Bleach Fan Fiction ❯ BLEACH Side Story: Chain/Gun/Gear ❯ Prologue: Dutchman of the Desert ( Chapter 1 )
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: SpectralTime 
Wouldn't you like to know?
Anime/Manga: Bleach Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Action / Comedy / Romance | Type: Continuation | Uploaded On: 09.09.2009 | Pages: 1 | Words: 486 | Visits: 136 | Status: Work In Progress
Wouldn't you like to know?
Anime/Manga: Bleach Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Action / Comedy / Romance | Type: Continuation | Uploaded On: 09.09.2009 | Pages: 1 | Words: 486 | Visits: 136 | Status: Work In Progress
BLEACH Side Story
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Behold the sunless desert sands of Hueco Mundo.
The word “desert” itself first meant “deserted,” and this desert fits that description well. It is vast and flat, almost devoid of feature or limit. Only occasionally does a dead, petrified tree protrude from the endless oceans of sand, its surface glimmering in the perpetual moonlight. Very few things live in this desert, comparatively speaking, and none of them are worth meeting.
Its inhabitants are vicious, animal, hollow shells of living things, fueled entirely by the thirst to consume. The leap from this desert, from time to time, to prey on the inhabitants of other worlds. Given the opportunity, they prey on one another, fusing and conglomerating together into horrifying new creatures, shifting masses of personality and madness.
No. None of the desert’s inhabitants are worth meeting.
With one exception.
Let us visit, behind the safety of narrative lens, the sole sane (comparatively speaking) inhabitant of that desert.
Look at him, (it is a him). He trudges through the barren sands, his head bent as if in shame or prayer. His dark hair is wild and uneven, his beard thin and scraggly. His shapeless grey tunic is little more than a tube of loose cloth with a few strategically placed holes. It is old and raggedy, its surface inexpertly whipstitched together where it has been torn. Bare feet trudge on bare sand, one in front of the other and back again in endless monotony.
About his wrists are bound thick bangles of black metal, attatched to black chains. These chains drag behind him on the sands, connected to large metal spheres of the same dark hue. Curiously, despite their apparent weight, neither ball leaves a trail on the sand. Instead, they seem to float over its surface as daintily as a water strider across the surface of the pond, never breaking its surface.
One wonders what his crime must have been, to suffer so grim a sentence as this, and one is left wondering. However, one also wonders whether it has broken him. As he tops a slight rise in the twilight, he lifts his head to cast his gaze about him. As he does, observe his face.
One cannot, despite volumes of literature to the contrary, assess a man’s spirit by looking deep into his eyes. However, look at the grim squint, the tense eyebrows, the dry tongue licking quietly over dry lips, the harsh set of a stone that has stood firm against punishing storm for ages on end. One will quickly see that whatever has become of him, he is not broken.
One sees in him the fire of charcoal in the brazier, the fire that burns slow and long and cannot be extinguished.
*******
Behold the sunless desert sands of Hueco Mundo.
The word “desert” itself first meant “deserted,” and this desert fits that description well. It is vast and flat, almost devoid of feature or limit. Only occasionally does a dead, petrified tree protrude from the endless oceans of sand, its surface glimmering in the perpetual moonlight. Very few things live in this desert, comparatively speaking, and none of them are worth meeting.
Its inhabitants are vicious, animal, hollow shells of living things, fueled entirely by the thirst to consume. The leap from this desert, from time to time, to prey on the inhabitants of other worlds. Given the opportunity, they prey on one another, fusing and conglomerating together into horrifying new creatures, shifting masses of personality and madness.
No. None of the desert’s inhabitants are worth meeting.
With one exception.
Let us visit, behind the safety of narrative lens, the sole sane (comparatively speaking) inhabitant of that desert.
Look at him, (it is a him). He trudges through the barren sands, his head bent as if in shame or prayer. His dark hair is wild and uneven, his beard thin and scraggly. His shapeless grey tunic is little more than a tube of loose cloth with a few strategically placed holes. It is old and raggedy, its surface inexpertly whipstitched together where it has been torn. Bare feet trudge on bare sand, one in front of the other and back again in endless monotony.
About his wrists are bound thick bangles of black metal, attatched to black chains. These chains drag behind him on the sands, connected to large metal spheres of the same dark hue. Curiously, despite their apparent weight, neither ball leaves a trail on the sand. Instead, they seem to float over its surface as daintily as a water strider across the surface of the pond, never breaking its surface.
One wonders what his crime must have been, to suffer so grim a sentence as this, and one is left wondering. However, one also wonders whether it has broken him. As he tops a slight rise in the twilight, he lifts his head to cast his gaze about him. As he does, observe his face.
One cannot, despite volumes of literature to the contrary, assess a man’s spirit by looking deep into his eyes. However, look at the grim squint, the tense eyebrows, the dry tongue licking quietly over dry lips, the harsh set of a stone that has stood firm against punishing storm for ages on end. One will quickly see that whatever has become of him, he is not broken.
One sees in him the fire of charcoal in the brazier, the fire that burns slow and long and cannot be extinguished.