Post by Marcelius on Jun 1, 2014 9:16:12 GMT -5
Did he know it? Did he understand his predicament? The Shinigami was alone now. Miserably and hysterically alone. It did not matter what his eyes told him. It made no difference what he might feel or suspect. This world around him was another's reality, real but dominated by a evil will. They existed in the very whims of the aberration itself. The forest that had been burned and leveled, it was only by it's allowance. Even the sky and the soot which remained, everything in it's control. At any moment, the air within them could disperse. Even the lights which flickered in their souls, could be snuffed at a whim. Such was the totality of the darkness about them. It waited, poised, to crush them in it's weight. There was nothing anyone could do to help. The Hollow or fellow Reaper...they might as well be distant memories from a time of wake. In here, they could do nothing. In our nightmares, no matter how many faces we see, we're always alone.
Now was no different; except that the dream were real. Did he doubt it? Could logic build a barrier of ignorance and faith that might withstand truth's coming onslaught? The answer did not really matter. Whether he would be convinced of it or not, the Death God would be given evidence. The once cooing breathes of the innocent girl...now drawn to a close. Rather than just die and fall into that blessed rest, she would stir with new sound and purpose. Her noise, corrupted by a maestro of the cruelest style. The way her face had been twisted; remade to better please her new host. Such was the way of this world. It's world. Walking past them as though they were not there, the young woman hobbled towards the other one. The child drawn from the belly of the shadow seeming to beckon her. How would it feel, to watch helplessly at this scene? Witnessing such a loving display, a most intimate slaughter? Surely it must pain some part within the Soul Reaper? Surely logic failed him...when seeing a mother rip the life from her own child. Illusion or not. Acknowledgement or not. Such an event could not possibly leave his heart steely. After all, he was no monster. By his kind's admission, and his own, he was not so despicable as a Hollow. So how could he possibly let one of those masked monsters...show more concern than he?
"No!", his conscious pleaded. "Not her...not this one, please!", again his mind whimpered. The normal depth and strength which was his voice, no broken and emasculated. Even though he begged within his mind, he could not imagine himself a stronger tone. That was how far his psyche had been drug. Pulled and trailed through the mud and filth of weakness. There was little will left to his resistance. Spineless even, merely a show with no strength to follow. Yes, he could bleat for mercy and passover...but he could do nothing to take it. Nothing to secure what his desires so helplessly requested. Just what was his wish? Pity, really. But not for himself. He knew he had brought his own punishments unto his head. So for who then? Mayhaps the Shinigami which stood with him, facing down the trial and terror before them? Certainly...in this extreme of circumstance, the old Hollow might feel compassion for them as well? Yes, it would have done his soul good to know he could bargain for their safety, too.
However, the Reapers were not his priority. They, like he, came here of their own intention. So the only victim that remained, was that of the father's daughter. That hapless young woman who found herself entangled in the showdown of monsters. The true innocent among them. The only sheep among wolves. It was for her that he grovelled. For her life and well being that he would dare speak out to an Espada...a lord and master of his country and fate. "Do not go!", voice hoarse from exhaustion. "Young one no...stop!!" With all his otherworldly strength, he could not pull her back. Watching her crawl past him, working to her feet; the Fraccion reached out to grab her. No sooner did his fingers grip into her clothing, did she tug away with baffling might. A dark purpose guided her. A sinister hand which ushered her to ruin, and gave her the power to rebuff any obstacle which might save her from the tragedy ahead.
Her strength, the strength loaned from the vile master, was enough to stop the elder. Were he a better man...perhaps a younger man, maybe his struggle might have mattered. But he was neither of those. Neither powerful or a youth. So she escaped. Drawn to the devil, felled by darkness. Her very existence became a torment for him. Even without direct sight, his mind filled by the sight of her crooked new smile. His soul made miserable by the ever growing disturbance in her heart. Nerves jittering as she drew nearer the child...the one so conveniently summoned. Another innocent made victim of a victim, a sight most cruel for this soul in particular.so terrible...that it caused a most nostalgic pain in his chest. A feeling of burning, and breaking. A sensation of a hollow place within him...spreading, overtaking the rest of him. The emptiness growing.
Why was this happening? How did her life become this horror story that it was? Everyday a test of courage, and every night a failure. Ahnuun had spent years dreaming of nothing more than a family. Never wanting any treasure but that of a husband and children to call her own. All her life she had been promised such rewards; instructed that they were the best she could expect. Oh, how her heart was made glad by these lessons. Taking in the joy and filling her dreams with it. Never once did she complain about her predestined life. Never cross by her lack of freedom. Instead, she felt nothing but excitement. Anticipation for when these promises might be fulfilled. Now...years later, she finds that they did indeed come true. Married off to a neighbor's son, a handsome boy no older than herself. Years pass still and she has become surrounded by children. Each of them looking so much like her; though she thinks herself humbly plain, in each child she sees untold beauty. But...it does not last.
The days grow shorter, as short as her husband's patience. Bringing the evening on ever faster, as well as his return from daily work. The nights are dark, filled with angry words and pleas for mercy. Frustration takes over the life of her former lover, his gentle touch replaced by painful assaults. The reason for the aggression? Unknown. The change seems immediate and uninspired. Darkness suddenly took him, and now threatened to consume her. Fear. It is all she knows now. Love long fleeting from her mind. But the fear is not for her, or the life she may forfeit to another's wrath. Her terror is for the little ones, whom her body cannot shield forever. Time passes slowly, like a prisoner's sentence. On and on her battered body goes, until the inevitable finally comes. A night which her conscience may never forget. Her husband's return, his annoyance worse than routine. A beating which leaves her aching, inside and out. While the savagery of his lashes echoed through her body, the thought of her death never left. Her children left alone, to suffer under his torment.
Her life ended, premature...while unhappiness still clutched her heart. All the things she would miss. Her children growing old, making families of their own. The death of the man who turned her childhood dreams of heaven...into a hell. But on that night; which Ahnuun would never forget, she was not killed by a malicious spouse. Instead, she survived...long enough to feel the comfort of her children. They came to her, all five of them, eager to express their concern. Though she was battered, feeling weak from her wounds, she clutched them close. She squeezed them near, so that she could feel their affection and know the love she wished for as a child. The held them tight, with all her strength...and one by one, strangled the life from each. She would never survive her husband's growing rage, increasing brutality. Knowing her death was to come, she refused to let her wish go. The idea of dying while her children went on...filled her with greedy hate. They were her dream, and she would not lose them to that man, or anyone...not even her own death. Taking each of them first...Ahnuun would remember the final climb she made unto the roof of her home. The penitentiary of dreams she had endured for so many painful years. And with the knowledge that her beloved young ones await on the other side...flung herself from the nightmare. Hitting the earth did not cause her death...it merely woke her up.
A sudden jolt tore through the Marcelius large body. The sudden resurgence of a long buried memory...painfully trigger his body to action. Every nerve and fiber commanded by a powerful shock, causing the whole of his figure to twist and jerk. Muscles and tendons began to jerk. They cringed and drew him into a ball. His body wretched so viciously, that he could not react to the fall. Collapsing from all fours, left to wallow into a fetal position. Though the spasm was quite strong and pronounced, it ended as instantly as it began. What was this display? Why...an act of terror. A horrid instinct...a reaction of the body; which spurned from agony of the mind. This sort of tremor was employed by the subconscious, to rouse one from uneasy rest. The immediate and notable shudder would come when one's imagination became too vivid or wild. Reins used to snap the dreamer from a nightmare...well before their suffering could become any worse. Normally, once was enough. Plucked from the dreamscape, the soul should be panting and in a cold sweat. Eyes open and mind aware of it's safe surroundings. But...following the Arrancar's spasm, another one came. Then soon after, another. Several of these overwhelming responses would occur. Each one causing more stress to his wearied body than the last. Poor Marc...he could not wake. His eyes were already open, and his mind well aware of his surroundings' authenticity. This was not a dream he could simply escape. This was a Nightmare, unlike any normal act of imagination. The tortures to come...were unavoidable. Yet he could not stop his body from trying. He could not stave off the quaking.
Fleeing was hopeless. Standing was laughable. Support was inexistence. Death...the ever looming certainty. Marcelius...wracked by pain from the present and the past, was nothing to this conflict now. His feeble body now joined by an equally languid brain. Thoughts scattered between not one life,but countless. Torn across the ages...reliving the misery of this existence through the contrition of a nation of others. Just as his physical self began to convulse in it's suffering, so to did his mind. Reaching out as he had with his hand, his thoughts hoped to catch hold of someone...anyone not trapped by the Primera's darkness. Though this effort was reflex, it took the form of Pesquisa. The instinctual response of this Arrancar's unsettled mind. The feedback alone from such a technique would be quite immense for him. Bouncing off such entities as Adalo was like striking a hornet's nest. The only thing found is a writhing horde and intense pain. So with this simple act of compulsion, the Fraccion furthered his languor. All that remained to topple was his soul. The bastion of willpower and might that he and all occupants of the afterlife relied upon. If the Primera were set to cook up more tortures such as one child ruthlessly murdering another...then his soul would not last. It was at this time that the ancient empath looked to the figure of Zeich. In this standoff -between Soul Society and Las Noches- who should he wish to succeed? Maybe there was no right answer. Maybe, no matter which wish he made, the outcome would be as detrimental as the fall from a high roof...
Remaining Reiatsu - 160/1200
-100, Pesquisa (Mostly for Cinematic effect, but used all the same!)
Now was no different; except that the dream were real. Did he doubt it? Could logic build a barrier of ignorance and faith that might withstand truth's coming onslaught? The answer did not really matter. Whether he would be convinced of it or not, the Death God would be given evidence. The once cooing breathes of the innocent girl...now drawn to a close. Rather than just die and fall into that blessed rest, she would stir with new sound and purpose. Her noise, corrupted by a maestro of the cruelest style. The way her face had been twisted; remade to better please her new host. Such was the way of this world. It's world. Walking past them as though they were not there, the young woman hobbled towards the other one. The child drawn from the belly of the shadow seeming to beckon her. How would it feel, to watch helplessly at this scene? Witnessing such a loving display, a most intimate slaughter? Surely it must pain some part within the Soul Reaper? Surely logic failed him...when seeing a mother rip the life from her own child. Illusion or not. Acknowledgement or not. Such an event could not possibly leave his heart steely. After all, he was no monster. By his kind's admission, and his own, he was not so despicable as a Hollow. So how could he possibly let one of those masked monsters...show more concern than he?
"No!", his conscious pleaded. "Not her...not this one, please!", again his mind whimpered. The normal depth and strength which was his voice, no broken and emasculated. Even though he begged within his mind, he could not imagine himself a stronger tone. That was how far his psyche had been drug. Pulled and trailed through the mud and filth of weakness. There was little will left to his resistance. Spineless even, merely a show with no strength to follow. Yes, he could bleat for mercy and passover...but he could do nothing to take it. Nothing to secure what his desires so helplessly requested. Just what was his wish? Pity, really. But not for himself. He knew he had brought his own punishments unto his head. So for who then? Mayhaps the Shinigami which stood with him, facing down the trial and terror before them? Certainly...in this extreme of circumstance, the old Hollow might feel compassion for them as well? Yes, it would have done his soul good to know he could bargain for their safety, too.
However, the Reapers were not his priority. They, like he, came here of their own intention. So the only victim that remained, was that of the father's daughter. That hapless young woman who found herself entangled in the showdown of monsters. The true innocent among them. The only sheep among wolves. It was for her that he grovelled. For her life and well being that he would dare speak out to an Espada...a lord and master of his country and fate. "Do not go!", voice hoarse from exhaustion. "Young one no...stop!!" With all his otherworldly strength, he could not pull her back. Watching her crawl past him, working to her feet; the Fraccion reached out to grab her. No sooner did his fingers grip into her clothing, did she tug away with baffling might. A dark purpose guided her. A sinister hand which ushered her to ruin, and gave her the power to rebuff any obstacle which might save her from the tragedy ahead.
Her strength, the strength loaned from the vile master, was enough to stop the elder. Were he a better man...perhaps a younger man, maybe his struggle might have mattered. But he was neither of those. Neither powerful or a youth. So she escaped. Drawn to the devil, felled by darkness. Her very existence became a torment for him. Even without direct sight, his mind filled by the sight of her crooked new smile. His soul made miserable by the ever growing disturbance in her heart. Nerves jittering as she drew nearer the child...the one so conveniently summoned. Another innocent made victim of a victim, a sight most cruel for this soul in particular.so terrible...that it caused a most nostalgic pain in his chest. A feeling of burning, and breaking. A sensation of a hollow place within him...spreading, overtaking the rest of him. The emptiness growing.
Why was this happening? How did her life become this horror story that it was? Everyday a test of courage, and every night a failure. Ahnuun had spent years dreaming of nothing more than a family. Never wanting any treasure but that of a husband and children to call her own. All her life she had been promised such rewards; instructed that they were the best she could expect. Oh, how her heart was made glad by these lessons. Taking in the joy and filling her dreams with it. Never once did she complain about her predestined life. Never cross by her lack of freedom. Instead, she felt nothing but excitement. Anticipation for when these promises might be fulfilled. Now...years later, she finds that they did indeed come true. Married off to a neighbor's son, a handsome boy no older than herself. Years pass still and she has become surrounded by children. Each of them looking so much like her; though she thinks herself humbly plain, in each child she sees untold beauty. But...it does not last.
The days grow shorter, as short as her husband's patience. Bringing the evening on ever faster, as well as his return from daily work. The nights are dark, filled with angry words and pleas for mercy. Frustration takes over the life of her former lover, his gentle touch replaced by painful assaults. The reason for the aggression? Unknown. The change seems immediate and uninspired. Darkness suddenly took him, and now threatened to consume her. Fear. It is all she knows now. Love long fleeting from her mind. But the fear is not for her, or the life she may forfeit to another's wrath. Her terror is for the little ones, whom her body cannot shield forever. Time passes slowly, like a prisoner's sentence. On and on her battered body goes, until the inevitable finally comes. A night which her conscience may never forget. Her husband's return, his annoyance worse than routine. A beating which leaves her aching, inside and out. While the savagery of his lashes echoed through her body, the thought of her death never left. Her children left alone, to suffer under his torment.
Her life ended, premature...while unhappiness still clutched her heart. All the things she would miss. Her children growing old, making families of their own. The death of the man who turned her childhood dreams of heaven...into a hell. But on that night; which Ahnuun would never forget, she was not killed by a malicious spouse. Instead, she survived...long enough to feel the comfort of her children. They came to her, all five of them, eager to express their concern. Though she was battered, feeling weak from her wounds, she clutched them close. She squeezed them near, so that she could feel their affection and know the love she wished for as a child. The held them tight, with all her strength...and one by one, strangled the life from each. She would never survive her husband's growing rage, increasing brutality. Knowing her death was to come, she refused to let her wish go. The idea of dying while her children went on...filled her with greedy hate. They were her dream, and she would not lose them to that man, or anyone...not even her own death. Taking each of them first...Ahnuun would remember the final climb she made unto the roof of her home. The penitentiary of dreams she had endured for so many painful years. And with the knowledge that her beloved young ones await on the other side...flung herself from the nightmare. Hitting the earth did not cause her death...it merely woke her up.
A sudden jolt tore through the Marcelius large body. The sudden resurgence of a long buried memory...painfully trigger his body to action. Every nerve and fiber commanded by a powerful shock, causing the whole of his figure to twist and jerk. Muscles and tendons began to jerk. They cringed and drew him into a ball. His body wretched so viciously, that he could not react to the fall. Collapsing from all fours, left to wallow into a fetal position. Though the spasm was quite strong and pronounced, it ended as instantly as it began. What was this display? Why...an act of terror. A horrid instinct...a reaction of the body; which spurned from agony of the mind. This sort of tremor was employed by the subconscious, to rouse one from uneasy rest. The immediate and notable shudder would come when one's imagination became too vivid or wild. Reins used to snap the dreamer from a nightmare...well before their suffering could become any worse. Normally, once was enough. Plucked from the dreamscape, the soul should be panting and in a cold sweat. Eyes open and mind aware of it's safe surroundings. But...following the Arrancar's spasm, another one came. Then soon after, another. Several of these overwhelming responses would occur. Each one causing more stress to his wearied body than the last. Poor Marc...he could not wake. His eyes were already open, and his mind well aware of his surroundings' authenticity. This was not a dream he could simply escape. This was a Nightmare, unlike any normal act of imagination. The tortures to come...were unavoidable. Yet he could not stop his body from trying. He could not stave off the quaking.
Fleeing was hopeless. Standing was laughable. Support was inexistence. Death...the ever looming certainty. Marcelius...wracked by pain from the present and the past, was nothing to this conflict now. His feeble body now joined by an equally languid brain. Thoughts scattered between not one life,but countless. Torn across the ages...reliving the misery of this existence through the contrition of a nation of others. Just as his physical self began to convulse in it's suffering, so to did his mind. Reaching out as he had with his hand, his thoughts hoped to catch hold of someone...anyone not trapped by the Primera's darkness. Though this effort was reflex, it took the form of Pesquisa. The instinctual response of this Arrancar's unsettled mind. The feedback alone from such a technique would be quite immense for him. Bouncing off such entities as Adalo was like striking a hornet's nest. The only thing found is a writhing horde and intense pain. So with this simple act of compulsion, the Fraccion furthered his languor. All that remained to topple was his soul. The bastion of willpower and might that he and all occupants of the afterlife relied upon. If the Primera were set to cook up more tortures such as one child ruthlessly murdering another...then his soul would not last. It was at this time that the ancient empath looked to the figure of Zeich. In this standoff -between Soul Society and Las Noches- who should he wish to succeed? Maybe there was no right answer. Maybe, no matter which wish he made, the outcome would be as detrimental as the fall from a high roof...
Remaining Reiatsu - 160/1200
-100, Pesquisa (Mostly for Cinematic effect, but used all the same!)