11:30pm, The Alghul Villa
Aisha sat at her desk in the basement of her villa- her workshop. After she had first shown Caster, they had agreed that it would be better for him to create his own from scratch rather than use hers. While hers was well made, it was too specialized in a very specific direction -that being Necromancy- so while he may borrow it from time-to-time for necromantic purposes, he was better off elsewhere. Of course, she had certainly led him in this direction. At this point, any space she could keep from his reach was sacred. She needed as many resources as possible to ensure she could protect herself from him when the time came, and being able to make her workshop this space was the best kind of luck. From here, she was able to use all her knowledge to it's fullest potential, the box behind her being the prime example of such.
A ghostly howl, a chilling death rattle emerged from the space behind her, but she was unmoved. If anything she was relieved, and sunk deeper into her chair, satisfied. Behind her was a sigil drawn into the floor, a small line of smoke floating up from the center. There was almost no doubt, her package had been delivered.
Everything was now in motion.
The team of experts she had assembled now possessed all the information she had on Caster and the other Servants.
She had always been of the "if you want something right, do it yourself" mindset, and even now she felt a deep sense of unease, but this was entirely necessary. These were people she could trust, people who knew how to get a job done, and who weren't unfamiliar with danger. Some of them were more of a gamble than others, but if this team of experts in phantasmals and spirits could find a way to unravel a Servant, to unbind them from the material plane, then there would be no way for Caster to touch her.
Her eyes drifted to the lyre-shape on her hand, her Command Seals. These were what connected her to her Servant. Worst-case-scenario, she could always cut her hand off, and remove his magical supply. In fact...
She looked to her closet. She could easily cut off her hand, removing his magical supply, and then revive and reattach her hand with necromancy. Indeed, with Samman Quayyum in town, it was child's play. He had spent his whole life researching immortality, and part of his research was messing with soul binds; she could easily link her hand to her soul and puppet it, no different than any other limb, even after such a surgery.
She rubbed her wrist, a phantom pain severing it at the joint.
-That was a last case scenario. She still wanted to win this after all. A wristband.... an enchanted wristband that would sever her hand at her command; that was something she should invest in. Not her forte, but doable.
There were only two ways she could feasibly fail at this point. The first: the team gets slaughtered by Caster. Rider was too noble to slaughter non-combatants, Berserker wouldn't interact with them, and they should be able to handle any other Servants if they worked together- at least theoretically. No, the only danger was if Caster discovered their purpose and killed them in cold blood. He shouldn't know about them. His clairvoyance, though significant, was hardly any different than normal sight. He'll only notice what he looks for, and if he's busied himself with monitoring the other Servants, all the better. He would discover them eventually, of this there was no doubt, but that wouldn't matter so long as he didn't know their purpose.
The second, Caster discovers them and interferes with their communication. This was actually worse. In the former case, she would sever her hand and run, hoping to get far enough away that he would die of mana starvation before catching up to her, presumably without forming a new contract in the meantime. Even then, she had places she could go, and once she was safe, she could report him to the Mages' Association, and watch from the sidelines. She could try to cover up her misdeeds, but she had enough resources to get herself out of trouble if that failed. Selling her family's powerful and historied magecraft was more than enough of a bribe. Hell, she could erase an entire country off the map and get off scot-free. But if he was able to block communications, or worse, masquerade himself as her and give false orders and information, then everything was over. Her plan would've been revealed, and she would have no way of knowing. Her only allies would be turned against her, and by the time she found out, all available exits would already be closed.
It was a gamble, but one she'd be ready for.
She checked the workshop regularly for wards and foreign magecraft of any kind to be sure she wasn't being watched. She was using indirect electronic communication, over which a mage from the Age of Gods would have no dominion. And this method of transport, she called it the 'Psychopomp Parcel', was entirely infallible. Interception required advanced knowledge of the technique, as well as the specific spirit being used. This meant that it could only be intercepted if the mage knew the process, watched it happen with full knowledge of all the ins-and-outs, and managed to replicate it before the package was sent. It was impossible, and each instance was one-use, so she could replicate the process as many times as necessary without fear as each instance was entirely unique from every other. However, she couldn't afford to discount even the impossible. This was magecraft from the Age of Gods that she was dealing with; nobody knew what it was truly capable of. In fact, if he possessed even a sliver of true divine power, it was perfectly feasible that he could perform True Miracles...
But she had one last trick up her sleeve, an old family secret from their days of vizier-ship. In order to avoid documents being copied, or their signature forged, they would preemptively inscribe letters with a small enchantment. This enchantment was simple, one-use, and unable to trace as it activated at the moment of closing. It simply inscribed a signature or phrase on the document sealed within. However, the method meant that it was impossible to perfectly replicate the signature inscribed; they would have to reconstruct the exact enchantment from scratch, and the magic imbued in the ink meant that it couldn't be forged. Those who spied on the author would have no idea of whatever information had been added upon the sealing of the envelope, and those who intercepted it would have no feasible means of recreating it. It was perfect, other than the fact that it only worked for phrases less than ten words. This was in part to preserve the subtlety of the enchantment, but it was also a practical matter. Each letter had to be translated into abstract symbols, so translating long text was tiresome to say the least, not to mention the size of the envelope. Instead, she kept a few premade sigils in her personal journal, things like "YOU ARE IN DANGER" and "WE ARE BEING WATCHED", but the one she used the most, and knew by heart, was "Sent from the desk of Aisha Alghul". Samman, Radiya, and Xander were all familiar with this signature; they would be responsible for discerning truth from deception. With this, at least, they could be trusted, so long as they were kept out of reach of Caster's suggestion.
She snapped her fingers. Skeletons which had been statue-still in the corners of the room suddenly animated and moved towards where the Psychopomp Parcel had been. They stomped, kicked, and smudged until any remnants of the circle were gone. Nothing left behind. She couldn't help but feel satisfied; her only disappointment in this moment was that she had no one to boast to.
She chuckled softly, watching her skeletons shuffle back into position as if a queen watching her jesters perform. She stretched in feline fashion as she stood from her seat. She had been in her workshop for most of the afternoon, even skipping lunch, and the lack of windows threw off her sense of time, as impeccable as it was. The other downside was that she couldn't watch Caster. A double-edged sword as it were. Establishing distance to plot against him was an equal opportunity for him to plot against her. Given the hour, now was a good time to "catch up", to check on his process, and to order him to keep watch for Servant activity; to keep him preoccupied with work instead of plotting. Afterwards, returning to her workshop and hashing out her dismembering contingency plan took priority, as well as ensuring there had been no issues with the team.
She couldn't help the small smile on her face as she floated up the stairs, her stomach already aching in anticipation, but she was too pleased with herself to even register the discomfort. She could see it in her head now, the quiet quaintness of the upper floor. The warm lamp-light that floated off the laminated wood, and the open skyline past the window, illuminated with the light of the not-so-distant city. And then the stain in the center, the detestable Caster, no doubt holding a cup of wine with a twisted expression. Even the thought of him was enough to bring her down from her high, but-
Her senses exploded as she opened the door to the upstairs.
Music, lights, people, PEOPLE?!
The lamps were turned off in favor of floodlights hung from the upstairs balcony which flickered multi-color in tune with the music whose bass was strong enough to give someone a concussion. People danced in the center of the floor; one of the couches which had previously occupied the space was against the wall, but all other furniture beyond the stools at the bar was missing. Young people in clothing that exposed far too much, especially considering the relative chill of the Autumn air outside, filled the space practically to capacity. Many of them were drinking beer from the can, others had wine, others had red cups whose content couldn't be viewed from the outside, though could be reasonably assumed. Others held pizza, or bags of chips. God only knows where it all came from.
It was an assault on the senses, especially for one so used to quiet study. She felt her face stretch as her expression fell; her brow rising and jaw falling, before compressing again into a hideous expression. A bestial, primal snarl rivaled only by Berserker. She marched forward through the crowd, pushing people out of her way, searching for Caster. It didn't take long, the upper floor wasn't very large, and he wasn't exactly hiding.
Caster stood on the far wall with a bottle of wine in hand, talking to two others, a man and a woman. This would be an expected behavior if not for his dress, or lack thereof. He was completely nude except for leopard-print boxers and an untied purple bathrobe. He appeared slightly inebriated, with unkempt hair and drooping eyes, but there was little doubt this was an act. He was a Servant, and more than that, a demigod of wine and drunkenness: there was no way he could get drunk, not by normal means anyway.
She marched up without breaking stride, her whole body tensing with rage and intent.
He noticed her, breaking his conversation he looked to her with a casually malicious smirk, "Why hello there Ais-"
She had none of it. Her left hand struck like a tensed viper, smashing the bottle out of his hand and onto the floor. With her right she shoved him. His expression didn't fade, and the physical sensation made it seem as if he was letting her have her way rather than actually being forced.
"What the hell are you doing!?"
"Aisha, Aisha. Please, please, hurt me all you want but don't damage the wine. What did chardonnay ever do to you?"
She took her finger and jabbed it into his naked chest, "Answer the goddamn question, Caster!"
"Look, I know what this looks like, but I can assure you this is all a business expense."
"Oh really!? And how is that exactly!?"
"I am a god of alcohol, madness and celebration, Aisha. Perhaps you've heard of the Bacchanalia, or the Dionysia?" He gently pushed her finger down and away from his chest, "Celebrations such as this are quite literally my lifeblood. For each drink guzzled, each dance done, each woman laid and desire satisfied, my power grows. Surely you understand that."
"Really? And you didn't think to tell me first?!"
"Does it matter to you? I even went so far as to insulate your workshop so as not to bother you! Are you really going to punish me for being considerate?"
His reasoning was sound, and her anger began to wash away like a draining bath.
But he didn't tell her! If he had just told her, she would've allowed it, but he didn't!
"That doesn't give you free reign to go behind my back, Caster! Or did you forget that I am your Master?!"
"Aisha, come on." He placed his left hand on her shoulder, "Haven't you ever had a surprise party before?"
She hadn't.
"Not everything in life has to be planned so meticulously. In fact, I'd say the best things happen spur of the moment. You fancy yourself a pragmatist, but what's more pragmatic than taking the opportunities that present themselves?" He turned her gently and gestured widely to the crowd, whispering in her ear "The Grail is already ours, Aisha. We can afford to loosen up for a night, no?"
Why was he talking about the grail, and with all these witnesses! Her eyes flickered with a furrowed brow over to the two people that he had been talking to before. They stood with vapid expressions, empty eyes and stupid grins, laughing like morons and swaying to the music, as if not registering anything in front of them. She scanned the room, and not a soul was looking at them now despite the commotion, despite the raised voices. Even with the deafening bass reverberating through the wooden walls, it was odd. Across the room, the door to her workshop was still wide open, but no one approached it or even seemed to acknowledge its existence.
Perhaps Caster was insulating the sound? What type of magecraft was that again? Illusion? Transmutation? No, none of those matched the situation. What was the other type of magecraft he could use?
Necromancy?
No, no, something else.
....
....
Suggestion.
Her eyes widened as a single thought cracked across her mind like lightning, a divine sort of thunder that inspired the poets of old.
-And wrath rivaled only by their gods.
She turned with equal speed, a clenched fist flying directly into Caster's jaw.
"DON'T FUCK WITH ME!"
His head didn't even move; it was like punching a brick wall. His smile widened, and all at once it was as if his golden eyes were all around her, and she was swallowed in the sudden impression that she existed in the palm of his hand. She stumbled back, her body stiffening. It was here she noticed in his right hand a bottle. The exact same that she had smashed moments ago, returned to his hand as if nothing happened, filled to the same amount.
It was dread.
Dread like she had never experienced.
She remembered when she had stabbed the reanimated corpse of her mother, the feeling of taking a risk, fearing for your life. The fear that her zombie mother would kill her, or worse, that her father intended to the same. The fear of death. Imminent death.
She thought she was past it. She told herself that she was, but she wasn't. How could she be? She'd rather live in shame than die; living was always and impossibly more honorable than death. Death... death was for those who were too weak to kill her oppressors. She could do that, she could kill! She had the strength to survive! She did!
-But she felt so small now. A child. A helpless child staring down a wild lion. Her knees buckled inward, and the urine that she had planned to relieve herself of relieved itself inside her clothes. Tears stung her eyes, and he just smiled.
But she wasn't helpless.
Her voice warbled with fear, scratched by sobs that threatened to emerge at any moment, but was nonetheless clear as she cast her hand defiantly towards Caster, "By the power of my Command Seals, I order you-!"
Gone.
From her fingers to the center of her forearm. Gone.
Disappeared into a mist of blood. A red fog that drifted leisurely to the carpet below. In the corner of her eyes, she could make out the white of bone.
The scariest part was that she didn't feel a thing. No pain. No sensation whatsoever.
Just. Gone.
Any strength left disappeared. She fell to the floor. She tried to brace herself, but her arm was gone and she inevitably fell to her right side. She looked back at that monster, tears streaming down her face, each breath a whimper. Two hands, two people, grabbed her under arm from behind and lifted her up; she dangled limply in their arms. She sobbed. She was scared. But more than anything, she refused to look up. She couldn't look at those golden eyes.
"Why is it so hard for you to just have fun?"
He touched her face, running his fingers deftly across her cheeks before grasping her chin and lifting it up to him.
His face resembled a concerned parent, solemn and pouting, "What is it that you want, Aisha? What are you after?"
She managed a croaking laugh through her sobs. The sad laugh of one without hope, "I want you to go to Hell."
He gripped her chin more firmly and her vision tunneled. He suddenly seemed so far away, and she felt so alone. As if drifting through an infinite nothingness, a cold black void. Her fear didn't leave her, but it became distant, her mind both clear and hazed. Her thoughts flowed more freely, but her emotions were being dammed, as was her connection to reality.
"What do you want, Aisha?"
She took a shuddered breath, "I... I don't want to die."
"Then live a little."
Her vision blurred as the nothingness her mind occupied began to turn and distort, and a cool touch like black vines began to encircle her reality. She didn't resist. She let the vines embrace her; she accepted their promise of safety. The safety of the nothingness her mind was being pulled into, further and further from the reality she knew.
She last thing she saw through her tears-
The image burned into her broken mind-
A pair of black horns and yellow eyes.
...
Aisha Alghul was no more.
....