Post by Marcelius on Jan 31, 2014 23:54:43 GMT -5
(OoC: This took far longer than it should have, and I apologize.)
His thoughts were becoming lofty, as if they were made of air. Remaining mindful of his surroundings, was proving far more difficult. There seemed to be nothing which could catch his airy focus. Neither the mountain, or the cloud. Contemplation was loose and fleeting. This was the haze into which his notions had flown. Nothing to stimulate or inflict upon him, any direction of definition. This is what it was like...to lose himself. To give in to the urges which echoed from bygone memories. Marcelius always felt like this, just before release. It seems a reverse of causality, really. Feeling free before one's liberation. Ah, but most things about this particular Hollow were quite converse. He favored resolution over conflict. Peace over war. Kindness over cruelty...even charity over power. He was the antithesis to the whole of his race.
And...this reversed mentality did not end with the measure of his ideals. Instead, it stretched into his very soul. Though other's might call it "release" or even "Resurrection"...for Marc it was only imprisonment and death. To what purpose, does an Arrancar unleash the weight of it's true self? Devastation; that is the only agreeable answer. From the moment they speak the necessary words, or complete their costumary act, they set themselves to a solitary path. They will kill, they will destroy. They become the beast that instinct and fate shaped them to be. Despite all his efforts to be different. In spite of every waking, tormented hour has spent pursuing something different. Marcelius is, as his enemies predict, just another Hollow. Resurreccion does not unshackle a golden heart, it unleashes the same void that exists within all the others. This is why he feels freedom before release. It is the last gasp before the plunge.
Every muscle seemed to clench, even his teeth felt the burden of pressure. The moment had come, and little was there to stop it. The assault against him had been vicious from the start, but that was to be expected in battle. Well, expected of warriors. Marcelius was nothing like a warrior. He did not live for the fight, nor did he relish in the carnage. He had endeavored, albeit misguidedly, to spare what lives he could of his foes. To merely knockout a child, rather than copy the murderous acts of the boy's counterpart. The old Fraccion had taken a determined stand, in hopes of avoiding death. He had not attacked the individuals themselves, but rather, struck out against their capacity to kill. It was a fool hearted ploy, one that should not be expected to work so well against such dedicated soldiers. Mmm, perhaps there was a lesson to learn here? Some new addition he might add to his conduct, inspired by the aggression of his enemy?
After all...he -a monster- extended an olive branch which risked not only his life, but also his reputation and wellbeing within the Social Darwinism of Las Noches. Shinigami were not fools. Individuals as well informed as these, would know what risks such behavior must come with. Yet there was not enough to prove his sincerity? No heartstring bold enough to accept with his peaceful request? No. Instead, they issued the death sentence to him on site. Mercilessly, and full of naivety. Even as the fight picked up; Marc had to listen to their "expertise". Their minds analyzing the battle and the moves of their opponent...yet neither seemed to notice how drastically he pulled his punches. Reasoning and empathy was failing, on the mental, emotional, and now physical levels. The belief that true fighters can bridge any misconception through the language of combat...now that was a farce. More so than psychics. So now to keep up with the butchers, he had to become something worse. Already...the walls were closing in.
"Compadecer..." With blade clenched in his left hand, feet firmly squared off in his stance; Marcelius utter the words of his ritual. Surely the Shinigami would see, if not...then maybe hear? Either way, they would feel the beginnings of his transformation. Like a crippling weight being placed upon the chest, his pressure would grow. Instead of crushing from above...instead, his reiatsu would tug from below. Like the desperate clawing hands of untold multitudes. Victims, innocents and villains alike. This is what it meant, to be in the presence of living regret. To feel the clinging fingers of desperation, of all those who either died by one's own hands...or who could not be saved. All of that life, all of that potential, gone. Just like this moment, and all that it could have been. "Acusa-"
Interrupted! At the moment where Marc's conscience had relinquished all strength, and gave in to the banality of his kindness...a wretched sound tore through the room. Being one of his greatest discomforts, the grating noise snapped his focus off of Resurreccion. Almost instantaneously. This left him and the Shinigami still locked in their vice of conflict...but now his commitment to release was shattered. Suddenly he was himself again, and all the animosity he felt for that other side of being was now restored. Before the voice of the Septima could speak...before any opportunity could be made of her distraction; Marcelius thrust his cleave into the floor beneath him. With his strength, such an act was far more meaningful than with most. An eruption of drubble and debris seemed to engulf the Arrancar. The "earth" on which he stood, loosing all the properties young Kazuko would need to control it. The aim was not to hide himself, or even defend himself from assault. Instead, he broke an open a means of escape.
There would be no shame in him, he fled out of complete fear. Staying in this fight meant only the gravest of consequences...both for himself and for the Shinigami. Nothing good would come of it, no matter the outcome. All that he left behind were gambles. All he could hope to win if he stayed, was remorse. So instead, the lovely Espada offered him an out. Just the same as she offered his competitors the privledge to call him a coward. Much better a coward...than a killer. It was going to haunt him long enough as is, how close he came to crossing the line. But what would the Reapers see? If they bothered to chase after him? Nothing but darkness...and empty air below. For despite what hollow space his fall brought him into, a trick from his daughter would save him all the same. A horizontal Gargantua, one designed to open up beanth one's feet. Such a portal would chariot the old man away. Safe from the Reapers, and safe from himself.
(OoC: As per orders, Marc has been removed from the thread! \o/ Sorry again for the time it took, real life and all that.)
His thoughts were becoming lofty, as if they were made of air. Remaining mindful of his surroundings, was proving far more difficult. There seemed to be nothing which could catch his airy focus. Neither the mountain, or the cloud. Contemplation was loose and fleeting. This was the haze into which his notions had flown. Nothing to stimulate or inflict upon him, any direction of definition. This is what it was like...to lose himself. To give in to the urges which echoed from bygone memories. Marcelius always felt like this, just before release. It seems a reverse of causality, really. Feeling free before one's liberation. Ah, but most things about this particular Hollow were quite converse. He favored resolution over conflict. Peace over war. Kindness over cruelty...even charity over power. He was the antithesis to the whole of his race.
And...this reversed mentality did not end with the measure of his ideals. Instead, it stretched into his very soul. Though other's might call it "release" or even "Resurrection"...for Marc it was only imprisonment and death. To what purpose, does an Arrancar unleash the weight of it's true self? Devastation; that is the only agreeable answer. From the moment they speak the necessary words, or complete their costumary act, they set themselves to a solitary path. They will kill, they will destroy. They become the beast that instinct and fate shaped them to be. Despite all his efforts to be different. In spite of every waking, tormented hour has spent pursuing something different. Marcelius is, as his enemies predict, just another Hollow. Resurreccion does not unshackle a golden heart, it unleashes the same void that exists within all the others. This is why he feels freedom before release. It is the last gasp before the plunge.
Every muscle seemed to clench, even his teeth felt the burden of pressure. The moment had come, and little was there to stop it. The assault against him had been vicious from the start, but that was to be expected in battle. Well, expected of warriors. Marcelius was nothing like a warrior. He did not live for the fight, nor did he relish in the carnage. He had endeavored, albeit misguidedly, to spare what lives he could of his foes. To merely knockout a child, rather than copy the murderous acts of the boy's counterpart. The old Fraccion had taken a determined stand, in hopes of avoiding death. He had not attacked the individuals themselves, but rather, struck out against their capacity to kill. It was a fool hearted ploy, one that should not be expected to work so well against such dedicated soldiers. Mmm, perhaps there was a lesson to learn here? Some new addition he might add to his conduct, inspired by the aggression of his enemy?
After all...he -a monster- extended an olive branch which risked not only his life, but also his reputation and wellbeing within the Social Darwinism of Las Noches. Shinigami were not fools. Individuals as well informed as these, would know what risks such behavior must come with. Yet there was not enough to prove his sincerity? No heartstring bold enough to accept with his peaceful request? No. Instead, they issued the death sentence to him on site. Mercilessly, and full of naivety. Even as the fight picked up; Marc had to listen to their "expertise". Their minds analyzing the battle and the moves of their opponent...yet neither seemed to notice how drastically he pulled his punches. Reasoning and empathy was failing, on the mental, emotional, and now physical levels. The belief that true fighters can bridge any misconception through the language of combat...now that was a farce. More so than psychics. So now to keep up with the butchers, he had to become something worse. Already...the walls were closing in.
"Compadecer..." With blade clenched in his left hand, feet firmly squared off in his stance; Marcelius utter the words of his ritual. Surely the Shinigami would see, if not...then maybe hear? Either way, they would feel the beginnings of his transformation. Like a crippling weight being placed upon the chest, his pressure would grow. Instead of crushing from above...instead, his reiatsu would tug from below. Like the desperate clawing hands of untold multitudes. Victims, innocents and villains alike. This is what it meant, to be in the presence of living regret. To feel the clinging fingers of desperation, of all those who either died by one's own hands...or who could not be saved. All of that life, all of that potential, gone. Just like this moment, and all that it could have been. "Acusa-"
Interrupted! At the moment where Marc's conscience had relinquished all strength, and gave in to the banality of his kindness...a wretched sound tore through the room. Being one of his greatest discomforts, the grating noise snapped his focus off of Resurreccion. Almost instantaneously. This left him and the Shinigami still locked in their vice of conflict...but now his commitment to release was shattered. Suddenly he was himself again, and all the animosity he felt for that other side of being was now restored. Before the voice of the Septima could speak...before any opportunity could be made of her distraction; Marcelius thrust his cleave into the floor beneath him. With his strength, such an act was far more meaningful than with most. An eruption of drubble and debris seemed to engulf the Arrancar. The "earth" on which he stood, loosing all the properties young Kazuko would need to control it. The aim was not to hide himself, or even defend himself from assault. Instead, he broke an open a means of escape.
There would be no shame in him, he fled out of complete fear. Staying in this fight meant only the gravest of consequences...both for himself and for the Shinigami. Nothing good would come of it, no matter the outcome. All that he left behind were gambles. All he could hope to win if he stayed, was remorse. So instead, the lovely Espada offered him an out. Just the same as she offered his competitors the privledge to call him a coward. Much better a coward...than a killer. It was going to haunt him long enough as is, how close he came to crossing the line. But what would the Reapers see? If they bothered to chase after him? Nothing but darkness...and empty air below. For despite what hollow space his fall brought him into, a trick from his daughter would save him all the same. A horizontal Gargantua, one designed to open up beanth one's feet. Such a portal would chariot the old man away. Safe from the Reapers, and safe from himself.
(OoC: As per orders, Marc has been removed from the thread! \o/ Sorry again for the time it took, real life and all that.)