don't stop, don't stop, don't stop giving me things

[unburden]

The thing about trying to root out spirits before they become Hollows is that it's akin to combing through sand. The world is a place that looks calm from a distance, the actions of any given person most likely falling into a regular pattern that never varies by much. Ghosts tend to be earth-bound, tend to cling to those parts of their lives which remained constant before, and the ability to blend in is as seamless as the chains are strong. Sometimes, Rukia has to literally walk through a building before a ghost rears its head.

Naturally, scanning across the whole of Darrow becomes a near impossibility, and the howls of Hollows are starting to surface with greater frequency, each feeling like a failure to Rukia. Each spirit that falls prey to its inner emptiness is a spirit in pain, and every spirit in pain becomes a danger to the living.

Rukia does her best to quickly find them all, but it isn't always easy, nor is it always perfect. And that's what has her by the beach tonight, having chased a Hollow to the ocean in hopes of avoiding damage done to private property. The Hollow is no great threat, taking up the shape of a snake with an almost reptilian bone-like mask covering its face, but the streams of poison that it shoots from its teeth are enough to wear through her robes, Rukia hissing in pain as she raises her sword, preparing to try and strike again.

Comments

[theprodigalson]

If pressed, Sam wouldn't be able to really say why it is he's wandering the beach right now. Boredom, possibly. A simple lack of anything better to do. Or he could say he's surveying, still studying the city's now thriving population, and that wouldn't entirely be a lie.

Except that there really aren't that many people at the beach this time of night and it's more difficult to watch anyone with any accuracy while half drunk on cheap whiskey.

At least he's had a lot of practice with that, though.

When he sees the figure standing at the edge of the waves, Sam actually pauses to stare for a long moment, suddenly wondering just how drunk he really is. After all, it's not often he sees a person in flowing black robes lifting a sword against a spitting reptile. Not here anyway. Not in a long, long time.

Immediately, Sam drops his bottle of booze into the sand and grabs the gun he keeps tucked in the back of his jeans, cocking it as he stumbles into a jog. "Hey!" Sam shouts, stopping long enough to take aim at the writhing creature.