Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

it may sound absurd but don't be naive

even heroes have the right to bleed

As far as his experiences took him, graveyards hadn't been particularly haunting to think about, in his case at the very least. At best, there was no reason to fear the deeds of Death and dead men that complied to its beckoning, much less the tombstones that were little but memoirs carved into cement. His lack of any further empathy with death was the faulty result of housing a spirit in the pits of his head, him being long gone that its correct to call the Origin Spirit a relic of sorts, being so old that he couldn't even provide a proper name for himself.

The works of demons and the possibility of encountering the supernatural, however, appeared to be a matter that continued to elude him - enthralled him in a mortifying sense, curious to see the pivotal power of the dark as they were rumored to be. Strangely enough, he was no stranger to the things that existed beyond the grave. With vague recollection, his brain replays snippets of Kushinada cutting through rotting carcasses, being subjected to a constant barrage of voices both disembodied and hollowing, and the small panic that rose up his throat as he realized, with defeat, that he cannot challenge a ghost with a sword.

The retention of these memories were the few, unimportant details of the life he lived prior to his amnesia, as the doctor foretold of the chance of little, trivial things slipping through the filter that his 'illness' held up. Rare as they came, Torian saw a need to shelter the small handful of memories he was allowed to remember, driven by the weight of a desire to protect what remained, no matter how trivial. Frankly, their very existence indirectly started this whole charade that involved him and the Silent Cemetery and an uncharacteristically dark sky. There, among the dirt and the crumbling graves, not a soul appeared as witness to Torian's whimsies, his figure slightly lit aglow by the lantern that dangled from his left hand.

'I can't see squat.' he thought, his face tightening as he briefly surveyed the area around him.

It was at the insistence of his piqued interest that allowed him to venture into the cemetery, but it had been a state of emergency for the guild who directed him there through urgent words, their job offer contrite and brief - the swordsman could only assume that the leaders of the merchant guild were completely shaken that they couldn't bare to give more than the summary of things. The paper could have been easily dismissable among the more lucrative options, had it not been for the guild's effort of making multiple copies with their titles written in bright red ink. Torian wouldn't be in the wrong to think that he'd encounter someone else there, upholding the same objective as he, though hopefully with much better lighting equipment with them, for it was becoming increasingly hard to navigate the further he continued.

'The darkness almost feels intentional.' clipped the Origin, his tone low, almost in a murmur despite there not being anyone to hide secrets from within the confines of the Chronicle's walls. 'Whether or not it's natural, I can't say for sure.'

Torian huffs, the rumbles of laughter fleetingly there before he hides it behind a bemused face, kicking at stray pebbles that laid at his foot. 'Not exactly the sort of insight that helps anything at this point, but thanks regardless.'

'I tried.'

Pressing on the issue of the spirit's faulty wisdom no further, Torian finds the greater priority in inspecting a most curious set of tracks that veered off the road he'd been traversing the past few moments. The swordsman lowered the oil lamp closer to the ground, the faint flickering light from inside it just enough to disperse the shadows that clung to several imprints of boot soles sharply turning a corner, each mark heavy with a weight of a large body. Upon lifting his light source, Torian would watch the trail traverse through a row of tombstones that lead to a single mausoleum whose walls started to crumble with age, the white paint fading whilst the ivy crawled thickly from ground up. Guarding the heavily bolted door was a pair of angel statues, their faces wordlessly judging all those who approached.

'I couldn't blame you for feeling scared,' the spirit said, 'There's something...strange about those statues.'

Menacing was a better word for it, he thought, eyeing the angels back from a few meters away. Torian wasn't completely petrified to warrant a shake in his movements, though he could not mistake the cold chill in his spine as anything but the first onslaught of fear, poisoning him slowly. As if to avoid the ugly emotion from overtaking him, the swordsman slid his sword arm closer to the weapon that sat at his waist, grasping at the Etherblade's handle in an attempt to strengthen his morale, even for a short moment.

'Not really there yet,' he told the spirit, narrowing his eyes as he dutifully followed the footsteps, 'I feel as though I haven't quite crossed that threshold of fear, but I'm getting there.'

'...Is that something you actually want to push through with?' the voice asked, unbelieving, his shock never truly masking the worry that his words contained, 'My, aren't you a brave one.'

Whatever conversation that both vessel and origin had been engaged in prior appeared to immediately die a quick, silencing death as soon as low, guttural moaning noises shuffled through from beyond the cloaking darkness. From there, the surge of adrenaline was unavoidable, the necessity to arm himself quickly overriding his thoughts as he brandished Kushinada without a second's pause, his knuckles paling from the strength at which he handled the blade.