Who Are The Main Characters In Simple Twist Of Fate?

Wow, the fanart scene around 'Fate' is absolutely crowded, and if you scroll Pixiv, Twitter, or Reddit for long enough you'll start to notice the same faces popping up in R-18 and mature-tagged work again and again. A mix of pure popularity, striking character design, and canon or in-game alternate outfits drives which servants get the most mature fan art. Characters who are both iconic across the franchise and who have a lot of official costume variants (seasonal swimsuits, festival outfits, alternate versions like 'Alter' forms) naturally show up more — artists love drawing different takes on a familiar silhouette, and the 'Fate' fandom gives them tons to play with. Top of the list, no surprise to me, is Artoria Pendragon (the Saber archetype) and her many variants: regular Saber, Saber Alter, and the various costume-swapped iterations. She's basically the flagship face of 'Fate/stay night', so she gets endless reinterpretations. Right behind her is Nero Claudius (especially the more flamboyant, flirtatious versions), and Jeanne d'Arc in both her saintly Ruler form and the darker 'Jeanne Alter' — Jalter is basically fan art fuel because she contrasts with the pure, iconic Jeanne. Tamamo no Mae and Ishtar (and the related goddesses like Ereshkigal) are massive because of their fox/goddess designs and seductive personalities, while Scathach and several lancer types get attention for that fierce, elegant look. Mash Kyrielight has exploded in popularity too; her shield/armor aesthetic combined with the soft, shy personality makes for a lot of tender or more mature reinterpretations. On the male side, Gilgamesh and EMIYA/Archer get their fair share, but female servants dominate mature art overall. There are a few other patterns I keep noticing: servants with swimsuit or summer event skins see a big spike in mature content right after those outfits release — game events basically hand artists a theme. Characters who already have a “dark” or “alter” version (Saber Alter, Jeanne Alter, others) are also heavily represented because the change in tone invites more risqué portrayals. Popularity in mobile meta matters too: the more you see a servant on your friend list or in banners, the more likely artists are to create content of them. Platforms drive trends as well — Pixiv has huge concentrated volumes, Twitter spreads pieces fast, and Tumblr/Reddit collections help older works circulate. Tags like R-18, mature, and explicit are where most of this lives, and many artists use stylized commissions to explore variants fans request. I love seeing how artists reinterpret these designs: a classic Saber portrait can turn into a high-fashion boudoir piece, while a summer Tamamo can become cheeky and playful or deeply sensual depending on the artist’s style. I also enjoy when artists blend canon personality with unexpected scenarios — stoic characters in intimate, vulnerable moments or jokey NPC skins drawn seriously. For me, the way the community keeps celebrating the same iconic servants but always inventing something new is what makes browsing fanart endlessly fun.

Grab a handful of crayons and a comfy chair — drawing an army for kids should feel like play, not a test. I like to start by teaching the idea of 'big shapes first, details later.' Have the child draw simple circles for heads, rectangles for bodies, and straight lines for arms and legs. Once those skeletons are down, we turn each shape into a character: round the helmet, add a stripe for a belt, give each soldier a silly expression. That approach keeps proportions simple and avoids overwhelm. I always break the process into tiny, repeatable steps: sketch, outline, add one accessory (hat, shield, or flag), then color. Using repetition is golden — draw one soldier, then copy the same steps for ten more. I sometimes print a tiny template or fold paper into panels so the kid can repeat the same pose without rethinking every time. That builds confidence fast. Finally, treat the page like a tiny battlefield for storytelling. Suggest different uniforms, a commander with a big mustache, or a marching formation. Little stories get kids invested and they’ll happily fill up the page. I love watching their personalities show through even the squeakiest crayon lines.

Lately I've been doodling tiny platoons in the margins of notebooks, and I've learned that beginners should practice a simple army drawing when they feel curious and can commit to short focused sessions. Start with five to twenty minutes a day; short, consistent practice beats marathon binges. I break my time into warm-up gesture sketches first — get the movement and rhythm of a group down — then do silhouettes to read the shapes quickly. When I can, I study reference photos or stills from 'The Lord of the Rings' and simplify what I see into blocky shapes before adding details. I also like to mix environments: sketch outside on a park bench to practice loose compositions, then at a desk for cleaner lines. After a few weeks of steady, bite-sized practice you'll notice your thumbnails and spacing improve. Don't wait for the 'right' time of day — prioritize consistency and play; your confidence will grow faster than you expect, and that's the fun part.

Sketching an army can feel overwhelming until you break it down into tiny, friendly pieces. I start by blocking in simple shapes — ovals for heads, rectangles for torsos, and little lines for limbs — and that alone makes the whole scene stop screaming at me. Once the silhouette looks right, I layer in equipment, banners, and posture, treating each element like a separate little puzzle rather than one monstrous drawing. That step-by-step rhythm reduces decision fatigue. When you only focus on one thing at a time, your brain can get into a flow: proportions first, pose next, then armor and details. I like to use thumbnails and repetition drills — ten quick army sketches in ten minutes — and suddenly the forms become muscle memory. It's the same reason I follow simple tutorials from 'How to Draw' type books: a clear sequence builds confidence and makes the entire process fun again, not a chore. I finish feeling accomplished, like I tamed chaos into a battalion I can actually be proud of.

The exclusive club often works like a pressure cooker for an anime's plot twist — it narrows the world down to a handful of personalities, secrets, and rituals so the reveal lands harder. For me, that concentrated setting is gold: when a group is small and self-contained, every glance, shared joke, and offhand rule becomes suspect. I love how writers plant tiny social contracts inside the club — initiation rites, unwritten hierarchies, secret handshakes — and later flip those into motives or clues. It turns ordinary school gossip into credible stakes. In several shows I've watched, the club functions as both character incubator and misdirection engine. One character’s quiet loyalty can be reframed as complicity, while a jokester’s antics hide a trauma that explains a sudden betrayal. Visual cues inside the clubroom — a broken photograph, a misplaced emblem, a song that plays during meetings — act like fingerprints that make the twist feel earned rather than arbitrary. The intimacy of a club also makes betrayals feel personal; you don't lose a faceless soldier, you lose a friend you had lunch with every Thursday. Beyond the mechanics, exclusive clubs let creators explore themes: belonging versus isolation, the cost of secrecy, or how power corrupts small communities. When a twist unveils that the club itself protected something monstrous or noble, it reframes the entire story and forces characters to confront who they are without their little tribe. I always walk away energized when a twist uses that microcosm to say something bigger — it’s the storytelling equivalent of pulling the rug and revealing a hidden floor, and I love that dizzying drop.

That instant the teeth meet flesh flips the moral ledger of the story and tells you everything you need to know about the protagonist's fate. I read the bite ending as both a literal plot device and a symbolic judgment: literally, it's infection, transformation, or death; symbolically, it's a point of no return that forces identity change. In stories like 'The Last of Us' or '28 Days Later' the bite is biological inevitability — once it happens, the character's fate is largely sealed and what follows is watching personality erode or mutate under the rules of the world. But it's also often philosophical. If the bite represents betrayal, obsession, or even salvation in vampire tales like 'Dracula' or 'Let the Right One In', the protagonist's fate becomes a moral endpoint rather than a medical one. The ending usually wants you to sit with the consequences: will they lose humanity, embrace a new monstrous freedom, or die resisting? For me, a bite ending that leaves ambiguity — a trembling hand, a half-healed scar, a mirror showing different eyes — is the best kind. It hangs the protagonist between two truths and forces the reader to choose which fate feels darker, which is honestly the part I love most.

I can't help but gush about how brutal and tragic Angron's arc is — if you want the clearest, deepest single-novel look at his fall and what he becomes, start with 'Betrayer'. Aaron Dembski-Bowden digs into the long, awful stretch from slave and gladiator to the primarch riven by the Butcher's Nails. That book doesn't just show his battlefield fury; it explores the psychological wreckage and how the Nails warp his agency. You see how he drifts toward chaos and what that means for his relationship with his legion and the wider Heresy. To fill in origin details and the slow-motion collapse, supplement 'Betrayer' with the Horus Heresy anthologies and the World Eaters-focused stories collected across the range. Several tales and novellas handle his youth on Nuceria, the gladiatorial pits, and the implants that define him. For the aftermath — the full, apocalyptic fate and the way he surfaces as something more than man — look to novels and short stories that follow the World Eaters after the Heresy; they show the legion's descent and his eventual monstrous transformation. Reading those together gives you a properly grim portrait that still hits me in the gut every time.

That final beat hit harder than I expected. For most of the story I was convinced the loop was a punishment or a cosmic glitch—another 'Groundhog Day' riff where the protagonist learns, grows, and finally moves on. But the actual twist flips that model: the loop isn’t imposed from outside; it’s self-authored. The person we've been following discovers they built the loop deliberately to keep someone— or something—alive. Each repetition was a carefully tuned experiment to preserve the memory, the relationship, or the presence of a lost person. The resets are less about correcting mistakes and more about refusing to lose a truth the world is erasing. When the loop ends, it’s not because they finally get forgiveness or learn a lesson in a tidy moral way. It stops because the protagonist chooses to let go: they overwrite their own retention mechanism, deleting the final log that kept the other’s essence tethered. The last scene is both hollow and cathartic—freedom purchased with memory. I came away sweaty-palmed and oddly relieved; I like endings that hurt and make sense at the same time.