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Post by Chaldea-san on Jan 3, 2016 4:12:13 GMT
It's a new year and Chaldea needs to renegotiate it's funding.
Almost all world powers support the organization in some way, but they each contribute different things to the effort.
Because the higher-ups were deployed en-mass for this diplomatic effort, some of the Agents were sent as auxiliary security.
Clocktower. The magi of Europe all congregate here like it's their very own Mecca. The vice-director of this large organization, Head of the rich Barthomeloi family, had an appointment with one of the Chaldea Chiefs, in a private college owned by the family, not far from the British museum. Unfortunately it's seems there was a misunderstanding and the private security of the Barthomelois has kicked you out of the building. The man you were sent to protect is currently negotiating his entry into the building, and you were told it might take a while. But hey! London's a big city, and they have ways to contact their agents. |
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Post by Marinette Lévesque on Jan 7, 2016 0:55:52 GMT
Ah, good old Clocktower she hadn’t been back since before Chaldea and in all honesty she hadn’t expected such a quick return to London. Of all of the exotic, wonderful places with interesting flora and fauna she could have been whisked away to for her first mission and she was trapped in the concrete jungle known as London, in the same damn sovereign state she hailed from. Just her luck. Ruairi inhaled sharply, an attempt to compose herself lest her familiar do something unpredictable as much as she doted on Tam, he was still a beast. An ugly, sort of adorable newt like fuck up of a beast but a beast all the same. Instead, she settled for swearing under her breath, reaching one hand into the satchel Tam had been placed in to give him a pat instead. There was just something about petting his hairless little head that made her anger fade away, replacing it with simple annoyance.
“That man, is a fuckin’ bampot.”
How that man had become a chief in the first place was beyond her, if he didn’t know how to play the politics of Clocktower properly he should have been sent to Australia to collect woodchips or something. Because he was obviously that useless. How does one even get far in life making mistakes like that? Stupid man, leaving her and some blond she hadn’t quite taken the opportunity to get to know outside waiting (what was the point of getting to know a heroic spirit anyway? You could read their damn fairy tales any time you wanted). At first, she had questioned why a Servant had been needed, but now she understood that it was because ‘chief eejit’ was so damn incompetent that he needed someone on that level to make sure he crossed the road properly.
Okay, perhaps that was unfair but she had been left to explore a city she already vaguely knew with someone she had no intention of getting to know. If she had been sent somewhere else, the whole situation would have been ever so slightly more agreeable. But they hadn’t. They’d been sent to the UK, where it rained all the time and everyone was goddamn miserable because of it.
The red head sighed, glancing at her watch for a moment before turning to address the taller figure. Atlas was it? Maybe it had been Atilla? Definitely not Arthur, she would’ve gotten a little bit more excited if it had been Arthur. She couldn’t quite recall, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to care too much as she doubted he’d remembered hers either.
“What do they expect us to do exactly? Grab a Boris bike and go to see Big Ben?”
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Post by King Atlas on Jan 7, 2016 1:18:43 GMT
 Of course, the Servant she turned to was a slightly taller than usual gaudy monstrosity. In the half hour or so since Ruairi had been at the clock tower, Atlas made full use of his teleportation magic, hitting as many of the shops as he could while she was waiting. Not being seen was a challenge, but for a Servant like him, he was able to pull it off. So when he got back for her to get turned away, she would see a Servant in platform shoes, a gaudy as hell purple suit, a leopard printed, feathered hat, a fur coat to act as a mantle, gold rimmed sunglasses, chains, a feathered boa, and a fancy looking cane. It had altogether cost around several thousand pounds, but he doubted Chaldea would mind all that much. Though he hoped they did. He'd found out he was recognized by Chaldea in some list. He was very unhappy, because the more known he became, the more people would bother him. He had to change that. So one of the ways was to annoy Chaldea juuuuust enough. The other was to start pushing the buttons of the Masters without actually jeopardizing the mission or their existence. That way it wouldn't be enough to cut him off from mana, but enough to get him off those goddamn lists. So, to her question, his response was rather simple; "Are you wimbly fours mate? I'm crimbo ninan Sax apple smibbly din bibbly chap." He put out in his best faux British accent possible. He was wondering how he kept a straight face for that. He let that hang in the air before continuing. "I've been practicing the language called British. In preparation for this mission I binge watched a series called 'Austin Powers.' I don't see how it's funny." But there was still something to do. He'd already done what he wanted to do, but they should do something for her too. It would make this wait a little more bearable and it'd probably irritate Chaldea too. "Also I suppose we could just hit all the shops around here. Chaldea is paying for everything after all.""So I believe the proper term is Brief?"Let's see Chaldea put him back on their recognition list after this.
tags: Marinette Lévesque notes: it begins |
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Post by Marinette Lévesque on Jan 27, 2016 23:51:35 GMT
Oh god, the idiot who had gotten them kicked out was a bampot. But this man, this servant was something else entirely. Chaldea had put her with an absolute lunatic. They wanted her to die. Die of embarrassment. If they had wanted to kill her off they should have given her the opportunity to pass on the family crest and write a survival guide for living with Tam first. That would have been fair right? Was it too late to send them her terms and conditions? Probably. Now she was in London with a blonde pimp. Not that she had a problem with the way people dressed, she was from the land of the kilt after all. But kilts at least looked good. How much had blondie’s getup cost him anyway? Had he bartered to try and get the price down? Was she going to get in trouble for this?
Green hues narrowed slightly as he began to speak, it brought back memories of that time she had been in Edinburgh with a few American tourists. The painful, grating faux accents, the attempt at pretending to know about ‘British culture’, she supposed she had to count her blessings. He hadn’t mentioned anything about tea. Or throwing it into harbours. “Ah have no clue as ta what yer sayin’, so if you’d like to speak English. Go ahead. But if yuh wanna continue makin’ a mockery of the language, do it without giving me a headache,” a small frown made its way onto her face, the headache was already coming on. Not that that was anything new. Her irritation at most things, whether they be places, people or inanimate objects tended to give her headaches at the best of times.
“If yuh stop with the accent, we can go shopping. God knows you need something better to wear than…that thing.” Honestly, she would have been happier if he was wearing a goddamn mankini at least that would have been so weird it was almost quaint. Almost. His current attire was simply horrific. On second thought, they were going to go shopping whether he liked it or not. Because she didn’t want to be seen with blondie dressed like that. People would assume things. Or worse, people might think it was alternative fashion.
“Fuck if I know what the proper term is. Let’s just go. I don’t know what’s worse, standing around or looking at ye dressed like that.”
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Post by King Atlas on Jan 28, 2016 0:20:49 GMT
Atlas immediately knew what she was on about. In truth, he probably would have agreed. But REALLY in truth is he probably wouldn't be dressed like this unless he had a reason to, that being to sabotage his own ranking. But really, ruffling Ruairi's feathers would definitely be a bonus. So playing the part, Atlas looked around at his clothes before looking up and pausing. "I believe I understand what you mean, Master Ruairi. This outfit is not complete." Really it was terrible, but that wasn't going to be the line of logic that he'd run with. "I shall make sure to get gold plating for my teeth." He wondered how much it'd cost... and whether he'd be able to get it reversed. He'd be able to, right? So off they went. Atlas was leading the way towards a car dealership. She'd have to drive though. Atlas didn't have that fancy skill called Riding that some others of his Saber class normally would. However, the walk would be anything but casual, as Atlas took highly exaggerated steps, strutting from left to right, admittedly relying on his fancy new cane to help him keep balance. If this was enough to embarrass Ruairi, he wondered how she'd even survive what he was going to do next. The idea crept into him with a bit of glee, subtly manufacturing the item under his hideous layers of clothing. When they got to the shop, he turned to his Master. "Ah, yes, I must observe British custom, excuse me." And then immediately rushed in before he could be grabbed or stopped, and, working juuuuust a little magic to boost the volume of his voice a weeeeee bit, made his declaration. "Ruairi Arascain of House Arascain of Scotland, first of her name." Whatever attention that was on them now would undoubtedly be multiplied, especially as Atlas pulled the item he created out from under his clothes. A trumpet. And he began to play.
tags: Marinette Lévesque notes: that last line is a link |
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