Post by Eric Lecarde on Nov 14, 2013 23:00:49 GMT -5
[atrb=border, 0, true][atrb=vAlign, top]  NOTES ! TAGS. --- WORDS. 1000 NOTES. Solo |  VORPAL EDGE District 80, North Rukongai - "Zaraki" Eric knew he was treading on some of the most dangerous soil within all of Soul Society. While it was no secret that not everybody who had reiatsu could become Shinigami, it was far from the common person's mind to think that those with strength would turn to brutishness and crime to ensure their survival. People with power had to eat. And food wasn't so easy to find in a world where no one had to eat... the walls were gruff and dingy, and there was always a bloodstain somewhere in sight no matter where you looked. They ranged from tiny but definite sanguine flecks to utterly grotesque splatters of dried blood where somebody had been seriously screwed up. The walls lining the streets and dilapidated houses were not like the rest of Rukongai... instead, they were cracked and chipped, with plenty of wear and tear on their forms. It was too expensive to send people willing to work here in this forsaken district where criminals amassed. Thugs, thieves and pickpockets flowed through the dirt streets like water. Even the vegetation was poor here; dried brown grass and wilted weeds leaning downwards pathetically with fatigue were the only plants the Zaraki district had to speak of, and nothing seemed to live here. It was a place of death and dismay. It was nearing dusk, and the orange glow of the sun seemed to add a more surreal quality to the shanties and slums of northern district eighty, as if in those brief moments of sunset the full qualities of each fallen dwelling were magnified aesthetically. Amidst the starving children and common thugs strode a contrasting figure; he was clean, wearing an odd sleeveless coat with his collar and shoulders framed in white lupine fur to match the coat's white material. Trimmed facial hair lined his jaw, well kept, and his long hair descending several inches past his jawline was dyed a dark blue as was that of his beard. Icy blue eyes were set forward unwaveringly; anywhere else he would have seemed rigid and unnerving, stiff even, but here amongst people with only broken or malicious eyes his own gaze was bright as a star in the night sky even in it's icy, cold frigidity. The outsider's arms and legs were bound in countless leather buckles attached to a layer of tight black material beneath them, except that those around his legs were instead simply bound around his black pants. The man's boots were a somber sound to the shoeless residents laying or sitting amidst the occasional porch or stretch of grassy ground, most of which had cuts and bruises on their exposed feet. Several beggers approached the Shinigami, whom calmly strode past them. He had mixed gazes sent towards him. Some scorned him for disregarding the needy as he seemed to do, many looked with some fear at the two blades crossed on his back both of which were taller than even their imposing wielder, while several thugs along his way showed crude smiles revealing absences of teeth followed by foul-smelling laughter and taunts. Just like the beggars, however, they were shown no concern from him. Each he passed would sneer at him with hatred upon realizing they'd been ignored, or shout out parting insults at the stranger whom had never had time for them. Eventually the brigands and thugs grew tired of it. They moved ahead behind him, walking at a pace equal to his own. He continued until a similar wall of thugs and gansters was laid out in front of him in a walled alleyway, leaving him trapped on both sides. His pace halted as if a mere obstacle were in front of him. A middle aged bald headed gangster with an eye patch strode out to the front of the Shinigami, eyeing him strangely as he puffed smoke from a beaten up wood pipe hanging out of his slack lips. "Yo." Spoke the thug, the wrinkles across his features shifting as his hoarse voice escaped him. "You've got a soul reaper's blade... but no soul reaper clothes. You hiding from the law, kid?" Asked the aged gangster, who slowly flashed a wicked grin at the stranger. "Because if you make friends with me and my boys here, we'd be happy to let you stay in the modest accomodations of our..." The aged gang leader began to offer with a serpentine glint in his eyes before the Shinigami spoke up, silencing him. "Where is Takefumi Arisawa?" Eric demanded. He remained still as a statue, but this time looked down at the gang leader, who stood at a much shorter height compared to his own six foot seven stature. Nearly half a minute passed of strange looks and awkward hesitation from the gang before the middle aged gangster finally spoke in reply. "I don't know the guy, sorry. But about the..." Spoke the wisened gang lord, before his single eyeball widened and the pipe fell from his mouth as he watched Eric reach his left hand behind his back, drawing the massive cleaver shaped blade from the strap that held it, cutting the leather strip in the process of drawing the daunting weapon. The thugs immediately drew their own weapons, waiting for the outsider to make his next move. Icy blue eyes trailed upon the aged gangster as he quickly ducked down to grab his fallen pipe, clutching it in his hand before the Shinigami cruelly stomped on his fingers, smashing them and the pipe with a nauseating crunch. The gang lord grunted in pain but took the wound well, before jerking back and freeing his hand from the Shinigami's boot. "Kill this punk!" He shouted, causing the walls of thugs to come pouring into the alley towards Eric from both sides. Their leader disappeared into their ranks as he quietly slipped backwards in the gaps between his men, glaring at the Shinigami with hatred. |