Post by Weylin on Dec 10, 2016 20:22:02 GMT -5
St. Petersburg, Russia’s cultural capital and port to the Baltic Sea. Founded in 1703 by Peter Alexeyevich the Great it had served as imperial capital for two centuries and had been renamed three times. The last time in 1991, from Leningrad back to Petersburg. Next to being home to over five million people it also housed the Spilled Blood, a Russian Orthodox cathedral that proudly displayed its onion domes for all the world to see. Weylin had always liked that building. It was very different from the cathedrals in Germany and yet radiated such gravity and opus that one could not help but grow somber in its presence. It was a positive somberness though, one that made one become introspective and stuck around as one made its way to the Neva River and, eventually, the gilt-trimmed Winter Palace. Its baroque style and abundance of adornment fit very well with the image Weylin had of Peter the Great.
By all accounts, the late tsar had been a man larger than life. Measuring over two-hundred centimeter certainly must have helped cultivate that image. Having become co-ruler of Russia at the age of ten young Peter had immediately been thrust into a world too large and perilous for any child, he had nonetheless lived a most impressive life. In his youth the young monarch had traveled across the world in disguise to learn a host of things and grow as a person. He had joined the military and risen to rank from the very bottom – something he latter required all military personnel to do. And at the height of his power he had won Russia many victories, revolutionized her militarily and socially, secured accesses to various seas and trading routes, suppressed rebellions and turned a failing empire into one of Europe’s most successful nations. A man of extraordinary talent, with hard earned skills and a vision he had led his people into a Golden Age.
Weylin envied the man.
By all accounts he too should have been such a child of prophecy for his people. He too had endured numerous hardships, traveled the world and cut his teeth before besting numerous foes no Quincy in generations had been able to stand up to. And yet, when it had finally been his time to the reigns and lead his people to greatness he had failed them. Or perhaps, they had failed him.
After all, what more did he have to give?
During his entire life it had appeared to Weylin as if his fellow Quincy had fought him every step of the way to greatness in order to be able to cling to the fading memory of a time when they ruled the world. When they were lauded as humanity’s greatest defenders against the dark of night.
Shaking his head dejectedly von Wolfenstein averted his gaze from an oil painting of the tsar and began to walk through the moonlight filled corridor of the Winter Palace, his steps echoing unnaturally loudly in his ears. Having gotten in touch with the old Demyan Rosankov he had been allowed to stay in the domicile of past Russian emperors for a while in order to , clear his head after abdicating the Quincy throne. Now, with a bottle of brandy in hand, Weylin climbed the stairs towards the roof of the palace, a long coat firmly wrapped around him to ward off the chill of an autumn night. Inhaling Weylin could feel the cold air sting comfortably as it rushed into his chest. Then he gave a satisfied nod. Despite the myriad of lights that were around him, one could still see the stars. Some brighter than other.
Listening to the clicking sound of his boots on stone as he walked towards the small island of furniture some of the employees that worked at the palace had stored up here, just out of sight of the visitors, but still close enough to the edge to be able to see the city and feel regal. In true Russian fashion it seemed that all pieces of the collection came from different time periods, and were of varying quality, meaning that they should have been disposed of a long time ago. Weylin chose a leather chair that once upon the time might have had its place in a fancy meeting room but was now banished out of sight and mind. The leather creaked in the cold beneath his weight and although some of the feathers were well worn, it was oddly comfortable. Leaning back the Quincy allowed himself a sigh and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, four stars stood out in particular. Three very bright ones and one with an odd hue.
“Adimus, Sekai, Jian.” Weylin mumbled and stretched to be able to throw open the doors of the nearest cabinet without leaving his seat. Dissatisfied with the assortment of bottles, cans and garbage he turned to the next one, the least battered piece of furniture, in the desire to find a suitable cup. He might be drinking brandy alone at night in Russia, but he was not a savage. His search was rewarded with stout crystal glasses, heavy enough to bash a man’s skull in. That would do. Rinsing it with brandy for all the good it did it Weylin poured himself a glass and then leaned back with another sigh. Trailing the intricate pattern with his fingertips von Wolfenstein’s thoughts wandered once more to the trio of mortals.
Adimus and he had risen to prominence at the same time, and while the Iron Knight’s rise had been an astronomical one, Weylin could understand it. He had seen the man suffer and grow, and while Kalian’s soul was far from ordinary it had never seemed as extraordinary or alien to him, as that of the other two. Sekai, for example, had said to him that she had only been actively making use of her talents for a little over one and a half years. Maybe two at the most. And still, at that point she had wielded a Reiatsu on par with that of Erasmus or Kiriko. All of it gained in the blink of an eye compared to the twenty years he had spent honing his skills. Weylin took a sip. And Jian was even more frustrating of a character. When Weylin had first met the boy he had been as green behind the ears as could be. A star-eyed lad who had wanted to be a hero, the next Adimus. In a year he had made good on that promise. While Weylin had been stuck keeping the Quincy from tearing apart, busy with consolidating the rule and reach of the monarchy, the little boy from Karakura had eclipsed the Iron Knight and himself in terms of sheer Reiatsu. Again Weylin nipped at the glass.
Leaving out the idea that it wasn’t fair for them to have come this far this quickly, few things in life ever were, it was just so…so…wrong. Of the seven mortals on par or surpassing Shinigami Captain that Weylin had met in his life, five had been mortals. Only two had been Quincy. But it was his people that had been who had kept humanity safe for centuries. They had the pedigree, the training, the techniques and culture. All those mortals were but a ragtag bunch. Taking a closer look at these five, there was nothing they had in common but the occasional hardship that comes with facing demons. Every Quincy had that. So why weren’t there more like Weylin? Why did mortals continue to outdo the Quincy at every turn when by all rights it should be the other way around?
Having subconsciously clenched his jaw in bitterness, Weylin’s nostrils flared as he reminded himself to breathe deeply. Refilling the glass in his hand he afterwards placed the brandy on the ground and off to the side. It was bad enough to be drinking alone, given his history. No need to be tempted to forsake the glass and go straight for the bottle.
1347
By all accounts, the late tsar had been a man larger than life. Measuring over two-hundred centimeter certainly must have helped cultivate that image. Having become co-ruler of Russia at the age of ten young Peter had immediately been thrust into a world too large and perilous for any child, he had nonetheless lived a most impressive life. In his youth the young monarch had traveled across the world in disguise to learn a host of things and grow as a person. He had joined the military and risen to rank from the very bottom – something he latter required all military personnel to do. And at the height of his power he had won Russia many victories, revolutionized her militarily and socially, secured accesses to various seas and trading routes, suppressed rebellions and turned a failing empire into one of Europe’s most successful nations. A man of extraordinary talent, with hard earned skills and a vision he had led his people into a Golden Age.
Weylin envied the man.
By all accounts he too should have been such a child of prophecy for his people. He too had endured numerous hardships, traveled the world and cut his teeth before besting numerous foes no Quincy in generations had been able to stand up to. And yet, when it had finally been his time to the reigns and lead his people to greatness he had failed them. Or perhaps, they had failed him.
After all, what more did he have to give?
During his entire life it had appeared to Weylin as if his fellow Quincy had fought him every step of the way to greatness in order to be able to cling to the fading memory of a time when they ruled the world. When they were lauded as humanity’s greatest defenders against the dark of night.
Shaking his head dejectedly von Wolfenstein averted his gaze from an oil painting of the tsar and began to walk through the moonlight filled corridor of the Winter Palace, his steps echoing unnaturally loudly in his ears. Having gotten in touch with the old Demyan Rosankov he had been allowed to stay in the domicile of past Russian emperors for a while in order to , clear his head after abdicating the Quincy throne. Now, with a bottle of brandy in hand, Weylin climbed the stairs towards the roof of the palace, a long coat firmly wrapped around him to ward off the chill of an autumn night. Inhaling Weylin could feel the cold air sting comfortably as it rushed into his chest. Then he gave a satisfied nod. Despite the myriad of lights that were around him, one could still see the stars. Some brighter than other.
Listening to the clicking sound of his boots on stone as he walked towards the small island of furniture some of the employees that worked at the palace had stored up here, just out of sight of the visitors, but still close enough to the edge to be able to see the city and feel regal. In true Russian fashion it seemed that all pieces of the collection came from different time periods, and were of varying quality, meaning that they should have been disposed of a long time ago. Weylin chose a leather chair that once upon the time might have had its place in a fancy meeting room but was now banished out of sight and mind. The leather creaked in the cold beneath his weight and although some of the feathers were well worn, it was oddly comfortable. Leaning back the Quincy allowed himself a sigh and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, four stars stood out in particular. Three very bright ones and one with an odd hue.
“Adimus, Sekai, Jian.” Weylin mumbled and stretched to be able to throw open the doors of the nearest cabinet without leaving his seat. Dissatisfied with the assortment of bottles, cans and garbage he turned to the next one, the least battered piece of furniture, in the desire to find a suitable cup. He might be drinking brandy alone at night in Russia, but he was not a savage. His search was rewarded with stout crystal glasses, heavy enough to bash a man’s skull in. That would do. Rinsing it with brandy for all the good it did it Weylin poured himself a glass and then leaned back with another sigh. Trailing the intricate pattern with his fingertips von Wolfenstein’s thoughts wandered once more to the trio of mortals.
Adimus and he had risen to prominence at the same time, and while the Iron Knight’s rise had been an astronomical one, Weylin could understand it. He had seen the man suffer and grow, and while Kalian’s soul was far from ordinary it had never seemed as extraordinary or alien to him, as that of the other two. Sekai, for example, had said to him that she had only been actively making use of her talents for a little over one and a half years. Maybe two at the most. And still, at that point she had wielded a Reiatsu on par with that of Erasmus or Kiriko. All of it gained in the blink of an eye compared to the twenty years he had spent honing his skills. Weylin took a sip. And Jian was even more frustrating of a character. When Weylin had first met the boy he had been as green behind the ears as could be. A star-eyed lad who had wanted to be a hero, the next Adimus. In a year he had made good on that promise. While Weylin had been stuck keeping the Quincy from tearing apart, busy with consolidating the rule and reach of the monarchy, the little boy from Karakura had eclipsed the Iron Knight and himself in terms of sheer Reiatsu. Again Weylin nipped at the glass.
Leaving out the idea that it wasn’t fair for them to have come this far this quickly, few things in life ever were, it was just so…so…wrong. Of the seven mortals on par or surpassing Shinigami Captain that Weylin had met in his life, five had been mortals. Only two had been Quincy. But it was his people that had been who had kept humanity safe for centuries. They had the pedigree, the training, the techniques and culture. All those mortals were but a ragtag bunch. Taking a closer look at these five, there was nothing they had in common but the occasional hardship that comes with facing demons. Every Quincy had that. So why weren’t there more like Weylin? Why did mortals continue to outdo the Quincy at every turn when by all rights it should be the other way around?
Having subconsciously clenched his jaw in bitterness, Weylin’s nostrils flared as he reminded himself to breathe deeply. Refilling the glass in his hand he afterwards placed the brandy on the ground and off to the side. It was bad enough to be drinking alone, given his history. No need to be tempted to forsake the glass and go straight for the bottle.
1347
