CATHARSIS is a non-canon OC fate/series site, loosely based off of fate/apocrypha. Knowledge of the fate/series canon is helpful, but knowledge of fate/apocrypha isn't needed!
She waited until sunset, until the skies had turned a hue lost between pale lavender and streaks of orange. The forest wasn't a good place to watch the sunset, unsurprisingly. There were too many trees, even in the clearing she'd chosen for this battle--provided anyone even showed up to this battle. After all, it took two to tango.
She wasn't entirely sure how servants were meant to challenge each other, and Caster wasn't around to tell her. She carried Excalibur on her back--stored in the most unassuming, unworthy sheathe she could possibly find--and Krimhild in her hand. She suspected waving either around wouldn't actually get anyone's attention.
If a servant wasn't personally around for her to throw a gauntlet at (Nadia was woefully underprepared and had no gauntlets to speak of), how did one issue a challenge? Was there a heroic spirit radio FM frequency? Did they light smoke signals? Maybe morse code? None of that seemed likely.
As the skies turned deep red, Nadia released a burst of prana. It was there and then gone, short and quick--to the point. There. Message sent. Please RSVP promptly.
Thus, Nadia waited. She was bored and starting to get a little cranky. She wasn't sure if that was better or worse than being nervous.
Post by Hector of Troy on Jul 20, 2014 16:48:44 GMT
It had fallen on Hector to do the evening rounds. Rather, he was the practically the only one who thought it was necessary to do evening rounds this early in the war. The Rider of Black understood siege; he had lived its despair and he knew its necessities. He remembered the nights when watches were thin, and he remembered waking up to slit throats in the night, not even a scream to warn the rest. Thus, while everyone else prepared for war in their private little ways, Hector paced, patrolling the darkening forest with eagle eyes. It was his little piece of sanity in a modern world that was still so unfamiliar.
What exactly was he watching for? A brash show of raw prana was not entirely what he had been expecting, but he could sense the challenge in the gesture. Hector of Troy could not simply ignore such a blatant dare, though he truly could not fathom why a Servant would waste so much magical energy when they could simply bellow their fighting words across the battlefield like the warriors of his time. Regardless, it was his duty to investigate any potential threat.
His approach was wary, in spirit form at first, since even he did not know what threats the lengthened shadows could hide. Heroic Spirits did not always fight fairly after all, and it just wouldn’t do to be killed so early on by an Assassin of all things.
Some distance away from the source of the prana (he could feel it now, no Servant to be had), Hector summoned his physical form and his spear, but not the shining helm or the deathly chariot, as either might just give away who he was (a terrible thing, he was told, if they guessed your identity). He stalked into the clearing, plated armor clanking, spear twisting in his grip almost lazily. The red-haired woman’s weapons did not escape Hector’s notice, but he could not imagine how she might have hoped to compare them to a Servant’s power. “Who are you to give challenges, magus? You are no great hero. Walk away, before you regret picking a fight.” His voice was silk, yet no one could mistake the stance he took, spear in hand, poised to strike.
She heard his approach, noted the sound of his armor, and Nadia felt a smile touch the corners of her lips. It could've spread, but it stilled at the sight of Rider--not a knight class. She wasn't about to complain though. Any heroic spirit was an opponent that she'd love to face, but she'd hoped for a knight class.
She looked around for a pony and failed to find one.
"So, where's your horse?" Nadia asked--almost blurted, but she did give a split second's thought to whether she wanted to say something like hello, nice to meet you first. Both the question and the greeting would've been meaningless though. She assumed his steed, whatever it may be, was hidden for the same reason that she'd given Excalibur the most unobtrusive sheathe she could find: to keep the servant's identity under wraps.
For a second, Nadia feared that Rider would refuse to fight, but with his spear at the ready, there was no room for confusion on that matter. She raised her sword with a grin: toothy and genuine, like a child's.
"Easy pickings for you then, aren't I?" The grin didn't fade, but her tone turned more serious: "If I've got to die to become a great hero, I'm going to pass, no disrespect."
"Versunken ist die alte Welt, erfault das Fleisch, verblasst der Glanz." The incantation was spoken lowly, loud enough to be heard but only just. Nothing seemed to happen, and nothing did except for the spell that now coursed through her body.
Nadia didn't wait any longer to get the show on the road. She rushed forward, quick but only human, a delivered an idle feint followed by "The only way I'd regret this fight," she said, when she was close, "is if you are a disappointment!"
Post by Hector of Troy on Jul 22, 2014 2:58:03 GMT
Contrary to his initial expectations, his opponent did not take advantage of the moment he had graciously gifted her. There would be no more opportunities to run. She was so casual about the situation, and it caught Hector offguard when she asked him about his horse. “I have no need for a steed in this fight.” He managed, wondering why she was at all curious.
She was confident, overconfident as far as Hector was concerned. Not only was she decidedly alone, but she was planning to match him at close combat as well. Such was the downfall of scores upon scores of heroes in his time, and centuries later, he was certain that she would find the same, bloody fate. Still, one who had toiled in ancient warfare knows not to underestimate even the most unlikely of warriors in a duel. She was confident for a reason, perhaps. He was sure that she would soon find that reason to be irrelevant.
“If you do not wish to die, you should not have challenged me.” Hector didn’t smile before battles (only during, sometimes after), but he enjoyed the little Master’s fighting spirit. A fitting first opponent. “When you die by the point of your spear, your name may very well be sung by the poets.”
Hector very nearly lost her incantation in his own boasts, but he could see her lips moving, and suddenly he became alert for any shimmer in the air that might give away sorcery. He saw none by the time she charged, having no choice but to meet her feint with a proactive block and a step back to increase the distance between them. In an ideal world, he would throw his spear from a distance and annihilate her without any sweat or blood shed. But for better or for worse, she had sparked the ancient battle lust that once stirred his veins.
Three strikes in quick succession followed, strong thrusts for the abdomen, the heart, and the head. “Then you will not regret anything.”
She was too slow to parry the first strike and too slow in general, Nadia realized. Krimhild sped through the air, faster than she'd ever needed it to be. She didn't feel the wounds. She knew they were there but didn't know the pain, but she heard them: the sound of tearing flesh, of shattered bone, and the clang of steel on steel. It was music; it was a symphony.
Nadia took an inventory: the abdomen, squarely struck; the heart, deflected to the lung; the head, cleanly parried. Her blade lashed out, not seeking an opening but rather buying space to retreat as she danced backwards.
She touched the wound on her stomach and her hand came back slick with blood. Despite that, she laughed, wheezing but cheerful, and it felt like her entire respiratory system rattled in protest.
"Don't need anyone to know my name. Don't need any songs either," she gurgled, then spat out more blood. Nadia took a breath that sounded more like an asthma attack, but then her breathing returned to normal, as did her speech. "I don't want to live on in history, I want to live now: here, in the battle. There's nothing else."
She shrugged. "Besides, we don't have poets anymore. Well, we do, but no one cares."
Nadia took a second inventory: the abdomen, an ugly scar rapidly healing; the lung, functional but sensitive; her sword edge, blunted. She wondered if she could apply Avalon to protect Krimhild instead of her body. She immediately stopped wondering, because it was a dumb idea.
On the defensive this time, she readied her sword to block an attack--this time anticipating his inhuman speed--but it was more that she readied her body to dodge. Nadia wasn't sure she could weather an actual onslaught. Quite frankly, she wasn't sure she could dodge either. Nevertheless, she said, "Good luck killing me, by the way."
Post by Hector of Troy on Jul 23, 2014 3:34:27 GMT
It had been ages since his spear had tasted blood, ages since Hector had seen a red bloom spread like an opening flower over his opponent’s chest. Her expression did not shatter like her bones, but he knew that his work was acceptable as he jerked his weapon back, knocking her countering strike aside with a twist of his wrists. He didn’t know how long she had, but he assumed that it wasn’t long enough to gather her wits and recite whatever incantation she required. He doubted she could say much of anything with the wound to her chest.
“Worry not, child. You will have your funeral rights.” He almost considered putting a swift end to her struggles with a blade to the throat.
Something that might have once passed for regret pulled at his heart, a vague reminder that in time long passed he had suffered a similar wound. At the base of the great walls of Troy, the prince had sputtered his last in the dust, his vision fading at the last image of the lion’s brutally callous face. Hector was not unsympathetic, and he was not Achilles. He watched as she distanced herself from their clash and made no move to chase as she clung to whatever shreds of life she still held.
And he waited for death to claim her, though it never did, not through her strengthening speech, not through her surprisingly tenacious struggle to regain her grips on this world. “Thanatos does not seem to want you. Surely even the poets of this day would sing about the girl who does not die, even if no one cares to hear their song.”
His grip tightened once more around the shaft of the spear, and he advanced like a wolf, stalking toward his prey with his spear tip aimed at her throat. No matter how hard she seemed to kill, Hector was sure that utilizing his true Noble Phantasm would end her. But this fight was far too interesting to end so quickly. He wanted to see how far this modern warrior would go, since she could heal even the most grievous of wounds without a single incantation and survive long enough to parry a Servant's weapon. “I have no need for luck. The gods are with me.”
Hector grinned then, and his hands slid upward toward the tip, grip shifting faster than the blink of an eye. Pivoting his body, the Servant swung the spear, blunt end arcing toward the magus in hopes to either knock her off balance or force her to block. "This is a question of whether or not they are with you."
Not a child, she almost protested, but that would be--for lack of better word--childish. Still, she was childish enough that her lower lip insisted on a pout.
Nadia watched his approach, engrossed like a rapt audience, not sure if she wanted to study him or if she simply liked seeing him move. Both, probably. If you asked her now, Nadia wouldn't be able to tell you if she joined this war out of obligation to the Mage's Association or if she just wanted a chance to witness to heroic spirits in action. The former was duty; the latter was what she'd once considered an impossible dream.
This didn't feel like dreaming. This felt awesome.
She gathered her prana, and at his approach, she dropped another incantation, this one spoken as a jumble of words and without the respect it deserved: "Schließ dein Herz in Eisen ein--"
The blunt end of Rider's spear struck with a clang against seemingly normal skin--normal, but for the silvery halo of prana that now encased it. Nadia knew her leg would be bruised later, but for now, it was like iron. "I don't know about any gods, but me and Death aren't meeting up today--or any day. Sorry."
Without need to protect her own body now, she lunged forward into her sword's reach, swinging Krimhild downwards with all the strength she could manage.
She took a breath, and her lung felt better. "I think everyone needs a bit of luck every now and then. It really comes in handy."
Post by Hector of Troy on Jul 24, 2014 4:07:35 GMT
Perhaps he truly had underestimated her. Instead of pliable, soft flesh, he felt his spear connect with steel. Quick analysis proved that the opponent had, with her last incantation, induced some kind of magical coating that proved as tough as any plate armor. Of course, she wasn’t knocked off balance with this new development, and in a split second, she was striking back.
Hector’s superhuman eyes tracked the movement of her weapon with astonishing clarity, but due to the current position of his spear, it took awkward maneuvering to bring it up in time to deflect her sword. There was a screech of metal on metal, the concert of battle that he had grown so used to in ages long past. “All great warriors are fated to die. Even the youngest and most naive of us.” She had stepped too close in her strike, and Hector widened the length of his grip, pushing the body of the spear outwards at her chest and jumping backwards to distance himself further.
In a brief moment of reprise, he glimpsed a fat drop of blood fall from his wrist to color the ground below. Hector chuckled at the sight. So she had managed to catch him between the vambrace and the glove as her sword glanced off of his spear. Luck indeed. Hector had never in his life felt particularly lucky on the battlefield, but he could sense when Apollo was by his side amongst the deadly forest of spears and shields. And Apollo would not abandon him now, not even in this age where his religion had long since gone extinct.
Hector tested his wrist, feeling nothing but a shallow cut in the wake of his movements. “A good hit, though not nearly good enough. You are not holding back, are you?” The injury wasn’t concerning enough to require immediate healing, so he ignored it, balancing the spear once again in an attacking position, movements deliberately slow. “As helpful as it is, you will need more than mere luck.” His voice was chiding. Blisteringly red magical energy crackled around Hector’s hands, etching the spear he held with a faint ruby glow that pulsed brighter every few seconds. His strike would not be blocked by simple magic tricks, not this time.
“You must have more than just luck, since you thought you could challenge a Heroic Spirit so brashly.” He lunged suddenly, before the last syllable had left his lips, aiming a slashing strike at her chest.
Nadia hadn't truly believed that heroes could bleed up until now. She knew they did and had--they had died, after all--but seeing it was different. She didn't know who Rider was, but this was glory as she believed in it, this was revelry: a battle with an opponent so immense that the world could never forget them. What greater joy could ever exist?
His spear drove into her chest as he disengaged, and Nadia didn't mind. Her shirt wouldn't be salvageable now that it was sliced in middle, but that was the least of her concerns. Nadia could get another shirt. She wasn't sure she could get another opening in Rider's stance.
"What? Of course I'm holding back. I'll stop holding back when I get to see your pony," she said. The words were flippant, but she was adamant on that. It wasn't worth showing Todestanz here before she had a chance to see even a glimpse of his noble phantas--
Oh.
Oh, shit.
She saw him move, but that was it. If there was grace to witness, Nadia didn't have the benefit of a heroic spirit's eyes. There was a blur to her, a remnant of red light left where Rider had just stood--prana, she identified immediately, but immediately wasn't fast enough. Nothing would've been fast enough.
Maybe the force of the blow knocked her back, or maybe she'd tried to dodge. She felt her feet leave the ground; she felt her back hit a tree and her body crumple. She felt a gaping wound blossom in her chest, flesh sliced open from a masterpiece of a blow.
She hadn't known what the red prana meant, but when she didn't hear the clang of steel on steel, she wasn't surprised. Instead, she heard the ripping, tearing, gnawing of stubborn metal screeching as it was torn. It was all she noticed then, and now all she noticed was the strange sensation of her heart stopping, her arterial blood running slow, and her bones rent asunder.
"Goddamn, that was glorious. People fight like that every day when you were still alive and kicking? That's not fair. We don't have that anymore." She grinned, but it turned into a tight grimace as the corrosive wound spread, the damage spreading from her flesh and bone and into her soft, pink organs. This would take longer to recover from than she'd thought.
Uncertain, she put her hand into the gaping hole in her chest and nudged a few ribs back into place. That seemed to help the healing. She pulled her hand back out, and Nadia keeled over to the side, daintily coughing up globules of blood onto the roots beside her. She felt her lung lodge itself into her throat as she coughed, so Nadia reached in to tug it back into place, holding it there until it seemed her bodily organs were more likely to stay in place.
"Give me a second--or finish me off," she suggested, unafraid. The prana around her dissipated as she released the ironskin spell. Clearly, it had no meaning against Rider. "I'll try to stab you once I heal back up either way."
Nadia looked around, or she tried to. Her vision was blurred behind a bloody red haze, but she saw Krimhild lying on the ground between her and Hector, decidedly out of reach even if her limbs were more operational. She leaned her head back, and she felt Excalibur's sheathe against her neck. There was that at least. She could draw Excalibur, if she had to--if she even could.
Post by Hector of Troy on Jul 24, 2014 14:17:55 GMT
“I am not entirely sure where you picked up the notion that I possess a… pony.” He said after he had settled from his latest strike. The blow had been worthy of his name and his former title, as attested to by the satisfying feel of all resistance being torn away, the glorious feel of his spear once again ripping through the recently healed flesh. The spray of her blood marred one side of his face, and he wiped at it quickly, smearing crimson on his glove and over his cheek. Barbaric, he imagined, but it was a trivial matter.
It was fascinating to watch his magus opponent, her body rent and torn, seemingly enjoy every moment of what should have been excruciating pain. The wound was gruesome, he had to admit, as he much preferred to simply charge the spear with large amounts of prana so that it ate away a target before they had to suffer. She didn’t seem too worse for wear, however, shifting about her organs and bones so that they healed properly, and very rapidly. It was surreal, though he had seen enough of war to steal forbidden glimpses of the viscera. There was a distinct similarity to the time that Ajax had crushed his chest with a boulder, and how Apollo’s blessing had not edged out all of the pain.
Hector paced before the crumpled body of his opponent, weapon spinning in a one-handed grip, though there was no killing intent left in his eyes, just fascination. “It was not usual to duel to the death everyday, though I did so for ten years. Every day, for ten years. ” He spoke quietly as he bent down to examine the discarded sword. “It did not lose the luster that original drew me to war, not once. So do not worry, I will not stoop so low as to kill you now. You said you had more to show, and I do not fear for my life or for my city. This battle is refreshing for an old soul.”
Picking up scarlet sword in his hands, Hector once again gave the magus space, taking his time to twirl it around it in his hand. The blade was no Noble Phantasm; it felt delicate in his grip, bent out of shape as it was. Bemused, he threw the sword, blade over hilt, so that it landed close to Nadia with the hilt quivering and blade sunk into the earth. “I certainly hope that your new tricks do not involve that sword. You can manipulate your body, but it is a fool’s death if your weapon fails you.” Such had been his own demise, though that was admittedly more the fault of a missed throw than a malfunction of his treasured spear.
“You may attack when you are ready, magus. You are witnessing the end of my mercy, so you had best show your full capabilities now.”
"Honestly--and don't go telling my team I said this--" she stopped, coughing again until she'd cleared blood and who knows what else out of her throat. Full sentences were a challenge, but she finished her thought without any major issues, "I'm sorry about the part where I don't die. That ought to be have been your kill, rightfully earned."
She had to win this war though, or someone on her side had to. Death was not an option, even for a fair duel. Nadia was certain he understood that.
She stood, grabbing her sword and pulling herself up with it in hand. There was nothing wrong with her legs, but she was shaky and ready to topple over. Nadia was only realizing now how very difficult it was to balance when your torso threatened to flip inside-out at a moment's notice. For the time being, she pulled Krimhild out of the ground and leaned back against the tree.
"What do you have then, a unicorn? Don't you have to be a virgin for one of those?" To an extent, her high spirits were a distraction that kept her mind away from thinking too much about her grotesque wound. Cynically, she knew this was as good a chance as any to test Avalon's limits. Caster had seemed confident that she would recover from any injury, but Nadia had one nagging thought: can one suffer and feel pain when they are dead? She'd rather not find out.
"Ten years? Ten years," she repeated, first in surprise and then in awe. "Was it worth it? In the end, I mean, your entire life--the fighting, adventuring, the battles, all that jazz. I worry about that sometimes. I guess you're not a magus, but they tell me that I ought to have studied magic, not the sword. Sounds like crazy talk to me, but I wouldn't know yet. I just graduated."
Nadia giggled, pleased to find that her ribcage didn't fall apart when she did so, although she wasn't really a giggling sort of person. She'd lost quite a bit of blood, else she would've blushed too. "Aww, thanks. That's flattering. I think the fight's been cool too, even though you're an old geezer."
For a second, she did reach for Excalibur, but as soon as her hand touched the hilt, she let go. "It's my servant's sword. If it fails me, then I failed myself." The noble phantasm that would represent her ideals--Nadia wasn't sure it would even do anything at all in her hands. She could talk about valor and honor, but she wasn't King Arthur. "Old Red's my father's sword. It suits me more, I think, me not being a heroic spirit and all."
She readied Krimhild in her hands. Her chest had knit itself back together but barely. On the outside, her skin was only half-formed, a thin and translucent membrane. On the inside, she knew that her organs had seen better days, but she was tired of waiting. Nadia called on her crest again: "Doch wo sich Geist zu Geist gesellt, da tanzt man noch den Todestanz."
In a fashion, nothing happened at all, yet everything changed. She hadn't moved except to wield Krimhild in one hand, her other left free--yet even in that, it was plain to see that something was different: her sword weightless, her movements effortless.
"Let's get this over with."
When she charged forward--no fancy feints, just an old-fashioned frontal assault--Nadia had the speed of a servant and the strength of one too. She called it the Dance of Death, but she'd never felt more alive.
Post by Hector of Troy on Jul 25, 2014 5:03:10 GMT
And she recovered again, a miraculous recovery that stitched her skin and sewed her organs, rendering flesh before his very eyes. Even the healing power of his own Noble Phantasm could not anchor his soul to his body so surely. It was needless to say that he was sufficiently impressed, as he had started the duel with absolutely no expectations to put upon this girl’s shoulders, and yet here she stood. “You should not apologize for living, and you should not forget that I will claim your life.”
Rider allowed her to rest more, continuing his steady pacing. Flexing his wrist and testing its strength again, he did not respond to her comment about unicorns. There was yet another itch in his hand to reveal the Phantasmal chariot that was not really his, to show her the true extent of the dreadful legend he had lived. Such flaunting of his identity was strictly out of the question on the first day of War. Instead, he noted her delirium and wondered idly how much of the original magus was still in that body.
Her questioning caught him off-guard, and he partly blamed her deteriorated state for the prying nature of the query. As much as he hated to admit, it was not a question he could simply ignore “I still do not know the answer. War is glorious, and my name lives through the ages. I fought legends of men and watched heroes fall. The suffering that follows war is not so desirable, yet it is inevitable. No, I do not regret, not all of it.” Hector was pensive, his expression dark. He did not regret his own demise, not really, but he regretted the fate of his city, his family. Fate had not been so kind to those he had loved. His smooth voice marched on, however, not a syllable wavering to betray shadowed thoughts. “The sword is honorable; it takes discipline to master. Magic is passed through blood, and thus your talent is not your own. You have the heart of a warrior, not that of a cowardly magus. Embrace battle and see what it brings you.”
There was a marked difference in healing now, though the wound was not yet normal flesh. She grasped her sword anyway, ignoring the Noble Phantasm of her apparent Servant (Hector silently berated the Heroic Spirit that would give up their weapon to another; it was disgraceful). Years of instincts made him wary of the spell she uttered so decisively, because in spite of her injuries, it seemed as though a burden had been visibly removed from her shoulders. When she charged with inhuman grace and unnatural agility, he was only mildly caught off guard. They exchanged blows, a flurry of strikes and counter strikes and parries, all which would be untraceable to the normal eye.
Small wounds collected on his arms, on his torso, in between the plates of his armor. This was battle. Hector roared his approval, and followed his voice with the quick dance of his spear technique. No longer did he feel the need to give the girl a chance; he swung blow after blow, aiming occasionally for her weakened chest. Leaping sideways to disengage, he smiled knowingly. “You were holding back.” And he surged prana around him, a bright light gathering like a halo around his head to reveal the glowing, plumed helmet that had earned him the epithets of legend. “Now, are you ready to die?” His wounds closed with the rush of battle lust that surged through his veins, and he didn’t waste a moment to rush back into battle, spear balanced and ready for a decisive thrust at the nearest.
It took him time to conjure up that red prana, Nadia assumed. She couldn't afford to give him that time, and she didn't have time to spare anyway. She maintained a nreakneck assault: she only had minutes at most. The Dance of Death lived up to its name, and she needed a quick victory if there was one to be had at all. Otherwise, it'd be her loss either way.
"Nice hat, but I wanted to see a pony," Nadia said, proving that she didn't recognize Hector of the Gleaming Helm.
He parried well--impossibly so, a spear should not be that maneuverable, but what were rules of physics to servants? Nadia did her best to counter in what should've been openings after his blows, but even when she struck true, she parted in awe. A servant was no mortal man; she'd known that, but now she understood.
The battle set her eyes alight with adrenaline and prana coursing through her entire body. If this was only the first of her battles, this war would be a glorious one indeed.
"Die? Why are you so fixated on death, old man? I'm ready to live." Despite her words, she was starting to look worse for wear. She took a deflected a blow, but not as decisively as she'd have liked, sending Rider's spear careening into her shoulder. Not a problem. Nadia swapped Krimhild into her free hand and continued. "You're back to life after all these years. You should be living it up!"
A strike sliced the half-formed skin along her last ribs open, and she used her spare hand to hold the gash together. As long as her gooey bits weren't spilling out, Nadia considered herself fighting fit. If the rest of her body was screaming in pain from her spell, that was fine. She wasn't feeling pain anyway.
Nadia backed away from but a second to spit out blood and stomach acid--it burned her throat--then she rushed back into the fray, like a child running into a toy store. "Watch a movie. You'd like movies. There's Greek stuff, like 300. No, wait, I think that's Spartan. The king's wife is hot, anyway."
Her aggression slowed. Her blows were becoming weaker, her skin becoming sallow, and a strain of yellow shot through her eyes. Nadia was no heroic spirit, and magic had its price.
When took the time to line up an attack, Nadia considered her options and only found one acceptable: she didn't dodge, she ran, crashing into a tree and bringing it down between them.
Post by Hector of Troy on Jul 26, 2014 4:59:01 GMT
She was doing well, he supposed, keeping up with a legendary hero when she was no more than a magus. If he was not enjoying the battle, he might have been insulted that she did not yield so easily to his might. The only real blows to his pride were her taunting words, modern and unmistakably insolent, from which he could find no real way to defend himself.
Just because he had lived millennia ago did not mean he was an “old man,” not really. In retribution, he focused more intensely on his strikes, using the edge in speed that he knew he possessed.
“I am dead, I deal in death, that is my life,” he retorted, words repeated like a stubborn mantra. “We are at war. Servants are not permitted to live like we are mortal again.”
It was alarming, even for a veteran of warfare, to witness the odd decay of her body right before his eyes. A moment before, he could have forgotten that his opponent was a mere magus, and now her mortality was so starkly displayed across her features. The fact she could still speak was odd, and her words lit a cold fury within him that had festered for the long stretch of time. “Spartans are Greeks,” he spat. At least the Grail had enlightened him vaguely about the current style of theater-in-a-box, so he recognized the word ‘movie.’ “And I will watch no depictions of their heroics in your modern theater. It is an insult to even think--” The loud sound of groaning wood interrupted covered his words.
The tree was a surprise (he had been caught talking), but it seemed that even gravity was no match for a Heroic Spirit’s agility. Powerful legs launched him backwards, but not far enough. He yelled a curse in ancient Greek, his tongue still kept up that habit apparently, as the branches tore at the gaps in his helmet and grated across his armor. Rivulets of blood dribbled down to his chin from his eyes and cheeks, coating his lips in dark crimson before the magic of the Noble Phantasm could seal the lacerations.
“I never expected you to run,” he taunted in a smooth voice, the spear in his hand lighting up to his faux heartbeat with rhythmic pulses of eerie red. In reality, he was waiting for his vision to clear, in the meantime leaping upon the trunk of the tree and in an attempt to survey the debris-filled area. The branches had damaged his eyes, the left one particularly, though he felt no pain.
The air around his weapon crackled with heavier prana than before, compensating for the near loss of his vision. He would not give away the disadvantage, but he would also not venture into an unknown area. Hector held his ground on the tree trunk, bouncing on his heels and relying on his body’s enhanced senses to warn him of any incoming threat.
Nadia didn't even know the difference between Greek and Roman, let alone any other minute details of history. They were minute to her, anyway.
Still, she seemed to have touched on a sore spot, so sore as to drive him to distraction. Perhaps she should've yelled timber.
What if theyre bad movies about Greek heroics? she wanted to ask, but she couldn't. Nadia had stopped breathing, she realized, or she was breathing through the re-opened wound in her chest. Her throat had collapsed on itself, and any attempt at speaking only resulted in a dry, rattling hiss.
Nadia let go of her wound to pull herself up onto the fallen tree, and for a second, she thought that was for naught as her legs crumpled under her. Was she out of time now? No--Hector spoke, and she didn't comprehend his words, but she knew he was only a few steps away. She gathered her strength; it wasn't over yet, it couldn't be.
This was her last chance, she knew it. Krimhild bore her weight as she stood, and Nadia closed to distance: every stride feeling like her last. It was exhilarating.
From her higher vantage point, Nadia raised her sword and dropped down with all the force she could muster into a downward blow.
Momentum carried her, but she didn't know if she had leapt or if she simply fell.
