Post by Matthew Walker on Oct 21, 2010 0:49:42 GMT -5
The sun shone brightly on the sparsely populated streets and walkways of the scenic Ponte a Moriano, Lucca. The sleepy residential district hummed with a much more subdued beat of life than that of the rushing Torre Alta or the hustle and bustle of the Monte San Quirico shopping districts. The day was waning from early morning and onto the full heat of noon, hints of the mornings coolness still clinging to shadows like ghosts about to be wiped away in the full coming of the sun. Here and there housewives moved about, gossiping or walking to the corner store for bread, the air light with the easy rolling gait of life.
Along the quiet streets and alleyways a figure swiftly moved. Well on his way to being a regular sight running through the back alleys and streets, the athletic shape moved with the powerful confidence of one well accustomed to hard exercise. The figure turned down a small street, more alley than thoroughfare, and made his way to a dingy back door. He smiled at several of his neighbors, housewives who's eaves he'd helped mend or who's groceries he'd carried home, and got approving smiles in return.
Matthew Walker had arrived in Lucca almost six weeks ago. Ever since he'd discovered his father's hidden notebook secreted beneath the floorboards of his home he'd been planning and saving for this trip. His once chance to save his family, his mother. He had touched down in Heathrow Airport, London, and hitch hiked his way across most of Europe to get here. It was remarkable how well a young man could fare with nothing but his wits, his work ethic, and his genuinely good hearted optimism. All the while he'd worked his way towards the site of the Grail War he'd been poring over his father's notes. He even thought he understood some of them.
He pushed open the door to the small basement apartment he'd rented, flicking on the light switch as he descended into his temporary home. It was small and sparsely furnished but tidy. The furniture was old and battered, oft repaired but still standing. The walls were scrubbed and clean but the paint was fading. The result as a whole was, not a squalid hovel, but a lived in and homely feel filled with personality. Rather than cramped it came off as cozy. Matt had hung a chinup bar from the doorway to the bathroom, the only other room in the apartment. Aside from piles of second hand books and a jacket slung over the back of a chair the only other ornamentation was a creased scrap of notebook paper pinned to the wall with a credo scrawled on it in hasty, spiky script. As he entered Matt touched it absent mindedly in a reverential, almost ritual fashion.
Still breathing heavily and streaked with perspiration from his run Matt took the time to wash his face, fighting anticipation as he paced around his small space. Ever since he had arrived his days had been occupied by odd jobs to earn what money he could to support himself. The rest of his time was taken up by training, training, and training. He trained his body, he trained his mind. He read and reread his father's notes trying to make heads or tails of them. He kept his eyes peeled as he journeyed about the city in an attempt to spot the other Masters he had read of, not that he had any idea what he should be looking out for. He taught himself Italian. And today he thought he'd finally discovered a way to summon one of the Servants his father's notebook mentioned.
The problem was that Summoning magic was conventional magic. As far as Matt's limited understanding ran he had an almost negligible talent for conventional magic, only his dangerous and self destructive method of channeling allowing him to do more than blow out a candle. In order to use his full mana potential he had to have a way to focus the summoning that could get around the inherent limitations of doing magic his way. He was surprised he hadn't thought of it earlier. In retrospect it seemed so simple.
Fingers hastened by impatience Matt drew the shades and dimmed the lights. He pulled off his shirt, his body still feeling the tingle of life flowing through it from the exertion of exercise. He stood in the center of the room clad only in his Gi bottoms, loose and easy to move in. His chest heaved, broad shoulders packed with the well developed musculature of athletic youth. From his drawer he retrieved a small inkwell that he had found while scouring the local curio shops. From what he understood he would need some sort of catalyst linking him to the time of a Heroic Spirit. The proprietor had claimed the ink to have originated in ancient Messopotamia, in a court of kings. The trusting youth thought himself in possession of an artifact that would allow himself to summon a powerful knight of bygone times. The shady clerk thought himself fobbing a worthless trinket off on a gullible idiot. Both of them were half right.
Matt frowned on the remnants of congealed ink. Once used for mighty treaties, secret communes, and letters of discretion between ancient lovers. It was musty and nearly empty. He would only get one shot at this.
Carefully he dipped a finger into the ink. Unlike his previous attempts he did not scribe a magical circle on the floor or walls. Instead, holding up the notebook to examine the diagrams for reference, he carefully daubed the unmistakable shape of a thaumaturgical summoning circle onto his own flesh. He seemed to feel the thick ink seeping into his skin. Into his mind.
Matt took a steadying breath. He stood in the dim half darkness of his room, rays of sunlight bisecting the void and throwing dancing motes like solid beams of stardust across his vision. Then he concentrated. His eyes closed, the all too familiar sensation of magical contact dancing along just under the surface of his skin. Like the sensation of blood rushing back into a limb you've been sitting on, prickles of sensation danced through him. He concentrated harder, brow furrowing, head bowed, arms held stiffly out to his sides as though reaching away from himself in all directions. The prickling escalated into burning as he drew deeper, the feeling of mana rushing through him like a flash flood almost sweeping his consciousness away. He could feel the power tearing at his nerve endings and sending torrents of fire through his blood coupled with the disconcerting feeling of drain. He could almost see the seconds of his life trickling away like sand in a glass.
Then he focused inwards, not on the spells he was familiar with but on the alien sigil scribed on his chest. He drew the powerful lensing effect of his powers inwards, holding it just under the surface of his skin and pouring all of his energy into the emblem. It began to glow, then to shine, then blaze. Curls of smoke began to curl from Matt's flesh as the inscription began to char around the edges. His teeth were gritted. He felt as if his mind were riding on the back of the power coursing through him, ready to be thrown off at any moment like a wood chip tossed into a hurricane.
His eyes snapped open, his head flew back.
"COME!" He cried, instinct taking over and sweeping reason aside. "COME TO ME!"
Along the quiet streets and alleyways a figure swiftly moved. Well on his way to being a regular sight running through the back alleys and streets, the athletic shape moved with the powerful confidence of one well accustomed to hard exercise. The figure turned down a small street, more alley than thoroughfare, and made his way to a dingy back door. He smiled at several of his neighbors, housewives who's eaves he'd helped mend or who's groceries he'd carried home, and got approving smiles in return.
Matthew Walker had arrived in Lucca almost six weeks ago. Ever since he'd discovered his father's hidden notebook secreted beneath the floorboards of his home he'd been planning and saving for this trip. His once chance to save his family, his mother. He had touched down in Heathrow Airport, London, and hitch hiked his way across most of Europe to get here. It was remarkable how well a young man could fare with nothing but his wits, his work ethic, and his genuinely good hearted optimism. All the while he'd worked his way towards the site of the Grail War he'd been poring over his father's notes. He even thought he understood some of them.
He pushed open the door to the small basement apartment he'd rented, flicking on the light switch as he descended into his temporary home. It was small and sparsely furnished but tidy. The furniture was old and battered, oft repaired but still standing. The walls were scrubbed and clean but the paint was fading. The result as a whole was, not a squalid hovel, but a lived in and homely feel filled with personality. Rather than cramped it came off as cozy. Matt had hung a chinup bar from the doorway to the bathroom, the only other room in the apartment. Aside from piles of second hand books and a jacket slung over the back of a chair the only other ornamentation was a creased scrap of notebook paper pinned to the wall with a credo scrawled on it in hasty, spiky script. As he entered Matt touched it absent mindedly in a reverential, almost ritual fashion.
Still breathing heavily and streaked with perspiration from his run Matt took the time to wash his face, fighting anticipation as he paced around his small space. Ever since he had arrived his days had been occupied by odd jobs to earn what money he could to support himself. The rest of his time was taken up by training, training, and training. He trained his body, he trained his mind. He read and reread his father's notes trying to make heads or tails of them. He kept his eyes peeled as he journeyed about the city in an attempt to spot the other Masters he had read of, not that he had any idea what he should be looking out for. He taught himself Italian. And today he thought he'd finally discovered a way to summon one of the Servants his father's notebook mentioned.
The problem was that Summoning magic was conventional magic. As far as Matt's limited understanding ran he had an almost negligible talent for conventional magic, only his dangerous and self destructive method of channeling allowing him to do more than blow out a candle. In order to use his full mana potential he had to have a way to focus the summoning that could get around the inherent limitations of doing magic his way. He was surprised he hadn't thought of it earlier. In retrospect it seemed so simple.
Fingers hastened by impatience Matt drew the shades and dimmed the lights. He pulled off his shirt, his body still feeling the tingle of life flowing through it from the exertion of exercise. He stood in the center of the room clad only in his Gi bottoms, loose and easy to move in. His chest heaved, broad shoulders packed with the well developed musculature of athletic youth. From his drawer he retrieved a small inkwell that he had found while scouring the local curio shops. From what he understood he would need some sort of catalyst linking him to the time of a Heroic Spirit. The proprietor had claimed the ink to have originated in ancient Messopotamia, in a court of kings. The trusting youth thought himself in possession of an artifact that would allow himself to summon a powerful knight of bygone times. The shady clerk thought himself fobbing a worthless trinket off on a gullible idiot. Both of them were half right.
Matt frowned on the remnants of congealed ink. Once used for mighty treaties, secret communes, and letters of discretion between ancient lovers. It was musty and nearly empty. He would only get one shot at this.
Carefully he dipped a finger into the ink. Unlike his previous attempts he did not scribe a magical circle on the floor or walls. Instead, holding up the notebook to examine the diagrams for reference, he carefully daubed the unmistakable shape of a thaumaturgical summoning circle onto his own flesh. He seemed to feel the thick ink seeping into his skin. Into his mind.
Matt took a steadying breath. He stood in the dim half darkness of his room, rays of sunlight bisecting the void and throwing dancing motes like solid beams of stardust across his vision. Then he concentrated. His eyes closed, the all too familiar sensation of magical contact dancing along just under the surface of his skin. Like the sensation of blood rushing back into a limb you've been sitting on, prickles of sensation danced through him. He concentrated harder, brow furrowing, head bowed, arms held stiffly out to his sides as though reaching away from himself in all directions. The prickling escalated into burning as he drew deeper, the feeling of mana rushing through him like a flash flood almost sweeping his consciousness away. He could feel the power tearing at his nerve endings and sending torrents of fire through his blood coupled with the disconcerting feeling of drain. He could almost see the seconds of his life trickling away like sand in a glass.
Then he focused inwards, not on the spells he was familiar with but on the alien sigil scribed on his chest. He drew the powerful lensing effect of his powers inwards, holding it just under the surface of his skin and pouring all of his energy into the emblem. It began to glow, then to shine, then blaze. Curls of smoke began to curl from Matt's flesh as the inscription began to char around the edges. His teeth were gritted. He felt as if his mind were riding on the back of the power coursing through him, ready to be thrown off at any moment like a wood chip tossed into a hurricane.
His eyes snapped open, his head flew back.
"COME!" He cried, instinct taking over and sweeping reason aside. "COME TO ME!"
