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towerofanimus2013-03-07 05:50 pm
destructiveprinciple) wrote in towerofanimus2013-03-07 05:50 pm
☠ 001 | demons in my deepest eyes play on that tree
Characters: Avenger, 03-02 roomies, and YOU
Setting: Room 03-12, and then various tower floors.
Format: Beginning with action spam, but shifting to prose is fine as well. I'll respond in whichever one you choose.
Summary: Avenger wakes up in the middle of the night to fine the apocalypse had apparently occurred while he was napping. He is not very impressed and boycotts the oatmeal. 'Shirou' unknowingly suffers for it. And well. On pretending to be Shirou... If a routine worked before coming here, why fix it?
Warnings: AVENGER IS HIS OWN WARNING. So is Saber. Shirou vomiting up his breakfast. Also casual mentions of death, violence, typical fare for the Tower of Animus. Probably rampant self-loathing if Archer decides to pop in here.
[ SCENARIO A || FLOOR 13: CATHEDRAL ]
[Upon awakening in the gloom of night in his dorm and discovering his arms were fashioned from lead, his legs were rigid and wouldn't move according to his will, Avenger felt very little beyond mild irritation. Staring blankly up at the dark ceiling, he opened his mouth to curse. Nothing came out, not a word nor grunt. His tanned limbs don't respond to him, and it's only through old practice that he pushes back the trickle of raising panic seeping into him and instead tries to remember what he could last recall happening. Bazett. The declaration of boredom. Her anger. His laughter, and offered hand. Then his only recollection was that of darkness.
Okay. That was troubling.
Particularly troubling because the Servant couldn't sense the flow of prana between them anymore, and generally, that never meant good things for a Servant separated from his Master. If the contract had been properly severed, surely he would have felt it break and he would have returned to the void from which he came. Yet he had sensed nothing along those lines and he obviously still existed somehow. The constant slight ebbing of his prana reserves, dropping as it became more and more of a struggle to maintain the closed garden and its loops, had creased as well. It was refreshing.
Still troublesome.
His conclusion was this wasn't the time loops. Something had happened to disrupt that. It only made sense. Largely because he had noticed, even if Bazett had unexpectedly knocked him out without him noticing, this wasn't the mansion. Nor anywhere else in Fuyuki City. He knew that town down to a square foot. Once the sleep paralysis faded from his form, he sat up in bed and stared in bewildered repulsion in the weird attire he was currently dressed in. Yep, definitively not Bazett's handiwork. She couldn't be that mad at him. Thankfully, after getting up off the bed and being oh-so careful to not disturb whoever were the sleeping lumps in the other beds, he locates his trunk and the clothes inside it.
Once dressed and the stupid uniform dutifully ripped to shreds, he snatches up the two papers on the bedstand and reads through them, slowly and occasionally stopping to re-read one section or another. After reaching the end of the letters, he was torn between rage and disinterested apathy. Rage that he had been in the middle of fulfilling a wish (never mind the one whose wish it was was being so damn needlessly difficult) and the end of the world had caused her to perish before he could get her out. Apathy because he... flat-out didn't care if the universe was destroyed. The world had gone boom, yaaay. Mankind had finally up and died, yaaay.
Anyway. On to more important matters. Ah, so this was it? That's how things were going to be from now on. Life at the whims of so-called 'saviours.'
Let's all be happy here.
Avenger's thin-lipped smile was vicious. For a new home, it was sure sucked balls but hey. Beggars couldn't be choosers, could they?]
Well—isn't this surprising, but we'll see about that... What a vexing situation.
[Annoyed, he scratched at the collar around his neck. Stupid thing. He wanted it off him. There's a moment of silence before the door of the room opens, spilling the dim light of the hallway into the room and then clicks shut behind him as Avenger departs from the dormitory.
His footsteps pad down the hallway and were gone.
In the cathedral, there's the usual silence, solitary and deepened by the evening's dimness, dust particles drifting in dim shafts of light. There's a boy absolutely covered in tattoos seated in one of the back pews, head tilted back to gaze up at the vaulted, airy ceiling and the faint murmuring of some invisible mass, and chin resting on the palm of his hand. His torso is bare, modesty preserved by his red mantle and to some, his face is unnervingly familiar. Avenger is quiet, discontented and his yellow eyes are distant, clearly lost in thought.
The Servant had arrived on his floor after a period of wandering and stopped to take a break for awhile. It was silent here and at least they weren't playing that disgusting organ music.
... He smells like he's been killing monsters too.
But hey. What are you doing up so late tonight? It's close to midnight. Why are you in the church? ]
[ SCENARIO B || FLOOR 48: GRAVEYARD ]
[Perched atop a pale white tombstone like an errant bird of prey, Avenger surveys the rows of graves stretching out into the distance, his dull red cloak fluttering around his legs as he moved. The chipped, worn stone under his feet is cold. The Servant clung with one hand to the stone cross that made up the top of the tombstone balance himself.
The wide variety of the range of environments contained within this Tower was impressive, he'd give it that much. Overhead, the sun determinedly tried to burn through a thick gray cloud cover.
So far, he's walked through a demented carnival, a floating island barren of life, a colorful pit full of balls and the scent of something rotting, a dusty doll shop he'd been very creeped out by, a empty room full of bloody handprints and screaming, and a innocent little grassy meadow. And now a graveyard seemingly with a sky all its own. Really, it was a new experience.]
[ SCENARIO C || DORMITORY LEVELS: ROOM 03-12 ]
He needed answers. And not ones provided by whomever was the bunch of crazies who had kidnapped him to this Tower place, real answers. Yeah, it's decided. Shirou was going to look for answers.
After checking the trunk, and finding little of practical use in it since he was already dressed in his normal fare, the teenager walks out the door and pauses halfway down the hall, standing in front of it, belatedly realizing an error in his plan. He had no idea of where to go or what to do next. Where was he supposed to start?
He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. His eyes squeezed shut.]
... Man, this sucks... How am I going to do this, I wonder?
[Let's try applying his fist to his forehead for starters. Sadly, the external application of force to his skull in an attempt to jog his brain, brings no flashes of insight with it and left nothing but pain behind as a result. Shirou rubbed his forehead slowly, wincing. Alright, not trying that again.]
[ SCENARIO D || FLOOR 1: CAFETERIA ]
[Eating the oatmeal before trying to eat anything was a general rule of thumb for the Tower, and usually veterans were thoughtful enough to inform newcomers of this rule but in this case, Shirou wasn't quite so lucky. Maybe it was due to the fact that he decided to cook his own breakfast when he realized they had a kitchen he could use, instead of eating at the food line.Maybe Avenger's a childish brat who didn't eat the oatmeal before having a midnight snack.
So guess anyone in the cafeteria will be treated to the pleasant sight of some boy with burnt orange hair leaning over one of the trash cans set next to the wall, and his back heaving miserably as he pukes up his breakfast of fried eggs and rice.]
... U-ugh.
[[ooc: all replies from Shirou will come fromheroicprinciple
Setting: Room 03-12, and then various tower floors.
Format: Beginning with action spam, but shifting to prose is fine as well. I'll respond in whichever one you choose.
Summary: Avenger wakes up in the middle of the night to fine the apocalypse had apparently occurred while he was napping. He is not very impressed and boycotts the oatmeal. 'Shirou' unknowingly suffers for it. And well. On pretending to be Shirou... If a routine worked before coming here, why fix it?
Warnings: AVENGER IS HIS OWN WARNING. So is Saber. Shirou vomiting up his breakfast. Also casual mentions of death, violence, typical fare for the Tower of Animus. Probably rampant self-loathing if Archer decides to pop in here.
[ SCENARIO A || FLOOR 13: CATHEDRAL ]
[Upon awakening in the gloom of night in his dorm and discovering his arms were fashioned from lead, his legs were rigid and wouldn't move according to his will, Avenger felt very little beyond mild irritation. Staring blankly up at the dark ceiling, he opened his mouth to curse. Nothing came out, not a word nor grunt. His tanned limbs don't respond to him, and it's only through old practice that he pushes back the trickle of raising panic seeping into him and instead tries to remember what he could last recall happening. Bazett. The declaration of boredom. Her anger. His laughter, and offered hand. Then his only recollection was that of darkness.
Okay. That was troubling.
Particularly troubling because the Servant couldn't sense the flow of prana between them anymore, and generally, that never meant good things for a Servant separated from his Master. If the contract had been properly severed, surely he would have felt it break and he would have returned to the void from which he came. Yet he had sensed nothing along those lines and he obviously still existed somehow. The constant slight ebbing of his prana reserves, dropping as it became more and more of a struggle to maintain the closed garden and its loops, had creased as well. It was refreshing.
Still troublesome.
His conclusion was this wasn't the time loops. Something had happened to disrupt that. It only made sense. Largely because he had noticed, even if Bazett had unexpectedly knocked him out without him noticing, this wasn't the mansion. Nor anywhere else in Fuyuki City. He knew that town down to a square foot. Once the sleep paralysis faded from his form, he sat up in bed and stared in bewildered repulsion in the weird attire he was currently dressed in. Yep, definitively not Bazett's handiwork. She couldn't be that mad at him. Thankfully, after getting up off the bed and being oh-so careful to not disturb whoever were the sleeping lumps in the other beds, he locates his trunk and the clothes inside it.
Once dressed and the stupid uniform dutifully ripped to shreds, he snatches up the two papers on the bedstand and reads through them, slowly and occasionally stopping to re-read one section or another. After reaching the end of the letters, he was torn between rage and disinterested apathy. Rage that he had been in the middle of fulfilling a wish (never mind the one whose wish it was was being so damn needlessly difficult) and the end of the world had caused her to perish before he could get her out. Apathy because he... flat-out didn't care if the universe was destroyed. The world had gone boom, yaaay. Mankind had finally up and died, yaaay.
Anyway. On to more important matters. Ah, so this was it? That's how things were going to be from now on. Life at the whims of so-called 'saviours.'
Let's all be happy here.
Avenger's thin-lipped smile was vicious. For a new home, it was sure sucked balls but hey. Beggars couldn't be choosers, could they?]
Well—isn't this surprising, but we'll see about that... What a vexing situation.
[Annoyed, he scratched at the collar around his neck. Stupid thing. He wanted it off him. There's a moment of silence before the door of the room opens, spilling the dim light of the hallway into the room and then clicks shut behind him as Avenger departs from the dormitory.
His footsteps pad down the hallway and were gone.
In the cathedral, there's the usual silence, solitary and deepened by the evening's dimness, dust particles drifting in dim shafts of light. There's a boy absolutely covered in tattoos seated in one of the back pews, head tilted back to gaze up at the vaulted, airy ceiling and the faint murmuring of some invisible mass, and chin resting on the palm of his hand. His torso is bare, modesty preserved by his red mantle and to some, his face is unnervingly familiar. Avenger is quiet, discontented and his yellow eyes are distant, clearly lost in thought.
The Servant had arrived on his floor after a period of wandering and stopped to take a break for awhile. It was silent here and at least they weren't playing that disgusting organ music.
... He smells like he's been killing monsters too.
But hey. What are you doing up so late tonight? It's close to midnight. Why are you in the church? ]
[ SCENARIO B || FLOOR 48: GRAVEYARD ]
[Perched atop a pale white tombstone like an errant bird of prey, Avenger surveys the rows of graves stretching out into the distance, his dull red cloak fluttering around his legs as he moved. The chipped, worn stone under his feet is cold. The Servant clung with one hand to the stone cross that made up the top of the tombstone balance himself.
The wide variety of the range of environments contained within this Tower was impressive, he'd give it that much. Overhead, the sun determinedly tried to burn through a thick gray cloud cover.
So far, he's walked through a demented carnival, a floating island barren of life, a colorful pit full of balls and the scent of something rotting, a dusty doll shop he'd been very creeped out by, a empty room full of bloody handprints and screaming, and a innocent little grassy meadow. And now a graveyard seemingly with a sky all its own. Really, it was a new experience.]
[ SCENARIO C || DORMITORY LEVELS: ROOM 03-12 ]
[In the morning:
This can't be right. No, this really couldn't be right. No, even if there was some mistake, this really, really, couldn't be right.
Seated on the bed, and re-reading the two letters given to all residents upon arrival, 'Shirou' shakes his head in angry denial, eyebrows furrowed. It had to be incorrect; the Holy Grail War had ended months ago, everyone was alive and maybe-happy and he had been certain he'd figured out the trick to ending the strange War currently ongoing, so things would go back to normal soon but now he's expected to wake up in a strange, unfamiliar place and simply swallow an explanation as improbable as this?
He could barely process this information at all.
He needed answers. And not ones provided by whomever was the bunch of crazies who had kidnapped him to this Tower place, real answers. Yeah, it's decided. Shirou was going to look for answers.
After checking the trunk, and finding little of practical use in it since he was already dressed in his normal fare, the teenager walks out the door and pauses halfway down the hall, standing in front of it, belatedly realizing an error in his plan. He had no idea of where to go or what to do next. Where was he supposed to start?
He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. His eyes squeezed shut.]
... Man, this sucks... How am I going to do this, I wonder?
[Let's try applying his fist to his forehead for starters. Sadly, the external application of force to his skull in an attempt to jog his brain, brings no flashes of insight with it and left nothing but pain behind as a result. Shirou rubbed his forehead slowly, wincing. Alright, not trying that again.]
[ SCENARIO D || FLOOR 1: CAFETERIA ]
[Eating the oatmeal before trying to eat anything was a general rule of thumb for the Tower, and usually veterans were thoughtful enough to inform newcomers of this rule but in this case, Shirou wasn't quite so lucky. Maybe it was due to the fact that he decided to cook his own breakfast when he realized they had a kitchen he could use, instead of eating at the food line.
So guess anyone in the cafeteria will be treated to the pleasant sight of some boy with burnt orange hair leaning over one of the trash cans set next to the wall, and his back heaving miserably as he pukes up his breakfast of fried eggs and rice.]
... U-ugh.
[[ooc: all replies from Shirou will come from
heroicprinciple
[ SCENARIO B || FLOOR 48: GRAVEYARD ]
[Diarmuid actually laughs at Avenger's reaction.]
I may not know of your class, but I wouldn't argue it either. There are many masters and servants in this place and many of them are from wars that were a great deal different from my own. For example, there is a woman who goes by Ruler here. She has taken on the task of organizing the masters and servants and protecting masters who don't have servants from those who might do them harm. Apparently, that is similar to what her class did in her war. I don't disbelieve her and I don't disbelieve you.
[ SCENARIO B || FLOOR 48: GRAVEYARD ]
[Avenger is vaguely amused.]
Oh boy. At least that saves me the trouble of trying to explain that shit.
[ SCENARIO B || FLOOR 48: GRAVEYARD ]
If you don't mind me asking, what war were you from in which the masters took the time to tailor a class to you? I really can't imagine them ever going to so much extra trouble when there are several other well defined classes they could use.
[Diarmuid is extremely curious about who this man is that people went to so much trouble to summon him specifically into a new class, but as much as he wants to just start throwing questions at him and demanding answers, he knows that approach will get him nowhere. With this servant, it seems like cautious simple questions are the best so that he doesn't get annoyed and just decide to stop talking about himself completely.]
[ SCENARIO B || FLOOR 48: GRAVEYARD ]
[Angra deliberated silently for a moment before straightening up and leaping down to land lightly on the ground in front of the tall white tombstone. His bare feet thumped onto the dirt, raising a faint cloud of dust. The servant stood upright, shoulders loose and did not come any closer.]
Eh, alright? I was summoned in the Third Grail War. [And they tailored a class to him either because they were either cheating idiots, or as some kind of precautionary measures, or both. He was never certain. He could understand that wintery Family wanting to summon an unstoppable trump card to messily butcher all of their enemies to claim them their wish, but really calling a Heroic Spirit whose legend was all the evils' of the world into a war where the losers' souls were absorbed into the wish-granting machine? That showed some serious lack of foresight.]
[ SCENARIO B || FLOOR 48: GRAVEYARD ]
[Diarmuid pauses, his hand rubbing his chin in thought.]
I know very little about the third war. The magi are a secretive group. I'm sure you understand that as well if not better than I do. Was your class the only odd one for that war then?
[ SCENARIO B || FLOOR 48: GRAVEYARD ]
[The servant made note of what else was said, about there maybe being a power higher than the administrators and that was concerning when placed into comparison with these admins' (?) seemingly great powers. He gestured outward with his right hand, palm up.]
Correction; the magi are a bunch of snobby, contradictory, head-up-their asses crazies. [Oh yes, speaking from bitter experience. Onto the next question;] Yes, it was just me. Fat lot of good their meddling about with my class did them, but that's on their heads, not mine.
[ SCENARIO B || FLOOR 48: GRAVEYARD ]
[Diarmuid shakes his head unable to argue with Avenger's words, and honestly, not wanting to.]
It seems like not a one of them really knows what they are doing. They play with forces they don't understand, call souls much greater than they and bind them as slaves, and fight for a relic that might not even actually grant the wishes they claim it does. The amount of misplaced confidence they have in their abilities is staggering.
[ SCENARIO B || FLOOR 48: GRAVEYARD ]
[Mental note: Ruana was another one of the administrators, very very strong and was considered off-balance enough that people could think her destroying worlds on accident a believable possibility. Or cruel enough to be thought capable of doing it on purpose. Zo wasn't to be trifled with and if given a chance to steal his candy from him, it would be best to leave it be. Avenger scratched at his collar.]
Hah. It's not like a lot of humans have the slightest clue of what to do. Isn't the power of mankind incredible? The stupidity and misguided confidence in messing with greater powers that you just described isn't limited to the magi—looking at it one way, they're simply the only humans with the power to carry out their stupidity in the modern era.
[ SCENARIO B || FLOOR 48: GRAVEYARD ]
[Diarmuid chooses his words carefully, something about Avenger suddenly putting him on guard. Maybe it was the laugh or just the way the other servant phrased his statements, but it had caused a chill to go down Diarmuid's spine.]
However, just as there are stupid people, there are also kind, intelligent ones. Even among the magi.
[Waver is a perfect example of that.]
It's just a shame that the ones I know are trapped here in the tower instead of back on their home worlds working to change things for the better.
Re: [ SCENARIO B || FLOOR 48: GRAVEYARD ]
[ He said, unbothered. And man, were people dumb when they got together in large herds. But he knew there were plenty of intelligent ones in the mix. That makes it more amusing. HIs words are careless; ]
Yeah, there are those. But hey. It's the kind, clever ones with good intentions that get all banged up when they try their hand at fixing things.
[ Magi were a ball to poke fun at, really. Avenger clapped his hands together once with a sharp, sudden crack like he was flattening an errant bug between them, possibly representing the uncaring cruelties of life squashing such aspiring persons to dust. Then his hands dropped back to his side and he smiled. ]
Tch. What a shame, begrudging them that chance. I would have liked to see that. Guess the end of the world doesn't care about individual desires like those.
[ SCENARIO B || FLOOR 48: GRAVEYARD ]
Yes, it is those kind ones with good intentions who are the most often hurt in the world. But, at least they try and sometimes they even succeed beyond their wildest hopes. Even when they don't, it's better than them not trying at all. Nothing would ever be done otherwise. It is just a shame so many of them suffer silently and more than they need to because of the fools of the world.
[He pauses, trying to pull his emotions back under control. Unfortunately, Avenger's next words don't really help a lot.]
The end of the world, the tower, the administrators. None of them care. That is the truth no matter how much I may want to rant about how unfair it is. They don't care about fair or unfair. It is the way of life.
[ SCENARIO B || FLOOR 48: GRAVEYARD ]
Hoh. True, terminally ill with good intentions, they do try to overcome what they will inevitably suffer—and occasionally succeed at their objectives. The state of the world wouldn't improve or change unless people got it into their heads to try, only stagnant. But if that's their desire, it's not my place to call them misguided. Even if I think they've got a few screws loose.
[He then nodded matter-of-factly, like the other servant was making commentary on the color of the sky. Bravo.]
That's right. All of them—are unconcerned about fairness or pain. It's best to look at things like that objectively and see them as they are.
[ SCENARIO B || FLOOR 48: GRAVEYARD ]
Normally I would not pry, but you...are something else, aren't you? It is because they tailored your class to you? You speak words of wisdom, yet your actions and speech seem almost young. And there is something dark about you.. I cannot say what, but it seems to color everything about you.
[And if he stops denying it, it reminds him uncomfortable of some others he knows, though with Avenger the feeling is much stronger than it had been with either of them.]
[ SCENARIO B || FLOOR 48: GRAVEYARD ]
Why, is this praise I'm hearing from your lips? Nah, my class or how they meddled with it to fit me ain't got shit to do with how I behave or think. [That was the shell's he was wearing function; giving him a way to pretend to be a person when in truth, the entire sum of his self only added up to an empty void by this point. He curls his lips back. It seems to color everything about you.] Aaah. Perhaps you haven't noticed, but I've got some potent curses woven into me. Part and parcel of my legend, you see. That's probably the... 'something' you're sensing.
[It wasn't a lie. And well, it wasn't like he was aware of Diarmuid unconsciously noticing the similarities of the dark force that clung to and seeped off him to certain Lesser grails.]
[ SCENARIO B || FLOOR 48: GRAVEYARD ]
[Diarmuid's eyes narrow angrily.]
Stop trying to deceive me with your words. You are cursed yes, but beyond those curses is something else. Something that speaks of the grail and the corruption I have learned lives in it. There are others who carry this feel in the tower, but all of them put together would not carry it as strongly as you do.
[ SCENARIO B || FLOOR 48: GRAVEYARD ]
[He tilted his head to the side, frowning at Darimuid, a little surprised.
Huh. So there were others that carried the corruption of Angra Mainyu in this Tower? Presumably other servants if he felt like taking a potshot at guessing. Well, the more you know, the better. ]
Oh, that? That's just me. It's understandable they would not carry as much as I do—they are merely blackened. [They're not the source of the corruption itself hahah.]
[ SCENARIO B || FLOOR 48: GRAVEYARD ]
[He should know. Lately, it's felt like he's been becoming far too familiar with them.]
I honestly don't care about all of the details of who you are. I am merely trying to decide if you are a threat to those I care about and watch over. I can judge you on a little information or a lot. That, in the end, is entirely up to you.
And tell me, do they only qualify as blackened because they still retain their sense of selves and control of their actions? Is that the dividing line? If so, you yourself seem to imply you are more than blackened. How curious. What controls you then? Is it your wishes or the wishes of something else?
[ SCENARIO B || FLOOR 48: GRAVEYARD ]
A threat? In this place, as long as you don't threaten me, I am perfectly content to leave you and yours alone to do your own business. Go nuts. [Angra didn't care.]
Curious? I guess. They're tainted; it's like dipping something in permanent black paint that smells vile, and letting it seep into them. There's a world of difference between that and my case, as the source of such vileness. [Never exactly took the day out of his day to think about where the dividing line lied in-depth, to tell the truth. It's then Diarmuid questions him as to whether he is controlled by his own wishes or the wishes of something else, there's a flicker of abrupt change; he slips from a bemused, sharp stare to looking like he's about to choke with laughter for a second before restraining himself and resuming a stance of passiveness.] Who the hell knows? However right now, it's my own wishes that guide my actions.
[Is he being purposely humorous or evasive? The difference was hard to pinpoint. But there was a genuine answer in there, unintentionally underneath the more obvious answer to one of Lancer's more pressing questions he had just cheerfully provided.]
[ SCENARIO B || FLOOR 48: GRAVEYARD ]
[It's that little truth that Diarmuid latches onto. At first his brain really has a hard time trying to accept it. How can this...boy be the source of all that corruption? Of all the pain that corruption has caused? Surely, it has to be a lie.
Yet, the servant has claimed not to lie. The darkness Diarmuid feels around him doesn't lie either. And he had been called into the third war. Specially called into the third war.
A perfect time for the Grail to become corrupt from what he knew of it.]
They really are playing with things they don't understand, and as a result, we all have suffered for it...
[ SCENARIO B || FLOOR 48: GRAVEYARD ]
[Okay, Angra, rein in the childish crudeness of your sarcasm a little. You are a couple thousand years old, act like it.
The folded paper flowers Diarmuid had left on the grave of another servant's Master flutter in the breeze before stilling again. Ignoring the falseness of the artificial cloudy sky, the horizon seemed to continue for miles and miles, interrupted only by the black outline of graves.
It's quiet.
He crossed his arms over his bare chest.]
That's magi for you. They tend not to think of the consequences to their actions.
*Facepalms* Diarmuid! You can't save everyone! But he's trying anyway... *shakes head*
[Diarmuid's eyes narrow. If it wasn't for the darkness he could sense about Avenger, he would discount the servant's words as a lie even though he claimed not to. How can something so childish and immature be responsible for so much pain and destruction?
And yet...]
If you cannot laugh, then there is no option but to cry... There is a saying like that now. You are hurting just as much if not more than anyone else, aren't you? Is that why you hide behind the childish humor and vague statements? It's safer there?
*S-sigh* Diarmuid, this is someone you do not want to try adopting... Control your knight complex.
You'd be amazed at the amount of destruction and suffering the root of all evil can cause. In response to what could be seen as offering a hand to him, offering sympathy, Avenger felt... nothing but a nonjudgemental pessimism. What a pain in the ass this servant was turning out to be. He shook his head slightly.]
What a saying... Well, you seem to have badly misinterpreted my character somehow. I ain't hiding behind anything. To put it bluntly, that's off-mark of you to presume how someone gets his kicks is only a facade presented to the world to conceal their unprotected underbelly. No, no sir. I must tell you're incorrect about that, please do guess again if you'd like.
[Let's keep in mind while he says this that he had an entire different interpretation of what it means to be 'hurting,' and hiding himself that is completely screwed a dozen or so degrees to the wrong direction of other peoples or Heroic Spirits's world views. Let us keep in mind he is not sane and rarely bothers to give straight answers.]
Yes, Diarmuid, please. Listen to the root of all evil... Wait, that sounds really bad...
[Actually, Avenger's response almost seems to be something Diarmuid expected because there is a slight smirk curling the corner of his mouth. Does he believe something is wrong with this servant? Oh, most definitely. Does said servant seem to know himself?
Perhaps not.
In any event, Diarmuid is pretty sure he's not going to be able to unravel Avenger's secrets now. The other servants likes his word games far too much, and Diarmuid almost gets the feeling it's safer to let him keep playing them. Better amusing word games than straight out destruction.]
If I am as far off as you say I am, well there really is no hope for me is there?
It does. Buddy, it sounds bad; consider that a warning sigh lol
[His reply isn't very serious. If anything, Avenger doesn't behave aggressively towards the knight. He remains standing next to the tall white gravemarker that had been his perch when Diarmuid had arrived, his stance patient and makes no move to approach nor retreat from the graveyard the two were standing in.
He considers the small smirk curving the edge of Diarmuid's lips and entertained the abstract possibility of tearing out a fingernail or two from the man for the fun of it. The fleeting thought came and went just as quickly, dismissed like an idle wisp of smoke. He harbored no actual wish to specially harm him.
He laughed.]
Wouldn't go that far. You're hopeless, sure but you're not the worse of the lot by a stretch.
no subject
[Diarmuid had been considering just walking away from Avenger, straightening the flowers he had left on Ayaka's stone, and then leaving the floor, but that statement catches his attention. If he can't get any information about Avenger straight from the servant himself, perhaps talking to the others he has already met might help out? Especially if they are people he knows and can trust.]
h-hah late feel free to end the thread here (what with Diarmuid's event coming up and all)
No worries & thanks! I will then since we seem to be about done here anyway...