AN: Hey Party People, this is Thirteen30Seven. I'm a new writer on the site, but I've been writing for a few years now. I hope you like this story I've written.
*Disclaimer: I do not own RWBY or any other project's related to the canon series.
Everyone,
I don't know how to say this, so I guess I'll just come out and say it. I'm leaving. Don't bother looking for me, because I'll already be gone. I don't know what to say. I keep living that night over and over and over again and I hate it. I want the nightmares to stop. I can't sleep anymore. Even if I don't have the nightmares, I dream about her. And that hurts more. The thing is I want it too. I want it to burn my soul and eat my heart. I don't want to feel like that about anyone ever again. So I'm leaving. "Do a little soul-searching." Someone said that to me once. I don't remember who, but I going to do it. So, goodbye. At least for now.
Best of luck,
Jaune
P.S. Thanks for being my friends.
-Jaune's "goodbye" letter
Jaune was broken. Still.
He was sitting in a homely inn somewhere near the coast of the Green Sea, named after the deep, murky green the water took. Something about the water pulling the natural dyes from the seaweed, Jaune had overheard. He was sat the counter which doubled as a bar. He'd worked through several pints of beer before graduating to bourbon. The fiery liquor burned his throat going down, but he could barely feel it. He barely felt anything anymore.
It had been two years since he left. He'd changed considerably. He grew taller and his muscles filled out, firm and scarred from endless training and fighting. His hair had never grown very fast, but it too had gotten longer. The once golden locks had taken on the color of hay and fell to his shoulders. It was rough from lack of conditioning. The knight's face was harder, lined from everything that had happened to him. His cobalt eyes were lifeless, void of the spirit they used to hold. The grey-gold armor that was strapped to him was now marred by deep gouges, nicks, and burns.
The only thing that hadn't changed was Crocea Mors. The blade was sharp and polished as it ever was. And the shield deployment mechanism worked marvelously. The weapon sat in front of him on the counter.
In one hand he held his glass and the other his head. He was embroiled in his thoughts, his mind awash with little nothings. What he'd have for breakfast the next morning. Where he'd go next. He liked this little town. Maybe he'd stay for a while longer. No, he scolded himself. He couldn't stay anywhere for too long, lest someone from his past find him and try to convince him to return to his "family." He didn't have a family anymore. That was the old Jaune's family, only a distant memory of who he had become.
"No! Stop! Leave me alone!" he heard the barmaid squeal. He sighed heavily and glanced over his shoulder. She was young. Younger than himself at least. She had ruddy brown hair and tanned skin, flecked with freckles.
Her arm was trapped in the grip of a thug. He was there when Jaune had gotten in, being rowdy with a few of his friends. He had sandy blonde hair and malicious red eyes. He seemed more content to just drink and be a nuisance to those around him. But touching someone who didn't want to be was too far.
Jaune turned back to his drink. He took a sip. "Let the girl go."
He'd the warning said loud enough for the delinquent to hear. He let the girl go and she scampered away to the back. "What'd you say, jackass!"
Jaune sighed again. "I think you've had enough."
The thug jumped to his feet and started walking towards Jaune. "I think you should mind you own fuckin' business before I stomp your head in."
Jaune scoffed. He'd put this shithead down before he took another step. But the young wanderer would give him a chance to back down.
"Leave, now," Jaune said, his voice growing stern.
The young man advanced further. His friends' chairs scraped the floor. Good, they were getting up too. This would be interesting, at least.
"How about you make me," the guy said before laying his heavy hand on Jaune's left shoulder.
Jaune's jaw clenched. His hand tightened around his glass. He took a deep breath and swallowed the last of the cinnamon-flavored drink.
Jaune rocketed his elbow back, cracking into the thug's nose. A meaty crunch told him that he broke it. The man reeled back. Jaune stood up turned and slammed his empty glass into the right side of the thug's head. The obviously tempered glass shattered into hundreds of tiny, sharp bits. Some found their way into his hand, slicing open his palm. Blood was streaming from the man's head, but he was unconscious. He looked at the thug's friends.
"Anymore?"
They all rushed him at once. Jaune took a split-second to hurl his stool at the legs of one. He tripped up and ate shit on the gray stone floor. Luckily, one of them stopped his advance to check on his friend. The last, stupidly, charged him.
He threw a wild punch. Jaune ducked the fist and wrapped a muscled arm around his neck. He pivoted his hips and slammed the man on the ground, crouching on his knee simultaneously. He grabbed the friend's arm with his left hand and rained down punches. Teeth began falling out, mixing with the blood pouring from the broken mouth. Jaune noticed the two others coming towards him with anger plastered on their faces. Wrenching back, he broke the young man's arm, groaning and rolling onto his side.
They rushed him and dragged him to the ground. One aimed punches at his face while the other stood and began soccer kicking him in the ribs. Although he blocked most of the punches, but his ribs were beginning to protest the treatment. He slipped a punch and the boy atop him broke his hand on the floor. He screamed for a moment before Jaune smashed his forehead into the bridge of his nose, throwing him to the side. He spun his body, dodging the next kick. He swept the man's leg and he fell to the ground.
Now on the same level, Jaune wrestled his way to full mount. He repeatedly struck, with his entire weight behind him, across the head. After the fourth, the thug beneath him went limp. Tired, he stood, breathing heavy. As nonchalant as possible, he retrieved his stool from the middle of the inn's common area. When he tried to set it back where it went, he found that the four thugs were in the way. He and a couple other patrons took the unconscious delinquents outside, leaving them in the mud and animal shit. He returned to his seat where the bartender was waiting for him, a fresh glass of bourbon sitting there. A different girl was cleaning up the blood and teeth.
"Thanks for takin' care o' those rabble-rousers," the man said. He was a middle-aged man with graying hair and kind brown eyes.
"Don't mention it," Jaune replied. He reached for the glass and winced. His hand burned from the cuts. He thought there might be glass in the wounds. It would be a pain to get it out. "Sorry about your glass."
"Don't mention it. I've decided to let ya drink and stay here fer free," he said. "Hilde! Come help our friend here."
Hilde came out of the back with a bowl of hot water, a pair of tweezers, and long strips of bandage.
"Thanks," Jaune said before the man walked away into the back. Hilde set down her things and grabbed a stool. Jaune took the glass in his left and offered his right. She took his rough hands in her soft dainty ones. She carefully removed the pieces of glass, eyes flicking up when he flinched. Soon, she was finished and his hand was wrapped. She went to leave, but Jaune cleared his throat.
"Could you bring me the bottle?" he asked. She nodded and took the bottle from its lace on the shelf, setting it down in front of him. He poured another drink and went back to hunching over his glass.
Suddenly, a man sat next to him. He wore a dusty trench coat and had a thick cigar hanging out of his mouth. He called over the bartender and asked for a glass of vodka. The bartender reach under the bar and got a fresh glass and a half full bottle of vodka. He poured the clear liquid in the glass and pushed it toward the new man, who took it and gulped the stuff down. He gestured for a fill up. The bartender filled the glass again and placed the bottle back under the bar, walking down towards a few more patrons who had just came in.
"I saw what you did to those, lads," the man said. He took a sip from his drink.
"Pretty sure everyone did," Jaune said. "What of it?"
"Well, I happen to be looking for men that can kick shit and come out smelling clean," he said, scratching his thick black beard. He had a predatory grin spread across his face.
Jaune scoffed. He turned to look at the man. "Who even are you?"
The man offered his hand. Jaune took it. "Name's Coal. Entrepreneur, ladies' man, professional killer of men, at your service."
"Jaune. Wanderer, and not interested."
The man cackled loudly. "Well you haven't even heard the offer yet."
Jaune sighed. "Let's hear it."
The man laughed again. "I like your style, kid. Alright, here's the deal. You join up with me and my boys, and you make more money than you've ever laid eyes on."
"what do you and your boys do?"
"Lots of things."
"How long do I have?"
"Sleep on it. I'll meet you here tomorrow."
"Alright, I'm going to go back to drinking."
"Take it easy, kid."
Coal downed his vodka and promptly left, leaving Jaune with just his bottle and his thoughts. Who was that guy? Jaune hadn't seen him when he came in. He guessed it didn't matter. He had a job offer. Maybe it was time to stop wandering and start doing something other than drinking, walking, and training. He grabbed his bottle, and Crocea Mors, and retreated to the room he ordered earlier that day.
He leaned his weapon against the wall in the corner of the room and set at a desk he assumed every room had. He reached down and opened his pack. Volumes of combat manuals and journals filled the worn leather rucksack, barely leaving room for any provisions or clothes. In fact, he only had one other set of garments, a black jacket, blue jeans, and a pair of socks. In another part of the bag he kept his hygiene supplies, soap, razor, deodorant. He pulled out a combat text title Fisticuffs: A Guide to Bare Hand Fighting by Dr. Devon Rouge and a worn leather journal. Over these two years he had developed a habit of taking notes on anything he read. It helped trap the information in his memory. Also, he found it a good way to alleviate stress during long periods of isolation.
"Use the outer arms, braced against your hands to block the punches of untrained assailants. For skilled opponents rely on movement to protect against their attacks," Jaune paused to write something down and take a swig from his bottle. After nearly two hours, he finally passed out, an empty bottle clutched in his hands and sweat on his brow.