Northern England

It was still so strange to see the back of her hand, until so recently pale, porcelain, covered in thinning flesh, now marred with the symbols she both desperately craved and feared. All arrangements had been made for her indefinite trip to the east; it was not uncommon for her to be gone for lengthy trips at the drop off a hat. This time was going to be different, she knew; this time she had begun preparations several years ago. Forty-two months later she had begun to fret, as the only markings on the backs of her hands were the blue and green veins that yearly grew more prominent. Then, two weeks ago, all that changed. If she had a choice before, if there was any chance that she could leave her fate as it was, she was no longer permitted to decide. The Grail had spoken, and she was committed. If she found success, would she be glad? Would those for whom she sought the Grail show gratitude? Or would her sins be held doubly against her? She no longer had the luxury of time to worry about the outcome; life had become strangely simple, for once.

Now she locked the door to the cell in the secret second basement of the stable. This had always been the site, used by the Westingers for generations unknown, where the most important, dangerous, or complex spells had been cast. She’d dreaded this room for thirty years; dreaded it every time she was compelled to make use of it, dreaded every memory of it, dreaded every reference to it in every tome she read. Yet, if ever there was a time to make use of the room, this was it.

The lack of choice in the matter made the room seem rather ordinary. She had no time to dwell on what it had meant to her before. Four decades of training and practice was put to use in constructing the circle. Drawing, placing, singing, pricking, envisioning. She had committed the design to memory, and had long ago burned the design in a winter’s fire. Doubts and second thoughts had no place in a summoning. When she was done, she took a breath, flexed her aching fingers, and began the spell.

Let silver and steel be the essence.
Let stone and the archduke of contracts be the foundation.
Let black be the color I pay tribute to.
Let rise a wall against the wind that shall fall.
Let the four cardinal gates close.
Let the three-forked road from the crown reaching unto the Kingdom rotate.
Let it be filled. Again. Again. Again. Again.
Let it be filled fivefold for every turn, simply breaking asunder with every filling.

From the Seventh Heaven, attended to by three great words of power,
come forth from the ring of restraint, protector of the holy balance

The words came naturally, and she felt the old familiar push and pull of power flowing around her, into her, through her. As she can't to the end, she felt for the spice of the spell that belonged to that spell alone. All spells had their spices; sweet, bitter, sharp. No two spell had the same taste, and she had come to crave the taste of each. If anything gave her joy in this life, it was the discovery of a new spice. And the summoning did not disappoint.

She remained silent and still, savoring the final bits of the spell as anyone else might the leavings of a bowl of homemade frosting, while waiting for the result of her labor.

The servant began at a crouch, and then slowly stood.



Her eyes locked onto her new master. The woman seemed quiet and calm, but her gaze was filled with ferocity. After staring into her eyes for quite some time, the woman spoke.

"You are my master, correct?" It had been so long since she had heard her voice out loud. She smirked slightly, brushing her wild and unkempt hair out of her face as the reality of her summoning set in. "I am Atalanta. May I have your name, Master?" her voice was strong and steady, but nothing but polite.

Clara was quite pleased with the servant presented before her. Not that anyone could tell; there was simply not enough joy in her world to warrant a smile. However, the hard line of her mouth softened just a bit, and the corners of her eyes relaxed, and she gave a curt, satisfied nod. "Well met, Atalanta. I am Clara. We have not much time, and we are far away from the battlefield. Are you equipped and strong enough for travel?"

"Of course. Let me know when you are ready. If we must leave at once, I am prepared." She could see that she had a good master. She had put a lot of time and preparation into the ritual as she surveyed what was left of it around her. "I will be sure to keep my senses out for any other servants we may encounter on our journey."

"Very good. All is ready for our departure." She moved to the door and yanked it open. "If you would follow me to the jet, we can be on our way." Moving through to door and toward the stairs, Clara tried to ignore the sense of relief upon exiting *that* room. "Close the door as you leave, if you would be so kind." She was not going to look back, but trusted that her servant would be following.

The servant followed, closing the door behind her before dissolving into the air. "I will be here when you have use of me." she stated simply. She followed her master onto the jet.

As she settled for the long flight, Clara selected a newspaper and flipped to the international news. The disappearances in Fuyuki could only be another player at work. She hoped she would not have to resort to such actions herself. Enough blood was on her conscience as it was. An hour or so later, she set aside the paper and resigned herself to a nap. A quick charm aided her to sleep. Perhaps it would be enough to keep her asleep until they arrived in Japan. The last thought she had before drifting off was that she had her command seals, she had her servant, and she was ready.