|
|
Post by Gareth on Mar 15, 2016 4:05:51 GMT
This had been too much information at once. Many of his former companions in life walked these halls, some even the ones that had become his foes in the last days of his life and after it had been snuffed from him, and yet, he would not be allowed to partake in revenge or compensation for such tragedies. No, not even because of a code of order of Chaldeas or something of the like, but because in his absence, all had moved on, including his King and the traitor knight, himself, leaving his grudges... devoid of climax. Devoid of conclusion, devoid of anything.
Unsatisfactory as the reunion had been, it only served to further the complete void of purpose in this post-summoning existence.
For his whole point to be here in the first place was nothing but the apparent rescue of a world he had little reason to care about, particularly, and Chaldeas didn't even have the decency of providing him with assignments to occupy his time. The forms of entertainment available were alien and unpleasant to one that came from his age, resulting in nothing but confusing, near condescending looks from passersby whenever he tried to engage in them. Conversation, too, had proved fruitless, since most of the people in this facility seem to alternate between not bothering talking to "Servants" - how this term still bothered him - or simply only cared for the kings and legends of old, little attention to spare to a footnote in the Arthurian mythos.
He laughed bitterly. A member of the Round Table, the most decorated coalition of warriors under the oath of knighthood to ever have graved the planet, and this had been the legacy left to him. And not even ire at fate was he allowed to show, lest he be cast down as petty or resentful by the likes of those responsible in the first place.
Gareth had found a little corner to call his, a comfortable nook between storage boxes far away from the door where most of the workers passed by but within view of a large glass panel some contractor had placed without much thought into it, allowing a view of the then rising sun that warmed even his bitter heart. Having learned how to dematerialize his armor, the youthful knight had clad himself in clothes of this era, a hoodie and a pair of 'denim jeans' as they called it. Said clothes are comfortable, and have plenty of other uses such as protection from the elements and item storage. Like a cloak, a tunic and a satchel in the same package, it had been the foremost pleasantry the modern era had provided him with thus far.
And thus the son of Lot sat there, appreciating the view as he mumbled discontents under his breath, attempting not to focus his mind at how he hid from prying eyes like a dejected child. Such self-realizations would only do ill to his mood, right now.
|
|
|
|
Post by Vrishaketu on Mar 17, 2016 1:20:34 GMT
Vrisha found that he liked the storage facilities better than he liked the rest of Chaldea, which even he could admit was slightly worrying. He’d never been particularly good at making friends, but he’d also never been so terrible at it that she’d spent the vast majority of his time hiding away wherever it seemed like nobody else was planning on being. But then, he was terrible at speaking. In being silent he was doing this place a favor, then, wasn’t he? It was that kind of thinking that would keep him here, out of sight.
But it unfortunately wasn’t doing much for his nerves. Try as he might he couldn’t keep from worrying about the others, and the things that they seemed to expect from him. He wasn’t incompetent – there had been no such thing was an incompetent warrior during his lifetime – but he was not a legend, or a hero, or anything else that so many of them were. Not without dying, anyway. He supposed that he could match many of them if he died first, but as dying did tend to be quite unpleasant, he would work with what he had for now.
…Perhaps this isolation was feeding his feelings of inadequacy rather than fixing them. Some part of him already knew it, but that knowledge wasn’t enough to make him move.
A guest, though? That might do it. Suddenly there was movement nearby, and when he turned, he saw someone else enter. It was another boy, this one blond and European-looking. Though he’d seemingly changed clothes since materializing it wasn’t so difficult to see that he was a Servant.
It would have been easy enough to be friendly. Instead Vrisha stood, gave the visitor a look, and said;
“What are you doing here?”
|
|
|
|
Post by Gareth on Mar 18, 2016 6:56:41 GMT
But it wasn't his fault, was it now? His actions had been perfect, no matter how one judged his knighthood, yet Gareth couldn't be as cynical as to denounce his very way of life. There couldn't be - no, there really isn't - anything wrong with the concept of the perfect knight he'd followed so diligently for an entire lifetime, short or otherwise, and so he'd been forced to assume fault lied somewhere - or rather, with someone - on the exterior. While he could talk all about Arthur's failures, Lancelot's shortcomings and Mordred's own sinful ambitions, there was naught but thoughts of other's faults. Gawain could not quell his anger, his brother be blessed, and was thus indirectly responsible. The Queen's own blame was easily explained, her poor decision making on par with his late mother's. But who else? In this cacophony of incompetence, he had to be missing some names.
Oh, yeah, Galahad. Just go off and die without us, you crazy shining bastard. Great help you were.
The European knight sighed, remarking in his mind he much missed Merlot. Crazed midget or otherwise, the dwarf always had a strong drink and a story to go along with it. He'd never found what he looked for during Gareth's life, whatever that was, and silently he wondered how he ended up. The Throne hadn't been fed information on someone it had found so irrelevant, but then again, many Servants didn't know of him, himself either. As the -
Who's blocking his view?!
As the light around Vrishaketu adapted to his outline, Gareth narrowed his eyes to look at him directly, cursing silently under his breath.
"Brooding, at the moment -"
Brutal honesty - life of death, a knight through and through.
As his emerald gaze finally adapted to what little light the wee hours of dawn had provided him being blocked by this newcomer's shape, he found himself with the weird sight of a Heroic Spirit both clad oddly and of weird appearance, whose nationality he couldn't quite pin down. Had he come for a duel? Gareth had heard of types who'd just go about challenging any Servant they could find.
Still, he had to keep up appearances, whatever little he had by now.
"- what seems to be the issue?"
He sounded tired in more ways than one.
|
|
|
|
Post by Vrishaketu on Mar 27, 2016 3:52:31 GMT
Brooding. Hm. Vrisha paused a moment to consider the other’s answer, unsure how he wanted to react to it. On one hand it wasn’t a productive enough thing to interrupt him with. On the other…hadn’t he been brooding as well? That was essentially what hiding was, especially given why he was hiding. And so perhaps it wasn’t quite fair to dismiss this person, no matter how miffed he was at losing his hideaway. Perhaps, it the other was quiet, they could share it. Or perhaps not.
“…One moment.” He muttered. And then, a moment later, corrected himself.
“There is no issue. Not yet.”
There might be in a moment if he kept talking, though. Socially odd as he was he at least understood this about himself, and understood that his choice of words were often clumsy enough to invite conflict. Still, nothing had happened yet. This fellow wasn’t about to attack him. He took a breath and eventually turned around so that he was fully facing the newcomer, taking a few steps forward as well for good measure. Now that he was closer he was more certain that he must have been European. Blondeness aside, his armor seemed to suggest it too. They all dressed the same.
“Are you…” He began, examining him. There was no easily visible weapon. If he was a knight, though, chances were that he was some kind of…
“…Saber? Or Lancer?”
While part of him wondered whether or not it was polite to inquire as to some Servant’s class upon meeting them, he had no other ideas beyond the most obvious of questions, and so it would need to do. But then, if he was going to ask, then perhaps he should have provided his own information as well.
“…Uh, I am Berserker. If that matters to you.”
|
|
|
|
Post by Gareth on Apr 3, 2016 23:30:19 GMT
What in the blazes - truly, the light was playing tricks on his eyes. Just a moment ago, he could've sworn this man's skin to be as fair as his, yet now as his sight adjusted, it was but a tone of caramel brown. How odd. It was probably just fatigue. Even if he was now a creature of pure prana, Gareth had been feeling a weight under his eyelids ever since the second day since his arrival, yet sleep had not come to him willingly. Distractions grew thinner, and he'd been reduced to, well.
Brooding.
Still, this man seemed both as miserable and as much as a newbie as he did. For once, he still bothered with classes.
"I am Rider, if you to prefer to call me in such a manner, but know that is unpopular here. Lots of Heroic Spirits classify for the same role, and some even somehow gain more than one classification. Alas, there is no reason to mistrust each other here - optimally, we are not trying to kill each other in this facility." He sighs, remembering his would-be confrontation with the Atlas and the later realization he'd have more likely than not died if allowed to stay put. "On a good day, at least."
The knight struggles to get up, a hand across his stomach and laid on top his heart as his back arched slightly in a respectful bow, even if his expression didn't seem to be as much into it. "I am Gareth of Orkney, son of Lot and Morgause, brother to Gawain and Gaheris, Leader of the Order of the Rainbow, knight of the Round Table and sworn protector of Camelot, my sword serving under King Arthur Pendragon, the Dragon Monarch." And neither did his voice, for that matter.
"If you would be so kind to introduce yourself." Gareth suggested, sitting on the floor again before looking back at the Indian man, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Excuse me, but you don't look much like a Berserker."
|
|
