Masked Covenant

As he finished the incantation, the circle ignites with an intensity that forces William to shield his eyes, casting long shadows across the abandoned factory floor. As the light dims, a figure materializes within - slim and graceful, draped in the ragged robes that are ubiquitous amongst the Hashashins. Long dark hair flows behind her, seeming to catch nonexistent winds.

"Observant. Your circle is imperfect. The northern quadrant is two degrees off alignment." The girl's voice is eerily monotone despite the emotional prefix, her face hidden behind an expressionless black mask. "Though I suppose it matters little now. You're my Master, I presume?"

William's circuits burn the holes in his head as the contract solidifies, Command Seals etching themselves across his back. He fights back a wince, maintaining his composure. Impressive, considering he knew only a fraction more about Magecraft than any man off the street, and a strange woman just appeared suddenly in front of him. "That I am. At least, according to my benefactor I should be." His affected British accent slips slightly on the final syllable.

The girl's hair shifts and coils of its own accord as she takes in her surroundings, appearing to taste the air like a snake's tongue. The abandoned factory's looms cast strange shadows across her form, their shapes seeming to blur and twist wherever her hair passes through them.

"Analyzing. Your magical energy is... unusual. Like holes carved into flesh." She tilts her head, mask catching the lantern light. "But the flow is strong. Very strong. And I can feel your reserves run deep. This should work well." Her hair continues its hypnotic dance as she takes a step forward, boots completely silent on the dusty floor.

"Curious. This building... it was once used for weaving?" She moves to one of the old machines, running a finger along its rusted frame. "How appropriate. I shall make this our workshop, if you permit it. The spiders here will serve us well."

As if summoned by her words, dozens of tiny shapes begin to emerge from the darkness - spiders of various sizes skittering across the walls and ceiling, converging on their position. The man tenses, fingers tightening on the handle of his gun, but the arachnids maintain a respectful distance.

"It's better than nothing - best I could find on short notice, and requesting shelter from my benefactor might be pushing my luck too far. You sure having those things around is safe?" He motions to the spiders congregating around them, easily numbering in the hundreds after only a minute or so.

"Reassuring. They serve me alone, Master. And now, by extension, you." She gestures, and hundreds of tiny red eyes glint in the shadows of the factory's rafters. "Shall we discuss our strategy for the war to come? I notice you've summoned me quite early - wise. It gives us time to prepare my Territory."

William had a rough idea of what was going to occur in the coming weeks - a battle royal between mages and their mythological familiars. The winner of which, would receive a wish. But as far as specifics went, he didn't have the faintest clue - and asking his 'Servant' directly would be revealing his hand to someone he could yet fully trust...

Still, they'd need to work together if either of them wanted to survive what was coming. Better to focus on practical matters first. The fake accent loosens as William straightens his coat. "Right then. First order of business - set up that territory thing you were talking about. After that, we'll try to scrounge for a better outfit. Can't have you walking around Oxford in an outfit like that. The limey cunts will shove you in their museum and I'll be stranded the whole war."

The girl tenses slightly, before seeming to relax and perform a small curtsy. Her hand rises to her mask, fingers tracing its edge. "Formal. I am Hassan of the Spider's Web, the tenth to bear the title of Hassan-i-Sabbah. By your summoning and the grace of the Holy Grail, I shall be your blade in the coming war." The mask comes away, revealing a youthful face with eyes that seem too old for their features. Those eyes study William's face intently, taking in every detail of the man behind his own careful masks. "I am eager to serve... Master."

The man swept off his top hat with practiced showmanship, offering a theatrical bow that wouldn't look out of place on a street corner hustler. "William Dafoe, wandering gentleman of fortune - though I suspect you've already gathered I'm neither gentle nor fortunate." His affected accent slips entirely on the last few words, revealing something rawer underneath.

Straightening up, he clears his throat and tugs his coat closer against the chill. "Now, ah... would you mind sending your little friends away? They're making my skin crawl something fierce."