Post by Wicked on Sept 23, 2011 19:39:52 GMT -5
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General Information
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Name: Takeda Masaru {Surname, Given name}
Actual Age: 184
Appearing Age: Late Teens
Gender: Male
Appearance
Personality
History
Maeru reached in and picked up a rather large sack that jingled with change, and rustled with cash. He looked up to the top bunk and was able to see only Isamu's feet which hung over the side.
"Oi, Isamu," Masaru called, tossing the bag up into the air. "Catch!"
Isamu caught the bag and stared at it. He peered down at Masaru. "What's this?"
"It's the money I owe ya from our bet," Masaru explained, crossing his arms. "I'm a man'o'my word."
Isamu sighed, jumping down from the top bunk and landing beside Masaru. "Look, I don't want your money."
"Take it," Masaru insisted, shoving Isamu away as he went to sit down. "You won anyways, and it's not like I have anything to spend it on right now."
Isamu shook his head. "Baka, that's not the point. I don't want this. You take it."
"I'm not a fuckin' charity case," Masaru snapped, glaring at Isamu. "Take your god damn money, put it in your fucking stuff, and shut the fuck up."
Isamu didn't even try to argue with Masaru after that. The two continued in their rivalry, though Masaru didn't challenge Isamu again. He kept to himself for the most part, training and watching Isamu, comparing himself to the blond. As his wound healed and the scar remained, Masaru used it as motivation to surpass Isamu. He would give him a scar far worse than the one he received.
On their first field trip to the real world, Masaru aimed to beat Isamu. The objective was to each preform at least one Konso. Masaru preformed two, and Isamu preformed one. Feeling confident, Masaru brought the matter up when they returned.
"Hey, Isamu," Masaru began with a grin.
"I know," Isamu muttered, exhausted, "You beat me. I'll give you your money back in the morning."
"Your money," Masaru corrected with a grin.
Though it seemed unlikely, the pair became friends. Their rivalry had slowly morphed from vicious competitive bickering and fighting to friendly competition. They ate together, they trained together, they sparred together, and they dared each other to do stupid things.
Things went swimmingly until Isamu's father got involved.
Masaru and Isamu had been goofing around that night, telling ghost stories and coming up with what they thought were clever rhymes about each rukongai district. A knock on the door alerted Isamu that something was going to go horribly, horribly wrong.
He answered the door, and there stood an average sized man, blond hair like Isamu's, gray eyes like Isamu's, but a much colder, more mature expression. "Isamu, let me speak to you."
"Hai, Otou-sama."
When Isamu returned to the room, Masaru asked him what had happened. He received no answer. The next morning, he asked again and Isamu refused to tell him. Enraged, Masaru punched Isamu right in the jaw and glared at him.
"Tell me what the fuck happened!" Masaru demanded. He was about to throw another punch when he realized that Isamu wasn't going to fight back. Isamu always had a punch to throw back. He lowered his fists and Isamu turned to him, eyes red and watery. "You ok?"
"You're one lucky bastard."
"I almost died when I was little, whaddoya mean?" Masaru asked.
"You don't have to worry about impressing anyone. I have an entire house of people on my back."
The conversation ended there. Isamu had an admiration for Masaru, the likes of which Masaru could not return. The next year, Isamu was not in his room. Masaru continued to work on his own, not having Isamu in a single class alongside him.
Finally, one of his instructors, his hakuda instructor, informed him that Isamu had graduated early. Masaru would have to work alone, and nothing in his academy was as eventful as Isamu. If anything, Masaru was angry that Isamu hadn't just told him what his father had said to him. He never compared himself to other classmates again, and he let himself fall behind in kido and shunpo. Ironically, he remained at a fair level in shunpo. He favored hakuda and zanjutsu.
Graduation was not a good day for Masaru. Rather it was a sad day where he remembered the times he had had with Isamu, the scar he had gained on his face, the injured pride he nursed back to life with every new accomplishment. The scar on his face should have been a mark of shame, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that it was like the 'gift' from his father. It seemed like it caused more harm than good, but Masaru was happy to have it now. It was a reminder that they were a part of his life at some point. Even just a little. And he kept that memory and clung to it from then on out.
At first, Masaru was assigned to the seventh division as an unseated member. His first duties as a shinigami were anything from sweeping streets to unclogging toilets. Though a less than savory job, Masaru would 'finish' these jobs, often handing them off to someone who happened to walk in on him doing it, and would then go to laze about elsewhere.
Often times, he would look around for Maeru. He asked around, and found that Maeru had quite the reputation as a con-man. One of Masaru's friends warned him that Maeru was not the kind of man to play any sort of game with, as he cheated whenever there was a risk. Masaru, now aware of the fact that Maeru was not quite the role model he thought he was those years ago when he pulled him from the rukongai, confronted his surrogate brother with a frown.
"Maeru!" he called, banging on the door. "I know ye'r in there, get yer as out here!"
And Maeru did, looking down at Masaru with a grin. "Geez, Chibi, ya don't gotta be such a baby about it."
Masaru crossed his arms, and told Maeru that he'd heard about his reputation and asked what that was about. Maeru, with a sigh, explained "I don't cheat - cheatin' is readin' off the reflection of someone's glasses t'tell what their cards say. They call it cheatin' I call it bein' lucky."
And so Masaru learned that Maeru, whenever given the chance to shuffle a deck of cards, would use his swift and nimble fingers to arrange them in what he thought was favorable. Masaru told him this was still cheating, but Maeru only shrugged. "When y'got a gift like this, y'gotta use it."
Masaru had no such gift. When it came to rearranging the cards the way Maeru did, he would drop the deck, spilling cards across the floor. Masaru grinned and said, "I think I'd rather stick with chance."
However, Masaru was eventually kicked out of the seventh division, probably due to his layabout ways. He didn't like odd jobs, and so he didn't do them. He was moved to the thirteenth division, which he was glad to accept. Here, instead of taking odd jobs, he would often sneak away and go into jinzen, attempting to unlock his shikai so perhaps he might get promoted and thus obtain a more challenging position.
His zanpakuto spirit loathed him. At first, his zanpakuto spirit looked like a woman to Masaru, and so he tried to play it cool and, in the process, looked like a fourteen-year-old boy trying to ask a girl way out of his league to a school dance. And yet, that wasn't what tripped him up. This nameless spirit, this nameless, effeminate spirit was a male. Masaru, upon learning this fact, fell into the waters of his mind.
"Baka," his zanpakuto spirit would exclaim in exasperation. "I should have taken another master! I know I should have! Why on earth did I take you?"
After many unsuccessful attempts at obtaining his shikai, Masaru asked his superiors what he could do to get a better mission aside from learning the name of his zanpakuto, and a seemingly kind seated officer told him that they would have some strings pulled so that Masaru could work in the real world on patrol for a week or two.
Masaru didn't realize that Okamura was actually trying to kill him.
The first night on his mission, Masaru realized his mistake. Not only did he struggle to keep up with the outbreaks of hollow wandering karakura town, but he was completely incapable of defeating them without at least a scratch or two.
"Chikuso," Masaru hissed as he stabbed the third hollow of his second day through the mask. "How the Hell am I supposed to do this shit for another two weeks?!"
He was tempted to call for backup, but he did no such thing. He slashed away at hollow after hollow.
One hollow in particular gave him trouble, however, a large squid of a hollow that lead him to the beach, where their epic battle ensued. It would be nice to say that Masaru fought the good fight and defeated the hollow, but that would be a lie.
The hollow slashed at Masaru with tentacles as sharp as swords, smashed him into the ground. Once his prey was on the ground, he lowered another tentacle to his back, slashing across his back. Masaru groaned in agony. If this hollow was going to kill him, why didn't it just hurry up and get to its meal?
"Eh, shinigami? Aren't you supposed to kill me?" the hollow mocked. Masaru had never felt so helpless. As two more slashes slit his back open and spilled his blood on the moonlit sand, Masaru let himself slip away, hoping for unconsciousness. He didn't want to be toyed with in his last few moments of life. This hollow would get what it wanted, a meal, and then it would leave and terrorize the town even more.
What he didn't expect were the harsh words in the smooth drawl of his zanpakuto spirit. "Why do you wait for death, Masaru? Am I not a good enough sword to defeat this?"
Masaru squeezed his eyes shut.
"Am I not a sharp enough blade to pierce this hollow?" his spirit prodded, "Am I not strong enough? I am only as strong as you allow me to be, Masaru!"
Masaru gritted his teeth.
"If you die, then you deserve it! Coward! Fight back! Don't you want to know my name? Didn't you work so hard to get this far?"
Masaru clenched his fists, one hand tightly grasping his katana.
"Then say it!"
"Say what?!" Masaru screamed aloud.
His spirit's voice rang powerfully in his mind, and as he approached those fateful words, Masaru's reiatsu flared and he pointed his katana at the hollow, speaking with his spirit's words. "My name! Saza-!"
"Fukuramu, Sazanami!" Masaru yelled, throwing a blind attack at the hollow as he spun onto his back. The sand stung on his back, but he didn't care anymore. He threw a strange sort of weapon at the hollow, two round discs on a tight metal wire. It slashed through the hollow and then rolled back on the wire. Masaru barely caught it in his hand after the blades slashed into his own skin, staring at the bloody discs. It looked like a child's toy.
Masaru smiled to himself as he stared at the weapon. Perfect for a man who would never grow up. Slowly, his consciousness ebbed away, and Masaru fell asleep on the sand, where he should have died.
When he woke up, Masaru was in the fourth division's infirmary, being treated by a mousy young nurse. "Oh, you're awake."
Masaru didn't answer. In his state, he was more curious where he was and why. Wasn't he supposed to be dead now? Hadn't he lost too much blood? Bandages encircled his chest and back, his right hand which he had caught his weapon with. "How did I get here?"
"Oh, um... Makino-sama brought you here," the nurse said, scratching the back of her head. "He said he found you on a beach in the realm of the living."
Makino, Masaru thought, staring at the ceiling. Isamu must have been patrolling as well. He must have sensed Masaru's reiatsu and came to help him. He smiled. "I gotta thank him then."
Masaru searched for Isamu, but Isamu would not see him. During this time, Masaru took up drinking, often visiting Maeru and sharing a jug of sake with him. It had taken him seventeen years of training to achieve his shikai, and only one unfortunate loss to give it to him. It seemed strange.
"Well, look at it this way," Maeru drawled, cheeks flushed from a drunken state, "Yeh made it this far. Be happy fer it. Y'almost lost yer life on that bet."
Masaru grinned. "It's my life, I can do what I want with it."
Maeru grinned.
But Maeru wasn't well. During this time, Maeru was suffering himself, not from inner turmoil but from illness. His body was weakened and frail, and Masaru began to worry for his surrogate brother. He didn't have much to say to his companion, though he worried. He would try to ask his zanpakuto spirit for advice, but Sazanami would often tell him it was Maeru's decision as to whether he lived or died.
He put in another transfer request, asking to be removed from the thirteenth division and moved to yet another squad after the ryoka invasion, and then hoped that it would go through after the winter war, when things were less chaotic. Masaru wanted something different.
On Masaru's 183th birthday, August 2nd, he walked up a large hill in warm, sunny weather with a basket of food at his side and his zanpakuto resting comfortably on his hip. He smiled softly to himself. He'd brought all of his favorite foods, including all the fixings for ramen noodles. At the top of the hill, a peach tree stood, bearing fruit amongst many blossoms. When he looked at the base of the tree, a polished rock marked the place where he had buried his friend.
"Yo, Maeru," Masaru whispered, setting down the basket and reaching in. The first thing he did was pour two glasses of Sake and leave one on his brother's grave. "Haven't seen you in a while."
Masaru, at this point, would train by his friend's grave, meditating with his weapon. He had never cared much for training, but he wanted to prove to the deceased Maeru that he would still grow even in his brother's absence. Now, he had a new goal. Not just to prove to Maeru that bringing Masaru to the Sereitei wasn't a mistake, but also to find his father and thank him for the gift.
He wanted to be stronger in order to accomplish this goal. Though he hated training, and Sazanami hated to train him, Maeru bore with it, just as the peach tree beside his brother's grave bore fruit despite the rain or the wind. Masaru wasn't out to prove anything when he started.
That sure changed.
Update
But things do not always work out the way you want them to. Masaru enlisted in the eleventh division, brawled a bit, got berated a bit, and neglected his paperwork a bit. But aside from that, Masaru felt mostly at home. After all, it seemed almost acceptable to throw paperwork into a different person's hands.
But that was not the only thing Masaru did. He met new people--some of different divisions, naturally--and reacquainted himself with an old friend. By tackling him, no less. After tackling Isamu and demanding an explanation, he was promptly told, "Masaru, as much as I like seeing you again, you do have to get off me. I can't feel my chest anymore, and I swear you've gotten much heavier since we last saw each other."
After they got their introductions out of the way, Isamu explained, finally, what had happened and why. Masaru seemed not to mind, instead using Isamu as a resource to locate his father.
They were not able to do this based on the slim chance that, of thousands of pictures, one would resemble Masaru. Instead, they made their way to Masaru's mother, Chiyako. And though she was not exactly excited about helping, she was willing. She gave Masaru pictures, letters, and a name. Tamura Hisao.
Excited, Masaru completely ignored the warnings. Sazanami warned him against seeking out Hisao, but Masaru did not care. He sought Masaru, only to be told, "I don't have a son."
Distraught, Masaru called Hisao a bastard, and thus bastardized himself. Masaru gave up on having a father. But he still felt hollow inside. He attempted to drown his problems in alcohol, attempted to find console in a near stranger. He finally admitted that he needed help from Sazanami, who berated Masaru and nearly drowned him. When Masaru later asked Sazanami about this incident, he said, "It was a mere swimming lesson."
And that it was. Masaru was told a mere survival skill. If Masaru wanted things to change, going somewhere else would only allow the pattern to recycle itself. But if he confronted his problems, confronted himself, he might be able to change things.
And so Masaru confronted Isamu and his father. But rather than fighting, Masaru reasoned that there was no need to shelter Isamu, a grown man who had pushed Masaru back into line more often than not. And though he was berated and taunted, Masaru bowed his head, smiled, and allowed the man to say his piece. When he had finished, Masaru said, "If he can't change me, I don' think I can change 'im either."
And though at first he was dismissed, Isamu's father no longer pushed Masaru away.
A small victory, but the beginning of a larger one. Masaru trained and meditated until he was able to materialize Sazanami. And, after defeating Sazanami in a battle (and learning that Sazanami had hands--enough to use a yo-yo effectively) he obtained his bankai.
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Skills/Attributes
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Zanpakutō
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Zanpakutō Spirit
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Zanpakutō Shikai
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Zanpakutō Bankai
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OOC Information
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General Information
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Name: Takeda Masaru {Surname, Given name}
Actual Age: 184
Appearing Age: Late Teens
Gender: Male
Appearance
Height, six foot two. Weight, 155 lbs. Masaru is a tall, lean man, perfect for getting things off of high shelves. His body is quite lanky. He bears a long, thin set of muscle. His fingers are long and gaunt, his feet mirroring this feature. He has rather large feet. His skin is lightly tanned from much time in the sun.
His face is slightly elongated, his eyes almond-shaped. His irises are a crystalline shade of blue, and yet they have dulled and worn out from years of chaos. Along his left cheek runs a distinctive, jagged scar he earned during his days at the academy. His nose is slightly pointed, his jaw strong and masculine.
His hair is a worn black. His hairline is, like his scar, jagged and unruly. He attempts to keep his hair free of matted clusters by wearing it up in a high, but short ponytail, not unlike a samurai's topknot--though it is not long enough to wrap around twice. When worn down, his hair is a perpetually tousled mess of waves and curls, unruly and unmanageable. It falls down to his jaw, slightly lower in some places.
Like most shinigami, he wears a shihakusho, a kimono top and a hakama bottom. On his legs are scars from one particularly vicious encounter with a hollow. He wears the standard tabi of shinigami, and his obi is tied slightly off-center, the knot more to his right.
Aside from his uniform, Masaru wears an old, worn out and torn scarf. It was once white, though now it is a dull gray, the ends are frayed. It is slightly baggy and hangs loosely from his neck. The scarf lengths out to a little under eight feet total.
On his back, Masaru also has a long scar running from his right shoulder blade to his left hip, repeated two more times.
Personality
Masaru is a shockingly warm-hearted guy. He's relatively kind-hearted and laid-back when it comes to strangers, and doesn't know when to drop this behavior. And yet, he doesn't like having people get close to him, claiming (albeit, jokingly) that he is must be cursed.
A layabout goof, Masaru hates working, far preferring to nap or eat. When offered a spar, he will refuse half of the time. Masaru would rather not spend his free time fighting, and claims that if he is going to fight, it should have more risk. He would far rather goof around and joke with his friends, drink sake with buddies, and bet.
Masaru is a gambler, and can never resist a bet. If the stakes are high, if it sets his pulse racing, Masaru's answer is, "Hell yes." He gets quite the rush when he gambles, be it with his life or with his money. Because he's such a gambler, Masaru has a tendency to lose all of his money in one shot. He never knows when to quit with gambling, and never knows when to quit in a fight.
Though he loathes sparring, and training, he doesn't mind a death-match. He considers it lucky if he lives, and unlucky if he dies. He's yet to be unlucky in a fight, as he's still alive. During fights, Masaru retains his jovial persona, and treats it like a game. However, the more serious the fight grows, the less Masaru sees it as a game and the more he sees it as life or death.
Even then, Masaru likens it to gambling.
Despite this, Masaru gambles because he needs the rush. Some people spar, some people argue, some people... sew, but Masaru gambles. He gambles on his life, he gambles on his money. However, Masaru would never gamble away someone else's money - that's not to say he wouldn't spend it on sake.
Masaru does have something of a code of honor. He won't attack conscious enemies that can't fight back, he won't attack a friend. However, this tends to bite him in the butt if his enemy can fight back and he doesn't know, or if his friend turns against him. He loathes seeing children on the battlefield, but this means children by his standards: almost all humans, young-appearing arrancar, and young-appearing shinigami/vizard. If they attack, he will hesitate. Finally, anyone who seems frail he will refuse to fight until they show him otherwise. Sadly, by the time this happens, it could be too late.
Though his code of honor may be seen as naive, Masaru sticks by it despite what others say. He tends not to worry too much about what others think, and when questioned about it, he'll simply respond, "It's my life." When questioned about his gambling, he'll respond similarly with, "It's my money." Because he's constantly betting, he'll occasionally make a one-sided bet that only he's actually agreed to. When this happens, he'll constantly thrust whatever he lost upon them, and if they refuse he'll say, "I'm a man'o'my word." When they lose, however, he'll rub it in until they finally give him something for the loss.
Masaru's dialect is rather coarse and rough, he'll often mash words together when speaking. He maintains the rough speech that many residents of the deeper rukongai tend to possess.
Masaru has learned that being responsible and doing one's work can actually be quite stress-relieving. He now seeks work to do when upset, be it paperwork or exercise. Aside from this, he has sobered up--for the most part--and become more willing to change certain behaviors. Or at least pretend that he has changed them.
History
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In Masaru's earliest memories, it was cold. Masaru was reborn in the sixty-seventh district of the northern rukongai, in a frozen summer. Though it seemed a paradox, the ground was covered in a thick white frost. At first, Masaru was confused and frightened, a child who could not find his way. He had a mother, but no real father. He ate poorly, and water was all his mother really ever gave him. According to his mother, his hunger was a gift from his father - and a lousy one at that.
As soon as Masaru was old enough to walk, to speak, his mother kicked him out of their ramshackle hovel and left him to fend for himself. His mother's words to him were, "I don't want to see his face show up on yours."
Though cruel, Masaru didn't question his mother, not for even a second doubting that she was right. Obediently, he took the life of a stray dog, begging for scraps from his neighbors - some of which were kind enough to give him something every now and again. Yet, a child so small should not have been able to survive in the dead of winter. Masaru barely did, finding various havens amongst the few kind members of his district. And yet, as he grew bigger, they grew less willing to shelter him. He was thrown out into the cold once again.
Abandoned by people he had once thought family, people he had once thought friends, Masaru no longer attempted to find solace in his neighbors, and instead sought a place where he could live without people noticing. He tried many things, from taking shelter in barns, to hiding in cellars. Yet people still found him, and they chased him out. He was unwanted.
Eventually, a small mob of people formed to chase Masaru out of their village, driving him to the outskirts of the district. There, in woods so frozen the trees appeared to be made of ice, Masaru found his new home: The walls and floors were slick with ice, holes formed in the ceiling, and wood laid strewn across the ground. Peelings of paint littered the ground, paper windows shone with a glassy layer of ice. "This is my home."
And what a loathsome home it was. Masaru found the only real protection his new hovel provided was from the wind, and from the townspeople who simply didn't want him. He would try to start fire, but the wood was frosted over, the moisture would smother the fire before it could spread. Masaru froze in that house for years, starved when he could not find food, and thought he might die in this place he was told humans likened to Heaven. They're wrong; it's Hell.
Some nights, Masaru was just shocked he made it through alive. Other nights, he wished he hadn't. It was an abhorrent existence he lead, a lonely runt in the middle of nowhere with no one who cared about him, no one who minded if he died, and no one to miss him when he did. Often times, as he shivered in his sanction, he would say to himself, "What the Hell did I do to deserve this?"
Masaru never found out. Nor did he want to.
One winter in particular, the air was so cold Masaru could have sworn his breath froze as it came out. The frigid environment seemed to be waging a war against a child who had played this game far too long. Masaru, as he closed his eyes for the night, swore it would be his last.
And yet it wasn't!
"Oi, kid," a voice called. Masaru's eyes opened, and he quickly shut them again with a groan. And yet, the voice persisted, "Y'alive, kid?"
Masaru opened his eyes, imbibing the image before him. Starting at the feet, he grew envious. This person had shoes and tabi - they weren't barefoot like him. He moved up. A black hakama... a white obi... a katana at his left (or was that his right?) hip. A black kimono with a white lining, long sleeves, and a long, ivory scarf. His face was blackened in the night. From what Masaru could see, the man was wearing a sakkat. Unlike Masaru, he was dressed for the weather.
Something else rang a bell though... Sh... Shinigami!
Masaru sprang to life, jumping backwards and striking himself against the wall. It shook the ramshackle house. The shinigami cocked his head, with what intent, Masaru couldn't tell.
"Take it easy kid, ye'r not in trouble'r anythin'," the shinigami chuckled. "I felt a li'l reiatsu in here, thought it might be a hollow. I guess I was wrong, eh?"
"Wh-wha's'a shinigami doin' 'ere?" Masaru hissed on a voice raw from disuse. It was true, shinigami rarely appeared in these districts. The last one he could think of was his father - whom he had never met. Why would a shinigami be here?
"Chasin' a hollow."
Masaru nodded, though he wasn't entirely sure what the shinigami meant. Hollows were something he wasn't really familiar with. But it probably wasn't a good thing - at least, it definitely wasn't good for the shinigami. Weren't shinigami supposed to help keep the peace?
Masaru looked down and blinked. When he opened his eyes once more, he saw a pair of feet, and felt a hand reaching for the back of his collar. "O-oi!"
"Ah, shut it. I'm helping you," the shinigami said, tossing Masaru over his shoulder before flying away in a series of shunpo. All Masaru knew was he never wanted to do that again. The movement caused his head to spin, bile to rise in his gorge. Whatever this was, Masaru never wanted to do it again.
Oddly enough, the shinigami - who Masaru had learned was named Takeda Maeru, took Masaru to a ramen stand several districts up. Maeru spoke to the owner of the store pleasantly, leaving Masaru to a rather large bowl of ramen.
Much to the surprise of Maeru, Masaru inhaled the ramen so quickly it didn't look as though he had even tasted it. While Masaru wiped his mouth with his wrist, he turned to the shinigami, only to get a very confused look. "What?"
"Ah, nothin'."
Masaru shrugged and sat quietly. Maeru led Masaru along with him back towards the sereitei, asking him questions about himself. Questions like, "Who was your mother," and, "Who was your father," and, "How long have you had this hunger?" Masaru answered them with things like, "I don't know," and, "Since I can remember." Maeru would nod quietly and lead the child forward in the districts.
Along the way, Masaru began to look up to the shinigami. Maeru was strong, he was kind, he was brave - or at least braver than Masaru was. He was what Masaru wished he could be. The child began to look up to Maeru, not just as a role model, but like one brother sees another. He wanted not only to be like his surrogate brother, but to gain Maeru's admiration as well. To Masaru, Maeru was the start of something brilliant.
When Maeru told Masaru to become a shinigami, Masaru's first reaction was one of shock. It soon turned into a lack of confidence for himself, and he told Maeru he couldn't possibly make it as a shinigami.
"Bull," Maeru sighed. "I'm a shinigami, wha'does tha' tell ya?"
"But ye'r not a kid," Masaru insisted, crossing his arms over his chest. He shook his head. "I would suck."
"Well talkin' like tha', yeah, y'would," Maeru grumbled, rubbing a hand through his hair. "Whatever. I can't babysit ya fer anymore than this. Either go home or become a shinigami."
Masaru watched as Maeru walked away and entered the sereitei, leaving him alone in the first district. He frowned. Maeru thought too highly of him. But he gave in, and he took the entrance exam to the shinoreijutsuin.
He listened as names, names, and more names were called, listed by their scores. Masaru had not expected to pass this. Did he have enough reiatsu? Perhaps. But as more and more names were called, dozens which were not his, he despaired. Finally, at the end of a list at least fifty names long, Masaru heard, "Takeda Masaru."
His eyes shot wide open at that moment. He had put his name down as Takeda Masaru, seeing Maeru as his first real family, and his surrogate brother's name became his own. Here, he had done it. Masaru had made himself Maeru's younger brother, whether Maeru wanted it or not.
His days at the academy were accented by the antics of his roommates. Out of all of Masaru's roommates, Makino Isamu left the biggest mark on Masaru. In fact, the very day Masaru arrived was imprinted in his mind, much like the footprint on his head.
He had simply been staring at the odd contraption - it wasn't a normal futon, rather, it was a bunk bed. How someone managed to fit a futon on a loft so small, Masaru never knew. And yet, it was done. For some odd, alien reason, Masaru reached up to the top bunk, pleased to find that he could grab a hold of it if he stood on the balls of his feet. He was just about to go on top when-"I call top bunk!"
A foot landed with pinpoint accuracy atop his head, causing his lanky frame to buckle under the strain. When he looked up, he saw a blond-haired boy with iron-gray eyes smirking down at him triumphantly.
"Uh, I was gonna take that," Masaru insisted.
"Too bad! I called it!"
At first, the two were at each other's throats, Isamu being of lesser nobility and Masaru being... well, being Masaru. Masaru constantly aimed to surpass Isamu, and the two entered a fierce rivalry. If one learned how to shunpo, the other would learn a new kido spell. If one learned a new hand-to-hand maneuver, the other would learn a new swordsmanship maneuver. And yet, no matter how hard he trained Masaru could never best Isamu.
Masaru, however, wouldn't allow himself to believe this. He trained, he struggled, and he worked his way from the bottom of his class to the fifth in his class, to the fourth in his class, to the third in his class, to the second in his class, and, finally, to the first in his class. He was eventually moved to an advanced class - the same one as Isamu. Though his shunpo and kido were lackluster, they were adequate for someone of the advanced class, and Masaru took pride in this. The second he felt he was ready, he snatched his ausachi and pointed it straight at Isamu.
"Oi, Isamu!" he snapped, cocking his head and offering a mocking smirk to the blond. "I'll bet ya all the money I have I can bea'cha ta Hell'n back!"
Isamu glared at Masaru. "Is this some kind of joke?"
Masaru shook his head, still grinning. Isamu didn't look to his teacher, nor to anyone else. With a burst of shunpo, he appeared in front of Masaru, katana at the ready, and violently slashed down at him. Masaru raised his own to block, still grinning.
"No walkin' out on a bet now!" Masaru barked with a grin, flicking his wrist and pushing Isamu off of him. He charged forward, slashing at his rival. A block. A slash. A block. A slash. A block. A slash. A dodge! the fighting was vicious, and soon a crowd gathered, the instructor not stepping in. Masaru was enjoying himself.
And though Masaru was enjoying himself, the fight raged on, growing more and more serious. People weren't chanting for someone to win, they watched anxiously. Not one person reduced themselves to cheering, much less for a runt like Masaru. The fact that someone Masaru's size could hold his own against someone like Isamu was new to them.
Masaru slid on the ground and pushed off with his hands, landing a powerful kick on Isamu's gut. The boy coughed and gasped for air, struggling to regain his breath while Masaru continued with an onslaught of more slashes and more attacks. "Oi, Isamu! Ain'cha s'posed ta be better than me?"
That infuriated Isamu, and he slashed at Masaru so viciously that Masaru went flying into the crowd. He was thrown back in, and he shook himself off. With a mocking smirk to Isamu, he laughed, "Guess not."
Isamu slashed at him again, an upward slash forcing Masaru to shunpo into the air. But Masaru used it, pulling reishi under his feet and launching himself for Isamu, swinging his sword in a powerful arc. It was blocked, and Masaru found himself suspended in the air for a moment that felt like an eternity. Isamu's blade was dangerously close to his eye.
And then Isamu did it. He spun around in a quick arc, ripping Masaru's blade from his grasp and sending blood flying everywhere. Masaru had gained a long cut from his ear to the bridge of his nose, and fell to the ground, writhing in pain. "Ah!"
Isamu leered down at Masaru, not in triumph but in anger. "Don't mock me, monkey. You could never do anything to me."
That said, Isamu pushed his way out of the crowd, Masaru's blood on his blade, and drops on his arm and gi. "You should have stayed in whatever hole you came from, Takeda; you should stop deluding yourself with fantasies of being any better than any other rukongai rat. You're just a monkey, Masaru."
What Isamu injured the most was not Masaru's face. Though the wound stung, and the fact that he had taken a cut through his flesh and to his cheekbone, an almost perfectly-traced line, that only stung a little compared to the wound Masaru had taken to his pride. The next time he saw Maeru was on a vacation. Maeru had promised to visit him next time he had a vacation, and that he did, the very next day.
The newly-bandaged Masaru smiled weakly at Maeru. "Hi."
"Yo," Maeru said with a wave, "So y'took m'name, ah?"
Masaru smiled in response. "Might as well start callin' ya onii-chan, right?"
The two conversed as they searched for a place to eat, eventually settling on catching their own food in a river running through one of the nearby districts. There, Masaru indulged Maeru with tales of his time in the academy, including his defeat at the hands of Isamu.
"Well that was retarded of ya," Maeru murmured. "Why the hell'd ya do that?"
Masaru stared at Maeru in shock. "I thought I could win!"
"No."
"No?" Masaru repeated with ire in his voice. He reached into the river and snatched out a fish, tossing it to Maeru. "Whaddoya mean 'no'?"
"I mean y'gotta know yer place," Maeru explained, reaching for his katana and chopping the head off of the fish. He stuck a sharpened stick through it and held it over the fire. "That Isamu kid's a noble, right?" Masaru nodded. "See, even if ya win, ya lose. Y'can't fight those guys with a silver spoon up their ass and expect to win. Even if y'lose they'll pull some strings and set it up so ya lose."
"What the hell're ya talkin' about?" Masaru grunted in irritation as he reached down and missed a fish. "It was just a sparrin' match!"
"Yeah, well, y'made 'im a bet," Maeru murmured, "Y'made a high-stakes bet and acted all cocky and superior. Nobles want ya to kneel down and kiss their feet. Even people in these districts up 'ere feel superior to people way out there."
"So if people from the rukongai are rats," Masaru grunted, reaching down and snatching a fish... far too small for his tastes. He threw it back and continued, "Then I'm rat shit?"
"That's the idea," Maeru answered dully.
When Masaru returned, he caught Isamu in the room again, and he made a B-line for his things on the bottom bunk. Pulling out a bag, he opened it up and noticed that he had a scarf Maeru had lent him during their trek up to Sereitei. I forgot to give it back to him.
Maeru reached in and picked up a rather large sack that jingled with change, and rustled with cash. He looked up to the top bunk and was able to see only Isamu's feet which hung over the side.
"Oi, Isamu," Masaru called, tossing the bag up into the air. "Catch!"
Isamu caught the bag and stared at it. He peered down at Masaru. "What's this?"
"It's the money I owe ya from our bet," Masaru explained, crossing his arms. "I'm a man'o'my word."
Isamu sighed, jumping down from the top bunk and landing beside Masaru. "Look, I don't want your money."
"Take it," Masaru insisted, shoving Isamu away as he went to sit down. "You won anyways, and it's not like I have anything to spend it on right now."
Isamu shook his head. "Baka, that's not the point. I don't want this. You take it."
"I'm not a fuckin' charity case," Masaru snapped, glaring at Isamu. "Take your god damn money, put it in your fucking stuff, and shut the fuck up."
Isamu didn't even try to argue with Masaru after that. The two continued in their rivalry, though Masaru didn't challenge Isamu again. He kept to himself for the most part, training and watching Isamu, comparing himself to the blond. As his wound healed and the scar remained, Masaru used it as motivation to surpass Isamu. He would give him a scar far worse than the one he received.
On their first field trip to the real world, Masaru aimed to beat Isamu. The objective was to each preform at least one Konso. Masaru preformed two, and Isamu preformed one. Feeling confident, Masaru brought the matter up when they returned.
"Hey, Isamu," Masaru began with a grin.
"I know," Isamu muttered, exhausted, "You beat me. I'll give you your money back in the morning."
"Your money," Masaru corrected with a grin.
Though it seemed unlikely, the pair became friends. Their rivalry had slowly morphed from vicious competitive bickering and fighting to friendly competition. They ate together, they trained together, they sparred together, and they dared each other to do stupid things.
Things went swimmingly until Isamu's father got involved.
Masaru and Isamu had been goofing around that night, telling ghost stories and coming up with what they thought were clever rhymes about each rukongai district. A knock on the door alerted Isamu that something was going to go horribly, horribly wrong.
He answered the door, and there stood an average sized man, blond hair like Isamu's, gray eyes like Isamu's, but a much colder, more mature expression. "Isamu, let me speak to you."
"Hai, Otou-sama."
When Isamu returned to the room, Masaru asked him what had happened. He received no answer. The next morning, he asked again and Isamu refused to tell him. Enraged, Masaru punched Isamu right in the jaw and glared at him.
"Tell me what the fuck happened!" Masaru demanded. He was about to throw another punch when he realized that Isamu wasn't going to fight back. Isamu always had a punch to throw back. He lowered his fists and Isamu turned to him, eyes red and watery. "You ok?"
"You're one lucky bastard."
"I almost died when I was little, whaddoya mean?" Masaru asked.
"You don't have to worry about impressing anyone. I have an entire house of people on my back."
The conversation ended there. Isamu had an admiration for Masaru, the likes of which Masaru could not return. The next year, Isamu was not in his room. Masaru continued to work on his own, not having Isamu in a single class alongside him.
Finally, one of his instructors, his hakuda instructor, informed him that Isamu had graduated early. Masaru would have to work alone, and nothing in his academy was as eventful as Isamu. If anything, Masaru was angry that Isamu hadn't just told him what his father had said to him. He never compared himself to other classmates again, and he let himself fall behind in kido and shunpo. Ironically, he remained at a fair level in shunpo. He favored hakuda and zanjutsu.
Graduation was not a good day for Masaru. Rather it was a sad day where he remembered the times he had had with Isamu, the scar he had gained on his face, the injured pride he nursed back to life with every new accomplishment. The scar on his face should have been a mark of shame, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that it was like the 'gift' from his father. It seemed like it caused more harm than good, but Masaru was happy to have it now. It was a reminder that they were a part of his life at some point. Even just a little. And he kept that memory and clung to it from then on out.
At first, Masaru was assigned to the seventh division as an unseated member. His first duties as a shinigami were anything from sweeping streets to unclogging toilets. Though a less than savory job, Masaru would 'finish' these jobs, often handing them off to someone who happened to walk in on him doing it, and would then go to laze about elsewhere.
Often times, he would look around for Maeru. He asked around, and found that Maeru had quite the reputation as a con-man. One of Masaru's friends warned him that Maeru was not the kind of man to play any sort of game with, as he cheated whenever there was a risk. Masaru, now aware of the fact that Maeru was not quite the role model he thought he was those years ago when he pulled him from the rukongai, confronted his surrogate brother with a frown.
"Maeru!" he called, banging on the door. "I know ye'r in there, get yer as out here!"
And Maeru did, looking down at Masaru with a grin. "Geez, Chibi, ya don't gotta be such a baby about it."
Masaru crossed his arms, and told Maeru that he'd heard about his reputation and asked what that was about. Maeru, with a sigh, explained "I don't cheat - cheatin' is readin' off the reflection of someone's glasses t'tell what their cards say. They call it cheatin' I call it bein' lucky."
And so Masaru learned that Maeru, whenever given the chance to shuffle a deck of cards, would use his swift and nimble fingers to arrange them in what he thought was favorable. Masaru told him this was still cheating, but Maeru only shrugged. "When y'got a gift like this, y'gotta use it."
Masaru had no such gift. When it came to rearranging the cards the way Maeru did, he would drop the deck, spilling cards across the floor. Masaru grinned and said, "I think I'd rather stick with chance."
However, Masaru was eventually kicked out of the seventh division, probably due to his layabout ways. He didn't like odd jobs, and so he didn't do them. He was moved to the thirteenth division, which he was glad to accept. Here, instead of taking odd jobs, he would often sneak away and go into jinzen, attempting to unlock his shikai so perhaps he might get promoted and thus obtain a more challenging position.
His zanpakuto spirit loathed him. At first, his zanpakuto spirit looked like a woman to Masaru, and so he tried to play it cool and, in the process, looked like a fourteen-year-old boy trying to ask a girl way out of his league to a school dance. And yet, that wasn't what tripped him up. This nameless spirit, this nameless, effeminate spirit was a male. Masaru, upon learning this fact, fell into the waters of his mind.
"Baka," his zanpakuto spirit would exclaim in exasperation. "I should have taken another master! I know I should have! Why on earth did I take you?"
After many unsuccessful attempts at obtaining his shikai, Masaru asked his superiors what he could do to get a better mission aside from learning the name of his zanpakuto, and a seemingly kind seated officer told him that they would have some strings pulled so that Masaru could work in the real world on patrol for a week or two.
Masaru didn't realize that Okamura was actually trying to kill him.
The first night on his mission, Masaru realized his mistake. Not only did he struggle to keep up with the outbreaks of hollow wandering karakura town, but he was completely incapable of defeating them without at least a scratch or two.
"Chikuso," Masaru hissed as he stabbed the third hollow of his second day through the mask. "How the Hell am I supposed to do this shit for another two weeks?!"
He was tempted to call for backup, but he did no such thing. He slashed away at hollow after hollow.
One hollow in particular gave him trouble, however, a large squid of a hollow that lead him to the beach, where their epic battle ensued. It would be nice to say that Masaru fought the good fight and defeated the hollow, but that would be a lie.
The hollow slashed at Masaru with tentacles as sharp as swords, smashed him into the ground. Once his prey was on the ground, he lowered another tentacle to his back, slashing across his back. Masaru groaned in agony. If this hollow was going to kill him, why didn't it just hurry up and get to its meal?
"Eh, shinigami? Aren't you supposed to kill me?" the hollow mocked. Masaru had never felt so helpless. As two more slashes slit his back open and spilled his blood on the moonlit sand, Masaru let himself slip away, hoping for unconsciousness. He didn't want to be toyed with in his last few moments of life. This hollow would get what it wanted, a meal, and then it would leave and terrorize the town even more.
What he didn't expect were the harsh words in the smooth drawl of his zanpakuto spirit. "Why do you wait for death, Masaru? Am I not a good enough sword to defeat this?"
Masaru squeezed his eyes shut.
"Am I not a sharp enough blade to pierce this hollow?" his spirit prodded, "Am I not strong enough? I am only as strong as you allow me to be, Masaru!"
Masaru gritted his teeth.
"If you die, then you deserve it! Coward! Fight back! Don't you want to know my name? Didn't you work so hard to get this far?"
Masaru clenched his fists, one hand tightly grasping his katana.
"Then say it!"
"Say what?!" Masaru screamed aloud.
His spirit's voice rang powerfully in his mind, and as he approached those fateful words, Masaru's reiatsu flared and he pointed his katana at the hollow, speaking with his spirit's words. "My name! Saza-!"
"Fukuramu, Sazanami!" Masaru yelled, throwing a blind attack at the hollow as he spun onto his back. The sand stung on his back, but he didn't care anymore. He threw a strange sort of weapon at the hollow, two round discs on a tight metal wire. It slashed through the hollow and then rolled back on the wire. Masaru barely caught it in his hand after the blades slashed into his own skin, staring at the bloody discs. It looked like a child's toy.
Masaru smiled to himself as he stared at the weapon. Perfect for a man who would never grow up. Slowly, his consciousness ebbed away, and Masaru fell asleep on the sand, where he should have died.
When he woke up, Masaru was in the fourth division's infirmary, being treated by a mousy young nurse. "Oh, you're awake."
Masaru didn't answer. In his state, he was more curious where he was and why. Wasn't he supposed to be dead now? Hadn't he lost too much blood? Bandages encircled his chest and back, his right hand which he had caught his weapon with. "How did I get here?"
"Oh, um... Makino-sama brought you here," the nurse said, scratching the back of her head. "He said he found you on a beach in the realm of the living."
Makino, Masaru thought, staring at the ceiling. Isamu must have been patrolling as well. He must have sensed Masaru's reiatsu and came to help him. He smiled. "I gotta thank him then."
Masaru searched for Isamu, but Isamu would not see him. During this time, Masaru took up drinking, often visiting Maeru and sharing a jug of sake with him. It had taken him seventeen years of training to achieve his shikai, and only one unfortunate loss to give it to him. It seemed strange.
"Well, look at it this way," Maeru drawled, cheeks flushed from a drunken state, "Yeh made it this far. Be happy fer it. Y'almost lost yer life on that bet."
Masaru grinned. "It's my life, I can do what I want with it."
Maeru grinned.
But Maeru wasn't well. During this time, Maeru was suffering himself, not from inner turmoil but from illness. His body was weakened and frail, and Masaru began to worry for his surrogate brother. He didn't have much to say to his companion, though he worried. He would try to ask his zanpakuto spirit for advice, but Sazanami would often tell him it was Maeru's decision as to whether he lived or died.
He put in another transfer request, asking to be removed from the thirteenth division and moved to yet another squad after the ryoka invasion, and then hoped that it would go through after the winter war, when things were less chaotic. Masaru wanted something different.
On Masaru's 183th birthday, August 2nd, he walked up a large hill in warm, sunny weather with a basket of food at his side and his zanpakuto resting comfortably on his hip. He smiled softly to himself. He'd brought all of his favorite foods, including all the fixings for ramen noodles. At the top of the hill, a peach tree stood, bearing fruit amongst many blossoms. When he looked at the base of the tree, a polished rock marked the place where he had buried his friend.
"Yo, Maeru," Masaru whispered, setting down the basket and reaching in. The first thing he did was pour two glasses of Sake and leave one on his brother's grave. "Haven't seen you in a while."
Masaru, at this point, would train by his friend's grave, meditating with his weapon. He had never cared much for training, but he wanted to prove to the deceased Maeru that he would still grow even in his brother's absence. Now, he had a new goal. Not just to prove to Maeru that bringing Masaru to the Sereitei wasn't a mistake, but also to find his father and thank him for the gift.
He wanted to be stronger in order to accomplish this goal. Though he hated training, and Sazanami hated to train him, Maeru bore with it, just as the peach tree beside his brother's grave bore fruit despite the rain or the wind. Masaru wasn't out to prove anything when he started.
That sure changed.
Update
But things do not always work out the way you want them to. Masaru enlisted in the eleventh division, brawled a bit, got berated a bit, and neglected his paperwork a bit. But aside from that, Masaru felt mostly at home. After all, it seemed almost acceptable to throw paperwork into a different person's hands.
But that was not the only thing Masaru did. He met new people--some of different divisions, naturally--and reacquainted himself with an old friend. By tackling him, no less. After tackling Isamu and demanding an explanation, he was promptly told, "Masaru, as much as I like seeing you again, you do have to get off me. I can't feel my chest anymore, and I swear you've gotten much heavier since we last saw each other."
After they got their introductions out of the way, Isamu explained, finally, what had happened and why. Masaru seemed not to mind, instead using Isamu as a resource to locate his father.
They were not able to do this based on the slim chance that, of thousands of pictures, one would resemble Masaru. Instead, they made their way to Masaru's mother, Chiyako. And though she was not exactly excited about helping, she was willing. She gave Masaru pictures, letters, and a name. Tamura Hisao.
Excited, Masaru completely ignored the warnings. Sazanami warned him against seeking out Hisao, but Masaru did not care. He sought Masaru, only to be told, "I don't have a son."
Distraught, Masaru called Hisao a bastard, and thus bastardized himself. Masaru gave up on having a father. But he still felt hollow inside. He attempted to drown his problems in alcohol, attempted to find console in a near stranger. He finally admitted that he needed help from Sazanami, who berated Masaru and nearly drowned him. When Masaru later asked Sazanami about this incident, he said, "It was a mere swimming lesson."
And that it was. Masaru was told a mere survival skill. If Masaru wanted things to change, going somewhere else would only allow the pattern to recycle itself. But if he confronted his problems, confronted himself, he might be able to change things.
And so Masaru confronted Isamu and his father. But rather than fighting, Masaru reasoned that there was no need to shelter Isamu, a grown man who had pushed Masaru back into line more often than not. And though he was berated and taunted, Masaru bowed his head, smiled, and allowed the man to say his piece. When he had finished, Masaru said, "If he can't change me, I don' think I can change 'im either."
And though at first he was dismissed, Isamu's father no longer pushed Masaru away.
A small victory, but the beginning of a larger one. Masaru trained and meditated until he was able to materialize Sazanami. And, after defeating Sazanami in a battle (and learning that Sazanami had hands--enough to use a yo-yo effectively) he obtained his bankai.
[/blockquote]
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Skills/Attributes
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Skills
- Swordsmanship- Advanced
- Kidō- Beginner
- Hohō - Intermediate
- Hand to Hand - Advanced
Attributes
- Speed - Advanced
- Power - Advanced
- Stamina - Intermediate
- Intelligence - Beginner
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Zanpakutō
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Name: Sazanami
Translation - Ripple
Unreleased Appearance
A dull blade with not much worth noticing (if you ask Masaru), Sazanami is a simple katana with a blade of sixty-centimeters. The guard is a circle, a ripple pattern on it. The blade is a dull steel, the guard is silver, and the hilt is approximately fifteen centimeters, though Masaru has never taken the time to measure. The hilt's ito is a deep blue mesh, and the hilt itself is an ivory white.
The sheath is the standard black. Masaru wears his sword on his left hip, and is right handed. He tends to use a violent and reckless fighting style which causes him to take almost as much damage as he deals.
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Zanpakutō Spirit
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Name: Sazanami
Gender: Luppi
Spirit Appearance
An effeminate man, Sazanami's appearance is just as effeminate as his name. With long, flowing black hair worn down and carefully brushed from his face, and crystalline blue eyes, Sazanami is a pretty-boy to the last fiber of his being. His jawline is delicate and pointed, and he looks almost like a fifteen-year-old girl, not to mention he stands at only 5'6". His attire seems to tie into the waters of Masaru's mind, a blue, silken kimono that falls to the water and melts into it. Everything, from the lining of the kimono to the pattern on the dress is reminiscent of a ripple on the surface of the water. Masaru does not know if Sazanami even has feet or hands, because they are always hidden in the sleeves of his kimono, which, like the robe itself, sink into the water. The obi is the only thing that does not fall into the water, and it is a brilliant silver.
Had it not been for the complete absence of a bust, Masaru may have felt attraction to his counterpart... well, he has. He just won't admit it.
Personality
Eloquent and wise, Sazanami has wisdom far beyond Masaru's and speaks in a cryptic code that someone of Masaru's stupidity could never dream of understanding. He tends not to prefer solitude to companionship, and cannot stand people who do not take care to keep themselves looking beautiful. A narcissist to the core, Sazanami sees himself as the only perfection in Masaru's mind. And yet, he is a wise old figure.
Sazanami's wisdom is typically kept to himself, though in crucial moments he does not waste time by withholding his knowledge and will indulge others as to his thoughts. However, he loathes being asked stupid questions, and will answer them with more questions.
Relationship to Master
On one hand, Masaru originally thought Sazanami was a beautiful woman and tried to flirt with him. Upon realizing that this was not the case, Masaru grew fearful of his zanpakuto spirit, having seen his wrath.
Sazanami loathes Masaru's habits of drinking and gambling, especially when he enters his inner world drunk, as this typically leads to Masaru flirting with Sazanami. He sees Masaru as lazy, and he wishes he was the hard-worker he was in the academy when he had a rival. He will attempt to push Masaru by constantly reminding him about his father and asking him if he truly wants to find him or not. This sometimes works, and sometimes doesn't.
Sazanami is a harsh teacher, and will often use tough love to teach Masaru. If Masaru wants to learn a new ability, then he has to work himself to the bone to get it. Because of this, Masaru only has his zanpakuto's passive ability. Sazanami mocks Masaru about how at this rate it will take ten thousand years before he's ready to achieve bankai. However, when Sazanami says this, Masaru will reply with, "I bet it only takes me nine thousand."
Inner World
Masaru's inner world is a pond. Many water lilies line the waters of the pond, floating in large clusters on the edges. The water is a pure, crystalline blue, and no matter how far one swims, they will never find the bottom of the pond. Sunlight shines brightly on the pond and shows the water has no impurities whatsoever. Though Masaru and Sazanami can both stand on the water when Masaru is calm, when Masaru is angry or fearful, the water is littered with ripples that turn into violent waves from where Sazanami stands, and these waves threaten to toss Masaru to the depths of the pond. The pond appears to have an edge coated in dense willow trees which Masaru always enters from and leaves from. When he enters, the vines shove him through, and when he leaves, the vines pull him in.
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Zanpakutō Shikai
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Call Out Phrase: Fukuramu, Sazanami.
Translation - Swell out, Sazanami.
Shikai Appearance
It's a yoyo... with razors on the edges.
Sazanami transforms beginning at the hilt. The hilt morphs into a small, silver ring which wraps around Masaru's index finger. The guard appears to unravel itself and extend to a ten foot-long wire which is sharp enough to make Masaru think twice about attempting to change the direction of his weapon. The blade itself rounds out and turns into two silver disks in a shape reminiscent of a yoyo, the edges sharp as razor blades. The yoyo itself has a diameter of six inches, making it a very small weapon, but still very dangerous.
People a full tier above Masaru can cut the wire holding the yoyo together, which will cause a major blow to Masaru's reiatsu as well. When Masaru tries to catch his weapon, it will often cut his hand in the process.
Shikai Abilities
Oshinokeru | Brush Aside
- Description of Attack - When Masaru swings his weapon in a full circle, water is gathered from the air around him. After a swing or two, the weapon is covered in a thin film of water and will start to leave a clear trail in its wake. This trail is visible only when light shines on it. This trail can cut people below Masaru's tier if they attempt to charge in the wake of Sazanami.
- Type - Passive
- Range - ten and a half foot radius around Masaru.
- Limitation - Masaru uses little reiatsu for this ability to be in constant effect, so it's very weak. It stunts his full reiatsu capacity by ten percent. Because this ability is very weak, people of his own tier or higher can intrude behind the yoyo with only, perhaps, a slight nick on their clothes if they are made of mundane materials. For people one tier below, the water left in Sazanami's wake can leave nicks and cuts and cause slight resistance to attacks with zanpakuto. For people two tiers below, the water left in Sazanami's wake can leave the same effect as being struck by a slowed version of the yoyo, leaving half the damage the yoyo itself would have caused. For people a full tier below or more, the yoyo might as well have hit them or their weapon directly. The yoyo cannot cut through kido or non-physical attacks. Fire type zanpakuto can cause the water to evaporate off of the yoyo, meaning Masaru would have to gather more in order for the yoyo to work properly. The yoyo steals water from water-type zanpakuto. In places like Hueco Mundo where there is no water, this ability cannot take effect. The aftereffects of the yoyo last for exactly one second after the yoyo has passed that spot, and only appears when Masaru spins Sazanami in a full circle.
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Zanpakutō Bankai
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Name: Tsunami
Translation - "Harbor Wave."
Bankai Appearance
Masaru's bankai is a large, circular blade that connects at a single handle. The entire blade forms a large circle, with a small break for a handle. The handle is large enough for two of Masaru's hands to hold on without cutting him. Both the inside and the outside of the weapon are bladed. Water collects inside of the blade, as there is a large (two and a half foot) opening. Water will completely fill this section, constantly rotate, and act almost as a shield. The water is mostly collected when Masaru throws his weapon. The weapon will move like a boomerang, though this is reiatsu at work. The weapon is drawn to Masaru's reiatsu. As such, the furthest he can throw it is a hundred feet (the MOST mind you; he cannot always throw it this far). The blade itself is six inches across, making the full diameter of the weapon three feet.
Bankai Abilities
Water
- Description of Attack - Water collects in the center of the weapon, constantly rotating the point where it will act as a sort of shield against weak attacks. When thrown, water will collect in the center of the shield and harden before falling to the ground in a massive wave. A large tidal wave will follow the weapon on it's way to it's destination before it curves and returns to Masaru. The water left behind will disperse and later evaporate, as the water itself is not part of the weapon, but rather captured by the center of the weapon and focused using reiatsu. As with his shikai, Masaru must throw his weapon one time before the water begins to activate.
The water is very dense after being filtered through the center, so being struck by this wave is like being kicked all over your body at the same time. However, the water does not stay in one place for long, so as long as a person does not manage to be swept off (midgeeeet) then they'll probably not drown.
The weapon flies through the air at about thirty miles an hour, which is nothing next to shunpo and sonido.- Type - Passive
- Range - A hundred feet; the wave can be anywhere between three and ten feet high.
- Limitation - As the water mostly bludgeons people it strikes, and does not linger, it is nearly impossible for someone to drown (but if they try hard enough...). Damage is done respectively, based on tiers, with people of lower tiers taking more extensive damage. Someone a full tier below Masaru could potentially suffer cracked or broken bones, depending on whether or not they were hit directly by the waves. People of Masaru's tier will typically only be slowed down, knocked back a few feet, and doused by this attack. People above his tier will be wet, and probably very pissed. They may suffer minor bruising, but nothing serious. Unlike his shikai, fire cannot fully evaporate this water completely (unless used in an equal quantity, or by a much higher tier [2 tiers or higher]). Because his bankai is underdeveloped, Masaru can only use it for ninety seconds, and cannot do much of anything by the end of that time. His sword will literally break at that point. This passive ability takes nearly a third of Masaru's reiatsu on its own, and sustaining it continues to drain his reiatsu slowly and irregularly.
This ability works best in places with lots of moisture, and tends to be weaker in dry, arid places. It would not work in a place like Hueco Mundo, where there is no water.
OOC Information
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Sample Post
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In a drunken stupor, the dark-haired shinigami staggered drunkenly down the roadways of sereitei, so certain he was in the proper division barracks. His face flushed with the effects of the alcohol, and his vision... only slightly blurred. He grinned as he approached the doorway, only to be attacked! Oh, wait, it was just a leaf. He brushed it off of his hair and opened the door.
"Who the hell're you?" one of the men within hissed. Masaru didn't recognize that voice, but, oh well! It was time for a nap anyways. He continued into the barracks without much regard to the protests of others.
"Oh God, isn't he from the thirteenth division?" one of the voices moaned. "I think I saw him around there once! Oi! Oi! You're in the wrong barracks!"
"Eh?" Masaru murmured, turning to face the blurred image of... was that a ninja?
"You're in the wrong barracks, moron," the voice insisted, stepping towards him and shoving him back towards the door. "This is the se-"
"The seventh?" Masaru exclaimed, eyes raising. "Oi, it's been a long time... tell Inu-taichou I said hi."
The voice seemed angry - almost as though he were about to start ripping out his hair, set fire to Masaru, and jump out the window. Grabbing a tight hold of Masaru's shoulder, the voice insisted, "Stop talking for a second and listen to me! I said, you're in the wrong barracks, you're in the second division's barracks!"
"Oh, I see," Masaru murmured. "Is that why yer all so mean?"
"What?"
"Y'know, 'cause yer a ninja, and don't ninja and pirates try t'kill each other?" Masaru explained, rubbing the back of his head. The second division member glared at him, looking just about ready to smack Masaru. "And if that request goes through I'll be in the eleventh, and they're pirates 'r somethin' o'er there."
"I think you should go," the 'ninja' hissed.
"Which way, ninja-san?"
Masaru could have sworn he saw steam coming out the second divisioner's ears. He smiled and pointed at the man. "Heheh, tha'reminds me o' Isamu."
"Go away," the man growled, "Before I do something I'm not proud of."
"Oi, Isamu said tha't'me too!" Masaru exclaimed excitedly. "Actually he said tha' lotsa times."
When the second division member's hand connected with the side of his neck, Masaru collapsed, the world fading to black. Just as well, too. A drunken Masaru at this hour? Would you want him in your living room?
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