Authors Notes: Alright, first story ever, I don't own anything except the OC Ragnar. This story is meant to coincide with Walkman355's "RWBY: The Darkness Within" For those curious of...well, Ragnar and his team. So if you stumbled on this, I suggest searching for said title and reading that first, otherwise I hope you guys end up enjoying what I write. Wish me luck, then criticize and/or compliment.

Chapter 1: Ragnar's Arrival

The breeze was warm, a lot warmer than he was used to, and the air felt thick, harder to breath. There was less humidity in his home to the north. Ragnar stood on the foredeck of the ship, his new dark leather duster stirring in the wind as he stared ahead. It wasn't exactly cheap, but it was the one of the few things on the ship that fit his bulky frame and was better suited for the weather. Ragnar suppressed a sigh as he thought "I swear, sometimes my size is a curse." The sea stretched far beyond his vision. It was a little unnerving not being able to see the land, but he took that over flying. Now that isn't natural, if man was meant to fly, we would be born with wings. The sun beat down overhead, and Ragnar ran a hand back through his dark brown hair. He kept it short, so it was more over than through, but that was all the more reason for him to make a mental note to find a hat sometime. He would be damned if he started his first year at Beacon Academy with a sunburn, so he turned on his heel and headed back to his quarters.

The boat itself was a modern monstrosity, it didn't even have a mast, favoring the use of dust as a fuel. It carried supplies and other trade goods, and it even took on passengers, mostly traveling merchants like the one he bought his duster from, but also anyone else wanting to pay their way. The latter of which was more and more rare due to air travel, but there would always be people who couldn't afford it, or didn't trust it. On his way back, Ragnar let his hand drag along the smooth wooden beams that were ratcheted to the deck. He probably chopped some of the trees down that made them, a pang of home sickness hit him but he choked it down and continued on.

Okay, maybe quarters was too strong of a word, his 'living space' on the ship was about the size of a broom closet with just enough room to hang a mesh hammock, thank the stars that this voyage would end the next day. His personal belongings were under the hammock, which only consisted of his bag and weapon. The bag was simple enough, Olive drab in color, two straps for the arms, and loaded with ...stuff. Need to know basis. Two harness' covered the sides, one on left side for his canteen, and one on the right for Red Morn'. Ah, the axe, such an elegant weapon, or at least it might as well have been for the laughs it got, it's blade has a 'unique' quality. The color of it was somewhere in the hot spectrum dependant on how the light hit it. Sometimes it was red, others it was orange, and unfortunately most of the time it was, well...Pink...Even now, with no light it was still a muted pink. At least the rest of it was black.

Ragnar pulled the short-hafted axe out of it's harness and slipped a rag from his bag before settling down on the hammock and beginning to wipe the blade as he glared at it. The blade itself was stylized in the half-moon fashion, the kind meant for killing, not the wedge shape for those of trees. After a quick minute wiping the blade, Ragnar reached for his bag again and pulling out an oil which was applied sparingly to the rag before wiping down the blade once more. The oil kept the blade from rusting, you would be surprised how much damage just the air of the sea can do to a weapon, so he made sure it got a fresh coat every day. Not that there was much else to do, but he did care about his weapon, he put a little bit of himself in it when he made it after all.

When he was satisfied with the coat of oil, he replaced Red Morn' back in it's harness, and the rag'n'oil back in the bag before shoving it back under the hammock and laying back to stare at the ceiling. This...was the most...BORING trip ever, maybe next time he would take an aircraft despite his mistrust of flight. He would have probably been able to spend the last few days at home with his family, not wasting his time at sea. Lesson learned.

He must have fallen asleep because he woke to someone rapping on his door. Thusly, the tiny room finally showed it's perk, he didn't even have to get up to open the door, just lean, reach, and tug, and all while still mostly relaxing. "Yeah?" He questioned toward the open door. "The captain wishes all passengers to know that we have now docked in Vale, and those departing should make their way." Came the reply, which was no sooner said before Ragnar heard the man start walking away. "We arrived ahead of schedule?" He wondered, before slipping from the hammock and throwing his bag over his shoulder.

When he made his way up on deck, the first thing he noticed was the light...or the lack of. "It must be the dead of bloody night right now." Approaching one of the deck hands that was already unloading cargo, Ragnar asked, "Hey, do you have the time?"
"Round'about one, one thirty."
"Man, you guys keep this up and people will think you lot are smugglers." As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted it, completely. There was a crisp metallic ring in the air...one of a weapon being drawn...and behind him of all places. "Fan-fucking-tastic."

Additional Note: If it wasn't obvious, the italicized quotes, are thoughts, and not verbally conveyed. Sorry if there was any confusion.