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

Entry tags:

"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...

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

If one warrior, any warrior can understand what it is like to fight while mad, to have gone Berserk and to have come out again at the other side in a world even more painful than the one he left, it is Cerberus. As he steps out of his room in the Dorms, he halts for a moment, cocking his head at the smaller Knight, seeing the darkness that covers Lancelot like a dark film.

"What is this?" He asks in a muffled voice, already reminded somehow of the pitiable figure of Kharn, howling about having become the eightfold path. His hand strays towards his chainsword, as he sees Arondight, and his posthuman body starts glanding combat hormones.

[When Saber wasn't brooding in some of the more isolated floors, she tended to be found one other place. Playing pool in the bar. Something about the game helped keep her mind calm and the curse she bore at bay, even though she still looked more dead than alive due to how deep the taint had spread over the last month or so...]

Arturia, unlike Saber, could usually be found playing video games on the Media Floor when she wasn't isolating herself. She wasn't trying to isolate herself as of late simply due to having been isolated for so long, but the mindlessness of playing some of these games made it easy to ignore her own mind constantly reminding her of the mistakes she'd made over the years.

Currently she was indulging in yet another fighting game, her concentration fully upon it and seemingly not a care in the world.

Nesir blinked when she saw Lancelot, she hadn't spoken to him since their (on her part anonymous) conversation on the network, but he didn't seem well now and despite the fact she had decided she wasn't going to care about anyone in this tower, she couldn't help frowning and stepping towards him.

"Lancelot, what do be being wrong?"

[Berserker is indeed a Pitiful figure, as much as he is Powerful and Fearsome-- and Lancelot is only half that, moving with unnatural speed and gravity along the hallway.

To Lancelot's eyes, the Knight before him is a seething mass of statistics. Not literally, for the knowledge is instinctive, but the effect is the same. He hears the Knight's voice, senses his building strength, judges the length of his arm and the heft of his weapon and the the Black Mist about him dissipates as Arondight realizes fully in his grip. Though he is unarmored, the Madness is on him, he can feel its claws in his throat, words and hissing sounds struggle their way out of his mouth, between his sharp teeth. His Master's wrath and pain rising in the Bond and strangling his will.

He grates out what speech he may. In his Mind, the words are a name.]

Stand aside-- leave me! Or die.
[Flames lick at the edges of his vision and Lancelot shakes-- for all his effort it will be only a moment more before he surrenders his Will.]

[He comes along the Hallway like Death itself, his mouth open, seeking whom he may devour. His gauntleted hands stained with blood, his helm hiding his face. He has forgotten his name. There is only the one name in all the World.]
Arthur...

[Berserker's black wrath is in him, and he is cunning. Death is always cunning, how it seeks, how it stalks. Very patient, is Death.
Lancelot laughs harshly, and the sound is a sobbing echo close within his helm. Close by, he can feel Her-- Arthur. Heat rises in his blood and he would take it and set all the Worlds aflame.]
Arthur...

[His own wrecked voice is louder in his ears, louder than his blood, louder than the thin thread of thought that binds him to his Master.
When she comes, for he has called her, he will kill her.]

You know I can't do that until I ascertain what you are doing. [ His hand now moves to the hilt of the chainsword, he closes his grip around the activator trigger, ready to gun it into life should Lancelot begin to assault him. ]

So, tell me, what is happening to you?

Edited 2013-07-12 12:36 (UTC)

[There is a sound. It has grown louder so gradually that has gone unnoticed for some time.
The sound is a that of a man in conversation with himself. Whispering and growling in the dark outside the circle of Light where Arthur sits.

Berserker seeks Arthur so that he might kill her, revenge old wrongs-- Lancelot seeks Arthur so that she might judge him, save him.
He wavers in the doorway, a terrible and strange sight in his armor, streaked with gore-- his head bare and his hair fallen in his face, which is altered, but not beyond recognition.
Black Mist curls around him, a black veil trailing, a black pennant waving.]

Arthur-- [His very voice is a nightmare, gritting out from a throat raw from screaming.]

Arthur--

Edited 2013-07-12 06:50 (UTC)

[He would have done better to hide himself away, but Berserker will not be argued with. Berserker will be obeyed.
He would have faded, had her pass him unseen-- but it is all he can do now not to rush past, his blade drawn, and take her Life to clear his path.

Arondight flickers in his grasp as Lancelot tries to Master himself. His own Glamours flare into and out of being-- himself as a living Knight, as a red-headed giant of a man, now as a maiden, now as a beast, now as any walking horror he has seen within the Tower, now as his Master, and now as his own self. Musch the worse for wear than usual, his hair hanging lank in his face, the sleeves of his jacket wet with blood to the elbow. He lurches where he stands.
He will try to warn her.

His voice is a rough thing that fights it's way out of his mouth-- a mouth that sounds somehow wrong, as if there are too many (or too large) teeth inside it.]

Leave me, Nesir--
you cannot aid me. I-- there is some mishap with my Master, with the Bond we share.

I am driven Mad with his Madness.
Flee, for I will Kill you.

Though-- I do not Wish to.

[There is something erratic about the presence of a nearby Servant -- something that Archer takes notice of in his more bored moments of wandering the tower. It's enough to lure him to taking to the staircases, climbing through various climates and environments in search of that presence.

A quiet laugh is how he greets the sight of the familiar Servant, lifting his chin to look him over.]

You seem emotional today, Berserker.

[Arturia goes very still as she feels the first wisps of the Black Mist from the doorway, her character on the screen taking a beating, but she does not care about winning or losing this round. No, that is only a game. Slowly, she turns her head to find Lancelot there, helmet off, but his madness evident in his features and the almost sickening (to her) aura he gives off.

What happened? What could have caused this madness to possess him? She does not know. Is this another trick of the Administrators? did something happen to him? To his Master? They had just shared a warm afternoon in which he taught her how to swim, what could possibly cause this to happen.

Without a word, she rises, Caliburn in her hand for the sake of defending herself. Death is meaningless here. Without knowing the cause, there is no telling if killing him will stop his madness.

And she would rather not kill her dearest friend for a third time.]

Lancelot. What is the matter? [though she knows he cannot answers.]

[The wind is chill, but he cannot truly feel it, even through his thin clothes. He has lingered here for some little time now, seeking in vain to wear himself down against the side of the mountain. To somehow escape himself, exhaust himself, by climbing ever higher. But the horrid pull of his Master's Pain, as well as the draw of Arthur's presence, is inescapable-- and Berserker is inexhaustible. Here in the Tower, which feeds him Prana without stinting, the Madness in him blooms and flourishes.

He does not raise his head at the Archer's laughter. His hair hangs lank and blood-streaked in his face. His empty fists clench and unclench as Black Mist winds around his hands and arms. From out of his mouth comes a deep-throated growl-- followed by speech he can barely manage.]

Do you Wish to Die?

Leave me.

[As if called, Lancelot's armor flickers into place around his form. In the Moment before his Helm appears he lifts his head-- it is far from a pleasant sight, what is happening to Lancelot.
He is a Monster. On with Mad eyes and a Mouth full of sharp and jagged Teeth.

The Knight has ignored his plea-- and so he gives the man a simple answer. He screams. The sound is deafening, enclosed as it is within his Helm, but he cannot stop himself now.
He cannot stop himself raising Arondight to his shoulder.

He has not the Will to stop himself feeling the Joy that comes with with rush and push forward, the urge to strike.
He comes.]

[He smiles as he walks the steps towards the bedraggled knight, the wind whipping back the rebellious lock of hair that hung in front of his eyes. Yes, the erratic energy was obviously coming from this Servant, this intense one whose Master was also rather interesting in his own way.

The voice that he hears over the wind lacks the amount of control he had seen in the past, and his smile simply grows wider as he continues to regard Lancelot with his hands buried in his pockets.]

Such a warning! You overestimate your own strength, Berserker.

[She faces him, his King, a Sword in her hand. He sways on his feet, caught in the current of his Master's Rage and Pain, foundering in the treacherous waters of his own Memory, his own Wrath and Sorrow.
Why has he come-- yes, for Arthur. But why? What is the Matter...
Lancelot finds he no longer cares. He wants an end.
As does Berserker.

In a breath he is vanished, in another he is upon her, Arondight in hand, Horror and Madness in his eyes.]

[Mid-shot, Saber's head came up and her eyes narrowed a fraction. A part of her had been wondering when this would happen. She could feel his presence before she heard him; had he given up like she almost had?

Almost. Saber still had something to hold onto that kept her from becoming something like her beloved knight. It was enough for her to look around at the others on the floor as she set her stick down and her blackened armor flashed into existence.]

I suggest you all leave immediately. The one approaching is here for me. Should you leave without getting in his way, your lives will be spared.

Leave. Now.

[It had been quite some time since Vergil had run into Lancelot, but that black armour was unmistakable. His erratic movements and the sudden disappearance and reappearance of a sword are what call Vergil's attention, though. It could be interesting.]

Control yourself.

How many times have I done this, I wonder? [ Garviel muses, as he brings his chainsword up in a two-handed parry, the adamantine teeth grinding as he tries to stop the incoming blow, pitting Emperor-blessed genehanced muscle and power armor made by the mysterious machine cult of Mars against the mythic power of a warrior of an earlier age. ]

[And in that flash, she brings Caliburn up, easily parrying Arondight aside.]

Lancelot, stand down! [She says this more to see how much reason he still has left, if any at all. If he has none then, perhaps, she will be forced to fight her friend once more.]

[She understands that, at least in the context of her world and the bonds between priests and their warriors. Something had happened, a madness that had bled over and Lancelot could not fight it.

If she was better herself she might try to calm him again, but she had an anger inside her, a madness, a need to rip and burn and destroy.]

Do no be fighting it, be embracing it and it will be burning itself out.

[She drew her daggers] I will be coming with you.

[He wearies of Warning those he comes across, but he has no choice but to move-- whether towards his Master or towards Arthur. The way must be cleared, or he will clear it-- even to his regret or sorrow. Though, thus far, there has been little of either.

Lancelot clings to what Sanity he has by the thinnest of threads.
His head jerks at the order. Orders are not a thing the Berserker in him cares for.

His voice is broken stones.]

I cannot.

You will-- fly before me.
If you number yourself among the wise.

You-- are a Fool.
If you think so. Archer.

If you Seek me out to Taunt me-- you are doubly so.
For I do not boast--

[Lancelot groans aloud, the sound rising to an echoing shout, as his Sword appears in his hand-- though he did not call it of his own Will.
He raises his head to Gilgamesh. HIs face Dark with Shadow, his bared teeth jagged points of light in the gloom of his Hair, his eyes Red and Mad and Despairing.]

you. Will Die.

[Never has Berserker had a companion. Madness is an isolating thing. It is a long moment before the Knight replies-- though when he speaks, he is more himself, at least momentarily.
He is tired. So tired.]

I do not know how you will do this-- for it has never been done.

No one is With Berserker. He is Alone. Commanded from Afar, always.
You risk yourself-- for no reason I can tell.

If I should turn on you-- take your Life--
it would be a Sorry deed, Nesir Aeser.

[There is only one pull, one command that matches that of his Master-- Arthur's.

Her Words tear at him. For he would stand down, even as much as he desires to cut Her Down.
Lancelot shakes, broken by the encounter he seeks, the Berserker within him struggling with him for control.

He brings Arondight up, resting his forehead against the Blade that once was so bright. His Teeth are bared, but more in a grimace than in rage.]

What if, Arthur--

what if I cannot do as you ask-- though I might Wish to.

[Berserker says nothing. He groans, screams, and mutters within his armor.
He does not muse.
Somewhere within, Lancelot struggles, for this is a fight he does not want. He would prefer to face his chosen opponents while in control of his faculties.

But if he must fight, he will not do so with defeat in what remains of his mind.

The strange Weapon is not ranged, nor a projectile, and so it holds no interest for him beyond his desire to break its teeth upon his blade.
Berserker moves faster than sight-- only to appear before the Knight, striking at his side as he passes.]

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 3

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

no subject

Floor 88

Floor 14

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Re: Floor 14

no subject

Floor 68

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

dorm halls

no subject

no subject

no subject

Re: dorm halls

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject