Hunter of The Red Plains

Sha Nagba Imuru: Kur Kigal Irkala; VI

And as if ridiculing their prayers, laugh of a woman echoed through the castle.

Lord Lancelot, said to be the most versitile of the knights, was sitting in front of a wall, with his back leaned on to it. He was trying to stand up, but his legs were not lending him their ears, and were not commiting to his orders. He tried to take strength from his trustworthy sword, Arondight, but he still was uanble to get back up to fight alongside his king. 

He was on a crimson puddle.

And he still hadn't have realized he had no legs to order to.

He was not the only one completely defeated of the round table. 

Sir Tristan was hanging from the ceiling, with a spear of black pining him there by his abdomen. His harp broken in two, blood coming out both from his stomach and mouth, he was still breathing and trying to free himself, although failing miserably due to his lack of strength left.

Sir Kay had numerous chains piercing through his body all over. His beautiful appearence was messed up, his face torn apart, his limbs bending the ways they shouldn't have and dingling like a ragdoll. His death was gruesome because of his kinship with the king.

Sir Gallahad, the very son of Sir Lancelot, had broken bones in every of his limbs, whilst he tried to take a blow head-on to protect the king. Whilst he succeeded, he had to sacrifice all of his limbs, and was lying on the ground under his shield like a ragdoll.

And there was the Mage of Flowers, who was tied by some kind of fabric-like substance of black and red. His whole torso and mouth was tightened by the said fabric, and there were crimson marks expanding slowly by second on his pale skin. His expression seemed in pain, and he was struggling with all his might, despite it all being futile.

And the only ones standing were of four, which were of Sir Agravain, Sir Mordred, Sir Gawain even though he was holding his sister, his blood-soaked and ragged-breathed sister, in one of his arms while the other held his Sword of Revolving Victory and the sister-sword of The King's, Excalibur Galatine. And surely the last one, the very king herself, Artoria Pendragon, who had a face of rage that no other has seen from her before.

"All that blood shed." The king murmured while trying to contain her rage, with her shoulders shaking. "All the lives you have taken away. All the pain you have caused, and all the despair you have created. What were they for, you witch? What did you gain by all these actions, Morgan?" Artoria shouted as the grisp on her sword grew tighter. All the knights who were unable to fight on or got killed was because of her. Because she was not strong enough to protect them. Because they tried to protect her, because she was not enough of a shield for them, her men were in this condition. For this, she could never forgive herself, but even more so, her.

Her, Morgan Le Fey, The Witch of Jealousy, who had her appearence completely changed and was laughing at Artoria. She, who had red marks spreading through on her skin, who had her dress completely blackened with red stripes on it, whose dress was dissolving into the said fabrics and were standing their ground around her like serpents ready to strike at any moment, who was standing on the figure of an omnious dragon, was laughing her lungs out at her sister's comment.

"Oh, my dear, naive Artoria." She said with a low voice, yet all were able to hear her. No, not because of her tone, but because everyone in there was so scared of her that they would never blink in her presence as it would equal death. "How cute of you to ask such a meaningless thing at this point. What would change if you were to learn? What twist of fate occur in such a scene? If you learn of my ideals, my ideas, my reasons to act the way I do now, if I were to tell you that I stand on the right path and side, would you forgive me and compromise your own ideals and stance as The King?"