the town of barnam burned throughout the night, the orange light cast by the inferno against a dark night's sky visible for miles around the city. This was the natural, almost inevitable end for border towns such as these, towns would begin small and, drawn by low taxes and cheap homes free of overcrowding the village would quickly grow into a small township. And, eventually, as had happened here, the expansion brought with it new people, new emotions, new negativity, and a fast collapse.
The Grimm ultimately descend on these towns, smashing against the wooden ramparts like a wave against rock. Until eventually, the terror of the besieged settlers drew more and more grimm, the walls would fall, and the inhabitants would be slaughtered, almost invariably to the last man. None of this was new or surprising to Peter, as he marched towards the town, transfixed by the orange glow on the horizon, drawn to it like a moth to a flame. He was a scrawny boy, his slight frame barely filling out the ragged shirt he was wearing, his jeans held at his waist by a thin and battered belt. On his back he carried a small backpack, the zip long since broken and replaced instead by liberally applied safety pins, holding the bulging bag closed. His face, while not gaunt was thin, as though he had missed a meal or 10 in the last month. "I should get a move on" thought Peter "if I don't get there soon all the best loot will have gone already". And with that Peter, grasping the straps on his bag broke out into a light jog along the path leading into Barnam.
Peter arrived at the gates of the town with a groan of exhaustion and frustration. He had jogged for miles and at his arrival instantly knew that he had arrived too late. The town had been picked clean. "shit" he cursed, stamping his feet in frustration. Even still, he remained optimistic as he began to wander along the main road, his eyes slowly wandering to and fro as he scanned around for anything left unpicked, the heat rising from the smouldering ruins giving Peter little doubt as to how much would be salvageable from the houses. "they must have lit off their dust reserves" mused Peter "poor buggers probably wanted to choose their own death rather than face the one the Grimm were handing out." He felt a wave of pity for the settlers, most of whose bodies littered the main street, clearly having failed to reach the relative safety of the keep in the centre of town. He crushed that thought, knowing full well from experience what those sorts of pitying thoughts got you, grimm descending on you while you ruminated on these depressing thoughts.
Shaking his head, he continued on, and soon came upon a body that surprised him. Another dead body was hardly a shocker in this town, but this one was different. For one he was coated head to foot in blood, both his own and the blood of grimm, the dark red mingling with the black ichor of the grimm like a macabre painting, swirls of colour dancing around each other but refusing to mix, standing out as their own separate hue. Secondly, he didn't wear the robes of the settlers, but instead a hooded jumper and jeans, the mass-produced synthetic fabrics standing at odds with the homespun, self-reliant aesthetic of the locals. And lastly, he seemed to Peter to have been some sort of warrior, his sword belt designed to hold a scabbard. He sat propped up against the side of a house as though resting, his eyes open but vacant, seeming to look at nothing at all. Peter didn't know where the sword had gone, cursing his lateness once again, but his eyes lit up as he looked at the hoodie the boy wore. While filthy, coated as it was in blood, winter was approaching, and a good jumper would be worth its weight in gold. he pulled the cold weight of the torso forward from the wall, wiggling and pulling at the jumper until, with a final heave and a grunt of triumph he held in his arms the filthy garment, thankfully turned inside out.
What Peter only now noticed was the bulge of something tucked into the pocket of the jacket, which, as he pulled fell to the ground with a gentle slap of paper against the wood of the house's front porch. A letter tucked inside away in a plastic bag had fallen out of the jumper, and Peter bent to pick it up. The envelope was thickly packaged, bearing a symbol on the front that he did not recognise. Two crossed axes, sitting in a grey circle. At the bottom, there was a design that Peter supposed was a laurel wreath or something similar, but, sniggering couldn't help but see it looking more like corn or wheat instead. Further thought was interrupted by the steady patter of footfall behind Peter, and he whirled around, his spoil pushed into his pocket as he spans into a crouch, searching for whoever it was approaching him. Instantly, he relaxed, seeing the girl in front of him.
She wore a tattered, filthy jacket, more like a series of rags tied together with string and optimism now than clothing, and an almost equally battered shirt and pair of brown trousers, bunched around her thin waist by means of a belt so large on her it wrapped twice around. Dirty blonde hair completed the look, locks that probably would have fallen to the shoulders, but instead were matted together, caked in sweat and mud. "alright Peter?" she said, nodding to the boy. "hows pickings? I reckon me and stevie got the last of the good stuff to be honest with ya, yer a bit late you know" at this point, her hands had gravitated to her hips, staring quizzically at Peter, who was looking down, faintly embarrassed. "yeah, I was a bit late" he grumbled "I was halfway to bloody cheswak when I saw the fires start, I was banking on the horde going there, and now there's shit all here but this nasty thing." He gave the jumper a kick for good measure, feeling a satisfying resistance against his foot as it arced gracefully away from him, followed by a feeling of annoyance when the arcing jumper landed in a puddle. "smooth, dumbass" chuckled the girl "ah shut it Cyn, you arse, it was bloody filthy anyway, gotta wash it either way" responded Peter, quickly jogging over to grab his now sodden spoil from his scavenging. "aaaanyway" the girl, Connie drawled "me and stevie've got a camp going about a mile out, wanna join?" "yeah, that sounds awesome, I'm in" Peter said, cheered at the thought. Numbers meant safety, and safety meant the greatest gift to a scavenger like him and Connie. Fire. When you were alone, a fire would draw in any bandits, who would often be more than happy to grab the few belongings they had, and often killing whoever was out alone just for the fun of it. So, without so much of a backwards glance Peter wandered over to Connie, who was grabbing a cigarette from a dogged and battered packet in her back pocket, setting off out of the town on her heels.
The camp was a small, ramshackle affair, a small sheet of tarpaulin strung in a gap in the dense woodland of the area. A small circle of stones held a fire in place as it burned merrily, cracks and pops of wet wood permeating the still air of the early morning. A figure sat at the fire on an old log, slowly stirring a pot, although his attention was quickly shifted as the party of two broke into the clearing. In contrast to Peter, this figure was not a boy but instead unmistakably a young man, a small tuft of hair decorating his chin, the suggestion of a beard beginning to form, and the suggestions of thin wiry muscles on his slight frame. Peter noticed one slight difference to the young man compared to the last time he had seen him. Under his bag and rollmat the hilt of a sword jutted out, its handle wrapped in blue leather. The young man, seeing Peters jealous gaze reached over and shoved the bag over the hilt, hiding it from view. Peter whistled "damn Stevie, that's a heck of a find, where'd you get that one?" "mind your own damn business, Peter" Stevie barked back, levelling the stick that he'd been using to stir the pot at him, brandishing it menacingly. It would have felt more threatening, Peter felt, if it weren't for the lump of thick soup attached to the end of the stick, slowly dripping back into the pot, and if it weren't for Connie, who, having seen Stevie's display reached over, grabbed the stick and smacked it down onto his head. "owww" moaned Stevie "what was that for?" "you were being a twat, Stevie" she responded matter of factly. "this is my special anti-twat device" Stevie levelled an angry glare at Connie, drawing up to his full height, staring down at the far shorter girl, who merely raised her eyebrow in challenge. And, after a few seconds, Stevie broke, smirking and giggling before collapsing into laughter, Connie quickly joining him while Peter, shaking his head at their antics pulled off his bag, reaching for the bowl he knew lay inside, already eying up the stew bubbling on the fire infront of him.
It took many hours of chatting, eating and relaxing for Peter to finally remember his own find in the town. He pulled out the envelope, already slightly creased and crushed from his pocket and sat down on the stump to read, listening to the sounds of the other two napping behind him as he pulled out the sheaf of papers and began to read, shock taking over his features as he began to read. 'dear mr Arc' the letter began 'it is my pleasure to inform you that your application to beacon academy has been accepted, and we look forward to your arrival on the 5th of September for initiation…'