999999/The Man Who Invented the Twentieth Century

The Man Who Invented the Twentieth Century
Date of Scene:	22 October 2014
Location:	Dun Realtai
Synopsis:	The mysterious Mikhail and his unknown Servant meet with the allies in Dún Reáltaí.
Cast of Characters:	253, 346, 482, Sir Gawain
Tinyplot:	Fate/Maelstrom

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Sir Gawain has posed:
It is an awful, awful gross rainy day in Dun Realtai. So awful, we're not going to bother to describe the exact date or time because we're trying to distract ourselves from the awfulness.

INSIDE the Keep, however, it is significantly less awful. There's a fire lit up, and it's warm and cozy. Sir Gawain is sitting down around the fire, a t-shirt and an unzipped hoodie and a pair of blue jeans all that is keeping him warm.

He looks like one of those street kids you'd want to keep your daughter from dating.

He's invited his Master, Psyber, over for a few things: Food, ale, just hanging out, and least importantly of those, at least to him, talking shop about the Grail War.

With a bottle of some sort of alcohol in his hand, he speaks, that loud and happy voice, and that obnoxiously cheerful smile, very, very present.

"I wonder who Saber of White is. Apparently just meeting him should be enough to figure out his identity! Makes you think, he has to be pretty famous, yes?"

Taking a swig from his drink, he's still pondering it. Likely a national leader or hero of great renown, possibly still even recognizable by face in the modern day. Mikhail and Caster of White couldn't just call it out but they did recognize him, meaning he's probably not Eastern European, but still known over there.

As he processes this thought, a few loud knocks can be heard at the keep's door.

Now, who could that be?

Psyber (253) has posed:
Psyber is totally here, too. Psyber has a huge stein of ale in front of himself that he's drinking from and is seated in a chair, feet propped up and watching the fire, "I dunno. Maybe it's the condensed legend of the White Knight? Or like... William Adams, the White Samurai from the West." Psyber conjectures, thinking it over as he drinks.

He has some bread and cheese, a very simple snack, on a metal plate in front of himself. He picks up a piece of bread and puts some sharp cheddar on it, lifting it up to take a bite, "Either way, could be an interesting fight. I just hope we aren't setting ourselves up for a trapping fighting all that guy's battles. He's pretty clearly sketch."

"I mean, I'm not even sure what to wish for, this is all kind of happening so fast," He adds, stretching out and laying back in his seat. He idly looks towards the entrance of the keep when he can hear the knocks ringing out. He squints a bit suspiciously and carefully draws a knife from his belt.

"Were we expecting more company today?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The weather isn't stuck on permanent winter any more, but autumn in Dún Reáltaí isn't much better. Snow has been traded for cold and blustery days, with wind and rain aplenty, occasionally turning to frozen sleet. Today is on the cold end of the spectrum. It's the perfect day to spend indoors.

Still forbidden from heavy work and still healing from his recent injuries, Bedivere has been contenting himself with light duty. Mostly, this has meant going over the keep's ledgers; when he's needed a physical break from that, sweeping out the newly-repaired storage rooms and guest quarters.

He comes down the stairwell stiffly and slowly, taking his time descending the stone-cut steps. His clothing is simple, a homespun hempen tunic and leggings, soft-soled leather boots, and an ash-grey sweater that looks like it came from a more modern world. It might have even come from the Fuyuki City that he and Saber had been staying at before.

The broom is left at the foot of the stairs as he crosses the room, standing in front of the fire for a moment. Those upper rooms are still cold, and he has no qualms about holding his hands before the fire for warmth – although the action bares his own command seal, in plain sight of Gawain. By this point he's assumed the king's nephew has already figured it out for himself.

"Sir Psyber," he adds in passing, almost as an afterthought. "If someone were to threaten us here, I hardly think they would go through the trouble of knocking. If they are a guest, it is a grave insult to greet them with steel, and reflects poorly on my hospitality, my honour, and the honour of my king as well. Please put up your weapon."

He pauses, considering. "Furthermore, such open hostility is a sign of fear, or uncertainty, and it is a needless show of your hand to the enemy. If, indeed, this is an enemy."

Turning, he reluctantly leaves the fireside and crosses the hall to the door, trying to ignore his sudden sense of foreboding; the prickling at the back of his neck that had always told him danger was close at hand.

Bedivere opens the door, and then he spends several seconds staring out into the rain, and just who it is who happens to stand on the proverbial doorstep.

Just about everybody present can probably pick up on how his shoulders tense; even though his face isn't visible, one can still imagine the blank expression of shock on his face.

Saber (346) has posed:
Autumn had certainly come to Dún Reáltaí, at least the same way it had in Britain; grey skies, cold, and rain. It wasn't always that way, but there were enough days like it to make anyone assume that Albion was a constantly dreary place to live even in the modern era. No doubt many would wonder why anyone would choose to live there. But on clear days, a person was rewarded with brilliantly-coloured leaves and pleasantly cool breezes. It just happened to be that it was not one of those days.

While the majority of the heavy work of rebuilding the village proper had been completed in time, there were parts of the keep which had yet to be repaired. The going was much slower now, as both the lord's quarters at the uppermost level and the guest quarters below had been properly restored and insulated. And not a moment too soon; the enchanted winter had faded away, only to give way to the mild chill of autumn which would soon be followed by what promised to be a bitter winter. And given that her marshal was frequently being injured in battle, the King of Knights would have insisted upon the work being done. Fortunately, as of late Bedivere had acquiesced to such insistences, such as that he stick to light duty; it was not as if filling out the ledgers was not important work.

He was getting better at accepting that his king was more than used to performing what would have been 'drudge work'; enough time spent in the current era and in the multiverse had meant that she would have to adjust to doing things on her own even if she had been particularly bothered by it. Just as he had never considered his high rank and status to set him above sweeping floors due to his commoner background and personal humility, the king had come from a similarly modest background of hard – if rewarding – work. Arturia had never been raised as a princess – ignorant of her true lineage – and in many ways having to 'rise above' simple common work for the sake of the kingly image had always been stifling and many times inconvenient. It saved so much time doing things herself rather than having to wait for another to perform the necessary task, such as what the jade-eyed knight-king was currently occupied with.

Gawain and Psyber were currently relaxing with their own tankards of autumn ale, ruminating on the Grail War and the mysterious Saber of White when Arturia emerged from the kitchens with a tea service loaded with freshly-brewed tea, cream, honey, and biscuits. Clad in the white Aran sweater that Sakura had given her last Christmas and a knee-length charcoal-grey woollen skirt and leggings, her hair bound up into a simple ponytail by a black handkerchief, her attire was the modern sort she typically wore while she lived with Sakura and Rin at the Tohsaka manor.

While they had already been served a different kind of repast, there was someone else who would favour something hot and decidedly non-alcoholic. She had finished her task just in time; the lord of the lands was already descending the long flight of stairs. She frowned slightly, though not out of displeasure of something he had done; she would probably worry over him until the end of days. But the silver-haired knight was spared from her fussing by the unexpected knock at the door.

Saber had no need to see Bedivere's face to sense his tension and surprise as he opened the door. Even without their bond of Servant and Master, she would have felt it, so close were marshal and king. Though she made no effort to summon battle armour or even just Excalibur, the diminutive swordswoman remained alert, even a little on edge.

Sir Gawain has posed:
As Sir Bedivere opens the door, he will recognize two familiar faces. And they are most likely not the best faces to be seeing right now.

Mikhail Alkaev, and his Servant, Caster of White, stand in the doorway. Mikhail, a tall, lanky teenager wearing glasses, is clad in a thick jacket with a hood, which is currently over his head and soaked in rain. He smiles warmly as Sir Bedivere opens the door; it seems genuine, but hard to tell with him.

Caster of White is holding up a black umbrella over himself and Mikhail, and is already beginning to put it away. In contrast to Mikhail, he does not seem to be dressed for the weather. He's wearing a fancy three-piece suit made of wool, untouched by the rain. Without the hat disguising him, his hair and moustache are much more visible, impeccably groomed and cleaned. It is apparent that he is a man who cares quite a bit about how he looks.

As Mikhail speaks, Gawain rustles towards the door at his voice. Oh dear.

"Well met once again, Sir Franz. I apologize for the unexpected visit without informing you in advance, but I had no means of contact. I only wish to speak to Sir Gawain, if he is here."

Mikhail glances out into the courtyard, where Sir Gawain's bike is. He's probably here!

"You remember Caster of White, given by the alias of Milutin? It was his father's name, I actually had came up with it before I named him as the Holy King of Serbia. But, I can explain more details later. That is why I am here; I said I would explain what I could not in public, in private. And this seems like the best location to do so."

Mikhail takes a deep breath, before smiling warmly once more. Caster of White seems calm himself, the umbrella completely folded.

"I also vow to abide by your laws, of what little of them I know. I will not bring any violence into your keep, however, that I can contest. Not that it would do me much good; Sir Gawain is a Saber..and my Servant here is a Caster, and the conditions for a magic user here are..shoddy. No offense."

Inside the keep, Sir Gawain, who is listening, seems to frown a bit, However, he does whisper to Psyber.

"I believe we should hear him out. If he has more information..it could be useful in the long run."

Back outside, Mikhail waits, albeit he seems rather anxious.

"Will you take me as your guest? If it would help you, you can search me for weaponry, if you'd so like, but I do not have anything on me."

"I come with good intentions."

Psyber (253) has posed:
"Mm, true. I had not thought of that, and I apologize," Psyber says to Bedivere, dropping the knife back into his beltline a few moments later, "I forget where I am, at times, and I come from a world where Law of Hospitality isn't held to. I do not wish to make you a poor host by my actions," He says, careful to put the knife into his belt before the door can be opened and he bring insult onto Bedivere's keep.

The half-angel goes back to relaxing in the chair, looking towards Gawain as he whispers. Psyber gives a slight nod of his head as he sighs a bit, "Useful information, but I dislike how they keep seeking us out," Psyber says seriously and quietly, "There's a fine line between attempting to create an alliance and attempting to create a dependency."

"The fact he keeps showing up when we want information is suspicious, the fact he so willingly offers it sets me on edge," Psyber says before then acquiescing, "But still, you are right. I see no reason not to entertain them for now," He admits to Gawain before settling back onto his chair and staring at the fire for a few moments to think.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Dún Reáltaí has no colours to offer even if the weather were clear. Autumn here is an endless pageant of brown, grey, and drizzling rain to herald the changing seasons. With time to recover that might change, but for now the only resemblance to Albion is the rain and the temperature.

"Your apology is accepted, but please try to remember in the future." Bedivere flicks a brief glance to the half-angel; specifically at the knife as it's tucked back into the belt. "Peace was won in many places because of Brehon Law, and the truce and neutral ground it allowed for."

Before he can comment any more on that, though, he's frozen before those two familiar faces. He does hear Psyber's comment to Gawain, but he dares not respond to it with the strangers standing so close.

For a few moments, the knight at the door is the Left Hand of the King of Arturia and Gawain's memories. In spite of his commoner's clothing, he stands straight and tall, shows no unease, and practically radiates coldness and command.

This is his territory, and he will not give them the satisfaction of showing his apprehension.

Bedivere's mouth presses into a thin line. His head tilts almost imperceptibly, eyes flicking back to his companions to gauge their reactions. What they say is true, in spite of their inherent untrustworthiness; not only are Gawain and Psyber a formidable pair, but even in her reduced state, Arturia is not someone to be taken lightly.

His eyes turn back to Mikhail and Milutin, studying them flatly. For a moment it almost seems as though he might refuse, keeping them waiting long enough to perhaps make them uneasy, and then—

"Then I welcome you as a guest, in the hall of Dún Reáltaí," he states, formally. "You will abide by Brehon Law, so long as you remain in my hall, and it is thus: You will offer no threat to your hosts. You will bear no weapons so long as you remain in my hall. I will not be so petty as to search you for them, for they would be of little use to you, here, anyway. In exchange, I will offer you no threat as guest, and I will bare no steel against you."

Perhaps not, for he himself is mortal, and vulnerable to something as sudden as a gunshot. It does establish that he's not afraid of them, though; both to his company, and to his companions, perhaps encouraging that mindset. Show them no fear. If they've come here with ill intent, that ought to set them off-balance, for after all, they hold a position of defense against their "guests."

It would be more chivalrous to assume that they come with no especial malice, but in the War of the Holy Grail, that isn't an option. Yet at the same time, his motives are strictly tactical. Show the enemy no fear, and it will give them doubt. It worked time and again in the battles he had led, even when his forces had been hopelessly outnumbered by the Saxon host. It had worked in social settings, during tense negotiations.

And it will work here, he is certain, even though these are people of the modern era.

Bedivere waits precisely five more seconds to let his proclamation sink in to his guests, and then he steps aside, holding the door open for both Master and Servant.?

It is, perhaps, the most they've ever heard him speak. There is an aura of command and confidence about him that seems at odds with his humble nature; Arturia would recognise that he's wearing that old, familiar mask – this is not Bedivere, the humble and self-sacrificing knight that is their friend; this is Bedivere, the Left Hand of the King, who speaks with all the weight of royal command and expects to be obeyed in all things and shows no fear and no quarter.

"Take a seat by the fire if you wish," he says coldly. "And explain yourself quickly. I may yet suffer a change of heart in my hospitality if I feel you are a threat to my people, as a Master and Servant of the War of the Holy Grail."

"And nothing you have yet said or done has convinced me that your mere presence will not be more of an inconvenience than it is worth."

Saber (346) has posed:
The familiar kingly mask was already in place by the time Mikhail and the Caster of White came into view. Though she was in modern attire, it was not the rather austere three-piece suit of their first meeting, and as such didn't lend her much in the way of a commanding air. But then again, the King of Knights could project as much of that as she needed regardless of what she was wearing. Fifteen years of rule had honed that ability. In fact, in many ways it was simply a natural part of her; she could not simply turn her regal bearing off like a switch.vSaber stifled the frown of worry behind that mask, carefully concealing her emotions and thoughts. The magus appeared friendly enough, but she had lived through enough of a Grail War to know better than to take someone at face value. But Mikhail was correct; if there was a reasonably safe location to openly discuss the Grail War, that place was likely Dún Reáltaí. The Church might have been a refuge and technically neutral ground, but it was in no way protected from spying via familiars.

Her posture uptight in proper regal fashion, the jade-eyed knight silently observed the pair, falling back on the patterns familiar in Camelot. The king remained silent, delegating what needed to be conveyed to the authorities she had appointed. And the command Bedivere had taken upon their arrival had very much been the standard practise in Britain all those years ago.

The familiar system had some disadvantages as well as advantages. It was the duty of Servants to protect their Masters, but making an obvious move to act as Bedivere's bodyguard would have compromised what little potential safeguards they still possessed. Perhaps such a thing would make the black-haired magus reconsider if her potential identity, but ironically the marshal's air of command was also his shield. That was probably the safest place for him to be at the moment.

It was a tactically-sound move. Arturia expected no less from her marshal.

Arturia remained apprehensive, particularly regarding the offers of information with no apparent cost. True, Casters were not especially durable and many Servants were resistant to magic. But if Gilles de Rais had been any indication, there were more than a few Casters who had more than adequate ways around that.

But she, like Bedivere, would have extended hospitality, if for no other reason than it was rather miserable outside and they could not turn away shelter. Fortunately, he had established the ground rules and authority at the same time, needing none of her prompting. They did, after all, have no need for spoken communication, so alike knight and king were.

The jade eyes flicked to Psyber; indeed, would this be an alliance or a dependency? It would help if they knew a little more....

"Greetings," she hailed softly with a slight half-nod, half-bow, still mindful of proper manners. Distrust was no reason to be rude and fail to live up to chivalric virtues.

Sir Gawain has posed:
Mikhail listens intently to Bedivere, but he does not seem much fazed. A grand smile breaches his face, as he speaks. "I will abide by Brehon Law, as you wish, for I am but a mere guest in your hall. I am no threat, for what sort of ally would attack his own team?"

He walks forward into the keep, Caster of White close behind him. They move towards the hearth, and take a seat on the floor. Sir Gawain stares uneasily at Caster of White, who seems to remain calm and quiet; he seems to be lost in thought.

"Now..I have no information on our competitors. What I came to give you is information on myself and my Servant..and on our true target." As Mikhail speaks, there's a lot of heavy emphasis on our, as he seems to see the group as a true team, in some way.

"My alliance was not some sort of malicious plot to get you to do my work, nor do I have any intentions on ever backstabbing you in this war. I came to solve distrust; it is not good for allies to not trust each other. I may have seemed untrustworthy myself the other day, twisted words and riddles, lies and patterns of speech. To tell the truth, I was trying to signal my words, as they were meant for other ears, but I am better at hiding the truth than showing it."

Mikhail adjusts his glasses, before brushing a hand through his wet hair and putting his hands in front of the hearth.

"The Alkaevs are con artists, after all. We specialize in..wordcraft, as I like to call it. We use magecraft to enhance our words, play the perfect games, tell convincing stories. This, as grand as it may seem, is not one of those false stories. I came to you, even though I did not completely trust you, for...familial reasons. And I am willing to put my entire trust in you, as I do not believe I can get to the end of this war by myself."

Mikhail stands up, however. There is a huge grin on his face, as he speaks.

"However, before I tell my story..I should clear the air. Caster of White is not the Holy King Milutin, as I said before. But, if I know Saber of Gold's identity..you have the right to know his."

His tone starts to become theatrical, as if he's putting on a sort of show. It seems like it's almost second nature to him, how fast he changes into it.

"I introduce to you, the man who defeated the Wizard of Menlo, the victor of the War of Currents! Greatest scientific mind to ever live, a true genius in the electrical arts! Son of Milutin.."

This, even without his name, should be enough to figure out a Servant's identity; but none of these names or titles reach out to Sir Gawain except very, very vaguely. Is Mikhail lying about his identity? Or does Gawain just, somehow, not have a cheat-sheet to it?

Mikhail points towards Caster of White, who begins to stand. He puts a hand briefly under his chin, before looking at the others, as Mikhail finishes his speech.

"Nikola Tesla, the man who invented the 20th century!"

The name is vaguely familiar to Sir Gawain..but for some reason, he just doesn't have recognition completely. Caster of White does a brief bow, before speaking, a confident but intelligent tone to his words, his Serbian accent prominent.

"It is a pleasure to finally formally meet you."

Mikhail's words continued to sit in Sir Gawain's ears..

Nikola Tesla..the man who invented the 20th century.

Psyber (253) has posed:
"Nikola Tesla, hm?" Psyber says curiously, tilting his head to the side in a bit of curiosity, "So which did you get as your Noble Phantasm? The Tunguska Event? Or simply all electricity?" He inquires. It seems Psyber DOES know Tesla, and Psyber is a bit curious about his identity.

Partially that is because meeting Tesla is a big deal. But partially it's because Psyber is incredibly suspicious, especially since just the other night there was a discussion in which several people said that Servants could not be from the modern era. He distinctly recalls that being mentioned, at least by the boy named Sieg.

The half-angel sighs a bit and then sips from his beverage, "I'll be honest, I don't usually trust people who come to me to win battles they can't on their own. This is because at least twice now those people have attempted to kill me and have become long term problems I've been forced to deal with in the years that followed. It is nothing against you on a personal level, it is just how I am."

At least one of those two is Viridian Sunrise.

Still, he takes a few moments to think, "That said, I will leave the decision to my Servant. This is his war to fight, I am merely here to see that he obtains his wish. Therefore the risks that are taken and the allegiances formed are ultimately his to determine, in my eyes. I will put my trust in his judgment, because I would not feel right making a decision he did not agree with."

"If he decides that you can be trusted, I will extend a limited amount of trust and alliance more than I already have," Psyber says firmly.

Everything he just said, from the phrasing to the simple and direct tone of his voice, takes their surroundings into account. He wants to be clear with his feelings to Mikhail and to Tesla, but he doesn't want to seem hostile and violate the hospitality Bedivere has offered. Nor does he wish to insult the two men. Psyber attempted to tread a careful precipice with his phrasing, for as casual and offhand as it may have seemed. He does not want to insult Bedivere's guests, and therefore bring any shame onto his keep. But he also did not want to lie to them.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Secure as the Church might have been, neither was Dún Reáltaí safe from the prying eyes of familiars, but any animals used thus would be conspicuous by their very presence. Birds would be noticed in the single barren oak tree or in the empty skies. Smaller creatures would likewise stand out by their very presence in the castle and its grounds. Even the rats have been subdued, with so little to feed on... and the villagers are cautious, and perhaps even a little skittish, still. If they saw something strange, they would be sure to report it.

In that regard, it may be more secure than the Church, but not by much. Nothing but honest word prevents the visitors from erupting into violence. That may have been enough to soothe Bedivere's suspicions, once upon a time, but these are different times, and the War of the Holy Grail introduces too many variables.

Yet for all of Arturia's regal posture, it seems evenly matched in her marshal. There's no telling which one of them may be the king. Perhaps the tall man with the silvery-blonde hair and the violet eyes is in fact King Arthur...? He might seem the obvious choice, to those who don't know. After all, King Arthur was not remembered as a woman. Perhaps that woman is Guinevere, then, or his Master? It seems the Eastern European pair haven't yet spotted the marshal's command seals.

His jaw works, briefly, and Arturia at least would recognise that he's torn. Perhaps it may just seem like a gesture of mild irritation to the strangers.

It would be wiser to let them think that she is the Master, and he the Servant; after all, King Arthur was not remembered as a woman. It is a secret even in the modern era, one that brings him some small amount of comfort – he had guarded that secret as well as could have been expected. Indeed, had he not been so unmistakably foreign within Camelot's borders, he could have played the king's double much as Gawain had.

Yet at the same time, he is not so presumptuous as to pretend to be the king, no matter how tactically sound the manoeuvre; even if he would know exactly how to put on a convincing act.

He simply watches Mikhail with hard eyes when the Master brushes past him and into the keep. His expression isn't necessarily hostile, but there is a stony impassivity to it that says Mikhail's overt friendliness is unconvincing.

Closing the door after them both, he pointedly does not latch it, moving to stand away from both friends and guests alike. It's a position that he wouldn't ordinarily take. If the situation were different, he might stand closer to Arturia at her left side, in customary habit... but it wouldn't do to give too much away, right now.

The brief glance he flicks toward her suggests he wants to be standing at her left side, though, because he doesn't trust these two. While it may be unbecoming of a host to show hostility towards a guest, there are no provisions against mistrust. After all, one could hardly expect the opposing sides of a war to meet with perfect trust between them, when calling for a truce under the shield of Brehon Law... and so long as these two remain in his hall, he will be suspicious. For too long in Camelot he relied on his instinctive mistrust; let it guide him in those treacherous political waters, to dismiss it now. Especially with as suspiciously as these two seem to behave.

He merely folds his arms, listening to Mikhail's words in silence.

"That is presuming that you know Saber of Gold correctly," he finally points out, in his soft but impassive voice. Those violet eyes settle on Mikhail, studying him with the kind of scrutiny that used to bring even generals to shift their weight uncomfortably. What secrets does this stranger hide?

And then, Mikhail reveals his Servant's identity in grand theatrical fashion, giving away the juicy details and the name with a flourish.

If he's expecting any reaction from the marshal, he will be sorely disappointed.

Bedivere just returns his stare coolly, unimpressed without even having to say so.

Actually, he has no idea who Nikola Tesla is, but he's not going to give that away for free. Mikhail can work for it if he wants to know just what the pale-haired knight knows.

He falls silent, then, letting the half-angel speak. The Servant is obviously someone with a legend of some kind attached to their name, but he can only surmise that it must be well after their own time. He can think of no one from the Slavic lands that matches a name like that; indeed, few of the Round Table had travelled to Camelot from distant lands, excepting one or two.

His focus returns just in time to note that Psyber seems to be placing the decision in Gawain's hands—

Oh.

Oh, no.

Bedivere's expression never changes, but he can feel something cold drop into the pit of his stomach at that impossible statement. Trusting Gawain to safely pilot a course through games of intrigue is like cutting off one's nose to spite one's face.

Well, that's about the shape of it. Gawain has an immense amount of trust for people he just met, and while it's certainly admirable to have such faith in one's fellow man, there are limits. If he's to be their guide through the murky waters of the Grail War's intrigue, they're all going to die. It's as simple as that.

This is a terrible idea... and he has no way to communicate that to Psyber, not without revealing their hand to the strangers.

Saber (346) has posed:
In the back of her mind, Arturia considered that, in the future, it might be a good idea to proof the keep against whatever spies might be sent their way. In all likelihood, it might not be especially necessary, but it would be one less problem to worry about. Up until this point, the best defence of their home had been its obscurity, though that appeared to have become increasingly compromised. How trouble seemed to keep finding them there remained a mystery. And the King of Knights did not especially enjoy ignorance of potential threats.

The jade-eyed knight glanced briefly at Bedivere, not missing the twitch. It was tactically advantageous to obfuscate which of them was the Master and which was the true King, even if the marshal might find pretending to be the king to be presumptuous on his part. A single, faint shake of her head told him no, it was actually a sound tactical move. At least, if Mikhail didn't already know which was which; the command seals would be a dead giveaway. But for the moment, the obfuscation was prudent, and she continued to match her air of authority to Bedivere's.

As if to add to the confusion, however, she kept her right hand hidden, letting the cuff of her sleeve hide her right hand as she served tea. Though it had been originally intended for the erstwhile lord and 'lady' of the village, hospitality demanded that their guests be served first. With a practised grace she set the filled teacups on the table in front of a pair of empty chairs, yet even as she did so she studied her marshal out of her peripheral vision and listened. She could easily tell he wasn't especially happy with his current position, but the rules of engagement had been shuffled up for the time being.

Even as Mikhail made reassurances, Saber remained uncertain. Whether or not the magus was telling the truth or even creatively exaggerating, alliances in the Grail War were a rather tricky thing. She recalled the temporary truce between Tokiomi and Irisviel – and she was unlikely to ever forget that meeting, if for no other reason than Archer's not-so subtle leering – and how that had ended. Even if Mikhail had nothing but pure intentions, that was not to say that he wouldn't be killed later on.

Flaxen eyebrows lifted slightly in curiosity. Con artists? Wordsmiths? That was a rather unusual speciality to be known for in the modern times; at least when it came to the hidden world of the magi. The power of words had been a common enough method for her era, where seer-poets often competed with one another weaving magic into their works. But the magi of the current era seemed restricted the far weaker forms of thaumaturgy.

The black-haired magus seemed to take some delight in the grand production, though.

The name was certainly one she had some passing familiarity with, both from her time in the multiverse as well as the knowledge imparted by the Grail itself. Mikhail was certainly telling the truth; the inventor could have only been a Caster, not to mention that the saint-king Mikhail had pretended he had been certainly would not have been. Perhaps there was some room for doubt, but the only way she could have confirmed it would have violated Brehon Law, merely for summoning her weapon.

Instead, the Servant kept her face neutral even as she recognised Caster's true name. and like Bedivere, she had some reservations about leaving the decision to Gawain. But then, neither she nor her marshal could step in lest they tip their proverbial hand, which was most likely what Psyber was trying to avoid. And neither of them could communicate with the Knight of the Sun as the two of them did.

Carefully, she regarded the Saber of Gold with slightly hooded eyes. Accepting the alliance would probably be prudent...but how he did so would be the problem.

Sir Gawain has posed:
As Sir Bedivere seems to test Mikhail, he fires back quickly, with but a smile on his face. "But I do. Sir Gawain, of Lot and Orkney. Knight of Camelot, owner of the Green Girdle, relative of King Arthur."

"He said so himself. Which, by the way, you should probably keep your identity less...announced on public channels. Not many magi are as unorthodox as my family, but with the new resources of this Grail War, you can't know who will do what. I was scouring for information on an enemy..and found something better than that."

Sir Gawain cringes again. He goofed up, alright. Though, if only Mikhail knows his identity, and he is trustworthy..then it might be less of an issue. Mikhail then glances eyes, first at Saber, and then at Sir Bedivere.

"One of you is a Servant, and the other their Master. Can't tell which, you're doing pretty good at hiding each other! But I do have some suspicions. You're both heroes of Arthurian lore; you're close with Sir Gawain there, from what I can gather, you live in a medieval village, and one of you is a Servant; ergo, the Master most likely knew the Servant in the past."

Mikhail suddenly gets very focused. It seems like he's working his brain, before he starts..rambling.

"On first thought, I considered you possibly being King Arthur, Sir Franz. But, then I look at you again and the possibility is simply not there; there's too much of a deviation from lore in your appearance. But if you were..she's likely to be Guinevere, but I see no reason why you'd summon each other. Perhaps Guinevere summoning Arthur for the power..but."

"Sir Lancelot was also rather powerful, and they had a bigger connection. Guinevere couldn't summon Lancelot, though, she died before him. Perhaps Lancelot summoned Guinevere to get his long lost love back..but could she even qualify as a Servant? Berserker maybe, but you show no signs of being such, and it's also still really implausible."

Sir Gawain frowns slightly at the mention of Lancelot.

"Another possibility is she's the Lady in the Lake and you're Merlin..Merlin is unlikely to summon the Lady, though, seeing what she did to him..but perhaps she would summon him? He was quite the magician, after all. Perhaps even on the level of true magic!"

"Or maybe..she's actually one of the Knights..hmm.."

Before Mikhail can yammer more (which has left Sir Gawain staring a bit), Caster of White interrupts him with a coughing sound, before speaking. "Perhaps we will lay off the intrusive speculation and allow me to answer the questions towards me, Master?"

Mikhail is snapped out of his daze, nodding affirmatively, as Caster of White speaks.

"I had nothing to do with Tunguska, but I get why you might think it would be my Noble Phantasm. It is not, nor is 'all electricity'. I possess two Noble Phantasms; the first allows me to convert electricity into prana, Renewable Energy. It's..strange how it became like that, but it is how it is, and it is useful all the same."

"The second is Wardenclyffe Tower. In life, it was a grand project planning on giving the world free and open communication, for anyone, anywhere. In death..it allows individuals to communicate telepathically across vast distances using special devices, after it has been erected, which takes about a week."

"Speaking of which..." Caster of White waves over to Mikhail. Mikhail is the Master, but, it seems that there is no clear indicator on who acts that way, both seeming more like partners than Master-Servant. Mikhail pulls four small silver pocket watches out of his hoodie, putting them on a table, as Caster of White speaks.

"When Wardenclyffe is erected, you will need these. I understand if you don't want to take them now, they are nothing but watches at this point and time."

Sir Gawain looks at one for a moment, before opening it. It's a fully functional pocket watch, with an additional button on the side. He presses it...

And nothing happens. Though the watches in general do have magical signatures, they are very small, likely just related to their existence in general. Sir Gawain keeps the one he took, seeing it as no threat, as Caster of White continues.

"However, that is not Wardenclyffe's only use. When fueled with prana..."

Mikhail energetically interjects right here, "Things go boom. It's fun for the whole family!"

Caster of White seems to smile, as he begins to wrap up his spiel. "Whilst those are my two Noble Phantasms, I am also capable of creating many inventions."

Mikhail decides to elaborate here, quickly after Caster of White ends his sentence. "You know all those 'crazy' things Nikola Tesla claimed to have made? Earthquake machines, death rays, teleforce, thought cameras?"

Caster seems a bit..frustrated with this, interjecting back. There's some sort of strange relationship they have going on. "I did not claim to make them."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. But the point is, he can recreate them. Along with tesla coils, good for defense, forcefields, and even generators. We could wire your keep up, if you wanted, but I understand if you don't; trust and all that."

Mikhail pauses..and then acts as he remembered something.

"Oh, you're also probably wondering how I summoned him, or if he's another fake identity. Well, technically, I cheated."

Sir Gawain pauses and stares at this. Cheated? He doesn't say anything, waiting for Mikhail to elaborate.

"See, I get why you'd think he's impossible, I thought the summoning would be unlikely myself, he'd only died in 1943. But..I specifically summoned him. With a catalyst. His.."

Both Mikhail and Caster of White seem to get a bit nervous at this, as Mikhail finishes.

"His urn, with his ashes in it. It was the only thing I thought for sure would not accidentally summon anyone else. I..stole it from his museum, long story and not fun at all, would be rotting in prison if I didn't cheat with magic. Once the War's over, if I'm still alive, I'm returning it. Swapped it with a fake, they probably haven't noticed. But, anyway, summoning went off without a hitch. I was a bit shocked, actually, but, it's what I wanted."

And then, Psyber puts everything in Gawain's hands. OH BOY. He takes a moment to think, before smiling lightly, and speaking towards the two.

"I am inclined to trust you as being honest and true to your word. However..I would like to hear your story first, why you chose us."

Mikhail smiles, and nods, taking a deep breath. "That is understandable! Give me a minute before I spiel some more at at you." He grins at the last bit.

"So, you see, my grandmother participated in the Grail War 40 years ago, 1947. I inherited her journal, which she filled to the brim with details. She had summoned Lancer. What's more? They won the War, via good teamwork and work ethic. They were very close according to her writing, more like lifetime companions than a Master and her Servant."

"Her wish was for peace. No more war, no more violence, a true, happy world. It makes sense, World War II had just happened. But, she vanished. Every Grail Winner has vanished. Most claim it's because they reached the Root..but my grandmother didn't give a damn about the Root. And her wish wasn't granted, Vietnam, Korea, hell, the Cold War's still going. I plan on being different. I want to win this war, and grant her wish."

Mikhail then looks at Sir Gawain, and then to Saber and Bedivere. He seems rather serious, and if you're looking for deception on his face, you'll find absolutely none visible.

"Her Servant? He was Sir Percival, one of the Grail Knights and someone you all knew. A true honourable warrior, who likely had a grand wish that was not granted. After learning there was another Knight of the Round Table in the War..and that it was likely he had chosen his own new Master, due to situations..I knew that he was the only other combatant I could trust to have a true, honourable wish. So, if I don't win this War, I will have no regrets if you do. For any wish of yours will be a good one. At the end of this War, if it's just you and Caster of White, I want a fair battle to decide the victor, not more tricks and treachery."

Sir Gawain mulls over Mikhail's words for a minute. And then his smile is grand. His decision has obviously been made.

"I trust you. We will battle this War to the end, and one of our wishes will be granted."

"The Grail will be ours."

Psyber (253) has posed:
"Tunguska wasn't you, no, but history didn't prove that until well after your death, so I thought it might fall into your 'mythos', so to speak," Psyber says pretty simply to Tesla. The half-angel's hands are resting on his mug of beverage as he continues, "It's more the legend than the reality that matters for this matter, doesn't it?" He asks curiously, "I mean, they spent years guessing that you'd finally built that death ray and then hid the designs. In my world, anyway."

Psyber may have made a mistake, on paper, putting the decision in Gawain's hands. At least in the opinions of many present, but even that has its own simple purpose: The less Psyber overtly participates, the more it allows him to veil his own feelings and larger machinations. By letting Gawain choose whether or not to trust them, it allows him to disguise, for instance, his own estimations of their worth as allies. It's not a fully elegant strategy, and not one without risks, but the simple and confident smile he gives Bedivere and Saber seems to radiate a simple 'Don't worry, it's all part of what I have cooking'. Of course, they also know Gawain much better than him, so there's some strong validity in both their opinions in contrast to his.

Psyber simply and quietly picks up the pocket watch off the table and twirls it on his finger as Gawain talks, "Thanks," He says to them for it, and then it vanishes into a pocket. He sighs a bit, listening to the answer that is given, looking to Gawain for his measure of how to trust them. The man had asked a very good question, and one that Psyber was very curious for an answer to.

"If Gawain is in favor, I am in favor. However, I will not kill Masters. Servants is one matter, since their spiritual nature and the Grail and all, but unless it becomes necessary and my hand is forced, I do not intent to target their Masters. We win, but we do it with the honor befitting an alliance forged of Knights."

He looks around the table at those gathered. He doubts there will be any objections to it, but he wants to make sure.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The pale-haired knight's eyes gradually fall to half-mast, but in spite of his almost sleepy regard, he's listening to every word and taking in every detail. It's true that the keep has solid stone defenses, what's been repaired, but there are no provisions against the otherworldly. Nor does he know enough about it to bluff. He lacks the senses and training required for that.

Silence seems to be the better option, in this case. Silence gives nothing away. It gives him time to think. He couldn't say why they chose Dún Reáltaí or how they found out about it, but he can make a guess, eyes flicking briefly to Gawain.

Bedivere studies the strangers and considers the quandary they've all found themselves in.

It wasn't his intention to seek the Holy Grail. His assumption of Arturia's command seals were strictly a means to keep her alive; indeed, she has no interest in it, either. There had been enough of that nonsense even in Camelot's days. A few Knights of the Round had come trickling back to Camelot in failure, but others he had never seen again. Perhaps some of them had succeeded.

Still, he himself has never had an interest in such a relic. There are things man was never meant to attain; mysteries he was never meant to know. It's his firm belief that the sacred chalice is one of those things.

His expression never changes when Mikhail fires back the true identity of Saber of Gold, though Arturia might sense some distress.

So, he is not bluffing, after all. It would be better if we could obfuscate our identities for as long as possible. There is nothing to gain by telling him, and everything to lose by it. I do not trust him.

Slowly, his gaze slides back over to Mikhail, as the Master looks to them to determine which is the Servant and which is the Master. His own gaze is flat and empty, although not quite withdrawn; he's trying to formulate a plan even as all four of them are verbally probed and prodded at.

Bedivere's expression remains stony as the young man proceeds to go through his theories, each one more unlikely than the last. He might laugh, but... at the same time, he's thoughtful, weighing the options. Perhaps it might serve them to use one of them, at least until they have more of an idea of how much, if at all, these two can be trusted. His gaze drops away from Mikhail as he mulls it over.

Unlikely, he muses silently, but not outside the realm of possibility. Yet I do not think Sir Lancelot would have summoned Lady Guinevere strictly to have his lost love back. His grief had been as great as mine after— After Camlann, but he can't quite bring himself to finish the thought. —He had been half-mad after her execution. I do not think he would have known to do such a thing, either, unless he had potential that none of we of the Round Table knew of. He was no filidh; no magician or magus—

At the possibility that he is Merlin, though, the knight simply blinks, very slowly; one eye after the other. The gesture is one of flat, silent disbelief.

—What.

While he might have been willing to masquerade as the king, he's absolutely not willing to pass himself off as Merlin. Aside from the fact that he knows almost nothing about both thaumaturgy and True Magic, there's an almost superstitious reluctance among the Knights of the Round Table to even invoke his name.

No, there's no two ways about it. Merlin is trouble. With his luck, he might choose to accept Merlin's identity, and then suddenly the wizard would show up. Even Gawain is smart enough to know that would be all kinds of disastrous... ah, but thankfully, he's distracted from that particular line of thought. His eyes snap to the Caster of White when the Servant speaks up.

He glances over to the watches as they're laid on the table; with all the focus of a hawk, as Gawain picks one of them up and starts poking at it. Half of him expects something to be triggered by it, but to his relief, nothing happens.

Even so... why would the strangers tell them all of this? Even if they trusted the knights not to reveal anything to their enemies, who's to say that the knights themselves wouldn't become targets just by virtue of having that knowledge? The knowledge of a Noble Phantasm was, from what he can recall of what he's been told, fairly damning in most cases.

...Wiring the keep?

"No."

Bedivere's refusal is incredibly flat.vNeither does he show much reaction when Mikhail reveals the identity of his grandmother's Servant. It isn't surprising. Percival was one of those who had sought the Holy Grail, and the modern era had remembered his quest. Why would he not be remembered?

His right hand rises to rub at his jaw in contemplation. While it's true this might be a bad idea, there's a chance they can turn it to their advantage. Keeping these wild cards close means keeping an eye on them.

His eyes sweep the assembled company, lingering especially on Arturia, Gawain, and Psyber.

It is dangerous, in my opinion. We may yet use this to our advantage... but cautiously.

He'd prefer not to reveal his identity, either way. A sympathetic story about a grandmother's journal isn't enough for him. The magus already confessed he's a criminal with enough charisma to make him dangerous. No, this mismatched pair of Master and Servant will have to do better.

...He'll leave the talking to Gawain and Psyber, though. This is their negotiation.

Bedivere closes his eyes for a moment, as though he were lost in thought, but he's still listening to the strangers.

"With honour," he agrees softly.

Saber (346) has posed:
That Mikhail knew Gawain's true identity had been a foregone conclusion; he had identified himself over, as the magus had put it, over public channels. Arturia herself was in a slightly better position; she continued to identify herself generally by her class designation, even when it might not have been necessary. But it would appear that caution – as well as her equally-cautious marshal – had paid off.

Likewise, standing in Bedivere's general proximity had thrown off the general sense of a Servant's presence. She could not hide that presence any more than one could hide a floodlight, but there were ways to obfuscate the source. And while ultimately she would have to reveal herself sooner or later, that uncertainty made the silver-haired knight less of a target.

Unfortunately, there was little else the two could obfuscate, even temporarily. Living in Dun Realtai was more of a coincidence than anything else, but the knights had clearly made the place their home with far more ease than people typical of the modern era would have. Even the Einzbern castle which had been their base during the Fourth War was simply that; a base of operations. It was hardly a safe haven, not the way this keep was. It was as if they truly belonged there.

As Mikhail revealed a bit of his thought processes guessing at their identities, the knight-king reflected that, at the very least, it was preferable to Sakura's identity-guessing mistake. Even now, she could feel the remnants of embarrassment from that episode. Still...

Thinking she might possibly be Guinevere? That was far-fetched enough, but Nimue? That was just downright bizarre...though not nearly as bizarre as his guess at Bedivere's potential identity, somehow managing not to laugh herself at Mikhail's guess. No, Lancelot is himself a Heroic Spirit, unless he were pulled out of time as you were, she implied to the silver-haired knight, sobering at the realisation that it reminded him of Camlann again. The rest of her inference might possibly have been a deliberate distraction for him. And I do not believe Guinevere would be able to be summoned into a specific class. She had no such abilities, not even magic.

But rather than stop the magus's wild mass guessing, Arturia shook her head once. You are right, she agreed with her marshal. But if Caster names himself, we shall have little choice.

Saber continued to stare blankly, the impassive mask firmly in place as he went through several possibilities, yet it had not seemed to occur to him yet that there was really only that one thing at the moment which kept her from revealing her true identity.

With a slight nod at Psyber's explanation of how lore affected the Noble Phantasms of Servants, the King of Knights agreed. "That is how they work in most circumstances, yes. There are a great many things which are not necessarily 'true' which affect Noble Phantasms."

"Wardenclyffe?" The diminutive swordswoman frowned slightly; getting in there was going to be difficult. "A Servant should have little difficulty entering, but it would prove most difficult for a Master. Currently, it is undergoing restoration as a museum. Moreover, the tower would have to be rebuilt."

An expression of mild surprise slipped past her mask; the reason she had not yet revealed her true identity in accordance with the dictates of chivalry was that Caster had not named himself, even if Mikhail supposedly had. Moreover, she was not entirely convinced that the Caster of White was indeed one of the modern "wizards" of the age who preferred technology to thaumaturgy, science to magic. Such 'wizards' had not yet accumulated enough lore to have been able to be summoned...at least, not for another century or so. She remained sceptical that the Servant was indeed the legendary inventor.

Her stare turned black at just what the magus had used. Even that seemed off; while technically powerful, even direct remains might not have been enough to summon a Servant who should not have yet been able to be pulled from the Throne. Naturally, there was a great deal that Mikhail still wasn't telling them.

Then her eyes snapped wide as Mikhail revealed his wish; the exact same one as Kiritsugu's. The only reason his had not been granted was due to his final order to her to destroy the Grail, having realised that it was irreparably tainted and would only grant such a wish through wanton destruction. But if his grandmother had indeed won the Grail and made that wish, if the artefact had been tainted, the nightmare Kiritsugu had been warned of would have come true. It would have become the Fuyuki Fire on a global scale.

Even if she had been unable to see Mikhail's face, Arturia had been able to reason that the magus was telling the truth, at least when it came to his wish, or his family past. Percival would have only submitted to a Master who wished for any noble goal, be it peace or for the people to be saved in some way. Mikhail's supposed Servant was even more stringent...if he was who Mikhail said he was. "It would otherwise be strange that a man of peace would submit to the call of the Grail," Saber admitted, jade eyes boring directly into the Caster's dark ones, heavily implying that she knew quite well of the inventor's pacifism.

In reply to the half-angel's insistence that he would not kill Masters, Saber shook her head. Indeed, she had only killed one Master, and it had purely been a mercy killing of a Master who was already slowly dying at the hands of her own Master. Likewise, she agreed with Bedivere; an alliance would prove an easier way of keeping an eye on them.

But ultimately, it was in Gawain's hands, and she submitted to that decision. "With honour."

Sir Gawain has posed:
"You have a point there. However, it is not my decision of what Noble Phantasms I do or do not have. And if your Nikola Tesla did not finish his design, I pity him. Did Wardenclyffe go into effect in your world?" Caster of White asks inquistively. He seems very fascinated on the existence of other versions of him.

Mikhail glances at Saber a bit, confused by her words, before he suddenly gets them."Oh, ohoho, you must be confused. I did not rob the site where Wardenclyffe used to be – it is fantastic they are making a museum however – but his museum in Belgrade. Additionally, constructing Wardenclyffe as a Noble Phantasm is actually rather simple, but Caster of White can explain." And then Caster does so.

"Building Wardenclyffe in this form only requires several things: A magical territory, which we are still looking for a location to set up; materials, of which the kind we need can easily be found in factories or warehouses; and three day's time for the construction. Very easy compared to real life."

Mikhail turns his head to Psyber, and nods quickly. "I will not kill a Master unless my hand is uncontrollably forced to do so without other alternatives. I am not a murderer. With honour."

"With honour.", Caster of White replies.

"With honour."

Sir Gawain is the last to say such, before he continues. Now that the alliance is confirmed, he has a question for Mikhail.

"You said you had a true plan of what to do next. What is that?"

Mikhail adjusts his glasses, before smiling.

"Saber of White is not our target."

"Hiroto Matou and Rider of Gold are."

Sir Gawain stares for a second, before realizing part of the reason. Matou is not only a Master-killer, but has attacked both his own former Master and Mikhail. He allows Mikhail to speak, however.

"Both you and I are Matou's primary target. Your former Master was killed, and I was assaulted myself. The reasoning? We both had relatives who won the Grail War. My grandmother 40 years ago, and James' older brother 20 years ago. Obviously, he doesn't want any family to win more than twice, and is using dirty tactics in an attempt to make sure it doesn't happen."

Sir Gawain frowned. He didn't know the full story of James' brother, but was aware that he had been missing for some time. He never inquired when it was brought up.

"And his brother vanished, like all the other winners."

"Yes."

Mikhail replies quickly but seriously, before taking a breath.

"I know for a fact that Hiroto Matou was listening into us in our last meeting; there's no reason he wouldn't, and he's likely been stalking me. He is presumably very pissed off that you survived after your Master didn't, which still puts you as a target, and he failed to kill me. A lot of our previous meeting was bait. See, my plan is to lure him and Rider of Gold out, and take out Rider of Gold then and there. We may require more allies, a small bunch, depending on the circumstances, but I believe you have access to such. We should be able to overpower Rider of Gold in that circumstance."

Sir Gawain thinks for but a second. It's a good plan. Matou is an immediate threat, unlike the others.

"How will we lure him out?"

Mikhail smiles, having this all planned out.

"We'll go to an abandoned part of the city, unlikely to be witnesses, under the premise of testing abilities. Matou will see this as a prime time to strike, most likely at us Masters. Except, he'll fall into an ambush. I can supply some traps as well via Caster, coils, perhaps an earthquake machine, depends on who we have with us and what we'll need."

"Until then, you can keep in touch with me with this number."

Mikhail pulls out a note, and writes down a number onto it. It's likely some sort of personal cell number, and he puts it in the middle of the table nearby, standing up.

"Unless you have further questions, that's all I have to say right now. Call me with anything else you need!"

Psyber (253) has posed:
Psyber makes an apologetic look at Bedivere for the hastiness of his deference to Gawain on the matter, though he does agree there can be some advantage to trusting them. He wants to try to silently convey more, but then is more focused on Mikhail and Tesla. Mostly because Tesla is asking him questions about history.

"It did not, sadly. Edison and other detractors took funding out at the knees and it was forced to be demolished before completion," He admits to the man, leaning back in the chair with the stein in his hands, "Because you never wrote down your designs, due to your photographic memory, most of your inventions went unfinished after your death and remain a mystery."

THAT might be a hint to Bedivere, Saber and Gawain, trying to slip into casual conversation that Tesla was rumored to have an eidetic memory. Psyber has no idea how this would transfer into a Servant, but it's a rare ability and one that, in a War like this, could also be dangerous.

"The Matous..." Psyber says in a pensive tone. He leans back in his chair, "I'd been thinking about them." Not only because he once knew Sakura, "Something that's been on my mind as a worry in general, actually."

He gestures around the gathered room, "If an alliance like this is forming, well." Psyber sighs a bit, "I'm growing increasingly concerned of other alliances brewing. Particularly the idea of the older families teaming up to 'drum us out' and ease into their own competitions."

Psyber frowns internally, while keeping his own face more neutral. His exposure to Servants has been limited, and he was pegging his odds based off of meeting Saber, Mordred, Jack and Gawain, all of whom are incredibly straight-forward in their powers and abilities, as well as his predominant exposure to Servants. It's only just dawning on him through talking to Tesla that this may not be a straightforward series of battles, and conceptual abilities are a strong weakness in his skillset to deal with. Especially unsettling is the idea of multiple people teaming up at once.

The revelation of who Tesla is has injected doubt into Psyber, and while subtle, it shows. Matou has already killed a Master and almost knocked Gawain out once, Psyber isn't sure he wants to risk whatever other tricks this 'Rider of Gold' has up his sleeve. All they know right now is 'birds', which is limited information.

"With no knowledge of other allegiances," Psyber says after his internal series of thoughts, "We should be careful of an ambush countering an ambush. Matou may, himself, be acting as bait to an ambush. We should all remain very careful."

"Otherwise, I have no more questions at this time." He adds, silently, a few moments later.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The silver-haired knight remains silent through the rest of the conversation. Their identities are beyond his own time, and he lacks a Servant's intrinsic grasp of the modern era. His only purpose in this conversation now is to serve as the canary in the coal mine, and alert his friends if he senses anything amiss in the undercurrents of their words.

Thus far, there seems to be nothing wrong, although he couldn't guarantee the truth of what they're saying. While these two are extremely suspicious, they don't seem to intend any harm.

Bedivere leans back in his chair and considers his options, and the matter of identity.

Without naming themselves, he isn't compelled by honour to give his own name, and the fact that the Servant hasn't specifically introduced himself is a relief. Misdirection would serve them well in this case. It isn't outright lying, so long as honour doesn't compel them to give their true names. They could at least keep their abilities secret.

Although his expression never changes, the knight's violet eyes slant away to the hearth, narrowing in thought. Eidetic memory, he muses. That is a dangerous complication. Already we could afford no carelessness, and now we have all the more incentive to mind our words.

He seems to have nothing to say about their plan on who to attack and how to do it, though. Without knowing more particulars about these people, he couldn't offer much in the way of sound advice. As it is, the best he can offer to his friends is to stay cautious, but that much is blindingly obvious. The other three already know that, and Psyber's raised the point that the elder lineages of magi may make a point of bumping off the upstarts to continue their feuding.

That puts all of them directly into the crossfire. It's not a comforting position to consider, Bedivere reflects. From the sound of it these people are willing to do anything to get their hands on the Holy Grail.

"The simplest possible solution," he murmurs in that quiet voice of his, "is to trust no one, and assume that all outside this room are the enemy."

His unspoken qualifier to that, of course, is that he's going to consider these two enemies until proven otherwise. There are half a dozen different ways these Masters and their Servants might be allied against them. It goes without saying that they should proceed cautiously. What he doesn't say is that he doesn't trust these two not to be running with their own alliance. To his knowledge, the Saber-class servants are generally strong. It would make sense if they wanted to manoeuvre one of them into a trap.

When it comes to the matter of further questions, he only shakes his head. It's pretty simple. The less he says, the less chance they can guess who he is.

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia nodded at Psyber's explanation; indeed, the eidetic memory would prove to be troublesome for an opposing Servant, regardless of his lack of power. "I fear my own knowledge is somewhat...incomplete." The Grail knowledge was somewhat fragmentary, and what little she had learned in the modern era was fragmentary. The recreation of the laboratory and tower would well fall under the Caster's skill of Territory Creation, but that would mean that the ideal land for it – with all the necessary materials – remained at the tower's original site. Unless...

"Then, you do not yet possess what is necessary." Right back to Wardenclyffe's original site, unless the Master and Servant deemed it too troublesome. Even if they had no intentions of using the original site – which most likely they did not – there might be some materials necessary for the Territory Creation. In either case, it might be a wise idea to ask one of their allies to investigate.

Saber did not so much as blink in surprise when Mikhail revealed their target. It was a sound tactic to eliminate the immediate threat first, especially given that the Matous seemed to possess little in the way of morals and nothing of honour.

Sakura had spoken little of the family she was unwillingly adopted into, which was unsurprising given what she had suffered at their hands. Saber didn't even know the half of it, but the memories she had caught glimpses of in dreams had been horrific. Even Sakura's mind had blanked out much, leading her to consider returning to the Matou's estate and searching the basement laboratory for clues. Saber, however, had put her foot down on that, easily backed up by Rin's additional refusal. There were some things which were better left alone.

But now, perhaps she should have had someone else look into it, if for no other reason than to gather intelligence on the magus family. They could certainly have used that information now.

Mikhail seemed to have devised a reasonably sound plan to lure out the Rider of Gold and his Master. Yet, something seemed strangely off to her...not due to any discrepancy in the magus's plan, but something that was somehow overlooked. Sea-green eyes flicked to her tactician; if it was something she had sensed, doubtless he would have picked up on it well before she had. But then, Bedivere would already be on edge, given it was a slow and difficult process to build up trust with him. Just as it was with her, in fact.

Those eyes flicked to the half-angel in turn; whatever Psyber could sense would likewise be influenced by the situations he had faced earlier, and that was likely to put him on edge and sharpen his senses even further.

So it would seem that the three of them were in agreement; remain cautious, trust none in this Grail War, not even their temporary allies. Not to mention make a sweep for familiars afterwards; who knew if the two were not somehow followed?

"I have no questions, as well," she replied softly with a slight shake of her head.

Sir Gawain has posed:
"That is a shame, but they made a good choice. Allowing information into other hands before it is finished could prove disastrous, since only I or a variant of such can be trusted to finish it perfectly."

Caster of White begins to rise as well, a tip of the head, as Mikhail responds to Psyber.

"Magi don't trust each other, any alliance is unlikely to last more than one or two battles. Matou is unlikely to form an alliance, due to his arrogance, but it isn't impossible. Einzbern may seek one, due to lack of combat expertise, and the others, I can't say for certain. There's certain to be other alliances, but they're more likely from the Masters who are not of the five families. Still good to be wary, however."

Mikhail then turns to Bedivere. "Sound plan. Only the six of us and those you trust, I can trust. But, we can hide details from even our allies whereas required."

His wording seems off, but looks mostly harmless. Or is it? Finally, he turns to Saber.

"We do not. But there is likely some sort of abandoned area in Chicago we can conceal the tower enough. Not completely, but perhaps with magecraft we can prevent sight from it from afar, and set over wards nearby to keep anyone from going near it."

Whilst Wardenclyffe's original spot would be the best, Mikhail would have already deemed it too much hassle; the site is several states away, making the tower's 'big boom' assault likely useless unless somehow they could move the site to Illinois, which is ridiculous. But not impossible, very few things are impossible.

Mikhail and Caster of White head to the door.

"Well then, we'll be off. I'll remove my familiar as soon as I part, it's out in the wastes. Good day. Hope the weather is better next time we come along!"

And then they part, leaving Gawain pondering.

Do these two have something up their sleeve? What could it be?

Did he just make a huge mistake, that could possibly cost him the war?

He doesn't know.

But he hopes he didn't.