Eidolon
Murderface Murderface
Two shinigami stood staring at one another, contrasted by purpose and looks. One, tall and blond, looked to another, lean and wiry. The former was a man who had abandoned his ideals and division, claiming a path of greed and desire for power in Rukongai, the second was a young Mystic of the Gotei, and seemingly outmatched.
“I suppose I should repeat that, more clearly. I can release my blade, so if you don’t have the ability to do that, I suggest running now. Or unleashing it now.” Syr looked to his enemy coldly, his zanpakutou at the ready. He waited for Creed’s move.
“He got in your way,” Creed started, looking down at the unmoving remains of the middle aged man, stomach ruptured from a large sword wound. “He got in your way, and you killed him.”
Syr’s even tenor voice responded simply, “So?”
“You son of a bitch.” Creed had more elegant words in his mind. Words to accuse this man of forcing all the risk and danger on another, and then rewarding that man with death at the first mistake. Of cowardice, of not understanding the nature of men. But all he could get out was that same line. “You stupid son of a bitch.” Naked anger was laid bare in his voice.
He saw it then, in response, Syr’s form and body tightening. Naturally, the youth would have suppressed the anger he felt welling within him, forced himself to approach the situation with a clear mind and purpose under control. But this, seeing the enemy recoil at the sign of anger, it sparked an urge to let it out.
And so he did. Leaning forward and brandishing his weapon in a single hand, his position and style barbaric, Creed sucked in all the air his lungs could take. A moment later, he found himself channeling the anger inside of him towards his enemy in a primal scream. A moment later, several other voices joined him. So caught up in the act, he failed to notice, even when a chorus of tormented voices were echoing his fury towards his enemy. In his right hand, the twisted and tinted blade shifted, until it stretched out into the form of a deadly spear.
Syr, all the while, recoiled. A pale aura had surrounded his opponent, visages of twisted faces swirling in the eddies of the solidified reiatsu, and his weapon was released. The power and visceral experience of the release had him staggered and defending, if only for a moment. Calm down, he chided himself mentally.
Shifting his stance and flexing his right wrist to extend the blade to a point directly at fury’s incarnation, he softly spoke. “Sap and subsume, إذبل .“ Shifting its shape, the katana quietly took on the form of an estoc, three eyes opening along the length of the blade, each currently a bright red in color.
Syr wated no time, stepping forward and jabbing, merely for a tap, against Creed’s right arm.
Mind pouring with fury and desire to kill, the Mystic did not consider the attack a threat, and instead prepared a counter, hoping to strike even as his opponent did. His blow, however, would come directly for the abdomen: a slow and painful death.
First, the blow from the estoc struck, and instead of following through, the blond shinigami instantly moved to a retreat, hoping to lessen the destruction that would come from Creed’s fully committed attack. In the corner of his own eye, he saw one of the blade’s turn a crisp blue. Its over, he thought with relief.
The tip of the Mystic’s spear found purchase, but the sudden retreat and lack of commitment on the light blow indeed made it too shallow to be fatal. For the next minute, that arm is dead. Retaking his posture, he could only watch with horror at what happened before him.
The ephemeral spirits dwelling in the personified rage about his enemy tore and clawed at own right arm, and the hue of the reiatsu grew closer to that of blood. The roof of the building about Creed was dissolving against the malevolent will of the release. Syr was starting to fear. Doesn’t matter, his weapon arm is dead. Step in and end it.
With a bent knee and shift of his hips, the former Walker of the Third tapped the tip of his blade against the Mystic’s chest, who merely stood there in turn, staring with blood fury in his eyes. With a quick leap back, the walker casually lowered his guard and offered, “Impressive release, but futile. Now, you die and I move on. It’s over.”
Smile taking his lips, the victor continued. “My release, it saps the life from any flesh it touches. All it takes is a little touch, and to that end, the once Kenpachi himself taught me how to fence aiming for only light blows. I only need commit when my opponent is subdued. Even now, you should be having great trouble breathing, its why you can’t talk.” Stepping forward, guard still lowered, the Walker change his grip on the estoc, wrapping fully around it for what would be a killing blow.
“Die,” the plethora of hateful voices spit out. But by the time the word had reached Syr’s ears, Creed had already appear in a new position, directly in against him, shoulders touching his own. From behind the two, a spear stuck straight out of the Walker’s abdomen, drenched in blood and intestine.
It was already too late for pain to matter, shock was instant. But if the blond could have felt his skin beginning to melt and tear away under the horrid caress of that vicious zanpakutou, it might have driven him mad. He fell back, limp, robes and skin marred in death and lifeblood pooling quickly all about him.
Above him, heaving and surrounded still by the crimson specters of wrath, he barely saw the mute scream of his killer before his vision turned to black.
[1,003]
“I suppose I should repeat that, more clearly. I can release my blade, so if you don’t have the ability to do that, I suggest running now. Or unleashing it now.” Syr looked to his enemy coldly, his zanpakutou at the ready. He waited for Creed’s move.
“He got in your way,” Creed started, looking down at the unmoving remains of the middle aged man, stomach ruptured from a large sword wound. “He got in your way, and you killed him.”
Syr’s even tenor voice responded simply, “So?”
“You son of a bitch.” Creed had more elegant words in his mind. Words to accuse this man of forcing all the risk and danger on another, and then rewarding that man with death at the first mistake. Of cowardice, of not understanding the nature of men. But all he could get out was that same line. “You stupid son of a bitch.” Naked anger was laid bare in his voice.
He saw it then, in response, Syr’s form and body tightening. Naturally, the youth would have suppressed the anger he felt welling within him, forced himself to approach the situation with a clear mind and purpose under control. But this, seeing the enemy recoil at the sign of anger, it sparked an urge to let it out.
And so he did. Leaning forward and brandishing his weapon in a single hand, his position and style barbaric, Creed sucked in all the air his lungs could take. A moment later, he found himself channeling the anger inside of him towards his enemy in a primal scream. A moment later, several other voices joined him. So caught up in the act, he failed to notice, even when a chorus of tormented voices were echoing his fury towards his enemy. In his right hand, the twisted and tinted blade shifted, until it stretched out into the form of a deadly spear.
Syr, all the while, recoiled. A pale aura had surrounded his opponent, visages of twisted faces swirling in the eddies of the solidified reiatsu, and his weapon was released. The power and visceral experience of the release had him staggered and defending, if only for a moment. Calm down, he chided himself mentally.
Shifting his stance and flexing his right wrist to extend the blade to a point directly at fury’s incarnation, he softly spoke. “Sap and subsume, إذبل .“ Shifting its shape, the katana quietly took on the form of an estoc, three eyes opening along the length of the blade, each currently a bright red in color.
Syr wated no time, stepping forward and jabbing, merely for a tap, against Creed’s right arm.
Mind pouring with fury and desire to kill, the Mystic did not consider the attack a threat, and instead prepared a counter, hoping to strike even as his opponent did. His blow, however, would come directly for the abdomen: a slow and painful death.
First, the blow from the estoc struck, and instead of following through, the blond shinigami instantly moved to a retreat, hoping to lessen the destruction that would come from Creed’s fully committed attack. In the corner of his own eye, he saw one of the blade’s turn a crisp blue. Its over, he thought with relief.
The tip of the Mystic’s spear found purchase, but the sudden retreat and lack of commitment on the light blow indeed made it too shallow to be fatal. For the next minute, that arm is dead. Retaking his posture, he could only watch with horror at what happened before him.
The ephemeral spirits dwelling in the personified rage about his enemy tore and clawed at own right arm, and the hue of the reiatsu grew closer to that of blood. The roof of the building about Creed was dissolving against the malevolent will of the release. Syr was starting to fear. Doesn’t matter, his weapon arm is dead. Step in and end it.
With a bent knee and shift of his hips, the former Walker of the Third tapped the tip of his blade against the Mystic’s chest, who merely stood there in turn, staring with blood fury in his eyes. With a quick leap back, the walker casually lowered his guard and offered, “Impressive release, but futile. Now, you die and I move on. It’s over.”
Smile taking his lips, the victor continued. “My release, it saps the life from any flesh it touches. All it takes is a little touch, and to that end, the once Kenpachi himself taught me how to fence aiming for only light blows. I only need commit when my opponent is subdued. Even now, you should be having great trouble breathing, its why you can’t talk.” Stepping forward, guard still lowered, the Walker change his grip on the estoc, wrapping fully around it for what would be a killing blow.
“Die,” the plethora of hateful voices spit out. But by the time the word had reached Syr’s ears, Creed had already appear in a new position, directly in against him, shoulders touching his own. From behind the two, a spear stuck straight out of the Walker’s abdomen, drenched in blood and intestine.
It was already too late for pain to matter, shock was instant. But if the blond could have felt his skin beginning to melt and tear away under the horrid caress of that vicious zanpakutou, it might have driven him mad. He fell back, limp, robes and skin marred in death and lifeblood pooling quickly all about him.
Above him, heaving and surrounded still by the crimson specters of wrath, he barely saw the mute scream of his killer before his vision turned to black.
[1,003]