[S/C] Burning the Mask

[Saber]

Saber leaned back against the stone table in the center of his library, twirling one of his throwing knives lazily as he sat there, his eyes turned upwards towards the ceiling. This was one of the few times in his life where he honestly felt a little bored. He didn’t exactly have nothing to do, but he didn’t really feel like doing anything. Saber wanted to simply sit back and relax for the day, or the next few days, and do nothing. He wanted a break from everything, from the world, and from people. Recently he had been extremely active in the world above his underground library, and it was a bit annoying. Saber enjoyed his solitude, preferred his peace and quiet, and didn’t exactly want to meddle in the affairs of others. Saber wanted to do his own thing, and he didn’t want to be bothered during the process.

Indeed, this was probably one of the few times that Saber, one of the more active players behind the scene of Londinium, wanted to close his eyes and just let the world turn without him for a while. Of course, he knew that would be impossible. Saber was too much of a needy twit to sit back and just watch time go by. He was restless and always had a tick on the back of his neck, telling him to find something to do. It sucked, but he had his past to blame for that. When Saber was young, his father always had him doing something, anything, to keep the boy from just standing or sitting around. That need to be busy became something of a disease for the Assassin, and it burned him to sit still for long periods of time. It was one reason Saber never, ever, sat down anywhere but where he was now. Sure, he took breaks and rested, but he never actually remained in one place for too long when he was outside. For one, it kept him mobile and allowed him to easily react to things. Two, he couldn’t.

It was almost like a twitch, for the Assassin. After a certain amount of time of just sitting around, Saber’s body would start to hurt and he’d feel some kind of fire in his bones, telling him to get up. That fire would just get worse and worse until he was almost forced to move. Though, that changed whenever he was down below. Here, in the Library, Saber could sit for any length of time without his body acting up. Was it some sort of subconscious mechanism telling him to keep his wits when he was in public? Or was it because he didn’t want to seem lazy and wanted to be seen as uneasy, even in quiet situations? Saber couldn’t exactly answer that as he himself didn’t know. Regardless, Saber just went with it and moved without fighting. It helped by keeping him alert so he didn’t bother arguing with himself. But now, he wished that fire actually showed up.

Closing his eyes, Saber leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees. He took in a short breath and relaxed his shoulders, the tension in his body steadily fading away as he let his mind linger. He felt his thoughts move, the lulled and quiet stream of his mind toiling down the waterway into his soul. Things were still today. There were no rapids for him to fight through and there was no waterfall sending sparks of fear or adrenaline through his muscles. It was days like this that he hated the most… but as he let his mind waste away, he felt a pulse. An idea, a thought, crossed his mind. Something to do. Something he needed. Saber opened his eyes and clenched the blade in his hand, squeezing the sharpened edge of the weapon. It bit into his skin. Blood seeped out and dripped onto the floor at his feet, but Saber didn’t flinch at the wound. He squeezed a little tighter, pushing the blade in deeper, and then released. He opened his fingers, pulled the wet weapon from his hand and then threw it across the room. The tip of the knife dug into a wooden support beam that stretched towards the ceiling, landing with a solid thud. Saber didn’t look at his, his eyes fixed on his forge as he made his way towards it.

Without a word, Saber began to work. He fired up his forge by adding fresh coals and air to the bottom of the object. The temperature inside increased rapidly as the Elf’s eyes hardened. His eyebrow tensed and the expression on his face was that of anger, but Saber was far from upset; his mind was moving. In his head there was an image. It was the image of the item that had suddenly emerged into his mind and asked to be created. The intensity of the thought was so strong that Saber latched onto it and he became fully concentrated on that item. In his head, the quiet stream began to rush. This was the spark he needed.

---

WC: 855

[Saber]

He didn’t know why he was making the item he was, nor did he know what for. Yet his hands did the Devil’s work. He moved with relative ease as he went through with the same motions he always did, his mind steeled as he began to mend that same material with his hands. Taking a block of iron, Saber tossed it into the flames of his forge and began to heat it to levels which would burn his bones to nothing but ash. The item in his mind was strange, different, and provided Saber with an idea. He was no perfect figure, but he could become one. Or, he could make one. It would be an item that he could use as a tool, a weapon, and one that he could use as a reminder. Saber grimaced at the thought of its strength but he did not turn away; he stared at the iron block as it steadily began to glow.

As they always did, thoughts of the process that Saber learned returned to him like second nature. Temperature numbers were referenced, pulled from an imaginary index within his mind and put into an imaginary table for Saber to look towards. These numbers told him the prime heat he needed to make the iron bar reach before he could properly work it. Along with those numbers, Saber’s mind noted how many strikes he would be able to get before he would have to reheat the metal, how powerful each strike needed to be, as well as where to properly place them to make the shape he wanted. Not only that, but Saber also reminded himself of his past mistakes; missed strikes, too much heat, too little heat, too long outside of the fire, too many strikes. All of them came back, warning him of the margin of error he could have. Yet, his experience allowed him to adjust.

Saber knew what he was going to do, he knew how to do it, and he knew how long he would have to do it. As he stared at the iron bar, watching it slowly start to reach the peak temperature he needed it to be, the Master Blacksmith went through the entire scene mentally as his body started to lurch forward. He calculated how many strikes the item would get before its completion, how many strikes he would get right now, and how long he would have to perform that many strikes. He checked the bar for weak points, noted them, reminded himself of what would happen if there was a bad strike, and prepared for the best as well as the worst. As he opened the door to the furnace and snagged the iron bar with tongs, the Elf already had come up with dozens of contingency plans in case of a mistake. However, he would not accept any. A crafter who accepted mistakes was no crafter, they were simply someone who wished to make items. A crafter was someone who took pride in their work, someone who spent countless hours working to make perfection or something that they could show to the world with a bright smile on their face. Saber was a crafter, and he was also a perfectionist.

The iron bar was planted firmly on the black anvil in the forge area and Saber swiftly snagged his hammer. It came down like a roar from the heavens, slamming onto the iron bar in a powerful crash. Saber’s arms flexed with muscle and strain as he worked his tool elegantly and quickly, banging the reinforced hammer against the heated iron block. Each strike was precisely aimed, smoothly worked, and delivered without hesitation. Saber’s eyes locked open as he mashed metal against metal, completely ignoring the sparks which flew dangerously up into the air. His dry lips pulled into a thin line and his lungs worked briskly, inhaling and exhaling in a rhythm which matched the blows of his hammer. This was his art, this was his craft, and the item he was making was an expression of his soul.

This was his mask.

---

WC: 686

[Saber]

The metal Saber worked slowly started to take shape, and his mind focused even harder as he began to work out the fine details. In his head was a simple rough sketch that he brought into existence but it was by no means a finished product. Saber knew what he wanted, but as he made the basic shape, he learned that his soul had more to offer than his mind. His heart thudded with each slam of the hammer in his hand, his eyes glistened with the fires of the forge in front of him, and his mind filled with the memories of his past. Saber dropped the piece of molded iron into the forge and his eyes glossed over as he stared at the object, his mind running through the story of his life in a flash. Saber remembered everything. He remembered who he was, how he had got here, and why he was here. Saber even remembered the last piece of the puzzle he had been patiently searching for; his last name.

After dropping into the apocalypse, Saber left the world he knew behind for the one he was now in. His mind focused purely on survival and making it to the next day without any issues. Due to his experience on another server, Saber knew how Elder Tale worked so he quickly got to work leveling and began to adjust to the new “society” he lived in. Rather than follow the previous route of being a Guardian, Saber now took the role of an Assassin. More than that, Saber became a mercenary and an informant. He sought out things no one else did, went to places which were feared, and fought monsters that could have been considered nightmares. He did the dirty jobs, coated his hands in the blood of Landers and fellow Adventurers, and filled his money purse with gold laced with red. He met many acquaintances but never dug in his feet for too long and always kept on the run. During all of that, the memories of his previous life began to fade away. He forgot about his family back in Alaska and focused solely on the matters at hand, the teachings of his father became Saber’s creed.

Then, he found Ame. The Blonde Foxtail Saber bumped into steadily reawoke the person hidden within his soul; she reminded him of his humanity. Saber, for once in a long time, actually cared about someone. He wanted to keep her safe, keep her warm, and wanted to hold her every night. Yet he forced himself to stay away. He fought the urges of his old self and pushed on, separating himself from Londinium and headed to far lands. He continued to search for the answers to the questions he had steadily developed and killed hundreds, thousands of creatures that stood in his way. The Elf left an ocean of blood in his wake and pressed on with his head held high. All the while, he felt his chest tug. The people that slowly grew around him pulled at the Assassin’s core and tore off the protection he had placed on himself and out from within the cracks, Saber’s weakness began to show through. Now, as he pulled the iron bar out of the furnace and placed it on the anvil, Saber made his decision.

Squeezing his hammer tight, Saber bashed the iron in his tongs into the shape of a gauntlet. He curved it slowly, mended it to match the shape of his own forearm, and smoothed its edges so that it would not pinch or scratch at his skin. With his mighty hammer, the Elven Blacksmith created the item he would wear like a signature. It was the item that he would show to the world without any regrets, and one that he had given up trying to conceal. Once the gauntlet was formed, Saber cooled the iron and then pulled out his engraving tools. He set himself up next to the furnace so that he could head his chisel and pencil, and then began to work.

Using the tongue of his family, Saber etched into the gauntlet the words of his father, “Conata Perficio”, and the words which his mother told him to remember every day, “Non nobis solum nati”. In between them, Saber began to slowly carve in the symbols of his life. At the top, he started with the symbol of the Spartans from Greece; he burned in the helm of Spartans. Beneath it, he drew a bow crossed by a blade. Then, a hammer crossed with a needle and backed by book. Next, he placed a shield below them all. On the shield he etched in a raven’s head looking into the distance. To finish his own piece of art, Saber carved in the face of an ox bowing its head.

With the final piece in place, Saber carefully polished his carvings and the words he etched into the gauntlet and smoothed out all of the edges. He did some adjustments to refine his work and then, once he was content that there were no issues, Saber added some padding to the inside of the gauntlet and then leather straps that would pull the armor tight around his forearm. The object would fully encase his forearm, but the one-inch gap underneath left some room for the gauntlet to flex. By adding the straps, the Elf could tighten or loosen the gauntlet’s fit slightly in order to keep it in place on his arm. With the final pieces finished, Saber slid the gauntlet into place on his arm. This was the first step forward, and it would not be the last.

---

WC: 949

Item Created

Recipe: Metal Accessory

A Spartan's Signature: A black gauntlet that has been finely polished and moulded to fit to the owner's forearm perfectly. It is almost a complete cylinder, but the metal ends an inch or so before touching. At both ends, leather straps have been attached in order to pull the metal a bit tighter for an even better fit, simply to ensure that the gauntlet will not move during combat. This item is no ordinary accessory, however, and simply looking at it will make that known. This gauntlet has been forged specifically for the Assassin, Saber, and reflects his soul onto its metal body. Words in latin have been carved into the metal object as well as several images, all holding their own meanings. This item is not meant to be used for defense, but is more to be used as a signature. It is Saber's mark.

The words on the left side of the gauntlet (Saber's left) are "Conata Perficio"; "I carry through what I attempt".
On the right side of the gauntlet, the words "Non nobis solum” have been etched in; "Not for ourselves alone".
The images on the gauntlet are the following, and their order is from top to bottom; A Spartan Helmet, a bow crossing a blade, a hammer crossing over the top of a needle with a book behind both, a shield with a raven's head, and the head of a bowing Ox. The meaning of each of these images is kept secret, but those who are curious may find their answers by asking.