Post by Vladimir on Apr 7, 2014 19:19:01 GMT -5
‘How would a proper magus operate?’ Vladimir often found himself asking that question recently, to try and understand how his would-be targets would operate but if this War was as he thought it would be, then trying to find patterns was a useless endeavor. This war would be filled with rejects, sociopaths, psychopaths, madmen, and renegades, anyone with a shred of magic potential who managed to get their hands on the knowledge of the Grail’s supposed existence. Families with knowledge of this event would be likely to send a sacrificial pawn of a member in order to represent them and perhaps do some good, or else expire. That said… The Enforcer’s grim gaze shifted about the airplane’s interior, inspecting the accommodations mundanes created for themselves. That said, underestimating anyone, no matter how weak, was not in his habits. After all, even the weakest of all walls could be rigged with an explosive, so to say, and although he doubted that any pawn or madman participating in the War would be granted use of anything quite as valuable as those artifacts might be… The possibility of theft existed too, after all.
And then there was the Church, with Lucca being their city… And the Mezzanote, lead by Don Gregorio, who were the Owners of the Land. He would have to get in contact with them, even if they were Masters – especially if they were Masters. They were really the only ones who’d had good reason to be participating – protecting their home, and the massive advantage they had on home turf. The Church was also likely to jealously guard the territory they thought they owned, and it was –also- their home ground. That said, the thought of an Executor summoning a Servant seemed rather… obscene? From the limited dealing with them, he’d understood that doing something like that amounted to heresy, even if they could somehow perform the Summoning Ritual. Their catalyst collection must have been quite impressive, but that was a meaningless point right now.
Vladimir exhaled a small cloud of cigar smoke. He really should not have been doing this now, but it helped putting his thoughts in order, shelf by shelf. What else could there have been? The madmen, of course, were an unknown factor, someone desperate enough to come here and use unorthodox or orthodox ways in order to win. The catalyst that the Philosopher possessed had turned out to be one of quality. After some detective work and decoding notes, plus some research on his part, and he could confirm that this old piece of cloth had once been an insignificant part of cape worn by one of the Knights of the Round Table, that overly-romanticized council of glorified killers. Even the most insignificant ones, as he knew, great legends about them, and as such, could be powerful tools for this particular job.
Of course… Vladimir snapped the book with ripped-up covers closed, placing it on table, before glancing at several other folders on his desk. Of course, these were simple theories. History was written by the victor, and myths – myths were pure conjecture, not even worthy of being called theories. For all he knew, half or all of these were wildly inaccurate, and the effects of the ‘world’s truth’ upon existing historical figures was a subject for debate in a lecture hall, not an Enforcer’s office… or a plane headed to Lucca. He looked at the cigar in his hand with some pity showing on his face: He would eventually have to give these up, or limit intake: too easy to trace. The elder Kurakin pulled out a regular map of Lucca, littered with various tourist attractions, grimaced, and pulled out a topographical copy instead, which by now had been littered with dozens upon dozens of notes. He could not have done that much research without looking at the lay of the land, but he could certainly mark down what was known about the city in the Association – without heading into the really restricted areas, as those took too much time proceeding the clearance for information needed. Leylines remained off limits, but those could be found on site.
Reluctantly, he’d pulled out the tourist map and began to circle various houses, after looking something up. He’d already called ahead – infernal contraption – to book several differing places in the city for varying amounts of time. There were five that he now looked at: An apartment on ground floor, with the building having an underground garage, in the middle of the city – 14 days. An old mansion on the outskirts – two months. A small warehouse in the storage area – 20 days. An asian style home, mostly decayed, hence cheap – a year. A dorm near a local university – 1 year. He would go to each in turn, and setup a simple, small bounded field that would alert him of trespassers and record them. Naturally, these sort of things would be extremely apparent to a –normal- magi, but he was not here to hunt normals. The date they had all been booked on would certainly rouse suspicion – too close to start of the war, even if they were all different dates and times (He had been meticulous about that), if someone actually had access to these sort of records, and he did not doubt for a second that someone out there did.
Next, they would see the varying end of rent times and this would inspire paranoia – just who was a mundane, and who was not – the mansion, was it simply an old man renting a scenic vacation home, or a sociopathic magus who did not wish to have his work seen? The underground garage served a similar purpose, though threw a different sort of bait, setting up a different false personality; that of a younger mage, who perhaps wished to have access to a transport, or explosives, who could hide his victims below. The Asian home, a means to convince the would-be watcher that the owner was a heavy traditionalist who would rather have been inconvenienced with a dysfunctional home than give in to European tradition. A university dorm indicated either a young Master masquerading as a student, an actual student who was an inexperienced magus, or an old magus preying on students. Naturally, a warehouse indicated that the owner had another base and used this one primarily for things that he didn’t want tied to his old one – like one of the other four.
He’d already had a rough idea of the sort of field he wanted to deploy and how to give it minute differences in design to make it seem like a different magus cast them – of course, they could simply take a sample of the remnant of his prana from the scene and determine it was the same person, but anyone that meticulous and careful was NOT the intended target of these ‘traps’. A true magi would see these houses, these sites with a suspiciously weak Bounded Field for exactly what they were – a trap… or a terrible magus, which meant a free kill. But as he was aiming for those who would simply bust in regardless of sensing it or not, those too unintelligent to know or realize what the Fields were, madmen who threw caution to the winds, among others. All of them were elements he saw fit to remove from this War. Many magi were distasteful, but this? This was a risk element that he was supposed to remove, therefore…
He was merely doing his job.
Then came the matter of the Servant that one was to summon as a combat familiar in this War – as far as the notes went, they came in seven classes: Saber, Archer, Lancer, Rider, Berserker, Caster, Assassin. The notes did not go into a great amount of detail about them that could be reliably interpreted and comprehended: At some points, the author simply began rambling, and the pathetic state that Vladimir found the man in left him in doubt if this wretch could truly even cast a Summoning Ritual. Nevertheless, he was one of the priority targets at the time, so it made sense to eliminate him – the order was very clear on this. As far as the notes that he collected… A wish to solve all theoretical problems in thaumaturgical theory? How ridiculous. How pointless and naïve to imagine it existed. Had he not found other sources, he might commented on the idea being a child’s invention. Thinking even further, he could not understand how magi that knew of it did not find this ‘ultimate answer’ insulting – it did a fine job of invalidating the works not only of their lifetimes, but their entire family lines. It invalidated the entire purpose of one’s existence as ‘magi’. And just how did they imagine this ‘answer’ looked, and what would happen to the fool who reached it?
How worthless. How meaningless.
Vladimir re-opened the folder that lay on the table before him again, flipping through the pages of the manuscript to recall the details of the research once more. Holy Grail war, a fight over a supposedly omniscient object that granted the wish of one survivor out of seven who entered. The wish could supposedly have been ‘anything’ and of course that, by the magi standard should have been ‘reach the root’. The elder Enforcer grimaced. How cheap. Turning a page, he traced the copied diagrams: Saber, the Knight of the Sword, known for being a magus killer. Archer, the Knight of the bow, known for their long range tactics. Lancer, the Knight of the Spear, for their unrivalled dueling. Rider, the Servant whom possessed the greatest mobility. Berserker, the cursed Mad Warrior fueled by his rage. Caster, the Magus who was an amplified caricature of modern day magi, in good and bad. Assassin, the Servant who targeted Masters instead of Servants and who had an ability to hide.
He thought about it extensively, and in the end, concluded that someone of the Saber or Berserker class would have been best. Most of the knights would also possess some manner of riding skill, so perhaps a Rider would have been summoned? The same went, theoretically for lances and the Lancer class. Archer, Caster, and Assassin, which were all ideal for him, would never be summoned from the collection that was the Round Table. Berserker… That would certainly be the ideal choice, here. He did not need a weapon with a will of its own – merely a will to follow his orders. Regardless of what advantage the rage that the Berserkers possessed gifted them with - his sources were not that clear – it would be a boon to have a tool that did not try to argue with him. Berserker, though… He’d known a bit of the Round Table, plus what his reading had yielded on the plane ride here – the basics were known to most. Arthur, Merlin, Gwynevere, Lancelot, and Mordred… the final two were of particular notice, and quite likely candidates, from how he reasoned. Both traitors, fallen knights. They might qualify? He did not know.
None of these Classes had been expanded on, so he guessed that the man had no idea himself. Considering the ones who had set it up originally, he was not surprised at this. The Einzbern were not particularly open with anything – even less than most magi. And after that disaster the War left in Fuyuki, which had still been left an unknown, and the utter annihilation of the Matou… Well, he had his doubts about the whole thing. The next thing was the mark of the ritual – these Command Seals, which would become the nail binding the pact between Master and Servant. They were three, usually on the arm, and they were shaped like a red tattoo which could be used to give an absolute order. Again, the explaination was very vague, as if the writer could not actually come up with anything, and desperately continued writing about the same thing and the glory, the power they brought, the impossibilities they could accomplish. What rubbish. Vladimir snapped the folder closed and hid it inside his suitcase along with the book, papers, maps and other items, carefully arranging them inside.
Snapping it shut, he locked it, and pulled out a small locket, briefly glancing at the two pictures inside it, then clicking it shut with a bit more care. Holding it in his large hand, he hid it in his chest pocket, shutting his eyes for a brief moment, recalling days before his wife had died, days when his son was just born, but then shook it off. It was… A pleasant memory. No more. He peered out of the airplane’s window to the city below, hearing the announcement about landing. War would soon begin. He was under no illusions about how it would go: brutally and mercilessly. There would be people willing to drag their name through the mud to not just win – just have a slightly better chance. There would be desperate people, some of whom would seek pity, others who would not. Pitiful optimists who believed they had a chance for no reason… And others. To win was to kill them all. He did not even consider the possibility of waiting around until they killed one another. After all, that would be letting them run rampant, and surrendering any possibility of glory. As for him?
He would do his job.
And then there was the Church, with Lucca being their city… And the Mezzanote, lead by Don Gregorio, who were the Owners of the Land. He would have to get in contact with them, even if they were Masters – especially if they were Masters. They were really the only ones who’d had good reason to be participating – protecting their home, and the massive advantage they had on home turf. The Church was also likely to jealously guard the territory they thought they owned, and it was –also- their home ground. That said, the thought of an Executor summoning a Servant seemed rather… obscene? From the limited dealing with them, he’d understood that doing something like that amounted to heresy, even if they could somehow perform the Summoning Ritual. Their catalyst collection must have been quite impressive, but that was a meaningless point right now.
Vladimir exhaled a small cloud of cigar smoke. He really should not have been doing this now, but it helped putting his thoughts in order, shelf by shelf. What else could there have been? The madmen, of course, were an unknown factor, someone desperate enough to come here and use unorthodox or orthodox ways in order to win. The catalyst that the Philosopher possessed had turned out to be one of quality. After some detective work and decoding notes, plus some research on his part, and he could confirm that this old piece of cloth had once been an insignificant part of cape worn by one of the Knights of the Round Table, that overly-romanticized council of glorified killers. Even the most insignificant ones, as he knew, great legends about them, and as such, could be powerful tools for this particular job.
Of course… Vladimir snapped the book with ripped-up covers closed, placing it on table, before glancing at several other folders on his desk. Of course, these were simple theories. History was written by the victor, and myths – myths were pure conjecture, not even worthy of being called theories. For all he knew, half or all of these were wildly inaccurate, and the effects of the ‘world’s truth’ upon existing historical figures was a subject for debate in a lecture hall, not an Enforcer’s office… or a plane headed to Lucca. He looked at the cigar in his hand with some pity showing on his face: He would eventually have to give these up, or limit intake: too easy to trace. The elder Kurakin pulled out a regular map of Lucca, littered with various tourist attractions, grimaced, and pulled out a topographical copy instead, which by now had been littered with dozens upon dozens of notes. He could not have done that much research without looking at the lay of the land, but he could certainly mark down what was known about the city in the Association – without heading into the really restricted areas, as those took too much time proceeding the clearance for information needed. Leylines remained off limits, but those could be found on site.
Reluctantly, he’d pulled out the tourist map and began to circle various houses, after looking something up. He’d already called ahead – infernal contraption – to book several differing places in the city for varying amounts of time. There were five that he now looked at: An apartment on ground floor, with the building having an underground garage, in the middle of the city – 14 days. An old mansion on the outskirts – two months. A small warehouse in the storage area – 20 days. An asian style home, mostly decayed, hence cheap – a year. A dorm near a local university – 1 year. He would go to each in turn, and setup a simple, small bounded field that would alert him of trespassers and record them. Naturally, these sort of things would be extremely apparent to a –normal- magi, but he was not here to hunt normals. The date they had all been booked on would certainly rouse suspicion – too close to start of the war, even if they were all different dates and times (He had been meticulous about that), if someone actually had access to these sort of records, and he did not doubt for a second that someone out there did.
Next, they would see the varying end of rent times and this would inspire paranoia – just who was a mundane, and who was not – the mansion, was it simply an old man renting a scenic vacation home, or a sociopathic magus who did not wish to have his work seen? The underground garage served a similar purpose, though threw a different sort of bait, setting up a different false personality; that of a younger mage, who perhaps wished to have access to a transport, or explosives, who could hide his victims below. The Asian home, a means to convince the would-be watcher that the owner was a heavy traditionalist who would rather have been inconvenienced with a dysfunctional home than give in to European tradition. A university dorm indicated either a young Master masquerading as a student, an actual student who was an inexperienced magus, or an old magus preying on students. Naturally, a warehouse indicated that the owner had another base and used this one primarily for things that he didn’t want tied to his old one – like one of the other four.
He’d already had a rough idea of the sort of field he wanted to deploy and how to give it minute differences in design to make it seem like a different magus cast them – of course, they could simply take a sample of the remnant of his prana from the scene and determine it was the same person, but anyone that meticulous and careful was NOT the intended target of these ‘traps’. A true magi would see these houses, these sites with a suspiciously weak Bounded Field for exactly what they were – a trap… or a terrible magus, which meant a free kill. But as he was aiming for those who would simply bust in regardless of sensing it or not, those too unintelligent to know or realize what the Fields were, madmen who threw caution to the winds, among others. All of them were elements he saw fit to remove from this War. Many magi were distasteful, but this? This was a risk element that he was supposed to remove, therefore…
He was merely doing his job.
Then came the matter of the Servant that one was to summon as a combat familiar in this War – as far as the notes went, they came in seven classes: Saber, Archer, Lancer, Rider, Berserker, Caster, Assassin. The notes did not go into a great amount of detail about them that could be reliably interpreted and comprehended: At some points, the author simply began rambling, and the pathetic state that Vladimir found the man in left him in doubt if this wretch could truly even cast a Summoning Ritual. Nevertheless, he was one of the priority targets at the time, so it made sense to eliminate him – the order was very clear on this. As far as the notes that he collected… A wish to solve all theoretical problems in thaumaturgical theory? How ridiculous. How pointless and naïve to imagine it existed. Had he not found other sources, he might commented on the idea being a child’s invention. Thinking even further, he could not understand how magi that knew of it did not find this ‘ultimate answer’ insulting – it did a fine job of invalidating the works not only of their lifetimes, but their entire family lines. It invalidated the entire purpose of one’s existence as ‘magi’. And just how did they imagine this ‘answer’ looked, and what would happen to the fool who reached it?
How worthless. How meaningless.
Vladimir re-opened the folder that lay on the table before him again, flipping through the pages of the manuscript to recall the details of the research once more. Holy Grail war, a fight over a supposedly omniscient object that granted the wish of one survivor out of seven who entered. The wish could supposedly have been ‘anything’ and of course that, by the magi standard should have been ‘reach the root’. The elder Enforcer grimaced. How cheap. Turning a page, he traced the copied diagrams: Saber, the Knight of the Sword, known for being a magus killer. Archer, the Knight of the bow, known for their long range tactics. Lancer, the Knight of the Spear, for their unrivalled dueling. Rider, the Servant whom possessed the greatest mobility. Berserker, the cursed Mad Warrior fueled by his rage. Caster, the Magus who was an amplified caricature of modern day magi, in good and bad. Assassin, the Servant who targeted Masters instead of Servants and who had an ability to hide.
He thought about it extensively, and in the end, concluded that someone of the Saber or Berserker class would have been best. Most of the knights would also possess some manner of riding skill, so perhaps a Rider would have been summoned? The same went, theoretically for lances and the Lancer class. Archer, Caster, and Assassin, which were all ideal for him, would never be summoned from the collection that was the Round Table. Berserker… That would certainly be the ideal choice, here. He did not need a weapon with a will of its own – merely a will to follow his orders. Regardless of what advantage the rage that the Berserkers possessed gifted them with - his sources were not that clear – it would be a boon to have a tool that did not try to argue with him. Berserker, though… He’d known a bit of the Round Table, plus what his reading had yielded on the plane ride here – the basics were known to most. Arthur, Merlin, Gwynevere, Lancelot, and Mordred… the final two were of particular notice, and quite likely candidates, from how he reasoned. Both traitors, fallen knights. They might qualify? He did not know.
None of these Classes had been expanded on, so he guessed that the man had no idea himself. Considering the ones who had set it up originally, he was not surprised at this. The Einzbern were not particularly open with anything – even less than most magi. And after that disaster the War left in Fuyuki, which had still been left an unknown, and the utter annihilation of the Matou… Well, he had his doubts about the whole thing. The next thing was the mark of the ritual – these Command Seals, which would become the nail binding the pact between Master and Servant. They were three, usually on the arm, and they were shaped like a red tattoo which could be used to give an absolute order. Again, the explaination was very vague, as if the writer could not actually come up with anything, and desperately continued writing about the same thing and the glory, the power they brought, the impossibilities they could accomplish. What rubbish. Vladimir snapped the folder closed and hid it inside his suitcase along with the book, papers, maps and other items, carefully arranging them inside.
Snapping it shut, he locked it, and pulled out a small locket, briefly glancing at the two pictures inside it, then clicking it shut with a bit more care. Holding it in his large hand, he hid it in his chest pocket, shutting his eyes for a brief moment, recalling days before his wife had died, days when his son was just born, but then shook it off. It was… A pleasant memory. No more. He peered out of the airplane’s window to the city below, hearing the announcement about landing. War would soon begin. He was under no illusions about how it would go: brutally and mercilessly. There would be people willing to drag their name through the mud to not just win – just have a slightly better chance. There would be desperate people, some of whom would seek pity, others who would not. Pitiful optimists who believed they had a chance for no reason… And others. To win was to kill them all. He did not even consider the possibility of waiting around until they killed one another. After all, that would be letting them run rampant, and surrendering any possibility of glory. As for him?
He would do his job.