towerofanimus | The Tale of Sir Lancelot

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The Tale of Sir Lancelot - part 1. Dolorous Guard

Characters: Sir Lancelot, aka the Servant Berserker, and All & Sundry
Setting: All Around the Tower
Format: Prose and Action are Both Welcome
Summary: Having just lately arrived, Sir Lancelot is in search of his Master
Warnings: No Warnings at Present. Unless you are a Monster, then look out.

Your world has been destroyed...

Lancelot, for he knows himself at the moment, is largely unmoved by the strange letters. He destroyed his own world long ago.

At the moment he is more concerned with his immediate surroundings, the mysterious clothing (and the collar) on his body, and the absence of his Master. His last memories before waking are of fire, of wind, and of thwarted rage. But he feels nothing now save a grim wariness. If this is indeed a Reality Marble, it is a mysterious one, and might contain anything. If an event caused by the Grail itself, then he can only meet what will come. If a device of his Master's-- Lancelot finds himself less than pleased with the idea.

Alone in the room where he has woken, he wastes no time in materializing his armor, and, as the situation seems an unusually urgent one, his sword. Both are as black as ever. His helm he leaves, as in carrying his blade he will be known regardless. He does not open the chest.

Reaching out to his Master, Lancelot is gratified to detect a faint pull. He will follow it, wherever it leads.

The Dormitory Hallways
Lancelot makes his way along the hallways nearby, but not limited to, 3-02. Any monsters he encounters, he will fight and slay. Any people he encounters, he will speak with.

The Cafeteria
Unable to pinpoint his Master's location, Lancelot proceeds to the bottom of the Tower. He is intrigued by the Cafeteria, and also by the idea of eating, which he has not done since he was living. He finds the idea of eating food in this place to be problematic, as he wonders if it might not be cursed or enchanted in some way. Being reared by Faeries will leave one with such ideas. Still, he's aware how important it can be to abide by the rules of magic in a possibly magical place. You'll find him stirring his oatmeal contemplatively.

Floor 10: The Aquarium
In the midst of continuing his search, Lancelot is distracted in the Aquarium. Water draws him like nothing else. He finds it calming, even now, in spite of his agitation at following his Master's poor prana signature. This water, obviously enchanted as it is not contained, is full of life. He shouldn't dally long here, but the sight is lovely, and it's difficult to resist stopping a moment.

Floor 25: The Meadow
This would indeed be an odd place for Lancelot to find his Master. Usually, the magus huddles unseen in dark corners, sewers, alleyways, and the like. He's searched in such places, and slain some few Monsters in the process, but has yet to find his Master. Still, there is a refreshing breeze here, and no obvious threat.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It is now Garviel's turn to stiffen. He distrusts and dislikes spirits of all sorts, as they are the key to everything wrong in his world. But he doesn't strike out. Not in this time, not in this place. Not when he is haunted by his own brother, one who indeed... has become his persona. Not that he will ever consciously acknowledge Torgaddon as anything other than a ghost.

For a moment, behind the grey armored figure, a taller, smirking giant in green can be seen, like a momentary flash.

"Yes, or I would not have been sent here. Word of him was the last thing I received before being sent to this place. As for my chainsword and bolter, that is not surprising. I'm from the future of most, the Thirtieth Millennium of Mankind, by most reckonings."

There are powerful Magics in this place. But Lancelot has seen many wonders in life and in death, and so the swift shape of the man behind the Knight does not fill him with dread.

Knights sew much Death, even if they do it honorably. Small wonder they are so haunted.

"Then I am a figure of mankind's distant past, by your reckoning.

You search for your demon, and I for my Master. I was brought here from the midst of Battle, in the War for the Grail. He is a frail man, and I can barely grasp the thread of his life.

I have slain many Monsters and fell Beasts in this Tower-- how would I know your demon, if I set eyes upon it?"

Loken nods his head. Most people are from his past.

"You would know it best by the name. Nyarlathotep. I haven't the means to show you his face, though I have seen it. It is... hard to describe."

Loken has trouble with his pursuit, even know. The evasive, mutable nature of Demons has always been troubling to him, as honest and straightforward as he is.

"You haven't seen your master then? But you know he is here? If you tell me of him, I shall find him, if I can, and give him word of you, that you might find your master."

"As I have said, my Master is a frail man, pale and slight. He is much scarred and walks with a limp-- he is is blind in one eye. He would seem no threat to you, and would pose none, since I am his arm. I sense him, but this place seems enchanted to confound me."

Though Karyia is a Magus, Lancelot doesn't say so. What point would there be when his Master has sacrificed all his strength in a bid for power he loathes and barely uses?

"I thank you for your courtesy, Knight. Should I meet your demon, I will hold him, or slay him, if I may.

Perhaps at a more peaceful time, we might spar together. I like the look of your weapons, I confess. Should you have leisure, you my seek me out, if you wish."

"My first priority in training is to make sure Arturia is getting proper instruction, but if I can find time I'll oblige you." He says, a trifle stiffly, not sounded offended as much as slightly off-put. Spirits put him in a less than good mood.

"And I thank your for your consideration as well."

He looks down to his chainsword, and then to his bolter. "Thank you. The forges of Mars do good work."

He pauses, "If you see a man with a strange mask, and a red cloak, treat him kindly, he is one of the Martian priesthood, and a companion of mine. His name is Ferrus."

"Yes, they do-- and I shall."

Lancelot imagines that his heart beats hard, that is is nearly painful. But he has no heart, for he does not live, and what beats within him he cannot say.

He can remember little of what the Knight has said, save his King's true name. At this moment, Lancelot feels (and no doubt seems) the most human he has done in an age.

"Arturia-- you have met Arturia in this place?"

He can't think why she would need instruction, for she was ever the consummate warrior, but still.

"No. I met Arturia in Hinoto-Ri, where we are both sojourning for the moment. She has accompanied me on this Daemon hunt, though poorly armed for the task." She too young, far too young, and without any armor. Her presence here weighs on him.

Loken notices the shift in Lancelot's behavior, and he takes an almost protective stance, shifting his feet slightly. The Knight will no doubt recognize the change for what it is.

"What business do you have with the little mamzel?"

Poorly armed, and young-- then surely this Arturia cannot be his King. With a shake of his head, Lancelot deferentially raises a gauntleted hand. He can't help but feel a stab of disappointment. Though the emotion is hardly simple.

"I mistook you, I believe. There is someone by that name from whom I have been parted by more than death. In life she was my King. Arturia.

I beg your pardon, Knight." With that, he gives a grave nod.

"I have a seen a workshop here, if you wish to arm the lady better."

"I can understand that. I had my father, Horus Lupercal, and his father, the Emperor. Loyalty to the Emperor is all I have, a touchstone, so I can understand your loyalty as well. Perhaps the young girl was named after her." And he had to choose between them, the sort of choice that faced many knights before Camlann. He chose loyalty fo the Emperor over his usurping son. Over 30,000 years does not make much difference in the old plays of father against son, it would seem.

When Lancelot mentions the workshop Loken rumbles, "Have you? I'll task my techpriest with making her a proper blade, then. Where we are from, I'd provided a chainsword of similar style of my own to her, though of much smaller size. I think she is in love with the idea of being a knight, but..."

The armored figured sighs. "I wonder if there is not a better future for her than only war, despite our martial exercises and my instruction."

"Perhaps."

Lancelot finds himself sympathetic to this line of talk. It seems Knighthood remains a difficult path, even in such a far flung future as this Knight hails from.

"And perhaps she will make her own path to Knighthood, and find more deeds of honor there than only War. She is fortunate to have your counsel.

My King-- was a Knight in peacetime, as well as in War. She carried both with grace."
(For the most part...)

"The workshop seemed to have basic materials-- but I'm sure your "techpriest" can make something serviceable of them. If as he sounds he is more than a weaponer or a blacksmith, he is sure to do better."

"It is harder, I think, to be a king in peace than a king in war." He doesn't elaborate. He only thinks of Horus' words about the clerks that were sent along with the fleets, and his own terror at being left behind to govern a planet. A horrible fate indeed.

"I do have a question, though. Why did your call your King a she? Wouldn't the title be Queen?"

His expression is bemused, inside the helm of ceramite.

"As for Ferrus, he's an Adept. Weapons seem to be his specialty."

Lancelot cannot but agree with that sentiment.

"Indeed, peace is a fragile thing to tend and yet heavy thing to bear, in rule. Or so it has seemed to me to be. But I was never made for rule.

Arturia-- Arthur, cannot be other than King. She lifted the enchanted and holy sword from the stone where it was written that whosoever could take it would be the rightful King of England, and so she was-- is King, and first among Knights."

"That seems an inefficient method of choosing a ruler." He says it without malice, or sarcasm, simply unable to comprehend how the drawing of a magical sword would be anything other than a bad idea for everyone involved. But he never did trust sorcery.

(I'm aware the event is over, but I just wanted to drop you a comment to say how much I enjoyed my thread with you. Thanks for the great time, and I hope it wasn't too frustrating putting up with my lag! ETA: If you'd like to continue this for the hell of it, just let me know and I'll gladly oblige!)

Edited 2013-02-28 05:38 (UTC)

Pray continue sir!

"Inefficient, maybe. But the bearer is the perfect King, otherwise the Sword would not have them. It might mean years to wait, or battle, but no one who is unworthy can rule-- and I would rather have that certainty."

Lancelot is curious, without magic, how can such a choice be made?

"What method is common among your people, then?"

"The Emperor united humankind through conquest, after spending thousands of years preparing and guiding them from the shadows. He chose men of good character and war-skill to lead them, after that, and created his 20 sons in his image as his bringers of war, and later, bringers of peace."

"My King chose to unite her people through loyalty alone. She too chose good men, Knights, to lead and to fight and to lift up the hearts of the people."

Of course, she had also chosen Lancelot, who had proved less than perfect. There is a shadow on his face, even has he speaks the words.

"Had she a true son, I never knew of it. War came-- and in the end, she fell. I was not there to defend her."

"Death comes for us all, very little is eternal, except, perhaps, the Emperor. Or so I understand it. I know the shame of failing my liege as well. If I had been with Horus... if he had taken me with him... I wonder if he had not been wounded, and thus corrupted to Chaos."

He gives Lancelot an understanding look.

"DId she hold you back from that battle then? Forbid you to fight by her side?"

The air around Lancelot seems to gather tension and weight as before an oncoming storm-- then the sudden, heavy stillness dissipates, seemingly with a nearly audible sigh.

When he speaks, it is quietly, almost as if to himself.
Somehow, this strange knight from some strange time seems more fit to hear his confidence than many before him.

"She did not. It was another Knight who did so. One I once called a brother, at a time before I quit the Table.
I might have saved Her. Kept her Dream alive. Even with all that lay between us I would have defended her."

Seeming to come to himself, Lancelot finds he likes the pitiless, featureless look of the helm the strange knight wears. It makes the words easier to speak. It feels fitting to speak them standing in his blackened, corrupted armor.

"I betrayed the trust of my King, and all I loved. Yet though I had earned my shame, I went away unpunished-- and when Death came for me at last, I wished to prove myself once more. To Serve more perfectly than I did in Life."

Loken seems angered by the answer. While he failed, he was never a traitor, and it was indeed against the traitors to Emperor and humanity that he constantly fought. To meet someone who was a betrayer and yet regretted it rankled him. There is indeed no pity in his gaze as he watches Lancelot.

"How, pray tell, did you betray your King?" His voice has taken on a razored edge, somehow honed through the strange voxcaster which alters his voice. It makes it almost into a weapon itself.

And yet.... his stance softens, however slightly. He understands the urge to serve more perfectly, for he himself regrets his failings, though betrayal was not amongst them. He knows the guilt the other knight must feel, even if he can't help him expiate it. Loken is a judge of men, and his judgement is often harsh, both in thought and in what he must do to enact his judgements, but there seems to be no call for that. Not yet, anyway.

[The outrage of those beneath him has never affected him. Who could judge him but his King, or a fellow Knight, one with Honor to his name? Gawain was never fit to judge him, was never fit to turn against him or turn him away. But these angry words from this Knight, he can accept.
The judgement in the strange Knight's voice is a weight, but a bearable one. A familiar one, even. For who has ever judged Lancelot more harshly than himself? Though surely, no one's voice but his own could have driven him so completely mad.]

"I kept Her secret, always, that she was not a man. We kept it together-- Gunievere and I. Perhaps we kept it too close, but I would not change what passed. Save that I should have spoken of it sooner."

"Arthur-- Arturia's queen was no wife, but a figurehead. Yet she loved her King, and Served in her role as best she could. As did I.
Time passed and we grew to-- love one another. A thing that could not be, but was-- a thing that I should have confessed to my King. But I did not, we could not.
When the news, for I will not sully it in calling it a scandal, broke at last of what I had done, my King forgave me. Forgave me."

"But his Knights-- they were not satisfied, and called for Gunievere to die. This I could not bear and so I fell to rage and slayed not a few of those I once called my brothers. Even this my King forgave, and I went away Mad and unpunished, wandering unknown while Arthur's kingdom fell to ruin and all I loved passed away into Shadow."

"So I betrayed my honor and my King. For want of less pride and more courage. But Arthur remains my King, and she-- Gunievere remains in my Heart. Though I never had sight of her since that Day."

"Say now what you will, Impartial Knight. I do not fear your words"

Edited 2013-03-11 18:08 (UTC)

Loken removes his helm, blinking for a moment. His face is almost as forbidding as his helm was, craggy and pale, grey eyes virtually unreadable in the face of a giant, though a giant with a certain heroic cast to his features, crowned with blond hair that looks almost silver. His scars are like a chronicle of his battles, from old and faded to new and livid, now accompanied by some recent pink markings that look like burns.

"I can only understand half your tale, I admit. I am Astartes, and as such, we give up all love of the sort that you must have felt, leaving only time for our devotion to our lords and brothers. But to slay your brothers..."

He frowns, looking very stern. "That was the sort of heresy that my brothers committed, the act which set the galaxy on fire. Though they did not do so out of love which... at least is something of an understandable motive. They did so out of ambition." And just for a moment, a short, painful moment, Lancelot can see the kind of vengeful madness that once lay heavy over Cerberus himself, when he first took up the name of the wolfhound at the gates of hell. The last loyal son amongst a galaxy of traitor stars. And then it is gone again, contemplation and stillness in the wake of the once-berserk rage.

He is quiet for a moment. "I do not believe you can redeem your mistakes. I do not say this out of cruelty, but simply because I have seen such deeds done. Such blood as has stained you cannot be washed out, no matter what deeds you do afterwards. I think... if you find your Master, your true master, once more, the only thing you can do is die on her blade. There are times when the only apology is death, if a spirit can die again."

Ah, so the man within the armor is as formidable as the armor itself.

"The words you speak-- are not new to me. For I have spoken them to myself, more than once. It may be that such a thing would be most meet, or would suit me best, but certain choices no longer belong to me. I am bound to my Master, to Serve him unto defeat or victory, whether I glory that Service or not.

Truth to be told, I do not much know the man. When he summoned me, he placed a spell upon me, taking away my reason, rendering me more reckless and ferocious in Battle than I was even in life. I am the Servant Berserker-- and when I lay eyes on my King, or feel Her presence, my only thought is her death, so great is my rage.

For I do wish that she had not forgiven me. As I do regret killing her Knights, though their actions were without honor and they left me little choice--

I do not know what it is to be as pure as you say, but as you are a just man, tell me, what would you have done, faced with the death of an unarmed innocent at the hands of her supposed protectors, and the blank countenance of an unmoved King? Is that not heresy enough?"

Though his question might sound rhetorical, it is an earnest plea. Despite appearances, Lancelot an emotional man at the best of times, is caught up in the moment. He cannot recall speaking of these things in his lifetime-- or afterwards.

Loken's expression softens, a bit. The brothers had acted without honor. While Lancelot's mistake was in betraying his lord, their error was slaying innocents, something that to his dismay he admits he's done himself, at the Embarkation deck.

"A hard question. I might have fought them as well, if I thought their actions were without honor. I was made to protect the innocent and unknowing, to bring them enlightenment. Perhaps I would have made my body a shield for her, and died, buying her the time needed to escape their wrath, and perhaps giving them enough time in my passing to cool their hatred. But I wonder if that moment of kin-slaying was the true failure, or simply a consequence of the early dereliction."

He continues, something like sympathy entering his tone.

"I once knew such a rage, when first I took on the mantle of Cerberus, at the end of my old life. I thought the world against me, and my loyalty was the last, that all others were traitors. For 6 months I rampaged in a dead world, hunting daemons and traitors. But then another knight found me, a Legion of one. His bravery and words appealed to my sense of honor, and cut through my madness like a sword through a foe. He took me from the dead world, and set me upon my present course, hunting neither in darkness, or light, but shadows."

He takes a moment, breathing, and looks over Lancelot. "I am sorry that you are bound by sorcery, that you don't have such a chance. It is a hard thing to bear. Can I release you?"

His hand moves towards his sword, not as a threat, but rather... as an offer of mercy from the Angel of Death. For that is what they are called by the common people of the Imperial. The Emperor's Angels of Death.

Edited 2013-03-11 23:27 (UTC)

The Tale of Sir Lancelot - part 1. Dolorous Guard

Re: Floor 25, the Meadow

Re: Floor 25, the Meadow

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OOC

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Better Late than Never, I suppose!

Re: Better Late than Never, I suppose!

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Sorry been busy but I super want to continue this

Seconded! Please never mistake my lag for disinterest!

This is especially interesting as Garviel later finds out about the grail war from babby-arturia.

Oh yes, excellent!

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