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And that go for anybody, you'll be thoroughly sorry
[ A tomb is a place where the dead rest in peace, not to be disturbed. And certainly that is what this tomb had been for quite some time, still and quite like the peaks to the north, the dust upon the marble stones like fresh powered snow. It had remained untouched like that too for even more time to follow, where in the darkness of the vaulted chamber night and day were as one, and not even the shadows of twilight could interrupt the sealed void that it was.
Then they started coming. First the raiders, who would pillage the tomb and its many caskets for the coin and rings of nobles and priestesses of yore. Then the adventurers and scholars, seeking scrolls and stone to study, bringing back a greater treasure than gold to the surface, that of legends and power. And then eventually the seekers, who came acting upon said legends and power, legends of power, of a sacred, ancient sword still said to be buried within the tomb for centuries.
And that sword? That sword was Jin, the paragon of Torna, a regalia of an ancient kingdom that sank with all of its culture, language, and history to the ages. All that remained was this tomb... and him.
He can't even remember the name of his previous master, for each time a handler of his kind dies, their memories are wiped clean. He assumes that his previous master had been the ruler of Torna, for otherwise his scabbard would not have the great nation's imperial sigil etched across it. He also assumes that they were quite well loved, to be buried with such a lavish structure that undoubtedly had been built to last many, many years.
How lucky for him, then, to be buried and kept within a tomb for years and years without end, guarding the tomb of someone he assumed to have known at one point but no longer does. Such is the life of his kind of spirit, to be re-awakened time and time again. It would have grown old, he thinks, to have had an existence like that. Perhaps that is what his master from before had thought as well, or perhaps that is what he had requested of them in the first place: so as to not repeat the cycle, to be finally buried and sealed away forever, never to be picked up again.
It's a real shame, then, that upon his previous master's death, his memories had been wiped clean of any such notions regardless.
Of course that doesn't mean he is about to head out of the tomb if just anyone picks his blade from the pedestal. After all these years alone and having the time to contemplate his existence, he's come to the troubling conclusion that his previous master had some sort of impact on him. "Troubling" because, well, he has no idea what that impact had been, and only retains eerie remnants of it. For why else would he feel this strange hollowness whenever he would walk too far away from the main burial chamber? Why else would he feel such frustration and regret when gazing upon the casket, its emblems and murals now too faded to read, to know their story? And out of all the adventurers, scholars, and helpless rouges who had tried to lay claim to his blade, there is a voice that snaps that they are not enough, that they can never compare, that they will never bring him the awe and joy he had once felt with--
He could be grieving, he realizes at one point.
Grieving over a person he no longer knows nor ought to care about. He could somehow have retained some feelings of his previous existence-- but that cannot be. Whoever they are-- were-- they are dead, and have been dead for quite some time. And just like them, he will have to remain here alone, with only the occasional hapless person wandering into the tomb hoping for glory by the power of a sword, a single sword that could raze entire armies in one swing.
Light pierces through the darkness as the lair's main doors open once more, sifting dust and dirt along with it. Shadows scatter in the brilliance of the light from above like wretched vermin, but here's nothing in the tomb of worth that refracts that light; the grave robbers have made sure to that ages ago. The only thing of value that remains is the sword that still stands sheathed within a stone pedestal, its blade untouched by the years. Jin, in his spirit form, remains dormant within the blade for now. But he is looking.
Just who has disturbed his tomb now? ]
Then they started coming. First the raiders, who would pillage the tomb and its many caskets for the coin and rings of nobles and priestesses of yore. Then the adventurers and scholars, seeking scrolls and stone to study, bringing back a greater treasure than gold to the surface, that of legends and power. And then eventually the seekers, who came acting upon said legends and power, legends of power, of a sacred, ancient sword still said to be buried within the tomb for centuries.
And that sword? That sword was Jin, the paragon of Torna, a regalia of an ancient kingdom that sank with all of its culture, language, and history to the ages. All that remained was this tomb... and him.
He can't even remember the name of his previous master, for each time a handler of his kind dies, their memories are wiped clean. He assumes that his previous master had been the ruler of Torna, for otherwise his scabbard would not have the great nation's imperial sigil etched across it. He also assumes that they were quite well loved, to be buried with such a lavish structure that undoubtedly had been built to last many, many years.
How lucky for him, then, to be buried and kept within a tomb for years and years without end, guarding the tomb of someone he assumed to have known at one point but no longer does. Such is the life of his kind of spirit, to be re-awakened time and time again. It would have grown old, he thinks, to have had an existence like that. Perhaps that is what his master from before had thought as well, or perhaps that is what he had requested of them in the first place: so as to not repeat the cycle, to be finally buried and sealed away forever, never to be picked up again.
It's a real shame, then, that upon his previous master's death, his memories had been wiped clean of any such notions regardless.
Of course that doesn't mean he is about to head out of the tomb if just anyone picks his blade from the pedestal. After all these years alone and having the time to contemplate his existence, he's come to the troubling conclusion that his previous master had some sort of impact on him. "Troubling" because, well, he has no idea what that impact had been, and only retains eerie remnants of it. For why else would he feel this strange hollowness whenever he would walk too far away from the main burial chamber? Why else would he feel such frustration and regret when gazing upon the casket, its emblems and murals now too faded to read, to know their story? And out of all the adventurers, scholars, and helpless rouges who had tried to lay claim to his blade, there is a voice that snaps that they are not enough, that they can never compare, that they will never bring him the awe and joy he had once felt with--
He could be grieving, he realizes at one point.
Grieving over a person he no longer knows nor ought to care about. He could somehow have retained some feelings of his previous existence-- but that cannot be. Whoever they are-- were-- they are dead, and have been dead for quite some time. And just like them, he will have to remain here alone, with only the occasional hapless person wandering into the tomb hoping for glory by the power of a sword, a single sword that could raze entire armies in one swing.
Light pierces through the darkness as the lair's main doors open once more, sifting dust and dirt along with it. Shadows scatter in the brilliance of the light from above like wretched vermin, but here's nothing in the tomb of worth that refracts that light; the grave robbers have made sure to that ages ago. The only thing of value that remains is the sword that still stands sheathed within a stone pedestal, its blade untouched by the years. Jin, in his spirit form, remains dormant within the blade for now. But he is looking.
Just who has disturbed his tomb now? ]
no subject
If you... enter the tournament wielding me. Will others recognize me?
[ Or has it really been that long enough for the form of his blade to be forgotten by the common man? ]
no subject
[ There's a thought. Having such a fine blade and no other trappings to denote wealth might draw attention. Not necessarily the good kind, either. ]
Stories are told about heroes and swords, and even some about the tomb. I don't recall anything specific about one like you. [ But then again... ] I am no scholar - if anyone would recognize you, it would be someone of higher learning.
no subject
From what I remember... [ He begins slowly, and his voice within her mind might sound a bit strained, as if it is a struggle to recall anything of his previous lives. It always leaves him with a bit of a headache if he thinks too much about it, as if his past itself is fighting back against him actively trying to sift though sealed archives. ]
It is my core crystal that gives away what I am. [ The legendary blades-- for there are more than just him in the world-- are all recognizable by the shine of their crystals. ] So long as no one recognize the style of this sword, you might be able to get away with just covering up my crystal.
no subject
A false crossguard may serve to that end. The village will have a blacksmith we can ask on arrival.
[ It seems like a shame to cover up his core, but he's got a good point. Better not to invite misfortune if it's better to be overlooked.
At any rate, she stuffs the rest of the rye bread in her face (and the dried meat soon thereafter) which disappears with alarming speed. Can't taste how bad the food is if you're quick about it, right? ]
We can discuss it on the road tomorrow.
no subject
He rests his senses for a moment, "closing" his eyes to simply... rest for the two seconds her fingers linger there, the crystal glowing a dimmer blue. Is this what it had been like with his previous master? It's only when she withdraws her hand to shove that food into her mouth that its normal shine returns. ]
...Then, rest. I'll keep watch.
[ The benefits of having a magical sword. He doesn't need sleep. ]
no subject
A full night's uninterrupted rest... what a luxury!
Saber dusts her hands off to remove any lingering crumbs and lets her palms rest over the grip of the sword by her left knee and the flat of the blade over her right - a relaxed but pragmatic posture considering beasts of the wood weren't all meek deer and rabbits in this area.
She closes her eyes, exhaling in a long, slow breath to settle her thoughts. ]
Thank you.
[ She'll likely wake on her own a few hours before dawn. Old habits are the hardest to break. ]