Chapter 1: The Fairness of Carrion Birds

Deep within the forests of Mistral, outside the boundaries and the trappings of that of the Kingdoms of Remnant was a large encampment, big enough to act as a home to a small army. Banners of that of bloody raven could be found draped on the outskirts of the settlement, a warning to those who seek a challenge. Murderers and thieves were abroad in such a dark environment, men and women covered in scars with a cruel, hungry gleam in their eyes patrolled the campsite.

Within one of the many tents a women laid with a child clutched to her chest, her appearance contrasted heavily with that of the men and women among the campsite as her skin was unblemished from signs of battle, her hair was the colour silver and her face fair, despite showing strains of the birth that had occurred a couple days prior. Her beauty was not the only difference with separated her from her captors, as from underneath her dirty gown was a tail of a wolf. The woman's name was Isabelline Lupercal, former speaker for the White Fang organisation and now a captive to the Branwen tribe.

Isabelline stared down at the face of her child, enraptured by the innocence was found in those golden eyes. Such innocence contrasted with the camp in which she was trapped in, though with a heavy heart she doubted such innocence would last inside this settlement. She felt a rush of fear grasp her heart as she considered what fate would befall such a child as she noticed the wolfish ears poking from the top his skull. The Branwens didn't have a high opinion of that of Faunus race, viewing them simply as animals aping humanity.

This opinion of the Faunus coupled with the fact that the Branwens would stoop to any level led to a myriad of dark thoughts and images of the fate of her child to plague Isabelline's thoughts. These thoughts must've changed her features of her face, as from the corner of the tent a dark figure spoke.

"He won't be killed woman, if that's what ails your pretty face," a gruff voice, one hardened through the use of tobacco, stated giving voice to the fears that plagued Isabelline's mind. "The brat could become of use to the tribe, despite the obvious failings to be found."

Isabelline turned to scowl at the owner of the voice, Tyr Branwen, the brute which Isabelline was forced into a relationship with. He stood tall and gaunt, clad in a leather duster taken from corpse of some poor merchant fool who attempted to defy the Branwen 'law'. Around his neck hung an assortment of trinkets and feathers, which contrasted starkly with the assortment of blades and axes which hung about his waist.

It was Tyr that claimed 'ownership' of Isabelline three years ago, when the White Fang failed to pay the full price for her freedom, after her escort to a Mistral public speaking was ambushed. Despite being low on funds already, the White Fang attempted to pay the Branwens in full, but the raiders' greed prompted them to push the price higher. Too high for the White Fang. Which left Isabelline trapped within the camp kept as Tyr's plaything.

Isabelline always assumed that the Branwens upped the price simply to lord themselves over the White Fang. Another example of the self-righteous pride to be found within the brutal hearts of the bandits. Scavengers pretending to be predators, Isabelline thought disdainfully, though to vocalise such thoughts would not doubt led to punishment.

"I thank you for the benevolence Lord Branwen," Isabelline responded, sarcasm heavy in her soft voice. "I know such a decision must weigh upon your conscious, to spare the life of your son."

"That creature is no son of mine, not at least until he can prove his worth woman," the bandit sneered back, matching the Faunus's glare with one of his own. Isabelline turned away from Tyr, deciding not to burden her eyes with the sight of him, and instead stared lovingly at the child cooing in her arms.

"Fenrir."

"What are you blabbering about woman?"

"His name is Fenrir, unless of course you disagree?" Isabelline questioned, turning her face back up to Tyr, her brown eyes once again becoming fierce.

Tyr simply grunted and left the tent, off to his own duties and tasks, which he clearly deemed more necessary then that of spending time with his son. Isabelline glared at the entrance of the tent from which Tyr left, hoping somehow her glare would kill the man. When the seconds passed and she was certain that such a fate hadn't befallen the brute, she turned back to the child.

"Fenrir, my little cub," she cooed softly to the child, before pulling him closer to her chest and laying down on her mat to sleep, to find comfort in her dreams. A comfort which sadly reality could not provide her.

Fenrir fell to the dirt the blow taking the wind out of him. Despite the force of the blow being slightly mitigated by his aura, this did little to alleviate Fenrir of the embarrassment as he fell in the muck and dirt. Fenrir glowered bitterly at the figure standing over, a clear sign of superiority over the Faunus boy. Ash Mann was tall for a eight year old, two years Fenrir's senior, and made full use of his height over the youths of the Branwen tribe.

Fenrir, in comparison, was scrawny. His hair was Branwen dark; though in the rough, short mane there could be seen flecks of silver, as well as the pair of wolf ears poking out from his skull. Fenrir's chest was broad however; a clear sign that when Fenrir was to grow, he would grow large. That would be a few years from now and as such Ash was clearly making use of the time he had to terrorise the Branwen pariah.

Ash seemed to gain particularly joy out of tormenting Fenrir, no doubt due to what little reasoning he needed to attack Fenrir. Behind Ash Fenrir could make out the figures of his older cousins, Qrow and Raven, a sneer came about his lips as he watch the Branwen siblings approach.

Qrow was dressed in his typically dark dress shirt which went along well with his tattered cloak. His hair was dark and spiky, some juvenile form of delinquency which was typically found within the Branwens, and on his fingers he wore the rings gifted to him from his father Odin.

Raven, in contrast, wore her shallow cut black and red dress, five necklaces laced with an assortment of beads and her finger-less gloves. Her red and black hair was tied in a ponytail. And around her waist was her Grimm mask, forged in the shape of a Nevermore.

Fenrir and Qrow's relationship was one founded upon indifference, as the pair rarely traded words. Though in the brief moments of conversation Fenrir noticed how Qrow would often look at him with pity in his eyes. As such Fenrir would often keep their conversations brief, as he had no desire to be pitied by a Branwen, much less one of Odin's brats.

Raven, on the other hand, Fenrir despised due to her self-righteous behavior. This coupled with the fact that while Raven would often talk down to Fenrir, constantly chastising for giving both Tyr and, by extension, her father Odin a poor representation among the tribe led to the birth of a one-sided enmity.

Raven for her part seemed completely unaware Fenrir's opinion of her, though this is no doubt due to the fact she barely gave Fenrir thought at all. Except when she felt the need to publicly embarrass him. Though Fenrir also believed she used her time mocking him as a chance to assert herself to the Branwens, as it would be her to become leader when Odin passed on.

Both were 17, though Raven was older then Qrow by a minute or two, and as such often avoided getting involved with the antics of the younger members the tribe. Fenrir rolled his eyes as he laid on the ground, no doubt Raven had come to lecture him again. He wondered if she ever got tired of telling him the same sordid lesson about the meek and the strong, though knowing Raven she probably just liked the sound of her own voice.

Ash moved aside for the his elders, a self-satisfied grin of a punch well thrown on his face. Raven looked down on Fenrir with disgust, while Qrow instead sat on a nearby log sighing as he too was force to watch his sister preach towards Fenrir once again.

"It's disgraceful how easily you give up Fenrir," Raven said, her tone a mixture of haughtiness and disdain. "Do you never question why they always go for you?"

"No idea, but I'm sure you'll tell me," responded Fenrir, mockingly. He had a shockingly dry wit for a six year old but then again, it was a necessity to grow up fast with the tribe.

"You're weak and weak deserve to be trodden by the strong," explained Raven, as if Fenrir never even spoke up.

"Rae, leave the kid alone and go kick a puppy if you're in a mood," rasped Qrow, shaking his head with disgust. "He's got enough on his plate without you looming over him like a Goliath."

A hot red gaze met a dulled red one as the twins stared each other down, this stalemate was broken by the sound of feet stomping in the mud. All parties present turned to see Isabelline slipping through mud towards her son. Her expression that of a barely controlled fury. Several bandits suspiciously changed directions, though few could blame them as the look on Isabelline's face could have cowed an Ursa.

Time had not been a kindness to Isabelline, the six years weighed heavily upon her, lines formed around her face and her silver hair was now lined with grey. As she walked towards her son a couple few bandits wolf-whistled, clearly intent on mocking her for her Faunus heritage. She paid them no heed as her skin had grown thick to the mockings of the Branwens, much to their continued disappointment.

"The mother wolf come to coddle her cub again," sneered Raven, her face scrunched with disgust.

"Go practice your swordplay if you've got nothing better to do, you spoiled brat," Isabelline retorted. "And stay away from Fenrir, or I'll show you how dangerous a mother wolf can be."

"Hmph, perhaps I was wrong Fenrir, perhaps the blame for your weakness doesn't lie at your feet but at dear Mamma's," responded Raven, clearly enjoying the needling she gave the pair.

Instead of gracing her with an answer, Isabelline simply picked up Fenrir and carried him away from the assorted teens. As she walked back to her tent with Fenrir in his arms, Fenrir watched contemptuously as Raven and Ash walked away from the mother and son with disgust. Qrow, on the other hand, remained sat on the log shaking his head at pettiness of what just occurred in front of him.

Fenrir and Isabelline returned to their tent, as Isabelline went to dampen a cloth and began to wipe Fenrir's face with it. Isabelline found herself concerned by the look of anger that warped Fenrir's face. It was one that a child of his age should not have, but then again Fenrir had been forced through experiences no child should go through.

"I hate them," Fenrir growled, his voice low.

"Shhh, don't give them any thought Fenrir, don't give them any thought at all," Isabelline whispered, as she continued to rub the dirt off Fenrir's face.

"I want to be free of this place, Mother, I want to be free of them all," Fenrir murmured, quietly tears beginning to form in his eyes and his wolf ears became downcast.

Unfortunately for the pair such encounters were not rarities, but rather common occurrences within the camp. The Branwen's darwinistic approach to life often led for the Faunus pair to becoming frequent targets of mockery and abuse, simply due how easy it was to mock them for their traits.

This coupled with the circumstances around both Isabelline's 'membership' and Fenrir's birth led to life frequented with disdain by their Branwen 'family'. Isabelline embraced her son, as he quietly sobbed into her chest. She despised how little comfort she could provide him in this hellhole, what little she could do to stem the growing contempt and rage that was forming in her son.

"Shush now, my little cub," reassured Isabelline her tone soft and comforting. "I know just what will cheer you up."

She walked over to a nearby bookcase, a scrap of homely furniture tossed to her by Tyr after one of the raids. From a shelf she picked a book of fairy stories, a particular favorite of Fenrir's, and turned to him with a bright smile on her face. Fenrir beamed in response, the enticement of story time pushing away what thoughts of anger he had towards his elder relatives to one side.

"You'll do the voices, right?" questioned Fenrir, a childish glee in his voice replacing the earlier predatory growl.

"Don't I always?" responded Isabelline, finding herself infected with Fenrir's own excitement towards to story time that even her own tail was wagging.

With that Fenrir bounded into his mother's arms, and the pair sat down to find comfort in fantastical stories of fairy tales and myth. Shunting whatever thoughts of anger and despair the pair had towards their fate, they instead decided to spend that time in the comfort of each company free of the judgement and disdain of their savage captors.

Author's Note: Hey everyone and thank you very much for dropping by! This fic is a hypothetical background for a RWBY baddie for one of Salem's inner circle, as I found myself intrigued by whom the other two seats belonged too. Anyhow hope you all enjoy, remember to review and see you again soon!