Post by Percivarre de Senganza on Sept 23, 2013 22:49:59 GMT -5
“The Land of the Dying Sons.”
Hueco Mundo, as it were, wasn’t always so structured. The peoples that called it home for millennia weren’t as controlled as they pretended to be today. They had waged countless wars, murdered millions, spilled the blood of their own brothers and sisters—in an abstract, I-never-really-thought-about-that kind of way, they weren’t much unlike the Death Gods they called enemy. But there were those who still cherished the inner demons they pretended not to be.
Shushana Senganza, unsupervised Hollow and undiscovered Arrancar, was one such admirer.
Reality lost hold on its own domain, it seemed, for an ill-fitting black line drew itself across the moonlit sky, followed by the unmistakable sound of ear-splitting static. The frequency of the noise was abnormal yet fitting as it reverberated into the ears of the dull citizens of Las Noches, consuming the entirety of the immediate area like the beach tide would a newly dug sand-grave. To those who called themselves Hollows, especially of the uncultured kind, the otherwise familiar sound that preceded the emergence of a Garganta was nothing more than the crack of thunder that superseded lightning. But there was no lightning.
Just death.
Without warning, the thin groove stretched far and wide, covering a rectangular portion of the bright moon with blackness. It was a shaped shadow much more fierce than the veil brought by day, a stark contrast to those able to lift their eyes and see the event unfolding. And from within the deep blackness shined bright the violet eyes of a Hollowed Demon. They bounced up-and-down in formulaic craze, the residual light shown long enough to connect the shape of an eight. She reached the edge of her Garganta—the Arrancar—lit sockets peering over the spiritual divide; it was almost like she examined the hollowed realm through water, the reflection distorting the busy sands of Las Noches.
Deciding it fruitful to continue her voyage, she urged herself forward, limbs materializing first. Her abdomen contracted, stomach rising to her throat as she crossed over. This was the second time she’d stepped through the dimensional divide since her Arrancarization, and in accordance with her facially expressed dismay, a terrible start to an already dreaded odyssey. Without the time to pass a second thought, she completed the transition from Earth to Hueco Mundo, and she gave no consequence to the flaring pressure of her soul. The Garganta shrunk back down to a black line before it handed back what was for reality to have never lost.
She shut her purposeful eyes and basked in the coolness of the breeze that stood to challenge the desert’s most welcomed heat, soothing the exposed segments of her scarred flesh. During her time spent in search of the self-proclaimed God of All Hollows—of whom she’d failed to find—Shushana came to the not-so-previously-obvious conclusion that her nakedness wasn’t the norm, and that if she desired to call less attention from those stronger than her—even though her experience up to that point yearned to convince her otherwise—she required the shroud of common coverings. Not long had it taken her to procure the drab garments she wore, and to her content, she’d gotten a meal out of it. Arrancar weren’t as delectable as Death Gods, but they satisfied her hunger nonetheless.
Having idled long enough, Shushana shifted right, then left, then right again as she focused to locate him. You better exist she echoed as her thorough eyes scanned the rows of man-made pillars stretching for miles. The moonlight was especially bright, sure, and the glistening sands beneath her buzzed with temporary life, but her senses were far superior to those of her lesser counterparts. Hueco Mundo always tried to best her, Hueco Mundo always lost, and this bout was no different.
Shushana jerked to glance over her shoulder, thick black hair covering the interested look taking hold of her. A spiritual signature had flared—it wasn’t alluringly potent—though strong enough to yield a passing glance. About to step forward and forget, a second, more powerful pulse of inner energy resonated within her spiritual receptors. The sensation was blissful—a sure understatement—akin to the mortal pleasure rewarded from the release of dopamine; an addiction, certainly, but one that lead to the suffering of others. Her own thoughts brought about a most sinister grin. She’d made up her mind. It was time to feed.
She twisted one hundred and eighty degrees and sped headfirst toward the soul beating against her drums, the loose fabric of her white clothes fluttering about her shoulders. Remarkably, the carcass of her plunder had been of equal gender, and her fitted attire was testament to that fact. The shirt fit snug around her torso—stretched slightly at the shoulders—covering only her breasts and the top-half of her abdomen-located Hollow Hole. The bottom of her bloodied white pants flapped against her scars as she heaved back, shifting her momentum by the sheer strength of her frame.
This place?
She dropped down hurriedly to ground level like a boulder, striking white stone with force. She glanced left to right, brows raised contemplatively.
Huh, and here I believed I'd felt your presence.
That was truly peculiar—the signal that had lured her vanished. She returned to gaze upon the sky-tall tower. Shushana knew upon what she stared. She’d been here before, but she hadn’t found what had been promised to her. Not a day past the dead had told Shushana that the Hollow King’s treasure was buried deep within the Tercera Espada’s tower. She’d given the Espada concept half-an-hour’s thought and as much she tried, she couldn’t give enough care. Big, small, title or not, it didn’t matter—only thing that interested her was power. If these Espada were proven competent, then she’d honor them a second thought.
A thin pillar lay in ruin to her side—sliced clean in half—once surely a magnificent accessory to the design of the area. The tall Arrancar stalked toward the shattered mainstay, eyes mindful and mouth agape, tongue flicking the inner surface of her bottom row of teeth. She raised her strong arms, hands targeting one of the many crude rocks resting atop the damaged pillar’s surface. Shushana’s intent wasn’t malicious—yet. As much as she led others to perceive, Shushana wasn’t the type of woman to act rashly. Calculating one’s actions was a necessity in times of political unrest, especially when one was in search of the source. This kind of quest required a very particular set of skills, learned from the only man so far she couldn’t decipher.
Shushana squeezed hard, reducing the tough stone to fine dust.
After that experience, she’d grasped the consequence of instinct, and his tainted spiritual pressure still lingered—at least within her memory—feeding her delusion that he was close, mocking her every move. She inhaled, hand reaching out for a second rock. “What is greater than God?” she bellowed, aiming just above the tower’s entryway. “But more evil than the Devil?” She picked up a third pebble. “The rich need it, but the poor already have it,” she threw it effortlessly with precision, striking the same spot as her first. “If you eat it—“ She paused. She couldn’t help but bear her clenched teeth—it was one of her most rewarding ideals, after all. “—You will die.”
What in Hollow King’s tear was an Espada, anyway?
WC: 1242
