Naesala Villjuana [Complete]

[green]

-Opening-

Password 1: Kuzoi's Shoes

Password 2: Midgets Can't Dunk

Type: Freak Lvl.1

Affiliation:  To Be Decided IC

Rank: Unranked

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-Basic Information-

Name: Neasala Villajuana

Age of Death/Rebirth: 17 and 300

Real Age/Age of Appearance: 560 and 27

Birthday (Month/Day): 9/14

Blood Type: O

RP Sample (Optional):

SPOILER: Click to show

{Spoiler}
Phasing in and out of existence, was a man dressed in a primarily white outfit. As the falling snow seemingly tried to mask his presence, he was ungrateful and paid no mind to it. His footsteps gave birth to light crunches in the probably . . . 4-5 inch deep blanket of innocent white and his breathes gave life to ghastly appearing clouds as the short lived masses died out in the frigid air. One thing this man, better put teen, did thank the snow for was the lack of the need of a water bottle or another form of hydration. Every angel kiss of a flake that touched his skin was graciously soaked into his body and would be anxiously used in the future.

The future however was now. As the frame draped in a white yukata with an aquatic pattern lacing the ends of its length stopped in the snow, it seemed as if the very fabric of time followed suit. There was only one thing that remain consistent and that was the down fall of ivory snow. Sharp razor like fangs flashed as a single hand moved into the summer kimono and withdrew an oni mask,specifically his Anbu Mask. This covering was not a simple attempt to hide his identity however, it was a completely new one. With this demon's frozen expression covering his face, he would allow his inner evil and talent for murder bless the world once more. His knees bent, as his frame nearly grazed the snow like an arctic feline stalking prey. No noise was made, as the masked man froze again halting time, until the unmistakable sound of ninja tabi against wood echoed in the desolate world of white. "The targets . . ." Another sound trickled into the still atmosphere, this being produced from masked man as his lips parted and spread to the ends of his face in a devilish smile.

Two blades resided on the mans persona. One housed bits of frost on its metal sheathe as the other endured the cold with the reliability of a Senju. The footsteps against the dark wood trees drew closer and another cloud was emitted from the masked mans being. The cloud split into two entities however, parting on each side of the oni's face similar to how the antique dragons billowed smoke. His heart thumped with anxiety for a fresh kill and he nearly shouted like a schoolgirl when the traveling ninja came into sight. Visions of actions labeled as taboo clouded his mind, before he came back into reality from the sound of a familiar voice. A small squeak was made, as he failed at holding back his excitement, but the squeak wasn't loud enough for the ninja's to hear. Usually he wouldn't be this uneasy about a kill, but lately with the Festival of Peace cursing the land of ninjas again, purging enemy shinobi from existence hadn't been as normal as it usually was.

Still in his crouched stance the demon was unseen as his white clothing allowed him to blend in with his home. The targets however were poorly camouflaged as their stone grey cloaks did little for them. Anxious, the demon was as his targets came closer and closer. His white hair swayed as a light gust came by, but his frame remained frozen. Only the demented smile of the demon was visible and underneath the demented smile, was only another. His hands longed for a blades handle, but he pondered on which to choose as he waited in antagonizing anticipation for the two ninja's to enter his area of malice. There was the greatsword Holmgang. A blade that had been bathe and showered in the blood of many. Then the underestimated and simple chokuto Sakana. It had been in the demon's possession for more than a decade and helped crafted this teen into the ninja he is today. Lastly there was Kiga. Then newest edition to the sadistic family a wakizashi, that had given life to a side of the teen he hadn't knew he possessed. The length of the blade made his encounters very personal and much more intimate than usual. Something that would shake the psyche of most, but that wasn't what this male was. He was far from the category of most, he was regarded as the reincarnate of Momochi Zabuza and his forefathers Suigetsu and Mangetsu Hozuki.

A slow and analytical nod led the prodigies hand to the blade of choice. The feeling of frost on the handle, gave the teen goosebumps as did the feeling of the gut wrenching moment drawing near. His grip tightened and his crouch lowered a bit more readying his joints for the assault. His right hand reaching back on the handle of Kiga, that rested on the back of his hip, the cold titanium of the blade tasted flakes of snow. The left hand of the being in the oni mask was steady at the center of his torso until the stone colored cloth was in range. The Half-Tiger handsign left the space that was occupied by the assassin empty, as he moved at an upward angle to share an ebony tree branch with two unsuspecting ninja's.

The once desolate snowy woods, for a time as long as a raspy cry, were given life as one was ironically taken. Crimson liquid slid onto Kiga's cold metal until it was violently ripped away from the preys throat with the pull of a back handed grip. Droplets of warm red blood melted the snow beneath like strawberry flavoring for snow cones. The assassin licked his lips beneath his oni mask at the thought. He would be sure to treat himself to a snow cone or two at the Festival of Peace after this encounter was finished. With the first targeted life force was on his way to the pearly gates, the second responded by jumping down into the snow. His partner soon joined him as his soon to be corpse fell forward off the tree branch into the snow. His body was engulfed in the inches of snow that littered the ground as his blood was soaked into the litter.

The wielder of Kiga turned to examine his next victim as he noted the first was slowly being covered by the snow fall. "Wh-Why are you doing this?! This is a time of peace! The Festival of Peace is going on as I speak does this mean nothing to you?! The shinobi's voice sounded troubled and genuinely curious, the assassin having no intentions of letting him live, he was obliged to answer his last questions. "If I don't kill, I won't be at peace. Think of your teammates death and yours as a blessing to the shinobi world, for you have satisfied my hunger for couple hours." "Trash like you doesn't deserve to exist in this world. Peace has finally been created and scum like you only seek to ruin the hard work others have put in. The only blessing I'll be doing is taking you off the face of this world."

If only the oni mask could display the true feelings of the assassin. The words the enemy shinobi had said truly invigorated him. The determination and the talk of peace really got the demon in the mood for dismembering after a leisure death. Or maybe dismembering would be the cause of death. It would all be discovered soon, for the murderer was ready for seconds. The enigmatic frame leaped off the branch with angst and swung his blade at the mans chest. Kiga was now being wielded traditionally in a front hand grip, but failed to indulge in flesh as the shinobi back stepped. Only prolonging the inevitable, the shinobi paced through handsigns and touched the earth with both hands when his feet landed in the snow. Being proactive and assuming the ninja was from Iwagakure from the color of his cloak, the Yukigakure ninja had already disappeared from existence leaving only his two weapons behind.

The jutsu employed was then halted, but the stop was sloppy as the earth rumbled a bit signifying the mans poor chakra control. Where did the assassin go? He had faded into the realm of ivory, but he only roamed in the grounds of the white, not the skies or the originators snow. Unnoticeable in the current way things were working, a puddle of water shifted through the snow and positioned itself behind its foe. The ninja was heavily confused and obviously didn't know what to do. He was probably of Chunin level, considering he let his eyes off of a person trying to kill him, in the heat of battle. The small moment of time, the ninja took to look down before placing his hands on the earth, was exploited by the Anbu Member and had sealed the deal of the already one sided battle.

Only silence was heard as a frame with a demons mask solidified from water behind the prey. But instead of returning alone, the demon brought an instrument of murder with him. The new addition to the assassins being was a monstrous blade proportionate to its holders size. The weapon was wrapped eloquently in bandages on the killers back, until his grip on the handle commanded them to loosen and fall. As they made a soft noise from touching the snow, the Iwagakure ninja began to turn his head, but it was too late. The ninja hadn't even turned around the whole way before the man sized metal beast was gruesomely brought down onto his frame. Only an exhale of cold oxygen reinforced the swing from the blade master, as another kill was squeezed onto the board, that was more than full.

Painting the snow would be an understatement as the scenery was literally redecorated with ruby liquid. No scream was heard, maybe because no one else was around to hear it or because the assassins ears were closed to the cries of his foes. Both being true, neither were the case for no cry was made. The slaughter was done clean in terms of stealth, but not in the terms of leaving no traces. Eventually however, the snow would cover all traces of the murder and even the bodies like it had countless times before.

With the same hand that placed it upon his face, the mask of the demon was removed, but a mirrored expression was plastered onto the face that was underneath. Re-bandaging up his mighty sword and reequipping the others, the assassin decided to switch roles. He had finished that of the predator and he was ready to be the consumer. His daggers for teeth soon was painted with red as he devoured the bodies of his fallen foes. Leaving barely any for the earth to decompose, the cannibal washed his face with the moisture of fallen snow.

Meatless skeletons were left at what the teen would call a diner. All the belongings were destroyed and hidden unless they were of value. If the meal were to be presented on a map, the tracker would only find themselves in the middle of nowhere in the Land of Snow. Far off from any village of civilization, the location was rarely even a path of travel. Only one witness lived and that was always the case in these scenarios with this one. The witness being him and always being him. It wasn't about keeping a secret, it was about the simple art of murdering. Nothing else. Of course if his acts of cannibalism were publicized it could and most likely would turn heads, but the action that would follow probably would bother the black soul. It would only make his will to live burn brighter and make his freedom to express and dine more frequent or at least more known. He had never held himself back in fear of being found out and never would he.

Three blade visible on his person and his mask back inside his yukata, the teen simply smiled as he started his journey to the Festival of Peace with a full stomach and the taste for strawberry snow cones.

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-Appearance-

Height/Weight: 6`2/175lb

Physical Description:

SPOILER: Click to show

{Spoiler}

Naesala stands at a fair height of 6`2 and harbors a solid frame with 175 pounds at his disposal. It's easily evident that his body type is highly athletic and toned. Each of his muscles chiseled and sliced into his skin with the utmost precision and very high quality tools. Along his chest where his Hollow Hole is, he shamelessly presents his battle scars for all to see, as most of his clothing for his torso consist of either plain drape and loose cloth, a deep V'd Kimono or Gi, or an open Haori. That's implying he decides to wear something on his upper body. Across his hardened chest are an accumulation of scars which Naesala proudly wears like a king flies his flag. In case his memory ever failed him, sometimes by just touching the marking on his body the story of its origin can be replayed in his mind. The most distinct scar is the one of his chest that spans from the corner of his left pectoral, almost his shoulder, down to the first the right side of his ribs. 

Then another distinguishable characteristic he has on his chest is an ebony tattoo. With a simple gaze one can see it has a tribal air about it making one think Naesala is involved in maybe some behind the scene kind of organization of crew. These claims however are false as not even the bearer of the marking knows its origin. Is he curious to find out? No he's not eagerly searching for the answer, but if he did come across it he'd be glad to find out, but it doesn't stay on his brain. Stretching for the slight curve in his hip near the pelvis, almost up to his collar bone, the marking also reaches around Naesala's torso a bit past his rib cage. For as long as he could remember the tattoo has been on his person, but he wouldn't count out the idea that he got it in a fit of drunken stupor and forgot.

His face is what most would consider handsome, though he himself wishes it was a bit more . . . gruff. Regardless, his face can be called smooth in a sense, while it also holds an aura of sharpness or maybe roguish. Like the purest of blood, his eyes are crimson gemstones in his head and they seem to have a feline like mold to them. Then off to the side of his right optic is the fragment of his hollow mask, which is in the shape of a wolves jaw and it proceeds all the way to the ear, but it is to scale with is body of course and angles out a little past his own ear. Next there is above his blood shaded eyes where his sharp eye brows reside. Like the rest of his hair these streaks are Raven in color and are very sleek in appearance. Last to note about the mans face is the scar along the bridge of his nose, which he also displays proudly as a testament to his willpower and courage, though some may substitute the words for idiocy.

Next is his head of hair or in Naesala's world, his luscious mane. It falls in a style that appears unkempt, but still has a level of order if one were to examine closely. For day to day his locks fall in the same spots, two even masses of raven hair lay on each side of his chest, then an even length of dark shaded hair a little higher than his mid back, then finally they meet up from their point of origin on Naesala's scalp. Then from the scalp another tuft of hair branches off, but these strands act on their own will and aren't nearly as numerous as the tufts that rest on his chest or back. Just a nice stream of hair that slightly curves from the center of his hairline to curve following the frame of his nose near his red eyes. This strand stops at the upper portion of his right cheek.

Now we move onto his limbs. Each of his arms are thick, durable, and toned, like the trunks of oak trees. Following the trend his chest and abs set, each muscle is easily distinguishable and making them seem alluring to the eyes of those who gaze upon them. His hands are scaled to his body size, but most consider them large. Through constant physical exertion and the wears of his life, the calluses on his hands are like paragraphs imbedded into his skin that tell stories about his trials.  His legs, well lower body at that, is a personification of his time spent journeying the Spiritual World. Though they usually stay hidden behind a pair of dark chocolate shaded jeans, upon physical contact one can feel how solid and compact his  legs actually are. Finishing his roguish look in just the way one would imagine him to dress, though outlandish to Hueco Mundo, Las Noches, and just and outlandish way to dress as an Arrancar in general a pair of black combat boots cover his feet.

Finally is the air Naesala hold about him or his aura. All of the other features he has are important, but this should be and is what's most important to him. As distinctive as he is as a character, the feeling one gets from him is actually quite calm, just as he appears on the surface. But it takes time and deep treading to find what lies beneath the surface. The surface that is calmed and soothing almost, the kind of surface to lure those in to him to make them want to dig deeper. Though not something Naesala really wants, but it's just the kinda of spiritual exterior he upholds. Upon diving into his soul one will writhe in discomfort as a second of empathy would be enough to cause those to reconsider about sleuthing further into the odd pain loving bastard's being. Upon digging deeper than the second layer one will only find a spirit tempered by harsh trials and pains, a shield of willpower, that has a blade dipped in venom hidden behind it.


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-Personality-

Dislikes:

• Positions of Power: Not that Naesala despises those in power, but he dislikes being put in authoritative positions. Deep down he's a people pleaser and he knows everyone will never be satisfied, so he believes if he was put into power he'd either kill himself or go insane. Both are highly probable.

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• Those Without Purpose: Not much of a dislike, for Naesala despises those without purpose. The one who only live to exist, rather than live to make an impact on the world, may it be negative or positive.
  
  

• Being Unnoticed: This one is not an attention seeker or one who must bathe in glory and alert others of his accomplishments, but he likes his presence to be taken note of. Not in the sense of he is seen, but in the aspect that he is known and that his name carries weight to it.

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• Consistence: He's not one for daily routines or any kind of routines. Though practice makes perfect, it also trains ones mind with set variables unless they are accustomed to change and being versatile. So though Naesala may be found in one area more than once, it's highly unlikely that he is thinking or doing the same thing.

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• Sorrow: In the realm he lives in grief, suffering, and sorrow curse the lands and though he's become used to it, he dislikes it. Not that he feels sorry for the ones that are suffering, for that is their fault they can't overcome their trials like he has, but he dislikes being brought down or having his mood fractured due to their issues.
  
  

[/ul]Likes:

• Being the Right Hand: Naesala, as stated before, isn't the type to be a ruler, he'd much rather be the hand of the ruler or be the sidekick. He's not to be categorized as a lapdog and still thinks for himself, but he'd much rather just be assigned task to do rather than have to organize them himself. He's a simpler mind and shows no shame in accepting it.

• Adventure: He's a outdoors kind of guy and would much rather be lost in the middle of no where than stuck in a constant cycle of things. He likes the discovering new things, new sites, meeting new people, but
  more than that all, he likes the journey and the path he had to take to get there.

• Groups: Though he isolates himself, Naesala likes to be in social atmospheres surrounded by others. The feeling of comradery is one of the few things Naesala holds dear to him. He typically ends up investing too much into these things though and often finds himself being used by others as he shoulders most of the work. The work being physical work and things that involve more action, he isn't one for negotiations and talking or paper work and things of that nature.
  

• Difficulty: Naesala doesn't enjoy easy task and likes being challenged with hard and strenuous work. He was never a fan of a simple life and if he ever found himself with one, he would surely cause some turmoil to make things harder for himself. This comes from him enjoying having something to overcome and being successful.
  
  
• Pain: No pain no gain right? Well Naesala takes it to the level of masochism as he loves and relishes in pain. He isn't one to inflict it upon himself though, but I wouldn't say he never would. What he enjoys about taking a blow the most is the sting from gashes and the scent of his own blood, as it makes what's left in his system churn in heated excitement. His favorite strikes are slashes though, pain from blunt weapons have the tendency to be a little . . . blunt.
  

• Power: Whether they admit it or not, everyone has a love for power. Some may fear their strength, but deep down in the core of their being, their instincts, they relish in power and Naesala wears this trait on his sleeve. Not so much as rubbing it in peoples face, but it is evident that he is a power hungry individual, but his hunger seems to be endless as he's never satisfied with the ending results of his training.
  
  
• Women: Naesala is a man and though he's a little odd, he's no exception to being attracted to women. Short girls, tall girls, dark girls, light girls, young girls, aged girls, Naesala has a knack for find beauty in all women. But just because he find beauty in one doesn't necessarily mean he sees them in the light of being a possible mate. There are some aspects in female behavior he doesn't like, things like the cat and mouse game, the subtle hint game, or the guy always takes lead game, he doesn't let that ruin his time for he has traits and males in general have traits women don't like as well.

• Companions: As much as he likes women, he knows there are times they must be tossed into the basket of companions, where both males and females reside. No matter how attractive a girl is physically, mentally, and or emotionally, the hole to this bin is always open to her, a place with the fellas. This isn't necessarily a bad ting though and it only means they get less intimate interactions and things like that. It doesn't make them any less if what they were, but it's just a label for Naesala's brain's sake.
  

• Survival: There's just something about being out in the wild where one is always at deaths door that Naesala likes. With his contentment with struggling, he likes to have to fight for his right to survive rather than just live day to day without any thrill. He likes to hunt and likes to prove that he is the Apex Predator.
  

[/span][/div][/ul]Flaws:
      

• Masochism: Obviously with one enjoying the pain he is dealt, he can tend to get carried away a bit to the point of dying prematurely due to possibly even self inflicted wounds when caught in the moment.

• Merciful: As crazy as he may seem he's actually quite the peaceful being, akin to what people would call a sleeping giant. But even when he has his opponents down for the count and at his mercy, he isn't a fan of dealing ending blows unless truly needed or called for. Tied into his love of difficulty, he likes to see his opponents come back stronger, maybe even stronger than him.

• Break Downs: Due to his Typing "Freak" Naesala has intense breakdowns when under pressure. These manifest themselves in the form of a sort of battle trance, but more so it is a subconscious defense mechanism. Losing his psychological bearings, friend and foe become one in the same and mercy no longer roams the realms of his pink matter.

• Paranoia: This is the trait that lies beneath the troubled soul of Naesala. He doesn't wear it on his sleeve or anywhere near it, as this is the part of him that he stows away from those he even considers his friends. It isn't on a chronic level, but the constant fear of other beings is something that often probes his mind and keeps him up restless.
  

Habits: 

      

• Yeah?: That is probably the most common word one will hear Naesala say and always in the form of a question and at the end of his phrases. It will reveal its self in other words also, but "Yeah" is the most common yeah?

• Following: He seems like the type to march to the beat of his own drum, but Naesala much prefers to follow others around and likes being useful. Maybe it stems from his longing to be wanted or desired, but if you happen to get into good graces with him, you better bet Naesala with stick with you like a loyal canine. But oddly enough, tough one would be able to trust him with their own life, the feeling wouldn't be mutual, meaning Naesala would never put his full trust or even a small percentage of it into the one he is loyal to. He likes to watch backs, but trust no one but himself to watch his own.
  

• Biting his Lower Lip: When either eager to get something started, nervous, or just standing idle, Naesala tends to get antsy and the biting of his lower lip and removing the dead skin is something he will often do.
  
  
• Winking: The proper name for this, but that usually isn't Naesala's intention. Just an odd tendency he has to blink one eye at a time. Not one immediately after the other, maybe the left eye one minute, a normal blink then the right eye in two minutes.   
  

• Questioning: One with an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, but an even more unquenchable sense of mistrust. Often he will ask many questions to people and this may drive them crazy, but this is simply because when it involves him directly he takes additional precaution and that's even if he allows people to deal with him directly. His curiosity stems from paranoia and heavy trust issues.      

• Getting Lost: A habit, but not necessarily an accident, Naesala purposely ventures deep into unfamiliar territory and lands in hopes of getting lost. This is used as a mental escape, something to keep Naesala out of his own head and make him have to focus on more important things like living and finding his way back to a safe area, note the word home was not used.

• Overall Quirkiness: All in all, he's just a bundle of odd tendency, from awkwardly leaning forward, to openly sniffing someones, licking, maybe even shameless biting if you can catch him in the mood. The invisible social blockades that people have and that are just passively respected are nonexistent in Naesala's mind and unless you specifically tell him that something is odd or makes them uncomfortable he won't realize until you say it or give it off with body language.

Fears:

• Death From a Quincy: As all know Quincy's are the eradicators of souls. There is no existence beyond death from their attacks and the thought scares Naesala. He has no issue with dying from others and then living on as a new soul, though all his memories will be lost, but the thought to cease existing frighten hims to the point of hate. The fear has fed the desire within him to want to bestow the same fate upon the bow wielders. Fully aware he can return the favor and purge them as well, he'd gratefully purge everyone of them that he can.

• Being Forgotten: As mentioned before, Naesala doesn't like his presence to go unnoticed, but this goes beyond that to the point of being scared of being forgotten. Not so much the fact he was forgotten is what scares him, but the fact that means he did nothing memorable or noteworthy while he was around. When it's his time to settle down, he wants to still have relevance and doesn't want to become and ancient relic of the past. Though they aren't forgotten, he wants his actions to effect the world far beyond his years of living.

• Those That Aren't Him: He has an overall fear of others in general, though not as in he lives like a hermit, but he has a strong fear of the unknown and especially the unknown that resides in the brains of others. Someone can lie to you your whole life and as long as they choose to uphold that lie, unless an external source tells you, you may never find out. In this world, one can only trust themselves. Naesala has those he can call his friend, but he doesn't have those he can trust or entrust with task that have a bit of relevance. This makes him a complex creature to try to cross or back stab, for even when presented with the truth, he'll dig deeper and always suspect their is an ulterior motive beyond the ulterior motive.
  

Goals:

• Make His Existence Known: Naesala doesn't want to live and just get by or live and not get picked up by the radar, he wants beings and souls to be aware of his presence and on a larger scale he wants beings to be aware of his existence. May it be for a good reason or bad, Naesala isn't the type to just do pranks for bits of attention, he is the type to make big moves and some times make moves bigger than he can handle. He isn't in the least bit cocky, but while chasing his dream to become a respected, feared, known entity, he can come off that way as when the opportunity presents itself he will jump the gun to make an impact. And again, he doesn't want to make constant small impacts, he's smart enough to wait it out and make an explosive debut. Oddly enough he likes to lead people to think he is weaker than he is, but it's only in future sight to use the underestimation to his advantage and blow others away.
  

   

    This makes him quite vulnerable to pressure from others though. To become important or known, you either have to be immensely powerful, something Naesala is working on or either prove to be reliable. Ironically, him being the cookie cutter loyal grunt is what got him killed back when he was a human, but he wasn't only a grunt. He had ambition and passion in him to be the best grunt he could as funny as it sounds. He didn't want leadership, he wanted to be the one people wished was the leader, he wanted to be and still wants wanted or desired, he wants to be relevant.

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Aspect of Death: Insignificance

Overall Personality: Simply put, Naesala is two things. A loyal canine companion akin to wolf and a being composed of may visages. Both aspects or archetypes of the wolf, he is the lone hunter and also the type to roam within a pack, it all depends on his mood. We'll start with the outer layer then dig inwards from there.

On the outside the male is nothing far from odd, oafish, and reckless. His unique habits make people question not if he has screws loose, but how many are barely hanging in there. In the face of danger he isn't a coward and would more than likely never be the first one off the battlefield. Even when greatly outnumbered or outclassed, not his pride, but his masochistic ways keep him rooted in his place and only allow him to move towards the threat. Naesala doesn't live for danger or the thrills it brings, he lives for the golden moments that accompany it. The moment when one overcomes the other, especially when the victor is the underdog, that's what Naesala stresses for and that's what he constantly endangers himself for. He views himself as the underestimated, though that can be correct, seeing as he purposely allows and leads people own to think he's weaker than he is.

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Still on the exterior, Naesala at times proves to be one who runs from his own thoughts. Day and night, the cinematic scenarios play out in his mind of people he has associated with backstabbing him, due to him being a greater power. So deep in his psyche he hides it well, but he has a slight cocky attitude, where he sees himself as something always on the minds of people, but once again he hides this trait and keeps it within his pink matter. This same pink matter is what he tries to dwell away from by distracting himself with strange journeys, doing new things, and always questioning words and principles even if they seem 100% solid. He has to keep his brain moving and doesn't like to let it settle down to where he can enter he states of paranoia. This constant distraction leads Naesala to be quite the insomniac, only resting when his body forcibly shuts down on him which can put him in a slumber for days.

One his nights spent out and about when others are normally resting, Naesala can be found just about anywhere exploring in an effort to get lost, in his thoughts and in his actual location. Another defense mechanism and a defense mechanism that, unlike most, is conscious. He knows what he is purposely doing to himself and he approves of it, because he knows his mind wouldn't only put him in hell, but it would trap him in there. Just like his thoughts constantly stream on more questions and only throw him into deeper curiosity, when he enters his states of paranoia or his breakdowns, his mind only works to make him fall deeper and deeper.

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Rolling the stone further on the same plane, still not past the first layer, we tap onto the subject of isolation and attachment. This doesn't bother him the slightest bit obviously seeing as he chooses to isolate himself from most. Typically only those that seek him and ones he finds interesting are the ones he approaches, whether they accept him or not is in their hands obviously. Reasons beyond his uncommon habits that one would shy away from Naesala is his tendency clingy. Just like a newborn pup fresh from the womb, every new person he meets that he labels interesting he becomes attached to. The person can be utterly disgusted with him and still be a stranger to him, but Naesala's longing to be wanted keeps him around. Thinking about it, it's pitiful, but seeing it in action is either amusing or puts the 'noose' in a nuisance.

Though we have yet to dive deeper into his persona as a whole, this particular aspect has a layer to it. It works in the cycle of Isolation to Attached, back to Isolation, in his animalistic world, this is how he gets others to long for him. After proving himself useful  to the point of annoying them with how handy he tries to be, he turns the cold shoulder and goes back to his own life. There is no warm or cool, there is only hot and cold. In Naesala's mind this makes the person want him and his assistance and handiness back and just like Man's Best Friend, Naesala stays loyal and will be summoned when his master calls. They may see him as the one who is being played in the scenario, but Naesala doesn't mind if they think that, simply because he's the one that has played them.

As this cycle continues, different curve balls may be thrown by Naesala at his target of servitude, to see how much they really trust him. This is his way of gauging how much progress he has made and to see how close he is to achieving the role of their Right Hand.

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Digging deeper into the soul of the Arrancar, we move onto his first partially masked characteristic, masochism. It goes beyond the pleasing pain from a stab wound or burn from an open flame, it bleeds into his life as a whole. His love for physical pain is no secret and he shamelessly expresses it, but Naesala's love to struggle is what's hidden from the public. He would never want an easy life and after overcoming one obstacle, if is course is clear, he'll create more. Now he's careful not to drag others down with him into this one of a kind love, for he's very aware this is something out of the ordinary and something only a select few would enjoy.

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His next mask is the mask of compassion. Being an Arrancar, he may not be the only one who hides this character trait, but it only branches out to those he considers associates or friends. The others, he shows no pity or sympathy for, in fact he looks down on them for not taking advantage of their misfortune to make them stronger like he does and has. But back on topic, like a wolf in a pack, he'll lick the wounds of his injured kin, he'll stand by their side when times get hard, he'll sacrifice himself for the one he serves, now licking wounds isn't literal, but the point is he cares deeply for those he allows inside his shell. Now to reiterate again, that this doesn't mean his trust is placed into these beings, but that their trust can be placed in him.

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Sliding in deeper to his soul we find concealed jealousy or envy. He envies those who are strong, those who are cared for, those who trust others, and those whom he serves. The reason, Naesala bears jealousy towards those who are strong is obvious and this is a common emotion or sin in people's souls. Everyone looks through different optics however, so let Naesala's window be shared. In Naesala's eyes, the strong are the ones who have already had their tales inscribed into the universe. They are the ones who will be remembered beyond their years of living. They are the ones who are noteworthy, more importantly, more noteworthy than him.

When green towards those who are cared for, those who trust others, and those who he serves, it comes from a place inside of him that wishes he could receive the same treatment. In the Realm of Hollows, not many act as Naesala does in terms of loyalty alone and though he covets his feelings of compassion, he is aware that the same trait is nonexistent in many others.

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Finally is the mask of insanity. This actually shouldn't be consider a mask as much as it is a personality within itself. All of his facades and character traits, these make up this persona, bundled into one, they are expressed in a truly selfish display and uses hatred that Hollows are built from for fuel. As stated this state of mind is selfish in many aspects. All compassion is directed towards himself and the only loyalty he has in loyalty to himself in a narcissistic fashion. When in Naesala is in his own mind and in control of himself, he claims he is the Apex Predator and when he enters this state, this is when he works and exerts himself at maximum efficiency to truly live up to the claim. This is his Hollow instincts taking hold of his body and manipulating it as it wishes, this is the true Naesala.

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Now that his layer have been broken down, we actually touch on how he interacts with people. That is important right?.
To start off Naesala rarely approaches people unless they are really interesting, not only to the eye, but just the air they have about them. When he finds one of these people, he takes one of two classic approaches. He either approaches right away or either for an extensive amount of time he will analyze them. This can be for minutes, hours, days, weeks, the current record so far is three months. During this period of analyzation, Naesala metaphorically breaks their body down to the genus. This is the case for those that aren't overwhelmingly interesting, for over this period of time he looks for more interesting perks the person has to offer him for entertainment, someone to serve, and a distraction for his brain.

After possibly a substantial analysis, if the person is deemed unoriginal or not that interesting, they are simply discarded from the depths of Naesala's mind. At least they were a fun subject to stalk for the duration of the studying, so either way Naesala's time wasn't wasted. If the person is deemed a target Naesala wishes to pursue, either immediately or after observation, he approaches like any other would. He tries not to expose himself too much and holds his social persona back a bit a sticks with casual chitter chatter, things to acquaint one with another, ya know? Slowly like with anyone his shell open and he begins to reveal his social traits which happen to be very skittish. Grand exaggerations, false cowardice to make those around him feel superior in a sense, he enjoys taking the title of the "Runt" in groups and acting as a pupil to his allies. Laced with a venomous tongue of sarcasm as well, Naesala is one who truly enjoys the art of comedy and its archetype characters. Even to the point of letting jokes fly at his own expense, he doesn't mind as any joke is fair game in his mind, leading him to be considerably blunt at times.

On a more mature note, more than socializing with targets of interest, he likes to socialize with women. These beings hardly ever fail the test of being interesting or a dud. He may not be pursuing conversation with the opposite sex in hopes of a romantic relationship or anything along the lines of being sensual, but he just likes the feeling of speaking with a female. Highly foreign and undecipherable creatures, when he makes a friend that is of this sex his onslaught of questions become more paced, but more curious and sometimes very . . . personal. Naesala is the type of guy to wear majority of his feelings on his sleeve, if you feel something, then you shouldn't be ashamed of it, it's who you are, so he asks very private questions at times forgetting not everyone doesn't have much to hide.

Next is the element or the people that can change an oaf to a professional in a matter of seconds, his superiors. His mind works like that of a wolf and his superiors are the Alpha Males, no matter the sex. He respects power and he respectfully abides by the choices his superiors make, given they have a bit of reason behind them and given they harm no one he cares for. Some say Naesala's a lapdog for it and get disgusted and some call him a loyal soldier, whatever they wish to call him, it would take someone with a strong grip on his heart or psyche to break him out of following the Wolf Pack Hierarchy.

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Naesala's battle identity. This being is strangely just like his social face. He jokes, he flirts, he makes sarcastic remarks, taunts, and even respects his opponents and gives credit where its due. He's not a sore loser nor does he get sore at any point in battles. If his foe made a good maneuver or trap, he will commend them on it even if it blew his own arm off. Now this doesn't mean he will be chatty during a whole fight nor does it mean he lack seriousness and focus. He knows the appropriate times for these traits and is aware when to implement them, for instance if the battlefield is dead silent, he won't be shouting out how great his opponents are or make a dumb remark about how dark it is. In some parallel universe and oaf and idiot aren't the same thing and this happens to be that universe.

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Delving into his love for sleuthing into foreign areas, Naesala doesn't get to go often, but he loves and I mean absolutely adores taking trips to the real world, ironically when he was a Plus after his death as a human he hated the world. His Gigai form is what he looks like now, but without the hollow hole, mask fragments, and a bit more upper body clothing. From simple walks in the park and down the block, to fairs and eating ice cream, Naesala wishes he could remember what his time as a human was like, so he could know if he enjoyed the world as much as he does now. What he loves more than going to the Realm of the Living, is going with company, because every thing's funner with friends!
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-Powers-

Fighting Style: Short range, short range, short range. At his roots, Naesala is a melee fighter and has no shame in announcing it. His style or properly named house of fighting, like many Arrancar is unnamed. He's self taught, but likes to pick apart the styles he sees others execute and apply them to his own style. Though since his weapon isn't a traditional katana like most, it makes this process a bit more troublesome and makes him still have to apply his own creative flare to his battling.

Armed with a Naginata, though his classification would be short ranged, when engaging with another physical combat enthusiast, he would fall into the category of mid ranged. Favoring the use the momentum of his weapon's rotation to strengthen his strikes, he uses this same tactic to fabricate defenses in some instances. These occurrences are fairly rare however, as Naesala battles like a true berserker. Blood spraying from his frame doesn't slow or make him rethink his assault, it only encourages him to reciprocate the wound onto his opponent. That being said it isn't unusual for Naesala to tank a blow from an opponent to also land a strike in the exchange.

Next is his odd use of his whole body in his style of fighting at times. Kicks, grabs, punches, headbutts, shit even his teeth are shamelessly utilized in his arsenal of fighting. His hand to hand skills may not be superior or even considered good, but the unorthodox style tends to be fairly helpful regardless of his dexterity when it comes to unarmed combat or when wielding his weapon with one arm.

Finally is his ability to fight from a range. It's not a situation he likes, since he enjoys more personal skirmishes instead, but from a range he relies on his Reiatsu to fend for himself, but he also utilizes the length of chain on his weapon to fight. Large swinging motions and precise tosses, though the leave him open to a degree, Naesala isn't afraid to sustain damage.

Zanpakutou Appearances:

SPOILER: Click to show

{Spoiler}

The name of Naesala's Zanpakuto is Cazadores or Hunter. In appearance it is a fairly nice looking Naginata with a deep royal purple shaft, that reaches out to 5`10 or 70 inches. As opposed to the picture, the blade is actually black in color, then the edge is a gleaming white showing the blade can cut with the slightest graze. Down from the blade is the silver hand guard, that is nothing special, just crafted in a circular shape designed to catch sliding blades and things of that manner. At the end on the deep purple shaft is a black chain that typically stays wrapped around the weapons shafted or coiled around Naesala's hand. That is until the length of durable chain is needed to reach its 2m span. Not a drastic length, but the distance is nice to have regardless and it also gives access to a whole new arsenal of attacks.

When Naesala activates his Ressureccion, he goes under a variety of changes, starting with his face, the hollow mask fragment, grows to occupy Naesala's mouth to past his ears. Skeletal with razor ivory fangs, this is his new jaw and when he speaks the jaw opens verifying this claim. Then moving down to his shoulders where two patches of thick black bristle fur resides and on top of them are the skulls of more bestial looking wolves. Only the top of the skull harboring the upper jaw is displayed here though. Continuing down his arms one will notice not much has changed, but only that the tribal markings have seemed to spread to coil around his right arm giving it an odd and unique appearance. His chest is the same save for the tattoo on his body trailing up his right side to feed down his arm, but it has also spread to manifest itself on his back and upon inspection one can see these markings now resemble wolves. The typically ebony sash around his waste has now turned into a wolf pelt or sash made of wolf fur. Still bearing the tail that rest where a tail normally would on a canine making it seem like Naesala has grown a tail, then the head of it rest on his right hip, but the skull is a considerable size and reaches to even his upper thigh too. His lower bodies clothing has turned into a pair of deep blue baggy like pants that are stopped by a pair of grey wraps around the lower shin. Then black flat shoes with white fur around the rim endow his feet. Like So

Physical manifestations Naesala has gained from this transformation includes a sets of claws on each of his hands, that have the power to tear through flesh and in some cases even bone. These claws have a hollowfied ivory plate on the back hand side, but on the palm and remainder of the hand it is black up to the claws. Next there is an accumulation of fur or Naesala's pelt that he manifest while in this form. From a spot a little lower than the center of his chest or his Solar Plexus, the steel feeling fur juts off into a "V" shape up the chest, over both sides of his shoulder. Despite its roughness and ability to shred skin upon contact like a sort of enhanced steel wool, it seems to consistently flow or stream like a body of water. It's ebony in color and meshes in with the patch of fur on his shoulder where the wolf skulls end, for the base rest on the collar bone area of Naesala while the fangs and mouth shield his shoulder with sharp fang protrusions. Like So, but not as much volume

Next up to the plate is Naesala's weapon, Cazadores. From a Naginata to a brutish pair of dual axes to match the savagery he attempts while in this form. Visual here The blades are dark purple in tint, practically orchid from the darkness the purple levels dip into. The edge on the blade harbors another color taste, still fairly dark, it is an odd mesh of green and a dark grey and this is on the edge of both heads of the weapon, though one head being the back side is shorter than the front. Still staying true to the master designs, the chains that were on the weapon remained and have ten meters worth of length on both axes. Moving on, we discuss dimensions. The shaft of each axe reaches out to be about three feet and six inches, while the blade reaches out one foot in the front, then six inches in the back. The chain of the weapon can commonly be found coiled around either Naesala's arm or the weapons on length, sometimes both.
Zanapkutou Release Names(Include both stage names, and call out phrases) "Let my brethren who roam the seas of my soul take shape again, so we may hunt together, Los Cazadores del Cazador!(Hunters of the Hunter) 

Overall Ability: Naesala uses the many aspects, identities, and characteristics of the wolf to redefine the being he is. While instilling fear into the hearts of his foes; he enhances and increases the morale and ferocity of himself and his pack while flexing his internal might and vigor on his foes. This works to overwhelm the opposing forces not only physically, but spiritually and mentally as they drown in fear from the ever looping howling, growling, barking, cackling, and panting. This is Naesala's testament to his claim as the Apex Predator.

Primera Etapa Overall Ability: Upon release, Naesala's fallen companions that swim in the depths of his soul are brought forth and manifested into canine forms where they assist their leader in battle once more. But not even in ones soul are beings safe from the sands of time as they are conjured up in a much more grueling state than when first ingested, they are seemingly zombified. Beyond their hollow mask, bone is visible on some areas on their starved being, as the flesh has begun rotting away during their time spent inside of Naesala's psyche. Patches of mangled up rough fur also plague their body. Precisely a dozen of these decaying comrades are summoned from the nebula that is Naesala and they operate in small cells to prove to be very efficient in combat by using instincts, teamwork, and wits. Creeping off the tattoos on his body in a ghost like fashion, some even fume out of the eyes from the skulls on his persona before materializing to battle.

 Each follows the same frame base of a canine, but come in different sizes for different uses. First we start off with the shock troops of the pack or the runners. These beings are lightweight, generally smaller, but also come seemingly more feisty and blood thirsty than the rest of the pack. Given their lightweight, they sacrifice individual power and durability for speed, so when attempting to take down foes, teamwork is almost always necessary. These smaller troops are typically shaped like hyenas and dingos and have the hollow mask which covers their faces in mocking or taunting positions with crazed expressions, that can chill one to the bone. Some prowl with their disease ridden tongue draped outside the mouth dripping discolored saliva and blood and some cackle madly and shamelessly in a whirlpool of insanity. These frame come to about three feet  high on all fours, then when on two hind legs, they reach about four feet and a half, five feet max. These beast have 2x the Speed of Naesala, but 1/2 the Strength.

Next we move onto the main forces of this makeshift army, the majority, these beings are in the shape of your standard Wolves, Rottweilers, and Dobermans. Hollow mask covering their faces in a normal way without many variations in the designs and when they breathe their visible breath seemingly steams from their mask covering. With the wolves of the tribe being the middle weight predators, they have the capability to take foes on alone as they move at a decent speed and also carry more power behind their fangs and claws than the shock troopers. This doesn't stop them from still acting in a group however and one better believe when a small amount of these standard soldiers conglomerate, an omen is about to approach. These frames are a bit bigger than your average medium sized dog and are about four feet high on all fours, then six feet tall on two legs.

Lastly we have the big dogs . . . literally. These are the beef, the brutes, the walls, the tanks of the army, these monstrosities are modeled after Great Danes, Pit Bulls, and just larger than life wolves. These sacrifice levels of speed for sheer brute force and power. Their pins can hold the mightiest and their weight alone redefines the meaning of Dog Pile. Normally working together with the lightweights to create a distraction, even with their size they carry a level of stealth, in the sneaking aspect, that is highly fatal. Towering at five feet on all fours, they easily make shadows of people that are normal sized, being able to reach about six feet and six inches on their two hind legs. Behind their hollow mask their grim growling can be heard in between muffled gurgles as if they were rabid animals, foaming at the mouth behind their masks. With their size comes 2x the Strength of their commander, but also they lose 50% of their speed.

With there only being a dozen of Naesala's kin being spawned, four from each archetype are made. They don't necessarily work together in the mind set of, one lightweight, one standard weight, then one heavy weight, to form a cell, but rather they form their small cliques based on what seems will be the most combat efficient. Naesala is used to be the right hand and the follower, but with his years of experience and being under leaders, he has taken traits from each of them and leads his pack with great prowess though it could be seen as ruthless in the eyes of most. Each of those he summons are loyal to him and only him and have sacrificed themselves for his well being once and will do it again. Upon destruction a fragment of their spiritual being returns to his soul to be regrown then used again when applicable.

Segunda Etapa Overall Ability (Optional): Seeing as most state it is a near impossible release to obtain, if I ever amount to the impossible I will make it then.

Zanpakuto Techniques:

Technique Name: Tail of the Deceiver

Technique Description: Utilizing the bristle and sharp fur of the tail that is on Naesala's pelt around his waist, he can skillfully manipulate it and branch it off into three separate entities. This goes beyond the passive manipulation of the tail Naesala has and goes to the point of the tail(s) expanding to the size of a car in height and width and being able to reach up to 30m from their point of origin. Just a graze is generally enough to break skin and cause bleeding, a direct hit typical results in shredded and pierced meat deep down into the flesh, unless a unique defense is used.

Technique Flaw/Drawback: The tails work like extensions of the body during this techniques duration and can be harmed to inflict pain onto Naesala, cost 50 Reiatsu per post to use.

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Technique Name: Fenrir

Technique Description: Commanding six of his troops to conglomerate into one body, they ruthless ingest one another, merging the only way they know possible. This sick game of cannibalism is nothing new to hollows and even sadder, the winner of with battle to the death doesn't matter. In a maniacal feeding mania, similar to what it takes to spawn a Gillian, instead, through Naesala's guidance and influence on these Hollow souls that were in his body, they take the brutish form of a dual mauled beast. Grown from the depths of hell, its fur is as blackened and corrupt as the heart of the devil. Light itself bows down to the beast's pelt unless it wishes to be swallowed along with its unfortunate foes. At the end of the monsters fifty foot body are three twenty feet tails tails, that flow violently like whips of a sadistic dominatrix looking to make her next quick buck. Merciless as ever, the blood of her victims paint the ends of these whips like the walls of the devils home. Its feet are rough like the most durable of mountains that have withstood the test of time, seemingly no man of element of nature can make it wear away or corrode. Dark tinted nails that are orchid, arm the feet and hands of the forty foot hell spawn as it prowls on all fours. Sharp is an understatement and does no justice when describing the shredding power these claws have. Three on its hind legs and four on its front feet that work like hands on humans actually allowing the the brute to grip onto its targets if need be for a slow and bone breaking death. Around its wrist, then are shackles of silver that have been broken by the monsters will alone, as if it mattered, for one can see the size of the hellish canines muscles throughout its whole being. Now we touch on its face. The constant dripping maul, that only trails behind blood rather than saliva, it's as if the ebony beast crept off the ink from a horror novel. Large blood stained teeth that can almost be called tusk due to their sizing. Then from this twisted metamorphosis, the monster has emerged with two jaws. Both dripping the same amount of crimson fluid, but the bottom being large than the top. Linked by a shadowy snout in the center, the top gullet also has a nose above its stained fangs. Near this nose are demonic eyes that lack pupils having a peachy tint to them, but not allowing those with enough balls to stare to know where the behemoth's attention is directed. Ears long and droopy, dangling at the level its chin, all that remains unpainted is the silver collar. No leash, not even a shattered one, for only an idiot would think about trying to bind the monster. Six large spikes that represent the six canines the demon was forged from, it also acts as the monsters lifeline. **Visual** Along with the size increase, Fenrir is 2x more powerful Strength wise than Naesala and it also gains a blessing the dogs normally do not have, that being Hierro equal to Naesala's in terms of durability.

Next come the unique perks and abilities of the hell hound. With claws and fangs lathered in an unnoticeable and intangible venom called hate, malice, and blood lust, wounds made by this beast do not stop bleeding. After one finds themselves sliced open or mauled, the blood that leaks from the 'infected' area will not clot and will instead flow like a river, unless treated medically. Next is the surreal ability to stand and actually battle on its two hind legs. This requires three of its spikes to be destroyed, so it does put Fenrir at risk, but when the beast takes this stance the spikes rejuvenate and the beasts' lethality sky rockets with far more savage like attacks.

Technique Flaw/Drawback: Takes a post for the hollows to feed on each other. Each spike that forms its collar represent the hollows that make it up. If three spokes are destroyed, that alone will be enough to destroy it. This destroys all six hollows and makes them unusable, because they return back into Naesala to recover for use in another thread. Cost 300 Reiatsu to activate and last 5 post. If the behemoth isn't defeated by then, it reverts back into its original form, but only with three dogs left behind, rather than six. May only be used once per thread.

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Technique Name: Cero Manada

Technique Description: With his conjured up companions fighting along side with him, Naesala commands them each to fire a powerful Cero at the target. At least 6(six) of the Canines conjured up collectively fire a beaming cero at the desired location. The cero is a deep raven blue in color almost orchid and is 3m in diameter. The power of these Cero can be enhanced, by pouring more Reiatsu into the attack, but only by intervals of 100. If

Technique Flaw/Drawback: If a beam misses an ally can be harmed, this also uses up the Reiatsu the beings are depending on to survive, causing them to be recalled back into Naesala's soul after use. Cost 100 Reiatsu.

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Technique Name: Call of the Hunter

Technique Description: Finally the pinnacle of his claim to be the best. The King of the food chain, the Hunter of the Hunters, the Apex Predator. Riling up every fiber of his being, his very flesh crawls with sadistic shrills before the heart stopping call is even made. With one reiatsu cursed breath that is the epitome of dissonance, as it is released into the atmosphere, time seems to stand still if it tickles your unfortunate ears. Filling the world with the haunting presence of his howl, letting all of those who hear his call know how doomed they are. That they will soon be nothing more than prey for the mighty hunter. Their Insignificant lives reduced to nothing but fresh, delicious flesh. Their name will disappear into the sound of his hungry call, squelched out by his howls. With his silence, so comes theirs...the sound of their soul never to be heard in this world or any other. Absolute oblivion awaits those who hear the Call of the Hunter.Terror riddling not only their minds, not only causing tremors to their shake their bones, but also forcibly drilling into their very souls.

 The effectiveness of this Technique is based on the targets Lack of Fear and Strength of Will Skill. Lack of Fear will have the value of one, while it takes two points in Strength of Will to equal a point. At zero points, the target(s) are riddled unable to do anything, but cower in fear for two post as the cackles, howls, and barking of Naesala's companions echo throughout their cranium. With those that have a 1 or 2 in points, for one post they are stunned, riddled useless to only feel how insignificant they are in not only the world, but on the food chain. For those who show they are valiant souls and have  3 points, for half a post, minimum of ten seconds, they are stunned in disbelief and frozen in fear. Lastly we talk about the bravest of the brave, those who have more than 3 points and with their courage only for a small moment are they powerless in front of Naesala.

Technique Flaw/Drawback: All that are not Naesala and within earshot of the howl all affected, foes, allies, even his own canines. For those effected who Cost 300 Reiatsu and has a 4 post cool down.

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Other Techniques: 

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Birthplace: Harlem New York

Current Residence: Las Noches

Memorable Figures: Lucille(Mother), Lamarr(Father), Rocky(Childhood Friend), Amos(Surrogate Father & and Gang Leader), The Pack, Reino
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The Human Life of Joseph Grant, a.k.a. Jozif Badmon

[/b][/u] Back when Naesala resided in the land of the living as an actual human, he was born in the poverty struck concrete jungle, Harlem New York. His family was of Jamaican blood and he was an only child by the name of Joesph or Jozif. Surrounded by violence, drugs, rape, anything and everything you could and would expect in a modern day ghetto. His mother Lucille was a very strong woman and had to raise Joseph as a single parent. His father Lamarr wasn't a very evident figure in his life until later in his life, but for now we will begin from the beginning, well actually with the prologue.

Joesph's father was a well known member in the gang known as the checkers, back in his youth and Joesph's mother Lucille was a very promising woman with a bright future in all of the corruption of the city of Harlem. Despite all the negativity around, she made her way through high school that alone being an outstanding feat given the city and the background of its people, but in addition she graduated in the top percentile of her class. With a scholarship to an upper echelon college in her possession and a good head on her shoulders, she had her ticket out of the ghetto of Harlem With her immediate family being very extensive to the point of being drowned in a sea of elder and younger siblings, not until the summer she was preparing to leave her home was she really noticed for her smarts. The sad thing about this though, is that the way the ghettos work are like a pot full of crabs. If you pay attention, when crabs are on the brink of escaping the pot, the others work in a combined effort to bring the escapee back into the pot, even to the point of death sometimes.

Lucille was not killed, obviously seeing how Joseph's story still has to be told, but her dream was. Convinced by her parents to enjoy a night out with some 'family friends' during her summer of college preparations, she met a man by the name of Lamarr. He was only a few years her senior and despite being active in gang activities, he was a respectful man and a respectable man. But you see . . . blood is cursed in the streets of Harlem and the crabs are always steady snapping at their own kind. Persuaded into going on a second date with Lamarr, that night Joseph was conceived against her will in the back of a beat down station wagon. The family that just so happened to care at this time, told her abortion was not an option and that she would be forced to keep the child and that she would keep it as her own. Months later, Jozif(Joseph) Grant was spawned into the world, his chocolate brown face oddly brought joy to the face of his mother. This was because she knew he wasn't to blame for the events that happened to her, the only one she had to blame was Lamarr at this point in time.

Equipped with a high school diploma, Lucille would raise Joesph on her own, working nine to five, day to day. This was the only way she could hope to survive in the city and the only way she could keep the utilities on, seeing how she was getting no child support or anything of the sort from the M.I.A. father, Lamarr. Due to the absence of his hard working mother and his no good father, Joseph became but another soul raised by the streets. Learning to steal was child's play by the age of seven thanks to his "friends" and the older kids on the block. What pained his mother the most was that she was fully aware of what he was being taught, but she couldn't be there for her son to teach him otherwise. Surely he knew it was bad, but everyone else was doing far worse, so why should he have to stop his own petty crimes?

As time passed, Joseph was around age nine by the time his mother Lucille had finally worked her ass off long and hard enough to get the promotion she needed. No longer having to slave day after day with her new pay rate, more attention could be given to her son before it was too late. Though he hated it and would repeat on a daily basis "Yeesh, dis ting' is a fuckin' piss take yah?" his mother continued to make him focus on his studies, for like her, he showed promise. He showed potential to not only pull himself out of this hell hole called Harlem, but to also take his mother with him. Maybe she was living her dreams through him, but regardless she wouldn't let him waste the gift he was bestowed. After study sessions, if his mother could complete them, she would be exhausted beyond belief and would literally pass out from fatigue. With a good heart and a good mind, Joseph was aware of the struggle his mother was going through to not only keep money coming into the apartment to keep the lights on and water running, but also working to better his education. After she would pass out, Joseph would take her into her room and lie her down in her bed to rest. Setting her alarm clock to 6 a.m. no sooner or later, it seemed every weekday the duo followed this trend.

That was until Joesph entered the seventh grade. The ritual was broken with the fateful knock on his door as he was carrying his mother to her bed. Lying her down and setting her clock so she could wake up on time for work, he answered the door to see his friend or in his terms his "homie", Rocky. Shooting the crap for about five minutes, Joseph was soon lured outside his apartment on a "walk". "Aye man, I dun't know bout dis aye?" Joseph would say before being silenced with a finger to the lips and a devious grin. A simple home invasion yeah? He was informed Rocky and a few others had been scoping this house out for a few weeks now and at this time it was always vacant. Through the window from the alleyways ladders, Rocky ironically stayed outside on watch, while Joseph was sent inside to scoop up the anything of decent value. Watches, bracelets, VCR's, DVD players, Nintendo, PlayStation, whatever he saw he grabbed it and relayed it back to Rocky who had some other fellas outside bagging the goods. Half way through, his phone rang . . . "Shit man it's my mom!" Hushed again, he was told to keep his cool and was reminded they were just taking a "walk". This here was his first step down the path of betrayal against his mother. Trusting her son and only telling him to come home soon without getting in trouble she hung up the phone and he got off the hook safe . . . until. The undeniable sound of police sirens began to ring. The blaring alarm enough was enough to make sweat burst from every pore on his body and in that instance he wished he could have told his mother. "I'm about to catch my first offense, with the "homies". But . . . they continued past the crime scene where Joseph, Rocky, and friends were. Even if the youngsters were caught, the cops of Harlem city had bigger problems to deal with.

Some local gangs apparently had a dispute and it ended in a shoot out. Gangs being the Checkers and the 76 Ballers, three casualties, this being 2 wounded and one man by the name of Lamarr was killed in the exchange. "Yeah yeah yeah" Joseph would say as he changed the channel from the news to some Saturday morning cartoons to easy his nerves from yesterday nights events. He could still feel the adrenaline rushing throughout his body as he sat there on the couch watching Three Angry Beavers. His mother at work, about two episodes later a knock on his door was heard in a familiar rhythm. It was the beat of the hit .50 Cent song "P.I.M.P." or maybe it was the remix with Snoop Dogg, regardless the door was answered with a disappointed expression. "Yo yo yooooo." Said the voice that was the origin of the knocking. It was Rocky and his eyes were bloodshot red and he reeked. Joesph didn't smoke weed, but he was very aware that that's what the putrid scent was. As Rocky moved to step into Joesph's apartment, a hand was brought to his chest. "Nah man, you can't come in here like that. Besides, my moms ain't home, you gotta dip, cause I ain't even trynna kick it with you after that shit you pulled last night." Rocky's expression went a bit sour as if he just drank bad milk. "Bruh, stop trippin, I'm just trynna kick it for a hot minute g. I hear you got them whack ass cartoons on, you need to watch some music videos man." Pushing Joesph aside Rocky was granted access to Joseph' apartment and was granted control over the TV. B.E.T. Joseph had nothing against it, but it wasn't really for him, but soon enough he noticed Rocky had been at his house for about three hours. His mom wouldn't be home for another two, but still his scent was staining the couch, since his lazy stoned ass wasn't moving. Easily persuading the stoner to get outside.

This would become a trend every week, from this point on. Different homes, but slowly the degree of their crimes moved up and soon enough Joseph found himself apart of the 76 Ballers with Rocky. The education his mother tried to press on him, all in vain, and soon enough she gave up altogether trying to deal with Joseph. Ditching school, coming home in random hours of the morning, high and or drunk, by the age of sixteen he was out on the streets, but not alone, for he claimed he had his homies with him. Odd enough, he did have his homies with him and he was actually quite a notable member in the Ballers. Notable to the point of being the Leaders right hand, this was a man by the name of Amos. He came into Joseph's life back when he was fourteen and acted like a father figure in his life. That's itf a father figure was a drug lord who ran a gang of robbers and murderers. Taking Joseph under his wing as his own son, the teen was taught the actual ways of the streets, not the petty break and entry, he was taught who to make large amounts of money in days. Selling or "pushing" drugs to the masses was the main source of income and this money was used by Amos to buy guns and things of that nature for his street soldiers as he would call them. Joseph had other plans.

From the money he earned with his surrogate father, Joseph used it to pay for his mothers apartment rent and her bills as she had fallen into a state of depression. With all meaning in her life gone all she knew how to do was work, she was a slave, but with her son taken by the streets, she had nothing else to work for. She was dead while she was alive, truly the worst kind of death there is. Regardless Joseph felt he could make it up to her by "trapping" (selling drugs, typically cocaine) his way and er way off the streets. That's all she ever wanted right? For Joseph to make it out the ghetto, so that's what he worked for, but it seemed no matter how much money he made, well beyond what they needed, Joseph couldn't get his mother back. Reason being, because she hadn't gotten her son back, this one, the one in front of her as she laid on her bed in her final moments, this one named Joseph, that was not her son.

After that day, needless to say he was never the same. All the money it didn't matter to him anymore, what mattered was that he could keep those he had with him, with him. He worked his ass off endlessly to keep his fellow ruffians, even the new bloods safe and though he was a high ranking member in the 76 Ballers, he worked to serve each of his crew members. He wanted to stay relevant in their life and he didn't want them to forget them like his mother had forgotten him, at least that's what he believed until the day of his death.

They say the life of a thug ends when you either turn eighteen or before twenty-one, that said, his seventeenth, Joseph was presented with his right of passage into man hood by Amos. This right of passage unknowingly to anyone would be Joseph's last assignment for his fellow Ballers. Sadly though, his mission was to take out a fellow Baller, well at least a Baller in disguise. Apparently the Checkers thought it was slick to sneak a snake into the Ballers to get the drop on all of their moves and today the snake would be handled. The gun Joseph was handed wasn't his first, but it was the first one he used with the intention to kill. 10:47 p.m. his cellphones vibrant LCD screen said as he cocked his pistol in the passenger seat of Amos' car. The drug deal would be happening any moment now and the snake would be moving to meet the dealer who was also in on the bust. His heart thumped in his chest painfully in anticipation and in pain that he was going to kill one of his own. A tap on his thigh indicated the snake had just come around the corner. Thankfully his facial features were hidden, so Joseph wouldn't know who he was killing. Lights of the car turning on, the snake instantly ran the opposite direction. Engine revving they gave chase and left the fake dealer behind. Window rolled down and wind blowing in his dreads, he reached out once they got a fair distance, two deafening shots were heard. The snake was down and Amos parked the car and sent Joseph to finish the job. Adrenaline lead him to move without thinking and getting out the car he ran over to the body and fired off a final round in the back of the snakes head. "Dat's my boi man, from now on, we 'allin you Jozif Badmon." Jamaican slang, but it was a praise. His body still flooding with adrenaline now he had to get the body, so they could bury it together and get rid of evidence. Rolling the body over, the newly named 76 Baller's heart froze in disbelief. "Rock . . ." A large knot moved down his throat as he forcibly swallowed saliva in disbelief. "Ro . . . Rocky!" There was no doubt about it, his friend since grade two was murdered in cold blood, by his own best friend. To make things worse, the last conversation they had was an argument about who would win in the NBA Finals and it ended with Joseph calling Rocky a dumbass and kicking him out his apartment.

His vision blurred before him, maybe it was the psychological trauma or maybe it was tears that he hadn't felt from his tear ducts since his mother died a year ago. Regardless, all that was noteworthy after this was that with a trembling hand, the same gun he used to kill Rocky was placed inside his mouth as Amos shouted in the background, before a gunpowder fueled snare filled the night air. Without his day one friend, Joseph had no more purpose and his presence would no longer be significant even if he did continue to live on after he blew his brains out in a gruesome display.

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If he could sweat, he would have drowned the whole population of Harlem City, as the sight in front of him was crystallizing. As if he was frozen in time, he was stunned to see Amos and the rest of the Ballers there in front of him. Shouting out, each of the bastards ignored his calls. Even when he would walk in front of them to directly grab their attention, none of them paid him any attention. Had he committed a taboo? If he did, he would like to know how, since his last memories were of him killing himself from the sight of seeing he had killed Rocky. So for days he roamed the streets of Harlem, seeing what he could amount to and noticed no one noticed him, he had finally came to the conclusion and accepted the fact he was a ghost. Partially correct of course, for the right term wasn't used or even remotely known, but nonetheless Joseph knew that he was no longer alive and able to effect the world or so he thought. Only small actions that basically had no effect at all is what he could do and these actions all were in vain and only worked to build up rage in Joseph's wandering soul. His gang members, his "ride or die's", his "brothers", they showed no signs of mourning for his death. No sorrow, not even from Amos his "father", pissed was an understatement, he was stained with rage and utter disgust. Never again would he pit his trust in others like he foolishly had, if he were to do it again, it would be the most trivial of task. No, even when trusted with the most trivial of task, he would be prepared for the back stab. He would be ready for them to try to make a fool out of him, he would also be ready to make them pay.

Time crept by, weeks, months, maybe even a year and the pain in Joseph's chest that was stemming from this chain was increasing and the chain was shortening and the mouths munching at it were chewing faster. Would he truly die if the chain reached the end of its length of reached his chest, if so, he wasn't afraid. The world was disgusting to him at this point and just seeing the Harlem citizens made him want to kill each of them. He had worked so hard for each of them, he genuinely cared for them and he was simply forgotten, the pain of being forgotten seemed to hurt more than the rage that boiled his ghostly blood. Growing tired of living or simply existing with nothing to do, he figured this chain would be the end. One chocolate toned hand gripped the end of the metal at his chest then with a sharp tug and twist . . . it broke.

---

Life as a Hollow

With his Chain of Fate forcibly destroyed, the ivory colored substance quickly began to drown his body, as did the emotions of rage, vengeance, and hunger. First driven to destroy those who simply blinked at his death, the corrupted soul set out to the 76 Baller's territory. There he unleashed his pent up rage and anger, now that he could effectively impact the world of the living. Member after member devoured into the nebula that was the Hollows emptiness, the beast had taken out many, but still found itself unsatisfied. That was until the most important of them all was spotted, Amos, the man that drove Joseph to murder Rocky and send him into the pit of emotional despair. With his time allocated into being a Plus, Joesph had watched him, deeply and intricately, looking for signs of guilt, sorrow, repent, anything, but Joseph's death evidently meant nothing to the man. It was just looked at like the death of any other person, Amos had barely even shown respect at Joseph's funeral which he watched from atop his own casket with a face of stone. With his demon like frame, he gripped the body of his victim and for a moment he regained a piece of his human mind. He could process what his newly realized Hollow instincts were leading him to do and just from peering into Amos' horrified face, though he had his own mind only made him grip the man tighter and tighter and tighter, until he ultimately crumbled into rubble in his over sized hands. Made into a more malleable state, the Hollowfied Joseph impulsively consumed the bag of bones, organs, and blood.

Soon enough his rampage on the marching grounds of the 76 Baller's came to an end, as all of his targets were devoured or killed and forgotten in the chaos. Of course, this savage like behavior wouldn't go unanswered though. Before the mindless beast that was Joseph could escape the crime scene he was welcomed with the sight of unfamiliar beings that wielded Katana's. These people looked like humans and spoke like them, but the air about them and of course their way of dress, alerted Joseph that they were not typical humans. The bit of brains he had left under his control told him to flee the scene in hopes of escaping, but the Hollow inside told him to indulge and consume these people. The power that was exuding from their soul, was just too much to fight off, so he recklessly charged into battle. Only two of them there were, but they showed exemplary skill and after a few minutes of combat, they were able to overwhelm Joseph, he was as good as dead. Maybe finally and completely dead, last time he thought such things he turned into this beast, but nothing could possibly be worse than living like this. With a surreal expression of peaceful bliss plastered onto a Hollow's face, it was prepared for death. But once again, he was denied this right, not due to a form of rebirth, but from intervention from a Third Party.

The feeling this one gave off, the aura, it was similar to Joseph's own, but his spirit told Joseph this one was way more developed, intricate, and powerful. Short work was made of these two samurai like men, they weren't killed, but severe wounds only lead them back to the unknown plane from which they came. It didn't seem like saving Joseph was this new ones intention though, only a small a side effect from his original mission as he soon opened a portal to an unknown world. The Hollow didn't know what was beyond this wormhole, but if people not set on killing him were beyond it he would follow and thus he found himself inside of Hueco Mundo.

For the first time in his existence, he found himself in a forest, that's if this desolate span of "vegetation" could be considered a forest. With the time he took to examine his surroundings, the one who led him here had left the scene. It didn't bother the fresh Hollow much, as this soul was more bent on trying to decipher where he was or what this was. With each of his movements, it seemed like the forest was trying to expel him or maybe warn him about the dangerous that lied deeper within, but it's not like this Hollow didn't hear the screeching and roaring the moment he entered the realm. Each battle cry was echoing from the thick tree branches and the pain or delight could be felt in each one. When in his right mind, Joseph would steer away from the shrills and cries, but that part of him had been lost, he no longer even remembered his name, all that he had was a purpose to consume and a growing emptiness that starved him into insanity.

Locating one of these bouts, others just like him were found, but they were engaged in the cannibalistic act of feeding on one another. It was stomach churning and sickening to the Hollow, but also appetizing. The first time he had seen another that looked like him or seemed to give off the same energies and all he could think about was devouring them . . . despicable. Fangs and claws tearing into flesh earned cries and howls, that only encouraged one to bite and claw harder in the delirium of feeding and in the end one came out victorious. This one was Joseph and as he stared into the ruby puddle of blood left over he had felt how far he had fallen. His features now more wolf like as he was even prowling on all fours, he wondered what he was doing. The feeling of hunger wasn't yet satisfied, but a new feeling of emptiness also crept in his being. He was only living for himself now and though he felt it was right considering what happened last time he put his trust in others, call him foolish, but he yearned for the companionship.

Maybe his willpower was strong enough to pollute the minds of others or maybe they were just willing to comply with him, but as the Hunter went on throughout the forest, those he bore his fangs into were transformed. Their mentality wasn't restored, but they gained a sense of loyalty to the Hunter as he continued to mark those weaker than him and make them his pack while working together to devour those who were stronger. But first dibs were always given to the Alpha Male and that Alpha Male was the Hunter, so he would graciously indulge in the meal his pack had earned him and leave whatever scraps he felt were fit for them for their work. Day by day, week by week, even year by year, his pack grew in size and in power and the Menos Forest was not becoming a safe place for Hollows. Only those that were of the Menos class were safe, but even those of that classification who traversed alone proved to not escape the grasp of the pack. Found, stalked, hunted, then devoured, it was the fate of any loners in this hunting ground as the Hunter found himself leading a makeshift army of wolf like hollows. Their growls and barks, bounced off the bark of the trees, their cackles and wicked laughter distorted the very air, and their deep growling and rabid foaming shook the grounds, this was their territory. Or so they thought.

As time went on the Hunter began to fall into madness from all the souls he had consumed, but still found himself not having a breakthrough on the evolutionary chain. He can't remember how long he had been riddled in this form and he wondered when would he ascend, when would he and his pack rise to further glory? Undeniably, time took its toll on the mind of the hollow and slowly his consciousness deteriorated into nothingness and while he fell into madness. The amount of souls that were fair play in the Menos Forest was scare since his pack had grown in such high numbers and those who weren't off limits had banded together seeking protection of refuge against the Hunter's forces. The ill state of his mind only got worse from their as now he was barely hanging onto conscious thought, since hunger was creeping back into his soul and becoming a new void to fill. Inevitably, his own power corrupted him and he soon began devouring his own hollows. He found it amusing how each looked like a lesser version of himself as his own will had tainted their body and rendered them in this state. That being said, with open arms, he welcomed them back into his body, so the pack wouldn't be destroyed, it'd only be concentrated. Yes . . . that was it, that was the excuse he needed to cave into the lustful tendencies of the hollow. Each of them loyally and patiently waiting to be devoured with bowed heads as the greater hollow feasted, the pack was integrated into his body and they would forever live on inside of him. Maybe it was the strength he gained from consuming his pack or maybe it was the situation he had been put in, but regardless he was allowed to finally move on with his evolution as a hollow and he became a Gillian after the massive feeding that almost but the Forest of Menos at peace.

---

Life as a Gillian

A new state of mind and another period of time in which one loses individuality. Each carrying the same face, they mindlessly marched throughout the forest, doing as they pleased, all but a small few. Of these few the Hunter existed and marched with an appearance of his own, a unique mask that he could call his. He wasn't aware that he had any distinct features though, in his mind he had finally been sent to hell, cursed to wonder the lands with no purpose, just simply walking and occasionally feeding on others no matter who they be. It was an emotionless life, but somehow that void of emotion was painful, more painful than a broken heart. Not being able to express a smile or frown or anger or discomfort, solely existing to exist . . . it was grueling. This desire to feel again, however was enough to light a fire in the Gillian, it was enough to force evolution upon him once more into a more bestial and brutish form.

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The Adjuchas

Now with his powers compacted into a body that appears similar to what people would call a werewolf, the Hunter regained his individuality. Now back out into the Menos Forest he found himself again armed with an ample mind, capable of make full decisions, processing thought, and free will. The desire to feed and grow still burned in his soul, but not nearly as much as it did when he was a typical hollow. That was back when he was spoiled by his underlings, but oddly enough he could still feel their presence echo in his own being. It was a nice feeling that reminded him he wasn't alone though he walked the forest devouring those whom crossed him, with the exception of a select few. Those who were stronger than him and those that had a conscious mind like him. He found it hard to kill those who put up a good fight or showed they had a train of thought like him, but he knew that if he let such feelings get to him, he'd have his progression as a hollow stunted to never continue. Not only for himself, but for those who were devoured to help him become a Gillian, he had to continue to grow stronger, but soon enough he met one Adjuchas unlike all the others. This one was valiant, courageous, powerful, and like the Hunter, he had a a sense of honor. No set on chaos and consumption like the other Adjuchas, he was very different a diamond in the rough.

For weeks the Hunter followed this being around the Menos Forest, watching him take on foe after foe, but when he would eat his fallen marks, it seemed like he had a different sense of consumption. It wasn't as simple as ceasing to exist, the very essence of the hollows he ate were being sucked into his being, much like the Hunter had done with his myriads of hollow soldiers. Many moonless cycles went by and soon enough trailing this mysterious creature lead the Hunter to the desert of Hueco Mundo, a whole new plain and a whole new ball game. But he wasn't allowed to scan the desolate ivory sands for long before being pinned by the one he was following. Explaining that he had been aware of the Hunter's presence for a long time, he wondered why the Hunter was following him, in which he earned the response that the Hunter was just curious about his way of living. It was understandable seeing as he did live a different life style than most, though he too indulged in his fellow hollows. Releasing the Hunter from his binding, it was then that the Hunter continued to follow this one around and learned that he was called Reino. Without many words, Hunter just naturally assumed the role of Reino's right hand and together the two survived life in the treacherous and unforgiving desert. Maybe it was just the confidence he wielded that made Hunter fold into becoming his comrade or maybe just the Hunter's wolf like nature recognizing an Alpha Male among fodder. Nonetheless, the two would bond deeply over the span of time they toiled the sand ocean. Like brothers the two become with the eldest being the king and the youngest being a faithful protector, but it soon became evident that Hunter was actually more powerful than Reino. That didn't bother the wolf man hollow any and still made him act with undying loyalty to Reino, but the king knew what this meant. Hunter was meant to move on beyond this stage of evolution, while he was meant to wither away. Battle after battle, Hunter showed his combat prowess without letting a mere fang graze his skin in fear of being regressed back into a mindless Gillian, while age took its toll on Reino and he relied on his loyal protector to keep him out of harms ways in battle. Though he was surviving, he knew he wasn't meant to, he had stayed in this form too long and with time riddling his frame weaker by the day, he knew he wasn't living like a hollow should. He wasn't playing the game of survival, he was being carried and spoon fed by an Adjuchas that was in his prime and though Reino was a burden, Hunter would go to the point of even carrying him on his back to keep his surrogate brother alive and well.

Ironically as the life of a hollow would have it, the hourglass filled with sand was reaching its last handful of grains and this one knew it, even the Hunter knew it, but didn't want to face. He believed by constantly feeding he could extend or add additional grains of sand to his jar, but it was all in vain. The Hunter had given up so many meals he could soon feel himself on the brink of regression, before being forced to feed by Reino. He would humbly and gladly listen to the orders he was given, but he would only eat enough to keep himself just healthy and functional. He knew extending his masters life span was a fairy tale, so he soon casted that away, but in place he had hopes of evolving him to a Vasto Lorde, hoping the advancement would fill his body with vigor and youth, but without drive Reino couldn't move on to the next stage of his hollow evolution line. He was just set on the idea that he wasn't one of the hollows meant to walk the sands as a Vasto Lorde, he was one forever riddled an Adjuchas and now cursed to whittled to add to the sand pile this desert was. Without Reino, the Hunter knew he would lack purpose though, with no one to lead or no one to serve, he would live life like he did when he was a Gillian. Mindlessly traversing and cannibalizing others his race while doing so, it wasn't acceptable, so the Hunter took it upon himself to integrate Reino into his sea of souls. Along with the others that swam inside oh him to fill his void, the old man joined them as the Hunter was plagued with a state of madness again while wolfing down his king.

Never again as an Adjuchas was the Hunter able to follow another, but he wasn't alone. His companions lived on within him, eternally tormenting his mind with their howls and insane cackling. But it was their form of protecting him right? That's what he believed as their continuously looping banter that bounced off the inner walls of his skull kept him up for weeks on end, not allowing him to sleep, so in his mind he couldn't be attacked by any opposing forces. Only after being sleep deprived for at least two months would his body give out on him and force him to collapse, then he would awaken possibly years later buried under mounds of sand, to find a whole new generation of hollows journeying the sands. Partying with those inside of his nebulous being, riddled with hysteria, the Hunter had put all emotions about eradicating anyone aside or maybe he hadn't, but he was peer pressured into believing so by the multitude of talking, shouting, screeching, inside of him. Through exploration and other task like getting lost, he found that he could find peace within his mind as he was too distracted with his own thoughts, to pay mind to the voices of his guest. Another way he found freedom from the souls that tormented him was through combat, but combat on solely an instinctive level. Taking time to think in fights, gave a window of opportunity for the spirits and souls of his brethren to buzz in his conscious mind. This combat style that consisted of not thinking things through and simply fighting on an instinctual level is what earned him his many scars. Never was he partially eaten, but multiple times his body had been put through the test of endurance forcing him to grow stronger. Now a hunter forced to become an animal due to his own demons, the animal slowly slowly climbed up the food chain with those it carried inside and Hunter, became one of the elite, a Vasto Lorde.

---

Life as a Vasto Lorde

As fate would have it, the Hunter ascended to the rank and status of a Vasto Lorde and took his next step in his cycle of life. By this I mean the pattern that had been repeating, from servitude to isolation. From his life as a human, to a hollow, then to Adjuchas, the Hunter was again attempting to trek Hueco Mundo as a lone soul. In this chapter of his existence, the Hunter learns to cope with the hollows he has welcomed into his body to keep him company. Thankfully, they usually agree on the same idea before erupting into banter, but that still doesn't mean they try to communicate in a controlled way for the Hunter to comprehend nor tolerate. On the bright side, with this new found power from evolution, he seems to have most control over the chatter of his guest being able block them out at will, but when he found himself in highly stressful situations, he found himself breaking down and them assuming command. He wasn't aware of the side effects of the other hollows engulfing his being mentally, but he knew when he regained consciousness, all those who stood before him were decimated to nothing but stains in the desert, to be blow away with a breeze. Still riddled with a degree of insomnia as when he rested his mind or began to settle down, so did his mental blockade allowing their voices, calls, taunts, and beckons to seep into his cranium. One would think the Hunter was miserable living like this, but quite contrarily he was happy with his way of living, sure it wasn't the best, but he was back to roaming alone. Only with himself to take care of, he soon found living like this to be fairly bland. He was always a being that needed a purpose to continue fighting the odds against him. Surely "not dying" and "getting stronger" were reasons to continue, but he needed his own reason to continue on. Looking back on his term of existing he noticed he always had a longing to be important, may this be to one person or to a mass of people, he always needed a role, he needed to be a significant player. May it be leader or follower, this time his subconscious cycle told him it was time to again be a leader. Striking down foe after foe the Hunter found it impossible to build his forces with his kin being so much weaker, so this lead him to assume a new role. This time he would be the lone predator, the Apex Predator. The best of the best, he would work to instill fear into the hearts of hollows to keep them motivated to grow stronger in fear of crossing him while they were weak. Inevitably, his presence was soon known throughout the sands, he was becoming an entity, he was becoming significant.

It was all so very appealing to the Hunter, to be known, but what he was missing was still a name. He couldn't remember what he was originally called, for it had been decades. Digging deep within, he found himself in the district of himself where the many guest rested. There they tempered his mind with their incoherent gibberish and chaotic simultaneous talking, trying to teach him to cope with his intangible parasites. This wasn't something he enjoyed, but he figured if he ever wanted to reach his full potential he would have to resolve all internal trifles and he would have to be in command of his body and psyche.

Maturing as a Vasto Lorde with passing time and growing spiritually via hollow consumption, the Hunter had eventually came to peace with his companions that lived within. Respect was demanded and with him being the land lord, so to speak since they were using his body as a host, each soul complied to his demands and if they did not, they were forcibly evicted then slaughtered. In the end only twelve remained and those twelve were peaceful with the Hunter, as was he with them. In a tranquil state and finding meaning in leading a true pack of warriors that he respected and vice versa, the twelve souls and the Hunter became one as his blood stained mask fragments were torn off. Successfully Arrancarizing into the being his is now, though he still has some odd perks about him from being ill with madness, for the most part he can function in a society, at least he hopes. With his Menos chapters ending with him in Hueco Mundo as an Arrancar, comes the beginning of his new chapters as Naesala Villajuana, a name that was agreed upon between the twelve souls and him before becoming one being.

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[Kyomei Kuchiki]

I'd put this at Class 3, 900 SP

[Kento Waffles]

Since we preapproved this you can do stats.