Somewhere over eastern Europe
18 January 2016
1:55 AM local time
While it was entirely possible for magi to fly across entire continents through nothing more than magecraft and a properly enchanted broom, carpet, or car, it was very tiring to do so. Even the most skilled mages usually preferred to use planes - besides, it took a lot of time and effort to find, power, and pressurize a flying carpet, and even then one could not fly terribly high. But mages were naturally seclusive types: Airports and commercial planes are full of people, too many to even attempt to talk about thaumaturgical things with fellow mages, even if they were seated next to one another. Besides, some mages simply didn't like mundanes, or 'muggles' as they were often now called.
It was for this purpose the Tohsaka family, like many other wealthy and important mage families, owned a long-range business jet. They could utilize smaller airports, take off at the family's leisure, and most importantly, no tickets, no waiting lines, and no unwanted passengers. It was a truly private air vehicle.
It was the perfect place for a highly secret summoning ritual, thought Rin Tohsaka, matriarch and sole remaining member of the Tohsaka bloodline. She would have preferred to do it on solid ground once they were in Paris, but the hotel they had booked for her stay during the Fourth Holy Grail War had just installed security cameras throughout the facility, and it was too late to select another hotel. She could just enchant a family out in the countryside of Île-de-France, but that would be rude, not to mention that Waver Velvet had proven that even the strongest memory-altering enchantments would wear off after as little as a few weeks.
A large hexagram rested on an aircraft-grade plywood sheet on the cabin's carpet floor. At the centre lay an old spear, worn by the ceaseless march of time. It was a... sufficient Catalyst. She had hoped to obtain a member of the Saber class, but no such luck had come to her. Lancer would do anyway.
Rin checked the time. Two o'clock. The plane would fly along the ley lines under Tallinn for a little over three minutes. It was a minor deviation from the course from Fuyuki's airport to Paris; enough to be noticed by Air Traffic Control but not enough to warrant their investigating the pilot as to why the deviation was made.
A simple chant was all that was needed to activate the circle, and summon her Servant for this Grail War. As she went through it, the circle began to glow brighter and brighter, eventually outshining even the cabin lights.
"Let silver and steel be the essence.
Let stone and the archduke of contracts be the foundation.
Let tribute be paid to the Holy Maiden Justeaze.
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 declared now;
your flesh shall serve under me, and my fate shall be with your sword.
Submit to the beckoning of the Holy Grail.
Answer, if you would submit to this will and this truth.
An oath shall be sworn here.
I shall attain all virtues of all of Heaven;
I shall have dominion over all evils of all of Hell.
From the Seventh Heaven, attended to by three great words of power,
come forth from the ring of restraint, protector of the holy balance!"
Let stone and the archduke of contracts be the foundation.
Let tribute be paid to the Holy Maiden Justeaze.
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 declared now;
your flesh shall serve under me, and my fate shall be with your sword.
Submit to the beckoning of the Holy Grail.
Answer, if you would submit to this will and this truth.
An oath shall be sworn here.
I shall attain all virtues of all of Heaven;
I shall have dominion over all evils of all of Hell.
From the Seventh Heaven, attended to by three great words of power,
come forth from the ring of restraint, protector of the holy balance!"
At once, the cabin filled with light and smoke as mana poured out from the circle like an explosion. Winds flew through the cabin as the plane briefly lost pressurization from the force. Rin managed to hold herself upright by gripping the table next to her. The entire craft shuddered in protest, veering off course before the magus friend-of-the-family pilot Rin had found managed to pull it back towards Paris.
There, in the middle of the circle, stood a figure silhouetted by the circle's light.
Paris
18 January 2016
A typical day in Paris, with rather untypical Parisan weather. The sun had decided to stay behind a thick carpet of clouds today. It was colder than you'd like, and with a likely chance at rainfall ever present. Despite it all, Vincent didn't seem that bothered by the chilly winds that blew through every nook and cranny of London.
"C'est froid aujourd'hui" Bart remarked.
"Guess so."
Bart wasn't the man's real name, but that's what Vincent called the bartender, at least inside his own thoughts. They weren't on a first-name basis and he didn't want them to be. Bart and him had a perfectly fine understanding and that relationship wasn't subject to change anytime soon. Both Vincent and Bart liked that arrangement just fine.
"Shouldn't you...be wearing something warmer then?" He inquired with a thick French accent.
Vincent responded with a laboured sigh and cast a gaze in the bartender's direction. Bart got the message loud and clear. With a shrug he turned around and pulled the bottle of whiskey from the shelf. Half of it had already vanished, quite a bit of it down Vincent's throat. He opened his mouth to speak but swallowed the first syllable immediately. Bart knew when his patrons wanted a friendly chat, and this man he was serving drinks to today seemed to appreciate the silence more than idle chatter. Quietly he poured a glass for Vincent, and one for himself. Vincent smiled, accepted the drink and both men quietly sipped their drink after clinking their glasses.
"Appreciate it, old man. Until next time, maybe." Vincent said while paying his dues. The bartender laughed and without saying another word both men parted.
It was about time.
All preparation were met. All but one. Vincent lacked a catalyst. His lifestyle permitted him a lot of resourceful contacts, but not those he needed. Magical artefacts were notoriously difficult to acquire if you weren't an official magus or had contacts with one of the magus families. It didn't matter.
The sun was about to set. The temperature was sinking even further, but Vincent stood atop that rooftop wearing a shirt and a black leather vest with a busted zipper. The cold bothered him none. All of his focus was drawn to the summoning circle before him. He began his chant with a low and raspy voice.
"I command thee. Thou shalt come forth to my side. Thy sword shalt control my fate."
The circle before him began to glow red. The wind intensified around him.
"Abiding by the Holy Grail's haven, if thou accedest to this will and reason, then answer me. I hereby swear, I will be the embodiment of good in the eternal world. I will be the disposer of evil in the eternal world."
Vincent paused. He hesitated for but a moment, but in that moment he tapped into the raging fire burning inside him, his calm chanting grew more forceful as he brought forth his undying rage with every word. As he did, the circle ignited in flames before him.
"But let chaos cloud thine eyes. Thou who art trapped in a cage of madness; and I, who doth hold thy chains. Thou, clad with the great trinity, come forth from the circle of constraint!"
Paris
Location unknown
Ah, Paris, the City of…Wonders? Democracy? Or the City of…Paris? He has to care, but should he? After the attack of Paris by the terrorists, it was hard to not sympathize with them, though it is different with what happened at Ukraine - vastly different. At least in that attack, no magic happened, as far as he knew. On the other hand, it would make his moves more difficult to not notice, with him being Muslim and all.
Stefan arrived at the city, alone. Airlines were very hard to him, since he didn’t really like to use airplane as a means of transportation unless there was no other way. And frankly, ships and trains took more time, something he didn’t have. The time, not the money. Eventually however, he would make a mark on Paris not just as a visitor, but as a victor, a winner, a champion.
In all honesty, he should already have had a place to stay prepared. After all, a good Master should always have a place to stay, to plan for their next move, for the closer step towards their victory. Victory not just for him, but an ultimate victory for all of the Muslim magi and the ultimate loss for the non-Muslim. His goal may have looked alarmingly extreme and terrorist-like, but it was not - to him at least. It was just a well-intentioned goal with very-not-so-good steps on how to do it. A motivation is important for a person; to Stefan it was a matter of intent, not methods.
For the summoning ritual, a circle needed to be made. A Sihr practitioner would not find making it to be a hard time. The hard part comes from the catalyst - without it, one has no control over what Servant is summoned, as the Holy Grail itself selects it. Fortunately he had one and he can call upon his selected servant at his will. The circle had been drawn, and Stefan chanted a summoning spell. A knife serves as the catalyst. He knew who would be summoned, as the knife was (supposedly) owned by a well-known prospective member of the Assassin class. Someone just like him: Well-intentioned but in no way nice in doing what was needed. Now with the catalyst and the spell ready, the summoning ritual began.
A flash of light, a blast of smoke, and a Servant appeared before him.
Servants, Masters, Runes, Magecraft; all of this was somehow familiar, and yet exotic for the man with the red scarf. It had only been fifteen some years ago when he’d witnessed something horrific, though strangely… enticing. He had witnessed the murder of his parents. It was all so long ago when the man and woman had been killed, though it was fresh in his mind, still vibrant in the striking red, and the brilliant flame that had produced it. It was still warm, the spot of blood dripping on his cheek from what had been his father. His mother’s horrified screams at the unexpected murder of his father. And it had all started so innocently-- with a knock on the door.
The man with the red scarf and the oval spectacles, then a boy, had been quietly sitting, obediently waiting to be sent to bed by his loving mother and father, who he now recognized as traitors and cruel, heartless humans. Then, curiously, a knock on the door. His father, who had been reading the paper set his reading material down on the table before him, briskly moving over to the door. He grasped the handle, his face quizzical, as it was late at night. Who could it be, at this hour? Would be his last thoughts as he turned the knob, and opened the door. He was greeted by death.
On the front of the door was a strange, intricate symbol with its grooves glowing a warm yellow, and as his father began to greet the stranger in the doorway, a sudden burst of flame and smoke flung him back, his arm a mere stump and his body and face charred. Scarlet blood, still warm, fluttered from the severed limb, splattering on the wall, the door, and the poor child with the red scarf and the oval spectacles and the mop of dull brown hair. The man in the doorway was silent, save a click of a hammer as the child’s mother swiftly dashed into the room, only to scream mortified at the sight of her brutalized beloved. She turned to the man in the doorway with the eyes of a furious hawk, and she raised her hands. Flame sprouted from the gaps in her fingers, and she let off names at him. The man in the doorway merely smiled, and raised the gun. His finger was swift, and the bullet was swifter. With the hollow sound of a silenced pistol, the bullet punched a clean hole through the child’s mother.
The child with the red scarf and oval spectacles and the mop of dull brown hair was now alone. Alone in this newfound world of his. This strange, exotic land of Magecraft. One full of Runes, Servants, Masters, betrayal and intrigue that was so unlike his own simple life. He was all alone in this newfound land of magic. Then in came the man in the doorway, The boy with the red scarf and the oval spectacles and the mop of a dull brown hair was no longer alone.
Now, fifteen some years later, the boy was a man named Drasko. Drasko Aljosa Jankovic, to be precise, was an esteemed Magus specializing in the art of Runes, like his mentor before him. The mentor who had fallen to the corruption of magic. He sat in his Paris residence, a suite he’d inherited from his former mentor, smiling at his handiwork-- the entire suite was covered in a collection of carefully concealed runes, designed to detonate at a precise moment. That moment when the person stepped into it would be their last. The entire suite would explode, and be blamed on the acts of a terrorist cell that had never even existed.
Of course, in his suite, which was rather homey, having sepia toned walls, hardwood floors and simple, yet cozy furniture, and the small gas fireplace by which sat a small sofa, Drasko gave a slight yawn of boredom. It was amazing what a bit of deception could do, especially when one such as Drasko had access to dozens of identities and accounts. Preparing his residence for the upcoming war had been tedious, with each of the dozen trigger runes having taken a fair bit of mana, and the actual summoning circle being a colossal use of time that destroyed any plans he’d had that day. Of course, Drasko was a man who prefered bad news before the good. Especially if it was interesting news.
He’d decided to set his entire life’s goal on the one thing that truly mattered to him-- avenging his parents. Of course, that’s what one should say. In reality, Drasko didn’t want to do anything. His days were boring and uneventful. Dull, if you will. He would much prefer to be carousing around the museum where he’d found this specific asset rather than implementing it in this sort of plan. He knew that there would be blood, and he loved blood. Blood was interesting. It was simultaneously gruesome and beautiful, warm and cold. Then again, that was likely the reason the man in the doorway took interest in the young boy. Drasko gave a thin smile of amusement. Ah, how his life had changed, he thought pulling a carton of cigarettes out of his jacket, pulling one of the tubes and placing it gently in his lips as he set the carton back in its pocket. With a click and a flash of flame, the cigarette was lit.
The man in the red scarf gave off a light sigh as he squatted down next to the complex figure he’d drawn with chalk over his once nice floorboards. It was the last few moments, now. The last few moments before I throw my life away for… for what? For honor? For some parents I barely remember? Or is it for the man who saved me from the abyss? Or is it for myself? He thought, wiping the chalk dust off of his oval spectacles. If it is for myself, does that make me a traitor? I vowed to stop the corruption, but must I become part of the corruption itself in order to destroy it?
If I die, will anyone remember? With that, he placed the glasses back in their perch. He then spun, rolling the case containing the stolen hat. Still, I do feel rather bad for the man I took this from. He did pay… what was it? 2.4 million USD? Yeah. Ah well, mine now. He placed the odd looking hat into the circle, and began to summon, a slight twinkle in his eyes. This is getting interesting. I’ll have to stick around to see the ending.
Using magic was always a strange, surreal sensation for the bespectacled man, whether it be summoning a Servant, writing a rune, or casting a spell, it always felt the same. It feeled as if he was breaking the rules, doing something he shouldn’t, it was like the adrenaline rush you get when you’re in a fight, exhilarating yet exhausting. Oh yes, Drasko was very much looking forwards to the coming war. Not only would there be blood, but there would be people, museums, secrets and other things interesting. This-- this would be fun.
Yuzhi Sung Weng
Edge of Paris, France
18 January 2016-
Droplets of rain trickled down my neck as I jogged out of the train's sliding doors to find myself out on an eerily empty street.
Giving the briefest of glances at my second-hand G-Shock I took noted of the time.
7:00pm?! I was more than a dozen minutes late!
Seemingly not giving a care in the world about the concrete, potentially slippery surface beneath me I increased my pace. Soon I had arrived at my expected destination, a dirty apartment block with series of cracked glass windows.
Ignoring the ominous, dark aura the place exuded in my eyes I walked right inside. The first thing that I took notice of once inside was the horrible stench flowing freely around the building.
Ugh, someone needs to get this place spring-cleaned or soon there'll be death by smell in this neighbourhood I silently remarked in my bald head as I made my way through the pest-infested corridors to Room 25.
Upon reaching the correct door I was already feeling nauseous. Wishing to never return back to this place once I finished my business here my hands tapped the specific 5 times on the fading turquoise-coloured door I acutely heard the familiar sound of several locks being unlocked before the door swung open.
A plump, short man in a white singlet carpet bombed by food.
Giving me that look he scolded me in English as that was the language arranged beforehand, "How the heck are you late?! You told me you were on schedule last time I rang you!"
"Well, uh... there was this 75% off Bargain Day sale at this Japanese diner down by..."
Not giving me time to finish my sentence the fattie continued, "So you have the 300 bucks? 'Cos here are the old diary papers from your majesty, Joan of frickin Arc, purchased legally of course from this...auction."
His chubby fingers displayed in a visible, plastic folder several crumpled, yellowed sheets that were covered in neat yet fading rows of fancy French writing which of course I did not understand. My trusting nature held me back from questioning the dealer further about the papers.
"Alright, here is your fee. Thank you very much my good sir!" I smiled in joy with a bow to the man.
Grinning at the notes he held in his hands he handed me the papers without giving them a last look. A moment later I was finally back on the train with the sheets tucked safely inside my Nike bag.
Hotel Swinton
I strode down the streets of nighttime Paris with a feeling of accomplishment. After months I had at last tracked down some old belongings of the great Joan of Arc which I planned to use as Catalyst for the Summoning.
Many of my spare time when I was not training or working odd jobs was spent solely on research about her. It had been my aim to procure a Servant of the heroic and pure calibre and tonight it looks like my efforts have come to fruition.
Soon my hand twisted my hotel room's doorknob, allowing me access inside. Entering and turning on the lights in my modest costing room I set my stuff down onto a circular, wooden table by the living room.
Checking the time I saw that it was 8:30pm, enough time for a fruit salad and fish dinner as well as at least 50 minutes of mixed training before bed.
Next Morning, 6pm
Having woken I prepared breakfast for myself. It was still quite early but I did not feel like wasting any more time...
After my stomach was satisfied I immediately began work, removing a couch and armchair from the living room to create a space. When a moment had passed I surveyed my work and deemed it enough, enough for the Summoning ritual to begin.
20 minutes later...
With the Circle having been painstakingly drawn up with me not wanting to even miss a single detail out I had placed what was supposed to be Joan of Arc's diary entries on the Circle.
Stepping back I twisted my body around to withdraw an ancient Chinese scroll from my sports bag.
I was not nervous to be honest but then again I never really was nervous thanks to my masters of course. Opening the scroll I looked down upon the symbols of old then began my chanting.
My gosh, I'm going to meet Joan of Arc! I squealed inside my head much like a young girl would over Christmas presents.
As the Circle began to glow I had already began pondering about the proper introduction to the legendary hero and when a figure began to appear I said in my most dignified voice with a bow, assuming that this was the great Joan of Arc, "I honestly am honoured to meet such an esteemed person as you, m'lady."
Marcus looked down at the summoning circle, trembling with anticipation. With his parents, Liam and Mary, standing behind him watching, Marcus reached back behind him and pulled out a dirty black cloth. Dropping it into the circle, he evoked the magic within the runes that lined the floors, walls, even his own arms and face. "This should do it..." he muttered to himself, as the runes, carvings, and paintings around the room began to glow with a deep red light. Lightning began crackling across the floor. Moments later, a bright light flashed and in the center of the circle a woman appeared. The woman was well dressed, in a style of fashion that hadn't been seriously worn in centuries. She stood, her face twisted into what appeared to be a smile, but presented in such a way that it felt like a cruel grimace.
"You don't look like much," she said, slightly taller than Marcus himself, but that may have been attributed to her ostentatious headwear or tall boots. "Are you sure you're worthy of my service?"
Marcus steeled himself, standing strong as he stared at the spirit with an intense gaze despite his faltering words. "Honestly, I'm not sure." One could hear the *SMACK* of face to palm as his father behind him groaned with disappointment. But as Marcus continued to speak, he became more confident in his son's ability. "To be worthy is something you can't quite quantify. An action that I value may not align with what you think. But, what I do know is, that I summoned you and ask for your aid. Join me, spirit, because I plan to change this world. And I cannot do it without your help. Will you join me, Marcus Brannon, in taking the Holy Grail?" Marcus offered his hand, and to that the spirit scoffed.
"Well, at least from this I can see that your dedication wont deter you." The spirit returned the handshake, and from their shared grip white light began to glow.
"Marcus....I accept you as my master. You may call me... Rider."
Basement, Abandoned Building
The Root, the end goal of every knowledge-seeking magister. The rediscovery of true magic had been a lifelong goal for the great families of Europe. Magisters spent their entire lives, even resorting to the twisted damnation of becoming a Lost Apostle to prolong themselves, just to obtain access to the source of miracle, and all the power that came with it. Some may do it out of further motives, but others did so just for the sake of it. To that end, one family forged a means to access it, to regain the Third Magic they had once mastered.
From that day forward, my life, and the lives of those I hold dear, were cursed...
Deep within the cellar of a ruined shell of a building, a solitary figure, hidden under the dark recesses by her purple cloak, had been etching on the floor for hours. Her snow white hair and pale skin clear in the few shafts of moonlight reaching the cellar, her sweat glistened as she focused intently on her work. A ritual circle etched in a hexagram, she took one last check at her measurements as she stepped back to observe. At the center, a lone, modified gun, a Thompson Contender, sat idle in wait, as if the centerpiece of a spell that would shake the world apart.
Heaving a breath as she steadied herself, she began to in a resolute, solemn voice. A strange shudder began to reverberate on the floor as she began her long chant. Light flickered on the ground as the circle began to glow with an intense white shade. Carefully scripted, the chant that had been drummed into her for so long now echoed in its empty halls to an unseen witness, ready to be called to stage.
"Let silver and steel be the essence.
Let stone and the archduke of contracts be the foundation.
Let tribute be paid to the Holy Maiden Justeaze.
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 declared now;
your flesh shall serve under me, and my fate shall be with your sword.
Submit to the beckoning of the Holy Grail.
Answer, if you would submit to this will and this truth.
An oath shall be sworn here.
I shall attain all virtues of all of Heaven;
I shall have dominion over all evils of all of Hell.
From the Seventh Heaven, attended to by three great words of power,
come forth from the ring of restraint, protector of the holy balance!"
Let stone and the archduke of contracts be the foundation.
Let tribute be paid to the Holy Maiden Justeaze.
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 declared now;
your flesh shall serve under me, and my fate shall be with your sword.
Submit to the beckoning of the Holy Grail.
Answer, if you would submit to this will and this truth.
An oath shall be sworn here.
I shall attain all virtues of all of Heaven;
I shall have dominion over all evils of all of Hell.
From the Seventh Heaven, attended to by three great words of power,
come forth from the ring of restraint, protector of the holy balance!"
Suddenly, the circle before her exploded in a wave of mana, the ley line beneath surging forth as the ritual reached its climax. Winds bellowed out from its epicenter as the hapless summoner was forced to shield herself from the gusts with her arms. Lifted off her feet, she found herself tossed to the wall as the a powerful wave of wind and mana threw her off balance. Finally, as the turbulance of the summoning died down, she could finally make out the outline of a figure in the light.
"F-Father..." she uttered weakly, her blurred vision unable to identify her Servant. As her eyes finally regained focus, she made out the appearance of the figure standing before her. A pang of disappointment sank in as she found no trace of the familiar coat or stubbled beard she longed for after so long. It had been a desperate try - to summon the original Magus Killer to aid her in the Holy Grail War. But by now, the last of the fallen Einzbern family was used to failure, and this one was a personal failure she had long expected, though not one in terms of her long term goal.
"Who are you?..." she uttered, trying to make out the facade of her Servant. Shielding her eyes, she could see the pattern formed on her hand in full; her command seals signifying her as a Master, a combatant in a life-and-death match with only one winner...
Forêt de Fausses-Reposes
Parisian suburbs
20 January 2016
1:55 AM
It was a grisly sight.
Two people had been murdered in a forest on the outskirts of Paris, in a small clearing of trees. One shot to the chest of each victim, both male, both dead from the shot. They were then decapitated and buried at an angle, so their neck was almost flush with the ground - with their heads placed on their necks. The Police Nationale had found the scene around noon that day. Somehow, no-one had heard it - most likely due to it being fairly out of the way, despite the large caliber of the firearm used - .30-06 Springfield, commonly used in long guns and older American military firearms. No-one had reported it prior to being found either, which was even more odd, but not unheard of - preliminary autopsy reports indicated that the two men had died at around 3 in the morning. And even the City of Light was dark at that time. The forests at its edge were all but dead hours before that.
Brigadier Richard Leon stood near the edge of the marked-off crime scene. He was one of the few police officers still left. Actually, he was the only person left. Onlookers had left hours ago, and the other police officers followed suit at around 11 PM. Any evidence in the area had already been removed to safer, cleaner locations. The bodies, too were gone - the only sign they were even there was the disturbed soil where they were once buried, and the stains of blood around the holes where their necks protruded from the ground.
Always meticulous about crime scenes, he was giving it another once-over to make sure that he and the rest of the Paris Police Prefecture hadn't missed anything. As he expected, he hadn't found much. Fragments of polycarbonate from one of the victim's glasses lens; but they already had the frame and most of the two lenses. He collected them regardless, just to err on the side of caution.
He lifted his right pant leg, examining the intricate set of lines and angles on his leg. To his comrades in the police force, they were just an interesting tattoo. But to him, they were the Magic Crest of the Leon family, of which he was the lone survivor. His parents... made a lot of enemies. None on the side of the law of course, either within the Mage's Association or France, but they made enemies nonetheless, and they were killed when he was still very young. He was taken in to live with a distant, mundane uncle in Paris, his only memento of them their Crest - they had put it on him at an unusually early age in order to ensure that their knowledge would continue after their deaths. Sadly, it did not. Richard Leon may have known about thaumaturgy, and may have been able to know it when he saw it, but he was fully incapable of it, having never studied actually performing it. He knew there were a few places he could look to do so, people he could ask to teach him, but he had never gotten the chance. Life always seemed to get in the way of that, even now when he had free time of his own.
A glimmer in the corner of his eye caught his attention. Turning to look, he noticed something shining on the ground beneath a bush a few meters away - well outside the designated crime scene, but close enough to possibly be considered relevant - depending on what it was.
He approached the bush, expecting to find a glass bottle or some other bit of refuse - the French weren't always the cleanest of Europeans, and partygoing French even less so.
Instead, he saw what looked like a golden sheath, half-buried in dirt. Clearly whoever buried it was in a hurry, as he easily pulled it out. Upon further inspection, it appeared to be only partially gold - it had stripes of blue glass enamel, with some writing in a strange language on one side, and leather padding on the inside of incredibly high quality. Thinking it would be a waste to leave it there (and that it may have something to do with the double homicide), he picked up the (surprisingly lightweight) scabbard and turned to return to his car. He stopped midturn when he noticed something else out of the corner of his eye - a circle of faint light off to his left, in an exceptionally dense bit of the forest.
This warranted genuine suspicion. It was too perfect a circle to be from glow sticks, too focused to be chemical, too organized to be natural, and too continuous to be LEDs. The only thing that could produce such continuous, organized light with only a vertical 'glow' that did not spread was mana emissions.
And that shifted the crime from odd to interesting. And something that would likely go unsolved - in the very few cases where magecraft was involved in a crime, the investigations usually came to an abrupt end due to 'orders from higher up in the chain of command', meaning the government cooperating with the Mage's Association to cover it up.
As he approached it with the scabbard in hand, the glow intensified in brightness until he was standing almost directly over it. Here, the light was as strong as a spotlight, and it intensified the closer the scabbard itself was to it.
Richard gingerly put the scabbard in the center of the circle before backing away at precisely 2 in the morning on the 20th of January, 2016.
Light exploded from the circle with the intensity of a flashbang as smoke and air followed. Richard was knocked to the ground from the force of the wind, though it was not enough to knock him out.
A rune spell? No... this was a summoning circle... a very powerful summoning circle...
A young woman, clothed in armor, stood before him in the center of the circle.
She seemed to bore into him with her cold, green eyes as she pointed a sword of wind at him.
"I ask of you... are you my Master?"
Richard's palm met his face with surprising force, enough to make the woman jump slightly.
The Holy Grail War. Of all the things to get wrapped up in, I had to pick the single worst thing possible to get wrapped up in.
He stood up, brushing himself off as he held out her hand to her.
"I am Richard Leon, Brigadier of the French National Police, Parisian Prefect. I suppose I am your Master, as I activated your summoning circle."
