The fog should have long-gone lifted by ten o'clock in the evening, yet here it lingers in the sunless world.
Nearly nothing can be seen through the bleak, ominous darkness but the thick soup of depressed clouds lulling around in their haunting manner.
Nothing, that is, but the racing bulk of steel-clad armor, one hand on the hilt of the knight's loyal sword, the other thrown back in the intensity of the hunt.
Blood is in the air, and like any English hound, the knight chases the sent hungrily: a savage, primitive instinct driving the warrior forward.
Unbeknownst to the human eye glides a shadow beside the prong-horned knight. The fog cringes as the two speed through, gusts of clouds being carelessly ripped at their inhumane speeds.
Neither knight nor nightmare speak, for there are no words to be exchanged; they have a mission, and that is the only thing of value in this wretched world.
They come to an abrupt halt at the hilt of a mountainside, side-faced to a man in silk red robes.
The knight clutches tighter to its sword. The nightmare steps closer, its voice absurdly pleasing to the virgin ear. "Archer, what are you doing here?" the man has a tightly wound face, jaw clenched in frustration. In his hands are his balance, his ying and yang, his swords. The drapes are not the only thing spilling red from his body; at his feet, freshly-torn puddle seeps into his shoes. A mangled mass bleeds at his feet, blond hair tousled, finely-groomed overcoat now crimson.
Archer turns, frontways. "I know where my intent lies, but I have no reason to trust you."
The nightmare takes several seconds before replying. "We are allied with Caster, whom seeks to tear a hole in the fabric of this reality." A sweet, daydreamy voice falls through the cracks of the shadowy hooded figure. "What happened here?" The bowman arches an elegant brow. "Why should I tell you?"
Saber steps forward but Assassin drapes a hand out before her war-ready puppet. Not yet.
"Because you have no reason to distrust us, where as your former comrades apparently now do. We can offer protection at the least, our aid at the most."
Archer hesitates before he scuffs and kicks the body. "It is as it would appear. I thought I could use that fool of a girl to escape back to my place outside of this bloody war, but the fools delayed my plans."
"Berserker and Lancer."
"Yes. I couldn't belay my act any longer and attempted to kill the girl - my _ only cut so deep. This sapling of a Berserker attempted to foil me, but he was easily defeated in his haste. Lancer recognized the fault he was in and took off with the girl barely clinging to life under his arm."
The knight relaxes slightly and picks up its head to the cold atmosphere. Ahhhh, the scent still lingers. The nightmare notices this but keeps her keen eyes on the man in red. "And why should we trust the likes of you, Archer?" He cocks his head, hands tightening around the hilts of his blades. "Think what you want, I don't care for how you see me. I want to meet this Caster of ours."
"And why now is that?" The hooded figure's sweet voice sails through the cold air. "Why would you want that?"
"If you aren't disgracing yourself by lying to me, he may be essential for me to return home. If not, I was dragged out here because of this damned Grail war. This world is not mine, I have no obligation to protect it."
"This world is not your own." The voice is violent, deep, and unsettling. It is a question. Archer glares at the knight. "What's it to you, medieval dog?"
The silver sword is drawn from its sheath.
"Enough." Assassin steps closer to her companion, sticking out an arm to divide to two warring forces. "He will want to meet with this man."
"He is a traitor."
"I side with the side most likely to win, and as I said, I have no obligation to protect this world. I have no further use for that girl, Lancer was delaying me too long. That girl was a nuisance as well, I only wish my blow was deep enough."
A shadowy sleeve drapes down, and out pours a flock of violent, red-eye crows. Every feather catches the twilight gleam as they radiate with madness. They take off into the night, a flock of plague-ridden death-bringers, except for one which catches the current of the air. It beats its wings as it hovers beside its master, then turns to take off Southbound.
"Through these trees, back where the conflict began. Caster is at the beachside beside the red bridge in Fuyuki. Attend to him. This raven will take you there."
Archer begins to walk away, leaving his fresh carcass to soak the ground; Assassin inspects the body before turning one last time to the man in red. "Take Berserker with you. He is still alive, his prana will provide a fresh source of energy for Caster."
Archer hesitates before turning back around, arms falling to his side, twin swords gone. He picks up the body by the head, gripping a wrathful fistful of hair, and drags it along the ground.
That face could have been called handsome, once. Beautiful, even.
Assassin watches keenly as Archer takes his leave, the crow leading him as it bays at the bleeding moon. She turns back around to her companion, who waits just before the thickest part of the forest: even in the darkness, the knight's glistening armor glows with the glory of war. The shadow takes to her companion's side as Archer leaps away.
No words are said.
That situation was unexpected, to say the least. But it is past.
Assassin nods, and Saber turns to where the pack of ravens last were.
That way.
And they're gone.
.
.
.
.
As he scales the small nation, Archer looks back at where he last saw Assassin and Saber. He leaps again, lands, and carefully lays the body on the ground.
Beautiful, yes. He rearranges his catch to bundle it closely to his chest in an almost paternal way. This person once breathed a free life, a life without the horrors of reality.
But reality is a bitch, and this insolent fool took too large a bite.
Archer looks forward, the wind tussling his white hair as he pinpoints Caster's exact location on the beach.
This is it.
It has all come down to this.
.
.
.
Happy Friday