Post by Eve Avana on Jul 12, 2016 21:00:46 GMT -5
___ V A I Z A R D ___
The Antithesis
At A Glance__
Name: Evelynn “Eve” Avana
Age / Apparent Age: 324 / Early-Mid twenties
Gender: Female
Sexuality: Pansexual
Height & Weight: 5’1 (158 cm) & 99 lbs (45 kg)
Hair & Eyes: Blonde with a pinkish hue, shoulder length hair and golden eyes.
Demeanor: Straight shoulders and a confident gait, despite the calm facade. Her actions tend to come off as either defensive or uncertain. Typically, she doesn’t speak unless spoken to.
Clothing: Link
Voice Sample: Link
Loyalties:
Residence:
Rank: Segunda Espada(
)Look Me in the Eyes__
My Skin: Eve is most easily defined by her attire -- an outfit that looks straight from the mid 1880's. A blue and white Shinsegumi drapes over a short white kimono that's held up by a pitch black obi with a green cloth tied under it. Her arms and legs are protected with a brand new looking set of Kote and Suneate, both starting at the beginning of the limb (wrist/ankle) and stretching up just past the joint (elbow/knee) to give near maximum coverage. To top it all off, she wears a pitch black scarf typically all the way up to her mouth. despite being wrapped twice around her neck, the torn edges still reach down past her waist.
The Shinsegumi can easily be mistaken as a sort of modified haori -- especially if looked at from the front -- both in design and in the way it seems to be an accessory to her regular outfit. It drapes over her shoulders and down her back lazily, only barely being held up by the weight of her scarf more often than not, and she treats with a sort of pride. She's quite to clean it when dirtied, and refuses to take it off unless absolutely necessary. Given the way the pale blue color so perfectly compliments her hair and eyes, the argument could be made that she likes it so much just because of how perfectly tailored it is for her body.
The kimono, however, doesn't get the same holy treatment. While it usually looks rather clean and she does make the effort to wash it as necessary, she's not hesitant to use it to wipe blood from her sword or her hands. Nevertheless, it, too, seems to have been made to perfectly fit her body. It hugs tight around her modest chest, but fans out just enough at the waist to give full movement to her legs. Not that it really obstructs them, as the kimono cuts off just a few inches into the waist. To keep her womanhood hidden from curious eyes, she does in fact wear a pair of black, tight fitting shorts under the kimono, though they're only visible if she kicks up her leg, or someone is actively trying to look.
The armor around Eve's arms and legs are the most elaborate designs of her entire outfit. Both are pitch black with black, silken cloth beneath them to prevent the metal guards from rubbing too hard into the skin as she moves. The cloth extends past the guards on both the arms and the legs, covering the back of her hands and wrapping around her foot.
On the front side of her body is the metal plates that actually do the protecting. Each plate is a relatively thin sheet of solid metal that only breaks at the joints, allowing for full mobility, and wraps around the entire front side of her body. At the top and bottom of each piece of armor, the metal plates wrap around, connecting there as added support. While the plates on her legs are mostly undecorated, aside from nicks and scratches, the forearm of the left arm has a multiple lines etched into it. When asked, Eve refuses to explain why they're there.
Beneath all of the thick clothing and armor, Eve herself is a woman of fair skin and few blemishes. Aside from a few freckles on her arms, her creamy skin never retains any scars or marks from her fights. Given the vague smell of lavender, it can only be assumed she enjoys treating her skin with a generous dose of lotion on the regular. Much can be said about the rest of her features -- her nails are often neatly trimmed and kept in decent condition, her hair is always neatly brushed, and she always has a very thin layer of mascara on to accent her already bright eyes.
Her hair, a creamy sort of pink in color, though most would just default to calling it blonde, falls down nearly to her shoulders and perfectly frames her mature looking face. However, she almost always keep it tied back with a black bow, leaving the shorter strands of hair around her face. None of them quite reach past her chin. Much like her nails, her hair is always trimmed nicely, giving her a very 'dressed up' sort of vibe. Though, the constant scowl, or otherwise serious expression, often makes it seem like she's more keen about making someone's last moments starting at something beautiful as opposed to trying to land a date.
My Soul: Eve’s spiritual tag, while decidedly different, still carries a few familiar strings to it. The transparent mist fizzles around her without any distinguishing features other than its lack of features. The thick cloud wraps and coils around her as if trying to suffocate her, but shies away from those around her. As if afraid to touch anyone, even as she forces it out, the cloud hardly ever feels like much of a weight -- it’s more of a feeling of someone lurking just behind your back.
Tell Me Everything will be Okay__
My Heart: Confused and alone, Eve often comes across as a lost child, or a puppy looking for a home. While she’s quick to put on a false bravado, that arrogant little smirk behind her eyes has given away to tell a story of fear and loss. It’s this underlying feeling of not knowing what to do that really colors everything about her actions and words no matter how much of a brave face she puts on. So, as to be expected, she has quite the expression face and demeanor, often letting others easily tell how she feels and making her lying habit all the more apparent.
Stripped of her former Aspect of Death, a lot of Eve’s personality seems to be in limbo. She doesn’t seem to have found hers morals and opinions on most things and often just says whatever she thinks will get a favorable response out of the people she’s talking to. However, when even the slightest hint of confrontation comes up, she’s always the first to throw the first punch. As if constantly on edge, it almost seems like she’s waiting for an excuse to pick a fight with someone.
My Heroes: Charming, Empathetic, Persistent
My Villains: Fearful/Defensive, Jaded, Liar
Then Crush My Hopes and Dreams__
My Voices: Samyaza serves as the force driving the soul towards growth. While generally she’s a free loving, almost delusional teenager with the focus of a caffeinated squirrel, she strives to drag the soul away from the pitiful life it had been living before. She urges to take the path less traveled and tries to bring light to all of the errors of the past. For this reason, she can be the most insightful of the three, making her seem as a sort of beacon of rationality despite her psychotic habits.
Beyond her personality, Samyaza is an adolescent looking girl with medium, curly hair that she pulls over her shoulders in spiralling waves of darkness. Her dark, unholy hair coupled with her equally dark dress makes the paleness of her skin seem almost completely white in comparison, giving her a dead, and ominous look. Especially with her bright, somehow glowing green eyes, she plays the whole demon motif very, very well.
When speaking, her voice generally sounds forced and high pitched, making it sound like something akin to nails on a chalkboard, as Eve likes to comment on from time to time. To make matters worse, Samyaza doesn’t seem to really know how to use inflections, often further accenting the fact that she doesn’t really feel a lot of emotions beyond fear.
Her Inner Hollow, however, is everything Samyaza isn’t. Sarcastic, quick witted, all filled to the brim with a cocky flare for the show, Wish does everything in his power to drive her away from the right path. Taunting and more than willing to throw his weight around when necessary, this tiny bit of the Transcendental residing within her embodies the meaning of a ‘devil on your shoulder.’ As a play off this, Eve often refers to him as Mr. Angel.
Though tense, Eve and Wish do share a sort of mutual understanding. She can call on his power when push comes to shove and he only occasionally tries to devour her soul and revert her back to her Hollow self. Either way, the two of them are, at the very least, on talking terms. And boy does he like to talk.
My World: A dark, cramped basement lined with boxes and debris in every corner, her inner world strikes an unnatural fear within her. A nearly 1-to-1 replica of the very place she died, her Inner World is something she often prefers to avoid, as if running from it will solve her problems. For that reason, she’s hardly taken the time to explore it. Not to mention, it’s rather creepy when the only voice inside of it is Wish.
My Sword: Eve’s sword is a rather unimposing Katana at only 60 cm long and appearing worse for wear when stacked up against the more cared for swords of the Shinigami. With various dinks, cuts, and smugs coating the dark steel, it’s not a huge surprise that the wielder isn’t quite as experienced when it comes to handling and maintaining a sword like this.
Hidden within an all black sheathe, the sword typically sits at her left side only to be drawn for defensive maneuvers as opposed to the offensive gestures one would expect. Despite this, the sheathe and guard of the blade are actually in fair better shape than the blade itself, proving that she at least knows how to hold her own while blocking.
The guard is the only decorated part of the sword. Being noticeably wider and thicker than most guards, the metal is decorated with long, petal-shaped green markings that spin all around it. Each of the markings are slightly indented to add a bit of texture to it.
My Words: (Inore) Pray, Samyaza
My Gift: Eve’s Shikai defies her previous life. Instead of altering herself to better the world, this power allows her to alter the world to better herself. Using her sword like a paintbrush, she can alter the appearance of everything around her simply by putting the blade near it. This illusion can morph the surrounding world into anything Eve desires it to be, though the trick is only made real by effecting all five senses of those around her, fooling them into believing that she is physically changing everything at a whim. This little trick can be used for something as simple as convincing someone that the color of the room has changed all the way to making them believe a table has turned into a fire-breathing dragon.
However, these illusions are merely just that -- she does not actually change the world and, as such, nothing she ‘creates’ can actually interact with the world. Depending on the spiritual awareness of those affected, they can simply phase through what appears to be a wall as if it was nothing, whereas others would find themselves struggling to look past what their physical senses are telling them.
While in Shikai, Eve’s sword takes a dramatic change. Gone is the bladed weapon and in its place a simple, wooden staff just a little bit shorter than the sealed version of the blade. With no more than the glossy finish decorating it, the weapon definitely isn’t something worth staring at, though it serves its purpose as a focus for her spiritual powers quite nicely.
When in Bankai, however, the illusion extends to reality. While she doesn’t have quite the flexibility as she did in her Shikai, she can physically change the world around her, bringing the nightmare to life. This power allows her to change the composition and qualitative qualities of the physical world as she sees fit. This can range from turning a wall incredibly brittle to turning it into a spiked block of metal and flames. However, unlike in Shikai, it’s not good enough to simply be near something to change it -- Eve must physically touch the object with her sword to change it. Additionally, she cannot change living things, nor can she create living things from inanimate things (excluding plant life).
While in Bankai, the only change to her weapon is a series of cryptic, golden letters that appear spiraling around the staff. The letters give off a faint glow when she uses her power, though the light from within drains the longer she’s in Bankai. This serves as a rough idea of how much longer she can maintain her Bankai.
(please note that Eve cannot use any of these powers until she reunites with the spirit Wishes took from her)
My Corruption: Passively reading the minds of those around her, her power grants the illusion of her being what everyone wants her to be.
However, this power goes beyond simply making her look like someone else. It plays on the minds of those around her, making them believe that she truly is person that they so desire to see. While she doesn't actively transform into the person, her illusion extends to all five sense. She feels, smells, sounds, tastes, and looks like this person.
Of course, not everyone is equally affected by her powers. Some people can see right through her. Others can understand that it's her, but still see the person they. Many are so truly convinced by this illusion that she can invoke true feelings of affection from the people around her.
As an Arrancar, Eve had no control over this power and she never really knew what the other people saw. But as a Vaizard, her power has been focused, allowing her more control over it. While she does passively appear as what the observer desires, she now knows who they see, almost like sixth sense. She doesn’t gain any memories aside from the concept of “Oh, he sees his dead wife and her name is Mary Jane”, but this allows her to really capitalize on her former power and bring with it a new light.
Because That’s the Sort of Monster I Am__
Current Locations: Las Noches / Segunda Espada
Snapshots: What are the highlights of your character's history? Be sure to include where and when these happened! Keep the list in chronological order.
Your Life:
Prologue
1691-1704
York, England
A child born with rich, cherry hair and stunning emerald eyes. Even from the day she squealed out a cry, the world fell in love with her. An infant who breathed out cries and shed tears for pain she somehow knew would come upon her, found nothing but suffering in her life.
Daughter to the Holy man of her homeland. Daughter of a whispered sin that everyone knew, but dared to accept. How could a man who spoke for God commit such a blasphemous crime? True, the townsfolk knew his beloved had become bedridden with an illness no man could cure, but he would never grow as lonely as to...
A child born with rich, cherry hair that looked nothing like her father's brown or her mother's blonde, and stunning emerald eyes that had never been seen in either of their families. An infant who breathed out cries and shed tears because she knew she would feel the regret her father should have been feeling.
It was commonly accepted that this daughter was pure and between the Holy man and his beloved, despite everyone knowing the lies they spat. It was just easier that way. But they could only spare the Holy man, for he was Holy. They could not spare the spawn of sin.
"I see nothing but the devil in you, Jezebel," he would say when the girl dared to murmur his name in hope of guidance. Of course, he would give his daughter such an ugly name. He would remind her at any chance possible how fitting the name was for her.
He blamed the death of his beloved on her. He blamed his depression and anger on her. He blamed the turning of the world on her.
But he did not harm her. He cried and demanded that she leave. He yelled and begged for her to return to hell. But he dare not raise a hand to her.
He didn't need to.
By the time she was old enough to move about on her own, hormones raging inside of her and filling her vile mind with even viler thoughts, she didn't need her father's harsh words and bitter breath to make her want to die.
Everyone was lonely, it seemed. Every man who lurked the streets at night wanted nothing more than to find comfort in a woman's flesh, be it willing or not. Most girls born from Holy blood would be saved from such fate, but she was not of Holy blood. She was the devil's hand. Some naive part of her had thought that would ward off such horrors, but it seemed the opposite came to light.
She was only thirteen when an illness struck her, much like how it struck other poor townsfolk. Without her father's aid, and the lonely creatures of the night always ready to take a bite out of her humanity, it was a surprise the little devil had even lived to maturity.
She died alone in her room in the basement. Her blankets stained with dried blood and her skin all shades of death's rainbow. She would lay in the damp basement for nearly a week before her father even noticed her lack of existence.
He did not bury her, but instead locked the basement door and let the mice have their way with her body.
Acedia
1704-1719
York, England
She sat beside her body with her knees to her chest and cherry red hair, now a sickly brown, stuck to her face. She sat, motionless, for days, weeks, months and just watched her body melt away. Bits and pieces of it carried off by various animals and bugs until she wasn't even noticeably human. A beautiful, young lady who died with sin.
She wondered many things over the time it took for the last bits of her skeleton to be picked clean. Why had her father forsaken her? Why had he left her body like rubbish? Was she not worthy of even a proper burial? Did he think he could just sweep her under the sheets and pretend she never happened?
Tears had practically scarred her cheeks by now, but that didn't seem to stop them from coming once more. Could he not even lay her body to rest so that she may move on?
Why would he keep her trapped here?
She prayed every night and gave her heart and soul to a God that couldn't even accept her because of her father's neglect. It was... Devastating. Traumatizing. Beyond words for the young girl who simply could not move on from this spot. Like a statue, she remained in that spot. Not only her mind, but her body seemingly trapped in this lazy state of non-existence.
Visitors would come during the course of the next few years. Some kids looking for a place to be together. Others were what Jezebel could only assume were people who wanted to buy the place. Naturally, they all turned tail the moment they found out about the daughter of the devil possessing the house. Hushed rumors of an angry spirit that would curse any who moved in.
She watched as the same kids grew into teens then replaced by other kids. Seasons passed, her bones gone forever, but still she remained in that cellar, crouched down in perpetual mourning and confusion. It had to have been a decade before she blinked. A decade before that chain on her chest finally eroded away.
The earth groaned and shivered as bricks and cement caved in around her, though none touched her ghostly body. In the chaos, her soul was finally moved from that spot and out onto the street--a street she no longer recognized with buildings she didn’t know. She watched as the house she had been so bound to was suddenly reduced to nothing but a mound of forgettable bricks.
Somewhere within those bricks and rocks was her resting place. The only thing she could cling to now buried beneath the debris.
Gula
1719-1769
Central and South England; France
Her face twisted into a gruesome, gaping expression of pure agony. As if she could feel every brick pressing down on her, she snapped. She became the monster her soul was born to be. A wicked and ugly demon with horns, claws, wings, and endless rows of teeth. Blinded by her own sin and hunger, she tore through the village that had always hated her.
But, it had all happened so fast. The blood. The energy. The fear. Confusion. Hate. Lust. Hunger. Adrenalin. It was all that she had become. A creature of pure sin, one destined to do the devil's work as she ravaged the land. Though, such a cohesive thought never came to her during this time. No, no, no. She was far too gone for anything like that.
Her stay at home was short lived. Cut off by tiny figures in black robes, swinging their swords around and shooting spells like a bunch of witches. Be it fear, or annoyance, the demon left the town and the black robed voodoo. But they would follow her. And hunt her. And shoot their beams of fire and ice at her. They would taunt her in hopes of bringing her down, but they were all fools.
What did they know?
Anger. Hunger. Envy.
She slaughtered them as quickly as she could, but her haste didn't spare her from nasty wounds that littered her body. But, in time quicker than even her mind could handle, the wounds healed. As she barrelled through the streets, ripping apart this new world with gruesome claws and pained roars, her body mended itself. Blood dissolved. Wounds closed. And the figures were left behind her, nothing more than specks in her memory.
Her legs, thick and ugly, carried her far, far from that place she had been bound to so cruelly for all those years. It felt like centuries that she just ran, and ran, and ran, and...
But, of course, she made pit stops, though nothing more than to snag a few pastries to satisfy her along the way. Holy figures she found were the most delicious of them all--a true treat for her undying hunger. A subconscious lashing out to the man she wouldn't have even recognize if she did pass him up.
A giant "fuck you" to He who she knew didn't exist.
But she was not angry at just one kind of people--she begged to argue that she wasn't even mad at all--because she killed all sorts of people without a care. An endless need to fuel a hunger that overwhelmed her and drove her through the places of England.
Soon, her legs grew weary of her travels and she found herself taking to the skies. Wings that had once been used for only temporary leaps and bounds, now carried her across the waters and onto more stable ground. The thought had never been premeditated, but when she had gazed across the waters and felt that ache in her joints, she knew that these new lands needed her special sort of enlightenment.
She favored France because it was so suicidal. Souls too young for death were coming in like rats, only to be denied their chance of transformation by the hasty end she brought them. It was there that this Hollow monster found a stable place to live.
So many naive puppets preaching about freedom or God. So many naive vessels signing away their lives only to find themselves between the teeth of a demon.
Yes, she very much so enjoyed her time in France.
Invidia
1769-1778
North Italy; Austria; South and Eastern Germany
But she also lost her way in France. Consumed by the joys of indulgence in the only way she knew how, this monster once known as Jezebel had found herself lost in mediocrity. Too placid for Shinigami to be bothered with, too quiet for tales of her to be spoken, and too shy to even fully lose herself in her Gluttony and Wrath.
She had come in contact with many of her kind. So many different shapes, sizes, and powers. She wanted all of them. She Envied not only those stronger than her for the obvious reason, but those weaker because they had a sense of innocence--hope--within them. Hope that she no longer had.
She pitied them all.
She loathed them all.
And yet... She desired to be them.
She fled France, heading South in a familiar pattern. It was only once reaching Italy that she understood--that something clicked inside of her mindless brain.
She could be them all.
Killing Hollows was harder than killing humans, she learned. She learned that quickly and painfully, but it was a lesson important to her and pathed an entirely new road for her to walk upon. In all honesty, she never really noticed changing into her next form. It had come and gone so quickly that it only served as a momentary distraction from her endless hunger.
It would only be years later than she realized that she had truly become all of them at once. And it was a beautiful thing she had taken for granted.
Naturally, a Menos level Hollow was not to be taken lightly. Weak Shinigami were to flee, and stronger ones thought it better to pick more important fights. Sure, some brave young soul dared to prove his worth by taking on a mighty Menos every now and then, but his soul would only be added to her collection.
Hoarding souls. Becoming one with them on so many levels. It was everything she had imagined.
Ira
1779-1809
Europe; Hueco Mundo
Consumed by this need to be one with every soul she came in contact with, this once solitary soul had become lost among the masses. A singularity in a limitless pool that only continued to grow. But, how could she be just a tiny speck in this mass that she had created? How had she been swallowed up by this?
Truth be told, she hadn't. The mindless beast that the rest of the world saw wasn't strictly so mindless, just confused. Constantly battling in a subconscious war between itself. A war that the single soul only later realized she was a part of. In fact, it wasn’t until the war had ended had she even realized what truly was going on.
Only when she reflected on her previous days would she understand the true pain and struggle she had endured while fighting against her own creation. A daily struggle to survive and regain control over this monster she had formed.
It was in some tiny town deep within the heart of Germany that the Menos shed her black robes. The pain at first was all she knew. The pain of her once enormous body being scrunched into a tiny figured that hardly stood taller than the tallest human. Wings exploded from her back, mercilessly tearing apart her flesh as the new bones grew at a startling rate. Thankfully, however, the pain lasted only as long as the transformation and in time even she forgot the agony that had come with it.
The anger did not fade in time. The unbridled rage that she had let herself succumb to those souls and nearly lost her entire existence. Hatred towards the masked creatures that dared to be the subject of her Envy. How dare they be desirable in her eyes. How dare she let them get the better of her.
As she grew to love her new form, she learned how to speak once more--an invaluable skill that she had long forgotten its usefulness. It was in her ability to speak that she learned of who she was. Or rather, what she could do. To her, her new form was deadly, fearsome, but to others she was not the winged monstrosity she thought she was. She was a beautiful woman in sleek robes. She was a large man man with gentle eyes. She was the younger brother of a man recently turned Adjuchas.
She was what they wanted her to be.
Fuel for the fire, she lashed out at those that cooed at her--enraged at anyone who dared to point out that she was not who she was. Could they not see her? Why were they all blind to who she was? Did anyone care about her!?
At first, only those capable of speaking to her found themselves consumed, but she quickly grew tired of the misconceptions and lack of her own identity. She started to snip the problem while it was a bud. Young Hollows and near-dead Humans fell without her so much as breaking a sweat. If she killed them before they knew her, they couldn't see the lie.
Right?
It was in her rage that she found acceptance, not in herself, but rather one of those that she wanted to die.
The day had been just like any other for Eve. A day in which she was never accepted as who she was. A day in which many souls had been consumed, though she could only suppose that she had eaten the wrong family the day before.
Seconds before her claws were to slip into a nameless Human's heart, flames engulfed her, turning her vision various shades of white and yellow and earning the first cry of pain she had uttered in what felt like her entire life. Flames were replaced by talons and stifled grunts. It was only in a panicked moment of survival that she got a solid flap of her wings and separated herself from the attacker.
Perhaps the bird Adjuchas thought her too much trouble, or found himself dumbstruck like so many others had. Either way, his assault ended and for only a second they stared at each other. For those precious seconds of indecision the monster could only find herself oddly worshipping this bird in front of her. How he had descended upon her like an angel straight from the heavens. A being whose purpose was to defend those who could not defend themselves.
She only thought to speak to him after he had turned tail, leaving behind a very clear warning:
"Stop killing the innocent."
Superbia
1809-2006
Europe; Americas; Hueco Mundo
Not too much time had passed after her little brush in with her new God. Perhaps a decade at the most had slipped by before the Worshipper found herself shedding her skin once more. Thankfully, this transformation proved to be the least painful one out of them all. Minor modifications that made her life a little better. However, she did lose most of her femininity in the change. Losing her slender frame and sharp claws, she in turn gained muscles fit for deadly strikes, large and powerful wings that never tired, and an even more gruesome looking mask.
It was with this change that she fully adapted the fitting name of the Worshipper. With renewed vigor towards life and a very attractive body in her mind, the world had finally given her a good hand. Finally, she found comfort in her body and took pride in not only her ability to survive, but the ability to take the lives of those around her. That being said, her life no longer centered around the suffering of those who dared to look at her, but instead centered around her doing as she pleased.
And for the most part all she pleased to do was track down that angel that had stopped her. Why? She wasn't sure. Perhaps to ask simply what its name was. Perhaps to confess her feelings. Perhaps just to murder the bird so that it could forever be with her.
The Worshipper trekked all through Europe, clinging to the hope that the bird was found only in this region, though no signs of it showed. Even countless, mindless murders did not draw the bird out. Soon, the Worshipper found better things to worship.
This creature, more human than bat now, turned to her own reflection for a source of her admiration. Why? Because why not? She had spent centuries shaming herself and finding others to fill her blank void, but they had only hurt her more. So where else could she turn? After all, she had always been a being of solitude, so she had no "friends" to latch onto. No pack for comfort. Simply herself.
But now, that was all she needed.
Shortly after taking on this new form, she learned that it was not a single form, but rather more of a default. Much like how her powers had once forced others to see things that were not there, she could now fully change into those things that they desired. No longer was she hindered by not knowing what they saw, but instead she became what they wanted. Body and spirit.
Sadly, it would only be a couple decades before old patterns sunk in, though in a slightly different tone. She had become blinded by her own Pride, so much so that her mind simply could not understand why others would want to see anything but her. A tiny little divider between her and those around her. A tiny little inability to truly empathize and understand those who saw other things. Surely, the glory that was herself was the best thing to walk on the earth and should be desired by everyone.
1691-1704
York, England
A child born with rich, cherry hair and stunning emerald eyes. Even from the day she squealed out a cry, the world fell in love with her. An infant who breathed out cries and shed tears for pain she somehow knew would come upon her, found nothing but suffering in her life.
Daughter to the Holy man of her homeland. Daughter of a whispered sin that everyone knew, but dared to accept. How could a man who spoke for God commit such a blasphemous crime? True, the townsfolk knew his beloved had become bedridden with an illness no man could cure, but he would never grow as lonely as to...
A child born with rich, cherry hair that looked nothing like her father's brown or her mother's blonde, and stunning emerald eyes that had never been seen in either of their families. An infant who breathed out cries and shed tears because she knew she would feel the regret her father should have been feeling.
It was commonly accepted that this daughter was pure and between the Holy man and his beloved, despite everyone knowing the lies they spat. It was just easier that way. But they could only spare the Holy man, for he was Holy. They could not spare the spawn of sin.
"I see nothing but the devil in you, Jezebel," he would say when the girl dared to murmur his name in hope of guidance. Of course, he would give his daughter such an ugly name. He would remind her at any chance possible how fitting the name was for her.
He blamed the death of his beloved on her. He blamed his depression and anger on her. He blamed the turning of the world on her.
But he did not harm her. He cried and demanded that she leave. He yelled and begged for her to return to hell. But he dare not raise a hand to her.
He didn't need to.
By the time she was old enough to move about on her own, hormones raging inside of her and filling her vile mind with even viler thoughts, she didn't need her father's harsh words and bitter breath to make her want to die.
Everyone was lonely, it seemed. Every man who lurked the streets at night wanted nothing more than to find comfort in a woman's flesh, be it willing or not. Most girls born from Holy blood would be saved from such fate, but she was not of Holy blood. She was the devil's hand. Some naive part of her had thought that would ward off such horrors, but it seemed the opposite came to light.
She was only thirteen when an illness struck her, much like how it struck other poor townsfolk. Without her father's aid, and the lonely creatures of the night always ready to take a bite out of her humanity, it was a surprise the little devil had even lived to maturity.
She died alone in her room in the basement. Her blankets stained with dried blood and her skin all shades of death's rainbow. She would lay in the damp basement for nearly a week before her father even noticed her lack of existence.
He did not bury her, but instead locked the basement door and let the mice have their way with her body.
Acedia
1704-1719
York, England
She sat beside her body with her knees to her chest and cherry red hair, now a sickly brown, stuck to her face. She sat, motionless, for days, weeks, months and just watched her body melt away. Bits and pieces of it carried off by various animals and bugs until she wasn't even noticeably human. A beautiful, young lady who died with sin.
She wondered many things over the time it took for the last bits of her skeleton to be picked clean. Why had her father forsaken her? Why had he left her body like rubbish? Was she not worthy of even a proper burial? Did he think he could just sweep her under the sheets and pretend she never happened?
Tears had practically scarred her cheeks by now, but that didn't seem to stop them from coming once more. Could he not even lay her body to rest so that she may move on?
Why would he keep her trapped here?
She prayed every night and gave her heart and soul to a God that couldn't even accept her because of her father's neglect. It was... Devastating. Traumatizing. Beyond words for the young girl who simply could not move on from this spot. Like a statue, she remained in that spot. Not only her mind, but her body seemingly trapped in this lazy state of non-existence.
Visitors would come during the course of the next few years. Some kids looking for a place to be together. Others were what Jezebel could only assume were people who wanted to buy the place. Naturally, they all turned tail the moment they found out about the daughter of the devil possessing the house. Hushed rumors of an angry spirit that would curse any who moved in.
She watched as the same kids grew into teens then replaced by other kids. Seasons passed, her bones gone forever, but still she remained in that cellar, crouched down in perpetual mourning and confusion. It had to have been a decade before she blinked. A decade before that chain on her chest finally eroded away.
The earth groaned and shivered as bricks and cement caved in around her, though none touched her ghostly body. In the chaos, her soul was finally moved from that spot and out onto the street--a street she no longer recognized with buildings she didn’t know. She watched as the house she had been so bound to was suddenly reduced to nothing but a mound of forgettable bricks.
Somewhere within those bricks and rocks was her resting place. The only thing she could cling to now buried beneath the debris.
Gula
1719-1769
Central and South England; France
Her face twisted into a gruesome, gaping expression of pure agony. As if she could feel every brick pressing down on her, she snapped. She became the monster her soul was born to be. A wicked and ugly demon with horns, claws, wings, and endless rows of teeth. Blinded by her own sin and hunger, she tore through the village that had always hated her.
But, it had all happened so fast. The blood. The energy. The fear. Confusion. Hate. Lust. Hunger. Adrenalin. It was all that she had become. A creature of pure sin, one destined to do the devil's work as she ravaged the land. Though, such a cohesive thought never came to her during this time. No, no, no. She was far too gone for anything like that.
Her stay at home was short lived. Cut off by tiny figures in black robes, swinging their swords around and shooting spells like a bunch of witches. Be it fear, or annoyance, the demon left the town and the black robed voodoo. But they would follow her. And hunt her. And shoot their beams of fire and ice at her. They would taunt her in hopes of bringing her down, but they were all fools.
What did they know?
Anger. Hunger. Envy.
She slaughtered them as quickly as she could, but her haste didn't spare her from nasty wounds that littered her body. But, in time quicker than even her mind could handle, the wounds healed. As she barrelled through the streets, ripping apart this new world with gruesome claws and pained roars, her body mended itself. Blood dissolved. Wounds closed. And the figures were left behind her, nothing more than specks in her memory.
Her legs, thick and ugly, carried her far, far from that place she had been bound to so cruelly for all those years. It felt like centuries that she just ran, and ran, and ran, and...
But, of course, she made pit stops, though nothing more than to snag a few pastries to satisfy her along the way. Holy figures she found were the most delicious of them all--a true treat for her undying hunger. A subconscious lashing out to the man she wouldn't have even recognize if she did pass him up.
A giant "fuck you" to He who she knew didn't exist.
But she was not angry at just one kind of people--she begged to argue that she wasn't even mad at all--because she killed all sorts of people without a care. An endless need to fuel a hunger that overwhelmed her and drove her through the places of England.
Soon, her legs grew weary of her travels and she found herself taking to the skies. Wings that had once been used for only temporary leaps and bounds, now carried her across the waters and onto more stable ground. The thought had never been premeditated, but when she had gazed across the waters and felt that ache in her joints, she knew that these new lands needed her special sort of enlightenment.
She favored France because it was so suicidal. Souls too young for death were coming in like rats, only to be denied their chance of transformation by the hasty end she brought them. It was there that this Hollow monster found a stable place to live.
So many naive puppets preaching about freedom or God. So many naive vessels signing away their lives only to find themselves between the teeth of a demon.
Yes, she very much so enjoyed her time in France.
Invidia
1769-1778
North Italy; Austria; South and Eastern Germany
But she also lost her way in France. Consumed by the joys of indulgence in the only way she knew how, this monster once known as Jezebel had found herself lost in mediocrity. Too placid for Shinigami to be bothered with, too quiet for tales of her to be spoken, and too shy to even fully lose herself in her Gluttony and Wrath.
She had come in contact with many of her kind. So many different shapes, sizes, and powers. She wanted all of them. She Envied not only those stronger than her for the obvious reason, but those weaker because they had a sense of innocence--hope--within them. Hope that she no longer had.
She pitied them all.
She loathed them all.
And yet... She desired to be them.
She fled France, heading South in a familiar pattern. It was only once reaching Italy that she understood--that something clicked inside of her mindless brain.
She could be them all.
Killing Hollows was harder than killing humans, she learned. She learned that quickly and painfully, but it was a lesson important to her and pathed an entirely new road for her to walk upon. In all honesty, she never really noticed changing into her next form. It had come and gone so quickly that it only served as a momentary distraction from her endless hunger.
It would only be years later than she realized that she had truly become all of them at once. And it was a beautiful thing she had taken for granted.
Naturally, a Menos level Hollow was not to be taken lightly. Weak Shinigami were to flee, and stronger ones thought it better to pick more important fights. Sure, some brave young soul dared to prove his worth by taking on a mighty Menos every now and then, but his soul would only be added to her collection.
Hoarding souls. Becoming one with them on so many levels. It was everything she had imagined.
Ira
1779-1809
Europe; Hueco Mundo
Consumed by this need to be one with every soul she came in contact with, this once solitary soul had become lost among the masses. A singularity in a limitless pool that only continued to grow. But, how could she be just a tiny speck in this mass that she had created? How had she been swallowed up by this?
Truth be told, she hadn't. The mindless beast that the rest of the world saw wasn't strictly so mindless, just confused. Constantly battling in a subconscious war between itself. A war that the single soul only later realized she was a part of. In fact, it wasn’t until the war had ended had she even realized what truly was going on.
Only when she reflected on her previous days would she understand the true pain and struggle she had endured while fighting against her own creation. A daily struggle to survive and regain control over this monster she had formed.
It was in some tiny town deep within the heart of Germany that the Menos shed her black robes. The pain at first was all she knew. The pain of her once enormous body being scrunched into a tiny figured that hardly stood taller than the tallest human. Wings exploded from her back, mercilessly tearing apart her flesh as the new bones grew at a startling rate. Thankfully, however, the pain lasted only as long as the transformation and in time even she forgot the agony that had come with it.
The anger did not fade in time. The unbridled rage that she had let herself succumb to those souls and nearly lost her entire existence. Hatred towards the masked creatures that dared to be the subject of her Envy. How dare they be desirable in her eyes. How dare she let them get the better of her.
As she grew to love her new form, she learned how to speak once more--an invaluable skill that she had long forgotten its usefulness. It was in her ability to speak that she learned of who she was. Or rather, what she could do. To her, her new form was deadly, fearsome, but to others she was not the winged monstrosity she thought she was. She was a beautiful woman in sleek robes. She was a large man man with gentle eyes. She was the younger brother of a man recently turned Adjuchas.
She was what they wanted her to be.
Fuel for the fire, she lashed out at those that cooed at her--enraged at anyone who dared to point out that she was not who she was. Could they not see her? Why were they all blind to who she was? Did anyone care about her!?
At first, only those capable of speaking to her found themselves consumed, but she quickly grew tired of the misconceptions and lack of her own identity. She started to snip the problem while it was a bud. Young Hollows and near-dead Humans fell without her so much as breaking a sweat. If she killed them before they knew her, they couldn't see the lie.
Right?
It was in her rage that she found acceptance, not in herself, but rather one of those that she wanted to die.
The day had been just like any other for Eve. A day in which she was never accepted as who she was. A day in which many souls had been consumed, though she could only suppose that she had eaten the wrong family the day before.
Seconds before her claws were to slip into a nameless Human's heart, flames engulfed her, turning her vision various shades of white and yellow and earning the first cry of pain she had uttered in what felt like her entire life. Flames were replaced by talons and stifled grunts. It was only in a panicked moment of survival that she got a solid flap of her wings and separated herself from the attacker.
Perhaps the bird Adjuchas thought her too much trouble, or found himself dumbstruck like so many others had. Either way, his assault ended and for only a second they stared at each other. For those precious seconds of indecision the monster could only find herself oddly worshipping this bird in front of her. How he had descended upon her like an angel straight from the heavens. A being whose purpose was to defend those who could not defend themselves.
She only thought to speak to him after he had turned tail, leaving behind a very clear warning:
"Stop killing the innocent."
Superbia
1809-2006
Europe; Americas; Hueco Mundo
Not too much time had passed after her little brush in with her new God. Perhaps a decade at the most had slipped by before the Worshipper found herself shedding her skin once more. Thankfully, this transformation proved to be the least painful one out of them all. Minor modifications that made her life a little better. However, she did lose most of her femininity in the change. Losing her slender frame and sharp claws, she in turn gained muscles fit for deadly strikes, large and powerful wings that never tired, and an even more gruesome looking mask.
It was with this change that she fully adapted the fitting name of the Worshipper. With renewed vigor towards life and a very attractive body in her mind, the world had finally given her a good hand. Finally, she found comfort in her body and took pride in not only her ability to survive, but the ability to take the lives of those around her. That being said, her life no longer centered around the suffering of those who dared to look at her, but instead centered around her doing as she pleased.
And for the most part all she pleased to do was track down that angel that had stopped her. Why? She wasn't sure. Perhaps to ask simply what its name was. Perhaps to confess her feelings. Perhaps just to murder the bird so that it could forever be with her.
The Worshipper trekked all through Europe, clinging to the hope that the bird was found only in this region, though no signs of it showed. Even countless, mindless murders did not draw the bird out. Soon, the Worshipper found better things to worship.
This creature, more human than bat now, turned to her own reflection for a source of her admiration. Why? Because why not? She had spent centuries shaming herself and finding others to fill her blank void, but they had only hurt her more. So where else could she turn? After all, she had always been a being of solitude, so she had no "friends" to latch onto. No pack for comfort. Simply herself.
But now, that was all she needed.
Shortly after taking on this new form, she learned that it was not a single form, but rather more of a default. Much like how her powers had once forced others to see things that were not there, she could now fully change into those things that they desired. No longer was she hindered by not knowing what they saw, but instead she became what they wanted. Body and spirit.
Sadly, it would only be a couple decades before old patterns sunk in, though in a slightly different tone. She had become blinded by her own Pride, so much so that her mind simply could not understand why others would want to see anything but her. A tiny little divider between her and those around her. A tiny little inability to truly empathize and understand those who saw other things. Surely, the glory that was herself was the best thing to walk on the earth and should be desired by everyone.
OOC__
Player Alias: -inhuman screeching-
Do you want a grade?: -guttural sound of disdain-
Were you referred by anyone?: -desperate noise of confusion-
Other Characters: Miyuki Wakahisa, Anastasia Flores, The Vagabond
