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Archer - Parthenopeus

Buildings near the Academy


"I am still bored of you."

The words don't strike into him, or rattle him or anything like that. If anything, it's kind of funny. It's kind of funny that he would say something like that, and it's kind of funny that he thinks it has some kind of weight. Perhaps he's the king, and the man facing him the fool. That - it doesn't matter, really, does it. The line of thought is abandoned as quickly as it's had. He has much better things to be doing than listening to that kind of thing.

Like 'dodging everything in the world'. It's - in a word - utter triviality to shift and dance along the attacks of his soldiers. To step around the slash. To twirl away from the chain. Even a hundred isn't enough to pin down the boy, to force him to move in a way that ill-suits him. Attacking like this, they may as well not be there at all. They are, however, inconvenient in even one way. They make it harder to shoot the Rider with an arrow. They're in his way. Perhaps he could -- No, parish the thought. Hardly worth it, right now. He doesn't need a thing to defeat this oaf. At least, not yet.

His hands are never stopped, even during all this, arrows tearing through soldiers, piercing shields to kill more of his army. But even he knows, as fun as it is to kill these things, that it's a waste of energy. So, the endevor is abandoned nearly right away.

"Ah, I see! Well, perhaps you can have enough fun as I take my own." His fun just happens to include killing Xerxes. The pleasure of murder. The thrill of a fight. Well, this is barely a fight for him, so far. The only thing on this field that interests his is the enemy Servant. Perhaps, if used differently, the soldiers would be a real problem for him, but thus far, they have not. Perhaps if it were more than 'from all angles', and was more like 'from all angles, at all times', he would be struck.

Alas.

He turns from a blow, and jumps. High. It's a good jump. Perhaps mother would be proud. No, likely not. He doesn't much mind that, though. He's high in the air, now. A target, surely, for spears and such. He'll deal with those when the time comes. Surely, they can't reach him before he's ready for them.

Draw.

He draws his bow. And then draws it further, the very picture of archery. It's somewhat slower, but to his speed and dexterity, this is fine. He takes aim, again, for the heart of that king. This arrow is not the same as the others. He locks eyes with the king, nothing but a playful smile on his lips, his eyes bright. The picture of youth and joy.

Loose.

The air tears through the sky, a direct line for that king. And then, he turns, eyes checking his sides as he begins to fall, stringing arrows out towards more distant soldiers, and the ones near where he's to land.

@Reflection
Archer, Parthenopeus

Buildings near the Academy


The boy stops, frowning at the spot that the Servant had left. An arrow flies into her, but it isn't his. He doesn't much care about that. He's annoyed, making faces, lips twisting up and teeth clenched. "Tch." He shakes his head and spits on the roof of the building he's on, clearly disappointed that it turned out like that. What a couple of cowards. Starting a fight, and then running away when there were any consequences at all. What pitiable cowards they are. "And they do all that, and just blink away. What a waste. What a weak will, to challenge someone and then duck away so quickly. I guess honor and pride is far too much for a barbarian to hold, isn't it?" He's not talking to anyone but himself. Really, he's pretty worked up about the whole thing.

In that moment, he's made his choice. He's going hunting. It isn't to the benefit of those kings over there - he doesn't much care. It isn't to the benefit of the war, to remove some dangerous element. No. He feels personally slighted that she fled, instead of fighting him. What a waste of time this all was. There was no point coming out here if all he was going to do was flee.

Well, maybe that isn't true.

He looks up, to the sky. Isn't that kind of thing... too obvious? That's what he thinks. What an ugly creature that man is riding. What a repulsive monster, taking the form of something majestic. For what purpose? Perhaps that man on that mount feels powerful, if he rides some profane creature of bone in the shape of the highest form of monster. Or maybe he just has a really bad sense of aesthetic. Who knows!

Maybe that's why he does what he does. Maybe he's still riding high off that need, off that desire to kill something. Maybe he's bored. Maybe he just doesn't like the look of that man, high and mighty on his dragon.

Archer, in the blink of an eye, has three arrows in the air. They tear through the sky - their aim true and steady. They're meant for the man's heart - two of them are. One of them is meant for his head. The magical reactors. He's really just trying to kill him outright.

"Ah! Good, someone else come to do battle. I was bored enough with her running away, I'm very glad to see you, now."

@Reflection
Pumak, Master of Siegfried

Foreign District, near Outskirts.


His first act of the war was cowardice. It was bowing to a conqueror. It was looking at someone claiming the Earth - and allowing it. He hasn't spoken since they left the clearing, and moved out of his forest. But he's thought a lot, mouth screwed shut, eyes set ahead of him as he navigated back out.

What was a man who did not hold to his values?

What was a man who buckled under the demands of a tyrant?

Weak. Useless. Pitiable, but not worth pitying. He's seen it all before. The conqueror of old are not comparable to the conqueror of new, but the goal is just the same. He's seen it all before. And his own compliance, his own unwillingness to fight, it disgusts him. How dare he? Isn't he a warrior too? Hasn't he spent all his years fighting? Against conqueror. Even against armed soldiers. And he's killed them all. It wasn't the right choice. The right choice was to order his knight into battle, and to deal with the consequences of it. Even if it killed him, it was better than such a low act of cowardice. No, no. That's wrong too, he realizes. That's just the same as suicide. He didn't know where the enemy Master was, so he could've been at a disadvantage he didn't even know about. What was he supposed to do, then?

How does he both be strong enough to uphold his values, and to change the world by his own hand, and smart enough to live long enough for any of it to matter?

Over the years, he's killed and grown strong. Toned his body and magic with the bodies and magic of those he's laid low. But who else can he kill? He'd have to kill a thousand more men, each of them mighty, to match even the weakest of these Servants.

It is impossible for a human to do battle with a Servant. This, he knows to be true, if not by anything but the difference between that man in the clearing and him. And the difference between his own Saber and he. There is no answer to this conundrum. None but to rely on others. But this is not the way of the Wari', and this is not his way. He doesn't want to 'have strong friends and allies'. He wants to be strong.

It hits him at once. He wants to be strong. He must become stronger. If he doesn't become stronger, there's no point. If he doesn't become stronger, then he'll die without leaving his mark.

His face tightens, and he brings his hand up.

"Saber. By the order of this Command Spell..." His heart pounds. Perhaps most Servants would kill him before he uttered the command. Surely, this is true. But this man in front of him is not 'most servants'. No, he is someone who wouldn't strike out, even at an order this vile. "Give me your heart!" His spiritual core. The underpinnings of his existence as a Servant, and the greatest value he has to Pumak, at this moment. It isn't to say that Saber would ever be useless - this is assuredly untrue. But it's definitely true that, to the man who wishes to be strong, becoming strong is far more important than having a strong ally. And, so - he demands his right as a Servant. He demands the heart of a dragon. He demands power, and even the cost of that ally. The seal burns away on his hand, leaving tattered red marks on his skin. The first mark is gone. The order is given. He can still walk away from this path, if he wanted.

He does not assume the first spell alone will suffice. It's an order that commands suicide. That acts against the interests of the man he promised allegiance to. This acts against the Servant who answered his call to the world. Treason of the highest order. But, all the same... "Saber! By the order of my second Command Spell! Give me your heart!" All the same, he was never truly suited to be a Master. It's just not in his personality. Giving orders and standing back - those were never what this man wished for. And, besides, allowing another to act as your strength, in some way, puts you at their mercy. That's the problem. Weaker ghosts, his wraiths and spirits and curses - they aren't people. Depending on a person to fight for you, instead of being able to fight yourself, is antithesis. If you can't win a fight yourself, he thinks. You shouldn't have come to fight. Him and Saber had good compatibility, but only because this Saber would have good compatibility with anyone. If he had summoned a strong king, he would balk at the existence of such a man who feels he has a right like that. If he had summoned a powerful, but obedient, warrior, he would be disgusted at the man's lack of pride. Well, perhaps that's too far. But this man - it would never work out. Not really. They would be allies, but never friends. That's something he knows is true. The second seal burns away.

But that doesn't make this the right thing to do. That doesn't make this any less a sin. They made a promise to one another, and only a handful of hours later, he's breaking that promise. What a thing to do? What a repulsive man to be. Make no mistake - this is not an action he is proud of. Only a monster would be. His words nearly catch in his throat, interrupted by his own remorse for it. He can stop here, surely. Two Command Spells aren't enough to make this man kill himself. Surely, he would be forgiven. He would fight the war at a grave disadvantage, but he would fight it. But they would not win. You cannot take half a dozen steps down the road, and then turn around. If he had stopped at one, there would still be a hope. But it's too late for that. "Saber... I'm sorry. By my final Command Spell, I order you! Saber! Give me your heart!" The final seal burns away.

Pumak lays his hand on the presented heart. There is no other way that can go. Officially, Pumak is no longer a Master. His seals are gone, replaced only by bruises. His hand falls on the heart, and he lifts it. It's heavier than he expected. It's not a human organ. The spiritual core of a Servant. The heart of a dragon. Such a thing surely no longer exists in modern times. And surely, this is a path for more strength. This is a path that he can walk on his own. He grips the heart, feeling the strength in it, and nods. This was wrong. This was cruel. This was callous and cold. He knows that. But he can't stand his own weakness. He couldn't stand the idea of being pathetic in the face of a monster, like that man in the clearing.

And, so.

The shaman brings the heart to his mouth, and swallows it whole.
Parthenopeus

Fuyuki streets, near the Academy//King's Banquet




The boy-warrior is no king. He has no right to entry - and thus, did not try. Instead, he acted as a hunter ought. He lurked. He waited. While he's certainly no skulking assassin, and his pride is much too great to go to such an underhanded length for a simple kill, he's hungry. He was promised the world - he was promised he could do whatever he pleased. Those were her words. Of course, in reality - he was going to do whatever he wanted anyway. That's just who he is. Perhaps there would be a fight there. Perhaps blood would spill. Perhaps the whole banquet would turn to a flurry of blood and violence, of betrayal and kingslaying. If nothing else, it would be a fun light show, and whoever walked out, tired from the conflict - would step into the eyes of a hunter. He has too much pride to skulk around and pick off someone from afar, but not near enough pride to refuse an offering of blood. And weakness, to a hunter, is an offering of blood.

He didn't quite expect such a generous offer, though. His ears twitch, his eyes focus, and then widen, just a bit. What's that, over there? A rain. A hundred hundreds glowing droplets of light, pouring into the banquet. Of the things he expected, someone raining on their parade wasn't high enough on the list, it turns out. It's more than enough light for his eyes to get a perfectly clear view of the situation. Tail swishing, he draws himself taller, tongue tracing across his teeth, against the sharp canines, and grasps his bow. Good. A short, harsh laugh to himself. He has no idea who that woman is. It does not matter, though. He'll follow her. From roof to roof. She's fast, but he's fast. She can't run forever. And she's already used her Noble Phantasm once. He's sure that means he can outmatch her, if he's smart and careful. And if he cannot? Then it doesn't matter, either. If he loses, then he'll curse the world. If he wins, he'll praise himself. That's how it's meant to be.

Not a moment wasted. Not a thought spared to remorse. Not a single idea of mercy, or of restraint. This is how a hotblooded Arcadian man should be. He doesn't hunt her for a practical reason - though there are surely plenty of them - he hunts her purely for the desire to hunt. The desire to kill someone. Just for the thrill of it. There is no higher purpose, no larger desire to this fight, besides perhaps to prove that he can.

... Yes, truly, the Hun is not the only barbarian on this field. Bloodletting for the sake of bloodletting is nothing but barbarism for the pleasure. But for one promised the right to do whatever makes him happy - then he will be as barbaric as he pleases.

@Flood@Kyoka
Archer — Parthenopeus

Matou Residence, Foreigner's District

As soon as the formality of that conversation is over, Archer is back on his feet. No need to continue being on his knees once he's promised his bow to his new Master. "Oh, I think they're leaving," but he frowns at that. They're just leaving? They came all the way up here, linger at the gate, and then walk away? Just how rude can they be? Unacceptable. Unacceptable! They'll take their hospitality - be it as arrow or as... Whatever his Master will offer them. He doesn't know what that is, but he's sure it'll be nice.

"Do you want to chase after them, before they get too far? They have a Servant with them. It could be dangerous, but if they wanted a fight, they would've kicked the door in, not knocked." He doesn't care which she picks. Not right now, at least. Even if he's hungry for blood, he's not actually in a rush to die just so fast after being in this world. Honestly, even if she decided to just let them walk away, he'd accept that. He's make a note of it, but let it go. Regardless of her answer, he's climbing the stairs, to get a better look around the house. Unless she particularly stops him, he's going through every single room, exploring the space, opening closet doors, poking his head around.

Well, that's to be expected. He is a cat, after all. "If they do anything, I'll be there in a flash, Master. They know I'm around, so it won't be a surprise exactly, but that also means they'll be a little more wary of attacking. I hope. If not, then I'll fill them with arrows until there's nothing left!" And - off he goes.




Pumak

A small clearing, Outskirts


In a way, he really should've expected this. It was a mistake to come out here like this, but at the same time, he does have a certain trump card. That is; his trump card is now here. He could dedicate himself to doing battle right now. He has the enemy at a disadvantage, in a way; for one, they don't know anything about his Servant. ... But they have him at the same disadvantage, don't they? He doesn't know anything about this Servant. "Ah, I apologize - I did not realize until the game was taken." Discretion is the better part of valor, he decides. There's no cause to waste energy on an unnecessary battle at this stage, especially since he's disadvantaged being in direct line of sight to the hostile Servant, while the hostile Master isn't right there. Thus, with the deck stacked against him, he'll take the generously offered out.

"Please, keep the kill, it was clearly not mine to take. I appreciate your mercy, and will leave your forest at haste." Pumak is many things, but 'too proud' is not one of them. Many men he's met would've recoiled, or had gone into a fight against the conqueror. But he simply knows better. And even if it goes poorly, and the Servant refuses to let him leave anyway, he has Saber here. He won't walk away before the man gives him leave, but, just in case, he gives his Servant instruction. If he attacks, hold him here while I flee, then retreat.

In some way, by way of a much more faceless entity, he's 'met a man' like this before. He's seen it time and time again. He serves to remind him of home lost to greed and power, of lives trampled underfoot for nothing but the wealth and desires of others. Without a word, he's resigned himself to it. He would give nearly anything to kill him. Perhaps not himself - again, Pumak is not nearly so prideful as to even imagine something so foolish. But to cause his death. But to be able to watch him lose 'his land'. It's an idle fantasy, and one he pushes through as fast as he can. He needs to leave, not fight. Even if every ounce of his being calls for it, it isn't the right time.

Because, in some other way, even if it was unsaid, he's correct. But it isn't that 'might makes right'. It's that it doesn't matter how right you are, if you lack the might to back that up.



Pumak: @kyoka @phonic
Archer: @Aoko Aozaki @Phlogistinator
Archer — Parthenopeus


Matou Residence, Foreigner's District


It isn't a plea or begging that calls out the shape of the hero called Archer — perhaps something so desperate would hardly reach his ears. It isn't a quite a singular, focused drive that calls on him, though, of course, it may be there, it isn't something that he responds to. Perhaps a man more noble might. Perhaps a hero more dedicated to the 'justice of children', or 'growing a dream' or something along those lines may.

But those are not the Archer she calls upon. Ha, can one even call this a 'man'? This is scarcely more than a boy - thin, lithe. He can't be older than fifteen, at the very, very oldest, but he's most certainly younger. But there's an edge there — he doesn't let it rest on his fair features for long, but there's a certain tilt to his lips as the room is filled with golden light, and thick smoke. A certain look in his eye. There's a question unanswered. If not to fulfill the dreams of his new Master, or to fulfill some honored duty of protecting youth (There is something to be said of his Master being older than he, but it isn't something worth uttering!), then what?

"Most importantly let's do what we want to while we can!"

He steps forward, eyes darting around the room. It's plenty to take in — but none of it means much to him. There's a singular thing worth paying attention to, so far as he's concerned. The girl who called him here. His features soften on that, and he raises his left hand in a lazy, casual, playful wave. "Oh, hi hi, Master~!" It's like watching a chameleon shift in color, between the moments of predatory precision and the snap swap to jovial friendliness and energy. He bounds to her, looking her over from head to toe — leaning closer to her than even some of the loosest bounds of propriety might allow, to say nothing of Japanese custom. His nostrils widen.

He is smelling her. There's no doubt about it. None at all. His tail — twists around behind him, as he leans back. Is he pleased? He pads around her, his finger to his lip, tail swishing behind him, ears twitching slightly. It's a full enough inspection of the girl who called him down, for reasons he scarcely cares for. "Ah, wait, hold on, I think I'm supposed to say something else, aren't I?" Ah, he caught himself. That's probably for the best.

He steps back in front of her, and falls to a knee. Finally, some real sign of obedience, and a more than tacit acknowledgement of their bond.

"Archer, Parthenopeus. Just tell me who to kill, Master."

Perhaps she did not realize what she was doing, saying it quite like that. Perhaps she wasn't aware of what promise she was offering that boy. The consequence of that question — if they're truly to do what they want, while they may, then he will kill. He will taste that glory of combat, on a battlefield far greater than any he's ever seen before.

"Of course," he adds, breaking the position he's taken, and glancing up, eyes shining bright, their pupils catching even the meager light and making them stand out clearly, glimmering even in the shadow, to stare into his Master's own. "If you can keep up, that is."




Pumak


A small clearing, Outskirts


A knife through flesh. The work is exact, but not by way of necessity, only by way of expertise. The blade works through the abdomen, carving vertically, across the stomach and then higher, up the ribs. It's a good start to a long process. Cleaning kills is something that takes a long time, but it's something that takes a long time out of respect for the animal. There's no good cause to rush. There's no good reason to butcher an animal without respecting the life it lived, or to waste something in your blind rush for good meat. Kills are spoiled by the way of letting them be, not by some freak accident. And, so, Pumak will make no such mistake. The hide is cut away from the meat, and set aside. The entrails are set aside, as is the heart. He'll use those today, but the use of the ribs and the horns will come later, as will the hide. By the end of his hour of careful carving, what's left is a sorted pile. A pile of organs — the heart, the brain, the entrails. Meat, sliced into large, bloody chunks. Bone — only the bone he can use effectively. The antlers, the ribs, the larger leg bones. Everything else is either buried or burnt.

He wipes his knife off, and puts it away. A few pieces of venison on a large, thin stone, set over the fire won't take too long to cook through. It's easy work. Easy breakfast. ... It's also definitely illegal, he realizes. Isn't this poaching? He looks at the fat bubbling off his kill, as the meat starts to turn less pink, and starts laughing. Ah, what of it, really? It's not wrong to take what the Earth offers you, so it's not worth holding a law like that highly.

He's about ready, then. Once the meat is cooked, he takes it off the fire. A few new branches are loaded on, that smoke more heavily, setting off a darker, blacker plume of smoke into the air. He lays the heart, the brain, and the entrails near the base, so they burn quickly, catching on fire and crinkling dark. A sacrifice, even if he's rather certain that doesn't do much of anything for him. ... Well, he wasn't going to eat those parts, anyway, so it isn't a great loss to him.

He focuses on that smoke, close enough that it's all he can see, all he can smell. It's enough to make his eyes water, but he keeps his face there regardless. He does not call out in English, or Japanese, to try to address the Grail in such a way. Instead, he'll speak it from the heart, in his own tongue. A dialect long forgotten, from a small tribe, a forgotten subgroup that's been lost to the stresses and marching of man.

It's almost a song, really. He does not sing well at all — certainly not while breathing smoke, for one. But he sings truthfully. He sings of his life. Of the wars that he's fought for his people, of the great spirit hunts he's been on. Of the people he's saved from sickness and death. He even talks about those things they hardly ever tell outsiders — of the funerals he's attended to, of the family he's been allowed to eat, and the family he's been forced to bury. About the battles he's fought, and the men he's killed. Of the enemies he's consumed. But also of the life that he's helped foster to the world — of the babies he's tended to, and the mothers he's saved. Of the loss of his home, to an inexorable force. Of the flight away. Of the years of solitude, communing only with the dead and gone, and the creatures of the rainforest. Of his integration into 'civilized society'. He sings his life story in a rough voice, calling out for a hero that suits him.

"And as my dreams are true - I'll make yours true, too."

Hardly a standard chant, but there's little value in that to this man. Power doesn't come from that kind of thing, he knows. A formal call like that doesn't reach any hearts, he's seen. But history, but painful memories — that's the nature of what it is to call for a hero. To call for an ally, in whatever form they take.

@Kyoka




Yes, it's me, I'm still here! A shame about Atalanta, but oh well!


Hey, I'm interested! I'm thinking of doing another Greek - I'm thinking Parthenopeus, Atalanta's son, as another Archer.


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