Serin
It’s when that endless night is interrupted does Serin find himself disoriented and confused, the world of carnage that once surrounded him replaced with an unfathomably deep midnight sea. For a moment the knight imagined he may be drowning, perhaps cast into some kind of solitary hell where he’d only ever know the crushing cruelty of water.
Yet he finds his breathing isn’t at all impeded, a new wave of uncertainty worming its way into his waking mind. Was he not on the edge of life and death but minutes prior? Is this not what’s at the end of fate?
Motes of light, singular flecks that stand against the endless darkness, surround the still barely cognizant Serin. Slowly they begin to coalesce and take shape; a sword, shield, and rod slowly orbiting the knight, as if beckoning for him to make a choice.
There’s no hesitation, Serin reaching for the blade of light with nary a moment spared. Its familiarity. Its purpose. It was an extension of a warrior, one that the knight was all too accustomed to putting to use.
The blade melts away at his touch, shifting and reforming into a far longer weapon, an ancient lance with a cutting edge near the length of a sword and forged of gold, below it a black steel shaft and an obsidian gold wing guard. To Serin’s surprise it feels...natural, as if he was born holding this messenger of the end.
As the knight tightens his grip around the light forged weapon, he jolts awake. A thin sheen of sweat glistens across Serin’s form, the recently returned wanderer catching his breath before pulling himself out of bed.
“...Godsdamned terrors, reliable as clockwork.”
Likely he’d been returned to the Dangeki after completing a floor, passing out in his room only moments later. Quietly he was thankful for his form’s propensity for heavy sleep, dipping into the bathroom, its mirror covered still since the first day he’d arrived, allowing himself a thorough shower to wash away the dried blood and other viscera. His gaze keeps itself angled forward, as if refusing to look down at his own body, his calloused digits instead tracing along the scars that mar his shoulder blades and chest - a reminder that he was still here.
After washing himself the knight dresses, wearing the same underclothes he’s always used. A form fitting black shirt and fitted dark blue trousers. It was all the same after all, he’d made it a habit to wear his armor everywhere outside, a selfish desire he’s carried since first waking here.
Wordlessly Serin wills for his aspect to manifest, wild streaks of lightning and solid lines of shadow intertwining and climbing his forearms. In their wake appear gauntlets, an unmistakable stygian black. Soon after the pauldrons, chest plate, legs, greaves, and helm all appear dyed a similar abyssal color with faint gold and crimson accents - made material from the seemingly immaterial forces.
His door creaks open, the now fully armored warrior stepping into the emptied hallways. In a way he was thankful this place had always been quieter than it appeared. Still, strangely, he catches a glance of a figure slipping around a corner as he traverses halls. It was a fleeting sight, the figure distinctly feminine and if his eyes were correct, in the nude save only a hat.
‘Suppose I’ve seen the inexplicable become as reality here.’
Serin descends the stairs with the distinct clink of heavy armor announcing his presence, surveying the lounge area and finding quite a few new faces hanging around the place, his gaze lingering on both the young man with striking violet eyes and then the authoritative young woman with beautifully long stark raven hair.
New blood?
The knight casually approaches with measured footfalls, taking a seat beside the violet haired boy and raven haired girl. He leans back into his chair, resting a gauntlet clad arm atop the wooden bar, looking as if he's about to order but casting a glance toward the two other patrons.
"What's wrong lad, you seem a bit dazed there." Serin directs the question towards Thomas, an easy going attitude obvious in his tone.
"I wasn't aware the Tower was still drawing in new blood; don't believe I've ever met either of you."
Yet he finds his breathing isn’t at all impeded, a new wave of uncertainty worming its way into his waking mind. Was he not on the edge of life and death but minutes prior? Is this not what’s at the end of fate?
Motes of light, singular flecks that stand against the endless darkness, surround the still barely cognizant Serin. Slowly they begin to coalesce and take shape; a sword, shield, and rod slowly orbiting the knight, as if beckoning for him to make a choice.
There’s no hesitation, Serin reaching for the blade of light with nary a moment spared. Its familiarity. Its purpose. It was an extension of a warrior, one that the knight was all too accustomed to putting to use.
The blade melts away at his touch, shifting and reforming into a far longer weapon, an ancient lance with a cutting edge near the length of a sword and forged of gold, below it a black steel shaft and an obsidian gold wing guard. To Serin’s surprise it feels...natural, as if he was born holding this messenger of the end.
As the knight tightens his grip around the light forged weapon, he jolts awake. A thin sheen of sweat glistens across Serin’s form, the recently returned wanderer catching his breath before pulling himself out of bed.
“...Godsdamned terrors, reliable as clockwork.”
Likely he’d been returned to the Dangeki after completing a floor, passing out in his room only moments later. Quietly he was thankful for his form’s propensity for heavy sleep, dipping into the bathroom, its mirror covered still since the first day he’d arrived, allowing himself a thorough shower to wash away the dried blood and other viscera. His gaze keeps itself angled forward, as if refusing to look down at his own body, his calloused digits instead tracing along the scars that mar his shoulder blades and chest - a reminder that he was still here.
After washing himself the knight dresses, wearing the same underclothes he’s always used. A form fitting black shirt and fitted dark blue trousers. It was all the same after all, he’d made it a habit to wear his armor everywhere outside, a selfish desire he’s carried since first waking here.
Wordlessly Serin wills for his aspect to manifest, wild streaks of lightning and solid lines of shadow intertwining and climbing his forearms. In their wake appear gauntlets, an unmistakable stygian black. Soon after the pauldrons, chest plate, legs, greaves, and helm all appear dyed a similar abyssal color with faint gold and crimson accents - made material from the seemingly immaterial forces.
His door creaks open, the now fully armored warrior stepping into the emptied hallways. In a way he was thankful this place had always been quieter than it appeared. Still, strangely, he catches a glance of a figure slipping around a corner as he traverses halls. It was a fleeting sight, the figure distinctly feminine and if his eyes were correct, in the nude save only a hat.
‘Suppose I’ve seen the inexplicable become as reality here.’
Serin descends the stairs with the distinct clink of heavy armor announcing his presence, surveying the lounge area and finding quite a few new faces hanging around the place, his gaze lingering on both the young man with striking violet eyes and then the authoritative young woman with beautifully long stark raven hair.
New blood?
The knight casually approaches with measured footfalls, taking a seat beside the violet haired boy and raven haired girl. He leans back into his chair, resting a gauntlet clad arm atop the wooden bar, looking as if he's about to order but casting a glance toward the two other patrons.
"What's wrong lad, you seem a bit dazed there." Serin directs the question towards Thomas, an easy going attitude obvious in his tone.
"I wasn't aware the Tower was still drawing in new blood; don't believe I've ever met either of you."
