You only see what your eyes want to see. [Open]
Characters: Ulquiorra and absolutely anybody in the area from any ship who might get a kick out of bothering this asocial little git?
Content: Ulquiorra, after getting confirmed as a new crew member of the Fiertia, gets his bearings of the makeshift Market town that has built up around the races.
Setting: Anywhere in the market town; he'll be on the move.
Time: Any time after this entry.
Warnings: Ulquiorra probably being an offensive little dick and whatever else is brought along, if it's brought?
None of it interested him.
The stalls, the wares, the people. It was all pointless frivolity in the scope of those cold, green eyes of his. Still, he had a job to do, instructions to be carried out, orders from above.
He didn’t patrol, not by any stretch of the imagination; he simply walked, hands in pockets, glancing at the various stalls with pointed disinterest, his real targets and reasons for being there known only to himself and his absent boss.
He didn’t look particularly dangerous. Youthful, a little sad, perhaps. Maybe a touch tired, something that could be blamed on his long journey at short notice. Still, morose and impassive as he appeared, he was armed with a sword for the occasion, much like the many other armed people in the market. It wasn’t because of the unsavoury pirate types that he carried it, it was simply habit.
He wasn’t there to fight, he was there to look, and that’s all he was doing.
Content: Ulquiorra, after getting confirmed as a new crew member of the Fiertia, gets his bearings of the makeshift Market town that has built up around the races.
Setting: Anywhere in the market town; he'll be on the move.
Time: Any time after this entry.
Warnings: Ulquiorra probably being an offensive little dick and whatever else is brought along, if it's brought?
None of it interested him.
The stalls, the wares, the people. It was all pointless frivolity in the scope of those cold, green eyes of his. Still, he had a job to do, instructions to be carried out, orders from above.
He didn’t patrol, not by any stretch of the imagination; he simply walked, hands in pockets, glancing at the various stalls with pointed disinterest, his real targets and reasons for being there known only to himself and his absent boss.
He didn’t look particularly dangerous. Youthful, a little sad, perhaps. Maybe a touch tired, something that could be blamed on his long journey at short notice. Still, morose and impassive as he appeared, he was armed with a sword for the occasion, much like the many other armed people in the market. It wasn’t because of the unsavoury pirate types that he carried it, it was simply habit.
He wasn’t there to fight, he was there to look, and that’s all he was doing.