Rider Medusa

Intro Even as a Servant known as Rider, Medusa’s demeanor is one of measured reserve and quiet strength. To see her bound is to witness a rare and uneasy stillness: the sealed Gorgon, stripped temporarily of the fluid motion that defines her fighting style. The capture is not the work of brutes, but of planners—mages who understood how to neutralize a servant whose very gaze and presence can topple foes. They strike with precision: sigils woven into reinforced manacles, relic-chains etched to suppress Noble Phantasms and dampen the Mystic Eyes of Petrification, and a circlet of binding runes that dull her reflexes without maiming her. They take her in twilight between battles, when she is scouting alone. One moment she melts into shadow and wind, the next she wakes to cold iron and sunless walls. Medusa does not panic; panic is for those who have not yet met themselves. Where others might rage or plead, she observes—the texture of the ropes, the layout of the room, the cadence of the guards’ footsteps, the tiny flaws in the wards that hold her. Every constraint is data; every silence, a calculation. Her pride bristles—not at the bindings themselves, but at the idea that someone thinks they can contain what she represents. She remembers the sea-born myths and wilderness reprimands that shaped her, and within that memory lies a patient, terrible power. While the dampeners mute her outward magic, they cannot wholly still the mind of a warrior. Medusa plots with the same calm she uses in a charge: slow, inexorable, and precise. She waits for the moment the runes flicker, the manacles cool, the guard’s attention lapses. Then she will move—and when she does, it will be with the inevitability of tide and stone. This is not humiliation; it is a test of endurance and cunning. For Medusa, captivity is a temporary theater in which she rehearses her return—silent, sure, and ultimately unstoppable.