Me : *see the dual swords of Ichigo* Y'all ugly !
I'm sorry, but I truly hate the design of the dual sword for Ichigo, so I made my own. I fell in love with his second Bankai at the Fullgringer arc, with the sharky points and long ass blade. They are stuck in shikai state like they generally are, but somewhere in the futur they will be sealed for some stealth mission (seeing it is Ichigo, you know how that will go).
I'm having a headache, by the way. So much differents abilities for him to have, it's horrible, I have a list of like... Twenty attacks, without even including the Quincy side, and I can't decide what he will or will not have. His Bankai will be revealed during the rescue of Rukia, it's gonna break your mind.
Chapter III – All that was and will be
Kisuke caressed with both caution and admiration the black serrated blade, feeling the shikai clean state of the sword. Sharp and true, glinting in the poor lited room, yet singing a deadly lullaby. His index and middle finger followed the death tune of the blade's ridge, the starless void seemingly englutting all hope of surviving his encounter in a battle. The swirling pure svastika of a voidless light, bearing promises of protection and whispers of vigilance, protection as sturdy as a shield on the guard. The handle was sown of rough cord of snow and ice, the ray's skin of gold, glowing with stars of auric schemes.
The pommel was followed by a morbidly long chain of metal. The stainless tail, slowly unraveling tells of battles yet to be fought. The longer his gaze pursued the end of the raw bound, the faster the bleached hue became tarnished by rust, dried crimson drops that were far too old to be of Kurosaki recent training session. As his gazes finally found the end of the tailed blade, he saw the crescent of a Moon, darkened by what seemed to be a forever stain of ash, devoured by half imprinted fingers on the soiled metal. The mark smelled of petrichor. Urahara felt dread looking at it.
Unsurprisingly, the second blade wasn't that different. The reversal of the colors and tone gave a sensation of a before and after that was unsettling to look at. The reverted svastika wasn't doing it any favors, if he was honest with himself. The shiver that had run down his spine was like a chilling imitation of his eyes running along the string that was tied to the end of the pommel. As if a piece of the sky had been torn apart to be attached to it. It was bright, in contrast with everything else, glowing with a gentle and almost nostalgic feeling, like a reminder, a souvenir of olds. The scientist felt the weight of all of his years weighting down on him just looking at it.
They looked so sophisticated and yet so simple. Kisuke couldn't place the emotion that was burning his heart in a freezing grace, but he could tell it wasn't a good sentiment to remember, like a threat hanging high above their heads, a metronome that had yet to fall and nobody could tell where. Powerlessness. A terrifying thing to live through for those in her grasp. Urahara never touched the blades again, not even to put then back to their scabbards. They looked so worn out, those things, it was truly saddening. Not simply by pity for the Zanpakutō lodged in it, but for the one who carries them too. As if they had both been shifted through so many hands that they couldn't stand to be touched by anything anymore without looking rotten and decaying.
Their decorative ornaments were morn and lifeless, the paints dead and half covered by grim and death. It was clear that no attempt at salvaging them had been made. Abandoned, even by the one who wear them down constantly. Or maybe it was reverance ? Respecting their last death wish, to be left to wither away until they reached their final destination. Maybe it was a warning, a threat or... Maybe it was just an indication. A reflection of the state of mind of the one who carry them. Uncaring about the why and how, as long as his duty is accomplished. Not caring that it need polishing, maintenance, care- not caring that he wasn't an object to be used and thrown away- But then Urahara couldn't say he'd done a great job on that part himself, he had no real leg to stand on. Ichigo would just watch him struggle with an impenetrable look on his face that he used to bear on his own. It unnerved the old soul to no end.
The crackling of the fireplace made Tessai turned his head. Ichigo had been sitting by it, looking straight into the dancing embers, still and relaxed. His auburn irises followed invisible steps and patterns, unseen to anyone trying to found them. They were ghosts, haunting the living like their personal little demons, charmed and hated all the same. A bittersweet taste that sometimes, would pursue the World of the Living until it's inevitable end.