Post by Gareth on Mar 13, 2016 19:25:31 GMT
Since being summoned into the modern era, ripped apart from the coil of death via the rude summoning of the Chaldea Corporation, the young knight had found many things odd and befuddling. The men and women spoke differently, thought differently, had different beliefs and even entertained themselves in puzzling manners. However, none of that had been more utterly confusing, reality-defying than what laid in front of him.
This food defied even Gawain's plain, sometimes monstrous abilities' as a cook. The meat - which he assumed was meat, grounded in a method unknown to him - was purple in color, and it seemed to recoil against the touch of his fork. The rice grains, a type of crop that'd surged in the later years of his life as food, refused to detach from one another, forming a goop that tasted of the metal surface of the pan used to cook it in. The potatoes seemed to have been pounded into a mush yet fared no better in a blatant case of over-seasoning. While the flavor could not stand up to the true terror found in his elder brother's attempts, Gareth of Orkney had never quite tasted something so bland in his life, so utterly devoid of passion or care for those that would taste it. Truly, he'd been summoned into dark times.
So there sat the little knight, the forgotten footnote, making a face of disgust for the few who were still up and about this late in the eve to see. He'd tried to sleep, but having difficulty grasping this newfound mana-maintained form, the clanking of his armor and the swirl of thoughts in his mind had kept his eyelids from settling into peaceful repose. Of course, lying down still until the sun graced him with God's warmth once more had been an option until he heard his name mentioned in the corridors.
He couldn't be here. After all, the very nature of the Magus' sickening ritual had been that of calling forth Heroic Spirits, and he'd hardly qualify that wretched traitor as such. Then again, humans - and specially sorcerers - are a disgusting bunch, as his mind very well recalled from Lynette and her constant belittling of his skills.
Breathe in, breathe out, little Gareth of Orkney, he thought to himself. There is no point in panicking, and it is not knightly to guard grudges against those long dead, if at all. He'd just have to bear with the food presented to him, doing his best effort not to take its qualities - or lack thereof - as a personal stain on his honor.
Briefly, the young Hero wondered if there was any point in upholding such a code, long dead as it is, as his face winced once more as the purple crumbles of animal protein touched his tongue.
This food defied even Gawain's plain, sometimes monstrous abilities' as a cook. The meat - which he assumed was meat, grounded in a method unknown to him - was purple in color, and it seemed to recoil against the touch of his fork. The rice grains, a type of crop that'd surged in the later years of his life as food, refused to detach from one another, forming a goop that tasted of the metal surface of the pan used to cook it in. The potatoes seemed to have been pounded into a mush yet fared no better in a blatant case of over-seasoning. While the flavor could not stand up to the true terror found in his elder brother's attempts, Gareth of Orkney had never quite tasted something so bland in his life, so utterly devoid of passion or care for those that would taste it. Truly, he'd been summoned into dark times.
So there sat the little knight, the forgotten footnote, making a face of disgust for the few who were still up and about this late in the eve to see. He'd tried to sleep, but having difficulty grasping this newfound mana-maintained form, the clanking of his armor and the swirl of thoughts in his mind had kept his eyelids from settling into peaceful repose. Of course, lying down still until the sun graced him with God's warmth once more had been an option until he heard his name mentioned in the corridors.
He couldn't be here. After all, the very nature of the Magus' sickening ritual had been that of calling forth Heroic Spirits, and he'd hardly qualify that wretched traitor as such. Then again, humans - and specially sorcerers - are a disgusting bunch, as his mind very well recalled from Lynette and her constant belittling of his skills.
Breathe in, breathe out, little Gareth of Orkney, he thought to himself. There is no point in panicking, and it is not knightly to guard grudges against those long dead, if at all. He'd just have to bear with the food presented to him, doing his best effort not to take its qualities - or lack thereof - as a personal stain on his honor.
Briefly, the young Hero wondered if there was any point in upholding such a code, long dead as it is, as his face winced once more as the purple crumbles of animal protein touched his tongue.
