say a prayer for the wounded heart within; (PSL)

[unabatedly]

[ No one believes she can do this. No one would ever believe that some low-born upstart of a mage could ever summon a Heroic Spirit to fight for her in the upcoming Holy Grail War. By all proper rights, no marks have appeared on the back of her hand, either. Surely if she would have been chosen, they would have appeared by now. Without the proper tools or channels other mages in the Clock Tower are afforded, she can't even keep track to see how many other Spirits have already been summoned, or if the rumors are simply that - rumors and little else. No one wants to pull the trigger.

But she has always been a proud creature at heart. She has trained diligently, been told that she will be a mage with no equal among her peers, if only she can learn everything and test herself properly.

Wouldn't participating in the Holy Grail War secure her place? Wouldn't it show everyone that she is capable of the training she so desperately desires?

She has given up so much to come to this moment. Given her blood, her body, her hope for a long life just to have this chance. She has no artifact to use in her summoning. All she has is her mana, all of the gold she has been able to salvage for weeks - beautiful golden bracers and glittering jewels - as an offering. That...and her blood, which she has used in most of her summoning circle. That and the blood of other animals she has captured for the occasion.

As the moon rises into the sky and sheds light on the altar she's chosen, discreet and small chapel on the outskirts of town, she starts to cast. The hour is upon her, the jewels in place, the gold surrounding the summoning circle. Neria lifts her still bleeding hands. ]

Heed my words.

My will creates your body and your sword creates my destiny.

[ Magic thrums in the air, electrifying. She feels so much power from the seal, which glows a sickly red, then golden as the blood evaporates into raw mana to serve as the gate for whatever - whomever - she manages to call. She can hardly believe it's happening, but she wrests control back into her hands and continues the incantation. ]

If you heed the call and obey my will and reason, then answer me. Do so, and I will entrust my destiny to your sword.

[ The magic practically burns deep within her. Neria's gaze remains on the circle. ]

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 great words of power... Come forth from the ring of restraints, Protector of the Holy Balance!

[ The weight of the energy and mana is intense. Neria holds firm until the summoning can be completed, as golden light subsumes the room in a glittering glow, until the Servant she's brought forth is able to pass through the circle and into this world. Her left hand burns with the markings of Command Seals, the tether to the divine soul she's brought forth - who is now bound to her magic.

As the light fades, as the dust settles and the power in the chapel settles to a simmering hum, she looks on her work and stands tall, short and dark and plain against glitter of golden armor before her. ]

Comments

SLIDES IN HERE

[gilgamess]

[ congratulations, Neria. your diligent work paid off, and you summoned (1) one golden shit Servant. in the darkness, said Servant looks almost placid -- smooth-faced, rather like a waxen figure, though golden lights shimmer and flicker and dance about like little fireflies, a contrast to the apparent stoic and serious expression of the King.

serious? or, perhaps, it might be more accurate to say: bored.

he does not lower himself, nor will he, but he nudges the ground ever-so-lightly with the toe of one golden foot, idly prodding the curious mixture of blood and gold which Neria has presented. ]

... hm... to think that you would use wealth to entreat me.

[ not bothering to mask the touch of disdain, there. ]

Is it a jest, perhaps, or do all those in your era seek to bribe Kings?

[ but then, just as subtly, Gilgamesh smirks. ]

Or could it be that you truly are so innocent of the world?

Well? Speak and be heard, mongrel. You have one chance only to amuse me.

t i m e s k i p

[gilgamess]

[ so it is that the King becomes acquainted with his would-be Master, with the one who would strive to use him for her ends.

she does not become acquainted with him -- nothing beyond his name, which he gives freely; as the first of all kings, Gilgamesh expects, demands that his Master know him. unlike other, lesser Servants, he never once conceals his identity. only weaklings skulk about and mask themselves; he has no need of a facade, so he does not rely on his class title, but actively expects others to offer recognition and the respect which is his by right as the first among them all. it is Neria's responsibility to read Gilgamesh's legend herself, and to know him; he is abundantly clear that she must do so, that he will not speak of himself or of his life that became a legend, the prototype of all legends.

the modern world is ugly beyond reckoning; Uruk itself, a paradise, is no more. the King's garden is over-run with cities, slums, and ruin. the era of specialization and a single-minded purpose -- every man a scholar, an architect, a writer-poet, a warrior -- is no more; instead, there are too many people and they live frantic lives, always searching for some elusive meaning which never comes. and that is even before one addresses these scheming magi and their manufactured wars: artifice in the name of a dubious prize. this, all of it, sounds like nothing short of the acme of human folly.

nevertheless, it might hold some vestige of interest. if it does not, perhaps he will simply strike this Master dead for daring to offend him with boredom.

as a first matter of course, they travel to the woman's hideout, which turns out to be nothing more than one of those inadequate and interchangeably built modern apartments. since their initial encounter, Gilgamesh has been assessing his surroundings with quiet and sometimes-not-so-quiet disapproval, an ever-present scowl lingering around the edges of his expression. it deepens as he walks about the premises, keeping aloof from the magus who summoned him. he looks down, up, and in the direction of her kitchen, or what passes for it. ]

Hm. It seems I have been summoned by an impoverished being. [ a return of the Hassan. ] Still, in Uruk, even the poor would gift me with their finest offerings upon my arrival, little as they may have had in their homes. Yet you, in this time of plenty, do not present me with any wines nor silks upon my entry? Granted the honor of hosting me in all my glory, you abnegate your duty as a host. You have much to learn about that which a King's presence demands.

[ yep, this bitch is just going to walk to the bed and stand there, sulkily. you know, like he's claiming it. which he is, by the way. just in case you didn't guess. ]

Be out of my sight and educate yourself as to the rites of hospitality.