03-30-2018, 07:26 PM
Serraph's gloved hand would press softly at his wound. The ink's flow wouldn't cease. It had cut deep. He'd turn his head towards the now dead, nameless one, his eyes of silver narrowing over his clothes. It didn't occur to him he could simply summon his bandages, but his mind was racing. The engines driving his mind and memory were beginning to slow with the constant supply of the viscous liquid to supply it. Quickly he'd leap upon the corpse, his blade stripping the dead man's clothes into strips. His hands shook as he attempted to tie them, but he found great difficulty in doing so.
He was going to die. He was going to bleed out.
The prisoners shouted frantically, rattling their cages and many of the Hollows wailed into the night, as if his life was already forfeit. The pain had spread throughout his body. The sword had cut deeper than he initially anticipated. He had no proper bone structure to even slow the advance of the blade, unfortunately. Frantically he fumbled with the makeshift bandages, but tying them around himself was all but impossible for him in this state. His lips trembled and his eyes welled up with black tears of frustration. He was beginning to forget. How could Serraph forget? He was a living chronology of everything his eyes have bear witness, and yet he couldn't even bandage himself. Then he felt the sinister, humid breath against his neck.
The light of the Hollows eyes shone brightly behind him. The impish Hollow from before had taken the improvised bandage and began wrapping them tightly around his wound. The ink had began to bleed through the tightly packed mass of rags even as the Hollow applied them.
"W-what?", Serraph would murmur, his body shuddering as his mind finally caught up to what was going on. He was about to fall unconscious, he'd realize. His eyes would flick upwards to the dead man's face, his eyes trailing about its shocked demeanor. Disgusting. He gritted his teeth and straddled the corpse's hips, his thighs clamping tightly around its cold hips. He'd lean in close, his bloodstained hand gripping the man's hair forcefully, tilting its head back. His sword arm would slide the flat of the blade over the man's body, finding no strength to even lift its light weight.
Another Hollow would come to the Arrancar's aid, this one being quite slender for a hollow, with six flexible and thick tendrils instead of arms. These tendrils would coil over Serraph's arm, assisting him in the movements he wanted to make, even if he failed to notice the assistance. The blade would lift barely from the man's body and press tightly against the man's throat. The porcelain tendrils coiled tighter around his arm, forcing the blade to split the flesh, the paper blade sinking into the dead flesh with ease. Together with his assistance he'd create a sawing motion, his blade slicing into the meat of his neck with razor-like precision and ease. Serraph's blade had been stained crimson through and through.
Serraph's drifting mind was getting impatient, his gloved hand would pull at the dead man's hair, ripping the remaining strands of flesh and muscle asunder in a sickening series of snaps and crackles. He'd drop the head and collapse atop the body, his drooping eyes glancing out at the second assistant. All eyes were on him but it was clear to everyone he was out. He was defenseless that even the weakest Hollow here could take him and devour him, yet none made the move to do so.
"This one's our Master now?", one would say, his voice seemingly the survivor of a razor storm.
"He is quite the cutie, look at those eyes~" a rather feminine voice would coo.
"You think everything is cute you wench.", a third voice would growl.
"And yoou would think steal his meal out from underneath him, you glutton. You know well he's going to be starving after healing from that wound, asswipe!", the feminine voice retorted.
"Both of you should can it. He is still concious....."
But then again, he wasn't. The boy had long fallen asleep upon his rightful claim.
He was going to die. He was going to bleed out.
The prisoners shouted frantically, rattling their cages and many of the Hollows wailed into the night, as if his life was already forfeit. The pain had spread throughout his body. The sword had cut deeper than he initially anticipated. He had no proper bone structure to even slow the advance of the blade, unfortunately. Frantically he fumbled with the makeshift bandages, but tying them around himself was all but impossible for him in this state. His lips trembled and his eyes welled up with black tears of frustration. He was beginning to forget. How could Serraph forget? He was a living chronology of everything his eyes have bear witness, and yet he couldn't even bandage himself. Then he felt the sinister, humid breath against his neck.
The light of the Hollows eyes shone brightly behind him. The impish Hollow from before had taken the improvised bandage and began wrapping them tightly around his wound. The ink had began to bleed through the tightly packed mass of rags even as the Hollow applied them.
"W-what?", Serraph would murmur, his body shuddering as his mind finally caught up to what was going on. He was about to fall unconscious, he'd realize. His eyes would flick upwards to the dead man's face, his eyes trailing about its shocked demeanor. Disgusting. He gritted his teeth and straddled the corpse's hips, his thighs clamping tightly around its cold hips. He'd lean in close, his bloodstained hand gripping the man's hair forcefully, tilting its head back. His sword arm would slide the flat of the blade over the man's body, finding no strength to even lift its light weight.
Another Hollow would come to the Arrancar's aid, this one being quite slender for a hollow, with six flexible and thick tendrils instead of arms. These tendrils would coil over Serraph's arm, assisting him in the movements he wanted to make, even if he failed to notice the assistance. The blade would lift barely from the man's body and press tightly against the man's throat. The porcelain tendrils coiled tighter around his arm, forcing the blade to split the flesh, the paper blade sinking into the dead flesh with ease. Together with his assistance he'd create a sawing motion, his blade slicing into the meat of his neck with razor-like precision and ease. Serraph's blade had been stained crimson through and through.
Serraph's drifting mind was getting impatient, his gloved hand would pull at the dead man's hair, ripping the remaining strands of flesh and muscle asunder in a sickening series of snaps and crackles. He'd drop the head and collapse atop the body, his drooping eyes glancing out at the second assistant. All eyes were on him but it was clear to everyone he was out. He was defenseless that even the weakest Hollow here could take him and devour him, yet none made the move to do so.
"This one's our Master now?", one would say, his voice seemingly the survivor of a razor storm.
"He is quite the cutie, look at those eyes~" a rather feminine voice would coo.
"You think everything is cute you wench.", a third voice would growl.
"And yoou would think steal his meal out from underneath him, you glutton. You know well he's going to be starving after healing from that wound, asswipe!", the feminine voice retorted.
"Both of you should can it. He is still concious....."
But then again, he wasn't. The boy had long fallen asleep upon his rightful claim.
"Mine eyes hath seen the glory of the presence of my Lord. He is sifting through the treasures in which his Gates of Wrath does store. He lets loose the righteous vengeance of his terrible swift swords. Gilgemesh has returned!"