Bleach Hereafter RPG

Observe, Dear Reader. A hollow man hovers above tens of thousands of humans, unseen by any. He paces back and forth, with the mien of a predator overlooking its prey, like a well-fed lion watching gazelle graze and gallop, confident in his ability to put an end to the frolicking and fun at any moment. His reptilian eyes, cold with intellect and cunning far beyond what many would glean from his appearance, flicker from person to person, reading signs that are being held high above people's heads, or their faces, hidden behind masks they can remove at any time. He seethes, somewhere deep inside, in a part even he may not be willing to admit exists at any given moment. Below, humans are doing as humans do, watching one another bounce around in random directions. If you were expecting any elaboration from your narrator, I'm afraid I must disappoint: You all look alike to me, and I can scarcely but imagine what could motivates fleshlings any more than you can imagine what motivates the dust mites hovering around your house.


See here? They all rise from their seats, letting loose primal hoots and screeches of emotion, many of them devoid of emotion. It is no different from the displays of their mindless ancestors, the way that the pack cheers and jeers their alphas. And the affluence that follows these odd displays. It is not my place to pass judgment, Dear Reader, but even so I must say that I can scarcely tell which of these creatures is more well-adjusted than the other. The hollow man opens his own mouth, poised to answer the resounding echoes of thousands of human voices, and what is it you think he says?


"THAT CALL WAS CRAP REF! Are you watching the same game as me? I have a literal birds-eye view and his feet never left the ground! I should run down there and shove your head into the ground until you're burping astro-turf! Good god, that was the dumbest thing I've seen all day."


Continuing to mutter various expletives that I shall not endeavor to repeat, Yaksha Dokuja descended towards the ground, at a pace that many would call a touch too leisurely to match his tone of voice, before he curled up in a darkened corner of the area, watching the dispute unfurl. His mask split open in a manner unnervingly similar to dark threads being stitched along a white surface, a purple-and-black tongue spilling outwards as he nodded his head faintly. Clearly in high spirits, he began to hum, ever so slightly.


"Weeeeee are the champions, my friiiiiiiend~"


From an objective perspective, it certainly seemed he preferred this game of sport and conquest to the Colosseum of old. Unfortunately, Dear Reader, I can scarcely see a difference.