Post by A.H on Dec 29, 2017 17:33:29 GMT -5
A.H
The Demon Gunwoman
[ AT A GLANCE ]
Age / Apparent Age: 116/20
Gender: Female
Height & Weight: 5'6" & 120 lbs
Hair & Eye Color: White, Blue
Positive Traits: Placid, Patient, Consistent, Tidy. Pro-active
Negative Traits:Machiavellian, Unceremonious, Sassy, Impulsive, emotional.
Loyalties: Herself
Snapshots: 1900: Birth.
1912: Became an Orphan and moved to Edinburgh.
1914: reluctantly joined the war.
1917: Perished in The Battle of Passchendaele.
1917: Consumed by a Hollow.
1939: Managed to assume control of the hollow and became a Dominant Adjuchas.
1947: Unsure of her existence, she allowed her primal urges to consume as many hollows.
1960: She roamed the world, witnessed political conflicts and war.
1984: Ambushed by both hollow and Shinigami, fended them off at a cost of her mask.
2016: Began roaming around in the Human world and killed a Quincy. Her curiosity of the being slain demands to be sated.
[ ON THE SURFACE ]
Physical Description: Hair & Eyes
A.H’s hair is a mess. Short and whiter than her very skin, the bangs are uneven and looked as if it been cut by shears rather than scissors. The rarely washed bangs lacked the conditioning treatment and clumped together, almost becoming dreads. A.H tend to hide most of her hair under the plain grey Scottish tam hat (lacking the pom and the tassel) that helps give off the air of rogue-ish look. Her only working eye is a dull shade of blue, always restless, flittering whenever the wind blows or something fast approaching comes to her view.
Physical Description
The best way to describe the Arrancar is a pale skinned marathon runner. The short stature and small breast size provided the illusion of her being fragile, but that is far from the truth. The timid frame was surprisingly durable, with rippling abs that outshone the daily scratches and cuts. Her powerful and toned leg muscles grant her leap and bounds, cartwheeling and being slippery, makes her the perfect being for up close and personal style of combat, let alone being able to knock one’s head clean off with a round house kick.
Although half of her eyes is covered by her fragmented hollow mask, she holds an air of reserved beauty. Her feminine jaw and the small mouth with slightly plump lips that’s rarely commit to a smile – but when it does, it was reduced into madness. She has a smooth, pale skin, free of scars and scabs. However, her tepid movement was unfitting of a woman. With a masculine swagger, it would be easy to mistake her from afar along with her unusual attire.
A.H attire is something considered to be alien in Arrancar standards. Avoiding the droll white clothes that put the Las Noches on the map. She resorted to wearing masculine attire that resembled that of a Highland Officer soldier from the first world war. The grey tunic which the flap is curved to allow her to wear sporran for her dark blue and black kilt. (spoiler: she never wears a sporran) She also sports a weathered leather satchel to carry things of interest and a leather holster for her off hand weapon, a Revolver.
The Hunter’s Boots is ankle length with a thick woolly sock that she tends to cover most of her shin and covered with grey spats to protect it from weather. The foot wear and socks are in tip top shape thanks to the hunter’s persistent and timely care.
She wears a grey band that cover most of her forehead and to keep her from being irritated by the placement of her hollow mask fragment and a grey tam hat to hide the messy and clumsy hair of hers.
She also sports a long grey trench coat that matches with her uniform, most of the time she tends to wear them draped over her shoulders like a cape rather than wearing them as intended. The reason for her unusual use of wearing coats was simply for ‘diplomacy’ measures, using its long fabrics to hide her zanpakuto that never seem to be separated from her grasp.
Her Hollow Hole Is located at her stomach where her Belly button would be. Although there’s a glaring hole, it doesn’t seem stood out at all in comparison of her rippling abs.
In a rare case of her needing to wear something else other than her usual soldier attire. She opted for Masculine attire, more specifically, clothes that she considered as viable in combat. She tends to shy away from wearing feminine outfit, citing that the clothes are hardly good for survival compared to the male variant.
Voice:
With the dominant soul hailing from Scotland, A.H has the thick air of the soft Scottish accent. Rarely raising her voice, her tone ventured from a sotto to a piercing scathe. Although she has been known to speak Japanese, her dominant Scottish accent butchers her flow of speaking it and often difficult to understand her. The measurement of from calm to pissed off can be determined by the pitch of her voice and how decipherable her accent.
Posture and movement:
A woman shaped for war, she always stood upright with a towering composure. However, you would expect her to walk in a militaristic manner, but that’s far from the truth. She walks with a boisterous masculine and run composed with her arms close to her body often with her shotgun held on her right and her left grasping the belt.
Spiritual Description:
Her reitastu when exerted gives off a soft, gentle cold, pale green glow. Rather than coming out like a violent inferno, it rises from his body curling and swaying, much like a sun’s corona. It is rare that her reiastu flares up in anger, instead the foul killing intent is what intensifies.
She seems to smell like Gunpowder. The stench of sulfer, charcoal and saltpeter lingers behind when she long since departed, a telling tale that she was there.
[ BEHIND THE EYES ]
Personality: A.H can be described as a Monster, twisted and unhinged. All she ever wanted was to see was the world burn but even that would not truly satisfy her. Her bleak and demotivated dialogue on top of her sass would even drive the still minded into madness. Though, even with all this twisted hate in her mind, she is quick to anger. Her greatest asset is the ability to deliver her threats with violence. It takes little for her to snap and reveal her ungodly wrath to the world.
She is a patient and clever woman. Like a Komodo dragon. Once bit it will bide it time till the prey’s strength had all but spent. Delivering discord and discomfort to others were her favourite past time, regardless of how beneficial the people may be. She’s selfish and self-centred, always believing that one’s would live longer if they always look out for number one. Though her selfishness is measured in how many dead littered around her, she knows the value and benefit of growth in others, after all, she is a patient woman.
She does wantonly punish herself for making mistakes and flaws. She is an advocate for perfection, any less is death. Her attitude in perfection stems from the fact that her mind is 'broken,' all her memories were muddled and fragmented, often double guessing herself. She come across as an emotional ‘heart in her sleeve’ and constantly refused to admit it. She aims to truly cast away these hindered memories littering in her mind and define herself as A.H.
Though clever she may be, she’s not a smart woman. She’s not versed with the way of words or politics, in fact she occasionally struggles with words. She’s not a dumb woman in any extent but needs a helping hand in case of someone smarter decided to insult her with their large vocabulary.
She holds great pride in her fighting prowess and her insistence in ordering his opponents that they should all fight her at the same time, never one on one, citing it pathetic and pointless. In additional to that, she demanded that all of her opponents fight at their full strength. It helps as fighting versus groups was her forte. She fights dirty to win and expects her opponents to do no less. After all, she is wrath, destruction of anything around her is expected. She does reject her own powers, relying solely with her own strength and her ruthless aggression to back it up. However she resorts to using it when she's on the verge of losing, for defeat is a sin to her..
The Demon Gunwoman does see beauty in the world and often, she finds them in the least expected of places. Being a spirit who witnessed and even involved in wars, she finds herself most at home in the battlefield. She would be less compelled to fight, but her battle fever will intensify if such beauty soiled by pettiness. Dogs are another being that could soothe her. She enjoys the company of dogs and does whatever she can to keep them safe. Fate far worse than death befalls to those who harm these adorable canines.
Goals & Achievements: Her goals are simple, be rid of these alienating memories that plague her. She wanted to retain that instinctive fighting style that she once wield as an Adjuchas and to identify herself as the warring creature who lusts for war.
Her Achievement would be her survival and her sentience. She lived long compared to those she once knew and lived in combat longer than those who shied away. She can take home the fact that she was never a coward and continue to live her life how she demands it to be.
[ GUARDIAN ANGEL ]
Aspect of Death: Wrath.
A demon birth
Shattered promise with a bullet
One down, endless more
Power: A.H holds the power of restoring form that’s immaterial, organic and spiritually back to its original state or at certain point in timeline. However, A.H cannot use this power on itself or can revert it to the point of origin. Her power would be considered as abnormality, or maybe a twisted sense of humour that the lost past managed to seep in guise of her power.
Zanpakutō: Despite the pre-death soul was part of the Scottish Highlands regiment, the young soldier had always wanted the Winchester 1897 Riot gun. A shotgun of renowned fierceness and destructive force. Her Zanpakuto was shaped in the vision of the soldier’s wish. The short barrel gives off the gleaming finish as care and thought was put into cleaning. Despite its being a near replica of the Winchester, there were one or two notable differences. There are holes in the barrel where the heatshield is located and a permanently attached straight Bayonet. The long knife at a length of 16 inches of polished steel that gleams under the sunlight.
[ LEGACY CREATED ]
Origin:The Soldier, born in the turn of twentieth century, in the wilderness of Scotland always reaching out for a rifle. Guns were always part of the family life. Be it as a Hunter or a Soldier and with it: the sadness. His mother died when he was a toddler and his father perished in the dying days of the Boer War, the young soldier took solitude with his grandfather.
His childhood consists of survival and stories. Being a family of hunters, they sustain by hunting game and feeding off the lands. Every so often, his grandfather and the young boy travelled to the nearest town. The cold stone slab and dreadful weather frightens the young boy, liking it to Venus fly trap that his grandfather described to him. There are shelter there, but the cold atmosphere feels as if the people are trapped there. Once his grandfather got what he needed they depart back to their own little Eden.
As years go by, the boy soldier grew older and his grandfather wilt. He had lost his years during his times of following Wellington through Portugal and France. Shortly after the soldier’s tenth birthday, grandfather went to bed for the last time, never to wake up again.
The soldier boy didn’t cry of his passing, but he felt uncertain of what may happen next. He tried to live on his own, he was taught ever so well by his grandfather and knows exactly what he’s doing, but a chance meeting from a relative turned it all upside down. It took them five months to discover that something was wrong. It was the lack of letters that sparked their concern and to discover a young boy alone in the wilderness. They took him away from his Eden – for the last time – to live with them in the one thing that he dreaded: A Venus fly trap.
That Venus fly trap was Edinburgh and unlike the dreary town that seared into his memory, Edinburgh hold such allure that he couldn’t help but feel the warmth. The community was lively and it only took him a week to gain two new friends. The siblings, a boy and a girl took interest of the wild soldier. Living in the wilderness for so long, it was rare that he would look neat, but it was an act of defiance that he refused to keep his hair groomed. The young boy and his new-found friends – the siblings travelled everywhere within the borough, even places that wide eyed siblings did not realise that it exists.
The soldier boy was happy. His bonds with the siblings tightens, he slowly became attached to the sister and shared his secret with the brother.
But then. The War to End All Wars came. As much as Edinburgh was a good home, the soldier wanted something bigger. He wanted to see the world, explore every nook and cranny and even with the warnings from his guardians, the distant relatives – some who had fought in the past wars – warned him sternly to avoid becoming a soldier.
But he would respond with famous adage: “The War will end in Christmas.”
The sister chose to accept his choice, but made him promise to look after his brother, no matter what.
He promised.
And he broke that promise with a gunshot. His close friend tried to desert but was caught. He was given on the spot trial, found guilty and was marched off to the firing squad which his dear friend volunteered all in less a day. Soldier’s heart and soul snapped, shattered in million pieces. He didn’t want this anymore, but that thought ebbed away as the bloodlust creeped into his psyche. He never given a time to himself as he was constantly thrusted into combat. In a year, he became a husk of what he was before. No shell disturbs him, not even the fall of his comrade would stir him. Even he didn’t realise that he was dead when the hail of shell shrapnel reduced his material body into a bloody mist. All he felt was Anger, Rage. Fuck this world for he will bring all down before him. No bullet or cannons shall part him of his life, no pleas or mercy shall soften him. Nothing can stop him nothing except the long beak of the winged bird hollow ended the broken soldier’s Battle fever and feasted upon its spoil.
Rise to Power: The battle may have lost, but the war has never ended. The soul of the soldier found himself awake in the trench with fellow comrades huddling against the ladder with the officer gazing at pocket watch and the whistle firmly in his lips. The clock struck battle and the whistle blown. The soldier was lunged into the battle, only to met with the spray of the Maxim Gun.
The battle may have lost, but the war has never ended. The soul of the soldier found himself awake in the trench with fellow comrades huddling against the ladder with the officer gazing at pocket watch and the whistle firmly in his lips. The clock struck battle and the whistle blown. The sudden jolt from his comrade propelled the soldier into the battlefield. The deafening cry of King and country reached to crescendo, only to abruptly stop as the mortar shell slammed besides him, killing him instantly.
The battle may have lost, but the war has never ended. The soul of the soldier found himself awake in the trench with fellow comrades huddling against the ladder with the officer gazing at pocket watch and the whistle firmly in his lips. The Soldier began to question the déjà vu, he took a step back and swung his rifle at the officer and fired. The soldier fell as the clock hands call for battle.
The battle may have lost, but the war has never ended. The soul of the soldier found himself awake in the trench with fellow comrades huddling against the ladder with the officer gazing at pocket watch and the whistle firmly in his lips. The clock struck battle and the whistle blown. Comrades rose into the battle, unleashing the rallying cry for King and Country but the Soldier stayed behind. They were moving ever so slowly, but his reaction remained the same. He glanced at the oncoming officer demanding him to move. He gave the officer a blank look and finally, it clicked…
Does he matter?
The Soldier lashed out at the Officer, yanking the pistol from his grasp with few sharp punches in good measure till the Soldier pried the pistol away from him and added the cacophony of war with another death. He launched himself over the top and fired his pistol at his own allies. Nothing else matters, ally, enemy. Humanity demands death to be reduced into statistic. Not him. It shall never be him. He realised that he survived because he chose to be a monster. The moment that single shot killed his best friend, he signed away his own humanity and the only fine to return his humanity was death.
But Death was cheap. Whatever this purgatory the Soldier was in demanded more. Slowly, every time he ceased to be by war machinations he reverted to before the whistle was blown. Was he wrong, he hesitated? No matter how far he sinks to his depravity, believing that the toll would be paid. It did not. Every massacre the soldier commits, more of what left of his spirit. So much more needs to be taken. Right until he became a husk with only the last thing that he felt: Anger, wrath.
A monster that he is. Bullet whizzed by and a click of the revolving cylinder got him pointing at his next target. He condemned his next target with a bullet to the chest. He felt the hot lead ripping through his arm, but it doesn’t bother him. He felt stronger, he felt better. The more he slayed, more he dived deeper into the abyss, that incorrigible fuel of wrath. It only took a barrage of firing volley from the other end of the no man land.
The battle may have lost, but the war has never ended. The soul of the Soldier found himself awake in the trench…and he remembered everything and nothing. What was his name? Why was he alone in the forest? Such forgetfulness further fueled him to raze the no man land as if he held the power to dismantle the forces before and behind him.
The soldier was stuck in a loop, no matter how many deaths he had, no matter how he died. He always came back to where he was. Within seconds he took the revolver from the officer and six fell. He discards the gun and yanked the bayonet from his own belt and hacked all who got close to him. Every offense his enemy thrown at him were met with instinctive evasion. The never-ending swarm charged at him as the battlefield shifted from Triple entente and Triple Alliance to them vs him.
And they were losing. His wrath grew ever stronger every time he restarted his loop with no end and no weapons can harm him, no ground can impede him but there was one who could stop him. His actions flowed with instinct. No memories or morality to hinder him. He became more than a monster…
A pale faced woman stood before her gazing at the warring soldier and he gazed back at her with a blankness. Her empowering soul pacified the army around her with her presence. The white-haired woman looked sympathetic. Her hands branched out at the Soldier for an embrace which he accepted. His weapons dropped with the apologetic tone formed into words oh so familiar to him.
“My promise was too much…”
Instead of a response, the empty husk feasted on her soul.
The toll was complete: Her soul for his humanity.
The hollow found itself in Spain. The Spanish civil war was in embers, the death was still in droves but because of this, food was never in short supply. The mindless Adjuchas roamed and feasted upon confused souls until it was satisfied, but that satisfaction never came. Conflicts from both Shinigami and Hollow alike and it either managed to be the victor or retreated to live another day. All its movement and actions were driven by instinctive desire to live. The broken and disjointed memories flashing through its eyes was intrusive enough to shunt even the basic speech and understanding. War and consumption were the only way to ebb the bombardment of alien memories, but even that does not work. The stronger the memories, the more aggressive and rampant the Hollow would be. Even Shinigami often tried to fight it and often failed.
The beast roam from one conflict to another until another great war befall upon Mother Earth: The Second World War. As the fighting intenstified, the soul count increases for the beast. When it ends, The Korean War began and then Vietnam with countless conflict smacked in between. As decades goes by, the beast non-stop gorging caught the attention of a group of Shinigami and plotted their attack on him.
Their battleground was in Iran - Iraq border. War broke out over the dispute of the border. One by one they all jumped on the birdlike hound and it was able to fend them off until one powerful surge of Hado blasted part of its body and with a single moment, the beast felt fear as the scorching power rend the mask into two.
The dust settled and the Shinigami were satisfied that the beast was slain. Indeed, the beast was slain, but something worse was in place. A single blast of the concentrated red light ripped apart the dust cloud and the Shinigami beyond it. Only screams followed as the naked woman dismantled the Shinigami formation, but It wasn’t the scream of those who were murdered.
It was hers…
Call to Action: Dull faced and empty minded. Memories took control of her thoughts and none were familiar to her. Haunted by strange memories, the rag wearing Arrancar roams across the land dragging the shotgun by the bayonet. As the years goes on. The memories slowly starts to recede but still paralyzing to her own mental inhibition. It wasn’t until she found herself in Romania at the birth of the revolution. She stood atop the build, watching the frail ruler delivered his speech when the crowd snapped. The sudden burst of roars rippled and shattered the oncoming bombardment of memories, reviving and revitalising her identity.
The crowd chanted Timișoara. So did she, her voice was coarse, but her new found determination wouldn’t let it die. The crowd followed it up with "Jos dictatorul!" She too, respond louder than before. Her hands gripped against the railing, eyes bearing at the panicked Dictator from afar. She knew from the start that this man was already dead.
And she laughed. A single memory was gifted to her with a gentle refrain. It was a Wolf in the winter highlands. It traversed across the lone road leading to the hut. The hut was empty and forlorn. Eventually the wilderness will consume it whole.
“Don’t worry, you’ll come back there some day.” Were the words of a young Scottish girl. The memories were fixed onto the hut, slowly drifting further and further away before engulfed in a white-out.
Then she snapped with a frivolous, roaring Scottish Accent. She was baying for more blood. It wasn’t Justice, nor revolution. It was pure destruction.
It was never the end, just merely the end of the beginning.
Rag turned into a kilt, foot dragging turned into a swagger. Hair shortened and became a mess. The beast made an identity out of herself and her name is A.H.
And she will fucking kill you.
The Demon Gunwoman
[ AT A GLANCE ]
Age / Apparent Age: 116/20
Gender: Female
Height & Weight: 5'6" & 120 lbs
Hair & Eye Color: White, Blue
Positive Traits: Placid, Patient, Consistent, Tidy. Pro-active
Negative Traits:Machiavellian, Unceremonious, Sassy, Impulsive, emotional.
Loyalties: Herself
Snapshots: 1900: Birth.
1912: Became an Orphan and moved to Edinburgh.
1914: reluctantly joined the war.
1917: Perished in The Battle of Passchendaele.
1917: Consumed by a Hollow.
1939: Managed to assume control of the hollow and became a Dominant Adjuchas.
1947: Unsure of her existence, she allowed her primal urges to consume as many hollows.
1960: She roamed the world, witnessed political conflicts and war.
1984: Ambushed by both hollow and Shinigami, fended them off at a cost of her mask.
2016: Began roaming around in the Human world and killed a Quincy. Her curiosity of the being slain demands to be sated.
[ ON THE SURFACE ]
Physical Description: Hair & Eyes
A.H’s hair is a mess. Short and whiter than her very skin, the bangs are uneven and looked as if it been cut by shears rather than scissors. The rarely washed bangs lacked the conditioning treatment and clumped together, almost becoming dreads. A.H tend to hide most of her hair under the plain grey Scottish tam hat (lacking the pom and the tassel) that helps give off the air of rogue-ish look. Her only working eye is a dull shade of blue, always restless, flittering whenever the wind blows or something fast approaching comes to her view.
Physical Description
The best way to describe the Arrancar is a pale skinned marathon runner. The short stature and small breast size provided the illusion of her being fragile, but that is far from the truth. The timid frame was surprisingly durable, with rippling abs that outshone the daily scratches and cuts. Her powerful and toned leg muscles grant her leap and bounds, cartwheeling and being slippery, makes her the perfect being for up close and personal style of combat, let alone being able to knock one’s head clean off with a round house kick.
Although half of her eyes is covered by her fragmented hollow mask, she holds an air of reserved beauty. Her feminine jaw and the small mouth with slightly plump lips that’s rarely commit to a smile – but when it does, it was reduced into madness. She has a smooth, pale skin, free of scars and scabs. However, her tepid movement was unfitting of a woman. With a masculine swagger, it would be easy to mistake her from afar along with her unusual attire.
A.H attire is something considered to be alien in Arrancar standards. Avoiding the droll white clothes that put the Las Noches on the map. She resorted to wearing masculine attire that resembled that of a Highland Officer soldier from the first world war. The grey tunic which the flap is curved to allow her to wear sporran for her dark blue and black kilt. (spoiler: she never wears a sporran) She also sports a weathered leather satchel to carry things of interest and a leather holster for her off hand weapon, a Revolver.
The Hunter’s Boots is ankle length with a thick woolly sock that she tends to cover most of her shin and covered with grey spats to protect it from weather. The foot wear and socks are in tip top shape thanks to the hunter’s persistent and timely care.
She wears a grey band that cover most of her forehead and to keep her from being irritated by the placement of her hollow mask fragment and a grey tam hat to hide the messy and clumsy hair of hers.
She also sports a long grey trench coat that matches with her uniform, most of the time she tends to wear them draped over her shoulders like a cape rather than wearing them as intended. The reason for her unusual use of wearing coats was simply for ‘diplomacy’ measures, using its long fabrics to hide her zanpakuto that never seem to be separated from her grasp.
Her Hollow Hole Is located at her stomach where her Belly button would be. Although there’s a glaring hole, it doesn’t seem stood out at all in comparison of her rippling abs.
In a rare case of her needing to wear something else other than her usual soldier attire. She opted for Masculine attire, more specifically, clothes that she considered as viable in combat. She tends to shy away from wearing feminine outfit, citing that the clothes are hardly good for survival compared to the male variant.
Voice:
With the dominant soul hailing from Scotland, A.H has the thick air of the soft Scottish accent. Rarely raising her voice, her tone ventured from a sotto to a piercing scathe. Although she has been known to speak Japanese, her dominant Scottish accent butchers her flow of speaking it and often difficult to understand her. The measurement of from calm to pissed off can be determined by the pitch of her voice and how decipherable her accent.
Posture and movement:
A woman shaped for war, she always stood upright with a towering composure. However, you would expect her to walk in a militaristic manner, but that’s far from the truth. She walks with a boisterous masculine and run composed with her arms close to her body often with her shotgun held on her right and her left grasping the belt.
Spiritual Description:
Her reitastu when exerted gives off a soft, gentle cold, pale green glow. Rather than coming out like a violent inferno, it rises from his body curling and swaying, much like a sun’s corona. It is rare that her reiastu flares up in anger, instead the foul killing intent is what intensifies.
She seems to smell like Gunpowder. The stench of sulfer, charcoal and saltpeter lingers behind when she long since departed, a telling tale that she was there.
[ BEHIND THE EYES ]
Personality: A.H can be described as a Monster, twisted and unhinged. All she ever wanted was to see was the world burn but even that would not truly satisfy her. Her bleak and demotivated dialogue on top of her sass would even drive the still minded into madness. Though, even with all this twisted hate in her mind, she is quick to anger. Her greatest asset is the ability to deliver her threats with violence. It takes little for her to snap and reveal her ungodly wrath to the world.
She is a patient and clever woman. Like a Komodo dragon. Once bit it will bide it time till the prey’s strength had all but spent. Delivering discord and discomfort to others were her favourite past time, regardless of how beneficial the people may be. She’s selfish and self-centred, always believing that one’s would live longer if they always look out for number one. Though her selfishness is measured in how many dead littered around her, she knows the value and benefit of growth in others, after all, she is a patient woman.
She does wantonly punish herself for making mistakes and flaws. She is an advocate for perfection, any less is death. Her attitude in perfection stems from the fact that her mind is 'broken,' all her memories were muddled and fragmented, often double guessing herself. She come across as an emotional ‘heart in her sleeve’ and constantly refused to admit it. She aims to truly cast away these hindered memories littering in her mind and define herself as A.H.
Though clever she may be, she’s not a smart woman. She’s not versed with the way of words or politics, in fact she occasionally struggles with words. She’s not a dumb woman in any extent but needs a helping hand in case of someone smarter decided to insult her with their large vocabulary.
She holds great pride in her fighting prowess and her insistence in ordering his opponents that they should all fight her at the same time, never one on one, citing it pathetic and pointless. In additional to that, she demanded that all of her opponents fight at their full strength. It helps as fighting versus groups was her forte. She fights dirty to win and expects her opponents to do no less. After all, she is wrath, destruction of anything around her is expected. She does reject her own powers, relying solely with her own strength and her ruthless aggression to back it up. However she resorts to using it when she's on the verge of losing, for defeat is a sin to her..
The Demon Gunwoman does see beauty in the world and often, she finds them in the least expected of places. Being a spirit who witnessed and even involved in wars, she finds herself most at home in the battlefield. She would be less compelled to fight, but her battle fever will intensify if such beauty soiled by pettiness. Dogs are another being that could soothe her. She enjoys the company of dogs and does whatever she can to keep them safe. Fate far worse than death befalls to those who harm these adorable canines.
Goals & Achievements: Her goals are simple, be rid of these alienating memories that plague her. She wanted to retain that instinctive fighting style that she once wield as an Adjuchas and to identify herself as the warring creature who lusts for war.
Her Achievement would be her survival and her sentience. She lived long compared to those she once knew and lived in combat longer than those who shied away. She can take home the fact that she was never a coward and continue to live her life how she demands it to be.
[ GUARDIAN ANGEL ]
Aspect of Death: Wrath.
A demon birth
Shattered promise with a bullet
One down, endless more
Power: A.H holds the power of restoring form that’s immaterial, organic and spiritually back to its original state or at certain point in timeline. However, A.H cannot use this power on itself or can revert it to the point of origin. Her power would be considered as abnormality, or maybe a twisted sense of humour that the lost past managed to seep in guise of her power.
Zanpakutō: Despite the pre-death soul was part of the Scottish Highlands regiment, the young soldier had always wanted the Winchester 1897 Riot gun. A shotgun of renowned fierceness and destructive force. Her Zanpakuto was shaped in the vision of the soldier’s wish. The short barrel gives off the gleaming finish as care and thought was put into cleaning. Despite its being a near replica of the Winchester, there were one or two notable differences. There are holes in the barrel where the heatshield is located and a permanently attached straight Bayonet. The long knife at a length of 16 inches of polished steel that gleams under the sunlight.
[ LEGACY CREATED ]
Origin:The Soldier, born in the turn of twentieth century, in the wilderness of Scotland always reaching out for a rifle. Guns were always part of the family life. Be it as a Hunter or a Soldier and with it: the sadness. His mother died when he was a toddler and his father perished in the dying days of the Boer War, the young soldier took solitude with his grandfather.
His childhood consists of survival and stories. Being a family of hunters, they sustain by hunting game and feeding off the lands. Every so often, his grandfather and the young boy travelled to the nearest town. The cold stone slab and dreadful weather frightens the young boy, liking it to Venus fly trap that his grandfather described to him. There are shelter there, but the cold atmosphere feels as if the people are trapped there. Once his grandfather got what he needed they depart back to their own little Eden.
As years go by, the boy soldier grew older and his grandfather wilt. He had lost his years during his times of following Wellington through Portugal and France. Shortly after the soldier’s tenth birthday, grandfather went to bed for the last time, never to wake up again.
The soldier boy didn’t cry of his passing, but he felt uncertain of what may happen next. He tried to live on his own, he was taught ever so well by his grandfather and knows exactly what he’s doing, but a chance meeting from a relative turned it all upside down. It took them five months to discover that something was wrong. It was the lack of letters that sparked their concern and to discover a young boy alone in the wilderness. They took him away from his Eden – for the last time – to live with them in the one thing that he dreaded: A Venus fly trap.
That Venus fly trap was Edinburgh and unlike the dreary town that seared into his memory, Edinburgh hold such allure that he couldn’t help but feel the warmth. The community was lively and it only took him a week to gain two new friends. The siblings, a boy and a girl took interest of the wild soldier. Living in the wilderness for so long, it was rare that he would look neat, but it was an act of defiance that he refused to keep his hair groomed. The young boy and his new-found friends – the siblings travelled everywhere within the borough, even places that wide eyed siblings did not realise that it exists.
The soldier boy was happy. His bonds with the siblings tightens, he slowly became attached to the sister and shared his secret with the brother.
But then. The War to End All Wars came. As much as Edinburgh was a good home, the soldier wanted something bigger. He wanted to see the world, explore every nook and cranny and even with the warnings from his guardians, the distant relatives – some who had fought in the past wars – warned him sternly to avoid becoming a soldier.
But he would respond with famous adage: “The War will end in Christmas.”
The sister chose to accept his choice, but made him promise to look after his brother, no matter what.
He promised.
And he broke that promise with a gunshot. His close friend tried to desert but was caught. He was given on the spot trial, found guilty and was marched off to the firing squad which his dear friend volunteered all in less a day. Soldier’s heart and soul snapped, shattered in million pieces. He didn’t want this anymore, but that thought ebbed away as the bloodlust creeped into his psyche. He never given a time to himself as he was constantly thrusted into combat. In a year, he became a husk of what he was before. No shell disturbs him, not even the fall of his comrade would stir him. Even he didn’t realise that he was dead when the hail of shell shrapnel reduced his material body into a bloody mist. All he felt was Anger, Rage. Fuck this world for he will bring all down before him. No bullet or cannons shall part him of his life, no pleas or mercy shall soften him. Nothing can stop him nothing except the long beak of the winged bird hollow ended the broken soldier’s Battle fever and feasted upon its spoil.
Rise to Power: The battle may have lost, but the war has never ended. The soul of the soldier found himself awake in the trench with fellow comrades huddling against the ladder with the officer gazing at pocket watch and the whistle firmly in his lips. The clock struck battle and the whistle blown. The soldier was lunged into the battle, only to met with the spray of the Maxim Gun.
The battle may have lost, but the war has never ended. The soul of the soldier found himself awake in the trench with fellow comrades huddling against the ladder with the officer gazing at pocket watch and the whistle firmly in his lips. The clock struck battle and the whistle blown. The sudden jolt from his comrade propelled the soldier into the battlefield. The deafening cry of King and country reached to crescendo, only to abruptly stop as the mortar shell slammed besides him, killing him instantly.
The battle may have lost, but the war has never ended. The soul of the soldier found himself awake in the trench with fellow comrades huddling against the ladder with the officer gazing at pocket watch and the whistle firmly in his lips. The Soldier began to question the déjà vu, he took a step back and swung his rifle at the officer and fired. The soldier fell as the clock hands call for battle.
The battle may have lost, but the war has never ended. The soul of the soldier found himself awake in the trench with fellow comrades huddling against the ladder with the officer gazing at pocket watch and the whistle firmly in his lips. The clock struck battle and the whistle blown. Comrades rose into the battle, unleashing the rallying cry for King and Country but the Soldier stayed behind. They were moving ever so slowly, but his reaction remained the same. He glanced at the oncoming officer demanding him to move. He gave the officer a blank look and finally, it clicked…
Does he matter?
The Soldier lashed out at the Officer, yanking the pistol from his grasp with few sharp punches in good measure till the Soldier pried the pistol away from him and added the cacophony of war with another death. He launched himself over the top and fired his pistol at his own allies. Nothing else matters, ally, enemy. Humanity demands death to be reduced into statistic. Not him. It shall never be him. He realised that he survived because he chose to be a monster. The moment that single shot killed his best friend, he signed away his own humanity and the only fine to return his humanity was death.
But Death was cheap. Whatever this purgatory the Soldier was in demanded more. Slowly, every time he ceased to be by war machinations he reverted to before the whistle was blown. Was he wrong, he hesitated? No matter how far he sinks to his depravity, believing that the toll would be paid. It did not. Every massacre the soldier commits, more of what left of his spirit. So much more needs to be taken. Right until he became a husk with only the last thing that he felt: Anger, wrath.
A monster that he is. Bullet whizzed by and a click of the revolving cylinder got him pointing at his next target. He condemned his next target with a bullet to the chest. He felt the hot lead ripping through his arm, but it doesn’t bother him. He felt stronger, he felt better. The more he slayed, more he dived deeper into the abyss, that incorrigible fuel of wrath. It only took a barrage of firing volley from the other end of the no man land.
The battle may have lost, but the war has never ended. The soul of the Soldier found himself awake in the trench…and he remembered everything and nothing. What was his name? Why was he alone in the forest? Such forgetfulness further fueled him to raze the no man land as if he held the power to dismantle the forces before and behind him.
The soldier was stuck in a loop, no matter how many deaths he had, no matter how he died. He always came back to where he was. Within seconds he took the revolver from the officer and six fell. He discards the gun and yanked the bayonet from his own belt and hacked all who got close to him. Every offense his enemy thrown at him were met with instinctive evasion. The never-ending swarm charged at him as the battlefield shifted from Triple entente and Triple Alliance to them vs him.
And they were losing. His wrath grew ever stronger every time he restarted his loop with no end and no weapons can harm him, no ground can impede him but there was one who could stop him. His actions flowed with instinct. No memories or morality to hinder him. He became more than a monster…
A pale faced woman stood before her gazing at the warring soldier and he gazed back at her with a blankness. Her empowering soul pacified the army around her with her presence. The white-haired woman looked sympathetic. Her hands branched out at the Soldier for an embrace which he accepted. His weapons dropped with the apologetic tone formed into words oh so familiar to him.
“My promise was too much…”
Instead of a response, the empty husk feasted on her soul.
The toll was complete: Her soul for his humanity.
The hollow found itself in Spain. The Spanish civil war was in embers, the death was still in droves but because of this, food was never in short supply. The mindless Adjuchas roamed and feasted upon confused souls until it was satisfied, but that satisfaction never came. Conflicts from both Shinigami and Hollow alike and it either managed to be the victor or retreated to live another day. All its movement and actions were driven by instinctive desire to live. The broken and disjointed memories flashing through its eyes was intrusive enough to shunt even the basic speech and understanding. War and consumption were the only way to ebb the bombardment of alien memories, but even that does not work. The stronger the memories, the more aggressive and rampant the Hollow would be. Even Shinigami often tried to fight it and often failed.
The beast roam from one conflict to another until another great war befall upon Mother Earth: The Second World War. As the fighting intenstified, the soul count increases for the beast. When it ends, The Korean War began and then Vietnam with countless conflict smacked in between. As decades goes by, the beast non-stop gorging caught the attention of a group of Shinigami and plotted their attack on him.
Their battleground was in Iran - Iraq border. War broke out over the dispute of the border. One by one they all jumped on the birdlike hound and it was able to fend them off until one powerful surge of Hado blasted part of its body and with a single moment, the beast felt fear as the scorching power rend the mask into two.
The dust settled and the Shinigami were satisfied that the beast was slain. Indeed, the beast was slain, but something worse was in place. A single blast of the concentrated red light ripped apart the dust cloud and the Shinigami beyond it. Only screams followed as the naked woman dismantled the Shinigami formation, but It wasn’t the scream of those who were murdered.
It was hers…
Call to Action: Dull faced and empty minded. Memories took control of her thoughts and none were familiar to her. Haunted by strange memories, the rag wearing Arrancar roams across the land dragging the shotgun by the bayonet. As the years goes on. The memories slowly starts to recede but still paralyzing to her own mental inhibition. It wasn’t until she found herself in Romania at the birth of the revolution. She stood atop the build, watching the frail ruler delivered his speech when the crowd snapped. The sudden burst of roars rippled and shattered the oncoming bombardment of memories, reviving and revitalising her identity.
The crowd chanted Timișoara. So did she, her voice was coarse, but her new found determination wouldn’t let it die. The crowd followed it up with "Jos dictatorul!" She too, respond louder than before. Her hands gripped against the railing, eyes bearing at the panicked Dictator from afar. She knew from the start that this man was already dead.
And she laughed. A single memory was gifted to her with a gentle refrain. It was a Wolf in the winter highlands. It traversed across the lone road leading to the hut. The hut was empty and forlorn. Eventually the wilderness will consume it whole.
“Don’t worry, you’ll come back there some day.” Were the words of a young Scottish girl. The memories were fixed onto the hut, slowly drifting further and further away before engulfed in a white-out.
Then she snapped with a frivolous, roaring Scottish Accent. She was baying for more blood. It wasn’t Justice, nor revolution. It was pure destruction.
It was never the end, just merely the end of the beginning.
Rag turned into a kilt, foot dragging turned into a swagger. Hair shortened and became a mess. The beast made an identity out of herself and her name is A.H.
And she will fucking kill you.
