Nerd In the North 5-24 (Patreon)

Sansa scrambled backward from the window seat, silk rustling as her hands pressed into velvet cushions, trying to put space between herself and the blood-spattered guy who'd just turned her door into kindling. "Who are you?" 

Her voice trembled, like a glass of water during an earthquake, but it wasn’t anywhere close to breaking. "What do you want?"

Greg held up his hands, palms open, going for the universal I come in peace gesture, but his eyes caught the blood still smeared across his knuckles, dark against silver gauntlets. "Princess Sansa?" His voice pitched higher than he meant, trying for reassuring but landing somewhere near please don't scream. "On behalf of your brother, King Robb Stark, I've come to r-"

"Rescue?" Her voice got stronger, even by just a little, skepticism clear in her tone as her eyes flickered from his face to the doorway where a guard's boot still twitched, back again. "You're... you're not a knight."

Those Tully blue eyes, same shade as Robb's, took in his armor, his face, everything about him as if she wasn’t sure what she was looking at. "What are you?"

Little rude but okay… “I'm Lord Veder," he said, the title feeling natural now as he said it. "Your brother sent me to get you out of here."

He took a half-step forward, wood chips crunching under his boot making her flinch. "We need to go. Now."

But she wasn't moving, just staring at his legs as her eyes went wide-wider-wider, mouth falling open with it.

Greg frowned as his eyes flicked down, wondering wh— "Oh."

Shadows still clung to the silver plates, wisps of darkness that shouldn't exist but did anyway, remnants of stealth magic that apparently had a half-life. Right. Magic. Forgot regular people aren't used to that.

"Don't mind that."

"A sorcerer." The word dropped between them like a stone in still water. "Robb sent a sorcerer to rescue me." She said it like she was trying to convince herself, puzzle pieces that didn't fit the world she knew.

Distant shouting echoed down the corridor, getting closer, layered with the rhythmic tramp of armored boots. More red cloaks, probably lots more, probably armed with the kind of enthusiasm that came from finding dead friends.

Fuck.

"Look, Princess, I know this is weird," his voice going just a little bit sharper as he tried to get the younger girl in front of him to understand how little time they had left. "Believe me, my entire life has been weird for the past year. But your brother really did send me. And we really need to leave before some assholes show up to play pin the sword on the Veder."

Sansa sat up from her window seat, fingers smoothing down silk with hands that only shook the slightest bit. 

Impressive, and he meant that. Being honest, Greg had expected a lot of screaming, even braced for it.

"You used magic." It was a statement, not a question; neither of which they had time for right now. "...you… are you of Essos?"

“No,” Greg answered with a barely held-back huff. “And before you say anything, not from S-Sothoryos, either.” Not from Westeros either, but you don’t need that info.

"The stories the servants and guards whisper of... they're true, then." Her voice got quieter, more dangerous. "Are you… "

Greg turned his head back around — shitshitshit — as his ears picked up sound; noise and clanging footsteps getting closer, echoing off stone walls at a pace that meant they had minutes to move, if he was lucky. A dozen voices, he hissed underneath his breath, barely holding back a curse, maybe more…

"A Child of the Forest?"

A what? Lady, I'm from Maine. 

"Y-yeah, no, I’m not… that, just… do you have a go-bag packed or…?" His mouth ran ahead of his brain again, half-distracted as he realized how very very little time they had before this whole mission went the way this city smelled. 

To shit, specifically.

At best, they had two minutes, maybe less. "Look, forget it,” he shook his head, a sigh leaving his throat. “Your brother will explain everything. Now, where's Arya? I need to get both of you out. That was the mission."

The question hit her wrong, face crumpling in a way that told Greg he wouldn’t like what was coming next. Not when Sansa’s breath hitched with a raw, painful sound that made something twist in his gut.

"A-Arya?" The name came out broken, as Sansa’s head shook in sharp, jerky motions. "Arya's not here."

…Fuck.

"She hasn't been here since... since Father..." Choked sounds broke her words up into chunks and dissolved into nothing but sobs, Sansa trying to muffle both behind her hands.

Ice settled in his stomach, heavy and cold, the kind that meant everything was about to go sideways in spectacular fashion. "What do you mean she's not here?" His own voice came out too tight, almost high-pitched, dread climbing up his throat as he felt something halfway between irritation and fear for someone else. "The Lannisters have been blabbing all about how they had both Stark girls. That was the whole damn point of this whole frickin’ suicide run."

Please tell me she's just hidden somewhere. Please don't tell me she's—

"They lie." They were simple words but almost crushing in how flat they were. Tears streamed down the princess’s cheeks, Sansa wiping at them with perfect ladylike gestures. "They've been lying about Arya for months. After they... after they took Father, she… she was gone one day. Vanished."

Shaking her head again, fresh tears began to well up where she’d been trying to push them back down. "One of the Kingsguard said he saw her running into Flea Bottom, but..." she trailed off, not much more to say.

Not that Greg needed her to say much. He didn’t need to imagine what would happen to a lost little girl in a place like those slums.

"I don't know where she is."

Greg let out a slow hiss between gritted teeth, the taste of blood in the back of his throat making him realize he just bit his tongue. "...fuck."

"Intruder! Intruder in the keep!"

"Check the Stark girl's room! He's in here!"

"Seal the corridor!"“...double fuck!”

Well, there goes stealth. And the mission. And my entire fucking day.

His Celestial Sword materialized in his hand with a soft hum, the blade singing in his palms, and shining with that faint white glow that pushed back shadows and probably looked way cooler than it had any right to.

"Okay," his voice went colder, as his eyes locked onto the tear-streaked face of the ginger princess he was sent here to save. "Change of plans." He nodded his head slowly, coming up with another plan on the spot. "We're fighting our way out."

Her eyes locked onto the weapon, shock pushing aside grief and sobs both as she stared at his magic sword. "Th-that's not possible," her voice was barely a whisper, and Greg got the feel she wasn’t talking about what he just said. "Swords don't... they don't do that."

Her gaze snapped back to his face, a question burning in her eyes as she took him in as if for the first time. "What are you?"

"A hero!”The last word became a battle cry the same moment as three soldiers in red cloaks charged through the shattered doorway, swords drawn and murder written across their faces. Huh, maybe they took the dead guards personally.

"Stay behind me, Princess."

Aggression and steel rushed his way in the form of a big-shouldered knight with a beard that could use a trim and a grimace worthy of a Happy Meal. Greg met him head-on, clean-shaven and grinning wide. 

Snow-white blade connected with shining steel in a shriek of tortured metal, and the other man’s sword just... ceased. The upper half spun away in a useless arc while the hilt stayed in the guy's suddenly stupid-looking grip.

A choked sound left the guard’s lips before he could even process the loss of his blade, eyes going wide. Shock and pain filled his eyes, thrashing for freedom as Greg's free hand closed around his throat. It was a clean lift, no strain (at least, not for Greg), the guard’s armored boots kicking uselessly a foot off the ground. Both of his fellow soldiers froze, shocked into a silence broken only by choked, gargling sounds.

“...I’m gonna give you a chance to reconsider all the choices that led you here.”

With a simple push, the man went flying back across the chamber, coming to a stop as his body tumbled across the floor and he met the far stone wall, as a heap of dented metal and bruises.

“Who’s next?”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Fortunately, neither of those two were.

They both chose to run, dropping their swords and running for safety, the guards booking it as if they could actually read.Unfortunately, the others weren’t as smart.

The corridor outside Sansa’s room had turned into a slaughterhouse — blood, guts and screams filling the air — and Greg had become the first medieval factory farmer. 

Not willingly, of course.

But these people just wouldn’t be reasonable.

“‘e’s jus’ one boy!”One boy, yes.Just?

That was up for debate.

More guards poured in from the far ends of both halls, steel crashing back against him like he was a mountain all on his own; a wave of red against the blue cliffs of Veder. 

“I gave you an out! Don’t forget that!” He stepped into it, a rock splitting the tide, as he crossed swords with three guards at once, roaring as he pushed them back with force, all three of them going flying. In no time at all, he had broken the chokepoint in the doorway, guards falling to their feet and backs as the last few others surged in to replace them. 

A spearman lunged, the point aimed for his eye. Greg’s head was already moving, sword a white blur that slapped the spear shaft aside. His free hand shot out, reaching past and grabbing the man’s helm from behind. 

“Stay down!” With a grunt, he used the guard’s own momentum to slam his face into the stone wall. A familiar crack hit Greg’s ears and the man slumped down, a trail of flowing red smearing to the floor with him.

Another guard swung his way, blade in hand with a desperate move from the hard left that a blind man could have seen in the dark. Greg twisted and swung his fist, a backhand connecting with the man’s bare jaw with  a dull, meaty thump like sledgehammer meeting beef. Another guard tried to get past, sword held in a low guard. Greg didn't even need to look, the young lord kicking backward like a horse and with just as much force. A kneebone gave way with less give and just as much noise as a thick branch, the guard’s scream high and sharp before he collapsed in a heap.

"H-how?" Sansa's voice thread from behind him, suddenly audible through the sudden quiet, fragile and disbelieving. "How are you doing this?"

"Practice," he smirked back at her as adrenaline sung in his ears, the sound of rushing blood and a beating heart pounding in his chest like drums. Wait… am I actually hearing drums? Greg frowned, glancing around as he stomped over the groaning, bleeding and potentially dying bodies of a dozen Red Keep guardsmen. And a snare?“... is that m-music?”“Okay, cool,” he sighed. “I thought I was having a stroke. ”

Health and odd music coming from nowhere and everywhere aside, Greg felt his heart pick up the pace as the sound of more men rushing their way. 

"Crossbows!" Sansa's voice cut through the blood-rush in his ears, sharp enough to snap his head around. He didn’t need long to catch the glint of metal tips down the hall, one already leveling at his chest.

Fuck that noise.

Boots found purchase on slick marble, muscles coiling as he launched at the wall because going through wasn't an option and going around meant pincushion time. Three steps, four, five; the Veder lord ran parallel to the floor in a fuck-you to gravity for as many seconds as he took steps. “Hey, idiots, eyes up here!” Guards' heads snapped up, formation wavering as their eyes followed him, gazes trying to make sense of the guy treating their wall like a running track.

Idiots.

He only needed that much for an opening.

He surged down, white blade already ahead of him before they could recover. A spear shaft parted like paper, the cut continuing through to open a throat that sprayed red across stone and tapestry both. Another guard's shield caved inward as his fist punched through steel and wood, the man’s arm snapping like a dry branch.

Screaming filled the corridor, mixing with the ring of breaking steel and the wet sounds that meant someone's day had gotten significantly worse.

They broke, the crossbowmen and pikewielders among them scattering like roaches under 3 AM kitchen lights. All of them streamed back into the main hallways, still screaming for guards like that wasn’t their job. Is she-? He glanced back, Sansa huddled over in the alcove next to him — alright, she’s keeping pace, good girl— and turned back to the patrol in front of him.

No, not a patrol anymore; this was a full hornet's nest as another heavy tide of red and gold barrelled toward him. Okay, too much… He felt his left eye twitch. And too cramped  for sword practice.

"This way!" His hand found Sansa's silk dress fabric smooth against his gauntlet, fragile and wrong in the middle of all this steel and imminent violence. Her fingers trembled in his grip, pulse hammering against his palm.

Too many to fight straight up. Need a plan. Needed one five minutes ago.

His left hand flung out behind him without looking, muscle memory, panic and instinct working together. "Ignis Maxima!" Fire bloomed in the corridor, hungry blue flames that turned the first three pursuers into screaming torches. His right hand shone a violent holy gold as Greg spun, the light searingly bright as he faced the group blocking their path ahead. "Twin SMITE!"

The holy energy building up in his palm shot out like concentrated sunlight, raw and pure and powerfully draining. Greg didn’t mind the last part as much as it hit two guards center mass, their breastplates caving inward with the sound of tin foil being crumpled. Both their bodies shattered against the far wall, blood painting stone in patterns that would give nightmares to whoever had to clean this up. Vaya con dios.

More shouts sounded off from behind, ahead, echoing from side passages in ways that meant they were surrounded and running out of corridor to run down. His hearing picked out at least another dozen voices, boots on stone, the scrape of steel being drawn.

Time for shock and awe.

Greg planted himself between Sansa and the surge of red cloaks, mouth opening wide as something primal ripped out of his throat, a roar that would've made Ash proud. Magic coiled in his gut and slid up behind his teeth, hot and eager and probably way more than he should be pulling on right now. Fuck subtle.

His chest was burning already, his tongue on fire as he held it a second too long but he needed that extra bit of oomph as he screamed, "Ignivox!" 

The word ripped out raw, tasting like copper and smoke as it tore from his throat. 

Fire didn't stream.

No, it detonated with the roar, a rolling concussion of flame tearing itself free from his mouth like a roman candle on steroids. Heat slammed into his face, the pressure wave of his own dragon’s roar knocking him back a step. 

On the other end, it was far more than a step.Shields buckled, swords ripped free, and men were flung backward into their buddies in a domino effect of pain and panic as the entire front rank collapsed into chaos that came with the stench of bitter pork.

Greg didn't pause, couldn't pause, you guys are going to back off right now.His left hand swung out in a claw, tearing at the stone wall beside them. Almost immediately, frost crawled outward in veins of pale light, cold burning through his palm and turning his fingertips blue. F-f-f…

"Gelifractum!" Fuck! 

Stones exploded upward in a spray of ice-shards, jagged spikes punching through greaves and shins, skewering right through shields and shredding their semi-neat formation into another type of screaming elemental confusion. The air filled with white-blue mist, blood freezing before it hit floors that weren't designed for this kind of redecorating. 

More Cloaks surged down from the stairwell, and Greg’s teeth bared, both frustrated and annoyed by the sheer persistence. “R-r-r-r-r,” Ice was not one of the elements he’d really practiced with, no real skill in it unlike Gwenna, and it showed now as he shook his hand to get feeling back into it, “Just retreat already!”His free hand went up, mana on the tip of his half-frozen gauntlet glowing a bright blue. With three simple slashes, he sketched a rune in the air he barely knew, magic energy burning jagged and pure for all to see.

"Fulminor!"

Lightning tore through the hall, thin bolts forking from helm to breastplate, shield to spear, linking men in chains of agony that lit up the corridor like a rave nobody wanted to attend. Ozone stench mixed with scorched flesh as the advance dissolved into convulsions and panic.

Behind him, Sansa's hands flying to her mouth. "Gods..."

Lightning faded, leaving the scent of cooked meat hanging in air that tasted like copper pennies and regret. The advance shattered but it refused to stop, reinforcements pouring in like they thought they could drown him in bodies. 

To be fair, that wasn’t untrue, but Greg was giving it the old college try to convince these guys the opposite.

From the far end of the hall, a man in a pristine white cloak stepped forward, past all the guards, wearing a set of armor damn near bright enough to hurt your eyes.

"S-Ser Trant!" Sansa's voice cracked, the girl cringing backward as she clung to a heavily breathing Greg.

"Sorcerous filth," The knight named Trant snarled, voice echoing off vaulted ceilings. "You'll die for this." The knight raised his sword as he advanced on both lord and princess of the North with the measured steps of someone who feared very little. “In the name of the king, and the Seven, you will know death!”

Behind him, crossbowmen raised their weapons. Without any more warning, the sound of a dozen bowstrings releasing filled the air with death music.Sansa screamed.

Greg moved.

Not left or right but forward, a blur of motion that seemed to outpace the bolts themselves. His left hand shot out, snatching one bolt from the air barely an inch from his face, feathered fletching brushing his cheek. His right hand gripped the sword as he spun it so fast it became a shield of its own, white blade deflecting three more bolts in a shower of wood. The rest whistled past, each one thudding into stone walls with sounds like disappointed sighs.

The blond didn’t pause, simply pouring on the speed as he rode the momentum of his charge, feet eating distance between them. Trant's eyes widened behind his helm, shock breaking his composure because charging into volleys wasn't in the manual.

Unfortunately for him, the teenage lord was on the man before he could reset his guard. 

Greg’s white blade, already legendary in rumor and song, moved in a motion too fluid to track, the young lord moving with a flick of wrist that was more strength than skill. Trant's sword went flying from his hand, and before he could do anything, Greg’s left snatched 

Trant stared at his empty gauntlet, then at Greg, mouth hanging open like a broken door. 

It stayed hanging open as Greg brought the flat of Trant's own blade down on the side of his helm. The clang of steel on steel was deafening, and Ser Trant, apparently some high-level knight, dropped like wet laundry.

Greg tossed the stupid knight’s sword aside, clattering against half-cracked stone in sudden shocked silence. He turned back to Sansa, breathing heavier now, chest burning as the drain hit him. Three higher-level spells back-to-back, bad idea after constant shadow magic use. Bad idea. Too much, too fast.

Lightning wasn't one of his easier elements either. Ice really wasn't either, but water affinity helped with th-

Ohhhh noooo… The world went dark at the edges, blurry for a second, only a second, but already too long. His vision swam, magic reserves not scraping bottom exactly but definitely making him pay for it either way. Ohhhh gooood…

It had been a while since he’d felt this… this drained from magic. Getting used to healing had made him really efficient at putting people back together, less skilled at blowing them apart with it. He glanced down at his sword hand, realizing he should have just stuck to cutting these guys u-… fuck. “L-lord Veder?”…my sword. The memory flickered into his head, a dream he’d had maybe a year ago sticking out in his mind from the last time he’d felt this low on mana. This thing can help me cast spells, can’t it?

"M-move!" His voice cracked as he barked the word at Sansa, coming out rougher than intended, frustrated at himself and everything else. "Now!"

Greg grabbed a pale hand, Sansa going red in the face at the sudden contact, before he quickly yanked the princess toward a side corridor. A loud yelp left her but Greg couldn’t bother to care about that right now, not as his chest burned and his lungs had put a moratorium out on his effective breathing.

"C-can… can you… run in that dress?" The words came out in gasps between heartbeats that sounded way too loud in his ears. "Because I can't carry you… and fight."

"I can run," she gasped back, feet surprisingly nimble as silk rustled against marble, "but where are we—"

"Away from here." The non-answer almost made him cringe, but he didn’t have time to feel embarrassed about his attempted one-liners, not when his brain and body were both feeling the mana drain right now. “J-just come on!”

Greg rounded a corner only to come skidding to an immediate halt, armored boots scraping on polished stone. Fuck me running. More guards, more guards and… oh wow, even more guards armed with a solid wall of shields and leveled spears stood in front of him, a line of crossbows behind them aimed with precision.

"Surrender now and the king might be merciful!"

Yeah, right. Evil kings and mercy. That makes total sense. His foot connected with the nearest door before his brain caught up, a heavy carved thing that probably cost more than a hundred smallfolk houses. As she gave out another yelp, the blond lord pulled Sansa inside as splinters flew.

They both stumbled into an elegant chamber far bigger and prettier than Sansa’s had been, Greg could tell that much. A quick second later, he slammed the door shut and looked frantically fo-Gotcha!

He rushed over to it and his hands pushed up against the dresser, shoving it across the room without wasting a moment on thought. As he scraped it across the room and barricaded the door finally, Greg let out a soft breath of relief, leaning against the thing. 

Then he blinked, the smell of soft perfume hitting his nose, eyes going wide as they tracked gold and silk everywhere, along with dolls arranged with the kind of precision that screamed wealth and too much time. This… this room isn’t empty.

Of course it wasn’t. 

Because sitting on the edge of a canopied bed was a girl with silver-gold hair and green eyes as bright as his were blue.

"Princess...!" Sansa's voice cracked.

"Princess?" Greg glanced back at Sansa, then the girl in the golden dress, left eye threatening to twitch as he felt his night go from bad to worse to worser. “...princess.”

The platinum-haired girl looked up, expression mild, somehow curious and unbothered all at the same time. "Hello, Sansa." Her voice was soft and measured as she greeted his rescuee, the blonde princess standing to offer a curtsey his way as if they were about to ballroom dance. "I am Princess Myrcella Baratheon. Are you here to kidnap me, Bright Lord?"

His brain ground to a halt, gears spinning without catching, the question so matter-of-fact it was almost creepy.. "That wasn't the plan, but..." Eyes darted back to the door as the pounding got louder, more insistent, the kind of rhythm that meant they'd brought friends. Actually, that's not a terrible idea.

"Myrcella? You can't—she's the princess—" Sansa's voice climbed higher, horror spreading across her face as she realized what he was thinking.

"So are you, and just like you, she's leverage." His words cut through Sansa's protest as the pounding intensified, wood starting to crack under repeated impacts. "And right now, I need as much of that as I can get."

"Smallfolk call you a man with the mind of a maester and the heart of a warrior." Myrcella's soft voice threaded through the noise like a needle, Greg somehow easily hearing her despite the noise.

"You get a lot of news in here, Princess?" He looked her up and down, from the golden dress she wore all the way to the calm, still look on her face.

"Servants talk." She gave a small shrug as the words left her, the candle at ther bedside seeming to flicker in time with what she had to say. "They say you command a dragon and can heal the dead."

"Eh, kinda, well, yeah, maybe…" The mutter left his lips an instant before his eyes snapped back to the barricaded door, the sound and sight of cracking wood drawing his attention. Oh fuck me running. I can do a one man mission, trust me, I’m so fucking badass, cus I have magic, I got this locked dow-

"Sansa." Myrcella's voice was gentle but strong, pulling Greg out of his thoughts and the older girl's wide-eyed stare away from the failing door. "You should not be afraid. He will not let them harm you."Making a lot of assumptions there, Greg pulled a face.

Sansa looked between them, expression cycling through fear, hope, confusion in rapid succession. "But... he's kidnapping you!"

"Am I?" His eyebrows went high as he looked at Myrcella, something in her green eyes making him actually take the idea more seriously. Well… 

 "...I am."

As if that was all they needed to hear, the door exploded inward, wood splinters flying as gold-white armor forced its way through the opening, men in that same gilded shit he'd seen on Trant pushing into the chamber with swords already drawn.

"Step away from the princess!" The lead guy roared as if Greg was across a football field instead of just a few feet away from the guy.

Movement restricted now with both girls behind him,  the whole tactical situation had gone from bad to completely fucked in about three seconds. This is so much harder with passengers. Two passengers. His white blade became a blur of light as he parried desperately, guards pressing closer, boots scraping on marble as they tried to flank.

One got past his guard, blade sliding through his defense, and he twisted away only to realize the sword was aimed at Sansa's head. Fuck! Greg intercepted, steel biting across his shoulder, leaving a hot line of pain that made his teeth clench as blood started soaking into his armor.

"Enough of this shit." the words came snarling out as his hand shot out, grabbing Myrcella by the waist, pulling her in front of him. Her body solid and warm against his chest, green eyes staring up at him with that same unsettling calm.

"Back off or the princess gets hurt!"

"You wouldn't dare harm a child of royal bloo-" 

"Try me." Solo rescue to a double kidnap. So many great choices today, huh, Greg?

Myrcella didn't struggle, didn't scream, just watched him with those green eyes that seemed way too old for her face. This girl is weird. Why isn't she freaking out?

He started backing toward the tall windows overlooking the courtyard, pulling a terrified Sansa with his left arm while his right kept a firm grip on Myrcella's waist. The princess was moving with him, her unbothered calm a counterpoint to Sansa's trembling.

"This is madness," Sansa whispered frantically, voice shaking as her eyes tracked to where he was heading. He knew how high the drop was… generally. If not by exact numbers, then a pretty good guesstimate, at least. It was the kind of fall that made people explode, explode like horses did. "You can't possibly—"

"Watch me." He kept his gaze fixed on the courtyard outside, brain calculating angles and impact velocity. Super strength plus enhanced durability equals... probably survivable. Maybe. For me, anyway.

The white cloaks edged closer, each one spreading out to cut off escape routes, their too-bright armor gleaming in torchlight that made everything look unreal.

"You’ve been caught, sorcerer! The North knows no honor or faith if it consorts with one like you in such vile actions!” The man in the lead roared, voice echoing loud through the chamber. "Surrender now and face the king's justice!"

Laughter tore its way out of him, the sound just as loud as the guard’s bellow of a voice but way more bitter and sharp. "Justice? I'll pass, thanks. I've seen what your king calls justice."

He didn't give them another chance to speak, couldn't afford to let them get organized. In one swift motion, Greg swung both girls into his arms, one on each hip, Sansa letting out a loud gasp as her arms wrapped around his neck immediately. Myrcella, on the other hand, remained silent, body adjusting to the new position without question.

"Hold on tight, ladies." He glanced at Sansa's terrified face, then Myrcella's strangely composed one. "This is gonna be a bumpy ride."

Two running strides ate up distance to the window as the knights screamed behind him, muscles already coiling to spring.

A split-second later, Greg launched himself forward, a human missile on the path to a very expensive egress.

Glass exploded outward.

Sansa screamed.

Greg yelled.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

10k Words (100 GP)

Pay Their Debts (100 GP) - Kill Ten Men under House Lannister’s EmployROLL: Magic Circuits (Tier 1) (Free) [Fate/Strange Fake] {Source}: The bare minimum to be involved in the Holy Grail in a meaningful way. For no cost, you possess a decent amount of magic circuits, enough of number and quality that you could support a decent Servant in the Holy Grail War, and perhaps a mid-tier Noble Phantasm release twice or thrice during the course of the war. Obviously, you are not going to be able to support them without the help of the grail just with this.

Then there is your Elemental Affinity, which indicates which element you are most suited to manipulate. At no cost, you will get some fairly basic, like a singular elemental affinity of the traditional Four Classical Elements or the Five Elements of the Eastern philosophies, as well as an Origin of your choice that won’t provide many great benefits even if awakened.ROLL: Vit (100 GP) [Germanic/Norse Mtyhology Jump] {Lore}: "The second gift: thought. You now hold a certain wit and charm about yourself; whatever your intelligence was before, you are at least above average now. You have also gained the skill of pithy retort and common banter, never again being at a loss for words.

You also possess a talent for Flyting, argument as a contest, consisting of the exchange of insults, subterfuge, and shade, often conducted in verse, between two or more parties. It could be described as the art of eloquently insulting the opposition, usually as a prelude to battle, a battle in and of itself, or even as a friendly competition among comrades. While this perk doesn’t make you the best in the realms by itself, or even a master, you are an expert and could easily run circles around the common man."

Grimoire Points: 450 GP