Before Beacon
A/N: Hello, guys, it's Elf again! Before you ask why am I writing OCs, this will probably remain a one-shot unless people find it interesting, the idea has been floating around my head for so long I refuse to not do anything with it, and I'm going to try to avert your typical cliché 'normal name, falls in love with a main character' OC. Sorry to all OC writers out there if I offended you with that last bit :c
DISCLAIMER: RWBY belongs to Rooster Teeth. Otherwise Jaune would be female.
Blake leaned back in the library, looking around her on the shelves for books to read. The girl was always hungry for books to read and information to absorb- almost like Ruby's hunger for cookies, the catgirl's desire for books was almost insatiable. She was also bored that afternoon, of course- Yang had dragged Ruby and Weiss off for yet another trip to Vale in an attempt to pair the two up, despite Weiss being in a long established relationship with Jaune and Ruby having no interest in her, leaving Blake alone.
"Hm..." She stood up and walked over to the shelf, before slowly poking through the various dusty books that filled the academy's library.
"Histories of Vytal? Intriguing." The catgirl searched through the ancient tomes and grimoires for something.
"A Treatise on Faunus...no...The Tale of Two Lands, no...A Historie of Beacon's Founders?" The last one caught her eye. "Hm...now that I see it, I actually don't know anything about the school before Ozpin was Headmaster..." She tried to pick something up from the past- nothing, apart from Ozpin being the first student of Beacon to become its headmaster, with a team formed of Glynda, his current assistant, Marcus Belladonna, her father and Professor Qrow, Ruby's uncle. Past that, however, Blake drew a blank.
Her curiosity aroused, the girl opened up the tome to its first page. Written upon the ancient parchment was a small, delicately inked title, 'A Historie of Beacon's Founders', with its authors, also written in the same script, underneath.
"...Schwarzschild, d'Orlia, Vettel, Petrana. Those names don't sound familiar..." Indeed, the names did not sound familiar, even to Blake. "I wonder...were these people important to Beacon? And if so, why do we not know who they are?"
With many questions, and many answers desired, Blake turned the page.
Long before the Free States of Vale, Mistral and Underhill, long before the great institutions of Signal, Beacon and Tower, long before the Faunus-Human War, and long, long before the Shattering of the Moon, the land was simpler, and much more fraught with danger, and yet less. The Grimm, the monsters that roamed the land, fed upon the weakest they could find.
Driven by terror, driven by desperation, men crafted weapons from Dust, while others found such power in themselves; Semblances, the power to manipulate their surroundings. In accord, Dust weapons and Semblances were wielded by few; these proto-Huntsmen and Huntswomen were called Grimmbane, for their purpose in society.
Some were soldiers of fortune, seeking a new form of income in a society that had found peace, at least for a while, while others were adventurers, seeking coin and food, paying their way clearing villages of the Grimm that had befallen them. Yet others were hired by lords and ladies, as guardians both against Grimm and man alike.
There was yet to be a true, unified way of training Grimmbane. Some trained them with books and scrolls, while others threw their students into danger, hoping to take in the survivors of the inevitable bloodbath. Others did not get taught, and merely learnt by experience.
So herein lies the tale of the founders of the first such institution to teach Grimmbane, who later evolved into Hunters; Beacon's first headmasters.
He was finally here.
The young man, his large bastard sword, lovingly crafted with many hours of blood, sweat and tears, slotted into a rough leather scabbard on his back and a black shield tied to the scabbard, stepped off the boat.
He had short, red hair, with a rough, yet somewhat youthful face. His eyes were emerald and hard. He was tall, for a man of his age, and he had an average build- not too muscular, yet not too thin- and he stood head and shoulders over the scrawny and thin peasants who ran around him. He was clothed in shades and hues of red, with a bright red cloak trailing behind him, being kept together by a red brooch.
He glanced around. It was nothing special; the port was nearly empty, with the exception of the boat that had brought him here. Several fishing boats, here and there, with the various fishermen running around with nets, hastily woven from rope in a small hut to the left. The boat itself wasn't anything special; the sail was billowing in the sea wind, and it rose slowly with the tide, as if breathing.
It didn't matter to him, however. What did was what was in front of him.
The village, he sensed right off, was in trouble. Grimm had likely been troubling it for days, weeks, months- he didn't know and couldn't tell. He needed to clear it, for the villagers' sake. And he would be damned if he didn't get a nice pile of gold doing so.
He slowly ambled his way through the port, attracting the eyes of peasants who'd never seen such a large weapon- or indeed, such an intricate one- on anyone before, and made his way to the closest tavern.
It was shabby, he mused, yet homely.
The tavern was filled to bursting with various kinds of people; villagers, travelers, Grimmbane, people from all walks of life. He spied a lowly lord, wearing such rich clothes he stood out from all the rest, chatting up a young-looking woman he recognised straight off to be a prostitute - her attire and the red hood she was made to wear told him as much. Sighing, he turned around and tried to locate a seat in the crowd.
Eventually, he found one and sat down, rubbing his face with his cloth-bound hands, exhaling. No sooner than he'd sat down however...
"You're a Grimmbane, yes?" The man looked up. The person who'd disturbed him was a boy- probably around ten or eleven, dressed in a rough russet tunic, and tied with a rope belt at the waist. He looked anxious to approach the man, and looked in awe at his large weapon.
"Yes, I am indeed."
"Uh..." The boy paused before continuing. "M-my master...h-he wishes to see you..."
"Who asks?"
"...t-the Thain, sir. H-he also asks for your name. F-for records p-purposes..." He was clearly scared of him. It wouldn't be entirely unjustified.
"And what do I say if I don't want to see him?"
"H-he says h-he'll pay anything..."
"...I'm not going to be his bodyguard."
"P-please, h-he doesn't want that!" The child tugged on his sleeve. "H-he wants the Grimm cleared...and h-he's willing to pay however much is needed. N-Nobody e-else wants to..."
"..." The man sighed. "Fine. Tell him I'll do it."
"...y-your name, sir?"
"Tell him Otto Schwarzschild took him up on his offer." Otto grumbled. The boy scampered off, probably to tell the Thain of the area.
"I only just got here and I can't even have a little rest before I kill the Grimm?" He sighed irritably.
"It seems I'll be needing a drink-"
"W-wait...w-what do you call that sword?" The boy had returned, poking the bastard sword. Otto carefully brushed his hand away.
"It's called Gram. Don't touch it- you might trigger it. Now go. I need a drink and you need to start telling your Thain I'm interested."
He nodded and disappeared off into the sea of people, leaving Otto alone.
Misha Petrana was getting tired. She'd been here for four hours, studying. It was killing her, to be honest.
"Madame? Can I stop-"
"No!"
"...I've been sitting here for four hours..."
"You will sit here for five, Lady Petrana. You need to finish your education!" The stern matron-teacher, a woman of sixty, with a harsh face, long grey hair, and piercing blue eyes, smacked the desk with her long, thin yew rod, startling the young Grimmbane apprentice into working. She hurriedly read through her text.
Satisfied, the matron walked over, studying the book she was reading.
"Well done, Lady Petrana. You have learned much today." She smirked, before poking the mortar and pestle at her desk. "Your Dustcraft needs work."
"Y-yes, I know, Matron, b-but-"
"We'll have to spend longer on that tomorrow." She sighed, before whisking the book away.
"Wha-hey!"
"Go." The matron sighed. "You will do this tomorrow. I will let you off this once, you understand?"
"Y-yes, M-matron..." Misha picked up her sack of things; jars of Dust, Denite, the strange ore Dust was made from, books- and her weapon, a black staff, tipped with an orange bird, its wings closed and its head pointing upwards. As she made for the exit, the matron grabbed her shoulder.
"Lady Petrana, your future as a Grimmbane depends on your learning, and you know that, right?"
"...yes."
"You have to take it seriously."
"...I know, Matron."
Making an exasperated noise, as if she'd heard it all before, the matron relinquished her student, and she ran outside, rushing to the nearest pool to wash her Dust-covered face. She knelt at it, studying her reflection.
Her face was small- covered in Dust as well- and she had deep, hazel eyes. Her hair was auburn and short, reaching down to her neck, and her frame was small and thin- she didn't look like a typical Grimmbane warrior, although that was probably because she relied on her Semblance and Dust to fight. She was dressed in a navy blue cloak, with a white robe underneath, bound by a leather belt.
Splashing some water on her face, she rubbed it in to clear it of Dust, while shaking her head, leaving trailing waterdrops splashing everywhere. When she was satisfied, she sat back, leaning on a small rock near the pool.
"I suppose she's right..." She studied the staff she used as a weapon. Zhar, it was called- she'd crafted it herself. It used Dust to produce various projectiles- magic, they called it. She called it mere logic, although she herself didn't know how it worked.
"I do have to take myself more seriously..." Misha reflected. "After all...I did choose this...for his sake." She fingered a pendant around her neck, appearing in deep thought, before sighing.
"I had better return home, it seems." The girl stood up and ran off, into the woods, to return to the one home she knew.
The house was tiny, seemingly weak, constructed from wood and straw, with space for two- her and her mother, who was out in town, probably working as a carter. What, however, made it stand out was the foundation her father had made it stand on.
A pair of stone chicken's legs, crouched upon the ground, held up her house.
"Rah!" One slash.
"Hyah!" Another one.
"And STAY DOWN!" This time, he brought his knives up, before delivering the final blow on the snake Grimm that had bothered the village for months. The Grimm screeched before falling still, and he stood over it, pulling out his intricately crafted knives.
The villagers surrounding Guilder Vettel cheered their saviour, and the boy smirked almost arrogantly. He was too good at this, after all- this was the fifth Grimm he slew in a week.
Guilder was fairly lithe and nimble. His face seemed pointed and thin, and his black hair was pointed upwards. His eyes were hazel, almost red, and his cloak was gold, lined at the edges with black. His tunic and trousers were lined with the same colors, and upon his chest was the heraldry of House Vettel- a golden plant, held aloft two mountains. He stood with the majesty of nobles, and with the air of a man who knew what he wanted.
"Thank you, thank you." He saluted his adoring fans. "I'm here all week! Please, please, save your jubilation for the taverns!" He basked in the glory he received.
"Lord Vettel, that was amazing!"
"Yes, m'lord, that was beyond anything I'd ever seen!"
"I don't know why your father wants to hire a Grimmbane- his son does a good enough job already!"
"Yes, please, seriously, I don't think I can handle any more praise." Guilder chuckled as he sheathed his twin knives, Shamash and Ninsun- heirlooms from even before House Vettel existed- at his sides, and walked off, throwing coins to his loving crowd. Giving a cheery smile to his loving subjects, he disappeared into the town to walk back to his keep, sighing.
"I don't understand why some people don't like being Grimmbane...I certainly do. Everyone practically loves me!" Guilder muttered to himself as he continued walking back, whistling. That is, until he heard a voice behind him.
"Master Vettel." Guilder looked behind him, to see his old retainer, of sixty years; in his subdued robes, with a long, prominent nose, a shaven head and grey eyes, with an envelope for him.
"You have a message, my good sir."
"Huh?" Guilder took the envelope, opening it carefully, reading the seal, and recognising it as House Orlia, an ally of House Vettel, in a neighbouring kingdom.
"This is for me?"
"Yes."
"Not father?"
"No, Master Vettel. Read it, please." The sable-haired boy did so, curious.
"...so, I'm to house their daughter, Arya D'Orlia?"
"Indeed, Master Guilder." The retainer nodded. "She is a delightful young lady-"
"Ugh, not again. Tell my father I'm not interested in getting married just yet! I want to see the world first before I decide to take over his lands!"
"I assure you, it-
"What, just like every other girl he's asked his allies to meet me? No, thank you, Julius." He sighed irritably. "Give me a moment." He walked off into the forest, and his retainer tried to stop him, but he was gone before he took a single step.
"...he has to take responsibility someday, that lad." Julius shook his head. "His father expects him to take over his lands soon, and he can't just go around killing Grimm forever."
In the forest...
The wrecked remains of a carriage lay at the side of the road, taken apart by Beowolves, who were currently prowling through its remains.
The corpses of several servants and the coachman lay nearby, being sniffed and chewed at by the ravenous Grimm. Their belongings lay nearby, shattered, broken and destroyed by the impact with the tree they'd taken to escape.
And there she lay, far away from anything she could use as a weapon. She felt...helpless.
"N-no...not here...n-not now..." She mumbled helplessly as she tried to help herself up.
Unluckily for her, a Beowolf heard and sensed her movements and stalked over to her slowly. She watched, her eyes widening in fear.
"No...no...not now..."
Arya D'Orlia, only child of the House of Orlia, never felt so helpless before in her life.
END
A/N: Medieval Beacon's Founders OC story is pretty much how roughly I'll describe this. I've only put this out to see if people are interested- although at the time of writing, I'm considering continuing the story anyway. I do hope you enjoyed my writing.
Read, leave your reviews, suggestions and criticism and have a good day! Until next time, hopefully!