(no subject)
[There's a storm coming.
Maybe it's the time he spent in Hueco Mundo, where the sky is always black and empty, that makes him sensitive to the changes in the air. Or it's possible that it's just a side-effect of possessing sharper senses. Whatever the case, the signs are there for anyone capable of recognizing them. The subtle drop in pressure. The faint undercurrent of energy electrifying the air. The scent of moisture that, after a cursory glance around, has no immediately identifiable source.
It's coming, and Grimmjow knows it.
Which is why he's out here now, standing at the top of a rise, looking out over the land. The elevation affords him a perfect view of the sky and the clouds that slowly begin to gather. He may not like most forms of weather, he still isn't used to it, but even he'll admit that he enjoys storms. Especially the large ones; those with towering black clouds, deafening crashes of thunder, strong wind, and violent cracks of lightning. The rain he can always do without. There's something about the frenzy of energy released in a storm that calls to him. Captivates him. It's like watching the world at war with itself, and he knows that feeling all too well.
As the wind begins to rise, Grimmjow grins, a wild, reckless expression of anticipation. This promises to be a big one.]
Maybe it's the time he spent in Hueco Mundo, where the sky is always black and empty, that makes him sensitive to the changes in the air. Or it's possible that it's just a side-effect of possessing sharper senses. Whatever the case, the signs are there for anyone capable of recognizing them. The subtle drop in pressure. The faint undercurrent of energy electrifying the air. The scent of moisture that, after a cursory glance around, has no immediately identifiable source.
It's coming, and Grimmjow knows it.
Which is why he's out here now, standing at the top of a rise, looking out over the land. The elevation affords him a perfect view of the sky and the clouds that slowly begin to gather. He may not like most forms of weather, he still isn't used to it, but even he'll admit that he enjoys storms. Especially the large ones; those with towering black clouds, deafening crashes of thunder, strong wind, and violent cracks of lightning. The rain he can always do without. There's something about the frenzy of energy released in a storm that calls to him. Captivates him. It's like watching the world at war with itself, and he knows that feeling all too well.
As the wind begins to rise, Grimmjow grins, a wild, reckless expression of anticipation. This promises to be a big one.]