Hello RWBY Community. This is my first attempt at a RWBY tale. One that follows a not so beloved secondary character, who had about only one piece of dialogue and is a total ass.

So what fun would it be to take creative license with a secondary character who probably won't be appearing anytime soon (Volume 3 Ending casts some doubt on seeing anything familiar for a while).

Russel's character design is pretty much the reason I've decided to write this. Compare to Cardin and the others, he's the one who stands out. They all wear armor while he doesn't. As armor is worn by the more wealthy knights, I would assume Russel comes from a more rural background. So that's something I wanted to run with.

Anyways, I think I've taken enough of your time. Please, I hope you enjoy my take on this character.

Story Theme Song: Every Bastille Song. Yes.

I

Russel: Part 1

The plump bird with its green tinted wings glided through the forest. Lunch caught its eye on the ground below so it swooped downward landing on a patch of soaked grass. Out of the clouds, the sun shined through, drowning the land the bird stood on. A twinkle in its eyes, the bird claimed its prize. A struggling worm was snatched up into its beak and devoured without a second thought.

Slithering through the grass, keeping a low profile, stalked a snake. The snake's eyes widened with intent as it drew closer. The Thrush, caught up in its afternoon meal, was unaware of the sinister snake sneaking up from behind. Down the mouth of snake it went. The lump descended downward the long body. And then the snake slithered away.

"Cool." A young adolescent muttered from above.

Russel Thrush, age nine, sat high up off the ground on the limb of a tree. His facial expression was one of pure awe as he watched nature preform for him.

The only son of a farmer, Russel rarely was given the free time to notice the joys life could provide. Always made to help his Father till the land and use his small hands to maintain the machinery they stored in the barn.

Russel would wake early in the morning, before the sun could kiss the earth and help his Father. With most of his duties taken care of earlier, the young boy had stolen away his time, spending it on one of the few joys he could attain out here in his piss poor home.

Oakwood was the ass back end of Vale. A popular retirement location for those old Hunters who'd lived too old to die young, but otherwise one of the Kingdom's central sources of food production. The farms that were based here were primarily small, run by families. Real community people.

They all knew about Russel and the burden he carried. His mother died during child birth. His Father never really got over it. And he had a strange sense of humor no one could really figure out. Or, at least, the thought it was a sense of humor.

Climbing trees was something he did. It was something he enjoyed. Scaling the bark and hauling himself up a branch, telling the birds that flew past him he was just as good as them. He laughed and he sang songs. Sometimes he'd eat his lunch and be treated to a show just like today.

From where the boy was perched, high up above the ground, he was offered perspective of the way the world worked. There were the prey, the hunter and the hunter who made prey out of the other hunter.

The show over, Russel brought his legs to lay on the branch, turning his back to the trunk. He dug into his dirt covered overalls right pants pocket. Out of the pocket he withdrew a pocketknife. Shifting his body into another more comfortable position on the branch, Russel got to work.

The pocket knife itself was old, without a doubt older than Russel. It bore on it five letters carved on the side of its wooden hilt, of which Russel lacked the knowledge of their meaning. He'd robbed it from one of the drawers in his Father's nightstand. He'd seen his Father pull it out for the multipurpose tools it possessed, but he'd never actually seen dear ol' dad whip out the knife.

That aside, Russel cautiously popped the knife out and held it steadily. Now positioning himself in front of the trunk, Russel began to take the knife and carve his name into it. This was his tree. There were many like it but this one was his.

A feint roar caught the young boy's attention. Russel looked into the forest, looking for the cause of the sound. Perhaps it was the altitude playing tricks on him. He'd never heard of a bear roaming this close to his home before.

So Russel returned his attention to his actions. Graffiti was an art form, though frowned upon. No harm in writing his name in the tree. No harm cutting it with a knife and expressing himself. Russel smiled at his handy work. He folded the knife back into its slot and held it up, preparing to slide back into his pocket.

There was another roar. This time Russel shifted his entire body, looking around for the source. Not seeing anything from his current position, Russel crawled further along the branch in hopes of spotting whatever was creating the noise. There was a sudden creak. Russel spun a look over his shoulder to where the branch sprouted out of the trunk, noticing that it had begun to tear due to the shift in weight.

With a yelp, the branch gave way and Russel plummeted to the forest's floor below. Russel smacked against several more branches on the way down, causing him to let go of his pocket knife. The young boy groaned in pain.

Out from behind a nearby tree, a dark beast lurked. Its red soulless eyes caught sight of Russel and began to stalk forward. Russel sat up and held onto his hurt side. He quickly realized he'd lost his Father's pocket knife and began to look around for it.

Catching sight of the survival tool, Russel began to reach out for it. Then came the growl. Russel turned his head to the side and his eyes widened. There not ten feet away stood an Ursa on all fours. Russel fell back on his butt and quickly crawled backwards until slamming his back against the base of the tree. The Ursa let out a roar and began to approach the young boy.

Russel froze in place. His mouth went dry and the light in his eyes dimmed at his bleak situation. The Ursa charged at the young boy. Like something out of a horror show, the young boy's imagination began playing tricks on him, giving the nightmarish Grimm more power over him than it did in real life.

The once sunny day turned melancholy. It was him and the Grimm's flaring jaw. Just a mere few feet away, Russel could see down the terror's throat. It was a dark abyss where dreams went to die. The Grimm's eyes burned yellow and orange as it was upon him. It brought back its clawed paw and prepared to cut the boy to shreds.

Russel's immediate reaction was to turn his head, breaking away from the freezing fear. He held out his hands defensively, as if that one action somehow could hold the Ursa at bay. It was a move of desperation, a move that fed the Grimm more than Russel ever could.

With one last sharp inhale, Russel called it quits. He was doomed. The sound of the rushing Grimm was staved off and the life ending swipe never came. There were sounds of cold steel clashing against flesh and a body tumbling over.

The boy opened his eyes and looked ahead, finding his Father standing there with his long sword, 'Darkling', in hand. The Ursa lay on the forest floor, amongst the dirt and fallen leaves. Its body, now just a headless mass, began to evaporate.

Russel remained where he sat, his eyes tracing the mist as it joined with the air and then to his savior: His Father.

"Hm. Never been any Ursa round 'ere." Russel's Father spoke aloud thoughtfully. The farmer's facial expression betrayed his worry. Their farm was relatively far removed from the Grimm. Seeing one now, out here within the town's perimeter would surely stir up the townsfolk. The older man stroked his fine beard and debated what to do.

"D-Dad?" Russel's terrified young voice snapped his Father out of his thought. The elder Thrush's face shifted from worry to anger. He sheathed his sword and walked up to Russel, quickly reaching downward and snatching his son up by the arm. "Dad? Wh-What are you doing?" Russel asked alarmed as he was pulled up onto his feet.

"I came out 'ere lookin fer you, Killer." His Father spoke a matter of fact. "Thought you might shed some light on my missin' pocket knife." He nodded his head at the fallen tool resting on the ground. "Then I find you up shits creek about to get your ass handed to you by some demon."

The Thrush patriarch shook his head in disappointment. "You little thief." He shook Russel violently. A stream of tears broke down descended down Russel's cheeks. He stared up at his Father crying, unable to stop.

"C'mon, Killer, we're goin' home." His Father declared before dragging Russel back from where he came. "Pick that up, Killer." The man ordered harshly, pointing at the pocket knife as they walked by.

Russel quickly did as he was told, bending over and snatching up the pocket knife. He raised it up for his Father to take, only for the man to roughly yank it out of the boy's small hand.

"You had the weapon within arm's reach Killer." He shook his head bitterly. "The damn thing was getting' ready to kill you and all ye did was cower behind your tiny arms!" He shouted, causing Russel look away.

"What if this happens again?" He shook Russel again. "The hell are you gonna do then Killer? You gonna cry like ya doin' now?" Russel could only look down at the ground, unsure how to respond. "Well?!" Russel didn't answer, he just cried silently and kept his head down. "Monty…" He muttered in disgust.

"I ain't always gonna be there for ya." The elder Thrush growled as he hauled Russel by the arm out of the forest and back onto the farm. "You've got to be able to provide and handle yerself Russel. Thus world ain't gonna give you nothin'. Unless you take it."

"It's decided." His Father declared as they reached their home's front steps. "Yer goin' to Combat School."

I have only five chapters planned out for the moment. If I figure out another direction to take with this then I'll gladly continue.

One final shout out to Thomas Hardy!

Great Poet, had read a lot of his work.