Hey, so here's the opening of a new story.
Read it, enjoy it, let me know what you think.
Obvious disclaimer, I own nothing.
Basic concept; things take a different path for Jaune when he moves to an expansion outside of Vale. Expect trials, tribulations, ordeals, intrigue. All that stuff.
Prologue
In Silent Streets
'The history of our expansions has not been a kind one. It has been cruel, it has been bloody, and it has been filled with loss. Many of you believe this endeavour is doomed to follow that self-same path, another Mountain Glenn, another tomb-city. You may even be right. But we must keep trying, keep hoping. To stop is to say that this world does not belong to us, it belongs to the Grimm, and that we are indeed, Remnants. And I do not believe that. I refuse to.'
Councilman James Roxburgh – The Outpost Address
Announcing Vale's 3rd attempt at a major expansion; the settlement was overrun within a year.
Roxburgh was present at the fall; he did not survive.
Silence.
Utter silence, save for him.
The beating of his heart filled the air with its dull thuds, his every footstep echoed through the empty streets. Even his shallow breaths seemed like a sharp clap, painfully loud in the face of the absolute silence.
This was wrong, fundamentally wrong. Cities weren't that quiet, even in the dead of night there's always some noise. A drunk stumbling home, the quiet murmuring of a house not yet sleeping. Something.
But there wasn't. There was nothing.
The tip of his sword led the way as he crept through the darkened streets, the moon providing just enough light to see. His eyes swivelled frantically, trying to keep watch of everything at once. Every opening and every shadow, every light and ever door; they all had to be watched or he'd be caught unawares.
He wasn't smart or strong or skilled, so instead he was careful. And he just had to hope that caution, and no small measure of luck, would be enough to survive.
The shield was a comforting weight on his arm, its solidity providing a feeling of protection despite not knowing how to properly make use of it. Without it, he doubted he'd have the courage to creep through the dead streets, past the scars of battle and the corpses of Grimm and people alike.
Even so, he didn't dare look too closely. The fear of recognising any of the fallen was almost enough to break his resolve.
He was heading home. Hoping to find some method of contact, something to get him out of this mess, or at the very least some measure of familiarity.
He heard it before he saw it.
A bloodthirsty howl that came from anywhere and everywhere.
Immediately he stopped, planting his feet and raising his weapons in a clumsy stance. His head twisted with fearful uncertainty, desperate to spot the monster that had made its presence, and its purpose, known.
Burning red eyes, a hungry malice.
It broke into a vicious run.
He glimpsed a lupine form of black flesh and white bone. Then it was upon him.
A deadly claw swung directly at his face, caught instinctively on the face of his shield. The force of the blow sent him skidding backwards, barely managing to keep his feet under him. He narrowly avoided two successive attempts to rip him apart, but the clumsy dodges left him with poor footing, off-balance with no chance for a solid block. Something the Beowulf ruthlessly took advantage of.
His shield aside was brushed aside with a negligent gesture even as its second vicious claw went to gore him. He sliced at it, barely more than a panicked swing but somehow he managed to connect. Not enough to harm even the most minor Beowulf, a cursory wound at best, but it deterred the strike.
Its furious howl at being struck was almost enough to deafen him, the stench of decay from its jaws washing over his face. He took the opportunity to retreat a few paces, knowing that otherwise he'd be slaughtered in short order.
It was too fast, he was too slow. The outcome was evident.
His only hope was in advance warning.
It lunged, closing the gap in the blink of an eye. Deadly teeth snapped at his neck, saliva and remains of previous prey spattering across his face, but the extra instant had bought him his life.
He met the lunge with a solid blow from his shield before it tore into his neck, slamming it against the open jaws. A piercing screech sounded as the Beowulf gnashed its teeth; the bone scrabbled for purchase against the metal even as it pushed forward.
Frantically, he threw all of his weight against the shield. His breath came harshly as muscles burned with protest, but to no avail.
It didn't retreat, it didn't even slow. It simply pushed back and pushed harder.
He slid backwards, his feet losing traction on the blood-slickened ground.
He was going to die.
Any second now, it would remember that it had claws and tear into him, unable to block or avoid them. Or he'd simply lose his footing and fall to the ground, helpless to its feasting.
Another corpse for the pile. More blood for the stone streets.
Prey before a hunter.
With a scream of defiance, anguish and more than anything else, fear; he thrust blindly. Driving his sword forward with all of his strength and just hoping it would be enough to save him.
Couldn't see, couldn't aim, he just thrust.
The body went slack, collapsing against his shield. The dead weight took him by surprise, nearly knocking him to the ground.
Whether through meagre skill, instinct or just sheer dumb luck, the blade has pierced its neck. He ripped the sword to the side with a strained grunt, freeing it in a spray of blood that coated his already grimy face.
It collapsed to the ground. Another monster to become ash and smoke.
He needed a moment.
Both his heart and lungs were screaming with the exertion, pushed beyond their limits by the brief exchange. A noise bubbled up in his throat, just barely smothered before it could be anything more than a gurgle. Whether it would have been a laugh or sob he couldn't say.
A creature of Grimm had been fought and killed by his hand, and his hand alone. Not only killed it, but escaping unscathed. It had been a close thing, but he'd lived. Survived where many would have fallen.
Where many had fallen.
It wasn't a happy thought, but neither was it a sad one. He couldn't muster up the energy to be proud of his accomplishment, nor to feel grief at the fall of others. He was just numb.
With a sigh, he wiped his face on his sleeve, clearing away the worst of the blood along with the scraps from the Beowulf's maw. He didn't want to dwell on what they were.
A faint skitter sounded behind him.
He spun, sword extended to slice into whatever had tried to catch him off-guard.
Nothing.
Still air in an empty street.
His stomach sank like a stone; he knew what was about to happen.
Even so, he tried to pivot back around. Swinging his sword once more in pure desperation.
For a split second he saw cruelly sharp claws. And then all he knew was pain.
They ripped deeply into his face, a trio of deep furrows carved from his forehead to jaw. The flesh tore. His left eye popped like an overripe grape, blood and fluid pouring forth in a torrent of gore.
He lost his grip on the sword, tugged out of his hand the moment it met resistance.
The spin had saved his life; a second slower and the Beowulf's claw would have struck directly at his exposed neck.
A second faster than death.
Then again, it might have been better. A quick death was at least painless.
His screams of pure agony echoed through the streets, none left to hear it but the Grimm.
And hear it they did.
So I'm trying to get back into writing shape; let me know what you think, if you like, dislike or loathe it. Anything really.
Fair warning; I can't promise consistent scheduled updates, or even that I'll finish this. All I can commit to right now is that I have a plan and a few more chapters already written. Also, this story starts pretty slow. As in, it'll probably be a little while before Jaune reaches Beacon or has any major interaction with the main cast.