at him. Blood and spit hit his boots. "Wrong answer." and he punched the kid square in the chest, breaking another rib. The boy mumbled in pain. "What was that?" The boy mumbled again. "I can't hear you, speak up." "Boss moved it...to...the dock-yard." The man smiled. He walked over to a table and picked up an axe. "Thank you kindly. But now, your useless." and he threw the axe into the boy's head. "Carter!" The one door to the room opened. A man in a brown trench coat and slicked-back black hair. "Yes, Master Eric?" Eric turned and gave Carter a hard look. "The shipment is at the dock-yard. Get it back in the hour and you'll get a raise. And get someone in here to clean up the mess."

An hour later, Eric was walking into his brewery's loading dock. A black truck trailer was in one of the bays. His goons were on both sides. He opened the trailer and went to a solitary crate. He tore off the top and grinned at what he saw. A gold ring with a carved ruby lay inside. He picked it up between two fingers and smiled deviously. Carter came up from behind. "Anything else sir?" "Is everything ready?" Carter shifted. "Yes, but what exactly are doing with all of this sir?" Eric turned, his eyes showing his brutality. "To gain the one thing I don't have." and he walked away with his hands behind his back, laughing.

In a dark room, a green flame sat in a blazer. Eric stood in front of it mumbling, what, it is unknown. He through the ring into the fire and waited. The flame turned icy blue. Sparks sailed through the air around the flame. The flame took shape, becoming a warrior. Eric grinned. "Now we can begin, my servant, to get our wish. He he he hah!" and the flame disappeared to reveal the Rider.

@Kaithas

Angelina crashed upon the twin sized bed with a sigh, looking up at the ceiling with azure eyes. It had been a loooooooooong flight to Rome, and she'd been too excited to sleep. She'd never been on a plane before, and that was a thrill all on it's own. Though it could scarcely compare to the reason she was in Rome in the first place.

"The Holy Grail..." Angelina raised her right hand and looked at the sigils currently tattooed upon it. She hadn't asked for this, for any of it. Hell, she couldn't even think of what she'd do with the grail if she somehow managed to obtain it. The grail for whatever reason had picked her out of the thousands of mages in the world.

Regardless, the fact remained that she was a participant, whether she liked it or not. She would fight in this war, if only to make sure the outcome was as bloodless as possible. Was it naive for her to think a victimless war was possible? Probably, but that would hardly stop her from trying to achieve just that.

With another sigh Angelina forced herself out of bed. She was tired and wanted to rest, but there was something she had to absolutely do first, summon her servant. The idea of having a servant was a strange idea to her in the first place, but she understood it was necessary to participate in the Holy Grail War.

She stood on the side of her bed and lifted a suitcase onto it. When it came to summoning something like a servant Angelina had very little knowledge or any experience in doing so. Fortunately her father had been more than helpful in explaining how something like this should be done. He'd even provided her with a catalytic which she could use to summon a heroic spirit. She honestly had no idea what it was or how her father even obtained it, she never asked. In fact she had no idea what it even looked like.

Using a key also provided by her father, she opened the suitcase with a click. Inside she found a...sword? It was in fact a rather well crafted and sleek looking weapon, Angelina wasn't particularly familiar with swords, so she found it rather interesting. She carefully took out the weapon and looked it over. "I wonder what kind of person my servant will be...I hope we get along..." It would be rather unfortunate if her partner in all this madness was disagreeable.

There was only one way to find out. She put the sword away as she locked the door and then started preparing the magic circle. Once the circle was complete she placed the ancient sword in its center and stood back. As she began to chant the incantation, the circle began to glow...

@XmasForJuan

She stood outside Vatican City with a smile, dressed in a white t-shirt and skinny jeans with a fashionable pair of sunglasses as she took pictures with her smartphone. Just another tourist, no need to pay attention to her. To finish she took a selfie with the city in the background as she did a cute pose. It made her sick, it really did. She scampered off regardless, chasing after her "friends" she had hypnotized this morning. They would remember her as their friend Yuki who was visiting from Japan for a week. She would never see them again after today, their inane chatter about the latest fashion brands irritated her to no end.

They took her on a tour of the city, showing off every popular landmark and trendy cafe in the city. She paid little attention, more focused on the shady alleyways, the winding side streets, every small out of the way cafe she could duck into to throw off pursuers. She had memorized the city via Google Maps already, but just knowing the city via electronics wasn't enough. She needed to know everything intimately, Google Maps doesn't tell you that the alley you were heading towards is filled with homeless and can't be used as an efficient escape route.

She returned to her apartment complex at around 11 AM, driving her "friends" away with the excuse that she ate something bad last night and it was just now catching up with her. She took off her sunglasses with a sigh and put them in her purse, black leather, some designer name she didn't care about. An older looking Italian gentleman stood in front of her door, wringing his hands with a nervous smile. "What is it you need?" She really didn't want to ask, but he obviously wanted something. And she would have to acknowledge his presence in some form if she wanted to get into her apartment, considering how rude he was being by standing in front of the door. It was the only way to get her attention though, considering how she had been constantly ducking her tenants for the past few days.

"Well Ms. Samantha, I just wanted to say how glad we are to finally have a new landlord. That old one was a real pain in the-"

"What. Do. You. Want. You are standing in front of my door, meaning you obviously want something." She cut him off before he could begin some sort of time wasting rant. She did not have time to waste, she was about to begin the only thing she had ever wished for in her life.

"Ah, well I wanted to ask if you could send someone to fix the pipes in our bathroom. I noticed you've been doing some renovations in your own apartment, so I was just wondering if you were trying to fix up the whole building. The whole gentrification thing ri-"

"No. Please move out of my way." She stared him in the eye, he had almost half a foot on her but she didn't even flinch as she stared him down and waited for him to make a move. Ten seconds passed like this as his eyes darted around nervously, unsure of what to say to such a forceful rejection. He was the first to move, shuffling back to his own apartment with shame evident in his figure as Sophia unlocked her door.

---

She closed the door behind her with force, annoyed by that whole exchange. Why in the world should she have to pay to fix someone else's mistakes? If he wanted to get those pipes repaired, he should pay for it himself. It obviously isn't life threatening, otherwise he would've gotten it done by now. He was just another leech looking for handouts, not even brave enough to stare down a woman who barely came up to his shoulders. Sophia moved into the kitchen to grab a beer, opening the fridge and frowning at its lack of alcohol. She stared harder, silently hoping that if she looked angry enough than maybe she would see a beer behind the milk. No such luck.

She picked out some bottled water from the fridge, opening it and gulping it down as she closed the fridge door behind her. She tossed the water bottle into the open trashcan, heading to her room to check on how things have been going around the building. The room was very empty, a bed in the corner, no sheets or blankets, a TV with a chair set in front in another corner, the majority of the room was taken up by the massive magic circle she had been drawing over the past few days. She looked it over one last time, satisfied with her handiwork as she compared it to the paper she had in hand.

Sophia walked over to the TV next, rewinding the tape to the moment she left the building this morning. She then fast forwarded through the next 4 hours, slowly enough to see anything important but fast enough to not actually watch for four hours of footage. Ten minutes passed when she caught up to the present time. Nothing, other than the fact that the man in front of her door had actually waited there for half an hour. Half an hour of waiting and he was shut down by two sentences? Wow, civilians really are pathetic. She let the feed resume, watching for ten minutes to make sure nobody suspicious was hanging about the building. The man from earlier came back to her door to knock, but turned away after a minute of nervous pacing.

Satisfied that nothing would interrupt, she turned off the TV and paced around the magic circle, checking just one more time. No, everything was fine. She had checked and checked and checked for two days now, if something was wrong she would have seen. "This is it Sophia. You've been waiting a decade for this, this is the most important moment of your life. No turning back." She held her hand out and recited the aria once in her mind, making sure she had it memorized. Then she began.

---

There was that blinding light. That beautiful glow of red that engulfed the room. It was a slow fade till there was merely a man, sitting in the center. He sat in a slouch, on his rear, one leg kicked out, and the other held closer to his chest, knee holding up his arm. Between his arm and body though, was a spear that stretched almost ten feet long, far taller than the man who held it. It was resting at an angle, so as to not slice into the ceiling as the man stirred. Clearly having been comfy for a moment.

But his posture was not the thing that should have drawn Sophia's eyes first. It was his outfit, to a degree of course. A strange purple garment that wrapped around his hands and arms, and covered his face and features. The only visible hair that managed to stick out between the purple bandages was white. Like fresh snow from a mountain. The rest of his outfit though, which covered his chest and legs, was clearly old fashioned. Humble maybe, but with a regal look to it. Semi-long robes, which draped over him in a kingly manner, with a touch of gold trim here and there. Were it not for the regal flares and spear though, it would not have been a stretch for the mage to think she had summoned an assassin, considering how slender and fit he seemed to be.

He stood, spear resting on his shoulders, and his hands holding on to each side. Finally, she could see his eyes. Blood red, as if cursed.
"It is a pleasure to meet you mage. I am a hero of the Lancer class." He said, bowing forward just a bit, careful not to knock over anything with his spear. "You may call me ▅▅▅▅." His true name but a whisper fit only for his summoner's ears. With a smile, Lancer let his spear vanish, dematerializing until he would need to call upon it later.

"Can I have your name?" Lancer said, curiosity getting the better of him. Who was this strange man? Everything about him was so... Polite, and well mannered. Hardly befitting a great hero who had seen battle. Or maybe, this was what a hero looked like? A strange man who hid all but his eyes and the odd patch of hair from the sun? Such an inconsistent feeling one could say.

But before Sophia could reply to anything he had to say, Lancer was already moving around the room. Clearly getting his hands on anything that wasn't nailed down. In particular, the fridge was one of the first things he checked, pulling out a can of beer and stirring the can with a huff. "So much takeout. What a slob-ish lifestyle." But with that out of the way, he snapped open the beer, and raised the can to his lips. Moving only a bit of the purple bandages aside to make his possible. Drinking it down without a single word, and tossing the can easily into the nearest trashcan. "I will have to make cooking a minor task during my stay with you. I cannot have one of my citizens living on such a day to day basis."

Just what kind of person had she summoned?

Ah.

So, it was his turn for the ritual.

Within the Throne of Heroes, an inescapable pull was felt. It tugged upon his being, calling for his legend, his deeds, his impacts— the essence of his remembrance. The marks he had left upon the world and the stories told of him were to be born again by a miracle. Not quite incarnate, but tangible. An embodiment of that myth who had died so long ago— or perhaps not such. It was wise to remember that his existence was that of one who stood adjacent to time, not within its flow. As were those of his peers— or perhaps his foes. The nature of this pull was doubtlessly a summons, and he was being called as a heroic spirit, but he knew not yet the context of this beckoning. There were few reasons the echoes of a legendary figure could be brought into the world————

Oh?

Rather than resist, for he knew such an action to be futile, he rode the wave of power that brought him forth, flowing with the magic that beckoned him. It bent his essence, twisted it, and he felt himself split and reform, split and reform, before he was cast into a vessel and awash with mana, filling it and filling it and...

Filling him with knowledge. Knowledge of import, such that would serve him for what was to come.

For instance, that his was the vessel of "Archer". So it was this type of summoning. Well then, things were about to get very interesting for the next week or two in the waking world. In Rome, at the start of a new millennium, in fact. In life, the language alone would have fascinated him, to say nothing of the armaments that the warriors of this age, weakened and astray though they may have been, wielded.

One, two, three bindings upon him were placed with his acceptance. Command Spells. Ones he hoped would be used without overmuch fervor. They were, after all his lifeline, his tether to this state of being. Perhaps he might, in a twisted quirk of fate, have a chance to see his son.

No. It was best to not hope for what was not likely at the best, and such was not his duty. For now, he was charged with ensuring, above all else, one person's safety and victory.

---

---

The circle, aglow with crimson power and guided by the catalyst, began to crackle with lightning as a torrent of mana, the Grail's assistance, was channeled through it and the catalyst within. It swelled in intensity, whipping the air into a dervish. Dave, though a mere neophyte, could feel the room steeping with otherworldly power that was carried upon the winds. Maxie, though a mere well-trained dog, could feel the same, and a low growl rose from his throat as he edged himself closer to his master, his friend, his packmate, and his protectorate from whatever force was coalescing there.

No, whatever presence.

It gathered together, became a single point——

————And flashed.

The tumultuous room stilled. There was a burning, a tingling upon the back of Dave's hand— One that a look would reveal a red pattern, of three distinct parts, that had been carved into his nerves by the Grail.

Command Spells, an undeniable badge of success.

He'd done it.

And in the center of his humble, thankfully cheap hotel room, the fruits of his labor stood tall and made himself known.

"Servant, Archer." rumbled a weathered voice, as piercing, sagacious eyes like old battleground soil studied the Australian and his pet. No, his partner. "I have responded to the summons of they who would seek the Grail."

The Hero's build was strong, and his skin darkened well by the sun of days at war. Through his black beard, he spoke with firmness and clarity. Perhaps too much, given that his welcome was at present coming in the form of a tense rumble from deep within the hound's throat, promising him hell should he make a false move upon the young man, no matter how much he was outranked in ability. Such loyalty. He had to admire it.

A gesture towards the dog earned him a bark of warning, but revealed more of the silvered armor he wore, with a hint of orange robe beneath. The movement was assured and purposeful, with the casual economy of motion that only a lifetime of training and fine understanding of the human capability could grant.

"I assume it wasn't him." he said, with a dry and somewhat amused tone. "So I shall ask you instead, boy: Are you my Master?"

Brightness begot darkness.
Lightning begot thunder.

Just as Angelina had fulfilled all the requirements asked of her to reach out towards the Heroic Spirit bound to the blade she had offered, so did the Heroic Spirit answer in kind. The swelling light of her established Magic Circle trembled upon reaching its peak before dispersing into the room, giving way to a nigh oppressive cloud of magical energy, partially composed of Angelina's very own Prana she had sacrificed to this deceivingly simple ritual, while the remainder of it exuded a dense weight which clearly marked it as separate. And yet they mingled. Swirled. Became one. Congregating around the very center of the spent Magic Circle, the unified mixture of energies took shape; a perceivable bond now linking it to Angelina.

Saber took her first breath as Angelina's Servant.

Her black hair was long and thick, yet groomed to a glossy shine even as it was tied up in a high ponytail to keep it from obstructing her view. A delectable pair of curved strands ordinarily framed the sides of her face, yet currently they dangled away from her and pointed to the ground as she had assumed the position of a kneeled bow. Her skin was likewise smooth and milky, the sheer quality of the care put into her appearance marking her as either nobility or the daughter of a wealthy family, and it was in fact quite easy to picture her asian features garbed in the expensive oriental dresses of her home-country. She bore the attributes of a princess, not a warrior, and yet despite that she wore her armor with comfortable familiarity and trust.

Limiting the amount of inlaid metal plating sawn into her arms, shins, shoulders, and waist, her equipment consisted of studded leather worn over a base of thick clothen under-armor dyed in a rich blue and displaying an elegant pattern. The studded leather was tightly fastened with red decorative cord, the piece adorning her chest even sporting a pleasant design alongside the protective plating as proof of its high-quality make and no doubt exuberant price. It was clear that this armor was crafted with the intention of being equal parts functional and regal, no doubt to separate her from the common foot-soldiers in the field of battle. Red tassels hung from her waist and shoulders, a snow-white sash wrapped thrice around her hips and tied into a neat bow, and around her neck rested the cords that kept a modest cape from sliding off her back. Its edges were trimmed with gold and its outer fabric shimmered in a pure white, the underside dyed in a mellow blue, and its function seemed to simply serve as protection against wind and rain and nothing more. Though it wasn't as thin as her silken sash, it also was not made to be needlessly thick lest it obstructed her movements, so it would prove to be a paltry defense against anything other than the subdued forces of nature.

Her sword.

Unfastened from its place by her left hip, it now lay parallel to her body to her right, its curved edge pointed towards her even as it still rested in its vibrantly ornamented sheath. The sheath's lacquered wood as well as the blade's handle were painted in a pale electric blue and covered in beautiful metalwork of glimmering gold from pommel to tip. Almost like a reoccurring motif of her appearance, a striking red cord adorned even the handle of her trusted blade and was fashioned to grant her a secure grip even if it were to be covered in blood and sweat.

But for some reason it had been removed from her side.

Had it been placed to her left with its blade pointed outwards, it would have allowed her to draw it at a moment's notice should the need arise, and yet it currently occupied the exact opposite position. She had purposefully removed her blade from herself and placed it on a side difficult for her to reach, and what was more, between herself and her trusted sword existed one more. Naked. With neither sheath nor guard to furnish it, this blade lay naked between the two, creating even more distance between them. It was the catalyst in fact, the artifact provided by Angelina to call upon her Servant, and while it had occupied the center of the circle only moments ago, it had now been carefully arranged beside the entity that had heeded its call.

She was currently formally prostrated on her knees before her Master.
Her still features were obscured by a wavering curtain of her own black hair as she was bowed deeply before her liege, her lean muscular body tensed in apprehension, though not to an uncomfortable degree.

Even when she finally began to talk, her eyes were firmly fixed towards the ground.

"The life you have granted me shall be yours to command," her voice was that of a raspy whisper, quite deep and mature for a woman, "The blade at my side is now sworn to your service. I am your Servant, Warrior of the Sword, and I hereby swear to shield your body from any harm that may befall it with mine own. From this day on until the day we part you are my Master."

Her words were articulated and precise, her speech presented dutifully and reverently.

"If you consent to these terms allow me but a single inquiry..." her long lashes closed as she paused briefly before addressing Angelina once more, "My Lord, what is your name?"

"No sé lo que esperaba, pero no fue esto. ¡Esto es Loco!" Angelina found herself speaking her thoughts out loud as she gawked at Saber from the floor, she'd fallen on her butt at some point during the summoning. She remained on the floor even as Saber knelt down before her and started addressing her.

This was...this was unbelievable! Who knew out of all the servants she would get her! It, it was who she was thinking of right? Actually, now that Angelina thought about it, her father had planned this from the start hadn't he? He'd told her the legends surrounding this warrior since she was a little girl! She'd recognize who this was anywhere!

Truly she couldn't have asked for a better servant! She'd have to thank father when she had a chance. It took her a few moments to realize she was just sitting there on the floor red faced, gawking at her servant. She cleared her throat and tried to compose herself, it wouldn't be good to simply gawk and fangirl over her servant like this, she had to get serious.

"I'm Angelina Flores, I'm just a simple girl from Mexico City, there's...there's no need to call me Lord..." She felt her face get hot, yeah, there was no way she could handle being called Lord all the time!

"I...I look forward to working with you!" She cringed a little bit, did she sound too earnest? She didn't want to come off as annoying.

"Dunno, mate, might've been him he's a cheeky 'lil c-"

Not for the first time, Dave's mouth was a little ahead of his brain. Especially wen he was trying to catch his breath after maintaining such focus. It only took about a second for his head to catch up, though, and keep him from finishing that particular sentence in front of the hero of legend that could snap him like a twig for not answering the very polite question. He flashed the Servant a chagrined grin and held up a single finger, the (he hoped) universal request for one moment.

"Easy, Maxie." Somewhere along the lines, Dave realized he'd dropped to one knee. The German Shepherd had made his way into the kitchen and pressed firmly up against his master's side, close enough that he could feel the low, dangerous rumble reverberate into his own chest. He rested his hand on the dog's head, stroking his ears softly. Maxwell looked significantly more dubious than his master, but he did as he was bid and sat on his haunches. The Shepherd kept eyeing the Servant before them, but he at least stopped growling. That was enough for Dave to begin to muster a little bit more concentration.

The summoning had been, by fair, the largest work he'd ever wrought. Even if it hadn't been physically demanding, it was rough on his mind to keep the ritual focused. But it had worked. He had done it. He had summoned his Servant, and he was waiting for an answer.

"Yeah," He began again, on a better foot than his first flippant answer. Not the best first impression. He had to make up for that. The Aussie pushed himself to his feet, masking how unsteady he still felt underneath a focused demeanor. Never show weakness, even if you feel it. First rule of working with dogs, and people too. Didn't imagine it'd be any different with a Heroic Spirit. "I am. Dave Rogerson. And Maxie, too."

He scratched the dog's ears, and regarded Archer solemnly.

"I'd like to inquire your name, mate. And if it's agreeable," He held out a hand for the older man to shake. "Shake on our cooperation. I'm not much of a magus. But I'll give it everything I've got, if you'll do the same. You've got me word."

Saber's eyebrows arched upwards at the very... unexpected reaction from her Master.

She chose to courteously ignore Angelina's initial outburst in her native tongue, decipherable to Saber only thanks to the services of the Grail, but upon noting the low thud caused by the impact of her Master's butt meeting the hardened floor, Saber decided that averting her sight would be an act of formality no longer.

Raising her gaze while keeping her body naturally lowered, Saber laid eyes on her Master for the first time.

"...?" and the crease in her brow widened in surprise.

Though she had guessed as much from the pitch of her voice, the Lord Lady she had pledged her allegiance to appeared dreadfully young at first glance, though upon further inspection she seemed to carry with her a sense of understanding that only came with age. Nevertheless she seemed flustered for some reason, and upon further reflection it became clear to Saber as to why. Her brown eyes briefly darted towards the catalyst she had instinctively placed at her side, its blade so familiar to her that her body had acted before her mind, but it wasn't an armament originally belonging to her. Her Master must have intended to summon her father instead of herself. It only went without saying seeing as he was much more accomplished and famed for its use, so Saber resigned herself to fill her dear father's reputation in his stead when...

"...or not?", she noted the flushed expression of the girl before her.

She had introduced herself as Angelina Flores, but had furthermore described herself as simple while admonishing Saber's use of her appropriate title. She was as humble as she was kind it would seem, but furthermore, she appeared to have no qualms with having summoned the 'daughter' rather than the 'father'.

Saber allowed a smile of relief to grace her lips, "I am grateful. This a Master I may serve without complaint" she whispered soundlessly to herself.

With renewed vigor she dared to straighten her back as any undue formality only seemed to trouble her superior, her earnest excitement filling her chest with joy.

"Lady Flores then. It would be my pleasure to be of service to you in this War", Saber inclined her head as a replacement to a bow before shifting her attention to the naked blade at her side.

Carefully grasping the cold metal at the very base of the hilt while still in seiza, she offered the sword upright to her Master with the edge pointed towards herself, "But first I must return to you your possession. This was the catalyst used for my summoning, was it not? In that case it must be a prized magical artifact of some renown, one that I would be loathe to deprive you of. Though I feel it remains yet hollow, I do not doubt it can still be of much use to you, Lady Flores. Perhaps we could visit a craftsman to furnish the blade with a hilt and sheath after you have ascertained the scope of my abilities? As my Master, I would be happy to answer any question you may have in regards to my Noble Phantasm as I realize that it is... rather unconventional.", she admitted with a modest smile.

Saber may have gotten too relaxed in much too short of a time, though that only spoke volumes of the disarming attitude Angelina employed to make her feel at ease, intentional or not. After all, for someone like her, she was not used to be treated in such a manner, and by her Master no less.

Angelina got off the floor as Saber spoke, it wouldn't do any good to remain on the floor after all, she had to retain at least some dignity.

She hesitantly took the catalyst from Saber. She obviously wasn't trained with the sword, but Saber did have a point on the blade being a potential Mystic Code. Still, she kind of felt like it was better off in Saber's hands that hers.

She cleared her throat, she needed to get her head in the game. As happy as she was to have Saber they did need to discuss with each other what what each of their capabilities were, as well as the general strategy they'd use. So for now she placed the blade back in the suitcase and then looked back at Saber.

"I'll keep that in mind, though I can't say I know anything about swordplay. Discussing your Noble Phantasm sounds good, I'll also tell you what I'm capable of as well as a Magus. But before that!" Angelina walked over to the small little kitchen that had come with the hotel room.

"This may be the most important question I ever ask you...are you fond of tea? I have plenty of agua de Jamaica, and if you don't like that I have a few others..."

"I see" Saber nodded, "If you have no experience with swordsmanship then there is little we can do, although... no I believe it might be better this way. To arm oneself is to invite others to respond to your provocation, so it is fortunate that you have yet felt the need to learn the way of the sword."

Saber caught herself dangerously close to veering off topic into one of her lectures, so she had Angelina to thank for brining up the matter of refreshments.
Saber currently existed in physical form. Her feet prickled from the weight of her sitting posture and her tight-fitted armor pressed pleasantly against her chest. Now that she had taken physical form, she had become conscious of even the most menial tasks like breathing and blinking; they were all pleasures of the flesh reserved for the living after all. Though her manifestation was limited and only temporary, these trivialities nevertheless brought with them a certain sense of joy, and Saber reveled in her newfound sensation of being alive. If this alone was so painfully nostalgic to her, then what about the promise of refreshments? Her ears perked at the mention of tea, but her eyes were overcome with flustered concern as her Master had already crossed halfway into the kitchen area.

"Ah, I would love to partake Lady Flores, but please, there is no need to prepare it yourself", Saber hurriedly stammered as she rose to her feet.

She had dealt with nobility and military alike and was able to remain composed during negotiations thanks to the teachings of her father, yet when faced with a superior that considered themselves inferior, Saber admitted to be at a complete loss. Had this girl no regards for her rank and authority? If so, all the decorum Saber had relied upon so far would be of little use... but neither could she treat her as her equal, could she?

Angelina had already started boiling the water on the stovetop as Saber spoke up. She looked at Saber with innocent surprise as she insisted on preparing the tea for her. She didn't really understand why it mattered which one of them prepared it, if anything she was more qualified to use modern conveniences like the electric stove she was using, Saber wouldn't be familiar with such things right?

"Umm well...I don't mind doing it really, it's not a big deal or anything..." From how Saber was acting, Angelina figured she was probably going to insist. "You can help if you really want to, I won't stop you." She started preparing the roselle flower for the tea even as she spoke.

@XmasForJuan

Archer watched with intrigue as the alert and agitated hound, with only a word and a touch upon the head, obediently sat upon his haunches in spite of his understandable misgivings.

Loyal and well-trained. That one, "Maxie", could be useful in this war if his training extended beyond simple politeness. But moreover, this spoke well of his Master's character and ability. Looking past his distinctly casual manner, one that verified his claim of not quite being a standard magus, Archer could see that this "Dave Rogerson" had a good head on his shoulders. He knew that defusing tension was smart, and he had a solid handle on his subordinate— he knew how to cool him off and had made him obey the order with neither question nor need of force.

He had built trust with that dog. He had shown decisiveness in reworking the situation to something with a more agreeable atmosphere. He had established first and foremost that he wanted this to be a truly collaborative affair— Technically a formality, but there was more than simple decorum behind it. Masters and Servants establishing commonality and a mutually desired alliance could be the difference between life and death.

And finally, despite his undeniable nerves at having a familiar of such immense power before him, Dave had steeled himself and walked forward in spite of his previous potential faux pas.

Well, far be it from him to pretend at being unused to the banter of young men. His years had been shaped by them.

"Of course, such would only be natural, Master."

The man smirked, stepping forward and grabbing young Dave's hand in a grip akin to being gently encased in stone——

——And suddenly yanked him close enough to speak directly into his ear.

"I am——"

Startled by the sudden motion of this unfamiliar man, Maxie barked again, concealing the whisper from any would-be listeners as the Servant clapped the Aussie on the back in a manner almost brotherly. Well, that was to be expected from Maxie. Mimicking Dave's tone from before, Archer bent down onto one knee and held out one hand with an open palm, the same as he would a spooked horse.

"Easy, friend. Just being safe."

Oh fuck.

An old adage in fictional circles that Dave always imagined a magus would appreciate sprang to mind. Do not call up that which you cannot put down. Archer was definitely something he could not put down. It was a thought that occurred as, quick as lightning, the Servant yanked him in close. For a heartbeat he thought he'd misjudged. Rather than paralyse him, the fear galvanized him; his left hand shot up to grab Archer's wrist, interposing his watch between their chests. The timepiece's gears ground audibly, spinning up to do their job. If he could free his hand, he could draw his weapon. He was still dead, but Archer would work for-

Then the Servant spoke.

His heartbeat would need another minute to settle, but the defiance went out of his eyes. It came into focus. Who he had summoned. Why the sudden movements. The symmetry, whether he realized or not, in using Maxie's bark to cover his name. He nodded, a short, sharp motion. He let go of the Servant's wrist, too; he could've freed it easily, beyond a doubt. But confrontation was unnecessary.

He gave Archer another nod, silently signaling both his respect and his returning calm. Dave wasn't one to grow speechless, but Archer had managed it. If his intentions had really been hostile, there wouldn't have been a damned thing he could do. And every Servant out there would be just as strong. The moment was sobering, to be sure, but not fearful; it was clarity. The older man would never truly raise a hand against him, not as long as they were allied. But his strength was something to be respected. The Servant showed him that respect, too. By shaking, by revealing his True Name, by referring to Dave as such; Archer had acknowledged him as his Master.

While Dave mulled that over, Maxie was thinking something similar.

The canine regarded Archer cautiously, cocking his head a little and glancing towards Dave. The Aussie inclined his head, a little color returning to his face. Maxwell got a faint grin with the nod, and the German Shepherd considered that his answer. The dog looked back to Archer, and solemnly offered his paw.

Well she certainly knew what class she summoned. The first thing that caught her eyes was the spear, a massive pole that touched the ceiling for a brief moment. "Please don't break my ceiling." It was a strange first thing to say to someone who could snap her neck before she could blink, but it was simply her nature. She would rather not have to fix the ceiling, plus there was sensitive equipment in there that she would rather not have damaged.

He stood up, his eyes catching hers. Red met blue, she wondered if he was some sort of demon for a moment. Wouldn't that be unfortunate, to summon a horrible monster of legend as her Servant. "It is a pleasure to meet you mage. I am a hero of the Lancer class." She had to hold back a sarcastic comeback as he introduced himself, giving away his True Name as he bowed. His spear disappeared soon afterwards, an unseen smile crossing his face as he looked around. "Can I have your name?" Well he was polite at the very least, more polite than she had been. She got to her feet, catching her breath as she tried to recall her pre-prepared introduction.

And he's gone already. She rushed out to the kitchen, watching him dig through the fridge with confusion. "So much takeout. What a slob-ish lifestyle." He pulled out a beer can, god damnit she knew she had one more around somewhere, snapping it open and downing it with the same ease she had downed water earlier. Lancer tossed it into the trash can, a perfect arc as it landed in the bag. "I will have to make cooking a minor task during my stay with you. I cannot have one of my citizens living on such a day to day basis."

Her eyes narrowed, her opinion of this Servant dropping several notches. What happened to that politeness from when he had been introducing himself? "First of all, it's not slobbish, it's efficient. Why bother making my own food when I could have someone else make it while I use my time on more important things? She marched up to the man and poked him in the chest, glaring at him as she continued venting. "Second of all, I am most definitely not your 'citizen'. I am your Master, meaning we are partners. Do not treat me as some sort of plebeian who can't take care of themselves." She crossed her arms and huffed, drilling holes into him with her eyes before she closed her eyes and sighed. "And finally, my name is Sophia Revynne. I don't know what it was like during your time, but nowadays people usually wait for someone to introduce themselves before they start digging around their fridges and drinking their last beer!" She shouted, angrily kicking over the trash can and spilling several water bottles and one beer can all over the floor.

"God damnit." She picked up the trash can and set it upright, picking up the trash quickly and dumping it back into the trash can. She took several deep breaths as she stared at the wall, wondering if summoning a demon would have been better than this. No, this was a top tier Servant without a doubt. She would just have to work around his various quirks and personality issues, that was her job as Master. "I don't expect you to make cooking a regular task by the way. We have more important things to do then waste time playing house if we're going to steal the Holy Grail after all. Now let's start over." Sophia took one last deep breath as she closed the trashcan's lid, closing her eyes for a moment and then opening them back up, confidence evident in her every feature as she turned and smiled at Lancer.

"I am Sophia Revynne. You are Servant Lancer. We are the victors of this Holy Grail War, everyone else just doesn't know that yet. Let's work hard to inform them of the fact."

Saber took Angelina's assent as confirmation and fully rose to her feet, relieving herself of her outer armor as she did so. The iron splints and plates as well as the leather they were sewn into fractured into numerous specks of bright blue, her set-aside sword being no exception. This left Saber only with her custom Shitagi, narrowly cut to accommodate for her preference of light-weight equipment in favor of the Tosei-Gusoku that were prevalent in her era, though it wasn't quite enough to make her appear indecent. The additional length of the Shitagi tucked-in at her waist spilled out now that the armor-restraints had faded into glimmers of light, dangling all the way down to her mid upper-thigh while her legs were covered with fitting black pants no doubt inspired by the Jesuits that had visited her homeland during the time. They appeared less like traditional Hakama and more like Kyahan that had been made to cover the full length of her legs.

To put it simply, Saber was now dressed in her under-armor consisting of a long-sleeved robe and black pants.

Although it would have otherwise been rude to present herself in such a state of undress, Saber figured that accomplishing household chores while in armor would have been just as troublesome, and more importantly, her Master didn't seem to be one used to the customs of her homeland to begin with. Just as she caught up with her Master however-

"Ah...", to her horror Saber realized her blunder.

At the mention of tea Saber had instinctively pictured a Tea Gathering of the informal sort, the mention of a tea unfamiliar to her written off as a type she simply did not know about, but the modern appliances Angelina was currently operating were tools she only had cursory knowledge of thanks to the Grail. Neither did she know the lay-out of her Master's kitchen, nor could she assist her in preparing tea of a land she had no knowledge of, and while it appeared simple enough, it would be a great insult to its presenter to assume that an inexperienced party could interfere with the process.

And so, as these thoughts flashed through her mind, Saber found herself simply standing by her Master's side with a slightly troubled expression. To be served when one was but a Servant was the height of irony, though what made the sight even more absurd was that Saber's height only barely matched Angelina's, lending the scene a comical air.

Resigned to the fact that it would probably be for the best to let the expert do her work unhindered, Saber merely hung her head as she spoke, "...I will carry the drinks once you are done then."

That being said, Angelina's practiced movements were accompanied by a familiar ease only found in those that enjoyed their craft, the process of preparation, albeit simple, an entrancing sight.

While the silence was strangely comfortable, Saber elected to fill it nevertheless, "I realize that this might be rather direct to ask of you, but would you tell me about yourself, Lady Flores? Your demeanor and your hobbies... even your body does not seem to be forged into the mold of a fighter. Why would someone with such an appreciation like yourself join this War?"

Saber realized it almost seemed like she was prying into her Master's affairs, nary a minute after being summoned no less, but it was for a good reason that Saber had been so flustered by her Master's behavior. She had expected a veteran of war to hold her reigns, a commander whose orders she would follow to attain victory, but instead she had found one pure of heart as her contractor. One couldn't help but grow curious, and the pleasant fragrance of the flowery tea only encouraged discussion.