towerofanimus | "Where Go You So Late?" Said The False Knight Upon the Road

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"Where Go You So Late?" Said The False Knight Upon the Road

Characters: Berserker/Sir Lancelot & You
Setting: Throughout the Tower, including hallways, dorms, and common areas.
Format: Brackets preferred.
Summary: Infected through their mental and spiritual bond by his Master's breakdown, a malfunctioning Servant goes a bit Mad. Encounter him as he attempts alternately to control himself, to find his Master, and to seek the *usual target for his rage.
Warnings: Lancelot is experiencing what is essentially an intermittent psychotic break. When Mad, he will be un-responsive and murderously violent. Though he is struggling against it, Lancelot's Madness only serves to increase his Strength, which is already frankly ridiculous. As he is unable to successfully control himself or his Abilities, attempting to battle Lancelot in this state will very likely result in your severe injury or death. Characters with telepathic abilities should note that Lancelot's thoughts will include disturbing imagery and violent themes.
Note: If you'd like to plot anything elaborate with Lancelot, such as the particulars of a character death, please find me on Plurk-- I'll be happy to hash it out with you!

*Spoiler Alert: it is Arthur.

There is a buzzing in his head, no. Sharper than that -- a scraping, screaming thing that is more sensation than sound-- and more sight than any other sense.
They desert him one by one, his senses, lights gone out-- until he is cocooned in red darkness. It clings, it burns. It has the shape of flame and the flame is the sound and it comes from within and it covers all.

Berserker finds that his shaking hands are covering his mouth, and that his gloved fingers are pressing hard against his lips and that his teeth are sharp.
Black Fog swims before him, all around him, though he does not recall its summoning.
The sound is like a spear, like a hook scraping at the Root of his Mind. At the root of Lancelot's mind. For Lancelot he remains, by some awful magic-- the moorings of his Mind rocked and torn by the Storm of Anguish his Master makes.

If he could claw the Bond with Kariya from his head, from his being, he would do it.
Pierced by his Master's own Madness, bound to it as a drowning Man lashed to the mast of a foundering ship, he is neither one thing nor the other.
Neither a Knight nor a Berserker, but the terrible resident of some hinterland between.

He staggers under the sudden weight of his Armor-- only to find it vanished the next step he takes.
Now Arondight is in his hand and black shapes obscure his vision, black thoughts fill his mind, black deeds come to him in revolting images.
His Master's Pain and Torment flood his Soul. Unspeakable things seem to writhe beneath his skin, unaccountable Rage fills him to overflowing, and he screams.
HIs Sword and his Reason flicker in and out of being while what remains of Lancelot struggles, torn by his Master's despair.

Arthur...

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[The Black bulk of Berserker's armor is misleading. He is swift, swifter than any sword. Save one-- and that Sword is part of no Treasury.

Unchecked by Lancelot's will, Prana is flowing like a torrent over a burst dam and it is anticipation and reflex when Berserker to seizes a spear in one hand, a longsword in the other. He twirls the one and wields the other and what weapons he does not send back to the Archer clatter uselessly upon the icy rocks.

The Berserker roars.]

[An appreciative glimmer sparks in Archer's gaze as he watches, observes the maddened knight's movements -- moving with such force and purpose, unlike the way that Saber had to dodge hurriedly, almost constantly retreating. He cannot keep a short, scoffing laugh from his lips when he sees Berserker take hold of two of the weapons from his treasury, knocking some of his own weapons from the air with his golden blades.

This would be a very different kind of battle.]

To think that my own treasures would be turned against me. How very clever, mad knight!

[His gates fade around him, and he propels himself at the armored Servant with twin blades drawn back to strike.]

[Within his helm, Lancelot's vision swims and shifts with the suddenness of Archer's approach. Berserker is only action and reaction and in the same instant he has he casts the strange weapons away, Arondight's grip rests firm in his palm.

The Cursed Blade is livid with fire. Red flame seeming to light it from within, crawling behind the runes cut into the steel, creeping along the chains wound around the hilts. He brings her up to meet Archer's Golden blades.
The sound of the resulting clash echoes along the mountainside.

Archer will find him a hard thing to move, and as he tries, Berserker will gauge his strength.]

[The Archer class was not known for its speed or its strength, but its versatility. While Archer swung and struck with fervor and unnatural power, the weight to each blow was nothing in comparison to what Saber or Lancer could muster. But he is surprisingly light on his feet with his blades in hand, attacking from varied angles and switching up his targeted points.

And when he finally disengages, he leaps upward on the mountainside to gain the upper ground, swinging both swords into a tree trunk to send it tumbling in Berserker's direction.]

[There is rhythm there, in the strikes, as well as the calculated rush and risk of the Archer.
Less predictable than Saber more swift than Lancer-- judging even as he is judged.

Arondight guards and parries, and strikes, but is returned.
He releases her from his hand when the Archer leaves him, using Berserker's bulk to propel himself up the mountian side-- and sending the trunk of a tree hurtling down after him.

It is unwise to launch any weapon at Berserker-- or anything that might be purposed as a weapon.
The Thing that is Lancelot roars, flame and shadow both flowing from him, stones crushed beneath his armored feet as he seizes the trunk as it comes to him. He swings it, swings with it, and launches it back up the mountain side to where the Archer waits. He is fast behind it, rippling through the air.]

[So that was his game.

A short laugh passes Archer's lips as he catches on, and he watches with fascination as Berserker activates what he could only assume was a Noble Phantasm -- changing the tree into a darkened weapon that he can send straight back at him. Not just his weapons, but a tree...

He smirks and jumps into the air as the tree hurtles towards him, swinging both swords forward to slice down branches. He uses the airborne tree as a boost, rebounding off of it to achieve something of a height advantage. Again he comes down on the other Servant, blades drawn back to strike.]

[There is a burst of Darkness as Berserker calls upon his Long Black Veil, preparing to Vanish in the Fog only to appear behind the Archer-- but Berserker is not all that he should be.
Though his Bloodlust rises, Lancelot struggles against his Madness-- and for a moment the Veil is parted and a Glamour flashes unbidden over the Black Knight like light through Dark Water.

It is a Bright blade, that meets the Archer's double-strike. The Knight who wields it bears Shining Armor, a white cloak flowing back from his shoulders, dark hair stirring about his flushed, intent face, lips drawn back from his teeth as he blocks and guards.

The White Knight is no sooner arrived then he is gone. Berserker, Black and Red, rushes upward, sweeps his blade for the Archer's legs.

[It only takes a moment. The strange break in in Berserker's image would not have been so jarring if the difference was not so starkly different--if the white knight did not appear so different from the black one. For a moment, he falters.

It's in that moment that Berserker's blade connects with his legs, and it's only the magical power of the armor that keeps the blow from doing lasting damage. Archer grunts as he catches himself before fully hitting the ground, and he again opens his gates even as he hurries to put distance between them.

The volley that he launches from the gate is not aimed at Lancelot, but much higher on the mountainside. In the meanwhile, Archer steadies himself on his feet and transforms his swords, the blades jutting to 90-degree angles against their hilts.]

Feel honored, Berserker -- I do not do this for just anyone.

[He flips the blades to hold the hilts horizontally, their form now apparent as comparable to twin tonfa.]

[Fallen back to guard, Berserker sways where he stands-- his head lowered, red light from his visor cutting the dust and snow that fill the air. Golden light fills his vision. Does he dream?

The strange blades before him have his attention, as does the shifting of the ground beneath his feet.
Berserker lifts his head and roars into the blind sky.]

[At the roar, Archer cannot help but pause again, bringing his arms up with his blades held in a defensive position. His legs ache from the force at which Berserker's weapon had struck him, but he grins and steadies himself.

In the distance, high above them, there is an explosion, following by intense rumbling. Whatever weapon Archer had launched from his gate had triggered an avalanche.]

[The Snow and Ice and Rock come in a wave, and he crests it, runs upon it for a long moment before its strange currents drag him under.

It is dark as any pit and the cold is bone deep when he shakes himself awake beneath the rubble. Somewhere above, Berserker senses the Archer lingering, lying in wait. His Armor serving to protect his Flesh, he half-crawls, half-swims to the surface, where he lurches to his feet, breathing heavily as he rips off his helm.

As he swings about, searching for the Archer with his eyes, his long hair clings to his face. His his teeth are yet sharp-- yet his Mood veers between Sorrow and Savagery, and the Red Mist obscuring (no, surely enhancing?) his vision has dissipated somewhat.

All seems still. The sound of his own ragged breathing is loud in his ears.]

[Having expected the avalanche, Archer is more prepared to take it on in comparison to Berserker. He takes off towards it, leaping above it while looking for other swept-away objects to jump off of.

Of course, this doesn't save him from the entirety of the avalanche, and he still ends up being carried down the mountainside -- but not as far as his opponent. Smiling and laughing, Archer drags himself out of the cold whiteness, breathing hard but also looking very pleased with himself.

It'll take him a few minutes to stagger to his feet, but he's keeping out an eye for the crazed knight.]

Do not tell me that is your best, Berserker!

[His words echo out across the mountainside, loud and somewhat audible even in the wind and snow.]

[The Howl Berserker makes into the cold, colorless air is a Terrible, Mad, and Mournful thing. It brings his Sword into his hand, its blade stained with Fire.
The Golden figure of the Archer beckons to him-- the Words lack much of their meaning, but the tone of Challenge is one he understands all too well.

With a sudden rush, he cleaves the air before him in his descent-- moving towards his Target with the speed of the wind. Up swings Arondight, and then down again as Berserker thrusts the blade into the rubble of Rock and Ice-- only to flip the blade upward once more, sending a wave of missiles flying towards the Archer.]

[Archer struggles to keep his footing in the deep snow, hampered now that he had to attempt to dodge while trapped in it. He raises his blades as he sees that dark figure moving in the haze of snow, his smile widening as he sees the rocks and ice hurled upward at him. Heedless to the danger, he throws himself down into the cold and sharp volleys, allowing them to cut into his arms and nick his face as he heads straight at Berserker.

With his eyes wide with excitement and smile sharpening as he tightens his arms together to form a protective, bladed cross over his face, it's hard to see anything resembling sanity in his decision to barrel straight at his opponent in this way.]

[There is little Sanity or Safety here on the part of either Servant-- the Mad Berserker's opponent rushing to meet him as if eager to speed his Doom. Arondight is raised, flame streaming from Her, to meet the resistance of the Archer's blades.

The Wind whips the snow into a veil, and Golden figure of the Archer comes breaking through it like a falling Star, his face fierce and spotted with his own blood, like some Barbarian King of Old.
Making a missile of himself, Berserker moves Arondight from Guard to Point, meaning to Run the Archer through.]

[It's only the meeting of their weapons against one another that keeps Archer from being impaled on Berserker's sword, a breathless laugh on his lips as he pushes against the solid weight of the other Servant and rolls just out of harm's way in midair. The snow slides and nearly takes him away with it as he touches down again, and he fights the rumbling snow for several moments before finding a foothold in one of the evergreen trees that still marked the mountainside.

With another avalanche on the verge of starting, he again summons his gates, this time shooting up the mountainside with a continuous stream of gleaming weapons.]

[The impact of the hit grinds in the joints of his Armor, rings in his Head. It should not-- all should be a Roaring Silence, the Mad noise of a blind and empty sky. But it does reach him, shake him, and for a long moment Lancelot hears his own breath-- then the rumbling of the rock and snow as another Avalanche speeds his way.

The Golden Gates gleam against the white of the Snow, and Berserker let's Arondight vanish from his Hand. Leaping midair, his black veil flying like a pennant, Berserker makes for the Light-- and the Archer.]

[The whole mountain rumbles and tremors as the snow crashes down again, a billowing cloud that blocks out the already hazy sky into a solid barrier of white. Despite the oncoming natural disaster, Archer turns his attention to meet Berserker -- a little late, and his shoulders slam back into the tree as the other Servant collides harshly against him.

One transformed blade falls from his hand as a result of the combination of bitter cold and the collision, and he brings his free hand up in a fist, striking harshly at Berserker's armor, his neck, his throat -- anywhere that his bare fist may cause damage.

The tree creaks dangerously behind him, its roots already partially dislodged by the first avalanche. Archer continues to lean into the tree unwillingly, trying to get space opened up between him and his opponent.]

[The scourges on his back flail and wave around him like underwater grasses as he sways with the impact-- and he is caught off-guard by Archer's fists, his nearness and ferocity. A blow at close range bloodies his nose, his sharp teeth cutting into his lip, and the slick, hot flow steams in the frigid air as he shouts in rage, grabbing at the Archer's wrists.

Behind Lancelot, the Snow comes, inexorable and swift-- behind the Archer who bears his weight, a failing support. Insensible, Berserker makes to reach for the Archer's unguarded throat, urging forward.]

[His fist comes away with bruises from where he had struck against that dark armor, but it's not until he feels those large hands curl around his wrists that he jerks his arms back -- one hand still gripping tightly at the blade that he had managed to retain.

The snow is quickly coming, pinning his legs underneath him and roaring around them-- but there is suddenly redness where there should have been whiteness, everything grinding to an abrupt halt as that large hand that had held his free wrist slammed into his throat.

He struggles and writhes under that monstrous grip, red eyes dilating as he tries to simultaneously pull away and gasp for air. Unbeknownst to him, the tree he leans against finally shudders and tears free from the ground, and they are engulfed in the snowy haze as the avalanche continues unabated.]

[It is a long fall, for all it is so swift. The grating of their armor together, the blinding, dead weight of the snow, the rock rushing up to meet them, the roar of the mountain that drowns out his own cry.

A long moment passes, and when he opens his eyes his hand has fallen from the Archer's throat-- though he does bear the Golden Servant's weight against his chest.
His head sings with Pain as he makes to heave the Archer from him-- save that they are buried together in a Tomb of Snow.
His Vision misted with Red, Berserker makes an effort to shift all the same, pushing against the drift where he can, seeking to free himself from under the Archer and the Snow both. His efforts are-- oddly ineffectual.]

[He takes the brunt of the initial fall, cracking his head against the torn-down tree as the snow plows down on them. As they tumble further and further down the mountainside, Archer loses his grip on his second sword as he becomes overcome with the need to pull away that hand that had been choking him.

Even as red and black overtake his vision, he knows that a blanket of white will undoubtedly engulf them.

He doesn't know how long he has been out when he awakens, an unsteady, rasping gasp escaping before he is fully aware. His neck has been freed, and he is flat on his chest--

--against Berserker.

Archer drags one awkwardly positioned arm out from where it is partly buried in the snow, managing not to disturb the pocket in which they lay. He curls his hand into a fist and punches at Lancelot's head with little actual strength.]

[The glancing blow rings in his ears like the clanging shut of the gates of Hell itself-- and Lancelot groans.
Lancelot. For his voice is rough and grating in his throat, but somehow, at last, it is his own.

His Master's Pain is reduced to a murmur in his Mind, and the complaints of his body come to him, now that he may hear them. Cold (as his armor has left him, though he did not note its passing) sets its teeth in his Flesh, while a hot ache kindles in his side, in his joints-- and the same sluggish blood which stains his nose and mouth cuts a dark course down the side of his face from some shallow wounds about his head. But above all, his chest is heavy, and breath does not come easily.

When Lancelot does open his eyes, it is to the White snow overhead, and Gold-- of the Archer's hair. For it must be he, though Lancelot's brains are muddled. There had been insults. A Challenge. Then-- only disconnected images, and a terrible Rage. Madness.
Had he been bested? No, surely a Draw. Though it seems of no great importance in the moment.
Far off, he can sense his Master's muted misery as the man withdraws into himself. Which is enough, for the time being.
Exhausted, naked, and bloodied, he draws breath to speak-- only to give another groan as his ribs protest.]

[He settles his fist back into the somewhat packed snow they lay in, eyes narrowing at the other Servant when he hears that groan. A growl, a snarl -- he would have expected something like that from Berserker in the haze of rage that he had fought through. But a groan?]

So you are back, mad knight.

[His voice is hoarse from the combination of shouting and laughter during the fight and that final choke hold, and he grumbles as he tries to lift his head, only to lower it again with a wince. He settles his chin on Lancelot's chest and glares on a mild glare, which is hampered by a trickle of blood flowing from his hairline and right over his right brow.]

Aye.
[It's more a sigh than anything else, still it's a word managed. That's something.
Blinking as his vision clears, he becomes fully aware of the Archer, glaring at him in a manner that suggests pure form rather than ill intent-- from atop his chest.

The snow is bloody cold. But the other Servant's body is warm, at least.
It is a basic enough circumstance, but a merciful one.

His memories of the day are fragmented. Much blood, had there been, and his shoulders are weary. His throat raw with screaming. He had not so much come to the mountain as fled here, hoping to outrun himself, to put his Master out of Danger, hoping to be let alone, but his plan had been a poor one from the start. Then, there had been the Archer.

When he speaks next, it is with a sort of raw-edged courtesy.]

I owe you-- my thanks. Gilgamesh.
You-- fought well.

"Where Go You So Late?" Said The False Knight Upon the Road

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(apologies: out of town/family funeral)

no apologies necessary, especially for that <3

<3!!

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