[center][h1][color=SlateBlue]Serin[/color][/h1] [img]https://i.imgur.com/mEKFeMX.png[/img] [hider=Dream Within A Dream][hr]The distant cry of steel set against steel – a lethal and unforgiving staccato, one that cuts a new soul from its mortal shell with every note. Serin’s breath comes in ragged bursts, his left half particularly battered and bloodied, arm hanging uselessly by his side. The knight that stands opposite him fares just as poorly, gauntlet clasped over his midsection in a desperate attempt to prevent his innards from spilling through the sword made wound. Surrounding them is a field of countless fallen warriors, their still armored forms maimed in myriad ways, weapons broken and scattered or lodged deep in the blood drenched earth. A moment of silence festers between them; each is a predator, sizing up the other as to discern the best way to deliver the coup de grâce. They appear as statues, locked in some silent standoff, set against a landscape torn from the pages of some hellish fairy tale. His partner in this deadly dance is first to act, the silver cloaked knight rushing to close the distance between them. Serin moves to meet him as black steel greaves kick up muddy ground and splashes of scarlet, the sable cloaked warrior drawing the serrated dagger strapped to his side from its scabbard. As the pair draws nearer to one another the silver clad knight raises his chipped blade, its ornamentation and noble heraldry hidden beneath layers of grime and viscera. Serin angles his armor to meet the overhead slash, meant to cut from shoulder to gut, and dips low in his dash. Sparks fly as the blade glances off the sable knight’s pauldron, but the silver swordsmen redirects his attack past the armor with a learned familiarity, sinking it into the flesh where neck meets shoulder. Serin grits his teeth with a pained grunt, pushing forward even as the blade slices deeper into muscle with the movement. Their armored forms collide with a metallic echo, the silver knight knocked onto his back as the sable knight clambers atop him. Serin trains the dagger on the exposed patch between his opponent’s helm and breastplate, the other knight’s hands releasing their grip on the blade and his gut, moving to grasp at Serin’s wrists. Both shake from a mix of exhaustion and exertion, the serrated edge between them slowly but surely inching closer and closer to the silver knight’s throat. [color=B0C4DE]“[b][i]Traitor.[/i][/b]”[/color] The warrior pinned beneath Serin manages to spit out the word between labored huffs with a particularly vicious venom, the sable knight merely drowning out the accusation as he slowly drives the dagger into his enemy’s neck. A pained gurgle and sputter of blood spilling from between the slits of the silver knight’s helm, his grip growing weak and eventually still as Serin runs the blade through, panting as the pain gnaws ceaselessly at his consciousness. He wants to collapse, to drift away into an endless slumber, but after a moment the sable knight struggles to his feet from atop the corpse, continuing on his path. His legs feel as if they’re aflame, trudging past innumerable faceless forms as he eventually reaches the banner he’d sought at the hill’s crest. When he nears there’s a moment of relief that’s cut woefully short, the all too familiar figure still holding the black and crimson banner high deathly still, as lifeless as the sea of corpses that surround them. Serin drops to his knees beside the banner bearer, weakly grabbing at their lifeless hand as he interlocks his digits with the familiar dead’s own, the size of his hand dwarfing theirs. [i]Another oath broken.[/i] The sable knight casts his gaze towards the horizon, only greeted with ever more carnage. A city alight in thousands of flickering flames, the heavens dyed a violent red to match the earth, and that same mysterious tower hanging in the sky above it all. His eyes linger on that enigmatic structure, imagining it to be an idyllic world that suffers none of the destruction one would find here. A new wave of fatigue washes over the bloody knight, the man himself aware he’ll bleed out from his wounds all too easily. He spares his partner, their hands locked together now forevermore, a final somber gaze. Serin leans himself against a discarded blade planted into the soil, eyes fluttering shut for a rest that knows no end.[hr][/hider][/center] [center]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? [b]Is this not what’s at the end of fate?[/b] 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. [i]Its familiarity.[/i] [i]Its purpose.[/i] 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 [url=https://i.imgur.com/0E9BtWn.jpg]ancient lance[/url] 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. [color=SlateBlue]“...Godsdamned terrors, reliable as clockwork.”[/color] 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. [i]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.[/i] 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. [color=SlateBlue]‘Suppose I’ve seen the inexplicable become as reality here.’[/color] Serin descends the stairs with the distinct clink of [url=https://i.imgur.com/Y3AVJLo.jpg]heavy armor[/url] 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. [color=Crimson]New blood?[/color] 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. [color=SlateBlue]"What's wrong lad, you seem a bit dazed there."[/color] Serin directs the question towards Thomas, an easy going attitude obvious in his tone. [color=SlateBlue]"I wasn't aware the Tower was still drawing in new blood; don't believe I've ever met either of you."[/color] [/center]