knight king.
... martyr

a body admired as a dragon in human form.
Arthuria Pendragon

Hic iacet Arthurus,
Rex Quondam,
Rexque Futurus.


{ citta alveare }







     { are we sharing skypes? if so— i’m mediaevales on skype! please make sure to tell me who you are when you are adding me, however. } 


arthurus started following you

The king of knights right? At least that’s what Rider called her. Though he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to say as much. But he did find her noble. Even someone lowly as he could see that. 


"Ah, hello . . " What mam? No that hardly seemed right. Ugh this was all vastly complicated. 

     Confusion swathes comely features as verdigris eyes rest upon a familiar sight— a familiar face of another that should otherwise have grown in the years come to pass. Ten years it has been since her last encounter with this particular magi. 

     … Rider’s master, comes her curt though somewhat hesitant retort. You have not aged.

forgetmenot-memories inquires thus;
This is a tumblr butt touch. Pass this to at least 10 of your favorite blogs to show them how much you love their butt. Make sure you don't break the chain or your butt will deflate. Happy tumblr butt touching!


    What was this—? How on earth can one possibly adoure her behind? She can only offer an inquisitive glance at this peculiar message, and thus the King of Knights begins to slowly edge away, hands inadvertently though somewhat reflexively hovering behind her. 



     { &as I go through my drafts and trim out the few that I owe— would anymore care for a small thread/possible mini? simply like this post and perhaps I will go to your inbox and send an ask of sorts for a general idea/basis of what we can do (only for mutuals!) 

Of blues & Teas ; / closed, Satsuki.

     She sits idly by wooden window, petite frame snugly comforted by the susurrus the quaint tea shop proffers despite the vociferous celebrations that occur outside. Not oft it is that she immerses herself in much of the festivities that Hive City has to offer. In most instances, such days coveted in gaiety were but ruses meant to steer the minds of citizens away from the simple fact that they remained still, at this very moment, lives away from their true homes. A gentle sip of her cup reminds her where she is situated, her gaze discreetly shifting to scrutinise the tea shop. Strange it is not to see this place deserted in favour of the festivities outside— and it is then her gaze befalls something quite extraordinary: where there should be none there is another, who too, sits upon a chair in this quaint eatery sipping away at the fine brew. 


     As odd as it may be, one would think that occupying this space alone at a time where certainly the festivities outside have more to offer. A light cant of her head and she interrupts the quietus that reigns supreme; her voice vigorous like spring against the softness of the silence. … It is strange to see another who enjoys tea to such a degree. Vocables are spoken and although she remains slightly guarded, she wields no hostility within her very person. Ah— pardon my sudden intrusion. I am not often used to company in such… ventures. Let alone during times of festivity, she speaks whilst gaze shifts to the window, a signal of the celebrations that rage outside. From a simple glance Saber can tell the dame that sits with her is not ordinary— no, a human indeed, but the grace and finesse she herself holds is enough to mark some sort of nobility. A grace that she herself can commend— if all. 

     Are you not interested in the festival?



pats her head

     head is pet. she is utterly confused

A V A L O N by archlich 
mental contortions.


It was a bit of an understatement to chalk up the last few days of torpid melodrama as a half-dazed stupor (from hospital rehabilitation to the social dissection of people through the dubious lens of observational scrutiny under six seconds flat). Mizuki failed enough Human Anatomy pop quizzes back in high school to know with dead-ringer certainty that getting his psyche pummeled to the rough equivalent of gray paste wasn’t analogous to kicking the can with science fanatics. As intolerably revolting as it was to admit, he’d seen Rhyme players with marginally better shit for brains. Go figure.

Plausibly speaking, it was a fair shake to suggest that some form of delirium was thrown into the mix. A fever dream onset by his apparently masochistic need to repeatedly toss himself through a meta-shredder until he entered the nirvana of token resignation following heinous crimes and villainous deeds of the most nefarious nature. There wasn’t any alibi behind his past actions besides waning desperation, after all. The potential loss of agency, coupled with the fallout from surrogate familial bonds — the least his mind could do was conjure up a drink or two to siphon off the guilt.


Aimlessly meandering from sector to sector wasn’t getting him anywhere. Exhaling once, Mizuki pulled up the stops at Sector Four to loiter around the local bazaar and rapidly pull apart a loaf of bread he’d towed along for the pigeons pecking along the asphalt in behavior reminiscent of a crazy cat lady, or maybe just an indeterminately sad pedestrian with contrition on the mind. Encouraging the local wildlife to inevitably crap on the sidewalk was mental, so he’d taken his relative anonymity in Hive City to raise his voice above the din, squarely directed at the bystander sidling alongside him.

Do you think it’s strange to miss old habits? he inquires tonelessly, eyes downturned at the concrete, I think it’s understandable to miss people or places, but wanting to return to something familiar like a routine for the sake of it seems selfish, more than anything else. Taken the ensuing silence as a cue for clarification, Mizuki raises his head, blinking up at the person standing adjacent to him. I guess I just want to know if I’m weird for being … homesick, if that makes any sense.

     Of pure umbrage does the Knight King bristle— irritation evident upon comely features whilst she meanders through the drudgery of what one would call ‘daily life’ in a venue that is nonetheless contemptuous to a degree. With the ire of a thousand suns do beryl eyes burn, the once collected King of Knights dreadfully aware of mundane workings of life. She was summoned to the modern world for a reason— the reason was to fight for a war between others of her kind, not to… live her life as a subject for crazed ruffians who otherwise controlled every aspect of this metropolis with the wave of a hand. 

     Ah, but woe was the King of Knights who tragically finds herself yet again in the stream of endless wanderers, unable to find much to do despite the various activities one can possibly immerse themselves with. That is not what Saber seeked— it is the lack of vigour that irritates her. Through the throng of unfamiliar faces does she traipse, gracefully, skillful enough to avoid contact with those she wishes not to interact with. In a world where the majority of her prowess is sealed and limited— one can only do so much. 

     It is then that there is a chance of pace when ears hearken words from an individual she has yet to become acquainted with. Appearances alone are not enough for her to gouge one’s mien, but his words are enough for her to ascertain certain aspects pertaining to this person alone. Eyebrow quirked, the youth listens to his woes, finding herself no better a situation than he is whilst they perambulate past the congregation of citizens, nodding once or twice with his every word. 

     Not at all," comes her careful reply, her gaze now settling upon the horizon that falls beyond, the skies darkening in their hues to a palette of pastel colours— like a beautiful painting so artfully mastered. She could understand herself— a knight so used to the vim of war and contentions; having to settle for something… bucolic in nature can only be demeaning for someone with such a fiery soul. What you feel is not weird at all. I would call it the norm, carefully, she returns his gaze, her petite stature forcing her to gaze upward to the taller male, finally assaying him in finality. A forlorn look covets his face, and she cannot help but sympathise. 

     I can sympathise. I have been here well over a year and it does not seem to get any better," a small frown eases its way across her visage.Despite the many activities one can immerse themselves with in this venue, there is something missing— something that cannot be filled or remedied no matter how hard one attempts to replace it." Vocables muse about lips as she halts her steps before a red light, pondering her life’s worth in Hive City. 

     But one must do with what they have. Would you not agree?" Proffering a small smile, she waits her turn before the light turns green, and resumes her walk, assuming the male would follow suit.Pardon my intrusion, if you do not mind my asking— are you perhaps new to this venue?

Holmes Always Needs her Watson (Closed)


Delight colored her features as Moriarty nodded her assent. This distraction could not have arrived quicker, and frankly it was almost a relief to find a new face amongst the interested party. 

The current throng of investigators have almost turned a blind eye to her crimes. Another murder, another case swept under the rug and Moriarty was once again shut out of her game.

How absolutely stupid these men could be. Bumbling idiots who are hardly motivated to cross any hurdles presented before them. Poor simple minds, tripping over themselves when faced with the first signs of hardship and sadly, such a sorry state simply seemed to plague every professional enforcer of the law in this city.

Indeed, one could only turn to the amateurs, at least she had hoped that these kind of people, driven with the passion for a good mystery, would flock to her scenes. Unfortunately, such a thing did not happen and Moriarty was left to haunt the surroundings vainly wishing for the Sherlock Holmes of this world. Waited for her, it seems.

Well, at least this woman had the British accent down pat. 

"Yes. Quite right. I am, in a word, interested." 


The cup of coffee, she placed by her feet, as she stood up back to her full height. “Rather curious case, I must say, overabundance of evidence, lack of a signature, kept well out of sight, obvious sign of decay. Hardly even touched by the police. Fantastic really.”

And she turned back towards her, hands thrust in her pockets with a look that seemed to imply wanting her to continue her train of thought. Yet before she let her speak a word, she extended a hand forward. Almost as an afterthought, as though she had forgotten the gesture completely.

"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective. Pleased to meet you."

     It is her turn to quirk an eyebrow. Out of an endless well does curiousity spring forth, brimming at the edges and spilling endlessly in its barrage. What a curious name, indeed. A moniker ironically fitting for the situation, the knight king does not inquire the reasoning behind such anonymity. After all, she did go by the name of a blade which in most instances, would be a curious little tidbit for any individual of this century. Certain identities are meant to be kept secret, and she can only gather that this woman goes by this particular moniker (a rather famous one from literature, at that) for the sake of investigations. Perhaps she would enlighten her. 


     “An interesting name. I am Watson. It is a pleasure, Sherlock. A congenial bow of the head whilst a single hand (rough and calloused from years of conditioning and battles) extends to shake the one offered. Interestingly enough, both she and Dr. Watson shared similarities that resonate quite clearly with their upbringings— both English and veterans of war, Saber only finds it fitting to allow herself this alias for even the slightest of a moment. Perhaps it would serve her well in this… peculiar investigation. 

     Gaze falls short from the dame who stands before her to once more assay the scene that lies before them. Her brows are furrowed, consumed in her thoughts whilst steps are taken— tap, tap, tap. 

     The scene is too masterfully pieced, comes her reply, circling the murder scene like a predator does it prey, searching for clues (or rather, the abundance of clues). If I may, she offers ‘Sherlock’ an inquisitive glance before stepping forth between her newfound companion and the corpse, ruminating the situation at hand. The closeness between her and the corpse does not bother her as much as the stench that emanates from the corpse alone. Not long has it been since the life had been taken from this poor soul; Saber can only frown. 

     It is as if the perpetrator has artfully crafted this scene in the likeness of a painting. The over abundance of evidence can only suggest the suspect wishes to toy with us, to lead us astray… Standing tall once more more (although falling short just mere six inches from the other), Saber straightens herself to gaze upon Sherlock, clearly perplexed. But is the cup half empty, or half full? The overabundance of evidence should appear too suspicious for any who look upon this murder scene. Although… it appears that that in itself eludes everyone— even the police.What are your thoughts?

zaiteki inquires thus;
Don't chase the rabbit. Can it contain swords? I like swords.

     Breathe in, breathe out.

                             Breathe in, breathe out

     Idle breaths taken do not waver. They are steady in their beats, her conditioned body accepting the vigours of countless hours of training as mere moments of child’s play. While instructing others was not her forte, it took every fibre of her being as an Eirei to hold back from completely decimating the poor male who prostrates himself not out of cowardice, but of the pain that shoots through his very person (servants, after all were beings who garnered their prowess from the grail— it was an infallible truth that their fortitude was perhaps a hundred times more robust than the average human, if not, more). 


     “Shirou. Stand.

     Her statement is ruthless in its delivery, her gaze unrelenting as she wields the bamboo weapon steadily, poised evenly before her. The boy grunts, moving once again to reach for his shinai, taking yet another breath before recklessly moving to attack his tutor, only to be met with the butt of his opponent’s weapon in the large of his back, and yet another on the side, another on the other side, and a final blow to the head. His staggering form can be seen paralysed by her callous actions, and once more he greets the wooden floors with open arms, sweating profusely and breathing hard.  

     Fluid are her actions that seem almost like an unseeable blur— that is how Servants were; quick, agile beyond belief— capable of traveling faster than the speed of sound… But her motions hold certain grace, fitting for a royal such as herself. The dignity that oozes with every step she takes, the astute form that she provides with every gesture… Truly, the embodiment of a Knight. 

     Sighing gently, the Saber servant acquiesces to the boy’s defeat and lowers her weapon. With arms readily placed upon the small of her hip, she shakes her head, clearly nonplussed by the situation. It is clear to her that this boy required much conditioning— if not, countless hours of conditioning if he wished (as he so vehemently proclaimed) to take part in the fights that were to be. 


     “Honestly. It is your wish to be taught and yet you lay about on the ground. Merciless are vocables that spill forth from parted lips, the knight admonishing in her statements, shaking her head disapprovingly. 

     With her words the boy finds himself once again reanimated— determination flickering like flames within amber optics that dared her to say yet another unrelenting remark. A small smile is proffered in return of this newfound boldness, and thus, she raises her shinai once more at the ready, emerald gaze never leaving her master’s form. 

     I’m not done just yet—!" is his shout before he dives in head first once more. 

     This time, her smile widens. If it is one thing she can commend, it is Emiya Shirou’s resilience and fortitude as an individual.