A world of chaos, viewed by a moon of glass. Purest of them all, it's soul hides deep within the crystaline rock, granting power to those 'blessed' with it's light in numerous ways. The wolven having full control, the nightwalker requesting nothing but bedding, and even those above and below under a time of peace because of it's purity. Even the sub-sentient darkness, a cancer to all life, give pause to it's song, and soon pursue less destructive activities.
But the purest of lights have the most disturbing of skeletons: When the light turns red, the very world erupts in chaos. Wolves have no sense of reason, blood is spilt in oceans, the above and below hide in terror, especially from the darkness. It is among the worst during this time, as their desire to kill becomes that of a cataclysmic end. The truest evil, however, comes from a single birth on that one night; the one night that appears every 47 years, it creates a child possessing a dark soul.
Each one, before it's first few minutes of life begins, is killed. Inhuman? Possibly, but it's more of an evil to keep one alive than to kill one while they're still young.
So why do they commit this possible sin? When born, a dark soul is extremely powerful, but needs time to begin protecting the host. The host will become a strong Huntsman, but during their second/third year, they'll have their team killed and absorb their souls to truly become their dark selves.
Though the dark souls are impossible to control, the situation of the world in certain areas desire a super-soldier of sorts, where artificial dark souls needed to be created. The existence of the Dark Hunter Initiative actually began from the blueprints of the original dark soul.
Preventing this before the dark soul begins to produce a nearly impenetrable Aura can save more lives than the one that you'd kill: The first time this happened was over 376 years ago, the last was 94 years ago, fourty-seven years before the day Summer Rose ceased to exist.
...Or perhaps, she's not as gone as many people would like to believe-and hope...
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A breeze of wind rustled through the purple leaves, shifting dread amongst the denizens inside the forest. Mainly,the only ones that are there were small creatures, trying to survive each day. Beasts roam around, keeping their wits on overdrive to prevent a single creaking branch from catching them off guard. Even the Grimm, the cancer of the world of Remnant, were cautious of this particular forest, mainly from the evil within it's heart.
Shadowfall Forest: The largest forest in all of Remnant, placed in the center that is in between Vytal and Mistral. The name was orignally Shadowfall Gorge, from the fact that the final dark soul was utterly destroyed by three double-S-class teams, but changed when the fragments began to spark changes into the environment, creating the corrupted forest now known by all except the ignorant.
Within a deep section of the forest, a figure stands alone, unaffected by the empty, soulless, apathetic breeze shayshaying the large, billowing, black cloak it wears, the hood preventing any form of light from piercing the face of it's owner. The being didn't come unprepared, as it's armor covered each inch of it's body; the plates a darkened gold-tan mix and the ridges being a midnight forest green. On the left side of it's hip, a curved scabbard with a magazine on the underside of it, with a trigger to boot. But it was within the scabbard that made it deadly.
Opposite of the figure, three King Taijitus and two Elder Deathstalkers awaited the figure's move. The Grimm, especially the older varieties, have always been able to read people's emotions to determine their next move. The one's that were positively motivated were troublesome, as they were hard to deter into either despair or fear. But both combined were a rare treat for the monsters, even moreso when the individual had Aura; it only meant that the victorious Grimm would feed well that night.
This figure, however, gave them problems as to what will happen: They couldn't read it's emotions in any format. The hood would be one reason, as seeing the facial expressions help make an informed-or as close to one as a Grimm could get-decision to the next move, but the fact that it didn't sway or tilt or anything of the sort in body language unnerved them. Either they faced a Human/Faunas that was as wise as they were, and was able to keep his/her emotions in check...
Or they were facing a monster greater than themselves.
Their answer came soon enough.
As it began walking, the breeze was choked, silencing the leaves' dance of death. It's left hand lowered to grasp the scabbard, the clawed fingers of the gauntlet wrapping around it without any hesitation, the index hovering over the trigger. Each step it took sounded something akin to that of a massive horde of soldiers; the intent to kill in all of them concentrated into the figure's psyche. And the pitch-black Aura it projected only confirmed that it would only end one way:
The figure would kill them all.
One of the Taijitu's hissed in hostility, and lunged straight for the figure's torso. In a split second, a gunshot rang out, the sound of a blade being unsheathed was heard, and the Taijitu was cut in half, running through the head all the way to the tail. It's white comrade was condemned useless, as both the Grimm and the figure saw it spool out of the twin's body, also sliced cleanly in half.
The blade, raised overhead and the hilt's bottom facing the sky, hummed vibrantly, eagerly awaiting for another kill. A naginata, augmented to produce extremely high-frequencies over 100 years ago, the last weapon to have the method implemented before it's ban six years after it's augmentation. The original blade was created by the Lie family with the material, Grimmsteel, after an anomaly with a Grimm Horde caused them to solidify into an extremely strong metal. It was a gift to another family for saving one of their own, with it disappearing with the last owner.
The elite Grimm, their number reduced to four now, had a growing sense of panic from the quick felling of one of their pack. Eyeing the figure, they noticed that the hand holding the sword lowered to it's side, appearing to taunt them into fighting. Even the wisest delve into rage, so the other two King Taijitus charged, one of them going around the figure, the other diving down into the ground. It remained still, awaiting the offensive. The earth crumbled around it's feet, and slipped into the jaws of the burrowed King Taijitu. With one gulp, the figure was gone.
But in the figure's head, the battle was still raging.
The Taijitu choked, it's form writhing in excrutiating pain. It hisses for help, but each one it tries to get out is cut off from another bout of choking out black blood from it's mouth. An attempt at slithering away was futile, as movement made it not only spit out more of it's blood, it also made the pain worse than before. It collapsed, slowly writhing until it's skin began to melt off it's bones. A clawed gauntled burst out of the middle of the melting Taijitu, semi-crawling out of the black goop that was once it's scales. As it turns out, the other one had it's skin completely melted off; the sign of that being a pooling white goop that flowed out of it's partner's flesh.
When it turned to look at the Deathstalkers, one of them was missing. Good, it thought, less problems for me to deal with. The other Taijitu, the one it forgot temporarily, wrapped it's large body numerous times around the figure's torso, preventing the use of it's sword. It's head reached for the canopy, mouth opening wide for the next meal. When it lunged, it didn't see a black spike drive itself straight into it's skull from the ground. The coils loosened, and the figure jumped out of the tanglement, brushing it's armor off without a care in the world. Or caring about the glowing stinger about to pierce it's chest.
The figure jerked slightly, and looked behind it to see the stinger merely bounce off the armor. It almost asked it, Really?, before taking the sword and slicing straight through the stinger, down the tail, and stopped when it reached the body. A series of clicks, hisses, and dazed movements only told the figure that the Deathstalker was now pissed and probably on the Grimm's form of adrenaline. The charge only solidified that statement, as the figure jumped backwards to avoid the first pincer, and dove through a hole in the second one to get inside it's range. Now, it was mutilation time.
Sword in hand, the figure cut off one of the offending pincers, stabbed the other one straight through-planting itself into the ground-and picked up the amputated pincer. The intent was displayed as the figure used the pincer as a way to smash the Deathstalker's legs into mush, and after opening the pincer wide, planted it into the ground, the body of the scorpion trapped by it's own weapon. Walking over to the pincer trapped by the sword-the appendage writhing in protest-and removing it from the Deathstalker, it began making precise cuts along it's body. Each slice hit a nerve connection, and soon enough, the offending appendage was merely dead weight.
The Deathstalker was now hissing raspily, fear now displayed in it's eyes, as the figure turned its head to stare at the crippled Grimm. With one slash, the entirety of the Grimm's existence was now for naught. Even the pincer holding down the monster was cut cleanly through, the two halves falling down on opposite sides of the Grimm. The figure turned to look at the final Deathstalker, only to see it turn tail and try to flee from the monster that killed them all.
"You're not going anywhere," it spoke for the first time; it's voice hoarse and deep, with an echo to solidify the fact that the armored figure was more monster than man. It raised its left hand, and numerous dark hands flew out of the gauntlet, each of them catching up to the scorpion with the upmost haste. Six of them grabbed the legs of the monster, four held onto the pincers, while another six latched onto the tail, all of them dragging the Grimm back to their master.
Upon reaching the figure once again, the hands rose into the air, awaiting their orders. Lifting it's left gauntlet-currently balled up in a fist-and slowly extending the fingers. With each centimeter of the fingers gained upon extending, the hands began to pull on the appendages with increased force. The moment all the fingers on it's left hand fully extended, the hands ripped the Deathstalker in half, the halves of the tail swinging lopsidedly in a sign of defeat.
The cloaked figure sheathed the blade, satisfied that the observers got the message of the battle. It wasn't blind, of course; the thousands of red eyes dotting the trees surrounding the figure weren't hard to miss. Unless one was much more stupid than the trees themselves, that is.
But it figured something out while killing the five Grimm; it was bored. The ways of entertainment with these dark creatures were simply repetitive, and trying to expect a different outcome was fool-hardy. Creating different ways to kill them, though, made the situation better, but it only delayed the inevitable. It needed a new target, something that can fight back better than the mindless Grimm.
It heard flapping from above, and after looking up, a Nevermore dived down to the spot the figure stood at. It jumped backwards to avoid the oncoming Grimm, and thought of something. Upon seeing the numerous bone extrusions on the Grimm's body, it probably has seen a lot over it's life, and it probably meant that it might've seen things far better to hunt.
The figure began to focus it's Aura, the wind wrapping around him until a ring of trapezoids began to form. Looking skyward, it created a path directly to the ascending Nevermore, and took a step. Immediately, it saw white light coming straight down, and the ring became that of road blocks on each side. Within seconds of using this method, it was above the Nevermore.
It landed straight on it's back, and placed it's left hand on the neck of the flying Grimm. Time seemed to freeze around them. Taking the moment as it was, it didn't speak, but it gave the Grimm an offer:
'Serve me, and your life shall be spared.'
It was only but a few seconds before the Nevermore replied:
'And if I accept, what is my master's name?'
'ShadowMoore.'
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Well, who ordered a serving of Animal Cruelty with a side of Sadistic Warrior of Darkness?
Before I begin, I already know about Monty's death. But the weird thing about it is that I'm not sad. I mean, sure, a lot of people lost an icon for amazing fight scenes and dance moves-ScrewAttack even dedicated the remastered Samus vs. Bobba Fett to him a few days ago, so it's not just the RoosterTeeth community that's dealing with this alone-but that doesn't mean someone else can't take up his reigns and make the story even better than it was before.
But there's something that's been pissing me off lately: It's the community that's rubbing me the wrong way.
To put it in CT's words: Wake the fuck up!
A person that just so happens to be talented at a few things that make other things awesome is dead, GET OVER IT. Just last night, Mr. Nimoy died, and a lot of people are paying him respects. That's all I'll do, pay my respects, and move on. Monty did an amazing job at what he loved doing the most, in a company that was very lucky to get him while he was available. Now he's dead, and the opportunity to get another one that can animate like he can is very likely.
The Ghostbuster's crew is slowly dying off, famous actors and actresses of countless movies are dying off, bands are dying, we need to move on, damnit! The faster we can move on, and the quicker we can continue doing what we are able to do at the time being, the more mature we become in the end.
An update on my restructuring: My life is no longer kicking my ass, so I can hopefully begin rewriting a few things. As a matter of fact, this is one of the rewritten stories I'm working on as we speak.
I might soon get to working on rewriting the Hellsing/RWBY crossover story, but I'll need to address the reviews first before doing so, otherwise it's just a dick move on my part.
After re-reading the OFF/RWBY crossover intro, I'm going to keep that and redo my plans for that story. It is only an intro, after all; I'm not remaking about a ridiculous amount of chapters for a single story, fortunately.
I'll also work on Home for Three as well, mainly from the fact that if I didn't, it'll be evil to leave an interesting plot on an updating hell. Somewhat similar to Valve trying to make Half-Life 3. And I'm saying 'trying' only because all they have at the moment is concept art. Well done, Gabe.
Expect an update tomorrow on the crossover, depicting all the final reviews I got about the story before my hard drive melted with the final chapter. The last idiot to review is an Alucard junkie who hopes that I might make the story revolve around his perspectives. I might have to burn him in The Dress.
Which, by the way, the colors are "Mind" and "Fuckery."