[ Sleep is a strange bedfellow — one he's never really taken the time to meet until this point. After all, why bother? As a Servant, he had no real need for it. His body generated more than enough magical energy on its own, and coupled with the mana he received as a Disciple of the Foreign God, there was no reason to ever use sleep as a mitigation effort. Even here, with dwindling reserves, he hadn't picked up the habit, finding a better use of his time in helping to do repairs, or watching over the group.
He'd meant to do more of the same once she'd rested, but once he'd taken Rin's hand in his, and felt her mana under her skin... Muramasa had sat there at her side, feeling that steady ththump-ththump, and was intoxicated. No better than the serpent, drunk on sake, and sleep felled him with a single stroke as he was drawn in to the single point of her pulse.
Now, on her lap, he radiates heat like a banked set of coals; his magic circuits constantly imitating the concept he embodies, a thing that makes swords. The forge itself, his Noble Phantasm with that burning field of blades. In the cooler night temperatures, and the longer darkness, Muramasa is constantly warm. It probably feels nice, to have him there, slumped over sideways on the couch. His shoulder burns warm against the side of her leg, his breath slowly sending a warm pool of heat through the fabric of her pants as he continues to slumber. Unconsciously, his fingers curl around her hand once more, spurred by upsetting dreams.
In a few minutes, he very may well wake up on his own, angered by the sight of her trapped, that dead hero, and the fake priest all in at one. For now, he's merely trapped in her memory, a witness to something that should never have been revealed to him, or his vessel. ]
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He'd meant to do more of the same once she'd rested, but once he'd taken Rin's hand in his, and felt her mana under her skin... Muramasa had sat there at her side, feeling that steady ththump-ththump, and was intoxicated. No better than the serpent, drunk on sake, and sleep felled him with a single stroke as he was drawn in to the single point of her pulse.
Now, on her lap, he radiates heat like a banked set of coals; his magic circuits constantly imitating the concept he embodies, a thing that makes swords. The forge itself, his Noble Phantasm with that burning field of blades. In the cooler night temperatures, and the longer darkness, Muramasa is constantly warm. It probably feels nice, to have him there, slumped over sideways on the couch. His shoulder burns warm against the side of her leg, his breath slowly sending a warm pool of heat through the fabric of her pants as he continues to slumber. Unconsciously, his fingers curl around her hand once more, spurred by upsetting dreams.
In a few minutes, he very may well wake up on his own, angered by the sight of her trapped, that dead hero, and the fake priest all in at one. For now, he's merely trapped in her memory, a witness to something that should never have been revealed to him, or his vessel. ]