@Lonewolf685 @Flamelord
Walgrave took another step back from the rising bodies at his feet, the flames in his hand growing hotter, when, in flash of grey and silver, the Dead before him were cut down in an instant.
"I am here, my Lord. There is foul sorcery at work here."
Rider had responded to his call immediately, and for a second something suspiciously like relief flickered inside him. He had never commanded a familiar with such a swift response to his wishes before, much less an ally.
Even now Rider followed up by cutting down the next few bodies in the blink of an eye and rounding on the rest.
There was a sudden crack of gunshot, and the skulls of two more nearby rising corpses exploded, making him flinch. The palm full of fire in his hand guttered dangerously, and he looked over to see who had taken the shot.
A few yards away the supremely elegant Master of the strange child Servant was holding two heavily ensorceled muskets and shouting instructions to him. If his Servants aid had been an encouragement, the input of the other Magi was enough to stir the few remaining shreds of his long forgotten martial pride.
"Dont c-concern yourself with me!" He barked back at the well dressed marksman. Thirty years ago he would never have frozen up like he had, and that she had noticed his mistake irritated him.
He waved his hand, sending a stream of fire to engulf a distant clump of the shambling corpses. They ignored the flames for a moment, the heat doing nothing to stop their progress, but then, with a short tugging motion, like a puppeteer yanking on his string, Walgrave increased the pressure of his flames, throwing the clumsy Dead to their knees and sending them flying back, like embers from a fire that's been kicked.
"My mysteries don't..hrrrrn, leave mere vampire offal on their feet!" He let out a dry cackle, looking for another cluster of the Dead to annihilate, but held off when he saw that the swarm was already falling to pieces all around him.
On every side there were wonders. Servants were moving with impossible speed, scything down the Dead like wheat. The other Magi were showing forth their own efforts, adding to the tally. Muskets fired, a Magi reinforcing to a truly impressive degree battled the undead with her bare hands, while familiar hounds spat curses at all targets who came near. To the rear of them some kind of bizarre demonic butler was tearing the Dead limb from limb while the strange Child Servant cheered wildly. Everywhere a host of spirits rose from the earth and set about attacking the very animate bodies they had once belonged to.
It was a total massacre, and after standing in its epicenter for a few more moments Walgrave let the flames in his hands die down.
As the last of the Dead fell, he turned his attention to the mysterious Swordsman as the dark Lancer fled away into the night. Siegfried he called himself. As little attention as he payed the world beyond his studies, the name was not lost on him. The grand hero of Germany was offering them aid, an explanation, not to mention shelter. But here was Servant that had slain a Dragon. It would undoubtedly be a terrible battle if it came to fighting him.
Walgrave eyed him carefully, studying the waves of fierce prana that baked off the Servants supposedly invincible skin. He sent a quick telepathic communication to his own Servant in the meantime.
"What do you make of him Rider? I don't know Wagner well enough to remember the specifics of this one's temperament. Is he someone who we can deal with?" Siegfried had hardly finished talking however, when another Servant approached, and...
Well.
He fell into a fit of coughing as
William Shakespeare made his introduction. Walgrave was suddenly quite sure that he had never had a more surprising day in his entire life, even by the standards of his somewhat dimmed capacity for surprise.
Perhaps it was just the straw that broke his ageing mental back, but he found he was unable to muster even a slight interest in the freshly approaching zombie army. Hundreds of painful childhood hours spent under the watch of a sadistic victorian era teacher, determined that he memorize as much of the Poets works as humanly possible, suddenly rushed down upon him, thundering through his brain with a greater intensity than any Magecraft Aria.
It all came back to him now. The nightmare of his youth, perhaps the very root of his dark path of slow mind rotting alchemy.
What dost thou know me for?What dost thou know me for indeed.
A knave; a rascal; an eater of broken meats; a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a lily-livered, action-taking knave, a whoreson, glass-gazing, super-serviceable finical rogue; one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a bawd, in way of good service, and art nothing but the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pandar, and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch!Every fiber of his being wanted nothing more than to lift his finger and scream at the top of his lungs, RIDER! KILL HIM! KILL THAT MAN! STOP HIM, DESTROY THIS MAD BRUTE!
Instead He found himself muttering some feeble words to his Servant concerning the butchery of the oncoming horde of Dead. Aside from this simple directive, all that could be got from his for the next few minutes was a disjointed muttering of
"Shakespeare... I see, well... ah,... yes. Shakespeare is here... heh. heh heh heh... yes, I see..."
@Nanashi Ninanai
Sinfjotli had begrudgingly turned from the two dueling Heroes at his Master's command, and also when it became apparent that neither of them were about to drop their weapons for him. How irritating. Then again, as he turned back towards his own party to help cut down the rising Draugr, he could not help but reflect on the less than impressive state of his warband. It seemed that none of the great Heroes he had picked out of the original muster had deined to follow him here, save only for the Noble bearded Rider who had come late to the contest.
Apart from that, most present were women. One of them was a withered old man, to feeble looking to survive the next few hours out here, to say nothing of a campaign! And not a few yards away from him was a Servant who was nothing more than a child! What a pitiful gathering! Closer to a witches coven than an assembly of heroes! What had the gods saddled him with!?
Cursing in frustration he brandished his gilded spear and destroyed every shambling corpse warrior around him in an instant. He didn't even bother to make individual strikes, but instead swung his spear shaft around him in a great arc, smashing bone and pulping flesh through sheer brute force. Bits of cold corpse flew in every direction, arms and legs and helmed heads falling like hail.
After a few such wide sweeping blows Sinfjotli slowed and stopped, surveying the field with a disgruntled scowl. These were no true draugr, but only feeble puppets of the most pathetic sort. The other Servants and Masters were swiftly butchering them wholesale with sorcery. For the most part it was bizarre magic from faraway lands, though he raised his eyebrow at a very good Ansuz rune which one of the mortal Magi had inscribed.
Altogether it was a feeble battle, and he quickly turned back to the dueling pair, watching as the dark shield maiden fled before the combined swordsmanship of her opponent, and a blast of fire from one of their own party.
It was when the swordsman turned at last to introduce himself however, that Sinfjotli knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the gods were mocking him. Mocking him beyond his worst fears or expectations.
"I am Siegfried" the swordsman said. "under the class of Saber."
The Volsungs it was said, were born with a fearlessness that was the envy of all men, and Sinfjotli in particular was renowned for his dauntless nature even among his other family members. These few words however, were enough to silence him and make him step back. He stared at Siegfried, mouth agape, his spear falling limp in his hand and then fading away. In all the world no other turn of events could have thrown him into such confusion. Had it been Sigurd himself at least, he would have been swift in his response, if not certain in it. Either he would have rushed upon him then and there with sword drawn, or he would have bowed low in begrudging respect.
Here however, was one who was Sigurd, and yet not Sigurd. His brother, but not his brother. The thief of his rightful glory, and yet not.
For once in his life Sinfjotli found himself at a total loss, and could only stare, as meek and helpless for a moment as the strange child Servant who had accompanied him.
@ADamnFiddle
“So what is it gonna be, Master. Do we pretend to make friends, or do you want me to run them through?”
Pavel ran pell mell up the ziggurat steps, staying as well as he could within the wake that a particular brutish giant of a Servant was plowing through the crowd. It didn't help that his familiar seemed intent on running between his legs and tripping him up as he ran.
Beside him his Servant seemed to be having a much easier time of it.
"Yeah I get it, you're a great hero!" Pavel shouted over his shoulder.
""But I'm not even sure these guys are supposed to be fighting us. Aren't we trying to save their city? Also, what if you cause some kind of time paradox??? What if one of them is your ancestor or something? God damn it! Why didn't anyone explain any of this to me before we left!?"They came then, into a great temple. Even for someone like Pavel Dumitru it was obvious that he was standing in the presence of an authority comparable to the gods. He froze, every inch of him paralized by the aura of A+ rank Charisma that was coming from the unmistakable King of Heroes.
"Okay... Lancer." He said, switching over to telepathic communication.
"I'm going to say we definitely want to pretend to be friends with this fucker." 