△ and what if you hadn't have been scraped off the floor and hadn't been taken under his wing. what then, ulquiorra. what would have happened.
——— unwillingness to answer: 1.
THE FLOOR — — !?
pray not, the filth he stepped upon now
was not of the same consistency he had
been lifted up from as true phoenixes with
mounted flame wings, rock as moon but
molten and gaseous as great suns which
dwarfed even the static shock of his mobile
destruction. pray tell, rather, of the perfect
white canvas he had crucified himself upon
by the guidance of his mistress bat-dragon
death; it is of true beauty, but cardinally, he
must cleanse his mind’s palette of the previ-
-ously imagined gutters which inevitably
formed of the mulch that occupies las noches
vast lord of his own ghostly utopia, he had
seen upon the forwards reaching, unattain-
-able horizon the mirage of a tree matching
in bleakness to what had been sculpted of
his once humanly form, beautiful marble in
awaiting of further refinement in order to at
least reach the galaxies trapped so far from
entering breathing lips and being swallowed
to the matching despairs of his stomach. who
then, was to tell him between mouthfuls of
his unprotected flesh that he could not venture
towards the only true emptiness ( there was
difference to be had between existing and
merely blending in without meaning, and the
void of existence — able to be touched in its
tangibility, but not at all attainable lest LEST
YOU RR RR RR———-RIP IT OUT OF YOURSELF!
HANDFULS! HANDFULS! FILL THE OCEANS! ) ?
his cross had been a mismatched trail of branches
creating one too many hole within him, with no
blood to seep through cracks which closed
around wounds as though to accept them, to
everything in its right place.
he supposed, if he had not been graced upon
by the guiding will of sunless sun kissed and
incarnate god, he would have remained exalted
on his site of piercing for thousands upon the
thousands years he’d already been at peace.
how did you get a grip on your muse’s character?
i didn’t give up. i had lots of opportunity to, but i
stuck with what i was doing because it was fun
and people gave me support. i’m really grateful
for that. i found music and art and ideals to base
my entire characterization of off — and said to hell
with canon limitations. once you destroy boundaries,
you have a lot of fun and you get in deep. i have
confidence in myself and what i do, because if i didn’t,
i’d never do anything. i took to heart what people
said to me on how i could improve, and ran with it.
i’ll never forget when someone told me to have
ulquiorra speak less. my early writing of him is awful
until i got that advice. then my writing really changed
once i realized there was more to it than dialogue.
i look for people who really care about what they’re
writing. people who give their characters more than
a glance and then start writing them — people who
really delve into their canons but, moreover, their
headcanons. i follow my headcanons over canon,
so why not look for more of that? i also look for a style
that’d work good with mine; which doesn’t really have
a standard or anything specific i can list.
So if you want to push, I’m a shove
If you want to spar we can do it no gloves
And if you’re gonna run at me you better do it hard
Cuz I fear no fall, no brawl, no scars
I’m two pounds shy of a bomb
I’m one shade short of alarm
I’m too past wrath that I’m calm
Got two last laughs in my palms
I’m three degrees west of a hurricane
Four wheel drive with a ball ‘n chain
My five-foot-seven is irrelevant
I’m SIX-SIX-SIX if you threaten my development
△ How much do you actually care? About this squad, about me?
unwillingness to answer: 1.
and its tag alongs of apathetic lead — how they
grace him in times of necessity and the lack of
enthusiasm for all life and its mysteries of care,
how they allow him to take the law within his open,
emptied palms, and guide it to lodge firmly within
his chest as a replacement, his blood of bloods
and life of lives. is the law, the masses might weep
with reddened eyes of misunderstanding, their un-
-knowledge stemming from their humanity, what you
care about!? do you care about the law and its righteous
upholders, your soldiers!? it would be, then, in answer
a glaring cross of denial he hoists onto his shoulders,
for such is the burden he carries, and carries well.
no matter how long faithful and true blue ayumu has
slain over the desk he granted her, and no matter the
kindness of her turmoiled heart, he cannot comprehend
its mechanics and therefore kindle himself by the fire
of her care. it is a difficult thing, to be of martyr kind
and distance oneself from those one must cut apart
the veins unto — for those who are incapable of the work.
the gods of justice and jurisprudence have looked upon
him with goodness, the only sort he has ever known, and
gifted him with zanpakutō vile, but their souls are theirs
alone to look after. he is merely the vessel from which they
instruct and, in thus following manner, holds clutched to
a law book chest, antipathy.
it is remarkably unchallenging to look away with no weight
"You'll carry it with you if you want to survive.'
florence & the machine sentences.
blood boiling countenance
of ire that is no longer present within him, perfect being of
illustrious enlightenment who realizes he need not strong
wills to do great evils of the light, might have once been a
factor to consider in his reactionary still. the cant talk of this
torturous soul was of illegible, carrying no meaning to him
who undoubtedly understood all manner of speech. he of all
languages cannot decipher the carriage mentioned by —
WHO IS HE? a court of five hundred tosses their judging
stones as arrow rain from the acropolis outcrop, outrage he
feeds through his unfeeling, WHO IS HE? WHO IS THIS FLASH
OF RED? WASTE! WASTE! WASTE! WASTE! indeed now he
ponders the familiarity of a marked face, ponders the reason
of his continued existence. wastes should be properly disposed
of ( it is not of his desire to bother in such, enlisting the helps
by lowly serving brutes to do the bidding of the ultimate scapegoat
servant [ he understands his purpose well, but not that of opposite
contender ] ), and yet here before him is the epitome of lacklustre.
if grasping beauty and subsequent lack of such was a property
of his psyche, red would be decidedly hideous.
sharpened points of dragon talons — —
and i saw a beast rising out of the sea
WITH TEN HORNS AND SEVEN HEADS
with ten diadems on its horns and blasphemous
names on its heads.
and to it the dragon gave his power, and his
throne and great authority. one of its heads
seemed to have a mortal wound, but the mortal
wound was healed, and the whole world marvelled
as they followed the beast. and they worshipped the
dragon, for he had given his authority to the beast,
WHO IS LIKE THE BEAST,
AND WHO CAN FIGHT AGAINST IT?
— — etch crosses, down, side, down side, down side, down
side, strokes of bloodied scar that rose to scab before it healed
over, in consideration of the meaning of what was given to him
from the lips of red deceiver. surely, he must be a famed liar with
no part grain of truth, for it is a humourous consideration, that he
must do anything to survive but be as he is. in tow, he has with
him the weight of murciélago, merciful mistress of supernovae in
unbroken crown ( in the same aforethought hypothetical situation
of the existence and understanding of beauty, she is its supreme
definer, and he will lay her and her diamonds, pearls, power, glory
down ), and if she is what burden spread across his shoulders that
is necessary for survival, his not surviving is even grander of a chortle.
the struggle not to roll my eyes at people when they talk
The aura is only vaguely familiar, but everything is heavy with a thick fog of death in this place. This place- these arrancar, the supposed beginnings of a new species, a the dawn of a infant civilization the likes of which to rival the souls of the living and the so-called ‘whole’ dead, the latter of which which had been armed with nails and with teeth and with hot, spiky, bloody hatred just to keep the hollows out.
If that were any of Renji’s immediate business- or was perhaps more engaged in politics- he might be inclined to care more. He might be inclined to recognize this specter wrapped in white cloth like burial shrouds as a hazard, as toxic-waste green instead of lamb-skin white. But the Stray does not, and maybe it is apathy and maybe it is the exact opposite. He learns like a predator, through observation, through pawing at the unknown with heavy, black claws and cracking it between snapping jaws. It’s the survivalist’s gamble, the great evolutionary game of chance- who is more laden with stronger poison sitting in their veins, more acid gold in covetously hidden venom sacs? And who will need to use it when the time comes?
They are in ‘peace-time’ for lack of a better phrase to describe the crossings between the Gotei and the blind hand of Hunco Mundo. Renji is not expected to encounter any organized resistance or hostility. But a planet built on the backs of demons, of snapping, hungry maws that rip souls apart like a blade rips through flesh is a planet assembled, in theory, with some hostility naturally inclined.
And any creature used to slithering around the heels of the arguably strongest forces of the known universe on a regular basis knows how to taste the familiar scent of power, engorged and obscene, on it’s flitting, forked tongue. He can taste it on the empty soul like the taste of metal and blood and volcanic ashes, and he would rather see the source of that taste speared than see it on in any war’s army, but he is ordered (to strongly paraphrase) not to waste his body dying out here in the vast nighttime void when he could waste it dying on a slab of rubble on the front lines.
Such is the ever bubbling spring of faith that brings Renji back to this hellhole. He doesn’t for a moment doubt that his own blood is still buried somewhere under these very ruins.
There’s not much bark to back up that bluff, a cautious pawing at the creature rising out of the sand like a leviathan out of the sea. But it’s energy feels almost more of ‘object’ more than ‘creature’. Renji’s voice projects the toneless, kindless rasp of the a solider encountering the enemy that he was trained to be.
“I don’t know how you ‘locals’ do it. But ‘s far as I know, when someone talks t’ ya’ it’s real nice to listen.”
He may he out of his depth here. The being that stands before him might not even be capable of speech for all Renji knows. And it would be just his luck for the first thing that looks like it might be worth any use to be, in reality, too primitive for communication.
“— — — i’m always listening.”
true nuclear winter from breadth breath as JUDGE
JURY EXECUTIONER JUDGE JURY EXECUTIONER
JUDGE JURY EXECUTIONER JUDGE JURY EXEC-
-UTIONER spreads the jaws of little part life and
majority steel bite. he is of stainless steel words;
the great rip of flesh twined hinges, ah… stop… a
part is trapped, grown from disuse over a incisor as
flowers in an unmilled, undeveloped land, now fused
to metal as though it is truly accepted in the vast
ecosystem of grandiose pallidity his body has always
been. captured, then, is this skin, until constricting
tendrils of snake fingers are so merciful as to lift it
over, snap! it into place beneath the artificial lip of
knives for teeth.
until, the alliteration of four… four… four… four…, it
is indeed captured as a spider might spin himself into
a web of his own patterned madness, pleading of his
mistakes and, lo, glinting eyes of terror and pincers of
I MEANT TO DO IT as he rejoices in his capabilities to
yet survive himself — for if he might weather the storm
of his entangling wrath, he is most powerful. he knows
a spider far too well, within their own respective labo-
-ratory he dares not venture into ( unspeakable horror
he already is, and has witnessed — oh, so not to swallow
a carefully constructed train of fluidity in thought, he
recalls many a time of destroyed mirrors so has not to
gaze upon tear irrationality — it is not worry of what cannot
be stomached ), but dogs he knows not. what enigmas
swathed in the intricacies of pound paradoxes he finds
them to be; and scalpels are dull in comparison to his
gleaming discernment, which sculpts away blackened
robe and flesh of unworth.
blessed with insight and its subsequent intelligence
( observation for many multiples of thousands in year
counts harbours only the greatest such ), cifer martyred
finds, verily, many a thing to consider for this intruder’s
intrusion. would he sooner be assimilated into the deepest
intestine of a great fish in the oceans of barrenness than
find the reason for his coming here? is he the crimson cain,
come to strip him of his god’s favour and all the fruitful
harvests of his working hands? laughable, the notion of
being at all overpowered. DASH HIM UPON THE STONES.
BLEED OUT THE EXCESS LITTER — WHAT FILTH. alas,
beauteous servants are rid of anger, and any ideas borne
of anger induced activities are product of inky evils come,
all bared tentacle, to become tyrants. he is met his allowance
of sing song breath through the tubes of a metal throat.
"I never knew daylight could be so violent."
florence & the machine sentences.
AND NO MARVEL;
FOR SATAN HIMSELF IS TRANSFORMED INTO
AN ANGEL OF LIGHT. is it of any surprise, that
the most destructive thing would be something of
peace and hope? for god so loved the world, he
harnessed not the moon and its stand still tug and
pull ( no doubt, a blackened moon too close would
raise waves too high — but can the sun not scorch
what was water, and the steam was only the jurisdiction
of the heat to create burns that would go by without
soothing, devoured water ), but he took into his hands
the brilliant toxic star, and catered to it with hydrous
words of benevolence. inactive violence, with no arg-
-ument worthy of the marbled maze of his ears, was
the all consuming factor of natural selection.
those with anger detectable to all around became
spectacles, easily observed, and therefore an alarm
ringing long before it is struck. but hark! he is the
silent doom; faraway quasars building speed and,
for precious minutes, cooling before striking. inaction
provides a palpable air of suspense, so thick no
muscle corded arm of even the tallest, overshadowing
of giants could strike through it. inaction becomes his
bared weapon, not the stirrings of blades and the both-
-ersome burden of abilities. is it yet still any surprise that
he, wondrous archangel, is capable of terribly beautiful
massacres? beware; pointed queen, he is a magma liquid spear.