Gathering Storm

[Anne Bonny]

It was overcast – probably going to rain. If not today, then the next day, or the day after, depending on how the wind blew.

The pirate closed her eyes.

The wind; she could feel its gentle caress on her cheeks, shifting strands of hair, hear the subtle rustle of her clothing whilst the breeze carried it. It was so close, and yet so distant from what she had experienced in life – a tantalizing taste of what she had lost; what she could stand to gain. For a brief moment, she entertained the notion that should she try, she might even be able to fool herself into tasting the salt spray on her tongue, smell the crisp ocean air. But of course there would be too many worlds of difference.

Right then.

Ruminating on the past was all well and good, but Anne did believe she was treading dangerously close to bona fide brooding. Not particularly in character for her at all, and most definitely not characteristic of the sort of person she’d like to be.

She stretched, peering over the edge of the very, very, ridiculously tall building (how did they build them that high?). Granted, it was the highest place she could find in the city, although the sheer size of all the metal and glass constructs were enough to awe her. A skyscraper, her mind offered, the word at once familiar and unfamiliar - she supposed it was just another one of the Grail’s perks. The drop from where she stood to the ground would have killed any human who would’ve been unlucky enough to fall from such a height. But then again, she wasn’t exactly a mere human anymore.

It was already dark - nobody was going to actually notice a small figure hurtling down the side of a building. Besides, the most they’d be seeing would be a dark blur down the side of the building if they actually looked. Anne cast another glance downwards – she wasn’t Archer, but even she could see that the streets below were mostly devoid of people. Mostly being a relative term. But it was merely a question of timing, really. Rider took a few steps back, testing her footing.

She disappears in the blink of an eye.

Anne launched off the rooftop, her hair whipping backwards in as she dived into the streets below in freefall. The blinding wind didn’t quite measure up to the buffeting storms at sea, but then, one couldn’t have everything in life, now, could they? She twists, sliding down the side of a wall to slow her descent – hitting the pavement full-speed might’ve cause some unwanted complications – launching off that wall to finally have her feet touch the ground without so much as a sound, gently setting down her body.

It wasn’t exactly a main road – an alley would’ve been a better way to describe it – an empty area between the two massive glass, metal, and concrete constructs. It also happened to be conveniently devoid of people. She used to find it wonderfully handy to have places like those in every city; she’d taken advantage of quite a few back in her lifetime. Now, though, the pressing walls that reached towards sky surrounded her on all sides. Pressing. Suffocating. Anne squeezed her eyes shut with a violent shake of her head. There was no time wasted in letting her long strides bring her into the streets.

A woman of action, Anne had quickly decided that doing some snooping around the city was far interesting than sitting around her Master’s home watching ‘television’ - although it was another question entirely what she was snooping around for. She had caught vague whiffs of servant presence here and there, but nothing concrete, and, she wasn’t exactly sure if her Master would appreciate it if she charged into battle without consulting him. As a result, it had quickly turned into a (not entirely superfluous) sightseeing tour around Lucca. Jumping off tall buildings was just a bonus (although getting a topographical view of the city didn’t hurt either).

Dressed in something more appropriate for the 21st century (had it really been three hundred years?), she found that the fashion of the day quite agreed with her. It was also far simpler to just pull on than the often fiddly lace and button that she was used to. A pair of dark slacks, a simple white blouse (not quite as ruffly as what she was used to), and a suit-jacket were items ‘borrowed’ from her Master’s wardrobe, not that he’d miss them. In their pockets were small ‘souvenirs’ she had picked up while around town.

It really unfortunate that the shops closed so early – a quick look at the filched watch sitting innocuously her wrist told her exactly what time it was. A small, sensible voice in Anne’s head counselled her to look to her Master’s wellbeing – she shoved that advice right back into the forgotten crook of her mind that it came from. So many places to go, and so little time. She told herself she was ‘inspecting the battlefield’, so to speak. And of course she was doing exactly that.

She found herself smiling, humming the tune to a forgotten sea-shanty as she walked.

[Aela Atheling]

She did not have to look up into the air to feel it. Rain, the world was screaming it to her; the connections between her and the oddly dense mana in the air that slowly replenished her nearly empty self gave her the tinge of the way the world worked.

The connection between that weather and her existed, and she had audibly sighed after stepping out of the ostentatious mansion that Alan lived in and finding out that the weather was still two or so days away. Alan was going to some library, doing something, so she figured she might as well take time to pace around time, show Beowulf around. She had been to the smaller libraries before, engrossed in some book, and even taking out one book that she had brought to his house.

‘The Children of Hurin’. It was good writing, and of course suitably old. The newer things she read all tended to be rather terrible... failing at telling any gripping story.

She had read it a few times, but it was not amongst the books she had brought to Lucca, and she almost felt an itch in her mind to read it again. However… she had yet to open the book since summoning Beowulf, but that was to be expected, she supposed. There would be time for reading later. After the war… if she even wanted to read after that point.

A quick pluck at the front of her open blouse to straighten a wrinkle reminded her of the pain of yesterday morning. Concealer and foundation on her face covered the bruise from that stupid woman’s punch that left her with a black eye.

But more importantly, her heavy coat, which she would have preferred to wear, was still soaking wet from the rather disastrous series of events that had happened to her house. Now instead she was wearing a pale-blue blouse with a white tank top underneath and simple slate-grey slacks. It wasn’t going to rain, as she had known the moment she stepped outside, so she didn’t bother with an umbrella.

While it was still rather chilly, the link that connected her and Beowulf was actually keeping her rather flushed and warm as her circuits always leaked prana to her Servant. If it had been summer she might have actually been in a bit of trouble, since apparently this city was one much warmer than her hometown. Even the night had been warm, and she only used a sheet more for modesty than any warmth…

Although it was daylight now, and she would likely see no need to use magecraft anyways, so there was no need for her heavy coat. Hopefully she wouldn’t have to waste as much prana today… well she couldn’t use the same amount, that would kill her.

A gust of wind made her shudder for a second, and blew through his hair, making her look straight up towards the top of the skyscrapers that towered throughout this part of town.

And… a woman jumped!

“W-what!?” She gasped. A woman just fell off of a skyscraper! “Did you see that?” She pointed high into the air, getting the attention of both her Servant and a lot of passerbys in the street.

She had just been on the back of a servant who had done that the previous morning. That was either an unfortunate woman, or… a Servant and her Master. That was something she had to find out. Knowing, and finding her could get her a great advantage in the war... if one of potentially even a hundred others could be an advantage.

Aela took off down a nearby alleyway at a full sprint, having to actually go quite far, crossing two streets before there were alone. One of the dark alleys actually had a man sleeping on a garbage can. Pathetic... After what seemed like forever in running in uncomfortable flats she finally was able to stop and called her Servant from his faded form, after quickly double-checking once more that no one else was around

“Hah… Hah…” She panted, out of breath from the sprint as fast as she could away from any crowds, and keeping herself from doubling over, though she did “Can you… sense anyone? Did you…” Out of breath again, she breathed deeply, filling her heaving chest, “…See that?”

[BEOWULF]

While Aela was ruminating on the nature of her clothing and makeup, Beowulf's mind was occupied with simpler pleasures. Not on the higher echelons of fashion, but of the many ways to fight a hero. Thrust sword in, twist, remove. Or, parry, trap, punch. Or - oh, another euro. The Berserker's keen eyes spied a small, glinting coin stuck in a sidewalk. Reach down, pick it up.

Certainly, Lucca was filled to the brim with overly affluent people - the sort who'd never notice a missing coin. Or five, or ten, or thirty...

Certainly, a blessed life.

And another! Before Beowulf could add that to his collection, however, a yell caught his attention, followed by many more. Shouted warnings, horrorstruck screams.

Someone was committing suicide.

Beowulf calmly turned to the object of attention, a flitting shadow careening down the side of the skyscraper. What was he supposed to do? Break the sound barrier, dash up the wall, catch it, and then deal with having revealed his presence to the eyes of men and priests? Not likely. Besides... it was not flailing, but gliding. A calm suicide, then.

Or... a Servant... now that he thought about it, now that he concentrated on the falling person... almost definitely a Servant. In that light, her leap was nothing impressive. Now, if she had jumped off of a bucking and flailing serpent's snout and neatly landed between a thrashing beast's jaws, allowing her to easily eviscerate it from within... it would have been a bit more impressive. He did that once.

During a storm.

Wielding nothing but a rock and a stick.

Wearing a leather loincloth.

The other Servant probably never did something like that, but it was fine. He had to make allowances for lesser heroes' deeds, after all.

...
...

Hey, where did Aela wander off to? He looked around sharply, in time to see her taking off, sprinting through the crowds. Frightened? In a hurry... what? He followed in a light jog, taking note of his surroundings. A hobo - a hobo with a hat full of paper. He leaned down and neatly grabbed it with one hand... ah, she stopped, breathing and panting heavily. Beowulf slowed down after her, allowing her the time to catch her breath.

“Hah… Hah… Can you… sense anyone? Did you… See that?”

Beowulf shrugged, folding his arms.

"Yep."

[Anne Bonny]

So close. And yet so far.

Pfff.

Anne willed herself not to look too closely at the bits and pieces that were behind the glass displays- it wasn’t going to do if she caused a scene because she wanted some pretty bauble (although there were some very pretty baubles). Something told her that security systems had progressed quite a bit in the two hundred odd-years she’d been kinda sorta dead, especially with these new fangled camera things (with that in mind, she probably shouldn’t have jumped off that building... well, let bygones by bygones).

She would have to ask her Master about those things further.

But that would come later.

She had more important matters to wrangle with - more specifically, the appearance of another Servant whose sheer presence marked him far more of a threat than the blonde haired knight she’d met earlier that day.

Anne didn’t know whether to feel concerned or elated. Either way, she stopped humming. Something told her she should probably be experiencing more of the former. The most prudent thing to do was probably to retreat, and seek further direction from her Master; but prudence didn’t get anybody anywhere in life, not to mention turning tail and fleeing would have just looked bad. This other Servant was probably aware of her presence too. And, well, she was curious.

Rider trusted enough in her own abilities to keep herself alive.

Besides, the streets were still dotted with stragglers, or loiterer- a bunch of youths hung by the ‘vending machine’ while the occasional homeless languished on the side of the road, begging for alms (she had figured out why people avoided the middle of the road after she was almost flattened by a vehicle going at impossible speeds earlier that day). She doubted that it was a battlefield.

Her pace slowed, and then stopped altogether, and a small smile crept its way onto her features.

Time to get to know this fellow, then. Whoever he, or she, was.

And she had been walking in the wrong direction the whole time. So she started walking in the right direction, casually realigning herself to walk back down the pavement that she had already travelled. She started at an easy pace, eyes scanning each and ever person as she walked. Something told her that she’d be able to identify a Servant when she saw one, and-

There he was- with a fistful of scrunched up paper, in the company of a young woman who looked like she was dressed for the wrong season – the Master, then. And but of course they’d have noticed her already.

She shot the two of them a winning smile, placing a hand on her hip, suddenly realizing she needed an actual gun to twirl one. Less than one hundred meters apart, she could have easily taken a shot at the Master. But even disregarding how much of a terrible sport that would’ve made her, getting caught up in a brawl without her Master wasn’t very high on her list of priorities.

“Well, fancy meetin’ you fellows here,” although in retrospect it wasn’t all that shocking, “Going to introduce yourselves? Or shall I go first?”

[Aela Atheling]

“Yep.”

Nothing more than that? No information? No actually telling her if it was a Servant, or which part he said yep to? Isn’t he supposed to be a legendary hero? And what was he doing with a…

Hat. A dirt dingy hat. That also happened to be filled with money. Not a huge amount… but still.

“Where did you even get tha-“

A footstep. Turning her head away from Beowulf, still breathing a little bit heavily, she looked back at the source of the footstep. While she had not really seen what the woman who jumped off the building had looked like, she instantly knew that this was her.

She was a Servant, through and through. First glance… why had she not attacked while her back was turned? Turning back to Beowulf, who was glaring at her, and probably had been while she had been lecturing him…

… He would have stopped any attack, right? Even if I wasn’t paying attention?

“Well, fancy meetin’ you fellows here. Going to introduce yourselves? Or shall I go first?”

With those words she took a hesitant step back, and felt the air, searching for water in nearby pipes, or anything. All she had on her was her flask, and a small shield would do little good against a Servant. Another step, the opposing Servant was letting her get behind Beowulf, at least a little bit. So she is willing to play honourably?

She could do that too, she supposed. But what was in an introduction?

What did this mystery Servant want… one of who knows how many? Tch… wasn’t this what she wanted Alan to be around for? Of course the time she actually finds another Servant the man was nowhere nearby. Never around when you need them…

So Aela straightened up, and once again looked towards the Servant. Straight at her eyes, which didn’t seem to contain much malice, but she was ready.

A crystal shattered into a thousand tiny pieces.

Completely ready.

“Introductions?” She really shouldn’t leave her circuits active like this, already she was burning up inside even from the trickle that was ready to cool her body. But she could not appear aggressive first. The burning pain would remain then, the numbing, burning pain that threatened to sear her flesh from her bones.

There was no Master here to manipulate, which made it seem likely that the opponent intended to fight… or was incredibly stupid and trying to make it look like she wanted to fight.

“I am a Master, and this is my Servant,” she said, fairly harshly, perhaps stronger than intended, and probably because of the pain she tried to keep from her voice. That was getting to be a bad habit… “And we are enemies by fate, so I think there is simply nothing more to introduce. Its night, there are few people around… why would I reveal my name to you?”

The woman looked rather amused by that, almost, and Beowulf stepped forward, stepped past Aela for the first time, hands crossed like that day at the church…

What a terrible memory to come back to. Looking like such an idiot… she certainly had done a great job of that yesterday. And the creepy priest with the reflective glasses.

Pushing aside yesterday’s memories, she stood still burning inside, waiting for either of the hero’s to make a movement, or to say something and frantically trying to at least discern the opponent’s class. Her clothes… even they didn't help. The Servant was actually dressed modernly, like Alan had dressed up his Lancer in that ridiculous suit. She could see absolutely nothing about this Servant.

Tch. Guess if this gets down to it, Beowulf is going to have to do it the hard way...

[BEOWULF]

Beowulf stood in front of the other Servant, arms folded, looted treasure forgotten. He looked her over, unimpressed with his foe. She was small, much smaller than he was, even smaller than his band of companions. Furthermore, she had forsaken whatever armor she had worn in life for modern clothing, making it even more difficult to identify her.

If she even wore armor in the first place. Everything about this one seemed so foppish and un-warriorlike. Bark, and no bite, Throne of Heroes' judgement be damned. The way she walked, the way she held herself, even the way she talked. She probably thought herself ready for combat in a pretty tunic rather than heavy mail. Somehow, her mere presence trolled offended him.

The lady did nothing to impress Beowulf, so far. The jump? Mere child's play, nothing more. Like he said earlier, even though a few people had entered the Throne, some of them had lesser achievements: much lesser deeds.

"And I," he declared grandly, walking forward, "Am Berserker!" He accentuated the last word by punching a fist into a hand.

He felt that his Master was not up for negotiations. So he would fight. Where his master was equal parts hostility and caution, Beowulf felt only excitement. He would fight, and fight, and fight more! All for glory and grandeur!

...Well, as much glory that could have been gotten in this uneven matchup. An armored Berserker, slayer of dragons and demons, against some pale woman.

Assuming, of course, that the other Servant didn't flee the moment he spoke. Somehow, he expected the skinny woman to do just that.

Lesser heroes, lesser people.

[Anne Bonny]

Oh. Anne thought she’d done a fine job of presenting herself as pleasant, although it seemed that a couple of smiles and a bit of courtesy was too much to ask. All the more’s the pity, then. Were they that in need of a fight? The master, especially, looked more jumpy than anything, all puffed up and ready for a brawl - though she was going to give herself wrinkles with her brow furrowed that much. She had nice skin, though. Really nice skin. Actually, most of the people she’d passed had pretty nice skin. Did skincare get better in the three hundred odd years she’d been otherwise indisposed?

It probably did, didn’t it?

…

Oh. Right. Angry-master-with-her-servant. Time for wondering about skincare products later.

Berserker and Rider – not exactly an even match up in straight-up battle, but then again, this forest of concrete and steel hardly presented an open field. Ah well, the situation wasn’t unsalvageable, despite Anne not knowing what it was she had done to deserve that offended glare Berserker was currently glowering at her with.

That man was anything but subtle, wasn’t he?

“Now, now, don’cha be too hasty,” Anne grinned and shrugged, the very picture of nonchalance,” I ain’t lookin’ for a fight. No need to get all worked up. Well, since Berserker here’s already told me his,” she jerked a thumb at herself, “I guess the two of you’d know me as Rider.”

Anne returned the Master’s cool stare with one of flippant indifference, always, mouth quirked in a playful little smile, and provided herself with a little flourish with her free hand. After all, the Master wasn’t the threat.

Even if she wasn’t looking for a fight, it didn’t mean they weren’t either, and Anne wasn’t naïve enough to think they wouldn’t strike when her back was turned. One didn’t get too far in Anne’s line of work without having some degree of self-preservation – well, her old line of work.

If looks were telling, Anne had a feeling that if Berserker ever wanted to smash her head in, he’d do it without a second thought. And damn it was hard to keep up that façade of casual nonchalance with that sort of guy glaring at you with the sort of look that suggested he’d like nothing better than to do just that – with just the right amount of grating dismissiveness that made the pirate want to prove him wrong.

But, then, of course she knew better than to pick a fight she wasn’t prepared for – no matter how much that tall fellow over there seemed to be begging for one.

“On the other hand, lookin’ a little out of breath, aren’t we?” she tilted her head playfully at Berserker’s Master; raised an eyebrow, “ sure ya don’t wanna sit down?”

[Aela Atheling]

She had to wonder if everyone just wanted to talk instead of fight. Not that she really minded the whole not-risking-her-life thing, but the less she fought, the further she was from her goal. The more she fought though-

Her body felt like it was bubbling, melting from within as her circuits remained open. Her breath was laboured, and the newly announced Rider could hear it. Sweat formed as her body tried desperately to cool itself, somehow, some way. If she didn’t intervene soon, she would probably faint in a few minutes or so, losing control and completely burning herself out.

Unless her Servant doused her with something to cool her down. Which, lifesaving as it would be, she would not put it above him. At any time. Or at least throw her through a window. He seemed to think that was the solution to everything. Toaster on fire? Window. Basin cluttering a room? Window. Master on the ground twitching? Window.

“On the other hand, lookin’ a little out of breath, aren’t we? Sure ya don’t wanna sit down?”

Barely managing to hold back a scathing shout at the woman who obviously had no idea what she was going through, the woman who if she went through it would probably shrug it off considering she had just skydived off a building for entertainment.

All she could do was mutter three words in response.

“Kadh innan su̯el...”

In a moment that felt like forever, frost crept from the tips of her fingers, up her body, and even her eyelids found themselves coated in the lightest morning frost. Inside her, nerves cooled, and the pain faded, or perhaps it was masked, prevented from feeling by the now deadened nerves.

She blinked, and a small piece of the frost faded away into the air, falling from her eyelash. The entire process had been clearly visible, with most of her arms and her upper chest exposed. The face though, it always gave it away, even if it simply looked like a small chalking, the bare, icy dust still leaving natural colour visible behind it.

“No,” The tone matched her body’s covering “Thank you for your unnecessary concern, but I am alright.” Why did she even care? Why did so many people care anyways, people who shouldn’t? She certainly did not care about them, seeing the other Servant breathing hard may have pushed her over the edge to order Berserker to attack.

Her circuits almost raged at her for suggesting to make him exert himself, to draw prana from her. They did swell, but the minor pain was almost welcome, almost a reminder. It was nothing. Her teeth grit... almost grit. It took a conscious effort to prevent it.

“Not in the mood for a fight? That seems to be what everyone says. But… I… we can’t attack somewhere like this, quite yet.” It was still far too much ‘day’, still too many people around to do that. And not only that, but Beowulf had introduced himself, as Berserker at least. She didn’t want to know her name or her class; she didn’t want to know someone’s habits before they had to be fought. It would make it too hard… it was already hard enough to even think about her Servant killing someone, and that was what she was here to do in the first place!

“Since my Servant has not listened to me and introduced himself unwantedly,” She could have sighed, would it have actually served a point. Right now it was just wasted breath. “I’m Aela Corrain, Master in this war.” She couldn’t have said it without the emphasis. Lying… sort of lying about her last name came naturally already, not that knowing her name would help like it would help knowing her Servant’s, but it just felt like a natural safety precaution.

Telling the Rider her name just felt like nonsense already, anyways. But at least introducing herself probably wouldn’t get her killed. Being impolite might, if Beowulf’s folded arms kept him from reacting in time or something. He would probably just shove her out of the way instead though, with enough force to leave her in traction for a month.

[BEOWULF]

Too much day? Much too early to fight? Beowulf snorted at the prospect. He did not care for this skulking about, this sneaking. Battle was something to be enjoyed. A battle between champions, even better! A Holmgang was to be witnessed by everyone. Fighting within a ring of shields, listening to the rhythmic thumping of spears banging against the ground.

Fighting was glorious... and should have been remembered as such.

Not this watered down thing. With... regulations and safety. A proper Holmgang had no regulations, no rules, save for mercy. Mercy after forgiveness.

But still, the rules were the rules. Beowulf would abide by them... and his Master's will. He sighed, unfolding his arms, spreading them wide (Here, Aela had to duck to avoid being cuffed by a careless motion). "Aye, too much light. Wouldn't want any to witness the glory of our combat."

How long do we have to wait? Beowulf wondered, mostly to himself. Two hours? Three?

So... what did they do now? They could hardly part ways amiably. They were Servants. They were foes. It was not like he could cordially wave the other Servant off, and go about on his own business. So, what then? What to do... when presented with a foe... that did not want to fight? Especially an unknown such as this? Even a weak-skinned thing like the Rider?

You...

You took them out for drink. Beowulf allowed himself a grin, with her constitution, Rider probably couldn't knock back even a few pints. And if she could... well, the quickest way to learn about a person was over a few pints of mead.

"Fine. Let's go get some drinks in the meantime. The three of us!"

[Anne Bonny]

Well. Poseidon’s great, stonkin’ balls.

No way in hell was she ever going to refuse any invitation involving drinks, much less back down from what was clearly a challenge.

Clearly.

Berserker had no idea who he was dealing with.

She ran a hand through her hair and cocked her head at him, finding an inexorable grin working it’s way into her expression. You didn’t underestimate Anne Bonny and hope to wake up in the morning with a clear head – that was for sure. Oh, sure, from the looks of the bloke he’d probably be able to chug a few mugs, but it’d always been the big guys who’d crashed the hardest.

And, well, this was war.

“I’d be more than happy to take you up on yer offer, ‘Zerker,” she said jovially, “though lil’ Frosty ‘ere don’t seem none too happy ‘bout it.”

Actually, his Master seemed pretty upset about most things. Anne thought it’d been great fun when she had to duck to avoid getting backhanded by her own servant. And it wasn’t only because of her downright murderous expression when it happened that the thought occurred to Anne that 'wow she really is a bit of a killjoy, isn't she'. And though Anne supposed she could understand how that sort of thing might not always be quite so amusing to the butt of the joke, Aela over there was just, well, so dour-faced about everything.

Yep. Definitely getting wrinkles.

That little routine with those ice-shards didn’t really help either. In fact, she was just about ready to GET HER GUNS ON before realizing – almost too late – that Berserker had not budged.

At least ‘Frosty’ sounded better than stodgy old ‘Aela’. Or, heavens forbid, ‘Ms. Corrain”.

On the other hand, she could actually get used to a fellow like Berserker, though it would help that just maybe one of these days he might stop glaring daggers into her. She’d seen his sort occasionally in port, in the crew – he really kind of reminded him off whats-his-name that second mate who had arms as thick as a tree trunk.

“So, whaddaya say, Frosty?” Anne snapped her fingers, stroked her chin almost contemplatively, “hows about we go and get ourselves a drink? I do recall passing what look’d like this delightful little pub a while back.”

A brief pause, in which Rider seemed to consider something. And then she shrugged, flashing the pair another cheeky grin. It was never high on a pirate’s list of priorities to worry about payment – she’d leave that to the two of them.

[Aela Atheling]

“I’d be more than happy to take you up on yer offer, ‘Zerker, though lil’ Frosty ‘ere don’t seem none too happy ‘bout it.”

Frosty…!? Frosty!? Really? Just going to… Her hands tightened, and she felt like strangling someone. Specifically a Servant. It made no sense, but just that name… Two years ago… Well it wasn’t like it was outright harassment but she clearly remembered that day she was written up for her actions against some other student she couldn’t even remember the name of.

An eight-petalled shield, a flowery creation formed entirely out of ice, slammed into a boy a year younger than her, and several inches taller. Winding him. The shield bore a great crack in its upper left, from the boy’s steel encased fists, but it had held up to the punishment he had laid.

As the boy stumbled, she did not relent, and hit him again with it, forcing him to the ground. And again. And again. Six more times before finally someone pulled her off of him.

Someone that happened to be one of her lecturers. She was pretty much bodily tossed off the boy, and across the floor. It didn’t even hurt in the slightest, despite the fact it should have. Her body, her nerves, were sheathed in frost. It covered her skin, everything but her eyes and ears appeared like morning grass in a cold winter.

“Don’t ever call me that again. Ever.” She said to the barely conscious figure as she rose to her feet. It had been a fight, and those things happened amongst magi occasionally. She would get in trouble, sure, but it was worth it. No one would call her Frosty again.

Sadly, even that hadn’t helped. In fact, a year later, she got into another fight, and lost that one, over that name. In retrospect, violence never did seem to solve problems, but she had been so certain at the time... She wasn’t sure why exactly the name made her blood boil, but it just did. Right now she had to restrain herself from attacking a Servant with her bare hands, for what seemed like no reason at all.

She blinked again, even seeing her now dusty-white eyelashes in the length it seemed to take.

And the woman called her Frosty again. Either she was the most dense person in the world, and couldn’t read her stirring rage, or she was doing it on purpose. Judging by that smile, definitely on purpose.

“ ‘Hows about’ you stop calling me that? I gave you my name; use it.” Using that tone with a Servant, had she lost her mind? Well at least this woman didn’t look like Beowulf, able to kill her without a second thought. Probably still could, but she lacked the force that had appeared in Aela’s mind that Beowulf had presented.

Although… just… was she really asking to go drinking with them? Why not just invite the entire Grail War to a party and do… whatever, some competition there to get the Grail? Well… it would certainly avoid a lot more bloodshed, at the very least. Not that she had seen any bloodshed yet, except perhaps Alan’s face when he found that toaster. He certainly lost something at least.

It was embarrassing looking back on it. And at the time. She couldn’t think of any better results from the drinking game these two were sure to play, they would probably clink glasses and make the bar explode or something. However it did allow her to keep an eye on the Rider, and avoid being murdered from behind or something ridiculous like that.

“Although, if he is up for it, we will accept your offer. I would like to sit down and relax for a short while.”

At the very least it would give Beowulf something to do with that dirty hat he found that seemed to be sprouting money. Was that even real? It had to be a joke. Had to. Someone sewed counterfeit into it or something, but the more she looked at it, the more real it looked.

“Are you alright with her proposition, Berserker?”

[BEOWULF]

"Wonderful!"

BEOWULF clapped Frosty on the back with enough force to send her reeling. Even she saw the wisdom in this venture! The wonders of bonding with your fellow man over a tall one. Man, woman, enemy, friend; they were all the same under the king of the drink.

Grinning from ear to ear, BEOWULF reached out with a burly hand, faster than quicksilver, grabbing Rider by the wrist none-too-gently. For a flash of a moment, it seemed that he was about to break his own truce. By the next flash, BEOWULF pulled Rider into a brief one-armed squeeze, all previous animosity apparently forgotten. "Oh, really?" He chuckled. "I checked m'self last night, but they put their drinks in cold metal taps, instead of their rightful place..." He sighed wistfully, before checking himself.

"Hah- what am I rambling about? We've got places to be. Lead the way!" He stepped aside, releasing Rider, allowing her to show them to the pub. He'd have to quickly reevaluate his opinion of the Servant. Seemed first impressions weren't everything - anyone who was up for a bar crawl couldn't be half bad. She didn't act as fragile as she looked. That was certain, at least.

And she gave him Frosty. That was priceless. Try as he would, Beowulf was unable to come up with a suitable nickname for her - at least, up until this point. "Mind if I borrow tha- 'course you don't."

"An' you, Master Frosty," Beowulf added, looking down at her. "Don't get yourself lost, now." To reinforce his point, the Berserker brought his arm around Aela's shoulder, tightly crushing her in a MANFUL embrace. Without ceremony, he dragged her along with him, following Rider, brooking no arguments. "And lighten up," he scolded over her inevitable complaints. "We're going to a mead hall. We've got no place for frowns and scowls!"

[Anne Bonny]

Anne had absolutely no idea where she was going. That ‘delightful little pub’ she saw could’ve been any of the many dozens of establishments that she hadn’t spared a second glance at. But she had complete and utter faith that she would find one. Eventually. Sooner or later. And as long as her unlikely companions were happy to tail after her until that point in time, the pirate was confident that she could avoid any further complications.

“Enjoyin’ that nickname, Frosty?” she quipped offhandedly as led them in a casual stroll, all the while scanning for promising locales, “seems ‘Zerker’s glue’d on pretty quick to it, ‘eh?”

She didn’t like it. Of course she didn’t like it; that was what made it such excellent fun to keep on calling her that – obviously the girl wasn’t very well-versed in how nicknames usually stuck. Her little outburst against it was cute, Anne’d give the Master that, though she did wonder how anybody other than her would’ve responded to such a slip of a girl barking orders like she owned the place.

Regardless, the little blue-haired Master didn’t seem like she’d be very good with drinks – probably three rounds. Max. Hopefully more, but Anne wasn’t placing any bets, and-

…A-ha.

She’d found it, together with that telltale whiff of alcohol, and a few – noticeably drunk – people hovering around the entrance.

“Ah, and don’t ge’cherself thrown out, Frosty. Not very fun, lemme tell ya.”

Anne was the first to enter, pushing open the door with a great show of bravado, flashing a grin to everyone in attendance, and then, hardly hesitating at the fact that there seemed to be no empty spots, quickly plopped herself down at the nearest table – one that had also been occupied at that moment by a collection of nasty-looking fellers who looked like they cracked skulls in their free time – all bulging muscles and ill-conceived tattoos.

And they also looked to be, by Anne’s reckoning, quite drunk indeed. And so, with all her many centuries of experience, she decided on her own that they have had more than enough to drink.

“S’cuse me gentlemen,” she opens smoothly, casually sliding into an open spot, “don’t mind if me and my buddies ‘ere,” she motioned to Berserker – Frosty peeking out in a corner from behind his bulk, “come sidle-in with you, ‘eh?”

She noted after commenting that they’d have to stand up to make room – there was hardly enough space for another two people to squeeze in.

…

Therefore they were remarkably unforthcoming in their hospitality.

…

Understandable, really. Though they didn’t have to be so very coarse about it – and that was saying something when she’d spent half of her life on a pirate ship. So Anne, without missing a beat, smiled sweetly, hooked a finger under the collar of the nearest fellow – a man twice her size, really – and brought him viciously to heel when she flicked him to the floor with a casual motion of her hand.

“Generous of ya, really,” she offers over her shoulder, grinning broadly with what could only have been good intentions – albeit one that promised a world of hurt if he was going to cry wolf, “though I’m thinkin’ that the big feller-“ she motions to Berzerker – “here’s gunna need some more room.”

[Aela Atheling]

“… Master Frosty.”

“…Frosty?”

“…Frosty.”

She was going to die. No, no they were going to die. Both of them. Beowulf betraying her, and then slapping her back, probably incredibly close to snapping her spine, and left her sprawling on the cement. That was before they had followed the skydiving Servant to the bar. Which she was now in. And it was possibly the most rowdy, the loudest, and the worst smelling bar in all of Lucca.

The entire thing looked like it had been pulled out of some terrible author’s idea of what a sailor’s bar looked like. Down to the almost uniform giant men with faded tattoos of anchors and women bulging on their muscles. Even the bar itself, furnished and fashioned mostly out of old oak wood, long polished from wear, was something she expected to read about in a novel when the characters came to port. There was even netting draped along the roof, and hanging down, clearly never cared for as it even managed to look musky. No one had probably cleaned it, or brought it down from the rusty iron hooks it threatened to fall from, since it was first tacked up there.

It even smelled like one of those bars, with stale alcohol, ammonia, and a faint whiff of salty air that was probably actually vomit.

The atmosphere temporarily took her mind off of the ridiculous nicknames, temporarily stopped her fuming and want to punch Beowulf uselessly. At least until she reflected on the situation that had brought her to this disgusting place.

Why did I agree with this Rider!? Should have just told Beowulf to slap her on the back like he did me! No, he has sided with her against me by calling me-

No… what was she thinking? That just because her Servant called her a hateful name he was siding with the enemy? She could call him… could call him… loudmouthed big lunkhead and it would not mean she was not on his side. But then again, he called her Frosty.

… It was a dilemma.

A dilemma that would remain unsolved as she watched the Rider grabbed a giant man violently by the collar, and threw him out of her way.

Aela knew Servants were strong but… that man on the ground was too. He looked like he had taken far too many steroids, and his muscles threatened to burst the dirty grey shirt he wore, but he had easily been tossed away by someone who, by all rights, was of height with Aela.

“I wish I could do that.” She whispered under her breath, gingerly seating herself on the now forcibly evacuated bench. It was… warm.

Then Berserker sat down, almost snapping the wood in half by basically falling back into the seat. She was certainly afraid she was going to fall off it. It wasn’t even bolted into the floor, and had wobbled for a few seconds, and stopped almost at the same time Rider sat across from them, much more gently.

That smile of hers, that smirk, it was just so infuriating! She just-

“Can I take your order?” A woman, obviously a waiter, with a chip toothed smile, messy blond hair, and clearly pushing the north side of thirty, with a low-cut apron, stained with numerous mysterious substances, one of them looking oddly like dried blood, asked, almost shocking Aela from her seat.

She paused… what was she supposed to have? Just ordering beer… no, the other two could do that. Ummm… hmmmm… It was frustrating; obviously this place was not very hospitable of newcomers. “Can I have a… a…” Just… she had no idea, so she said the first drink that came to her mind.

“Milk?” That was all she could think of at the moment. This place surely wouldn’t serve the wines she was used to, and that seemed like a default response. Judging by the look the woman gave her… it wasn’t quite appreciated. More like shock. “Urg I’ll just… I’ll just have whatever these two have.” She finished, waving her hands at the other two, who were waiting rather impatiently on her reluctance.

[BEOWULF]

"Anything I order?" BEOWULF chortled, a devilish gleam in his eye. "Heh. Now I know exactly what I'm going t' order." He carelessly ducked another musclebound bruiser out of his seat, scooting in his vacated seat, as spindly and wobbly as it was. Berserker wriggled his way into it, casting a dirty look at the slighted man, in case he had any funny thoughts related to vengeance and that empty bottle hanging loosely from his hand.

The sailor took one look into BEOWULF's eyes, as cold as they were, and involuntarily took several steps back, melting into the background. Then, the Geat's eyes lit up with ecstasy and merriment as he turned to the waitress. "Woman! I want a barrel! A barrel of your finest and best, nothing less!"

Beowulf's excitement was met with skepticism. "I... see. Cash up front," the waitress sneered, jiggling her pencil in her hair.

...Was this it? A demand for money, a desire for guarantee of payment? What had happened to the fabled mead halls of old? What had happened to the host's duty to ensure a good time for everyone? What had happened to the times when people took pride in their art, in their duty as a provider? Coin was secondary to the glory of hearth and wonder. What had happened? Was this truly the end result of many centuries of a fine tradition?

How could it have come to this?

Berserker blinked. Once. Twice. He sighed, withdrawing a hand into a pocket, removing a dirty wad of paper, tossing it at the woman. She took it in her hands, counting the money off. "Sir, you're short seven euros."

...
...

Was this truly what they had become? Camaraderie, traded for business sense? No wonder these things were a dying institution. No man worth his salt would willingly go to these... mockeries!

Beowulf still paid for the rest of the sum, though.

This had better be worth it.

"Michael!" The waitress screeched. "A keg of Red Bear!"

Behind the bar, a gruff man waved a waiter down. The young man did as bade, disappearing behind a door. Behind it, Beowulf could hear him grunting and straining with effort.

"Tsst."

Beowulf rolled his eyes, getting up. "Hold on." He stood up, walking over to the door, ignoring the waitress' complaints. He pushed his way through it, seeing the boy dragging a metal keg up the stairs. "You need help, boy? Of course you do." Without preamble, he hefted the keg over a shoulder, stomping up the stairs. The burly Berserker weaved his way through the crowd, ignorant or uncaring of any curious eyes, returning to his table.

"Hrgh-!" Beowulf smashed the cold metal container onto the floor, leaving a sizable dent in the floor. "Three cups, lady," he growled dismissively.

The waitress sniffed, as if somehow offended by Beowulf's presence, but scurried off as ordered. Beowulf impatiently rapped his knuckles against the table, waiting. Soon enough, the woman returned with a trio of mismatched glasses, sliding them onto the table. She bent over to tap the keg-

"What do you think you're doing?" Beowulf frowned.

"...Serving your drinks." With that, the waitress handled the strange looking tube on the top, flipping some switch. Pale, amber beer flowed out of the pump, into the blurred mugs. Beowulf grabbed the first mug by the handle, and, in one swift motion, quaffed the entire brew. At last. This took too long. Far too long.

...nothing. Seriously. Nothing. Tasted cold and bitter, but without the buzz. Without the warm feeling - not even a shadow of it! Just... pale and cold nothing. Beowulf growled with discontent.

Now they had resorted to serving this watered-down tripe!? Such... a grave insult! "This..." Beowulf snarled, slamming the empty mug against the table. "...Is not a proper drink!"

[Anne Bonny]

Well. ‘Zerker was more generous than she had anticipated, but hey, she wasn’t complaining, though she was more than a little curious about how mere wads of paper had managed to retain their value. They just seemed so very destructable, really. She would have to ask her Master about it later – along with procuring some of his wealth for herself.

Since, well, people seemed to get so upset when you stole things.

“Thanks, ‘Zerker,” she grinned, punching one of the fellows who had been surreptitiously attempting to excuse himself cheerfully on the shoulder with a hard thwack,” generous guy, ain’t he?”

She winked, and waited patiently for the drink – Red Bear, or something, was it? Odd name to call it – to be poured before she took it in her hands with a small nod to the waitress (who seemed more bemused than anything). Smart way of doing it, really, what, with the whole barrel and all. She had no idea what era Berserker hailed from, but she could appreciate their shared fondness for drink.

“Cheers then, mate,” she raised the cup to him, and downed most of it in one breath.

And waited for the kick
…
…
lolno.

Huh. ‘Finest and best’, really? She took another drink, a sip this time, and rolled it around on her tongue, the bitter liquid fizzing to nothing as she swallowed. She frowned, the skin of her forehead corrugated as she frowned, swishing this ‘Red Bear’ around in her cup with flat displeasure.

She had such high hopes for this place too – so reminiscent of the places she used to visit in her past, right down to the patrons, that fine smell of alcohol, and the sort of ambience that Anne’d never thought to expect from a modern pub. But even the worst pubs she’d had the pleasure of visiting served better swill than what they had been given, fizzing up and drying to nothing on her tongue.

She opened her mouth to object, but Berserker had spoken before she had the chance to object – echoing her sentiments exactly.

“Ye makin’ us drink water, are ya?” she set the mug back down on the table, eyes flashing and tone hostile – though admittedly achieved with a good deal more delicacy than Berserker had managed, “can’t say I appreciate it much, speakin’ frankly. I’m pretty certain this ain’t quite the ‘finest and best’ that we arsk’d for, mm?”

She rapped her fingers on the wood as she spoke, regarding the waitress – who was, by now, rather resembling a sheet as she attempted to back away from the pair of Servants – both now thoroughly peeved.

“’Ow’s that drink treatin ya, Frosty?” Anne didn’t look at her when she said it, too busy staring down their waitress, “Can’t say ‘at’s any good, can ya? Probably should’ve went with yer milk, in the end, ‘eh? Probably more kick ‘an this garbage.”

[Aela Atheling]

This was a nightmare, right? It certainly felt like a horrible, surreal dream. Everything just seemed so wrong. First of all, her Servant just completely abandoned her to go get beer. Apparently she was second on his priority list. Possibly third. Throwing thing through windows was actually likely the third one, so she supposed she was fourth.

That certainly made her feel incredibly important.

“Uh-“

And he was back already, slamming the steel keg down on the floor before she could even say a word to the other Servant in front of her. It didn’t look particularly clean or well kept, but then again the entire place was like that.

The cups the waitress placed in front of them were worse. They could only be called glass in a sideways sort of way. At one point they might have been glass, but now they looked like congealed mist, splotchy and rather disgusting. When the waitress poured the drinks, Aela tried to pick the cleanest looking of them, but Beowulf immediately grabbed the one her hand hesitantly reached for.

He drained it in one gulp. Seconds, no not even a second, and it was gone, and he was slamming the glass back onto the table with enough force to probably shatter it, but it seemed to hold together.

The Rider wasn’t much better either, as she followed with a “Cheers then, mate,” and then duplicated Berserker’s performance.

… These people had no sense of etiquette. She was completely expecting them to let out ear shattering belches and then bump chests or something. Ridiculous. They fit right in with the rest of the people in this place.

Instead they both voiced loud complaints. “This… Is not a proper drink!” Her own Servant snarled, in some discordic harmony with “Ye makin’ us drink water, are ya?”

Wait, were they threatening the waitress? She certainly looked like she felt threatened, but that was probably because her servant was a hulking brute, and basically about to thump his chest and start tearing the place up. Rider just looked… displeased, but that was certainly more emotion than she had shown when she threw the burly looking sailor away with one hand.

… Yeah, if Aela had been the waitress, she certainly would have felt threatened.

But really, was it that bad? It was beer; it was supposed to be bad, cheap, terrible tasting, just to get the person who wasted their money drunk so they could have an excuse to act without restrictions. Did they expect Dom Perignon from a bar like this? It was like walking into a side street market, and expecting them to sell expensive caviar.

Rider sat back down, and began to drum her fingers along the table, an irritance that Aela knew that she herself did far too often. She… was not happy, to say the least, and turned her glare to back to the waitress, who shrank under that rather steely glare.

“’Ow’s that drink treatin ya, Frosty?” There it was again. This stupid woman she… just really didn’t want to cross at the moment, but her left hand under the table trembled in anger at the word. How did she know it was just… ahhhh so frustrating! Just… “Can’t say ‘at’s any good, can ya Probably should’ve went with yer milk, in the end, `eh? Probably had more kick `an this garbage.” Her train of thought had been interrupted by the Rider, who still… probably shouldn’t be crossed. She would do something, eventually. Beowulf would defeat her, and she would…

Oh, she expected Aela to take a sip. Well… she supposed she could do that. Reluctantly wrapping her hand around the translucent glass, she hesitantly raised the foaming glass to her mouth, and took a small sip.

…

“Ugh!” Just like she had expected, it was terrible. In fact, it actually made her start coughing a few times. Just… so bitter… and disgusting… but a kick? The kick was definitely there, someone couldn’t make a drink this bad without cramming a ridiculous amount of alcohol into it. “Terrible… the taste… just… terrible.” She was still coughing, and had an urge to scrape something against her tongue, something that could scrub away the taste. “But…” Again, a cough, even her saliva had an aftertaste of the drink. Why did she order what they did!? “It definitely…. It definitely has a kick.”

Of course they would probably dismiss it from someone whose liver hadn’t yellowed from heavy drinking, and they would be right. She really didn’t feel the need to drink alcohol, or get drunk, or even understand their want for this trashy liquid.

At least it hadn’t been her money that paid for it. “Not… going to have any more of that.” She doubted the other two would either. In fact, she was just waiting on the moment where Beowulf threw the keg out the smoky faux-stained glass windows, that let so little light in they might as well be part of the wall.

Waiting to run.

[BEOWULF]

It was a bit hard to explain what happened next. Perhaps it would be best to start from the end, and work down to the beginning, instead of the usual stream of chronological correctness, which, when you came down to it, was about as redundant as political correctness.

So, to begin. Or end, whichever works.

The tankard lay in the middle of the street in a bed of glass, and it wasn't Beowulf's fault.

It lay on the sidewalk, bleeding amber piss, yellow rivulets of bitter liquor burbling forth from bent and crushed ruptures in the aluminum keg, staining into the sidewalk. What few passerbys that frequented the seedier sides of this fine city at the seedier hours of this fine day gave the keg a wide berth, instead of calling the police. Nobody here would appreciate them arriving here too early, before the interloper in the bar was put to task.

Speaking of which...

Beowulf stood, feet planted, waiting the next foe, a savage light glinting in his eyes. Two men were already sprawled before him, and a third was already planted in a fierce headlock. Splinters and sticks, what used to be a chair, littering the floor around his feet were all that remained of an ill-advised sneak attack.

A fierce uppercut had floored a sailor, parting the man with his teeth, sending all two hundred pounds of meat crashing into the ground. Before that, the burly man had attempted to knock Beowulf out of the fight by tossing the keg at him, a throw that had gone too low and too wide, smashing through the window. What had come after that was only his just desserts.

What was happening? Why, none less than a bar fight. An honest-to-God balls-to-the-wall bar fight. And it wasn't even Beowulf's fault.

The bouncer had thrown the first blow. He tried to escort the Berserker off of the premises. When Beowulf refused, things had gotten... messy. Ugly. And why did the bouncer wish for Beowulf to leave? Because the owner demanded it. Why did he demand it?

Because Beowulf was displeased with the quality of their finest fare, the quality of the clientele, the quality of the atmosphere, how everything from the spider in the wall to the bartender's face was an affront to the very tradition of mead-halls, which he had enunciated, enumerated, explained in no small detail, an endless rant that was cut off by the patrons and the keepers of this bar.

Like I said. Whatever happened, happened. And it wasn't even Beowulf's fault.

[Anne Bonny]

Taptaptap. Taptaptap.

Her fingers rapped impatient against the wood of the table, impatience seeping into her manner, a certain, eager keenness that was just barely held in check by an increasingly furrowed brow, until, at last, with an air of finality, she slammed her balled fists onto the table, cracking the wood.

“Might wanna sit this one out, ‘lil Master.”

A grin that couldn’t possible have grown any larger became yet wider twofold, coupled with an almost terrifying glint of manic glee flashing from her gaze as she kicked the entire table over in a shower of glass and liquid, ripping off a bit of the floor, and shaking the building to its foundations – heedless of the dumbfounded Master who had just been sitting at it a moment earlier.

A bar fight!

Granted, it should’ve had nothing to do with her, and everybody involved (with the likely exception of Berserker) probably would’ve have batted an eyelash if she had just chosen to sit it out like the small, tittering, rational bit of her mind had been imploring her to do, but she hadn’t had the pleasure of engaging in a bar fight for centuries. And hell if she was going to let her rival Servant get in on all the fun.

She was almost ready to forgive the piss-poor excuse they had for swill because of it, though, granted, that was conditional on how much of a fight these sorry bastards put up before she decided she was satisfied. It was, after all, the entire bar against the two of them – that should’ve been more than enough to land at least one good hit in, right?

With a peal of laughter, she grabbed an unfortunate by the shoulder and casually hurled him into another as she stood, effortlessly ducking under a glass that shattered into an irreparable shower of broken shards at the far wall – all in good fun. She wasn’t quite clear on how the fight started – probably had something to do with Berserker complaining about the feng shui? – but only that it was happening.

However, after taking her time to look around, Anne found the enthusiasm on the other side… lacking. Especially when Berserker had already taken care of the more likely victims participants, standing back hunched, arms wide, huffing like an animal, and feral form towering over anybody who might’ve challenged him.

Anne had to hand it to him; it wasn’t easy to make grown men cower, but somehow he managed it, most of the patrons having evacuated or attempting to remain inconspicuous in the corners of the room.

“Wo-oah there, sailor,” she grabbed a fellow who was trying to escape by the scruff of his collar, stopping his mad-dash for freedom short, “ nobody goin’ out on us just yet; wouldn’t want coppers breathin’ down our necks or nothin’, ‘eh?”

She smiled broadly at him, and then pushed him – by no means gently – into the right direction. That is, towards Berserker, mouthing ‘bring up ‘em fisticuffs!’ at his bewildered and more than a little terrified expression. She shot him a thumbs-up for encouragement, along with a wink and a brave face. In return, he scowled at her, and ensconced himself firmly in a as-of-yet untouched corner of the room.

She shrugged, attempting to appear nonchalant, though it was quickly becoming a chore to mask the irritation from her features, a small frown where a grin had been but few moments earlier. Seriously? Was this it? She sighed, hurling a chair through the window for effect.

“Ain’t we a sorry lot ‘o craven curs?” she muttered darkly, good mood gone.

Outside, the telltale whine of a siren droned in the distance, getting louder, and louder. She almost didn’t need the aid of the Grail to tell what that sound entailed. She clucked her tongue, linked her fingers, and raised both arms above her head in what seemed to be a casual stretch, expression blackening to pitch.

[Aela Atheling]

Why did she trust him? Really, why did she? Was she just absolutely incapable of learning from her mistakes in trusting him, or maybe she just believed that she couldn’t have summoned a Servant who was completely incompetent in anything he put his hand to. There was apparently supposed to be a connection, even should she have a catalyst, but so far he was absolutely nothing like her. In fact he almost seemed her opposite.

Which was why the bar was now in an absolute state of chaos while she just sat there on the bench, feeling rather shocked, but mostly just watching the train wreck unfold. There was no chance anyone was going to beat Berserker, and in her relaxation she took another sip of that horrible drink again. She shuddered as Beowulf tossed someone halfway across the room.

Oh look. The Rider was fighting too now. In fact she kicked the table over, sending her drink, which thankfully now she would not have to taste again, spiralling into some unfortunate’s head, who was sitting at a table across the room. If she had a decent drink, and a table to drink it on, or even a saucer, she would have watched the destruction with some humour, but now it was just dry observance as they, together, wrecked yet another thing. She almost wanted to meet this Servant’s Master and commiserate. But knowing her luck, something like that would never happen, the Master would probably be all gung ho about this… this… just this.

Hmmm, it wasn’t Beowulf who broke the window this time; some sailor tossed a keg through the window aiming at him instead. He probably lured the sailor to do such a thing, but she digressed. The Rider through another burly man away from running away, sticking them in a perpetual fight that they had literally zero chance of winning. Lovely.

She wasn’t sure if her brain had just hit the limit and was just brushing off any other absurdities that approached her, or she had broken past that point when Beowulf had appeared naked, but either way her mind was just shrugging this all off, almost like the morning after a rather unrealistic dream.

Well, now some other burly man with more muscles than brains was approaching her, probably with some intent of capturing her to use against the two? She wasn’t really sure of his thought process, but the moment she touched him, still sitting nonchalantly…

A crystal shattered into a thousand tiny pieces

He fell over, unconscious, as barely a trickle of prana left her to clear his mind, as the other two continued to wreck the bar and people within it. A table broke, the main bar itself broke, various decorative bottles broke, glasses broke, really it would have just been easier to list the things that didn’t break.

…

The bench she was sitting on? That was about it. Everything else was in the wrong place, shattered into pieces, splinters and spray. She casually plucked one long splinter out of her own hair and tossed it aside. She would have complained about that before, but she really wasn’t in a position to stop them, and they really weren’t threatening the existence of magecraft quite yet. So she simply sat on her unbroken bench.

Well she sat there until she started to hear sirens. That was when her calm finally started to show a little wear. She should probably clean a few minds with a touch, although she was tempted to leave Beowulf in their memory just as payback… but that was completely pointless and that would only detriment her. She would just do her duty as a magus, and clear their minds before leaving. A simple process, but an annoying one.

“Berserker, do you hear that?” She said, finally standing from her seat near the collapsed man. “That is probably the sign we should leave, in a few seconds.” The second man already had his memories parsed, and she was quickly moving to the third. There was oh fifteen or so, but it should take that long to do. Hopefully she wouldn’t have to deal with the police officers, although she could.

Her servant was holding another man in the air… punching him. She could only sigh, “Please drop him, Berserker, he is a little comatose now.” He would probably ruin people like he had her clothes. That and windows seemed a regular for him. Just ruining things in general seemed a thing of his. He was Beowulf after all, and this was what he did.

Calling her Frosty though… that was not part of it. Not at all.

[BEOWULF]

“Berserker, do you hear that?”

"Hrm?"

Bemusedly, Beowulf turned his head, glancing at Aela. The rest of him, however, was still focused on beating his man, not to unconsciousness because he was already there, but beyond it - but not quite to death. His hits were far too restrained for that, his punches working almost mechanically. The construction worker's head almost comically bobbled in tune with Berserker's hits, bouncing forward into a punch, snapping back, then sagging back into another hit - repeating the process ad infinitum.

“That is probably the sign we should leave, in a few seconds.”

Oh. Now that he bothered listening, Beowulf did notice the whee-whoo whee-whoo that indicated the arrival of... well, something. Apparently, it was relevant. Beowulf punched his man one last time, more out of bemusement than anything. And again did the man's head flop around. Finally, Aela seemed to notice his presence. She loosed an exasperated sigh, and Beowulf could hear the urge to apply her palm to her face buried in it. “Please drop him, Berserker, he is a little comatose now.”

Oh, right. Beowulf dropped the unconscious-and-loose-change brawler, letting him slump to the ground with a crash. Instead of attending to Aela, however, he resolutely strode over to the bar, looking over it. The keep lay cowering under it, hands covering his eyes as if that would somehow aid in his attempt to hide, his boom-stick cradled in his lap.

"Hey."

Beowulf was rewarded with a feared yelp, followed by the barkeep attending to somehow meld with the floor, in some unsuccessful attempt to escape Berserker's notice. "Hey," Beowulf insisted, rapping the counter. Still no answer. The large man sighed heavily, before withdrawing several bills. He continued, fully aware that he was speaking to empty air. "I went too far. I'm sorry. I... I never should have broken that chair. That was ungracious of us. This should cover it."

He tossed the bills at the curled-up ball of flesh, enough to recoup him for the loss of a chair. But not enough for the tables. Or the other chairs. Or the window. Or the keg.

Turning back to Aela, Beowulf blinked owlishly, frowning. "So that sound earlier...Who're they?"

[Anne Bonny]

It took the combined efforts of Berserker and Rider no less than five minutes to redecorate the bar with a scene of such carnage that Anne had only once or twice had the pleasure of seeing anything of it's like, but of course, the vast majority of the patronage had made a beeline for the exit at the first whiffs of trouble. The rest of them put up no more of a fight than a bit of soggy parchment. And even despite all of this, it was still a little bit of a disappointment how Frosty, sitting in her little bubble of demure calm, couldn't even have indulging a bottle over the head here, or conking a couple of skulls there. Even her dainty little frame could've handled the sorry patronage at the piss-drinking establishment they'd managed find themselves.

She had raised her arms up above her head, cracking her neck; stretching out the cricks in her back that weren't there, mouth twisted in a scowl.

“That, big buddy, ain't good news,” Anne clucked her tongue, surveying the carnage one last time before deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, “and prooobably a sign we shouldn't be lollygaggin' much more than we need to.”

It'd been several hundred years since the last time she'd been on the run from the law, and this time it'd only taken her three days to draw their ire. That said, being a Servant did not come without its perks, and as much fun as testing out her left-hook on a few lucky constables, she suspected that her Master (and Frosty, probably more so), wouldn't appreciate bluecoats knocking on his door come morning nearly as much as she'd appreciate socking them.

She was not without some modicum of self control.

“I'm afraid it's been great fun playing with you two an' all, but I'm afraid I really must run.”

As if on cue, uniformed officers burst into the room just as Anne dematerialized into nothing but thin air, shooting the men one last winning smile as she went. She suspected Berserker and her Master would have a slightly less easier time of it, but of course there was no doubt in her mind they'd weasel out of it some way or another. The only pity was that Anne wouldn't be around to see how.

“Good luck, 'eh, Frosty?”

Anne left the cheeky message by the cool Master's ear as she made her exit, still weighing the benefits of stealing her wallet.