Ezekiel, The Gatekeeper [RETIRED]

Chorus

Welcome to the fallout.

Ezekiel’s inner sanctum, once a single prison cell not unlike the one he had inhabited in his human life, has now expanded into an entire prison block. The array of cells entirely line the north wall, twelve in total, each used to coral a single aspect of Ezekiel’s personality. These cells exist on two stories, with the main room of the cellblock expanding to cover both, and a narrow expanded metal catwalk the only way to access the upper story. Very little color exists in the dilapidated world. Even the light that streams in through the barred windows opposite the cells seems pale and lifeless. The interior of the cells are typically wrapped in a deep, impenetrable darkness unless Ezekiel is in need of the occupant’s talents.

Sealed, Ezekiel’s Zanpakuto is very plain looking. It is a black, straight bladed sword with a square guard. The length of the blade is actually only around twenty-four inches, leaving it within Wakizashi territory. This makes it easier to handle, but robs it of some of the weight and power that Katanas are famous for. Its handle is wrapped in black chord, and both the sword and the scabbard have bronze accents with simple patterns embossed into them. The blade itself is worn, chipped and scuffed from years of fighting and little in the way of tender loving care. The edge is jagged and almost sawtooth in nature. He carries the scabbard on his back, tied on with a white rope that crosses his chest.

1

Nara, The Friend, The Healer

~Self-Pity~

Not the first shard of Ezekiel’s consciousness that revealed itself to him, but by far the most cooperative. Nara has demonstrated a kind and thoughtful personality, and has done her best to be a voice of reason for Ezekiel whether he has wanted it or not. Typically, Nara appears to be deeply sorrowful. More than any of the other fragments, she seems to empathize with the dangerous situation that the “whole” has found itself in.

Nara wears a white variation of the academy uniform, seemingly repressenting her purity of soul –at least, that is how it has always resonated with Ezekiel. She has shoulder-length hair in a navy blue sort of shade, and her face is still young and soft looking, nearly glowing with her pale skin. Her mannerisms are careful and methodic.

“Lament and purify, Ebisumara.”

Nara’s Shikai causes a powerful physical transformation in Ezekiel’s Zanpakuto, turning it into a tall, ivory staff, ornately designed and tipped with a blade that could be mistaken for simple decoration. The staff is nearly six feet in length, and it is incredibly light.

While wielding the staff, Ezekiel gains the ability to heal himself slowly over time, though it requires an initial casting. While healing, Ezekiel’s body is surrounded by a wispy, swirling wind that originates from his feet and spirals up around him.  This technique is considered a Kaido spell.

2 

Artix von Creg, The Mentor, The Aggressor

~Self-Reliance~

By far the most confident member of the Chorus, Artix was the first fragment of Ezekiel’s shattered psyche to reveal itself to Ezekiel, bringing with him a cryptic message that there was nothing holding the various pieces back now. He first showed his hand during a chance encounter with Erasmus, the distorted future of the mentor that Ezekiel once knew, and managed to grant Ezekiel the strength to fight the threat off, if barely. Ezekiel was initially terrified and enraged by Artix’s violent show of power, but initially came to acknowledge the fact that it had been the only way. He has grown to trust Artix and often allows him to help manage the the mindset required for the Way of the Demon.

Artix von Crege, or at least this shade of him, is a tall powerful looking man, riddled with scars and adorned with an eyepatch. His stubbled beard and unkempt hair are a deep black. The robes that he wears are often open in the front, and show a substantial wear and tear, his haori stained and ragged.

“Release your fangs, Kuroi Taiyou.”

After speaking the release phrase associated with Artix’s power, the Wakizashi that Ezekiel wields immediately engulfs in a thick black-grey flames that seems to almost consume light. As the sword itself elongates into a full-length, curved Katana, chips and scrapes appear along its length to reflect the years of use that Ezekiel’s master’s own blade had shown. The flames eventually can creep all the way up Ezekiel’s arm and torso.

The fire that wraps the blade carries with it the unique, almost curse-like ability to slow anything it contacts. Being cut by the blade not only causes the typical wounds associated with such a strike, but deadens the area, causing a heavy sluggish feeling in the target. The fire itself does not burn things, and almost feels cold to touch.

3

Magus, The Caster, The Fury

~Self-Absorption~

Magus is all of Ezekiel’s arrogance, all of his pride. He is the aspect of Ezekiel who never sees past his own nose. While this makes him a hassle, occasionally, he also is aware that he is a part of Ezekiel, and that brimming covidence and tendency to dwell only on personal issues extends to Ezekiel. He often has more convidence in Ezekiel than he himself has. The upside of Magus’ attitude is his perpetual focus of understanding his own powers, giving him an inate ability to hone Ezekie’s own abilities.

Magus is a younger looking man, much shorter than Ezekiel. His flowing and peculiar purple clothing and hair give him an unearthly look. It’s almost as though he is constantly shifting. His features are youthful and borderline cartoonish, and his expression tyically mad. His laugh, particularly, is unnerving and shrill.

“Unmask the Aether, Sakashima.”

Upon releasing Magus, Ezekiel’s wakazashi disappears entirely, disintegrating into a mist the whirls up his arm and rematerializes into an ornate gauntlet, wrapped in a crackling purple energy. The carvings on the gauntlet are vaguely Japanese in style, with the faces of oni and powerful runes littering its surface. It extends all the way up past his bicep.

The power granted by the gauntlet is immediately evident. It acts as a conduit, a catalyst for Hado spells, tainting all of them with that deep violet hue of energy as they are released. It can also be used to channel a Hado spell into a melee attack, turning an average punch into lethally enhanced weapon.

4

Ivan, The Smith, The Artist

~Self-Improvement~

The Smith, Ivan, is a quiet soul –or piece of one. He rarely speaks at all. His devotion lies to no one and serves Ezekiel only because it helps to serve his needs to constantly improve, to constantly create something better. Occasionally, he needs persuasion, but Ezekiel is capable of supplying that in spades when the smith does occasionally get out of line.

Ivan is a  towering man, much taller than Ezekiel and built “like a brick shit-house,” as the reaper himself has put it. He is an overly muscular, olive-skinned powerhouse who wears only a tattered pair of linen pants and boots. His beard is the only hair on his head, but it is a magnificent and course thing, deep grey in shade.

“Reforge, Benten.”

After speaking the release phrase, Ezekiel’s Wakazashi twists into an expertly crafted broadsword, longer than the average Katana and reminiscent in design of a European knight or king. It bears an array of runes down its ebony blade and several features (such as a secondary guard) that blur the line of artistry and function.

Ivan has often bragged to Ezekiel that he is capable of creating a sword so perfect that it could even wield itself. Little did Ezekiel know, these words were no joke. Ivan’s blade seems to almost correct itself in the air, to adjust its swings for better strikes or blocks. While wielding the sword, it almost feels like the Smith’s hand is on it, aiding in its use.

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The humanity...

Ezekiel’s story is something that he himself cannot remember. It has been expunged from his mind by the cosmic reset button that is death, by the trauma that remembering such events would force upon him. However, there are places where records of Ezekiel’s first life, his human still exist. Family and friends carried his story forward, whispering it in hushed breaths when no one else was around. Even today, his kin (or their descendents, at least) still know his sorrowful tale, a warning to younger generations of how wrong life can go, a warning about excess and friendships. Most notably though, his story lives on in the records of a small, unassuming local police department in Arkansas.

James Richard Hurst, or “Jimmy Dick” as he was known by his friends, was born in 1931, in Crystal Springs, Arkansas. His childhood wasn’t exceptionally great. His family was poor. The Great Depression was doing its best to keep the common man under thumb, and on top of that, his father was an alcoholic of the more violent variety. Jimmy learned quickly to stay well out of his father’s way when he came home at night. His mother, the quiet and meek woman that she was, did not.

With no one holding him accountable, Jimmy didn’t apply himself to his studies. He had dropped out of school altogether by the time he was thirteen. From that point on he took odd jobs around town whenever he could get them. He would help run errands for the elderly, work as a hand in local gardens, or carry boxes in the market. Jimmy’s supplementary income was welcome (but thankless), but still not enough to keep the family afloat. Soon, his father’s alcoholism had become so rampant that he was no longer able to hold down a steady job. While Jimmy took a position at the steel mill, his father sat at home and searched for the genie at the bottom of tall bottles.

Jimmy was only sixteen when he moved away from home to Little Rock. He put his family squarely behind him and left, resenting them for the life that they had given him. He would never get a chance to speak to his father again, and would see his mother only once more in his lifetime. But for Jimmy, that was no issue at all. He had grown tired of his father breaking bottles on the living room rug in his drunken rage. He had grown tired of his mother whimpering and refusing to stand up for herself or him. He had grown tired of the life that he had been living, so he started it over again.

In Little Rock Jimmy took a job at a local automotive shop. The year was 1948 and automobiles were things of beauty, graced with elegant yet powerful curves and covered from bumper to bumper in chrome. At first, Jimmy was merely the shop’s stock boy, but soon he was helping his boss break down engines and fixing minor aesthetic problems on his own. Everyone in the shop became impressed by how quickly James Richard took to being an auto mechanic. He became popular among everyone from the businessmen who wanted to maintain their luxury cruisers, to the moonshiners who needed that extra edge in outrunning Johnny Law. Jimmy provided his mechanical expertise to whomever was willing to pay his price, and for once in his life, he had more than enough money to live comfortably. Still, he felt hollow, ashamed somehow. He was happy, but there was no one, no family or friends, to share that happiness with.

This went on until, through his work in the shop, he met a girl. Elizabeth Carter was her name, and she was everything that Jimmy had ever hoped for. Within the year, Elizabeth Carter had become Elizabeth Richard, and the two moved into an apartment downtown. Jimmy opened his own shop and began taking on more and more exclusive clients. The majority of these clients were less than savory individuals, but these people were also willing to pay the most for services rendered.

It didn’t take long before Jimmy developed a particularly strong friendship with a group of local shiners. He got along well with the brothers. Unfortunately, he got along better with their product. Jimmy began slipping into his father’s habits, though he did his best to keep his temper under control. Always, in the back of his mind, he reminded himself of his mother and how afraid she was, saying that he would never allow himself to become that man, but the addiction had already sunk its teeth into Jimmy’s body.

This went on for over two years, until one night when Jimmy’s life came to a screeching halt. Over a hand of poker, an already belligerently drunk Jimmy was informed that there was a rumor around the town that Elizabeth was being somewhat less than faithful. Something inside of the young man snapped. His temper, that he had tried to keep in check, no longer seemed important. She did not deserve to be spared, in his mind. He stormed out of the building, climbing into his car and swerving his way home. As he reached the door of his apartment, he could already hear the truth in his friend’s words.

Everything turned red after that. Jimmy kicked the door open, spitting slurred curses at the writhing tangle of bodies on the couch. There was a flash and a scream. Suddenly, Irving, one of Jimmy’s most trusted mechanics, was nothing but red, and tumbled to the floor. Elizabeth struggled to cover her nude body with a blanket, her whimpered words falling on deaf ears. Tears rolled down Jimmy’s cheeks as he stumbled forward, picked up one of the couch pillows, and placed it over Elizabeth’s face. He had to do it, but he couldn’t look at her while he did. She had taken everything from him, she was all that he had ever wanted, and now he would return the favor.

The second gunshot was quieter. Muffled by the down of the pillow. Jimmy suddenly became aware that the fingernails that had been tearing into his left arm had fallen away. He dropped the gun, and deftly left the building. He was picked up by the police four blocks away, laying over a park bench, vomiting.

James Richard plead guilty to both murders and was sentenced to life. His mother was there. She cried for him. His father was not.

Prison became Jimmy’s new home. He kept to himself, staying in his cell whenever he had the choice. He ate little and began to fade physically, subsisting more off of the rage that he felt towards himself (and vented towards the others) than anything else. The alcohol withdrawals were devastating to his body. He began to hallucinate. He would see Elizabeth in the corners of room, watching him at night. He could never see her face. The field of mental health was not then what it is now, but Jimmy recorded his “daydreams” in letters that he mailed to himself. It was his version of a journal. In these letters, he stated that he had “found God” in the prison, and that “all it took was finding the Devil first.”

An inmate gave Jimmy a crude tattoo at his request, his "favorite" Bible verse on his left forearm, where he still bore the scars from his wife’s dying grasps (Jimmy had always said in the letters that the wounds weren’t healing right because God wouldn’t let them. They were supposed to be his reminder). The verse was Ezekiel 18:20, with a small excerpt beneath that read: “The one who sins is the one that will die...” It was a cruel and self-depreciating reminder, but that was how Jimmy lived in his last days, on venom.

Whether or not Jimmy actually had a “coming to Jesus” moment while within the prison is debatable. What is sure is that on his thirty fifth birthday there was a prison riot that James Richard decided to take full advantage of. After escaping the grounds, Jimmy stole a 1966 Pontiac GTO from the parking lot of the prison (the warden's own personal ride) and drove it away. His mental status had deteriorated greatly over the years. He was always afraid and claimed to see Elizabeth wherever he looked.

He rushed to his home, trying to beat the cops there and gather up what worldly possessions he still owned. His plan was to head north to Wisconsin and create a new life for himself. He never made it that far. After hastily rolling through a stop sign, already halfway through a handle of Jack Daniels, Jimmy was struck broad-side by a truck. He was dead by the time anyone else made it to the scene, his conscious body never leaving that car again.

Academy Days... ((Link to associated requests: here, here.))

Life in the soul society never did quite agree with Ezekiel. Days were spent hung over and nights were spent in a blur. He became infamous in his slummy little corner of the eightieth southern district as a drunkard and a brawler, but never as a winner. It became somewhat of a joke to even fight Ezekiel. He was so looked down on that most wouldn’t even bother. The drunk could typically remedy this by baiting one of the simpler patrons in with crude insults and jeering smiles. But eventually even the rowdier members of the district stopped trying. It felt wrong to beat up someone who wanted it done to them.

One night Ezekiel attempted to enter a bar that he had been banned from before on more than one occasion. The owner first attempted to coerce Ezekiel into leaving, but failed, and so pulled a knife on the intoxicated transient. A man in a thick black cloak stepped in, pushing away the bartender’s knife and shoving Ezekiel out the door himself. As the world quit spinning and Ezekiel opened his eyes, he saw the tip of a sword at his face. The Shinigami that had drawn on him spoke calmly and sternly. He offered an ultimatum, an escape for the brawler.

Months later, Ezekiel found himself in the Shinareijutsuin, on the path to becoming a soul reaper. He never did more than was asked of him, but never did less either. He was stubborn, determined to do things his own way and, seemingly, to infuriate as many people as he could in the process. He scraped by using this method, but only barely. As a student, Ezekiel excelled in hand to hand combat, able to hold his own with nearly any opponent, based almost exclusively on how tenacious he seemed to be. His strategy of outlasting his opponent, while simple, proved effective, much to the dismay of nearly every other soul in the academy, student and staff alike. In the beginning, he was happy here.

But the change of scenery did not change Ezekiel. If anything, it only made him worse. He learned to put on a facade in front of others, and save his drinking for lonely nights in his room. The faceless woman had been appearing to him for some time before he ever realized, through his teachings at the Shinareijutsuin, that she could be a manifestation of his Zanpakuto in an addition to a contributing factor towards his insanity. Ezekiel is insure where he first "knew" what his sword was capable of without having ever used it, but he decided to guard the true nature of his sword’s power, feeling that it was another sign the fact he deserved to be punished.  

While in the academy, Nara, a fellow classmate proved to be an anchor for him, a real friend. Her loss contributed to the downward spiral the defined the following years of Ezekiel's life.

After allowing him to actually celebrate his graduation, Ezekiel was informed that he would be held back in the academy on probationary terms due to "disciplinary concerns." Taking this every bit as well as anyone might expect, Ezekiel fulfilled most of the duties of the average Fifth Division member without ever having the honor of wearing the badge. This led to an unrest in the Shinigami, destroying what little concern and respect that he had left as he took his advancement into his own hands.

He found solace, relief from his malevolent Zanpakuto spirit in a toxin crafted from Rania Odette's own blood, allowing his addictions to read staggering new heights.

This carried on until he hit a breaking point, hiding out away from reality at the expense of those around him. The Massacre came and went, and Ezekiel missed it, unable to help his fellows. This was Ezekiel's defining moment. He forced his uncooperative sword to release, taking on the wounds of those around him with her unique power, but dying in the process. Or at least, coming close.

Advent and Return... ((Link to associated request: here.))

After recovering, unable to access his power, Ezekiel left the Seireitei both in search of himself and a way to heal, but after dealing with person after person, expert after expert, he began to realize that he was only becoming worse. His mental state was unstable, his soul broken into hundreds of pieces as a result of his "death." These various fragments began to vie for power, trying to force themselves into Ezekiel's empty asauchi as new releases. This slowly drove him mad, and only by luck of finding Kohaku was he put back together.

Finally, Ezekiel realized this was something that he could not do on his own. He had failed, and so he returned to the Soul Society reluctantly. To the surprise of no one, he was imprisoned in the Second Division under Kiriko's orders, until Sakamoto Miki finally offered to take him off of their hands and make him a part of her new Kido Corps. This employment was short lived as Miki betrayed the Seireitei and butchered Ezekiel and his comrades. Barely surviving, Ezekiel crawled his way to the Third Division's hospital, still refusing to seek help from the power inside of him.

Left as a straggler in the Fourth Division, Ezekiel set about to making the best of his time, actually improving on his Seireitei. He could not stomach another event like the Massacre of Miki's advent taking place, and so he sought to become stronger, to gain control over the situation. While still unstable, he was able to keep himself out of particularly stressful situations, to keep the various pieces of himself under control.

Tokiyo, a fellow survivor of Miki's events brought Ezekiel into his own fold, enticing him with plans of accessing the secret library. Finally, Ezekiel had someone who shared the same sensibilities as him, someone willing to do the dirty work if it meant the Seireitei's growth. The new projects associated with this, as well as inventions of Ezekiel's own design became his all-consuming focus. His health suffered as he devoted his everything to research, to completing them. His obsession became dangerous.

This continued on until finally, Ezekiel hit a breaking point, fleeing from his lab and seeking peace. Through means that he still does not fully understand, he encountered an ascendent being wearing the skin of his once Captain Commander. Ezekiel made a simple wish, and then, woke up at home with two "gifts" from the weaver of fate.

One was a bottle of whiskey. The second, less obvious, was an encounter with an Arrancar who had caused nothing but grief for Ezekiel throughout his existence. The insane Hollow attacked Ezekiel in his own home, and though Ezekiel was able to finally end him, he was not able to do it alone. In his focus, he was aided by a fragment of his soul that resembled Nara, a healing release, without ever even realizing it. He had embraced the power that he had been running from so long on some subconscious level, and it had allowed him to win, to survive. And he was alright.

Roleplaying Samples:

Sweat rolled down the icy sides of the tumbler, hitting the furrows in Ezekiel’s leathery skin and sinking in like rain on parched earth. The smell of spilt beer and soured juices filled the air. The new graduate sat at the bar, arms rested firmly against it and face hung down over his glass. He could almost see himself in the surface of the melting ice. He took a sip, feeling only the cold of the fluid in his throat, the alcohol burn having long faded away. Still, its flavor was so sweet.

“So where you going to go from here? Got a division in mind?”

Ezekiel knew Paru’s annoying voice long before he ever sat down on the stool next to him. He could smell the cheap beer on his breath, though only barely, over his potent cologne. Ezekiel simply glanced in his direction and forced a grin, turning his hazy eyes back to his drink and focusing on making the world stay still. “No. I don’t. I’ll go wherever I’m needed, I guess.”

Paru made some sort of chortling noise in his thick throat before questioning again. “Well, surely you got somethin’ in mind. I mean, c’mon! You ain’t been thinkin’ about this the whole time you were in the academy?”

Ezekiel did not exactly feel up for small talk. He had never been a fan of Paru’s, and really wanted nothing more than for the portly old man to leave him alone. “No. I don’t.” He repeated, more sternly now, though still grinning for reasons unknown. He tipped up his glass and finished it, grabbing a mouthful of ice as he did so, crunching away as he slapped the glass down onto the bar and dropped his payment. He walked out of the bar without so much as acknowledging Paru again. He could hear something being muttered behind him as he went, but chose to let it go. If he got into a fight tonight, it was not going to be with another shinigami. He lifted his eyes to a nearby rooftop, where a white image fluttered for a second and disappeared. Ezekiel rubbed his blurry eyes and took a deep breath of the cold night air to help sober himself up. “Why won’t you leave me?” He muttered under his breath. The thin black sky offered no response.

A tap came to Ezekiel’s shoulder, startling him suddenly out of his concentration. He wheeled about, teeth bared, eyes searching madly for focus, to see Paru standing in front of him. His palm was resting firmly on the end of his sword. It was a wordless threat.

“What? You snub me so you can come outside and talk to yourself, pyscho?” The potbellied man let out a low, gurgling laugh. “How the hell did you ever make it this long in life?”

Ezekiel grinned maliciously. “I didn’t make it long in life. That’s why I’m in this shithole with your fat ass.”

Paru’s demeanor changed instantly. “I don’t think someone who barely made it out of the academy should be shootin’ their mouth off like that.” He scowled at Ezekiel, placing both hands on his sword and beginning to inch it out of its scabbard.

Ezekiel stumbled back a bit, catching himself and smiling. He began to bounce on the balls of his feet slightly, as a boxer would. Even I have to be wrong sometimes, I guess. He mused to himself.

Done I think? Or do you need more of the Zan spirits/releases defined? I can go up to 8. Describing any of them past that is too much spoiler.

Be sure to add in your spirits as you learn them. I want to see all of these slots filled out before you even think of going post-prestige.

Other than that, this looks fine.