Breo

Fate/Vacuous Radiance

Lancer

STATUS

Class: Lancer

True Name: Cú Chulainn

Gender: Male

Alignment: Lawful Neutral

Personality: Fiercely proud, fiercely loyal. Defend your own, defend your principles, defend your pride.

Summoned in a War for the Holy Grail, Ireland's Child of Light shows a laid-back side outside of battle. He has no wish to make on the so-called 'omnipotent wishgranter'. Content with his life as it was, he seems rather intent on 'just having a good time', through fighting the other heroes summoned for this battle royale as well as enjoying his stay in the modern world. He will go as far as showing that same side to those that should obviously be enemies, claiming there is nothing wrong with bonding over drinks and making merry together even if they'll have to kill each other when the mugs are empty. Simply put 'this is this, that is that'.

Of course, he has no intention to lose even if he ends up liking those people that would be his enemies. To begin with, he is not unfamiliar with 'killing the ones you love' as being the duty of a hero, and he sees the battles to be fought as something where one puts their will and pride on the line. As someone who defines himself through that pride as a hero, the will to obtain a decisive victory comes as a matter of course.

As far as disposition towards the Master is concerned, though he may be unprofessional in terms of addressing them, one should not consider that a sign that he does not put too much stock in the relationship. Rather, if one manages to get this troublesome man to acknowledge them as such, they might want to consider their word as good as law. Though he naturally prefers the type that isn't too serious for their own good or orders him to do underhanded things, which he heavily dislikes, he is nonetheless bound by his own honor and principles to obey without question.

The core of Cú Chulainn is, thus, pride and unwavering loyalty.

Perhaps as an aside, if he does have an actual problem at some point, this guy is, as you might expect, the sort to just pretend it isn't there until it goes away. To complete the phrase from a few paragraphs prior 'he is intent on having a good time even when the world is intent on not letting him have a good time'.

Fundamentally, he can be said to be a man who understands the 'inherent unfairness of the world'. Justice, injustice, they are just words. All that matters is sticking to your principles and that which you believe in.

He lived and died as a hero, his wish from the very start, fighting people he did not wish to fight, killing people he did not wish to kill and slain by an unreasonable woman due to his own unreasonable promises, yet shows not even a lick of regret for what some would consider a life chock-full of wrong turns. If anything, he is the sort to just look back on it and laugh himself silly.

Rather, it is because he can at least do that much that he is sure it was a life worth living, a life worth not regretting. Killing his dear friend, killing his own son. . .and yet, and yet, it is fine. So long as Cú Chulainn still holds to that pride as a hero, so long as he still makes that the core of his identity, then their deaths had meaning. Even if they were sad, they were not meaningless.

He had already passed the point of no return from a very young age, at least according to himself. 'I'll be like that shooting star, using up all my brilliance, and then I'll disappear' was something he once said in his youth, and a promise he followed to the end. Doubtlessly, as one of Ireland's greatest, the trail he left behind was nothing short of dazzling.

After he stepped on so many things to get there, it was the only thing it could have been.

History: I think we all know it by this point, no?

Weapon: His crimson spear Gáe Bolg, crafted by that Queen from the Land of Shadows from the bones of a powerful sea monster. Cursed, bloodthirsty and doubtlessly a first-rate weapon to go with a first-rate legend.

PARAMETERS

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

CLASS SKILLS

Magic Resistance: C. The ability to negate magecraft that seeks to directly enact effects on the 'self'. Rather than the Resistance of magi, it's more accurately compared to a threshold. He can nullify magecraft of Rank C and below in this manner, though he remains susceptible to Grand Thaumaturgy and Greater Rituals.

. . .You were expecting more? Well, according to him, this is all he needs anyway.

PERSONAL SKILLS

Divinity: B. Divine Spirit Aptitude. As the son of the great god of the sun who governed every skill, Lugh of the Dannan, and a mortal woman, Deichtine, he displays a high Rank.

Disengage: C. The ability to break away from combat. He shows an excellent ability as far as seeing through battle situations is concerned, and he can withdraw effectively should a battle situation be deemed as unfavorable. Furthermore, it possesses the bonus of returning battle conditions to a 'turn one' state upon utilizing the ability. He is excellent for scouting and hit-and-run attacks.

Though commanding him to not to engage properly might net you a sullen look.

Protection from Arrows: B. An ability he was born with, the capacity to defend against long-range attacks as a matter of course. Even in situations where the shooter is impossible to see, his eyes will track the projectile and he will deftly avoid or deflect it, even if it is a Noble Phantasm. However, he is not able to employ this skill to avoid attacks that have a wide range or weapons that simply happen to possess long reach.

Battle Continuation: A. Capacity to survive despite injury, and the ability to retreat to ally territory upon defeat. As his legend tells of the time he tied himself to a rock to hold off an advancing army three days before finally dying, Cú Chulainn displays the highest Rank in the Skill. He can be doubtlessly called 'first rate' when it comes to surviving, and if it is a matter of holding the enemy off or fighting defensively, he is surely an unsurpassable wall.

Rune Magic: B. The ancient Magic Crest of Northern Europe, he obtained all eighteen and their meanings from his teacher, the Witch from the Land of Shadows, and he is able to devise an impressive array of effects, ranging from augmenting the Rank of his weaponry to defenses against high-grade Mystic Eyes up to even a shield that can block a great Noble Phantasm using their power. His ability with magecraft is enough to qualify him for the Caster container, perhaps due to the custom that warriors trained in that land must be proficient in terms of martial skill and magical ability both.

That said, he much prefers to be in possession of his spear, and he doesn't particularly use them unless he has an actual need to.

NOBLE PHANTASM

Gáe Bolg: Piercing Death Thorn.

Rank: B
Type: Anti-Unit
Range: 2-4
Maximum Number of Targets: 1

The crystallization of Cú Chulainn's ability with this spear, sublimated into a Noble Phantasm in and of itself. Created by Lancer for his own purposes, it is, in essence, a karmic curse that stands as something 'half a step away from an Authority', easily perceived as a 'sure-kill strike' even while Lancer prepares to activate it. Upon speaking the name aloud, the spear engages a reversion of causalty in order to 'without any doubt, pierce the opponent's heart'. While the normal order of events would be 'the spear was thrust, so the heart was pierced', the effect turns it into something more akin to 'the heart was pierced, so the spear was thrust'. The fact that the opponent's heart 'has already been pierced' becomes set in stone, and the act of thrusting the spear can be called a formality to show the world that they are dead, the weapon twisting impossibly in order to reach its target through the shortest route. Furthermore, upon successful piercing, it will annihilate the body from the inside with its thousand thorns.

An unreasonable ability belonging to an equally unreasonable man, inherent toughness or skill matters not. Should there be nothing handy to prevent the curse from hitting or the target be unable to back out of range before activation, the only way to truly avoid it is through succeeding in a Luck check and possessing sufficient skill to avoid the thrust both.

Furthermore, even if one manages to avoid a fatal blow, the wound will still be cursed and unable to heal so long as the spear exists, and the activated effect of the Noble Phantasm is terrifyingly efficient, to the point of being usable even six times in a row.

That said, it isn't a problem if you can survive with your heart destroyed, no? The greatest enemy of this spear, those who don't die even if they are killed.

Gáe Bolg: Striking Death Flight.

Rank: B+
Type: Anti-Army
Range: 4-40
Maximum Number of Targets: 50

The second use of the crimson spear Lancer wields. In this case, it is a full-out deployment of all of Cú Chulainn's magical energy in order to unleash the curse to its fullest extent as an Anti-Army type of attack capable of blowing away enemy hordes like nothing, comparable to a missile in terms of use and causing a great explosion upon striking the target.

This is the original use of the spear as he was taught, rather than something he came up with later in his life such as Piercing Death Thorn, and it is also one of the things that enshrined him in legend to begin with, a technique to overwhelm and decimate an entire army rather than efficiently dispatching single warriors. He boasts of this one's capacity to slay the enemy as well, and even if the enemy is agile or possesses a powerful body, the range, precision and speed of the throw combined with the power and range of the explosion itself makes it no less of a 'sure-kill' than the thrust version, if in a different manner, unless one is properly equipped to deal with this use, as well.

He thinks that there are only two, conditionally three people in the entire world who are able to exceed his ability when throwing it and his distance record.

Fate/Vacuous Radiance

Lancer

STATUS

Class: Lancer

True Name: Cú Chulainn

Gender: Male

Alignment: Lawful Neutral

Personality: Fiercely proud, fiercely loyal. Defend your own, defend your principles, defend your pride.

Summoned in a War for the Holy Grail, Ireland's Child of Light shows a laid-back side outside of battle. He has no wish to make on the so-called 'omnipotent wishgranter'. Content with his life as it was, he seems rather intent on 'just having a good time', through fighting the other heroes summoned for this battle royale as well as enjoying his stay in the modern world. He will go as far as showing that same side to those that should obviously be enemies, claiming there is nothing wrong with bonding over drinks and making merry together even if they'll have to kill each other when the mugs are empty. Simply put 'this is this, that is that'.

Of course, he has no intention to lose even if he ends up liking those people that would be his enemies. To begin with, he is not unfamiliar with 'killing the ones you love' as being the duty of a hero, and he sees the battles to be fought as something where one puts their will and pride on the line. As someone who defines himself through that pride as a hero, the will to obtain a decisive victory comes as a matter of course.

As far as disposition towards the Master is concerned, though he may be unprofessional in terms of addressing them, one should not consider that a sign that he does not put too much stock in the relationship. Rather, if one manages to get this troublesome man to acknowledge them as such, they might want to consider their word as good as law. Though he naturally prefers the type that isn't too serious for their own good or orders him to do underhanded things, which he heavily dislikes, he is nonetheless bound by his own honor and principles to obey without question.

The core of Cú Chulainn is, thus, pride and unwavering loyalty.

Perhaps as an aside, if he does have an actual problem at some point, this guy is, as you might expect, the sort to just pretend it isn't there until it goes away. To complete the phrase from a few paragraphs prior 'he is intent on having a good time even when the world is intent on not letting him have a good time'.

Fundamentally, he can be said to be a man who understands the 'inherent unfairness of the world'. Justice, injustice, they are just words. All that matters is sticking to your principles and that which you believe in.

He lived and died as a hero, his wish from the very start, fighting people he did not wish to fight, killing people he did not wish to kill and slain by an unreasonable woman due to his own unreasonable promises, yet shows not even a lick of regret for what some would consider a life chock-full of wrong turns. If anything, he is the sort to just look back on it and laugh himself silly.

Rather, it is because he can at least do that much that he is sure it was a life worth living, a life worth not regretting. Killing his dear friend, killing his own son. . .and yet, and yet, it is fine. So long as Cú Chulainn still holds to that pride as a hero, so long as he still makes that the core of his identity, then their deaths had meaning. Even if they were sad, they were not meaningless.

He had already passed the point of no return from a very young age, at least according to himself. 'I'll be like that shooting star, using up all my brilliance, and then I'll disappear' was something he once said in his youth, and a promise he followed to the end. Doubtlessly, as one of Ireland's greatest, the trail he left behind was nothing short of dazzling.

After he stepped on so many things to get there, it was the only thing it could have been.

History: I think we all know it by this point, no?

Weapon: His crimson spear Gáe Bolg, crafted by that Queen from the Land of Shadows from the bones of a powerful sea monster. Cursed, bloodthirsty and doubtlessly a first-rate weapon to go with a first-rate legend.

PARAMETERS

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

CLASS SKILLS

Magic Resistance: C. The ability to negate magecraft that seeks to directly enact effects on the 'self'. Rather than the Resistance of magi, it's more accurately compared to a threshold. He can nullify magecraft of Rank C and below in this manner, though he remains susceptible to Grand Thaumaturgy and Greater Rituals.

. . .You were expecting more? Well, according to him, this is all he needs anyway.

PERSONAL SKILLS

Divinity: B. Divine Spirit Aptitude. As the son of the great god of the sun who governed every skill, Lugh of the Dannan, and a mortal woman, Deichtine, he displays a high Rank.

Disengage: C. The ability to break away from combat. He shows an excellent ability as far as seeing through battle situations is concerned, and he can withdraw effectively should a battle situation be deemed as unfavorable. Furthermore, it possesses the bonus of returning battle conditions to a 'turn one' state upon utilizing the ability. He is excellent for scouting and hit-and-run attacks.

Though commanding him to not to engage properly might net you a sullen look.

Protection from Arrows: B. An ability he was born with, the capacity to defend against long-range attacks as a matter of course. Even in situations where the shooter is impossible to see, his eyes will track the projectile and he will deftly avoid or deflect it, even if it is a Noble Phantasm. However, he is not able to employ this skill to avoid attacks that have a wide range or weapons that simply happen to possess long reach.

Battle Continuation: A. Capacity to survive despite injury, and the ability to retreat to ally territory upon defeat. As his legend tells of the time he tied himself to a rock to hold off an advancing army three days before finally dying, Cú Chulainn displays the highest Rank in the Skill. He can be doubtlessly called 'first rate' when it comes to surviving, and if it is a matter of holding the enemy off or fighting defensively, he is surely an unsurpassable wall.

Rune Magic: B. The ancient Magic Crest of Northern Europe, he obtained all eighteen and their meanings from his teacher, the Witch from the Land of Shadows, and he is able to devise an impressive array of effects, ranging from augmenting the Rank of his weaponry to defenses against high-grade Mystic Eyes up to even a shield that can block a great Noble Phantasm using their power. His ability with magecraft is enough to qualify him for the Caster container, perhaps due to the custom that warriors trained in that land must be proficient in terms of martial skill and magical ability both.

That said, he much prefers to be in possession of his spear, and he doesn't particularly use them unless he has an actual need to.

NOBLE PHANTASM

Gáe Bolg: Piercing Death Thorn.

Rank: B
Type: Anti-Unit
Range: 2-4
Maximum Number of Targets: 1

The crystallization of Cú Chulainn's ability with this spear, sublimated into a Noble Phantasm in and of itself. Created by Lancer for his own purposes, it is, in essence, a karmic curse that stands as something 'half a step away from an Authority', easily perceived as a 'sure-kill strike' even while Lancer prepares to activate it. Upon speaking the name aloud, the spear engages a reversion of causalty in order to 'without any doubt, pierce the opponent's heart'. While the normal order of events would be 'the spear was thrust, so the heart was pierced', the effect turns it into something more akin to 'the heart was pierced, so the spear was thrust'. The fact that the opponent's heart 'has already been pierced' becomes set in stone, and the act of thrusting the spear can be called a formality to show the world that they are dead, the weapon twisting impossibly in order to reach its target through the shortest route. Furthermore, upon successful piercing, it will annihilate the body from the inside with its thousand thorns.

An unreasonable ability belonging to an equally unreasonable man, inherent toughness or skill matters not. Should there be nothing handy to prevent the curse from hitting or the target be unable to back out of range before activation, the only way to truly avoid it is through succeeding in a Luck check and possessing sufficient skill to avoid the thrust both.

Furthermore, even if one manages to avoid a fatal blow, the wound will still be cursed and unable to heal so long as the spear exists, and the activated effect of the Noble Phantasm is terrifyingly efficient, to the point of being usable even six times in a row.

That said, it isn't a problem if you can survive with your heart destroyed, no? The greatest enemy of this spear, those who don't die even if they are killed.

Gáe Bolg: Striking Death Flight.

Rank: B+
Type: Anti-Army
Range: 4-40
Maximum Number of Targets: 50

The second use of the crimson spear Lancer wields. In this case, it is a full-out deployment of all of Cú Chulainn's magical energy in order to unleash the curse to its fullest extent as an Anti-Army type of attack capable of blowing away enemy hordes like nothing, comparable to a missile in terms of use and causing a great explosion upon striking the target.

This is the original use of the spear as he was taught, rather than something he came up with later in his life such as Piercing Death Thorn, and it is also one of the things that enshrined him in legend to begin with, a technique to overwhelm and decimate an entire army rather than efficiently dispatching single warriors. He boasts of this one's capacity to slay the enemy as well, and even if the enemy is agile or possesses a powerful body, the range, precision and speed of the throw combined with the power and range of the explosion itself makes it no less of a 'sure-kill' than the thrust version, if in a different manner, unless one is properly equipped to deal with this use, as well.

He thinks that there are only two, conditionally three people in the entire world who are able to exceed his ability when throwing it and his distance record.

That should do it.

@ADamnFiddle

Fate/Moribund Swarm

Janika Edelfelt

Nothing.

It was an oddly common occurrence, although, as she thought on it, not an altogether unexpected one. The divide between their sides and their conditions of victory should have been clear from the start, so it would make sense that they would abandon any place that was not essential. In the end, they had come to plunder this land while the enemy was out to defend their treasure, so one should think it reasonable to concentrate wholly on that which would aid in such efforts.

Apparently the problem was simply that they had been walking blindly around the city and all their guesses had been phenomenally wrong, in the end. The Tohsaka Manor would have been a far reach considering the family’s history—or lack of thereof, more accurately—whereas the Matous had been a shot in the dark they had missed, although at least they had gained some interesting information and the conversation had not been unpleasant.

But if anything, she would have guessed they would have rallied here. It was a reasonable expectation, considering just who the owners of this little slice of land were, and their name alone instilled more caution in her than all the others put together—for a reason, of course.
Of this entire War, they were indeed what could be said to be the ‘known factor’. So it was interesting to see they also had not rallied here, though maybe they had also thought it much too obvious. Ah, well.

It was with those thoughts in mind that she paid heed to Saber’s own words as they made their way through the area, the trees providing shade from the morning rays of sunlight. Stopping for a second, she placed her hand on one of them—feeling the rough bark under her fingers as she thought about the proposal, and discreetly using the chance to rest her feet, because heels were not made for this sort of terrain.

“. . .Together, perhaps,” She decided, in the end. “But nonetheless, I recommend caution, Saber. If it comes down to it, I trust your capabilities, but I also trust those doll-makers to be a crafty lot. With any luck, we will get some interesting insights out of this journey and more. . .in fact, I think I might already have some.”

Not the Tohsaka Manor, not the Matou Manor and if this place wasn’t it, either. . .well, at least they had managed to narrow the list down to one obvious spot. It wasn’t the best way to go about it, but it would be useful, at least.

“Now then, let’s go. . .is what I want to say, but really, they could have stood to make a clearer path for guests, couldn’t they?” Sighing, she withdrew her hand and started walking again. At the very least, she seemed to be in a talkative mood—perhaps she was just a morning person, perhaps a night's sleep was what she needed after the previous day.

Maybe both.

@Yukitamas

Fate/Moribund Swarm

Janika Edelfelt, Matou Manor.

"I see, I see." Her voice rang out through the darkness. And she did, really.

It would have been something disgusting had the magus, Matou Zouken, decided to simply give away this place without fighting if it was his family's ground. Disgraceful, even. In that regard, both Saber and she were of the same mind, though perhaps not for the same reasons.

Protecting what is yours, not allowing others to take what is yours. They sounded similar on the surface, but differed at their core. Just as those of higher station were obligated to aid those of lower ability, so too were they obligated to punish those who had the gall of attempting to take something from them. It was not a desire to protect, but rather, a will to keep. To her, the idea of standing idly by while others would attempt to ransack one's home spoke of nothing but weakness, in terms of character if not in capacity.

So then, it was fortunate their host could see eye to eye with them on that matter.

"Ah, yes, the Tohsaka's housing. . .no, we have not come to do anything of the sort," Keeping her placid smile in place, she tried to reassure the magus that hostilities would not be required in this case. While she would not have wasted breath on Matou Youzai, she had been genuine when speaking of her lack of personal quarrel with this individual, attacking first when the host had been rather gracious considering the circumstances would be simply barbaric. "Truth be told, I was unaware he'd do something like that to their grounds, as well. . .but I suppose one can also understand the need to deny enemies of any possible advantage, and that includes ease of access and hold over a fallen leyline. . .even if I think that his decision was more guided by his own emotions than proper, thought-out planning." Clicking her tongue, voice containing just a touch of disapproval concerning the actions of her ally, there was nonetheless acceptance.

What was done, was done. No sense in crying so much over spilled milk, and even if Emmerich had acted rashly, at least it could prove beneficial to them still.

"We only came here to ah. . .scout out the area. Had we found nothing, we would have left easily enough, and as you say, this house does not particularly call to us as a strategic position, so there was no need to do anything. I am not petty enough to destroy a family's home when my quarrel is so specific as this one and it would gain me nothing."

Pausing, she considered her next words. Certainly, they had not been prepared for this, but at the same time, it was not bad. At the very least, considering the earlier rushes of the day, a calm talk under a proper roof, even if she could not actually see her partner in the conversation, was not a change of pace she particularly minded. It certainly helped that the man seemed rather reasonable in how he handled things. . .although his confidence, or at least lack of fear about the prospect of facing Servants, was odd in its own way. Did he trust the Matou Master and his own Servant to come if they poised to threaten him? Did he perhaps possess confidence in his ability to such a seemingly suicidal extent?

Or was it maybe just bravado to make them reconsider?

Ah, well, not like putting on airs in front of guests was something she was unfamiliar with, herself, and she trusted both Saber and Archer, although perhaps she should make the midnight chat shorter than she had anticipated. The worst case scenario that lurked in her mind was that of the Japanese faction taking them by surprise here and now -- although she wondered if Youzai could make others except his own Servant move for what was an unremarkable position outside of being his own home. Nonetheless, she would have to be cautious.

They would have to take their leave soon. But for the moment. . .

"I see, however, that you are familiar with my name and what it carries. A pleasant surprise. . .although I cannot recall either my mother or anyone else in my family mentioning yours. Of all the families involved in the Ritual, only the Einzbern rang a bell," The Tohsaka had been a mere footnote, the Matou less than that. How odd, if he had met Edelfelts as he said. . .though perhaps he simply had not made enough of an impression. "Judging by the way you speak of it, however. . .I take it you are rather acquainted with the system? Although perhaps I should not be surprised about that being the case for members of any of the families. After all, you must take pride in it."

Fate/Moribund Swarm

Janika Edelfelt, Matou Mansion

She had not ripped into Emmerich the moment he had come back.

She liked to think that that showed her restraint as it was, really. The man had already seemed so stricken by the death of his own Servant that there was little a verbal lashing would do at this point. He understood the humiliation and the grave situation it had left them in, all to come back with so little, and she really could not fathom why he had not just ordered Rider back with that Command Seal he had used, or why that fool of a Servant had not urged something similar, but in the end, she guessed that was just how they were.
So now, with both Emmerich and Brauer indisposed and her sister working on her own little projects, it fell to her to scout this manor. She dearly hoped it would go over better than the last one, but one never knew what the representative or whatever Servant he had summoned hid under their sleeve, although she liked to think her little desire was not a particularly high bar to clear.

The house itself was Western in style, but what caught her attention the most was the heavy atmosphere around it, as though the moment she stepped within, it would be like stepping in a different world. A small part of her, a part she tended to ignore, thought that perhaps coming here was not such a bright idea.

She merely tempered the trepidation with trust in Saber and Archer to pull through. So it was that she strode cautiously, but decisively, into the old manor and the darkness that laid within.

There is probably a saying about lambs that walk willingly into the slaughterhouse.

The oppressive atmosphere redoubled in potency now that she was within alongside Saber, almost like a physical thing, a weight bearing down on her shoulders. Her eyes darted around, looking for something she could not see, trying futilely to pierce through the darkness.
As the voice spoke, Saber's figure was one of the few things that gave her a measure of comfort at this point in time.

Striding forward, however, she had her own part to act out, and refusal of it was never an option to begin with. Moving to stand just a step in front and to the left of Saber, her eyes narrowed yet again, unable to perceive anything.

In the end, she could only weigh in the words and answer as well she could.
"Excuse our intrusion, though, to be frank," She started to speak, keeping her voice level and her cane resting peacefully at her side. "I did not quite expect someone not Matou Youzai to greet us, if there was to even be a greeting to begin with, no. I would have thought most, if not all the other family members, whoever they might be, would have already left until the war was over. . .not a particularly unwise move, I would say."

She spoke with a firmness that perhaps surprised even herself in spite of the shivers that ran down her back as whoever it was that had decided to play host spoke. She was an Edelfelt, and she could not show anything but this to any outsider.

"I do not fault you for the lack of any display, however. I admit, this was a rather rushed meeting," Keeping her ears peeled for even an inkling of any other surprises, she continued her speech unimpeded, surprisingly enough. "It would be terribly gauche of me to ask for tea in this situation, I believe. Speaking of, my manners must have been failing me. . .Janika Edelfelt, at your service. Would the host do us the honors of a proper introduction? It is only polite."

He smile, sweet like honey, was as much of a façade as any airs she put on, but the belief in proper manners was indeed genuine. After all, for all that had happened, she had still been raised an aristocrat. At the very least, this much was the norm.

"Worry not for entertainment however. If I am to be honest, we did not come here seeking any particular trouble as our primary goal. Of course, had Matou Youzai been here, we would have attempted to kill him and would have expected the same in turn, but I cannot say you, whoever you might be, gracious host, figured in any plans. With you, I have no particular quarrel," She paused for a second, her smile stretching just a touch. "Though I can understand the principle of defending one's home, so if we must do this, I would not begrudge you for it. . .although it would be a shame. I do enjoy conversations more."

Fate/Moribund Swarm

I mean, technically dying super early is a trait of the S U M A N A I subset.

So I guess I was already prepared for it and knew what to do.

Fate/Moribund Swarm

To be honest, I'm pretty happy with this.

Like, it was pretty in character for Sigurd to be an idiot of this sort and I managed to touch up on all the points. Tad shorter than I'd have liked for a run, but gratifying enough.

Though I hope the death scene was not too cheesy. Like, I had to make it cheesy for him, but I hope it wasn't excessive.

Fate/Moribund Swarm

Sigurd, Outside the Tohsaka Manor.

His companion manifested. His soul bared, his sword unleashed. Not enough, it seemed.

Ah, was this truly his death? It was not a bad one, not at all. He had enjoyed the time spent, he had felt his blood boil in a good fight, and now his eyelids closed as though this was but a distant dream. Yet, there was still more to do, there were things he would like to say.

He was not a hero that had a tale of surviving when he should have died. He was simply hard to kill properly in the first place, so the only thing he could do was hold to his consciousness and try to hold to those last threads he possessed, grasping them and not letting go.

He would not be so unsightly as to attempt to hold out and live when he should be dead—he would dislike it if an enemy did that instead of accepting the outcome with grace, so it would be quite hypocritical to attempt anything of the sort. Just some time for goodbyes was not wrong, however—at least, he did not think about it that way.

“Ah, man,” The words that came out of his mouth were slurred and he was making an effort to make them heard over the blood building up in his own throat. He spat to the side. “So this is how it ends, huh? Short run, I guess, but can’t say I regret it,” His tone was the usual upbeat, not losing an ounce of brightness in spite of the circumstances—though perhaps more pained than usual. “Though I guess it’s pretty selfish of me to say that. Real sorry, Master, seems like you didn’t summon as reliable a Servant as you thought, huh?”

Peals of laughter intermixed with coughs for an instant, as though he found peace in his own death. His horse approached, steps almost sedate, and the mare nuzzled her head against Sigurd, who ran a hand through her coat before she vanished in motes of light. “Sorry you only got to come to see this, really. But you’re still as wonderful as ever. Maybe next time.”

His gaze shifted to stare at his enemy.

“Yo,” He smiled. “Hey, don’t you think stealing a heart in the first date’s moving too fast? Sorry if that was the aim, though—afraid I already got someone,” He attempted a cheeky smile, but it came out mixed with a grimace. “Mind if I ask you not to go after my Master? I figure it’s about the only thing I can do right now, and it’s sort of my duty still.” Wounds are there, of course, but his skin also showed cracks—like shattering glass.

Gaze upturned towards the heavens, his smile still in place, he seemed to ponder his circumstances for a bit. “I feel bad for leaving them hanging, but I suppose it was a fated outcome. Still, sucks I didn’t even get to ascertain the identity of Lancer or Caster. . .hey if either is a woman with long white hair. . .no, never mind, it’s something I would have to do myself, anyway, it would be meaningless otherwise.” He shifted, attempting to find a more comfortable posture before recognizing that his thorax being caved in is probably not conductive to such. Thus, he resigned himself to spend his last moments like so.

“My name?” Sounding confused for an instant, realization dawned on his features. “Ah, that’s right, yeah, I didn’t actually introduce myself, did I? Well, no harm in it now, I guess. It’s Sigurd, son of Sigmund, Slayer of Fafnir. . .you know, the usual titles. Just Sigurd should do just fine,” Another bout of pained chuckles. “Normally it’d spell bad news to be so open about it, but I doubt it matters at this point. Thanks for a fun fight, at least, Mister Burial Agent.”

And it had been fun, to him at least. The man was probably a terrible matchup for him, but Sigurd was just the sort of idiot to not care, and it was certainly a better death than the original one. The only thing he regretted was that this chapter was so short, but even that feeling would vanish soon—one had to accept things as they came, and he shouldn’t let himself be embittered by something so petty. He had had his run, so it was only fitting.

The world of the present belonged to those who lived in it. Shades of the past like him—like all the Servants summoned in this War—had no say in it, and attempting to think it their own was foolish. In a way, this was certainly poetic—the heroes of today have the duty to surpass the ones of yesterday. . .or something like that. He had never been that good with words to begin with.

“Oh, well,” Resignation seeped into his tone, his lower body started to vanish. “Guess this is it. It was nice seeing the present is not as terribly boring as I thought it was, so thank you for that.”

Perhaps it was mind-boggling for someone to address his killer in such a way, but the fact of the matter remained that Sigurd had acknowledged his loss and he had never seen why being friendly exempted people from trying to kill each other. It was a rather strange notion of this modern world that he, once again, did not quite get. Shame they hadn’t gotten to share drinks.

He raised his hand towards the sky, as though attempting to catch the stars—something that he could never reach, something that he would forever chase. That was the Karma he carried, and this was but a simple intermission in that journey.

“Not this time around, I am afraid,” His smile carried not the jovial undertones of his usual expressions, and his tone had shifted from upbeat to something resembling longing. But there was a tenderness to his voice that could not be denied. “But I guess. . .the advantage is. . .that I can try again, and again, and again forever,” Letting it fall, he grasped the hilt of his sword, but made no further movements, gaze still drawn towards a dream perhaps only he could see.

A simple woman, a beautiful woman, a wonderful woman. It is true that shades of the past like them have no business in the present, but they could certainly have business with each other. His own present was with her, simple as that.

“One day, Brynhildr,” The last words passed through his lips as he breathed his last. “We will meet again, I swear.”

And thus, Sigurd died, though perhaps the haze in his mind conjured a memory of a time long past—of a smile like the sun.

And thus, Sigurd died—with a smile on his face.

Fate/Moribund Swarm

Sigurd, outside Tohsaka Manor

His body felt so crushingly weak.

For a man that had been born an oddity even for his time—someone for whom might was as second nature as breathing—the experience was no less than absolutely alien, and the pained widening of his eyes upon assessing his own status made such a fact as obvious as it could be. However, even though his movements were so dreadfully sluggish now, he came to his feet upon trembling legs, perhaps thankful that his kick had managed to stun his opponent for the necessary instants required to stand his ground.

Even if his current state still lied beyond the realm of ordinary humans, comparing him to what he had been before would be like comparing a house cat to a grown lion—nay, the difference could simply not be illustrated in such a metaphor. He was a shade, a phantom of what he had once been, and if one were to judge this state he found himself in—there was simply no two ways around it, he was indeed ‘the weakest’.

But nonetheless, Sigurd was Sigurd. Broken, shattered beyond recognition and torn down into the dirt, but his will was still that of the dragon-slayer that had carved his way into song and legend with his own two hands. And so, even if the act was futile, even if it was worthless, he was the sort to die standing and swinging away. That was his truth, simple as it could be. He reached down to grasp the handle of his sword—gods, had Gram always been this ridiculously heavy?—and proceeded to pull it up towards himself, leaning on it like a makeshift cane.

“. . .I don’t think I’ll be able to give you a good fight in this state,” He confessed without preamble or hesitation. The man had matched him moments prior, so the thought of engaging against him here and now and hope for victory was fantasy at best. “That hammer of yours really does a number on things, I see.”

Even if Saber was on the way, he doubted he would be able to hold out long enough for it to matter—at least now. So what else could he do but make small chat before he once again charged to his death? Perhaps it was a boon in its own way—at least, even if he should die like this, he would do so in battle rather than betrayed and ambushed in his own room. But even if he had made peace with the idea of dying, that did not mean he wished to, nor did it mean that a hunger for victory did not lurk into his heart still.

And then, he heard it.

Erase him.

Magical energy suffused him, a veritable torrent reaching through the link into his self, to be used as one should wish. While a Command Seal would normally be used to order a Servant and part of the energy turned into a compulsion for them to follow the order, the fact that Sigurd was in agreement meant he had all that power at his own disposal.

But what of it?

A cup does not grow in size when filled with water, a battery’s maximum does not change even if it remains plugged in. If it had happened earlier—before the hammer had done its mark on him—he would have been able to express his full power, since the problem had been that his Master simply did not possess enough to fill that cup, but now? Now it was just going to waste, for his current state was his apex, and all the magical energy in the world would not change that. Perhaps it would have been a waste of such a thing. . .were it not for Sigurd possessing the perfect outlet.

Yes, such a command should have been worthless, but it just so happened to also be exactly what he needed.

“You showed me yours,” The smile on his face was decidedly worrying, crimson eyes sharp. “Guess turnabout is fair play.”

Gram was a simple thing.

It was not a sword that boasted of curses to challenge karma, it was not a physical embodiment of any of Sigurd’s deeds, it did not have any sort of conceptual ability to bring his opponents low as the enemy’s hammer did. It was simply a weapon that carried the attribute of ‘amplification’. Magical energy could be forced into it and Gram would convert and amplify it in order to unleash an ‘Anti-Army’-class attack. Yet, simplicity did not mean that it lacked effectiveness.

While attempting to use it before he had been brought low would have consumed a high amount of his own prana and attempting to wield it after the fact was suicidal, however, this changed things. The ‘perfect outlet’ he had said—and he meant it. The magical energy of the Command was funneled into it without a second thought, and the vile crimson runes lit up, prana running throughout them with such force that one would think it impossible. More, more and more, he fed the greedy sword for this last dance. He might not have been able to do much by himself, he might have been the weakest.

But he was still a Servant with a Noble Phantasm.

And at this distance, with this timing. . .

“I said earlier that it really wanted to kill you now. Well, survive it if you can, I suppose,” The nonchalance of his speech stood fully at odds with the situation. “You said that hammer showed ‘the difference between myself and God’ when it did this, right? Alright then, Mister Gavel,” His smile stretched into a lupine grin. “Let me show you how much I care about your god.”

His arm tensed, rearing back.

Blade of Glory, Blade of Ruin.
“Gram!”

And with that declaration, he swung, releasing the True Name and letting the sword's fury loose upon the world, the crackling runes reaching their apex and power being unleashed.

It was not an elegant slash of gold. It was not searing twilight condensed in a proper shape, or even savage power turned into a swing.

Merely a torrent of crimson spawned from Gram, relentless, merciless and deadly. Light that promised no less than absolute destruction, powered by a grudge to swallow the world whole. Simple, raw energy with only the purpose of complete, utter annihilation of those in its path. It was fortunate, then, that there were so few people around here and that the place was relatively isolated—one shuddered to think what would have happened if he ever unleashed this in the center of Miyama or Shinto, or if he was just a touch less careful with aiming.

Let him witness then, if this man of God had any other miracle up his sleeve. Let him bear witness to how he dealt with this, diminished as it was, for he still faced the full wrath of the strongest demonic sword.

Let him witness, and if he possessed nothing, let him die.

Fate/Moribund Swarm

Rider, Outside the Tohsaka Manor

The force as they clashed was so thoroughly unexpected that it boggled his mind for the briefest of instants, feeling his arm clash against an unsurpassable wall—the man’s hammer. For a human to approach a Servant in Strength was baffling, for a human to match him—it flew in the face of any and all possibility to begin with. Not only that, but could he see the man—perhaps not necessarily overwhelmingly so but. . .was he just a touch faster?

Yet, at the same time, that accursed smile would not leave his face. Yes, that was it, of course. He had wished for exactly this, hadn’t he? Whether or not the enemy was a proper Servant did not matter, whether or not what was happening before his eyes was an impossibility did not matter, all that mattered was the glorious ringing of clashing steel. The hunger in his eyes became more intense, the inferno of his soul blazed with renewed strength. Surely. . .this was indeed a proof of his good fortune. His wolfish grin was firmly kept in place, and he opened his mouth to speak—

And so it happened, that Gram writhed in his grip, its curses contained, its grudge brought low, its evil repelled. The sword in his hand, which should have had all of one equal, was brought down to a level that, while still greatly superior to other blades, was nonetheless unbecoming of its status.

They were still there, whispering at the edges of his mind, but they had been subdued, as though there was a wall that separated them now, and for a single heartbeat, Sigurd’s incredulous gaze moved from his enemy’s hammer to his sword and back again.

Scratch matching him, what sort of tool did this one carry to diminish the work of the dwarf, to chain the grudge of [that thing] in such a manner? If anything, this impossibility surpassed—nay, dwarfed—the fact that the man’s strength equaled his own. And so, as a shockwave of air was released by the mere clash alone, Sigurd could not help but gape in disbelief.

And that disbelief, for an instant, gave way to a mix of respect and annoyance.

“. . .That’s my line you’re stealing, old man. This sword can be a handful, but it’s been with me through thick and thin, and you’re pulling this?” His brow furrowed, even if the smile did not vanish, as though confused about what to feel—whether anger over the state of his weapon or awe at the deed. “Tch, guess it can’t be helped. . .it really, really wants to kill you now, you know? Just a bit more than it wants to kill everything, I mean.”

The words were spoken casually—or as casually as one could under these circumstances. His crimson eyes analyzed the possible venues of action he had for the moment, and he realized that, bluntly put, it was not a time to carelessly risk either his body or his sword with a clash. Too little information to act upon, a whole lot of guesses that could be right or wrong and the chips he was betting were his life, carelessly tossed upon the table even though a single misstep would mean further peril to his weapon or worse. At the very least, he supposed he should be thankful to both Weyland and Regin—he did not want to know what would have happened if Gram’s quality was even a touch less outstanding.

Well, at least whatever had happened during the clash had apparently. . .hurt. . .the hammer, so he would count that as a minute win. Now, where was he? Oh, right, getting out of this mess alive and whole.

. . .Tricky, really. Both in range of each other, he could discern the man using the leftover momentum to prepare to strike once again. Thus, there were two venues—try to get even closer, try get out and attempt something else. Now, how should he go about this. . .

There were no words exchanged—just as the old man prepared his own attack, so too did he move again. However, this time, he had no intention of using his sword.

Perhaps that would be a strange statement to be spoken aloud, seeing as the blade had traveled to his right following the initial clash, as though he was about to make a follow up swing himself, but what happened was different.

Rather than a swing, he twirled the handle in his hand—as though the instrument was as light as a feather to him—and, at the same time, stabbed down towards the ground, burying part of Gram’s blade within. His objective was simple—once that was done, he needed only to use it as leverage and make the best out of the remaining momentum, allowing him a jump that should place him far enough away to reconsider how to engage. Fast as the enemy was, if he managed to pull himself up enough, he could perhaps use the enemy’s momentum against him—it should be difficult enough to stop or correct a strike from such a weapon once one has committed to it, and while it is certainly true that any Servant worth their salt should be able to subvert the normal rules, perhaps the suddenness would catch the man off-guard.

True, the chance of getting caught by the hammer was still there, but since they moved in the same direction and at that speed, perhaps that would soften the blow—though, considering how the man had recognized his nature and the way he had spoken about it moments earlier had most likely incentivized his decision to not trust absolutely in his ability. He could not be sure what would the weapon do against him if he was struck instead of Gram, but the thought that he would manage to avoid taking a single scratch throughout the entire fight was foolishness at best, and so, he would just need to do his best and deal with whatever came his way.

However, that did not mean he could let challenges go unanswered and be the only one losing something in the exchange—so if it just so happened that he chose to launch a kick towards the enemy’s face mid-jump, all the better. Whoever said he just had to use his sword, anyway?

@Over Illusion

---

Janika Edelfelt, Miyama Riverside

The evening glow framed a halo around her white hair, blue eyes reflecting the sky and dress fluttering gently in the breeze making her look the picture of an ideal lady.

Which is why the scowl on her face was all the more outstandingly, absurdly jarring, why the coldness in her eyes had made people get out of her way ever since she had left the church and that utterly damnable man and made her way here.

Just thinking about it made her crease her brow further. The ruffian’s nerve had been beyond question—not a single word of thanks, no appreciation, even if she had come specifically to help him, hurried by the urgency in her call and the simple desire to act like her station demanded. The fact that his critique was not without basis only annoyed her further, and so, she had spent the majority of her day looking like she was on a warpath.

Pausing to shoot a glance at the river, she tried to get her emotions under control—no, she most definitely could not go to the church right now and suplex the man. It would just not do. Count to ten, breathe in, count to ten again, let go. Attempting to use the image of the river—itself dyed by the gentle setting sun, reflecting its rays—to further calm herself, she found her attempts somewhat successful, though the sourness of her mouth did not just disappear. At least she doubted the day could get any worse.

As it turns out, when she answered the desperate calling of Emmerich, she had to wonder in the back of her mind if the world just had it out for them today. At first, her face showed absolutely no reaction—a finely crafted mask of marble and steel, but her eyes told a different story, as did her body. Dilated pupils, irregular breathing—almost as though she was on the verge of hyperventilating. Leaning against the wall around a nearby house’s garden, she felt her step lose its characteristic sureness and her mouth dry.

“Saber. Go,” They were the first words that left her mouth, and the sense of urgency could not be faked—not to this level. What had been said shook her to the core, and this would perhaps be the first time the terror she felt was so apparent. “Move now. Don’t worry about me, don’t think about it, just hurry it up to where those two are without a second’s delay. I should be fine, considering your ability, and I will go to rendezvous with my sister post-haste just in case, but if what Emmerich said is true, then they are probably in need of more help than Brauer ever was. Rider seemed exactly the sort of idiot to try and meet the problem head on alone, but this is way too risky. Run, fly, do whatever you want but get there as soon as you are able.”

The Burial Agency. Just thinking about it made her heartbeat quicken, and she gulped. Why here and now, of all possible times? Certainly, challenging the Church’s authority so early on must have been jarring, but why would they send someone like that even in these circumstances, why would they care about this backwater in the middle of nowhere enough to send someone like that so soon?

It made no sense, but perhaps, it just did not have to. Did the why really matter when one of those monsters got involved, in the end? No, no. At this point, searching for the root of the problem was far less important than just dealing with it.

“. . .One more thing. Do not die.”

@Yukitamas