Disillusionment [/fin]

[Amaranta Bastillo]

Next thread may be found here. (durr)

"Hello, yes, this is Amaranta Bastillo speaking... Mmhm... Yes..."
"..."
"I see. Thank you for taking care of him, then."
"..."
"No, I'm sorry. I can't come in this aftern-"
"..."
"Yes, that's right."
"..."
"I understand. My grandfather can be rather strange at times. Don't think too much of it."
"..."
"Same to you, then. Contact me if anything else arises."

Click.

Emma collapsed backwards onto the couch, heaving a heavy sigh, one hand massaging her temple, cellphone hanging limply from the other. Just the sort of conversation to get one started from a long day of no sleep. She had driven her grandfather to hospital the night before, stayed at the hospital until six in the morning, and then somehow managed to muddle through a seven-hour shift. She really didn't want to drive all the way back to the hospital just to hear an old man's mad ramblings. Emma tried not to feel too guilty for leaving her grandfather alone.

To be fair, she certainly felt alone in the oversized manor that she and her grandfather had called home for the past ten or so years, the old gothic European structure a far cry from the modern high-rises of modern times that were all metal and plaster. Indeed, the mansion probably wouldn't have looked out of place standing right next to a heritage building in Old Lucca. Her tote-bag, on the other hand, flung open on the table,looked out of place and tacky against the rich-red mahogany, while the multicoloured books, brushes, and paints spilling out of the open bag seemed out of place and childish against the deep colourings of the antique wood. Ten years really had done nothing to remedy the fact that Emma felt like she didn't belong.

"I guess selling this house wouldn't be a such a bad idea," she muttered to herself, eyes drifting around the vast interior of the living room.

Maintaining such a large house took time and effort, after all.

It also held far too many secrets for Emma to be comfortable with. It was only recently that she discovered a basement even existed when her grandfather pointed it out to her, let alone the secret passages she had managed to find purely by chance. She she didn't even want to know why the house she lived in had secret passages. The only reason why she hadn't moved to another address already was her grandfather. Despite everything, he was the only family she had. She couldn't very well leave him alone, and also happened to be adamantly against the idea of leaving his 'ancestral home'. Or somesuch.

But now he probably wasn't going to live much longer.

On the table, admist the mess of her books and implements, something caught her eye. Two striking red jewels winked at her; something her grandfather had presented to her last night that she had almost forgotten about. Almost without thinking, she leaned forward and scooped them up, letting the brilliant gems sit in her hand. It seemed like just the sort of family heirloom that her grandfather's family might keep. She had no idea what to make of it. Was she meant to wear them?

She wasn't too keen on that idea. Popping them in her breast pocket, she told herself she'd find a way to sort that out later.

And then she remembered the basement. With a groan, she remembered the other thing her grandfather managed to leave her; an unholy mess underneath the house. Shaking her head silently, she wondered why going along with all his crazy ideas seemed like such a smart thing to do at the time. In retrospect, it probably wasn't as clever as she thought. But then again, who usually makes their granddaughter draw a a pentacle on the ground?

It was only with a fair bit of effort that Emma managed to seperate herself from the couch. The basement. Three months ago, it was an empty room. Flash-forward to present, and the very same room has been flooded with all sorts of occult material that the skeptical, extremly down-to-earth illustration student didn't even know existed. It was only making her way down the cool stone passage to the bottom of the house that she realized how odd it was to have a sudden urge to clean the basement.

"...I've gone to the all the trouble of coming here, so I may as well."

The basement, a large stone room that sits just underneath the manor. Somehow her grandfather had remembered it existed. She'd been going to the very same room for 'magical study' for a few months now. It was all really just something her grandfather managed to dream up. She had no idea how she somehow got dragged into it too, but the large red, vaguely arcane-looking circle, sitting squarely in the center of the room, proved that somehow, it happened. It was scribed with meticulous precision, and the circle drawn with a definite sense of aesthetics. Emma couldn't imagine why she had taken it so seriously.

Scattered all over the floor, and burying the table that sat in the corner of the room, were ancient tomes, papers, and pens. A jar of ink was tipped precariously on the edge of a impressive stack of paper, while somewhere else, she spied a spider innoculously weaving a web between two tall piles of books. It was an unmitigated disaster. Frowning, she bent down to pick up one of the pages close to her; a yellowed parchment that most likely fell out of some old book or another.

A book that she had never seen.

It was scribed in a hand that she wasn't familiar with. Different. Unique. An aura of allure.

...How could handwriting have allure?

"Ye first," she muttered the words, trying to see how they would sound, "O silver, O iron."

A cool shiver ran down her spine.

"Ye stone of the foundation, O Archduke of the Contract."

Once more, that same tingling feeling crawled under her skin. Her imagination.

"Hear me in the name of our great teacher, the Archmagus," she faltered a bit at the name, "Schweinorg"
Let the descending winds be as a wall."
Let the gates in all directions be shut, rising above the crown, and let the three-forked roads to the Kingdom revolve."

"Shut."

She began to pace.

"Shut."

A pervading sense of wrongness.

"Shut."

Her skin crawled.

"Shut."

The air was thick with an intangible substance.

"Shut."

In the back of her head, something clicked. The tips of her fingers were numb, muscles aflame with an unknown activity. The page was crinkling under her iron grip.

"Five perfections for each repetition."
And now, let the filled sigils be annihilated in my stead!"

The scarlet ink that the text was written in was leaping off the page, worming themselves into some place in her mind.

"Set."

The circle began to glow, the arcane light becoming brighter by the moment.

"Let thy body rest under my dominion, let my fate rest in thy blade."
If thou submittest to the call of the Holy Grail and if thou wilt obey this mind, this reason, then thou shalt respond."

Something was squirming underneath her skin.

"I make my oath here."

There was no mistake; her limbs were burning from extertion.

"I am that person who is to become the virtue of all Heavens."

Her breathing was heavy.

"I am that person who is covered with the evil of all Hades."

Cold sweat prickled her forehead, ran down her back.

"Thou seven heavens, clad in a trinity of words,"

She stopped pacing, standing in the very center of the circle.

"Come past thy restraining rings, and be thou the hands that protect the balance-! "

[Bedwyr]

He… felt once again. Was he being reborn, finally? Would he have another chance to serve?

The displaced air from his summoning rustled slightly, making his long hair and surcoat sway. No, not reborn, summoned! That thought rippled across his mind as information poured into his brain, just enough to know what was happening, what the world was like, and a strangely large amount about the maintenance of metal mounts.

Steeds. He suddenly felt great urge to ride once more across the rolling hills of Britain. It had always been hard for him to be still, even for a short while.

He was being given a chance to bring back what had been his life. A chance for the grail, and with it… “I still serve.” He muttered, shaking his head.

Finally he opened his eyes. He was in a large stone room, dark and filled with tomes, that, to him, seemed strewn haphazardly and piled strangely across the cold stone floor. The place faintly reminded him of a dungeon. The displaced air from his summoning had scattered parchment across the room, at least he thought. It seemed unlikely that someone would leave such things scattered like that.

The room he had been summoned in was no matter to him, however. To him it was who, not where.

Lastly, his eyes settled on a young woman in front of him with red hair, holding an aged sheet of parchement. She seemed to be staring at him with… disbelief? He was not sure, but he would place the look as disbelief for now. He could see no other, so she must be his Master. She was standing in the circle, his mind now telling him that it had been what called him to the world once more.

Master. With that word a strange compulsion washed over him. He had to complete the contract. He had to. Without it he would vanish, as surely as he had appeared.

His armour creaked as he lowered himself down onto one knee, his white surcoat folding behind him on the floor. Both his arms were visible as he knelt, his whole one, and the one that the traitor had taken his hand from. He used his good arm to straighten his sword and then lowered his eyes from the girl, and looked at the floor. The strange compulsion almost forced his words as he uttered “Are you my Master?”

[Amaranta Bastillo]

An almost blinding flash of brilliant white light illuminated the room for just a moment, the scrap of parchment fluttering slowly to the floor from Emma's limp hands.

Her entire body was shaking with exertion, covered in cold sweat. She staggered a few steps back, almost collapsing onto the floor. What was that? The skin of her arms were prickled with goosebumps, even when she drew them together. She rubbed her eyes, pushed her hair back behind her ears, and tried to calm down. Regulate her breathing.

Somewhere along the way, she realized her eyes were closed.

Blink.

Blink.

She snapped her eyelids shut again.

Obviously she was seeing things. Several deep breaths.

Emma opened her eyes.

There, standing in front of her, was one who looked like he (maybe) stepped straight out of a fairytale. A knight in shining armour. A perfect human, looking completely out of place in the dingy basement area. Their eyes met. His were a brilliant shade of blue that held not even the tiniest sliver of deceit.

She tried to say something. Her voice came out in a squeak.

And then, ever so slowly, he knelt. She heard his armour creak softly, the subdued rustling of cloth as they trailed on the floor. He existed. He definitely existed. A knight, as noble as the stories seemed to paint them, was kneeling before her. Her breath caught in her throat even as she tried not to stare. It was almost a physical blow when she saw that one of his hands were missing, even despite how unreal all of it was.

"Are you my master?"

Even his voice was surreal, soft, lilting, almost womanish, yet still dignified.

"Nope," she said flatly, when she was able to regain the ability to speak again.

She closed her eyes, spun on her heels. What did she do last night? Eat this morning? She furrowed her brow, and bowed her head in thought, forcing herself not to look at the one-handed knight. A figment of her imagination. Her legs felt like jelly, arms gripping each other tightly. Did someone drug her drink? No, wait, she didn't drink. What about coffee? Tea? Water? She distinctly remembering fixing her own beverages. What about prescription drugs? Of course. She didn't have any prescription drugs.

Then it occurred to her; a solution that instantly made sense of everything. Of course. She must be dreaming. She turned back around, the one-handed knight was still there, regarding her with an odd look.

She pinched herself.

No luck.

She pinched herself harder.

It hurt.

Hallucinations, then? Probably brought on by a combination of her grandfather's odd stories and lack of sleep. She needed more rest. That seemed logical. Sort of. But when she tried to move, her legs disobeyed her. Even if she tried telling herself that the knight didn't exist, she couldn't. She couldn't even think of it as an elaborate joke.

Emma pursed her lips, cocked her head to one side.

"...Who are you?"

[Bedwyr]

“Nope.” The response from the woman seemed to tear at his mind, and once again he felt the urge to move, to search. He was almost glad that she would not be risking her life in this fight. Only knights, soldiers should have to risk their life in war. And she was definitely not either of those. She looked… frail was perhaps the best way to put it, but then again so had many soldiers. Boys who fought for their lost families and were half-starved, hope already gone in their eyes. She was not like that either.

She spun away from him, deep in thought. He began to rise; he had to find his master. The contract had to be completed. Compulsion touched his mind again, but this time he brushed it away.

However, just as he was about to rise she turned back towards him and pinched herself, twice. He almost started at that, Is she trying to wake from a dream? [/color]

A dream, that brought back the final words of his king. She had asked if one could return to a dream, and he had never doubted his own response. If one tries to return to a dream, they will return. The memories of her lying there and asking him almost brought his eyes to tears, until he blinked them away. He had difficulty repressing his anger

By the time he had managed to compose himself, she had asked him a question. “…Who are you?”

What could he tell one that was not his master? “I am the servant, Rider. I was summoned to fight for the holy grail, the granter of wishes.” If she was not his master, someone else nearby must be, and she would know of the war anyways. Yet she did not look as if she understood a single word he had said. Is she even a Magus? Any more information than he gave would be dangerous, not only to him, but to her as well. Some were not above torture to gain information. Some were not above some things that were worse than torture.

He stood and began walking towards her, walking past her. As he approached her still stunned form a thought occurred to him, Perhaps she knows who my Master is. He stopped, and asked “If you are not my Master, do you know who constructed this circle? Who gave the chant? Who is my Master?”

Master. That word still rung in his head. It rung every time he said it. He still wondered how he could serve any master, other than his first and only liege. He still served her. The reason he was here, and the reason he would serve now would be to serve her. His good hand drifted towards the reminder of his service in his ear, until he pulled it back down when he realized what he was doing, he did not have to feel them, he felt their weight, both the real, and the weight of the idea.

[Amaranta Bastillo]

After the initial shock had worn off, it was back to figuring out why the hell a one-handed costumed freak was in her basement. Granted, he was a pretty gorgeous one-handed costumed freak, but that didn't change the fact that he was spouting nonsense about masters in the middle of her basement. Or, rather, Emma was obviously talking to a figment of her imagination, and the figment of her imagination was talking back. Logically speaking, though, it just didn't make sense. Nothing that had happened since she suddenly decided to spring-clean the basement made sense. Coupled with her sudden fatigue, it was enough to make her head reel.

“I am the servant, Rider. I was summoned to fight for the holy grail, the granter of wishes.”

More absurd phrases coming out of the guy's mouth. Servant? Holy grail? It sounded like just the sort of thing campy fantasy thrived on, but the man in mail before her was saying that with a completely straight face. But somehow, those words seemed familiar. A book? A scroll? One of her grandfather's stories? She bit down on her lower lip, frustrated with the sheer amount of logical fallacies, and her inability to make sense out of all of them. One of her hands reached for her phone, but the bag that she always wore wasn't there. Calling the police seemed rather out of the question.

“If you are not my master, do you know who constructed this circle?"

That line interrupted Emma's string of thought. She looked down at the circle she was standing in. The ink had faded to a dull red instead of being brilliantly crimson, but it was still there. The circle that she drew.

"Who gave the chant?"

The pieces were beginning to fall into place, but Emma's mind refused to accept it. Absolutely, positively, refused. Her grandfather's madness must've infected her somehow.

"Who is my master?”

She couldn't answer that. How should she know? Her mouth had become dry. It couldn't be her. He was just a crazy freak who somehow found his way into her basement. The flash of light. His sudden appearance. Her inexplicable fatigue. She desperately tried to explain it away in her mind, but it wasn't working. Either her brain, or the world, was broken somewhere.

"I - that," she was failing at sounding coherent. Trying to keep her voice steady, she tried again," I just read something off a piece of paper. I do that a lot. And the circle was something I decided to doodle in my spare time."

She didn't, and it wasn't. Even to her own ears, the excuses fell amazingly flat. She saw him raise his good hand to the side of his head, as if reaching for something. His ears? She let her eyes follow his hand, but even when he drew it back, Emma's gaze was fixed on the glinting red jewel that he wore as an earring; the earring bearing exact size, shade, and cut of the two that her grandfather had presented her with. Almost in a panic, she shoved her hands into her pocket to feel if the earrings were still there.

They were.

She withdrew her trembling hands, grasping the very same earrings that Rider was wearing. The pair in her hands and the pair on his ears were identical. It was almost too much to be a coincidence. She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut again. She tried to think of something intelligent to say. She couldn't.

"...How...?"

There were just too many questions.

[Bedwyr]

The eyes staring at him changed from disbelief to dismissal, and then back again to disbelief as his questions echoed through the dark basement.

“I – that,” Her words stumbled from her mouth as she made some odd excuses. But she admitted to drawing the circle! It did not mean she was his Master, but it now seemed highly likely. He fought down another urge to ask her outright, she had still denied it after all. He felt a pang of regret. She would have to fight. As little as he could let her, he was Rider after all.

With even that slight mention of riding his mind flooded once again with the fields of Britain. He would ride here, and see new ground, experience the pure, unadulterated enjoyment that it brought. He could have almost laughed until his mind drifted back to the real world.

The woman was staring at his ear. His hand twitched again, remembering its climb. More specifically she stared at the gem adorning it. He was about to ask her why she was staring, when she reached into her pocket and, after a second, pulled out two glinting red gems.

The same ones he wore. The world spun, and suddenly his knees felt weak. There was knowing you had died, and there was knowing.

This time his hand made the full journey, feeling the clasps that held a reminder to his ear. It was still there. Once again he stared at her shaking hands again, and they were still there. How did she- A catalyst [/color] – his mind once again fed him information he should have never known. She held what had called him, specifically to this world. That guaranteed it to him, she was his Master, and all she had to do was admit it.

“… How…?” Even her voice trembled. Perhaps she believed, perhaps she did not. It changed nothing. He walked up to the woman and carefully closed her hand around the two gems with his mailed one. He stared into her eyes, as if trying to see what she was thinking.
“How? I would like to ask the same thing. What you hold in your hands are my only true possessions, or I suppose the only things I once possessed. They are reminders. Reminders I always needed.” He sighed. He had needed them many a time.

She looked as if she were about to ask something again, but he continued. “Keep them or throw them away; they are no use to a dead man.” I am dead. I am reborn. His own, if even a shadow, were more than enough.

He bent down onto one knee again, almost pulling her with him since his hand was still gripping her much smaller one. He quickly let go with a hasty apology.

The compulsion burned in him. He could no longer sweep it away. “I will answer all your questions when you confirm, if you confirm, as if you do not it would put you in far too much danger. Builder of the circle, speaker of the chant, I am one who serves when called. I ask again, are you my Master?”

His mind burnt with the word once again, but he could not think clearly, the compulsion was so strong. The grail demanded its contract.

[Amaranta Bastillo]

She actually recoiled when he closed his hands over hers, heart skipping a beat when she felt the cool steel on her skin, actually taking a short, jerky step backwards. She felt the cool rubies digging into the flesh of her hands as she closed them around the jewels. If this 'Rider' wasn't a figment of her imagination, who was he? Her mind was racing. What had he meant by 'Master'? A strange fetish? Was he some sort of stalker? Each possibility that presented itself was more terrifying, and less plausible than the last. None of what he said either; the more than came out of his mouth, the less Emma knew what to make out of anything.

“Keep them or throw them away; they are no use to a dead man.”

A dead man. Emma had no idea what he meant by that either; all she understood at the moment was that there was a stranger in her basement with a strong grip on her hand. She was actually speechless; there was hardly anything she could possibly say to make the situation less absurd.

"Dead ma-!?"

She almost got dragged down with him as the man kneeled again. Really; who did he think he was? Who was he? What was he? All of them questions she couldn't very well ask the man straight out and expect an honest answer. She had already asked about the identity, and gotten a very vague 'Rider' in response. It didn't help with anything. She almost completely missed the hasty apology as her hand was let go of as her mind was frantically attempting to process the information.

“I will answer all your questions when you confirm, if you confirm, as if you do not it would put you in far too much danger."

'Danger of what?' she wanted to ask, 'confirm what?' There was just too little information to work off.

"Builder of the circle, speaker of the chant, I am one who serves when called. I ask again, are you my Master?”

She shook her head, as much as attempting to dispel the vision of the knight as in denial. How was she supposed to answer? What was she meant to do? Chewing on her lower lip, she ran her left hand up her other arm in an almost unconscious gesture to warm herself up. It ended up irritating a bruise that wasn't there before, causing her to wince.

There, on the top of her right arm, was yet another mystery that presented itself to her. A crimson tattoo, in three parts. Depending on how one looked at it, it could've been a shield or a bird. Emma just gaped. Alright. Time to get her act together. She didn't know how it happened, but some time between a few hours ago and present, she had taken some sort of hallucinogens or something.

"Look," she snapped her head back up to face the kneeling knight, "I have no idea what sort of mumbo-jumbo you're trying to sell to me, but right now you're trespassing. I don't know how you got in here, but I'm going to ask you to get out before I call the authorities."

She bluffed, putting on a show of fake bravado. She finally managed to force her legs to obey her, taking long strides past the kneeling knight, moving to leave the basement. The first thing she needed was a nap. A nice, long nap to clear her head. And then she'd go see a doctor.

[Bedwyr]

“… but I’m going to ask you to get out before I call the authorities.”

Authorities? She would call her own liege-lord? His mind seemed to be supplying enforcer knights as the explanation for what ‘authorities’ were. Except that they held guns, which appeared in his brain as high powered crossbows, instead of stout cudgels. He had stopped caring. The woman held the gems that sat in his ears in her own hand, and had spoken the chant with her own mouth, apparently. He was beginning to doubt her mental faculties.

… The woman was beginning to get to him. Did she know nothing? Perhaps she had expected a servant with both hands. Was what she spoke lies? His hand tightened and he felt like clutching it into a fist. The grail demanded a contract, and she put up a false front.
She walked by him. She seemed as if she was trying to push his very existence out of her head.

He looked back at her, catching a glimpse of her hand. There was a strange marking on it, command seals the information pool in his mind told him. It looked like a fanciful shield, suited more to parade grounds than the actual military.

She had the spells and still she denied.

What was wrong with the woman? Perhaps she could already see his poor skills off horseback and took them for what he would be like? He just did not know. He really hoped she was not lying. Lying was one thing that went against every fibre of his being. What
should he do?

And then it was as if every part of his brain connected. He had an idea. An excellent idea.

He would take her riding. He felt the urge to ride, so this would solve two problems at once. His own prana was drifting away, though. Could he manage such a feat with no master? It was a simple choice either way. Without a master he would not be able to ride, so he had to get his only chance in if she continued to refuse.

He walked after her. This… this would probably scare her, if she truly did not know. Some things needed to be done, however. And this woman stirred his anger like it had not been stirred in… centuries, he supposed. He might take some small pleasure in her fear, perhaps it would help him fight the compulsion on him, which seemed to be trying to beat his head in. Only his urge to ride seemed to be able to overpower it now. It had begun to give him a headache.

He gripped her shoulder to halt her. A glint took up in his eyes as she turned around to meet his. “We are going to ride, together. And you are going to enjoy it.” Nothing else he said, but he did wonder what kind of steed she had. He gripped her wrist and began to pull as he walked towards the exit from the basement.

Perhaps he had been too hasty, as the woman seemed to definitely be resisting. Maybe she really did not know. It did not matter now. It did not matter at all, he would ride whether she wanted to or not.

[Amaranta Bastillo]

One step.

Two steps.

Things seemed to be going well so far.

"We are going to ride, together," An iron grip clamped down on her wrist ,"And you are going to enjoy it."

What. What. What what what. What. WHAT.

Who just outright said that to somebody? No, never mind that, did he just outright say that to her? Seriously? Emma all but went slack with shock. It took her several seconds to actually process what the man had just said, with a completely straight face at that, and a few more for her to regain control of her motor functions. In that time, she had already been dragged halfway up the stairs.

"E- Ah, I - Y- St-," she blabbered, all her words running into each other as she desperately tried to escape his grip, blind panic threatening to take control, "S-w-ai-op-!"

The man ignored her incoherent protests as he continued to drag her up the stairs, despite her resistance. Her struggling didn't even seem to slow him down as he hauled her up the stairs by her wrist, her own legs scrabbling for purchase on the floor. He could be just kidding, right? An accidental innuendo?

...There was no way something that obvious could've possibly been accidental.

"W-what are you doing!?" it took her a while, but she finally managed to belt out a complete sentence," Let go of me! Now! I-I'm calling the police!"

Once again, she was all but ignored, the man effortlessly swinging open the door that led to the house main without even hesitating. This was the same guy who somehow found his way into her basement all dressed up as a knight and spouting DnD phrases out of the blue. Why the hell was he so strong? Why wasn't her cell phone in her pocket? Why didn't she put her cell phone in her pocket? Why did she have a crazy stalker? What the hell? When exactly did reality stop making sense?

Compared to the basement, the ground floor of the home was kept in pretty good shape. It meant that Emma knew where everything was at a glance. For example, the vase sitting rather inconspicuously on a small round display table. It was doubtlessly an antique. At that point, Emma didn't particularly care anymore. Reaching for it with her free hand, gripping it tightly around it's neck, she swung the hundreds-year old piece of furniture for all it was worth, aiming for the back of the blondy's head.

[Bedwyr]

"W-what are you doing!?" it took her a while, but she finally managed to belt out a complete sentence," Let go of me! Now! I-I'm calling the police!"

The same threats as before. One seldom made threats if they could go through with them. He was really getting tired of this. Completely tired. Why would people keep him from riding? Did they get enjoyment out of depriving another man of his?

A crash. Had he broken something? A couple fragments of pottery fell into his hair. I broke it with my head? That was impossible.

He looked behind him. The woman he was dragging, he still didn’t know her name despite her being his Master, even if she hadn’t admitted it yet, was holding the stem of some antique vase.

Really, she had hit him? With a piece of pottery? Did she not know anything about servants? That swing probably wouldn’t have hurt a small child. Perhaps this was some strange ritual of acceptance in this new age? The pool in his mind told him an emphatic No!

Of course she still hadn’t accepted. He continued dragging her, he thought she might have been screaming, but that could have been her feet scraping the floor. He had really stopped caring, he needed to ride. It had been centuries, after all.

Anyone watching would say that this was definitely not the way a knight would serve, or change a woman’s mind. He valued chivalry third highest in his life, and third most important. The first was her , and the second riding. Riding came before chivalry in his mind, if only barely, and most of the time both could be satisfied at once.

But not this time.

He made his way to the stables in the woman’s house. How he had known where the stables were was a mystery for another time. Perhaps he could sense the mounts? He thought he had been able to do that in his life, but he had never actually managed to prove it.

He barely noticed the woman’s resistance anymore. A mount was in front of him, the first he had seen with his new eyes.

And it was beautiful. Well to him all mounts had some form of beauty, especially in their movement.

His mind ran through its faults first however. While well balanced for a two wheel vehicle, it still sacrificed stability for manoeuvrability. Its frame would not stand up to the speed of sound, even with his prana enhancements. He would have to find a higher class vehicle if he wanted to go that fast. It had decent base acceleration and was perhaps excellent for his master’s first ride.

Oh and it had the disadvantage everything made by man seemed to. It was designed to be steered by hand. Specifically two hands. That should not really matter for a non-combat ride, anyways. The prana he had left was enough surely to infuse the vehicle with his prana, to make it a noble phantasm, but definitely not enough to activate his combat skills.

Across its side was the word Vespa. It would be perfect for his Master’s first ride with him. Hopefully there would be many more.
How was he going to steer, hold her and accelerate at the same time? This was the problem with mounts designed to be steered by hand, you were so limited.

He would alternate knees to steer, depending if he needed to brake or accelerate, and would hold onto her with his good hand. The sword buckled at his waist presented some small problem, but it would be fine.

He had been staring at the thing for a solid minute. She kept struggling, he had to admire her tenacity, but he really didn’t notice.

The pool in his mind supplied that he would need a key to unlock the device, but he just decided he would work around it by rerouting the electrical systems. However he needed a hand to do that so he pulled the woman in close to his chest, holding her tightly so she would not escape, as he hotwired the mount. Where did the word ‘Hotwired’ come from? [/color]

It had been child’s play, child’s play he had never actually known how to do. This was beginning to worry him, the immense amount of control he did not have over his life, his memories. What if what was burned in his head had been a lie? He shook his head. Those were not thoughts for now. He had to ride.

His foot pushed the pedal, and a small amount of prana shot through the vehicle, upgrading it so it would be suitable for combat with other servants. He was going to run out if he did this for long, the contract had to be made. The compulsion was nothing now compared to his urge to ride. The metal beast beneath him began to roar, or perhaps hum was more like it. He gripped the woman close and pulled her onto the back of the saddle on the mount. Curiously it seems to have been built for a spare rider. Useful.

There was a white thin wall blocking his way. Riding through it would probably not result well for the barely enhanced vehicle. So he pulled the woman back from behind him and shifted further back in the saddle. She was shrieking unintelligibly. Even had she been saying words, he would not have heard them, understood them.

He then put her in front of him in the saddle and bound her with his bad hand. It would at least do that.

Then he cut a hole in the wall with his blade.

And the second iron wall a few paces away.

She did not seem happy with him. It was not working as planned. He shifted her back behind him, her interfering with his steering could have terrible results, to say the least. Holding her again with his good hand he began to ride, his feet alternating between steering and pressing the pedal.

“The wind! The power! The speed! The twisting and turning, union between man and beast! Feel the joy of riding!”

She shrieked. Again. She needed a more enjoyable ride then?

He accelerated to two-hundred kilometers an hour. Perhaps that would be better.

[Amaranta Bastillo]

The vase didn't work. A hundreds-year old antique, most likely worth hundreds if not thousands of euros, smashed squarely on a person's head, and it didn't even give him pause. Calling the man-in-mail incredibly thick-headed would've been the understatement of the year. The only reaction such an action seemed to win was a quizzical look over the shoulder, her would-be kidnapper not even slowing in his stride.

"Didn't you hear me the first time!?" she screamed, hurling the shattered remains of the vase at the back of the head, "Let! Go!"

There was even less of an reaction that time, her feet sliding along the polished wood floor as the man dragged her, and clawing the armored hand only served to make her fingers sore. Obviously this couldn't possibly be happening to her, but denial really wasn't working when the very thing she wanted to deny was dragging her by the wrist. There was only so many things that Emma's mind could handle at one time, and she was most certainly reaching her limit.

Despite all her protests, resistance, and general uncooperativeness, he moved through her house with an amazingly sure sense of direction. He couldn't possibly scouted out her home beforehand, could he? He really was a stalker, wasn't he? Despite how much more disturbing it would've made her circumstances, she was currently too busy being kidnapped by a creepy man in a costume to care.

Past the living room (her tote bag and it's contents were still strewn haphazardly over the table), down the hallway, take a left turn. Wait. Where were they going? The garage? He was seriously going to abduct her? Was he planning on hijacking one of her vehicles to abduct her? Despite Emma's blind panic, she couldn't help but feel just a little relieved that they had sold the car for a Vespa. How could you possibly kidnap someone on a Vespa?

She found out the answer first-hand a short while later.

After watching her abductor fondle the Vespa with a most certainly disturbing amount of tenderness, the vice like grip on her wrist never even weakening, despite her struggles. He was really going to kidnap her wearing that ridiculous outfit, and with a Vespa. A fifteen-horsepower Vespa that could barely seat two people. She alternated between panic and incredulity; this guy was seriously beyond human, paying her no mind as she continued to resist his grip.

"What are you doing to my VespaaaAAAAAIII!?"

Her furious demand turned into an incoherent shriek as she was flung roughly onto the back seat, the man switching the grip of hid hand from her wrist to her arm, the engine firing up with a loud roar. What was he going to use to steer? His crippled arm? Mouth? Feet? More importantly, how was he even going to make it to the outside!? There was literally nowhere to go; all the doors were closed. Was he actually going to drive straight through the garage do-

"WHAT ARE YOU--!?" Emma found herself flung from the back-seat to the front, the patterned steel of the garage door growing closer at an alarming speed, "STOP! STOP! YOU'RE GOING TO GET US KILLED."

She fought for control of the controls with her free hand, all the while bracing for the impact that never came. She had hardly noticed the sword that her kidnapper carried around, and even when she did, it was always under the implicit assumption that it was purely decorative. Apparently not. That weapon just sliced a clean hole through her garage door. He sliced a hole in a metal door with a sword in a fraction of a second all because he couldn't be bothered to open it the conventional way.

"Give me the controls!" She screamed into his ear, attempting to use the weight of her body to push him back,"Do you even know how to dri- OH MY GOD LOOK OUUUUUT[/i]."

They were barreling into the iron fence that surrounded at top speed. He couldn't possibly be meaning to destroy the cast-iron fence the same way he made mincemeat out of the door, right? Right? Wrong. Even as she squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable crash, she heard the unmistakable sound of steel screeching against metal. When she opened them again, they were already on the road.

To be more specific, they were on the wrong side of the road going at 75 miles an hour in the middle of heavy traffic on an old vespa. Suddenly, she found herself thrown to the back of the Vespa again, despite the breakneck speeds they were going at. All of a sudden, her life seemed in even more jeopardy than before.

"SLOW DOWN! WRONG SIDE!" In a sudden change of heart, she moved from madly attempting to escape his grip to desperately wrapping her arms around his waist in a frantic attempt to avoid being reduced to a splat on the side of the road," SLOW DOWN! OHMYGOD THAT TRUCK IS COMING RIGHT AT UU- ARE YOU TRYING TO GET US KILLE-EEEEEE-!?"

He didn't seem to be paying attention to her in the slightest.

“The wind! The power! The speed! The twisting and turning, union between man and beast! Feel the joy of riding!”
"LIKE HELL I AM," she considered headbutting him, but thought better of it," AT LEAST DRIVE ON THE RIGHT SIDE OF THE - SHIIIIT!"

They just barely managed to avoid a head-on collision with a truck, both drivers swerving sharply in the last few metres. More importantly, her kidnapper didn't seem to show any signs of slowing down either. In fact, he seemed to be...

"SLOW DOWN DOES NOT MEAN GO AT GODDAMN NINE THOUSAND AND ONE MILES," she almost considered just burying her head in the surcoat in front of her for fear of being spectator to even more roadside carnage, but just as hastily dismissed the idea, "WAIT NO. THIS IS GOING OFF THE ROAA-! YOU'RE GOING TO HIT PEDESTRIANS! YOU'RE GOING TO HIT PEDESTRIANS!"

Emma tightened her grip around his waist, eyes squinting against the wind, glasses almost falling off. This was crazy, madness, absolutely unbelievable. The speedometer was actually going off the charts; somehow, he was making the scooter go several times faster than it was designed for. All of a sudden, the mental image of her as a mere smear on the pavement became alarmingly vivid.

"YOU'RE GOING TO BREAK MY VES-" she ducked to avoid a low-hanging branch," YOU'RE DRIVING IN THE MIDDLE OF A BLOODY MALL! OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD."

Emma was practically hyperventilating at that point, screeching incoherently when she couldn't think of anything to say, and screaming into her abductor's ear when she could. This was the first time in her lifetime that she felt like her life was in genuine danger. She supposed she should be lucky that her driver was good at avoiding obstac- Wait. No. Her driver was terrible, and was on top of that trying to kidnap her. They hadn't hit anything yet, but from the way things were going, Emma suspected it would only be a matter of time.

"I'M BEING FREAKIN' ABDUCTED BY A GENDER-ANDROGYNOUS COSPLAYER."

[Bedwyr]

She screamed. And screamed. And screamed more. Really, he had screamed in enjoyment a few times while riding, but never that much. She should show some decorum at least. It was starting to hurt his ears, at least far more than the vase had hurt his head.

He was too busy riding, and enjoying it to make out the words she actually said. At one point he had thought she was screaming with enjoyment when she tried to take the controls from him. He had almost given them over to her so she could enjoy the ride, until he heard a few words she screamed. She was not enjoying it yet. He wished the machine could go faster, but that would require more prana, prana he could not afford to waste, prana he did not have.

With that his prana was beginning to get dangerously low. If he had to fight... That ride would have to be enough to convince her. He had completely surpassed the normal performance of the mount anyways.

The beast underneath him slowly crawled to a halt in a deserted plaza. It was getting rather dark, and he would have to head back soon, if he was finally accepted. He became momentarily distracted as a set of lights gleamed at him from the sky. Lighting up the night’s sky to make riding easier! What an era!

Of course the woman took full opportunity of his distraction. His grip had loosened when he marvelled at the lights, and she took off. It was not a serious thing to run her down again, but it seemed to set a bad precedent for asking her again if she was his Master.

But he did it anyways, leaving the steed to fall to its kickstand as he chased his Master down the dim street. When he finally caught up to his strangely fast Master he gripped her shoulder, halting her rather suddenly. It did provide a slight comedic effect as she attempted to run again and moved nowhere.

One more time, Bedwyr. He knelt, again. She somewhat followed him down, more hunched because he still gripped her shoulder.

“Having proved my skills with that magnificent ride, by the way your steed is well bred and quite powerful,” A bit of flattery never hurt, especially when it was not a whole lie, “Will you now accept me as Servant? Are you my Master?”

His plan could have gone better, but he was sure she would accept. She had seen his strength, felt the skill with which he handled a mount. How could she not accept him?