Independent Multimuse RP blog for a bunch of muses from the Fate Series...yup. (All art on this blog isn't mine unless it is under the 'Yume's art' tag)
An over-dramatic teenaged Master still ain't as bad as Kiara aaaay
“I would take an over dramatic teenaged master over that whorish nun any day. Sadly the world is a horrible and cruel place and hardly anybody gets what they want.”
“If you ever need over dramatized arguments or simply want some form of cheap entertainment, find a master servant pair where one of the masters is an teenager. you’ll certainly overhear some kind of humorous commentary.”
“I know not EVERYTHING you said was perverted but the fact that you even said those things..!”
He groaned loudly, covering his face with a hand. he was doing it in an attempt to look embarrassed, which he was, but he was also doing it to hide the blush that was forming on his cheeks.
"Mordred, can I check your arms, please?" Arthur asked, walking over to his son... daughter... He'd need to make sure to ask later.
Mordred’s expression changed the moment Arthur began to speak to her. The entire trial she’d had a scowl on her face, her gaze as sharp as daggers as the everyone went back and forth in their debate. Though, the moment Arthur spoke to her in that tone...Her expression softened, saddened even. That tone made her heart ache.
“Fine.”
she said, pulling off her red leather jacket. It revealed...nothing. Her arms were free of any wounds, pale and soft without any sign of any attacks. With her jacket off, most of her skin was showing. Her arms, her legs, her stomach, all free from any scratches.
She placed a hand on her hip and used the other to hold her red jacket. “There.”
It’d been a little over three days since Arthur fell asleep, and even longer since Mordred first met him.
He was an anomaly to her. Her father had always been seen as male but was never truly male, but here her father was as an actual male. It wasn’t just gender that separated this Arthur from the Artoria she knew.
His...opinions on Mordred were different too.
When they met he apologized to her, wanted to find a way to make amends. The king had even gotten angry at Mordred’s own father for her actions. How comically cruel was that?
Arthur was different from her father, in name, appearance, and personality.
But he was still Arthur. And he was still her father.
A different father...
One that wanted her to be a part of his family...
She should not have gotten attached to him. He was not hers. He would never be hers. And even if he claimed a parental love the old hatred within her would not fade. But even then, she still cared about him. Loved him, and hated him, the same way she did her own father. But for very different reasons...
Hate, because how could he say that? How could he act like that? How could he drive knives into those old scars with such a gentle face?
“Father”
she said softly as she stared at the monitor. Her sleeping father...the father tortured by nightmares and calling out her name-- no...her son’s name.
Love, because even after all these years she still adored that wonderful king. She still dreamed of being accepted. And because perhaps a little part of her was like the hopeful knight of the past, filled with delight over the thought of having a father...
Any tears that might have been shed instead burned away within the fires of her own wrath. She clenched her fists, grit her teeth, and tried to swallow down the bile that rose in her throat. Her father was suffering because of some damn rabbit and everyone around her was mocking it.
They were mocking Arthur.
They were mocking her father.
She turned away from the screen, an aura of danger surrounding her.
She was deadly, she was a snake, she was a lion with sharp fangs that were ready to rip and tear.
Mordred, the Traitor of Camelot, was a force of destruction with no outlet to release it all.
The next person who crossed her would not come out unharmed.
The tall red head looked at the selection of books, deciding on what book to buy before he noticed the shorter male, looking over books while being confused. “Any kind of book you’re looking for in particular?” He asked.
Of course there were incredibly few books in any languages he could actually read here. This was the ‘boonies’ as most people seemed to call it. A small town far out in the country where life was a dull crawl. It made sense that the books being sold at this tiny shop were all in Japanese. So far he’d only found one or two books in particular that were some kind of language he spoke or understood.
The bluenette sighed heavily. He’d been about ready to just leave when somebody spoke to him.
“hm?”
His head turned and blue eyes focused on the strange redhead. Oh...uh...wait he knew those words. Book...looking...um.
In an attempt to not mage the biggest fool of himself, Hans shook his head and turned back to the shelf he was standing in front of.
“Jeanne please. Simply calling me Michael will suffice. I hold no class or status over you. Here, we are equals. There is no need for such honorifics.” he said with a gentle smile. Though it would certainly take a while for her to see that. It had taken a while for other Servants to see him as simply another Servant, and not as just the divine being he was.
“I was just on my way to the chapel to pray. Would you care to join me?” he asks.
“o-oh! okay! I’m sorry, it’s a force of habit.”
She smiled brightly and looked to the side for a few moments with a shy expression on her face. It was hard not to refer to an angel by some sort of honorific. In fact, it almost felt rude to her to only refer to the saint as ‘Sir Michael’ instead of ‘Saint Michael’. Calling him by his name and name alone, it would certainly take some getting used to.
“I’d love to!”
she said in response to the offer. Going to the chapel with others was always a treat. Usually the blonde went by herself, Edmond sometimes accompanying her to the holy place.
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