![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
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
[ She'll figure out a way to scare off potential incidents, don't worry. Saber's got a few ideas that don't involve murder. ]
It will be necessary to have proper equipment for the more established tourneys, however.
no subject
[ He says pointedly. ]
no subject
[ SHE'S TOUGH AND DOESN'T NEED NO STINKIN MEDICINE OKOK
After dubiously glancing at her collection of wounds (somewhat surprised at two of them - she hadn't felt it when they'd been inflicted) Saber visibly scrunches her nose a little in Sour Saber Lemon Face because she hates to show weakness.
She's not gonna like it, though. Watch her try to conveniently "forget" just to be a brat. ]
...I suppose it would be prudent. Very well.
no subject
[ And that's.... all he has to say about that, as if he got what he wanted from her. ]
no subject
Saber sighs. How did she get roped with the one overprotective sword gremlin... ]
Providing there's one resident in the village. There may not be.
no subject
Are you... wary of doctors?
no subject
Saber does pointedly look away though, which isn't helping her case. ]
Don't be absurd. Of course not.
[ She totally is. ]
no subject
But she'll be able to hear it in his tone. ]
They're only going to help you, you know.
no subject
They'll suggest rest and cleanliness after thoroughly irritating the wounds with poking around. I'm quite aware of their methods.
[ SHE DOESN'T WANNA. ]
no subject
Or suggest better ways to dress them. [ Even he's not sure in which context is it best to have wet-to-dry or simply dry-to-dry dressings. ] They may have ointments. Salves. Bandages impregnated with oils to stave out infection.
[ ...Even if he's trying to make his point, his tone isn't admonishing or harsh. It's with concern, but a gentle sort of concern as if he's saying these things to not only convince her to go to a physician, but to temper her reservations of seeing one in the first place. ]
no subject
poutingmisgivings are set aside for a while to consider his argument. He's got a point, but... ]I... dislike baring myself to others. [ It's a quiet admission, one she doesn't enjoy speaking aloud and seems to think by voicing it almost barely above a murmur, the impact would be lessened. Her body language matches her unease - crossing her arms over her chest as if to protect herself. ]
But if you think it'll help, then I will try.
no subject
No one likes to be injured, vulnerable, or be put in any position that gives someone else more control of their body than their own. And then there is how Saber is, more or less, freely traveling around on the others' assumption that she is a boy. He never really thought about it before mostly because he's never been in that sort of situation, of how it would feel to have any part exposed that one wouldn't want revealed. His body is tied to this blade. ]
...I think it will. [ He tells her, quietly. At the very least, it will put his own mind at a little more ease knowing they are doing things to help prevent the wounds from festering. ] If you use what they provide... and if you listen to them when they tell you to rest.
no subject
"Skittish" is probably the best prediction for how she'll behave once she's on the physician's doorstep tomorrow. ]
You sound like my mentor. [ An exasperated but fond complaint as she lays her hands back on Jin's blade. ] As bad as brooding hens, the both of you.
no subject
[ JUST SAYING.
But he's glad that he's convinced her. She won't be waking up and tripping on a patch of ice at least. ] If you ever see him again, I should thank him for keeping you alive this far. [ If Jin could talk and have his own body, that is. ]
no subject
[ HUFF.
It's been years since she'd seen Sir Ector, though. Perhaps a visit wouldn't go amiss later on down the line... when she's properly braced for the usual dressing-down about the state of her sword form and footwork. He means well, but the old knight is intense. ]
Not that we'll have much choice, should we make a name for ourselves this season in the tourneys... gossip travels faster than any message bird.
I'll have to look into commissioning a closed helm at some point.
no subject
But, uh. ]
...You don't want to be recognized? [ por qué?? ]
no subject
[ She has her reasons, evidently. Just not reasons she's planning to share.
insufficient relationship rank, try again later]no subject
[ Better lay low after he killed the baron and lots of other people.... ]