Location: Tbilisi. Time: 10:12AM. Date: 8th August 2008.
On the outskirts of the capital, one could come across multiple kinds of motels. One-night residences catered for long distance drivers, majorly those who drove from the capital to Russia. That is, before the war.
In the two months of the war, the motels saw a steady decline in business, a pity for they barely made enough to stand on their feet to begin with.
But on occasion, business would pass by. A wealthy businessman, drug traffickers, hookers, refugees from the border. They were not honest business, but they were always accepted with open arms, for they were business all the same.
One such motel stood before the man in the cream suit.
He had brown hair that flowed down his back in such beautiful strands he could be mistaken for a woman. If not for his light facial beard and sharp, handsome face.
He stood in the centre of the motel's parking lot. Like a sports car found within a slum, he couldn't have stood out any more than he already did, but he made no attempt to conceal himself.
He wished to be seen.
With slow, calm and collected steps, he made it to the front reception where a barely stocked vending machine and bench awaited him at the doorway. Farther in sat a bored elderly man fanning himself with a crumpled newspaper.
His lazy gaze searched over the new entry before sharpening and pasting a greasy smile.
"Welcome, sir!"
He spoke in English, perhaps presuming the handsome individual before him came from Western Europe. And much to his pleasure, the suited man responded in kind.
"Thank you."
Perhaps a tourist? The war had reduced them to none. The receptionist, who was probably just as much the owner, straightened his collared shirt and notebooks across his desk to appear more professional.
"Would you like a room?"
The suited man smiled and, like a magician, flicked a wad of banknotes into his hands. Once he set them down on the desk, the receptionist's greasy smile turned sleazy and he proffered a key to the now guest.
"Thank you very much for your kindness."
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As a general rule, motels didn't offer services like hotels. Restaurants, casinos, pools, and so on. Perhaps laundry services or room service, but the occurrence of variation was rare.
Motels tended to remain the same for years on end.
The suited man thought this information over while he stood in the center of the room he had been offered. He glanced from wall to wall before nodding in approval.
{This will do.}
A few days ago, he had helped a boy get back on his feet after suffering a traumatic experience.
And now.
He was going to get that very boy revenge on his behalf.
"All conflicts between servants and masters were prohibited before the eve of today, 8th of August."
A peculiar breeze blew throughout the room, upsetting the window curtains and bedsheets. But the suited man seemed unfazed, his tone varying between official and boredom.
"Hence by the very rules of the holy grail war, the defeat of saber of West without clearance accounts as breaking of the aforementioned rule."
The man spoke while glancing at the bleak mini-fridge in a corner of the room. Logically, his words seemed directed at the object, but his stance and tone indicated he addressed something else.
Someone else.
"With the acknowledgement of the great grail, punishment is to be mitigated to the offending party."
The suited man's stance changed, and in a flash of gold he held a sword.
It was a simple sword, no different from the replicas found at medieval displays within museums.
A gold hilt with an 85 cm long white blade. Its size fit perfectly within the man's hand, like an extension of his arm.
But with that sword, all warmth in the morning air vanished. The sword had once been used to snuff out a life at the very peak of mysterious beasts. If one knew the blade's true name, they would at once recognise what it was the man wielded so casually in that hand.
A noble phantasm.
The signature weapon accorded to a servant.
"As Ruler, I am to bestow said punishment. I have looked long and hard for you... Assassin of West."
The man spoke so formally, but in doing so, he easily expressed his disdain for the one he spoke to. And as he turned around, he came face to face with said individual.
They stood at the doorway. Behind them, the door was closed shut. As if the very person had simply appeared from nothingness.
But such was the common characteristic amongst those that donned the mantle of assassin.
Assassin of west donned a bright cloak of red. The cowl of said cloak blanketed their facial features in a shade of black, but peaking slightly through said black, one could spot dirty bandages wrapped repeatedly akin to a mask.
But what stood out, what contrasted the conspicuous nature of assassins was the armor the servant wore.
Though in depressing colours of gray and black, he wore what was akin to a medieval knight. Tall, brutal looking greaves; heavy looking pauldrons and an intricately layered chest plate that screamed bulletproof.
These, together with his cloak and various tools and weapons across his body, made one first think of the legend of robin hood. A figure of the forest and skills of survival unmatched.
But in the right hand of the Assassin of West, he held a gun. A modern looking black M9 Bayonet.
"..."
At the appearance of the gun, the man who declared himself ruler frowned. He made no comment on the weapon, but instead glared at his opponent.
"I know of your duties, guardian. But as a participant in this war, the rules apply to you as they do the rest of us. Saber of West could have been yours to slay if you had simply waited."
"..."
Ruler's frown deepened further and within those brown eyes of his flashed a slight anger. Indignant at his opponent's silence, Ruler made no attempt to hide his hostility.
"I hope your skills are of decent caliber. I despise evil scoundrels, rule-breakers particularly so."
And with that Ruler donned his armor, the cream suit melting away in a puff of gold light.
His armor was an orange bronze and donned from his neck to his heels. White garments and cape with strips of red completed the set to give him the true presence of a chivalrous knight. His surcoat and mantle bore a red cross, the cross held a name famous within the catholic church.
(The cross of St. George.)
"Prepare thyself. For here I come."
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Location: Tskhinvali. Time: 11:02AM. Date: 8th August 2008.
Sol Mardi feared.
She desperately feared the very situation that perhaps God had cursed her with.
Here she was in the passenger seat of a military truck with the man who had fucked her repeatedly for hours on end. Brutally, repeatedly, without losing pace.
Her cheeks flushed pink.
But she still feared. Because this man who sat behind the wheel was the devil incarnate.
{I must thank you for the information... Madame Sol.}
He had said those words against her protestations. At the thought of what she had lost and said within that night she cursed herself.
The interrogation wasn't just fucking but starving her of her sanity. Perhaps he had used a drug, an aphrodisiac; but Sol knew well what the results had been all the same.
She sang like a canary.
She had told him all he wanted to know, answered all the questions he asked and doomed the one person she treasured in doing so.
And so she feared.
Perhaps it would take a day, two or a week. But he had the information he wanted. It was only a matter of time before he used it against her.
She turned her gaze to her captor, the driver.
He sensed her gaze, peculiar as he was.
"How are we doing, Madame Sol?"
"..."
He smiled, but his smile reminded her of a drug lord's, cruel and sadistic.
She turned to look out the window.
At this action, the man showed no sign of offense and instead admired the expanse of decimated landscape around them. They drove down a barely passable road towards the border.
The war had been brutal. The effects were clear to see. But you would never guess by the mood of the driver.
"Rider~ You better be ready when we arrive."
"..."
The vehicle approached the border with a dangerous recklessness, but it would only be a few hours before they reached their assigned battlefield.
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(A/N)
I'm sorry... I'm terrible at this really. Ain't gon say much cause there really isn't much to say. I'm ashamed but I still want to keep writing this story. So if it's alright with you, I'll keep doing this. Apologies for the pitiful release times.