| A special thread, where each user can detail the summoning process for their Master and Servant. One post per Master, and it should have a title. |
ChotgoriinOct 13, 2013 11:14 AM
 Stop. Calm yourself. You're an idiot. |
Of Alchemists and Half-Demon Magi Or, The Beautiful Corpse and The Druid. She takes out a pack of red Pall Mall cigarettes; it's half-full. Deft fingers pick out one of the cancer sticks and promptly shove it in-between pale, pale lips; the end of the cigarette bursts in a small flame for a splitsecond. The young woman with a boy's bowl haircut takes a long drag, exhaling through dilated nostrils the light gray smoke. It sounds like a sigh. Almost. Bored Azure eyes – just like her mother's – scan the building in front of her. It's a rather large countryside cottage, made of coppery bricks and wood, covered in ivy vines. The lawn looks like it hasn't been mowed in ages. A few stray bushes of vermillion roses are scattered behind the iron fence; she can spot some rust on the carefully sculpted black. She unlocks the gate and opens it slowly, the hinges squeaking in protest of having their sleep disturbed. The heels of her ankle-high booties clack against the stone tile as she walks up to the door and unlocks the old lock; she grimaces, black bangs falling into her eyes. The first thing she does is open the windows of the living room. She'll have to change a lot of things here. But magic does a lot for you. Alchemy, in special. Her black trench coat is hung in the hallway. A burst of magic transforms the lock into a far more secure one. The young woman smiles thinly. She bends down and undoes the laces of her shoes. Good thing her family still owns so many proprieties; having a house in this part of England, right where the War will be held, is an unexpected blessing. Blows the many problems of living in a hotel or motel or buying or renting a house out of the way – as well as lowers the risk of being found out to be a magus. She'll have to make some warmer clothes, though, she thinks as she feels the chill of the cold weather against her thighs. Wearing shorts might have been a bit of a bad idea. After checking the first floor, she climbs the wooden stairs to the second story of the house, entering the empty master bedroom. Everything here is empty, she dully notes; except for that hook row for coats in the hallway, that is. The young she-magus pulls a piece of chalk out of her bouffant short's pocket and proceeds to draw a Summoning Circle. Once it is complete, she bends forward, placing a strange-looking gold ring with a single ruby stone in the middle of the intricate drawing. Next, she bites her thumb, jagged the skin letting drops of blood drip on the wooden parquet. Her father taught her, so long ago, about these rites and about the Grail. She can do this. She lets the end of the cigarette fall away from in-between her pale, pale lips, making it catch fire and burn itself to ash before it even touches the ground. Monotonously, she chants the thing she has memorized before she left France, one last kiss to her father's ivory cheek before she went to war. “Master of all Laws, Tamer of all Magics; The stone that stood as foundation for the greatest of Kings. Thee, who have spoken the tongue of Dragons – Thee, whom the Void has obeyed. Let not the Kingdom's maze confuse you, Nor let the howling winds deter you; Let the Crown fall behind thee, and follow not thy Lord. A cupola filled with vice and aspirations; Caged, I meet, five times over and one time not. Iron and gold, my blood and thy essence, I call upon. Thy power is mine; my fate – my doom – lays in thy word. If thee hear me, then this is my oath: I shall lend you my life and my lines, and bring thee glory; Thee, Great Ancestor, which has cheated Time and Death. If thee hear me, then I plead, Accept this proposal and come abide by my command; Thee, Archmage of The Druids, Ether and Earth clad in one human skin, Come forth from the Root, become the hands of my justice – – –!” The circle is lit up ethereally. The ring in the middle of it looks like the blast of energy will melt it into a heap. Then, the ethereal light fades. Instead of it, fire erupts, a vortex of vermillion flames rivaling the heat of the sun. The young woman feels strangely warm; then, a burning sensation travels up her right forearm, scorching – burning her like lava. Then, the fire dies, and the room is covered in shadows. The air smells like ash and darkness; like vice and tears. The shadows gather with a swoosh in the middle of the chalk-drawn circle, merging with the remnant speckles of fire and giving form to a being. In all his glory, the greatest sorcerer of all time stands before her, his head bent, black hair a curtain around his chiseled features. He peers up curiously, vaguely red-tinted black eyes drinking her in. Merlin Ambrosius – Emrys – falls down on one knee, reaching forward for her limp right hand. He places a kiss on the back of it, looking up at her through his eyelashes. “Art thou the one who has called me forth; my Master?” The young woman clears her throat, an uneasy feeling overcoming her for a split-second. “I am.” Merlin smiles. “I am thy Servant, then, my Lady,” he speaks almost shyly, tilting his head to the side a centimeter. “May I know my Lady's name?” “Beatrice. Beatrice Bellmort.” “Beatrice,” he parrots, testing the way the name sounds on his lips. He likes it. The gallant druid places one more kiss on her hand. “It is a pleasure to meet thee, my lady.” The gold ring with one round ruby shines on his cold finger. “Yeah,” Beatrice mutters back, apathetic for some reason. She gently pries her freezing hand out of his even colder one. “Come. We must make this place more liveable.” |
AngelicXIOct 7, 2013 12:12 PM
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| Lancers and Lords, Slayers and Saints Alone. Alone in the dark. An old abandoned Chapel, a few miles south by south east of the small hamlet of city known as Moorswood. The chapel itself was known once upon a time, as St. George's... an appropriate name thought the stranger standing alone in said darkness lit only by series of candles arranged in a circle surrounding an outline of Holy Oil. The stranger struck one last match, briefly illuminating his face in a macabre outline revealing his dark hair and eyes beneath an equally dark cloak and cowl. The stranger then dropped the match into the Oil alighting it and revealing a circle with a pentagram running through it and at its epicenter a fabric not unlike the one worn by the stranger. As the Oil slowly burned, the stranger began to chant: “Bronze to iron, steel to silver and back to the origin with a lick of flame. Of hearts of men to the Archduke. In the name of our Lord and his Grace! From the Gates of Paradiso, to the Archways of Inferno, to the Doors of Purgatorio! Shut (fill). Shut (fill). Shut (fill). Shut (fill). Shut (fill). Shut (fill). Shut (fill). Shut (fill). Shut (fill). Shut (fill). Shut (fill). Shut (fill). Shut (fill). Shut (fill). Shut (fill). Shut (fill). Shut (fill). Shut (fill). Shut (fill). Shut (fill). Shut (fill). Shut (fill). Shut (fill). Shut (fill). Shut (fill). Seal all but One! I announce to call upon thee! Thy oath is mine, my damnation are thou flames! In the contract and beckoning of the Holy Grail, if thou yet desire... I command thee! Here is thy oath. I seek naught more than protection and honor, in the name of our Lord. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost I beseech thee! Thou, a Guardian bound by three words come forth past thy bonds and join me and preserve in the name of absolute power and its balance!" At the last word of the chant the flames reached an all time height of almost eight meters concealing the very center of the circle and the fabric at its epicenter before retreating and putting itself out... and there in the center with only just enough illumination from the previously mentioned candles to reveal a silhouette of a figure not much taller than the stranger. The figure gazing upon the stranger then spoke saying, "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost... are you my Master?" "Indeed I am... Servant" said the stranger now Master. The Servant knelt before the Master on one knee and then spoke further saying with his head down ""I am a Knight to People, a Saint to God, a Patron to Countries, a Champion to Christendom, a Helper to Holiness, and a Slayer to Beasts... what am I to you my Master?" The Master did grin and say "You are to be an instrument of the Church like myself, a tool of salvation... in the name of preserving our world" The Servant then looked up smiling himself and said "Then I, Lancer, will be more than ready to serve you" The Master "Then spoke, then let us go to War" Thus the pair left, post extinguishing the candles of course. |
Gibz0maticOct 7, 2013 3:33 AM
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| "Lady Maria..." "Quiet. We don't want to wake my siblings..." "O-of course...Milady." This night was cold, dreary, and wet. The sound of raindrops banged the windows in subtle rhythm, casting shadows as a bolt of lightning struck the horizon and lightning shook the glass. A young maiden stepped through the halls with such grace that it was like an elegantly improvised dance. Her long golden hair flowed as water and her brown eyes sturdy as the earth she walked on. A stark contrast compared to the movements of the maid that followed her. Shaken. Uncertain of her employers decision. Frightened. Another bolt of lightning struck the countryside, illuminating the elaborate, unlit halls and granting the sets of armor that lined the wall a sense of unnatural dread, as though they would turn their heads towards passersby. The maid jumps, believing for a moment that one of them had done just that, receiving a "shh!" from Maria in the process. "May I ask what we are doing, Milady?" She asked in a hushed tone. "It's simple...we are going to summon a servant." "But what about-?" "Klaus? He's tried four times and failed. It is obvious the grail didn't choose him. And besides. I'M the heir." "And why must I carry this...this..." "It's called a-" "I know what it's called, but why am I carrying it?" "It's for the summons...you'll see." Silence soon filled the halls again as Maria turned a corner and entered through the nearest door into the study. With a nod of her head, she motions for the maidservant to place the catalyst. The servant, nervous as she is, carefully places a bottle onto the desk. Inside, floating inside a pool of preservative fluid, was a fresh uterus cut from a dead virgin girl for students in Gynecology to study. The label on the bottle clearly read "Property of the Gynecology Department." Maria pulls out red chalk and draws a circle around the bottle, keeping it in the center as she focused. She breathed in....and out....in....and out. After about a minute of this, she sighs. "Guess I'll need the incantation after all." "Why did it have to be a uterus?" The maid asks. "I need a servant who is cunning and is not only not afraid to kill, but also to send a message with a killing." "An assassin?" "Not just any assassin...I need someone with more flare. One that is both renowned across the entire world but also a mystery. One that everyone knows, but also one that no one knows...and that one assassin is known for doing something in particular. "Ye first, O silver, O iron, O steel. O stone of the foundation, O Archduke of the Contract. Take innocent blood as my tribute. Let not the descending winds deter you. Let every gate be closed, let the crown fall beneath you, and let the three-forked roads to the Kingdom revolve. Let it be filled. Again. Again. Again. And again. Let it be filled fivefold for every turn, being ripped apart with every filling. Set. Let thy body rest under my employment, let my fate rest in thy skill. If thou submitteth to the call of the Holy Grail, and if thou wilt obey this mind, this reason, then thou shalt respond. I make my oath here. I am that person who is to become the future. I am that person who is haunted by the past. Thou seven heavens, clad in a trinity of words, come past thy restraining rings, and be thou the hands that protect the balance-!" The circle lights the whole room for a moment before turning dark, sucking all light out as though feeding upon it. A fog pours out and into the room, enshrouding it. Maria could barely see a thing through the fog, let alone hear the scream of her maidservant. The fog culminates on a single point, forming what appeared to be a human being. However, this persons form swiftly changes into a mass of indescribable flesh and appendages, screeching loudly at the maid, who swiftly dies from the fright. The servants form shifts back into that of a tall woman in her mid-twenties with short snow white hair and pale blue eyes. She looks at Maria with a puzzled look, who was unharmed by what she had seen, but a bit shaken nonetheless. "Well...you DID offer innocent blood as a tribute." She says to Maria in jest. Maria actually laughs, not only because she loved dark humor, but because she knew exactly who she had summoned. Her plan was a success. "Jack the Ripper, I presume?" "That's what the papers called me. And who are you?" "I am Maria Townsend, and I am your master in this Holy Grail War." "Ahh, the Townsends...I remember that name well. Your ancestors frequently dealt with my type." "Assassins?" "Hired criminals in general. I also frequently committed theft, arson, and on occasion: Jaywalking." "You're awfully forward about all of that." "Well why not? You ARE my new boss. You should at least know what services I have to offer." Maria nods. "True. True." Jack the Ripper smiles. http://i830.photobucket.com/albums/zz229/dormeister148/CheekySakuya_zps75e1d3b9.png "I think we'll get along swimmingly, Boss." |
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Of The Mad and Madness Or, the Not-Born Daughter and the Wronged Son. The Einzbern manor is terribly quiet; a blizzard is howling outside, wrapping the sinister castle in a blanket of hurled snow. Rheasviel von Einzbern sipped her lukewarm tea with great care from the china cup, tracing an absentminded finger over the brim and over the roses painted with ruby red on the fine porcelain. Her eyes, as ruby as the paint on the cup, looked out the window to her right; her white dress bunched up around her knees, her calves folded to the side on the cushion beneath her. The armchair was comfortable – too comfortable. The fire cracked in the fireplace, spreading warmth throughout the vast room. Coupling this comfort with the sound of the frozen winds outside, Rheasviel was almost 100% sure she will fall asleep. “Yes?” she sleepily answers the soft knock on her doors, head turning to look to who is it. A maid walks in first, holding it open for Jubstacheit to pass. He nods in her general direction, dismissing her. Rheasviel tenses once the door closes. The Einzbern head's eyes lock on her, the ice in there melting just the tinniest of bits. In his hands, what looks like a sword wrapped in silk, is tightly grasped. “It's time, Rhea.” The Homunculus smiles thinly. The cup of tea is placed down on its' plate, and she rises. A white hand reaches forwards; “The sword, please.” The man complies. Clutching the artifact tightly in her grasp, holding it close to her chest, Rheasviel elegantly passes by him. She exists through a side door, descending a long flight of stairs in order to reach the underground workshop space. Jubstacheit sighs, collapsing in the armchair which the homunculus woman previously occupied. His hands, lightly wrinkled by age, reach for his temples. Somehow, nothing of this feels quite right. The catacombs beneath the manor are dark; the only light comes artificially from faint lamps hanged on the brick walls. Carefully, Rheasviel selects the space for her circle. She takes the sword out of the silk that wraps it in a soft caress; the red fabric falls to the floor. She runs her hand on the covered blade, feeling the smoothness of the sheath. On impulse, she takes hold of the hilt, and expertly draws it out, letting the cold metal shine in the dim light. Her mouth opens in appreciation, slightly, the corners of her lips curling up in a faint, soft smile. She tests to see if she could wield such a masterpiece, but feels silly for battling the air. With a shake of her head, she sheaths the sword, and crouches to carefully place it in the middle of where her circle will stand. She picks a piece of chalk and begins to draw a perfect, detailed summoning pentagram; the sheer elaboration put in it is astounding. She grunts, rising, noting that there is now chalk powder on her bare knees and that her feet are cold. Should have grabbed a pair of slippers, she thinks with an inward sigh. Next, a short dagger is picked up from a table. She cuts deeply into her palm, letting the red liquid stain the sterile marble beneath her wriggling toes. A deep intake of breathe, sharper than the winds she thinks she can still hear roaring outside; Now, or never. ...For Acht. “Son of the King, born through magic; He through whom a kingdom has fallen. Thee, whose Mother was a traitor – Thee, whose blood is filled with magic. May the despised Kingdom and its' ruined paths not confuse thee, Nor the raging storms stand in thy path; Abandon the disgraced Crown, and listen only to my voice. Drinking the true blood of my only Lord, The cracked vessel shall shatter once it has been emptied. My voice and my blood are calling your Name; Thy power mine; my fate rests under thy sword Oh, Wronged Son; Listen. Thou serves with thine eyes closed; Caged, the chains of madness are tightly binding. Let me be the controller of these chains; Listen, and through the Grail and through my power, Take form, and obey this calling: Rise from Akasha, become the weapon of my desire – – –!” The circle is lit. The few candles that were slowly burning, spread around the room, are snuff out. The light of the circle dies, and Rheasviel finds that she cannot breathe. Black foam begins to rise from the circle in a violent whirlwind, becoming more and more dense. It constricts, and an anguished, nearly inhuman cry echoes in the now dark room. The Homunculus woman involuntarily swallows the lump in her throat. The room smells like a strange combination of mint, woodsmoke and rotting corpses. Rheasviel feels her stomach do a somersault; her hand twitches, wanting to cup her nostrils shut. She resists the impulse, however. She must stay strong. For Acht. Then, suddenly, the circle and the being inside erupt into bright, blue fire. It only lasts a second. The candles weakly catch life again. In the middle of the circle, an armored man, clad in black from head to toe, stand tall and proud. Clarent, the sword, is strapped to his waist; in the crook of his left arm, a helmet is kept. His green eyes are calculating, looking down on her quite literally. His height makes him tower over the relatively short homunculus. He speaks, his voice like velvet against the rust of an old blade: rugged and strangely pleasing. “Art thou my Master?” Rheasviel's eyes connect, unblinkingly, with his. Her stare is warm, and unnerving. She smiles softly. The blood that is still dripping from the wound she had inflected earlier is the only thing that breaks the blanket of silence until she answers. “I am,” she says, and feels the flame of something otherworldly lick the expanse of her navel. The Sigils are in place. Mordred bows his head. “Then, I am thine Servant.” His helmet is put in place. He gives an intelligible grunt. Rheasviel smiles sadly, feeling the wound in palm sew itself closed. She reaches her good hand forward, taking one of the Servant's in hers. “Come, Berserker. We have to pack; a war awaits for us in England.” |
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Failing At Failure Ends With A Bonkers King. Or, How I learned to not worry so much and just watch the damn tele. "And now here's Ollie Williams with the weath-" The news anchor recites on the large flatscreen television before being abruptly cut off with the single push of a button. Remote controls were such convenient devices... "Why bother? It's just going to rain like it does every other day; such a depressing country." Morgana, a young woman in her early twenties, sits up and stretches, sporting an omnipresent bedhead that could not be tamed by any comb. The rather tall woman, measuring at 6' (182.88 centimeters) tall, scratched at her bare belly as she stood up. With an exaggerated yawn, she walked over to a sliding glass door that was the only thing standing between her and the outdoors, gazing at the dull grey clouds that cast an overbearing shadow upon the land. Yep...it was going to rain. AGAIN. "I suppose now is better zan later...I might as vell at least TRY." She mused as she walked over to a large bookshelf. It was packed to the brim with grimoires and other magical texts, but there was one in particular she cared for this dull evening: "The Holy Grail War For Dummies", a title she didn't particularly care for but had no real control over. As she flips through pages of arcane knowledge, her thoughts turn towards how her villa turned out. She had heard of the holy grail war and wished to observe it in person, and so she spent a fortune having this building constructed nearby Moorwood....Moorwood. A silly name, that. Her face contorted to a toothy grin as her thoughts ended up turning towards the perverse and a snicker escapes her tender lips. "Here it is." She mutters to herself as she finds the page she was looking for. "Maybe I should vear something more...substantial?" She looks down at her attire, or at least what passes as attire for her. A comfy tube top and short shorts. Well, she wasn't going to a ball or anything and she probably wouldn't succeed anyway. "First I need to draw a circle on a flat surface...but I rather like my hardvood floors...hummie..." She thought about her predicament, her brain gerbils running extra quickly to keep her gears turning when suddenly "EUREKA!" She shouts and searches through her things. She spends a good five minutes before locating her flat surface: A white board with a draw erase marker! "Zis should at least be good enough..." She shrugs as she literally draws a plain old circle...however, she quickly adds to it until it becomes an elaborate work of art befitting of a Mahou Shoujo anime. "GAH!" She shouts, flailing her arms. "Vat is wrong vith me!? Damn you stubborn perfectionism!" She shakes her fist at the ceiling; if the ceiling had a conscious thought process, it would probably have experienced true sadness. Poor dear. After setting the board on the floor, she balances on one leg so she use her opposite foot to scratch it while she took another look at the book. "Now let us see...Next I need atmosphere...a dark room and candles are recommended. Very well then!" She hurries along, humming to herself as she turned out the lights, however the sky had become much darker and she couldn't see anything so instead of tripping, she did the smart thing and turned the lights back on. "Right. Candles first, lights later..." She already had plenty of candles about her living room and so decided to use them. Nevermind that they were scented, the book didn't specify! Soon, the candles were lit and the lights were off and suddenly she heard the sounds of thunder and rain batting against the roof and windows. The atmosphere was perfect...dammit. "Vhy do you do zis NOW nature? Can't you see I'm trying to fuck up, here?" She grumbles. Oh well, nothing she could do about horrible English weather. "Next I need a catalyst." She reads aloud, looking up for a moment as though in thought before looking back down at the book. "Ain't nobody got time for zat!" She exclaims, moving on to the next step. "Ahh ze final step...finally. Ze chant..." She reads the chant to herself and only makes it halfway through. "Bah. Too generic!" With a deep breath, the bestselling author begins reading the chant in a language unique to her novels setting. "Korr das Sarin und Krom ehn Orne. Korr das Arduuk nar dja Trija ehn vokea. Sarla das es mea nasaar sina Schweinorg. Ehn vend komma bann. Sarla ehn vie Gram kros, Komma froa ehn Kron, ehn tris-brokken vamstand ehn Kriilanda ochten." So far she had obviously been half-assing the entire ritual and any proud magus would likely suffer blind rage if they witnessed this sham. Perhaps that is why the circle started glowing anyway? The Grail DOES have a sense of humor! "Kros (Liir). Kros (Liir). Kros (Liir). Kros (Liir). Kros (Liir). Revar fuf Almad. Kowar eisen fronda! ----Mea nakam. Oyr laas es duna mea, mea Xand(Xen) es en oyr Hiil. En accroad eia ehn Num Gagis, or vidia tis varmana, tis orsann, pressi nanse. Ahn mea pressia. Mea una vo komma das reia nar ehn Xen, mea una vo rak omn sidi nar ehn Xen. Lar, siebd Aria ehm tris aasi nar myaht, aven froa ehn nai nar doyarrne, OM PREDJA EHN BALAAK!! ---" The circle stopped glowing for a moment before it flashed once more and a figure oozed out from it. Morgana couldn't believe it. She honestly didn't think it would work, but it worked spectacularly. Now standing before her was a man slightly taller than herself (and that's saying something!) with white hair and mismatched eyes. He was kneeling before her and graciously took her hand to plant a soft kiss upon it, asking: "Are you my master?" Morgana's face turns cherry red and for a moment, she stands in total shock. "I-Is zat a rhetorical question?" "It is standard procedure, Madame." "Alright...but don't call me Madame. It makes me feel...off." The man laughs internally, finding her adorable. "Ja. I am ze one who summoned you, as surprising as that is." Mircea blinks owlishly at the woman. "I see," he says, a bit unsure of what to do. "Ahhhh I'm not complaining zough. I am just surprised that it actually vorked. Zat's all!" She replies defensively, arms nearly flailing about. The man's gaze unnerved her. "That is truly a relief," the man responds, rising from his kneeling position. "I would have been...mildly disappointed if my master was not content with me. May I ask for my Master's name?" "Ahh! My manners. I seem to have forgotten zem...err, them. I am Morgana Blake. You are?" "Beautiful name," The man says with a light smile, completely honest about it; "I am Mircea the First of Wallachia, little lady. A monarch of old times; a corpse long-since rotten. No one you'd know about, I'm sure." Morgana's expression lightens as she comes ever so slightly out of her shell. "Vallachia...zat's in Romania. I am sorry, I am only familiar vith Vladimir Tepes." Mircea blinks, not having expected her to know of Vlad nor even say his name correctly. He claps his hands together in his surprise. "My! That is my grandson!" He exclaims, pride in his voice and eyes. "And it is quite alright, my little lady - Romania has lost its' fame to time. Nothing to apologize for." "Your grandson's exploits are vat got me interested in psychology!" She proclaims, a sparkle of fangirling in her eyes. "He was quite the character wasn't he?" Mircea asks, chuckling. "He knew how to scare people - always been on the sinister side, that one." "And I know how to mess vith peoples heads~" Morgana laughs. "So...do you mind talking for a vile? I could just die for a history lesson from someone who was actually zere. It could even help me vith my next book!" He gives her a handsome smirk; his eyebrows rise up a few millimeters in an amused grimace. "Not at all, my little lady. I will gladly tell you anything you desire to know." "But first, I vould like to velcome you to my private villa! I had it constructed veeks in advance to observe the war as it went on...never sought I vould be participating, zough." Her accent became thick as she dropped the effort to keep it under control. Mircea bows slightly from the waist. "Ladies first, my dear." Morgana seems a little confused at this. "But vee are already indoors." He blinks owlishly, again, at her. Now he was the confused one. "Regardless, it is polite for a man to let the woman pass first and lead the way - especially if we are in her home." She nods, understanding him. "I suppose you vould like ze grand tour?" "If you would be so kind." And that's precisely what she did, leading him through the halls before planting her supple booty upon her couch and listening to Mircea's story until she eventually drifted off to sleep. |
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