Sable and Scarlet Chapter 1

The sounds of battle were one thing that ever remain constant throughout the history of the world, though the sources, of course, tended to vary, from sword-clashes, to the whizzing of bullets.

Tonight, however, the sounds of clashing swords and arrows whizzing through the sky were given new life.

Strewn through and about the battlefield were massive red roots that tanlged with equally massive tendrils of clay.

Stony beings and pale soldiers fought with strange automatons made of shimmering gold and silver and bronze, and immaculate biengs with skins of blue and green and other colors.

Near the outskirts of this battle, two knights were both engaged in swordplay so brilliant that it seemed as if their arms were moving faster than could be seen by the naked eye. One was encased in armor darker then the night sky, and the other wore ridged and spiked steel more vibrant than blood.

"Damn you, fake bastard!" The Red Knight screamed.

The Black Knight said nothing.

Teeth gnashing in rage, the red knight's horned helmet disassembled into her armor, revealing her pale face, messy blonde hair, and emerald-colored eyes. With a snarl of rage, she gripped her tarnished sword in both of her metal-sheathed hands and raised it high. As she did, she bellowed out three words, and those three words that she screamed were full of bloodlust, hatred, and, somehow, a bit of sadness, as a great pillar of red lightning arced up from the blade.

Clarent Blood Arthur!

In response, a cold and heavy wind gathered about the sword clasped in the Black Knight's clawed hands, and it coalesced into an unholy collection of scarlet and gold and sable that towered into the sky, ready to come down upon the Crimson Knight like a mighty and wrathful hammer. As it did, the sword's wielder shouted two words, and they only served to enrage the Red Knight even more.

With a sound that sounded like the roar of two mighty dragons, the two pillars of red and hatred collided…

"Arrrrthurrrr!"

1939

Above, the night sky was clear and pristine, with a countless multitude of star glimmering in the black velvet of space, like tiny diamonds.

Below, a city burned.

In the cockpit of the zeppelin, the Facist commander nodded with pride at their accomplishment. They had done it. They had won the ultimate prize.

Soon, the Third Reich would truly reign supreme for a thousand years!

He tunred to look upon a man dressed in a near identical uniform. This man was somewhat thin, and blue hair that looked like it had been shorn off some time ago, and was only now starting to grow back. Upon his uniform was a bright yellow star.

"Gut gemacht, Herr Prestone, (Well done, Mr. Prestone)" the commander said. "Dein Plan hat perfekt funktioniert. Vielleicht haben Sie doch Juden, oder (Your plan worked perfectly. Meybe you jews have some uses after all, no)?"

"Tatsächlich (Indeed)," said the man, in a quiet voice, as he looked out over the burning city beneath them. "Wie immer sind lhre lnstinkte genau, Kommandant, und lhr Lob ist wirklich berührend (As always, your instincts are accurate, Commander, and your praise is really touching)."

As the commander tunred back with a content smirk, he took another look down at their prize, the result of two bloody weeks worth of fighting.

Suspended by wires between several zeppelins was the prize that would grant them victory in the conquests to come.

Der Heilige Gral. The Holy Grail.

The Furher would be most pleas….

The sound of a firing luger rang out, and pain exploded in his shoulder.

Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!

With various expressions of shock on their faces, each of the German crew members collapsed to the ground, bullet holes in either their chests or their heads.

Only two remained alive in the cockpit, the man with the blue hair, and the Nazi commander. The commander clutched a hand over the wound in his shoulder.

"Was bedeutet dieser verrat, du verdammter Jude (What is the meaning of this betrayal, you damned Jew)?!"

In response, the blue haired man shot him in his other shoulder, eliciting a scream of pain. The shooter then began to walk forward, firing more bullets as he spoke.

"Hast du wirklich geglaubt, dass ich den Heiligen Gral in die schmuddeligen kleinen Höhlen deines geliebten Furher bringen würde? Dass ich freiwillig so etwas für die Dörfer tun würde, die mein Volk und meine Familie wie Tiere in die Ghettos und in die Vernichtungslager geschickt haben ?! Warst du wirklich alle so arrogant und verblüfft zu glauben, ich hätte dich aus einer perversen Loyalität zu deinen Monstern in menschlicher Haut unterstützt? ! Warst du?! (Did you really believe that I would bring the Holy Grail into the grubby little hands of your beloved Furher? That I would do so voluntarily for the monsters and villains that have sent my people and my family like animals to the ghettos and extermination camps ?! Were you all really so arrogant as to think that I had helped you out of a perverse loyalty to you monsters in human skin?! Were you?!)"

He kept firing until the empty click-click of the trigger echoed throughtout the airship.

After a moment, he drew in a deep breath, ripped the fascist symbol off his shoulder, and then went to the radio, and wired the correct transmission.

"Det är klart, Caster. Vad sägs om din ände (It is done, Caster. How are things on your end)?" he asked, in accented Swedish.

"Ja," came a smooth voice from the other end. "Besättningen har alla neutraliserats och ersatts med homunculi. Den Heliga Grailen är vår, Darnic. Vad är dina order (The crews have all been neutralized and replaced with homunculi. The Holy Grail is ours, Darnic. What are your orders?)?"

Darnic Prestone Yggdmillennia was silent for a long moment, as he survey the bodies of the men that he had just executed in cold and bloody vengeance. "Vi går hem och förbereder oss (We go home, and prepare)."

Seventy years later, and two months before the Great Holy Grail War

Santiago Baltierra had served in the Magus Association Enforcers for nearly twenty years, as his ancestors had, for nearly 50 generations. It was a hard job, but one that he took to with a certain amount of relish. The Magus often found it best to approach it with a professional detachment from all emotions. However, he would admit, to a very small, very select, number of individuals, that he did take pride in what he did, since it was also a family tradition, and that he was not appreciative of any outsiders interfering with the duties of he and his fellows.

To keep his mind busy and sharp, he unconsciously stroked his mustache as he went over his specialized Mystic Code: The Sky Deniers. They were a pair of leather gloves inscribed with tiny runes, which had been passed down through his family for generations, along with his family's magic crest. The gloves allowed the user the ability to manipulate air and wind both offensively and defensively. This code, when coupled with his elemental affinity, "Wind," made him nearly invincible anywhere where air existed. They were part of how he had attained the moniker "Wind King."

These, along with his other weapons, and his comrades, made him feel like he could take on anything.

Stirring himself from his ruminations, Santiago looked around in his cabin. Bunking with him were a few of his fellow enforcers, people who he had worked with the pas, and worked with them well; Kazehara Stone, Sergei Strezenov, and Euginia Wordsworth. Together, they were known as "The Four Elementals." Others were in the adjoining cabins, numbering to about fifty or so. They would be all that was needed to infiltrate the Nation of the Millennium Tree.

Sergei, a solid Slavic man of Fifty years, was in the cabin's small bathroom, shaving his chin and head with a straight razor held expertly in his tattooed hands, which were courtesy of some years of his youth that he had spent in the Siberian prison Krasnoyarsk, before he had broken himself out, without the use of his magecraft. The razor was held straight and unwavering as he shaved against the grain, despite the constant rocking of the ship as it began to surface, a few hundred miles off the coast of Romania.

The middle-aged Slav was as solid in demeanor as his frame, which was reflected in his dual affinities, "Ice" and "Stone." He was cold, yet sturdy, and always reliable on a mission, or in a fight.

Kazehara and Euginia were seated on their beds, going over files and weapons. Kazehara was a tiny, almost petite woman, barely topping 4"9', and was of English and Japanese heritage. Despite her tiny stature, she had an impressive body count to her name and reputation, and that bloody ledger was full of the names of rouge magi, Sealing Designates too dangerous to live, and even half a dozen Dead Apostles. She was strong, yet fluid, and adept in over a dozen languages, as well as begin a great master of disguise. Her affinity was "Water," while her origin was "Fluidity."

Euginia was a woman as fiery as her hair. The Englishwoman held a certain infamy within the clocktower for her "scorched-earth" tactics when on mission, and, as such, was often use as a weapon of last resort. Patches of her pale skin were marred by burn marks, both horrific, and cosmetic. Despite her infamy, she was, for the most part, a genial sort of person. Her origin was "Immolation."

The four were legendary for their teamwork, abilities, and resilience. They, along with the others, would complete their task in no time.

Ordinarily, a seaside passage from England to Romania would have taken a few months at best, but this was no ordinary sort of boat that the taskforce was traveling aboard. Specifically crafted by the alchemists and builders of the Atlas institute, the Roamer could cut such a trip down to a few days, mostly by transforming itself into a submersible that was undetectable to ordinary radar. It could increase its speed and ignore the currents by hooking absorbing ambient prana from the ocean, and subtly redirecting them towards the vehicle's favor.

A few weeks ago, the organization known as Yggdmillennia, a ragtag collections of degraded and subpar bloodlines, had declared its sessesion from the Magus Association, as well as the fac that it held in it's possession the Holy Grail.

Moments later, the intercom blared, and the captain's voice announced that they were drawing closer to the shoreline.

The journey from the beach to the forest was uneventful and quiet. As the team of fifty top enforcers entered the forest, however, there came several loud zipping noises.

Then, three of their fellow enforcers fell to the ground with large holes in their heads.

Before anyone else could react, from the ground shot massive red tree roots.

Santiago then heard Sergei grunt in pain as a branch impaled him through his chest, and he then expired, along with Eugenia and Kazehara, as their bodies were riddled with bullets.

The rest swiftly died from either branch or bullet. Soon, Santiago found himself alone, a bullet hole in his shoulder, and his back up against a tree.

From the dark of the forest emerged a small group of soldiers, dressed in black camouflage and armor. Alongside them was a tall and muscular man, and another, the one that Santiago and the now fifty dead magi had been sent to arrest.

The last thing Santiago saw before blacking out was Darnic Prestone Yggdmillennia, walking towards him, and a frown on his face…..

Several Weeks later

The vehicle was a common european model, and thus nothing out of the ordinary. To it's driver, that was exactly how he preferred it.

Soon, he approached a checkpoint. As he slowed his vehicle to a stop, the burly man took note of the heavily armed and armored soldiers. Their baliistic armor, head-and-face-encompasing helmets were all colored white, with the insignia of a golden tree on their chests.

Their large guns definlety did not escape his notice.

The nearest soldier approached the vehicle and lightly rapped on the window. Without hesitation, Kairi rolled it down.

In the distance, the cello-like sounds of grasshoppers could be heard.

"Motivul pentru care vizitați România (What is your reason for coming to Romania)?" the soldier asked. He did his best to look jovial and nonchalant as he answered in their native tounge. "Știi ... să faci o sărbătoare personală. A se vedea atracțiile, au niște mâncare bună ... știi (You know... just taking a personal holiday. See the sights, and have some good food... you know)?"

Though their faces were covered, Kairi Sisigou could tell that the guards were not amused.

"Hartii, va rog (Papers, please)."

Without another word, he handed them his papers.

He watched, with both hands on the wheel, as the soldiers dook the documents, and looked them over.

Five minutes passed…. Then ten… fifteen…

As the clock neared the twenty minute mark. Kairi was sure that things were going to get a whole lot more complicated, messy, and violent.

Then, the helmeted soldier handed him back his papers, the gate opened, and he was waved along.

As he drove through the open gate, the Necromancer breathed a sigh of relief.

That had been close.

Now that he was in Romania, though? Now came the hard part.

Millennia Castle

It was a lovely evening, Darnic mused.

From the window, he observed as night settled upon the land of Romania, his Romania.

Idly, he glanced down at his command seals; five black markings upon his flesh that were wrought in the intricate shape of a spear-like tree with extending branches.

It had been so long; almost a century, since that moment when those pathetic rats of the Magus Association cast him out, all because they predicted that his clan was doomed to fall into nothingness.

To Darnic, that had felt like a death, his first death, since those same rats once believed that he had been destined for greatness, until the moment when they had cast him and his family aside like so much garbage.

It had been then been seventy years ago, when he had watched his people begin to become demonized, and rounded up into the cattle cars, and he had then forced himself to collaborate with the monsters responsible for it all.

Seventy years since the night that he stabbed them all in the back, and took the greatest prize of all for himself, as well as taking control of the nation of Romanina, and building it up into the great power that it was today, rivaling that of Rommel's kingdom, or the Russian Empire.

Unconsciously, as he often did, the ruler of Romania gripped his left forearm, even as the memory of the Nazi's screams brought a small smile to his face.

One could never completely leave Hell, after all.

The smell of the furnaces….

He shook his head, in an attempt to divest himself of those dark memories. This Holy Grail War would go perfectly and culminate in the complete and total victory of Yggdmillennia.

It had to, after everything that he had sacrificed, and all the horror and degredatios ntaht he had suffered.

He then looked over to the chess board in his room and the two who occupied it at the current moment. Both radiated a sort of aura that spoke of great age, renown, and legend.

Of course, that was to be expected, as both were Heroic Spirits, and Servants of the forthcoming Holy Grail War.

The first man was decently tall, and, indeed, was possessed of such delicate features that it would not have been too much of a stretch of the imagination to mistake him for a handsome woman. He had long, grayish-blue hair that was streaked with silver, and it was currently tied up

He was garbed in a long white coat, which was emblazoned with the symbol of the golden tree. Underneath the coat were serviceable robes, pants, and a tough leather apron. Sheathed at his side, oddly enough, was a short sword. He wore long, fingerless gloves, and upon his face was a small, content smile.

This man was none other than Paracelsus von Hohenheim, the famed physician and Alchemist, and one of the few heroes known to be in both recorded fact and legend, and he had been Darnic's Servant for the past Sixty years, as well as one of his chief supporters, if not friend.

The opponent of the Father of Alchemy was a rather bizarre figure. Every inch was covered in tight blue clothing. Most bizarre, however, were his horned and featureless gold mask, his long blue cloak with his spiked golden shoulder pieces, the massive green gem that glowed in the center of his chest, and, of course, the fact that he had four arms.

This strange sight was the famed Spanish philosopher and golem-maker known as Solomon ibn Gabriol, or Avicebron, as he preferred to be called.

These two were the Caster-class Servants of the Greater Holy Grail War.

Hohenheim was the first to speak, as he moved forward his black bishop, which was wrought in the shape of an elderly wizard with a beard. "You should not fret so much, Darnic. Everything is progressing well ahead of schedule."

"Indeed. Even I can vouch for my fellow Caster's assertations, despite not being one of optimism towards anything," Avicebron added, as he moved forward his own bishop.

The two had been playing for almost an hour now.

"Perhaps, but I am not entirely convinced that my faction will emerge as the victors just yet. It is yet early, and I have learned from personal experience that things can change in an instant, whether it be plans for battle, or even one's standing in society."

Cattle cars stuffed to full capacity…. Those damning words over the cold gates… the furnaces….

He shook his head to clear his mind. "Never the less, I understand your opitimisim, Casters, and I can honestly say that our chances are better than most. With the servants that we summon tonight, I will be one step closer to attaining that which all of my kind seek: The Swirl of the Root, that which lies at the center of Existence itself, and the key to true Magic itself. Nothing, especially those worms of the Association, will stand in my way."

He then tunred back to consider the view, and his nation. "For seventy years, I have been preparing. Preparing for this moment, right here in the city of Trifas. It is what sets me apart from all the previous participants of this war, because unlike them, I know what I am getting into. I have been patient, and waiting. So now, this time, I am prepared. This time, I am ready. My opponents in this war, however, will be greatly unprepared for what is to come."

"And am I, and the homunculi system you put into place, a part of those preparations, Lord Darnic?" Avicebron inquired, while he took Paracelsus' rook with a pawn.

Knight took rook, and this time Paracelsus answered. "Indeed. You, whose mastery in golemcraft surpassed that of any who came before or after, even me, if I might be so humble."

"As for the homunculi system," Darnic continued. "It is our best option. After all, the more powerful a Servant, the more energy that is required to maintin its existence. With the hpmunicli to act as batteries, you and the other servants of our faction will be free to utilize all your abilities to your heart's content without the risk of draining your masters dry, and allowing we, your masters to fully utilize our mage craft without fear."

Soon, there were no pieces left on the board, save for the Red and Black Kings.

The game was a draw.

Paracelsus nodded to Avicebron. "A very excellent game, my friend."

At that moment, the room's grandfather clock struck twelve, and then the door was opened, and in walked a boy no more than thirteen years of age.

"Master Darnic, Teachers?"

Pracelsus looked up and greeted the boy with a small smile. "Yes, Roche?"

"Everyone's ready."

Darnic nodded at that, and then at the two Casters. "Very good. Shall we be off, my friends?"

As they proceeded dwon the ornate hallway, Darnic idly noted the many guards posted about. Every ten feet were positioned homunculi armored in tactical gear and a small assortment of firearms. Some even held halberds. Their vests and helmets were all emblazoned with a golden tree. The symbol of Yggdmillennia, as well as the emblem of the sovereign nation of Romania.

Roche then strode up beside Avicebron. "Teacher Avicebron, I thought you would like to know that the rest of the materials that you requested have arrived. Now, you'll be able to complete your Noble Phantasm, right?"

"Not quite," replied the Maksed Man. "There is still one more compenent that is required in order for it to be fully completed and realized."

"You are referring to the Reactor core, correct?" asked Pracelsus.

"Indeed. Like any living being, that golem requires a heart. Thus, once we find a creature with compatible magic circuits, then Golem Keter Malkuth will be able to be activated."

It hen clicked for Roche. "I get it now. That's why you've been so picky about selecting the homunculi."

Darnic then interjected. "Roche, where is Jinako? Your cousin and her Servant should be here with us to witness this."

Roche scratched his head in embarrassment. "Yeah… she and Assassin are holed up in her room, and nothing I say can make them come out. You know how she is, after all."

Honestly, that lazy girl. Only she would summon a Servant that was an equally as lazy shut-in as herself.

Darnic almost felt the start of a headache coming on, but the sensation soon passed as the group entered the castle's summoning chamber

Standing atop the dais in the back of the large room, wihi his body set in a proud stance, was a man who seemed to ooze pure charisma and triumph from every pore of his perfect body. Indeed, the reason that he did not sit was due to the simple fact that it seemed as if no throne, no matter how grandiose, could support his brilliance. His green and gold clothing was tight across his golden skin and seemed to take any opportunity to showcase and show off his muscular form, and thus left very little to imagination. His eyes were pure black, save for his red irises. Upon his head was a strange thing that seemed a mixture of a crown and a roman helmet that was adorned with a large single red horn. About his broad shoulders was a crimson mantle.

This was Darnic's other Servant, the Lancer of Black.

As he saw the small group approach, his face broke out into a smile that was as dazzling and as radiant as the sun itself. "Ah, good friends and subordinates! The presence of you all truly warms the heart of Rome."

"Think nothing of it, Emperor Romulus," Darnic said, with a bow, which was mirrored by Pracelsus and Caster. Roche being Roche, of course, just stood by awkwardly.

As he rose form his bow, and took his place beside his Servant, Darnic surveyed the remainder of the Masters of the Black Faction of Yggdmillennia.

Gordes Musik Yggdmillennia, a rotund man of thirty-six years with blonde hair, and a small, waxed blonde mustache that was reminiscent of a famed British film star, stood impatiently, fidgint about and mumbling to himself with a sneer on his face. Despite a rather prodigious talent in alchemy, Gordes suffered from that rather unfortunate condition known worldwide as an overinflated ego, though, in Gordes case, Darnic was surprised that the metaphorical balloon had not already burst years ago. Despite his faults, the Alchemist was still rather useful.

Gordes' catalyst was a sheath, one of the things that had been among the many artifacts and pieces of knowledge that that the portly man, with Darnic's assistance, had managed to pilfer from the degrading Einzbern family. It was a beautiful and terrible thing of gold, blue, white, red, and black.

Darnic's young, and quite second-rate grandson, Caules, a brown-haired teenager with glasses, had been given a piece of ancient, crumbling armor of an eastern design. It had been procured by his sister, Fiore who, though wheelchair bound, was superior to her brother in nearly every way. Darnic had made her his heir for a reason, after all. The boy's catalyst had been prcured alongside her own; a fragment of an ancient Greek bow.

Finally, there was Ophelia Phamrsolone Fraga Icecole Yggdmillenia, a rather pretty young woman who was only two years older than Darnic's grandchildren. Her shoulder-length hair was brown and interspersed with red and grey stripes. Over one of her eyes was a rather ordinary eyepatch.

The girl held in her gloved hand a pair of metal earrings for her summoning. These were from one of her three parent bloodlines, a formerly isolated magi clan that, though they had not been in decline, had been slighted one too many times by the Association, and thus had agreed to be absorbed into the Yggdmillennia organization, albeit very reluctantly, and after much monetary and personal payment and negotiation. Ophelia had been one of the more promising results from the Icecolle, Phamrsolone and Fraga bloodlines mixing, upon Darnic's orders, of course. She, and her relatives; Bazett, and Bazett's late sister, Celenike, were all quite adept at both Curses and Runecraft.

Of course, with Ophelia, there was also her trump cards…

From the platform, Darnic, Da Vinci, and the kingly servant all watched with anticipation, as Ophelia, Gordes, Caules, and Fiore each began to chant, as a black glow burst form the circles engraved into the floor…

Let silver and steel be the essence.
Let stone and the archduke of contracts be the foundation.
Let Black be the color I pay tribute to.
Let rise a wall against the wind that shall fall.
Let the four cardinal gates close.
Let the three-forked road from the crown reaching unto the Kingdom rotate.

I hereby declare.
Your body shall serve under me.
My fate shall be your sword.
Submit to the beckoning of the Holy Grail.
If you will submit to this will and this reason…then answer!

An oath shall be sworn here!
I shall attain all virtues of all of Heaven.
I shall have dominion over all evils of all of Hell!

From the Seventh Heaven, attended to by three greet words of power,
come forth from the ring of restraints,
Protector of the Holy Balance!

Biscerica din Deal

The man looked up at the night sky.

It was a very beautiful night.

"You called for me, dearie?' came an aged voice from behind him, along with the tap-tap-tappingof a cane against the paved stoen floor.

The stargazer turned towards the speaker, and inclind his masked face tword the voice's owner. "Indeed. I have just recived the most interesting news; it seems that that the final Red master has arrived in Romania."

"Is that so? Then it seems things have finally begun to move forward."

The masked man then turned back towards the night sky. "Yes. The time has finally come for our War to begin…"

Graveyard of Bucharest

For a long moment, Kairi did nothing, except sit and enjoy the acrid feel and taste of the nicotine smoke entering his lungs from the cancer stick. As he did, the necromancer stared at the catalyst that he had been given. To the average observer, it seemed like an ordinary piece of wood, old and well preserved. In a way, it was, but, according to the old man, it was also so much more. A fragment of the most important and famous object in history… the Round table.

The necromancer than turned his thoughts to why he was here, why he had been given the catalyst in the first place, and why he had etched the summoning circle into the ground of the graveyard.

The Holy Grail War, a secret bloodbath and death contest which was, for all intense purposes, a glorified battle royal between seven magi and the ancient heroes that they summoned, all for the chance at the ultimate prize; a Wish. This was a one-in-seven, or, in this case, one-in-fourteen, chance for the deepest desires of the victor's heart to be made manifest.

One could argue that it was worth it, the risk of death. A Wish was certainly one hell of a prize to kill for, and people had been known to do worse things for lesser prizes and goal.

The mercenary glanced at the crimson seals on his hand.

Was it possible. Did he dare enteraint the notion that he could hold the grail in these hands?

Yeah. He believed it.

The Necromancer took one last drag before he crushed the spent cancer stick in his hand. He then stood up, looked over the circle that he had etched into the ground one last time, adjusted his sunglasses, stretched out his hand, and began to recite the chant that he had been given Old Man Belfaban, and a bloody crimson glow shot up from the ground…

Let silver and steel be the essence.
Let stone and the archduke of contracts be the foundation.
Let Red be the color I pay tribute to.
Let rise a wall against the wind that shall fall.
Let the four cardinal gates close.
Let the three-forked road from the crown reaching unto the Kingdom rotate.

I hereby declare.
Your body shall serve under me.
My fate shall be your sword.
Submit to the beckoning of the Holy Grail.
If you will submit to this will and this reason…then answer!

An oath shall be sworn here!
I shall attain all virtues of all of Heaven.
I shall have dominion over all evils of all of Hell!

From the Seventh Heaven, attended to by three greet words of power,
come forth from the ring of restraints,
Protector of the Holy Balance!

When the black glow faded, the Yggdmillennia masters were each greeted with the sight of the new Servants of Black….

Gordes

The figure wore spiked and ridged and curved armor that was all at once knightly, kingly, dark, and wild, with red and dark gold veins spreading out through it, while upon his shoulders was a great dark black mantle of leather and fur. Between the armor was a dark red and black tabard, emblazoned with the symbol of a roaring red and white dragon. Encasing his head and face was a helmet that seemed a strange and seamless fusion between a dragon, and a lion, with six vertical spikes jutting up in the shape of a crown.

Oddly enough, he was mounted upon a steed of black and white that was caparisoned in barding of silver and onyx and dark iron. An aura of dark majesty just radiated from every inch of this Servant's being. The horse tossed its armored head imperiously, it's eyes, a strange mixture of blue and red, were full of a strange and equine bloodlust, as they stared out from beneath a helmet wrought in the shape of a dragon's skull.

The Servant's clawed gauntlets were empty, save for the reins of his mount.

Despite himself, Gordes felt a deep chill run down his spine when the Servant's visor turned towards him briefly, as he surveyed the rest of the Black Faction. He couldn't even see past the shadows inside the visor.

Was this Saber?

Fiore

Fiore' Servant was positively massive in height and mass, nearly three meters tall in fact, with shining skin that was a seamless mixture of burnished bronze and gleaming iron.

He wore a mantle across his shoulders that was crafted from the pelt of a golden lion, with the head of the great beast resting behind his neck, alongside long and functional robes that left his chest bare. His feet were adorned with open-toed sandals that wrapped around his ankles, and a crimson sash draped about his waist, with a matching one wrapped tightly around his arm, from knuckle to upper bicep, while his left was wrapped with a cloth of black.

In one of his mighty hands, he held a large, beautiful and deadly bow that seemed longer than he was tall, while belted at his waist was a great quiver of steel and leather, filled to the brim with expertly crafted arrows fletched with blue feathers. His face was framed by a long mane of black hair, which rivaled that of the beast whose pelt he wore, alongside an intricate red tattoo that spiraled across his entire form.

His face, while not necessarily handsome, was well chiseled and perfectly proportioned, like a god's, as was the rest of his figure, as if he had been carved from solid rock, metal, muscle, and marble. Indeed, he seemed less a man, and more like the statue of a proud and noble deity. His golden eyes were quite sharp, and within those large orbs danced an abundance of good humor, noble kindness, and an undauntable valor.

He looked down upon his wheelchair-bound master, as she craned her neck to look up at him with more than a bit of awe.

He smiled, a warm thing full of kind and paternal feelings, and she smiled back.

Fiore had summoned her Archer.

Ophelia

Standing before Ophelia was a man who could not have been any older that his late twenties. He was tall, lean and muscular, like a wolfhound, and clad in Nordic-and-knightly-looking armor of blue and brown steel and leather and chain and strange runes, over and under which were long, sky-blue robes of powerful leather and metal studs.

A mighty cloak and fur hood of blue, trimmed and chased with gold and white and silver, clasped together with a golden brooch, helped to complete the ensemble and image of a powerful warrior-prince. Across his waist was a wide, white belt of scale-like links, ad slung through it were several throwing axes. One of his pauldrons was wrought in the shape of a wolf's snarling head.

His hair was both a deep cerulean and a snowy white, long, and tied back on his scalp in a rough and messy wolf's tail-like collection of plaited braids that reached his lower back. The rest of his hair at his temples had been shorn off around his scalp, with the bare flesh being covered by intricate red-and-blue tattoos in the shape of snarling wolves that ran down his neck. The lower portion of his face was covered by a short beard the same color as his hair. The Servant's left arm was gauntleted in metal, and his right lightly sheathed in a leather glove and vambrace.

Both his ears were pierced with two pairs of earrings; two were small cylinders, and the other two were small rings, while around his neck was a visible medallion finely wrought in the shape of a wolf's head clutching a crescent moon in its jaws. Under his icy blue, slit eyes were intricate red markings that went down his cheeks, and disappeared down his neck as well.

His left arm held bound to it an ordinary Norse shield. This was not a barrier that contained a world, nor one that represented the ultimate protection of a distant utopia's fortress. It was just a simple, round thing of metal, leather, and wood used to turn aside weapons both mighty and small. Clutched in his right hand, and resting on his shoulder was a large dane axe.

This warrior gave off the impression of a mighty war-beast, one that was noble in mien and bearing, but could also be an absolute terror on the battlefield if the need arose and would not hesitate in devouring his enemies. He looked about and gave a flippant wave and a fanged smirk at his fellow servants and the other masters, almost as if he were sizing them up for latter battle, while his shield dematerialized into blue motes, ready to be used at a later time. When he chuckled, his breath was visible, as if her were breathing out cold air. Indeed, slight bits of frost seemd to cling to his clothes and person, despite the warm temperatures of the castle's interior.

Ophelia couldn't keep the excitement off her face. She had done it! Rider had arrived!

Caules

The Servant that Caules had summoned was a…. generously endowed woman covered in leather and metal armor of eastern make that strained against her generous assets, as well as the rest of her shapely figure. Her hair was purple, and long enough to reach her ankles. She was tall and had a good amount of muscle on her beautiful frame. At her waist was a quiver full of arrows, a longbow, and a long katana.

Before Caules could react, the tall woman looked at him, smiled, then swiftly encased and enveloped him in a tight hug against her chest.

It… was getting hard to breathe!

Standing before Kairi was a figure clad from head to toe in red and silver armor that seemed to be all sharp edges, spikes, and spines and shine.

Clasped in its clawed hands was a sword that, at one point, may have been a beautiful piece of metalwork, but, now, though still strong, was tarnished, and even rusted in some places, beyond repair.

The figure looked at him, exhaled, and thens its horned helmet began to retract into its armor.

The face that was now bare to the world was one that was at once both boyish and feminine, with pale skin, bloodshot and emerald eyes with heavy bags under them, and a long and messy shock of dirty blonde hair.

She looked at him, and then chuckled, the sound like steel scraping against steel. "I am Mordred, killer of Kings, the one true heir of Arthur Pendragon, and the Saber of Red for this Holy Grail War. I ask of you, are you the one who calls himself my Master?"

Huh.

A/N: NEW STORY!

Anyway, read, review, and enjoy! See if you can guess who the new Servants are.

Lancer: Romulus

Master: Darnic

STATS

STR: B+

END: A+

AGI: A+
MAN: A+

LCK: B+

N.P.: A++

Class Skills

Magic Resistance: B+

Territory Creation: EX

Personal Skills

Natural Body: C

Imperial Privilege: EX

Septem Colles: A

Howl of the War God: A+

Noble Phantasm

Magna Voluisse Magnum: A++ (Anti-Army)

Moles Necessrie: B (Barrier)

1st Caster of Black: Avicebron

Master: Roche

STATS

STR: E

END: E

AGI: D

MAN: A
LCK: B

NP: A+

Class Skills

Item Construction: B+

Territory creation: B

Personal Skills

Numerology: B

High-Speed Incantation: B+

Tranquil Fig: EX

Noble Phantasm

Golem Keter Malkuth: A+

2nd Caster of Black: Paracelsus

Master: Philosopher's Stone/ Darnic

STATS

STR: D
END: E
AGI: C
MAN: A
LCK: B
NP: A+

Class Skills

Item Construction: EX

Territory Creation: A

Personal Skills

High-Speed Incantation: A

Elemental: A+

Philosopher's Stone: A

Noble Phantasm

Sword of Paracelsus: A+

Saber of Red: Mordred

Master: Kairi

Stats

STR: A+

END: A+

AGI: A+

MAN: B+

LCK: D

NP: A+

Class Skills

Magic Resistance: B

Riding: B

Berserk: EX

Personal Skills

Instinct: B

Mana Burst: A

Battle Continuation: B

Charisma: C-

Nature of a Rebellious Spirit: A+

Noble Phantasms

Secret of Pedigree: C

Clarent: C

Clarent Blood Arthur: A+

Rage of Camlann: EX (Available only upon english soil)