[Spirit Class 9] Lazarus Jeager

» Name: Lazarus Jeager
» Alias: Lazzy
» Age: 29
» Gender: Male

» Association: The Vandenreich

» Appearance Written: Average height man standing roughly 5'9'' tall with sun kissed tan skin and crimson red locks, typically kept in a messy bun. A slim but toned build, well kept attire and pair of piercing amber eyes typically staring coldly out at the world around them.

» Appearance Image:



» Personality: Lazarus aligns himself less with the title of Quincy and more with the that of an Observer, often attempting to talk his way out of conflict rather than deal with the stress and possible fall out of being involved in one. A man of many faces and facades, often playing devils advocate for the sense of fairness in most situations, Lazarus is an individual who enjoys studying other individuals. There is nothing more interesting to him than finding out what it is that makes another being tick, peering into their mind to see what they might be capable of. His philosophy being that anybody is capable of anything, under the right conditions, and that no person is entirely innocent.

Often fascinated by the minds and ideals of others, he can often be caught rambling on about the ways people live their lives, asking questions about ones belief systems, and overall just seeing what buttons there are to push to get a rise or reaction out of someone. Sadly this leads people to either ignore him or disregard his questions, which in turn puts him in a sour mood. Nothing so bad as to wish death or disaster on someone, but certainly enough to have him lose interest in the other entirely and likely leave. A fickle man he is, concerned about his own whims and the desires of his superiors.


» History: Lazarus was born of pure quincy blood, an Echt Quincy to those who cared for the distinction. Those people would be his parents, who desired for him to stand among the 'chosen' Echt as some superior quincy to those around him. From a young age he was tutored in the ways of the quincy lifestyle, everything from their history to their combat, the idea that mixed bloods were less drilled into him day after day for most of his adolescent life. The problem with this was that his family expected him to be born strong and proud, wanted a prodigy who desired only what they desired, and that isn't what he became. By the time he was ten years old Lazarus had built a slow growing resentment for his upbringing, the idea that one person was better than another by simply being born into a better household or through a set of genes was ridiculous to him. Especially since those genes weren't immediately present in himself, so why feel superior to the mix blooded quincy he watched play in the streets. It became apparent that he wasn't strong during the first year of his training, in which it took the full year to even begin gathering reishi, let alone his lack of ability to make a bow, or anything resembling it for long enough to pull back the string.

His father changed after that day, the only lasting memory of that afternoon being the loud 'crack' of knuckles on the side of his head near his temple, and the feeling of warmth trickling down his cheek and neck as footsteps walked away. From that day on it became very clear what his role was meant to be, and why his father and mother got together in the first place. He later found out that he was just the product of his fathers lack of real power in this world, status and influence weren't enough for him, so he sought to raise a powerful quincy child to make up for his own lack of ability. Lazarus thought it ironic that he would be belittled for being like his father, while his mother just sat back and watched with less than compassionate eyes. She had agreed to the marriage for status and wealth, only doing her duty as a wife to produce an heir to carry on the family name. With each passing day his father grew more irate, and the more irate he became the harder the punches and kicks became. Red welts turned to bruises turned to scars, scars that would define the man he would later become.

Days became months, and months became years, almost three years to be exact before he could create a bow and fire an arrow. No celebration, no congratulations, just a disgruntled 'finally' by the man he had grown to detest. His indifference towards his mother remained the same throughout those years, as she mostly made herself scarce when he was walking about the home and training fields. He wasn't sure if it was out of disappointment or possible fear that he might end up like his father and abuse her, it could be another reason entirely. The fact of the matter was she simply didn't interact with him or his father that much, he didn't blame her, but he didn't pardon her in his own mind either.

His father kept a strict schedule for him once he learned how to conjure a bow, the majority of the days were spent in training to hone his skills, to sharpen his senses, to make him the fighter his father always aspired to be. There was a fragment of pride in Lazarus' heart, not for his own abilities, but that he might soon be better than his father. This of course was outweighed by the self loathing over the fact that he aspired to be 'better' than his father, something that went against his own morals and beliefs. There were days when he'd miss entire meals to continue to train and further his combat abilities, the desperate desire to have the one thing his father wanted, to rub it in his face and at the end of each day he would get closer and closer to that goal. A goal he would soon achieve and overlap in the months to come. Their training had taken a turn, rather than continue with bow training he was presented with a blade. It had occurred to him that their lack of close quarters combat was a weakness others could exploit. This was when the dynamic between Lazarus and his father would change, the latter being practiced in swordplay, as opposed to Lazarus who had zero experience. It became clear quickly that his father would take this opportunity to 'educate' his son in the ways of combat, which amounted to him belittling and abusing his son's lack of experience to feel better about himself. This went on for several weeks, and this routine would begin the idea of combat tactics and analysis within Lazarus. His father had a pattern, as most people did, in the way he attacked and defended. This became apparent to Lazarus after almost a month of being beaten by his father in combat, slowly recognizing what would occur if he swung here or there, defended this way or that. It was a list of outcomes playing through his mind, which only furthered his desire to find the missing puzzle pieces and stand on even footing against his fathers attacks.

His wish would be granted when he got up the morning of the second month of sword training, he had spent the entire night going over every move he and his father would make, imagining the dance between the two a million different ways. He knew only to attack and defend, his father was a terrible person, but his swordsmanship was nothing to scoff at. There seemed no way to penetrate the defense of the man before him as he walked out to the field for what felt like the billionth time, sword in hand. Their usual dance of battle ensued, a back and forth of attacking and defending, the same outcomes playing out once again. The frustration and fatigue from lack of sleep were written across his form plain as day, and due to this he was slipping up, making mistakes, overall just creating easy openings for his father to take advantage of. There was a reaction that he noticed though from his father, it was in the moment when he shifted halfway through a vertical downward slash. His father swung up diagonally to parry the blow, but Lazarus slipped and the vertical changed to a diagonal that rode parallel to his fathers. It looked as though it unnerved his father, who had retreated a good few feet back to evade the accidental attack. A puzzle piece fell into place, and soon the others would as well, as with every attack his father threw at him, Lazarus would attack in a similar fashion, but just off enough to miss clashing blades and just close enough to get a clean hit in.

This marked the turning of tides in their dynamic once again, as now Lazarus had the advantage over his father, his speed and mental gymnastics slowly eroding the barrier that kept them from standing as equals in swordplay. This was also where he would choose his preferred spirit weapon, which would come in the form of a blade hand bow combo. Why stop at using one or the other, he pressured his father on the field by using a small bow in his free hand while he held the blade in his main hand. The frustration on his fathers face would be akin to a beautiful painting in his eyes, the knowledge that his father had done what he set out too when having a child, and yet his child despised and ridiculed him as the more powerful being. His father eventually stopped training with him, a single shot to the shoulder by an arrow was what it took to shot that Lazarus could read him and his reaction, proving that there was nothing left for his father to teach. Knowing this he turned to those who could, and made his way to the location of the troops who had been marching through the towns looking for able bodied soldiers to join in their army.


» Natural Abilities:

All-Range Fighter: Given his extensive training in both swordsmanship and archery Lazarus excels in all ranges of combat, having an adept spatial awareness when in combat.

High Pain Tolerance: Having gone through rigorous and borderline torturous training sessions which would leave him beaten, bruised, and bleeding, Lazarus does not flinch easy when it comes to taking on damage. This allows him to continue fighting through pain and gives him openings to counter attack while being attacked where some might falter or fall due to pain.


» Racial Abilities:

Blut Vene and Arterie: While he had gained the ability to use blut it was strictly forbidden during his training with his father, so while he is able to use it Lazarus has no real practice with it.

Kruezen: Given the extensive focus on and use of the spirit weapons Lazarus is well rounded in his ability to summon and maintain his spirit weapon.

Gebet: Lazarus had a base understanding of Quincy spellcraft due to hidden study sessions when his father wasn't home, though no real practice with the craft.



» Spirit Weapon Appearance: The sword part of his spiritual weapon comes in the form of a slender straight sword, the hand bow typically covering most of the other hand with a more crude shape, less refined then the blade.

» Spirit Weapon Abilities: None as of now.


» Letzt Stil or Vollständig: None yet

» Name: None yet

» Appearance: none yet

» Abilities: None yet


» Equipment: [If your character has any equipment? Put it here. If they don't, skip this section.]


(To Find Out about what these skills are for, please READ THIS THREAD before you try doing anything to it)

General Skills
» Durability: Beginner
» Speed: Beginner
» Strength: Beginner
» Martial Skill: Adept

Will Skills
» Willpower: Beginner
» Deduction: Beginner
» Focus: Beginner

Quincy Skills
» Blut: Adept
» Gebet: Beginner
» Kreuzen: Beginner
» Steigen: Beginner


» Roleplay Sample: Three knocks on the door, firm enough to be heard from anywhere in the home, but not so hard that it gave the impression of violence or anger. It was a comfortable looking abode, two stories tall with a brick wall surrounding it leading to a gate at the front, which he had passed through to get to the door in front of him. It was more of a Victorian style building, lanterns hanging from either side of the entrance, the brick painted white to match the ascetics of the Quincy. A handful of moments went by as Lazarus stood at the door, waiting for anyone to answer, wondering if anyone would even come to the door at this hour. Unfortunately for him someone would come to the door, he heard the lock turn and the deadbolt of the upper lock retreat from its home in the frame with a loud 'thunk'. He was met with the sight of his mother, looking maybe a handful of years older than when he was young, but not so old that wrinkles had set in yet. There was a mixed look of shock and confusion on her face, as if she were being visited by the ghosts of her past, he was sure there was some form of irony here.

"Is he awake?"

It was all he could muster in the silence that hung in the air between them, her gaze going from him to the stairway behind her, then back to him. She gave a soft nod, opening the door enough for Lazarus to walk through, closing it and locking the top lock behind him. He stood taller than her now by a good head and a bit, something that he never thought about since he left, and now something he couldn't stop thinking about. Wordlessly she led him up towards the study, he could see the tension in her gait as they walked, both sad that he could make his own mother tense, and yet strangely happy that she felt some form of unease while he was in her presence. It felt like an eternity to get to the study door, though in reality it was no more than a minute, he could feel his heart beat racing in his chest as he stared at the door. As hard as it was to do, despite how much he thought his own mother might deserve to watch what would likely be the fallout of what her husband had caused, Lazarus still held something for her in his heart. Somewhere deep down he knew she probably didn't want for her only child to be abused bay in and day out, that the arrange marriage wasn't what she wanted for her life. He looked to her with a sad smile, and with a motion back towards the steps, gave her the one free pass to escape the fallout, one last courtesy to the woman who brought him into this world. All the tension and fear slowly drained from her frame, genuine surprise painted across her face, which would soon be replaced by the beginnings of tears as they filled her eyes. She stifled her voice to avoid alerting the boogie man behind the door, but reached out to embrace her son one last time, her grip tight on his arms as she struggled to not weep openly into his chest. Memories of his childhood before his fathers teachings flashed across his mind, long forgotten emotions welling up to the surface, though he kept them at bay just long enough to give her a one armed hug and a kiss on the head. As his mother hurried down the stairs Lazarus gripped the doorknob, he had to stop himself from ripping the door off its hinges as he turned the knob, the creak of the door swinging open slowly echoing through the otherwise silent house.

"I've told you a thousand times, If you're going to come in please knock fi-"

The words died in his fathers throat as he looked up from a book to see Lazarus standing in the door frame, a cascade of emotions flashing across the bastards face as his son stepped in and closed the door behind him. His steps were slow and paced, his boots punctuating each foot fall until he was standing opposite his father, in front of the large mahogany desk that the older man sat behind.

"...Why after all this time have you returned?"

His father had a calculated gaze, trying to figure out what the end goal of his son showing up at random was, if this was his last night alive, if his son had seen the error of his ways and come home to thank him for all he had done. It was proof that the man hadn't changed since Lazarus had left, proof that he was still the weak man that tried to raise his son to be everything he couldn't be.

"I came to tell you what you're decisions have gotten you in the end, how they shaped me, and how those choices led me to the decision I've made tonight..."

In this moment they were complete opposites, his father cold and calculated, Lazarus struggling to keep his own emotions in check long enough to string together another set of words to form a sentence. It was startling how similar the two looked, Lazarus could be a carbon copy of his father, something that had always bothered him. His father paused a moment to assess, and once he deemed his death not imminent he would raise a hand for his son to continue, sitting back and giving Lazarus his undivided attention.

"You know, as depressing as it is to think about what you did to me, I've read enough books to understand why you did it. I can rationalize why a man without power of his own would want his own son to be better than himself, I can even understand the rage and disappointment when you thought I was the same as you. I've spent almost the entirety of my life trying to understand how you could do what you did, but there's still a part of me that thinks you just enjoyed abusing me. That you had found someone beneath you to make you feel powerful, and that you derived some sick form of satisfaction in mercilessly attacking your own son day in and day out. I can understand why you did it, I know the psychology behind it, but I'll never forgive you for it.

Because of you I came to hate how the Quincy do things, how little they question about anything at all outside this realm, how they think that they are somehow better than the other races that exist in the other realms outside of our own. I tried to be the total opposite of you and your Quincy pride, all to try and get away from you and this hell you made from our home, and it cost me what little I could try and get in that army. I have more enemies inside those barracks than I think I could make anywhere else, they all but call me a traitor to my people because I dare to question the way we do things. But most of all I started to question what else there was in the universe, and because of that I've travelled outside our realm countless times, and I've seen things you couldn't imagine exist. Things that demand our attention, but because it doesn't fit the wants and needs of his Majesty they get ignored, and for what, so we can sit and wait for some promised day to come that we know nothing about?!"

The pot was boiling over, his voice raising as what started as a soft speech started growing into a louder monologue of his life. His fists were so tightly clenched that the knuckles on both hands were turning white, his words dripping malice with every syllable. His father took a long look at his son, hands draw together in front of him with that same cold and calculated stare.

"...and yet you're stronger than I could ever hope to be. I do not regret my choices, nor do I regret how they shaped you, you have grown to be independent, self reliant, but most of all you've grown to want to get stronger, no matter the cost."

The silence that fell over the room was such that you might hear a pin drop, Lazarus would hear his heart beating in his ears, nails digging into the skin on his palms as what little control he had left vanished. His arm swung out at the contents of the desk, all the books and papers flying off in a flurry of chaos. That same fist would come down onto the desk, the thunderous cracking of wood echoing through the room as his breathing became ragged, the desk now broken down the middle. Putting both hands on either side of the crack, he would toss the halves of the desk aside, hitting the bookshelves lining the walls to send more books and papers flying, one of the bookshelves creaking as it fell over with another thunderous slam. Despite all of this his father didn't shake or startle even once, simply pushing the chair back a bit to avoid being hit by the desk. Lazarus walked the two or three paces up to his seated father, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him to his feet as he all but screamed into his face.

"You pushed all your hopes and dreams onto a child who didn't even know what his own dreams were, you robbed me of any other future happiness and that's all you can say?! "

He didn't give the man a chance to respond, tossing him back into the chair with a roar of anger, doing everything he could to not commit murder this night. His father righted himself in the chair, dusting himself off, waiting for the other shoe to drop with a cold stare. It took a full minute and some seconds for Lazarus to collect himself enough to speak again, an all but defeated expression worn on his face.

"Well you got what you wanted, I am stronger than you, far stronger than you could every hope to be as you say, but I won't waste it here. I came to here to tell you that all that hard work amounted to nothing, because I'm leaving this realm, and I'm never coming back. I went looking for the options you robbed from me all those years ago, and I've found at least one or two that I'd rather be a part of instead of this. If I'm reported and found I'll be executed, if I'm free I will be a part of something that would oppose the Quincy as a whole, either way I'm taking what you worked towards and throwing it back in your face. You get to live the rest of your days knowing that you're legacy dies tonight, to know that despite everything, you're still left with nothing. Goodbye Father, may you lay awake at night knowing you were never going to be remembered, and that your sole heir has forsaken you to that indignation..."

Lazarus didn't wait around to see the look on his fathers face, his feet carried him as quickly as they could to the furthest point of the realm, the rage and malice leaving him with every step. What was left was a hole of sadness and depression, it threatened to swallow him whole. As he made it to the forests he would step through it into the human realm, finding himself in one of the parks in the city he had first met the arrancar. He was emotionally and physically exhausted, and with what little energy he had left, Lazarus made his way to the rooftop that they had met on so many moons ago. He collapsed onto the cool stone on top, looking up at the night sky to see stars for what felt like the first time in a long time. Tears would well up in his tired eyes, and as they fell so to did he into unconsciousness, hoping to find a better tomorrow.