Chiaroscuro: Trepidation

Part 1
. Ruins of the Ninth Division Barracks. Night.

It was a tenebrous and quiet night, with nary a gust of wind disturbing its unnerving silence. The air was dense and stifling; a thick shroud of clouds obscured the entire sky, drowning the ravaged city in nigh-impenetrable darkness. Only the immense, prism-like Kidō barrier outstretched over a portion of the Seireitei cast some light on the surroundings, however dim and faint, thus extracting some details from the vast sea of blackness.

Broken walls. Collapsed roofs. Pavement dotted with craters and cracks. Corpses. Countless bodies laying motionless amongst the piles of rubble, mutilated, bifurcated, disemboweled and dismembered, broken Zanpakutō still held firm in the forever-clenched fists.

Then, a single moving silhouette in the world of stillness; a mobile shadow, darker than the pitch-black surroundings and the night itself. Pacing across the abysmal battlefield, each slow and measured step completely soundless, aimless. Only the bone-white mask could be discerned from the unfathomable tar of the night's shade.

Nonetheless, there seemed to be someone else lurking in the thick shadows.

Away from the warming glow of the Kidō barrier, deeper within the abyss that had engulfed the city, a new light burned into existence, casting off the shadows as it danced around to an unheard rhythym. Following in the light was a Shinigami of deathly composure, adorned in armour of a sky blue complexion.

His eyes traced the path of the floating light as it moved along, his feet making light, almost delicate steps in keeping pace with it. Both lingered over the corpses and rubble strewn through out the streets though only one expressed anguish at the lives that had been wasted, the other just frowned a little harder.

Meanwhile, the black-clad figure halted abruptly. Gazing absent-mindedly straight ahead, the man appeared to blend with and disperse into the darkness. He stood, as motionless as the corpses beside him.

Taking the light into his hand, the Shinigami squeezed it within his grasp causing it to shift. The orb disolved and its glow flowed through the flesh of the Shinigami's hand. "You know..." His eyes watched over his hand as the light dimmed and faded. "It used to be so much easier to catch prey, the mere hint of light would attract even the strongest of predators." The man spoke to the air while his surroundings plunged into the darkness that had enveloped most everything else.

Zetsubō Usuguraiboshi did not even flinch. He remained perfectly still for a short time, and then slowly lifted his head to look upon the murky sky. The near-solid cover of clouds began dispersing gradually, letting the first feeble glimmers pass through and pierce the omnipresent darkness.

"Can you smell it?", he asked unexpectedly, his low and raspy voice dampened by the opaque blackness around him.

His eyes flitted towards the source of the sound, doing their best to pick out the silhouette of the figure before the whiteness of the mask the figure adorned made itself present. Despite coming into contact with what was likely the perpetrator of the devestation surrounding them, the Shinigami remained relaxed in posture, his hands did not dare dart for the sword tightly fastened to his side. "The rot settling into the corpses, or aught else?" He asked, curious.

"Yes... The foetor of death", uttered Usuguraiboshi without directing his response anywhere in particular. "It's been accompanying me for as long as I can remember..."

He moved unhurriedly, merely a disembodied white countenance, until the first rays of moonlight outlined his imposing figure. He was now facing the Shinigami, the single slit in his worn mask fixed at him with alarming intensity.

"Because for as long as I can remember, my life's been intertwined with death", he continued in an ominously serene tone.

And whilst he was speaking, for the first time that night another sound than human voice could be heard; a protracted, barely audible metallic hiss of a sword being slowly unsheathed. The never-ending ebony blade of Usuguraiboshi's nodachi at last escaped its scabbard, a faint glint distinguishing it from the surrounding blackness.

"Because my life... is death", the black-clad figure finished and vanished the same instant.

Without any warning he appeared beside the Royal Guard, his cloak fluttering violently. Moving at a speed far beyond the capability of an average Shinigami, his blade darted toward his opponent in a broad, swift slash -.

There was a cluttered vibration to the wind before the black blade sweeped through, but the air was empty nonetheless. The Shinigami had moved without any prior indications of motion, he now stood in the air, just a few meters above the figure that tried to cut him down.

"An antiquated tradition, but one I find no less appealing, warriors would once introduce themselves before fighting. It built a kind of rapport, knowing the name of who clashed blades with you." His voice raised from its usual calm for a moment to hint at some joy of regailing an old notion.

"To that end, I would ask your name, creature." But it was also customary to offer ones own name before demanding theirs.

"I am Satō Shingen of the Royal Guard." At last his blade drew from its sheath, the slight chink of metal against the halberd could be heard before the rusted and broken edge of the blade was removed from its holding place.

The stood calmly below, his drawn Zanpakutō being the only indication he had recently made any move. He lifted his head and looked upon his interlocutor's worn-down blade, and then fixed his gaze at its wielder. Then, there was a period utter silence.

"You're different", remarked the cloaked figure at last, with a faint tone of curiosity in his menacing voice.

He moved slightly, almost imperceptibly, and changed his pose, his nodachi now pointed to the side.

"Names are meaningless, but I can make an exception for you. I am Zetsubō Usuguraiboshi, the instigator of the Black Autumn. I am your bane", he declared sinisterly whilst swiftly rising his free hand.

The instant his words were absorbed by the still thick darkness, an orange-hued adorned with spiralling yellow patterns burst forth from his palm toward the Royal Guard suspended in mid-air above him.