#anyways ive had this idea sitting and brewing for a While now glad to finally have it done kfjdskjkfj

[cubedmango]

memento

[tessiete]

hi ive read like all your stuff about korkie is a kenobi in the span of about three days and i'm so EMOTIONAL?? it makes such narrative sense - star wars is a story about fathers and sons and what happens when mothers are lost and in eternal spring, when obi wan doesn't reject korkie, and korkie doesn't reject obi wan, and they love each other and accept each other despite the gaping hole that satine left in their relationship it like heals and breaks that cycle of little blonde boys being 1/

of little blonde boys being left in the desert without their mothers and with father figures who don't quite accept the responsibility of being a father to all of their detriments! it lets padme live, and it lets luke escape, and it lets everyone who wants to heal and work towards a better future. anyway, this is some Good Fucking Food and thank u for writing it. if you're still open to prompts i would really like to see some kryze-kenobi family bonding. just the three of them happy and together 

AH! This has been sitting so beautifully, and lovingly in my inbox for ages now, and I do apologise, but I just - I saw fluff and I panicked. I PANICKED!!!

And, as you can probably see, wrote reams of whump and h/c instead. But I tried.

Anyway, there is so much I want to say about this - I’m going to have to bookmark this whole thing just so I can come back again and again to your generous words. Thank you! I do have such a fondness for Eternal Spring, and whether or not it began as a joke, I am SO attached to the idea of Korkie as a Kenobi, the idea that blood isn’t always bad, that healing can happen, that good people make mistakes, that forgiveness IS an option - and I love how that aligns with the Pacifism of Satine’s New Mandalorians. I wish we had more of it (that insistent, unrelenting kindness and compassion) in SW, and Korkie is my little effort at that.

RANTING ASIDE, I hope you find and enjoy this little bit of fluff for the Kenobi-Kryzes. MUCH LOVE.

AND BY THE HAND LED

It was not Life Day. It was not Holyrod week, and Belli’s birthday had been a full ten month ago. Yet still, on this day, Kirokicek Kryze woke with the sun, and raced to his window where he could see the Sundari dockyard in the distance. 

Personal shuttles buzzed to and fro. Docking tugs hauled heavy freighters into place. Long, thin vactrains hurtled passengers from one platform to the next, or further on into the heart of the city. A few large ferries which had found mooring overnight made their ponderous voyage upwards, headed for the small opening at the apex of the Sundari dome. They were bound for transports anchored in wet space, the people aboard away for deep space travel to distant stars. 

Korkie watched as one neared the aperture, then, with incredible steadiness of hand, cleared the narrow gap with ease. He let go his breath, but his eyes remained fixed upon the opening. He was not much concerned with the ships that left, but instead found great interest in those ferries which were currently arriving.

They took turns - one in, one out - and with every exchange, Korkie felt as though the city was making room for a very special guest. One who loomed larger than life in his young consciousness, and one who occupied more and more space in his heart the closer he came.

Bebu was coming home.

A knock at his door was not enough to tear his attention from the spectacle outside, but he shuffled over to make room for his mother beside him at the window.

“Good morning, cyar'ika,” she said, pressing a kiss to his hair. “And what has got you up so early?”

She still wore her nightclothes beneath a fine gown of pressed velvet. Korkie leaned back into her embrace, stroking the soft fabric, and letting the warm, sweet smell of sleep wash over him.

“I’m watching the dockyards,” he said. “Look! Do you think that one of them has Bebu on it?”

Satine let her chin rest on the crown of his head, and followed his gaze to the sky.

“Perhaps,” she allowed. “Are you excited for your Bebu to come home?”

Korkie turned, trying to get a glimpse of her expression which could only be as teasing as his own was incredulous. She smiled.

“Excited, Belli?” he asked. “I am so, so, superlatively excited!”

“My,” she said, her face transforming to one of awe. “That is quite a superlative word you have discovered. Is it new?”

Korkie nodded. “I am saving it for Bebu, for our collection. Do you think he shall like it?”

“I think he shall be quite impressed, dinui.”

“I have another, but I always say it wrong, so I think I shall write it down, instead.”

“That is very wise,” she said. “For then there is no chance of misunderstanding, and then your father can teach you to speak it correctly.”

Korkie grinned, and squeezed her hand, so glad to be in such perfect accord. 

“That was exactly my plan, Belli!”

“Te jatne mind jo'lekir ti ast,” she said, laughing. “Now come.”

“Are we going to the docks?”

“Not yet,” she said. “First meal first, I think, and then we shall see.”

She stood from her place behind Korkie, and smoothed her skirts. The early morning sun fell kindly over her face, so that it lit her eyes from behind, like the facet of some bright gem. She held out her hand to him.

“But Belli -!”

“Is that fussing I hear coming out of your mouth?” she asked, the perfect image of confusion.

“No,” he conceded, hanging his head in defeat.

“I thought not,” she said. “Not my Korkie. Besides, we must first ensure that we are properly fed, and tidied before we appear at the docks. We cannot have our tummies grumbling and complaining while we are at the height of a superlative joy, now can we?”

“That would be rather distracting,” he allowed.

“And what would your father think if you showed up all bleary eyed, and sleep tousled? He’d hardly recognise you!”

“That’s not true,” protested Korkie. “He’d think me a ‘devoted legislator’. He said so last time.”

Satine cocked her head, a smirk curling in the corner of her mouth, and pinned just there, until such a time as she could give it to the owner of those borrowed words. 

“Well, cyare, I cannot think he meant it as a compliment,” she said, wiggling her fingers temptingly. “Now come - to firsts.

In the kitchens, his mother suggested they arrange a menu, scrounged from the conservator and pantry, while the staff set about preparing for the rest of their day.

“No need to bother anyone too much when it’s just us, right?” She placed a stool in front of an out of the way countertop, and held his hand while Korkie made a great leap to stand atop it. “Now, what are we hungry for?”

“Isbeans, and egg!” he cried. “With fresh muja juice!”

“Muja juice!” she echoed in surprise. “My, but we’re feeling quite indulgent today!”

“Well, it is a special occasion!” he said.

“Of course, you’re right. Muja juice it is. Anything else, ad’ika?”

He thought for a moment, but knowing how easily she had acceded to his first request, he concluded it most reasonable to forward several more.

“Perhaps some toast,” he said. “And flatcakes. And melon squares with black fire jelly? And then some moof milk and summerberries because they’ll go bad if we don’t eat them. With sucre crystals on the top. And maybe - only because Bebu says it’s healthy - a cup of kava. But just one, or I’ll be up all night.”

She crouched down to meet him, mischief sparkling in her eyes and not a word of protest at his requests. Instead, her tone was conspiratorial, as though they were together in some great game of hide and hunt. 

“Let’s brew a whole pot,” she said. “So that we may share it.”

He laughed in delight. Satine pulled down a tin of weava flour, and let him sprinkle the surface while she portioned out another measure into a shallow bowl for flatcakes. Under her careful eye, he cracked a tip-yip egg, and tipped in some sucre. She worked the mixture into a sticky dough, and portioned out small spheres for Korkie to press out upon the counter. Cook A’den looked on skeptically, but when his stack of raw discs began to pile up, she stepped in with a sigh, and a fond smile and lifted him on her hip while she fried them over a nano-cooker. 

As he worked, Satine gathered the berries and the milk, and a little pot of sucre. Helping hands piled plates high with toast, and ulik butter. Isbeans and hard boiled eggs followed, kept warm beneath heated domes. A whole pitcher of ice cold muja juice was produced from the conservator, and a fresh pot of kava was left to steep with wide, green leaves still in it. There was so much food that, in the end, a small cart was required to bear the fruits of their labours, while Korkie added the final touch of perfectly browned flatcakes.

Normally, they would eat their firsts in the family dining hall, but Satine insisted that she could not possibly do so while still dressed in her nightclothes.

“And scandalise the whole parliament? I think not, my very shocking dinui. No, it’s best we take everything back to my rooms, and eat there where no one will think us as uncivilised as we appear.”

So with many thanks to A’den, and her workers, Korkie followed his mother down the glistening marbloid halls with their wide windows. The sun was nearly all the way up, and the traffic in the sky had only increased since Korkie last looked. He was hit with the sudden realisation that perhaps many ferries had come and gone in his absence, and any one of them might contain his father. He raced to the window to check.

“Come along, Korkie,” said Satine. “Soon. I promise.”

Torn between food and the possibility that his father was waiting for him even now, Korkie gave into the demands of his hunger, and followed his mother down the hall.

They stopped outside her door, the cart pushed just off to the side. Satine looked at him appraisingly, smoothing one hand over his determinedly erstwhile hair.

“Oh dear,” she said, straightening his synfleece robe, as he reached for the cart to steal a summerberry from the pile. “You do look a sight. But I suppose it cannot be helped.”

She gave him a fond caress, her thumb tracing the swell of his little cheek with such reverence, and care that Korkie nearly felt guilty for snatching the fruit. But she smiled as he swallowed, and he supposed it must just have been one of those strange things buirs did from time to time, where they mixed up joy and sorrow and said nothing about it.

“I shall comb my hair later, Belli,” he offered. That seemed to do the trick, for she laughed, and stood, and gave his hand a brief squeeze.

“I will remember you said that,” she said. “Now, be a good boy and get the door for your Belli, would you?”

She returned to the cart, as he wiped his hands down the length of his robe, and reached for the palmpad. The door chimed, and slid aside with the barest sigh of air. Inside, Korkie could see that the curtains had been pulled back, and the room was flooded blue and gold with the oncoming day. Playful shadows danced across the floor where hanging tassels toyed with the sun. The carpet glistened like thick grass, lush and crowned in dew. A small table with three chairs sat to one side, and an old cloak lay thrown across it. There were boots, too large for his mother to wear, a belt too wide to be hers, and there, in the bed, swaddled in silkweed sheets and haloed by the sun, was Obi-Wan Kenobi, hovering on the edge of waking.

“Bebu!” Korkie shouted.

At his cry, Obi-Wan opened his eyes, and smiled, catching his son as raced across the floor and leapt upon the bed in a single motion. 

“Ah, ner wer'ika! Ni mirdir tion'tuur gar ru'kel olaror. Bic cuyir ori'udes tion'tuur gar cuyir dar.”

“Bebu!” Korkie cried again, laughing and wriggling with joy. His father lifted him over his head, holding him aloft as he made his cursory examination.

“Korkicek!” he groaned, as his strength gave out and Korkie tumbled atop his father’s chest in a tangle of limbs and blankets. “You must be very much grown since I last saw you, for you are getting too heavy for me!”

“No, I’m not, Bebu,” he said. “I’ve only grown two centimeteres since you were gone, and Belli says that’s only because I’m on a spurt.”

“Only two centimeters?” Obi-Wan demands. “Dear me, that’s not very much at all. I shall expect more diligence in your efforts at stretching if we are to make any serious headway in this matter.”

Korkie giggled. “Don’t be silly, Bebu,” he said. “I cannot stretch myself bigger. It takes time.”

“And heavy reading,” Obi-Wan agreed gravely.

“And good eating,” Satine added from behind them. She’d set the table in their distraction. Obi-Wan’s cloak now hung respectably from a hook by the fresher blind, and three plates sat waiting to be filled. The isbeans steamed, their skin crackling and blackened. The flatcakes dripped with galek syrup and butter. The summerberries shone plump and delectable in their precarious pyramid. The black fire jellies jiggled, and the muja juice sparkled.

“Is that fresh kava I smell?” asked Obi-Wan. 

“It is!” said Korkie. “And all sorts of things which Belli and I made! I suppose it’s a lucky thing we made so much extra, for now you can share it with us.”

“A lucky thing, indeed,” Obi-Wan agreed. He looked at Satine with such adoration that the smirk she had pinned up earlier unfurled completely and crossed her face in a radiant smile. 

“Come, Bebu,” said Korkie, taking his father’s hand in his. “Enough lazing about in bed. Let’s eat, or the kava will get cold.”

“Quite right,” Obi-Wan agreed, standing as Korkie slid to his feet beside him, and tugged him over to where Satine was waiting. “We can’t have that.”

“And you may have my cup as well,” added Korkie, magnanimously, “As it is truly a rotten drink, even if you say it is healthy. But since it is such a special day, I don’t think I should be forced to have it, anyway.”

“He drives a hard bargain, your son,” said Obi-Wan, leaning in to beg a small kiss.

“Ah, but of course,” said Satine, quick to grant his request. “He gets that from you, cyare.”

--

“Ah, ner wer'ika! Ni mirdir tion'tuur gar ru'kel olaror. Bic cuyir ori'udes tion'tuur gar cuyir dar.” - Ah, my little terror! I was wondering when you might show up. It has been far too quiet without you.

“Te jatne mind jo'lekir ti ast” - The best mind agrees with itself. (read: Great minds think alike.)

ad’ika, dinui, cyare - little one, gift, beloved.

[fate-ad2021]

19. “How to Dismantle a Grail”

Session 19, May 14, 2017

Word count: 4,466

In-Game Dates:  Wednesday, June 16, 2021 and Thursday, June 17, 2021

In which the group catches up on some personal time, learns more about the Grail Ritual, and finally gets some good news.

I. Thoughts on the Grail

Around 9 o’clock Wednesday morning, Lancer sticks her head into the kitchen where Assassin is brewing tea.

“Want to chat?”

“Certainly,” Assassin agrees with a smile.  “Roof?”

They do end up on the roof again, each cradling a piping hot mug of tea. They sit in companionable silence for a few moments before Assassin finally says, “You are a master of the lance; I wanted to know if you have any insight into this Rhongomyniad.”

Lancer chuckles.  “Truly, I would not count myself as a ‘master of the lance,’ as you say.  The only one I’ve ever used is Gae Bolg, and half of that is the technique.  More properly, I would be summoned as a Caster.  It just seems that there was a more appropriate fit for that Class in this War.”

“Fair enough,” Assassin chuckles, “But still, perhaps you had encountered something like it before.  After all, many such weapons come from an earlier mythical basis, and you are from before our time.”

Lancer frowns, thinking back.  “That’s a good question to ask, but I’m afraid that I have no additional information to offer you.  I know of mythic bases for other things of immense power – a blade called Durandal was the conceptual ancestor of Excalibur, for example, and we both have experience with magic cauldrons – but this is the first that I’ve encountered a world-breaker spear such as this.”

“Ah, well,” Assassin sighs, “it was worth a shot.”

Lancer nods, expression apologetic.  “Indeed it was.”

They sit for a while more, sipping their tea.  Eventually, Assassin speaks up again.  “I’m concerned about Saber.”  Lancer hums in question, and Assassin goes on, “I’m worried that if this thing is Arthur, then Saber will get himself killed by his inability to act.”

“He may,” Lancer acknowledges, “but he also seems resigned to the idea that whoever it is will not be his true King.  That seems to suggest that his loyalty ends where the corruption begins.”

“I suppose we should be grateful for that.”

“And remember, although he may sacrifice himself to the conflict, he does not strike me as the sort to sacrifice anyone to it.”

Assassin laughs.  “That is true.  Of the group of us, I am probably the most likely to do such a thing.”  Lancer laughs as well; they both know that it is true.

Assassin sets her empty mug aside.  “I’m also worried about the Cauldron.  I do mean it, that I would like to save the artifact if we can.  It would be a shame to see it destroyed, either in its explosion or to prevent such a thing.  I’m just not sure how.”

Lancer nods.  “I also would like to preserve it.  Even used as an atrocity, it is an important part of the world as we knew it.”  She examines her empty mug.  “Without seeing it, though, it’s hard to say how we could save it.  Chances are that it is tied into the local leylines, not to mention being backed by the additional energy from the death seals.  Perhaps if we drain it first… But I don’t know to where.”

Assassin nods.  “Perhaps back into the leylines, or out into the air where it will dissipate.  I suppose we’ll have to find a way to get in there and see.”

Lancer hums in agreement.  “Have you thought of what you’ll do afterwards?”

“You mean if we survive all this?”

“Yes.”

Assassin stares off into the distant sky.  After a long moment, she smiles wistfully.  “I suppose I would like to find Avalon again.  If I have to return to… wherever we came from – the Throne of Heroes, or the Reverse Side – then perhaps I can retain enough of myself to search for it there.  But there was a time when it intersected with this world, and it is a distant but powerful dream of mine to bring it back.  If I can stay in this material realm, then perhaps I could find some of the remnants of my practice, the people who have mind and faith like mine. If I could bring back the old ways…”

“Then perhaps Avalon would follow,” Lancer finishes.

Assassin nods.

“You just want to start a pagan revolution,” the other sorceress teases.

“Perhaps you are right,” Assassin chuckles, “but you must see it as well: the current way of things is unsustainable.  The world is unstable; the new way is not working.  I wonder what it could be if we could bring things back to how they were.”

Lancer concedes with a nod.

“What of you?”

“The Land of Shadows and my fortress,” Lancer replies, “I don’t know what became of them.  As I mentioned before, I was unaware of my own death; to the best of my knowledge, I should have been unqualified to be summoned.  And yet, here I am.  So, I suppose my goal is alike to yours:  if it is in my power to remain here and whole, I should like to find my home.”

Morgana reaches to the space between them, and Scathach meets her hand with a grasp and a smile.  They sit like that on the roof for a time, no longer speaking, but simply keeping company of like minds.

II. Checking In With Magnuson

When Val finally wakes up, his first thoughts go to Magnuson.  The last he heard from his friend was before Vasilyevich’s demise; he wonders if the bad luck curse has worn off now that the mastermind behind it is gone.

The phone rings twice before Magnuson picks it up.  Val hears the twang of a guitar string breaking, a loud curse, and then Magnuson’s voice.

“Hi, hello, howzit!”

Val struggles to hold back laughter.  “Hey bro, how’s it going?”

“Bro!” Magnuson exclaims.  “Dude, I am so glad to hear from you!  Reines said you were alright, but man, I was worried!”

“Yeah, I’m doing okay.  It was rough for a little bit, but I’m alright.  How’s it with you?  Your luck getting any better?”

Magnuson chuckles sheepishly.  “Yeah, for the most part.  I think that curse or whatever has mostly worn off, but I got used to being a klutz, so it’ll take some time to get my groove back.  At least my phone’s charging again!”

“That’s good,” Val agrees.

“What about you?  How are things going with your spy stuff?”

“Oh, you know… Spy stuff.  Can’t talk about it much.  But I’m making an album!”

“Dude!”

“Right?  You wanna come to the concert?”

“Dude, totally!”  Magnuson agrees.  “Oh, hey, I meant to tell you:  Reines has that Belfaban guy here, you know?”  When Val confirms that he knows, Magnuson goes on, “He’s pretty kooky, man. Like, look up ‘absent-minded professor’ in the dictionary and you’ll see the dude’s picture.”

“So… he doesn’t seem like he’s under a control spell or anything?”

“Nah, man,” Magnuson tells him, “I think the dude’s just a weirdo.”

“Well, keep an eye on him for me, will ya?”

“You got it, bro.  I’ll keep an ear out, see if Reines’ll let me talk to him.  I think she’s got Lord El Melloi Two on the case, though, so I don’t wanna get in his way too much.”

Val agrees that getting in the way of that man would be a bad idea, but Magnuson ends the call with a promise to do his best anyway.  Val hangs up, glad to have a friend to keep his employer honest.

III. Landmark Investigation

Caster makes use of his newly acquired computer skills to do some digital reconnaissance; he recalls all of the locations that his fractal vision suggested as possible future deployments of Rhongomyniad, and wants to equip himself with as much knowledge as he can muster.

The first location that he saw was Ponte PASA, the site of their battle with Berserker.  Quick research suggests that neither the bridge itself nor its location hold strong enough cultural ties to raise red flags.  In light of the group’s previous experience fighting on the bridge, Caster opts to move on to the next location.

The second thing he had seen was the burned-out warehouse.  Having also fought there and previously done some research on it, he dismisses that location as well.

The third stop is the Colosseum.  Caster spends a little more time here, researching the place’s history and structure.  It has long been the site of battle for the sake of entertainment, and recent modifications to the structure might make it an interesting place to hold a grand melee, but still nothing stands out to him.

Finally, he turns his eye to the Vatican.  A single area on a comprehensive digital map draws his attention immediately:  a plaza with an odd structure in the center.  The electric waves inform him that the place is called Piazza San Pietro:  Saint Peter’s Square.  Shaped like a keyhole, with one side of the trapezoid running up against the temple dedicated to the same saint, the plaza provides a wide open space and plenty of obstructed room to move.  The only obstacle is the mystery structure in the center of the circle.

Zooming in closer, Caster sees that it resembles an obelisk.

He opens a second window and types in “Piazza San Pietro”.  The electric waves inform him that the thing is the middle is indeed an obelisk, transported from Alexandria and boasting the greatest height of its kind in the world.  It functions now as a sundial, and Caster can see the odd patterning of stonework on the ground around it that lends the entire area to a host of mystical conspiracy theories.

Studying the venue, Caster knows two things for certain:

First, that this is definitely where their final confrontation with Rhongomyniad’s wielder will take place.

And second, that the entire plaza is solidly within Vatican territory.

He stands with a lengthy stretch and a grumpy sigh.  Then, relinquishing his physical form for a spiritual one, he makes his way out the door.  The time for remote research is over:  now is the time to scout.

IV. Date with Siobhan

Around noon, Jim finds Siobhan sitting in the living room with a book.

“Hey,” he greets her.

“Hey, yourself,” she replies with a smile.

He perches on the arm of one of the chairs.  “So, I was thinking… about that date?”

Siobhan closes her book.  “What did you have in mind?  Want to check out that restaurant again, without Val’s interruption?”

“Hell no!” Jim laughs.  “I’ve had my fill of fancy restaurants in the past week or so.  Wanna go to a park?”

The bard grins.  “Sure!”

And that is how, while everyone else is doing research and having War-related conversations, the two street kids escape for a day.  They pack a bag with lunches, send pings to their Servants, and dart out the door before anyone has the chance to stop them.

Buses and trams take them far away from the bustle of the city.  The further they get from the center, the more they notice a strange pulling and itching sensation in their Command Seals – like it is hard to get away from the War completely.  Still, they both resolve to ignore it and spend some quality time together.

There is a version of this story in which things go terribly wrong, in which this simple act of fun is demonized as horrible carelessness and punished as a moral.

This is not that version.

Jim and Siobhan have a lovely walk and picnic in a park, able for just one day to forget the world around them and enjoy each other’s company.

V. How to Defuse the Grail

It is again around dinnertime when the decrypters finish their work for the day. Caster and Assassin persuade Val to pause in his work on his musical project – a concept album, he insists, centering on the themes of the War – and Jim and Siobhan reluctantly return from their outing.

After dinner, France and Dimitri share their findings.

“We weren’t confident that we would find anything,” France explains, “but we were looking for ways to defuse the Grail.  It’s definitely like I thought:  unlike most of the other topics, the mastermind didn’t have a dedicated document or folder for this.  After all, he wasn’t exactly looking to destroy the thing.”

“That makes sense,” Val allows with a disappointed frown, “But were you able to hunt down any information about it?”

“Almost,” France hedges.  “I found some of the stuff – the equations and the spells – that Vasilyevich used to make the Cauldron the Grail, and I don’t know how you would do it, but it’s like with the Death Seals.  If you could kind of… invert all of this, I guess, you might be able to… to kind of… to decouple the object from the Grail War.  To physically remove it, I mean.”  He holds up his hands against the group’s brightening expressions.  “Don’t get excited yet!  You’d still have to conceptually decouple it from the War – I mean, you’d have to make the ritual forget that there was a Grail – and that’s not even getting into the amount of energy that would still be stored inside the thing…”

“So,” Lancer interrupts, casting a look at Assassin, “We would have to drain it.”

France nods.  “Yeah, and I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I can tell you that you’ll have to be really careful with it.  That’s not just any energy in there:  it’s the stuff that came from the Death Seals, so who knows what kind of trouble it would cause if you just… I dunno, stuck it back into the leylines or something.”

Lancer frowns in disappointment.

The technomancer goes on, “Then again, you said you have a team of priests working on that aspect, so maybe you can get their help.  They’ve got to be good for something.”  His tone betrays his suspicion, but the advice is nevertheless sound.

“Could you make us some copies of that information?”  Caster asks.  ���We want everything that you think could be related to defusing the Grail.”  He looks to Assassin and Lancer, and adds, “In triplicate, if you please.”

France and Dimitri get to work on it, and soon all three spellcasting Servants have in their hands something like a ritual to disenchant the Grail.  They are not yet sure what to do with it or how exactly to make it work, but they resolve among themselves to give all their attention over the next day or so to figuring it out, and to only involve the Executors if absolutely necessary.

VI. Magical Research

Thursday morning begins with a plan of action:

The decrypters are to search for any information that Vasilyevich knew about Emil Sophia-Ri.

The Servants are to study the ritual and figure out how to break it down into actionable parts.

The rest of the group is to stay far out of the way.

Both major tasks take most of the day to complete, so each party gets right to work after breakfast.

Caster, Lancer, and Assassin colonize the living room, spreading their copies of the ritual and several dozen sheets of notebook paper across the coffee table and the surrounding floor.  They spend the better part of the afternoon throwing ideas – and crumpled up wads of paper – back and forth as they try to hash out the details of dismantling the Grail.

The challenge is threefold:  the Cauldron of Rebirth needs to be physically removed from the area, conceptually dissociated from the state of being the Grail, and drained off all excess energy – which then needs to go somewhere.

Upon defining these points, they decide that the actual order should be changed a bit.  The physical removal must come first, lest the death energy be drained into the leylines. That must be followed by draining off the excess energy, so that it can then be safely dissociated from the War without accidentally exploding.  They hope.

Assassin tackles the question of how to physically remove the Cauldron from the leylines.  As a Priestess of the Old Gods, she has plenty of experience working with leylines and ritual items.  To that end, she accepts Siobhan’s keen eye as assistance.  After some time batting the idea back and forth, they agree that just yanking the Cauldron from its place carries too much risk of magical backlash.  Instead, Asssasin proposes using a dummy, a prop.  If they can get a false artifact to use as a replacement, she reasons, then the leyline balance will not be upset by the sudden absence of a focal point.

The problem is that the replacement needs to be convincing:  they could not just use a plastic prop from a toy store. They would need to get their hands on a real artifact.  Siobhan points out that there is a host of museums in the city; Val expresses delight at the idea of getting to break in somewhere for a grand heist.

Meanwhile, Caster is working out the process of draining the Grail of its excess mana.  Using the information that they recovered regarding the Death Seals, as well as his own knowledge of energy manipulation from being the king’s main magus, he finally declares that he has some ideas of how to make it work.  However, he refuses to share with the rest of the group, only giving them a mysterious smile laced with triumph.

For her part, Lancer has been tasked with figuring out how to conceptually remove the Cauldron from the Grail War.  This monumental task should mostly be handled by a circle, she decides.  Using the theories employed by the Death Seal deconstruction spell, she begins to piece together an appropriate countermeasure. It takes knowledge of all of the Masters’ Command Seals as well as several more mystical symbols both common and obscure, and in the end, she still has the sense that something about it looks slightly off.

After a dozen times going over the circle looking for her flaw, Lancer stands abruptly and marches to the kitchen in a huff.  Curious, Jim wanders over.  When Lancer gets back, he points at one of the Command Seals – the one shared by Jordan and Petri.

“I think you have that upside down.”

Lancer squints, erases the symbol, and sketches it back inverted from its original position.  To her surprise, everything suddenly looks right.  She blinks at it, then blinks at Jim.  “Have you even been to school for this stuff?” she demands.

He shrugs.  “No.”

She huffs and shakes her head, but he sees the hint of a smile as she turns away to make clean copies of her work.  When she is finished, they have a draft of the circle that they can hopefully use to decouple the Cauldron from the War.  The only trick, Lancer says, is that they cannot be sure that it will work until they can get on site to lay it out around the Grail.

VII. Family Grudge

Evening rolls around and the decrypters fill the party in on what they found about Emil.  The prevailing instinct was correct:  Vasilyevich did know about him, and hated him without reservation.  The man is mentioned several times, all of it derogatory at best and filled with vitriolic hatred most often.

It is obvious from the writings that Vasilyevich held the Sophia-Ri family responsible for the demise of his aunt Anastasia Cartwright.  From what the notes say, early on in the process of learning the ritual, he decided that as soon as he learned the identity of the newest heir of Sophia-Ri, he would make that person’s life hell.

“The ritual itself seems to have nothing to do with Emil,” Dimitri explains, “but Vasilyevich was dead set on making him the starting target of the Death Seals. This is a personal-once-removed grudge match.”

“How did Cartwright die?” Jim wonders out loud.

France and Dimitri exchange a sidelong glance, then admit, “Us, actually.”

At the group’s collective surprise, the two of them explain:  Cartwright escaped the First American Grail War by the skin of her teeth, leaving her Servant to defend her exit route while she cut her losses and ran.  She popped up five years later in a city to the north where she started the Second American Grail War – the one they were part of.  After removing most of the other threats from the board, they cornered Cartwright in a chapel where she was attempting to summon a secondary Grail using the backup physical vessel and energy that she had siphoned from the leylines. She surrounded herself in a powerful barrier, but they managed to break through it.  She would not surrender, and between the group of their allies, they finally managed to kill her.

“She really didn’t leave us much of a choice,” France explains, not quite apologetically.  “She just kept slinging spells at us until we took her down.”

“Sometimes you have to do what you have to do,” Val murmurs, and the rest of the group agrees.

“Did Vasilyevich know that Emil was involved in the War?” Assassin asks.

Dimitri skims through several more pages.  “Hmm… It doesn’t look like he did.  He expresses annoyance about not getting Black Knight… He calls Saber a ‘goody two-shoes’… But that’s all.  Oh, wait… No, he didn’t even know that anyone had summoned Black Knight.  He just thought that particular modification to the ritual didn’t work.  It looks like he never figured out that someone else had hacked into his documents, or if he did, then he didn’t put that together with the possibility that someone else had drawn his trump card.”

All told, they do nail down some aspects of Emil’s personality from Vasilyevich’s research:  the mastermind knew that Emil was the Privileged Heir to House Sophia-Ri, and that Voidcalling is His Specialty.  These are the same things that they had learned from Reines, but it was good to know that Vasilyevich had learned them as well.

Jim makes a mental note to research the sorts of things that Voidcallers can summon, as well as ways to counter them.

VIII. Update from Orsino

Val’s phone rings around dinnertime.

“Heya, padre!” he greets Orsino.

Orsino ignores the epithet.  “Valentin. I haven’t heard of any new disasters, so I assume all is well with you.”

“Yeah, we’ve been inside all day!”

“That’s good to hear,” Orsino chuckles.  “I have good news, and I have great news.  For once, I don’t actually have bad news.  Which would you like to hear first?”

“Let’s start with the good news,” Val replies as he puts the phone on speaker.

“The good news is that the piece of ritual you gave us for deactivating the remaining Death Seals seems to have worked.  It’s difficult to know for sure, of course, but we are fairly certain.  We sent teams out searching after we energized the circle, and many of them reported finding husks of Seals that we had not yet disarmed, drained of their destructive energy.  We’ll continue to canvass the city just in case, but I think it’s safe to say that this particular threat is a threat no longer.”

The group breaks into whooping cheers and applause.  When the noise has died down, Val asks, “And what’s the better news?”

“Stella and Lilly are both clear of the Vatican.”

Jim and Siobhan both clap Archer on the shoulder as the Servant sinks back into the couch in relief.

“Lilly wanted to stay,” Orsino goes on, “but her former Servant and I were able to convince her that leaving was for the best.  The Red Flower Society has a secondary headquarters outside of London; I talked her into Stella there.  This means that the rest of us are stuck in this thing until the end, of course, but something tells me that we would all prefer it that way.”

The group murmurs in collective agreement.  Then Jim remembers:  “Orsino, about that… We need your help.  Is there any way to get our Servants into the Vatican?”

When Orsino expresses alarm, Val explains, “The Servants have ideas about how to make things not go boom, but in order for the plan to work, they need a way inside.  They need access to the Grail.  And since the Vatican can’t be moved, and we don’t know if the Grail can be moved…”

“Yes,” Orsino muses, “I see your dilemma.  Is it safe to assume that this countermeasure involves some fairly complex spellwork?”

A chorus of affirmation greets his statement.

“Hrm,” he grunts.  “In that case, I doubt that Rider is up to the task.  Unfortunately, I lack the authority to drop the boundary field. Even inquiring about it is above my admittedly non-existent pay grade.”

“Could Rider try moving the Grail?” Val asks.

“We could try,” Orsino hedges, “but I’m told that the vessel is under guard and that I was not to have access to it under any circumstances.  And I would like to avoid getting on everyone’s bad side more actively, apparently, and immediately than I already am.”

Val sighs in exasperation.  “I know they might not like it, but tampering with the vessel is bound to be better than letting the magical equivalent of Chernobyl happen right there in the middle of everything!  They have to see that!”

“I don’t even know exactly where it is,” Orsino admits, “but with our luck it will be right at the intersection of all the leylines and locked into place.” He heaves a sigh.  “I’ll see what I can do, though.  I’ll look into allowing the Servants entry or allowing the Grail to be moved, and I hope for all our sakes that at least one of these is possible.  It will take some time, though.”

“These things always do,” Val allows.  “Thanks, Orsino.  We’ll owe you.”

“At the end of all this, I think we’ll all just be happy to be alive.”

The phone call ends and Val stands to leave, but Caster’s pained expression gives him pause.  “What is it?”

Caster grabs the laptop he was using yesterday, and the notes he had taken during his scouting.  “I did some searching, and… See these?  And these?”

“They’re the leylines,” Assassin realizes.

“Yes,” Caster nods.  “And wouldn’t you know it, they intersect here.” He points at the obelisk in the center of Saint Peter’s Square.

“The Vatican Obelisk… Do you think that’s where they’re holding the Grail?” Val asks, wide-eyed.

“It would surprise me not at all.”

The group sits back and weighs this new information, the latest wrench thrown into their plans, as night falls outside and the day comes to a close.