Post by Marcelius on Jul 5, 2014 1:12:30 GMT -5
(OoC: This will be Social, possibly Joint Training, possibly PvP thread for Tsaj and Marcelius. Who knows what could happen? I do. CD. Literally, everywhere. Let's Go!)
What is it that drives souls to fear Hueco Mundo? What is it that makes the realm so dreadful and unkind? Some blame the sand which covers it’s infinite floor. An desert that trails towards the horizon without interruption or end. Many find the soil unsatisfying, yet it is soft and cool to the touch. Perhaps then it is the cold; which births the shivers in men’s spines? A fault of the moon. For the moon never drops from the sky, never shares it’s kingdom with the stars. It remains ever aloft, cooling the world with it’s eerie light. Giving illumination enough, for one to understand how wholly dark their surroundings have become. Perhaps the emptiness then? A void plagued by dim lights, haunting shadows, and chilly air. No no. The vacancy is a blessing most would not expect. After all, being alone in Hueco Mundo...is the safest one can be. It is one finds themselves in the company of the desert’s people, that their discomfort truly grows. The Hollow Men. Souls of the dead who are made empty by want and loss, and filled by all manners of evil and hate. Humans once, made less than beasts, by the basest desires. They seek to claim the relief once denied them, believing that all other’s contain it. Frenzied feasters, who would sooner ingest a stranger than greet them.Such souls come to the place, like moths drawn to a smoldering flame. It is not light they seek, no, it is the misery which pulls them in. The overwhelming sorrow which embodies the desert, body and soul. It calls them, as if returning home. All who become Hollow will find their way to these dismal lands.
Across the open sands, the wind’s howl began to stir. Like some terrible beast drawn from slumber, it started low in a muffled growl. As the gale whipped further through the emptiness, the roar only grew and grew. The deafening cry of the eternal desert. It is the sound that scholars and learned men do not know. Even with their many books and lessons, they do not understand it. The sound is something which must not only be known, but heard...felt. It does not discomfort the ears, it unsettles the soul. Rushing wind that tears one down from surface to core. The weak may never recover from it’s wound, and the strong never forget it. It is the wail of lifeless wind over a hopeless place. As empty as the souls who use it as a lullaby. The only companion who accompanied a traveller in the forsaken dunes. It is this somber clamour that would envelope the young Arrancar. This unassailable cohort that would ruin her rest and hurry her wake. No matter how far she travelled, it would follow. To the ends of Hueco Mundo, the cry would always be heard. It was there to remind her of the starkness of this realm...and that of her own soul. For she, like all Hollows, was a reflection of her home. Empty. Cold. Forever lost...with only enough light to see the dark.
How many days had it been now? Since she was last attacked? That was the only event which happened in this land. Their kind would wander without reason, until the day they find each other. Though they would meet someone new every time, their interaction always remained the same. A contest. Who lives? Who dies? Certainly not the picture of brotherly love. Ah, but that did not change the truth. That they were still brothers. Each of them, those wearing masks, they were as close to family as they would ever have. A cruel twist on their punishment, perhaps? By some scheming architect on high? That they would consume those closest to them, first. Not just once...but for the rest of their days. How could any punishment be worse than one that must be endured alone? Seems far worse than the terrors of hell. How long had she been enduring it now? How many of her own kind had she killed, then devoured? Even if the answer could somehow be determined...was it something anyone would really want to hear? Probably not. However, there was still something to hope for in all this torment. A small chance which that was gifted to those special few who ascended above the common herd. She could have a choice. This lonely soul, isolated in the bleak wastes of Hueco Mundo...could wish for something different. At the very least, she could wish for something. All that was needed, was the right motivation. Encouragement to strive for anything better than the pitiful status quo.
That is where it begins, then. With a chance encounter...and a chance encouragement. nestled away, deep in the abysmal dunes, a rather new face was peeking from behind their Mask. A new Arrancar, yet to make their mark on the world. How quickly would she be aware...that she was not alone? Were her senses sharp, did she even care? For outside her “tent”, the dwelling fashioned of spare flesh and bone, a stranger awaited. Standing high on a nearby bank, where the sand topples and spills into the trough below. There this young Arrancar would see, a figure staring back. His body reached well above the dune’s crest. Even at such a distance, it was clear he towered near seven feet and was almost half that wide. Were he a Hollow, he would be rather puny. Unfortunate then, that no mask covered his face. Instead, there was the quiet expression of a calm, old man. Even in the subtle gleam of the moon’s light, wrinkles could be spotted near his eyes. The features may show age, but they conveyed no weakness. Rather, he seemed stout and strong. Well kept for his years. Perhaps, though, none of this mattered? Perhaps none of these features would attract much thought? For most imposing of all, more so than age or brawn, was the deep blue of his eyes. Glowing softly, shimmering like pools of shifting water...they examined as if reading prey. Yet, despite the stare, there was no hint of danger in them. No sense of urgency or dread. Though that might offer little comfort, for the one whom the feel upon.
There should be few questions in Tsaj’s mind. It should be clear what he was. It should be clear why he was here. After all, every Hollow she met...Mask or no Mask...all wanted the same thing. Her. Whether she was food, or entertainment, it did not really matter. Such were the only ways she had been taught till now. The only ideas for her to naturally have. What she might not realize, is that she was understood. Whatever thoughts or feelings of doubt that might linger, completely appreciated. For the old man on the dune was like her. Had lived such a long life, just like hers. Maybe that would help build a bridge between them? Only time, and talk, could tell. Only time, and only talk…”Please, do not run…” The first words out of the stranger’s mouth, and he is pleading. ”I have walked too far, to be giving chase now…” There was an aire of exhaustion in his tone, but buried beneath so much. This man had a way with words, a voice and speech that could bring warmth to even this, icy place. Every syllable that he spoke, poured calmly and kind. Words from a father, meant to lay low the fear of a child. ”My name is Marcelius, and I am pleased to meet you.”...but does not assume, she is pleased to meet him. Such is not a safe bet. What is, is keeping his position on the top of the sandbank; waiting for her to reply. Either with word, or with steel.
What is it that drives souls to fear Hueco Mundo? What is it that makes the realm so dreadful and unkind? Some blame the sand which covers it’s infinite floor. An desert that trails towards the horizon without interruption or end. Many find the soil unsatisfying, yet it is soft and cool to the touch. Perhaps then it is the cold; which births the shivers in men’s spines? A fault of the moon. For the moon never drops from the sky, never shares it’s kingdom with the stars. It remains ever aloft, cooling the world with it’s eerie light. Giving illumination enough, for one to understand how wholly dark their surroundings have become. Perhaps the emptiness then? A void plagued by dim lights, haunting shadows, and chilly air. No no. The vacancy is a blessing most would not expect. After all, being alone in Hueco Mundo...is the safest one can be. It is one finds themselves in the company of the desert’s people, that their discomfort truly grows. The Hollow Men. Souls of the dead who are made empty by want and loss, and filled by all manners of evil and hate. Humans once, made less than beasts, by the basest desires. They seek to claim the relief once denied them, believing that all other’s contain it. Frenzied feasters, who would sooner ingest a stranger than greet them.Such souls come to the place, like moths drawn to a smoldering flame. It is not light they seek, no, it is the misery which pulls them in. The overwhelming sorrow which embodies the desert, body and soul. It calls them, as if returning home. All who become Hollow will find their way to these dismal lands.
Across the open sands, the wind’s howl began to stir. Like some terrible beast drawn from slumber, it started low in a muffled growl. As the gale whipped further through the emptiness, the roar only grew and grew. The deafening cry of the eternal desert. It is the sound that scholars and learned men do not know. Even with their many books and lessons, they do not understand it. The sound is something which must not only be known, but heard...felt. It does not discomfort the ears, it unsettles the soul. Rushing wind that tears one down from surface to core. The weak may never recover from it’s wound, and the strong never forget it. It is the wail of lifeless wind over a hopeless place. As empty as the souls who use it as a lullaby. The only companion who accompanied a traveller in the forsaken dunes. It is this somber clamour that would envelope the young Arrancar. This unassailable cohort that would ruin her rest and hurry her wake. No matter how far she travelled, it would follow. To the ends of Hueco Mundo, the cry would always be heard. It was there to remind her of the starkness of this realm...and that of her own soul. For she, like all Hollows, was a reflection of her home. Empty. Cold. Forever lost...with only enough light to see the dark.
How many days had it been now? Since she was last attacked? That was the only event which happened in this land. Their kind would wander without reason, until the day they find each other. Though they would meet someone new every time, their interaction always remained the same. A contest. Who lives? Who dies? Certainly not the picture of brotherly love. Ah, but that did not change the truth. That they were still brothers. Each of them, those wearing masks, they were as close to family as they would ever have. A cruel twist on their punishment, perhaps? By some scheming architect on high? That they would consume those closest to them, first. Not just once...but for the rest of their days. How could any punishment be worse than one that must be endured alone? Seems far worse than the terrors of hell. How long had she been enduring it now? How many of her own kind had she killed, then devoured? Even if the answer could somehow be determined...was it something anyone would really want to hear? Probably not. However, there was still something to hope for in all this torment. A small chance which that was gifted to those special few who ascended above the common herd. She could have a choice. This lonely soul, isolated in the bleak wastes of Hueco Mundo...could wish for something different. At the very least, she could wish for something. All that was needed, was the right motivation. Encouragement to strive for anything better than the pitiful status quo.
That is where it begins, then. With a chance encounter...and a chance encouragement. nestled away, deep in the abysmal dunes, a rather new face was peeking from behind their Mask. A new Arrancar, yet to make their mark on the world. How quickly would she be aware...that she was not alone? Were her senses sharp, did she even care? For outside her “tent”, the dwelling fashioned of spare flesh and bone, a stranger awaited. Standing high on a nearby bank, where the sand topples and spills into the trough below. There this young Arrancar would see, a figure staring back. His body reached well above the dune’s crest. Even at such a distance, it was clear he towered near seven feet and was almost half that wide. Were he a Hollow, he would be rather puny. Unfortunate then, that no mask covered his face. Instead, there was the quiet expression of a calm, old man. Even in the subtle gleam of the moon’s light, wrinkles could be spotted near his eyes. The features may show age, but they conveyed no weakness. Rather, he seemed stout and strong. Well kept for his years. Perhaps, though, none of this mattered? Perhaps none of these features would attract much thought? For most imposing of all, more so than age or brawn, was the deep blue of his eyes. Glowing softly, shimmering like pools of shifting water...they examined as if reading prey. Yet, despite the stare, there was no hint of danger in them. No sense of urgency or dread. Though that might offer little comfort, for the one whom the feel upon.
There should be few questions in Tsaj’s mind. It should be clear what he was. It should be clear why he was here. After all, every Hollow she met...Mask or no Mask...all wanted the same thing. Her. Whether she was food, or entertainment, it did not really matter. Such were the only ways she had been taught till now. The only ideas for her to naturally have. What she might not realize, is that she was understood. Whatever thoughts or feelings of doubt that might linger, completely appreciated. For the old man on the dune was like her. Had lived such a long life, just like hers. Maybe that would help build a bridge between them? Only time, and talk, could tell. Only time, and only talk…”Please, do not run…” The first words out of the stranger’s mouth, and he is pleading. ”I have walked too far, to be giving chase now…” There was an aire of exhaustion in his tone, but buried beneath so much. This man had a way with words, a voice and speech that could bring warmth to even this, icy place. Every syllable that he spoke, poured calmly and kind. Words from a father, meant to lay low the fear of a child. ”My name is Marcelius, and I am pleased to meet you.”...but does not assume, she is pleased to meet him. Such is not a safe bet. What is, is keeping his position on the top of the sandbank; waiting for her to reply. Either with word, or with steel.