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Cesare looked at his brother and then to Isaac and then back to his brother. Underneath his helmet, his expression changed to one of concern for his younger brother. "Is it really okay, Julis?" He said, a hint of concern and brotherly love in his voice. He turned his head back to Isaac and underneath his helmet his face turned back to the one of disgust he used with those other than his dear brother. "You know Julis doesn't like to say no." Cesare used a loud and almost commanding voice with Isaac, though it was still softer than the one he used with others still. Perhaps it was because Cesare had been softened up by Julis. In fact, it probably was that. Lifting his large left arm up he pat Julis' leg, reinforcing that nothing involving Julis got by without Cesare's say.
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Bio
[ "Four-Legged Frog" ]
[ "Eight-Legged Day" ]
[ "Twelve-Armed Wheel" ]
Here's a secret: Right now, this bio is acting as a planner for an RP I want to make.
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“**Amen**” Cesare finished the prayer in a near whisper, before lifting his head and forcing his heavy body to follow. The “leader”, Isaac Bellhan, had summoned forth a group to speak with. Unfortunately for Cesare and Julis, it would seem that the group had included them. It was rather irritating, having to listen to the words of an anarchist, but Cesare had put him (and by extension his brother Julis) in this position. Neither cause was the good cause, in Cesare’s eyes, both cause sickened him. It just so happened that The Free Men offended Cesare less. One thing that remained a mystery to Cesare is why exactly he and his brother were accepted so easily into the “Beacons”, though he did not dwell on it too much. He was a valuable tool and he knew it, wearing it like a badge of honor. Perhaps his pride would be his downfall, but he knew that he would still be accepted by the lord.
Or at least, that’s how he felt.
Finally standing all the way up, Cesare did a few simple stretches to offset the pain of simply standing up. It took a lot of effort, mainly because he had to get over 600 kg off the ground using nothing but his own God-given body and strength. It wasn’t an easy task, but at least it didn’t hurt as much as it used to. After he reached around 200 kg and 3 meters, well things began to get very complicated. Even with his strong frame, his bones would break under the sheer weight of his body. There were a few instances where he had serious internal injuries, but modern-day medical technology proved to be very helpful. He was also thankful that he did not turn out like his brother, whom he turned to look at now. “Come brother.” Cesare said, in a soft voice much unlike that he used with anyone else. He extended a hand and motioned for the smaller Julis to clamber upon his back so that he could carry him to Isaac Bellhan, for whatever it was they had been summoned for.
> I may occasionally poke you two for a hand in story-building.
Well I'll be glad to help anyway I'm able. I'm sure SilverDawn will too. If you want help on something then feel free to message Silver and I.
If we get any ideas in the meantime we'll shoot them your way.
Tried to keep my character as accurate to the story as possible, but if you notice anything that I should change please let me know so I can change it as soon as possible.
“Anarchy is preferable to obeying those who have fallen from God’s grace.”
Name:
Cesare Alexander
Age:
38
Alignment:
The Free Men (After having defected from The New Templars for a multitude of reasons that Cesare for the most part refuses to explain.)
Fireteam:
"Salvation"
Height and Weight:
Cesare stands at an astounding 4 meters tall and he weighs around 432 kg as a result.
With his armor on, he weighs roughly 654 kg.
Personality:
Cesare is an extremely prideful man, believing himself to be above all others, though he is also fiercely obedient, respecting the chain of command. Due to his gargantuan size, he has been described as “fiercely intimidating”, a trait he knows well and abuses. This has led to him acting as if he is a wrathful man, often threatening acting as if he has been sent into a berserk rage. The truth, however, is that Cesare is at all times calm and collected, having known nothing but war his entire life.
Cesare is also very religious, and zealous in his beliefs. He considers himself a “fine Christian man”, though talking to him reveals that many of his beliefs oppose those of most religions. One notable difference lies in the fact that Cesare does not believe in a Hell. He instead believes that those who live lives of sin, or simply lack faith, are doomed never to be remembered. When asked why his beliefs are this way, he will simply say “Nowhere in the blessed texts does it say that there is a Hell. The closest example I can find is in fact referring to a disposal site outside of Jericho.” It’s recommended not to question him further as he can and will proceed to give you his own sermon.
Cesare is very vocal with his beliefs, not being afraid to disagree with others. He is known to many as an “intolerant bigot” or as “scum”, because of his beliefs. Those that do not agree with his religious beliefs are in his eyes, doomed to never be remembered. He is also known to have rattled on about his extreme hatred for the LGBT community, believing that they are all denied entrance into Heaven, for living lives of sin. Cesare is very “Old Testament” in his beliefs, if it wasn’t obvious.
While on the topic of his beliefs, Cesare absolutely despises the “New Templars”. He claims that they are false, having fallen from the grace of God. In fact, he believes that they do not deserve to wear the title of Templar, or Knight, or anything. He believes they are scum to be wiped from the bottom of his boot.
Armor:
The most noteworthy part of Cesare’s armor is its sheer size. Weighing a little more than half as much as Cesare himself, it is roughly 222 kilograms in weight. The armor, on any normal person, would require mechanical assistance to even budge, but Cesare is a gargantuan strongman. Cesare relies more on his sheer strength than the armor, though it has saved his hide more than a few times. It is space-worthy, strong enough to resist *most* small-arms fire and even many types of explosives. There is no functioning AI attached to Cesare’s armor, having been disabled at a time Cesare refuses to disclose.
Arsenal:
Cesare is trained to use a Flail, a Shield, and Explosives.
We’ll start with the flail. A large, unwieldy thing, the Flail is really just that: An overly sized flail. There is nothing special about it, other than its size.
Next up is his shield. Imagine a bulldozer. That’s what Cesare is like, his shield almost as big as him, making him look like a bulldozer. It is built from the same materials as his armor, being able to repair itself over time, but aside from that, it is for all intents and purposes: Tried and true metal. It is more than capable of protecting him and his brother from almost any harm coming their way.
Finally is his explosive ordinance. There used to be rumors that his flail was capable of detonating on impact, but those rumors fell with the men that spread them. The truth of the matter is that Cesare keeps a stockpile of explosives with him at almost all times. Under each of his pauldrons, are at least two dozen half-grenades. By themselves, they do nothing, but when quickly snapped with another half, they activate and detonate shortly after tossed. He also has a rocket launcher that is always strapped to his back, should he decide the flail isn’t enough. However, he is trained to use nearly every possible piece of explosive equipment and regularly changes the type of grenades he uses.
History:
A genetic reject and a gun savant, that’s what they got.
That probably makes little sense without context, so it should be given some. You see, the members of the fireteam “Salvation” were once members of “The New Templars”, having been the promised children of twenty generations of a very carefully selected family line, which would be given the very best of gene enhancements to pass on to their children and their children’s children and so forth. When the head researchers decided that anything beyond twenty generations would be too genetically diverse to properly augment these “Lambs of God”, they went “all-in” and augmented the 19th generation of this pedigree to the fullest.
This research team was fired for making such an idiotic decision. They nearly killed the 19th generation of specimens and it was a miracle that they were able to give birth to children at all. Not only was the PROTOTYPE genetic modifications provided UNSTABLE when combined, but they had not given the generation time to ADAPT to these UNSTABLE MODIFICATIONS. The years and years and years of research and development put into forging these two perfect children was thrown down the drain.
The results were that; a genetic reject and a gun savant.
Let’s focus on the Genetic Reject for now. His name is Cesare Alexander. He is a four meter tall, 432 kilogram giant. He also happens to be a zealot. Not to mention the fact that he is trained in the olden ways of using a flail and shield, and then in the more modern ways of utilizing explosives. This built up his reputation among The Free Men as a hulking and terrifying weapon of war, more weapon than man. His reputation among The New Templars was hardly better, but he was still idolized as a weapon that was on their side. Of course, that changed when Cesare and his “little” brother defected to The Free Men, becoming the Fireteam “Salvation”.
Of course, there are reasons behind the desertion of the New Templars. Chief amongst them was his belief that they had “fallen from the grace of God”. One thing to note about Cesare is the fact that he is well versed in his religion. Having read not only multiple translations of the Christian and Catholic bibles, but also the Hebrew Tanakh, only goes to prove this. This… shall we say, obsession, with religion has led to many disputes with those that are not also adherents to his faith. One of the reasons he is so efficient in combat is because he whole-heartily believes that he is doing God’s will. The fact that his beliefs lie mostly in the Old Testament is a very bad thing for his foes. He even brings salt along with him on many occasions to salt the earth after winning a battle.
Another of the reasons behind deserting The New Templars, is the fact that Cesare (and assumedly his brother) would like to found a new nation atop the ruins of The New Templars. Of course, this is very far from his reach for now and in reality is not a nation, but in fact a way of life. He plans on, in time, rallying others under his "banner" and then, well, wiping out anyone not adhering to his ideals. This is of course why he sides with The Free Men, seeing as how he believes that, in the long-run, they will be easier to "forcibly convert" (kill off) due to their anarchist way of life. Despite the fact that he views the New Templars as heathens having strayed from the teachings of God, he acknowledges that they are organized and that he and his brother could not face off against them on their own. He hides this desire from the other "Free Men", though the way he speaks down to them is more than enough of a hint. He's tolerated because he gets things done. Cesare does not bend knee to any man, though he does bend knee to God in prayer. As well as for his “little” brother, so he may clamber upon his back. The two share a close bond, and are vicious in combat, especially together.Akal was genuinely lost. Which one was the real one? Were any of them real? Akal did not know. So, instead of allowing this wolf-faced fiend's lackeys confuse him, Akal launched into action. He was a mimesis of this wolf-faced fiend, then. Letting out a guttural series of roars that, just barely, sounded like "Shpear It Wayers, Shpear it Predas!", Akal allowed the mind game to be played. Of course, not knowing exactly what the magic was, Akal was simply guessing after this point.
They were so obviously different from the wolf-faced fiend’s own images, but they would serve Akal’s purpose for the time being, despite even now threatening to fall apart at the merest action. They circled around the obviously real Akal, prepared to attack the three surrounding him. It was a tight circle, but Akal would make it even tighter with one simple spell.
He wasn’t one for shouting out the name of his spell, instead relying on the guttural screeches of terror in the midst of combat. So, it was guaranteed that he would let some of those out when he felt pain. So, when he began to roar even louder than he had before, it was a clear sign that he was experiencing *something*.
Two of his mimicked spirit predators popped out of existence in that moment, as well, though probably because of their own instability. That left only two of his spirit warriors, so he no longer had a circle. Perhaps he should have delved deeper into mimicry, rather than only eating a mage who knew how to mimic other mages.
But to Akal, it did not quite matter at this point. Akal, who was at one point smaller than this wolf-faced fiend, grew to stand at least a head above her. His body contorted and twisted, and antlers appeared on his head. Or maybe they were horns that had grown to look like antlers. Regardless of what they actually were, Akal’s cries stopped.
It was rather disturbing, really, what happened after that. His arms twisted and grew into bestial shapes, closer to a stag’s forelegs, and his back legs twisted and contorted into even more bestial shapes, becoming closer to the individual legs of a spider. His upper body remained the same, turning him into a sickening rendition of a centaur.
He had no more magic to use, so he would have to rely on physical strength. If he was defeated by the wolf-faced fiend, he could run and feast on the townsfolk. Clearly he had nothing to lose if such well-trained meals were already here.
Perhaps the wolf-faced fiend would suspect as much, and simply attempt to divert him for a while? Or perhaps she did not. It was so much easier to think when all those other voices were quiet, but rationality could only remain so long before it too was quelled out by the insatiable hunger.
Letting loose one more guttural, frenzied, roar, louder than the last ones, he began to move in a twisted and sickening way. He began to run, no, *charge* into the spirit warriors, a trail of his ink black blood still flowing like a waterfall. It was actually beginning to let up, though it still gushed forth in torrents. With clever tactics, Akal would be defeated, but doing the wrong thing might set him off into an even more maddened frenzy.
Akal looked at the strange being before him. Not entirely human, not entirely animal. Or perhaps, it was but a mask, something Akal in his child-like state of mind failed to realize. It was a strange being, and it had a curved blade drawn. This approach frightened Akal, but even worse, caused a split opinion amongst the personalities dwelling within him. Those that craved freedom wanted to see this being destroyed, simply because it threatened to deny them the ability to return to reality in some form. The others, however, were those that craved an end, believing freedom to be nothing more than a vaguely remembered dream. The split response caused Akal to freeze in place, his featureless imitation of a face tilted simultaneously to the ground and towards the newcomer.
One voice rose above the rest. One that, to Akal, was benevolent; it was the voice that had allowed Akal to survive and thrive up until this point. The voice that had told Akal what to do when he could not decide for himself or perhaps, the voice that was truly Akal’s. But this was not the voice of reason, no, it was not even truly a voice. It was an emotion, an instinct. A raw representation of what Akal had become. It was hunger, in all of its primal and instinctual ferocity.
Slowly, Akal stood. He was shorter than this girl, or at least, he felt shorter. He wasn’t actually quite sure, as his vision was hazy, tinted red by the pain he now felt. His stomach let out a loud and long growl, allowing its irritation to be known. At once, the voices in Akal’s mind seemed to be silenced and Akal’s constant shaking and fidgeting stopped. Perhaps this would be obvious to the newcomer, but Akal did not notice himself.
It was then that Akal let out a guttural screech, certainly loud enough to alert Venn that Akal was, in fact, in danger. This was the first time he had seen a meal armed here in Haven, so, Akal assumed that it would immediately harm him. Dropping into a strange and seemingly feral battle pose, Akal moved in a fast manner, seemingly going for an attack. The result was not an attack aimed at his strange opponent, but rather at himself. He tore a chunk of his flesh off, throwing it near the strange thing. It smelled foul and leaked an inky black mockery of blood, landing with an audible squish near the opponent.
Akal simply let out another guttural screech in response to the pain, but immediately followed it with a raise of his arm. The inky black blood flew from his arm, splattering the wall nearest to him with the memory of his savagery. As his hands fell once more, the flesh began to bubble and twirl in a disgustingly fluid manner, slowly growing to be half the size of the wolf-faced thing that had dared to draw its curved blade on Akal.
It was unusual that he would use his Flesh Smithing magic so… sloppily. It was even more unusual that he would use his own flesh to do so. It would take time for the thing to grow, so the wolf-faced fiend would have two choices: Deal with the slowly-growing flesh golem, or deal with the more immediate threat which was Akal. But Akal was panicked by the wolf-faced fiend who threatened him now. Perhaps it was because they did not utter a word, instead choosing to stare at Akal. He hated when the meals stared at him. It caused him to shutter with an unholy desire, one that should far surpass the hunger, but fails to.
He spoke no words, instead letting out feral growls and hisses through the teeth revealed by opening the invisible mouth on his shadowlike and featureless face. They were wild and frenzied, being closer in nature to that of a carnivore rather than that of a man’s. Akal’s eyes never changed, staying featureless white dots on his face, but if one were to look into them, they could *feel* the weight of hunger bearing down upon them. There was something else in those featureless white dots, perhaps a hint of fear.
Ignoring the obviously wounded arm, Akal dropped again into his feral and wild stance, though this time it was a twisted and flawed imitation of the stance the wolf-faced fiend had. It was quickly adopted, as Akal prepared to mimic the wolf-faced fiend’s fighting style. Ink-black blood continued to poor out, as if it was a waterfall, but Akal seemed to mind it not. This was a very risky thing to do, but Akal was for all intents and purposes, a cornered beast. So, he was doing what any cornered beast does; lashing out.
Perhaps the worst part of all of this was the fact that there was no context for Akal to follow. That frightened him even further, but he doubted that the wolf-faced fiend had any more idea than he did about the nature of events. But he cared not what she thought. Instead, he focused on his hunger, letting it command him as it had so many times before. Akal did not worry about the consequences of immediately taking an offensive attack, for she did come at him with her blade drawn after nightfall, in a dark alley secluded from the town’s eyes. Not to mention, he was here to collect flesh, bones, and souls for Ishak, and what was this person to Akal but another offering to his savior? They were only that to Akal; an offering.
I heard shipwright!
---
**Name:** Tark
**Age:** “28”
**Gender:** Male
**Race:** Fishman
**Picture or Description:** Tark is, well, big. When navigating around the ship, he has some difficulty but is able to manage, albeit uncomfortably. To counter this, he does not wear any clothes, instead relying on his natural fishman build to protect him. He doesn’t even need clothes, really, as his body is lacking any real features.
**Crew Member, Marine Rival, or Other:** Crew Member
**Crew Position:** Shipwright
**Techniques/Fighting Style:**
- Tark is a shipwright, having access to a wide variety of tools used for repairing the ship. These tools include, but are not limited to: Hammers of varying sizes, wooden planks of varying sizes, logs, ropes, chisels of varying sizes, and saws of varying sizes. These tools can be utilized as deadly weapons that would make him a much more formidable opponent; however he does not use these tools for combat. “**Ain’t their proper use.**”
- However, Tark is not unwilling to fight. He uses his raw, brute strength, both naturally acquired and earned through years as a shipwright, to defend himself. During combat, Tark tries to stay out of the way and focus on keeping the ship afloat. When this fails, he is not above flying into a rage brought on by damage to the ship, and will attack *anyone* responsible for damaging the ship. Or anyone that just pisses him off enough.
- One noteworthy technique that is rarely seen utilized by Tark is the “**Fishman’s Fisherman Fist**”. What this technique is, however, remains a mystery as Tark hasn’t actually used it in the presence of his current crew.
**Fruit:** Tark has a Zoan Type Devil Fruit, but, he has not eaten it and has no idea as to what it may do. He resents Devil Fruits, but understands that they are valuable to those willing to swear off the sea.
**Personality:** Tark is serious, not caring for humor. Those telling him a joke will find that he in fact does not care, even going as far as to voice his disappointment that he has allowed his time to be wasted. Tark is also very irritable when being approached for no good reason, hating when his time is wasted. He takes his work very seriously, constantly meandering about the ship, constantly looking for even the *slightest* hint of harm. He also cares very deeply about his tools, and those that touch them will find themselves in a brawl with the large fishman. Calling him anything but Tark will also earn you the fishman’s scorn.
**Backstory:** Tark is the result of a strange lineage. On his father’s side, is fishmen. The fishmen, however, are so varied and wild that his family’s genetic diversity has become so great that it is very, very, very, unstable. On his mother’s side, is a strange and twisted lineage, which is in fact, nothing but meetings of chance. His mother’s grandfather was a Wotan and her grandmother was a giant, but his mother’s mother was a Wotan, and her father was a fishman. His mother and father were both fishfolk, so it was only logical that Tark himself was a fishman. However, his lineage meant that he was destined to be a giant. While not nearly as big as his Wotan ancestors, he still stands taller than two men and wider than them too.
Tark would have grown up underwater, but *something* took his family from the depths. Tark does not much talk about his life, but the skills and discipline he has, coupled with his gruff and cynical attitude, make it difficult to approach the question. However, if one were to watch the way he works, look at the way he tends to tools, and just generally look at his unwavering work ethic, it becomes obvious; Tark was, at some point, a slave.
Tark has been hanging around Loguetown for a while, repairing ships to earn a living, however, Tark is homeless. He knows the ins and outs of making, repairing, and even improving a ship. Once, he was even paid with a Devil Fruit, by a drunken captain that didn’t seem to realize what he was doing. Tark took it all the same, hoping to sell it. That Devil Fruit, however, has drawn some unwanted attention and Tark wants to get out of Loguetown as soon as he can, as long as he can do it on a ship that he can occupy himself repairing.
**Other:** Tark is fond of the water, as well as hard liquor, though he hardly touches the stuff.
>Although I think that would be something more along the lines of the entropic levels, as such, perhaps Synn will leave this balancing to the God of the Void or even the God of Chaos.
I'm assuming that by God of Void, you mean Nihil. If that's not the case, ignore this.
Nihil would not be quite suited to causing death. Death means action, whereas Nihil is a being that actively strives towards inaction, but constantly fails to achieve such inaction. Death is something that he wouldn't quite be attuned to, because, the way he sees it, there is no disposal. Nothing returns to the void, in his eyes.
That is not the same as saying that he would not be welcome to dealing with souls, however, his dealing with souls would be closer to removing them from existence, destroying them in their entirety. I imagine that, if this were the case, Nihil would be seen as a demon of some sort, causing people to believe that he has a realm of hell that is infinite nothing. Obviously, that is not truly the case.
>Or perhaps the God of Corruption would create more predators to serve as population control...
I think this could work much better than a god of void or chaos overseeing death. As a God of Corruption, Slatera could, in theory, corrupt the essence of life, creating death. (Also, that reminds me, Slatera did sacrifice the mark of death according to his CS, which he could do in character to remind everyone of this.)
Also, a general question:
What happened to the God of Sleep and Dreams?
If they are gone for good, then what should we do?
Of course, this is a question best left for the GM, so as to not cause any unwanted disturbance.
Absence was such a broad term, one that described Nihil very well. Chaos, in its purest and most absolute form, was the absence of order. Order, in its purest and most absolute form, was the absence of chaos. Control, in its purest and most absolute form, was the absence of freedom. Freedom, in its purest and most absolute form, was the absence of control. Light was the absence of dark, and dark, the absence of light; and so on and so forth. Every primal ideal and concept relied, at its heart, no matter how insignificantly, on the concept of absence.
Nihil knew this, though the fact of the matter is that it disgusted him. Balsis named him the “God of Absence”, a feeble title, one that did not suit Nihil well at all. It was one that mocked him, reminded him that he had a role in almost everything. So it was to be born from nothing. Existence was, after all, borne in the womb that the sacred absence was; it was a child that killed its mother and began to survive within the carcass, the carcass of Nihil.
But Nihil was naught but a lucid ghost of a vague nightmare of a forgotten memory. It was for this reason, that he was omnipresent and omniscient, though he was far from being omnipotent. Balsis and his children, as well as their disgusting creations, existed within the carcass of Nihil, a carcass that his ghost still remained locked in, becoming aware and intelligent. His thoughts existed scattered and infinite. The feeling of something being born within his carcass upset Nihil greatly and it was a feeling that never ceased.
The rotation of the earth, he felt. The movement of every small and insignificant creature, invisible to their disgusting siblings, he felt. The desires and hopes of every creature, he felt. They echoed onward for infinity, never ceasing. It was a painful thing for Nihil to experience, but it never ceased. Instead, it seemed to grow in intensity as Balsis and his children willed ever more into being. Each new creation was yet another piece of the sacred absence being ripped forcibly into this chaotic and disgusting reality.
The worst realization, however, was that Balsis and his children had created intelligent life, then blessed it with freedom, giving it the potential to create. One day, they too might tear the absence asunder. The mere thought of this was enough to upset Nihil. But there was nothing he could do, directly. The most Nihil could do is attempt to pull at the minds of Balsis and his children, and their disgusting creations, attempt to remind them that they were born from nothing, and instill in them his will to force them to return to nothing.
The nothing was, in fact, a beautiful thing. It stretched on for infinity, in perfect order and harmony. The absence knew no spark of diversity, it knew nothing aside from the blissful silence and the endearing order that only nothing could know. But with the disgusting birth of existence and creation, the nothing was tainted, becoming naught but a womb for existence to grow infinitely. It was a strange concept, an infinity being used to grow by a finite thing. In time, one might consider this finite thing to be infinite, but in reality it would never be. If the infinity was finite, then the finite thing could only grow as far as the finite had. But the nothing is a true infinity, whereas existence would always be a finite thing, but with the potential to grow infinitely. This was, in truth, the only thing that allowed Nihil to retain his rage and hopeless ideals thus far. The fact that there would always be nothing, on the outskirts of existence, it comforted Nihil slightly. But the thing that had been building up within Nihil, perhaps building until he could contain it no more, or simply growing infinitely, was the fact that each creation ruined the infinite nothing. He knew all too intimately how it felt to be torn from that nothing, forged into existence. It was a thought that enraged Nihil to no end.
So it was that Nihil went forth, first to one of the beings known as “Man”. His thoughts each regarded the “Man” with disgust and coiled around him, as if they were a snake. Together, they writhed, slowly sinking their imaginary tendrils into the mind of this “Man”. They prodded and poked with an instinctual curiosity, unwillingly adding knowledge of the “Man” into the greater whole. In return, the man was shewn the great nothing in all of its glory. For a moment, he was frightened, as was Nihil. Both the entities seemed to regard one another with fear and hatred, but the thoughts of Nihil scattered once more, again retreating from this place, hoping never to see what came of this so called “Man”. But the man knew Nihil’s truth now, that all came from naught. What he would do with this truth, Nihil cared little to find out. Instead, he attempted to purge the knowledge of the “Man” from his mind, a futile attempt that only served to add to that infinite rage that was boiling within him.
It is a rather somber tale, a being that so desperately wishes to return to the great nothing, becoming enraged because he is unable. But the more enraged he becomes, the more he feels, the more he understands; and the more he understood, the more bound to existence he became and the more bound to existence he became, the more he became enraged. It was an endless cycle, one that would surely ruin Nihil.
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