a terrible autonomy

[poletariat]

Oh, magi might pride themselves on being subtle, but there's nothing at all subtle about the battle that raged in the forests last night. They couldn't have missed it even if they hadn't had Archer's sight to draw on. But Archer's sight couldn't pierce the thick veil of snow that rose later, after Berserker tore onto the field. Is he still standing? Is Lancer? Is Caster? Zofia shakes her head, her mouth tightening. Better if they'd all killed each other and sucked their Masters dry.

Is Archer able to bring herself to look at the scorched stumps and blistered ground, the snow blackened by ash? The wind blows a few dying sparks past Zofia's cheek, and she reaches for them. If they singe holes through her gloves, she doesn't notice.

This is what magi do when they fight, she reminds herself. This is what happens when nothing checks their power. But that power's been weakened, and if she acts quickly enough, it'll never be regained in time.

She crouches on the ground, traces her finger through the dirt. Michel and Tohsaka are easiest to track, of all of them. If she finds some proof that either of them lived past their fight with that girl --

There, right by her. A set of motorcycle tracks cut through the snow, and wind away from the forest.

Well, that's one survivor. One exhausted, drained survivor, whose Servant won't yet be at full strength. And what did become of his ally?

She can't quite smile, but her mouth hardens into something almost like one.

Comments

[maygamesbegin]

Archer's jaw has been clenched since the smell of ash first reached her nose, and if it carries on like this she'll crack a tooth. Everything is dead here. The very air is tinged with it. Even the snow, which should be white and pure, is sullied to a greyish black colour.

But she cannot mourn the damage to the environment for too long. A more prominent problem is presenting itself.

"Well, I'm glad this is one party we missed," she says lightly, trying to catch Zofia's attention. When her Master continues to stare at the ground, Archer followes her gaze to a set of tracks through the mud, most likely Michel's bike, heading away from the battlefield. Knowing her fellow countryman got away gladdens Archer's heart, but Zofia's expression is unreadable. "Penny for your thoughts?

[maygamesbegin]

It's nice to see that, though a thousand plus years have passed, some kinds of people never go away.

Chiyo Tohsaka is every snooty noblewoman Marian has had the displeasure of meeting in her life. Not the kind that are simply ignorant - those she can tolerate with a smile and a nod - but the sort that are completely aware of their surroundings and attitude and yet still strive to position themselves as high above others as they possibly can. It's all Marian can do not to set a dung trap for her to walk right under at an opportune moment, but she restrains herself. It won't do any good - that sort of person can't be cured of the ailment known as pride.

There is something in her eyes, however, that intrigues her. Some vivid, wild spark, the sort that she's seen in boys who have shot their first deer, had their first taste of action and blood and liked it. That sort of spark could go either way - either setting the enemy on fire, or burning down their own castle with them in it.

They would have to wait and see. First things first, to report back to Zofia. Hopefully her peculiar mood hadn't worsened in the few hours Archer had been gone.