Sorry, Not Sorry (PvP, DP, R)

[Marcelius]

Thread Title: Sorry, Not Too Sorry
Participants: Marcelius and Takashi LastNameofADeadMan
World: Hueco Mundo
Death Setting: Non Death Enabled
Rating: G, "For the gratuitous audacity of that kid."
Location: "I'm not really sure where he lives. I would assume wherever Soul Society rejects and the guys who get kicked off of that Human World thing called 'Grindr' hang out."
Special Conditions: Don't cry when you get sent home to Sozen."
Circumstances: "He tried to take my spot. I like my spot."

[Takashi Kuchiki]

Jul 3, 2015 23:00:41 GMT -5 Takashi Kuchiki said:

i'm indestructible! ♕ take a last look around while you're alive. ▼ A wind lightly blew upon the the gray forest of Hueco Mundo. A red colored shawl wrapped around the waist of a man dressed in black clothing. The darker red hue stood out in the bleak area. The air was tense and dry much to the dismay of the approaching figure. Cool crystal blue eyes pierced through the infinite void. The eyes holding their own visionless emptiness. Upon his head was a red circular mask that stretched up until it was tied in an Arabian fashion near the top; a sort of turban. To his side were his former and now 'hollow' Zanpakuto. It seemed unbecoming of him as he felt the weight of the weapon upon his hip. With nothing but the dark sky hovering above him. Emptiness. There was nothing for him aside from the seemingly intense and vast night. He was cold and careless as it stood not caring much for anything. His shawl fluttered in the slight breeze as he took his nightly stroll. How many times had he wandered this forest? Emptiness. This was unbecoming of him but his life since he slaughtered those in Soul Society. Pausing, he was standing upon a hill at this moment. Looking up he noticed the strange moon lingering above them. He sat himself down, leaning back and extending one foot out slightly. His right knee was bent as he placed his right hand upon it. Supporting himself with his left hand he looked up at the sky with a near blank or ambition-less gaze. Thoughts of a future he would hope to have that would have never come to fruition. Perhaps teeming with a great deal of stagnant nature. His journey was reactive and not one of progressive intent. There was much more to be had and much more to want. The desire to become greater to become something far more than he was now. Perhaps he would take the same route as Kuroi or perhaps he would evolve into his own. As for now, there was the rule of two. Another blink and yet another thought. Here, he was carefree. ♕ profile | notes: put ooc shit here. STATS & ABILITIES: strength - 700 points (1650) speed - 600 points (1650) spiritual pressure - 150 Points reiatsu strength - 1200 Points light aura - 65 points dark aura - 35 points instinct - 100 points senses - 100 points energy sensory - 50 points healing expertise - 0 points total SP: 2400 current skills: (15/15 SKP spent) - martial arts: [hakuda] (3) -strength of will: (3) -battle analysis: (3) -weapon [sword]: (4) - battle focus: (2)

[Marcelius]

(OoC: I told myself this would be a fun fight. Quick, colorful. The more I think about it the more I am hoping it will be more. Can’t shake the old habits. So all aboard. Get ready for the #FeelsTrip.)

SPOILER: Click to show

{A Story…}

If you will...please, spare a moment with me.

I would like to tell a story. One that is not so long.

One that begins in a land…without hope.

An endless desert that stretches beneath a starless night. A waste covered by white, perfect sand. A landscape whose only life is found in the howling of the wind. It shifts the sands. Helps them rise, and makes them fall. Changing these lifeless barrens so that they never remain the same. Thankfully so, since no other force to be found in this land has such capacity or regard. The wind is the only thing that lives here. For everything else is dead. From the trees made of frigid crystal. To the stones not yet eroded away.

To the empty souls...who wander aimlessly in the tides of time. Beings born from emptiness. Made from a void. Driven by only one notion. Hunger. A starving need to sate what cannot be sated. Hollows. No longer living, nor may the rest. To drone away within this prison of waste. Such is their fate. To seek sustenance that does not exist. Such is their doom. Dwelling within a domain that is as much their home, as it is themselves. Empty, yet...hungry for the deaths of all who dare tread within. It is in such a woeful place that this story began.

In the howling winds and the shifting sands. Amidst the dark of the beast’s great belly. A single soul had wasted away centuries. Longing for an end to the loneliness that was his existence. Isolated by the ravenous consumption of anything he met. Feeding on everything that drew near. Destroying anything that could have cured him of his despair. Doing only as his nature knew. Each encounter filling him with such...satisfaction. Each satisfaction a step away from the light of his hopes. There were...so many steps. Yet none of them faded. They simply would not blend. Every mask unique. Every scream unfamiliar. Every one of their tastes...individual. For so many years this continued. Descending further into the dark. With no way to climb back the way he came. Not until the steps stopped.

lanketed by the shadows of an impossibly deep pit. Body trembling in the cold of such a somber place. An empty existence. Soon giving up. Bringing him to his knees. His hands littered with scars from countless victims. Trembling as they cupped his blood stained lips. Trying to muffle the wailing. To stop the heaving cries that rose rose from his belly. An anguish, unspeakable. Replacing the hunger that once was. Forming a new hole. One different from the first, yet...so much more empty. Made worse by the understanding that came with it. Pained howls forced through clasped fingers. Each made wet by the tickling of hot, loathsome tears. A single drop shed for each and every voice he could now hear within him. All of them crying their last moments in his ears. There was only one sound he could hear. Louder than the lamentations. Far away, yet calling to him like distant thunder. Drawing him to turn from the gloom. To look towards a flash of lightning.

Las Noches…and, the family...that lay waiting within.

What is it like? To truly see the light? To spend so long in the darkness that it is forgotten. To be among shadows so long that they stop being shadows. Surrounded by a void so immense that nothingness becomes everything. Curshing. Claustrophobic. Then, a light. Sudden and brilliant. Appearing as though it is burning away the nothing, as though there were something to be burned. It is blinding at first. Not destroying the world that once was, Revealing it for everything it wasn’t. Unmasking everything that had been forgotten. This was what Las Noches was to the soul.

A replacement to what was once his everything. A new embodiment to the idea of all. Pursuit of it was all he had. The hunger reborn. Yet, so much harder to sate. For he found the place where the thunder rose. The home in which lightning struck. It was in the storm of this palace that he found...them. The only ones louder than the voices within him. The few who had fallen so low as he; that they might reach out to take him by the hands. To pull him up. Give him reason to climb...reason to not let go. His only lights, in the eternal night. His friends. His family. The missing piece of his soul…

As I speak to you now, and you hear this tale...I find my voice shaking. For it knows what comes next, and seeks to betray me. There is simply not enough time. Even in an eternity. To forget a pain that is true. And there is no truer pain, than hope lost. His name was Marcelius; though he had not heard it in years. Instead, a new moniker was bestowed. One that carried with it the weight of a thousand kingly crowns, and the joy of a thousand-thousand praises. The title...of Father. The honor above all honors. The award to end all contests.

He...he wore it with such a smile. Telling everyone. Friends and foe alike of his accomplishment. Knowing it would mean more than all other achievements of his life totalled against it. Could you imagine? Please, if but for a moment. The old man’s cheerful face. Eyes of purest blue. Filled with such passion and joy, that even his wrinkles could not stifle the look of youth. A sweetness of his smile curling his lips. Broadening the creases that lined his cheeks. Everything about him...the opposite of what he truly was. The emptiness that was his heart, fulfilled.

And when it was taken away…

That day. When the only light in his void was snuffed. When one child vanished, and the other walked away. That day. When the family ended...and the nothing returned. That awful day. When his body turned to ice, and his world collapsed. How? How does one describe such a feeling? I try...I try with every telling. To put such a thing into words. And every time...I fail. At a loss. Without a notion. Everything that had made him who he was, was gone. So to, was he. If anything could have remained, it would not have been the same. For once something that makes us whole is taken away; we are broken. We may be empty, or hollow. We may not. But in the end...we are still broken. Never to return to what once was. Only to proceed in with the confidence, that nothing more can be done to us. Nothing more can be taken away. Damaged. Destroyed. The pain that spills from our broken selves, greater than any torture turned against us. Denying us comfort. Denying us hope.

Yet...making us resolute.

The one who was once called father. Made strong by the same reason he had been given to live. Brought from the dark by the family he had found. Broken now. Alone again. Realizing he had never actually left the pit he previously languished. He had merely ignored it. Now, he was without distraction. There was only himself...and the voices. Long silenced, but never departed. They called to him in a chorus. Suffering within him as they always had. Regret that lived on within him, rather than pass into oblivion. They spiraled now. Circling the the wound created by his newest, yet, greatest lost. Reminding him evermore...that he would never suffer nevermore. Instead, a new life had opened. One of misery, but purpose too. A chance to play a role of which he was robbed. Whether by invitation, or show of force. He would fix the world that took his family from him.

Hold it up, from where he stood in the pit.
Keeping it, and all its light, from crumbling down into the night.
To never allow any other to fall as low as he.
To spare all he could, his misery.

Upon the white sands, footsteps marred a perfect surface. From each of the deep gashes, loosened sand poured and blew away with the wind. With every new howl of the wind, each of the depressions would grow. Displacing more and more of the grains. Making the path of that they laid all the more noticeable. Until, in time, the depressions grew reached out to one another. Touching and becoming one. Restoring the sand to its once unbroken whole. For now they simply made a trail. Following closely behind the trudging steps of a singular traveler. Being his only company across the winding dunes. Haunting him like the wind that whipped around his head. His figure a striking contrast to the emptiness of the desert-scape. Moving in steady pace against the wind which pushed from seemingly all directions. The harsh gale keeping his progress slow.

Slow, but determined...crawling over each and every rising knoll. Even when his figure battered by whirling sands. Approaching a source of power that could be felt for miles. A beacon, even when at rest, resonated and sang across the bleak vacuum of such a hell as this. How interesting it was going to be, to find the soul in question. A man very much out of place in this sort of world. Reaching the crest of yet another drift, the solitary soul found himself gazing up one last, massive plateau. Discovering he would have to make one last climb before his destination was reached. Letting out an instinctual, weary sigh. ”Of course…”, whispered to himself. Each word dripping with dissatisfaction. Pushing onward up the last, and greatest climb of his entire journey.

By the time he reached the summit of this final ridge; it was with no jubilation or ease. This fellow who approached from such a far away place, was quite beaten back by his travel. It showed in the way he carried himself up the last few steps. The plunge of his feet into the loose sand was heavy and sloppy. Carrying his large body only barely up the terminal steps. By this point, without fail, he would be noticeable to the waiting Shinigami. A figure of moderate stature. Clocked in a thick, hooded robe. The white fabric of the afghan doing well to illuminate him. Plainly visible against the endless black backdrop of Hueco Mundo’s sky.

The cloth whipping noisily in the constant wind. Giving glimpses to the body beneath. That of a stout soul, dressed in an old...battered suit. The color from it drained. Perhaps it had been blue once. Now it seemed more green, or even gray. Bleached by untold effects. Bearing tears and worn patches throughout the whole of its stitching. Perfectly matching the soul that wore it. Both of them bearing scars and wounds. Withered, eve, by what life had handed them. Such was the appearance of this large man. His face peeping from beneath the cover of his hood. What wasn’t covered by a silver beard, was littered with lines. The wrinkles and creases brought on by great age, and stress. Worst, possibly of all, were the strangers eyes…

They peered from the darkest shadows of the hood. Barely even visible. Odd, for an Arrancar. Normally such a species possess quite intense eyes. Unnaturally bright and luminous, often times with very distinct colors. In this case, there was no glow. No hint of vivacity or spark of life. Just, cold blue. Half lidded and unwavering. Examining the much younger soul for what he was worth. While things were still quite between them. Before the noise had to start. It was...almost nice. Being so far away from the teeming halls and corridors of Las Noches.

Where there is so much commotion. So many thoughts and lives, writhing in a hateful mass. Here. The burden of focusing was gone. He could just, be. Mind free to feel across everything around him. No concern of drowning in a clamour. Looking to the Shinigami produced quite the intriguing sight. The soul, was of the very trouble sort. Carrying with him the discipline and repression that almost every one of his kind suffered. It left his aura muted, reserved. The color of his emotions...nearly matching the unsaturated background.

That was fine. It was not as though it made him harder to read. Oh no. With the sort of strength this boy’s reiatsu carried, his soul was as defined as carved marble. It detailed so much. The young man’s age, still burning in the prime of life. Striking a node of envy in his counterpart. Whose age had produced quite a lull in his spiritual pressure…not to mention aching in his bones. Straightening out his back, producing quite the few audible pops. The taller fellow seemingly recovered from his enervation. Turning his head now. Looking all around their locale. Seemingly peering at nothing from the vantage point of the youth. While, within the elder’s eyes, he was seeing far more than should be possible. Gazing out from his lofty vantage point. Making sure that there was not one other soul; for as far as he could see. Which...was a vast threshold. Very quickly coming to the pleasant conclusion that the two of them were as alone as could be managed. Exactly the way it would need to be.

Such a shame that time passes fastest when we hold our breaths, and beg it to stop. Please. Why can it not...just...stop.

”Well.” The voice was rough. Quite tired and deepened by age. Or so it was easy to assume with one look at the man. Hopefully making judgements off appearances was not going to be the fatal fault of the Shinigami. Even considering the circumstance, the Hollow still wished for this. Even what it might mean for him and his continued existence. ”Stand up, son.” The words rumbling in his raspy tone. Carrying with them something more than an order. The white haired lad would feel the words far more than he may ever care to admit.

Something about the way this Arrancar spoke was, enthralling. It was an effect that all manner of men and women had experienced. Succumbed to. From the best, to the worst. The voice carried a feeling of closeness. Difficult to describe, even harder to ignore. A tingling that sprung from the depths of your memories and coursed throughout the whole of your form. That authoritative tone that only one’s parents could spur. Yet, here these two were now. Total strangers. And the hooded man was creating an indisputable impression. A father’s presence.

Sadly, it would not be further reinforced. If anything, the feeling would come into immediate question. Given that the instruction was followed by a most distressing sound. The grinding friction of a blade scraping its scabbard. A tune quite familiar to warriors such as themselves. Though no matter the familiarity...it should be a terrible melody. Certainly that was the case for the individual making it. The shrill ringing of the spiritual steel leaving its home was a grindstone on the Arrancar’s nonexistent heart. The edges of his chest cavity stinging like the lash of a whip as the weapon cried. Pain enough to produce a prominent wince.

Still, the blade was drawn. Hanging low at the covered soul’s side. Clear for his opponent to identify. A long slab of unsharpened spiritual iron. A sizable broadsword, keeping with the trend. Just as the man and his clothing, so was his sword battered and scared. Carrying evidence of every confrontation it had ever survived. From the way he positioned it now, it was clear he intended to add more marks to the metal. After all, no one draws a weapon without intent to use it. Not in Hueco Mundo. ”Draw your sword.”, again with the potent parental tone. About the only thing that did not fit with this scenario, was the Arrancar’s patience. Willing to wait until his opponent stood. Drew his weapon in kind. Made himself ready.

”My name is Marcelius…”, giving a respectful nod. ”Com…”

SPOILER: Click to show

{Stats}
Strength - 300 Points
Speed - 120 Points (200 Originally)
Spiritual Pressure - 120 Points (200 Originally)
Reiatsu Strength - 300 Points
Light Aura - 50 Points
Dark Aura - 50 Points
Instincts - 700 Points (400 Originally)
Senses - 100 Points
Energy Sensory - 700 Points (400 Originally)
Healing Expertise - 0 Points

Total SP - 1900 Points

SPOILER: Click to show

{Skills}

Analyzing - 3

Charisma - 3

Force of Will - 3

War Strategy - 1

Weapons (Sword Parrys) - 3

Combat Skill: Hollow Style, Subjugation - 3

Utility Skill: Parenting - 3