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| Welcome to Sectarians of Eliraihah.. We are a group of those striving to create a utopia for roleplayers and writers alike, and provide a shelter from the normal confines of society. On our behalf, enjoy yourself. Your friendly overlord, --Crimson Knight |
| The First Casualty; A Fate/stay Night Fanfic | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Aug 9 2009, 08:35 PM (373 Views) | |
| Post #1 Aug 9 2009, 08:35 PM | Grunt_of_War |
((Just a note: I honestly can't tell you how often I'll be updating this, but I'll do so whenever I get the chance. But with this story in particular, I'm attempting to assess my ability to write in the first person (later on in the post) and becoming better able to habitually stick with it, since I can't tell you how many times I instinctively returned to third person. :\ I'm also giving some other types of storytelling a try, not particularly all of it in this post, but as I go along. I'm also trying to prep myself for writing longer works; I'm attempting to write a Novella (seperate from this, mind you) for my senior project coming up, so I'm going to test my endurance with something I can relate to in the meantime. Naturally, with the corresponding RP going so well, I decided to try a fanfic based on Fate/stay Night. Feel free to comment, because I know not all of you are ignorant of Type-Moon and their works. ))“The First Casualty” A Fate/stay Night Fanfic by Grunt_of_War He wanted to mutter something silly, something grand… The taste in his mouth was fresh, warm, familiar, accumulating along the floor of his mouth and submerging his tongue. His body cradled itself in a pool of crimson liquid, but the pain still churned along the man’s chest, bittersweet. Whatever surprise shrouded his face all but vanished in his mind. Like those kids with wild imaginations, the heroes in video games or movies, and those D20 jocks… Images flashed, raced like sports cars constantly running on turbo. Some he recognized, some he didn’t; emotions fluctuated into spectrums he never could’ve expressed, only to lose them in the spectral void. Involuntarily he gazed; if he could cry, he would. If he could stand, he would leave. And if he could leave the man would lope away and leave this god forsaken moment behind. Perhaps he was simply childish, driven by greed. But an opportunity had presented itself. A wish… He never felt so fearful for anything. Despite those he hurt and slew, the fact he should be dead already, he had been indulgent enough to reject his own fate. Such a foolish notion… The risks seemed worthwhile. He was competent. No one could match him or anything that was summoned by these hands… Foolish. Worthwhile. He wanted to laugh despite the blood clogging his throat. To be at death’s doorstep, he still doubted his own existence ever being silenced. Yes, he would be that arrogant – to think his actions did anything but good for himself. He might even be right in some twisted manner. Everyone who stood in his way would be strewn aside, even eliminated if need be. He wasn’t particular about killing, nor did he really think about it. The concept seemed simple… yet so distant from him. He now wanted to mutter something silly, something grand… Maybe if he actually experienced something called “death”, to risk everything… Oh, how easily a life could be taken, only this time… No, it was impossible for him to anticipate. He still had plenty of life ahead of him. Fate simply came much too soon. “God damn it.” He attempted to spit, but only ended up drooling crimson from the corner of his lips. His barely movable fingers clenched the dirt beneath them, and for a moment he felt himself in the spotlight. Inhaling, a powerful scream erupted from his lips, his chest, his very being, rolling with emotion since locked in his heart. Though that familiar body now lay as still as a corpse in that crimson puddle, he spoke a name in an anxious cry for preservation. “Lancer…!” --- … A dream. Streams of light flowed from the forest canopy like leaks in a rainstorm, changing course and direction with every sway of the wind. As the lights danced on the surface below, they revealed inklings of grass and weeds growing from the leaf litter, hardly competing with the trees for much needed nourishment and sunlight. Everywhere else, the shadows roamed freely, even in the morning hours of the day. The last bits of dew had already vaporized or trickled down to the wet forest floor, and the coos and noises of the forest were missing. Insects failed to march and flutter through the surroundings No signs of wildlife were visible as if nonexistent altogether, leaving hardly any traces behind. The beautiful woodlands were completely silent aside from the cool flow of air tracing between the wooden trunks, and though some would call this peaceful, it proved merely a distraction from reality. And at the center of the scene, a breadth opened up where the light cascades down without intervention, contrasting with the shade of the surrounding woods. As if pushing back any traces of shadow, of departure and deceit, the sway of surrounding branches alluded to the continuing struggle between the two foes on the forest floor, neither the glow nor the gloom giving away ground to the other. But within this clearing lay the hope of this wooded land, apparently dormant despite appearing perfectly healthy. In a patch of emerald grass, highlighted in the halo of light, was the sleeping form of a girl. She had been the tapestry of every dream since before he could remember, and not once had he ever observed the girl other than in those summer clothes, lying silently on her side. Long, golden brown hair hung like waves of silk down to along her back, partially expanded out along the ground while the scalp was hidden by a straw summer hat which also hid her face. Only her small lips remained completely visible, partially agape but in a light shade of pink that reflected the light like water. The liveliness of the child’s skin had been the only sign she was alive, but her chest didn’t heave and her breath was too shallow to discern from a distance. At best, the girl had to be asleep, but at worst she was mere moments from death. But this world spared the dreamer from owning a body; even as he tried reaching out, he felt no reaction; only his senses remained in the loosest sense – merely an observer of this quiet landscape and its sole inhabitant. Watching the helpless person in front of him, however, could only be explained with one word: peaceful. If this dream, this existence continued on forever, then he, in turn, would eternally be enthralled by the sleeping girl. In all the world, there could be no other being capable of pureness; to think and comprehend meant only an inclination for corruption, so to live her meaningless life meant being uninflected by the outside, but exempt from bias and opinion, good and evil, law and chaos… a pure existence ironically like not existing at all. He couldn’t afford to live like that. The world was a cruel but rewarding place, a haven for those unable to live pure existences and take on their role as human beings. Regardless of the circumstances, people are always given choices; pure existences live without understanding or the capacity to make a difference for themselves. Only the adulterated, such as him and the other six billion people in the world, would desire the imperfections that make up their day-to-day lives, whether it is to keep or maintain power or protect something dear to them – in the end, even a unanimous decision for the good of the people carries negative consequences, and those involved are the ones at fault. So the dreamer could only adore and admire the unconscious child. He could only guess at a name, age, or personality for her, what she could be dreaming about… but a guess could never be the truth without verification. The girl had no identity, and could only be perceived through a dream. Though the observer barely understood it, the girl’s form only represented something pure. She didn’t even have a face or a background, and thus couldn’t be anything without the dreamer’s imagination. And as he decided all this through the many nights he slept, the dreamer was left with one critical question that always dazzled him along with the girl’s innocent beauty. Why? Why did he have the same recurring dream for so many years in a row? Why was he always possessed by this peaceful visage? It hardly carried a purpose for him; the dreamer was far from being a pure existence, and waking this girl was impossible. No matter what he did, neither of them could be considered alike and never would be. The two lived in separate worlds altogether and could never meet. Coming to any sort of awareness between the two of them meant one of them would change. The observer could never go back, and this girl would forever sleep, ignorant of the silent, shrouded forest around her. --- Sitting up, I gaze sleepily at the digital clock at the end of my room, begging for it to turn off by itself and remaining blissfully ignorant of the alarm in my vain efforts to convince myself to go back to bed. Well, more of a futon, really, which sits firmly on the floor not too far from ground level. Even though it’s not the most comfortable thing to sleep on, or even all that useful as a foldable couch, I still haven’t replaced it. A testament to my procrastination, I guess. It’s only with my first useless and unimportant thoughts every morning that I finally find the willpower to stand, walk across the scantily lit room, and firmly end the device’s erratic reign of noise with a click of a button. I take a short moment to breathe, filling my lungs with as much oxygen as possible, before stretching my limbs a bit so I’m at least capable of trekking through the hallway to the bathroom. It’s an everyday chore, but I have to suck it up and be ready to move in about thirty minutes. Eventually I’m dressed, groomed, and ready to leave. Right on cue, my stomach growls as I enter the small kitchen. The apartment itself is hardly something to brag about, what with only the living area, a niche for a kitchen, and a diminutive hallway that leads to a laundry room, bathroom, and two bedrooms. The one I sleep in is the smaller of the two and basically empty – just my futon and a nook for my clothes, with a dressing table holds my personal items. I always keep the other bedroom closed and locked, with the key either in my possession or hidden in one of the drawers where my room is situated. It’s standard procedure, but it’s where I spend a lot of my time in the evenings. Still technically half-asleep as I grab an orange from the counter, I barely miss slicing my finger with a knife as I’m working it into wedges. Realizing my mistake, I start chopping faster and with more precision, giving it my all to stay awake. I keep telling myself I need more sleep than I usually get, but things never really go the way I plan them to. Losing track of the time is simply a bad habit of mine, leading to lackadaisical mistakes that could potentially cause, well… a chopped finger. I stick one of the wedges in my mouth before gathering my belongings. Once I think I have everything – pencils, paper, pens, calculator, yadda yadda yadda – I set it down on the floor next to my mat near where I’d set the orange slices on the table. Turning on the TV, I lean back a little to stretch a little more. My body isn’t exactly reacting as I wanted it to, feeling stiff and resistant to my commands. I could probably go back to bed now and fall asleep without a problem. What’s wrong with me? I’m not much of a morning person, but… …Wait. The TV suddenly catches my attention. I’d changed it to the news out of habit, looking out for odd happenings that might not be explainable through normal means. Though far from being thorough reconnaissance, the broadcasting stations occasionally gave stories of odd happenings through town, but Fuyuki City… well… “…we’re currently getting reports that suggest the presence of gas leaks near the water tower. The details on how this could have caused the half-dozen people to go missing is still under investigation, but officials assure us that this accident can and will be taken care of.” That was it. The entire broadcast concerning six people, killed the night before, ended with a suspicion of gas leaks. What did that mean, anyways? It simply seemed odd that an otherwise functioning urban city would allow such careless occurrences to cause fatalities. If something like this happened again, he would have to take action. Whether people died didn’t concern him morally; death was an absolute occurrence capable of happening anywhere and to anybody at anytime. Attempting to save the lives of people you don’t know, especially, had to be the most reckless thing a person could do. I can only pity them, nod, and move on. I’m hardly going to be insulted if another human is killed. My fingers combed through my hair. I finally felt awake, aware, enough to understand the possible situation. To think the war would begin so soon… but then, that also meant I know that gas leaks probably weren’t the problem here. This is good news. Very good news. I could pity the dead all I want, but this meant someone, at least one, is in way over his or her head. Having insight into the conflict of this Holy Grail War, a battle between magi often resulting in death, I could easily say the one who attacked those people at the water tower had been a novice. I knew of the Masters, mages who summoned their powerful familiars, the Servants who heeded them and fought together to attain the greatest prize imaginable: a wish from the Holy Grail, which could only be allegedly obtained by defeating all the other Servants and their Masters. Alone, a single magus stood no chance, but apparently this clod had already begun preparations by summoning a Servant and, through the familiar, started siphoning prana, or magical power, from innocent people. Ideally a contender wouldn’t have to rely on such methods; competent magi were more than able to supply the prana themselves to their Servants via their magic circuits, so going through the trouble of killing unrelated mundanes meant the Master in question had been weak. With such an easy target, getting started as quickly as possible would be a major priority. I couldn’t contain my excitement. Even though I rarely find true happiness in anything and considered every task merely a step further into the future, I now seek a prize worth obtaining. I wasn’t even sure what I will wish for – I just knew that winning would be my goal. I’ll seize victory as if Fate had deemed it so, crushing anyone and anything in the way. “I am a magus after all.” I said it loudly enough so that even the other, lingering presence in the room could hear the words clearly. As I stand from the table, I grasp another orange wedge, clenching it with my teeth before turning for the door, leaving the other slices there in my growing fit of anxiety. Little time could be wasted contemplating; at school and on the way to and from, I’ll have to keep an eye out. I finally realized why I felt so depleted this morning, being reminded by the scant purchase of a spirit following my every move. Because of that, other Masters would be on watch as well, and the academy will be a hotspot for gatherings. More so than that, I require a plan of action. I close the door and it clicked, locked. The surrounding city around me suddenly felt hostile, more so than yesterday, as if entering disputed territory for the first time... ((Edited third part for numerous errors. Definitely need to work on this tense...)) Edited by Grunt_of_War, Aug 10 2009, 10:50 PM.
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| Post #2 Aug 10 2009, 07:51 PM | Grunt_of_War |
((Next part is up, though there may be small edits over the next few hours. But I pretty much worked on First Person AND Third Person present tense this time - I'm new at both of these still, so if you notice some odd tendencies or problems with the text, please tell me. Otherwise, I hope it's enjoyable. ))Part 2 Shinto. Busy as usual, though I can’t say anything important happened. Too many people rushed to work on my way down for anything abnormal to happen – at least, in the context of another mage popping out of nowhere to pick a fight. With the possibility of danger low in these bustling crowds, I decide to concentrate on planning ahead. If school’s over in the early afternoon and I take my usual route to the half-way point down the road… And then I realize just how stupid my idea is. If I barged in where the water tower is supposed to be, even with my Servant, what’re the chances I could be killed? Caressing my temples in mild frustration, I conclude the likelihood of the water tower being within proximity of the responsible Master’s home. Such a secluded area would rarely draw in many people to begin with, so why not attack a more assured source such as one of the apartment complexes or even a family home? He’d sure like to see a gas leak explain that. At any rate, the water tower has to be either a reckless move or a brilliant trap. Or maybe a really stupid trap that won’t work… I find it hard to take novice magi seriously, even if they do pose a threat. Even a mundane with a machine gun would be dangerous, but they’re too predictable and often arrogant wretches and fools who can’t even repair a broken window without a repairman or some duct tape. Their methods of attack are to shoot, come in close, or run away, probably leaving the Servants to do most of the work in the long run. I can just see the blood flying tonight from the corpse of a helpless excuse for a mage. Moving through the hustling crowds of the business area into the more rural Miyamachou District, I continue with mental preparations. With Lancer unable to take part, what with the crowds of people coming and going, I figure simply letting him do as he pleases to an extent would be the best course of action. Servants can fight amongst themselves while I take on the other Master without too many outside factors: a relatively simple plan, but a sure way to win against an inferior opponent head-on. Within two minutes’ walk from my destination, I could grasp the image of the school building, providing a haunting displeasure. If ever there is a school day that needed to pass by quickly, it would be today. Arriving at the school grounds in no less than half an hour, I notice I’m one of the few to arrive early. Sure, no one else in the vicinity appears to be a magus, nor has my Servant notified me of anything unusual, but… I can’t help but feel cautious. I really must’ve left early to beat the usual crowds of students usually plowing through the gates. My anxiety must’ve got the better of me since I left about five minutes after cutting up the orange. At that point, I arrived with fifteen free minutes to spare, and while the campus isn’t completely empty, what with a few club activities, the school grounds are otherwise dead silent. “Lancer,” I murmur quietly, facing away from the street so passerbys wouldn’t notice my lips moving with no one around, “Check the school for anything weird. If you meet the enemy, don’t fight back.” Only able to assume he’s following my orders with that blank silence, I decide to pace towards the archery range, crossing my arms back behind my head without much anticipation for what’s going on inside. Few people inside actually knew me beyond just a name, and those who did were often too busy during their clubs to pay me much attention anyways. But as soon as I’m about to enter, I notice I’ve made a terrible mistake. “I can’t believe it…” I mutter aloud. One of the girls apparently walked outside the dojo and noticed me talking to no one and… here she comes with that cheerful ‘what’re you up to?’ look on her face. I can only prepare myself for the torture she’s going to put me through for this. “Fancy meeting you here, partner,” she decides to greet me with, putting on a tone that sounds like something from a crappy American Old Wild West movie. Tipping her invisible hat in my direction, she continues without letting me have a single word. “Reckon I’ve rustled up an outsider for target practice today, is that right?” “Better luck next time, Naomi,” I tell her as clearly as I can. It wasn’t exactly the question I was expecting from her, but all the more, I can’t comply. And of course, she has to make a rebuttal as if her life and mine depends on it. “C’mon, Cahir. It’s not like you’ve got anything else to do. Just ten minutes, please? There isn’t anyone else here who can shoot a bow better than you.” She seemed to imply that I should teach her in that length of time as her next few statements are about her progress so far in the club. I take her word for it that she’s improved since I last saw her shoot, but even as I continue to resist her previous inquiry, Naomi only comes back with another plea. Finally, after a moment or two of worded jargon, I bring my arms around to stress my sides, something I’ve come to instinctively resort to around this girl since we first met, but she doesn’t back down one bit. So I decide to compromise. “Why not later? I really don’t feel like shoo—“ I’m taken off my balance by the student in front of me, who grabs my right arm and jostles me forward towards the dojo. I can hardly complain, since I had planned to go inside anyways, but… “Agh… Cahir!” She continues to tug, but it’s no use, as I’ve dug my heels into the ground to show her I mean business. I really don’t have time to be fooling around like this, but Naomi remained consistent. Finally, as she seems to have given up, I quickly notice a hint of danger crossing her eyes. I could only guess what she had in mind, but I know it can’t be good. “Say… you don’t mind if I tell people… you talk to… imaginary naked ladies, do you…?” … What…? What the hell did she say? Aside from the fact that didn’t make any sense, I can already feel the color flowing away from my cheeks. What a ridiculous claim… how could she base that off of a momentary glance of me speaking to Lancer!? No one would believe that two-faced demon of a girl. I doubt she’d go through with such a proposition! But as much as I want to reply with a dangerous comeback, her heavy glare and malicious smile comes across me like a premonition: I have to listen to her now, and I provided the tool for her to use for achieving this goal. I can’t believe I let Naomi win and isn’t all that fair to begin with. I’m never talking to Lancer out in public again. Not outside, and certainly not where fiends like Naomi can come out and make up whatever they want. As I venture into the club room, I pick up the first bow I see with renewed irritancy, followed by Naomi standing beside me, giggling at my agony. As I’m looking around though, I find it odd that the Archery Club only had its female members arrive in the morning. Did they separate into boys and girls units? I haven’t stepped foot in the dojo with any regular intervals for awhile, but with Naomi grabbing my attention I decide to just ignore the observation and shoot. Every arrow reaches the target where I want them to while I explain my form and mental state as best I can to the freshman beside me. I lost, so helping her out would be the obvious repayment. --- He realizes without thinking about it: the halls are saturated with prana. The empty corridors stretch on from one side of the building to the other, and though he senses the presence of something nearby, he cannot see it. The school has clearly been tampered with, the magical energy as distinct as a recurring wind. This blatant disregard for subtlety disappoints the witnessing Servant, considering the obvious flaw an insult to his skill. Did the fool wish to be found out? And yet… he already decided he wasn’t alone. To say he could see nothing unusual wouldn’t be a lie, but the maker wouldn’t leave a project unfinished. That can be the only explanation: the creator must’ve fled upon realizing the enemy had arrived even though Lancer remained invisible. A coward, I see. That only ignited the Servant’s desire to fight and eliminate this enemy from his worries in the future. However, Masters and Servants can’t pinpoint dematerialized spirits no matter what kind of instinct is used, and he doubted any sort of detection magic in the foe’s arsenal. He would have to lure them out if he had any chance of— No, he can’t. His Master’s order stated the opposite: not to attack the enemy even if he spots or encounters them. Honestly, how could he give such an order? If victory can almost be assured, it’s only his rightful duty to wrest it from the enemy. Lancer is no coward, nor would history deem him such. But eluding an order so direct as to affect his Master’s plans is unfathomable. The two hadn’t spoken more than once on the night of summoning. Truthfully he couldn’t yet tell whether he had been paired with a good or bad Master; his tendencies, while either careless or arrogant, stemmed between thoughtfulness and confidence. He can’t fault the kid for qualities required as a participant in battle even if sometimes misplaced. But judging Cahir would come later once he could observe his capability in battle. In dismay by the potential victory going sour, the irritated Servant approaches the outside to return to the Master, who had since entered the archery range. But something… something… something doesn’t feel right. It isn’t the lingering prana signature, but a chill on the stale air and a premonition unable to be ignored. In a feint shimmer of light, the heroic spirit materializes, grasping the long weapon at his side as a lifeline against the killing intent aimed right in his direction. The fact he still can’t make out an enemy in the morning glow only proceeds to tick him off even more – and at the same time, brings about an air of caution. The shadows in that hallway, even though mere nuances to his vision, feel as hostile as hidden snake pits. That feeling: it has to be him doing this. Of all the classes— no, he needed to make his move first before contemplating anymore. The whole reason Lancer hasn’t been attacked yet… is it hesitation? Surely this opponent had him in its grasp, but the chances of winning, even with this advantage… “You’ve been hiding long enough, Assassin,” he spoke, lowering his guard as to invite his foe to join him on the stage, “You’re quite indecisive for a one-shot killer. What, did you think I hadn’t noticed?” The bait is laid out. Even if the spearman happened to be wrong with his accusations, all he really wants is to elicit a response from the shadows. But what he didn’t expect… …Was the shadow to materialize right in front of him. As if budding from a dim corner of the halls, a precarious extrusion formed out of absolute darkness, like a nightmare preparing to take shape. This spirit could hardly be called human, or even humanoid in stature, the rounded “head” only discernable by a glaring white mask facing Lancer, resembling a human skull completely devoid of empathy. He can only guess at the thing’s expression behind that veil if it has one. Facing each other in a bout of silence, Lancer clearly discerned the hesitance of the masked silhouette. He grinned at the tides rolling in his favor; combat against this thing could only mean victory for the spearman. All Servants and Masters could clearly see other Servants’ statistics, which determines their capabilities on a letter scale, and sometimes even particular skills could be read. Lancer will not lose to Assassin. He’s on a completely different level. “SHSHSHshesHEHEhEheHEhehaHAha… Ho--… HOw fOOLish of YOU to lET YOur GUarD DOwN sO EAsILy. SErvAnt LANCER, it IS… iT Is, I PrESUmE?” The shadow speaks in a ruffled voice, speaking higher or lower at random intervals as if having no control over its own voice. This clearly is Assassin, but his body, his voice… perhaps even his judgment seem particularly off-balance. Whether this is a mistake during the summoning or an intentional characteristic of the class, Lancer merely shakes his head in compliance. Though weary, the spearman couldn’t surmise how he ought to feel around this opponent. “ShshEHEheH… no NEEd tO Be so EDGY. CLearLY YOU aRE thE STronGEsT of uS HErE. IT woULD bE UNwIsE oF ME to AtTacK whEN I aM aT a DIsADVaNTaGe.” The shade wavers a bit as it speaks, likely uncomfortable with admitting the undeniable fact. “You sure like talking a lot for a killer,” Lancer comments, merely speaking his mind. “I’m somewhat disappointed. Does that mean you surrender and want me to let you go freely?” “hARdlY tHE CaSe. I MEREly sTaTE thE FacTS. A baTTLe iS SImPly UselESS bARbArIc NONsENse.” Of course. Fighting isn’t an Assassin’s forte, but merely an inconvenience that should be avoided. Casualties are meant to be dealt before the target can react otherwise. For Assassin to publicly show himself to Lancer meant suicide – his actions simply didn’t make any sense. Nothing felt odd or wrong about killing this Servant, so what held him back? Regretting to eliminate an obstacle in the competition should be something to avoid. Instead, to satiate his curiosity, Lancer makes the inquiry. “Then what is it you want?” “Is that really your question, Servant Lancer?” A pause. The addressed Servant cannot find himself able to move and meet face-to-face with the speaker, instead glaring forward at the now familiar silhouette crawling from the darkness. The blob-like form has changed into something more human in shape, dressed in a black outfit manufactured from the shadows themselves. But Lancer notices hardly any differences in his surroundings since hearing the youthful voice behind him. Who was it? What did this mean? “Good work, Assassin,” the assumed boy continues, a sharp tone emanating from his voice. But the spearman can hardly worry about the presence behind him now. He can’t move, even as he tries forcing himself out of the unfamiliar bindings. Assassin hasn’t done anything until now, and the presumed Master didn’t even exist in his awareness until he spoke. Did Assassin’s Master possess a spell powerful enough to bind a heroic spirit? But Lancer didn’t hear an incantation, and the human magus should’ve entered his awareness much sooner than now. He struggles to speak, but apparently even his speech is impaired. “Confused?” the voice retorts with a mocking air about it, “It’s all right if you are. Let’s just put it this way: I win, and you lose. See? Simple. I always have to spell it out to my subjects before I get rid of them, but man… you really are unlucky. I didn’t expect to catch a Servant so soon.” “If you want, you can call me Lucky. Should be easy to tell why. You, on the other hand…” Another pause, as if contemplating what he should do with the prize he incidentally caught, before a slight chuckle emanated from the Master’s lips. Assassin remained eerily silent. “Actually, your Master… if you’re here, he must be close by. Maybe I know him from class? Well anyways, let’s just say that, if you don’t want to be finished off in the next few seconds, you’ll speak up and tell me everything you know. I’ll loosen the effect a little so you can talk, all right? And if you do that, I may even give you a place at my side.” “M… Master…” The previously fractured voice replaced by a more formulated one, Assassin responds just as his Master suggests weakening the immobilization spell on Lancer. The Master merely scoffs until, at a predestined point, the spearman is granted slightly more control over his body, namely the capacity to talk. The captive answers. Edited by Grunt_of_War, Aug 11 2009, 12:19 AM.
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| Post #3 Aug 10 2009, 09:50 PM | Sgt. Tacoz |
Yay! New part. ![]() Well, I'll edit this when I actually get to reading it in a few. >> ********SUPREME EDIT OF AWESOMENESS************** (^fireworks :P) Is good!
Edited by Sgt. Tacoz, Aug 10 2009, 10:48 PM.
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I happen to know for a fact that Unicorns puke rainbows.
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| Post #4 Aug 11 2009, 12:24 PM | Azedos Sen |
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Assassin is always a badass, awww yeah. Looking good so far, keep it coming lol. |
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Difference
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| Post #5 Aug 13 2009, 12:27 AM | Grunt_of_War |
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Part 3 My thoughts whisper. It’s only been about five minutes since entering the dojo, yet I can tell something’s wrong. It’s just a feeling, but… “Hey Cahir!” I’m shaken from my uneasiness like being cured from the hiccups. Still sanding next to me, Naomi smiles brightly, drawing her index finger towards the familiar target. After I had given her a few pointers in technique through example, she apparently landed her third shot on the bull’s-eye after I winked out – not too bad, considering Naomi only started practicing archery at the beginning of the school year. Her results encourage me quite a bit from a teacher’s standpoint, and I recall just how much archery used to mean in my daily routine. Since later this year, though… well, I can’t risk raising ever more curious glances if I’m absent for too long, particularly from a hyper and often curious girl like Naomi. “Hey, did you see, did you see?” “Yeah, sure did. Not too many tries either,” I slightly fib with a half-hearted gesture. Being too caught up in my own mind really has its downsides; I even feel a little bad that I have to pretend I paid attention when in reality I just noticed three arrows protruding from the red-and-white mark. But I soon shake off the feeling, especially after Naomi took my word for it and continued with practice. Besides, I have more prevalent things to worry about than the feelings of a younger classmate. I set aside my borrowed bow and lean my back against the wall, glancing at each of the member of the archery club with a lazy eye. With Naomi’s need of me obviously satisfied for the moment, I doubt she’d notice if I slipped out now. No doubt she’ll continue copying my form for the next couple days until she either forgets it or loses her momentum again – at which point she’ll actively search for me again between classes and after-hours. So finding me this morning had to be quite a bonus for the eager girl. As I’m about to wave her good-bye, however, I notice an odd picture towards the peripherals of my vision and I come to focus, somewhat surprised, at the target about three lanes to the right of Naomi’s. Several arrows clearly penetrate the inside circle, not clumped together near the same spot, but all in an array that leaves space between each individual arrowhead. I don’t see any other shafts littering the floor or the outside perimeter of the mark, either. On cue, one of the girls from the archery range enters the lane to retrieve the arrows. Looking from here I don’t recognize her at all; there aren’t many students in my grade who have the hair length to tie such a bulky, unruly bun at the back. Two bangs linger on either side of her face, reaching down close to the chin in length. And as she turns around, I can easily tell the girl’s easy to look at. The size of the school leaves few surprises, and students’ faces usually become familiar to me even if I never really talk to them, but I never noticed her at all before, so I can only guess she’s a second-year, maybe a first. I feel somewhat tempted to ask who she is, but I feel conceited the more I think about doing so out of the blue. No one aside from me could accomplish firing perfect shots like that in a row, and though I may sound arrogant for it, ignoring her is difficult, especially upon realizing just how little I know about the person despite appearances. As chit-chatty as everyone in the club is, no one talks to her either. The black-haired student merely returns to her preordained spot, nocks an arrow, raises her bow, and fires as naturally as breathing. Even I’m in awe of her posture, the arrow’s release, and the calm determination in her expression. If she’s an honor student, a star athlete, and an idol at the academy, I wouldn’t doubt those facts upon seeing her, and all from watching the girl practice. If I’m the retiring four-star general, she’s the upstanding new recruit and a favorite of her peers and superiors. “Who are you looking at?” And once again, I’m shaken from my captivation by a familiar voice, the redhead glaring at me with a quirky smile. “Enjoying the view, is that right?” “W—what? No, I was just… checking to see how everyone’s doing. Why do you have to assume the weirdest damned things?” My voice sounds noticeably more arrogant than usual, but Naomi doesn’t seem to notice out of habit for my occasional outbursts, having managed to make me regret in the past regardless of what it is I did wrong or otherwise. “Anyways, I’m heading to class. I’ll catch you later sometime.” “Wait, hold on. I’m not finished!” I leave the suddenly baffled kid behind and exit the dojo, gritting my teeth. Damn. She really knows how to play against me, especially when I’m not expecting her to. But the message, for once, seemed quite clear. I don’t know what was going on with me simply staring at some girl I don’t even know. Sure, I admired her skill and form, but… Wait, something’s wrong. I see students pouring into the gates as usual for this time of the day, but I feel something… gross… leaking… from the school building. What could that possibly be? It doesn’t seem natural or even right, but everyone is walking in as if nothing’s wrong even though that putrid giveaway clearly paints a message. Stay away. Why now? Of all times, does this have to occur at the school in broad daylight? But time clearly wouldn’t be on my side. The fickle aroma plagues the building in most of the corridors, if not in its entirety. I can’t discern a purpose from this distance, so I decide to move in, asking Lancer if he found anything in his search in the process. He doesn’t answer. But I already knew my familiar isn’t here with me, but likely in the school somewhere. I clearly told that arrogant guy not to engage, no matter what the circumstances were. But he’s more like me than I could carefully conclude before. Why listen to someone weaker than you when an opportunity presents itself? Damn it! I can’t believe this could happen. I’d been too confident, and now I’m going to possibly pay for it with my place in the war so early? Well, nothing is telling me my Servant is near dying, just a rising premonition in my brain beating at me from the inside. That must’ve been what I felt in the dojo. I bypass a few students ahead of me, running at a frantic pace towards the door now. At least the image wouldn’t seem too weird – this is a high school, after all, and being late is an everyday occurrence. I don’t bother checking my locker and drop what I’ve brought with me for school on the floor next to it. There’s no way to expect what will happen now. I might be running into a trap, and it’s not that I don’t care – I have no choice. In seconds I’m approaching the second story, at which point my gut is churning madly from the stress and the growing concentration of prana in the area. I can’t see it, but my senses call me to the ceiling and the floor below me – magical energy mats the first few floors in layers. While the prana is more than noticeable in terms of power, that characteristic extrudes like a sore thumb. As a magus, telling whether this is a spell or simply a chaotic slur put together by a novice seems like a legitimate concern. I grit my teeth even more. I can’t stand idiot mages: who do they think they are, circus performers? I’m not even qualified to discern magic devices and I can tell this is a piece-of-shit job. Whoever it is, I’ll teach him proper magecraft once I get my hands on the guy. Not feeling much threat from the signatures around me, I climb the next set of stairs. Now the air is completely contaminated, tainted in a way that it’s diverting my attention away from running and concentrating on the halls. Further up the signatures wane again, so I leave the small hallway and head for one of the larger corridors. I don’t see anyone. In fact I hadn’t seen a single student trying to pass me or otherwise since entering the school for that matter. What the hell? In one sense I’m slightly relieved - but in another, the few students inside suddenly disappearing bubbles over in my mind. I start checking classrooms one by one, but feel like smacking myself in the face after looking in to see the first one empty. I start to run, then come to a quieter pace upon reaching the middle connecting hall. Sneaking up close to the edge of one wall, I listen. A boy’s voice. It’s hard to make out, but the words come to me in an arrogant tone, not unlike another person I know. I’m vaguely able to tell who it is, but the simple fact he’s here on this floor only tells me that another at this school is involved. I restrain myself from sticking my head in the walkway and simply listen. “If you want, you can call me Lucky. Should be easy to tell why. You, on the other hand…” He continues, and I pick out important parts from his otherwise useless ramble. The speaker attempting to sway a bound captive to joining his side… whoever that was, I didn’t know for sure, but it was likely Lancer. It’s hardly been half a day since I summoned the Servant, but in that time I could feel whether he was at my side. The presence feels slightly more feint than usual, but he had to be there, if not as the hostage, then somewhere hidden. And then I finally knew as the other student finished his speech: that is Lancer bound in the hall. That guy, thinking he could take my Servant just like that… what a fool. Now, more than ever, I want to jump out and surprise that bastard, scare him shitless, and if I had the chance, make him squirm before finishing the brat off. But such emotions are hardly at the core of a mage’s existence; I won’t allow emotions to evade what needs to be done first, lest I’m the one killed, not the enemy. Who concerns me more spoke up afterwards: a chilling voice that might threaten to splice my head if words could do so. I reel back slightly, thinking I might die on the spot if I made a move too quickly. At this rate, I can’t attack: that had to be this Master’s Servant, and no matter what class, I don’t stand any more than a bloody chance if he goes after me. I only have two alternatives: try to get out, or use a Command Spell. The latter might give Lancer the necessary power needed to break from those supposed bonds keeping him in submission, but that can’t always assure a successful breakaway. But ignoring the situation would land me at the Church on day one, a disgrace to my family and the Association. I’m already a failure in the eyes of my family, but this would give them every reason to hate me to my very core. The last thing I can give up is my pride. Pride… come to think of it, fear would be the opposite, my enemy. I can’t run now, nor was I ever meant to. I have to fight; for one single purpose I joined this War to gain what I rightfully deserve: victory. No one will look down upon me for my past exploits and mistakes after the Grail falls into my hands, wherein I’ll make whatever wish has come to mind. Without Lancer, I’m nothing in this conflict between magi. Lancer’s fate will be my fate, and I have to cling to that chance my Servant will make it through alive. But there’s a dead silence in the hall. I… I… can see something and stutter, but it looks so unreal that it must’ve stepped out from someone’s imagination. The shadows around me feel as if they’re not receding with the rising sun, but growing and cluttering around me off and along the walls. He found me, the coarse-sounding one that I felt fear from at the bottom of my heart. The shadow spoke as if comforting its victim with a general acknowledgement. “Found you.” And there he stood, a white mask hanging from a blackened form where the head would be, emphasizing my mistake with that gleeful comment. This is a Servant, and I, a mere human and magus of the day, attempted to conceal my presence from him. I couldn’t swallow the saliva gathering at the back of my throat while the inside of my mouth became as dry as the summer air. All this and the spirit hadn’t laid a finger on me yet, merely content with watching me attempt to meld into the wall. “Foolish kid. I take offense to worms that can’t understand differences in skill. Attempting to hide from me is like pitting the horse against the camel in a desert. I’m bred to be the shadows themselves; you, on the other hand, stuck out like a flame in the dark. You don’t simply lack the skill, but the instinct. SssHHEhEEheHEeheE…” “Assassin…” I mutter the words without emotion, afraid of choking if I dare say or feel anymore than necessary. Shivers threaten to overload my system, and my body wants to flee from this death scene. But my rationale to do anything, even fight back, becomes isolated. I know enough about this class of Servant: although clearly the weakest, no normal magus could fight him one-on-one. Making a move would only force Assassin to kill me off right then and there without time to comprehend what just happened – that is one of his primary attributes. The mage Cahir had zero chance of victory. “A pity. That’s all the prey has to say? Then allow me to bring about the death you so honestly deserve. This encounter never favored the human anyways.” This is it. The shadow’s arm is raised, holding something I can’t see with my naked eyes, but I can tell he’s not bare-handed. I expect the world to turn red, and then gradually descend into darkness once my consciousness can’t weigh the pain or the damage anymore. Or perhaps I’d be granted a quick, painless death in which seemingly nothing would happen: Cahir would simply, suddenly, cease to exist. It was all my mistake by coming alone; I cannot deny death when it so dearly calls to me now. “Yeah right.” I glance up at the black shadow; Assassin merely stands still as if questioning the words neither of us have spoken. A whir of light… no, a dash. The movement is so quick and sudden I can barely comprehend what happened or what it is that approached us. A shout came from the hallways from the familiar, arrogant voice, which now seemed too shocked to regain its previous stability. But the situation in front of me overshadowed whatever else is to happen. The black Servant, who previously stood in front of me in preparation for my execution, dodges backwards from the long weapon cleaving downwards a millisecond later. I recognize that weapon, for it cut the air as easily as a blade without friction, something no other spear could do in mythology or history to my knowledge. But Assassin only dodged the flawless killing blow because he recognized the spell binding Lancer destroyed, maybe resisted somehow. Either way, the battle from now on is already determined: the next blow would finish the battle if Lancer wished it. Looking at either Servant told me their specific parameters and skills, but the difference between them seemed astronomical. My familiar traditionally has the most agility, or at least that’s what he told me on the night of summoning. Assassin might be superhuman in speed, but comparing the two, in that spirit’s own terms, is like comparing a horse to a camel in the desert. In spite of the obvious mismatch, the silhouette began fleeing, but not before something could be heard whirring in the air. Assassin’s arm had outstretched to throw whatever he held, flying as quickly as accurate bullets. In my perspective they couldn’t be avoided, but to Lancer, his spear answered even more quickly. Three clangs. Lancer parries all three with a mere motion of his weapon as if a part of his body, and it doesn’t even slow the spearman’s returning charge. “Giiiiii!” Assassin seems to hiss in frustration as his motions run wild, throwing even more of the unseen objects, only for them to miss their target completely. I can hardly believe it – Lancer is this strong? Before now I merely had vague references to go on. But this goes beyond rational explanation, even for magi. There could be no way in hell any human, magician or otherwise, could match the grace, speed, power, and complexity of such a spar. I hear the repeated clanging of metal, but either of the Servant’s forms often fade in and out of perceivable form. Assassin continues hailing down with ranged attacks, which barely slow down Lancer in his attempts to avoid every single one, but enough to allow the shadowed spirit to evade the swing of the lance. “Kiiiii… so unwieldy… should’ve killed you while I had the chance.” “Heh, you give yourself too much credit,” Lancer replies, bringing the long weapon down on empty ground once more. “If you weren’t aiming for my vitals, I could’ve ended this by now. Stop pissing me off with useless delays!” Another blur, but this time Assassin grunts in surprise. This is it: the killing intent rising sharply in the room, and with this attack the other Servant would be no more. Barely an observer in all this, I gleam at the end of the fight. Lancer is standing mere inches from Assassin, his blade hovering just above where the heart would be. Yet this isn’t an act of mercy. The silhouette smirks, running off in the direction of the male voice I heard before. Unsure of what’s going on, I run into the large corridor only to see both the Master and Servant have vanished. I turn to Lancer. He stands there, but nothing budges as if frozen or paralyzed. Did he and I miss something? Assassin, his Master, or… someone had to of stopped the spearman in his tracks. But my thoughts feel scrambled with everything that’s happened; all that I can grasp is the present situation. Then… something… a phrase pops into my mind like a trace memory I should’ve forgotten and I vaguely realize what happened to not just Lancer, but the both of us. A foul name that deludes the minds of those affected and a clear representation of the Servant Assassin. Zabaniya… The memory shifts in and out like a single puzzle piece left behind. My mind feels tampered with. I gaze at Lancer and his eyes move in response. “If you can hear me, I have another plan in mind…” Edited by Grunt_of_War, Aug 17 2009, 06:19 PM.
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| Post #6 Aug 13 2009, 12:03 PM | Sgt. Tacoz |
Wheeeeee, fights. ![]() Good story though, keep it up.
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I happen to know for a fact that Unicorns puke rainbows.
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10:45 AM Jul 11
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10:45 AM Jul 11