Nasuverse Fate/Inertia Dawn
- Thread starter AlfheimWanderer
- Start date
Same here. Until Saber was IDed for me at another forum, I had no clue who she was. Now, I know her name, and all the information Wikipedia has on her. Never heard of her before this though.
I'm currently hoping that Archer ends up being Link, if only to stick with the theme of Archers that would fit just as well, if not better, as Sabers.
Out of curiosity, what is the criteria for being able to ascend to the Throne of Heroes in this fic? Is it fame in the character's own continuity, fame in the F/SN world, where their source materials presumably exist, fame in our world, or something else?
I'm currently hoping that Archer ends up being Link, if only to stick with the theme of Archers that would fit just as well, if not better, as Sabers.
Out of curiosity, what is the criteria for being able to ascend to the Throne of Heroes in this fic? Is it fame in the character's own continuity, fame in the F/SN world, where their source materials presumably exist, fame in our world, or something else?
In the fanfic updates thread on the Drunkard's Walk forum, actually.
By the way, my apologies if I seemed rude in my earlier post, regarding your choice for Saber. I hadn't had a very good day, then got hit with insomnia, so I wasn't in the best of moods when I came across this thread. Anyway, sorry about that.
By the way, my apologies if I seemed rude in my earlier post, regarding your choice for Saber. I hadn't had a very good day, then got hit with insomnia, so I wasn't in the best of moods when I came across this thread. Anyway, sorry about that.
~Fate / inertia dawn~
Chapter II - In Medias Res - Creed
Two days laterà
-------------------------
'Another cold night...'
The moon glistened in the night sky and the air was brisk. Just like the night before. And the night before that. And the night before that. Every night that he had been in the city so far had been this way.
Predictability. Consistency. Just the way humans liked it. Humans, after all, are creatures of habit, and as such found solace in tepid, structured things like schedules, lists, and other forms of organization. A clockwork mentality, where they believed that as long as everything stayed the same, as long as they repeated each day the actions of the day before, nothing could possibly go wrongùfor if something worked, why introduce uncertainty into a proven system?
Provided that nothing else intruded in their lives, this belief had some merit, but when the unexpected happenedà
To AssassinÆs mode of thought, it was the human desire to maintain the status quo, ignoring the possibility of abrupt and (very) permanent change that allowed most assassinations to be carried off with ease. The targets, complacent in the belief that nothing would possibly go wrong if they stuck to their plans, relaxed, lowering their guard to an extent only absolute certainty would allowùthus providing him the perfect opportunity to strike.
Just the way he liked it. After all, it made his job so much easier.
A cloak as deep as shadow blew in the night breeze, melding with the darkness, as concealed eyes narrowed in thought and anticipation behind a bone-white mask that resembled nothing so much as a human skull.
As a Servant, he was contractually bound to follow his MasterÆs orders, and so he did, obeying the instructions he was given so as long as he did not find them distasteful on a deeply moral level. Of course, even if he were, his Master could simply use a Command Seal to force him to complete a given task, his body moving like a puppet against his whims, as his consciousness screamed and writhed in silent protest. Thankfully, such was not the case with his current mission.
Much to the contrary, in fact, as this was one that sat quite well with the man in black. He had been charged with conducting reconnaissance, and since what was involved in this had been only vaguely defined, with none of his possible options proscribed or prohibited, Assassin essentially had free rein in how he chose toàinvestigate the situation.
It was at times like this that he felt most comfortable, as this was his element. It had always been so for as long as he could remember. Wandering the streets with a greater purpose apparent only to himself, with others unaware or unknowing of his intentions until it was too late ù memories of such things came easily to him. And though he had been granted great latitude in what he might do, from the beginning the shadowy figure had had only one goal he had set in mind.
The only goal he had sworn heÆd ever have.
Using the information imparted to him from the Throne of Heroes concerning the current time period he was as a basis, the dark Servant cross-referenced what he knew with the nearly-limitless knowledge that his Noble Phantasm contained.
When it was revealed to him the results of his query, he grimaced, his features steeling with determination behind his skeletal mask.
What he did nextà
He didnÆt have to do what he did next. It had not been covered in his orders, and the elimination of non-combatants in the War was not included in his mission parameters, though to be fair, it had not been forbidden either.
So why did he take the actions he did, moving to hunt an enemy who had nothing to do with the War? Why did he slip so easily into the role he played in life, as if nothing had changed from the time of his death?
Nostalgia.
After all, a man who could harbor a grudge for over eight hundred years could probably be described as ônostalgicö, though some might say instead ôobsessedö or ômonomaniacalö.
Not that he cared ù he was beyond such things.
Furthering his bout of self-indulgence, the man made his way to a shadowy roof to better take in the sight his new vantage point offered of his quarry, seeking and finding the perfect opportunity to strike, when his prey would be at their most vulnerable.
It was with such cunning and precision that he had ascended the ranks of his organization, seizing control and guiding it to a new level of influence. It was with this that he had honed his abilities, becoming a master at the exalted art of ending lives ù particularly the lives of those who used their power to despoil the land and oppress its peoples. Harbinger of chaos, herald of anarchy he might have been, but none could deny his capability at instilling change.
Some saw him as a hero. Others as the blackest of villains, but to him, it didnÆt matter, so long as his actions were of ultimate benefit in the long run.
For that was and always will be the way of the Hashshashin.
And so, the man who had been known in life and death as Assassin set off towards his objective, with the cover of darkness hiding his approach.
__________________________
AssassinÆs quest eventually led him to a skyscraper, the sheer exterior of which he was currently scaling with as much ease as most walked on a paved and level road. So it had been in life, as where a normal person saw only an unconquerable expanse of glass and steel, a slick surface one could not even dream of climbing without special equipment, the dark Servant saw even the tiniest of footholds and irregularities - outcroppings that he gripped with ease to aid in his ascent.
To most, the imposing tower would be quite an obstacle, a monolith that rose from the ground and jutted defiantly towards the heavens, giving despair to any who would try to breach its security. To Assassin, however, the outer surface was but a ladder, a tool that he could exploit to deliver himself into the lair of the Beast, the place where all of his prey had oh-so-conveniently gathered.
But then, such was only to be expected, as time had distorted the unrivaled climbing ability that this particular Hashshashin possessed, spawning legends of the one who could scale any wall, render useless any defense, scoff at any precautions taken to ensure that theftùor worseùwould not be an issue.
Not that theft was ever truly an issue, as Assassin had never cared for money. Not back then, and certainly not now. To him, all that mattered was silencing his enemies and damaging the agenda that they wished to advance.
No more, no less.
As he ascended the lofty edifice, gusts of icy wind buffeted AssassinÆs midnight black cloak, a testimony to the height had reached. In mere minutes, the skull-faced man had scaled thirty stories by the mere expedient of hoisting himself up on the subtle irregularities of the tower, though he appeared to any onlooker observant or lucky enough to notice him on the side of a random skyscraper as naught but a flowing shadow. Soon, his effort would be rewarded, and if his recollections of the design of this building (information also gleaned from usage of his Noble Phantasm) were correct, he would eventually reach his desired entrance point.
So it proved scarcely a minute later, with Assassin reaching the area immediately outside of his quarryÆs location at the forty-second floor. All that remained now was to enter and finish what he started.
Clinging to the tinted glass paneling, Assassin scanned the vicinity, searching for the path of least resistance to the inside. His keen eyes noticed the ideal spot, an air conditioning vent that jutted somewhat outwards above the city streets.
An air ventà
As if he was really going to sneak into the tower by using an air vent.
Rather, Assassin was much more interested in the area surrounding the air vent due to its structurally weaker nature and how the vent was situated at almost the exact place that he needed to get at for this mission of his.
Assassin nimbly made his way over and inspected the thinly sealed seams that encircled the vent, placing a gloved hand over the spot as he briefly composed himself. With scarce but a thought, his form, already obscured by its own blackness the inky darkness of the night, vanished utterly to the human eye, becoming intangible on this plane of existence û taking spirit form.
The incorporeal figure passed through the thin grating easily, slipping into the corporationÆs tower as quietly as the ghost of memory that he was.
With his presence Concealed, and without an ounce of fanfare heralding his arrival, Assassin silently strode past the priceless art that lined the dimly lit hallways, heading with icy resolve towards his intended killing ground.
__________________________
In a great conference room, many men sat around a solid oak table, arranged in order by rank and seniority, each and every one of them exuding the aura of cunning and vulture-minded businessmenùthe very same feeling that oozed from the building in which these captains of industry held court.
Long hours after the sun had set, a meeting was still in session, looking to continue (as they so often did) past the witching hour, as one could not rule a corporate empire without tending to all of the necessary details, most of which took quite a bit of time to hash out and resolve.
Not that it mattered in the end what point on the agenda these cool-headed and ever-confident businessmen had managed to progress to, as they would all be dead before this night was over.
Assassin had chosen them as his targets after all, and so their doom was already upon them, unknowing as they were.
Despite a bounded field about the buildingûthe discovery of which producing only mild surprise in the black-cloaked intruder û Assassin had managed to sneak inside without detection or delay, exploiting the singular flaw that that field had possessed. So far everything had gone off without a hitch, just the way it was supposed to.
Perfect.
The features of the man at the head of the table were distinctively European in origin, his ashen grey-black hair and white mustache quite befitting of a man of important stature, which he certainly appeared to be. Yet this was irrelevant to the bringer of death, whose senses were more concerned with the look of utter disbelief on the manÆs face as a gloved hand covered his mouth and cold steel tore through the manÆs throat, sawing through muscles, arteries, bone.
A savage twist of the wrist separated neck vertebrae from neck vertebrae, sending a veritable torrent of blood spurting from the stump of his neck like a fountain, rendering his origins, or for that matter, what position he had held within the company rather inconsequential. The sudden jerking motion ripped the blade from the throat it had pierced and prefaced the bodyÆs unceremonious crumpling to the floor, followed moments later by the hollow thud of a severed head joining the corpse from which it had apparently filed for divorce.
Shouts of surprise tore through the room in response, looks of horror adorning the faces of the rest of the committee as they witnessed the jarringly sudden murder of their leader. But their shock was short-lived, as their attention was drawn immediately away from the bleeding carcass in front of them toàto thatàthat thing standing before them.
There was no need for unnecessary purple prose to describe what it was that stood before them, for they knew it for what it truly was.
Their deaths.
The assassination had compromised AssassinÆs Presence Concealment and exposed him to the sight of all of the other board members, but such would not stop him. At this point, nothing would prevent him from doing what needed to be done for the greater good.
And as the businessmen looked upon the masked visage of the murderer in their midst, the skeletal mask itself seemed to smile grimly at the notion of impending death, baring its teeth in the way one would expect from a shark or a wolf.
And hell broke loose in the conference room that night.
The figureÆs arm blurred incoherently with an impossibly fast swing, the man directly across from him falling violently to the floor a fraction of a second later, face frozen in a rictus of fear and horror, clutching futilely at his chest. The large dagger of twenty centimeters embedded in his chest had severed his aorta, stealing his life away on impact.
With a flurry of sharp whirrs, more daggers went sailing across the room in rapid succession, each knife invariably striking its target, blackened steel meeting flesh with a chorus of squelches, thuds, and death-rattles as one after another, men expired.
Faster than his would-be victims could comprehend, the assassin was once more in motion, surging across the conference table with knives drawn. But by the time this sight registered in addled minds and eyes, the ebon blades had been plunged into chests, throats and foreheads, cutting short any possible cries of terror.
Blood splattered. Bowels and bladders were loosed.
The putrid, sickly sweet essence of death permeated the room.
Punctured necks spewing fluid from the ruptured flesh.
Chest cavities ripped open to the bone, the pulsing of still-beating hearts exposed as they beat faster, faster, faster to try and restore blood pressureùbut only succeeded in forcing the body to hemorrhage out its lifeblood.
Crumpled foreheads where bone had been pulverized, necks broken by force of impact of an inhumanly savage blow.
Pooling blood stained the carpeting a deep permanent red.
All merely the inevitable consequence of what happened when daggers of such size were thrown with the force and precision akin to the firing of a gun.
Less than half a minute. It could not have been more than thatùyet, all of those who had attended this meeting were no longer a part of the world of the living.
All, that was, except one.
The sole survivor grunted and whimpered in pain, tugging at the hilt of the jet-black daggers embedded in his kneecaps, to no avail than to elicited cries of anguish from his throat, reminding him that he was alive. Focusing on anything except the pain, he had already managed to tear one of those wicked looking knives out from his gut û an act he immediately began regretting as blood began to spurt and dribble out, no longer held in by the mass of the blade. These were deeper, but despite being intimately familiar with the consequences that would result whenever he tried to remove the deeply embedded weapons from his legs, fear and adrenaline pushed him to desperately try anything to get away from the grisly reminders of his impending end, so that maybe, just maybe, he might get away, as impossible as he knew it to be.
It would not be the first time the human mind did something irrational under the influence of pain and stress, nor would it be the last ù except in his case.
As he struggled with the hilt of the dagger, something occurred to the man, a rather chilling thought that froze him in place for a fraction of a second. With the uncanny accuracy that killer had displayed, the only reason he was still alive wasà
æàbecause the assassin has something else in store for me.Æ
Immediately, he resumed tugging at the knife lodged in his right knee with full force, hoping desperately to arm himself, to be able to fight back, as futile as it might be.
But his actions were cut off by the very gloved palm that had taken the life of his superior, a hand that gripped his lightly bearded chin and forced him to meet the dark figureÆs eerie gaze. Viewing the murder of his superior from across the table was one thing, but being at the mercy of the murderer was a wholly different experience.
The sensation of overwhelming helplessness filled him as strong fingers strengthened through years of activity and experience forced him to stare at the man who would be his death.
No.
He was forced to stare. To look without respite into piercing sockets of empty blackness, a vast and endless void in which he was insignificant, inconsequential, unworthyùyet condemned for all of his transgressions against humanity, as if prepared to carry out the only sentence that it had ever dealt - death.
No.
As the skull-faced, black-cloaked specter of death loomed over him as if to render judgment, the businessman found his sight drawn to the nightmarish beingÆs free hand. The phantom flicked its wrist slightly. A thin long blade extended from wherever it had been concealed in a manner similar to that of a switchblade. Its hand twitched idly.
The once-mighty captain of industry twitched in fear, but that was to be short lived, replaced with abject terror when realization dawned on him.
æThat bladeàÆ
The concealed blade jutting from the à spot where the right-hand ring finger should à be à
ôW-what? What?! No. No!ö the man stammered fearfully, mind fully aware of the sort of situation he was in as he babbled incoherently. ôThat, this canÆt be happening! You canÆt be real!ö
From within the black hood the skull mask tilted ever so slightly, almost as if to mock the man in his final moments, with quiet laughter echoing forth.
It did not sound at all like what the man thought it would. The unnervingly casual chuckling was neither hollow nor grating nor cold or even eldritch soundingùand yet was all the more disturbing for it. The laughter was simply unbefitting of a specter that had terrified generations of his predecessors, a figure linked inextricably to death as the sun was to heat or the ocean to moisture. It was certainly not the type of voice that would haunt memories for years to come if it were to be heard in casual conversation, although he knew for a fact that it would indeed be the last thing he ever heard.
ôThatÆs right,ö the assassin replied with a somewhat nostalgic tone, for it indeed was a man û albeit a fairly youthful-sounding one who moved with such unreal skill and ability. ôIÆm a lie.ö
His blade arm tensed up, as if it wasàas if it was going toà
ôAfter all: Nothing is true, everything is permitted.ö
The businessman had no time to allow his confirmed fears to sink in, for his vision blurred with murky crimson when his own lifeblood splattered his face.
With that, the room was empty save for one.
Hashshashin.
__________________________
Just like old times.
Assassin stood on the blood-soaked carpeting of the conference room, surveying the results of his actions with clinical detachment. He was used to scenes like these, as they were quite common in his line of work. In the years he had been alive, it had not been unheard of or even unusual for Assassin to end up slaying crowds filled with enemies. Such was life when one swore allegiance to a society of death-dealers who lived by the rule of the cloak and dagger.
Just like old times.
But Assassin had neither the time nor the desire to admire his handiwork for long, as during the brief explosion of violence, several of the executives had made cries of alarm and panic before his blades had silenced them. He had taken note of this, eliminating with prejudice the handful that had had the alacrity to notify security as soon as possible, removing the more proactive ones to nip their attempts in the bud, before proceeding to the ones that were lessàprepared.
Still, he would be compromised any moment now, as security at this firm was quite exceptional. Soon, the entire floor would be swamped with guards out for blood.
Sure enough, his keen hearing instantly picked up on the sound of movement outside, as boots clomped down the hallway and could be heard approaching the conference room. The sound of their steps sounded heavy, an indication that they were indeed armed, but with what Assassin was uncertain.
Against a Heroic Spirit such as himself, normal weapons would be rendered useless and the inevitable result of the enemy engaging him en masse would be an outcome identical to that of what transpired only moments before. However, due to the presence of the rather potent bounded field surrounding the entire building, Assassin was inclined to believe that the company was more magically savvy than they outwardly let on. He wouldnÆt even be surprised if their enforcers wielded an assortment of Conceptual Weapons, just in case a situation like this one occurred and they found themselves needing to slice through an ethereal body such as his.
'Mission over and done with. Armed guards quickly swarming to my position upon completion. A quick getaway is needed, yet the chance of escape is virtually nil.' Assassin mused to himself, almost as if reading off an imaginary list inside his head. 'I think IÆm getting back into the old lifestyle rather nicely.'
As the saying went, dulce periculum û ôdanger is sweetö.
With a loud bang, the doors flew open as the armed men poured into the conference room, executing a flanking maneuver in order to pin down Assassin, a tactic that had proven successful against all intruders to date.
Only proving that they had never dealt with an intruder as proactive as he, nor one that could not be overpowered via typical methods.
If all routes of escape were cut off, then Assassin would simply forge his own.
And so he did, giving his foes no time to react, his cloaked form blurring towards the squad with the speed of a god, tearing into the unprepared sentinels with the savage tenacity of a wolf ripping out the throat of a deer. The security detail had pressed in too close in an attempt to surround the Heroic Spirit, and thus had no chance to escape the killerÆs deadly blades. Had they been more slack in their duties, or more wary of the enemy, perhaps one or two might have survived, but as efficient and well trained as they wereà
Assassinàdid not give them any time to react.
They died in droves, an ebon blur slicing through their numbers like a scythe to wheat, bright red trails of crimson added to the already present pooling blood as Assassin sought to break through and make good his escape.
Crowd-busting.
Just like old times.
Slash! A swing of his blade-bearing fist drew a thin red line that bisected a manÆs collarbone with clean efficiency. It was followed by a backhand that effortlessly cleaves another manÆs arm in two, and a thrust slamming through eyes into the brain-cavity, causing instant death. The sound of shattering bone as an arm is forcibly twisted into a position it was not meant to be in and breaks with an almost explosive force.
Yelps of fear and pain echoed through the room.
Five seconds.
Only five seconds had passed since Assassin waded into the crowd seemingly without care regard for his own well being, though against all appearances, his actions were the wisest he could make in such a situation. The armed guards were just that: armed, and Assassin had no intention of finding out whether or not these new foes had any means of dealing harm to him - even though much of his body was already protected by a potent defense against supernatural assault. At a close range like this, there would not be an opportunity to use their guns and fire away at him.
Or so he thought, for Assassin had not given not give his enemiesÆ fanaticism and desire to destroy him enough credit, as several guards opened fire, their semi-automatic rifles ripping into their comrades and sending splays of meaty chunks flying whenever the 4.5 mm bullets tore through a part of their bodies that wasnÆt protected by body armor, sacrificing themselves just to strike at him.
One after another, hundreds of rounds of ammunition flew towards the cloaked form of Assassin, battering at the killer with overwhelming amounts of kinetic force. At such a close range, even taking into account the likelihood of failure of shots fired from a short distance like this at an erratically moving target, it was inevitable that some would hit.
Of course, while the projectiles found their mark, striking the Heroic Spirit, whether they hurt him or not was a different matter entirely.
The clanging sound of shells colliding with an unyielding surface mocked the surviving guardsmen as the black-cloaked skeleton figure dashed from the room, leaving his assailants shocked and incredulous. They had hit the assassin square on with high caliber armor piercing rounds and yet he had not even taken any damage. How was he able to dash away with that unnatural elegance of his, let alone even still be standing? How?
But there was no time to contemplate such things. Not here, not now. For they were trained well, and the intruder was getting away. How could they not give pursuit? After all, the training simulations dictated that that would be the next course of action.
Even against an enemy like this, they would not falter in their mission: to kill the one who had killed their masters.
Assassin practically glided over the countless flights of stairs with the nimbleness and speed associated with his class. Granted, he wasnÆt on the same level as someone who might have been a Lancer-class Servant, but the speed that he did possess was more than enough to keep him safely ahead of his pursuers. The rhythmic clomping of boots echoed below him û not close enough for the guards to be within firing range, but not yet far enough for them to lose him completely. It was going to be a close call û and close calls demanded quick getaways.
Pursuit? The need for a disappearing act?
æTo the roof, then,Æ Assassin thought as he subconsciously touched the parts of his body that the gunsÆ ammo had made contact with. He could still faintly feel the shock from where the bullets had met their mark, only to be denied fatal shots by AssassinÆs defenses, along with a suspicious slight dampness that was beginning to lightly coat his arm.
The floor on which AssassinÆs killing had taken place was only a handful of levels from the buildingÆs rooftop, so it did not take much time for him to ascend to the top using the stairs. But by that same grace, it would not take his pursuers very long to catch up, as there was nowhere to go.
From the controlled environment of the tower to the cold outside, Assassin made his way onto the roof in no more than half a minute. He frowned, finding that the space was wide and flat with the exception of several satellites dishes, radio towers and ventilation shafts clustered together in one spot the way a cloister of mushrooms would grow in the same group. A helicopter pad laid claim to most of the area, large enough to contain several of the rotorcraft quite comfortably without fear of any accidents occurring during landing and take-off. This concerned Assassin, as the space wasàopen. Too open. Here, the killer would have very little to no cover at all if the enemy decided they wanted to use him as target practice.
Assassin would not give them that chance.
The door to the stairwell burst open once more, as guards poured forth readying their arms once more to engage their slippery prey, who was by now already halfway across the landing pad, dogged by streams of tracer fire and their less-visible, if no less deadly, companion rounds of ammunition.
An open space like this allowed Assassin full access to his agility, but this did not change the fact that here, he was still in essence a moving target û a glorified clay pigeon in this parody of a firing range. Here, nothing impeded their aim, nothing would stay their hand.
æFurther proof positive that it is time to get out of here once and for all.Æ
The roofÆs edge drew closer and closer as Assassin crossed the quickly shrinking distance.
Twenty meters.
The crack of gunfire preceded more of those unnatural bullets whizzing past AssassinÆs cloaked head, trailing burning strontium that lit up the night all the way.
Fifteen meters.
The nearly silent pattering of AssassinÆs feet as they met with the ground and propelled him forward proved a stark contrast to the clumsy clomping of combat boots on the roofÆs concrete.
Ten meters.
Assassin felt the residual heat from the exploding fuel tank on his lower right only slightly. He could not concern himself with it for even a moment since he did not exactly have the luxury of appreciating the brilliant reds and oranges of the explosions at this point in time.
Five meters.
He heard their desperate and angry shouts. They knew what was going to happen. They knew what he was going to do, and yet they could not believe it. How could any normal person believe it?
Zero.
With that, Assassin went airborne.
One moment he was standing on the solid support of the concrete, glass and steel that the tower was constructed of, and the next he was in the air above the city. With his pitch-black cloak flapping around him like dark wings, he resembled nothing so much as a hawk of blackest night. Noàhe was a hawk of blackest night, for he had taken flight from his enemies, from danger, from a job completed.
The way he fell into the city belowàit could only be described as a leap of faith. A leap of faith into the all encompassing darkness surrounding Fuyuki City, a darkness kept at bay only by the fluorescent and neon lights glittering below that so pointedly marked modern society.
As he concealed himself from the prying eyes of the outside world, and as the wind whipped past the skull mask of the Hashshashin who participate in the Holy Grail War, the man smirked a sly grin that was meant for his awareness alone.
Just like old times, indeed.
--------------------------------
(1/2 end)
Chapter II - In Medias Res - Creed
Two days laterà
-------------------------
'Another cold night...'
The moon glistened in the night sky and the air was brisk. Just like the night before. And the night before that. And the night before that. Every night that he had been in the city so far had been this way.
Predictability. Consistency. Just the way humans liked it. Humans, after all, are creatures of habit, and as such found solace in tepid, structured things like schedules, lists, and other forms of organization. A clockwork mentality, where they believed that as long as everything stayed the same, as long as they repeated each day the actions of the day before, nothing could possibly go wrongùfor if something worked, why introduce uncertainty into a proven system?
Provided that nothing else intruded in their lives, this belief had some merit, but when the unexpected happenedà
To AssassinÆs mode of thought, it was the human desire to maintain the status quo, ignoring the possibility of abrupt and (very) permanent change that allowed most assassinations to be carried off with ease. The targets, complacent in the belief that nothing would possibly go wrong if they stuck to their plans, relaxed, lowering their guard to an extent only absolute certainty would allowùthus providing him the perfect opportunity to strike.
Just the way he liked it. After all, it made his job so much easier.
A cloak as deep as shadow blew in the night breeze, melding with the darkness, as concealed eyes narrowed in thought and anticipation behind a bone-white mask that resembled nothing so much as a human skull.
As a Servant, he was contractually bound to follow his MasterÆs orders, and so he did, obeying the instructions he was given so as long as he did not find them distasteful on a deeply moral level. Of course, even if he were, his Master could simply use a Command Seal to force him to complete a given task, his body moving like a puppet against his whims, as his consciousness screamed and writhed in silent protest. Thankfully, such was not the case with his current mission.
Much to the contrary, in fact, as this was one that sat quite well with the man in black. He had been charged with conducting reconnaissance, and since what was involved in this had been only vaguely defined, with none of his possible options proscribed or prohibited, Assassin essentially had free rein in how he chose toàinvestigate the situation.
It was at times like this that he felt most comfortable, as this was his element. It had always been so for as long as he could remember. Wandering the streets with a greater purpose apparent only to himself, with others unaware or unknowing of his intentions until it was too late ù memories of such things came easily to him. And though he had been granted great latitude in what he might do, from the beginning the shadowy figure had had only one goal he had set in mind.
The only goal he had sworn heÆd ever have.
Using the information imparted to him from the Throne of Heroes concerning the current time period he was as a basis, the dark Servant cross-referenced what he knew with the nearly-limitless knowledge that his Noble Phantasm contained.
When it was revealed to him the results of his query, he grimaced, his features steeling with determination behind his skeletal mask.
What he did nextà
He didnÆt have to do what he did next. It had not been covered in his orders, and the elimination of non-combatants in the War was not included in his mission parameters, though to be fair, it had not been forbidden either.
So why did he take the actions he did, moving to hunt an enemy who had nothing to do with the War? Why did he slip so easily into the role he played in life, as if nothing had changed from the time of his death?
Nostalgia.
After all, a man who could harbor a grudge for over eight hundred years could probably be described as ônostalgicö, though some might say instead ôobsessedö or ômonomaniacalö.
Not that he cared ù he was beyond such things.
Furthering his bout of self-indulgence, the man made his way to a shadowy roof to better take in the sight his new vantage point offered of his quarry, seeking and finding the perfect opportunity to strike, when his prey would be at their most vulnerable.
It was with such cunning and precision that he had ascended the ranks of his organization, seizing control and guiding it to a new level of influence. It was with this that he had honed his abilities, becoming a master at the exalted art of ending lives ù particularly the lives of those who used their power to despoil the land and oppress its peoples. Harbinger of chaos, herald of anarchy he might have been, but none could deny his capability at instilling change.
Some saw him as a hero. Others as the blackest of villains, but to him, it didnÆt matter, so long as his actions were of ultimate benefit in the long run.
For that was and always will be the way of the Hashshashin.
And so, the man who had been known in life and death as Assassin set off towards his objective, with the cover of darkness hiding his approach.
__________________________
AssassinÆs quest eventually led him to a skyscraper, the sheer exterior of which he was currently scaling with as much ease as most walked on a paved and level road. So it had been in life, as where a normal person saw only an unconquerable expanse of glass and steel, a slick surface one could not even dream of climbing without special equipment, the dark Servant saw even the tiniest of footholds and irregularities - outcroppings that he gripped with ease to aid in his ascent.
To most, the imposing tower would be quite an obstacle, a monolith that rose from the ground and jutted defiantly towards the heavens, giving despair to any who would try to breach its security. To Assassin, however, the outer surface was but a ladder, a tool that he could exploit to deliver himself into the lair of the Beast, the place where all of his prey had oh-so-conveniently gathered.
But then, such was only to be expected, as time had distorted the unrivaled climbing ability that this particular Hashshashin possessed, spawning legends of the one who could scale any wall, render useless any defense, scoff at any precautions taken to ensure that theftùor worseùwould not be an issue.
Not that theft was ever truly an issue, as Assassin had never cared for money. Not back then, and certainly not now. To him, all that mattered was silencing his enemies and damaging the agenda that they wished to advance.
No more, no less.
As he ascended the lofty edifice, gusts of icy wind buffeted AssassinÆs midnight black cloak, a testimony to the height had reached. In mere minutes, the skull-faced man had scaled thirty stories by the mere expedient of hoisting himself up on the subtle irregularities of the tower, though he appeared to any onlooker observant or lucky enough to notice him on the side of a random skyscraper as naught but a flowing shadow. Soon, his effort would be rewarded, and if his recollections of the design of this building (information also gleaned from usage of his Noble Phantasm) were correct, he would eventually reach his desired entrance point.
So it proved scarcely a minute later, with Assassin reaching the area immediately outside of his quarryÆs location at the forty-second floor. All that remained now was to enter and finish what he started.
Clinging to the tinted glass paneling, Assassin scanned the vicinity, searching for the path of least resistance to the inside. His keen eyes noticed the ideal spot, an air conditioning vent that jutted somewhat outwards above the city streets.
An air ventà
As if he was really going to sneak into the tower by using an air vent.
Rather, Assassin was much more interested in the area surrounding the air vent due to its structurally weaker nature and how the vent was situated at almost the exact place that he needed to get at for this mission of his.
Assassin nimbly made his way over and inspected the thinly sealed seams that encircled the vent, placing a gloved hand over the spot as he briefly composed himself. With scarce but a thought, his form, already obscured by its own blackness the inky darkness of the night, vanished utterly to the human eye, becoming intangible on this plane of existence û taking spirit form.
The incorporeal figure passed through the thin grating easily, slipping into the corporationÆs tower as quietly as the ghost of memory that he was.
With his presence Concealed, and without an ounce of fanfare heralding his arrival, Assassin silently strode past the priceless art that lined the dimly lit hallways, heading with icy resolve towards his intended killing ground.
__________________________
In a great conference room, many men sat around a solid oak table, arranged in order by rank and seniority, each and every one of them exuding the aura of cunning and vulture-minded businessmenùthe very same feeling that oozed from the building in which these captains of industry held court.
Long hours after the sun had set, a meeting was still in session, looking to continue (as they so often did) past the witching hour, as one could not rule a corporate empire without tending to all of the necessary details, most of which took quite a bit of time to hash out and resolve.
Not that it mattered in the end what point on the agenda these cool-headed and ever-confident businessmen had managed to progress to, as they would all be dead before this night was over.
Assassin had chosen them as his targets after all, and so their doom was already upon them, unknowing as they were.
Despite a bounded field about the buildingûthe discovery of which producing only mild surprise in the black-cloaked intruder û Assassin had managed to sneak inside without detection or delay, exploiting the singular flaw that that field had possessed. So far everything had gone off without a hitch, just the way it was supposed to.
Perfect.
The features of the man at the head of the table were distinctively European in origin, his ashen grey-black hair and white mustache quite befitting of a man of important stature, which he certainly appeared to be. Yet this was irrelevant to the bringer of death, whose senses were more concerned with the look of utter disbelief on the manÆs face as a gloved hand covered his mouth and cold steel tore through the manÆs throat, sawing through muscles, arteries, bone.
A savage twist of the wrist separated neck vertebrae from neck vertebrae, sending a veritable torrent of blood spurting from the stump of his neck like a fountain, rendering his origins, or for that matter, what position he had held within the company rather inconsequential. The sudden jerking motion ripped the blade from the throat it had pierced and prefaced the bodyÆs unceremonious crumpling to the floor, followed moments later by the hollow thud of a severed head joining the corpse from which it had apparently filed for divorce.
Shouts of surprise tore through the room in response, looks of horror adorning the faces of the rest of the committee as they witnessed the jarringly sudden murder of their leader. But their shock was short-lived, as their attention was drawn immediately away from the bleeding carcass in front of them toàto thatàthat thing standing before them.
There was no need for unnecessary purple prose to describe what it was that stood before them, for they knew it for what it truly was.
Their deaths.
The assassination had compromised AssassinÆs Presence Concealment and exposed him to the sight of all of the other board members, but such would not stop him. At this point, nothing would prevent him from doing what needed to be done for the greater good.
And as the businessmen looked upon the masked visage of the murderer in their midst, the skeletal mask itself seemed to smile grimly at the notion of impending death, baring its teeth in the way one would expect from a shark or a wolf.
And hell broke loose in the conference room that night.
The figureÆs arm blurred incoherently with an impossibly fast swing, the man directly across from him falling violently to the floor a fraction of a second later, face frozen in a rictus of fear and horror, clutching futilely at his chest. The large dagger of twenty centimeters embedded in his chest had severed his aorta, stealing his life away on impact.
With a flurry of sharp whirrs, more daggers went sailing across the room in rapid succession, each knife invariably striking its target, blackened steel meeting flesh with a chorus of squelches, thuds, and death-rattles as one after another, men expired.
Faster than his would-be victims could comprehend, the assassin was once more in motion, surging across the conference table with knives drawn. But by the time this sight registered in addled minds and eyes, the ebon blades had been plunged into chests, throats and foreheads, cutting short any possible cries of terror.
Blood splattered. Bowels and bladders were loosed.
The putrid, sickly sweet essence of death permeated the room.
Punctured necks spewing fluid from the ruptured flesh.
Chest cavities ripped open to the bone, the pulsing of still-beating hearts exposed as they beat faster, faster, faster to try and restore blood pressureùbut only succeeded in forcing the body to hemorrhage out its lifeblood.
Crumpled foreheads where bone had been pulverized, necks broken by force of impact of an inhumanly savage blow.
Pooling blood stained the carpeting a deep permanent red.
All merely the inevitable consequence of what happened when daggers of such size were thrown with the force and precision akin to the firing of a gun.
Less than half a minute. It could not have been more than thatùyet, all of those who had attended this meeting were no longer a part of the world of the living.
All, that was, except one.
The sole survivor grunted and whimpered in pain, tugging at the hilt of the jet-black daggers embedded in his kneecaps, to no avail than to elicited cries of anguish from his throat, reminding him that he was alive. Focusing on anything except the pain, he had already managed to tear one of those wicked looking knives out from his gut û an act he immediately began regretting as blood began to spurt and dribble out, no longer held in by the mass of the blade. These were deeper, but despite being intimately familiar with the consequences that would result whenever he tried to remove the deeply embedded weapons from his legs, fear and adrenaline pushed him to desperately try anything to get away from the grisly reminders of his impending end, so that maybe, just maybe, he might get away, as impossible as he knew it to be.
It would not be the first time the human mind did something irrational under the influence of pain and stress, nor would it be the last ù except in his case.
As he struggled with the hilt of the dagger, something occurred to the man, a rather chilling thought that froze him in place for a fraction of a second. With the uncanny accuracy that killer had displayed, the only reason he was still alive wasà
æàbecause the assassin has something else in store for me.Æ
Immediately, he resumed tugging at the knife lodged in his right knee with full force, hoping desperately to arm himself, to be able to fight back, as futile as it might be.
But his actions were cut off by the very gloved palm that had taken the life of his superior, a hand that gripped his lightly bearded chin and forced him to meet the dark figureÆs eerie gaze. Viewing the murder of his superior from across the table was one thing, but being at the mercy of the murderer was a wholly different experience.
The sensation of overwhelming helplessness filled him as strong fingers strengthened through years of activity and experience forced him to stare at the man who would be his death.
No.
He was forced to stare. To look without respite into piercing sockets of empty blackness, a vast and endless void in which he was insignificant, inconsequential, unworthyùyet condemned for all of his transgressions against humanity, as if prepared to carry out the only sentence that it had ever dealt - death.
No.
As the skull-faced, black-cloaked specter of death loomed over him as if to render judgment, the businessman found his sight drawn to the nightmarish beingÆs free hand. The phantom flicked its wrist slightly. A thin long blade extended from wherever it had been concealed in a manner similar to that of a switchblade. Its hand twitched idly.
The once-mighty captain of industry twitched in fear, but that was to be short lived, replaced with abject terror when realization dawned on him.
æThat bladeàÆ
The concealed blade jutting from the à spot where the right-hand ring finger should à be à
ôW-what? What?! No. No!ö the man stammered fearfully, mind fully aware of the sort of situation he was in as he babbled incoherently. ôThat, this canÆt be happening! You canÆt be real!ö
From within the black hood the skull mask tilted ever so slightly, almost as if to mock the man in his final moments, with quiet laughter echoing forth.
It did not sound at all like what the man thought it would. The unnervingly casual chuckling was neither hollow nor grating nor cold or even eldritch soundingùand yet was all the more disturbing for it. The laughter was simply unbefitting of a specter that had terrified generations of his predecessors, a figure linked inextricably to death as the sun was to heat or the ocean to moisture. It was certainly not the type of voice that would haunt memories for years to come if it were to be heard in casual conversation, although he knew for a fact that it would indeed be the last thing he ever heard.
ôThatÆs right,ö the assassin replied with a somewhat nostalgic tone, for it indeed was a man û albeit a fairly youthful-sounding one who moved with such unreal skill and ability. ôIÆm a lie.ö
His blade arm tensed up, as if it wasàas if it was going toà
ôAfter all: Nothing is true, everything is permitted.ö
The businessman had no time to allow his confirmed fears to sink in, for his vision blurred with murky crimson when his own lifeblood splattered his face.
With that, the room was empty save for one.
Hashshashin.
__________________________
Just like old times.
Assassin stood on the blood-soaked carpeting of the conference room, surveying the results of his actions with clinical detachment. He was used to scenes like these, as they were quite common in his line of work. In the years he had been alive, it had not been unheard of or even unusual for Assassin to end up slaying crowds filled with enemies. Such was life when one swore allegiance to a society of death-dealers who lived by the rule of the cloak and dagger.
Just like old times.
But Assassin had neither the time nor the desire to admire his handiwork for long, as during the brief explosion of violence, several of the executives had made cries of alarm and panic before his blades had silenced them. He had taken note of this, eliminating with prejudice the handful that had had the alacrity to notify security as soon as possible, removing the more proactive ones to nip their attempts in the bud, before proceeding to the ones that were lessàprepared.
Still, he would be compromised any moment now, as security at this firm was quite exceptional. Soon, the entire floor would be swamped with guards out for blood.
Sure enough, his keen hearing instantly picked up on the sound of movement outside, as boots clomped down the hallway and could be heard approaching the conference room. The sound of their steps sounded heavy, an indication that they were indeed armed, but with what Assassin was uncertain.
Against a Heroic Spirit such as himself, normal weapons would be rendered useless and the inevitable result of the enemy engaging him en masse would be an outcome identical to that of what transpired only moments before. However, due to the presence of the rather potent bounded field surrounding the entire building, Assassin was inclined to believe that the company was more magically savvy than they outwardly let on. He wouldnÆt even be surprised if their enforcers wielded an assortment of Conceptual Weapons, just in case a situation like this one occurred and they found themselves needing to slice through an ethereal body such as his.
'Mission over and done with. Armed guards quickly swarming to my position upon completion. A quick getaway is needed, yet the chance of escape is virtually nil.' Assassin mused to himself, almost as if reading off an imaginary list inside his head. 'I think IÆm getting back into the old lifestyle rather nicely.'
As the saying went, dulce periculum û ôdanger is sweetö.
With a loud bang, the doors flew open as the armed men poured into the conference room, executing a flanking maneuver in order to pin down Assassin, a tactic that had proven successful against all intruders to date.
Only proving that they had never dealt with an intruder as proactive as he, nor one that could not be overpowered via typical methods.
If all routes of escape were cut off, then Assassin would simply forge his own.
And so he did, giving his foes no time to react, his cloaked form blurring towards the squad with the speed of a god, tearing into the unprepared sentinels with the savage tenacity of a wolf ripping out the throat of a deer. The security detail had pressed in too close in an attempt to surround the Heroic Spirit, and thus had no chance to escape the killerÆs deadly blades. Had they been more slack in their duties, or more wary of the enemy, perhaps one or two might have survived, but as efficient and well trained as they wereà
Assassinàdid not give them any time to react.
They died in droves, an ebon blur slicing through their numbers like a scythe to wheat, bright red trails of crimson added to the already present pooling blood as Assassin sought to break through and make good his escape.
Crowd-busting.
Just like old times.
Slash! A swing of his blade-bearing fist drew a thin red line that bisected a manÆs collarbone with clean efficiency. It was followed by a backhand that effortlessly cleaves another manÆs arm in two, and a thrust slamming through eyes into the brain-cavity, causing instant death. The sound of shattering bone as an arm is forcibly twisted into a position it was not meant to be in and breaks with an almost explosive force.
Yelps of fear and pain echoed through the room.
Five seconds.
Only five seconds had passed since Assassin waded into the crowd seemingly without care regard for his own well being, though against all appearances, his actions were the wisest he could make in such a situation. The armed guards were just that: armed, and Assassin had no intention of finding out whether or not these new foes had any means of dealing harm to him - even though much of his body was already protected by a potent defense against supernatural assault. At a close range like this, there would not be an opportunity to use their guns and fire away at him.
Or so he thought, for Assassin had not given not give his enemiesÆ fanaticism and desire to destroy him enough credit, as several guards opened fire, their semi-automatic rifles ripping into their comrades and sending splays of meaty chunks flying whenever the 4.5 mm bullets tore through a part of their bodies that wasnÆt protected by body armor, sacrificing themselves just to strike at him.
One after another, hundreds of rounds of ammunition flew towards the cloaked form of Assassin, battering at the killer with overwhelming amounts of kinetic force. At such a close range, even taking into account the likelihood of failure of shots fired from a short distance like this at an erratically moving target, it was inevitable that some would hit.
Of course, while the projectiles found their mark, striking the Heroic Spirit, whether they hurt him or not was a different matter entirely.
The clanging sound of shells colliding with an unyielding surface mocked the surviving guardsmen as the black-cloaked skeleton figure dashed from the room, leaving his assailants shocked and incredulous. They had hit the assassin square on with high caliber armor piercing rounds and yet he had not even taken any damage. How was he able to dash away with that unnatural elegance of his, let alone even still be standing? How?
But there was no time to contemplate such things. Not here, not now. For they were trained well, and the intruder was getting away. How could they not give pursuit? After all, the training simulations dictated that that would be the next course of action.
Even against an enemy like this, they would not falter in their mission: to kill the one who had killed their masters.
Assassin practically glided over the countless flights of stairs with the nimbleness and speed associated with his class. Granted, he wasnÆt on the same level as someone who might have been a Lancer-class Servant, but the speed that he did possess was more than enough to keep him safely ahead of his pursuers. The rhythmic clomping of boots echoed below him û not close enough for the guards to be within firing range, but not yet far enough for them to lose him completely. It was going to be a close call û and close calls demanded quick getaways.
Pursuit? The need for a disappearing act?
æTo the roof, then,Æ Assassin thought as he subconsciously touched the parts of his body that the gunsÆ ammo had made contact with. He could still faintly feel the shock from where the bullets had met their mark, only to be denied fatal shots by AssassinÆs defenses, along with a suspicious slight dampness that was beginning to lightly coat his arm.
The floor on which AssassinÆs killing had taken place was only a handful of levels from the buildingÆs rooftop, so it did not take much time for him to ascend to the top using the stairs. But by that same grace, it would not take his pursuers very long to catch up, as there was nowhere to go.
From the controlled environment of the tower to the cold outside, Assassin made his way onto the roof in no more than half a minute. He frowned, finding that the space was wide and flat with the exception of several satellites dishes, radio towers and ventilation shafts clustered together in one spot the way a cloister of mushrooms would grow in the same group. A helicopter pad laid claim to most of the area, large enough to contain several of the rotorcraft quite comfortably without fear of any accidents occurring during landing and take-off. This concerned Assassin, as the space wasàopen. Too open. Here, the killer would have very little to no cover at all if the enemy decided they wanted to use him as target practice.
Assassin would not give them that chance.
The door to the stairwell burst open once more, as guards poured forth readying their arms once more to engage their slippery prey, who was by now already halfway across the landing pad, dogged by streams of tracer fire and their less-visible, if no less deadly, companion rounds of ammunition.
An open space like this allowed Assassin full access to his agility, but this did not change the fact that here, he was still in essence a moving target û a glorified clay pigeon in this parody of a firing range. Here, nothing impeded their aim, nothing would stay their hand.
æFurther proof positive that it is time to get out of here once and for all.Æ
The roofÆs edge drew closer and closer as Assassin crossed the quickly shrinking distance.
Twenty meters.
The crack of gunfire preceded more of those unnatural bullets whizzing past AssassinÆs cloaked head, trailing burning strontium that lit up the night all the way.
Fifteen meters.
The nearly silent pattering of AssassinÆs feet as they met with the ground and propelled him forward proved a stark contrast to the clumsy clomping of combat boots on the roofÆs concrete.
Ten meters.
Assassin felt the residual heat from the exploding fuel tank on his lower right only slightly. He could not concern himself with it for even a moment since he did not exactly have the luxury of appreciating the brilliant reds and oranges of the explosions at this point in time.
Five meters.
He heard their desperate and angry shouts. They knew what was going to happen. They knew what he was going to do, and yet they could not believe it. How could any normal person believe it?
Zero.
With that, Assassin went airborne.
One moment he was standing on the solid support of the concrete, glass and steel that the tower was constructed of, and the next he was in the air above the city. With his pitch-black cloak flapping around him like dark wings, he resembled nothing so much as a hawk of blackest night. Noàhe was a hawk of blackest night, for he had taken flight from his enemies, from danger, from a job completed.
The way he fell into the city belowàit could only be described as a leap of faith. A leap of faith into the all encompassing darkness surrounding Fuyuki City, a darkness kept at bay only by the fluorescent and neon lights glittering below that so pointedly marked modern society.
As he concealed himself from the prying eyes of the outside world, and as the wind whipped past the skull mask of the Hashshashin who participate in the Holy Grail War, the man smirked a sly grin that was meant for his awareness alone.
Just like old times, indeed.
--------------------------------
(1/2 end)
The wind blew, rustling the denuded branches of the trees in the empty park. As usual, the place was deserted, devoid of human presence. The fact that it was late at night only partially explained the lack, for even during the day, few trod upon its soil, almost as if fearing to step upon holy groundùor perhaps cursed ground would be more accurate. That there was a taint upon the land, a certain discomfort radiating from the place, none could deny, almost as if the terrible accident that happened a decade ago had left behind a stigma of some sortùa miasma of lingering despair, guilt, and loneliness that warded away the masses.
Which made it ideal for a wayward soul that cared not about the locationÆs dark past, who thought only of how itÆs out of the way location made it the perfect place to stage an ambush, the perfect place for a rendezvous, or the perfect place to snatch a momentÆs respite away from prying eyes.
So it was that in this fell garden of sinners that Assassin took form once again, willing his insubstantial soul to become a being of flesh and blood once more in the shadow of a long dead tree. Taking a deep breath, the shadow leaned up against the rough bark and assessed his condition, noting that he had been injured far more than he cared during an operation.
While carrying out his self-appointed mission, Assassin had made sure to maintain the image of an invulnerable specter of death, an untouchable grim reaper that stole life away with contemptuous ease. Any sign of weakness, any hint of vulnerability would have simply compelled the guards chasing after him to be even more ruthless, like sharks scenting blood.
Still, that image of invulnerability had been merely that û an image, for Assassin had not escaped the fray unscathed.
His shadowy cloak was so riddled with bullet holes that it could barely hold itself together, and the defense that aided him so well in the raid could be seen peeking through the spaces that had been torn into the dark fabric. Assassin scowled behind his mask û the reason he wore this extraneous cloak over his normal gear was to conceal this particular Noble Phantasm of his from the enemy. If an enemy Servant saw it, then history would have repeated itself by having his reputation once again precede him. ThatÆs the price that comes with infamy, he supposed.
But while the possibility of having his identity revealed was currently his most pressing concern, making his wounds seem rather inconsequential in comparison, Assassin was not a careless Servant. He knew well of the disadvantages that fighting while hurt, and so was not inclined to continue his reconnoitering the city tonight, particularly if the possibility existed that he would run into foes more dangerous than humansàeven those armed with Conceptual Weapons.
One did not inherit the position of Hassan-i Sabbah by ignoring the tactical situation, after all, and there were times when his position would be best served by withdrawing from the field for a time.
Thus, after a brief evaluation as to the severity of his injuries, the Servant planned to re-enter spirit form and return to his summoning circle, where he could restore and stabilize the prana that gave form to his body.
Blood dripped and dribbled from numerous gashes and punctures in his arm, delicate crimson beads falling from his body and soaking into the brown grass at his feet. At this rate of blood loss, Assassin knew that he would not be dying from his injuries anytime soon, but until he healed, he would be disadvantaged in any combat situations that cropped up.
æSo they really were armed with Conceptual Weapons. Or something similar,Æ the Heroic Spirit mused as he finished inspecting his wounds. æPossibly even consecrated bullets, seeing how they were able to damage my spiritual body û and considering the links that they have had historically with the Church, obtaining those rounds would be easy enough.Æ
The bullets used against him had scattered flesh and scraped bone û a rather disturbing notion, as physical attacks had little effect on Servants. Under normal conditions, a lead bullet would be unable to deal damage to them. However, were the ammunition consecrated rounds, bullets filled with holy relics, then...
æàthe notion of a consecrated weapon is absurd to begin with, because be it holy or demonic, such weapons simply possess a curse. A treasure that can wound a spirit, not by physical force, but by conceptual attack û capable of affecting a spirit just by existing.Æ
Fortunately, Assassin had been able to will his defense into materializing right after the injuries to his extremities, for had he been even a fraction of a second slower, he might have not made it out alive. After all, for all his skill and martial prowess, he was still but an Assassin û a member of a class far from renowned for the ability to survive deathblow after deathblow via sheer willpower.
He twitched in pain as gloved fingers probed the wounded arm, checking the extent of the damage in more detail than a cursory inspection would allow. The worst of his injuries was a hole in his left forearm that had gone clean through to the other side. Naturally enough, this was also the primary source for the bleeding.
æHmm. This one could be a problem,Æ the Servant thought to himself as he eyed the injury, pulling his cloak away from his arm to get a better look. æThankfully, it didnÆt shatter bone, but it grazed it enough to make combat difficult. Well then, I guess thatÆs the reason ûÆ
ôBOING!ö
A voice rang out in the silence, as flashing steel sliced through air and interrupted AssassinÆs thoughts. Instinct kicked into high gear and forced the cloaked figure to react faster than thought itself, as he tucked himself into a defensive roll that carried him away from the immediate strike zone and, on recovering to his feet, armed himself with a dagger drawn from within his tattered garments. It wasnÆt the first time someone had tried to take him by surprise, and as a result, his reflexes had become so honed over the years that reactions such as this came naturally to him.
ôAhhh, you dodged it,ö the voice said disappointedly. ôSo much for that. IÆll never get that award badge for stealth-kills at this rate.ö
From his crouch, Assassin cocked his head, seeking the direction that the voice had come from. It was an odd voice, nasal and filled with the flush of youth, but brimming with confidence nonetheless. From that, coupled with the practiced ease of the attack that had nearly decapitated him, the Servant knew that whoever he was facing was a veteran of sortsùeven if his assailant had given away his intentions to strikeà.
æàas if testing me. No, this one is definitely not one to be taken lightly,Æ Assassin thought to himself, his eyes found the foe that had emerged from concealment with startling speed and attempted to end his lifeùthe smirking foe, whose eyes were narrowed in amusement that he had apparently survived.
In the time it took to blink, Assassin quickly took in as much information on his opponent as he could.
Bodysuit.
A shade of navy blue so dark that it blended into the night nearly as well as AssassinÆs ragged cloak.
Purple stripes and beltsùobviously there for aesthetic purposes only.
A purple headband. Again, aesthetic preferences, no doubt.
Green hair, cut short in the back but hanging long in the front.
Leather vambraces, coupled with guards worn on the stomach/torso area and as kneepads. Simple, light defenses, geared more for mobility rather than to withstand any sustained assault.
Weaponsà
Blades that extended from metal gauntlets worn on both of his arms, wielded like katars, with a spring-loaded mechanism for quick retraction or deployment.
æMuch like my own blade, if not very similar.Æ
ôLetÆs see hereàskull mask, cloak blacker than the blackest of abyssesàWith that sort of getup, that must mean youÆre an Assassin, right?ö the enemy quizzically inquired with a look of mock-curiosity.
AssassinÆs body tensed momentarily, all the confirmation that the newcomer needed.
ôHa! I knew it!ö the interloper gloated, laughing almost childishly. ôNow whereÆs my prize?ö
But the reason Assassin had tensed up was not due to shock that his true class had been discovered. Judging by his appearance alone, anyone would have been able to discern his class in moments if he was seen. Instead, his body was tightening in the way a snake coiled, ready to strike or disengage at a momentÆs notice.
Thisàthis almost man-childàwas an interesting one.
ôAnd the way that you were able to sneak up on me without my awareness, does that make you an Assassin as well?ö Assassin inquired mildly. As an assassin, and even more as a Servant, the bringer of death was keenly aware of any and all presences within his range of awareness. To be able to catch him unawares (or attempt to, as was such in this case) would require the capability to shut off oneÆs presence completely from the outside world. In other words û
ôPresence Concealment. You have it, donÆt you? Or something similar.ö
ôBravo. Bravo!ö the other clapped mockingly, acknowledging AssassinÆs own shrewdness. ôBing and æOÆ. IÆm just like you, mister.ö
ôYou had the perfect opportunity to silence me,ö Assassin conceded, eyeing his opponent with not a little curiosity. ôYet you completely ruined your chances when you alerted me to your presence. Why?ö
A cold chuckle.
ôWhat can I say? Old habits die hard,ö the other replied, placing particular emphasis on the verb that described that tended to happen to both their victims, shrugging his shoulders as if it were inconsequential. ôWanna make a deal, mister? YouÆre hurt, right? ItÆs hard to fight like that, you know.ö
æNot good, not good at all.Æ
The enemy was clearly aware of his wounded state, and ready to use it to his advantage. That the foe was proposing a dealùhe would at least hear the other out.
ôTell you whatàö the green-haired one continued, relishing the tension brought on by this situation as a whole. ôI was just doing a little bit of recon when I decided on a whim to jump you. IÆll let you go scott-free, and I mean it, if youÆllàö He trailed off dramatically.
æWhat a ham,Æ Assassin thought, his jaw tightening fractionally. æWhat does he want?Æ
ôàgive me your MemberÆs Address!ö With an enthusiastic finish, the mysterious Servant offered Assassin aàrather strange proposal.
The tense, uneasy mood was killed, banished as effectively as if it were a demon exorcised by one of the legendary demon hunters who specialized in such work. Assassin silently gawked when he heard this û and probably would have done a spit-take if his mouth were full of waterû but only he would ever know of his reaction to the offer, as he was still wearing his mask, fortunately.
æWhatàwhat in the name of Hassan iûSabbah is a ôMemberÆs Address?Æ
Assassin answered in the only way appropriate, voice utterly flat. ôWhat?ö
ôYou knowàyour MemberÆs Address,ö the other repeated, his smirk becoming something cruel, something wicked, the green-haired oneÆs eyes glinting with malevolence. ôYour identity. Gimmeàplease?ö
ôI, ummàI donÆt have one of those,ö Assassin said at last, hoping that his foe would be dissuaded from further battle. "I'm just an Assassin."
ôAhhhàö the green-haired assassin said, genuinely disappointed. ôThatÆs too bad.ö Then the enemyÆs expression hardened, the twisted smile compressing into a thin line like an icy razor. ôOh well, guess itÆs time for you to die, then!ö
The unknown Servant surged towards Assassin with blinding speed, a katar blade thrust forward as if to skewer the confused figure in black. But Assassin had been ready, and as soon as the enemy actedùindeed, as soon as the foe exhibited any hostile intent at all, he moved.
Sharpened steel met only air as the head of the order of the Hashshashin ducked under the deadly blade and sidestepped it with ease. Incredulous, the other ôAssassinö responded by swinging the opposite arm in a parabolic motion, intending to cut off the true AssassinÆs line of retreatùbut once more, Assassin dodged, jumping back out of range to deny the green-haired one the satisfaction of a killing blow.
The other growled, but did not relent, pressing his assault with greater intensity than before, blades flying at the black-cloaked one with the fury and speed almost worthy of a berserker.
The other assassin growled. His continued the assault in earnest, and while he may not have been a in a berserker-rage his swings grew much more furious in their intensity and frequency. Swing. Dodge. Swing, swing! Dodge. Every single one of the attacks he had launched was avoided, and it was starting to grate on his patience. The unknown Servant kept bringing his blades down upon AssassinÆs location, but the closest he ever came to actually wounding his foe was when the cloaked one moved a fraction of a second too slow, allowing a katar to catch the trailing edge of the dark fabric.
For Assassin moved with an unearthly grace û not a single action wasteful or extraneous, each and every movement flowing into the next with seemingly inhuman perfection.
It most certainly did not help the green-haired oneÆs mood when Assassin effortlessly flowed around his latest strike with mechanical ease and sent a black-gloved fist into the man-childÆs nose with the crunch of cartilage shattering was easily heard. The sound of the cartilage shattering was easily heard. His stumbled backwards and his head jerked violently to the side, accentuated by the stream of blood that gushed from the strike, his trail of motion marked by the stream of blood that gushed from the location of the strike.
ôYou û you bastard!ö he snarled more out of anger than pain, a sudden surge of killing intent flaring out into the environs. His voice had a stuffed-up sound to it, the telltale sign that his nose had indeed been broken and was clogged with blood. But as one far from unused to pain, the green-haired just brought his hand to his face and twisted the broken nose back into place. ôT û that hurt, dammit! YouÆll pay!ö
æJust who is this guy, anyway?!Æ the interloper raged, fingers twitching. æHe has a hole in his arm, for GodÆs sake! So how could he not only survive for this long and but actually draw first blood?!Æ
àthe fact that Assassin was bleeding before the fight even began notwithstanding, of course.
ôAre you, are you toying with me!?ö the unknown voiced gutturally, using his forearm to sop up the blood that was trickling down his upper lip and chin. ôYou havenÆt even used that knife of yours on me yet? What are you trying to prove?!ö
Assassin twirled the knife in an almost defiant manner. The recent outburst of activity brought on by battle had shredded even more threads and destabilized the black cape to the point that it was ready to fall off at any moment now. When that happened, Assassin knew he would be compromised, and like it or not, though if that really happened, then heÆd have an excellent reason for killing his opponent.
After all, in the HeavenÆs Feel the most valuable asset a Servant possessed was his identity, which in turn was linked to whatever Noble Phantasm(s) he had at his disposal.
Assassin, of course, being one of the usual exceptions to this, was a most interesting class of Servant. Unlike most Heroic Spirits, which were summoned to battle using catalysts or had a personality which complemented that of the summoner, the Assassin class had always been inextricably linked to one of the nineteen leaders of the Hashshashin, which invariably took up the identity of Hassan-i Sabbah, the Old Man of the Mountain, the infamous leader and founder of the clan. Thus, knowing the identity of an Assassin was meaningless, as a foe who discovered that would see simply ôHassanö, and thus know nothing of the AssassinÆs Noble Phantasm.
The very class of Assassin serves as the catalyst that calls forth a variant of Hassan into being as representative of the Assassin-class. That was the way it had always been.
Until now.
Sort ofà
Except in this case, as the usual rules did not apply to this particular representative of the class of Assassin.
By some miracle, or through some freak accident, this leader of the Hashshashin had remained independent of the collective identities known as Hassan, becoming infamous in his own right. Therefore, Asssassin had as much reason as the next Servant to conceal his true nature for as long as possible until it could not be helped.
A yell of rage bellowed as the enemy charged once again, attacking with an even greater sense determination and fury, as if something were different, as if all playfulness had disappeared, replaced by the simple intent to cut down an inconvenient obstacle that had stubbornly opposed him for the last time.
Both katars swung at him once more, but with a speed and intensity that the previous strikes had lacked, lethal blades gleaming silver as they traced arcs in the air. They were much faster than before û too fast for Assassin to casually avoid.
With a sense of desperation not present in his prior evasions, Assassin attempted to twist out the way, but he could not. His opponent closed the distance far more quickly than he had anticipated, and before he could even think to interpose his weapon, the fast-moving blades tore into AssassinÆs chestà
There was no sudden spurting of blood. There was no cracking sound as the blade sliced through the collarbone, and continued through the sternum. The only thing that had occurred was a clanging tone, as the cloak tore free at last.
The cloak had torn away completely, leaving the armor completely exposed for all to see. Looking more like a jet-black loose fitting robe than an actual set of armor, with silver-hued vambraces and a crimson sashû just by looking at it he could tell that it was ideal for movement and prolonged combat, yet it was certainly far more durable than its outward appearance let on.
The unknown Servant could not help but gawk, his face frozen into a curious amalgam of bitterness and amusement as he leapt backwards to avoid the inevitable counterattack. True, he was upset because his weapon had not simply ended his opponentÆs life, but there was a flicker of dark delight in his eyes when it dawned on him just what had deflected his blades.
ôSo! This was what you were hiding under there the whole time, huh?!ö the false one exclaimed, cackling in way that was simultaneously intimidating and immature. "So thatÆs how you did it! No freakinÆ way! IÆm squealing like a little girl right now, this is priceless! This is amazing!ö
Assassin took advantage of this moment to build on his rivalÆs movement and increase the distance between them, since the enemy had proven to be quite dangerous, and the difference of a few meters might well be all that kept him alive.
ôOf course, now that I know that my opponent is someone like you, I realize that that IÆm going to have toàö Something was wrong. The opponentÆs tone completely changed, all traces of whimsical lethality fleeing his voice, replaced with something much more battle-hardened and murderous. The voice of a dark knight who had been the sole survivor of a thousand battlefields. ôàget serious about this.ö
The manÆs sudden change in attitude astounded even Assassin. Such a difference in demeanor û could this really still be the same foe he had been fighting this whole time? He knew, of course, of the Hundred Faced Hassan, and how that assassin had intentionally fragmented his psyche in life to compartmentalize the various skill sets and knowledge he had accumulated during his lifetimeàcould it be that this enemy had something similar?
ôAdept Rouge: Flick Reaper.ö
Four words were spoken, words that were backed with the power of tales and legends in a distant world, as the mysterious ServantÆs form changed.
Out of the aether, armor materialized, encasing the unknown Servant in plates of enchanted metal black as oil and red as boiled blood, jagged spikes protruding from it to serve as defense and means of attackùprotection far more effective than the mere cloth and leather the other had previously worn.
But the appearance of the armor was not the only thing about ôAssassinö that had changed. Gone, too, was the odd-looking green hairstyle and the purple headband tied around the manÆs forehead, replaced with a wild-looking mass of gray-white. But perhaps most different were his eyes, crimson-hued things that radiated a feral hatred that they had before lacked, with the bestial nature of the enemy accentuated by vermilion facial tattoos that looked as if they had been painted with the fresh blood his victims.
Assassin could not help but blink at the new menace that presented itself, for a new menace it surely was. The very identity of his enemy had been replaced with that of another individual û that of a disillusioned blood knight whose only goal was to survive to the next battle by felling any adversaries that got in his way.
As if to complete the ensemble, a vicious looking scythe appeared in the foeÆs handsùa wicked-looking, serrated weapon that the unknown ServantÆs gauntleted hands gripped with bloodlust, ready to take the fight to the next level of intensity and seriousness.
ôWell, I guess it really is time for you to die, then,ö Assassin dryly quipped as he readied himself for more combat, grimness in his voice. If the foe felt his elimination important enough to use one of his trump cards, then the bringer of death had no choice but to respond in kind, injured as he was. The enemy knew his identityùand so must be killed, lest this knowledge fall into the hands of the otherÆs Master.
Kill or be killed.
Live and let die.
Those were the rules in play, with any thoughts of mercy by now long fled.
The merest sound of metal on grass was all that betrayed the unknown Servant as he lunged forward with bestial ferocity, the scythe had had been holding disappearing as quickly as it had come, replaced by a pair of vicious looking short-swords with jagged edges that seemed to practically hunger for flesh held in a backwards grip, style that favoring wide, sweeping attacks.
Blows flurried down at Assassin, each one swung directly for the dark-garbed figure, each one backed with the certainty that the one so targeted was already doomed.
Assassin, for his turn, found himself hard-pressed to evade, only barely managing to avoid the slashes of the enemy.
æAs expected, his attacks are much more vicious than before,Æ he internalized as he tried to work out the rhythm of combat that his opponent favored so that he could disrupt it. æIÆll need to be cautious if I intend to live through this.Æ
One of the vicious blades was deflected away as Assassin met it with one of his blades û a scimitar in his possession. A thin, simple weapon, but incredibly useful in combat nonethelessùeven if his blood flecked away in little sprays from his wounds as the swords made contact, a wince of pain flaring through him as his arm ached.
ôAn Assassin with a sword?ö the knight-assassin asked, with a hint of a smirk on his fierce features, ôThatÆs certainly a first for this war.ö
ôWhy so surprised?ö the Hashshashin responded with a curving swipe of his blade, one deflected by his foe with practiced ease. ôAfter all, the Assassin class is infamous for having many tricks up their sleeves.ö
With a sense of irony that any dark humorist would find amusing, Assassin drove the point home with a dagger that he had suddenly obtained from the aether itself, striking at his adversary while one of his swords was out of play. But the knife was deflected when the gray-haired hunter turned his other blade aside to deny AssassinÆs strike, in a show of dexterity that surprised him, as heavy armor was not known for allowing a wide range of movement.
They clashed, blade to blade, two masters of death confronting one another in a grim duel that would leave at least one of them broken, whirling and spinning as the sought to end one anotherÆs lives. The empty park filled with the sounds of crashing metal and rent winds, surely a spectacle unrivalled by anyùhad anyone been around to see it, the duel between these two veterans of many conflicts would have no doubt inspired silence and awe, as the only sounds echoing about the ringing chords and refrain of swordsong as steel grated and clanged against steel in the dance of blades.
Swords thirsting for an opponentÆs blood versus the emotionally silent tools of assassination.
An assassin versus one who had become infamous for striking down those who brought death to others.
Two who had only been sent to scout now locked in a battle to the death.
A performance such as this that should not be missed by any with a taste for battle unfolded in the silence of night, in an island of desolation isolated from the bustling society it was ensconced within by lingering memories of the past. In the middle of a city of the present, two ghosts of the past did battle, with none knowing who they were or why they were hereùsave others of their ilk, none of which would arrive in time to intervene.
Black robe-armor fluttered as Assassin performed a backwards flying leap into the grove of dead trees to avoid a particularly brutal set of attacksùand take advantage of the high ground to better attack his enemy. Unfortunately, it seemed as if the dark knight was had been prepared for this, as in an instant, he switched weapons, just as before.
The vorpal shortswords that the hunter had previously wielded were dismissed to the void from which they had been called, and what appeared in their place was a weapon that gave even the cunning Assassin pause û
û a massive claymore with spinning blades that could make the destruction of a medium-sized house seem trivially simple.
A chainsaw sword, of all thingsàsomething that should be an unwieldy weapon in the hand of even a massive warrior, be he an expert or no.
But there was no time to think, as the sword switched on, the blade roaring into the night like a ravenous beast, a prelude to the carnage it promised, as the black armored Servant made a beeline for the grove that Assassin had retreated into, swinging the buzzing sword with all his might.
Biting teeth howled as metal tore into wood and sawdust was spat into the nighttime air, each sweeping blow clear-cutting a row of trees. Time and time again the knight slashed outwards, and whatever his blade struck was shredded with such ease and fluidity that it was no more difficult than slicing the air itself. No matter how much wood, metal, or other substance the chainsword carved its way through, it was not impeded.
It could not be impeded, for it was a weapon that possessed a power that did not yet exist in any tool or weapon made by human hands.
A man possessed by the urge to destroy, the ôknightö relentlessly reduced all in his way to rubble and dust. He might have started this fight on a whim, but it had escalated too far for him to decide to pull back on one. There was no choice left: he would find his enemy, and he would kill himàand if Assassin was going to hide himself amongst the trees, then he would just have to flush him out!
A dark shape silently flittered by to his left with the speed of a banshee.
æThere!Æ He thought, with his battle rage, the intense desire to rend his foe limb from limb, nearly overtaking him as he readied his chainsword, bringing it across and down. æTime to finish this!Æ
ôZabaniya û Apple of Eden.ö
In an instant, waves of sensations and feelings overcame the black-armored Servant, an assault not on a physical level, but a mental one. The air congealed, growing thick and heavy, as if he had been submerged underwater. His vision blurred and the world seemed to rock back and forth, unsteady, unstable, as if it would collapse around him at a momentÆs notice.
The ServantÆs grip on the chainsword grew loose, though he kept himself from dropping it with sheer force of will, even as sound would sporadically heighten and muffle with no rhyme or reason, buffeting him from all sides, all angles.
A headache was rapidly building inside his skull. Everything throbbed. Everything. Whatàwhat was happening to him? What was going on? What?
The shadows in the darkness seemed to gain a life of their own as they ebbed and flowed like cursed waves, surging forward one moment, back the next in a rhythm like some kind of delusional heartbeat, each billowing and contracting indistinctly. No û the shadows were in the shape of his opponent and were rushing at him. Waitàthey were not shadows û they actually were his enemy, each figure an identical copy of the hooded, mask-wearing black robed man. A dozen Assassins all converging on his location, all intending to encircle and flank him, overwhelm him with numbers alone.
æLike hell IÆll let them!Æ
Amidst all these things, he welcomed their assault, as the immediate danger helped him to shrug off the unease and sickness that threatened to drown him. A rising tide of anger, white hot in his core surged forth, for he would not allow himself to be overcome like this.
With a hardened resolve, the Servant tightened his grip on his chainsaw claymore, and revved it to maximum speed and power, as he waded right into the crowd of Assassins, intending to use his weapon to simply cut them all down at once, since he was no stranger to engaging multiple enemies at once.
With a grunt, he used his entire body to swing the chainsword in a wide, sweeping arc, as if to cleave all those within reach. The Assassins that were close enough to be threatened by such an attack ducked and dodged as appropriate, but in turn sacrificed the advantage given to them with their group charge.
Yet, the rest were not deterred. Rather, this provided an opening that the other Assassins took advantage of like a unit used to coordinating their movements û by sending a rain of ebon knives hurtling at the assassin-knight.
But the mysterious Servant reacted accordingly, as he too was a veteran of many battles, including ones far tougher than this, against foes more terrible than the mind could imagine. There was no way he would let himself die this easily, not so soon into the War against an enemy that in life had only been human.
With reflexes honed by experience, he turned the broad weapon and interposed it between his body and the daggers hurtling towards him, spinning it around as an impromptu shield against the hail of metal missiles, blocking the majority, with a mere handful brushing past to graze his body and draw thin red lines into his armor and flesh.
The sound of metal ringing against metal ûa cacophony of violence that guaranteed death to one party or another. Soon enough, the assault ended, and baring his teeth, the crimson-eyed Servant decided to attack once again.
This time, however, he decided that using a large, unwieldy weapon against such nimble foes as these û even if they were all in a closely-packed group together and susceptible to öcrowd controlö styles of combatùwould most likely be unwise, given that his enemies were not prone to panic and had excellent reflexes of their own. If that was the case, then he had no choice but to match û or even surpass û them at their own style of battle.
With that the Servant dismissed the large chainsword from his hands in order to once again claim the two short-swords he had wielded previously, weapons still just as eager to taste flesh and drink the blood of their masterÆs foes as they had been when they were initially called forth.
Loyalty, in a trial where Servants were generally alone with the exception of their own Master, was appreciated greatly û even if such loyalty came from nearly-demonic short swords that existed to end an enemyÆs life and thirsted for life force.
Especially if they are those forementioned nearly-demonic short swords.
Steel flashed as the sable knight guarded against one of the many AssassinsÆ attacks, a swing of his blades parrying the scimitar, and retaliating with an especially vicious one-two counter that took the Assassin that was facing him off guard.
The first blow literally shattered the opposing sword and the second one ripped the AssassinÆs head from its shoulders. A stream of gore traced the path of the severed skull as it was almost casually tossed aside by the momentum imparted to it with the knightÆs deadly stroke. Seconds later the prana sustaining the body dispersed and lost form.
Yet the others remained, no less ready to engage and kill the enemy before them.
Illusions. Like lies, deceit, treachery and poison, such was one of the many techniques and tools utilized by assassins throughout the history of the world.
An illusion û that was what all of these black assailants were. But if he could get to the real one û
ôIÆll just have to cut all of you down!ö he roared as he threw himself back into the fray without skipping a beat, something inside him awakening like a beast as the Servant tore at those who had dared to attack him.
Another one of the illusionary Assassins was unlucky enough to be the next focus of his unfettered rage, as the force of the twin blades converging knocked the dagger out of its hands and followed up with a slash that tore out the throat and crushed the black figureÆs collarbone. The dead illusion was dispelled, prana scattering before its lifeblood watered the dead sod below.
Two down. On to the next.
There always was a ænext oneÆ û or at least so it was when he was alive, one more target to eliminate, one more enemy to cut down on the path of vengeance. But here û where all ties to his past were gone and he did not have to worry about holding back û he could allow himself to once again slip into an old role he had once played.
The question wasàwhich role would he choose? Would he be the hero, the avenger, the terror of death, oràsomething else entirely?
He would find his opponent and finish this once and for all, for had he not been one of the lucky few who had been selected, been chosen by the Throne as a Player in the miracle for a second-chance? He damn well wasnÆt going to bail out of the War this soon. Not in this fight. Not ever! He would win this. If not for himself, then for her û for his Master. For the proud and haughty noble girl who deep down was just as alone as he had been in life.
He laughed then, a low and dissonant chuckle that would have sent shivers down the spine of any observer. Even with the world distorted around him, his perceptions had not been warped enough for the Assassins to simply initiate death blows. Dangerous the illusions might be, coordinated by one overriding will, but they were not infallible or all-seeing.
Such was proven when one of his blades was thrown right into an enemyÆs skull, tearing through bone with a sickening crunch, followed by its subsequent and abrupt removal as the Terror of Death simply ripped the weapon from his victimÆs body. The hooded Servant had not been not expecting an action like that at all, and as such was the next to join its comrades in the place where all dead illusions and mirages find themselves in after they have been dispelled by the real world.
Except the blood remained û the blood was always what would remain of his actions, no matter what form he took.
Twisting around to avoid the jet-black knives thrown down at him, the unknown Servant leapt into the few standing trees, running along the sturdy branches and cutting down the illusions from their perches. Blood fell like rain and dismembered appendages plummeted towards a dead layer of undergrowth that they would never have the chance to touch.
But he did not emerge unscathed, a sharp pain blossoming, as a pair of daggers sliced into his arm.
æTch. Missed one.Æ
He whirled about, intending to remedy this concern in a rather permanent form, as he dropped down to the final illusionÆs location and struck with the power of a raging wolfùonly for this Assassin to nimbly evade. Grasped tightly in the enemyÆs hand was an artifact of some sort roughly the same size asàan apple. Thatàapple.
No û
It was not ôthis Assassinö, it was ôthe Assassinö û the one with whom he had instigated this conflict.
æAt last, IÆve found you!Æ
At the recognition of his true foe, the dark-armored ServantÆs mental state began to stabilize once more, the effects of AssassinÆs Noble Phantasm was finally starting to wear off, much to his relief. He had hidden it well, but throughout the protracted engagement with the clones of the shadowed one, he had felt as if he were going to either throw up, black out, or throw up and black out at the same time, possibly drowning in his own vomit û and that would have to be a most embarrassing death, probably the most pathetic end a Servant could ask for.
æYeah. What a way for an Epic Hero to go.Æ
Yet he had made it through. He had persevered through that numbing, disorienting mental assault. He had withstood the illusionary AssassinsÆ ambush and responded to the mirages in kind û and was moments away from finishing the job.
Seeking the end of the adversary before him, he sprung forward with his swords at the ready. He moved as a blur û a blur colored like pitch and blood, a shadow stained with ichor, his blade gleaming as they reflected the distant lights of the city when they spun, whistling through the air for his enemyÆs neck.
The whistle in the air.
The glint of steel.
The clanging thunk of blades making contact.
The splash of blood.
And it ended abruptly as it had started.
û Except not in the avengerÆs favor.
He had been stopped cold in his tracks. Ankle. Shin. Kneecap. His eye was drawn immediately to these locations as soon as the pain began. They stungàand he knew why.
A meter-long rapier-like sword had pierced his armor and stuck right into his kneecapùand it was not alone. Two more had pierced below it, and were embedded in his shin and ankle, rending flesh and piercing bone, with the wounds smoking and burning slightly where the thin blades had stabbed into his flesh. Their cross-shaped pommels pointed towards the sky as if to say that they were weapons sent by Him in order to punish those who hurt His allies.
Conceptual Weapons.
Black Keys.
He was pinned û the swords had gone clean through armor, muscle, flesh and bone, and had sunk themselves deep enough into the ground to keep him temporarily immobilized.
He shot his gaze upwards in the direction whence the Black Keys had come. He had caught sight of the one who had wounded him immediately.
She stood on the jutting branch of a dead tree, a figure like a statue of a saint in a church û stoic and dutiful as the granite or marble that that sculpture would have been carved from, beautiful yet unearthly. It was as if she were a silent sentinel, yet one that was not above interfering with the events it bore witness to.
Quiet. Duteous. Dangerous.
The Servant grimaced, partly due to the pain and partly due to the untimely, unexpected appearance of another foe û one that seemed to be an ally of the one he was currently fighting as well, when he took into account the implied camaraderie between the two. Was it possible that this woman was û no. That was not the way that the War worked. Or at least not how it normally worked. Had AssassinÆs Master somehow cut a deal with the Church? Were they to do a favor in exchange for assistance?
Playing around outside of the systemàwas something that irked the black knight to no end.
For some reason, the presence of the new arrival seemed to have changed the very atmosphere of the park. Gone was the feeling of death and emptiness, of ends and beginnings, of change, of the inheritance of one manÆs ideals. The atmosphere of the park now more closely resembled that of a churchùa hidden, forbidden, holy ground upon which none might intrude.
æWell, this isnÆt goodàÆ
Without a word his attacker had six more of those swords appear suddenly in her hands û each blade held in between her knuckles. Her arms moved faster than the human eye could follow, and sanctified steel rained down to further skewer the knight.
The sudden appearance of this womanàchanged things considerably.
Against someone normal or merely slightly superhuman such an attack would have been impossible to avoid. The Black Keys were travelling too fast û impalement was inevitable, and even an ôaverageö Servant would be hard-pressed to come out of it unscathed.
He followed the flight of the whooshing blades. Took note of their speed. Of their location. Where they had been and where they would be.
Dual-welded short swords slashed at the night. Each stroke was precise, controlled, and inhumanly fast. The clang of clashing metal echoed as each Black Key was deflected away by the knight of vengeanceÆs swings. Swings that made up for their lack of speed with the combat experience of the one who had held the blades that carried out those responses.
Swords littered the landscape like graveyard of blades, some lying on the ground where they had fallen, others piercing the objects that they were deflected into, with the area about him resembled nothing so much as an oversize banquet table, packed to bursting with massive hor d'oeuvres speared with toothpicks of appropriate size.
How appropriate, as given the timeframe, this fight was merely an appetizer to the main courseàa prelude to many more to come in this fifth occurrence of the Holy Gail War.
Growling ever so slightly, the besieged Servant glared up at the churchwoman standing on her perch, as if she had the gall to try and ôjudgeö him. He glared at the Assassin standing across from him, the Hashshashin who stood coolly (almost idly) holding his scimitar and the artifact, that Noble Phantasm û that à apple.
This battle was not yet over. He could turn this around if they pushed him to the brink, forced him to call forth his trump cards. His confidence, backed by long experience, was unflagging, and his morale did not fail him. Still, logic indicated that it would not be easy, as he was at a numerical disadvantageû Assassin had shown himself capable of summoning illusions that could inflict psychological damage that felt as if it were real, and the woman was clearly capable of fighting Servants on at least an even level.
Annoyingly, he did not know the full extent of their true abilities, and for all he knew had barely scratched the surface of their capabilities. He had failed to end this quickly, thanks to a personaÆs old habits, and nowà
àbut before he could continue on that line of thought, a voice in his head implored him to come home, telling him that now was not the time for this, that he had done enough.
æFine,Æ the mysterious Servant responded, sighing in his mind. æBut only because you told me to.Æ
The assassin-knight growled in pain as he forcibly yanked out the Black Keys, the weapons that had singed and stung his flesh, pinning his leg down like an animal in a trap. With the pressure of the blades removed, blood trickled freely from his body, though thankfully not in large quantities, as they had apparently cauterized what flesh they had struck.
ôHuh. IÆll be seeing you later then, Grand Master of the Hashshashin,ö he half sneered, half-commended with a mocking bow, taking great care to emphasize that title û for it indeed was a title Assassin had held all those years ago.
With that, his body dissolved into an incorporeal mist that blew away with the breeze as he went into astral form, living to fight another day.
ôPerhaps so à Skeith,ö Assassin replied calmly to the night.
______________________
What a productive night it had been.
First he relived his old life by assassinating the entire ôruling casteö of a certain business empireÆs Japanese branch, getting shot at by the security of said company and actually getting shot in the arm. He had then had anàinteresting fight with an enemy Servant in this long-dead park, only to have it all finish up with the timely arrival of the Church woman.
At the least, he certainly could not say that it had been dull.
In the aftermath, Assassin remained in place, still gazing at the area that the other Servant had been mere moments before. By now he was no doubt far gone from this place, gone to wherever it was that he had been called to. Probably his MasterÆs redoubt. For some illogical, irrational reason, he hoped that it was a welcoming place with a nice healing circle waiting for him when he got back û it was a cold night after all, and he did have respect for his foesùespecially the more talented ones. Speaking of talented individualsà
He saw out of the corner of his eye that the woman had stepped off of the tree branch, making her way over to where he stood. Her stride was confident and professional û just the way it always was. For this woman was in fact his û
ôMaster.ö Assassin brusquely acknowledged, nodding to the blue-haired woman. He was not usually one to come out with the first word in a conversation, and he concluded that it must have something to do with that woman. After all, for all her seriousness and business-like demeanor, she hadà how would one put it delicatelyà a bit of an eccentric streak.
ôAssassin,ö the Churchwoman replied as she stepped to his side. ôBefore I start, I have to say that I did tell you to call me by my name.ö
ôApologies, Master û but it just sounds soàinformal when I do that.ö
ôIf it bothers you that much then feel free to attach my name to my ætitleÆ then,ö she counters. ôAfter all, you were not averse to addressing others by name in life, were you?ö
ôVery well then MasteràCiel.ö
ôMuch better, Assassin.ö She was smiling, wasnÆt she? Even were it not for his excellent dark-vision, he could tell, though her smile was an odd thing that some found cold and oddly disturbing. ôNow then, would you care to explain what is was that you were doing tonight? After all, IÆm sure you have an excellent reason for your à actions.ö
Actions that had certainly gone beyond the scope of simple reconnaissance, as it had involved the killing of those uninvolved with the war, something which would no doubt be difficult to clean up.
ôWould you believe me if I said that I needed the prana?ö Assassin asked innocently. Explaining to her his rationale for conducting the activities he did in the tower would be somewhat problematic. Especially when he took into account who and what his Master was.
ôHmmàö Ciel said with a false thoughtfulness that could have been seen through by an eight-year-old. ôNo. The War has only just begun. And besidesàö Here she smirked at him, ôI have more than enough prana to keep you sustained for this entire War, as you well know.ö
ôWell, I didnÆt think you would,ö the killer noted diffidently, shrugging slightly as he put away his weapons, noting that combat had only worsened his condition.
ôSo why then? Why did you do it?ö the combat nun inquired in a neutral manner. Her eyes showed no sadness, nor did she show any outward signs that she was distressed by this matter. All that was evident was a desire to know the truth. ôWhy did they have to die? And why Abstergo Industries?ö
ôItÆs a very long story, Master Ciel,ö Assassin sighed, his expression betraying nothing at all. ôAll I can say is that what needed to be done needed to be done. I could not allow them û my old enemies û to continue on and plot at their leisure so. The world is not their plaything. We deserve better than to be in their thrall û better than to be controlled by them.ö
Ciel said nothing.
Abstergo Industries. It would be inaccurate to say that they were just a front for AssassinÆs eternal enemies û the Knights Templar themselves. Rather, the Knights Templar were Abstergo.
ôThe Hashshashin and Abstergo, or rather the Templars, exist within a perpetual cycle of violence,ö the Servant explained tonelessly, laying things out in a manner of fact way. ôWe kill off all the known members of each othersÆ groups, wait for the group to rise until they are capable of becoming a threat once more, and the cycle then starts over in earnest. I swore a silent oath as the Grand Master of my Order that I would stand against the Knights Templar and what they stand for until the end of time. That decision has not changed.ö
ôI never asked it of you,ö Ciel responded simply, her voice perfectly neutral as she acknowledged her ServantÆs point, taking in this revelation rather well. Most would be quick to assume that she would be more opposed to AssassinÆs actions, but then, most also did not know that there was no love lost between her andàthose who employed her as the Seventh of the Burial Agencyàthe same ones who had tortured her to see if ôthe unnatural whore spawn of Roaö as she had been called, would die. Secretly, she supported anything that ôstuck it to the manö and gave the Church a hard time. And since the Church did indeed have Templars serving as spies within her walls in Rome and elsewhere, this coincided nicely with AssassinÆs desire.
ôSo you see where I am going with this, then?ö Assassin asked. After all, Master Ciel always had demonstrated sharp insight in these talks, even if only replying to fragments of the truth.
ôSo thatÆs your wish, then? You desire something that will completely shatter this little reality of theirs and end the cycle once and for all?ö
ôYes, that is correct, Masterà.Ciel.ö Once more he had almost forgotten to say her name, but managed to tack it on before it grew too late.
Silence loomed between the two figures, as it grew quiet in the park. The peace was good while it lasted, but Assassin did not mind it when his Master decided to start up conversation once more.
ôSo then Assassin...,ö Ciel spoke, but trailed off suspiciously. There was a slight grin on her face that disturbed the former Grand Master of the Hashshashin û as he knew well what it meant. All too well, in fact. ôYou do realize that since IÆm the one who saved you that youàowe me.ö
He knew from the start that his Master was an oddball. He had a strong feeling that theyÆd have an interesting partnership together û
ôWhat flavor do you want?ö
ôChicken tikka masala.ö
û but he never expected that sheÆd do something as irresponsible as use one of her Command Seals to order him to go on a curry run for her whenever she felt the need.
ôYou know, Master Ciel,ö he sighed, shaking his head and fighting the urge to cradle his brow with his hands. ôI would have gotten you your curry anytime you asked.ö
ôI know.ö She responded in a rather bubbly manner (æIsnÆt it amazing how curry can make this woman act?Æ) ôBut this way youÆll never be able to refuse me, right?ö
ôAnd now I never will be able to, right.ö
Oh well, he supposed it could be worse. He could think of far worse things that she could have forced him to do with her Command Seals.
ôDo I still have to eat with you and call you æsenpaiÆ when I do so?ö
ôYes,ö Ciel replied with a very cute pout on her face.
ôBut I donÆt understand,ö Assassin retorted as they went off into the night together, towards the promise of curry and adventure. ôNeither of us are Japanese, nor are we have both enrolled in any form of schooling or profession that would require the need for such distinctions. IÆm not exactly a Church employee, remember?ö
ôAlta´ràö Ciel intoned slowly, not needing to say more. He did not like it whenever she said his name like that. Since he was shrewd enough to pick up on whatever it was that displeased her, he never knew what that foretold and he never intended to find out. He knew better than to cross dangerous women û even though himself had found his fate inextricably bound to them throughout his old life.
ôNevermind.ö
Which made it ideal for a wayward soul that cared not about the locationÆs dark past, who thought only of how itÆs out of the way location made it the perfect place to stage an ambush, the perfect place for a rendezvous, or the perfect place to snatch a momentÆs respite away from prying eyes.
So it was that in this fell garden of sinners that Assassin took form once again, willing his insubstantial soul to become a being of flesh and blood once more in the shadow of a long dead tree. Taking a deep breath, the shadow leaned up against the rough bark and assessed his condition, noting that he had been injured far more than he cared during an operation.
While carrying out his self-appointed mission, Assassin had made sure to maintain the image of an invulnerable specter of death, an untouchable grim reaper that stole life away with contemptuous ease. Any sign of weakness, any hint of vulnerability would have simply compelled the guards chasing after him to be even more ruthless, like sharks scenting blood.
Still, that image of invulnerability had been merely that û an image, for Assassin had not escaped the fray unscathed.
His shadowy cloak was so riddled with bullet holes that it could barely hold itself together, and the defense that aided him so well in the raid could be seen peeking through the spaces that had been torn into the dark fabric. Assassin scowled behind his mask û the reason he wore this extraneous cloak over his normal gear was to conceal this particular Noble Phantasm of his from the enemy. If an enemy Servant saw it, then history would have repeated itself by having his reputation once again precede him. ThatÆs the price that comes with infamy, he supposed.
But while the possibility of having his identity revealed was currently his most pressing concern, making his wounds seem rather inconsequential in comparison, Assassin was not a careless Servant. He knew well of the disadvantages that fighting while hurt, and so was not inclined to continue his reconnoitering the city tonight, particularly if the possibility existed that he would run into foes more dangerous than humansàeven those armed with Conceptual Weapons.
One did not inherit the position of Hassan-i Sabbah by ignoring the tactical situation, after all, and there were times when his position would be best served by withdrawing from the field for a time.
Thus, after a brief evaluation as to the severity of his injuries, the Servant planned to re-enter spirit form and return to his summoning circle, where he could restore and stabilize the prana that gave form to his body.
Blood dripped and dribbled from numerous gashes and punctures in his arm, delicate crimson beads falling from his body and soaking into the brown grass at his feet. At this rate of blood loss, Assassin knew that he would not be dying from his injuries anytime soon, but until he healed, he would be disadvantaged in any combat situations that cropped up.
æSo they really were armed with Conceptual Weapons. Or something similar,Æ the Heroic Spirit mused as he finished inspecting his wounds. æPossibly even consecrated bullets, seeing how they were able to damage my spiritual body û and considering the links that they have had historically with the Church, obtaining those rounds would be easy enough.Æ
The bullets used against him had scattered flesh and scraped bone û a rather disturbing notion, as physical attacks had little effect on Servants. Under normal conditions, a lead bullet would be unable to deal damage to them. However, were the ammunition consecrated rounds, bullets filled with holy relics, then...
æàthe notion of a consecrated weapon is absurd to begin with, because be it holy or demonic, such weapons simply possess a curse. A treasure that can wound a spirit, not by physical force, but by conceptual attack û capable of affecting a spirit just by existing.Æ
Fortunately, Assassin had been able to will his defense into materializing right after the injuries to his extremities, for had he been even a fraction of a second slower, he might have not made it out alive. After all, for all his skill and martial prowess, he was still but an Assassin û a member of a class far from renowned for the ability to survive deathblow after deathblow via sheer willpower.
He twitched in pain as gloved fingers probed the wounded arm, checking the extent of the damage in more detail than a cursory inspection would allow. The worst of his injuries was a hole in his left forearm that had gone clean through to the other side. Naturally enough, this was also the primary source for the bleeding.
æHmm. This one could be a problem,Æ the Servant thought to himself as he eyed the injury, pulling his cloak away from his arm to get a better look. æThankfully, it didnÆt shatter bone, but it grazed it enough to make combat difficult. Well then, I guess thatÆs the reason ûÆ
ôBOING!ö
A voice rang out in the silence, as flashing steel sliced through air and interrupted AssassinÆs thoughts. Instinct kicked into high gear and forced the cloaked figure to react faster than thought itself, as he tucked himself into a defensive roll that carried him away from the immediate strike zone and, on recovering to his feet, armed himself with a dagger drawn from within his tattered garments. It wasnÆt the first time someone had tried to take him by surprise, and as a result, his reflexes had become so honed over the years that reactions such as this came naturally to him.
ôAhhh, you dodged it,ö the voice said disappointedly. ôSo much for that. IÆll never get that award badge for stealth-kills at this rate.ö
From his crouch, Assassin cocked his head, seeking the direction that the voice had come from. It was an odd voice, nasal and filled with the flush of youth, but brimming with confidence nonetheless. From that, coupled with the practiced ease of the attack that had nearly decapitated him, the Servant knew that whoever he was facing was a veteran of sortsùeven if his assailant had given away his intentions to strikeà.
æàas if testing me. No, this one is definitely not one to be taken lightly,Æ Assassin thought to himself, his eyes found the foe that had emerged from concealment with startling speed and attempted to end his lifeùthe smirking foe, whose eyes were narrowed in amusement that he had apparently survived.
In the time it took to blink, Assassin quickly took in as much information on his opponent as he could.
Bodysuit.
A shade of navy blue so dark that it blended into the night nearly as well as AssassinÆs ragged cloak.
Purple stripes and beltsùobviously there for aesthetic purposes only.
A purple headband. Again, aesthetic preferences, no doubt.
Green hair, cut short in the back but hanging long in the front.
Leather vambraces, coupled with guards worn on the stomach/torso area and as kneepads. Simple, light defenses, geared more for mobility rather than to withstand any sustained assault.
Weaponsà
Blades that extended from metal gauntlets worn on both of his arms, wielded like katars, with a spring-loaded mechanism for quick retraction or deployment.
æMuch like my own blade, if not very similar.Æ
ôLetÆs see hereàskull mask, cloak blacker than the blackest of abyssesàWith that sort of getup, that must mean youÆre an Assassin, right?ö the enemy quizzically inquired with a look of mock-curiosity.
AssassinÆs body tensed momentarily, all the confirmation that the newcomer needed.
ôHa! I knew it!ö the interloper gloated, laughing almost childishly. ôNow whereÆs my prize?ö
But the reason Assassin had tensed up was not due to shock that his true class had been discovered. Judging by his appearance alone, anyone would have been able to discern his class in moments if he was seen. Instead, his body was tightening in the way a snake coiled, ready to strike or disengage at a momentÆs notice.
Thisàthis almost man-childàwas an interesting one.
ôAnd the way that you were able to sneak up on me without my awareness, does that make you an Assassin as well?ö Assassin inquired mildly. As an assassin, and even more as a Servant, the bringer of death was keenly aware of any and all presences within his range of awareness. To be able to catch him unawares (or attempt to, as was such in this case) would require the capability to shut off oneÆs presence completely from the outside world. In other words û
ôPresence Concealment. You have it, donÆt you? Or something similar.ö
ôBravo. Bravo!ö the other clapped mockingly, acknowledging AssassinÆs own shrewdness. ôBing and æOÆ. IÆm just like you, mister.ö
ôYou had the perfect opportunity to silence me,ö Assassin conceded, eyeing his opponent with not a little curiosity. ôYet you completely ruined your chances when you alerted me to your presence. Why?ö
A cold chuckle.
ôWhat can I say? Old habits die hard,ö the other replied, placing particular emphasis on the verb that described that tended to happen to both their victims, shrugging his shoulders as if it were inconsequential. ôWanna make a deal, mister? YouÆre hurt, right? ItÆs hard to fight like that, you know.ö
æNot good, not good at all.Æ
The enemy was clearly aware of his wounded state, and ready to use it to his advantage. That the foe was proposing a dealùhe would at least hear the other out.
ôTell you whatàö the green-haired one continued, relishing the tension brought on by this situation as a whole. ôI was just doing a little bit of recon when I decided on a whim to jump you. IÆll let you go scott-free, and I mean it, if youÆllàö He trailed off dramatically.
æWhat a ham,Æ Assassin thought, his jaw tightening fractionally. æWhat does he want?Æ
ôàgive me your MemberÆs Address!ö With an enthusiastic finish, the mysterious Servant offered Assassin aàrather strange proposal.
The tense, uneasy mood was killed, banished as effectively as if it were a demon exorcised by one of the legendary demon hunters who specialized in such work. Assassin silently gawked when he heard this û and probably would have done a spit-take if his mouth were full of waterû but only he would ever know of his reaction to the offer, as he was still wearing his mask, fortunately.
æWhatàwhat in the name of Hassan iûSabbah is a ôMemberÆs Address?Æ
Assassin answered in the only way appropriate, voice utterly flat. ôWhat?ö
ôYou knowàyour MemberÆs Address,ö the other repeated, his smirk becoming something cruel, something wicked, the green-haired oneÆs eyes glinting with malevolence. ôYour identity. Gimmeàplease?ö
ôI, ummàI donÆt have one of those,ö Assassin said at last, hoping that his foe would be dissuaded from further battle. "I'm just an Assassin."
ôAhhhàö the green-haired assassin said, genuinely disappointed. ôThatÆs too bad.ö Then the enemyÆs expression hardened, the twisted smile compressing into a thin line like an icy razor. ôOh well, guess itÆs time for you to die, then!ö
The unknown Servant surged towards Assassin with blinding speed, a katar blade thrust forward as if to skewer the confused figure in black. But Assassin had been ready, and as soon as the enemy actedùindeed, as soon as the foe exhibited any hostile intent at all, he moved.
Sharpened steel met only air as the head of the order of the Hashshashin ducked under the deadly blade and sidestepped it with ease. Incredulous, the other ôAssassinö responded by swinging the opposite arm in a parabolic motion, intending to cut off the true AssassinÆs line of retreatùbut once more, Assassin dodged, jumping back out of range to deny the green-haired one the satisfaction of a killing blow.
The other growled, but did not relent, pressing his assault with greater intensity than before, blades flying at the black-cloaked one with the fury and speed almost worthy of a berserker.
The other assassin growled. His continued the assault in earnest, and while he may not have been a in a berserker-rage his swings grew much more furious in their intensity and frequency. Swing. Dodge. Swing, swing! Dodge. Every single one of the attacks he had launched was avoided, and it was starting to grate on his patience. The unknown Servant kept bringing his blades down upon AssassinÆs location, but the closest he ever came to actually wounding his foe was when the cloaked one moved a fraction of a second too slow, allowing a katar to catch the trailing edge of the dark fabric.
For Assassin moved with an unearthly grace û not a single action wasteful or extraneous, each and every movement flowing into the next with seemingly inhuman perfection.
It most certainly did not help the green-haired oneÆs mood when Assassin effortlessly flowed around his latest strike with mechanical ease and sent a black-gloved fist into the man-childÆs nose with the crunch of cartilage shattering was easily heard. The sound of the cartilage shattering was easily heard. His stumbled backwards and his head jerked violently to the side, accentuated by the stream of blood that gushed from the strike, his trail of motion marked by the stream of blood that gushed from the location of the strike.
ôYou û you bastard!ö he snarled more out of anger than pain, a sudden surge of killing intent flaring out into the environs. His voice had a stuffed-up sound to it, the telltale sign that his nose had indeed been broken and was clogged with blood. But as one far from unused to pain, the green-haired just brought his hand to his face and twisted the broken nose back into place. ôT û that hurt, dammit! YouÆll pay!ö
æJust who is this guy, anyway?!Æ the interloper raged, fingers twitching. æHe has a hole in his arm, for GodÆs sake! So how could he not only survive for this long and but actually draw first blood?!Æ
àthe fact that Assassin was bleeding before the fight even began notwithstanding, of course.
ôAre you, are you toying with me!?ö the unknown voiced gutturally, using his forearm to sop up the blood that was trickling down his upper lip and chin. ôYou havenÆt even used that knife of yours on me yet? What are you trying to prove?!ö
Assassin twirled the knife in an almost defiant manner. The recent outburst of activity brought on by battle had shredded even more threads and destabilized the black cape to the point that it was ready to fall off at any moment now. When that happened, Assassin knew he would be compromised, and like it or not, though if that really happened, then heÆd have an excellent reason for killing his opponent.
After all, in the HeavenÆs Feel the most valuable asset a Servant possessed was his identity, which in turn was linked to whatever Noble Phantasm(s) he had at his disposal.
Assassin, of course, being one of the usual exceptions to this, was a most interesting class of Servant. Unlike most Heroic Spirits, which were summoned to battle using catalysts or had a personality which complemented that of the summoner, the Assassin class had always been inextricably linked to one of the nineteen leaders of the Hashshashin, which invariably took up the identity of Hassan-i Sabbah, the Old Man of the Mountain, the infamous leader and founder of the clan. Thus, knowing the identity of an Assassin was meaningless, as a foe who discovered that would see simply ôHassanö, and thus know nothing of the AssassinÆs Noble Phantasm.
The very class of Assassin serves as the catalyst that calls forth a variant of Hassan into being as representative of the Assassin-class. That was the way it had always been.
Until now.
Sort ofà
Except in this case, as the usual rules did not apply to this particular representative of the class of Assassin.
By some miracle, or through some freak accident, this leader of the Hashshashin had remained independent of the collective identities known as Hassan, becoming infamous in his own right. Therefore, Asssassin had as much reason as the next Servant to conceal his true nature for as long as possible until it could not be helped.
A yell of rage bellowed as the enemy charged once again, attacking with an even greater sense determination and fury, as if something were different, as if all playfulness had disappeared, replaced by the simple intent to cut down an inconvenient obstacle that had stubbornly opposed him for the last time.
Both katars swung at him once more, but with a speed and intensity that the previous strikes had lacked, lethal blades gleaming silver as they traced arcs in the air. They were much faster than before û too fast for Assassin to casually avoid.
With a sense of desperation not present in his prior evasions, Assassin attempted to twist out the way, but he could not. His opponent closed the distance far more quickly than he had anticipated, and before he could even think to interpose his weapon, the fast-moving blades tore into AssassinÆs chestà
There was no sudden spurting of blood. There was no cracking sound as the blade sliced through the collarbone, and continued through the sternum. The only thing that had occurred was a clanging tone, as the cloak tore free at last.
The cloak had torn away completely, leaving the armor completely exposed for all to see. Looking more like a jet-black loose fitting robe than an actual set of armor, with silver-hued vambraces and a crimson sashû just by looking at it he could tell that it was ideal for movement and prolonged combat, yet it was certainly far more durable than its outward appearance let on.
The unknown Servant could not help but gawk, his face frozen into a curious amalgam of bitterness and amusement as he leapt backwards to avoid the inevitable counterattack. True, he was upset because his weapon had not simply ended his opponentÆs life, but there was a flicker of dark delight in his eyes when it dawned on him just what had deflected his blades.
ôSo! This was what you were hiding under there the whole time, huh?!ö the false one exclaimed, cackling in way that was simultaneously intimidating and immature. "So thatÆs how you did it! No freakinÆ way! IÆm squealing like a little girl right now, this is priceless! This is amazing!ö
Assassin took advantage of this moment to build on his rivalÆs movement and increase the distance between them, since the enemy had proven to be quite dangerous, and the difference of a few meters might well be all that kept him alive.
ôOf course, now that I know that my opponent is someone like you, I realize that that IÆm going to have toàö Something was wrong. The opponentÆs tone completely changed, all traces of whimsical lethality fleeing his voice, replaced with something much more battle-hardened and murderous. The voice of a dark knight who had been the sole survivor of a thousand battlefields. ôàget serious about this.ö
The manÆs sudden change in attitude astounded even Assassin. Such a difference in demeanor û could this really still be the same foe he had been fighting this whole time? He knew, of course, of the Hundred Faced Hassan, and how that assassin had intentionally fragmented his psyche in life to compartmentalize the various skill sets and knowledge he had accumulated during his lifetimeàcould it be that this enemy had something similar?
ôAdept Rouge: Flick Reaper.ö
Four words were spoken, words that were backed with the power of tales and legends in a distant world, as the mysterious ServantÆs form changed.
Out of the aether, armor materialized, encasing the unknown Servant in plates of enchanted metal black as oil and red as boiled blood, jagged spikes protruding from it to serve as defense and means of attackùprotection far more effective than the mere cloth and leather the other had previously worn.
But the appearance of the armor was not the only thing about ôAssassinö that had changed. Gone, too, was the odd-looking green hairstyle and the purple headband tied around the manÆs forehead, replaced with a wild-looking mass of gray-white. But perhaps most different were his eyes, crimson-hued things that radiated a feral hatred that they had before lacked, with the bestial nature of the enemy accentuated by vermilion facial tattoos that looked as if they had been painted with the fresh blood his victims.
Assassin could not help but blink at the new menace that presented itself, for a new menace it surely was. The very identity of his enemy had been replaced with that of another individual û that of a disillusioned blood knight whose only goal was to survive to the next battle by felling any adversaries that got in his way.
As if to complete the ensemble, a vicious looking scythe appeared in the foeÆs handsùa wicked-looking, serrated weapon that the unknown ServantÆs gauntleted hands gripped with bloodlust, ready to take the fight to the next level of intensity and seriousness.
ôWell, I guess it really is time for you to die, then,ö Assassin dryly quipped as he readied himself for more combat, grimness in his voice. If the foe felt his elimination important enough to use one of his trump cards, then the bringer of death had no choice but to respond in kind, injured as he was. The enemy knew his identityùand so must be killed, lest this knowledge fall into the hands of the otherÆs Master.
Kill or be killed.
Live and let die.
Those were the rules in play, with any thoughts of mercy by now long fled.
The merest sound of metal on grass was all that betrayed the unknown Servant as he lunged forward with bestial ferocity, the scythe had had been holding disappearing as quickly as it had come, replaced by a pair of vicious looking short-swords with jagged edges that seemed to practically hunger for flesh held in a backwards grip, style that favoring wide, sweeping attacks.
Blows flurried down at Assassin, each one swung directly for the dark-garbed figure, each one backed with the certainty that the one so targeted was already doomed.
Assassin, for his turn, found himself hard-pressed to evade, only barely managing to avoid the slashes of the enemy.
æAs expected, his attacks are much more vicious than before,Æ he internalized as he tried to work out the rhythm of combat that his opponent favored so that he could disrupt it. æIÆll need to be cautious if I intend to live through this.Æ
One of the vicious blades was deflected away as Assassin met it with one of his blades û a scimitar in his possession. A thin, simple weapon, but incredibly useful in combat nonethelessùeven if his blood flecked away in little sprays from his wounds as the swords made contact, a wince of pain flaring through him as his arm ached.
ôAn Assassin with a sword?ö the knight-assassin asked, with a hint of a smirk on his fierce features, ôThatÆs certainly a first for this war.ö
ôWhy so surprised?ö the Hashshashin responded with a curving swipe of his blade, one deflected by his foe with practiced ease. ôAfter all, the Assassin class is infamous for having many tricks up their sleeves.ö
With a sense of irony that any dark humorist would find amusing, Assassin drove the point home with a dagger that he had suddenly obtained from the aether itself, striking at his adversary while one of his swords was out of play. But the knife was deflected when the gray-haired hunter turned his other blade aside to deny AssassinÆs strike, in a show of dexterity that surprised him, as heavy armor was not known for allowing a wide range of movement.
They clashed, blade to blade, two masters of death confronting one another in a grim duel that would leave at least one of them broken, whirling and spinning as the sought to end one anotherÆs lives. The empty park filled with the sounds of crashing metal and rent winds, surely a spectacle unrivalled by anyùhad anyone been around to see it, the duel between these two veterans of many conflicts would have no doubt inspired silence and awe, as the only sounds echoing about the ringing chords and refrain of swordsong as steel grated and clanged against steel in the dance of blades.
Swords thirsting for an opponentÆs blood versus the emotionally silent tools of assassination.
An assassin versus one who had become infamous for striking down those who brought death to others.
Two who had only been sent to scout now locked in a battle to the death.
A performance such as this that should not be missed by any with a taste for battle unfolded in the silence of night, in an island of desolation isolated from the bustling society it was ensconced within by lingering memories of the past. In the middle of a city of the present, two ghosts of the past did battle, with none knowing who they were or why they were hereùsave others of their ilk, none of which would arrive in time to intervene.
Black robe-armor fluttered as Assassin performed a backwards flying leap into the grove of dead trees to avoid a particularly brutal set of attacksùand take advantage of the high ground to better attack his enemy. Unfortunately, it seemed as if the dark knight was had been prepared for this, as in an instant, he switched weapons, just as before.
The vorpal shortswords that the hunter had previously wielded were dismissed to the void from which they had been called, and what appeared in their place was a weapon that gave even the cunning Assassin pause û
û a massive claymore with spinning blades that could make the destruction of a medium-sized house seem trivially simple.
A chainsaw sword, of all thingsàsomething that should be an unwieldy weapon in the hand of even a massive warrior, be he an expert or no.
But there was no time to think, as the sword switched on, the blade roaring into the night like a ravenous beast, a prelude to the carnage it promised, as the black armored Servant made a beeline for the grove that Assassin had retreated into, swinging the buzzing sword with all his might.
Biting teeth howled as metal tore into wood and sawdust was spat into the nighttime air, each sweeping blow clear-cutting a row of trees. Time and time again the knight slashed outwards, and whatever his blade struck was shredded with such ease and fluidity that it was no more difficult than slicing the air itself. No matter how much wood, metal, or other substance the chainsword carved its way through, it was not impeded.
It could not be impeded, for it was a weapon that possessed a power that did not yet exist in any tool or weapon made by human hands.
A man possessed by the urge to destroy, the ôknightö relentlessly reduced all in his way to rubble and dust. He might have started this fight on a whim, but it had escalated too far for him to decide to pull back on one. There was no choice left: he would find his enemy, and he would kill himàand if Assassin was going to hide himself amongst the trees, then he would just have to flush him out!
A dark shape silently flittered by to his left with the speed of a banshee.
æThere!Æ He thought, with his battle rage, the intense desire to rend his foe limb from limb, nearly overtaking him as he readied his chainsword, bringing it across and down. æTime to finish this!Æ
ôZabaniya û Apple of Eden.ö
In an instant, waves of sensations and feelings overcame the black-armored Servant, an assault not on a physical level, but a mental one. The air congealed, growing thick and heavy, as if he had been submerged underwater. His vision blurred and the world seemed to rock back and forth, unsteady, unstable, as if it would collapse around him at a momentÆs notice.
The ServantÆs grip on the chainsword grew loose, though he kept himself from dropping it with sheer force of will, even as sound would sporadically heighten and muffle with no rhyme or reason, buffeting him from all sides, all angles.
A headache was rapidly building inside his skull. Everything throbbed. Everything. Whatàwhat was happening to him? What was going on? What?
The shadows in the darkness seemed to gain a life of their own as they ebbed and flowed like cursed waves, surging forward one moment, back the next in a rhythm like some kind of delusional heartbeat, each billowing and contracting indistinctly. No û the shadows were in the shape of his opponent and were rushing at him. Waitàthey were not shadows û they actually were his enemy, each figure an identical copy of the hooded, mask-wearing black robed man. A dozen Assassins all converging on his location, all intending to encircle and flank him, overwhelm him with numbers alone.
æLike hell IÆll let them!Æ
Amidst all these things, he welcomed their assault, as the immediate danger helped him to shrug off the unease and sickness that threatened to drown him. A rising tide of anger, white hot in his core surged forth, for he would not allow himself to be overcome like this.
With a hardened resolve, the Servant tightened his grip on his chainsaw claymore, and revved it to maximum speed and power, as he waded right into the crowd of Assassins, intending to use his weapon to simply cut them all down at once, since he was no stranger to engaging multiple enemies at once.
With a grunt, he used his entire body to swing the chainsword in a wide, sweeping arc, as if to cleave all those within reach. The Assassins that were close enough to be threatened by such an attack ducked and dodged as appropriate, but in turn sacrificed the advantage given to them with their group charge.
Yet, the rest were not deterred. Rather, this provided an opening that the other Assassins took advantage of like a unit used to coordinating their movements û by sending a rain of ebon knives hurtling at the assassin-knight.
But the mysterious Servant reacted accordingly, as he too was a veteran of many battles, including ones far tougher than this, against foes more terrible than the mind could imagine. There was no way he would let himself die this easily, not so soon into the War against an enemy that in life had only been human.
With reflexes honed by experience, he turned the broad weapon and interposed it between his body and the daggers hurtling towards him, spinning it around as an impromptu shield against the hail of metal missiles, blocking the majority, with a mere handful brushing past to graze his body and draw thin red lines into his armor and flesh.
The sound of metal ringing against metal ûa cacophony of violence that guaranteed death to one party or another. Soon enough, the assault ended, and baring his teeth, the crimson-eyed Servant decided to attack once again.
This time, however, he decided that using a large, unwieldy weapon against such nimble foes as these û even if they were all in a closely-packed group together and susceptible to öcrowd controlö styles of combatùwould most likely be unwise, given that his enemies were not prone to panic and had excellent reflexes of their own. If that was the case, then he had no choice but to match û or even surpass û them at their own style of battle.
With that the Servant dismissed the large chainsword from his hands in order to once again claim the two short-swords he had wielded previously, weapons still just as eager to taste flesh and drink the blood of their masterÆs foes as they had been when they were initially called forth.
Loyalty, in a trial where Servants were generally alone with the exception of their own Master, was appreciated greatly û even if such loyalty came from nearly-demonic short swords that existed to end an enemyÆs life and thirsted for life force.
Especially if they are those forementioned nearly-demonic short swords.
Steel flashed as the sable knight guarded against one of the many AssassinsÆ attacks, a swing of his blades parrying the scimitar, and retaliating with an especially vicious one-two counter that took the Assassin that was facing him off guard.
The first blow literally shattered the opposing sword and the second one ripped the AssassinÆs head from its shoulders. A stream of gore traced the path of the severed skull as it was almost casually tossed aside by the momentum imparted to it with the knightÆs deadly stroke. Seconds later the prana sustaining the body dispersed and lost form.
Yet the others remained, no less ready to engage and kill the enemy before them.
Illusions. Like lies, deceit, treachery and poison, such was one of the many techniques and tools utilized by assassins throughout the history of the world.
An illusion û that was what all of these black assailants were. But if he could get to the real one û
ôIÆll just have to cut all of you down!ö he roared as he threw himself back into the fray without skipping a beat, something inside him awakening like a beast as the Servant tore at those who had dared to attack him.
Another one of the illusionary Assassins was unlucky enough to be the next focus of his unfettered rage, as the force of the twin blades converging knocked the dagger out of its hands and followed up with a slash that tore out the throat and crushed the black figureÆs collarbone. The dead illusion was dispelled, prana scattering before its lifeblood watered the dead sod below.
Two down. On to the next.
There always was a ænext oneÆ û or at least so it was when he was alive, one more target to eliminate, one more enemy to cut down on the path of vengeance. But here û where all ties to his past were gone and he did not have to worry about holding back û he could allow himself to once again slip into an old role he had once played.
The question wasàwhich role would he choose? Would he be the hero, the avenger, the terror of death, oràsomething else entirely?
He would find his opponent and finish this once and for all, for had he not been one of the lucky few who had been selected, been chosen by the Throne as a Player in the miracle for a second-chance? He damn well wasnÆt going to bail out of the War this soon. Not in this fight. Not ever! He would win this. If not for himself, then for her û for his Master. For the proud and haughty noble girl who deep down was just as alone as he had been in life.
He laughed then, a low and dissonant chuckle that would have sent shivers down the spine of any observer. Even with the world distorted around him, his perceptions had not been warped enough for the Assassins to simply initiate death blows. Dangerous the illusions might be, coordinated by one overriding will, but they were not infallible or all-seeing.
Such was proven when one of his blades was thrown right into an enemyÆs skull, tearing through bone with a sickening crunch, followed by its subsequent and abrupt removal as the Terror of Death simply ripped the weapon from his victimÆs body. The hooded Servant had not been not expecting an action like that at all, and as such was the next to join its comrades in the place where all dead illusions and mirages find themselves in after they have been dispelled by the real world.
Except the blood remained û the blood was always what would remain of his actions, no matter what form he took.
Twisting around to avoid the jet-black knives thrown down at him, the unknown Servant leapt into the few standing trees, running along the sturdy branches and cutting down the illusions from their perches. Blood fell like rain and dismembered appendages plummeted towards a dead layer of undergrowth that they would never have the chance to touch.
But he did not emerge unscathed, a sharp pain blossoming, as a pair of daggers sliced into his arm.
æTch. Missed one.Æ
He whirled about, intending to remedy this concern in a rather permanent form, as he dropped down to the final illusionÆs location and struck with the power of a raging wolfùonly for this Assassin to nimbly evade. Grasped tightly in the enemyÆs hand was an artifact of some sort roughly the same size asàan apple. Thatàapple.
No û
It was not ôthis Assassinö, it was ôthe Assassinö û the one with whom he had instigated this conflict.
æAt last, IÆve found you!Æ
At the recognition of his true foe, the dark-armored ServantÆs mental state began to stabilize once more, the effects of AssassinÆs Noble Phantasm was finally starting to wear off, much to his relief. He had hidden it well, but throughout the protracted engagement with the clones of the shadowed one, he had felt as if he were going to either throw up, black out, or throw up and black out at the same time, possibly drowning in his own vomit û and that would have to be a most embarrassing death, probably the most pathetic end a Servant could ask for.
æYeah. What a way for an Epic Hero to go.Æ
Yet he had made it through. He had persevered through that numbing, disorienting mental assault. He had withstood the illusionary AssassinsÆ ambush and responded to the mirages in kind û and was moments away from finishing the job.
Seeking the end of the adversary before him, he sprung forward with his swords at the ready. He moved as a blur û a blur colored like pitch and blood, a shadow stained with ichor, his blade gleaming as they reflected the distant lights of the city when they spun, whistling through the air for his enemyÆs neck.
The whistle in the air.
The glint of steel.
The clanging thunk of blades making contact.
The splash of blood.
And it ended abruptly as it had started.
û Except not in the avengerÆs favor.
He had been stopped cold in his tracks. Ankle. Shin. Kneecap. His eye was drawn immediately to these locations as soon as the pain began. They stungàand he knew why.
A meter-long rapier-like sword had pierced his armor and stuck right into his kneecapùand it was not alone. Two more had pierced below it, and were embedded in his shin and ankle, rending flesh and piercing bone, with the wounds smoking and burning slightly where the thin blades had stabbed into his flesh. Their cross-shaped pommels pointed towards the sky as if to say that they were weapons sent by Him in order to punish those who hurt His allies.
Conceptual Weapons.
Black Keys.
He was pinned û the swords had gone clean through armor, muscle, flesh and bone, and had sunk themselves deep enough into the ground to keep him temporarily immobilized.
He shot his gaze upwards in the direction whence the Black Keys had come. He had caught sight of the one who had wounded him immediately.
She stood on the jutting branch of a dead tree, a figure like a statue of a saint in a church û stoic and dutiful as the granite or marble that that sculpture would have been carved from, beautiful yet unearthly. It was as if she were a silent sentinel, yet one that was not above interfering with the events it bore witness to.
Quiet. Duteous. Dangerous.
The Servant grimaced, partly due to the pain and partly due to the untimely, unexpected appearance of another foe û one that seemed to be an ally of the one he was currently fighting as well, when he took into account the implied camaraderie between the two. Was it possible that this woman was û no. That was not the way that the War worked. Or at least not how it normally worked. Had AssassinÆs Master somehow cut a deal with the Church? Were they to do a favor in exchange for assistance?
Playing around outside of the systemàwas something that irked the black knight to no end.
For some reason, the presence of the new arrival seemed to have changed the very atmosphere of the park. Gone was the feeling of death and emptiness, of ends and beginnings, of change, of the inheritance of one manÆs ideals. The atmosphere of the park now more closely resembled that of a churchùa hidden, forbidden, holy ground upon which none might intrude.
æWell, this isnÆt goodàÆ
Without a word his attacker had six more of those swords appear suddenly in her hands û each blade held in between her knuckles. Her arms moved faster than the human eye could follow, and sanctified steel rained down to further skewer the knight.
The sudden appearance of this womanàchanged things considerably.
Against someone normal or merely slightly superhuman such an attack would have been impossible to avoid. The Black Keys were travelling too fast û impalement was inevitable, and even an ôaverageö Servant would be hard-pressed to come out of it unscathed.
He followed the flight of the whooshing blades. Took note of their speed. Of their location. Where they had been and where they would be.
Dual-welded short swords slashed at the night. Each stroke was precise, controlled, and inhumanly fast. The clang of clashing metal echoed as each Black Key was deflected away by the knight of vengeanceÆs swings. Swings that made up for their lack of speed with the combat experience of the one who had held the blades that carried out those responses.
Swords littered the landscape like graveyard of blades, some lying on the ground where they had fallen, others piercing the objects that they were deflected into, with the area about him resembled nothing so much as an oversize banquet table, packed to bursting with massive hor d'oeuvres speared with toothpicks of appropriate size.
How appropriate, as given the timeframe, this fight was merely an appetizer to the main courseàa prelude to many more to come in this fifth occurrence of the Holy Gail War.
Growling ever so slightly, the besieged Servant glared up at the churchwoman standing on her perch, as if she had the gall to try and ôjudgeö him. He glared at the Assassin standing across from him, the Hashshashin who stood coolly (almost idly) holding his scimitar and the artifact, that Noble Phantasm û that à apple.
This battle was not yet over. He could turn this around if they pushed him to the brink, forced him to call forth his trump cards. His confidence, backed by long experience, was unflagging, and his morale did not fail him. Still, logic indicated that it would not be easy, as he was at a numerical disadvantageû Assassin had shown himself capable of summoning illusions that could inflict psychological damage that felt as if it were real, and the woman was clearly capable of fighting Servants on at least an even level.
Annoyingly, he did not know the full extent of their true abilities, and for all he knew had barely scratched the surface of their capabilities. He had failed to end this quickly, thanks to a personaÆs old habits, and nowà
àbut before he could continue on that line of thought, a voice in his head implored him to come home, telling him that now was not the time for this, that he had done enough.
æFine,Æ the mysterious Servant responded, sighing in his mind. æBut only because you told me to.Æ
The assassin-knight growled in pain as he forcibly yanked out the Black Keys, the weapons that had singed and stung his flesh, pinning his leg down like an animal in a trap. With the pressure of the blades removed, blood trickled freely from his body, though thankfully not in large quantities, as they had apparently cauterized what flesh they had struck.
ôHuh. IÆll be seeing you later then, Grand Master of the Hashshashin,ö he half sneered, half-commended with a mocking bow, taking great care to emphasize that title û for it indeed was a title Assassin had held all those years ago.
With that, his body dissolved into an incorporeal mist that blew away with the breeze as he went into astral form, living to fight another day.
ôPerhaps so à Skeith,ö Assassin replied calmly to the night.
______________________
What a productive night it had been.
First he relived his old life by assassinating the entire ôruling casteö of a certain business empireÆs Japanese branch, getting shot at by the security of said company and actually getting shot in the arm. He had then had anàinteresting fight with an enemy Servant in this long-dead park, only to have it all finish up with the timely arrival of the Church woman.
At the least, he certainly could not say that it had been dull.
In the aftermath, Assassin remained in place, still gazing at the area that the other Servant had been mere moments before. By now he was no doubt far gone from this place, gone to wherever it was that he had been called to. Probably his MasterÆs redoubt. For some illogical, irrational reason, he hoped that it was a welcoming place with a nice healing circle waiting for him when he got back û it was a cold night after all, and he did have respect for his foesùespecially the more talented ones. Speaking of talented individualsà
He saw out of the corner of his eye that the woman had stepped off of the tree branch, making her way over to where he stood. Her stride was confident and professional û just the way it always was. For this woman was in fact his û
ôMaster.ö Assassin brusquely acknowledged, nodding to the blue-haired woman. He was not usually one to come out with the first word in a conversation, and he concluded that it must have something to do with that woman. After all, for all her seriousness and business-like demeanor, she hadà how would one put it delicatelyà a bit of an eccentric streak.
ôAssassin,ö the Churchwoman replied as she stepped to his side. ôBefore I start, I have to say that I did tell you to call me by my name.ö
ôApologies, Master û but it just sounds soàinformal when I do that.ö
ôIf it bothers you that much then feel free to attach my name to my ætitleÆ then,ö she counters. ôAfter all, you were not averse to addressing others by name in life, were you?ö
ôVery well then MasteràCiel.ö
ôMuch better, Assassin.ö She was smiling, wasnÆt she? Even were it not for his excellent dark-vision, he could tell, though her smile was an odd thing that some found cold and oddly disturbing. ôNow then, would you care to explain what is was that you were doing tonight? After all, IÆm sure you have an excellent reason for your à actions.ö
Actions that had certainly gone beyond the scope of simple reconnaissance, as it had involved the killing of those uninvolved with the war, something which would no doubt be difficult to clean up.
ôWould you believe me if I said that I needed the prana?ö Assassin asked innocently. Explaining to her his rationale for conducting the activities he did in the tower would be somewhat problematic. Especially when he took into account who and what his Master was.
ôHmmàö Ciel said with a false thoughtfulness that could have been seen through by an eight-year-old. ôNo. The War has only just begun. And besidesàö Here she smirked at him, ôI have more than enough prana to keep you sustained for this entire War, as you well know.ö
ôWell, I didnÆt think you would,ö the killer noted diffidently, shrugging slightly as he put away his weapons, noting that combat had only worsened his condition.
ôSo why then? Why did you do it?ö the combat nun inquired in a neutral manner. Her eyes showed no sadness, nor did she show any outward signs that she was distressed by this matter. All that was evident was a desire to know the truth. ôWhy did they have to die? And why Abstergo Industries?ö
ôItÆs a very long story, Master Ciel,ö Assassin sighed, his expression betraying nothing at all. ôAll I can say is that what needed to be done needed to be done. I could not allow them û my old enemies û to continue on and plot at their leisure so. The world is not their plaything. We deserve better than to be in their thrall û better than to be controlled by them.ö
Ciel said nothing.
Abstergo Industries. It would be inaccurate to say that they were just a front for AssassinÆs eternal enemies û the Knights Templar themselves. Rather, the Knights Templar were Abstergo.
ôThe Hashshashin and Abstergo, or rather the Templars, exist within a perpetual cycle of violence,ö the Servant explained tonelessly, laying things out in a manner of fact way. ôWe kill off all the known members of each othersÆ groups, wait for the group to rise until they are capable of becoming a threat once more, and the cycle then starts over in earnest. I swore a silent oath as the Grand Master of my Order that I would stand against the Knights Templar and what they stand for until the end of time. That decision has not changed.ö
ôI never asked it of you,ö Ciel responded simply, her voice perfectly neutral as she acknowledged her ServantÆs point, taking in this revelation rather well. Most would be quick to assume that she would be more opposed to AssassinÆs actions, but then, most also did not know that there was no love lost between her andàthose who employed her as the Seventh of the Burial Agencyàthe same ones who had tortured her to see if ôthe unnatural whore spawn of Roaö as she had been called, would die. Secretly, she supported anything that ôstuck it to the manö and gave the Church a hard time. And since the Church did indeed have Templars serving as spies within her walls in Rome and elsewhere, this coincided nicely with AssassinÆs desire.
ôSo you see where I am going with this, then?ö Assassin asked. After all, Master Ciel always had demonstrated sharp insight in these talks, even if only replying to fragments of the truth.
ôSo thatÆs your wish, then? You desire something that will completely shatter this little reality of theirs and end the cycle once and for all?ö
ôYes, that is correct, Masterà.Ciel.ö Once more he had almost forgotten to say her name, but managed to tack it on before it grew too late.
Silence loomed between the two figures, as it grew quiet in the park. The peace was good while it lasted, but Assassin did not mind it when his Master decided to start up conversation once more.
ôSo then Assassin...,ö Ciel spoke, but trailed off suspiciously. There was a slight grin on her face that disturbed the former Grand Master of the Hashshashin û as he knew well what it meant. All too well, in fact. ôYou do realize that since IÆm the one who saved you that youàowe me.ö
He knew from the start that his Master was an oddball. He had a strong feeling that theyÆd have an interesting partnership together û
ôWhat flavor do you want?ö
ôChicken tikka masala.ö
û but he never expected that sheÆd do something as irresponsible as use one of her Command Seals to order him to go on a curry run for her whenever she felt the need.
ôYou know, Master Ciel,ö he sighed, shaking his head and fighting the urge to cradle his brow with his hands. ôI would have gotten you your curry anytime you asked.ö
ôI know.ö She responded in a rather bubbly manner (æIsnÆt it amazing how curry can make this woman act?Æ) ôBut this way youÆll never be able to refuse me, right?ö
ôAnd now I never will be able to, right.ö
Oh well, he supposed it could be worse. He could think of far worse things that she could have forced him to do with her Command Seals.
ôDo I still have to eat with you and call you æsenpaiÆ when I do so?ö
ôYes,ö Ciel replied with a very cute pout on her face.
ôBut I donÆt understand,ö Assassin retorted as they went off into the night together, towards the promise of curry and adventure. ôNeither of us are Japanese, nor are we have both enrolled in any form of schooling or profession that would require the need for such distinctions. IÆm not exactly a Church employee, remember?ö
ôAlta´ràö Ciel intoned slowly, not needing to say more. He did not like it whenever she said his name like that. Since he was shrewd enough to pick up on whatever it was that displeased her, he never knew what that foretold and he never intended to find out. He knew better than to cross dangerous women û even though himself had found his fate inextricably bound to them throughout his old life.
ôNevermind.ö
________
Shadows flickered along the walls and danced across the extravagant furnishings, as the ornately decorated fireplace burned with a roaring blaze. It had been going on for hours now, which was more than enough time to allow the warm heat from the flames to permeate every corner of the room and banish from it the cold of a winter night in Fuyuki City.
The chair in which the young woman was seated was large and regal-seeming - a thing of near perfection in comfort and elegance. If any normal member of the working class were lucky enough to lay eyes on such a thing they would honestly testify that it was indeed, the perfect chair.
But she was unable to enjoy the soft, cushiony comfort that the nearly throne-like seat had to offer.
Because in the penthouse suite that had been rented for the entirety of the War, Luviagelita Edelfelt found herself pondering the vagaries of the past few days, as she always did whenever she was worried, staring out the large glass window.
It was in vogue to design lavish hotel rooms with obscenely large windows that offered all encompassing views of the city lights that it towered above û as if the ones ensconced within were lords and all that could be seen was their dominion. This room made the tenant feel as if they were royalty and any guest like they were in the presence of someone truly influential. This was a room designed to empower the powerful and belittle the little.
And this concerned Luvia not one bit, for her thoughts were directed towards the well-being of her Servant.
The young womanÆs fingers idly picked and pulled at the loose piece of string that stuck out from her lush chairÆs armrest. Ever since she was a young girl she was told to never pull at frayed bits of fabric û it was a bad habit of hers that she picked up one day, and one that she had been scolded for many a time before.
But here, there was no one to chastise her. No one to slap her hand and tell her to stop. No one to tell her what she could or could not do.
It was empowering û and simultaneously incredibly lonely.
ôDid she summon St. Longinus himself as her Servant?ö the Finnish magus voiced herself to ponder out loud. Anything to get her mind off of the eventual (she hoped) return of her Servant. ôNo, that canÆt be it. Longinus wasnÆt Japanese, and that boy was clearly of oriental descentàö
She tried to distract herself by turning her thoughts to the War, future plans and the upcoming battles that Fuyuki would soon be host to. Just as any good magus would prepare themselves when they knew they would soon come face to face with an enemy.
But with thoughts of the Holy Grail War inevitably came thoughts of Servants û thoughts of her Servantà
At least she was no longer dwelling on that horrific nightmare she had suffered those two nights before. The one involving that thingà
ôBut that was a Lancea Longini, the holy spear associated with Longinus himself, and by extension ChristÆs divine power,ö she muttered aloud, not liking the implications of an opposing Servant û and one under the control of her archrival, to boot û having control of a divine weapon as a Noble Phantasm. Still, the pieces didn't add up. ôBut the rage, that battle rage he had just...doesn't fit with what I know about him. He just can't be Longinus, at any rate...ö
ôYouÆre right. That wasnÆt Longinus.ö The very-familiar voice behind her said.
ôAh û youÆre, youÆre back!ö Luvia nearly exclaimed, but then quickly caught herself before it could be taken any further. She had seemed a little too enthusiastic for her own liking, or for formality's sake. She was Master in the Holy Grail War, not a mere girl waiting for someone to return. ôI meanàyouÆve returned, Servant.ö
She took note of the knightÆs condition. He did look rather worse for wear. Streaks of dried blood had dribbled from the holes in his armor...from several deep puncture wounds. It was a good thing that she had called him back when she did, otherwise the boy might have pushed himself beyond his limits and died for all his troubles. She could not let that happen.
Not this early in the War, anyway.
ôHmmàI see youÆre æHaseoÆ this time. That sits well with me û I do not like æSoraÆ very much.ö Luvia commented on her ServantÆs appearance.
ôThatÆs the idea.ö Her knight sneered endearingly when he heard her opinion of that particular persona. ôItÆs good to be back, Master.ö He curtly replied and purposefully ignored her enthused response to his sudden arrival. Such matters could lead to her embarrassment, after all û not that he did not like seeing Luvia get a little flustered every now and then. Deep down it reaffirmed her that she was indeed still a human being - not simply a cold magus.
ôThatÆs good, I was beginning to û wait. What do you mean æThat wasnÆt LonginusÆ?ö Luvia herself had had a strong feeling that the boy summoned by her archrival had in fact not been St. Longinus, but this confirmation that she had received from her Servant had by no means put her mind at ease. ôWho was it then?ö
ôNo one youÆd know about, I guarantee that much.ö The Servant dryly responded.
ôI see. He certainly did not seem like a saint.ö Luvia continued, coming to terms with that rationale. ôBut the spear, that lanceàö
ôSimilar, yes. But that Noble Phantasm is proof that he is definitely not Longinus.ö Her Servant went on. ôWith that holy spear of his that spearman fights like a man possessed û like he is an evangel of the dark descended from what could never be a heaven to anyone ûready to brutalize and maim those who would oppose him or the ones he has become bound to protect with spear, fist, tooth or nail.ö
ôPoetic prose? That seems to be rather unbefitting of you, æRyouÆ,ö Luvia commented.
ôItÆs the truth.ö The knight of blood and darkness confirmed, ôHeÆs a worthy foe, not one to be taken lightly at all û and if he really is who I think it is, then weÆd better be prepared for anything.ö
After all, his name really did befit the Lancer û ôIkariö... ôrageö.
Luvia stood up from her warm seat. ôThen we know what we must do now. This battle is a sign that this War has truly begun. We can no longer be as complacent as we one were back when this startedàthere will be no more æreconnaissanceÆ missions in the way we have conducted it in the past.ö
ôThe gloves are off. From now on, thereÆs no need to hold back.ö The Edelfelt heiress told her Servant. ôThe next time that you see Lancer, kill him.ö
ôGood. I have to pay back the brat for that concussion he gave me.ö The Terror of Death replied with almost feral bloodlust. ôWhat about his Master? Should I deal with her as well?ö
ôOh no, I have à plans for Rin. Lancer will be enough.ö Luvia explained to her avenger of a Servant. ôBut for now, you should rest. You deserve it, after all thatÆs happened tonight.ö
ôThank you, Master.ö ôHaseoö smiled slightly at his Master before trotting away out of the foyer to spend a good long while in the magic circle Luvia had set up in the nearby room for just such an occasion. It was one of the few genuine smiles that he had given anyone in recent memory û a feeling that he could get used to, were it not for his need to bury away his emotions so that he might become a real terror on the battlefield. But still, an honest smile could mean the world sometimes, no matter how large or scant. ôGood night.ö
Seeing as there was nothing left to be had in way of conversation, and that the night had gone on for far later than it was originally planned û one could always count on the Holy Grail War to make a mockery of the things called ôschedulesö and the routines associate with said schedules û Luvia decided to walk herself over to her bedroom.
There were so many things that needed thinking of and mulling over in sleep. Of divine lances and demonic blades. Of enigmatic shadowy figures and the ôMasterö that seemed to control them. Of Grail Wars and the Edelfelt. Of deaths and cover-ups. Of the unknown, promising to write an interesting chapter in the book of her life if she would only just take it up on its offer.
Ad yet à there was only one thought that remained in the young and supple female magusÆ mind as she lay herself to sleep.
æàgood night, Ryou Misaki û my Servant.Æ
_____________________
- [ Assassin ]-
Original Name: Alta´r Ibn-La'Ahad
Designation: (True) Heroic Spirit
Master: Ciel
Series: Assassin's Creed (2007)
=Parameters=
Strength: C+
Agility: A+
Endurance: C
Prana: B
Luck: A+
Noble Phantasm: EX
Alignment: Lawful Neutral
=Skills=
Pure Eyes (Eagle Vision), Rank A:
A sort of "sixth sense", a strong feeling, instinct or intuition that lets Assassin see people's true intentions. Similar to the ability possessed by the famous demon hunter assassin Kiri Nanaya, but is much more potent.
Eye of the Mind (True), Rank B:
Heightened insight that was refined through experience. Alta´r is capable of calm analysis of battle conditions even when in danger and deduce an appropriate course of action after considering all possibilities to escape from a predicament. So long there is even a 1% chance of a comeback, this ability greatly improves the chances of winning.
Presence Concealment, Rank A+:
The capacity to hide one's presence as a Servant. At this rank, it is possible for Alta´r to disappear completely and become almost impossible to be detected. However, efficacy will decrease once preparations to attack are taken.
Disengage, Rank D:
The ability to break away from combat. At this rank, Assassin may escape from battle at any time he chooses, but without any resetting of injuries or conditions.
Projectile (Daggers), Rank B:
Expertise for throwing projectile weapons (AssassinÆs daggers in this case). Thrown projectile weapons are now comparable to bullets.
Master of Eden, Rank A:
As one who has delved into the secrets of the Apple, Assassin has gained knowledge and experience far beyond his time. This grants the equivalent of Expert of Many Specializations, Bravery, and Eternal Arms Mastery at Rank A+
Independent Action, Rank B:
Alta´r is capable of remaining in this world for two days without an established contract. He is also capable of living on for a short period of time after suffering extensive damage on his spiritual core.
=Noble Phantasms=
Hidden Blade, (anti-unit) Rank C-:
The iconic weapon of Altair, "worn" on his left hand and integrated into his vambrace. When Altair flicks his wrist, the blade is ejected with the combined force of Alta´rÆs arm and gravity. An ideal weapon for assassination, attacks made from behind or on prone enemies will never fail. In addition, should he counter with the Hidden Blade, Assassin can then (with the right timing) execute an inevitably fatal counterattack.
Alta´rÆs Armor, (support) Rank C:
After becoming Master of the Order, Alta´r used the knowledge from within the Apple to construct a lightweight, yet unbreakable set of armor, allowing for complete freedom of movement, while reducing damage from enemy attacks by two ranks.
Zabaniya - Apple of Eden, (support / anti-world) Rank EX:
A piece of extraordinary technology created by Those Who Came Before, it can cast illusions and control minds, as well as allowing Assassin to summon forth the spirits of those who an enemy has killed, or create temporary copies of himself. Also contains knowledge of many technologies used by Those Who Came Before, assassination techniques, and veritable wellspring of untapped potential. If used as a Broken Phantasm, the Apple is capable of causing an explosion on the same scale as a nuclear blast.
Shadows flickered along the walls and danced across the extravagant furnishings, as the ornately decorated fireplace burned with a roaring blaze. It had been going on for hours now, which was more than enough time to allow the warm heat from the flames to permeate every corner of the room and banish from it the cold of a winter night in Fuyuki City.
The chair in which the young woman was seated was large and regal-seeming - a thing of near perfection in comfort and elegance. If any normal member of the working class were lucky enough to lay eyes on such a thing they would honestly testify that it was indeed, the perfect chair.
But she was unable to enjoy the soft, cushiony comfort that the nearly throne-like seat had to offer.
Because in the penthouse suite that had been rented for the entirety of the War, Luviagelita Edelfelt found herself pondering the vagaries of the past few days, as she always did whenever she was worried, staring out the large glass window.
It was in vogue to design lavish hotel rooms with obscenely large windows that offered all encompassing views of the city lights that it towered above û as if the ones ensconced within were lords and all that could be seen was their dominion. This room made the tenant feel as if they were royalty and any guest like they were in the presence of someone truly influential. This was a room designed to empower the powerful and belittle the little.
And this concerned Luvia not one bit, for her thoughts were directed towards the well-being of her Servant.
The young womanÆs fingers idly picked and pulled at the loose piece of string that stuck out from her lush chairÆs armrest. Ever since she was a young girl she was told to never pull at frayed bits of fabric û it was a bad habit of hers that she picked up one day, and one that she had been scolded for many a time before.
But here, there was no one to chastise her. No one to slap her hand and tell her to stop. No one to tell her what she could or could not do.
It was empowering û and simultaneously incredibly lonely.
ôDid she summon St. Longinus himself as her Servant?ö the Finnish magus voiced herself to ponder out loud. Anything to get her mind off of the eventual (she hoped) return of her Servant. ôNo, that canÆt be it. Longinus wasnÆt Japanese, and that boy was clearly of oriental descentàö
She tried to distract herself by turning her thoughts to the War, future plans and the upcoming battles that Fuyuki would soon be host to. Just as any good magus would prepare themselves when they knew they would soon come face to face with an enemy.
But with thoughts of the Holy Grail War inevitably came thoughts of Servants û thoughts of her Servantà
At least she was no longer dwelling on that horrific nightmare she had suffered those two nights before. The one involving that thingà
ôBut that was a Lancea Longini, the holy spear associated with Longinus himself, and by extension ChristÆs divine power,ö she muttered aloud, not liking the implications of an opposing Servant û and one under the control of her archrival, to boot û having control of a divine weapon as a Noble Phantasm. Still, the pieces didn't add up. ôBut the rage, that battle rage he had just...doesn't fit with what I know about him. He just can't be Longinus, at any rate...ö
ôYouÆre right. That wasnÆt Longinus.ö The very-familiar voice behind her said.
ôAh û youÆre, youÆre back!ö Luvia nearly exclaimed, but then quickly caught herself before it could be taken any further. She had seemed a little too enthusiastic for her own liking, or for formality's sake. She was Master in the Holy Grail War, not a mere girl waiting for someone to return. ôI meanàyouÆve returned, Servant.ö
She took note of the knightÆs condition. He did look rather worse for wear. Streaks of dried blood had dribbled from the holes in his armor...from several deep puncture wounds. It was a good thing that she had called him back when she did, otherwise the boy might have pushed himself beyond his limits and died for all his troubles. She could not let that happen.
Not this early in the War, anyway.
ôHmmàI see youÆre æHaseoÆ this time. That sits well with me û I do not like æSoraÆ very much.ö Luvia commented on her ServantÆs appearance.
ôThatÆs the idea.ö Her knight sneered endearingly when he heard her opinion of that particular persona. ôItÆs good to be back, Master.ö He curtly replied and purposefully ignored her enthused response to his sudden arrival. Such matters could lead to her embarrassment, after all û not that he did not like seeing Luvia get a little flustered every now and then. Deep down it reaffirmed her that she was indeed still a human being - not simply a cold magus.
ôThatÆs good, I was beginning to û wait. What do you mean æThat wasnÆt LonginusÆ?ö Luvia herself had had a strong feeling that the boy summoned by her archrival had in fact not been St. Longinus, but this confirmation that she had received from her Servant had by no means put her mind at ease. ôWho was it then?ö
ôNo one youÆd know about, I guarantee that much.ö The Servant dryly responded.
ôI see. He certainly did not seem like a saint.ö Luvia continued, coming to terms with that rationale. ôBut the spear, that lanceàö
ôSimilar, yes. But that Noble Phantasm is proof that he is definitely not Longinus.ö Her Servant went on. ôWith that holy spear of his that spearman fights like a man possessed û like he is an evangel of the dark descended from what could never be a heaven to anyone ûready to brutalize and maim those who would oppose him or the ones he has become bound to protect with spear, fist, tooth or nail.ö
ôPoetic prose? That seems to be rather unbefitting of you, æRyouÆ,ö Luvia commented.
ôItÆs the truth.ö The knight of blood and darkness confirmed, ôHeÆs a worthy foe, not one to be taken lightly at all û and if he really is who I think it is, then weÆd better be prepared for anything.ö
After all, his name really did befit the Lancer û ôIkariö... ôrageö.
Luvia stood up from her warm seat. ôThen we know what we must do now. This battle is a sign that this War has truly begun. We can no longer be as complacent as we one were back when this startedàthere will be no more æreconnaissanceÆ missions in the way we have conducted it in the past.ö
ôThe gloves are off. From now on, thereÆs no need to hold back.ö The Edelfelt heiress told her Servant. ôThe next time that you see Lancer, kill him.ö
ôGood. I have to pay back the brat for that concussion he gave me.ö The Terror of Death replied with almost feral bloodlust. ôWhat about his Master? Should I deal with her as well?ö
ôOh no, I have à plans for Rin. Lancer will be enough.ö Luvia explained to her avenger of a Servant. ôBut for now, you should rest. You deserve it, after all thatÆs happened tonight.ö
ôThank you, Master.ö ôHaseoö smiled slightly at his Master before trotting away out of the foyer to spend a good long while in the magic circle Luvia had set up in the nearby room for just such an occasion. It was one of the few genuine smiles that he had given anyone in recent memory û a feeling that he could get used to, were it not for his need to bury away his emotions so that he might become a real terror on the battlefield. But still, an honest smile could mean the world sometimes, no matter how large or scant. ôGood night.ö
Seeing as there was nothing left to be had in way of conversation, and that the night had gone on for far later than it was originally planned û one could always count on the Holy Grail War to make a mockery of the things called ôschedulesö and the routines associate with said schedules û Luvia decided to walk herself over to her bedroom.
There were so many things that needed thinking of and mulling over in sleep. Of divine lances and demonic blades. Of enigmatic shadowy figures and the ôMasterö that seemed to control them. Of Grail Wars and the Edelfelt. Of deaths and cover-ups. Of the unknown, promising to write an interesting chapter in the book of her life if she would only just take it up on its offer.
Ad yet à there was only one thought that remained in the young and supple female magusÆ mind as she lay herself to sleep.
æàgood night, Ryou Misaki û my Servant.Æ
_____________________
- [ Assassin ]-
Original Name: Alta´r Ibn-La'Ahad
Designation: (True) Heroic Spirit
Master: Ciel
Series: Assassin's Creed (2007)
=Parameters=
Strength: C+
Agility: A+
Endurance: C
Prana: B
Luck: A+
Noble Phantasm: EX
Alignment: Lawful Neutral
=Skills=
Pure Eyes (Eagle Vision), Rank A:
A sort of "sixth sense", a strong feeling, instinct or intuition that lets Assassin see people's true intentions. Similar to the ability possessed by the famous demon hunter assassin Kiri Nanaya, but is much more potent.
Eye of the Mind (True), Rank B:
Heightened insight that was refined through experience. Alta´r is capable of calm analysis of battle conditions even when in danger and deduce an appropriate course of action after considering all possibilities to escape from a predicament. So long there is even a 1% chance of a comeback, this ability greatly improves the chances of winning.
Presence Concealment, Rank A+:
The capacity to hide one's presence as a Servant. At this rank, it is possible for Alta´r to disappear completely and become almost impossible to be detected. However, efficacy will decrease once preparations to attack are taken.
Disengage, Rank D:
The ability to break away from combat. At this rank, Assassin may escape from battle at any time he chooses, but without any resetting of injuries or conditions.
Projectile (Daggers), Rank B:
Expertise for throwing projectile weapons (AssassinÆs daggers in this case). Thrown projectile weapons are now comparable to bullets.
Master of Eden, Rank A:
As one who has delved into the secrets of the Apple, Assassin has gained knowledge and experience far beyond his time. This grants the equivalent of Expert of Many Specializations, Bravery, and Eternal Arms Mastery at Rank A+
Independent Action, Rank B:
Alta´r is capable of remaining in this world for two days without an established contract. He is also capable of living on for a short period of time after suffering extensive damage on his spiritual core.
=Noble Phantasms=
Hidden Blade, (anti-unit) Rank C-:
The iconic weapon of Altair, "worn" on his left hand and integrated into his vambrace. When Altair flicks his wrist, the blade is ejected with the combined force of Alta´rÆs arm and gravity. An ideal weapon for assassination, attacks made from behind or on prone enemies will never fail. In addition, should he counter with the Hidden Blade, Assassin can then (with the right timing) execute an inevitably fatal counterattack.
Alta´rÆs Armor, (support) Rank C:
After becoming Master of the Order, Alta´r used the knowledge from within the Apple to construct a lightweight, yet unbreakable set of armor, allowing for complete freedom of movement, while reducing damage from enemy attacks by two ranks.
Zabaniya - Apple of Eden, (support / anti-world) Rank EX:
A piece of extraordinary technology created by Those Who Came Before, it can cast illusions and control minds, as well as allowing Assassin to summon forth the spirits of those who an enemy has killed, or create temporary copies of himself. Also contains knowledge of many technologies used by Those Who Came Before, assassination techniques, and veritable wellspring of untapped potential. If used as a Broken Phantasm, the Apple is capable of causing an explosion on the same scale as a nuclear blast.
For at least Ryou/Sora/Haseo, it makes sense, because he was/is a normal teenager outside of The World. I might have missed some other signs from Shinji Ikari, but I saw Altair's comment about "Skeith." In that case, I know absolutely nothing about Assassin's Creed beyond the protagonist's name, so I can't make a call there.
Nice update, by the way. I'm looking forward to seeing more...after I'm done with my semester finals.
Nice update, by the way. I'm looking forward to seeing more...after I'm done with my semester finals.
See that's the point. Altair has absolutely no way of knowing about Ryou. Unless somehow he's been connected to the Animus and is accessing Desmond's memories from the future. Or unless the actual servant Assassin isn't in fact Altair, but Desmond himself who takes on the various Assassin ancestor roles he has stored in his genetic memory.
For example, Desmond was actually summoned as a future Grandmaster Assassin, but because of his history with the Animus, he can become Altair or Ezio or whoever he's been with the Animus as long as they too were Grandmaster Assassins.
That's the only way I can think of that would let Altair know who Skeith would be besides various Heroes actually interacting in the Throne of Heroes.
For example, Desmond was actually summoned as a future Grandmaster Assassin, but because of his history with the Animus, he can become Altair or Ezio or whoever he's been with the Animus as long as they too were Grandmaster Assassins.
That's the only way I can think of that would let Altair know who Skeith would be besides various Heroes actually interacting in the Throne of Heroes.
An alternate explanation is rather like how everyone seemed to know Arturia in Fate/Zero after her Invisible Air was disabled by Lancer's Gae Dearg. Even Gilgamesh, who pre-dates her, and would theoretically have no way of knowing who she is otherwise.
Being able to recognize others by their Noble Phantasms is part of the package of knowledge that the Grail grants to summoned individuals, along with things like grasp of the modern language and such (otherwise Iskandar would not have been able to understand the library books he read) - which is why Servants in general are very careful about using a Noble Phantasm, as it is tied to their identity.
Being able to recognize others by their Noble Phantasms is part of the package of knowledge that the Grail grants to summoned individuals, along with things like grasp of the modern language and such (otherwise Iskandar would not have been able to understand the library books he read) - which is why Servants in general are very careful about using a Noble Phantasm, as it is tied to their identity.