Breo

Fate/Moribund Swarm

At least I promise to try and make it look cool.

Fate/Moribund Swarm

Rider, Outside Tohsaka Manor

Ah, well, it seemed that communications had certainly taken a turn for the worst, broken down so thoroughly that one could not help but marvel at it. And marvel he did, staring at the man for an instant that stretched into eternity.

The moment his offer for a drink was denied, however, he chose to shrug minutely and brought the bottle up to his own lips, drinking the remaining content with a seemingly unflappable expression. When there was simply no more, he lowered it, and a wolfish smile had set itself upon his features. He stepped in front of his contractor, body providing a shield, and his hand sneaked towards the handle that poked from out of his back.

“Hey, Master,” He called out, the trepidation in his voice easy to hear and recognize as he matched glares with Gavel, his crimson eyes no longer sparking—they definitely burned, like raging fires, a symbol of his state at the moment. He started to crouch into a stance, grin stretching and stretching and showing many more teeth besides. “I’d recommend stepping out of the line of fire for now. . .can’t reason with this one, and I don’t think any normal Magus would have fun against him, you know?

. . .Well, perhaps I also say this because I want to fight him myself, but this works pretty well overall. Yeah, I’m feeling it, I'm feeling it alright. I guess this is my lucky star shining through.” He laughed, though his words hardly invalidated his earlier point—fighting against this man was likely to be suicide for any magus in their faction to begin with. He, however, was cut from a far different cloth.

He’d have to reevaluate his strategy—he could not rely on his invincible skin as much as usual due to the cost it would mean for his Master, so that meant he would have to make efforts to dodge instead of blindly charging away and letting things sort themselves out—perhaps that was a boon, considering how boring it made fights at times.

And that made things all the more exhilarating, didn’t it? His heart beat with elation and he retrieved his chosen tool of murder, the gargantuan blade catching the gleams of the setting sun. The same putrid air gathered throughout it, runes ignited a cruel crimson that almost matched the shade of his eyes, and Sigurd brought the mind-boggling weapon to match against the hammer. The simple feeling one could get from just a look—it was sickening, now that he had let loose what laid within. It was terrifying, now that the grudges started to gather along the edge, and even if he had not called out its True Name, there could be no doubts about its own standing.

Noble Phantasms could also be ranked in a hierarchy, and what Sigurd held in his hand certainly was not some two-bit, trifling weapon like the sword that had been carried by a certain warrior-queen. No, this was certainly among the finest blades of the mythical era, a weapon crafted and remade for the sole purpose of standing at the top, as a pinnacle. If that legendary King of Knights could boast of carrying ‘the Strongest Holy Sword’ then Sigurd could certainly boast of being the wielder of ‘the Strongest Demonic Sword’.

Matching the other man’s stare with his own, he spoke—perhaps a tad too casually, considering the situation. “Honestly, refusing the drink was a bit rude, you know? There’s a time for everything, and drinking with someone and killing them are not mutually exclusive, you just do them in a certain order. . .don’t you think you move a little too fast?” He chuckled, but the humor did not reach that bloodthirsty gaze. So what if he was hypocritical? He had been longing for this for a while now, after all!

Ah, he could make as many excuses as he wanted, he could converse and pretend that he was not such a single-minded individual as much as he wanted, but if there was anything that he could not avoid, it was showing that ‘side’ when his battle lust was roused. “I’ve been restless for a while now, too, so if you don’t mind, I’m also going to take this opportunity to have some fun.”

Had his desire not been to cross blades with the heroes that would be called forth to this war for the Holy Grail? The man before him was no Servant, but his posture was unmistakable, and the air about him impossible to miss. Whether spirit or flesh, it mattered little—all he could care about now was to finally enjoy himself. His low chuckles reverberated around them and he threw the bottle away. His eyes seemed to flash for the briefest instant, the color of molten gold replacing the crimson before vanishing—perhaps a trick of the light, or something else?

“Let’s have a good fight, Mister Gavel. If you need to address me as something, I guess Rider will do. . .well, my mount is not around to prove it, so you’ll have to take my word for it. I’d rather not bring it out so early in the dance, you see.”

And, just like that, he charged. Pavement broke underneath his footfalls, and the mere swing of a blade unleashed a raging gale. To fight as a Servant meant to defy common sense, and even if he had been diminished, even if he was now just one step slower, he was confident to say that his strength was still as it should.

And Sigurd certainly possessed much strength to bring about.

The strategy would then be to first test how Gavel’s specs compared to his own. While he certainly possessed the aura, there were differences between each Servant, and so, the best way to assess the man was to strike hard, fast and see how he answered. His hammer could prove to be the most troublesome thing, but perhaps that could be mitigated if he got close enough to deny him effective use. . .but then again, considering the prana that emanated from it, the way it had been wrought—as well as the fact that, if this man was truly past that threshold, he would certainly be able to subvert the ‘rules’—Sigurd had to be ready for anything to happen.

He could not wait to see what fate had in store, really. This was just the sort of man he was.

Ah, surely, this was no less than excellent fortune.

@Over Illusion @Angry Hungarian

Fate/Moribund Swarm

Rider, Outside the Tohsaka Manor

Certainly, the evening was shaping up to be fun. Taking advantage of the reduced amount of potential witnesses, Sigurd had elected to phase into physical form as soon as they were near their objective—which was certainly risky, but nonetheless, feeling the fresh breeze instead of the stale air of the hotel room was certainly a welcome change of pace. His footsteps were heavy, certainly, but not nearly as much as one would suspect a man of such size that carried his weapon guilty of, and he cradled in his hand one of the various bottles his Master had brought along for the trip. Already down to half—though that meant there was still a good half a liter within—the Servant took another swing, savoring it.

At the very least, it was not some terrible brew like what the man had told him was created in this country in an attempt similar to someone trying to weave a horror story. Chuckling lightly at the memory, he filed it away for later—now it was time for a different kind of amusement.

And what fun he would have, indeed, with whatever it was that lied within the Manor. His lips upturned into a grin that showed far too many teeth, and red his eyes seemingly sparked on their own, like flickering flames, as he could not help but notice the sword at his back was getting heavier and heavier at just that single thought. It was harder and harder to contain that joy—who knew, perhaps a fight with whatever it was the Master had summoned would prove itself to be what he needed to shake off that annoying feeling that had been plaguing him through this second chance so far, preferably for good.

However, it seemed that he was going to take longer than he should have, courtesy of a third guest planting himself in the middle of the little gathering beyond his Master and he. Taking in the looks of the man—certainly old, although it felt hypocritical of him to say that—he certainly did not much look the part of threatening, but appearances could deceive. He wondered how to approach this, but his Master was so kind as to blatantly walk up to him and start demanding papers for some reason or another.

Certainly, by the looks of things—two Europeans meeting in a Japanese town, one of them looking like he was ready for war and yelling at the other in German—it was already shaping up to seem like a comedy skit, and it wasn’t like he had to kill ‘Tony’, as he had introduced himself—since his Master so brazenly revealed himself, he guessed that he was not some civilian the soldier could shoo away with just one spell or other.

Walking up to the pair of them, bottle in hand, he stood beside his Master, ready for whatever it was the other man would say in response to seeing his appearance as of now. For whatever reason, however, he had not been expecting him to suddenly focus so keenly that Sigurd felt, for a single instant, like his soul was being stared at, so penetrating was that glare. Shrugging the feeling off but determining this was certainly no simple man, he matched the stare with his own.

“Demon, you say?” His voice came out light and jovial, much like always, almost as if offending him was an impossibility, and he brought a hand up to his face to sniff—as though taking the words with humor. The change in the old man’s demeanor was certainly something else, but the fact of the matter was that it’d take yet more than that to make a fool like this one drop the amicable façade, but he nonetheless stepped a touch closer to his Master just in case their new acquaintance tried something. “Well, I’ve been called one, but never really got told I smelled like one. . .and I’m not really sure whether the definitions we’re using are the same, either.” He certainly seemed carefree enough still, however, to jest at a time like this, but his head soon turned towards the Manor, his eyes narrowed a touch and the smile on his face diminished somewhat.

Turning his head back to meet the man’s gaze again, his next words sounded regretful. “Not to offend or anything, though, but we kind of have a prior engagement, and it might take a bit to sort it out,” He said, chancing a look at the bottle in his hand and then holding it out for the other man to take. “If you choose to stay, though, I’m pretty sure we can give you directions afterwards.”

Well, at least he would try. He had little clue what his Master would do with the man if he caught him again after they were done with. . .what was it he had heard the term was. . .house-warming party? Sounded pretty good, so it was probably that. Speaking of. . .

“Hey, Master, are we going to get on with it? If we’re going to do it, might as well hurry it up, unless you want to deal with possible friends they’ve called up or losing whoever is in there for now.”

The only situation where he’d find that last one acceptable was the scenario in which whoever greeted them was of the ‘stick-in-the-mud’ type. He certainly had had enough of dealing with those for a lifetime, and he did not wish for that to extend into the second, however short-lived it might be.

@Over Illusion @Angry Hungarian

Fate/Moribund Swarm

I'll admit to that having caught me by surprise. That said, though. . .

What the fuck did you just fucking say about me, you little Hǫgni? I’ll have you know I graduated top of my class in the Regin Foster Children Program, and I’ve been involved in numerous secret raids on dragon nests, and I have over 300 confirmed berserker rages. I am trained in dragon warfare and I’m the top swordsman in the entire Norse myth. You are nothing to me but just another target. I will wipe you the fuck out with prejudice the likes of which has never been seen before on this Earth, mark my fucking words. You think you can get away with saying that shit to me over the Internet? Think again, fucker. As we speak I am contacting my secret network of Valkyries over the Backside of the World and your ass is being traced right now so you better prepare for the storm, maggot. The storm that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your life. You’re fucking dead, kid. My horse can be anywhere, anytime, and I can kill you in over seven hundred ways, and that’s just with my bare hands. Not only am I extensively trained in unarmed combat, but I have access to the entire arsenal of the SS, a guy who makes primordial soup, beamswords and dragons and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your miserable ass off the face of the continent, you little shit. If only you could have known what unholy retribution your little “clever” comment was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have held your fucking tongue. But you couldn’t, you didn’t, and now you’re paying the price, you goddamn idiot. I will shit fury all over you and you will drown in it. You’re fucking dead, kiddo.

If you want meme wars, by all means. Let's get on with it

Fate/Moribund Swarm

Rider, Miyama Hotel

A noncommittal noise originated from the back of the Servant’s throat as he peeked through the curtains, crimson eyes looking down at the people carrying out their lives below. This was certainly livelier than the fields and, even if he still found himself restless, at least he could somewhat remedy it, pacing about the room in physical form while it was only himself and his Master there.

His appearance alone would likely draw too many looks, ashen hair, great stature and tan skin already marking him as an oddity even if he were to bother with attire fitting to the times, so it was better if they simply did not bother and he stuck to remaining non-corporeal—and he endeavored to enjoy the small freedoms for as long as they lasted. Still, as much of a problem as it would be, he could not help but wonder what would happen if the current scene in the room—a man working through some paperwork while a lumbering giant, by the standards of this country anyway, paced in the background looking ready for war—were to be witnessed by any worker at the hotel that had the misfortune of opening the door without knocking first. Surreal was certainly a word to describe it.

His footsteps were heavy, though not devoid of grace, and he limited himself to listen to the curious tunes his Master seemed to be fond of while waiting for something to happen. Considering that at least one of their three allies had already made contact with the enemy, he wondered when would it be their turn, shamelessly admitting that he was someone who enjoyed trading sword swings more than he should. Speaking of. . .

His gargantuan blade was not slung across his back this time, having left it propped against the wall while he was allowed to stretch his legs. Sitting down on the edge of one of the two single beds, head supported by his right hand, he stole a glance towards the thing and realized that, even after all the years that had passed, the faint feeling of revulsion had not gone away. Smiling mirthlessly, something that did not quite reach his eyes, he wondered how his father would react if he saw what had become of his prized sword at his own child’s behest. Not that he could do much else when the only thing he had been left were the fragments, anyway.

Still. . .it was not a particularly nice sight, no matter how much power had been built through those actions.

Ah, this was bad. He had thought the ability to move and feel, interacting with the normal world, would be enough to tame his boredom, but he could only do it for so long before he fell prey to his greatest enemy once again. So.

“What’s it you’re muttering, Master?” He asked the question as he picked out some random magazine the staff had left and started to flick through the pages. “A hundred what?”

How precious little he had to do, and while the songs were not necessarily bad, he could not find it in himself to be entertained by music alone. Perhaps he simply lacked the refined tastes of others. Humming to himself, he wondered what he could do to remedy this. . .

“By the way,” A smile grew on his face as a thought appeared. “How much of whatever currency they use around here do we possess, Master? Maybe it might not be too late to try and find out what passes for ale around here.” There was nothing quite as effective to get to know each other as a good tankard accompanied by decent food, and if he could grade whatever alcohol they had around here in the interests of furthering his knowledge, all the better.

Hopefully they would at least have the strong stuff. There was nothing quite as irritating as weak swill that did not even tickle the throat.

@Angry Hungarian

Fate/Moribund Swarm

Rider, Eastern Fields

“Ah, I didn’t mean to offend you at all, sorry, sorry,” Rider’s answer was delivered with an odd mix of sheepishness and amusement, perhaps at the situation. After all, to be able to laugh at others, one should also learn to laugh at their own blunders. “It’s just, y’know, how the expression goes, and I really don’t like standing around, no offense. Perhaps if you had summoned the me of a different time, maybe it’d have been more bearable for him but. . .” His rambling, akin to a stream of consciousness, continued on for a bit before he trailed off again. Perhaps someone who was listening, rather than merely hearing, would notice his odd habit in terms of speech – one moment, the man was attempting to sound educated and dignified, whereas the next he would break the façade and slip into rougher patterns, and back again, as if he was sometimes unsure about the proper way to conduct himself.

As his Master continued his explanation, however, the Servant remained quiet, soaking in the explanation, as well as the man’s reaction to his slip. For a few seconds, he let a comfortable silence stretch between both of them before breaking it once more, talking with the same upbeat tone he had carried until then—though there was something else to it this time, a hint of the same wistfulness.

“So, you liked my tale? Well, I suppose that is also a good reason—and I think it might speak well about its continuation into modern times, honestly,” He let out a small chuckle at the thought, finding the conversation to be a rather comfortable one. “Well, do not worry, for you have summoned quite the spirit to show you those bygone heroics you spoke about, and I hope I will not disappoint.” He would admit that he was getting enthusiastic himself. Perhaps, however, he should also address some of what his Master had apparently found odd.

“That said, Master, were you honestly surprised about my outburst?” He asked. It was rather easy to tell that, had he been corporeal, he would have been smiling. “Did you perhaps think that legendary heroes and love do not mix? Considering my own tale, and those of various others, one would think you’d have been disabused of that notion long ago, if you are so fascinated by it.” The words carried no bite, merely what Sigurd considered to be a small ribbing in good fun.

Perhaps it was the relaxation, perhaps it was the boredom getting to him, perhaps he was simply one of those fellows that wore such emotions on their sleeve, he seemed rather comfortable as he addressed the man and told him about that flame in his heart.

“I think love at first sight defined it pretty well. Or maybe that was just lust at first,” He chuckled, reminiscing of a time long past, a time when things had been so easy and so clear, only for it to end so abruptly. “You could bring me a thousand women from all corners of the world, none would have been more beautiful than the one I set my eyes upon that day, and I guarantee you, none would even approach her in either prowess or fierceness. She was. . .a goddess. An ideal. Perhaps others would say I exaggerate, but. . .at the very least, that is how I saw her. And then, I got to know her.”

He lost himself in memories of happier times.

“Idyllic, really, but all good things come to an end. She warned me, I did not listen. I left on yet more adventures, arrived at that court and drank the potion, and then those moments were lost, and Gudrun became my wife,” By the looks of it, he seemed to carry no grudge towards her—if anything, he sounded exasperated with himself, rather than anyone else. “She was a fine woman, and I’m sure she could have been very happy but I. . .never really saw her that way, much to her disappointment. She was dear to me, but not like that. And then the tale continued,” The emotions carried by his words had yet to slip into anger or any other that would be expected, considering the event he was surely talking about. If anything, he seemed more resigned about it than anything. “Gunnar asked me to take his place, I agreed, and the rest is history. But you know, Master? While before I saw her I just felt that the ruse left a bad taste in my mouth and was an insult to her dignity. . .I was never so tempted to betray my Lord and the vows I had exchanged as when I saw her face for what felt like the first time.”

But he had not. He could not. And that was that—he had made his choice, and so, he had had to live with it.

“Our tale was always destined to end in tragedy, thrice-damned potion or not, I suppose,” His words now were no longer directed towards the soldier that kept him company, but perhaps they were more of a simple declaration. “A Valkyrie loving the very Hero she should carry to Valhalla? Madness. Yet, at the same time. . .even if I had died in her embrace a thousand times, I would have never considered it an unfair price for what she gave me,” It was corny, childish and altogether a foolish notion—for who would be so steadfast in their love towards their own killer, who would consider their life to be so small a price? However, apparently nobody had ever bothered to tell Sigurd that he had to adhere by the standards of common sense. “And yet, as my life was ended, I did not even know. I had forgotten, and that potion was the culprit.” And there was the anger, though perhaps the object of it was different than what some people would have guessed. He sounded enraged, certainly, but apparently that anger burned not towards those who had made him drink the potion, nor towards the woman that had killed him. But rather, towards himself.

“I could not tell her, Master. And that is the one thing I carry on my shoulders, why I wish to see her once more. To say now what I could not say before. I pride myself in not having any regrets, and surely, if it were just for my sake, I would not feel like so. . .but it is also for hers, Master. To answer her honestly like she deserves.”

He let the silence stretch on for a bit after he had spoken the last word, solemnity taking over wistfulness and washing away the anger. Perhaps there was also a touch of sorrow in his tone, but he apparently attempted to not allow it to get to him. Regardless, he was soon brought out of his musings by the news of what Brauer and his own Servant, as well as his Master’s own analysis of the situation. While he was indeed disgruntled about the fact that they would not interfere—his standard persona quickly overriding the side he had shown moments prior, as though it had been a dream—he understood his Master’s reasoning and, for better or worse, he was a loyal man, even if he disliked the orders.

“Understood,” He answered. “If we are to remain here, then, I will continue guarding while you set up the Bounded Field—might as well make this a worthwhile investment of our time if we are not joining in on the fun. Though,” Once again, judging by his tone, one could not help but feel that his expression, had he been corporeal, would have been a crooked smile. “Do not begrudge me if I kind of want someone to come crashing against us at some point, Master. I do want to stretch my legs.”

Fate/Moribund Swarm

@Yukitamas

Janika Edelfelt, Bridge

Choice. Hah, easy for the Servant to say, he did not have to carry the consequences of whatever path she took on his shoulders. But nonetheless, the lion-headed man had a fair point—whatever it was she was going to do, she had to make up her mind now.

Tapping herc fingers against the railing, she felt the urge to sigh once more. Her orders were rather explicit—take this location for the sake of their continued efforts, and she understood the reason, of course. Besides, who was to say there were no others lying in wait around Shinto, wishing for them to congregate and witness what they were capable of, if not use the chance to kill more than one of them?

Yet, at the same time. . .

She trusted—wholeheartedly believed—that her sister would be able to handle herself. She was always the better of the two when it came to this sort of thing, and Janika could admit that much, but at the same time, the risk of the enemy Master and Servant getting away with whatever they did to Brauer and Archer was not so low that she felt as confident as she could have been.

That was the thing, precisely, wasn’t it? Attempting to take all the locations as quickly as possible was a fine opener, but it also left them somewhat isolated from one another. For Brauer and Archer, this meant greater trouble—if the enemy was canny or simply powerful enough, they would be able to crush the pair before Frederica had reached them, and that would leave them down to six versus eight. Not odds she fancied, especially considering the lack of knowledge on those eight. Yet, what could she do? Foolish though it might have been, Frederica was closer than she, and if her sister did not make it in time, what chances had Janika to accomplish anything?

She should just stay put and carry out her orders. That is what the rational part of her mind told her.

And yet. . .

She did not have any particular ties towards either Brauer or Archer. She had not much in common with any of them, nor were they people she necessarily liked or even respected beyond what she afforded as their current status of colleagues required. However, just because she did not like them, that was no reason to sit by and do nothing while they were in trouble, and just because she was better than them, it did not mean she was free to not care if they were slaughtered. She would lose no sleep over their deaths, but there were certain things she had to take into account in this situation.

Noblesse oblige, as it were. She, who had greater power and status, also had greater responsibilities thrust upon her shoulders. To leave their allies to potential demise and to leave their would-be-killers free to escape would be a stain upon her own reputation and the Edelfelt name as a whole. She could not—would not—allow for such things, and so, for the second time, her features hardened and her eyes gleamed.

“Saber,” Her voice was cold and clipped, a hint of decisiveness breaking through. Janika was gone, Lady Edelfelt took the reins. “Carry me to the church grounds, as swiftly as you are able without breaking my neck in the process. This bridge—this entire side—can be taken later, when we are sure no allies will be lost this embarrassingly early.”

And it would be so dreadfully embarrassing. At least it could be washed away somewhat if Brauer took the enemy with him, but as things stood. . .

No matter, fixating on that was not important. What mattered was taking action.

“Do make sure to be careful with our approach,” She said as she came to stand by her Servant, facing in the direction of the church. “There is a nonzero chance they will attempt to make their getaway via the shortest paths straight towards the river, considering my sister will be approaching them from Shinto. Even if we cannot discern the Servant him or herself, if two Masters pass by close enough. . .” She traced the Command Seals on the back of her left hand, hidden by her glove. “Well, suffice to say, we will know, and that might make things all the easier.”

Nothing else needed to be said.

---

@Angry Hungarian

Rider, Eastern Fields

“You might feel me, Master, but I can’t really say that makes me feel much better,” The spirit sighed. Perhaps he should have been more careful with his words, but now that his Master had engaged him in conversation, his nature reared to a head. “Misery might love company, but I’m not infatuated with misery.”

Standing guard around the car, he could practically feel the dullness of the situation attempt to shatter his mind, but he did try to endure. At the very least, he now had someone to actually talk to, and his Master was an agreeable enough man, even if he did not particularly seem to share in his interests. He dearly did wish to become corporeal, if only for a scant few instants, in order to actually stretch his legs, feel the crisp air on his skin and the blades of grass bend underfoot, but for now, he would stay like this. Throwing some sideways glances towards the people walking about the place—few as they were—he realized it would not be wise for a man that looked straight out of raiding a museum exposition to suddenly materialize from nothingness. He had toyed with the idea that maybe one of them would also be a Master, but at this distance and considering his own’s lack of care, he knew it to be an empty hope.

He had also toyed with the idea that, perhaps, if the Lancer was still unknown, he could. . .

“Do you think a small wish would become true if you believe in them hard enough?” The question was posed so softly it was almost boggling to think that it came from the same man. Oh, how he wished to meet her again, to make that declaration once more and, if nothing else, even if she killed him again in the end, it would make any pains worth it. But then he shook his head. “Ah, never mind. My luck’s never been that good, anyway, and the odds are, what, a million to one?”

For a second, it seemed as though he had forgotten about his Master, tone wistful, speaking as though he was the only one there. For a second, his Master was privy to a side of Rider few had ever seen. But it only lasted that much, and vanished like the morning dew. In a heartbeat, his standard persona had returned.

“Say, Master, I never did get a chance to ask, is there any particular reason you chose me?” He seemed curious as to the answer, perhaps wanting to know what had the man seen in him to grant him this second chance. “Was it just my strength and my dashing good looks or did something else also play a factor in it? Can’t say I’m the greatest expert, but I’d have though someone like you would have been fonder of a subtler sort—though maybe that’s just because I don’t yet know you very well, I suppose.”

Indeed, his Master so liked the part of the soldier he would have guessed he would have gone for a less overt and—dare he say it—less demanding Servant. He did not much care for the fact that the man had diminished his own abilities, but considering the fact that their faction seemed rather keen in attaining victory, he wondered if he shouldn’t have picked a Servant he would know for sure he would be comfortable with, or one he could utilize to the fullest extent without worries.

Oh, well, it mattered little, in the end. At the very least, it would fill up the air with some more chatter to distract him from the growing boredom—

And then he heard his Master’s mutter. Quickly growing restless, he made his way to the other side of the car, looking in the direction of the place their ally had been ordered to take.

“Are the magus and Archer in trouble?” He asked, gazing in the same direction as his Master. “If so, we could always move in to help them, I suppose—then again, considering the distance, perhaps it would be better to leave that task to our other allies. Grani is swift, but not as swift as a Servant proper in most cases, and if I were to attempt to move at full throttle. . .” He stopped rambling, but it was rather easy to understand that he felt concerned as far as his Master stood. A human body would not really be able to withstand Sigurd’s full speed, diminished though it may have been. Furthermore, it was one thing to employ it in the thick of battle, but such a sustained burst from one end of the city to another would not be good for the man even if he could handle the forces he would be subjected to, and Rider would guess his Noble Phantasm would fall to a similar pitfall, considering the circumstances.

Not for the first time, Sigurd found the fact that he was so reliant on someone so. . .fragile to be irritating. Grumbling, he resumed his position.

“I’ll keep my eyes peeled in case any of them show up around here, though I doubt it,” He said. If he was trying to conceal his disappointment over the fact that the first run-in with enemies was not his, he did a poor job of it. “If you decide to move out, just say the word.”

Fate/Moribund Swarm

Janika Edelfelt, Bridge

She hummed, gloved fingers tracing the railing by her side, white dress gently swaying with the breeze, looking towards the rising sun from her position at the bridge. There was admittedly not much that she liked about this backwater place she and her sister had journeyed to, but in the end, she guessed the dawn was much the same in every place—and it was always a beautiful sight she could admit to frivolously enjoy. The air was crisp, though not uncomfortable by any means, and the early morning was overall refreshing.

But she couldn’t really stop to just dawdle around, now could she? Alas, her stay in this place would hopefully be kept short and smooth—but for that to occur, she needed to get to work, and so, Janika Edelfelt tore her gaze from the rising sun in order to look at the bridge she and her Servant had set up shop at.

To be certain, she guessed it was more correct to say they had been ‘ordered’ to set up shop there, but she did not particularly like thinking about it that way—and it was far from the only thing that rubbed her the wrong way. Her sister, who had for most of her life stood side by side with Janika was now on a different part of the district, likely securing her own little piece of land. She wasn’t worried for her, not really—Frederica was more than able to deal with most anything that came her way, even in (or perhaps especially because of) her current state, but that did little to diminish the fact that not having her sister by her side in this situation felt just odd.

Though she assumed it was a feeling she would need to grow accustomed to over time. Nothing would last forever, and she knew that better than plenty.

Sighing and banishing such gloomy thoughts from her mind, she simply focused on her task to the point he forgot about other worries. The bridge was not one of the fallen leylines, but as the ‘proper’ path between Shinto and Miyama, it had some value regardless—which is why she and her own Servant had been sent to secure it. Twirling the cane she held in her left hand, glimmering silver catching the sunlight, she scoured the area again—though the lack of feeling from the Command Seals indicated that she was apparently on her own, familiars were a different matter. Nonetheless. . .

“Well, then,” She began, tone even and attempting to keep the air of aristocracy about her without fail, even if there were no others around them. “I suppose we shall begin for now. Saber, please, be a dear and keep your eyes peeled for any possible interruptions, though it seems we’ll be free of those for the time being—which means we should start establishing our territory for now, no?”

It was not a statement she expected a response for, given that their situation and set of goals were plainly obvious, but she was the sort of woman that apparently did not mind small talk, idle as it were, and she would admit to not being sure as to how to initiate the conversation otherwise—even if it made her grow frustrated with herself. Here she was, alongside a hero of antiquity, legend made flesh by the very miracle she and her sister and their collaborators sought to steal and she could not think of any suitable topics?

Truly hopeless.

Regardless, she attempted to not let such things show—instead keeping her placid smile in place, even as she began to walk down the bridge to assess the perimeter of the Bounded Field. Considering the nature of the position, she could not be too careful, but there was a small hint of boredom cracking through her façade, features smoothing into a blasé mask.

The peace, however, was not to last as she received Brauer’s report. Her placid expression grew cold, brow creasing, and her eyes shone with unnatural sharpness. The hand twirling her cane stilled, knuckles perhaps white beneath the gloves, and she took a deep breath.

“Understood,” She called out on her own. “Do call if you need any more backup, but expect us to try and make our way there as soon as we are able.” And that was that. She kept her silence for a second before bringing a hand to her face.

“No plan survives contact, huh?” She muttered, voice muffled. “Argh, how annoying,” Huffing as though it was more a minor setback rather than anything else, she moved to continue her task—but her steps now were quicker, more decisive. The question, then, was ‘for the sake of what?’. “Saber, do you have any input? I could really use some advice right now.” A position, an ally, and her sister. She trusted Frederica to handle herself completely, but the fact remained. . .

Which was more important at this moment?

---

Rider, Eastern Fields

Outside of the black car, Rider stood, for lack of better terms. The man was not particularly fond of staying in Spirit Form—he much preferred having a body to walk around with and enjoy the breaths of fresh air he had been granted for as long as this second chance endured, but he understood that his Master was not particularly the most gifted among magi, and so, he chose to do this as his token favor. It was small, and probably worthless in the end—the man could have just as easily told him to and Sigurd would have obeyed, even if lacking in enthusiasm—but he liked to think these gestures had greater meaning when one did them on their own will.

The fields were mostly empty and quiet, some people here and there carrying out their daily lives, and they made Sigurd wish to grimace just by standing around. The sleepiness permeating the place, bluntly put, did not agree with him. A man of action rather than words, perhaps he could have seen the value of peace and quiet in his older years, but as it was? Frankly, the fact that he took longer than five minutes before starting to bemoan the current situation was no less than a miracle. Shooting a glance his Master’s way and finding the man busy with his toys, he asked the gods to give him patience and resigned himself to watch people pass by, attempting to ignore that gnawing feeling that quickly grew within him.

What wouldn’t he give for an opponent to show up and cross blades against. . .right then.

. . .No? Oh, well. It was worth a shot. He had known there would be moments of respite within the timeframe of the War, but the lack of anything to do with this time drove him restless to no end—truly, idleness was one of his greatest enemies. Had he been allowed, he would have certainly gone to get whatever passed for drink these days and enjoyed himself in that manner, and if he ran into enemies, all the better. There was nothing that said he could not enjoy drinks with anyone he fancied, being enemies just meant they’d have their weapons at each other’s throats once the mugs were finished, but that apparently was no longer the norm.

It sure became a boring world while he was not around.

No people to fight, no drinks and his only possible venue for conversation was busy fiddling with that toy of his, he wondered if this was actually some form of punishment, before deciding that, at the very least, the weather was far too nice, and there was no Regin in sight. He had not particularly minded the dwarf’s plan to kill him—it had been par the course, really, he should have seen it coming even without that thing—but by whatever gods listened, had he almost talked Sigurd’s ear off with the chatter about ‘Fafnir’ and ‘Fafnir’s treasure’ and ‘gold’, repeating the terms so much he was fairly certain they made up more than half of the conversation’s content (if you could even call the dwarf raving about the untold riches and Sigurd answering some rhetorical questions and otherwise nodding along and shrugging noncommittally a conversation)

. . .

“Hey, Master,” Deciding that staying quiet was most likely not the best course of action for his continued sanity, Sigurd spoke up, addressing the man that had summoned him. Their countenances could not be more different, but he hoped he would be able to establish what could, at the very least, be considered a ‘working relationship’. He had little desire to be stuck with a stick in the mud, but a more traditional magus would have probably managed to be even worse, and so far, the man had not offended him in any manner, so that was fine. Maybe the small talk would be just what they needed at this time. “So, do you think any one of our enemies will pass by? Being completely honest, I feel like we should hurry up with the preparations as it is and set up shop as quickly as possible—if you all are so keen on preparing this side as a base of operations, we should also be quick about things and press on the offense.”

Seemingly mulling on the facts, he pondered whether he had overstepped his bounds before deciding he did not care much and continuing.

“Lancer, Assassin, Caster and Berserker—those four and their Masters are still mostly unknown, right? Perhaps I’m rushing too much, but. . .I think we should start attacking as soon as we’re able, and that we should make sure we are able soon, lest they use the time to prepare more traps for us to deal with. We don’t know what tricks they might have up their sleeve, and I won’t say that I wouldn’t like facing someone of worth, but I’d like to think my words are not devoid of sense because of that.”

He would freely admit that he enjoyed battling, perhaps too much, but he was also someone who had lived long enough to admit it, and he would also say that he had learned from that life.

Whether the Master listened or not was another matter—though, really, he just wanted to get some talk out of the man, because the silence would otherwise drive him up a wall.

Fate/Moribund Swarm

Edelfelt

Janika Edelfelt

Gender: Female

Age: 25

Personality: At a glance, she appears to be the ‘perfect beauty’. Soft-spoken and amicable to those that approach her, Janika could very well be called a ‘kindly Ojou-sama’ type — she sometimes appears to thoughtlessly flaunt her wealth, and the way she speaks and acts certainly lends credence to the image of ‘high-class lady’ she appears to cultivate just by existing, but if questioned, she would say with absolute honesty that such things are not her intention, and she is merely acting how she was taught to.

Sometimes, however, that perfectly cultivated image of class just. . .cracks. Perhaps it is a word spoken out of turn. Maybe it is her tone taking on a rougher tilt. Maybe it would just be the way she holds herself. This is perhaps a reminder that, no matter how hard one tries, some tendencies just cannot be curbed. Nonetheless, she attempts to live by the ideas her family instilled in her.

Grace in her every step, elegance in her every motion and eloquence in her every word, beauty in each gesture. Ruthlessness in her every decision, coldness against every enemy, cunning in her every deal.

Those were the principles she was raised with, those were the principles she would follow to her last breath, even if she might sometimes stumble along the way. Her nobility is easily seen from a mile away — and her words would do little more than reaffirm it, regardless of her being in one of the rougher moments or not.

In the end, however, she is not cruel.

Calculating, perhaps. Manipulative even. And she would not deny to be pragmatic enough to exploit her own appearance and hide her intentions beneath a beatific smile and a kind word. But she has never taken any pleasure in deceiving anyone, and most likely she never will, nor has she ever thought to lord her superiority over others.

It is not that she is humble — far from it, in fact. But what is the point of spouting what should already be known as a fact? Yes, she is better — family, connections, wealth, talent. . .if it is conceivable, she would possess it, but that is no reason to gloat — it is simply how the world worked. You would not be proud of getting up every morning, so why should she be proud of something equally natural? To be superior is merely the way things are. At the same time, she is also not kind — she would give no second thought to the idea of leaving someone behind if they proved a dead weight, and she would certainly not lose any sleep over any betrayal, but those weren't things to be proud of — merely tasks to get done. No more, no less, and she has never seen the world any differently.

Rather, it is her duty to do as she sees fit, it is her duty to further herself and her family even at the expense of others, it is her duty to be the proper Lady Magus of there ever was one — and that is really all there is to it. Sometimes she ponders if it could have been any different if life had thrown her a different lot, but she always dismisses the thought with the same quickness as it came — to bring glory to the family name, to perpetuate the line, to further their work. Those are the duties she has taken upon herself, the responsibilities thrust in her hands from an early age, and there is no reason to shirk away from them or ponder on useless ‘what ifs’. The only thing that matters is the here and now, and those who try to run away from it are no more than fools.

Perhaps most interestingly, she lacks any real wish to make upon the Grail — her sole desire is to bring glory to her family and further their standing, so any one thing she could ask for would be ‘for the sake of the Edelfelt name’ should she achieve victory. Or at least, so she tells herself.

Biography: Relatively young, she is one of the two current heirs to the Edelfelt family of magi, a proud lineage of Finnish descent. There is not really much to say about her other than the obvious — from the moment of her birth, her life had been set ahead of her, and all that was expected was that she’d follow through the motions.

And so, she did, with nary a complaint. While in her younger years she often snapped at people with a fiery temper and a glare to match, she was soon taught to hold her emotions locked deep within instead of wearing them on her sleeve — even if sometimes the task proves a tad harder than others. She dedicated her life to follow the path of the Magus, pursuing the ideal with her full efforts, perhaps out of a sense of filial love, perhaps because it was the only thing she had ever known. Regardless, the fact remained — she excelled, though that much was already beyond doubt.

Growing up as she did would perhaps be called boring, though she preferred the term ‘safely predictable’. Her life was confined to a small set of variables — and that, she could work with. Never really giving much thought to what awaited her beyond the obvious, she seemed content to study the craft and quietly continuing to work. However, when the news came to them of the opportunity to wage war against the Tohsakas, Einzberns and Matous on their precious backwater, to steal from them that great artifact, their vaunted ‘Holy Grail’, it was an injection of ‘something new’ into what was once a drab, colorless world.

She did not dislike the idea, not really. The thought of summoning legendary figures from ages past in order to engage in battle for a wish, stealing everything those three owned in the process? It might not have been her that devised the plan, but she certainly found it an interesting venture — and if that required her to get her hands dirty, it was something she could live with.

Perhaps, a voice in the back of her mind whispered, she could even learn to enjoy it.

Family History: Edelfelt

Origin: Duplicity

Elemental Affinity: Water and Fire

Number of Magic Circuits: B

Quality of Magic Circuits: A

Od: A

Magecraft:

Conversion: Family attribute of the Edelfelt. Strictly speaking, the name covers the concept itself, but it is best known for its conduciveness to Jewel Magecraft. The capability that allows for the Edelfelt to place magical energy into other substances, enduring outside of the body.

Ore Scales: Sorcery Trait of the Edelfelt. The Crest is shared. The two Masters are one. The moon in the night sky is mirrored in the surface of the lake. Two sisters multiply each other's power.

Scandinavian Curses: Simply oriented around physical effects of harm. Does not include those other possibilities such as attacking the mind, causing decay, inverting causality, resonating with similarities, and so on. The specialization is, of course, the single-action curse known as Gandr. Through overcharging, release of a more powerful "Finn Shot" is possible. At the maximum output, even stopping a heart is possible.

Conversion (Traits): Deals with the ability of shifting the nature of something into something else, more appropriate to deal with the situation at hand. Generally, this could be a called a mix of the Conversion trait of the Edelfelts with Jewel Magecraft and Alteration — in simple terms, storing preset spells in Jewels in order to be able to Alter something at a moment's notice, a habit that doubtlessly owes to her nature as ‘someone who changes according to the situation’. Akin to enchantments in a video game, the Jewels are able to confer ‘traits’ or ‘attributes’ to what she sees fit, such as ‘a sword becoming a fire-sword’ or other such examples. There are, of course, limits depending on the quality and number of jewels at her disposal, but she would like to think that those are the last two things she would need to worry about.

It is hardly anything flashy — but that is fine by her as is.

Equipment:

Jewels: Eight Jewels that doubtlessly can be called ‘A-Rank’, suffused with Magical Energy, although they do not yet hold any Alteration spell. At the same time, she also possesses four others, two of which have been supercharged with both her elements, her mother’s own Lightning suffusing the other two. Though she has crafted two more through excess Prana throughout her lifetime and inherited another as a last gift, however, those remain tied to her Mystic Code.

Mystic Code: Argent On the surface, a lady cane — certainly high quality silver and of fine craftsmanship and make, decorative enough. However, the three jewels inset on the handle and body allow her to quickly and efficiently summon forth elemental barrages against those that cross her. She will admit to not be the sort of savant her sister is — but that is just fine, and her efforts are mainly oriented towards ‘support’ more than anything else.

Skills: She shines in terms of negotiations, by far the more gregarious and diplomatic of the two, and although her raw physical power — even if cheating herself — is outshone by her sister, she does have a fair grasp and training on hand-to-hand and knows how to use her body and her cane to great extent — she can (and oftentimes does) aptly wield it as a staff. In terms of ‘skill’, she ranks higher — after all, it is also a Lady’s duty to know how to properly put down undesirables.

Sigurd

STATUS

Class: Rider
True Name: Sigurd
Gender: Male
Alignment: Lawful Neutral

APPEARANCE

Though it is perhaps cliché, Rider’s own appearance makes it rather easy to tell for anyone that looks upon him that he is ‘a great hero’. A lean frame that brims with confidence and strength, his height allows him to tower over most, easily standing at nearly two meters tall, features seemingly carved from marble, no less handsome for it and set into a permanent amused smirk. His skin is tan, taut muscles seemingly bereft of scars despite the notion that the man that boasts of them is a born warrior, and his ashen hair falls down, almost reaching his back, in a mess that is not devoid of its own grace. Though the blood is far too diluted to mean much, he still boasts the red eyes of those who possess the ichor of the divine flowing through their veins, set alight akin to twin crimson pyres, a wild air about him that is his constant companion wherever he goes.

Cutting an imposing figure, he is clad in the armaments of antiquity, a warrior displaced in time. A silver cuirass with blue accents – like breaking waves – along the edges covers his upper body, fashioned into the peak of human physique, made of a certain material long since unavailable to the modern world. Vambraces of the same make and pattern, greaves and boots comprise his armor alongside it and glimpses of fur can be seen, perhaps indicating the wearer is more used to colder climates, black leather pants underneath.

PARAMETERS

STR: A END: A
AGI: C MGI: D
LCK: E

*Parameter corrections have taken place due to the place of the summoning and the Master in question.

CLASS SKILLS

Riding: A+. The hallmark of the Rider class, accounting for expertise in handling vehicles or animals. Rider can freely manipulate the simplest vehicles or state-of-the-art technology with ease, and at this Rank, even Phantasmal Beast or Divine Beast-class creatures may be commanded and used as mounts, though it does not apply to members of the ‘Dragonkind’.

Magic Resistance: -. A Skill that determines the level of inherent resistance the Servant possesses against Thaumaturgy that attempts direct interference upon the self.

. . .However, it has been lost.


PERSONAL SKILLS

Revelation: X. An anecdote of his story tells of his consumption of the dragon’s blood and later, heart, and following this, he was able to know of the dwarf Regin’s plan to murder him and have Fafnir’s hoard entirely for himself thanks to the birds warning him ahead of time, after which Sigurd killed the dwarf. He is not truly talking with them – rather, upon consumption, he artificially inherited a sort of ‘wisdom’ that manifested itself as a strange connection with the world. He is able to interpret the song of birds, the caress of the wind upon blades of grass and the thrum of mana in the air as warnings or advice on ‘what is the best path’ or ‘what will come next’.

However, Rider seems to have willingly sealed it away, or is otherwise ignoring it wholesale. The only leftover is a persistent sense of ‘déjà vu’. Perhaps it is not something that should be said, but Rider seems to be less than fond of this.

Prana Defense: A+. A variation of the skill known as ‘Prana Burst’. The fundamentals remain unchanged – use of prana as fuel to accomplish greater feats, but this variation is oriented purely towards defense. Effectively, it is ‘magical energy translated into armor’. The act of bathing in Fafnir’s blood changed the nature of his existence to that of a ‘dragon’, and the act of partaking in its flesh and organs gifted him with the so-called ‘Dragon Factor’ – effectively, Rider is constantly wrapped in magical energy reminiscent to that of such creatures, suffusing the entirety of his physical form, and even without accounting for any physical protections, his body alone is already on par with the Dragonkind – such is the true nature of ‘the hero Sigurd’s invincible skin’ so often praised. However, this invulnerability possesses the same caveat that would be expected – a linden leaf stuck to his back while bathing, and made that place the only one of his body the blood would not reach, and thus, the only true weakness in a defense that should have been, by all rights, absolute.

Due to this, his Saint Graph as a whole manifests the nature of a ‘Dragon’, and thus, he is liable to be more vulnerable against heroes or weapons associated with ‘Dragon Extermination’. It is quite ironic that the bane of one of the greatest dragon-slayers would be ‘kindred spirits’.

Berserk: C. An ability that results of the combination of Mad Enhancement and Bravery. While under its effects, Sigurd becomes ‘as a savage animal’ – rather than mechanically obeying the Master like Berserkers with higher Ranks of Mad Enhancement, he becomes obsessed with ‘the fight itself’, devoting himself to the complete annihilation of those classified as ‘the enemy’. Though he was not known to fly into such frenzies within his legend, he has gained this skill due to distorted views – such things are ‘what is expected’ from ‘Norse heroes’, and so, it is only natural that ‘the archetypal hero of Norse origin’ possesses the ‘archetypal skill of Norse origin’.

Inversion Impulse: E. The urge to give in to an impulse that is both 'inherent to the self' yet 'completely alien to the self'. In the case of Sigurd, this impulse speaks to the nature of 'Dragon' that pervades his Saint Graph, the blood running through his veins and drenching his skin. Fafnir was not a two-bit lesser drake – but rather, an archetypal existence that burned the meaning of 'dragon' in generations to come, only rivalled by one other. Tapping into this forbidden well causes a surge in STR not too dissimilar to the effect of Monstrous Strength.

However, every time it is used, there will be a Rank-up to the Skill. Through E to B, no changes will occur in the physical sense – though the Servant's psyche may be compromised, if still functional – but, as the grudge of his blade grows and this Skill attains its apex, should it be used for one last time when it reaches A Rank, a shift will be made manifest upon Sigurd's Saint Graph, turning him into something far removed from the man he is now.


NOBLE PHANTASM

Grani – Through the Flames, Nothing shall Bar Our Path

Rank: B
Type: Anti-Unit (Self)
Range: 1-99

A fantastical existence known as Grani, Sigurd’s much beloved gray mare. The horse itself is of magnificent stock – a gift from Odin while disguised as an old man, through its veins runs the blood of Sleipnir. Though it has attained ‘only’ Phantasmal Beast status, it should be noted that its age and lineage make it an incredibly strong specimen. Sigurd may call Grani during combat in order to supplement his mobility and attempt to trample his enemies under powerful hooves, but in the end, this is not the true use of ‘Grani, Sigurd’s Noble Phantasm’, so much as it is a use of ‘Grani, Sigurd’s powerful mount’.

Rather than ‘combat’, the Noble Phantasm could be said to be a combination of both Sigurd and Grani in tandem used for ‘travel’. A certain fragment of his legend speaks of how one of Gunnar’s tasks was to pass the ring of fire in order to court Brynhildr, and it is noted to be a task only Grani could accomplish – and only with Sigurd using it as his mount. There are no mentions of why such a thing was required or how such a feat was accomplished beyond the implied ‘Grani was the best of horses, and Sigurd the best of heroes’, and the Noble Phantasm is both a crystallization of the feat and the implication it carried. No matter how treacherous the path, complicated the Bounded Field or well-defended the fortress, should the True Name of the Noble Phantasm be activated, Sigurd and Grani will inevitably appear at their set destination as though by spatial transference – effectively ‘Grani and Sigurd must travel through treacherous ground in order to arrive’ shifts into ‘Grani and Sigurd travelled through treacherous ground in order to arrive’, forcing the world to conform to such ‘truth’ and skipping the ‘journey’. So long as Sigurd knows where the place he wishes to travel to is located, they shall ‘certainly reach their destination’.

It could be said to be similar to a writer’s own laziness in not figuring out a means through which the hero could have bypassed the traps in his way, and simply insisting that he did because ‘this is one of those situations where the destination is more important than the journey, isn’t it? Just get on with the story!’. Of course, the flipside of such is that the farther away the destination and the more dangerous the path (interesting from a storytelling standpoint), the more magical energy will be consumed if the Noble Phantasm is used.

Audiences are truly merciless.


Gram – Blade of Glory, Blade of Ruin.

Rank: A++
Type: Anti-Army
Maximum Number of Targets: 500
Range: 1-99

The fabled ‘sword in the tree which grants sovereignty’, a prototype of the arguably more famous ‘sword in the stone that selects the king’, doubtlessly among the strongest of magic swords and the very strongest blade of Norse origin. Originally crafted by the gods and retrieved by Sigurd’s father, Sigmund, it was broken by Odin’s Gungnir during battle. An episode of his legend tells of his quest to find a sword ‘worthy of a hero’ that will permit him to slay Fafnir. Regin forged for him two meager blades, which broke upon testing due to Sigurd’s phenomenal might, and in the end, the youth handed the dwarf the remnants of his father’s blade in order to remake it for the son. However, this is not the end of the tale.

Indeed, it was first forged by the gods. Indeed, it was remade by the dwarf – inhuman in both make and size, boasting enormity only such hands could confer. Yet, at the same time, it was weak because it had been remade – Mystery, once lost, cannot be regained. Such is the way of the world, and Gram’s was lost the very moment Odin broke it. Thus, although first-rate and able to withstand Sigurd’s strength, the blade itself was still a shadow of its former self – its self when it was unbroken and unsullied, which could never be attained again regardless of the smith being the lowest wretch of the mortal realm or the highest among gods. Instead, a different route was taken.

Its nature shifted. Its form shifted. Its identity shifted. Gone was the elegant Sword in the Tree – make way now for the blade that would bring about glory beyond measure and ruin beyond measure, a sword that collected into itself the hatred and curses of the fallen, a demonic blade steeped in the grudges of those slain by Sigurd. Those grudges are the chief source of its power – for hatred that lasts beyond death is no small thing, promising ‘glory on the battlefield’. Yet, at the same time, they also bring about the ‘ruin’ of the wielder – causing Sigurd’s Luck to plummet.

In practical terms, the blade will absorb Mana from the surrounding area and passively feast upon Sigurd’s magical energy upon being wielded, accumulating it within. Thus, the longer the battle goes on, the faster it can be activated, which can be useful under certain circumstances. Runes carved upon the flat of the blade channel and augment – ‘amplify’ – the prana within, and True Name invocation will cause an explosive release of magical energy for the purpose of ‘destruction’ alone. Compared to the elegant gold slashes of certain Holy Swords and the semicircle of searing twilight unleashed by one in particular, Demonic Blade Gram’s release is shaped like a raging, unreasonable cone of vivid crimson that even Sigurd has great difficulty controlling, and it would be no less than ruinous if loosed carelessly.

Physically, the blade is shaped like a truly gargantuan greatsword, almost longer than Sigurd himself is tall and as wide as two and a half adult hands pressed flat. Unlike the more ornate weapons of the era said to be wielded by this man, Gram carries nothing to disguise its true nature – a masterfully crafted killing tool, lacking even a guard, and devoted solely to bringing about the deaths of those in the path of the swing. Though razor sharp – Regin was indeed a master of his craft – its enormity makes it seem more like it would be used as a giant, bladed club than an actual cutting tool like Sigurd can – and indeed, any man that does not possess the strength of the aforementioned dragon-slayer would find it nearly impossible to even lift it, much less wield it, and would likely decry it as far too massive to be called a sword – more like a lump of metal with a handle that would be more at home displayed as a parody. As mentioned, various runes are carved upon the blade and are key to its use as a Noble Phantasm – though they also accomplish a ‘warding’, keeping the grudges of the slain Gram so greedily feasts upon contained within the steel. An unwieldy demonic weapon that one would think to be the tool of a villain, nonetheless owned by a first-rate hero that passed on to the annals of history.

Owing to the nature of its most famous kill, the blade possesses a bonus against those who exhibit the nature of a ‘Dragon’, such as a certain King from a certain island.

Incidentally, it would be renamed ‘Balmung’ at a later date, most prominently within Wagner’s Nibelungenlied and Ring Cycle in general, suffering a change in appearance and a revision to its origins, shifting its nature once more. One cannot help but be thankful for this – after all, ‘that man’ already had enough troubles heaped upon him.


DETAILS: BACKGROUND

The great hero of the Völsunga Saga, and oft regarded as the greatest and most famous within Norse mythology, Sigurd, Son of Sigmund and Slayer of Fafnir. A mortal that lived during the Age of Gods, one through whose veins still ran the blood of Odin, he fostered under Regin, the brother of Fafnir, who would be the one to both give him his famous sword and egg him on to slay the dragon, thereby starting the chain of events that would lead to the episodes depicted in his legend. He would meet a certain woman – a Valkyrie by the name of Brynhildr, whom he would exchange vows with, yet she would nonetheless foretell his doom and marriage to another woman. Eventually parting ways, he would arrive to a certain court, where the queen would slip by him a potion that would force Sigurd to forget all about Brynhildr, and thus render him amenable to marriage with Gudrun.

He would be fast friends with (and loyal to) his brother-in-law, Gunnar, who would attempt to woo Brynhildr herself, but the tests of the Valkyrie would prove too much and, exchanging oaths of secrecy and with a heavy heart, Sigurd would supplant him. He did not remember Brynhildr – he simply felt the acts went against his sense of honor and her own dignity, yet he remained steadfast in his loyalty and successfully passed her tasks, exchanging places with Gunnar once he was no longer needed.

Life would be kind, for a while. But lies, as we all know, cannot last. Eventually discovering the truth, feeling cheated out of the man she desired and burning with indignation, Brynhildr succumbed to her love for Sigurd.

. . .Yet, for a Valkyria that ferries souls to Valhalla, ‘to love’ is synonymous with ‘to kill’. And so, she did, arranging for the death of the man she held so dear. That was the sad end to a sordid tale, and eventually Brynhildr would willingly commit suicide by throwing herself to Sigurd’s own funeral pyre, their ashes scattered and mixing in the winds.


DETAILS: PERSONALITY AND DISPOSITION

Summoned as Rider, he takes the form of his younger years – one he doubtlessly prefers the most. Compared to the more meditative Saber, the Rider incarnation is still a youth that thirsts for excitement and battle, and even though he attempts to sound relatively dignified, he often slips into rougher speech patterns, most prominently when his battle-lust is roused – perhaps part of the fault lies with the distortions of his culture sphere across time, but Sigurd would readily admit to his nature as a hoodlum even while alive. In short, he gives the ‘delinquent older brother’ impression.

Boastful, proud and nonetheless agreeable, Sigurd is what some would not hesitate to call an odd individual – though one who was aware of his tragic life could be led to believe that he would be the type that carries a somber air about him, the reality is far different, being the sort of man one could not help but bond over drinks with, someone who lives in the present, chasing the moment with all his being. He possesses pride, of course – pride as a hero, pride as a man. His entire life was spent thirsting for adventures like a man lost in the desert would thirst for water, whether recorded in the runestones or not – for is it not the duty of a hero to be grander, to live a life more exemplary than anyone else? To seek challenges in the morn, fight the strongest in the afternoon, make merry with one’s companions at night and do it all over again the next day?

Indeed, much like ‘that one’, Sigurd’s life was spent doing ‘what a hero should do’, but unlike ‘that man’, who believed that heroes should merely limit themselves to doing as other asked, dangerous existences that they were, Sigurd’s own belief was that a hero should strive towards greatness and follow his own heart more than anything, accomplishing great tasks not because it was requested, but because that was their very nature, how things were meant to be.

He has no personal grudges about how his life turned out, even though it was one that was not lacking in wrong turns. ‘I did my best, I think, so I will not sully my pride and their memory with regrets.’, or so he would say. He met two women he loved with all his heart and forged priceless friendships – so long as those moments, ephemeral as they were, remain engraved into his heart, Rider personally thinks that there is no point in regrets and letting them chain him to the past, since they made the precious memories all the sweeter for it.

Thus, although summoned in a War for the Holy Grail, he does not find the price particularly enticing. To him, crossing blades and testing his mettle against legendary heroes from different eras is a reward in and of itself, and as far as he is concerned, his wish has been granted upon summoning.

He respects courage, sticking to one’s principles and the drive to improve and achieve one’s goals most of all, and thus looks down on those with weak wills. He accepted long ago that the world is an unreasonable mess most of the time, uncaring about what is just and what is not, and that bad things happen to good people and vice-versa. Thus, even though he personally leans towards justice, unless he finds the Master that summoned him to be incredibly disagreeable or completely opposed to his beliefs, he will follow orders out of loyalty, and can appreciate the qualities he admires even in the bitterest of enemies, praising them without reservation if he believes they deserve it. This means he has great flexibility in terms of lords he will serve under, but nonetheless, accounting for his own personality and tastes, it would not be wrong to say that he has the greatest compatibility with the sort of dunderheaded idiot that does not know when to give up.

As previously mentioned, he does not think he has a wish worth using the Grail for – and he will certainly not consider changing anything about his life. However, now, with his memories intact, he cannot help but perhaps wait, and hope, that a certain woman would also make an appearance in whatever battlefield he is called to, so that he could bear his sincere feelings one last time. Perhaps that is the only thing that weighs in his memory.

Fate/Moribund Swarm

Edelfelt

Janika Edelfelt

Gender: Female

Age: 25

Personality: At a glance, she appears to be the ‘perfect beauty’. Soft-spoken and amicable to those that approach her, Janika could very well be called a ‘kindly Ojou-sama’ type — she sometimes appears to thoughtlessly flaunt her wealth, and the way she speaks and acts certainly lends credence to the image of ‘high-class lady’ she appears to cultivate just by existing, but if questioned, she would say with absolute honesty that such things are not her intention, and she is merely acting how she was taught to.

Sometimes, however, that perfectly cultivated image of class just. . .cracks. Perhaps it is a word spoken out of turn. Maybe it is her tone taking on a rougher tilt. Maybe it would just be the way she holds herself. This is perhaps a reminder that, no matter how hard one tries, some tendencies just cannot be curbed. Nonetheless, she attempts to live by the ideas her family instilled in her.

Grace in her every step, elegance in her every motion and eloquence in her every word, beauty in each gesture. Ruthlessness in her every decision, coldness against every enemy, cunning in her every deal.

Those were the principles she was raised with, those were the principles she would follow to her last breath, even if she might sometimes stumble along the way. Her nobility is easily seen from a mile away — and her words would do little more than reaffirm it, regardless of her being in one of the rougher moments or not.

In the end, however, she is not cruel.

Calculating, perhaps. Manipulative even. And she would not deny to be pragmatic enough to exploit her own appearance and hide her intentions beneath a beatific smile and a kind word. But she has never taken any pleasure in deceiving anyone, and most likely she never will, nor has she ever thought to lord her superiority over others.

It is not that she is humble — far from it, in fact. But what is the point of spouting what should already be known as a fact? Yes, she is better — family, connections, wealth, talent. . .if it is conceivable, she would possess it, but that is no reason to gloat — it is simply how the world worked. You would not be proud of getting up every morning, so why should she be proud of something equally natural? To be superior is merely the way things are. At the same time, she is also not kind — she would give no second thought to the idea of leaving someone behind if they proved a dead weight, and she would certainly not lose any sleep over any betrayal, but those weren't things to be proud of — merely tasks to get done. No more, no less, and she has never seen the world any differently.

Rather, it is her duty to do as she sees fit, it is her duty to further herself and her family even at the expense of others, it is her duty to be the proper Lady Magus of there ever was one — and that is really all there is to it. Sometimes she ponders if it could have been any different if life had thrown her a different lot, but she always dismisses the thought with the same quickness as it came — to bring glory to the family name, to perpetuate the line, to further their work. Those are the duties she has taken upon herself, the responsibilities thrust in her hands from an early age, and there is no reason to shirk away from them or ponder on useless ‘what ifs’. The only thing that matters is the here and now, and those who try to run away from it are no more than fools.

Perhaps most interestingly, she lacks any real wish to make upon the Grail — her sole desire is to bring glory to her family and further their standing, so any one thing she could ask for would be ‘for the sake of the Edelfelt name’ should she achieve victory. Or at least, so she tells herself.

Biography: Relatively young, she is one of the two current heirs to the Edelfelt family of magi, a proud lineage of Finnish descent. There is not really much to say about her other than the obvious — from the moment of her birth, her life had been set ahead of her, and all that was expected was that she’d follow through the motions.

And so, she did, with nary a complaint. While in her younger years she often snapped at people with a fiery temper and a glare to match, she was soon taught to hold her emotions locked deep within instead of wearing them on her sleeve — even if sometimes the task proves a tad harder than others. She dedicated her life to follow the path of the Magus, pursuing the ideal with her full efforts, perhaps out of a sense of filial love, perhaps because it was the only thing she had ever known. Regardless, the fact remained — she excelled, though that much was already beyond doubt.

Growing up as she did would perhaps be called boring, though she preferred the term ‘safely predictable’. Her life was confined to a small set of variables — and that, she could work with. Never really giving much thought to what awaited her beyond the obvious, she seemed content to study the craft and quietly continuing to work. However, when the news came to them of the opportunity to wage war against the Tohsakas, Einzberns and Matous on their precious backwater, to steal from them that great artifact, their vaunted ‘Holy Grail’, it was an injection of ‘something new’ into what was once a drab, colorless world.

She did not dislike the idea, not really. The thought of summoning legendary figures from ages past in order to engage in battle for a wish, stealing everything those three owned in the process? It might not have been her that devised the plan, but she certainly found it an interesting venture — and if that required her to get her hands dirty, it was something she could live with.

Perhaps, a voice in the back of her mind whispered, she could even learn to enjoy it.

Family History: Edelfelt

Origin: Duplicity

Elemental Affinity: Water and Fire

Number of Magic Circuits: B

Quality of Magic Circuits: A

Od: A

Magecraft:

Conversion: Family attribute of the Edelfelt. Strictly speaking, the name covers the concept itself, but it is best known for its conduciveness to Jewel Magecraft. The capability that allows for the Edelfelt to place magical energy into other substances, enduring outside of the body.

Ore Scales: Sorcery Trait of the Edelfelt. The Crest is shared. The two Masters are one. The moon in the night sky is mirrored in the surface of the lake. Two sisters multiply each other's power.

Scandinavian Curses: Simply oriented around physical effects of harm. Does not include those other possibilities such as attacking the mind, causing decay, inverting causality, resonating with similarities, and so on. The specialization is, of course, the single-action curse known as Gandr. Through overcharging, release of a more powerful "Finn Shot" is possible. At the maximum output, even stopping a heart is possible.

Conversion (Traits): Deals with the ability of shifting the nature of something into something else, more appropriate to deal with the situation at hand. Generally, this could be a called a mix of the Conversion trait of the Edelfelts with Jewel Magecraft and Alteration — in simple terms, storing preset spells in Jewels in order to be able to Alter something at a moment's notice, a habit that doubtlessly owes to her nature as ‘someone who changes according to the situation’. Akin to enchantments in a video game, the Jewels are able to confer ‘traits’ or ‘attributes’ to what she sees fit, such as ‘a sword becoming a fire-sword’ or other such examples. There are, of course, limits depending on the quality and number of jewels at her disposal, but she would like to think that those are the last two things she would need to worry about.

It is hardly anything flashy — but that is fine by her as is.

Equipment:

Jewels: Eight Jewels that doubtlessly can be called ‘A-Rank’, suffused with Magical Energy, although they do not yet hold any Alteration spell. At the same time, she also possesses four others, two of which have been supercharged with both her elements, her mother’s own Lightning suffusing the other two. Though she has crafted two more through excess Prana throughout her lifetime and inherited another as a last gift, however, those remain tied to her Mystic Code.

Mystic Code: Argent On the surface, a lady cane — certainly high quality silver and of fine craftsmanship and make, decorative enough. However, the three jewels inset on the handle and body allow her to quickly and efficiently summon forth elemental barrages against those that cross her. She will admit to not be the sort of savant her sister is — but that is just fine, and her efforts are mainly oriented towards ‘support’ more than anything else.

Skills: She shines in terms of negotiations, by far the more gregarious and diplomatic of the two, and although her raw physical power — even if cheating herself — is outshone by her sister, she does have a fair grasp and training on hand-to-hand and knows how to use her body and her cane to great extent — she can (and oftentimes does) aptly wield it as a staff. In terms of ‘skill’, she ranks higher — after all, it is also a Lady’s duty to know how to properly put down undesirables.