In the Dark of The Nights (Joint Training, R, NDE)

[Marcelius]

(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.

[Tsajara Dread]

(OOC: Drama king : P )

The wickendess of hueco mundo was by far nothing that had on any occasion made it's nature or fervor something that Dread did not understand. For it was in the deepest hells that the innocent found themselves thrust into. The very bosom of this hellish desert, the forest of the menos so dark and filled with strife and danger that the devil themselves might consider it a far cry from hospitable. A bosom she had traveled to so frequently that she hardly felt the instinct nor other such compulsion to think of it more than fleetingly from time to time. Such was not in her nature to question exactly WHY it was the way it was, as it simply....was. A desert so devoid of blazing heat but instead a chill that would have rattled the bones of those inhabiting them were their bodies not so hardened by combat that the bite of cold did not touch them.

But then what did the cold have that hunger did not? It was something Dread had long ago cherished the cessation of for many a year in great detail, something so terrible and so gut-wrenching that when it had finally stopped her entire life had become almost orgasmic in comparison. It was the HUNGER. The fear was nothing one could not manage, for it was natural for a being to fear that which hunts you. It was also natural for one to feel the pain of loneliness for it is many a creature's fate to be alone and in so find peace rather than want of others.. But the hunger was the most dire of all vices that plagued the hollow race. An insatiable emptiness that came from the loss of one's heart, an emptiness so agonizing and terrifying that sane and loving humans, people with hopes of love, peaceful life, and solitude were turned into cannibalistic, murdering, grotesque and fiendish monsters so vile that shinigami were kind enough to cleanse them of this sin when they are killed.

But it was one thing to be forgiven, it was another thing to forgive one's self. Her own transformation had been very different indeed, her mother and all others she could have ever loved already dead, she had turned on her brethren at a very young stage in her life. The hunger alone was something she had never prepared for, never had reason to expect, and made so much worse. In some ways she thought herself lucky that she didn't have to kill and eat her family, but she felt somehow incomplete, an emptiness beyond normal emptiness that had drove her to eat numerous other hollows, breaking her down and making her fight, kill, and maim for her meals. Not once in her incredibly long life had she ever bothered with human life, a resource so unbelievably meatless it was as if she were smelling bones, the primary reason she had evolved so quickly back then.

The convergence had been the...worst. The sudden appearance of so many, even some that one might have considered an ally until then all driven into a massive feeding frenzy. The sudden weight of so many teeth and bodies that one suffocated and wheezed for air, as countless mouthes tore into you and you tore desperately into anything and everything you could sink your teeth into, and then the screaming began as the bodies simply compressed around you. That nightmarish screaming as they just cept eating, screaming for dear life through mouthfuls of flesh before their bodies crunched together like dough. That was the worst part, when the screaming wasn't just ringing in your ears, but in your mind, as you and hundreds of others were crushed into one being, and screaming just happened internally, and you found yourself opening your mouth and screaming too. Because you needed to, you had to, screaming meant you could be heard, meant you still existed amongst the others in that pool of minds. You screamed your heart out because if you weren't loud enough, if your voice didn't rise above the others, you lost it. you lost your voice,your say in what happened, you commanded the other voices because it was all you could do to not lose yourself in that mess.

So yes the desert was unforgiving, a place filled with strife and conflict, of backstabbing and cannibalism so rampant and fueled by agony and hunger so great that it tore at the insides until you would turn on your best friend out of fear that if you didn't the voices would come back and this time you wouldn't be loud enough to take control again. The fear of devolving into the sad tortured beings that were the gillian all over again. A process that Dread had gone through twice when as an arrancar she'd been swallowed by a gillian, and once more her mind had had to scream it's way to the top.

So when she saw the tall, imposing figure from the opening of her tent, tall and wide as a door, looking like some sort of terminator ready to try and execute whatever fell deed it had been so sent to accomplish, Dread did not try to run, she did not approach and draw her sword, all she did was sit on the ground and stare blandly at the man as he spoke out against the action she'd no intention of pursuing in the first place. She said nothing, and made no shift in facial expression as he proceeded to stop, introduce himself and indeed make a fine and pleasant entry into her little camp. One that was quite different indeed to the only other arrancar she'd met so long ago. And after several long moments of silence the woman rose to her feet, brushing herself off. Her cloak was draped over the front of her tent, so she was not as shrouded as she was so usually. Her top consisted of bandages wrapped around her chest in a traditional sarashi, though not so traditional considering she did it out of convenience and lack of a proper top. Her bottoms were a tattered rag skirt that had a shredded slit up the right side, exposing the pale almost completely white skin of the arrancar as she regarded her visitor with strikingly pale white eyes.

Folding her arms she seemed to contemplate before those eyes opened slowly, a decisiveness and purposefulness about her composure radiated that youthful look aside, the woman still radiated an ancient aura about her as though that face were just a porcelain mask hiding the aged woman that was hiding beneath. "You've no worry about me running away, if you're not strong enough to kill it, rarely are you fast enough to escape it. And I'm fairly certain you are not someone I would be terribly fond of running from." she murmured softly, her eyes slowly closing as she took in a deep breath, and her spiritual pressure vanished for a moment as she retreated into herself, her breathing falling silent though not so silent as to be completely inaudible given the proper sharpness of senses. Taking brief respite from her speech, she approached the male and looked up at his rather incredible height, all things considered in comparison he looked more like a tank than a human being. A very light smile playfully flitted across those soft pale lips as she tilted her head slightly at the man, as if finding something interesting about him until she simply allowed her spiritual pressure to hit it's full and complete weight. She was showing her fangs so to speak, both figuratively and literally, boldly baring her teeth, but keeping that hint of smile on her lips as she very calmly and collectedly let him know how strong she was, as she rested her palm on the pommel of her weapon. "So....your name is Marcelius.......and if you have no wish to hunt me down...what ARE you looking for?" she asked calmly, for indeed she was no stranger to the typical intentions of the desert. Food or entertainment indeed, as just as often as she was hunted for her meat as she was more....specific sections of her meat.

[Marcelius]

(OoC: Oy, told ya I was slow to post! D= )

”Would you even believe me...if I told you I just wish to speak?”, his voice flavored with the smallest hint of scoff. It was rude of him to do so, and certainly, his guilty face would soon betray that. Reflected within those moonlit eyes. The way she stared at him, cautious but unafraid...unlikely caring if his words were sweet or sour. Still, the old fellow cared. Having come so far now for conversation, the last thing he should do is be rude. "Ah, forgive me. Seems my mood has suffered too.” I did not exaggerate the weariness my journey has left me with. " His voice turned up at the end, as he moved his feet forward. The unintentional sound of his whole body conjuring up energy enough to finish his walk. Moving over the top of the hill, his heavy feet dusted the tip of the mound. Stepping onto the downward slope, his strong steps quickly saw the sand disrupted. Sinking deep in the fine grain, billowing out for several feat beyond. Like teardrops, falling on the soil...spreading it's stain towards the bottom. Sadly enough, there was much to cry about. For it was not his larger size or healthy weight that caused such dramatic shifts in the turf. It was the pressure being exerted on his stout figure which made every motion more labored and weighty. The spiritual gravity of such a soul, burdening the Fraccion's efforts. To the point, that he would not remain standing. So he sought the bottom of the dune, a place he might find a comfy seat for himself.

It would be his trip down the bank that she would get a better look at his own dress. A uniform, one Tsaj undoubtedly had seen before. The white and black outfit worn by most every Arrancar who pleaded fealty to that distant castle of sand. Las Noches. Such clothing meant that he was a servant to the Hollow King, a title many feel is self imposed. It was an easy indicator of his allegiance, as both ownership and use of such attire. A first impression that Marcelius could not help but make. There was more to him than just the cloth on his back; however. He himself was as easily examined as whatever he wore. No longer a silhouette drawn against the body of the low hanging moon, the colors of his body began to fill out. Starting with hair as bright as cornsilk, with the faintest touches of white around his ears. Just as the wrinkles had done around his eyes, there remained a constant hint of his age. Next came his skin, pale...much the same as her own. Typical for the majority of souls in this realm of eternal shade. All in all, he did not expect himself to be very impressive. especially when compared to the dazzling variety of souls from his home. But, there might be some things that set him truly apart. First being his cane. Yes, just a cane. Carried in his left hand, a slim object of polished steel.

There were no ornaments or designs on it. it bore no regalia of rank or importance. It was just a simple tool, there to help him stand. From the lack of sand at it’s base, it clearly offered him no help out here. And that was the only thing which he carried. There was no weapon strapped to him, nor carried in any fashion. Unarmed, as best the world could tell. Next, there was his mask. The Mark of Cain that all their kind wore, Arrancar and Hollow alike. For this one, it seemed rather odd. Rather than hover or hang from any aspect of his face, his mask instead melded right in. Above each eye, where the brow would be, there were two oval formations. Each stretching up onto his forehead, both appearing as exposed bone beneath the skin. They gave no indication of being wounds, but laid within the skin. These were indeed the fragments of his mask. The vestige of his former appearance. Even with these subtle differences, he still appeared very similar to everyone his new friend would ever have feared. Let’s hope that does not aid in ruining the mood. "Care if i join you?" By the time he finished his soft request, he had reached her cozy camp. Lowering himself carefully so that he could sit upon whatever rock best matched his height. Needing the comfort, to endure the pressures. Both social and spiritual, alike.

There were many uncertainties which plagued the senior looking Arrancar, of that we can be sure. Regardless if they caused him fright enough to “bare his fangs” seems trivial, given that they are still present. His own demeanor showed apprehension with the way he moved and examined the area. Sure, he took in the details as any newcomer might...but he did so with a tell. If she were the perceptive type, she would clue in easily on his expertise. This man examined things with far more clarity than the typical Mask. Just as her eyes told the story of great age, trapped in youth...his told a tale of great age haunted by it. How could she know? He did not once glance at any remnants of her meals. Completely avoiding the shelter she built from severed limbs and bone. Was he made uneasy by the sight of such carnage? Most likely. To know the truth would require her to see into his mind, though. Would it not? A rare talent indeed. But if she did harness such a gift, then she would quickly divulge the bulk of it. Marc...hated their mutual affliction. Loathed it, more than every other vice or agony he has ever had to bear. Ol’ Memory Lane is far less boulevard than mass grave. Filled with all those he devoured. Not by force, but by desire. Each a new hope of relief, tasting better than the ones before. All of them memorable, even to this day. Lifetimes spent in suffering, not just the one. Thousands. And then thousands more for each to keep company with.

Unfortunately, with age comes nostalgia...and it seems that everything can remind him of those darker times. Though it is not too terrible a leap, to see a home formed from the flesh of weaker souls. So, his eyes made sure to stay put. Half lidded, and shiftless. For his nameless new associate, the blue orbs seemed to go on forever. Fading gently into their dark black centers...like the distant emptiness of a void. Inside these pitfalls, untold thoughts abounded. Each of them about her...this much was for sure. The way he stared, it was clear he saw straight through her. That dreadful look that seems to know everything. The one that comes from those who have suffered in ways unknowable to any who have not. A shared bond stronger than blood or faith. The link of misery that most every Hollow can weepingly boast. She would know. Whether numb to every other aspect of him, this she would feel. Marcelius could see into her very “heart”, that pit which only their kind carries. Where she might possess intuition into the mind’s of others...he most certainly did. More so, than any soul that had come before...and perhaps, any that would come after. Having only just met, he should already begin to feel like a friend...for what that word could possibly be worth to their race.

”It was wisely spoken…” Interrupting any silence that might follow his request. ”What you said about running from those more powerful.” Having eased out his legs, letting them stretch; he placed both elbows onto them. Hands politely clasped, all threat of aggression gone. ”But for such rules, there are exceptions. I fret that I am one of them.” Cocking his head, forward and to the side; the old man moved one ear to better listen. Ironic timing...given that he had quite a bit he wished to say. ”I would imagine, you know where I come from.” the answer written clearly on both her face and the surface of her mind. ”I am of little importance in that place, so do not think this an official visit.” Pausing to consider why many others from Las Noches would wander so far into the desert, and approach a soul like hers. ”Though I AM here for my own interest...it is nothing villainous. As far as I know…”, then again, evil does not always know it is evil. ”I have only come, in search of family. brothers and sisters who wander the sands.” Pausing for a bit, if only to allow her to keep up...though unlikely would she need the time. ”There are many like me. Who seek as I do. Many of them who do so for the sake of collecting whoever they find.” Who...not what. ”Either for themselves or for a master above them. Myself...”, stopping now to choose only the best of words, ”I seek only to meet such souls as yourself. To learn their names, and of their lives.”

Straightening out his head and neck, ”To make sure that they are known, and that their name does not fade into the wind. A chore I do for myself, when my time is my own.” The point of the story. Marcelius enjoys meeting other Hollows. Claims to remember their names, so that they are not forgotten; should fate be less kind to them than he. Simple, noble..but believable? Suppose there is little reason for him to lie within his own mind, but what of hers? ”So I came to find you. Learn your name, and about your life thus far.” The smile one might expect, some sly grin hoping to charm, did not come. His look stayed rather straightforward, focused on his point…”So that if one of our siblings kills you; while you are alone; that something will remain.”...as well as a bit somber. But, those who know him might not be as offput by this. After all, Marc has been doing this job for a long time now. Even since he swallowed the last bite of his first victim, and found that he could never forget them. Now he prefers to learn them, without taking any bites. ”So, you have my name. Might I have yours?”

[Tsajara Dread]

Dread watched closely as the male moved himself and spoke just a wearily as he moved. It was beyond clear that he was not one so welcoming of such traveling, and no doubt was one who did so quite a lot. Those bright, moon-filled eyes watched as he moved to find himself a seat on the ground, her own mind brought back to her own days of....well....a technically younger version of her. But older in some ways. She remembered the first inkling signs of age, interesting the way fate so bent and moved things. Not to mention the fact that for all she knew she was probably older than the man. Such was the weird and wonderful world they lived in. At the very least she allowed him to take his time in settling himself down.

Looking him over she was......not too privy to his inner workings, rather she analyzed his actions. He made no effort to hide his....difficulty, and would look to any self-respecting hollow like a damn good meal with how he practically radiated a sense of fatigue and weariness. A dangerous look to have when out in the desert sands, and one that caused her to almost question some sort of hidden strength. He would not allow himself to so easily seem frail unless he felt no threat from her, unless he was incredibly stupid in addition to being weak. His aversion to look at her little tent also gave her some insight to his temperament, either he was queasy around gore, another weak thing for her kind, or he simply had some sort of other ulterior reason for not likely, though she couldn't even begin to wonder what.

With his wayward stare into nothingness, she herself folded her arms across hr chest, waiting patiently until he began to speak again, this time explaining his....purpose so to say, as well as his apparent position, or lack there of, in the place known as las noches. So he WAS from there....though he certainly seemed rather different from those she'd run into so far, interesting. She remained silent, allowing him to speak of his self-inflicted duty or...hobby perhaps and tilted her head. It certainly seemed like an odd reason to go about looking for hollows. Though when he mentioned her own possible demise she paused, freezing in place and staring ahead. She remained like this for only a few seconds before a smile cracked across her face, a soft snort escaping her before she finally burst out laughing. Not in spite or malicious cruel humor, but out of simple enjoyment, as if he'd told a very funny joke. After he asked for her name she sighed, calming herself and shaking her head.

"Me....eaten? Heh....well I suppose getting eaten AGAIN would certainly put a damper on things." she chortled softly, slowly shaking her head and sighing before she folded her arms and began to....collect herself. "Sorry to say but you were a little....late. Young as I look....I'm old...maybe older than you. Well I suppose This.......body is not that old. It is a bit complicated I suppose but..... to make a long story short: I looked different once..very different. And I was an arrancar as well. Two of your....associates, from las noches, found me a fresh self-made arrancar of vasto class. They thought it good sport to make sure I either joined or died....and wouldn't you know it....right in the middle of our fight, I slipped and a particularly...opportunistic, Gillian gave me a chomp, killed me and ate me. And well.....you know how gillian go. This one was not one of the lucky ones, and I guess that made me lucky, because next thing I know......I was screaming again...." she murmured, quite frankly she didn't know if he'd get the metaphor. Some hollows called the process of gaining control of the others in a gillian body "the screaming", though she had no idea if arrancar still called it that these days. "But anyway....I wound up in control of the girl that ate me up, and well...." she trailed off, gesturing toward herself. " Of course, the body didn't handle eating me so well, so I'm....not exactly in the prime of my condition. But...what are you gonna do? But...heh...listen to me ramble. To answer your question, my name is Tsej Tsaj Dread. And....well....I think I'd like to get to know you better....in the old ways. " she noted with a soft smile, grasping the hilt of her zanpaku'to and resting it on her shoulder. " Of course, I hardly expect a battle to the death....but you wouldn't begrudge your elder a blast from the past hmm? Back when warriors met with a clash of swords rather than a clash of tongues." she noted before frowning, somewhere in her head someone whispered Giggidy. She swore, these residual voices from that damned gillian were beginning to annoy her.

[Marcelius]

Were the once proud, fuzzy caterpillars he called eyebrows still present, they might have shot up and off his face. It felt like a great time had passed, before the woman finally spoke...and she did so with a snorting laugh. It was cute to hear, yes, but absurdly unexpected. Catching the grandpa off guard, and with a deficiency in reply. Instead he silently waited, eager to hear why his words were so humors. What about them made her lose her composure so quickly. To change her from the extremely defensive state, to leisurely bias. At first he thought it was him. Perhaps he seemed quite comical and strange with such a strange pastime. Seeking Hollows for no reason but to talk. Yes, he could see the humility in that. What was off, was how long she waited before showing her teeth. Not in aggression, but in laughter. were it his fancy for conversation which tickled her sides, she would have started crowing(hah, bird puns) sooner. So that could not be it. Quickly his face turned from surprised to puzzled. There it would not rest. For as quickly as she laughed, the his new friend offered up an explanation. One that managed to yet again, leave the old man startled. Reciting her words after her, only within his head. ”...eaten again.”, had he heard her correctly?

Quickly his head turned so that an ear might face her once more. Straining his focus more than he thought he could, he listened hard for some sort of clarity in her speech. Did she really confess to have being eaten before? Would she dare admit to such an embarrassing reality. More importantly, how did she manage to come back from something like that, with memories still intact? Fascinating...but how could it be? Having been around the block...sandblock...sandlot quite a few times, Marcelius was not new to the concept. enterprising Menos making meals of their more developed competitors. Even if a soul were to claw it’s way back into control, he could not imagine it retaining any of it’s old self. It was exactly as she said, about looking older once. Heh, for a moment he could even enjoy the thought. Reimagining his own youth, wondering if being eaten by another Hollow was worth the chance to look revitalized as she did. Mmm, perhaps not. Fantastic as youth might be, especially for those who long for it greatly, the risk was simply too much. The cost too high. For each time a soul climbs back to the top of the pile, something is changed. it is the inescapable fate of those who regress.

It is much the same as still being human. Being human, and being forced into a tight space with any number of counterparts. As time goes on, if the space cannot be escaped, everyone in it will change. some will adopt features and habits as others, some will develop new ones in spite of the others. This was what it meant to be a Gillian. A walking prison. As every Arrancar can attest, something happens during time spent in the initial stage of Menos. The least often considered stage of Hollow development. A strange condition in which even animals can have their intelligence removed. The part with all Hollows...where the finally lose everything that was ever an identity. Both in body and in mind. The price they pay for daring to turn on their family, and consume the flesh of their own kind. Mockery from a god, if ever there was one. Marc knew all about it, just like any in his position would. But...he knew even more. Things which others resisted to see, things they were unwilling to accept. He called his own experience, “The Orchestra”. Though the name was quite lovely and vague, he knew this woman would understand it perfectly. For he could hear her understanding. Without having to mention a word, he could already feel the similarities...shared memories. As her mind played over her past, her time spent evolving into ever more grandiose power, he was there for each of the memories.

Just the same as recounting a tale from a storybook, he could feel what she had felt. No sooner had her mind turned to the “screaming”...did a shiver trail up his spine. Oh how eerie it was, each time he heard the Chorus of another family member. Their own, personal Orchestra performance, conducted by a multitude of souls no different than those within him. Even though the songs being sung were not of him, it did not make it any easier to hear. ”You remember it too…”, his voice followed hers, softly. ”All those souls you shared yourself with. How hard they fought...just hoping to be heard above the rest.” What life had appeared in the elder’s eyes -flickers of light that stood apart from the moonlight- now fell away once more. The surprise which came with her laugh, having all but fled from him. Instead, the somber soul returned. It was as if his entire figure began to slump in grief, his breath becoming little more than exasperation. With only enough energy to continue speaking, ”You call it screaming...I always called it singing. One big, empty choir.” Dipping his head, dropping his eyes down and to the right. A contemplative gesture, as he pondered the similarities between them. A continued look of chagrin, as he considered the differences which remained.

In all the chaos of coincidence, he had nearly missed what she said about her fortune. The reclamation of control, and the reward of a fresh, young figure. Worse still, he almost missed her name...the thing he most craved a few moments before. It was only when the cling of metal on metal rang through the empty waste between them, that he realized she had issued some sort of challenge. Quickly darting his eyes to her slim shoulder, catching the glare that came from her pristine blade. The dark pits which made up the core of his eyes, quickly began to recede. Both of the blackened orbs narrowing onto her and this new show of vigor. It seemed that his response was not enough to stir any real emotion from her. What she had felt when recounting the times of her screaming, had come and it had gone. Unlike the codger, she did not allow herself to dwell on the events of the past. She did not seem to care for what had happened to her, not enough to slow down what was happening to her now. This quality of hers, this Aspect, was quite admirable. Far more convenient than his own. Much less of a burden than his Remorse. Sadly, the thing which unburdened her...was the same thing that restricted him. She wanted to cross blades with a fellow ancient?

Sad for her that she would have to run into him, of all the venerable sods who wander this eternal land. ”Ah, I never much cared for the Old Ways. Had our kind developed the gift of gab sooner, I could have been spared quite many a wound.” Pressing his palms to his knees, the slow fellow began to rise. This would be a great moment for her, honestly. A chance to score a hit while he was occupied. He was quite sluggish, and seemed to be acting it out pretty well. Her advances would clue him in on many a thing, however. Such as: was she the sort to strike without honor, how would she attack if she did, just what could she remember from her time of power...before being forced into this yet vetted shell? If his labored self managed to make it to his feet, he would greet her playful suggestion with a very slight smile. More smirk than anything, a misplaced look on his aged face. ”Guess I praised our mutual memories too soon...seems I recall the Old Ways differently. Old Hollows never let food get back to their feet.” There was a sickly sweet tone to his words, as though he stated a fact he felt a mix of pride and disgust for.

[Tsajara Dread]

Dread found herself raising a brow at the man's...reaction to her situation. And as she presumed, it was indeed something rare, possibly even unique. suffice to say she was hardly surprised in the matter, for going through the process twice with success was no doubt something unheard of. Though she didn't particularly FEEL Lucky about the whole endeavor, though se supposed it did have some benefits. And for a brief moment, she could almost swear she felt a tiny glimmer of something pass over his face, almost like a hope for perhaps a youthful form of his own. though before her eyes she watched that fade into nothing as well.

Even after she issued her....challenge, he seemed alarmingly calm. Interestingly so..... He didn't take to the challenge very quickly, either y his age or perhaps his mind was simply one of equal decrepitude. Though at his mention that she seemed more....civil, for waiting for him to get to his feet she couldn't help but smile softly, and ohhhh jow dearly she wished she was able to ressurect. If only she were just a little bit stronger. Alas she wasn't and she took a deep breath as she curled her fingers. She smiled softly, making her way foreward, stepping confidently to stand at his side, facing the other direction so both their left shoulders almost connected. She took a deep breath, leaning her head back before giving a light shrug of her shoulders.

"I don't know.....maybe I'm just losing my touch....." she murmured softly before she promptly ooked her arm out to the side, aiming to slip her arm between his arm and his torso from behind where the elbow was, that hand then rushing upward in an attempt to slide up and around the back of the man's neck into a half nelson of sorts, while at the very same time her left foot swept forward and aimed to abruptly remove his leg from underneath him, the simultaneous motions working together in an attempt to slam the man bodily into the ground face-first. Though.....there was a very stark possibility that while slow, she'd have nowhere near the strength to accomplish this feet, and might even find herself latched onto for a move of his own. Though she had a plan for such a thing as well.

In the event of her own failed move she had her zanpaku'to in her other hand, really her only other means of combat as she had no reiryoku or release abilities to speak of, at the very least she would attempt to get a cut in just below the man's armpit, where a thick set of muscles connected the top of the shoulder to the shoulder blade, and dictated one's ability to move the shoulder area. Hopefully something that would help her, assuming her blade had the capability to cut through the man's skin. But that was up to fate now, and she didn't mind the consequence, seeing as this man may very well be the closest to her true age, she was interested in seeing just how rusty she was, and how much of her former power she'd lost.

[Marcelius]

Shaking his head, lifting his right hand to wave away her comment. ”Oh no, no. I did not mean to offend. Truly, I much prefer your recollection of the Old ways far better.” After all, it was what allowed him to return to his feet! To feel as though some small portion of respect or honor had been exhibited. such merits were far and few between in the populace of Arrancar he had come to known. Though he has come around to accepting that his family is that way out of need, it brings an air of relief to see that some still have such fairness in them. And indeed, did Tsaj have such fairness. She motioned to her weapon before issuing the challenge. She graciously allowed him to start at an equal standing. She was even taking her time to approach him for whatever vicious thing she had planned next. Her soft steps upon the sand, hardly flaking a speck. She was quite adept at walking on this type of earthen host. She was not lying when she claimed herself to be far older than her new figure would attest.

The way her weight glided across the sand, not harring her way in the slightest. He could not help but comment, ’My...had I not been convinced, I would be sorely corrected now.” Though his eyes had fallen onto her delicate feet, carefully watching the way she carried herself, Tsaj might not understand exactly what he meant. What was it that he noticed? Why had he felt the need to say such a thing? Seems such questions did not stop her. Oh no, the caution which she held before was now a distant memory. Lost to the thrill of meeting a kindly old fool like he. Did she think his own defenses were gone as well? Perhaps. Though, being the every paranoid type, he did not consider such. How confusing that thought processes must be? His mind toiling over whether she still feels threatened; does she want him to think she feels threatened or emboldened; does she think believe her cool attitude would disarm him...does she know that it has not? All of these contemplations, swirling around in his head.

Could anyone ever imagine him being truly relaxed with such a mind as this? Truth of the matter was, he was more relaxed now than ever. A cruel twist of fate for him and his puzzling brain. See, she claimed that she had overcome the Screaming. To her, it was a memory twice over. No longer burdened with the conflict of self, and maintaining control and identity. For Marcelius...ah, such joys were unknown to him. For he still heard them. All of them. The ones she claimed to scream. Just as they are inside her, muffled by her newfound dominance, they are within him...voices unshackled. It is his curse. The one which comes from his Aspect of death, Remorse. Most every moment, of every day, he is to be the effigy of terrible guilt. He does this through affliction. An affliction of his mind that keeps him well aware of all the souls residing within him. All the people and Hollows he has consumed in his long life. Their wailing having become a long and haunting song, which he listens to day and night. In fact. So dreadful is the oppressive aria, that there is but one way to escape it. That is through other people. Anyone will do. So long as they have a bright mind and a will to use it. People like Tsaj, who would pique the interest of even the common, dreamless men. To Marc, she was a delightful reprieve.

That gift of his, the one which opens up the hearts and minds of others...it thrives most when excitement grows. The energy of suspense and the comfort of planning, these are things which attract his own thoughts. Like looking at a puzzle or some masterful work of paint on canvas, he studies the detailed art that their souls provide. And much the same as truly great art, he delves to seek the emotion hidden within. Right now, she teased him with anticipation. A frequent notion, that bears less luster than most of it’s siblings. The subtle tone poured from her like an early note, the ascending steps towards the first movement. Funny how music works so well to describe all manners of life and activity. With every footstep she set the stage for her intentions. Building up the rhythm with the sound of mind. It was only as she invaded his space that the surprise of her introduction took him completely. What exactly was this ploy of hers? What was it she wished to accomplish with her odd positioning? His head cocked softly to the side, glancing down to her as she came to rest.

Just as his dark eyes found those glistening ones staring back, he opened his mouth to speak. ”Truly, I would have prefered your imagined Old Wa…” Words cut short, stolen straight from his tongue. What was to be a snide remark to her peculiarity became a stunned whince at her assault. Like lightning her arm squirmed it’s way up around his side. So closely, he could feel the heat of her fresh blood as her skin pushed up under his bicep. As the hand was fidgeting behind his head, there was little reason to try and look for it. The instinct being to face the danger, and try to follow it as best one could. Unfortunately, such instinct was never ingrained into Marcelius. Where others would look, trying to see the attack, he seemed uninterested. Why was this? Why would he not try to follow her moves with his eyes? He was so interested in looking at her before, had he not? There was no way she was suddenly displeasing to the eyes. Certainly not when she meant him harm. So there had to be an answer.

Perhaps she would clue in on it herself soon enough. If not soon, then sometime. The old man had a way of telling his hand. A terrible flaw, one might say. Either way. She would see her hand run straight into the thick of his hair. Blond strands entwined in her fingers. Fresh sweat from his exhausting walk now coating her palm. Next came her big maneuver, her flourish. While she hoped to plummet his face deep into the sand; such was a very unlikely consequence. A lot of things played to her disadvantage. Namely his size. With weight alone, he’d be a difficult body to topple. Added to that trouble, was his seeming compliance with her little cuddle. After all, the best part of a toss...is the target’s struggle to avoid it. They end up adding their own strength to the tosser’s. Dead weight was just that. So when her left foot came sweeping in, it would find his calf to be rather obstinate...even in the giving terrain of sand. Ah, just like her, his footing was not at a loss on grains. The one good benefit of growing old in Hueco Mundo. She would find that his bulk was less for show than one might expect. He was truly a stout fella. Too bad she was not stupid. Hell, she could have just been overconfident. Sadly, she was neither. So when the first plan revealed what she wanted to know -that he was indeed quite strong in body- she fell to her more calculated strike. All the while...his blue eyes gazing deep into her own.

What would compel a man to bring a cane into the desert? Without a sturdy surface to press it’s thin tip against, there is no way to pivot or balance weight upon it. Each time the root is put to the sand, it would sink and disappear. Buried, having to be reclaimed every single time. It would be nothing more than annoyance. So at some point, she must have asked herself, “Tsaj...the fuck’s the cane for?” Not a silly question. Just a very obvious answer. In fact, one could say the answer was resounding. Yes, that’s a great way to put it. Resounding. Loud and echoing in it’s absolute clarity. Like metal clanging against metal. Or in this case, metal on steely flesh. More than a metaphor, the ringing would let out. Loud enough for them both to hear. It's source, her forearm. Well, the soft underside of it that is rare to see direct light. It was where the "hook" of his cane had struck her arm, and pressed it outward. Away from her chest. Seeing as she choose the unarmed side, his free arm had to reach across his own body to close the gap with her rising arm. Time enough to collide with her forearm, press back towards her, and force the limb away from it's stabbing trajectory.

The only reason he managed to circumvent this jab, was the grapple that preceded it. While her body was busy enacting it's first attack, his mind was at work on the next possible threat. Literally, a turn ahead of her in the game. It was a rare gift, one not found outside of him. Not yet, at least. The ability to see one move before the next. Not that he needed the full force of it. She was very kind to him, limiting her attacks to a very small number. Were she not just pricing his defenses, and actually chaining blows, he'd be much harder pressed to keep up! Had he not his advanced intuition, the stab could have been suspected. There would certainly be little reason to leave the perfectly good sword disincluded in the assault. However, paranoia would not treat him with victory. Already she exposed a preference for feints...surely more surprises were coming. Marc had to hope that he could produce enough of his own, to make it interesting. Starting with a corkscrew!

Surely that mental image is fairly comprehensive? A twisting fragment of metal that rotates deeply into whatever medium it is to be set? Yes, quite easy to grasp. That is what he was doing with the cane. The stick had reached between their bodies, much like her arm...cutting off the flight path of her swordarm. Having pushed against the strike with a poolcue jab, the length of metal did not simply stop. It kept pushing so that the blade moved further from him...but as it did, the whole thing turned. She would easily notice the L-shaped handle as it rotated against her arm. It was not painful, but it was smooth, and practiced. Quickly the extended grip had rolled off the edge of her limb, and gently jutted past her arm. Freeing it, as a first glance would lead one to believe. But the handle kept spinning after it was loosed, and soon it would reveal it's master's ploy. The hook of the upper end, would now reach beyond her arm. As soon as this happened, the still twisting cane would latch onto her wrist, just like a...spoilers...a hook.

Caught like this, he could both pull and guide her arm where he wanted to. He could even drag it down and strike the back of her sword's guard, a disarming maneuver. As quick witted as she was, he had no doubts her mind would illuminate with the danger...and a response would follow. Rather than wait to watch that dangerous show unfold...a surprise! "Hyup...", came the gruff of his voice, following a shift in weight. Just as she had weaseled(Otter pun) her arm behind his arm, she had allowed his own long limb the same closeness. Now he made use of that. His massive hand snagging the back of her Hollow-hide skirt, and hoisting high. Honestly...it was a wedgie. There is just no way to call it different. It was not flattering or respectful, but damn it all, it was what he could do. Were her focus to linger on the cane, much like he could have the Nelson, then she would lose her footing. Plucked off the ground, to dangle in his grasp. All her sword strikes lessened by the lack of pivot or posture. However, letting herself self be scooped meant her gravity afflicted arms would droop in an awkward fashion. A terrible thing for his disarming maneuver. Decisions, decisions. Whatever she tried to stop, Marcelius was sure of only one thing. She was going to impress him with another surprise.

[Tsajara Dread]

The reactive abilities of the old arrancar were rather impressive, those eyes of hers carefully watching him, and slowing her body down as he moved. Her aim relaxing as his own hands vied for control of her body, and indeed he would find a semblance of control as the cane of his began moving her as if it were a set of strings, moving her doll-like body. Her eyes closed, as if in relish as he moved her, allowing him to control her in the fight for a brief moment as that cane manipulated her arm. The moment it left the limb for that briefest of moments she snapped her eyes open, and shifted her arm only ever so slightly, so that rather than snagging her wrist, it slapped into the palm of her hand, her fingers instantly clasping the cane. The attempt on her blade brought a slow, pleased smile across her lips.

For that fraction of a moment, she had her eyes on his once again, and for a brief moment he, who could so easily sense and empath the thoughts and emotions of others, would feel two almost VIOLENT flashes of emotion from the arrancaress. The first would be an almost tangible flash of teeth, a snarl, or a roar, as though her soul was reaching into his, grabbing his metaphorical throat and roaring into his face, a declaration of her own confidence and challenge to the male, knowing damn well that he was not the type to return the gesture, as if shoving his own more....peaceful heart, and as if to grab that meek heart and to shove it to the ground to remind it who was the dominant figure in this dance of wits and emotions.

And in that very same instant that her soul gave a roar, it also gave a soft croon, like a dove whispering content into his ear, as she herself slid into his arms as his cane slapped down for her blade, the hand already clamped around the cane pushed down, aiding in that downward thrust as her other arm moved the sword into place and then suddenly drew back sharply. but it did not pull the sword with it, instead it released the blade, her arm rising as that can e slammed into the blade, causing the blade to spin as it was hit just off the center of balance, making it pop up skyward like a flipped coin, where her hand, having risen, waited with open palm to snag the blade as it practically jumped up, catching it with the blade pointing down, like a dagger. The move was incredibly complex for a young fighter such as herself, and in that brief instant she could have stabbed down, her arm already in position to do so, but instead she stabbed down and past his shoulder, using the dull end of the blade to hook over his shoulder as his own hand went for her skirt.

The thing about rags is they are a bit...ragged. When he tugged at that tattered old thing, there was a loud shredding noise as he pulled the skirt right off of her, leaving her quite effectively bottomless. or at least it would seem as such as the remainder of her garb was just as pale as her skin, and to the no doubt very brief glance the man's modesty would probably permit it would look as though her lower end was now very suddenly naked, unless he took the time to actually stare at her lower half. Though she hardly seemed alarmed in the least, and rathe she abruptly pushed her body against his, using the blade hooked over his shoulder to leap up against that broad chest and quite compliant with the soft croon her mental attributions had projected to him before, bit his ear in a rather sultry manner for a brief moment as her form conformed along his own.

That free hand releasing his cane to hook around the man's neck as she turned he head toward his ear and promptly moaned into it slowly, that smooth, silky exhale was daringly intimate, her own hot, humid breath rolling like a slow stream along the inner workings of his ear canal, followed by a sharp intake of breath, tugging in cold, frigid air from the eternal night of the desert to chill that warmed flesh of his before another exhale brought it back to another warm bath of air straight from her lungs as she quite clearly made it clear, or at least projected to him a very clear intent of...perhaps not..LESS violent but violence with a much more pleasant intent.

And he would FEEL it too, as for a brief moment, she very much wanted him, and using his own empathy against him, he would almost feel as if that lust were his own as she slowly tightened her body's hold on him, the pressure of her form against his made all the more obvious, before just as quickly as that emotion would have blossomed like a lewd flower in Marcelius's mind it vanished and her arms tightened around his neck and that blade of hers suddenly found itself pressing it's tip at the center of his back, against the spine, as if poised to jam in and cut off his brain's connection with the lower half of his body, and a soft, playful whisper would once more enter his ear. "Mercy?" she would venture oh-so-coyly, as if to ask him to concede, and in the very same breath, begging him not to, as if she had a wealth of equally dastardly and dirty moves to try on him. This bitch sure as hell had no issues fighting dirty.

[Marcelius]

(OoC: The theme for this post, is more or less, "To hell with it". I still think I could have typed better! >.> )

Surprise. As if on cue. The biggest shame of knowing what comes next, is realizing that things change faster than they are understood. Seeing ahead would lead one to confidence and wisdom, and yet it takes a toll of expectations. Ol' Marcelius knew she would be quick. Both of body and mind. Seeing it in action just reaffirmed what he had believed. It was like watching himself in a dream, when viewing their exchange. Seeing everything that was wrong with the picture, but doing nothing about it. Starting with that sword he so hoped to relieve her of. A paltry objective, even from the start, and yet it should have succeeded. His cane had been where it needed to be, and his technique was superb. Were she a more stubborn soul, the blade would now be half buried in the sand. She would have fought to keep it, rather than let him simply take it. His excessive force providing her the ample chance, to do what he tried to deny her grapple. Use his strength against him. How pleasant it was to both hear and see her whirling blade, soaring into the air. Well, it would have been. Trouble was, the Fraccion still did not follow it with his eyes. His attention could not be further from the steel. There was still too much to look at with where it's owner was concerned. Not just look, but experience.

Ah. Yes. This one was brilliant. Piecing together the clues. Figuring him for a the impressionable soul that he was. A feat many accomplished, but not all so quickly. The open honesty of this man, the worst of windows for his enemies to abuse. And Tsaj was determined to abuse him. Starting with her little snarl, one which grinned deep within his soul. All the years of trial and terror that she had to endure; how strong she had to become; he felt it all. She was not to be crossed, nor trifled with. She was a threat, regardless what misfortunes had recently befallen her. Not only was she fierce, she was sure of it. Had her desires been made manifest, she would have made him sure of it...wait. There HAD been intimidation. There WAS ferocity and bloodlust. Now there was...far less blood. It seems the thrill of showing up a fellow hunter was enough to tantalize her mind. Not with fear or anticipation, no...those moods were gone. This was attraction. Sudden, and irrational. Well, by Marcelius’ figuring. He knew his age. He saw those wrinkles in his skin and his hair’s white trim around the ears.

Attraction was the last thing he expected from any other soul. Yet again, expectations built on instincts...completely disheveled. If he lived long enough to do so, he would have to straighten out such a confusing sentimentality. For now; though, the was the matter of the flipped coin. The weapon he hoped to deprive her of. While the blade flew, the codger was stringing up his catch. The disarm and the wedgie happening rather congruently. The expectation was that she would leave the ground, feet dangling in the same manner as her arms. Waist raised higher than the rest, into a most unsuitable position. Displeasing as it was, this did not come to pass. Rather than an Arrancar, he drew back a fist full of rags. Hides well worn and frayed by their time in the elements. As easily sundered as wet paper. The fragments of those garbs would be sailing away with the next breeze, his clutch already releasing them. And so, no prize was bagged. A sword disarmed for sure, but quickly reacquired by the talented girl. In time for her to leap from her couched stance, straight into his...The great damn fuck was this?

Suddenly, his bubble was filled by the lanky form of his prey. So close, that even his tired ears could hear her breath. Arms thrown up over his high shoulders, her figure having to extend to the tips of her toes to do so. No, more than that. His thoughts recalled how low on his shoulder she had been before. Then it occurred to him, his senses catching up only there after with his thoughts. He could feel her locked legs, the ones that laced about his torso, strong and firm. Keeping her elevated to the height she needed. That retrieved blade now hanging downward along his back, daring to sever that icy spine of his. It was not her chest which he felt, but all of her. Clung to him so as to unsettle his nerves and hamper his furthered offense. What flashed through his mind first, was the most speedy response. The one which interrupted her suggestive approach with an attack of his own. A thick-skulled smash, where his head would crash directly against that button nose. cracking and shattering the soft structure beneath the steeled skin. Had he done this, there would have been too much strength behind the bash for her to keep conscious. He was simply that strong. The force would rocket through her skin, being the densest medium above her neck. Reverberating off the flesh, the impact would crawl deeper until it reached her skull.

Traveling fast from the cranium to the neck, where flexible muscles and segmented vertebrae would give way. By the time her nose flattened, forcing blood from her nasal cavity down her throat, her head would already be falling backwards and away from him. Were consciousness to remain this long, it would then fade. For the slouching neck and falling head would not be enough to stop the strength of his headbutt. Motion would still need to be expended or escape. One such place would be within that cranial dome of hers. Where her squishy brian would fling and bounce off all it’s four walls. There was not much guarantee such a blow would not cause the shifting organ to bruise and hemorrhage. The danger of it actually killing her following the knockout was rather great. Marc knew all of this, because it was his preferred way of killing. A severe jarring of the head, which reduces mental faculties and leads to certain death. It was far more reliable method for dealing with Hollows, due to...well, more on that later. With her head thrown back, his Hollow nature would continue to thrive.

Telling him to bite and gnash, the way he had so many times before. The same way she had dared to threaten him with. It would be one fluid motion. The clobbering hit would knock back her head and expose her neck. Just as a Hollow, he would grip into exposed flesh with his teeth. A hearty fling would follow. A concussion would mean limp limbs and her body dropping. Not willing to hold onto that, he would fling her instead. Stepping back with his right foot, and hurling with the full strength of his upper body. She would go high, but not far. A steep parabola that would have her plummeting down to the ground. The gracious and being more than willing to soften her landing. It would get her away from him, just as he wanted. No longer having to bother with the wet feeling she left in his ear, or the constant heavy breathing. As was said, this plan formed the moment she decided to leap. Wanting nothing to do with that sort of closeness. But the planned scenario was only ever a plan. The imagined stunt did not come to pass. There was no butting of heads, no busted noses. And certainly no bite marks on her neck, or any time spent airborne. For she said something that took his mind away from aggression. Plunging it straight into sadness.

"Mercy?", the word rolling from his lips, as though it was sweet just to say. Such a word existed, and was quite the delight to hear...but that did not give it any real meaning. Sure, to other races it had a definition and use. But not with Hollows. To their kind, mercy came only in the form of ignorance. As the only Hollow that will spare another, is one who does not know there was one to spare. Beasts without compassion or connection to actual life. Voids which can never be filled, and thus, always have room for fresh kills. Such a species was not capable of such a concept. He knew it. He knew it by the pain it caused him each and every night before bed. In the wee hours, when his head wanders through countless memories of ruthlessness and carnage. It even taunts him in the day, when he sits and ponders all those undiscovered souls out in the sands. Souls like Tasaj. Were mercy something that they could offer one another, there would be no such thing as Menos. Their might not even be a thing such as Hollows. So, the word teased him, more than her warm breath ever could. "Oh, how I have longed for such treasures as mercy. But come now. Do you think I believe such a thing exists within any of us? We..." His eyes still turned to hers. "We simply do not think that way. We spare only what we do not wish to lose. Be it useful or pretty, we keep it for a reason. Not out of fairness. And certainly, not from the goodness of our hearts..."

Stepping back, rolling his shoulders forward, the old man glided onto her blade. The cold steel shivered with resistance, but eventually, slid through to the other side. Bursting from his closed uniform, tearing the fabric into rips and shreds. Through the ruptured seams, the tip erupted into the light. Only as the motion completed, and the winds picked up, did the tattered white cloth move to the side. Revealing the elder's barreled chest, vacant where his heart ought to be. Through the gaping hole, the blade he had allowed to pass. Cutting at an angle, it grated on the ends of the vacancy. Both at the top edge in the back, and the lower edge in the front. Straightening out his posture once more, caused the blade to level out to a perfectly horizontal hold. The tip now aiming straight at her chest...where her own emptiness might have been. Looking up from the poetic display, the senior's solemn face lay wiped of all amusement. The smirk that accompanied his words before, gone now...as realization over their honesty took hold. How monstrous his kind could be. Looking back down to the gaping emptiness within his sternum, ironically feeling a tremendous weight on his chest.

[Tsajara Dread]

Dread wasn't sure what she expected, but when he replied with a soft laugh she couldn't help but tilt her head, a single brow raising curiously as he pushed himself against that blade until it slipped and fell right through him, that blade soon sliding until it came to point directly at her, she'd found his hollow hole! She was about to give a noise of alarm until the blade met the fabric of her bandages and soon pierced her as well, right through the hole. And for a very brief moment she froze, able to feel the blade that had passed through them both, causing a light chuckle on her part as she slowly nodded and began to retract her blade, carefully, as even with the blade going through them both harmlessly, she didn't want to nick either of them o the way out.

Once that blade was retracted she dismounted from the male, landing softly in the sand before a soft sigh escaped her lips and she smirked up at the male, her blade withdrawing to the comfort of her sheath as she inhaled deeply, rolling her shoulders before turning her attention back to the male, tilting her head to the side inquisitively before speaking. " If such is your opinion I will be glad to respect it, but I've no wish or intention to share it. We arrancar are evolved beyond Hollows, and even if some of us should steep ourselves back into the acts that held us down for so long, there is no need for them to drag our entire race into the muck." she stated softly, and with that she turned and began to head off, not toward her camp, but to one of the pits, the entrances to the Menos forest.

"I don't much expect you to believe me, but I did enjoy this meeting of ours. And I look foreward to seeing you again, if circumstance permits." she noted softly, pausing to smile over her shoulder and give an eloquent bow before turning and taking her leave of the man. She had certainly learned a lot about arrancar, namely that she was certainly not the only sensible one. But for now, she had a decision to make, and proof now that Las Noches was perhaps not one of the worst options for her when it came to the possibility of a new home for herself. But for now, she needed to hunt, and to relax after the brief bout between her and the Fraccion.

[✠Asmoskon Masurao✠]

60 Paragraphs = 300 TP