![[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
At Jin's voice she reluctantly abandons her scrutiny of her meal (honestly, to prevent herself from stuffing her face in the most unbecoming manner for a knight - she loves food, for all she denies it) to glance up at him instead. ]
Are we not partners? [ Perhaps one day, even friends. ] It is within my means to treat you to a meal after a long fast, and I shall do so gladly. Decadence becomes a danger only if it becomes habit.
[ And nobody who knows Saber even in passing can honestly say she leans towards excess. She is a poor study when it comes to the intricacies of emotion and expressing herself - so she makes do with little gestures instead, and in some ways she feels action is more genuine than words.
She nods once towards his trencher, still laden with food. ]
Come. Eat. Before it cools.
no subject
[ And he'll be helping himself to it, with each subsequent serving done more enthusiastically than the last. It seems the man enjoys eating-- or rather, tasting and savoring the food. It's a humble meal, but one that he appreciates with every bite. He learns (recalls?) something new about himself: that he likes food, but not just for the sake of eating. It's the taste, the texture, the temperature of each mouthful that he stops to assess and think over how he could improve them. Jin wouldn't dare express how he believes the cheese could have stood to be aged longer or perhaps cultivated in a different way, or how the bread should have been be made with richer grain, not when this meal is clearly the best the innkeeper could make given their circumstances. But it does make him want for a little more...
Maybe one day he could cook something the both of them himself. ]
Heh, you're actually a generous person. [ CLEARLY she is even without giving him food to eat, what with going out of her way to protect the people of this country. But what he really means is-- ] Here I thought you'd be more practical. [ Like, letting him return to his sword so that she could save the coin for herself.
But hopefully he catches his lighter tone here, because he's actually-- gasp-- poking fun at her. ]
no subject
Try as she might, though... Saber can't help but thaw a little at the prospect of good food - a rare treat for her that she plans to enjoy to its fullest extent. Or at least as long as she can restrain herself before her inner glutton gets the best of her.
spoilers she lasts like maybe two bitesIn the end she has no choice but to join Jin in the rapture that is foodies chowing down. The bread is still warm, and after letting a small pat of butter melt into the soft interior... good god. It's heaven. And the meat, so tender! And the fruit, so very fresh!!!!
Yeah, she's already got like half her trencher inhaled by the time Jin pokes fun at her. And to top it all off, Saber glances up at him with the kind of startled expression of a deer in headlights (and the stuffed cheeks of a chipmunk hoarding seeds for winter).
Just give her a moment to cough into her fist to clear her throat - half to get her thoughts in order, and half to hide the hurried chew-and-swallow as if she didn't completely lose her self-control a split second ago. ]
The miserly have few friends. I do not ascribe to the philosophy of hoarding any good fortune that lands in my lap.
[ The haughty tone is even more hysterical considering she's eyeing a chicken thigh on her trencher with the kind of ravenous greed better suited to a starving hyena, but I digress. ]
Once we have finished our meal, I will split our coin accordingly. What you choose to do with your share is at your discretion.
[ Shhhhh don't judge her okay. She's used to food with zero taste. ]
no subject
I have no need for coin, Saber. [ He reminds her after another bite. What's he going to buy, anyway?
a damn combor maybe a necklace for her] This meal is... more than enough. [ He adds gratefully.And then, after noticing how she's eyeing the chicken thigh: ] You're holding back. [ But w h y...? He's seen her tackle down food like it's the apocalypse. Is it just because he's here? No need for manners gurl he's seen u nekkid. ]
no subject
[ She's clearly not going to budge on that front. It's the freedom of choice that matters, and the ability for him to make his own decisions where/when to spend that coin. Maybe he'll want a new coat, or another meal, or who knows what else may catch his eye, providing he's able to maintain his human form.
Saber remembers what Addam told them. She will not allow either of them to go down the path of one half overpowering the other.
As for "holding back"... ]
I am enjoying my meal. [ She corrects him, although Saber immediately gives lie to her claim by tearing her eyes guiltily away and staring hard at her tankard of ale instead. SHE'S NOT A GLUTTON, PROMISE. ]
Besides, you're one to talk. How long has it been since you last ate in this form?
no subject
She's totally deflecting with that question, and it's met with a smirk from him. ] I can't even remember the last time I ate. [ He says dryly because, duh he ain't got no memory of his past lives. ]
But you won't see me drooling. [ NOT THAT SHE IS LITERALLY. But figuratively, yeaaaah. ]
no subject
Now Saber looks him squarely in the eyes, clearly offended. How dare you!!! ]
Your tableside manner leaves something to be desired. [ HUFF PUFF FITE HER, LOSER. But she relents, delicately picking apart the chicken thigh in a few neat bites until all that's left is bones.
Not because he told her to, though. Because SHE WANTS TO. B((((
And just because she can, Saber mutters under her breath while dusting crumbs off her lap: ]
Drooling indeed.