The Brightest Souls
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Not even my own life. It is owned by society, and society is a cruel cruel bitch.
AN: This is long over due, like really really overdue. It was initially supposed to be published after season 2 of RWBY, but then shit happened and it sucked got pushed back along with everything that had anything to do with writing. So in lieu of not publishing anything for the last year and a half, and In Memory of Monty Oum and the magnificence of season 3, I present to my readers this humble tale and my first real attempts at world building.
Tags: Action, Drama, Adventure, Major AU/AH, Multi Xover, Irregular Update Times (Yes, This needs to be a tag.) Unbeta'd.
Prologue
A solitary candle stood a light inside a dark room. It was a simple room, bare of necessities needed for daily living. Dust littered the sparse furniture, spider webs lined the walls, and the musty scent of decay embraced the room like a life long friend. It was a barren, and lifeless room. However within this room, along its walls, held several shelves of books, tomes written by the greatest of authors and the worst of heretics. A literal treasure trove of knowledge and wisdom in the form of parchment bound together and contained within the firm hold of the ancient book cases. The holy grail of knowledge, sealed and placed within a one candle lit room.
The single candle in the room flickered.
There was a rustle of the wind, a slight creek of the floors, and all of a sudden there was life in the once desolate room. A person cloaked and shrouded in mystery, hidden by the darkness and embraced by it like a long lost lover, stalked about the room. Dust parted, spiders fled, and the candle continued to flicker with each step the person took. Pale hands extended from the figure. They moved about in the room, seemingly without any purpose, a passing chair was patted of dust, a single spider web was batted away without a care. Movements without purpose, actions bereft cause.
These motions continued until the person stopped in front of a book case, barren and old much like the room itself. The hands moved once more, and this time they gingerly touched the wooden frames, tracing along the surface til the pale finger tips landed upon a spine of book held within the case. The figure's hand moved along the books, passing each tome with expert ease, in search of a single book.
Now there was purpose, meaning in the person's actions.
Determined eyes shined within the dark room beneath the dark cloak that enshrouded the person, its intensity was comparable to that of the sun, so intense and filled with unyielding purpose that it easily dwarfed the fiery prowess of the lone candle in the room.
Legends, stories scattered through time.
The person's eyes scanned upon each and every book. Tome filled of tales that regaled those immortalized by the passing of age. Men. Women. Faunus. Grimm. Kings. Tyrants. Wizards. Witches. Saints. Sinners. Martyrs. Killers. Soldiers. Peasants. Heroes. Villains. From the oldest tale of the golden tyrant who ruled over the olden age, to the tales of the wondering man who yearned for peace, the great conflict between two houses and the lives ruined by their war. There was a story of the peasant who rose to be a hero only to be burned in a stake -betrayed by trusted allies. History and dark secrets of noble houses placed beside manifesto of great men and deranged lunatics. Biographies of men and women lost throughout the river of time and yet each and every one of their stories, were remembered, preserved, and then immortalized within this long forgotten library.
The pale hand suddenly stopped on the spine of one book, a familiar one at that. It was colored red with blood and violence yet contained parables that spoke of peace, and the eternal struggle that comes with achieving it. The story of a fool much like many others. For what seemed like an eternity the figure gazed upon the book, almost tempted to pull it out, to read it, and embrace its teachings, but eventually the hand moved on. The times for peace has long since passed, and it would not be needed for what was to come.
Mankind has grown quite fond of recounting the exploits of heroes and villains, forgetting so easily, that we are remnants.
Finger tips were in the move once more, brushing against other books, until it reached its destination. A golden colored tome that surpassed the passing of time. Its pristine and almost flawless condition a stark contrast to that of the almost rotting room. This was unlike most of the other books that contained tales of heroes and villains made greater or worse by foolish authors, this was a collection and accumulation of the history of men bound together in parchment and gold and then enchanted and immortalized by arts long forgotten by men. Most importantly, this golden book contained the answers that the person so desperately seek. The truth in the form of a golden book.
-By products of a forgotten past.
The figure smiled, a resolute yet defeated smile, one filled with grim resolve that came with finality and the inevitability of failure and damnation. The choice was clear, from here on out there was no turning back. The path paved with the corpses of many, was what awaited in the near future. Blood shall be spilled and sacrifices will be made, all for the sake of one goal that awaited in the end like an ever distant dream.
A gentle rustle of the wind passed by the room; the lone candle flickered brightly before it was extinguished. Its existence ephemeral. However before its passing, the dying light momentarily dispelled the shadows revealing the features of the person in the room.
Red eyes, flawless skin, and peerless almost ethereal beauty. A woman dressed in black that melded with the darkness of the room, and in her hand she grasped the spine of a golden book that rested in the dusty shelf, salvation to her, and damnation to many. Red eyes flashed, the grip increased, pressure almost denting the golden edges. There was no turning back, salvation and damnation awaits.
Without hesitation she pulled, and opened the book.
Thus changing the world.
Man, born from dust, was strong, wise, and resourceful
They moved as one, men and women wearing tattered cloaks of white – billowing against the cold winds, that helped them meld with their environment. Their cloaks were lined and layered with fur, a minor protection from the harsh coldness of the winter but it was help nonetheless, no matter how meager. The rag tagged group of individuals ran through the field of whiteness, a sea of snow and salt that extended to the horizon. Darkness covered the sky, enveloping the stretching heavens -with the exception of the ever white moon- with pitch blackness that left no other colors in the world but that of black and white.
-but he was born into an unforgiving world.
It was the age of ice and cold, the era before civilization.
Pure whiteness expanded across the lands covering it in frost and rime. There was a distinct absence of heat in the air, for this was a time without seasons. A time without heat and warmth, where the cold held dominion over the plains of the earth and the lone existences that dared to live along its surface. Modern technology was a foreign word much like many others, they have yet to be invented, words themselves were within the stages of their infancy, barely created and most still but a sting of noises or lines that held no real meaning or power. It was time where where survival depended on skill of arms, on instincts honed in battlefields of ice and snow. It was a time of endless struggle, a time where the strong lived and the weak died.
Several loud and inhuman sounds echoed from the vast landscape, and as one what would later be called an army halted in their tracks. Weary eyes darted around the desolate landscape, carefully observing each and everything in search of the enemy. Cloaks and coats were parted revealing tools of stone and steel and violence, spears, swords, and axes, all were drawn and wielded by ready hands as they moved close to one another, forming a tight circle of defense, one back watching the other.
An inevitable darkness – creatures of destruction; the creatures of Grimm – set their sights on man and all of his creations.
The enemies came from the north, if the group of five tens of men and women could be called an army then what they faced against was a battalion, a legion of five hundred strong and wild and deadly beasts. Wulves, men and woman called them in ancient tongues. The creatures stood on two legs, limbs strong and powerful much like their arms and claws which reeked of death. Their fur as dark as night, eyes and teeth as red as blood. They were violence and death defined. Adversity of humanity given flesh and but a single purpose, the death of humanity and the continuation of their era. The world was theirs, and they would not have it any other way.
For this was their age, the age of ice and rime and death, the age before civilization, the age of darkness, the age of Grimm.
These forces clashed, and it seemed the darkness was intent on returning man's brief existence to the void.
There was silence for but a moment, the proverbial calm before the storm. In one moment the army was tense, body tight, ready to react at the first sign of the enemy, the next moment they were cutting through flesh and fur as the first waved crashed against the formation taken by the men and women. Weapons were swung, blood spilled by the gallons, and songs of death and violence were sung for the first line that fell to their steel.
The second line fell much like the first, mindless beasts fed like lambs to a slaughter. The third was almost the same, and fell to the steel of men. The fourth and fifth soon followed, dead against the strength and grit of men. However the sixth wave was more steadfast, and stronger. They learned and adapted from the first line that fell, they adjusted appropriately, and with their claws and maw they broke the feeble formation and took down several men with viciousness reserved only for their kind.
A small man's throat was torn open with claws as sharp as steel, he struggled at first, swung his sword and felled his attacker, only for another to take its place. With a loud roar sharp teeth dug on his neck ripping muscles and sinew. His body fell soon after, pure white cloak stained in red. The dark wolf who took the man's life received two spears to the face in retaliation, anger from blood brothers of his prey strengthening the blows. The fallen Wulves' packmates answered in kind by continuing their charge, killing the two spearmen by bifurcating them in two, spilling chunks of gore and organs upon the cold winter snow.
Pain filled cries came from all over the battlefield, as the orgy of death and violence continued and escalated filling the once pristine white field with blood and death.
A large man that was bathed in the blood of his enemies grunted as he wielded two swords as large as his fellow men. He was a mountain of man, and he showed strength beyond his peers. His swings cracked the air, and carved his sign upon the snowed earth. With expert swings he slaughtered the wolves left and right. He was like a storm in the midst of the battlefield, a force of nature that stood ever defiant against his foes. So good he was in taking lives of his enemies that he was eventually surrounded by a small sea of corpses that went up to his waist. This proved to be his downfall as it hindered his movements, it prevented him from escaping and re-positioning himself as waves upon waves of enemy descended upon him like locusts upon fresh wheat. He took tens of his enemies in his final stand, until his arms were torn off his large body, and fangs descended upon his neck.
An anguished cry came from one of the combatants, a woman armored like her brethren broke formation and ran towards the body of the large man. Her fallen lover in fact. With an axe in hand she fought like a mad goddess, her swings were fierce, heavy, and strong. With each blow she caved in and sliced off the heads of Grimms by the dozen. She crossed the sea of bodies making her way to her beloved. However a blow to her unguarded side after an over extended swing pushed her to the ground, and caused her weapon fell from her hands. It was then that three wolves descended upon her, she tried to fight barehanded at first but was soon overwhelmed. Gashes filled her body while her legs were torn to shreds, in a last act of desperation she tried to crawl to the body of her fallen lover, so they may at least be together in death. Sadly even that was kept away from her as claws swiped as the back of her head causing it to roll off to the side of her prone body, just a few feet away from her beloved.
Near them a young woman with long jet black hair and equally black eyes looked at the scene grimly. She wanted to offer a small prayer for the two that fell -her closest of friends- but that would have to wait. She was the leader of this group, and it was her responsibility to make sure that as many of them possible survived this battle. Spear in hand she dished out damnation to her foes, they were stabbed and sliced before they could even reach her. When her spear broke she took a sword in its place -taken from an ally drenched in crimson- and with it she was just as deadly. Dozens upon dozens fell upon her blade, and the ground upon her drowned heavily in red. But with each that fell two replaced them, and it quickly dawned upon her what fate awaited her group in the end if they continued fighting, With a grim smile on her face, she commanded her brothers and sisters to retreat. She volunteered to hold back the enemy, to protect their backs as they fled. It took many minutes for her to fully convince them, and hesitantly they made their retreat, men and women numbering one ten and five. They have lost many, far too many.
And so she stood tall and defiant, her form protecting their group's retreating back. Alone she stood against more than three hundred Grimms. A desperate act that she knew would result in her death. But she still fought on, she slayed three tens with her sword until the steel shattered, shards of steel digging unto her skin. She picked up a fallen axe to replace it and she wielded it with ease. She tore through skulls, she sliced bodies in two, she fought valiantly even as her body screamed in pain as it was scratched and wounded by the enemy forces. A blow to her left shoulder disarmed her of her axe and took out her left arm. Victory was a nigh impossibility, an ever distant dream that shall never come to fruition.
Only death awaited.
But still she fought on knowing full well about the futility in it all. With fists, and kicks, she battled on, taking dozes down with pure martial prowess. She was the best of the best, the strongest among her kin, a warrior with no peer and equal. She was awarded leadership due to her unparalleled skill in combat, and it was through his skills that men and women alike willingly followed her to the ends of the earth. But in the end, no matter how skilled, how strong, or powerful, she was but a normal human being, and after hours of fighting her body soon reached its limits.
She staggered, breath heavy, muscles sores, body riddled with injuries. A dark wolf rushed at her, maws opened wide, red teeth poised for violence. The young woman gritted her teeth, as she spun around and weaved against her foe. She evaded the deadly lunge and countered with her own, breaking the beast upon her knee. Her right fist flew, and with strength far surpassing that which her frame suggested, tore through flesh and fur, turned bones to dust and ruptured organs upon contact.
A loud crack reverberated in the battlefield, almost immediately afterwards the young woman gritted her teeth. Sweat poured profusely from her frame as she stared as her right hand, the fist of death that delivered judgement upon the foolish wolf. It was matted red with the blood of her enemies, but that was of little concern. The problem lied with the fact that her own bones broke with that last punch, brittle and worn, it easily broke from the stress of being overused.
A sad smile set upon her face as she prepared herself for the inevitable. Now without the use of her hands she fought by only using her legs. She fought even fiercer with desperation, each second she fought was another second gained by her escaping comrades, but in the end she was simply overwhelmed. Large fangs descended upon her shoulder and carved off a chunk of flesh. Sharp claws dug and slashed against her chest and back without mercy, littering her body with more wounds. A large black shoulder smashed against her chest causing her ribs to crack and pierce her lungs. She coughed out blood before she was sent crashing towards a large hill of ice, which caved in behind her body.
The mighty fell and her foes slowly descended upon her.
She coughed out blood, her body shook in pain, and her vision flickered. She could not breathe, her existence personified by the word pain. Every inch of her body ached and throbbed and at that moment the young woman felt nothing but pain.
Yet she still tried to stand up.
She still tried to fight on with her broken body, determination filling her very being, defiance at her core.
The inevitable came soon after, her legs failed and she was forced to the ground. Her body fell towards the cold snow that threatened to put her body to sleep. Her eyes were heavy, begging to be closed in order to embrace the eternal slumber. Her senses dulled, she could barely make out the sound of footsteps getting closer. She though with bitterness that it was undoubtedly the beasts ready to deliver the finishing blow upon their prey.
However, even the smallest spark of hope is enough to ignite change.
The fallen warrior breathed heavily, as she awaited her own demise. But it was when the world was at its darkest, when death was fast approaching, that her blood shot eyes caught the sight of an object, something the warrior has never seen before. In the middle of the bloodstained battlefield, near the hill of ice, where she lay, dying, she saw a flash of red, like blood, a crystal shining in the darkness.
Even if she was moments away from death, she could not find herself to look at anything but the red gem. It was a small part of herself, her very essence, her very soul, her very being, something the eye could not see, could not comprehend, and yet she knew for certainty just as the snow was white and the sky was dark, that a part of her resonated with the gem. She didn't know why, she didn't know how, but she called upon the gem, and the gem called out to her. A beautiful resonating melody only heard by two.
Without hesitation she grabbed the gem, broken arms forced to move in order to reach and hold on to the strange object that screamed of heat and a strange sensations. Fullness, the woman realized. Like broken parts joining together to become something whole, and then something more. She firmly held the gem within her hands with enough force that it drew blood. With that came power, she felt power flooding through her body, flooding through her wounded frame. She felt a spark within her burn, and it burned oh so intensely beyond anything she could ever hope to imagine.
Within her an inferno was lit, one strong enough to remain burning for many days and nights. An unnatural glow surrounded her body, as power passed through her veins like blood. Her wounds sizzled with heat and healed, her stamina previously drained returned twice over, and for the first time in her life he felt powerful. Power beyond that offered to her by tools of steel forged by human hands. Power beyond that earned through rigorous hours of martial training.
It was power that would eventually change the world, and she held it within her hands. With it she became something more than human, ascended into a higher form of power.
The revitalized warrior smiled, as she slowly rose, the beasts that once stalked confidently towards her, playing with their prey suddenly found themselves incinerated by unearthly black flames. Fur, flesh, bone, blood, all were reduce to ashes that were carried across the barren land by the fierce winter winds.
The lone woman's smile turned to a grin, her once black hair shifted to the purest of white, and her eyes once incredibly dark turned to pools of shining silver, signs of her ascension. In response the army of Grimm that carried more than a hundred collectively took a step back. For the first time in their existence a new feeling grew within them, one so foreign and unknown to them that they couldn't help but stand idly by and stare at the body of their supposed prey.
Wisps of black and red surrounded the young woman's body as she slowly walked towards the beasts. The once battered and bloodied body was now all but healed. Her mangled and bloodied cloak fell of her frame leaving her naked in the middle of a winter night. Flawless white skin, met equally white snow, yet she did not shiver, she did not care, for the cold did not bother her so. It was such an inconsequential thing when she felt the very essence of fire itself surrounding her entire body, heating her core, and embracing her frame like that of a mother hugging its child. Fierce yet protective; loving but all powerful.
The warrior stood tall and defiant, and in her right hand she held the blood red gem that dug through her skin, in her right she held not a sword of steel but a blade made of the fiercest flames. Red out lined with black. Power, will, and her very soul given form, given purpose, a sense of duty unparalleled by all. To destroy her enemies, to slay the Grimm. Silver eyes full of power burned ominously in the winter snow. With a wicked smile upon her face she brandished her new found weapon, and with out a second thought she charged against the remaining army of more than two hundred Grimms.
A legend was born that day, and her song will be sung for ages to come.
The song of the First Huntress, The Hero of the Endless Winter, and her triumph against the forces of darkness.
And in time, man's passion, resourcefulness, and ingenuity led them to the tool that would help even the odds.
The long winter ends and the hope of spring slowly came.
The once endless field of white was now replaced with green. Bushes, shrubberies, and trees of all kinds scattered over the valley of the earth. Flowers bloomed, animals sung, even the ever distant heaven started sparkling with dazzling stars, and for what seemed like many ages men began enjoying a small time of peace. Peace that was being threatened by the continued existence of their enemies.
While the world of endless winter where the Grimm held complete dominion in the world neared its end. This did not mean that the fighting was over. Far from it. Upon discovering the latent potential that existed within all, mankind launched attack after attack against the Grimm, doing their damnest to push back the enemy away from their lands and settlements, to no avail. The fighting has never stopped, hostilities rose with each passing day, no end in sight. For as long as the enemy existed, peace was but an ephemeral dream.
An old wrinkled blacksmith with spiky white hair and a long goatee sat in his forge, the heat was intense, it was as if he was in the heart of a volcano that threatened to burn his very existence. Yet he did not even flinch, the heat did not deter him from completing his task. In fact he welcomed it, he welcomed the flames to a point that he became one with the very concept of fire.
He was but one of many considered to be blessed by the flames, and with its blessings he went about working in his forge. Underneath the moon, and that sun of spring of creation, he crafted many a weapons. A sword that burned with the heat of the sun paired with a sword made from a fallen star. A hammer that made the earth crack and tremble with each blow. A bow of light enchanted to never miss a shot. An indestructible shield that could withstand blows from the mightiest of Grimms, and a chain that held them down. A scythe that ends all life, a staff that saves all life. Many a weapon of would be legends, forged in the hands of an old man.
Sparks flew, and sweat dripped down his forehead as the old man carefully placed the finishing touches in his master pieces, his magnum opus. He inserted a pair of crystals one black the other white within the edges of his creations, they were the biggest and purest of their kind, ones that he brought from a warlord in the eastern lands. It cost him a hefty penny to acquire them but it was proving to be worth it in the end as the crystals held a key component into bringing his life's work into fruition. And so when his creations did not explode when he infused the crystals unto his masterpiece he let out a bark of unrestrained laughter.
A laughter that ended quickly when he started to cough out blood as pain racked his body.
The old man's days were nearing its end but that did not mean he would just keel over like many other, for the blacksmith was once a warrior in his youth, one who fought against the strongest Grimm in the harshest of winters, and pushed it back to the realm of eternal sleep with the use of steel and crystals.
With several heaves the old man managed to regain himself. Let it not be said that he was not tenacious and stubborn in the least. The old blacksmith ignored the pain and with a grin on his face, he was far used to it. In fact he welcomed it for it was proof of his continued existence. The old blacksmith wiped the blood of his mouth, preventing the red droplets to fall on his creation. Purple eyes stared at the pair of swords one white, the other black, in appreciation. They were unlike all those that came before them. For not only were they made with steel attained from a fallen star, but they were also fused and tampered with the strongest crystals that contained the purest essences of nature itself.
The old man had no way of knowing it, for he would soon pass, falling to the curse of his illness, but in his humble forge, at the brightest and warmest of summers, he created the most powerful swords in existence. Blades that would be passed down to his sons, to the two who will herald a new age and protect those that will come after him, as he and his fathers had done before him, as many have dome before them. His sons like many who lived in this age would find themselves in the realm of legends. But their legends would forever be overshadowed by the story and myth created by the swords they wielded, the strongest swords in existence, the brother blades forged by a blacksmith of old whose name was lost in the centuries to come.
The passing of time has truly brought about many gifts for man. A single gem found in the midst of a losing battlefield became a testament to that fact. For not only did it provide a way to fight against the beasts that scrounged the earth, but it also gave them hope. In the great spring that followed, many more of these crystals were soon found and treated with utmost importance and great reverence. These gems and crystals varying in shapes and sizes, all carrying immense power, allowed mankind to accomplish feats beyond normal comprehension. Weapons and Armour forged. Elements could be controlled and tamed to the users will, Latent potential previously unknown but existed within mankind for eons was now easier to unlock, and use, and master.
Hope in the form of crystals and gems. They saved men from returning to nothingness, from returning to dust beneath the cruel world. Thus in the spring that will called many as the Spring of Hope, where great minds used and studied their salvation, men and women alike from the all corners of the world sang out in praises of this new found power.
This power was appropriately name Dust.
Men and women stood by the thousands, their expressions a mix of nervousness and excitement in the midst of the tense atmosphere. In their hands weapons forged from the fusion of hard cold steel of death, and the unparalleled strength of nature's very essence. Standing against them covering the lands in pitch blackness, red, and white, were hundreds of thousands of Grimms. They came in all kinds and sizes, but their purpose would always be true. Death to humanity, and those not of its kind.
A man in his early twenties, with hair as red as blood, and clad in armor befitting that of a knight -silver, and strong, and true, stood in front of his men. He was a hero and legend in all but name, a name known around the world. The man whose charisma and courage reached the hearts of all and convinced them of a better future that awaited them after reclaiming the lands overtaken by their enemies.
This was the first battle of its kind, the first full scale offensive by men against the forces of Grimm.
In his hand the man held a sword, a fusion of red, and silver, and orange, a perfect union between the three colors that gave off an image of ornate beauty, deadly sharpness, and power. Pure undiluted power. With its sharp tip pointed at the heavens the blade's edges shined brightly and dangerously underneath the radiant sun, the heat produced by the sword burned and wilted just as intensely as the gaseous heavenly body. Solaris -The Luminous Blade of the Sun. And like its namesake it show cased its power through flames. Hot blue flames of sheer destructive force that reduced even the toughest of and most fire resistant Grimms into ash in mere seconds.
Ever since the founding of dust, fire has always been mankind's prevalent weapon against the darkness. And much like his aura, and his weapons, this red headed man's fire burned ever more intensely, inheriting and then surpassing all that came before him. What was once a small spark of hope -a small salvation brought about by a blood red jewel in the hands of dying woman, now burned with the intensity of a dying sun. Salvation from the enemy in the palm of their hands.
Behind the knight stood a woman with eyes as blue as the sky, and hair that shimmered of dazzling gold. She wore an armor of fine black steel, plated from head to toe, spikes jutted out from several places giving it a fierce appearance when combined with the two devilish horns extended from the steel helm had she tucked between her arm. She was his second in command. Like him she possessed the charisma and aura befitting that of a noble ruler, though unlike him who possessed the radiance of the sun she held the cold and unforgiving essence of unyielding steel. An impressive aura built upon her belief of steel and its inherent superiority.
Beside her stood a man with hair as black as the night sky and eyes of the purest silver. Whereas the two stood as like giants among men built and bred for battle, he stood humbly, silently. Just another face amidst a great crowd, yet the two considered him their equal. He was a man of a less imposing stature, more a scholar then a warrior, a tinker than a fighter, wracked with illness since his youth, he was far from the best of fighters. Yet despite all odds he stood with the other two, fighting side by side through day and night, from one battlefield to the next, his mind providing them the edge in the most gruesome of battles. The humble and kind tactician who wielded a staff made of the whitest woods in one hand, and a sword made of steel and dust in the other.
The knight looked at them, no words were exchanged between the three. The message was clear. Trust was never an issue between them, bonds forged through friendship only strengthened by each passing adversity. They have stood side by side since their youth, and will forever stand together until the end of days.
The tactician gave his friend a quick not then turned his head back, and shouted orders at a rapid pace, while a grey aura slowly covered his frame, crackling with surprising power for such a sickly frame, as three horses were brought to them by an armored man allowing the three to mount themselves upon steeds. The female knight grinned as she placed her helm upon her face and drew her weapon from its sheath with her right hand. It was a simple long sword with a blue handle and a golden cross guard, not the flashiest of weapons, but in the right hand of its chosen wielder it was one of the strongest, for it held within it the true essence of steel, the spirit of humanity's strength, will, and defiance, in the form of a blade. In her right hand she held the sheath, a sheath which shifted into a shield made of the same precious metals as her blade. It was her aegis, the word protection conceptualized into a shield, and with it she would protect herself and her allies from harms way.
With a roar the red haired man lifted his sword and pointed it to the battlefield before he charged towards the dark army, his fellow knight just a step behind him sword and shield in hand as she let out her own cry. The tactician roared as well, hands tight upon the reigns of his horse, bellowing all to follow. Their roar and charge were soon followed, as the tens of thousands of ascended men and women that decided to stand with them in this endeavor trailed behind him eventually catching up to him until they all stood side by side. Brother in arms from different backgrounds and races -men and faun alike- but with a common goal.
Victory against the Grimm.
At one point in time the results of this battle would have been obvious, through sheer size and strength, the force of darkness would have easily overwhelmed and destroyed that of men but with this new found powers they fought against the enemy with equal amounts of hope and desperation.
Fire burned and immolated, melting flesh and bone. Lightning cackled and forked leaving twitching and sizzling bodies at their wake. Unforgiving steel cleaved and cut, leaving nought upon its wake but bleeding stumps. A wave of ice froze, and large black bodies shattered into fine dust. The earth rose and crushed those beneath them in a plume of gore and death. A storm of blades in the form of the wind cleaved, sliced, and cut, severing life where they passed. Flowers bloomed, and thorns were born from flowers, they easily impaled, and grew, and strangled their foes. Steel glowed ominously beneath the sun, before soon the heavens was filled with steel blades that rained upon the enemy piercing and dismembering many with weapons of death. Gravity shifted, an invisible force weighed down the enemy crushing them and the earth beneath them into pulp. Bodies shined, eyes glowed, weapons gleamed, as both men and women, and even animals performed feet that far exceeded the scope of normality in a desperate attempt to drive back the forces of darkness that has plagued mankind soon after the birth to their existence.
The battle went on for seven days and seven nights. The two forces continued clashing against one another, and despite their superior numbers the Grimm soon found themselves being driven back by a force inferior to its own. It was at the dawn of the seventh day that the battle truly ended, and it ended when a miniature sun sprung forth in the center of the battlefield -a white dragon of the purest of flames that carried the power of the sun, bathing the army of humanity's enemy in a sea of unending flames that burned and immolated without forgiveness. It reduced the remaining enemy forces to ashes and cinder, whilst scarring the lands to glass within its wake. With that final act, victory was assured, as what ever remained of the creatures of the night soon fell prey to the weapons of man. It was man's first true victory against the Grimm, a battle where they vanquished their enemies from the land that would become their home for many generations to come.
That day heralded the beginning of a new age, the age of man.
And men decided to name this land upon their leader, the fearless man who rallied allies, and led the charge against the Grimm. The man who in his dying breath entrusted upon them the future, a future that he secured when he bathed the fields of the enemy in fire and ash and death.
The Warrior of Light. The Child of War. The Eternal Monarch of Sun. The Hero Without Peer. The First True Sovereign of Remnant. The Savior of the World.
He was the first great legend forever recognized and immortalized in the hearts of many. He who heralded the arrival of the modern era. For later on, upon the glassed field left behind by his final attack, upon the scorched earth that carried the ashes of his opponents, a city would be built, and in time the city shall grow into a great kingdom that will be known throughout all the lands.
His death, and victory gave birth to the kingdom that would eventually be known as Vale.
On the other hand his trusted confidants soon vanished after the fateful battle, vanishing in the shadows made by his light. The great tactician went to other lands hoping to help others whilst trying to find a cure for his illness. He would heal and save many, and impart his wisdom to those in need, wizened and trained men who called themselves Hunters, the vanguards against the Grimm. He would continue on his journey travelling countless lands until the day he welcomes the embrace of death, like a long lost friend.
Scarcely a few will remember the existence of the golden haired knight, her name forever lost in the pages of history, as she vanishes into anonymity. Even historians would argue tooth and nail about the authenticity of the existence of the female knight, for her legend unlike that of her friend's was shrouded in mystery. It would be many, many, many, years later until the truth behind this mystery would come to light. And it would all start when a foolish boy with dreams of greatness, would suddenly decide to run off to fight in a war with the aspirations of becoming a hero, taking with him a dusty set of weapons passed on within his family for generations. The forgotten legacy of the Knight of Steel.
Nature's wrath in hand, man lit through the darkness.
Time passes by the centuries, and soon spring fades and summer takes its place.
It was hot summer day when an old man -wearing a remarkably sharp and professional suit- stood a top a podium in the middle of a large lecture hall. His hair was grey with age. His beard long and white, and deep wrinkles that ran along his face gave him the look of a wise old man, a look befitting a person whose profession lay in the art of teaching.
Before him, sitting in a grand lecture hall were no less than a hundred students. Each different and unique in their own ways, yet all shared one common trait, for despite their diversity the students in front of him were all teens hoping to one day become Hunters and Huntresses. Defenders of the realm that push back the encroaching darkness that is the Grimm. To the eyes of many they were but children, but to his wizened gaze he saw a deeper meaning to those youthful smiles, to those bored gazes, those apathetic looks. For in his mind what he saw in this room was not a mere collection of immature brats, or kids who would much rather be anywhere else than a class room. No, to his eyes he saw light, a brightness unparalleled, comparable to that of the sun. For in those elevated seats, where a hundred children sat, he saw not immature children, but instead he saw the future. He saw them for what they were, and the potential of what they could become. Huntsmen, huntresses, police officers, generals, teachers, weapons developers, doctors, politicians. All of them, even if they were not aware of it were destined for great things, and it was his job, as an educator to lead them into greatness.
The board behind him light up, various images that depicted ancient weaponry and architecture appeared on the screen. In a span of a few seconds he showed his class several images. Buildings made of sticks and brick, which turned to marvelous architecture made of earth and steel, the creation of Kingdoms. Weapons of iron and crystals of arcane power, transformed into magnificent blades intertwined with guns and dust. Hulking creatures of darkness trampling over humanity, which shifted to the image of men fighting back, and men fighting one another. Images of great heroes, leaders, and their allies were shown and were followed by infamous villains, tyrants, and their devout followers. With each passing second he showed a different picture, sometimes grands, sometimes weird, some just wacky, it was a bizarre collection of photographs that enthralled his class in a matter of seconds.
And then the images stopped.
All eyes went on the teacher standing in the podium, his eyes shined and twinkled with mirth as he gazed upon his students. With a gentle smile upon his face old teacher asked a simple question.
He asked of the meaning of the pictures he just showed.
Various answers were given by his students, none were wrong, but none were quite right. A small girl with wavy blond hair and green eyes, answered with cool logic, pointing out the obvious answer with regards to time and the changing of age. Near her a boy with black hair, with flecks of silver responded with the growth of humanity, along with the growth of their strength and the development of weaponry which allowed them to fight back against the enemy. Another black haired lad with sharp eyes gave an answer close to that of his fellow black haired classmate, but his answer emphasized more on the power and the use of it through time. From the back of the class a chubby red haired girl with fox like ears on top of her head gave a rather mischievous answer, a jab to the old teacher's age. This in turn caused two girls that sat behind the faunus to playfully whack her in the head causing more chuckles to break out around the room.
It was then that two hands were raised at the same time. They belonged to what he observed to be two of the more silent and introverted students in his class. They were both thin, flaky as the red headed girl from earlier put it, and rather aloof and easy going, but despite their age or how they acted he could see wisdom running through their eyes. One was spiky haired blond youth with bright blue eyes, the other had tousled grey hair and brown colored eyes hidden behind a set of black spectacles.
He urged them to speak, and their answers were the same. The old man smiled an honest smile. Never in his life had he felt happier. For unlike their classmates they managed to see the deeper meaning he tried to convey with the images. For they truly understood what he was trying to teach.
The passing of time, changing of eras, rise and fall of kingdoms, war between nations and races, development of technology, tales of valor and heroism, stories of villainy and deceit. All of them were acts recorded and immortalize by men. To look at these events from an objective stand point and determine and comprehend the causes and effects that lead to these events. That was the bare essence of his class, the History of Mankind.
The two youths were aware of what he saw, they knew of the world and how it worked. They knew that in this room were those that will one day shape the world. And what better way to prepare those who shall pave the rode to the future but to them the past. So that they may learn from it, so that may not repeat the mistakes that their predecessors made. The errors that he and his compatriots from time immemorial have made. The sins of the second greatest conflict since the founding the kingdoms, the Great War the engulfed the entirety of Remnant, laid upon withered old hands. A war that took far too many lives for everyone to soon forget. For these teens before him would one day grow, and become the future of this world, and he would be damned if they were to walk out of this halls without learning anything from his mistakes and the mistakes of those before him.
After all this school, an institution forged of human ingenuity and iron clad will, a testament to humanity's willingness to learn from their mistakes and to grow from it. A Beacon of hope for not only humanity but for the future as well.
And in the shadow's absence, came strength, civilization, and most importantly
A beautiful woman lay on a bed of white with her eyes closed, surrounded by all forms of machinery connected to parts of her body. Her bright hair was left sprawled, beneath her, like the first strokes of crimson paint on a canvas of white. She was breathing harshly and heavily, greedily gasping for air, her skin was gaunt from pain, stress, and exhaustion. A sheen of sweat covered her like a second layer of skin, and her eyes were closed so tightly as she endured a great level of pain. A man stood beside her, holding unto her hand like his life depended on it, as it whispered comforting words to her, whilst screaming at the woman seeing her through this painful experience.
She understood why she had to endure this, it was part of life. Her life, as a woman. An inevitability after falling in love, and answering yes to one simple question. But even so a part of her, a small mischievous part couldn't help but pin the blame for this experience pain someone else.
Thus she squeezed harder, hearing a yelp in return that made her smile through the pain.
Her eyes opened tired and glazed as she looked at her husbands blurry figure, sending him a gaze filled with a mixture of both love and hate. Hate for the unholy level of pains that she was going through, and love that drowned all that hate beneath it. Love for the man who stood beside her as they went from children, to students, to hunters that protected the realm. The boy who earned her ire, that grew into an adolescent that stole her heart, and as a man he allowed her to experience the joy of being a woman. The only person in this world who she knew with no doubt, that would stand by her as the seasons changed and she grew old and withered.
His words came out slowly, jumbled and nonsensical when they reached her ears. Eventually she made it out to be a worried plea, telling her to push once more.
She loved him with all her heart, and nothing was going to change that. Not even the pain that she was going through. Though in the back of her mind, a more mischievous part of her told her to push him off a cliff sometime in the near future. Preferably a really tall one, with lots of spike rocks and Grimms on the bottom. Maybe then, just maybe, he'd finally understand the pain she was going through.
If not she could always kick him in the-
All thoughts seized, a flash of pain crashed into her and left her in a daze until the sound of crying reached her ears.
It took her a few minutes to realize that the pain lessened. That she no longer needed to push. That her husband had let go of her hand and left her for but a moment, before returning to her side, with a smile on his face, tears on his eyes, and a bundle on his hands. A blue bundle that he carried as if it was the most precious yet fragile thing in the world.
Gently she took it from his hands, cradling it to her own to feel the soft warmth that brought her back to reality. A baby boy. Her baby boy. She felt a hand touch her shoulder, her husband stood beside her, a warm and happy smile on his face as he continued crying.
Tears of happiness spilled forth, pain and exhaustion was forgotten, as she hugged the newborn closer to her body, surrounded by her beloved, her child, her family, her...
life.
Perhaps it was inevitable, the culmination and consequence of years and years of mistreatment and injustice just waiting to happen. All it really needed was the gentle blowing of the wind to ignite the embers upon a small flame.
It started with a story on the news paper. It told the tale of stupidity done by a drunken young man -a scion from a rich family- who made a fool of himself in public and was arrested for it. The details were left vague and it was mostly inconsequential to the eyes of many. After all no man or woman was truly hurt, perhaps it was just another jest taken too far or prank gone horribly wrong. Accidents did happen from time to time. Teens would be teens after all and they were prone to making irrational decisions, not helped by his intoxication. Since according to the papers no one was truly hurt, and no damage was done, the teen was allowed to be free, a slap on the wrist by the law in the service of those connected to the rich and the powerful.
The story of a small faunus girl laying dead on an alley after getting beaten by a drunk teen, never even made the news. No one was there to take a picture of her brother, as he found and hugged her lifeless body. No one was there to console him or ask for his story as he cried over her dead body and pleaded for help. No one came, because no one cared.
The seasons passed the summer ends, and fall rears its head, but men didn't change. Many more crimes were committed and many more ignored. Cries for justice were ignored, and the breaking point was eventually reached. So as the heat of summer faded giving way to the chilly fall an entire village burned.
It was a simple village, far from the bustling and technologically advanced metropolises that were the Kingdom's capital. Yet thanks to the lack of urbanization the village's lands were still rich in nature. Trees could be seen as far as the eye could see, lands were fertile for crops, their meager mines far from dry. Wheat and lumber and minerals, were their trade, and if they were lucky a large chunks or two of dust crystals from the mines.
The citizens of this village lived a simple life. They worked the fields during the day time, stopped at the first sign of dusk, and went home to their families at night, content of their job and ready to do it again the next day. It was a simple yet meaningful way of living, one done by their ancestors and most likely their descendants as well. A rarity in this fast and advancing world, plagued by countless of creatures that stalked and killed men without mercy. Though that was far from their concern, after all they were protected by hunters. Men and women trained to fight against humanity's foes. Trained to protect the weak and defenseless from harms caused by others, allowing them to live peacefully.
That was why it came as a surprise to the villagers when screams of agony filled the air. Roused from their sleep the villagers went out of their homes and found that almost everything was on fire. Great flames that melted flesh with ease burned through their crops. Houses made of stone, wood, and metal were reduced to ashes and slag in seconds. Men and women alike made due with what they had and tried their best to dose the flames but when they came close to putting it out the flames returned, with twice the strength and ferocity.
In the shadows of the flames something danced. It moved under the guise of darkness, and from where it passed screams soon followed. People were found dead one after the other, and not from the flames but from large gashes that spilled bloody organs never meant to be seen beneath the moonless sky. Horror crept into their hearts and panic soon followed. The citizens screamed for help. Desperately they turned towards the hunter tasked to protect their village, and them from the being that hunted them in the darkness. Surely the hunter whose skill is beyond that of normal men could help them with their plight. They screamed, and they shouted, til their voice was hoarse, but no one came.
The citizens found the hunter dead on top of the fountain in their village, his head floating on the rippling water, his body impaled upon the spire. Above the blood stained water stood his killer, a bloodied sword in hand. There was no mistaking his features that separated him from the norm, even in the darkness of the night or the heavy smoke in the air, a tail and a pair of animal ears. An animal, a Faunus, much like the ones that tended their fields, that cut their lumbers, and mined their iron and dust. The ones that provided them such sustenance and a comfortable way of living.
With a crazed grin the Faunus faced what remained of the villagers, slitted red eyes gleaming of endless hate and fury. The shadows behind the killer moved, rippling in the air as many more men and women with animal like features appeared, each wielding a weapon that promised violence. Those that answered the killers call, they who were ignored by justice. The villagers were not allowed to even scream in terror til they knew nothing more.
The next day the headlines were the same for all the new stations across the Kingdoms. An entire village under the protection of a great company, burned to the ground by a group of Faunus, it was the first of many attacks and razing that soon followed.
Then all of a sudden, everyone cared.
The public enraged by such a violent unprovoked act cried out for justice, for vengeance, for blood. Men and women from the many kingdoms of Remnant cried out for the kingdoms to do something to combat the threat of the Faunus. Ignorance strengthened by fear demanded an exile or complete subjugation of the subhuman species, some even calling for extermination liking them to the Grimm. Many would argue, many would fight, and it was all but certain that the news of the Faunus attacks stayed in the forefront of the minds of man.
The governing bodies of the world eventually complied with the will of its people. Politicians stuck to what they do best and slunk in the background, mouths preaching peace and diplomacy, eyes and mind set on the idea of murder. Weapons gathered, sold, and given to able arms instructed to kill. Defenses, raised while shadows gathered whispers behind grand walls. Armies gathered, briefed, ordered. and soon after offensives were mounted, attack upon attack, both sides responding in kind, as the whole world was engulfed in another massive conflict.
Able bodied men and women, and even hunters were armed and sent to capture and apprehend all Faunus, an entire sentient species that lived along side them since the earliest days of yore. Friends became foe. Families split. Eventually people were killed, and streets were stained with blood. History repeated itself once more, violence begets more violence, and through fear and ignorance, the third great conflict spread through the lands of Remnant.
The Third Great War.
Days pass, seasons changes, but war stayed loyal and true. For no matter the time, war never changes. People fought for their beliefs, killed for it, and died defending it to the end. And like the wars before it, The Third Great War, was defined by battles of people who fought for their beliefs and for what was right. Acts of violence and cunning romanticized and immortalized, through the choices and paths taken by people that would soon be called the heroes and villains of this war.
But even the most brilliant lights eventually flicker and die.
A castle crumbled and burned upon the cold autumn air. An entire city torched and immolated by bright flames. A hundred thousand already dead. The number rising steadily as two sides clashed for supremacy in the burning heart of the desert lands.
Two titans battled in the midst of the burning city. One man- a hunter bold and true, blue eyes filled with endless conviction, the other a beast- feral and wild, filled with endless rage, reflected upon cruel pools of burning crimson. Yet for whatever difference they had, be it race, belief, or appearance, the two shared one thing in common. They were of a special breed. Those of a chosen few who transcends the boundaries set by men to become something more than human-or something entirely less. And so with power that only a few possessed, they clashed.
A man bathed in golden light flashed throughout the battlefield, leaving searing gouges of earth upon his wake. A speed unmatched by all others, a realm upon it own, where the light went, death followed soon after. Many Faunus would attest to that. Yet where many had fallen one stood tall, blows that killed thousands of his kin he withstood, an armour of darkness upon his frame -pitch black mixed with wisps of red, deflecting the attacks with some difficulty. Where the light touched, burned, but where the darkness the faunus possessed reached disintegrated leaving not even ash and dust.
It was a match of speed and cunning against strength and endurance. Plans upon plans, foiled by gambits thought up on the spot. Peerless speed countered by beastly instinct and experience. Glancing blows that would send buildings of steel crumbling was scoffed at while killing blows that would end the lives of hundreds were matched blow per blow or endured upon contact. Men, women, and beasts died, buildings crumbled and fell, and like the fire that surrounded them rages on, the two fought with no end in sight, a battle worth of song and praise.
Yet while the two titans fought in a raging storm of death and destruction, the world did not remain idle. For war reaches far and wide, and the desert lands was but a small part of the whole. In the shadows created by the light of men, serpents moved, plotting, and planning, readying their selves to sink their teeth upon the flesh of men.
In the budding Kingdom of Beasts, a siege was at hand. Soldiers and hunters of great renown and experience fought against beasts of great strength. What was once a small piece of land for exile, turned into a great keep for the Faun. It was a city they built with their own hands, a kingdom from a pile of rumble turned into a power, a place they called home, and they will lay their lives to protect from the cruelties of men and their machinations. A great forest was their battlefield, stealth and cunning, the keys to victory, and in the dark of night where the eyes of beasts shined brightly, men fell, spilling crimson down upon the rich earth. It was here in the chaos that a white serpent found its home.
Two houses of great power and history clashed in a bustling technological metropolis. Historical slights and blood feuds backed by a difference in beliefs set forth a conflict that was yeas in the making. Students of the wise, brothers in all but name, together the two houses were unbeatable but apart and brought against each other, it was a catastrophe waiting to unfold. In the midst of the Third Great War, civil war erupted in the land, a power struggle between two houses fueled by the greed and ambition of men. Understanding and empathy were cast aside, as friends and families marched the streets baring arms of steel and dusts of power. Crimson stained the streets as violence filled the air. The war against the Faunus forgotten, as men went against men, all the while a silver serpent slithered in the shadows, dark eyes shifting into red ones full of cunning and ambition.
Remnants of a forgotten Kingdom surged in the fires of war. In a patch of land they built their forces, armed and deadly, and ready to strike the very heart of the kingdom that bested them, forgetting that it was at the time of great conflict that heroes made themselves known. So it was there in a small island that a budding revolution was torched to the ground. A group of four, huntsman and huntresses anew, battled and bested the Mad Witch of the Old Kingdom, slaying her in mortal combat and scattering her ashes upon the seas, unknowing of a black serpent watches from a far before burrowing itself deep beneath the earth.
All the while, war rages on.
And when they are gone..
In the swamps of a Kingdom, the ash and dust that filled the air was only overshadowed by the magnitude of screams of pain and the despairing amount of negative emotions that came from hundreds of hundreds dying with each passing second. Deadly hunters and disciplined soldiers against bloodthirsty and feral Faunus. Man against beast. A clash that showed the strength and tenacity of both sides, while also highlighting the sheer brutality and cruelty of each passing act. Men decapitating mighty beasts with expert strokes in an effort to shift morale, their animal brethren carving out still beating hearts in a show of strength. The list went on and on, each act becoming more depraved and even more violent, and eventually the sheer amount of blood that was spilled along with the festering malice within all their hearts summoned forth a great calamity.
Negativity called upon it, and it answered the call.
A sleeping giant woke.
It rose from the depths of the earth, and was as large as a mountain or two, its rough scaled skin black as night, in its maw stood sharp jagged teeth the size of sky scrapers, and its eyes, cold and soulless red eyes that sucked heat and life wherever it looked, halting the battlefield with but a glare. From its skin grew forth cancerous amalgamations, tinier perversions of nature in the form of drakes with white skin and masks, red eyes, and a cruel, cruel smiling mouth with jagged teeth. A mocking face that to many was the last thing they ever see.
And then it roared, blasting the battlefield with a breath of death.
Human and Faunus alike died by the thousands, incinerated by the full force of the creature's mighty roar. Those that survived were torn to shreds by smiling maws, crunched and shredded limb from limbs til only mangled heaps of flesh remained. The cruel battlefield turned full slaughter, a butchering of all beings that possessed souls. Lambs brought to slaughter by a deadlier predator.
Not a single person left that cursed place alive.
All around the world, in each continent, in every war torn battlefield, similar scenes soon followed. At the height of their blood lust, when the hate in their heart and the madness in their minds were at their peak both humans and faunus alike brought forth calamity to the world. Grimm of old that existed in only myths and legends, beasts that devoured continents and lay waste to civilizations, monsters that slept through the changing of seasons, awoke, and with cruelty befitting only to soulless beings they brought forth destruction killing millions in the span of a day. The numbers would only rise as the days pass by. It was a perverse method for obtaining peace. For it was with the rise of this calamity that the war was forced to stop. A ceasefire on all sides caused by tragedy made possible by Grimm and death and the foolishness of men.
...darkness will return.
In a large valley, overlooking a great plain, the fate of a kingdom hangs on the balance.
For death marched throughout the horizon. A sea of pitch black creatures armored in white and lined in blood. Monstrous creatures of all sizes, violence incarnate, killer of men, creatures of Grimm. Grimm that overshadowed the earth with sheer size and strength. And they massed throughout the great plain bringing forth devastation in their wake. Packs of Beowulves numbering hundreds sliced and tore indiscriminately, led by savage Alphas thrice the size of a mortal man. Ursae Minor and Major smashed and battered, froths of red foaming in their mouths, side by side with Boarbatusks looking as equally feral. Goliaths the size of a Ironhides stomped and crushed, causing the earth to tremble, beneath it, burrowed deep beneath the earth Deathstalkers led by Bloodsoaked Scorpios, swarmed underground. Behemoths of old covered in furs of black and plated of bone, stood taller than the Goliaths, massive figures that killed with their roars and pulverized all with their grotesque arms. Above them flew a legion of winged creatures. Nevermores, Griffons, Tyrant Scales, Deathwings, all flew as one. A Great Garuda the size of an entire mountain range leading the murder. It was a size unseen since the age of Grimm, before the long winter and the first huntress. Yet their force was undoubted, and numbers was great, so great in fact that they blotted out the sun and covered the horizon.
Ten well defended and garrisoned outer cities and countless hamlets, outposts, and villages already fell to their march. A legion numbering near a million that left destruction and more than a million cold bodies upon its wake. Cruel creatures with one purpose engraved upon their very being, all charging towards the heart of a Kingdom.
The very foundation of the world shook with each passing second, as men and women, faunus and human alike, armed with tools of death and empowered by dust and aura, stood side by side. Their features a mask of grim determination, and acceptance, of the inevitability that they all faced that day. Yet they did not falter, nor did they fall. Determination and defiance flowed through their very veins.
For even in the face of such an encroaching number of enemies they stood tall. Heroes through and through.
They were the greatest hunters of this generation. Men and woman venerated and honoured through acts of valour, bravery, and unparalleled skill of arms. They were the strongest of the strong. The greatest of the great. And within their hearts of hearts their purpose stood strong. They were the shields of the kingdom. The last line of defence against the enemy and their loved ones. For this they must stand strong and fight back against the darkness.
So, you may prepare your guardians
In an instant the valley was filled with black monsters.
Like the thunder in the sky, the valley boomed. Murderous caws and roars from the great host, shook the land, it was a roar of battle, comparable to a charge of war, and the two sides clashed. The deadly march, met by a brick wall of pure resistance. Defiance and will of men given form, as the strongest of the strong stood against their deadly advance.
At the heart of chaos a hunter with white hair laughed, handsome features marred by scars and an eye patch, a disability that did not deter his skill of arms. He exuded an aura of confidence, matched only by the power he possessed. In his right hand he held a spear. Midnight black and full of power. Where he pointed, death followed, as black lightning cut swathes and swathes of approaching monsters. He continued laughing as he left smocking bodies upon his path. Beside him a woman of beauty, elegance, and deadliness. A humble figure compared to the boisterous man. In her hand she held a green guandao, deadly and true. With thrusts and cuts, she broke through enemy lines, tearing limb from limb with expert strokes, until the beautiful green blade turned red with blood, all the while her bright pink eyes shined with mirth that matched that of her companion. As one they roared and charged their enemies, their trusted companions hot on their trail. A vanguard of men and women, from the bravest houses of the kingdom, and with them they smashed through the seas of black, holding back the tide. Explosions and deadly blades raining down at the heart of chaos as Hunters died fighting against the greater foe.
A family of hunters dominated in the front lines of the battlefield. They were of the noblest birth, and of the greatest lineage. A family of kings and queens in ages gone by. Marksmen that numbered dozens aimed at the blackened sky, their hands a blur as they shot at one avian creature, at their head a red haired man with sky blue eyes, in his hand he held bolts of pure energy, that he used to smite the creatures of the sky. One by one they fell to the ground, into the hands of allies wielding swords and spears, into the hands of his younger cousin, a pale girl dressed in dark shades, a black blade made of shadows took the life of the avian creatures with each swing from her deadly blade. Though none could compare to the a maiden dressed in orange and blues. A war maiden, from the story of old. Sea green eyes stood strong against the wave of darkness, backed by the superiority of her sword. With each swing the earth cracked and crumbled. Tremors followed in her wake, burrowing creatures crushed by earth. And when the earth seized shaking a great wave of water would form and rise from the air and smash and crush her foes into oblivion. They fought against the sea of death, but the tide refused to turn.
Near the family of old kings stood a group of faunus clad in mail of gleaming silver withstood a shocking charge. Men and women, wielding large shields halting the charge of a herd of Goliath. And when it stops, it falls and dies, swords and spears cutting and stabbing through dark flesh. A group of twelve led the defense, a band of brothers and sisters, bold and true. In their hands an assortment of weapons, from swords, to spears, lances, bows. With them they slayed all matter of beings that approached them pilling up bodies upon bodies of Grimm but none could compare to their leader. At their head a young maiden of gold of hair and heart. She wore a mail of steel lined with grays and blues, and in her hand she held salvation, a golden sword that shone like the sun. A speck of light in a sea of darkness. With every cut her blade released an arc of golden light, and with its power many a Grimm died, seared through flesh and bone by blinding radiance. They were brave souls that held their ground, and tried their best to push back but the enemy was relentless.
A few paces away from the knights, stood a maiden in white. She stood alone and aloof in a key location. Her hair carried a winter hue, yet her eyes, a wonderful blue were even more cold and desolate A great staff, held in her hand. Unlike those she fought alongside with, she had no allies by her side. Her cold presence, pushing them a way. In place of huntsman and huntresses, stood creatures made of ice and snow, various constructs mimicking the form of men. In their arms they held deadly blades of pure frost that sliced through many foes. With a gesture of her hand she commanded the elements, bombarding waves upon waves of deadly Grimm with sheer brute force. And when seems that her forces were about to be overwhelmed, she tapped her staff upon the ground, and summoned an immense creature of frost and rime and death. A dragon of ice which oh so willingly brought slaughter upon its prey. It tore through the battlefield killing many, but not nearly enough.
A deadly and brutal dance were two hunters incarnate. They flashed throughout the battlefield picking upon larger beasts with skill and experience. For every prey they killed they grew stronger, for every blood they spilled they grew faster. Husband and Wife. Scythe and Swords. Hunters of Olde. The Legends of Patch, and the proud parents to future heroes. They were among the oldest that stood in the battlefield, veterans of the Third War, yet they kept up with the youth with astounding ease. Through bravery and experience they savaged the battlefield, spilling the blood of many but for every body they put down ten would replace it and their age fought against them.
Quite a distance away stood a solemn figure surrounded by darkwolves and all manners of beasts. A young woman, humble and wise yet bold. In her right hand, she held her protector, a plain white shield, a dusty old thing used in a war by her grandfather, a simple little shield with arcs of the moon, that withstood blows from the largest of Behemoths. With it she nullified killing blows, and protected allies in need. While in her left hand she held a simple sword, straight and true. She possessed no theatrics, no guns, or overwhelming powers brought by aura, but with simple strokes of her blade she made her legend, slaying many foes before its unforgiving edge. The only hunter that did not fall when death crashed upon her ranks.
It was the greatest display of the strength and will of humanity since days gone by. Men, women, faunus, fighting side by side to defeat a common foe. Yet for all the power they possessed, for no matter how many Grimm they slayed, they were slowly being pushed back. Crumbling and buckling under the monstrous force of their enemy. They were losing. For with the passing of time, and changing of seasons, the Grimm grew alongside mankind. Changing. Learning. Evolving. Growing more dangerous with each passing day, and made deadlier by the Ancient Grimm that were awoken by the war.
At the heart of the swarm of Grimm a white giant stood. Humanoid in shape, muscular in form it stood as tall as the great towers of the kingdoms, with deadly spikes of bone like protrusions growing out of its entire frame. Red intertwined with white forming savage markings upon its frame, glowing eerily with power. It was danger and death incarnate. A Grimm from a bygone era awakened in recent years. The bane of humanity. A creature only spoken in tales and legends. The Walking Calamity, that once tore through an ancient civiliaztion leaving nothing but ashes upon its wake, that to this day people still fear and dread the name Humbaba.
Humbaba the Terrible, stood before them, with a wave of one of its six arms it smashed an entire platoon of huntsmen leaving nothing but a stain of red where men and women once stood, with the other five it did the same, felling more men and women with the ease of a man squashing ants. Lightning cackled upon its frame, bullets riddled its arms, cannon fire and explosions smashed against its legs. A brave few sliced upon its flesh with blades of steel and light and death. The very elements seemed to work together as barrage after barrage of the wrath of nature smites the gigantic Grimm, as large dragon of ice sinks its maw upon its neck hoping to crush it between sharp teeth. Through it all the creature just laughs, a perverse mimicry of the human act that brought despair to those who heard it. Laughs as wounds made by deathly blows are healed and replaced with white flesh. Laughs as it grabs the dragon and breaks its back upon its knee. Laughs as it grabs a huntress and crunches down upon her in its mouth. Laughs as it releases a beam of black power from its blood stained maw, firing a blast of malicious energy that left bloodstained pulps upon its path. Laughs as it steps on men and women alike. Laughs at the futility of mans resistance, laughs as kills all before it. Laughs as Heroes and Legends, Guardians, and Maidens, all fall upon its onslaught. Underneath the hidden sun with lesser Grimm in its beck and call, it killed and killed.
At the highest point of the hill near the valley, above this group of huntsman and huntresses -that numbered many and fought for their lives- stood a single figure, a maiden draped in the finest red silks, garbed in an armor of glittering gold that shined like the sun. Long gold hair that flowed like endless rivers, porcelain like skin, a heart shaped face bearing the features that spoke of nobility and daresay divinity. An ethereal beauty, inhuman in a sense that it was so close to perfection. But those red eyes that spoke of both strength and authority also shone heavily of arrogance and superiority, imperfections that marred the beautiful face.
She was the leader of this group. She who rallied and marched the forces of the kingdoms to this doomed battle field. The general of the battlefield that stood and watched as Hunters and Grimm clashed in mortal combat. Yet it was not her beauty that made her fellow hunters respect her, - tolerate or even fear in some cases. They did not follow her to this doomed battlefield because of her allure -though her charisma did play a role in convincing others. No. What made others follow her was the sword clasped against her fist and the power that came forth from every inch of her being. Mighty energies mixed with black and red that made it hard to breath in her very prescience, a great aura that caused the faint of heart to pass, a great curtain of power that painted the blackened sky crimson with the blood of flying Grimm that burst upon the pressure of her existence.
There are good hunters, and great hunters. Born through steel and dust, tempered and strengthened by adversity, and brought to greatness by time and experience. It was they that stood beneath her, fighting and dying with each passing second. The army of determined men and women. The greatest of the great. The mightiest of hunters, made near legends by their deeds. The Heroes that every kingdom would be proud to call their own.
With a mighty wave of her deadly blade she proved her strength. Her absolute standing in the world. Black energies mixed with red smashed against the Great Humbaba disintegrating lesser Grimm with ease, and silencing its laughter, replacing it with screams of pain and agony. For with one blow three arms and half of its torso were simply blown away from existence, leaving smoking flesh and monstrous organs that had no reason to see the light of day for all to see. Yet for all the damage that was done its wounds were slowly healing, rekindling flesh and replacing lost appendages such was the strength of its regeneration that it took but a few seconds for all its wounds to heal. And at that time six pairs of monstrous red eyes met the eyes of the huntress before another wave of power smashed to the giants frame, searing of flesh and gouging out large holes upon its great body. With a loud roar it barrelled through the battlefield, ignoring hunters and fellow Grimm a like as it charged towards its new found target.
She smirked as she jumped off the hill, a king leaving her throne. With her trusted blade brimming with power in hand, she blurred and vanished in a burst of speed, unmatched by all but a few, passing her comrades like the whispering wind, and meeting the great and terrible white giant at the heart of the battlefield.
Her aura flared, blood red mixed with midnight black, as her sword clashed and held against the force of three monstrous fists. The heavens shook, the earth trembled, the battlefield brought to a lull, her smirk grew into a feral smile as she bathed the battlefield in waves and waves of pure power, lifting the hearts of her allies and planting fear into the very being of their soulless enemies. For in that very moment humanity revealed their ace, their greatest weapon against the darkness.
There are good hunters, and great hunters, and then there was her. The golden haired beauty who surpassed the trials of good hunters with ease, one who walked through and took on ascension that great hunters go through with a scoff, one who has reached the pinnacle of humanity, growing beyond. In which only she, and she alone stood. A king sitting on a golden throne a top the highest peaks, looking down on all creation. The Strongest of the Strong. The Greatest of the Great. She is the Strongest Hunter, and it was through her and those that willingly followed her, that mankind fought back against the encroaching darkness.
And thus with a mighty yell the strongest hunter clashed with the calamity of old.
Build your monuments to a so-called free world
In the second day of the great battle, help came from the west.
Shining silver, mixed with dull grey steel and white. An armada that traversed not the seas but the very heavens themselves. A dozen large ships, the latest and greatest technological breakthrough, armed to the teeth with weaponry made to kill men but now aimed at the Grimm. Beside the dozen ships were lesser vessels numbering a hundred, all armed and ready to face their great foe. It was a monument of ingenuity. Of advancement. The power of dust and technology given form, reason, and purpose.
Various assortments of dust exploded in the heavens. Natures wrath working in tandem with man made bullets felling about the Grimm of the skies. A hundred steel birds and bulls flew throughout the horizon flying, against the blackened sky, forming an aerial warfare the likes of which the world has never seen. From the very decks of the great flying ships men and women, soldiers and hunters, alike armed with various weaponry fired at the sky felling coming Grimm with steel and death. A brave few hunters were strapped with great mechanical packs on their back before they shot towards the air, flying into the black sky -to their inevitable deaths, with nothing but their weapons in their hands and steel in their hearts.
Within the captains deck of the largest ship stood an assorted collection of men and women. Pioneers and Engineers standing side by side with Headmasters, Generals, and a brave few Councilmen. At the head of it all stood a wounded man, a hunter, a general, with half of his body wrapped in blood soaked bandages. Yet his eyes was still filled with endless resolve as he barked order after orders, his men willingly following through. For a hunters job was never done, and even in the brink of death they must move on.
The silent tapping of a cane stopped by the man side alerted him of a new presence that he did not acknowledge. No words were exchanged between them, the message all but clear as their eyes silently watched the battlefield in the screens before them. They watched as the Strongest fought against the Humbaba while their birds and bulls fought in the sky for dominance. They watched as huntsmen and huntresses banded together to slay hundreds of Grimms only for thousands to take their place. They watched as people they knew and cared for were overwhelmed by a sea of black furs and white appendages, dying screams hidden by growls and roars. Familiar faces sliced off by mighty claws. Great weapons falling down from lifeless limbs. Crystal of dust scattering upon the blood soaked dirt.
And so two men of great power stood side by side. Hearts heavy with the hands they were forced to play. The wounded man looked at the councilman with them, a handsome man with long black hair. The youngest chancellor in history. A wise and cunning man that stood tall and without fear, a gentle smile upon the his face as he watched the battle from various screens upon the ships deck, beside him was his dutiful assistant a young girl jotted down words upon words in a small black ledger. When the councilman's eyes left the screens and locked with that of the wounded general, he asked the councilman for his permission, with a soft nod of his head he replied in kind, granting the wounded man the permission to use any necessary force to end the incoming threat.
The wounded man turned to to the man beside him, the Hunter clad in cloths of green who nodded in resignation. He took a deep breath and steeled his nerves, for with one command he released hell upon their foes.
Within the very depths of the great battleship, lies a great contraption. A circular cage made of steel and dust and all manners of metals and alloys far beyond the norm. It is a heart of steel. That which pumps lifeblood in the form of dust and energy. The very core and essence that allowed the ship to function. Strapped within the heart were six bodies, identical women bound and attached to the very heart with large wires strapped onto their backs, linking them to the great iron heart. A great surge of power engulfs the six women. Their bodies glowing, showing the color of their souls. They scream. They die, necessary sacrifices for a desperate miracle. The culmination of their very being, the power of their souls, taken from their bodies leaving nothing but empty husks. Their souls weaponized.
The iron heart beats and glows with power, that flowed through its veins, sending brimming energy throughout the ship, filling it with vigor and life, towards the main cannons.
From the distance the Great Garuda caws, its voice a death knell to men. With a flap of its mighty wings it formed great gusts that sent lesser Grimm and Bullheads crashing to the ground. A blur of pitch midnight black mixed with ivory white flew towards the floating armada. Its eight pairs of blood red eyes all focused on the flying ship, but before it could reach that which challenged its dominion over the skies, the ship fired. A great ball of light, kaleidoscopic in color, deadly in nature. It was the souls of six women, empowered by dust, enhanced by technology, and it engulfed the Ancient Grimm with its power, halting it in its deadly charge.
A second shot followed the first. The second light engulf and adding onto the first. The Great Garuda screeched in pain, as a second sun was born in the darkened skies. Its gigantic body falling lifelessly onto the valley below, into the sea of black where its fellow Grimm awaited.
Within the captain deck, watching along side great men and women, a serpent smiled, dark eyes flashing red.
...but take heed
The fading moonlight sky shined down onto the battlefield, the great host in the sky finally vanquished and forced back by the flying ships, of which only four remained, all badly damaged, their iron hearts beating weakly, but still hovering in the air, firing what remained of their artillery down onto the earth.
Four days has passed since the battle begun, the stench of rot and death filled the valley. The once great plain before the valley flooded red with blood and death. Dissolving bodies of grotesque and monstrous black creatures lay side by side with unmoving and dismembered bodies of great hunters.
All throughout the great war zone huntsmen and huntresses still fought, their foes still many yet slowly dwindling. Chipped and damaged weapons of steel and death, bit through flesh and bone, muscle and carapace. Desperation mixed renewed hope filled every blow. For where once was a sea of black was now reduced to a small lake. Still great in number, yet lesser in size. It was the first sign that brought hope to weary minds.
For even if they were the greatest of the great. The strongest of the strong. They knew that the odds were stacked against their favor. Twenty thousand hunters from across the world answered the call, more than a hundred thousand soldiers and volunteers from the various armies came from the west, armed with the finest armor and weaponry the kingdom has to offer followed. A Hundred and twenty thousand men and women against a host that numbered millions, huntsmen and huntresses and soldiers volunteering to a cause with the reward of certain death. It was a miracle by itself that they lasted for four days, but like their enemies their numbers were also dwindling. Defeat was inevitable, victory an illusion. Yet those still living still hoped and dreamed.
The hill overlooking the valley was cracked and broken, earth gouged by deadly attack, and here a few hunters stood, a band of men and women fighting back at their still living foes. Their expressions tired, their bodies weak, their resolve was all but shaken, but still they fought on, for the blood that has already been shed, for the promise of victory that awaited them in the light of dawn.
At the very top of the hill stood a huntsman and huntress. The Last Blood of the Old Kings fought with one arm, hand still cackling with bolts of power, as he fired onto the night sky smiting approaching Deathstalkers where they stand. The Queen of the Winter Court panted beside him, her peerless beauty now smudged with dirt and blood, while her hand grasped desperately unto her staff willing her very soul to create more walls of ice so slow their approaching death, laying beside her unconscious faunus, The Shadow clad in black mail that was once silver, the brave man that served his brave lord to the end, The Maiden with a Golden Sword that fell to The Terrible's Wrath, the man who took a blow meant for the exhausted Queen.
A white haired man stood beside a pink eyed woman. The Lord of War and The Jade Empress both injured and exhausted but still fighting on. They stood at the foot of the crumbling hill, spears and guandao drawn, fluidity and grace discarded, a mechanical and clockwork precision and force implemented as they slew dozen upon dozen of Beowulves and Ursae that approached them. They were the last two of a once great vanguard, all that remained of the bravest houses of the Kingdom.
Near them an old hunter, his wife nowhere to be found. In one hand he held the blade of his scythe, in the other he held its broken shaft. The Hunter of Old still lived to fight and hunt. He moved with blinding speeds, quickness and lethality defined. Killing one foe and another, moving at speeds matched only by a few. All the while freely bleeding from his missing leg, a pain that dulled the ache of the loss of the love of his life.
Beyond all of them, far from the foot of the hill, in the very field of blood and death, before the horde of the approaching monstrosities, fighting the good fight, stood The Hero, bold and true. With expert strokes she decapitated approaching Boarbatusks, with a bash of her shield she turned Creeps into pulps, with the strength of her soul made manifest she slew approaching Goliaths breaking their tusks with cold steel. It was a scene straight out of the legends, a lone warrior against an endless horde. Fighting against the hopeless odds.
Yet for all the body that the group of surviving hunters laid to rest, for all the creatures that they slew, many more would replace them. And with each passing second the hunters grew more tired, more weary. Strength and endurance tested to the utmost limits and then some. It was a struggle to keep on fighting, to keep living, but still they fought resigning themselves to the cruel destiny that awaited them at the break of dawn.
It was when the first ray of light peeked from the horizon that a large pillar of power erupted in the battlefield, at the very heart where the Strongest Huntress fought The Humbaba, Black intertwined with red, mixed with pure and unmatched power. It rose as far as the heavens, so pure and rich in power that it threatened to bring back the dark sky. The great pillar of power tore through all creation, ripping apart and restitching the very fabrics of reality, as those caught in the great blast of power was wiped out from existence, written off by the laws of reality. It was beyond the force of nature, beyond the will of men, above anything that the earth itself could produce, almost alien in nature but undoubtedly pure in power.
It desolated the land.
The plain full of dead bodies burst into flames, bodies flickering and vanishing from the world. The land itself seemed to scream in pain, as the bloodstained soil cracked, crumbled, and died from the calamity brought upon it. What remained of the Grimm reduced to nothingness where they stood, an indiscriminate destruction brought about by a higher force. Hunters were not exempted, as those caught in the blast faded from existence, dying from the force of the Strongest Hunter's attack.
At the heart of the pillar of power the Strongest Huntress and Humbaba stood, floating mid-air. Both beaten, both bloodied, only one standing strong. Power erupted from the Strongest's body, a force that surpassed that of humanity and neared the realm of gods. A power so strong that it caused more damage faster than the Ancient Grimm could heal, and with one mighty roar the beast knew no more, reduced to ashes that vanished in the dying wind.
A single body fell from the heavens, wounded, battered, and unconscious. She fell on the dead earth. The salted land of death that she caused, eyes closed near death. The wisps of red and black that surrounded her was the only sign of her continued existence.
The first rays of the sun shined down beneath the battlefield. The first sign of the sun since the battle began.
No one rejoiced or celebrated.
A top the crumbling hill, huntsmen and huntresses alike, stained with blood and sweat, and tears, stood in the desolated battlefield. Weapons held upon clenched fists, hollow eyes watching black furred retreating figures, and what remained of still bodies upon the dead land.
They survived, to watch the coming of day, they lived when others died. The so called winners of the fight against the creatures of destruction. Victory was in their hands, the coming day was theirs, and yet defeat hummed miserably in their hearts. It was a victory that came with a steep cost. A price too much to pay. Twenty thousand huntsmen and huntresses headed her call. The greatest this generation has to offer. With skill and arms and will of soul they pushed back the darkness, forcing it back, and scattering the great legion. Winning the day and saving the kingdom.
For the sake of a kingdom less than a thousand soldiers flew back to the west.
For the sake of victory less than a hundred hunters walked back home.
There will be no victory in strength
Pale digits shook, nervousness and shock mixed with joy and relief. Long forgotten answers to everlasting questions finally found. The search is at its end, the journey near conclusion.
There is but one path to take in the endless roads of possibilities. One paved with good intentions, but leads straight to damnation.
The golden book is closed, and put aside within her cloak, taken if not stolen from the ancient library.
Her hood was placed upon her head, hiding her face from sight, and yet even in the dark room, her red eyes, shined with determination.
A deft movement, a soft gust, the woman vanished from the room.
The lone candle flickers before the fire fades, leaving the room in darkness.
Perhaps victory is in the simpler things that you have long forgotten.
She tilted her head, curious lilac colored eyes stared at the scene before her.
It started with her Daddy and Uncle walking in the living room, but then Daddy suddenly started shaking. He then walked around really, really fast! So fast that she couldn't even follow him while he ran in circles. He was moving so fast that the floor caught fire!
Her Uncle looked so silly, when he screamed and tossed some of his special water -that Daddy and Mom said she can't drink- at the floor but it just made the fire even bigger! It went poof and piff then went boom!
The whole living room was now on fire! It was umm what was the word again that Uncle used, cool? Yup, so cool!
Daddy screamed at uncle, and then Uncle shouted back. They were using words she didn't really understand. What did crowshit asswipe and dipshit grimmhole fucker mean? Maybe she'll ask Mom later when she's feeling better.
Then all of a sudden her Daddy punched Uncle in the face! His face went whap and then went snap before he punched Daddy back! They then started hitting each other! Whap! Thwack! Cachoo! Woooow. Punching was, so cool! Even if they broke the sofa, the telly, shelves, and a table. Oh and everything was still on fire, but that was okay since fire looked so cool!
She felt a tug behind her, suddenly she was pulled up and turned around. Her face met and old wrinkly one that sometimes smelled like her Uncle. Wow, she didn't even know he was here! Yay! Grandpa!
Grandpa said something to Daddy and Uncle. They stopped punching each other -oww- and looked around the room with funny wide eyes as Grandpa took her away from the living room while Daddy and Uncle started screaming again, really what did Shit mean?
She asked Grandpa just that as they walked upstairs, towards Mom's bedroom. He said that he'll tell her when she was older. She pouted, he laughed, old and raspy yet happily, not tired like Grandpa usually was.
He put her down and told her to enter the room. She looked back at him, tilting her head to the side. Grandpa simply smiled down at her, and gently asked her to go inside. Hmm well since Grandpa was always nice to her, she'll go in without a fuss even if it meant no more fires or Uncle and Daddy punching each other. That was because Grandpa was really nice! Even gave her some candy when no one was looking! Even after Mom said she can't have any, and Mom can get really scary when she was mad. She even made Uncle and Daddy cry when they forgot to look after her. It was funny.
She went inside the room, and saw a woman she didn't know with long red standing near a window, while her Mom was sitting on the bed holding something. Mom looked really tired, but she looked so happy. The happiest she thought she's ever seen her in like forever.
Mom smiled at her and told her to come closer. Curiosity took hold and before she knew it she was standing beside the bed. Lilac eyes focused in the tiny bundle in her Mom's arms. A baby? But. But where did it come from?
Mom told her that this baby was her sister. Her baby sister. She didn't know what to think, or how to even feel about it, but when that bundle moved, and those big silver eyes looked at her she felt something melt inside her body, a thump in her chest.
That was when Daddy and Uncle suddenly came running inside the room, both smelling like smoke and pointing at each other while talking really really fast. She then remembered the words they said early, so she asked Mom what they meant. Mom suddenly froze and then smiled, but it wasn't that happy smile. No it actually looked really scary. Not that she was afraid of it, nope. She was brave! Not like her Daddy and Uncle who turned around and ran out of the room.
She felt a weight on her arms, and before she could even blink she was sitting on Mom's bed, and mom was gone. She wondered where mom went? But who cares about that? She was a sister now! A big sister! Oh her baby sister is so cute! So adorable! She could hug her like this in her arms forever and ever!
The baby was cooing and smiling and giggling, and with each moment she felt the thumping in her chest grow louder and louder, reaching its peek when curious lilac eyes met happy silver. There and then she promised that she would look after her sister no matter what happens!
She was going to be the best sister ever!
The house shook and from a far she thought she heard Daddy and Uncle scream.
Things, that require a more honest soul.
She could have said no, should have said no.
She could have passed on the offer, stayed at home to take care of her beautiful daughters, with her husband by her side and her best friend not far from him. But with a very heavy heart she left her home behind, accepting a mission that only she could accomplish. For before she was a mother, or a wife, she was a Huntress through and through, and Hunter's job is never done.
And so with her cloak clasped behind her back, her weapon clutched against her fist, she said her goodbyes and promised them that she'll come back. To the warmth of home, to the love of family. For the very thing she was hoping to protect by taking this mission.
The journey was long and perilous, across the lands, the seas, the sky. Days turned to weeks, and weeks to months. Oh how yearned to go back, to turn around and toss away her responsibilities but in the end the Hunter in her won through. This was for them. For her loved ones. Her family and friends. For Remnant itself.
It took her a year to get to her destination. To unravel the truths hidden beneath the surface, and find the path to her goal. Following trails upon trails but still moving forward, progress agonizingly slow, and when all was said and done what awaited her at the end was something beyond her comprehension.
She stood a top a small hill, eyes wide with horror. It was a hellscape like no other. Grimm lurked as far and even beyond what the eye could see. Dark crystals jutted out on the ground, parodies of human architectures, emanating malice and death. They released a miasma of black energies, gave birth to Grimm, wrongness filling and blotting out the sky. Her watch told her is was noon. The middle of the day, and yet it looked like the night sky, but filled with dread. So much dread, and wrongness. Every fiber of her very being was telling her to leave. That this was a place where no man or woman thread. Only monsters live here, and with a blinding flash of dark energies it appeared before her catching her off guard. A monster in the form of a woman, the most wicked and monstrous of them all.
She only had a moment to draw her weapon, a span of a second to use it to block a dark wave of power. She was tossed down from the hill and into a literal Sea of Grimm. Her knees buckled as she fell, a top a Creep, her aura smashing its body down to the earth. With a perfect spin she brought her weapon to bear, crimson steel made sharper by her will, cutting through dark furred flesh. Six Beowulves plated in armor of white and red fell lifelessly on the floor beside four Creeps the size of a car. Her white cape billowed in the sea of darkness, as she moved faster than she has ever had, looking for a safe haven, and method to escape while cutting through swathes of Grimm that swarmed at her from all directions, sharp and bloody maws all but wanting to sink upon her flesh.
A red skinned Lycos charged at her from her side. Larger than a Beowulf, twice the size of an Ursa. Lithe and long it moved like a predator. Deadly. Feral. Just a scant more years into becoming Ancient. It was a Grimm known to kill squads of hunters with ease. Silver eyes glowed in the sea of death, the crimson steel of her sword turned pure white.
-Swish.
It was a feet beyond all imagination. Three swings made so fast that they occurred at the same time. And so one blade became three. All sharp. All deadly. All aimed at the feral beast. White blade bypassed artillery resistant skin with ease. Blood was already spraying before the beast even knew what hit it, it fell, cut in to three.
With a mighty yell she continued on her warpath. Silver eyes desperately looking for even the tiniest of opportunities to escape. Kill more Grimm and hope to reach the shore that awaited in the other end of the Sea? Not possible when her enemies seemed near endless, she already lost her cape, and whatever supplies of Dust she brought was running low. She already stopped counting after the hundredth Grimm that she slayed but more seemed to come, the enemy was endless. She could climb back up the hill and face that creature. Beat it, kill it, even trick it if it meant that she could run back home, but that would leave her open to the crawling monstrosities of the earth, and the hill was too high for her to traverse on foot alone.
Yet as she slayed as a Deathstalker, splitting it two with a single stroke, her mind betrayed her. It showed the obvious end that awaited her. This is where she will die. This is where she will fall, and scatter, and fade. She will not see the smile of her husband, or laugh at the childish theatrics of her friend, nor will she her children, the two who she loved above all.
Not today.
She found her salvation in the form of death. A murders Nevermore diving from the air. She grinned and timed it perfectly. With a burst of speed she jumped unto the diving Nevermore, it mads caws lost upon her ear as she ran her weapon through the length of its body, severing it in two and then jumping off of it and landing unto another. White petals mixed with Grimm blood highlighted the dark sky as she ran in the air jumping from one body to the next before landing a top the hill where her foe awaited.
For a moment there was silence. Silver eyes so pure and honest meeting dark and sinister red. She then called unto it, the well spring hidden beneath the soul. A few years of her life sacrificed, given willingly in exchange of power. Power that will see her surviving this day.
Her silver eyes started glowing with power, so pure and so bright that the enemy seemed to recoil upon its sight. Then she felt it, draped across her skin, hugging her body, White light surrounded her body, in the form of a cloak, so blinding and radiant and powerful. Power beyond the dream of mortals.
With a roar of defiance she charged at her enemy. The Crimson blade clutched firmly into her hands turned white mixed with specks of silver. Her strongest attack right off the bat. One blade became nine, and each blow smashed against her shocked adversary. Blades of pure light and power that would have even sent Ancient Grimms to their deaths desperately dug through flesh, but was blocked by an alien power that seemed to hold the blades in place, drawing black ichor and cutting through flesh and bones but going no further.
Her strongest attack stopped so easily by a superior foe. Yet she did not despair, she did not falter. For her attack provided an adequate distraction, taking away the wicked monster's focus from her, distracting it long enough to allow her to focus all her power on her legs. With a loud crack the earth beneath her feet simply vanished torn away by a great force, as she blazed away from the hill like a shooting star in the sky.
She must move fast. Faster that she has ever done, moving away from the hill, almost walking through the skies. She will not scatter, she will not fall, her will and soul will see her through, it will let her last against the darkness and escape unto the light. For she promised them that she will come back-
The air before her shimmered. Reality folded upon itself, and a dark void of eldritch power opened. From there something shot forth. A speck of black. A shaft with a pointed end. It moved so fast that she had no time to react. She could only watch in shock as it touched her cloak, watch in horror as it seemed to unravel and defy the both power of her soul and the very protective nature through which her cloak was made for.
-home.
She fell on the ground, momentum coming to a halt. Her body tumbled until it crashed against a wall of earth. Her cloak protected her from the crash, but the last of it faded into wisps of smokey white. Great power now gone leaving her feeling weak and in pain, so much pain. It embraced her whole body, a vice like grip the threatened to rob her consciousness and yet she tried to stand up, to steady herself.
She placed a hand on her chest. Red, like roses stained her hand. A black stake with veins of red impaled at the center of her chest sucking an aspect of her very being with each passing second and spilling glorious lifeblood beneath the darkened sky. She felt hazy, her mind rattled. With shaking hands she tugged, and she pulled, the sound of steel clattered in the air as the stake fell but the damage has been done.
She needed to move, yet her knees buckled, weak knees, and she fell, her back falling upon the wall.
From the void, that rippled in the air, a figure came out.
She struggled on the ground, forcing all her strength to stand up, to run, for her fam-
The monster in the form of a woman, beautiful if not for the wrongness emanating from its very being and the apathy and cruelty reflected in its eyes.
She felt weak, oh so very weak but she needed to stand, for her best friend and partner Qr-
It approached her with the stride of a predator looking down upon its struggling prey.
She felt cold, so cold, but she needed to stand, to run, for her bumbling overprotective husband Ta-.
It smiled down on her. Kind and gentle if not for the sharp and jagged teeth that lay hidden beneath it.
She felt scared, so scared, but if she cannot stand, and cannot run, then she'll fight, for the daughter of her friend, her own in all but blood Ya-
It saw her trying to reach for her weapon. The Crimson blade fallen farm from her grasp, and in act of cruel mockery it picked up her weapon and placed it on the ground, just outside of her reach.
She felt... she felt... with all her power she pushed herself off the wall, falling on all fours. She crawled on the floor, hands searching and grasping for a familiar blade.
It stood before her, a hand extended to the side, palm facing the black heavens dark energies gathering a top it. Forming, molding, taking the shape of a sword or what crudely resembled it, a pale imitation.
She felt an eternity pass in the span of a second. Lasting until her hand met cold steel. She knew what it was without seeing it. Knew every detail of it from its handle to its tip, but her mind was not on her trusted weapon.
Silver eyes stared up in defiance, meeting cruel red once more.
With power she knew she didn't have, strengthened by her flickering soul and desperation she rose from the ground, sword clutched against bloodstained fists.
She will fight! For the love of her life, her precious little one, the bright hope in this dark world, Ru-
With one final roar she charged at the enemy. A clash of steel and the arcane, a weak blow parried and batted to the side with astounding ease, a disarming stroke.
A crimson blade flew in the air cutting through the black sky.
A triumphant smirk, red eyes full of cruel mirth, a blade of ethereal darkness pierced flesh and bone, scattering red on the cold and barren ground.
A face flashes in her mind, a heartwarming smile and beautiful silver eyes.
-by
Atop a bed of roses, a lifeless body fell on to the earth.
Though in the end an honest soul can only take you so far.
The broken moon hung ominously in the night sky.
A young boy stood in the ruins of a village, a hundred cooling bodies strewn like leaves upon a chilly Fall morn. Blood and gore stained the streets. Men, women, children, all dead, shattered and killed not by Grimm but by bloodstained hands.
Conflicted blue eyes stared unto tiny digits, fingers balled into fists which was caked with blood and iron. What was this? What was it he felt? He was told after all the tasks and trials that he underwent through that he should feel happy. That he should feel joy for ending the lives of their oppressors. One man killed means another of their kind would live. That they would not have to suffer for the pains of being oppressed, of being hated, by the cruel human masses.
A voice echoes in his mind, soft, gentle, yet powerful.
It is for a good cause, a noble cause, a necessary sacrifice to create a paradise for Faunus, and for that Humans must die. Our brothers and sisters they enslave, our homes they have taken. Our kindness they have repaid with hate our charity they have taken for granted. The time for peace is at an end, for us to continue to survive they must perish. They must fall!
Then why did he feel so horrible? All his life he had been told that this was the absolute truth. That it was a code that he must live by, that it must be done not because it was order but simply because it was right. Then why did this feel so wrong? What made this different from all the other places they have attacked? What made it so that he felt his chest hurt and throb in pain? Why? Why? WHY?
A hand touched his shoulder.
In his shock he lashed out, the rattling of steel in the fore front of his mind, ready to rip and tear, and kill. However before it could manifest, before it could draw blood, he felt their presence -their Aura. The calming fragrance of petals drifting in the air, joined by sizzling and booming of a distant bolt of lightning. Allies. Friends. Do not kill. Do not kill.
Words left their mouth but it did not reach his ears. He did not hear his allies approach him and for that he would be punished. He could already feel the reproachful gaze of his Master staring at his back, afar and aloof yet everpresent and always watching. He would be punished for letting his guard down a costly mistake that can not be afforded in the days that is to come. He knew of his punishment, he could already feel his stomach pang in pains of hunger and his body throb beneath cold steel. It was to make him stronger, to remind him of the noble cause.
A gentle hand clasped against his own. Soft, warm, and comforting. He need not see her face to know of the worried look upon her face as she slowly dragged him away from the slaughter that he caused.
Dawn was fast approaching, and this was but the first of the many place they must go. There was no room for errors or mistakes. Everything they did was for the sake of the continued survival of their race, but as they walked away he couldn't help but think back upon the sight of bloody hands.
If he was doing the right thing, if this was all for a noble cause, then why oh why did he feel so bad?
Why?
Innocence easily tarnished, tainted, lost.
In the Island of Menagerie, a top a stage of wood and concrete, The King of Beasts stood before the nation.
An entire Kingdom built by their very hands made infinitely better by brilliant minds that turned a useless pile of earth into budding metropolis that rivaled the other kingdoms. Autonomous and independent in nature, it was a safe haven for their kind, away from the cruelty of men. The pride, the pack. Their people survived the Third Great War, withstood the Grimm Incursion. Trial upon trials, one adversity after another, they withstood, endured. Made strongest by hardship. Made better by their resolve. Their will ironclad. Unbowed. Unbent. Unbroken.
Slitted red eyes scanned the crowed assembled. The people of this very nation, standing tall. Fifty thousand strong, men and women, willing to die and to fight for the cause. For coexistence was but a pipe dream. Peaceful resolutions tossed aside and ignored by human prejudice made stronger by their greed. Even now men raided their island, capturing their kind and selling them off to a life of slavery, a life of servitude. For they were stronger, faster, better. Perfect able body for deadly jobs be it fighting Grimm or mining volatile Dust.
No more. No more.
The night was fast approaching. The incursion was a proof of that, the end was inevitable but not entirely hopeless. For they will Endure, as they have, as they always will. And one day when mankind is teetering over the edge of damnation brought by the Grimm or their own hands, they will stand tall.
They will see the coming Dawn.
With a snap of a finger four men were brought out, bound and gagged and forced on their knees. Slavers. Scums. Humans, made worse by the insignia upon their tattered clothes, a blue snow flake that symbolized oppression at its finest.
Words leave the King's mouth humanity's crimes mixed with, a proclamation of plans and goal. The needs of the nation brought bare to those that stood witness. Their enemy beyond the Grimm made even more clear.
The crowd roared and hollered, tossing rocks and all manner of things at the slavers, causing pain, drawing blood. Among the crowd stood a youth with red hair and small horns, with teary eyes full of hate, he screamed, beside him several other children, the next generation all victims by the cruelty of slavers and the evils of men. They screamed for the death of men. The death of their oppressors.
The King stands before its audience, one hand raised to the heavens, with a swift gesture a youth comes into the stage. Black of hair, red of eyes, a faunus of the avian kind. In his hand he held a blood red sword. Justice and vengeance intertwined then materialized. He knelt down on one knee and presented the sword to the Sovereign. A gesture returned with a kind smile, and a pat on the head, as the sword was passed from one hand to the other.
Four men are brought to their knees, prostrated. The back of their necks open to the heavens. The King held the blade, red eyes full of apathy, with one deft swing each four heads rolled a top the stage. Dead at the hands of a monarch, for it is the King that must pass judgement on their enemies, less they forget the finality that awaited in the end. Less they forget what death truly is. And so in the island of Menagerie, a promise was made by a King, proclaimed to the people of the nation as four bodes were left to rot. They shall survive the night, through force and will they shall crush all that stands before their path, humanity will fall and the Faunus shall rule the land!
The crowd cheered for their King's actions! Their cries of joy and cheer palpable in the air! Truly a joyous occasion for all!
A top the stage behind the King and the corpses, an assortment of men and women stood. The Great General of the Third War, with eyes with flecks of gold looked on with stark approval. Beside him his fellow general stood, a sharp mind hidden by a lazy disposition clapped with unheard of enthusiasm. The members of the Band of Nine, warriors of faunus kind without peer that killed thousands looked on with begrudging respect. The Warhawk whisperer kept a neutral face as he stood side by side with the nation's most brilliant mind, the White Serpent whose chilling smile could kill lesser men, both were scheming, and plotting, all for the sake of their goals.
For the good of the Kingdom, for the coming Dawn.
And with a corrupted soul, victory is at hand.
You are seven and you live a happy and life. You live with you mother and father, both hunters both heroes. Your family lives in a small manor in the middle of the woods, a villa from your father's side of the family.
It was here that you spent your childhood, learning, playing, and training, a warm and loving family by your side. You wanted nothing more than to live life and grow with them by your side.
Then Death came to your home.
It took your father. Battled him in mortal combat. You saw flashes of steel and dust tossed around. The Magnificent Lionheart clasped in your father's fists, the ancient blade was bravery and will defined. The treasure of your family since time immemorial. You watched helplessly as your mother pulls you away. You watch through tear filled eyes as the blade is snapped in two. Watch as a hand plunged through your father's chest, the broken Lionheart falling from his hand. His heart pulled out and crushed in pale white hands. Your father's brave and honest silver eyes now clouded and unseeing.
That was the last you saw of him before his body was burned to ashes and scattered in the wind.
You were running in the forest surrounding your home. You feel the night air upon your skin. You see the crumbling moon in the sky. Behind you a pyre. Your home was on fire. Your mother was crying. You were crying. Reality coming to a halt. Your father was dead. You would never see him again.
A cold chill crept up on your spine, cruel laughter filled the air.
Your mother stopped running. You are in the middle of a small clearing near the borders of your family's home. She turns around and place you behind her, her hands move and you see that she pulled out her weapon, a pink spear, straight and true, the Bloodstained Willow.
She tells you to run. To hide. To live!
The cruel laughter got louder.
Before you could say anything or do as she said, Death enters the clearing.
Your mother leaves your side. It was too fast for your eyes to follow. Sparks caused by fast clashing of weapons filled the air. You see flashes of blinding light, glimmers of red battling overwhelming green.
In a burst of speed your mother stands before you, roaring in rage. You recoil in fear. She swings the weapon at you. Far too fast for you to see. You feel the force of the blow, a strong gust blowing on you. She hits something that was standing behind you -death was behind you- before she vanished once more in a cloud of dust. The sparks resume their dance. It was like the fire works in the sky, so bright yet never lasting.
Then everything comes to a stop.
You see mother injured, bleeding. You see death, smiling, standing tall. You see a flash of green headed towards your direction. Your mother suddenly appears in front of you. Her soul flares, power manifests. Rich and warm red hues that flooded the clearing as she stood before you and the sickly green light.
Your mother's spear was spinning in her hands. It was fast so fast that it looked like a circle of red appeared in front of her. A shield you realize. A shield to protect you and her from whatever was coming.
Green meets red.
And for a moment. Just a moment you though it was going to hold. That your mom was going to protect the two of you, and then she was going to fight again and win. Then her spear snaps in two. Her shield broken. The light lands on her chest. Her torso explodes.
Red stains your face.
You see a kind and warm smile. Loving green eyes. The warmth a mother's touch, of her love. It was now cold. Lifeless. Dead. For Death stalked the halls of your home, chased and hunted your family.
You felt your legs giving out as you fall on our knees. You crawl. Your hands clutched a cooling hand, eyes staring at vacant green.
You hear cruel laughter, as you finally look at it, Death clad in black that hid all but a pair of blood red eyes and a cruel oh so cruel smile.
A pale finger points at you, and from there a green light forms.
A flash of green.
A white light.
You scream.
Emerald green eyes with specks of silver open, the body of a young man quickly rises from comfortable sheets, a hand extended to the ceiling, reaching and grasping for nothing, as his body heaves and shakes. It took him a full minute to come back to his sense, to calm down. A look at the weapon -Serpent Slayer- that rested by his bed was both calming and reassuring. Above where his weapon stood, rested a clock that told him that it was too early to be awake. Yet he knew for a fact that sleep would no longer come so easy. A lost cause if he ever knew one.
There was a sharp knock on the door to his room, followed by familiar worried female voices. Now sleep would truly be impossible.
The young man lets out a tired sigh as he shakes his head. They should know better than to worry about him when he was having one of his nightly fits. They knew what it was about. It was a dream, a nightmare, made real by the events of a long distant past. A memory that defined him, molded him into the young man he was today, but to them -to his friends- it was a constant reminder of the bleak realities and tragedies that people suffer in this cruel world. They really worry too much.
With one hand he reached for a pair of glasses near the clock and puts in on, with the other he grabs his trusty weapon the dust based canesword held firmly in the palm of his hand, as he slowly left the comfort of bed and welcomed the cold air with a mighty yawn. With a few steps the door to his room was opened and before it stood his closest friends. A messy nest of white went hand in hand with bushy brown, two sets of intelligent eyes, one gold the other brown, lock with tired green.
The Heir to the House of Black of Grimmhold simply smiled and cracked an inappropriate joke as they fussed over him. The slaps that came after wards for seeing their flushed faces was worth it. He bade them a good morning, told them to go back to sleep, as he started his day. After all today was a big day. In a few hours, when the light of the sun shines down on Remnant, he would be one step closer to achieving his dream.
Two heroes, his parents, smiled within his mind, but in the shadows of their memories he sees eyes of red, and hears the cruel laughter.
The grip on his cane sword tightened as he left his room.
A step closer to becoming a Hunter.
But that is why the world needs them, those that know of the horrors of the world.
How long has it been since this journey started?
The dull thrum of a motorcycle reverberates deep within a forest. A stream of whites and silver. A blur of speed that surpassed many limits contrasted the red leaves of the surrounding trees.
Atop the great steed rode a hunter, white of hair and grey of eyes, clad in tattered blue cloth and black leathers, a quiver and a sword resting on the back. The hunter rode with speed and purpose. A single goal in mind. There was nothing that stood before a hunter and its mission. For a hunter's job is never done.
The hunter reached the end of the forest, passing by all the red to see a mountain range of grey from a top a cliff. The hunter unmounted, the mighty steed left behind as dark boot meets hard earth while gloved hands clutch cold steel. The residents of the previous village pointed the hunter to this direction. A desperate plea and call for help after a few good men and women lost their lives in a fight against raiders.
Steel grey eyes that was once silver stared at the distance. Beneath the cliff a few kilometers away, an outpost, almost a small village in a way. Bandits. Thieves. Rapists. Murderers. They who pillaged and killed from the kind good people of that small village, and now in the smoking outpost they were being attacked by the Grimm.
The Hunter's eyes narrowed, plans formed in the mind taking into account the variables at hand. A pack of Beowulves, two dozen, led by an Alpha. Thirty bandits, armed and fighting desperately. Accepted. Ten bandits dead, ripped apart by sharp claws. Irrelevant.
The great sword in hand splits into two smaller blades, which then forms a bow. A swift motion found five arrows pulled from the quiver and notched unto the great bow.
Red Dust Crystal Tipped. Self Cut. Pure. Volatile. Dangerous.
Distance 4.5 km. Wind Speed 2.5 km/h. Accounting other factors. Gravity. Flight Path. Aura Application. Rate of Success 100%.
The hunter's aura flared, wisps of blue mixed with white.
The crystal arrow heads glowed, crimson like blood.
-t'chi
Five red stars fell from the heavens, streaks of crimson in the air.
They smashed into the outpost, breaking wood and stone, until they met their target. Red tipped arrows digging into black furred flesh, one at the head of the Alpha the other four in the middle of separate parts of the pack.
-Boom
Explosions. Blinding red light followed by thick white smoke. Pure destruction in the form of five arrows of dust and aura. When the smoke is blown away by the wind, the Grimm are simply gone, black ashes upon scorched earth.
Grey eyes watched the Bandits -fifteen survivors, injured but well. There was a moment of calmness, of shock from the surviving bandits, shock that soon turned to joy. Bright smiles upon their faces as their cheered for their unseen savior.
To fight and protect. To do what is necessary.
The Hunter's heart grew cold. Grey eyes, apathetic. Another arrow is notched, loaded, and ready.
A regular arrow. Steel tipped. Newly crafted. Aerodynamic. Deadly. Variables are near similar. Rate of Success still a perfect hundred.
-t'chi
The arrow flies and lands in the middle of a bandit's forehead spilling out grey matter as the body fell. The cheer vanished and was quickly replaced by shock and horror. By then another arrow flew striking a large bandit in the chest. Shot to the heart. Dead. Another body falls before the other bandits regain their wits.
They tried to run, they tried to hide, but every time the hunter fired, a bandit died, fifteen arrows for fifteen bodies. Not a single shot missed.
The Hunter stopped when the last body bandit died, a bitter smile upon a beautiful face. It was a cruel joke, for one who wanted to be a hero, to fight Grimm and save lives and to make everyone happy. For it is not only the Grimm, that Hunters kill. A hunter is a killer, not a hero. Never a hero. A weapon trained and raised to slay the enemy. A hunter hunts and kills, saving lives are but a by product of acts of murder. The lives saved, but a cold comfort for the lives taken.
The hunter, stood in silence, the bow turned to sword, and quickly sheathed. The burning outpost reflected upon pools of steel grey. The hunter turned back and mounted the bike, the silver steed, with a soft hum the engines started. A trail of smoke, a gust of wind, the hunter left the cliff. The journey restarted a new. Remnant is a very large place, full of life and wonder, and Grimm and death.
There were still many people to meet, missions to be done, and promises that needed to be kept.
For a hunter's job is never done. It never ends.
Men and women who faced great adversity. They who drowned in sins and sorrow, yet did not falter and did not fall.
Beneath the vast expanse of the dark sky, a large forest stood. A gust of wind, a soft murmur, caused the leaves to dance in the trees, a symphony of rustling leaves. Leaves of black -not green, that fell with the wind scattered across the forest, melding into the darkness of the forest's shadow. There was an absolute stillness in the forest. Nightly creatures refused to chirp or caw. Nocturnal Grimm were nowhere in sight. It was as if the forest was bereft of life.
A peaceful equilibrium, an unnatural homeostasis. A small time peace, soon broken by soft footsteps from the shadows of the forest.
Shadows moved underneath the crimson moon and across the large forest. Beings hidden by leaves cloaked by darkness. They moved independently, a single shadow a head and far from a larger group. A mad chase in the darkness. They were but blurs to the eyes of normal men, ghosts that skidded and jumped along branches of trees, ethereal spirits that hunted and killed in a forest of death. Yet that night the shadows' prey were no mere man or Grimm. The shadows hunted one of their own.
Shadows after shadows. Ten against one. A game of life and death in black leafed woods. One shadow ran, a traitor to the cause. Such transgressions cannot be allowed. The larger group sent to apprehend the traitor. The smaller shadow must be captured, and returned to the capital. There they will fix him, make him better, bring him to what he was before. To be one with the shadows once more.
With blinding speeds they moved. Soft thuds, gleaming silver blades, and small sparks, were the only proof of the battle in the shadows.
For even if they are embraced by darkness.
A body shot out of the forest and into a lake beneath a large valley, a small body of water that lead to the great sea. It twisted in the air and landed crouched upon a cold surface, water sprayed against the small frame, the cold easily ignored. Feet parted, aura strong, the body did not sink beneath the water but instead stood strong.
A white porcelain mask on the face, a black cloak and hood, a small silver blade, drawn and held in one hand. The shadow that stood on top of the lake looked no different than those its pursuers, one of which flew out of the forest and landed on the lake's surface with out making a splash.
Five of the pursuers has already fallen, knocked out by punches to the face. The other four tricked and trapped, lost in the ever-changing forest of black leaves. Only one other shadow remained. The last obstacle that must be surpassed. Brother turned enemy, friend now foe.
A second trickles, power flows and fills their frames. An aura of blue and an aura of red, polar opposites in every way shape or form.
Beneath their porcelain masks their eyes meet.
The lake explodes as the two shoot out of their respective places and exchange a flurry of strikes and blows. Their silver blades sliced through the air, white sparks accompanied the clanging of steel. A brutal punch, a deadly kick, all attack aimed to maim and kill. There was no holding back. Restraint tossed away, cast aside in fear of loss, in fear of failure. There will only be one victor. Defeat was not an option.
They fought for a few minutes atop the lake. A deadly exchange that was not flowery, graceful, or fluid like a dance nor wild and chaotic like a brawl. Just the strength and elegance that came with pure efficiency in the art of murder.
The melee was ended by a dazzling blue light of power. It erupted from one of the shadows, sparks of blue turning to purple. The force of nature manipulated and used by mortal hands. Lightning concentrated upon a fist, chirping like a thousand birds, it cackled, and then roared. Streaks of blue and white left an open palm, devastation and death to all it touches.
A gloved hand extended towards the bolt of power. A rattling noise rivaled the roar of nature. The deadly bolt met a wall of red, intertwined chains of crimson, harder than steel, molded by the strength of soul. Defiance given form. The shield of chains shook, faltered, but it did not break, it did not fall.
The exchange lasted for less than a second, for when the lightning stopped and the shield faded away, the two shadows were already in motion. Their auras flared and in a flurry of motion dozens of dozen of attacks were exchanged. Sparks of lightning that can kill huntsmen deflected by bloody chains. Deadly chains meant to strangle, crush, and tear, blocked by bolts of power or evaded with parting blows.
Aura flared and used with stunning efficiency. Poetry in motion, brought to an end by a final charge. Two shadows ran towards the other, in their hands amassed pure aura. A fistful of deadly blue lightning. A red sphere of power. They met and clashed in the middle of the lake. Blue mixes with red, two souls battled against one another as a dome of black surrounded their entire being.
There was flash of light, so bright that it engulfed black, the lake beneath the two simply vanished, destroyed by a blast of pure power. When the dome receded two bodies fell a top the smoking lake, their masks cracks, cloaks are torn, hoods blown away, their bodies smoked, batted and injured. Yet one stood tall while the other lay unconscious on the ground.
The victors mask splits in two and revealed the face of a child. A boy of ten and change, with whiskers upon cheeks, blue of eyes full of sadness, and a head gold, spiky hair matted down by water. The boy smiled sadly as he stood above a slightly older boy with black hair. A brother in all but blood. A friend and ally turned enemy by choice.
For in the battle between two shadows only one emerged victorious. The Traitor, that disobeyed the will of his King, the young shadow that turned his back to his kingdom.
They possess
It happened in an instant. The shadows moved and shot out of the forest taking advantage of an obvious opening. Four blades feasts upon the traitors flesh. Blue eyes widened, the boy's body staggered back. Silver blades bathed red stabbed throughout his torso and back.
Blank masks. Unfamiliar faces. Enemies.
With smooth mechanical precision the four shadows pulled out their blades.
The young shadow fell to his knees, hands a top his wounds. Muffled words came from blank masks, yet they were drowned out by a sea of static. A shadow took his friend's body, and they vanished back into the forest. Yet that was ignored in place of the obvious problem. Pain. Pain. So much pain.
The boy clutched his chest, his eyes alight in panic, and from the forest, full of dark dead leaves, where the shadow took his friend, he sees a pair of golden eyes. Beyond the pain of his wounds the boy feels old scars throb. Conditioning. Rip. Restriction. Tear. Experimentation. Kill. All for a good cause. A Sad smile and Lifeless eyes. All for a noble cause. Bloodstained hands. For Menagerie! The King with Slitted Red Eyes. The Kingdom of Beasts!
The boy closed his eyes, tears streaming down whiskered cheeks.
Bloody fists clenched upon open wounds.
No.
Never again.
NEVER AGAIN!
The boy gritted his teeth and rose from his spot, the taste of iron filled his mouth. He felt no regret for his betrayal. No acceptance for his inevitable fate. He will not die. He will not fall. His eyes opened and stared at blank masks, tears all but faded away. Blue eyes of pure will and pure and utter defiance. So great of a will that it forced the shadows to take a step back, intimidated by pure will.
Within the depths of the boy's soul, the well spring of creation, the culmination of his very being, a tight chain rattles, and loosens. From the tiny frame of a boy, a great amount of Aura surged. Great waves of pure power, Blood red that ran freely turns to wisps of pure gold whilst deadly mortal wounds caused by silver blades are slowly healed by the power of his soul.
With a defiant roar that shook the heavens, with foolishness backed by bravery, a defiant and everstrong aura at his beck and call, fists ablaze in power, the boy took the first true step of the long journey ahead of him, and charged at his surrounding enemies, a shining star within the realm of darkness and shadows.
The Brightest Souls.
AN: Welp that happened. Originally written as a quest meant for either SV or SB but I really have no clue about running a quest, so fuck all. This story is set at a time before Cannon, around 10 years before episode one. This is set in A Massively AU World. Where there are more Grimm. Less men and even a greater animosity Between the Human and Faunus. Ages of various characters has been changed to fit better in the timeline and the plot, and so on and so forth. With regards to the actual plot of this thing well its spoiler-ed below to those curious.
SPOILERS BELOW
The story is basically told from Three perspectives. Three separate heroes each with their own story to tell. At least for this part of the series.
Albus, The Hunter, the traveller of Remnant. The story a kin to Kino no Tabi, to those familiar with it. A very experimental fic that will try to focus more on the moral dilemmas and issues that people that live outside the walls of the Kingdom deals with. Set all over Remnant.
Hadrian, The Heir of a Noble House in a forever war with another. This story is a mix of slice and life tinged with intrigue. Conspiracies are on and about. Magic is questioned and featured in this one/ This one is mainly based on Minstral and Atlas but throughout the story Hadrian will visit many places and meet many people.
Naruto (because I couldn't come up with a better expy name), The Child in Chains, bound to a great destiny, but is in search of a different path to obtaining peace and preventing another war from starting. A story that is set in both Vale and later on the Menagerie.
At least those are the plans. Lets see if my writing is up to par, or at least good enough to convey the essences of those stories.
Well I guess that's all I wanted to say.
Thanks for reading. Leave follow or fave if you liked it, a review or two wont hurt.
Til the next time, O-U singing out.