Gilgamesh: WORLD TOUR Epilogue - Unlimited Pose Dorks (Part 2)
Who: Gilgamesh, Archer (Eventually!) Sync and Radiant Dynamo of Invention
Where: Deadwind Pass, Azeroth
When: May 8th 2009 (Immediately after the battle of Karazhan)
What: While consider his next move, Gilgamesh is quite suddenly waylaid by an enemy servant in his flight from Karazhan, a servant he does not recognize. What's more, the man seems to possess abilities making him a natural opponent for the King of Heroes until two persistent member of the Black Alliance put a dent in the Bow Knight's plan..
Watch For: Archer dropping his reality marble, Gil getting angrier than he's ever been before. Also SWORDS SWORD SWORDS SWORDS
It wasn't working, his blows were being deflected, parried! Even the ones that struck fell short of a satisfying cleave into the servant's flesh...why?! These were mere imitations, pale copies of his glory and legend! The notion that these false replicas could even dare to meet his own on equal terms was one that twisted Gilgamesh's stomach in an ever tightening knot of anger.
Receiving as good as he gets, the King of Heroes leaps back from the respite in their clash with much of his clothes all but torn to rags, bleeding cosmetically in several places and substantially in fewer. Twin cuts line both cheeks, the smears of blood adorning his face with what almost seem like a primitive paint such a savage king might have gone to war with. The divine markings on his flesh burn red-hot with the servant's own killing intent, sizzling away what crimson rivulets dare to stray across them. He could not be sure any longer if the red haze crowding his vision was his own hatred or burst capillaries. Perhaps the were one and the same from the start.
An eye briefly glances at the dislocated arm that languishes at his side, useless throughout this entire fight. A more practical servant would take this crucial moment to reset the limb, enabling a more varied strategy and reducing the burden upon the remaining arm. That was a mongrel's option. For a heroic soul such as himself, for a King, there was never even a question. He would never acknowledge his opponent in such a fashion; One arm alone would crush this threat. For all he cared The Guardian of that nebulous woman could have severed the limb completely as far as this battle was concerned.
"You dare..." He speaks through gritted teeth, unbelieving of this man's deathwish, "To inflame me further, False One? The only thing you shall see is your own heart, as I cut it out!" Oblivious to the irony of the threat, and too resolved to consider Archer's own cryptic references, the Golden King races forth with a curved sickle-blade in hand. Ripples in the world's own reality herald the invasion of his legendary gate, a curtain of flesh-rending steel accompanying his impassioned charge to meet the bowyer head on.
Gae Bolg and Gugnir...weapons fated to alway strike their target. That was the conventional knowledge, yes, but convention was all too often left by the wayside when divine luck is invoked. At Gilgamesh's rank, that fact is likely what saves him. Whether through last minute footwork, a flung blade or something beyond rational explanation, Gugnir manages all but miss him as it flies wide and opens a new tear in his already savaged jacket, the barest hint of blood decorating the hardly-satiated speartip. Gae Bolg strikes truer but not enough to live up to its reputation, embedding itself to the side of his heart which is missed by several inches. An observer might not even be able to tell Gilgamesh had noticed it, for he continued to move forward even when the cursed polearm hits from several feet away.
But move he does, pushing as much of that bloody weapon through his own body as necessary in order to get within range, to strike a blow with that curved blade: Harpe, the weapon used to slay Medusa. The Greek sword shall swing at the arm that holds Gae Bolg. It is the nature of this phantasm to ignore all defenses both physical and otherwise. It would pass through one's flesh like a ghost, leaving not a mark upon the exterior yet cleanly severing sinew and bone within. "If you wish to parrot me so..." The King's smile is marred with cruelty, "Then you'd best look the part."
Archer chose his weapons well, each pressed to the limits of what they specialised in, each guaged and measured to lessen the remaining advantages Gilgmaesh held over him by being plainly...a stronger Servant. It was not enough to finish the job, and time was whittling down with each passing second as the burden upon his shoulders grew heavier in maintaining the Marble. Would he succumb and let it completly drain him into dissipating back to the Throne? After finishing the task or not-- if it was worth it. If it was that he was guarranteed that such a sacrifice would satisfy his desires, then yes. Why? Because--
"I dare."
Quietly spoken, a faint sweat had broken upon his skin, bleeding the blood and ash stains he had accumulated over the last few cataclysmic moments. The stoic determined cast to his features flickered twice, suprise slipping through briefly as he lay witness to Gilgamesh's bold entrapment. A painful risky one, adding further injury to himself in order to grasp that chance for a secured injury--Gae Bolg lay hugged through the King's chest...as if even now its true owner were relishing in some belated revenge. But it also stalled his actions, his attempts at evasions coming too slowly to voice the next...
Too close to summon an effective shield, by the time he dropped the spear and wrenched himself about, the ghostly phantasm had already bit into and glided on through the joint of his shoulder, leaving nary a blemish on his harried mantle...but a searing of pain. "Tch!" To his credit, Gugnir reversed its swing in a riposte to take advantage of the man's momentary victory. It also gave him a brief respite, though he had no intentions of letting up. Around the pair of Servants, the air was still alive with phantasms, each adding to the danger of the battle. Thus far he had acted to only neutralise that which Gilgamesh had brought forth. But this time...
"Don't be mistaken. This is no honour towards you," Indeed, near mirror images. "you are a means to an end. A useful tool that I did not hesitate to make my own." That wretched smile, that mocking belittling. The swords that littered the parched ground rose, unearthing themselves even as more appeared like some stormy bristling creation of gleaming silver and assorted hues. Weapons of every and any kind, many familiar, many the exact. "And now you are more trouble than you are worth, like a rabid dog to be put down."
He discarded Gungnir for a scimitar, Zulfiquar, blade of the prophet, that which delineated between right and wrong, the seeker of truth and bane of wrong doings. "I am correcting what should be." The entire Reality Marble was against Gilgamesh, and it would seem he would descover the answer to the earlier question...did he truely? Did the Gates of Bablyon...have enough swords. The tip of the curved blade pointed, damningly, "What say you King of Heroes?" The world shuddered, "Make your peace." then descended.
The grim satisfaction of wounding the False King was stolen from Gilgamesh by the man's ensuing impertinent nature, his red eyes glowing as if possessed of hot coals within. "As if you could give honor, mongrel." The words are spat from his mouth, "Everything you do is an affront, right down to the breath you draw." Yet the man goes on, his ire rising with every syllable. Stepping away as Gae Bolg vanishes, the King of Heroes makes no attempt to staunch the bleeding in his side. In his hand appears a blade to match the one wielded by a prophet: Tizona, the sword of the crusader.
"Whatever you think you know of despair, of regret, of pain..." The Golden King seethes under the other's verbal barbs, never before having countenanced a foe of such utter impropriety, of such flagrant disrespect, "I shall show you how little you truly know. A King knows no peace." With but a trace of bitterness in his tone, the Sumerian gives himself wholly to the whim of battle, calling forth his Gate in entirety to the other Archer's challenge.
Swords clash in endless cacophony, piercing flesh and bone where they are not cancelled out as the First Hero closes once more with his opponent, intent on revenge. Even with this much, he was not yet done.
Not even close.
***** AN INORDINATE AMOUNT OF OFF-SCREEN ASSKICKING LATER *****
Rain, lightning and thunder had begun to fall in an unusually precipitous coincidence as the King of Heroes yielded the tower of Karazhan, now that it was rendered useless to him by loathsome sorcery. The gleaming chariot of Vimana had split the falling curtain to ribbons in its wake, covering leagues of distance from the tower in seconds.
That is, until a an angled blast of devastating light had caught the airship's flank with a crash of thunder, bringing it spiraling down into unsympathetic, craggy landscape of Deadwind Pass in a furious crash, not far from a Gate that leaves this world.
To any on-lookers of the disaster, a clash of such intensity that the the earth itself began to shake for containing it ensued in short order. Arcing flashes of light raged upward to the dismal sky, toppling rock spires and carving new gouges into the earth. As one neared the site of battle (If they actually possessed a mind to do so) it became ever indistinct if the cacophonous roar overhead was of natural thunder or not.
Rock, earth and dust have been scorched black at least half a kilometre away from the struggle's epicenter, yet the funeral yard of weapons one might have seen extended even further than that. Blades of every make and design bury themselves in the landscape, mute witnesses to the furor that has taken place.
There, in the very center of what seemed like the aftermath of more modern airstrike, stood just two figures. One was only barely recognizable as the nebulous King of Heroes. His clothes have been rended to tatters, his gold hair matted with blood. Crimson-painted all over, he bears his opponent hateful glare with a single sword driven into the other's shoulder with his one useful arm, leaning full tilt into the blow. Utterly blind to his surrounding, the white-haired man is the sole focus of the Golden King's vision, voice seething with spite as words manage to choke forth, "Mongrel...bastard..."
Leeched of all the vibrant hues of a burning sunset, the skies had returned to the dismally forlorn greys and inky blacks briefly illuminated by the forked flickers of lightning still at play in the heavens. The gears were gone, as had the neverending land of swords...replaced instead by a lesser incarnation. It was no less daunting in its view, for one unaccustomed to the knowledge of what an Eirei was, that the two figures at the center of this maelstrom were responsible...These two figures, at the end of their respective strengths. Neither had the boundless well of mana from which to draw from, one by choice, the other through deceit.
The rain had stilled its downfall momentarily, leaving both men covered in the badges given unto them from their long battle. Mud splattered his boots, his crimson clothing already darkened in muted testament to the blood already shed, and then there were those splashes that streaked or speckled dark skin. He was no better off than the man who would be the King of Heroes, atleast in appearances. His jaw was clenched, shoulder wrested back by the plain force driven through it by the blade of the other...But it was a sacrifice for this one moment in time. His white crown was scattered across his forehead, stuck to his temples by sweat and blood, but he was the one who stood over the man who would never admit defeat.
A blade of lightless stygian rested against the neck of Gilgamesh, one of the paired blades he was want to use often. It was hardly one of the strongest in rank he could manifest, but after this much energy spent, it would still do the job. "The day is not yet done..." He grated out in his deep voice, the blade shimmered then lengthened into a white short spear of light, an arrow that he held without pain with his fingers. "A King would kneels at my feet," This close, should Gilgamesh even attempt another-- "and the mercy that is deserved..." what he had showed another, "Is none."
"RETURN TO THE THRONE!"
A shout of intent and movement, to end this.
A golden streak blazes through the darkened sky, making good time from the Gate to the site of the battle. The Radiant Dynamo of Invention got wind of a strike against Karazhan from her man in the IPA; now both she and her informant are going there to survey the scene and pick up any pieces that are left. Like Gilgamesh.
The King of Heroes is a Solar in likeness only; he has no anima banner to light up the sky. Nevertheless, he's difficult to miss--clutching her comrade/son figure to her chest, Dynamo flies low over the ground, expertly dodging through the shattered remnants of dead trees, and startling nesting birds. The bad part about this entrance, of course, is that it's not exactly subtle--both Archer and Gilgamesh can hear the roar of Dynamo's boot-mounted jets.
"Ready, Sync?" Dynamo asks, of the green-haired teenager held in her arms.
It's actually kind of embarrassing to be carried like this. Sync has refrained from complaining about it, seeing as beggars can't be choosers.
He observes the battleground ahead from beneath a face-shadowing mask, frowning slightly. So even the so-called King of Heroes can get pushed that far. Whoever he's fighting--/solo/, for that matter--must be quite good. That, or he knows Gilgamesh's weak points.
"Ready," he says, before concentrating. The lightning flashing about thanks to the storm is very helpful; it provides Sync with the fonons (such as they are in different planes) he needs to cast a certain arte. It's a precision shot, at that, since Gilgamesh isn't marked--that is to say, if Sync dropped an arte on both their heads, he'd get hurt too. So as Archer moves to finish this, a dome of crackling black energy whorls forth from an epicenter at his back, its gravitational field finding its edge somewhere in the short distance between him and Gilgamesh.
"I kneel...to -none-!" Though it pains to speak after the injuries he's managed to suffer at the hand of this charlatan, it is not a pain Gilgamesh shall allow to quiet him. His good hand twists the sword lodged in Archer's shoulder with defiant will, tilting hard to the side as he's able in anticipation of the broken phantasm stabbing at his neck. He feels the initial bite into his skin...will it go further than that? Was it not enough? Or, could this ridiculous fool have done the unthinkable...
The King of Heroes would never know, for at that moment an unknown, unasked for and unassailable force strikes in their vicinity. An unknown magic, an outsider's spell..pulling him and his opponent apart.
His body reacts out of sheer, instinctual self-preservation; Gilgamesh is several paces away from the red knight before his mind has even caught up with situation. A look of extreme dissatisfaction comes over the Sumerian's bloodied visage as a hand reaches up to trace along the shallow but bleeding puncture wound in the side of his neck. "You will -not- say you slew the King of Heroes this day, False One, nor any other." Almost stumbling back, a hand sets upon the pommel of a buried blade and rights himself, "If I ever return to the throne...it shall be in triumph, with my green-eyed prize draped over my shoulder." Crimson eyes narrow, "And not one moment sooner."
His gaze then turns to his circling benefactors, grimacing in something that, whatever it is, does not particularly look like gratitude. Even the best-laid plans could fall victim to the unpredictable variable, a lesson it paid to remember.
To allow distraction for even a moment, was to invite death. One had to be utterly focused on the battle ahead with one like Gilgamesh, how /unfortunate/ that Archer's own warnings would come to pass. He had inferred to Rin that the impossibly arrogant Servant had the capcity to work with others, and to remember-- and though the truth was today the latter had had no prior failsafe arranged, there were others. And they intruded, for /him/. Victory was so close, it even scored the flesh it should have been plunged into, the energy dispersed in magnificent display, shattering the rest of the vessel that had been fashioned for all Eirei by the Grail...but no.
"No.."
It was a sound almost lost beneath a hissed breath of outward frustration. Even the best laid plans...No matter how he had accounted for everything, there was little to be done about two new unknowns, not as he was. Near expended. The broken phantasm melted away between his fingers, thwarted eyes fixed on Gilgamesh. The summoned magic, not the same as magecraft had wasted no time in making its presence known, its rapidly expanding borders clinging at, then threatening to buffet him without refrain once trapped within its grips. The red train whipped wildly about him, his hair blown as he drew his lips back in a grimace.
"I say so already! And I'll say it again, I've seen an incarnation of you already die..." By his hand no less. "Whatever the world, I will see you added as well." His body was wracked further with pain as he further braced himself, Archer had no more reason to linger. "This much however you can remember," Flashing Gilgamesh a determined grin, one that didn't reach his hardened flinty gaze, "this mongrel, this false one...drove you to this limit!" One only strangers could save him from. It was enough for any King's pride to be bruised, or battered.
But to carry out any of his own promises, he had to get out of this. Alive. And as far as he had pushed himself...there was only really one avenue to ensure this. His dangerous battles had only begun, this next one he might not yet survive. Not that one 'Master', from /Hell/.
Once he had whethered the worst, striving to keep at the outermost of the dome-like creation...weakened, injured, and at his end-- Archer would not remain present for further punishment. The two might find this disappointing, but if they wanted to have words with this Servant, it would have to be at another time. But never worry, he'd taken a moment to cast his sights skyward, and /this/ Servant would truely remember their faces. For he'd seen them very well.
Mercifully for Sync, his embarassment is going to be short-lived; as soon as Dynamo's within range of Gilgamesh and Archer, she drops the Replica, letting him fall a short distance to the ground. As Archer retreats, Dynamo jets back up into the sky, circling the area once like some sort of golden vulture before landing beside the wounded Gilgamesh.
It's taking all her willpower to keep the smirk off her face. It wouldn't be very wise to greet the humbled King with sarcasm and smartassery, as funny as it would be.
"King of Heroes," Dynamo says, "I see they finally caught up with you."
Archer would have seen Sync's mask very well, anyway. It's just as well that he wears one. The God-General watches in turn as the Servant makes his escape, smirking. Not dead, huh? Well, he wasn't expecting that, anyway. That'd be too *convenient*.
He flips in midair to land nimbly on the ground when Dynamo drops him, approaching Gilgamesh casually (and noting that less-than-perfectly-grateful look on his face as he does so) while the Alchemical makes sure that Archer got the hell out of dodge. And, like Dynamo, he is having a devilishly hard time keeping a smug smirk off his face. At least he's successful, though. Sync is an ass, but he's better at diplomacy that one might initially think.
"Too bad. That arte didn't finish him off," he remarks, glancing the way that Archer had gone. "Though honestly, I'm not surprised." If *Gilgamesh* was losing to him... but again, Sync is better at diplomacy than one might think. "Greetings to you, King of Heroes, though I suspect you feel us poorly met."
"Whatever knowledge you believe your false future has given you is worthless!" Gilgamesh growls a challenge at Archer's proclamation, his rage not a bit diminished for his lessened capacity to fight, "The only one worthy of being called a King beneath all Heaven and Earth stands before you! Whatever pretender you defeated has proven his falsehood by that fact alone." Still, the fact that he had been forced to use -this- much against this lone servant...even if he had only been at half his strength, even with the injuries he'd taken at Karazhan...such a result was utterly unacceptable to the First Hero's pride. A sense of malice intensely permeates the air at Archer's final barb, heavy enough that Sync and Dynamo both may feel it with whatever senses they have at their disposal. "I will not forget this, charlatan. No corner of the many earths shall I leave unturned until I grasp your throat." Blood and rain mix together and sizzle into steam alike from heat of his exposed, burning divine markings, "You have made the worst error of your pathetic life."
No further words are spared for the red knight as he takes his leave, an angry disposition waiting to face his would-be...allies, the term they offered before. "Best that you did not." He offers to Sync with a snap, straightening his sloping posture, "That man's death belongs me." He'll regard Dynamo when she lands, a fist clenched, "Artificer. Your assistance, both of you, was /not/ requested! The matter was in hand." His voice quavers as thunder peals overhead, the weapons littering the battleground vanishing upon the final symbol, restored to the confines of his gate. With it closed, the burden of his own injuries eases somewhat.
"'They' are another matter entirely..." Reaching for his limp arm, the King of Heroes winces not even once as he resets the bone with an unpleasant crack and pop. An arm he could have restored to his use at any point in this battle or the one before it, yet refused to out of pride. Now that the storm was past (Both of them, it seemed, as the rain begin slow and clouds part above), he had no qualms. "That tower had become a nuisance ever since two hapless fools discovered it, anyways." Rotating and flexing the restored limb, his face pinches in annoyance at an unreliable body, "Seal or no, I was bound to leave it. That man..." The fury has not left his eyes as he speaks, "Is unrelated, and will face my full wrath in due time." Beaten as he is, the Golden King appears to have lost none of his regal sense of command. In his mind, he is surely still regarding these two from a throne, bloodied or no.
Gilgamesh is raging. His pride has been grievously wounded, this Dynamo can easily pick up on. You'd have to be blind to /not/ notice it. Seemingly fearless, the Alchemical strides towards the downed, wounded King of Heroes, leaving strange footprints in the muddy ground.
"I'm sure you would've, in time," Dynamo says. "You are, after all, an intelligent man." Here the Orichalcum-caste takes a bit of a risk--she frowns, and says, simply: "Do you need a hand? They might hit again, to try and finish you off while you're wounded and without your leylines." How did she know about that? "I'm certain they'll come after you again, given everything you did."
Sync merely places a hand on his hip, still holding back a smile. Dynamo has this in hand, and given as she's the one in charge, he'll let her do the talking.
Going from a matter of battle to one of...diplomacy was not a talent well-suited the Golden Servant. Yet he somehow manages in closing his eyes and ceasing the pounding of his heart, compressing that all-consuming rage into a point within himself. There he would let it sit, pristine and untouched, waiting to be unleashed the very moment he set his sights on that red-dyed mockery again.
A slightly more detached, but nonetheless haughty sentiment greets the Exalt when those eyes open again. "On the right world, rest alone can replenish my power to an extent. Those fools are free to throw themselves against me and die as they like." Well, he's clearly gained not a shred of respect nor fear for the IPA out of all this, irritation the only discernable emotion hence expressed, "However, if a worthy battle with the King of Knights is to be had before I claim her, then another such place will be needed." Either that or form a contract, which he was rather loathe to do.
A small smile twists at the end of his lips, "Hm, you're well informed." He casts an eye to the twinkling of the night stars now that the clouds have parted enough, fallen rain now clearly seen to be steaming off the ground in places where the fighting had been particularly...well, heated. "I can cooperate with mortals when it suits me, artificer, and if you know a more discrete place where I may rest between my excursions, your previous offer could have merit." A slight growl to his tone still, but the killing intent he'd exuded seemed to diminish the more the King of Heroes spoke. Gilgamesh was a creature of wild extremes, it would seem.
He just doesn't learn. He's a bit like a brain-damaged machine-spirit that keeps executing its last directive, no matter how harmful, stupid, or inappropriate it is. The difference, here, is that Gilgamesh has enough power to back up his bullheadedness, and then some. Dynamo wasn't expecting him to /die/ here--she'd have been disappointed if he /had/--but she still wants to shake her head at the man.
She doesn't, of course. "We can give you that," Dynamo says, evenly. "A place to stay and recover. I don't know much about how ley-lines work there, but I'm sure you can find someone who does--or, barring that, an adequate substitute. All I ask in return is that you aid us in our endeavors. I can assure you plenty of action against the people sheltering Saber, if that's what you desire."
At that, Gilgamesh crosses his arms, fitting the woman with an emotionless stare. Hm, a bit more demanding than Kotominei had been...but it was not as if the priest had any real control over him either. "Prana is prana, for a heroic soul the sustenance is all the same." He waves that concern away casually, tilting his head slightly to the side, "When I deem it fit for my attention." There were certainly a few of those within the IPA who were deserving of his justice, though none so much as the man who had just left their presence, "Know that I shall come and go as I wish, at a King's prerogative."
A somewhat lop-sided deal so far one might imagine, which The King of Heroes was not ignorant of. There was, however, something that may sweeten to deal, which his royal obligations would not allow him to ignore. "Be that as it may..." At this his voice grates a trifle more, the next words uttered only grudgingly by his pride, "However unnecessary, I cannot overlook what you have done. The King of Heroes will be beholden to none, and thus I grant both you a single boon: You may make a request I will honor without question, bound so by my own word. After such, I shall consider the matter repaid." He levels his gaze firmly at the pair, there was a danger in his eyes, "However, I suggest using it wisely. I will not be pleased by trivial tasks." The careless flaunting his power by his original master to mask a farce of killing another servant was a thorn that still irritated him, from time to time.
Such a proud creature. Gilgamesh is no Solar, but you'd be hard-pressed to tell the difference between the King of Heroes and your average pre-Usurpation Dawn. The similarities are not lost on the woman who is, essentially, a Solar prototype--and inwardly, it stokes the little flame of jealousy and hatred. Some day, Dynamo decides, I will have a proper body, and proper powers. Some day, I will get revenge on the tyrant of a deity who locked me in here.
A snippet of a dream floats through her mind--Cirian is standing before her, smiling, clad in gleaming gold, the mark of Dawn on his brow.
And once that is done, Dynamo will free her lover from his chains, as well. All in good time.
The Alchemical bows before Gilgamesh. "So noted, King of Heroes," she says. "I promise you that I will not squander your favor--I would never disrespect a valued ally so."
"Do you have any other requests?"
"I do not care for engaging the commonalty beyond necessity." Gilgamesh shall state simply in response, "Inform your...cabal, or whatever you might call it, of this if you must, but wait on it." He takes a moment to observe the state of his body. Though he remains covered in his (and the other servant's) blood, none of his wounds continue to bleed, "My injuries heal swiftly compared to a mortal's..." Not as swiftly as Saber's, but he'll omit that fact, "The mana I have expended shall take a bit longer to restore, however. I shall requre several days of rest, and will not take kindly to interruption." With presumption in his voice, and the abilities he'd well displayed, it was all too evident that Gilgamesh held a power that could not be commanded, but only steered with an enterprising mind and more than a little of divine luck, which the servant himself had in spades.
"Let us quit this place then." He'll decide that for himself, at least, turning only once more to regard the ruined half-mile of stone and earth his battle with Archer left in it's wake, along with the distant, smoking top of Karazhan. A deep enmity fills him briefly, until he turns away, "I am finished with this pathetic world."
And so, with head held high, the King of Heroes takes his leave. Following no one, brooking no argument, his steps shall carry him to the Gate.
Of course, he'll eventually have to ask where to go.
Indeed. Dynamo bows once again, and turns to follow Gilgamesh. She keeps a healthy, respectful distance from the Servant, the better to keep an eye on him--she's not expecting treachery, and to be honest, Gilgamesh doesn't seem truly /capable/ of it--but it never, ever hurts to be careful.
And without further pomp and fanfare, she'll escort him back to the Undercity. It should be secluded enough for Gilgamesh's tastes.
And with that, Gil formerly joins the BA and what was just supposed to be a couple of introductory for-fun scenes that turned into an actual plot is -done-! Thanks to all who participate! It was quite enjoyable for me, and I hope everyone else involved likewise had a good time. Gilplayer out! ._./
Where: Deadwind Pass, Azeroth
When: May 8th 2009 (Immediately after the battle of Karazhan)
What: While consider his next move, Gilgamesh is quite suddenly waylaid by an enemy servant in his flight from Karazhan, a servant he does not recognize. What's more, the man seems to possess abilities making him a natural opponent for the King of Heroes until two persistent member of the Black Alliance put a dent in the Bow Knight's plan..
Watch For: Archer dropping his reality marble, Gil getting angrier than he's ever been before. Also SWORDS SWORD SWORDS SWORDS
It wasn't working, his blows were being deflected, parried! Even the ones that struck fell short of a satisfying cleave into the servant's flesh...why?! These were mere imitations, pale copies of his glory and legend! The notion that these false replicas could even dare to meet his own on equal terms was one that twisted Gilgamesh's stomach in an ever tightening knot of anger.
Receiving as good as he gets, the King of Heroes leaps back from the respite in their clash with much of his clothes all but torn to rags, bleeding cosmetically in several places and substantially in fewer. Twin cuts line both cheeks, the smears of blood adorning his face with what almost seem like a primitive paint such a savage king might have gone to war with. The divine markings on his flesh burn red-hot with the servant's own killing intent, sizzling away what crimson rivulets dare to stray across them. He could not be sure any longer if the red haze crowding his vision was his own hatred or burst capillaries. Perhaps the were one and the same from the start.
An eye briefly glances at the dislocated arm that languishes at his side, useless throughout this entire fight. A more practical servant would take this crucial moment to reset the limb, enabling a more varied strategy and reducing the burden upon the remaining arm. That was a mongrel's option. For a heroic soul such as himself, for a King, there was never even a question. He would never acknowledge his opponent in such a fashion; One arm alone would crush this threat. For all he cared The Guardian of that nebulous woman could have severed the limb completely as far as this battle was concerned.
"You dare..." He speaks through gritted teeth, unbelieving of this man's deathwish, "To inflame me further, False One? The only thing you shall see is your own heart, as I cut it out!" Oblivious to the irony of the threat, and too resolved to consider Archer's own cryptic references, the Golden King races forth with a curved sickle-blade in hand. Ripples in the world's own reality herald the invasion of his legendary gate, a curtain of flesh-rending steel accompanying his impassioned charge to meet the bowyer head on.
Gae Bolg and Gugnir...weapons fated to alway strike their target. That was the conventional knowledge, yes, but convention was all too often left by the wayside when divine luck is invoked. At Gilgamesh's rank, that fact is likely what saves him. Whether through last minute footwork, a flung blade or something beyond rational explanation, Gugnir manages all but miss him as it flies wide and opens a new tear in his already savaged jacket, the barest hint of blood decorating the hardly-satiated speartip. Gae Bolg strikes truer but not enough to live up to its reputation, embedding itself to the side of his heart which is missed by several inches. An observer might not even be able to tell Gilgamesh had noticed it, for he continued to move forward even when the cursed polearm hits from several feet away.
But move he does, pushing as much of that bloody weapon through his own body as necessary in order to get within range, to strike a blow with that curved blade: Harpe, the weapon used to slay Medusa. The Greek sword shall swing at the arm that holds Gae Bolg. It is the nature of this phantasm to ignore all defenses both physical and otherwise. It would pass through one's flesh like a ghost, leaving not a mark upon the exterior yet cleanly severing sinew and bone within. "If you wish to parrot me so..." The King's smile is marred with cruelty, "Then you'd best look the part."
Archer chose his weapons well, each pressed to the limits of what they specialised in, each guaged and measured to lessen the remaining advantages Gilgmaesh held over him by being plainly...a stronger Servant. It was not enough to finish the job, and time was whittling down with each passing second as the burden upon his shoulders grew heavier in maintaining the Marble. Would he succumb and let it completly drain him into dissipating back to the Throne? After finishing the task or not-- if it was worth it. If it was that he was guarranteed that such a sacrifice would satisfy his desires, then yes. Why? Because--
"I dare."
Quietly spoken, a faint sweat had broken upon his skin, bleeding the blood and ash stains he had accumulated over the last few cataclysmic moments. The stoic determined cast to his features flickered twice, suprise slipping through briefly as he lay witness to Gilgamesh's bold entrapment. A painful risky one, adding further injury to himself in order to grasp that chance for a secured injury--Gae Bolg lay hugged through the King's chest...as if even now its true owner were relishing in some belated revenge. But it also stalled his actions, his attempts at evasions coming too slowly to voice the next...
Too close to summon an effective shield, by the time he dropped the spear and wrenched himself about, the ghostly phantasm had already bit into and glided on through the joint of his shoulder, leaving nary a blemish on his harried mantle...but a searing of pain. "Tch!" To his credit, Gugnir reversed its swing in a riposte to take advantage of the man's momentary victory. It also gave him a brief respite, though he had no intentions of letting up. Around the pair of Servants, the air was still alive with phantasms, each adding to the danger of the battle. Thus far he had acted to only neutralise that which Gilgamesh had brought forth. But this time...
"Don't be mistaken. This is no honour towards you," Indeed, near mirror images. "you are a means to an end. A useful tool that I did not hesitate to make my own." That wretched smile, that mocking belittling. The swords that littered the parched ground rose, unearthing themselves even as more appeared like some stormy bristling creation of gleaming silver and assorted hues. Weapons of every and any kind, many familiar, many the exact. "And now you are more trouble than you are worth, like a rabid dog to be put down."
He discarded Gungnir for a scimitar, Zulfiquar, blade of the prophet, that which delineated between right and wrong, the seeker of truth and bane of wrong doings. "I am correcting what should be." The entire Reality Marble was against Gilgamesh, and it would seem he would descover the answer to the earlier question...did he truely? Did the Gates of Bablyon...have enough swords. The tip of the curved blade pointed, damningly, "What say you King of Heroes?" The world shuddered, "Make your peace." then descended.
The grim satisfaction of wounding the False King was stolen from Gilgamesh by the man's ensuing impertinent nature, his red eyes glowing as if possessed of hot coals within. "As if you could give honor, mongrel." The words are spat from his mouth, "Everything you do is an affront, right down to the breath you draw." Yet the man goes on, his ire rising with every syllable. Stepping away as Gae Bolg vanishes, the King of Heroes makes no attempt to staunch the bleeding in his side. In his hand appears a blade to match the one wielded by a prophet: Tizona, the sword of the crusader.
"Whatever you think you know of despair, of regret, of pain..." The Golden King seethes under the other's verbal barbs, never before having countenanced a foe of such utter impropriety, of such flagrant disrespect, "I shall show you how little you truly know. A King knows no peace." With but a trace of bitterness in his tone, the Sumerian gives himself wholly to the whim of battle, calling forth his Gate in entirety to the other Archer's challenge.
Swords clash in endless cacophony, piercing flesh and bone where they are not cancelled out as the First Hero closes once more with his opponent, intent on revenge. Even with this much, he was not yet done.
Not even close.
***** AN INORDINATE AMOUNT OF OFF-SCREEN ASSKICKING LATER *****
Rain, lightning and thunder had begun to fall in an unusually precipitous coincidence as the King of Heroes yielded the tower of Karazhan, now that it was rendered useless to him by loathsome sorcery. The gleaming chariot of Vimana had split the falling curtain to ribbons in its wake, covering leagues of distance from the tower in seconds.
That is, until a an angled blast of devastating light had caught the airship's flank with a crash of thunder, bringing it spiraling down into unsympathetic, craggy landscape of Deadwind Pass in a furious crash, not far from a Gate that leaves this world.
To any on-lookers of the disaster, a clash of such intensity that the the earth itself began to shake for containing it ensued in short order. Arcing flashes of light raged upward to the dismal sky, toppling rock spires and carving new gouges into the earth. As one neared the site of battle (If they actually possessed a mind to do so) it became ever indistinct if the cacophonous roar overhead was of natural thunder or not.
Rock, earth and dust have been scorched black at least half a kilometre away from the struggle's epicenter, yet the funeral yard of weapons one might have seen extended even further than that. Blades of every make and design bury themselves in the landscape, mute witnesses to the furor that has taken place.
There, in the very center of what seemed like the aftermath of more modern airstrike, stood just two figures. One was only barely recognizable as the nebulous King of Heroes. His clothes have been rended to tatters, his gold hair matted with blood. Crimson-painted all over, he bears his opponent hateful glare with a single sword driven into the other's shoulder with his one useful arm, leaning full tilt into the blow. Utterly blind to his surrounding, the white-haired man is the sole focus of the Golden King's vision, voice seething with spite as words manage to choke forth, "Mongrel...bastard..."
Leeched of all the vibrant hues of a burning sunset, the skies had returned to the dismally forlorn greys and inky blacks briefly illuminated by the forked flickers of lightning still at play in the heavens. The gears were gone, as had the neverending land of swords...replaced instead by a lesser incarnation. It was no less daunting in its view, for one unaccustomed to the knowledge of what an Eirei was, that the two figures at the center of this maelstrom were responsible...These two figures, at the end of their respective strengths. Neither had the boundless well of mana from which to draw from, one by choice, the other through deceit.
The rain had stilled its downfall momentarily, leaving both men covered in the badges given unto them from their long battle. Mud splattered his boots, his crimson clothing already darkened in muted testament to the blood already shed, and then there were those splashes that streaked or speckled dark skin. He was no better off than the man who would be the King of Heroes, atleast in appearances. His jaw was clenched, shoulder wrested back by the plain force driven through it by the blade of the other...But it was a sacrifice for this one moment in time. His white crown was scattered across his forehead, stuck to his temples by sweat and blood, but he was the one who stood over the man who would never admit defeat.
A blade of lightless stygian rested against the neck of Gilgamesh, one of the paired blades he was want to use often. It was hardly one of the strongest in rank he could manifest, but after this much energy spent, it would still do the job. "The day is not yet done..." He grated out in his deep voice, the blade shimmered then lengthened into a white short spear of light, an arrow that he held without pain with his fingers. "A King would kneels at my feet," This close, should Gilgamesh even attempt another-- "and the mercy that is deserved..." what he had showed another, "Is none."
"RETURN TO THE THRONE!"
A shout of intent and movement, to end this.
A golden streak blazes through the darkened sky, making good time from the Gate to the site of the battle. The Radiant Dynamo of Invention got wind of a strike against Karazhan from her man in the IPA; now both she and her informant are going there to survey the scene and pick up any pieces that are left. Like Gilgamesh.
The King of Heroes is a Solar in likeness only; he has no anima banner to light up the sky. Nevertheless, he's difficult to miss--clutching her comrade/son figure to her chest, Dynamo flies low over the ground, expertly dodging through the shattered remnants of dead trees, and startling nesting birds. The bad part about this entrance, of course, is that it's not exactly subtle--both Archer and Gilgamesh can hear the roar of Dynamo's boot-mounted jets.
"Ready, Sync?" Dynamo asks, of the green-haired teenager held in her arms.
It's actually kind of embarrassing to be carried like this. Sync has refrained from complaining about it, seeing as beggars can't be choosers.
He observes the battleground ahead from beneath a face-shadowing mask, frowning slightly. So even the so-called King of Heroes can get pushed that far. Whoever he's fighting--/solo/, for that matter--must be quite good. That, or he knows Gilgamesh's weak points.
"Ready," he says, before concentrating. The lightning flashing about thanks to the storm is very helpful; it provides Sync with the fonons (such as they are in different planes) he needs to cast a certain arte. It's a precision shot, at that, since Gilgamesh isn't marked--that is to say, if Sync dropped an arte on both their heads, he'd get hurt too. So as Archer moves to finish this, a dome of crackling black energy whorls forth from an epicenter at his back, its gravitational field finding its edge somewhere in the short distance between him and Gilgamesh.
"I kneel...to -none-!" Though it pains to speak after the injuries he's managed to suffer at the hand of this charlatan, it is not a pain Gilgamesh shall allow to quiet him. His good hand twists the sword lodged in Archer's shoulder with defiant will, tilting hard to the side as he's able in anticipation of the broken phantasm stabbing at his neck. He feels the initial bite into his skin...will it go further than that? Was it not enough? Or, could this ridiculous fool have done the unthinkable...
The King of Heroes would never know, for at that moment an unknown, unasked for and unassailable force strikes in their vicinity. An unknown magic, an outsider's spell..pulling him and his opponent apart.
His body reacts out of sheer, instinctual self-preservation; Gilgamesh is several paces away from the red knight before his mind has even caught up with situation. A look of extreme dissatisfaction comes over the Sumerian's bloodied visage as a hand reaches up to trace along the shallow but bleeding puncture wound in the side of his neck. "You will -not- say you slew the King of Heroes this day, False One, nor any other." Almost stumbling back, a hand sets upon the pommel of a buried blade and rights himself, "If I ever return to the throne...it shall be in triumph, with my green-eyed prize draped over my shoulder." Crimson eyes narrow, "And not one moment sooner."
His gaze then turns to his circling benefactors, grimacing in something that, whatever it is, does not particularly look like gratitude. Even the best-laid plans could fall victim to the unpredictable variable, a lesson it paid to remember.
To allow distraction for even a moment, was to invite death. One had to be utterly focused on the battle ahead with one like Gilgamesh, how /unfortunate/ that Archer's own warnings would come to pass. He had inferred to Rin that the impossibly arrogant Servant had the capcity to work with others, and to remember-- and though the truth was today the latter had had no prior failsafe arranged, there were others. And they intruded, for /him/. Victory was so close, it even scored the flesh it should have been plunged into, the energy dispersed in magnificent display, shattering the rest of the vessel that had been fashioned for all Eirei by the Grail...but no.
"No.."
It was a sound almost lost beneath a hissed breath of outward frustration. Even the best laid plans...No matter how he had accounted for everything, there was little to be done about two new unknowns, not as he was. Near expended. The broken phantasm melted away between his fingers, thwarted eyes fixed on Gilgamesh. The summoned magic, not the same as magecraft had wasted no time in making its presence known, its rapidly expanding borders clinging at, then threatening to buffet him without refrain once trapped within its grips. The red train whipped wildly about him, his hair blown as he drew his lips back in a grimace.
"I say so already! And I'll say it again, I've seen an incarnation of you already die..." By his hand no less. "Whatever the world, I will see you added as well." His body was wracked further with pain as he further braced himself, Archer had no more reason to linger. "This much however you can remember," Flashing Gilgamesh a determined grin, one that didn't reach his hardened flinty gaze, "this mongrel, this false one...drove you to this limit!" One only strangers could save him from. It was enough for any King's pride to be bruised, or battered.
But to carry out any of his own promises, he had to get out of this. Alive. And as far as he had pushed himself...there was only really one avenue to ensure this. His dangerous battles had only begun, this next one he might not yet survive. Not that one 'Master', from /Hell/.
Once he had whethered the worst, striving to keep at the outermost of the dome-like creation...weakened, injured, and at his end-- Archer would not remain present for further punishment. The two might find this disappointing, but if they wanted to have words with this Servant, it would have to be at another time. But never worry, he'd taken a moment to cast his sights skyward, and /this/ Servant would truely remember their faces. For he'd seen them very well.
Mercifully for Sync, his embarassment is going to be short-lived; as soon as Dynamo's within range of Gilgamesh and Archer, she drops the Replica, letting him fall a short distance to the ground. As Archer retreats, Dynamo jets back up into the sky, circling the area once like some sort of golden vulture before landing beside the wounded Gilgamesh.
It's taking all her willpower to keep the smirk off her face. It wouldn't be very wise to greet the humbled King with sarcasm and smartassery, as funny as it would be.
"King of Heroes," Dynamo says, "I see they finally caught up with you."
Archer would have seen Sync's mask very well, anyway. It's just as well that he wears one. The God-General watches in turn as the Servant makes his escape, smirking. Not dead, huh? Well, he wasn't expecting that, anyway. That'd be too *convenient*.
He flips in midair to land nimbly on the ground when Dynamo drops him, approaching Gilgamesh casually (and noting that less-than-perfectly-grateful look on his face as he does so) while the Alchemical makes sure that Archer got the hell out of dodge. And, like Dynamo, he is having a devilishly hard time keeping a smug smirk off his face. At least he's successful, though. Sync is an ass, but he's better at diplomacy that one might initially think.
"Too bad. That arte didn't finish him off," he remarks, glancing the way that Archer had gone. "Though honestly, I'm not surprised." If *Gilgamesh* was losing to him... but again, Sync is better at diplomacy than one might think. "Greetings to you, King of Heroes, though I suspect you feel us poorly met."
"Whatever knowledge you believe your false future has given you is worthless!" Gilgamesh growls a challenge at Archer's proclamation, his rage not a bit diminished for his lessened capacity to fight, "The only one worthy of being called a King beneath all Heaven and Earth stands before you! Whatever pretender you defeated has proven his falsehood by that fact alone." Still, the fact that he had been forced to use -this- much against this lone servant...even if he had only been at half his strength, even with the injuries he'd taken at Karazhan...such a result was utterly unacceptable to the First Hero's pride. A sense of malice intensely permeates the air at Archer's final barb, heavy enough that Sync and Dynamo both may feel it with whatever senses they have at their disposal. "I will not forget this, charlatan. No corner of the many earths shall I leave unturned until I grasp your throat." Blood and rain mix together and sizzle into steam alike from heat of his exposed, burning divine markings, "You have made the worst error of your pathetic life."
No further words are spared for the red knight as he takes his leave, an angry disposition waiting to face his would-be...allies, the term they offered before. "Best that you did not." He offers to Sync with a snap, straightening his sloping posture, "That man's death belongs me." He'll regard Dynamo when she lands, a fist clenched, "Artificer. Your assistance, both of you, was /not/ requested! The matter was in hand." His voice quavers as thunder peals overhead, the weapons littering the battleground vanishing upon the final symbol, restored to the confines of his gate. With it closed, the burden of his own injuries eases somewhat.
"'They' are another matter entirely..." Reaching for his limp arm, the King of Heroes winces not even once as he resets the bone with an unpleasant crack and pop. An arm he could have restored to his use at any point in this battle or the one before it, yet refused to out of pride. Now that the storm was past (Both of them, it seemed, as the rain begin slow and clouds part above), he had no qualms. "That tower had become a nuisance ever since two hapless fools discovered it, anyways." Rotating and flexing the restored limb, his face pinches in annoyance at an unreliable body, "Seal or no, I was bound to leave it. That man..." The fury has not left his eyes as he speaks, "Is unrelated, and will face my full wrath in due time." Beaten as he is, the Golden King appears to have lost none of his regal sense of command. In his mind, he is surely still regarding these two from a throne, bloodied or no.
Gilgamesh is raging. His pride has been grievously wounded, this Dynamo can easily pick up on. You'd have to be blind to /not/ notice it. Seemingly fearless, the Alchemical strides towards the downed, wounded King of Heroes, leaving strange footprints in the muddy ground.
"I'm sure you would've, in time," Dynamo says. "You are, after all, an intelligent man." Here the Orichalcum-caste takes a bit of a risk--she frowns, and says, simply: "Do you need a hand? They might hit again, to try and finish you off while you're wounded and without your leylines." How did she know about that? "I'm certain they'll come after you again, given everything you did."
Sync merely places a hand on his hip, still holding back a smile. Dynamo has this in hand, and given as she's the one in charge, he'll let her do the talking.
Going from a matter of battle to one of...diplomacy was not a talent well-suited the Golden Servant. Yet he somehow manages in closing his eyes and ceasing the pounding of his heart, compressing that all-consuming rage into a point within himself. There he would let it sit, pristine and untouched, waiting to be unleashed the very moment he set his sights on that red-dyed mockery again.
A slightly more detached, but nonetheless haughty sentiment greets the Exalt when those eyes open again. "On the right world, rest alone can replenish my power to an extent. Those fools are free to throw themselves against me and die as they like." Well, he's clearly gained not a shred of respect nor fear for the IPA out of all this, irritation the only discernable emotion hence expressed, "However, if a worthy battle with the King of Knights is to be had before I claim her, then another such place will be needed." Either that or form a contract, which he was rather loathe to do.
A small smile twists at the end of his lips, "Hm, you're well informed." He casts an eye to the twinkling of the night stars now that the clouds have parted enough, fallen rain now clearly seen to be steaming off the ground in places where the fighting had been particularly...well, heated. "I can cooperate with mortals when it suits me, artificer, and if you know a more discrete place where I may rest between my excursions, your previous offer could have merit." A slight growl to his tone still, but the killing intent he'd exuded seemed to diminish the more the King of Heroes spoke. Gilgamesh was a creature of wild extremes, it would seem.
He just doesn't learn. He's a bit like a brain-damaged machine-spirit that keeps executing its last directive, no matter how harmful, stupid, or inappropriate it is. The difference, here, is that Gilgamesh has enough power to back up his bullheadedness, and then some. Dynamo wasn't expecting him to /die/ here--she'd have been disappointed if he /had/--but she still wants to shake her head at the man.
She doesn't, of course. "We can give you that," Dynamo says, evenly. "A place to stay and recover. I don't know much about how ley-lines work there, but I'm sure you can find someone who does--or, barring that, an adequate substitute. All I ask in return is that you aid us in our endeavors. I can assure you plenty of action against the people sheltering Saber, if that's what you desire."
At that, Gilgamesh crosses his arms, fitting the woman with an emotionless stare. Hm, a bit more demanding than Kotominei had been...but it was not as if the priest had any real control over him either. "Prana is prana, for a heroic soul the sustenance is all the same." He waves that concern away casually, tilting his head slightly to the side, "When I deem it fit for my attention." There were certainly a few of those within the IPA who were deserving of his justice, though none so much as the man who had just left their presence, "Know that I shall come and go as I wish, at a King's prerogative."
A somewhat lop-sided deal so far one might imagine, which The King of Heroes was not ignorant of. There was, however, something that may sweeten to deal, which his royal obligations would not allow him to ignore. "Be that as it may..." At this his voice grates a trifle more, the next words uttered only grudgingly by his pride, "However unnecessary, I cannot overlook what you have done. The King of Heroes will be beholden to none, and thus I grant both you a single boon: You may make a request I will honor without question, bound so by my own word. After such, I shall consider the matter repaid." He levels his gaze firmly at the pair, there was a danger in his eyes, "However, I suggest using it wisely. I will not be pleased by trivial tasks." The careless flaunting his power by his original master to mask a farce of killing another servant was a thorn that still irritated him, from time to time.
Such a proud creature. Gilgamesh is no Solar, but you'd be hard-pressed to tell the difference between the King of Heroes and your average pre-Usurpation Dawn. The similarities are not lost on the woman who is, essentially, a Solar prototype--and inwardly, it stokes the little flame of jealousy and hatred. Some day, Dynamo decides, I will have a proper body, and proper powers. Some day, I will get revenge on the tyrant of a deity who locked me in here.
A snippet of a dream floats through her mind--Cirian is standing before her, smiling, clad in gleaming gold, the mark of Dawn on his brow.
And once that is done, Dynamo will free her lover from his chains, as well. All in good time.
The Alchemical bows before Gilgamesh. "So noted, King of Heroes," she says. "I promise you that I will not squander your favor--I would never disrespect a valued ally so."
"Do you have any other requests?"
"I do not care for engaging the commonalty beyond necessity." Gilgamesh shall state simply in response, "Inform your...cabal, or whatever you might call it, of this if you must, but wait on it." He takes a moment to observe the state of his body. Though he remains covered in his (and the other servant's) blood, none of his wounds continue to bleed, "My injuries heal swiftly compared to a mortal's..." Not as swiftly as Saber's, but he'll omit that fact, "The mana I have expended shall take a bit longer to restore, however. I shall requre several days of rest, and will not take kindly to interruption." With presumption in his voice, and the abilities he'd well displayed, it was all too evident that Gilgamesh held a power that could not be commanded, but only steered with an enterprising mind and more than a little of divine luck, which the servant himself had in spades.
"Let us quit this place then." He'll decide that for himself, at least, turning only once more to regard the ruined half-mile of stone and earth his battle with Archer left in it's wake, along with the distant, smoking top of Karazhan. A deep enmity fills him briefly, until he turns away, "I am finished with this pathetic world."
And so, with head held high, the King of Heroes takes his leave. Following no one, brooking no argument, his steps shall carry him to the Gate.
Of course, he'll eventually have to ask where to go.
Indeed. Dynamo bows once again, and turns to follow Gilgamesh. She keeps a healthy, respectful distance from the Servant, the better to keep an eye on him--she's not expecting treachery, and to be honest, Gilgamesh doesn't seem truly /capable/ of it--but it never, ever hurts to be careful.
And without further pomp and fanfare, she'll escort him back to the Undercity. It should be secluded enough for Gilgamesh's tastes.
And with that, Gil formerly joins the BA and what was just supposed to be a couple of introductory for-fun scenes that turned into an actual plot is -done-! Thanks to all who participate! It was quite enjoyable for me, and I hope everyone else involved likewise had a good time. Gilplayer out! ._./