This place was not meant to be witnessed by mortals, so much of it beyond her comprehension- metal and flesh braided together to create a giant, grotesque battleship. She is fool enough to seldom feel fear so in its place anger forms. She hates that this ship and the villains that steered it were allowed to exist in this world, bred for no purpose than consumption and destruction (though she has heard from plenty a pessimist that all living things did much of the same).
'I cannot die' and 'I will not die here' are the first and second resounding thoughts she has once conscious. The thing in her brain celebrates this desire to survive and Artoria is angry that the creature finds some inherent joy in this. It would be better to die (the worm all but hisses at this thought, the wet, unpleasant sound echoes all through her head); but to do so would be to shirk her duty and purpose, leave so many to the mercy of an unknown future.
Her memory of the crash itself is hazy, just monochromatic scenes broken up by the worm burrowing deeper into her head. She could have been unconscious for hours or just minutes but the uncertainty of that is what makes her rise to her feet almost immediately. The world is blurry for a moment but it does not stop her from moving.
She pays no attention to the burns scattered across parts of her exposed skin, some of them already gooey with early infection.
Artoria impresses a prayer upon Tyr as she strips the armor from a corpse she'd pulled from the wreckage. She undresses right there, amongst the wreckage. The man is thin enough that she can fill up his armor, and her own she casts into the sea- though not before a moment of grief. Artoria presses the emblem on her breast plate to her face and doesn't even feel guilt for the sacrilege of worshipping this: a lion shaped from steel and blue enamel.
Excalibur she could not bear to part with even if doing so wasn't already a danger. She wraps cloth around the hilt and sheaths it. The dead man's sword would do for now.
She should move fast and find her way back to a city. No one deed could be worth the fall of an empire. But she's already chomping at the bit before she can even stop herself.
"Are you injured miss?" She speaks with earnest concern but keeps her sword at the ready. In this non-descript armor and with her hair pulled up she looks like any other solider, just a scrawny man or a plain woman. And then suddenly she feels as if she is jolted forward even though her feet stay in place. The worm tries in vain to pull her forward, agonizing over the fact that it cannot. Artoria catches glimpses of something that is not hers: something sharp pointed at her eyes, pain from a wound that she did not have. She feels something else run its fingers across her own moments but closes that door before those hands can find anything before the mindflayer ship.
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'I cannot die' and 'I will not die here' are the first and second resounding thoughts she has once conscious. The thing in her brain celebrates this desire to survive and Artoria is angry that the creature finds some inherent joy in this. It would be better to die (the worm all but hisses at this thought, the wet, unpleasant sound echoes all through her head); but to do so would be to shirk her duty and purpose, leave so many to the mercy of an unknown future.
Her memory of the crash itself is hazy, just monochromatic scenes broken up by the worm burrowing deeper into her head. She could have been unconscious for hours or just minutes but the uncertainty of that is what makes her rise to her feet almost immediately. The world is blurry for a moment but it does not stop her from moving.
She pays no attention to the burns scattered across parts of her exposed skin, some of them already gooey with early infection.
Artoria impresses a prayer upon Tyr as she strips the armor from a corpse she'd pulled from the wreckage. She undresses right there, amongst the wreckage. The man is thin enough that she can fill up his armor, and her own she casts into the sea- though not before a moment of grief. Artoria presses the emblem on her breast plate to her face and doesn't even feel guilt for the sacrilege of worshipping this: a lion shaped from steel and blue enamel.
Excalibur she could not bear to part with even if doing so wasn't already a danger. She wraps cloth around the hilt and sheaths it. The dead man's sword would do for now.
She should move fast and find her way back to a city. No one deed could be worth the fall of an empire. But she's already chomping at the bit before she can even stop herself.
"Are you injured miss?" She speaks with earnest concern but keeps her sword at the ready. In this non-descript armor and with her hair pulled up she looks like any other solider, just a scrawny man or a plain woman. And then suddenly she feels as if she is jolted forward even though her feet stay in place. The worm tries in vain to pull her forward, agonizing over the fact that it cannot. Artoria catches glimpses of something that is not hers: something sharp pointed at her eyes, pain from a wound that she did not have. She feels something else run its fingers across her own moments but closes that door before those hands can find anything before the mindflayer ship.