I FORGOT TO POST THIS CHAPTER
IM SO SORRY

If chivalry continued through time to the battlefield where the sword and lance collide, perhaps the modern onlooker would hold a more revered respect for the battle.

How is a… a stick-wielding man holding his own against a sword? One of immense skill, undoubtedly; one of pretentious mind, more likely.

Between blows, the Lancer is forced to spin on his heels to combat the onslaught of treacherous witchcraft. The hound chases the shadows but is incapable of pinning down the nightmare, building his rage with every slam of the tremendous paw against the earth.

The lancer is not unfamiliar with unjust battle tactics; in truth, there are no rules in battle – only codes of conduct. He holds his head high as the man he once was and wields that pride in his every movement.

Every muscle contraction. Every turn of the heart. Every wayward glance of the eye. The essence of this man fighting tooth and nail is that of not arrogance, but retrospect. Not a heart full of rage, but one full of respect for a girl forced into a world far removed from her own. A brave, mouthy, innocent girl unaware of the glorious truth of possibility.

So he fights, an unsung, forgotten hero on a quiet hill on a bloodthirsty morning. The song reverberating from the collision of lance and sword is enough to stir even the most [removed] human's primitive desire for justice. Those without respect for the unnamed lance in the hand of the time-lost warrior would catch their breath. Where in modern education does the textbook connote the valor of the spear? Would a lost child recognize the brilliance of bringing a stick to this gunfight, as the world spirals out of control?

It matters not, fur just as experienced as the silent knight is, the lancer is chivalrous.

The two spring back from their last exchange. Neither can break the other's defense.

"You wield that steel brilliantly, but I cannot continue this charade in this ridiculous manner. Saber before me, I beseech you." The man exte3nds a hand to the ironclad soldier. "I am Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, a knight of Ireland. There is no need for us to continue in such a beastly manner. If you yourself are a knight, then it is your civil duty to name yourself as well."

A fast-rolling fog separates the two as it drifts across the earth. In the silence, the two watch each other as their comrades collide.

The prong-horned knight moves first, catching Ireland's Light slightly off-guard. The sword ushers itself down, a cross-hack at its foe. It leaves an opponent vulnerable on the underside, but magically-reinforced armor kills any hesitation on the silent knight's heart. However, the second stick brought to this gunfight on this miserable eve of the earth's destruction matches it, speed for speed.

Both knights are fast, far faster than the mortal eye can ever begin to comprehend. But neither is fast enough to completely evade the other. At the cost of the Lancer's right shoulder comes a blow through the Saber's abdomen.

In an instant – no, in the very bearings of an instant – the tides have turned.

Between Berserker and Assassin – a horrible match-up of raw power and never-ending whit – the battle is postponed as the two register their comrade's conditions. Berserker's wolf-like body, hunched and ready to strike, slowly stands, sways his ears, releases his grimace, and looks over his shoulder at the bleeding man. Assassin does not pause, for only she and she alone up until now was aware of Saber's true strengths. She releases an armada of cursed ravens at the beast, who returns by hacking each and every damned bird to shreds. Despite his seemingly immeasurable strength, this sinful war finally finds weakness in the beast's knees; for every curse to be destroyed, a mere drab of its strength is ingested on contact. A mortal man would have collapsed long ago, but Mr. Hyde is no mere man. For the first time, Berserker must pause to draw breath.

Lancer, in his bleeding state, takes note of this with a weary glance of his orange eyes. But there is no time to waste – Saber holds a hand around the staff embedded in their chest, useable eyes bleeding with fury.

It made sense to pair up the strongest with the mage – as crafty as Lancer is, he is no match for a mana-filled shadow killer, not in his already depleted state. Once a man capable of holding back thousands in his prime and proudly going toe-to-toe against England's King of Knights, Diarmuid Ua Dibhne is no fool; he can hold off Saber until Berserker has dealt with Assassin.

But not with a senseless shoulder, not any more.

The worst type of pain is one you cannot feel but can clearly see – with his arm hanging uselessly at his side, all Lancer can do is grind his teeth. It's frustrating, to say the very least, but his is a duel-wielder. The major concern is his vulnerability. Now, everyone has their cards on the table. Every last asset has been exhausted; it is only a matter of time before neither have the physical strength to stand anymore. Lancer eyes Saber once more as he hears the knight yank (X) from its body. With a shudder of the knight's shoulders, the armor is disregarded, for it is no longer of value if the man can pierce it.

Diarmuid catches his breath.

"Arturia? King…. King of Knights?"

Those eyes that bled with fury now erupt in violent rage. Lose-fitting red silks sway and catch the wind, lifting in her The young woman curls her fingers around the hilt of her weapon and charges, fueled and blinded by bloodlust.

"Do not dare utter that name!"

The woman hacks again and again, ruthless to the bitter end as she fights to decapitate the man infront of her. Lancer, now crippled with only one arm to use, is forced into the defense, staggering back with each strike Saber takes.

"Who are you?" He sputters, eyes narrowed with an easy sidestep. Red flanks the girl's body, for, in truth, she appears to be more a girl than a woman. "What history do you have with the King of Knights?"

The girl swings again, nearly cutting off his head alongside his trail of thought. But the knight of Ireland is persistant, espiaclly when the matter involves someone as honorable as England's greatest king.

No, now is not the time to ask. Her sword comes dangerously close to his face, taking off some hair as she hacks away.

But the thoughts involved in this fight becomes too much; in his hesitation, Lancer catches a stone on the Earth and trips backwards.

He lands violently, useless arm beating around as he falls, sending sparks of infuriating pain throughout his body. He turns to face the girl who now stands over him, her blue eyes violently hungry for blood. His own eyes narrow as he lays, propped up by his one good arm, his tools of the trade all but expelled before him.

His cards are on the table, face up, options burning under the wrath of the girl's hellbent fury.

Rider heaves a sigh, and I take that as a chance to look up at him.

He's smiling.

"You remind me of her, commonergirl. Perhaps it would do my beloved justice to aid you in your quest. Besides-" he turns his chin to face the right, and the airship turns obediently back in the direction of where we came from. "He insists on women as posessions. Slaves are possessions, not loved ones." His cool eyes sparkle as he reflects silently. "We are in the possession of those we love, not the other way around. Besides, no slave is worth tearing the world apart, no matter the atrocities of the era."

I bow again as he looks at me, releasing the breath I didn't realize I was holding. When I look up again, he is gripping his cane ferociously.

"Now then, commonergirl-" spawning from the cane comes veins across the airship, glowing brighter than the sun itself.

"-Shall we begin?"

She takes her time, each step she takes closer to me deliberate and eliquite, like a lioness with harrowed eyes.

Her armor all but gone, her hair is tied up in a furious ponytail, snarls of uncombed yet beautiful, blond hair falling from her face. A red colar wraps her neck, a thin band of matching color collecting and pressing her fair breasts high into her chest. Red silks flank her side in a manner unlike Archer's, but her ruby heels were ultimately the most prominent of her figure.

She presses one into the throat of this noble man, throwing him back down against the earth. "You dared ask who I am?" Her eyes spark, catching fire in agonistic rage. "I am the son the false king never cared to look down upon." And she smiles, lips curling up like a hound after taking down an eagle. "And I am the son who killed the false king." Her gashing wound bleeds like a waterfall, yet her strength remains unimpaired and unparalleled.

Lancer stiffens underfoot, cringing as he weighed his options; in truth, the plan was to occupy Assassin and Saber until Archer and the girl carried out their part of the plan. Given the disadvantages of being so prana-deprived, Lancer and Berserker only had so much they could do.

But the earth trembles beneath him.

Slowly

Slowly….

But surly.

Lancer smiles from his place in the mud. The girl catches sight of this and picks up her foot, just to slam it against his flawless face. Her eyebrows furrow once more as she regrips her demonic sword. "Have you anything to say for yourself, filthy dog?"

Lancer laughs, coughing out blood. He places his good palm against the earth –

- Yes, there it is again! -

- and applies all of his strength to try and heave himself up.

The girl is silent at first.

"Be still, dog."

Yet he heaves against her, arm shaking, legs curling under him.

"Be still, I said."

The earth trembles again, louder, longer.

"No." Lancer pivots, throwing all of his weight to the side, dislodging the foot pressed against his cheek: not enough to completely unbalance the girl, but enough for an opportunity.

"I swore my alegence, and I plan to carry out my duty to my greatest extent." He slaps his palm against the girl's leg and throws her to the ground as he spins to his feet. He is swift, this man in emeraldclad armor. His eyes dance as the opportunity presents itself.

There is another tremble of the earth, but more like an approaching earthquake.

I need time.

Diarmuid spins his head around, looking desperately for Berserker. The monstronsity is bleeding violently from a shoulder wound, but his tail flicks with his ears as another tremble shakes the earth.

The dark beast turns, eyeing the light of Ireland wearily.