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New Soul
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Post by zen on Mar 6, 2017 1:50:33 GMT
| | FULL NAME HERE | | Character quote here keep it short | nickname/alias || gender || sexual orientation || hollow class
age of appearance || age of death || real age |
APPEARANCE
before we can even begin to describe his form, we should start with his most obvious feature. His reiatsu, it does not wash out from him, or cascade like many, No his reiatsu is like a vacuum, a great pull, as if a VOID of power filling the space. but as you get pulled in, the sensory cascade falls upon you. Many feel an emotional sensation, a sense of fear, or joy, or sadness from reiatsu. But Zen simply begins as a sensation of inevitably. an impending sense of SOMETHING oncoming. something inescapable, unstoppable. And as he draws closer, the feelings fades, replaced by an immense sense of satisfaction, an immense void, an absence of power pulling you in that seems pervaded with its own gratification.
The emotional response, like the sense of fulfillment, like a full belly, a plan come together, a task accomplished. It feels whole. where that void was, the hole in the world, the emptiness, it finally makes sense, the impending sense of oncoming presence. It was a hunt, the sensation of being followed, the passing of time, an unavoidable predator in pursuit. the void preceding the hunter... it was the feeling of hunger, of ambition, desire. an emptiness in your heart and you stomach. a pit that needs to be FILLED that WILL be filled. Time will devour the past, a vacuum will be filled, death will drag you down. Predator eats prey, gravity pulls you down.
it finally makes sense dragged before him. The void hungered. and now it is filled. your stomach feels full in his presence, the room temperate. Fulfillment in the air. Yet this feeling.... this comforting warmth, this cool breeze. the pleasant Aroma....
His reiatsu holds a smell, as if a million spices on the air, a grill firing, fresh wine opened. a veritable boquet of Aromas, the likes of which the greatest markets of the world could never approach. Warm, cold, spicy, fresh, sour, sweet. Mouthwatering, delicious, and pleasant. a spicefiend may smell the hot scent of garlic and peppers on the wind, a sweettoothed individual may smell the cane-sugar and honey mixed with cinnamon. a true connoisseur may detect the undertone of saffron under a warm plum sauce. as if a sandstorm broke into the spicemarket. a delicious sensation...
Yes, delicious, like fresh warm meal dripping with flavor, the juices from the meat, the sweetness of the cakes, like a wonderful full course dinner, the mix of flavors shifting, always well prepared, whether juicy meats, or freshly seasoned vegetables, or smokey herbs. The mouth waters around Zen, a pervading sense of pleasantry on your tongue. Spicy, but subtle, mixed with a cool minty taste, and then a sweet and sour dessert to finish it. whatever your tastes, the most delectable flavors play across your tongue.
even the sound of his aura, rumbling in the air, a gentle hum, matched to a bass note, the sound of pouring drinks and sliding plates softly in the background, but picking up to a violent cacophony under stress, the crashing of glass, the grinding of bones, the clanging of metal, times of hardship taint the entire display. what was a hunger satisfied. a pleasant almost perfect combination. Broken.
overwhelming spice, soured milk, burn meat, stale bread. a taste that is purely and horridly vile. the sensation on your skin, like pins and needles, like bugs across your skin, sticky, crawling. the full belly turning to a sense of naseau in the stomach, the scents turning bitter, rotten, like all the food and spices had spoiled or gone stale. every pleasantry of his aura replaced by a complete and total sense of just.... WRONG.
Unlike most beings, unless using his abilities of stealth, Zen cannot keep his reiatsu completely invisible, he may suppress it, prevent the area wide aura, but his form is always wreathed in it, this is the most visibly obvious feature of him, his vaguely humanoid form, the outline of wings, and tails, claws and teeth, six arms, each long and wiry with muscle, his entire frame, writhing, lean, and strong.
the beautiful colors oozing from it, golden saffron, and royal blue, writhing like smoke and flame around him the appearance of a cloud of dust floating around the blaze, painted with the color of his spices. Flying around his form at all times, oozing from him. the millenia have worn his flesh down, his spirit strong, as if he is more reiatsu than man.
beneath this roaring aura. his form is seen. the black pitch eyes of a hollow, their golden iris, slit and staring out at you, even his aura cannot shroud the gaze. His eyes large and sharp in his skull, His entire head cloaked in bone.
Where many hollows have marking upon their mask, Zens reptillian skull, with its curved horns, framing his jaw, carved with spiralling runes, and his mask layered over with an elaborate starburst pattern. The tracings of it carved with a beautiful violet hue. This mask, with its teeth, running curled in waves, sharlike, razor edged, almost metallic, a sea of dagger in his jaw, a long black tongue in the center, bifurcated halfway down, his jaws massive, the twin tendrils dexterous and writhing like serpents.
as we descend below his skull, we reach his neck, long and thick, lean and muscular against him, hunched forward between his shoulders, armor plating rippling down, scalemail forged of the same bone and edged with the metal of his mask and teeth respectively. His broad catlike shoulders, wide and leathery wings,
Like the dragons of legend, his body feline and serpentine in equal measure, powerful hindlegs, his joints rotating in free motion, the scales rippling in motion with every twitch of his body, his ironhard belly contrasting with the myth of their soft underside. Zen moves bipedal or on his limbs, six powerful arms and thick pillars of legs, swiftly moving insectlike, with the gait of a big cat and the writhing motion of a lizard.
Twitchy, smooth in motion, but ever moving, shifting, becoming only still when faced with prey, his motion ceased, as if statue like, not even his chest moving with breath, his rippling scales flush against his skin.
his center arm limbs end in fierce natural weapons, segmented claws, edged like blades, serrated and curved like sickles, seperated by three sets of knuckles, segments locking together or flexing in motion as needed, twirling and snapping in scissor motion at all times, dextrous and lithe, often decorated with the remains of his last meal, dried spices stuck to the sides, blood caked on and mixed with the juices of fruit. a warm bloody amber color, above these, hardened plating upon his hands, the claws segmenting and curling into hammerlike fists, solid armoring dense and strong over his hands. his first of two sets of elbows ending in fierce spikes, pointed to a needletip and hooked along the shaft, ripping flesh away on exit wounds, his next set of joints wielding edged teeth writhing and grinding with the scales, shredding like saws clenching to rip away at meat.
his strong shoulder atop his body his scales built up into thick ramming instruments, extra muscle built to support his frame and strong powerful claws, as his top set of limbs, strong, muscular, drooping down, long and powerful, massive solid talons like a mighty bird of prey end, taking the entire hand with it, perfectly suited for slashing and slapping. but lacking dexterity save for their ability to clench tightly and wrap.
but his last set of arms clenched tight to his body like a mantis, ending in horrid scythelike talons. two apiece. one elbow, snapping like an insect in powerful rapid motion. the bladers extending for massive stabbing or falling in horrid slashing motion.
even his legs, prehensile like hands, the same horrible claws, but one, massive raptor talon upon each. pillar like, and pulsing with strength. built to drop down and push, in great leaps and bounds. pouncing, and gliding across the field in mighty gallops. his heel raised and hardened. the four fingerlike claws and the talon clenching into the hard growth into the "heel" crushing and slicing whatever is between him, his feet are not built for walking upon the ground but cutting through it.
at a glance one may think zen a dragon. but when you get close you see. he is a horrid amalgam of creatures. with the segmented joints, and the rough sharklike hide, his mantis talons, he is a thing of nightmare, of war and battle, cloaked in the scents and sounds of delight but his visage is one of war. Every inch of him built for murder. every inch right down to the tail,
a long, thick, tendril, a massive hooklike stinger tipping the end, its flesh, tipped with thinner, sharper, denser scales than the rest of him, as if to squeeze and rip away the flesh of his foe in its python grip.
Zen is not a man, he is a monster, a predator, his razor skin, like the hide of a shark, his talons like weapons, rows of teeth in reversing orders like saw blades. his flesh writhing like a serpent and bounding like a beast in equal measure. His towering height, and wiry muscle, his flesh, heavy and armored thick with tremendous weight, but the frame built for its own support.
His wings end the image. grand and mighty things, where the frame of a bat is long thin structures, the bones and muscle of his wings are thick and strong, jointed but locking together. the leather thick and tough, the backs covered in the same horrid scales on the "fingers" and trunk of these things, he often wears the draped like a cape, unfurling their mighty span for flight or war, the outer edge, bladed, and the fingers tipped with spikes. his wings could almsot act as mighty limbs of their own save for the webbed leather between them,
He is a weapon made, forged, born of death and betrayal, each life building upon his form until the perfect predator seen today.
And yet, his posture, something oft ignored by others. rarely is he provoked or agitated, Zem stands at all times, tall and regal. His posture gentle and friendly, confident in himself. his movements focused, intentful. His actions methodical and thought out, but quick and rapid, guided by instinct and experience. He is ironclaw, old and strong, but he is a gentle soul, his form built for war, but he carries himself in a way of peace.
The conflict ever present even in his battle. Moving in respect with his foe. but brutal, wild, and terrible. But he is no animal. He is no man.
No. whether between the confidence in his stride, the force of his reiatsu, or the horror of his form, Zen is a monster, a killer. and worse. a killer unprovoked. His rage obvious, his scales raising and rippling in fury, raised, making his entire form look bulky and angry, sadness stilling the muscles, smoothing his skin over. His body language as much of what one sees as the form he wears.]
PERSONALITY
"I am old, and tired, but I'll be damned if the world burns on anything but my stovetop." Zen is an old soul, gentle, but weary and worn by the millenia of strife. What the shinigami view as peace he views as slaughter and torment, where the quincy view times of glory he sees genocide, where hollows see years of plenty and prosperity Zen only knows horror and bloodshed. Where once he partook in the glory of battle, the thrill of the hunt, the Ecstasy of the kill. Now? Zen only wants to keep going. Driven on by his mind, calmed by experience, pushed by his undying will.
Zen once lay broken and empty in the menos forest, caring not for anything. He cooked grand meals as his passion out of habit, carved vast grotesques and shaped his grand glassworks. His palace of memories. Empty and hollow. like his heart. But now? he knows purpose. he remembers what it is to live. Zen is old yes, and he is tired. Tired of falling, tired of endless horror, tired of the never ending war.
Does he desire peace? No, gentle and wise he displays himself. but he is warrior born to his core. He was hunter when mankind clawed its way out the dirt, he was a bandit when the first settlements came on the rivers, a guardian in the oldest cities, he marched in the legions of history. With glory and honor in his heart. He is a monster born of war and conquest. Always the soldier, the assasin, the hunter, the monster. No more. Zen would be his own. No more kings or captains or chiefs. He does not desire peace. he desires war.
He is tired of the never ending war, yet he loves its glory, and the dichotomy is not lost on him. he settles it quite simply. Conquest, Zen will wage a grand and bloody war against the realms. He despises the shinigami and their egotism and hypocrisy. He yearns to drag down the kleptocracy that is Las noches, for it is a blight on the land. He wishes to crash down the towers of Las arenas for their complacency, See the escudo brought to justice for turning hueco mundo against itself. Xcution shattered, the vandenreich brought low.
Zen tired of their war. because they had forgotten the glory, the honor. their war was one of treachery and betrayal and cruelty. But His war. His war would be one worthy of his gods.
Yes, his gods. Zen is not bloodthirsty or battlecrazy but he seeks the glory of battle as much as he seeks conquest. For He worships his gods. The "War gods" are fickle but loving in his mind. They seek greatness for their children. They seek strength. The Wargods would see the weak rise up in power, and the strong banded together. The gods would see battles of honor and grandeur. The shinigami once held their love, but they grew corrupt, seeking to command not protect. the hollows held favor but they could not unite, their leaders fell and their glory was lost to the ages for it. the quincy held it. humans held it. Yet they all failed. the favor of the gods changing hands. until this final age...
Zen sees no blessedness in the world. The War gods would see learning, yet kouhai hoards the bounty of the sands, the shinigami enforce ignorance upon the realms, the humans hold secrets from eachother. Zen will see enlightment across the realms, strength brought to the people. In Zen's eyes, he wishes to see the world torn apart, and he will drag it back from the brink of doom to greatness unknown.
He hates all those who hold power in this day. But he loves the people of these worlds. He wishes to see soul society made to the heaven it claims, he wishes to see Hueco mundo turned into an empire of glory to shame the kingdoms of man, he wishes the earth to be a utopia. And the only flame to prepare this grand dish is the fires of war.
He is a complicated man. Gentle in temperament, refined in taste. He loves art, beauty, conversation. but he tempers this with a brutality towards his foes and a hatred undying. He loves without limit, but hates without bounds as well. The ages have not dulled his emotions, only heightened them. One could say that he is almost mad. obsessed.
Yes.... obsession, he is obsessed. his drive is unbreaking, tearing forth at any cost. Tunneling towards his ambitions without care, He will forsake anything and everything. driving himself to the point of insanity and manic before he yields. And even in his most broken he remains cold. His mind keen with the sharpening of ageborn wisdom. His madness aimed and focused. For he is beyond the loss of control. he has learned to channel himself towards victory. He will claim his obsessions. no matter what, or who they are.
And often, when it is a Who not a what. Zen's loyalty. his brotherhood is unmatched. as unyielding in his friendship as his ambition. He will tear down the mountains to carve his allies a path, he will draw down the sky so they may clamber up it. For as his ambitions will sacrifice anything. These are the people he will sacrifice for. Even his enemies will earn this respect. He will fight them with honor and dignity. he will never humiliate or torment them. No. They deserve better. and even if they dont. Zen is a man of honor.
His honor that leads him always to seek his own growth. He will find great foes, he will seek out mighty secrets, and create grand techniques. He has learned many things. a thirst for battle, a love for the arts, a grasp of martial arts and warfare. the academics of kido, ginto, and all the arts of the spirit.
But the art he most prides himself? the art of cooking.In all the worlds of creation, from the towering heavens above to the pits of hell, He finds nothing more perfect. An army must eat, peace is held over feasts. And he loves food, It brings him joy, to see peoples faces stuffed and belly full, to hear the clinking of forks on plates and the conversation over dinner. Food is love, and life, it is an art form, a good cook, a great chef, is an artist and a savant. To cook is to be divine.
A good meal is a sure way top earn his respect, but his tastes are picky, and developed. Impressing him is difficult, and he disdains mediocrity in a meal, unsatisfied with common fare, he tastes only the best. From fine down-home cooking to gourmet delicatessen, he loves it all, and hates those who tarnish it. difficult to sway in his opinion.... he fervidly holds the belief of somebodies tastes sharing a great deal of themselves in it.
In all things he shares this stubbornness, impressing him is difficult, He has witnessed the passing of ages, seen the grand legions of Cain and the kings of hueco mundo. He was there to witness the strength of the captain commanders. The lost might of the eldest bount. He has seen the grand edifices of rome and babylon. Heard symphonies in motion, and been to grand Concerts. He appreciates the finest things not because of any innate nobility or regality to himself, but simply out of his taste for them. He sees the joy of sport as much as the most delicate music. He has feasted on ambrosia worthy of deities. To impress him is to demonstrate something entirely new in the world.
Despite his aggrandized self confidence, he is aware of his own place in the cosmos, he is and likely never will be a rival to the great beings of this existence. He knows his limitations, he recognized the power of others. and he cares not. You may try to cast despair on his soul, but he has already dragged himself out of the abyss, you may seek vengeance upon him, but he has lived beyond a grudge since the dawn of time. you may hunt him as a monster, but he has always been pariah, and he never stepped down. Surrender is meaningless. Suicide, depression, nihilism. He drifts to them time and again. Yet it never matters. The years wear down his soul only to claw his way back to the world.
Death means nothing, for it has never held him down. Whether one day or one century, whether an instant or an eternity, he will move forward, it is all he can do. surrender is meaningless. His will is unbreakable for he knows there is nothing for him. He cannot give up, because it will never end, even the peace of death is lost to him. And so he fears nothing, and nobody, He has seen his friends grow tired and dull, or corrupt and mad. Yet he remains whole in his mind. He has never yielded for he cannot. And if he shall be forced to strive forward. he will lean into it. embrace it. His curse shall become his strength.
Strength, the strength to strive for greatness in knowledge of your boundaries and SHATTER them aside. The strength to quest on in belief of its futility and force victory, the strength to stand against the eons without measure and not fall. Strength means much. strength of arms, strength of mind, strength of heart, strength of character. If he sees something within you, he sees yet another spark of fire in the endless cold. and it drives him on.
On and on. His only companions torn from him. always united only to break again. He knows now. he is alone. and he accepts this. but he craves its end. the solitude, the endless loss, pains him to his core. and all he desires is to finally have something that will last for him....
HISTORY
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