CUARTA ESPADA - XENIPPOS

NAME: Xenippos Xanatos
ALIAS: Xen; Cuarta
AGE: 1171
ALLIANCE: El Renacimiento
DIFFICULTY: Hard
ASPECT OF DEATH: Knowledge

APPEARANCE: Vasto Lorde: What terrifying images does the name conjure in the minds of those known as Shinigami? For the majority, it is likely little more than that: a name. Like children told the name and a few details of a monster’s makeup and habits, they know it merely as a creature of unknown origin and power which is to be feared purely because of instructions from their superiors. It is an entity swathed in myth, and few within the bounds of Seireitei are privy to the truth; but perhaps even among that minute number of minds there is some hint of dread to be exposed. Indeed, would not even that renowned being known as a Taichō suffer some form of surprise upon encountering a living specimen of the rare class?

For one of the strongest of the Vasto Lorde within the ranks of the Espada—the Cuarta Espada—is a being of no remarkable height nor weight. Slim of both arm and leg, his form is one to be underestimated by those who misconstrue mass for might. Surely the more foolish among that sort would even think it possible to shatter one of his limbs with minimal effort. Though were they to attempt it, they would find his fair skin to be unyielding as steel before the wind’s breath. Pliant and lithe, these are words fit to describe the manner of strength dwelling within his body; it is an incalculable strength compressed in so small a space, one not measured by the subtle yet defined ridges upon the Cuarta’s abdomen, nor the similar arcs and bends hidden throughout his body when at rest.

Though if it is distinguishable aspects one seeks, the Arrancar is in definite possession of such. However humanoid a guise a Hollow may assume upon its transformation, it retains the marks of what it was once, as do all its brethren: the mask and the hole in its body representative of its hunger, its emptiness—in these aspects all Menos, irrespective of their individual power, differ little. For the Cuarta Espada, the seemingly insignificant yet eternally born weight of his former existence—the remnant of his mask—rests upon the bridge of his nose, oddly enough, manifesting itself as the type of square-rimmed spectacles a mere human might don. But perhaps its appearance is inconsequential, for its location aides the Cuarta in maintaining an all the more humanoid exterior. Alas, though concealed beneath the fabric of clothing, the yawning cavity within the center of his chest cannot function in a similar manner, despite how small a diameter it may possess.

To a lesser degree, the Cuarta’s brown hair is an aspect of his form similarly distinguishing; its stylized appearance renders the task of identifying his presence easily completed on and off the battlefield alike. Though if that feature does not suffice, then undoubtedly the numeral tattooed upon his right pectoral may assure his recognition as the Cuarta Espada. Intriguingly, opposite its twin—upon his left pectoral—is another insignia of a much stranger design. Some whispers claim it to be a wound of battle long-healed, a scar of simultaneous shame and pride, perhaps; but such musings drift far from the appropriate mark. It is little more than an aesthetic vestige of his former existence, one born by quite a few Arrancar. Or so the Cuarta says.

Clothing too is an aspect by which the Espada may be readily recognized, for he often conceals his form beneath a longcoat, its sleeves habitually rolled up to his elbows. It is a garment of observation and action alike: worn when at rest; or when he is at work within one of his many laboratories; or in the midst of heated battle. He is rather fond of it, secretly, disliking it to be tarnished by some stray attack, purposefully aimed at him or otherwise. Beneath it lie garments much more form-fitting: a high-collared shirt, vest, wristbands, snug pants, and calf-high boots. Retaining the color scheme inherent to all Arrancar under El Renacimiento's banner, the Cuarta’s fighting attire signifies his identity as a warrior of Las Noches.

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 Cuarta Espada’s 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 Espada is a being which revels in chaos and carnage; immorality cannot be properly compared to amorality.

Because of his professed creed, the Cuarta Espada 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 Fracción 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. But the Cuarta 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 El Renacimiento 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 Cuarta Espada’s Fracción are similar in an instantly recognizable aspect: they are all female. 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 Cuarta 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 Vasto Lorde’s curiosity for nigh a millennium; thus, each and every member of his Fracción is a being the Cuarta deems precious to himself. Perhaps even the word love is appropriate to describe his sentiments. Accordingly, to idly threaten one of the Cuarta Espada’s Fracción is to incur his wrath upon one’s head by extension. Not even his fellow Espada 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 Cuarta 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 Cuarta is a being who preserves a composure rarely seen on the field of battle: his demeanor and bearing being that of a scientist's, of course. But, conceivably, it makes the Espada 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: 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 Cuarta Espada 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 well-being 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 well-being 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 by instinct.

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 “Xenippos.”

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.

Her name was Lissom K. The prey of a group of several Adjuchas, Xenippos dispatched them not to save her but merely to add to his power. Whilst he devoured the fallen Menos, Lissom merely watched in silence; when he finished and departed, she trailed behind in his wake, just at the brink of sight. Hours passed, yet she still followed.

Eventually, Xenippos halted his trek to approach her and question her motives. Why did she follow? Hollow sometimes submitted themselves to the will of another much stronger than they, perhaps hoping to in time gain a measure of the strength they so envied and praised. At first, her response seemed to indicate she too held similar aims. But as she drew closer and reached out to stroke his face and whisper words of acclaim, he found himself soothed; her touch—not her acclaim—lessened the ache within the core of his being, however slightly. It was some mysterious factor of her presence, her being that affected him so. Precisely what it was he would only identify at a later time. Lissom K disappeared the next day unannounced. It seemed she truly had not wished to ally herself to him.

In the wake of her departure, Xenippos felt himself strangely affected.

Centuries passed. Between the mayhem and the calm that seemed out of place in so bleak a landscape, the Adjuchas brooded. Each soul devoured made him question, made him ponder what it was he desired of his existence. Nothing seemed to possess any meaning; but it was in that apparently hopeless thought that he achieved meaning. The Hollow he slaughtered were meaningless to him because he thought them so; Lissom, who he had encountered but once, held importance within his mind because he deemed her valuable, even if it had only been done unconsciously.

Propelled on by this revelation, Xenippos‘s vigor led him to the realization of an evolution similar to the one he had undertaken as but a Gillian; though this one was by far more profound. Slimming down in body, maturing exceedingly in mind—this was the evolution of an Adjuchas to the hallowed state of Vasto Lorde, one fueled by the consuming of countless Menos and their power. His first act? A retreat into solitude.

Only the call of a group dubbing itself El Renamiciento would prove intriguing enough to draw Xenippos forth from his seclusion in the most hidden depths of Hueco Mundo. And when he emerged, the Menos had undergone yet another overwhelming change. Meditation and observation together had lifted him to yet another state of existence. Those who proved capable of removing their masks were known by the title Arrancar, their power increased exponentially by the act.

As a Vasto Lorde, asserting the rank of one of the strongest amongst the would-be Godking Luucio Kraken's forces proved a task of minimal difficulty. And though others might have desired more, standing in the shadow of his superiors was an act Xenippos was content enough to perform. His rank afforded security enough to do as he pleased, for he desired to occupy his time with observation, study and experimentation—rather than conflict. Who would challenge him?

Existing to the present as the Cuarta Espada, Xenippos has turned his mind towards addressing the realization of El Renamiciento's goals via the fulfillment of his respective Aspect of Death: Knowledge.

Scientia potentia est.

OOC NAME: Horse
FACE CLAIM: K - fushimi saruhiko by xenippos xanatos