Agustin ULISES

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Name: AGUSTÍN ULISES

Age: Around 300

Gender: Male

Appearance: ()

Personality: `` “There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.” A statement penned by the hand of a human, but an adequate summation of the Agustin Ulises overall opinion of existence. To him, little difference exists between the act of plucking a bud from its stem and hewing an enemy‘s head from its neck. Objects in and of themselves are not entitled to any inherent meaning; no, it is from the individual will that their potential preciousness springs. That is to say, what one considers important becomes important, what one considers worthless becomes worthless. But however cruel his belief may seem, it is ill-advised to suggest that the arrancar is a being which revels in chaos and carnage; immorality cannot be properly compared to amorality.

Because of his professed creed, the Agustin Ulises functions much like the archetype of an impartial observer. Content to merely watch as the majority of events unfold, he rarely imparts more than a few words to any of his brethren. Undoubtedly his pares are the only beings to be privy to the more entrenched of his thoughts and emotions. Due to this behavior, he may often appear detached from his surroundings, perhaps even arrogant to some. Nevertheless, the arrancar is simply an introvert, a thinker delighting in silence rather than conversation vacant of consequence. He will speak if pressed to do so, though only an assembly of the ruling body of the Cuerpo de Guerra could force him to it. Otherwise, one should expect a seemingly impassive, blunt retort to any elongated greeting or query addressed to him.

Curiously, all members of the Agustin Ulises’s pares are similar in an instantly recognizable aspect: they are all forlorn . An assortment of fantastical rumors abound within Las Noches as to why this is so, unsurprisingly. But no matter how desperately some may wish for his mind to abide by the rules dictated by any one of those implausible tales, the Guerra is not a being who selects his subordinates for any perverse reasons. Rather, though well-guarded the reality of the matter may be, it is from his personally chosen followers that he draws a curious comfort. Inexplicably so, something about the feminine has lured the arrancar’s curiosity for nigh a millennium; thus, each and every member of his pares is a being the Guerra deems precious to himself. Perhaps even the word love is appropriate to describe his sentiments. Accordingly, to idly threaten one of the Agustin Ulises’s Trozo is to incur his wrath upon one’s head by extension. Not even his fellow Guerra may escape retaliation should they invite it upon themselves.

When forced to battle, he retains his nigh unshakable composure, preferring to trade blows rather than words with an enemy. Though the rarity does occur every so often when a foe merits enough interest from the Guerra that he may ask a question or two of his opponent, thereby gaining insight into another creature’s mind and selected view of the world, if only briefly. Regardless, an observer gazing upon the arrancar from some distant viewpoint would likely describe his fighting style as both efficient and merciless. And such an opinion would be thoroughly correct. Caring little for striking out with an impassioned hand or blade, the Guerra is a being who preserves a tranquillest not often seen on the field of battle. But, conceivably, it makes the Agustin Ulises all the more terrifying for his adversaries. What is one to think of a creature which extinguishes another’s life without so much as an apparent flinch upon his face?

History: History:
843 AD. The three surviving sons of Louis the Pious, Charlemangne‘s grandsons, divided his territories, the Frankish Empire, into three kingdoms. It was into the easternmost of these allotted realms, Francia Orientalis, that the mundane soul of the one who would one day assume the rank of Guerra Cerebro was born. From the loins of peasants into the arduous life of a peasant, the boy‘s years of youth from the moment he could properly hold and use a tool were spent working about the family household. Ploughing, re-thatching the roof of the family’s simple barn, tending to the maintenance of tools, overseeing the wellbeing of the few livestock—the vitality youth could impart unto a pair of small hands proved invaluable for such a family.

To one day mature and ensure the wellbeing of the homestead was seemingly the lone path life offered him. Not proud, he resigned himself happily to the duty. Sitting amongst the sheep as they grazed and staring into the distant horizon provided him all the opportunity to dream of distant lands where passing wagons headed; and in his innocent visions, he merely saw bubbling brooks and forests strange to the hands and feet of men, where fruits of extraordinary color and shape grew ripe and fell to the ground, their taste known only by the tongues of the game men pursued during their hunts. Such a boy knew little of bloodshed and the corruption of hearts eager to bolster the bounds of their kingdoms. Perhaps he was fortunate then, in a certain sense, to have never encountered much of either during his twenty years of life. For his breath was stolen one day by a strong north wind, a merciless traveler who kept all manner of diseases within his pack, distributing them wherever he roamed. Home remedies could do little to cure such terrible maladies.

How odd it was then, how terribly odd and horribly whimsical when the young man awoke from death into the world he had always occupied. At first he could merely mumble words of incoherence, his wide, frightened eyes taking in the sight of the meek home and lands his body had known all too well. Imagine his surprise when he discovered a chain had sprouted from his chest, restricting his range of movement to an area far too small to occupy his mind for any great length of time. Tethered like one of the goats he had tended to in his youth, the man ultimately resigned himself to a small patch of grass where he simply sat and stared at a world which seemed oblivious to his existence. For no amount of cries nor motions, no matter how vigorous nor desperate, secured him the attention of any creature. Not even the small insects leapt away from the path his feet trod.

And so, in subtle silence, one soul of many began its descent into the realm of the Hollow. His hidden yearnings—though he could never truly learn why nor notice—accelerated the decay of the chain binding him to his desolate patch of grass. An elderly mother and father passed him by each day, and slowly but surely, feelings of desire to embrace what he loved became perverted. In the depths of his ever mounting madness, the young man’s craving blurred the line between a gentle embrace and an instinctual need to feed upon other souls. Shortening day by the day, eventually the chain gave way to the development of another unusual feature: a round cavity in the middle of the young man‘s chest. Accompanying it was a fanfare of suffering. Pain had erupted in his chest, its source creeping up and out of his chest in a manner unimaginable to a mere peasant. Flowing out as water, the seething mass enveloped the man‘s face until he could no longer see but through the two small holes of a hardening mask, the mask of a newly developed Hollow.

Of course, the first act this hollow committed was to rush towards any and all nearby souls, consuming them in a furious rage of hunger, of ache. The emptiness within bid him to devour his parents whole, and to his regressed mind, the shell of a man thought them tasty. And for a time, two withered souls proved enough to satiate the creature‘s hunger. Eating them had soothed the painful twinge within his chest. But as he would soon discover, the aching always returned after a certain period of time. There were other souls to seek out and overwhelm; somehow he knew this instinctually.

What he could not know of were the strange men and women garbed in black who seemed to inhabit the land no matter how far he roamed. From afar, he saw how they could perceive others like himself, how they could retaliate with the strange swords worn at their sides. Terrible to behold, some among them could kill his brethren with but a single, effortless slash.

In time, the hollow learned to work with the creatures like himself; from them he gained knowledge of the words Shinigami and Hollow. And in the ever chaotic struggle between the two, he witnessed how some among the latter could gain enough power to triumph over the former. The humans who adorned themselves in black could know fear as well.

So he retreated into the bleak realm which harbored his kind, the desert-like dimension with an eternal moon known simply as Hueco Mundo. Allying himself to a group of Hollow not much weaker than himself, he slowly improved upon his strength and abilities. He became familiar with the varying strengths and weaknesses inherent to his unique body, for unlike humans his kind varied greatly in form. Day by day, his only purpose seemed to be murder and the acquisition of a strength just beyond reach. The hunger had taken a different form.

His allies felt it too, felt the strange ache which caused them to turn their eyes upon one another. What could a meager human soul offer in comparison to the soul of a stronger creature like a Hollow? And so, over the course of a lone night of madness, a Gillian was conceived.

One will among many, the existence of a Menos Grande was akin to being lost underneath a sea of unfathomable darkness. In the teeming blackness his soul struggled with the others, struggled with all its might amongst the endless moans and groans within to reach the top and break through the surface. Not knowing the outcome nor caring for it, he engaged in yet another battle with his former allies. Outside the gargantuan creature stumbled slowly throughout Hueco Mundo, continually consuming smaller Hollow; within, a solitary will ruptured the barrier of ignorance and claimed dominance. In the wake of the act a word emerged from the depths of the souls bound now to his will. It was a name, its origin shrouded in a mystery which could never be fully solved.

The newly conscious Gillian decided to call himself “Agustin.”

From that day forth, he bothered little with the affairs of the Shinigami and of the humans. Instead, his fellow Hollow became his sole prey. The varying battles that he undertook each provided him with some meager morsel of information. Some were weaker than himself, others stronger, sometimes much stronger. Alongside nourishment he began to seek purpose. Was there anything more to such an existence than hunger and quenching it? Was it merely an eternal cycle doomed to revolve until he himself was one day consumed? No Adjuchas could offer him the proper answer; but one set him upon the path to attaining a personal creed.

RP sample: See w/e one I did for Flicker

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