A/N: Well, after the emotional train-wreck that was the end of Scattered Petals, I thought, "Hey, why not try writing something a little happier. Maybe another story along the lines of Solar-Powered Girl, but with less smut. Because it was super fucking awkward asking my wife to proofread my story about two teenagers fucking the shit out of each other."

But then the depressing, asshole, angsty teen side of the dumpster-fire that is my mind said, "No, go darker. Take your favorite characters and have them all slit their wrists or something. And then make Salem do really weird - and possibly illegal - things with their skin and/or orifices."

So those two decided to have a really creepy, Quasimoto-lookin'-ass baby. And this is it.

TL;DR of it is that I had idea. Idea happy and sad at same time. Idea look like this.

P.S. - If you don't know who Quasimoto is, go read a fucking book, you uncultured swine!

Prologue - Kill or Be Killed

There were many advantages to living in tents. They were light, provided shielding from wind and rain, and were easily replaceable. The ideal abode for a nomadic tribe. When it came time to pack up and move, a tent could be rolled up and stored in just a few minutes. If made out of the correct material, they could also be an excellent source of insulated heat in even the harshest of Mistralian winters.

All that being said, there were also quite a few downsides as well. If not set up properly, they would be ripped to shreds or lifted off the ground when a bad thunderstorm rolled through. They weren't much use in holding back the Grimm either. A Beowolf that had caught a scent would tear through even the sturdiest of tents like wet tissue paper.

Then there were the non-life-threatening issues. For one, any and all semblance of privacy was dashed with the severe lack of walls. It made life in the camp awkward if everyone could hear when some hunter came home after a long day and wanted nothing more than plow his woman until the sun came up. It went both ways, too. You could forget trying to get a good eight hours sleep in during the day if you worked guard duty at night.

That was the position that Rook Branwen found himself in. His hands, calloused from years of combat and hard labor, clenched into fists, gripping his short-cut raven hair. He might not have been trying to rest, but the constant clamor and chaos that filled the Branwen Tribe's camp at all hours made it impossible to focus on planning raids and movements that would both benefit and keep the tribe safe.

Currently, the noise was probably to be attributed to the raiding party his brother Corvus had led out returning. No doubt they were making such an ungodly racket while hauling in the loot from the medical caravan they'd been sent to hit. Likely it was that they were divvying it all up amongst the camp, giving first-aid supplies to those who needed them the most. It was for that reason alone that Rook deigned not to go out and beat some sense into the lot of them.

"Another successful job," he sighed, smiling.

The spoils from this job would allow them to treat the wounded more efficiently, and in a way, stop them from having to raid so many merchants for supplies. Rook wasn't cruel, he knew that there were probably people out there that would benefit from the things that they took. It did weigh heavy on his conscience knowing that some poor soul would most likely perish as a result of his actions. Deep down, though he was loath to admit it, he wasn't a bad man.

But he was also a man charged with looking out for an entire tribe's worth of men, women, and children. A few of those being his own flesh and blood. The tribe comes first, it was the lesson his father had engrained into the minds of Rook and his brother. If a few farm boys had to bury their mothers after their death by the common cold, it would be unfortunate. But if just one Branwen child was spared that tragedy as a result, it would make it all worth it.

Most 'normal people' would have called him a monster, ruthless, or other, less friendly monikers. The same people that hid behind the walls of their cities and paid others to their work for them. In other words, weaklings. He preferred to imagine that it was them that he was stealing from. However, the reality was often times far crueler than that, and every now and again, some grief-stricken, emaciated man or woman would turn up at the gates to the camp.

They would always say the same thing, "The Branwen Tribe robbed the caravan that was delivering my wife's medicine," or something to that effect.

To say the least, it was disheartening to see that he was taking from people that were just like him. People trying to simply make the best of what they had while living on the frontier.

In any case, now was not the time to dwell on such sad matters. He should have been glad to hear Corvus return victorious. That night there would be a party to celebrate the occasion and give the raiders some much-needed rest. Any minute now, his brother would burst into his tent with a story of the successful raid. They would embrace and sit down to enjoy a strong celebratory toast of the aged Atlesian brandy that their father had left them after his death.

Only... Corvus didn't come.

In fact, there were cries of joy and congratulations coming from outside. The only sounds he could hear were weeping and shouted orders.

Rook's eyes went wide. "No..."

He rushed out of his tent, overturning both his chair and desk in the process. Throwing back the tent flap, he held one hand up to shield his eyes from the sun's sudden intensity. When they adjusted to the light, he saw them. Nearly every occupant of the camp was crowded around the medical tent. Some of them were the wives or girlfriends of the raiding party, hunched over or on their knees, crying, others were curious onlookers trying to figure out what all the commotion was.

His gazed darted from left to right, desperately scanning the mob for any sign of Corvus, but finding none. That was bad, that was very bad. If Corvus wasn't in the crowd, then he must have been the object of their obsession. That, or was...No he couldn't have been killed. He was the one of strongest the Branwen bloodline had to offer, second only to Rook himself.

"No..."

Abandoning any sense of stoicism, the Branwen leader leaped into a full-on sprint to the medical tent. Upon reaching the edge of the ever-growing horde of grieving family members, he began shoving people out of the way. Over the sea of heads and shoulders, he could see that inside there were several men - the raiders most likely - surrounding the operating table. As he got closer, Rook saw that there were four of them, the camp doctor included. Judging by the way that they were stood, they were aiding the doctor by holding another thrashing figure down while he worked in him.

None of the upright ones were Corvus, he was certain. None sported his long, matted, black hair and iconic feathered bandana. Although they all bore injuries, the one on the table must have had the worst of the lot. From where he was now, barely five feet from the entrance, but still blocked by a good twenty people, he could make out at least six arrows lodged into the writhing man's shoulders and lower back. Had his aura stopped none of them? The wounds were pouring blood, flowing all over his exposed back and pooling on the table around him. However, Rook still couldn't identify who he was. The position at which he was laid and tribals in the way prevented him from seeing anything past his shoulders.

"No, by the gods, please, no!"

But as he drew closer and closer, a pit began to form in his stomach. Details of the man's form revealed themselves one by one. The whiplash scars crisscrossing his back. The Nevermore feathers tattooed down his left arm. The curly mop of charcoal hair that hung over his face. There was no doubt in his mind, this was his brother. This was Corvus Branwen.

Across the entire camp, Rook's anger was felt. It had been a week since the failed raid. Corvus had survived the removal of the arrows, but an infection had taken hold of him not long after. An infection that, ironically, could have been prevented with the very same medical supplies that he had been injured while attempting to steal.

A huntsman. One fucking huntsman had been enough to hold off a raiding party consisting of twelve of the Branwen Tribe's finest warriors. The severity of the gap in skill made Rook want to kill something. To rip it apart with his bare hands, feel its blood pour over his flesh, and watch it die. But now was not the time for mindless rage.

He needed to focus. To come up with a plan to keep his people calm and put together a new group of fighters to replace the old one. Of the twelve that went out, only four returned - Corvus included, and they had all suffer major injuries. In fact, after the adrenaline had worn off, only one of them could even bear to stand up.

Rook sat alone at his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose. Every day for the past seven, he'd been racking his brain to figure out a solution to the tribe's sudden, desperate, lack of warriors. Things were bad, very bad. The people he kept on guard duty were there because they were strong, but they weren't as strong as those that had been his raiders. If the strongest of their ranks had been cut down like warm butter, how could weaker ones hope to pose a threat the next time they came across a huntsman or two?

"What we need is a group of trained, huntsman killers," he spoke as though to make his idea known to some specter that occupied his tent, as he was the only one currently in it. "Trained... huntsman... killers..." he repeated.

With a start, his eyes, red both naturally and bloodshot due to lack of sleep snapped to the map of Mistral on his desk. More specifically, to the dot that indicated the City of Mistral, and the object of his thought at its center.

Haven Academy.

It could work. He realized that he didn't need huntsman killers, he needed killers that were huntsmen. If he could send one or two of the younger tribals to one of the academies, they could learn all the tricks and techniques of the trade. Then, after completing their training, they would come back and aid in teaching the rest of the tribe what they'd learned. The best way to beat an enemy was to use their own strength against them, after all.

But who could he send? Who among them would not only be strong enough to handle the no-doubt brutal regimen but also be willing to leave the tribe behind at such a chaotic time?

His train of thought was derailed by a sudden rap on his tent's door post. Damn it all, he'd been onto something. "Enter," he growled.

The camp doctor, and the man responsible for saving Corvus's life, Bone, meekly pulled back the leather flap. Due to the flickering of the candlelight, shadows played across his face, making his grim expression appear even more so. "I do hope I'm not intruding, sir."

"Not at all. You've simply interrupted one in a long line of useless and unfeasible ideas," Rook waived his hand dismissively. "What news can you give me of Corvus's recovery?"

The frail man didn't meet his gaze, likely out of fear, possibly out of guilt. "Th-that is just it, sir," he stuttered and began wringing his hands nervously. "There hasn't been one. Your brother has been exceptionally resilient, but I fear that he's reached the end of the line."

Rook's eyes hardened. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that I simply don't have the supplies that could save him. The things that I would need, as I'm sure you are aware, are the ones he was injured while trying to acquire."

There was a pregnant pause and clap of thunder as both men awaited the inevitable words to be uttered. Neither of them wanted to, but one would have to say it before anything could be done.

The doctor broke the silence, finally as the pitter-patter of rain on the tent started. "I'm sorry, but there is nothing I can do... Corvus is dying."

He'd been expecting such news for days now. No one recovered from such a devastating injury without any sort of medicine. Not even someone of Branwen stock. But they still hit him like a freight train, sucking all the air out of his lungs and clouding his vision. This was it. Rook, his niece, and his nephew would be the last of the Branwen bloodline once his brother was gone. Was he ready for that? To be the last of a dying breed?

Keep calm, his mind was such a mess of convoluted thoughts and images that he was barely able to hear himself think. Don't show any weakness. The tribe needs a strong leader right now. Nodding, he put on his most stone-like expression. No sense in getting worked up and looking like a fool incapable of leading. There would be a time for grief later, in private.

"How long do suppose he has?"

"It is difficult to say. But I don't expect that he will last the day."

"Then I would prefer that he be in the company of his family in his final hours," the two men began the slow, arduous walk to Corvus's tent, where he lay. "Have his children been told?"

Bone hummed, "I sent someone to fetch them. They will meet us there."

Rook tried his best to remain cool and collected as he felt the eyes of his people all lock on him as he passed. How pathetic he felt at that they all looked to him for guidance in such a dark time, despite the fact that he was barely able to form a rational thought himself. Their path took them directly through the center of the camp, where a large bonfire usually raged and men and women would gather at all times of the day and night to eat, drink, and socialize. But there was no fire, no hearty meal being served, and no smiles were shared between those that huddled under canopies from the rain.

The looks on their faces all asked Rook the same questions. What will we do now? How could this have happened? How could you let this happen?

He only wished he could provide answers to them all. But, in actuality, he was begging the same questions of himself, with little in the way of clarity coming of it.

Upon arriving at the canvass abode which his brother called home, and now contained his deathbed, the doctor pulled back the entry flap for him to step inside. Qrow and Raven were already there, waiting for him.

"I will... give the four of you some privacy," he said, his voice filled with regret.

"Thank you, Bone. For everything you've done for him."

The smaller man did not meet his gaze. "I wish that I could have done more." They all did. And as much as he wanted to, if only to shift some of the blame off himself, Rook could not fault Bone for giving his best effort with all that he had available to him.

The interior of the tent was mostly barren, as Corvus liked to live more or less out of his pack and never kept many belongings. But what little he did have had been removed to give Bone more room to work without hindrance. In fact, the only things that remained were a small side table with a lantern atop it for light, and Corvus himself, lying drenched in sweat in a feverish sleep on his cot. It just went to make the entire scene ever the more depressing.

Qrow kneeled at his father's side, one hand clutching his shoulder, the other hiding his own eyes. On any other occasion, he would have told the boy to get ahold of himself and toughen up, or some bullshit in the same vein. But now, now Rook would be lucky if he didn't break down and join him in weeping.

The far more stoic of the twins, Raven stood with her arms folded beneath her breasts, a hard and seemingly uncaring mask on her face. Barely a few months into her seventeenth year, she was already much more mature and held a firmer grasp on her emotions than many of the adults in the tribe. However, not even she could hide the twinge of sorrow in her crimson eyes. She looked down from her father to her brother mix gaze of remorse and contempt. She despised when Qrow acted as he was. It was as though she was embarrassed to have shared the same womb as he. And she made no attempts to hide such feelings either. Both now and when they were but children playing in the mud, Raven criticized him whenever he showed even the slightest hint of a tear.

As she was the closest to reach, Rook came behind her and rested a hand on her shoulder. Though it may have looked it, the action was more for his own benefit than to console her. She didn't need it, but he wished to feel the touch of a loved one.

Normally more paranoid, Raven would have flinched at his sudden presence, but he must have made enough of a noise entering the tent that she didn't feel the need to recoil from him. "Uncle," she acknowledged him without even looking, her gaze still transfixed on Corvus's ever hollowing face.

"Raven... I-"

"Don't," her head snapped toward him. There was a different emotion in those cold eyes now, boredom. Or perhaps apathy? Either way, the heartache Rook had seen just seconds ago had vanished. "Don't say you're sorry. This isn't your fault, it's his." She jabbed a finger at the dying man. "He wasn't strong enough to fight back. He doesn't deserve your pity, or anyone else's. Corvus got himself killed."

Anger spiked in Rook's mind. How dare she speak of her father, his brother, in such disrespectful a manner? This was a man who had been his only true friend and ally throughout his life. They had fought and bled together. Corvus had been right alongside him as they raised the Branwen Tribe from nothing but a band of refugees leftover from the Great War led by their father, to force that struck fear into the hearts and minds of travelers all across Anima. What right did she have to dismiss him so?

He opened his mouth, but perhaps the Brothers Grimm saw fit to interrupt before he tore a rift between his only niece, because Qrow spoke up just in time. "How can you be so cold? He's our dad." Contrary to what his figure had suggested, the boy's voice was calm and even, apparently, no tears had been shed after all.

"No. He's a dead man," she turned on her heel and made to exit the tent. She gave one final glance over her shoulder at her father. "And I refuse to be called kin to a weakling that can't defend himself. You should keep that in mind."

Pushing himself to his feet, Qrow stood and locked eyes with Rook. "It's like she doesn't even care."

His feelings of malice towards the girl quickly dissipating, Rook sighed. "She does care. Despite what she would have you believe."

"Yeah? Well, she's sure got a funny fuckin' way of showing it."

That she did. It had been brief and very easy to miss, but at that moment when she's looked back, Rook had seen the slightest bit of hurt flash across Raven's face. Her anger wasn't directed at Corvus as she'd led on. Instead, she was broken up by the fact that there was someone stronger and capable of beating him. And, in doing so, they had proved that she wasn't strong enough to save him. The words of dishonor she had spoken were indeed just that, but they were more directed towards herself, most likely.

Apparently deciding to push his sister's callousness to the back of his mind, Qrow turned back to face Corvus, once again dropping to one knee. "Why did this have to happen to us? Why not some of those stuck-up assholes in the city that call us savages? Why did he have to hit the one caravan on all of Anima that wised up and hired a huntsman in our territory? Do we not have it bad enough, is that it?"

"Everyone on Remnant has a time," Rook was unsure of how to properly answer such a question, instead choosing to spout off some philosophical bullshit he'd read in a book once. "We can try and wish as much as we desire, but a person cannot fight their own fate." Still, it didn't make it hurt any less to standing at his brother's deathbed. A toxic mix of emotion swirled within him. Rage, grief, fear of the future, and, most painful of all, relief. Relief that while Corvus would indeed pass soon, he would no longer need to suffer the agony and torment of his illness. "Corvus was one of - if not, the finest warrior the Branwen Tribe has ever seen. But it appears that no matter how strong you are, there will always be someone stronger than you." It stung to already be referring to him in the past tense. However, his death was certain and coming swifter by the minute. It was only a matter of time.

Time went by exceedingly fast, it seemed. Rook and Qrow sat together in silence for the next four hours. Raven never returned. Other tribe members did though, close friends and even the survivors of the raid had forced Bone to let them come and pay their respects to the man who had been beside them on many a holdup. Some visitors shed tears, others, sad smiles and utterances about the 'good times.' Through all of it, however, Corvus remained in his perpetual state of unconsciousness. Occasionally his face would twist and grimace in pain, but he never awoke. A pity, he would go to his grave without ever knowing the words of respect and reverence the people had spoken.

The long periods of relative solitude and peace gave Rook ample opportunities to think and consider his ideas regarding sending someone to one of the huntsman academies. He usually preferred not to self-gratify, but it truly was an ingenious plan. He either of them been in a position to hear it, he was sure that his father and Corvus both would say so as well. How had they not considered it sooner? Get a few of their youngers into a school, have them trained by huntsmen, then when they graduate, take them back in and have them teach the rest of the tribe those same skills and how to counteract them.

If he could get a team of such warriors put together, then they would never need to fear their raids going awry again. They would usher in a new era. No longer would they be common thugs, but feared and respected enemies of Mistral. Once more there would be hushed talk and ghost stories spread about the danger and ferocity of the Branwen Tribe. And such horrific losses as this would become nothing but a distant, sour memory.

And through it all, he, Rook Branwen would be heralded as the savior of the clan. Eventually, he could die, satisfied at his work, and pass the mantle of tribe leader to another. Perhaps his successor would be Raven, though he feared that her lack of mercy and general approach to things such as caring for others would lead to problems. He would need to ponder on the matter.

For now, however, it could wait. It would have to. Qrow, who had dozed off sat with his head resting on Corvus's chest, awoke sharply.

"He's stopped breathing!" the boy exclaimed.

Rook's eyes snapped to examine the sleeping man. Indeed, his chest was no longer moving. The steady rise and fall that had been constant for the past...however long he'd been unconscious, halted.

All other thoughts fled his mind as he sprang from his chair and bolted out the tent. "Bone!" he called. "Dammit, where is he when I need him most? Bone!"

Rook's mad dash through the camp was met with several concerned looks and questions from people that he passed. He ignored them all. He needed to find the doctor, to get confirmation should worst fears be coming to pass. Fears that he should have expected to come true sooner, considering Corvus's line of work.

The doctor, likely having heard the frantic cries of his name, came rushing up to meet him half-way the medical tent and Corvus's. "What's happened? What is it?"

Taking no time to even talk to the man, Rook simply took hold of him and began dragging him back the way he came. The commotion drew more of a crowd and eventually, half the tribe started following close behind them. At this point, subtlety mattered little in his mind. Let them come and gawk as his brother's life ebbed away. It wasn't as if they could do any more damage to him, and they would all find out in time. Why not now?

When they burst into the shelter once more, they found Qrow was now on his feet, leaning up against a support post with a defeated look about his face. Bone's presence, even though he'd been the one who had kept Corvus alive throughout the past week, did not appear to bring him any more comfort. He'd lost hope. That, or he'd chosen not to get his hopes up in the first place. Either way, his expression was that of someone who was confining himself to his own thoughts and misery.

It was worrying, to say the least, to see the boy in such a state. "... Qrow?" Rook whispered, taking a few steps forward.

Not even looking up to meet his gaze, his nephew shook his head. "He's gone."

/-/

Corvus's burial was a quick and quiet affair - much like the man himself. There was no big recession or speech honoring his life. The Branwens never cared for such things. He was simply placed in the earth and any who wished were allowed to come and pay their respects to the man they owed so much.

Some people uttered words of kindness, others pity. The three surviving raiders knelt and begged forgiveness of their leader whom they'd failed. The very gods, it seemed, wept at Corvus's passing. For the soft pitter-patter of rain began as he was lowered into his grave.

Qrow, for most of the event, tried and inevitably failed to hold back the tears that welled in his ruby eyes. Finally breaking down when he felt his uncle's hand firmly clasp his shoulder. As the salty droplets fell down his face, he fully expected to be berated and told to get a grip on himself. But no such words came. Looking back over his shoulder, Qrow found Rook's face almost mirrored his own. His gaze was soft and sheened with tears yet to fall. His lips were pulled into a thin line, damming up what was probably a fierce river of curses and pained cries.

The man said nothing, opting instead to join Qrow in mourning. On the opposite side of the grave, donning an expression of pure steel was Raven. Her face spoke little in terms of emotion over their father's death, but the white in her knuckles as she clenched her fists and the way she refused to meet either his or Rook's gaze said she was indeed feeling some degree of pain. She merely had a better mask on herself.

Qrow considered approaching her, perhaps even trying for some physical contact. Though he could count on one hand the number of times, Raven did occasionally break down and accept a hug. All had been exceptionally monumental events, and she had never done so in the company of others. It was for this reason that Qrow thought better of it. Perhaps he could try later when there would be fewer people around to witness her in a "moment of weakness."

He did, however, somberly make his way around to her side of the fresh mound of soil, coming to a halt beside her. As expected, she did not even acknowledge his presence and simply continued to stare at the ground. He opened his mouth to speak but was cut short and the words were ripped from his throat. Qrow's eyes went wide and he let loose a nearly silent gasp as he felt Raven's fingers lace themselves between his own, interlocking the twins' hands with one another.

She was trembling. Not fearfully or like she was about to cry, no, Raven had too strong of a hold on her emotion for that. Being her twin, Qrow had been able to learn the subtle tells that she had and, now, he could read her like a book. The quivering in her muscles told him that she was seconds away from exploding. She had little to no sorrow within her, all that bubbled beneath the surface was hate. Hate for Corvus, for being too weak to survive his injuries. For the doctor, Bone, for not saving him. Hate directed at Rook, for not predicting the huntsman guard. All of it, trapped inside her, just waiting for the slightest chance to escape.

She didn't let it though. She simply let out a few deep breaths and tightened her grip on his hand. To the point of actual pain as her sharp nails dug into his skin. Qrow bit back a wince at the stinging sensation, but he didn't dare let go. It may have been uncomfortable, but he could bear a little pain to provide his sister even the smallest bit of support in the face of this tragedy. Her show of affection, however small or missable it was, was also doing wonders to help ease his own mind as well.

Neither of the twins moved or spoke for the remainder of the funeral, both content to grieve silently together. Their grasp finally broke once Rook approached them, his face low and twisted with regret.

"I realize that now should be a time of mourning and that the last either of you desires to hear is a request from me," he spoke slowly and in a hushed tone, as though he intended for only them to hear. "But I fear that we do not have the luxuries of choice or time in the matter I wish to discuss." He hardened his gaze and regained some of his lost composure. "I need to speak with the both of you, privately."

Not even waiting to hear their response, Rook turned on his heel and began trudging in the direction of his tent. Qrow looked to Raven with confusion, hoping that she would be able to shed some light on the situation. He did not find any, for she simply strode after their uncle, leaving him standing alone in the mud beside their father's grave. Sparing one final glance for the makeshift headstone atop the dirt mound, Qrow sighed and proceeded to chase after the two of them.

It was only once he entered into Rook's large, fur tent, that Qrow took notice of just how cold and wet he was. Summer was coming to an end, and the rain was getting colder, to the point where he let out an involuntary shiver as he shook off any excess water.

From where he and Raven were stood, all that they could see of Rook were his broad shoulders hunched over his map table. Shadows from the candlelight played off his figure in unsettling ways against the walls. His fists were balled and his head bowed, making Qrow think that, whatever the news he had for them, it wasn't any better than what had just transpired.

"As I said," his voice rumbled and reverberated in the air around them. "Now should be a time spent mourning the loss of your father. But my hands are tied in this matter. So believe me when I tell you that I take no pleasure in the thought of sending the only family I have left halfway across the world."

Even Raven seemed to flinch at that. What did he mean by that? Send them away? To where? "What are you talking about, uncle?" Qrow asked.

The man shifted, turning to face them whilst sitting on the table. "Forgive me for answering your question with another. But, you both know that it was a huntsman who maimed Corvus, correct?"

The twins nodded in unison.

"Well, as much as it pains me to say it, my brother's demise served a purpose. It proved that our numbers and the element of surprise are no longer adequate when we are pitted against warriors of such a caliber. That huntsmen outclass us and no matter how strong we think we are, we can never hope to measure up to the level of training they have in their academies."

Qrow nodded yet again. He didn't like where this was headed, but he'd be damned if he was going to let Rook know that. The man was his family, yes, but he was also his chief. And as such, he held a great deal of authority besides just being his elder. He could have him flogged and buried up to his neck in fire ants if he wanted. And after losing his brother, he was prone to fly off the hinges at the slightest provocation.

"It is for this reason, that I'm sending you two to Beacon Academy in Vale. I wish it could be someone else, but you're the only ones that are the proper age to apply and you're the most qualified, given your skill."

Yep, he had expected as much. The huntsman academies were governed by a strict set of rules, one of them being that you had to be seventeen to apply. Any older or younger and entry was denied. It also made sense that he would pick Vale. Haven wouldn't accept a Branwen, Atlas was far too militaristic and strict, and Vacuo was... well, Vacuo. Vale and, by extension, Beacon was the only one the four kingdoms that it would be feasible for him to send them.

"What is it that you want us to do, exactly?" Raven asked, even though they were both fairly certain of what Rook had planned.

"You will go to Beacon, learn everything you can about how the huntsmen are trained. Once you graduate in four years time, you will come back and share all the knowledge you have accumulated with the tribe. If you learn how they fight, killing them is a simple process."

Fuck me. So not only does he intend to ship us to the other side of the goddamn planet, he basically just said that the fate of the entire tribe will depend on us.

"I understand that this is short notice for such a monumental task, but you must see it from my perspective," Rook tried to make it seem as though they had a choice in the matter and that it wasn't already decided for them. "Corvus will be the first of many deaths if we continue to blindly throw ourselves at the increasingly prevalent huntsmen."

He paused and the room grew quiet enough that Qrow could hear his own heart pounding in his chest. Beside him, Raven appeared to be as cool and level-headed as always. She couldn't have been as calm as she let on. There had to be at least some part of the whole deal that she didn't like.

Rook glanced between the two's eyes, gauging their mental states by the expressions they wore. Raven looked sure and determined. Qrow, much the same, except for the twinge of fear behind his crimson eyes. "What do you say? Will you do this for us, for your family?"

"Yes." Raven response was instant and sure-sounding like she'd awaiting the question with bated breath.

Not wanting to show any sign of hesitancy or doubt, Qrow followed suit with a curt nod.

Rook relaxed a great deal once he'd received their somewhat predictable replies. He sighed heavily and his shoulders fell as though some massive weight was removed from them. "Thank you. You have no idea how much this means to the tribe. To me."

"I think I have an inkling," Qrow said, rocking back on his heels and folding his arms across his chest.

The Branwen chief stiffed once more, having clearly taken the hint from Qrow's change in posture. "As I said, I enjoy the thought of sending you two away about as much as you do. But sacrifices must be made to preserve this tribe."

Again, the man was making sense. The only way for the tribe to survive in a world where huntsmen were becoming increasingly more prevalent was to adapt. And if that meant Qrow and Raven being shipped across the world for four years, it was a small price to pay to prevent more unnecessary fatalities. On top of that, Raven was going to go, regardless of his own feelings on the matter. What kind of brother would he be if he allowed her to do something so drastic alone?

"So when do we leave? And How are we gonna get to Vale?" Qrow hid his disdain for the plan well. That or Rook understood and let it slide. Either way, he answered without hesitation.

"From what little I know of Beacon and the other schools," he said, turning to look at the map on the table. "The start of the year for new students is in about two weeks time. Traveling by way of an airship from Mistral, you should arrive in Vale just in time to apply, if you leave tomorrow, that is." Rook opened up a small lockbox on his desk, revealing a rather sizable stack of lien cards. "Once there, this should help in acquiring supplies; dust, first aid, that kind of thing. From there, it will be in your hands to pass the initiation. We all will be counting on you. Do not disappoint me."

The finale of his explanation felt more like a threat than a request. And, judging by the severity of the matter at hand, it probably was.

Raven stepped forward. "We will not fail you, uncle." She sounded so sure, so confident in her abilities. And with good reason too. Raven far outclassed Qrow and all the other younger members of the tribe. Some of the adults knew not to underestimate her, as well, come to think of it.

"I know you won't." For the first time in what felt like years, Rook actually smiled. It was a sad, guilt-ridden, tug at his lips, but it was nonetheless a smile nonetheless. As though to hide it, he quickly spun around, turning his back to them. "Now go and get some sleep, both of you. You will have a long day tomorrow. You'll need your strength."

The two of them nodded and slipped silently out of the tent. After going their separate ways, Qrow let out a heavy breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. It very quickly dawned on him just how much his life was about to change. Come morning, he and Raven would be loaded onto some aircraft and shipped halfway across Remnant to a place where children were trained to kill monsters and people like those in his tribe.

Then another, more chilling thought came to him. What would they do if his and Raven's objective ever came to light? Surely they wouldn't allow them to continue studying at Beacon. But would they go further than that, particularly if they discovered their rather... unsavory heritage? They had to, surely. The twins would be incarcerated, interrogated, and possibly executed.

Well, he thought, swallowing heavily. I'll just have to make sure no one finds out. Even if he had to wear some kind of disguise. Become a completely different person. Qrow would keep the truth hidden, buried beneath a facade and a wall of lies.

Shit, this is gonna fuck up my weekend plans.

A/N: Well... shit, that was a bit more emo than I originally anticipated. Especially since I said at the beginning that this story was going to be happier than its predecessor. Just the prologue and our heroes are already official members of the Dead Parents Society.

I'm going to try and make this story last a bit longer than Scattered Petals and include a wide variety of themes, topics, and content. Some liberties will also be taken with actual RWBY canon, namely regarding the members of Team STRQ and the Beacon staff.

For anyone wanting to say "we already know why Qrow and Raven went to Beacon, there's no reason to show us this," first of all, fuck off. If you don't like it, don't read it. Second, all we get in the show is one line from Raven. There's no meaning or follow-up to the reason. She just drops it on us and expects us to figure out the rest.

In fact, we get that sort of exposition a lot in RWBY. If an event isn't central to the plot, it gets little more attention than one or two lines of dialogue. This is my way of trying to fill in some of those blank spots. Team STRQ is, without question one of the most important and overlooked teams in RWBY. Moving forward, I'm going to be giving them a bit more life and personality than just one measly picture. They say a picture's worth a thousand words, but whoever coined that phrase was a fucking idiot. I'd rather have a thousand words that paint a picture, not the other way around.

Let me know your thoughts on the matter. I'm curious to see how people will take this after the long-shot that was Scattered Petals.