DISCLAIMER: I don't own RWBY. Big surprise there eh? All rights go to Rooster Teeth.
Edit(1/3/2019) Yeah just one day after I first posted. Fixed a few typos and some missing dialogue. Doubtless more will be found by readers so if you see one point it out for me and I'll see about fixing it.
In the middle of a small forest somewhere in the lands 'held' by Vale, a writhing mass of energy forms. Sparks and electrify spew from it, as sigils and glyphs of a mystical nature form chains that break along the seams. A humanoid shape forms in the chaotic mass.
*POP* The shape slumps to the ground.
The energy retreats, a small tear lingering long enough for several voices to be heard. "Oh shit!" "It worked? Wow" "Is it closing?" "oh no…"
A man blinks himself awake, no idea where he is. And in the end, it won't matter how he got there. All he could remember was something about fanfictions, tequila, esoteric multi-verse portals, and a Doctor Who marathon. Whoever said nerds didn't know how to party was probably right. The nausea would otherwise seem to confirm that.
So, where was he? Standing up he glances around. Trees to the right. A forest. He glances left. Well considering there was a Beowolf about thirty feet over in the distance, it was a safe assumption that this poor sod was the victim of a hole between dimensions. The young man looks all around him taking the sights of this little forest he seems to be in. Green trees, neither maple or oak, but something between?
Wait, what was that last part? Hold the thrice dammed phone. Was that A BEOWOLF?!
"Shiiiiiit!" a baritone voice squeals, cracking in terror. The things are much more menacing in real life it seems. Ears flicker toward the sound, locating the interloper.
"At least it's not the woods from the initiation… trees aren't the same." He mutters, eyes widening as a massive headache hits him. He winces, shaking his head back and forth, as if to stir from some kind of terrible, terrible waking dream.
The man stands at a rather sturdy 6 feet ought in height. However, his chances of running from certain death are as slim as he isn't. No normal person can take down a Grimm without a big-ass gun and a wall between them. But up close? He's a goner.
Before he can even think about how he really, really should have listened to his mother and went on that diet, the Beowolf sniffs the air. With a low growl, it howls. Several other howls reply from far too close. Drawing up low to the ground it slinks closer.
"Am I gonna die?" he breathes, dark brown eyes widening at the sight of the murder beast before him. Sub-par fodder to a trained huntsman, even one in training can handle such a monster with ease. But a fat, terrified nerd in chainmail… wait chainmail?! The hell is that going to do? More to the point, WHY DOES HE HAVE CHAINMAIL?!
'If only I could figure out what's going on' he ponders as if he stood a chance, mind racing in full-tilt survival mode. 'Should I take a stance? Hope I can scare it off? How would I even fight this?'
On one hand this is the worst possible outcome being what amounts to a death-world. Wherein normal people need to be protected by super-human (and Fuanus) warriors. On the other hand, being here in what can only be RWBY, is as dream come true. Afore mentioned super powers, super-hot babes…
Then again, seeing a Beowolf face to face, without Aura, or even any weapons… wait a dam second!
Son of a Bitch! Why does he have a Katar? "I don't even know how to use this thing!" He screams to the heavens with a bellow that could be heard for several hundred feet of dense woodland. What the… He has TWO Katars?! WHY?! Is Qrow nearby or some shit? Why is his luck this bad?! "Would whatever Deity I pissed off please let me leave?" He winces out. By this time, he is completely panicking.
He starts to backpedal away from the were-wolves shadow powered kin. "This is a ter…?!"
Whatever utterances were to be said, whichever platitudes to whatever being was listening are now moot. A second Beowolf which had heard his yell, and moved in behind him pounces, quickly overwhelming the normal person who had no place to even think they possibly stood a chance without an Aura, let alone without having the God-Tier defense of plot armor.
But what about his armor, an invisible viewer from behind a screen might ask? That chainmail, sure it looked cool, but since when has that done anything to protect someone? Not to mention it was fake. What kind of nerd could afford real chainmail? True some could, but alas, not this one.
He frantically struggles, flailing and slashing about, even managing to cut a surface wound upon the beast's chest. Red baleful eyes peer down upon him, oozing contempt for the mortal fool below them, before a pitch-dark maw descends.
A final, piercing shriek of terror, rings into the woodland around before the sound of rapid feet approaching from all around.
*crunch*
*crunch*
*splorch*
Flesh was rent, bones were shattered and broken. Metal was bent, chewed and discarded in favor of the organs below. Soon nothing but a bloodstained patch of disturbed earth is all that remains of this nameless fool.
NEARBY, Camp of Vetus Rubigo, Veteran Huntsman
A sneeze echoes around the clearing. Black vaper swirls around the area, revealing the bodies of nearly two dozen dissipating Beowolves, at least four ursa, and three upright figures. A breeze shifts, carrying with it the scent of fresh blood, and one of them growls in pleasure. As the area clears we see an Alpha Beowolf, bleached white bone sprouting from its arms.
They are coated with it, the pitted and scarred armor of an aged monstrosity. Standing at least nine feet tall the plating extends all the way up to its shoulders, sloping around it's forearms to create a false image of a crude gauntlet. The ragged edges of its foot-long claws crusted with old blood stains. The bone mask upon its face can scarce be called such, being more of a crest than anything, adding another foot to the already large stature it processes. Its body heaves with exertion, as do the other figures now revealed.
"You okay old man?" one of them asks toward the other, head inclined towards an older man. "I'm fine lad, just felt like we may have missed something of negligible importance." Vetus replies.
The aged huntsman's face is lined with wrinkles, and weather worn to the point of looking like the leather on a belt. A poorly done salt-and-pepper gray combover flops about in the wind, as eyes of yellow track the Alpha. They are blood-shot, and the whites are also yellow, but that of a chronic smoker. All eight of them, that is to say.
It would be no surprise then, that an ornate ivory pipe hangs from his mouth, a trail of smoke rising into the late evening sky. His once pristine char-coal black suit is ruffled slightly, and his tie, also yellow, is loosened waving about. A simple looking short hafted axe with a with a squared edge rests slung over one shoulder, more of a cleaver than anything else.
He puffs a bit, rotating the pipe over to the other side, as three of his left eyes track over to the other figure in this camp wreckage. Hovering over the shredded remnants of one of the tents is his apprentice, flapping his enormous six-foot-long wings to steady himself.
A rich brown in color, with hints of bronze and gold along the edges of the feathers, they buffet the Beowolf with a sharp blast of wind. Amplified by wind Dust, cuts appear all over the unarmored portions of its coat, most being only superficial. The beast's eyes narrow, and it lowers its center of gravity, launching itself at its winged foe. Talons clash with Aura re-enforced steel as twinned hook swords block the attack.
Rage and hate filled red slits stare into golden orbs.
"HA!" With a grunt of exertion, a booted foot juts out crashing into the face of the Grimm ending the struggle for dominance. It sends the beast sailing backwards. Dust (the kind from barren cracked earth that hasn't seen rain in about two weeks or so, not the physics breaking kind) rolls as the Grimm claws itself from the ground only for it to see an axe descending towards its head. With a muted thud the honed edge sinks deep into the mask striking the equivalent of the frontal lobe, killing it instantly.
Pulling the axe from the skull, Vetus nods at his student. "Well done young Carus. Your Dust manipulation has improved, and you managed to hold an Alpha Beowolf back without difficulty."
"I wouldn't say that, it was rather strong. But still little more than a warm up." The eagle Fuanus replies. He shrugs, his right shoulder clicking a few times. He cuts his levitation, and folds his wings up behind his back, compressing them to about the size of a large hiking bag. Reaching into his pocket he pulls out a scroll, scanning over his Aura readings.
'Holding steady at around 92 %, huh? Looks like I'm really getting the hang of the dual nature of my semblance then.' He puts the device back in his pocket.
They both look around at the wreckage of the campsite, one tent shredded and useless, the other trampled into the dirt. All the cookery is scattered about all over the site and the embers from the firepit have started a small little blaze in the grass.
Yelping Vetus begins stamping out the fire, grabbing his canteen and dumping atop the it as well. Carus starts chuckling at the sight.
"What's so funny?! How about you stop laughing and help me put this out!" Carus continues to laugh only to point at the pantlegs of his mentor's slacks, now coated with ash and mud.
"Brothers be dammed." he grunts out. Moving over to the only camp chair miraculously still upright, let alone intact he slumps into it. Sighing, Vetus pulls up the left leg revealing a mechanical limb, the joints showing age with a light dusting of tarnish. Even Dust-forged iron will still rust after nearly seven years of constant misuse.
"Bring me the can of lubricant oil, will ya lad?" he mutters. Looking at the new layer of grime on the ankles he makes up his mind. He'll tell the boy now, 'Better that he hears it while I'm still kicking.' He thinks, mulling it all over.
"Here" Carus says throwing the can over. A hand grabs it from the air and then starts dripping the liquid into the now creaking joint. Carus scans around, not seeing any other place to sit, decides well, why not then? He settles cross legged onto the grass. Taking in a deep breathe centering his mind. Steadily he rises into the air and levels out about three feet of the ground and reclines in the winds. As if on a couch he puts his hands behind his head.
Vetus finishes his task and looks back at his pupil. "I won't put this off any longer lad. I've something to tell you." "Too old fight now is it then, eh mentor?" Carus jokes, his eyes closed. He doesn't see the stricken look upon the old man's face at his words.
"Well lad your close to the money, but no cigar yet. I am getting up there in years and I can't keep this up for that much longer. I'm retiring from active duty." Carus' eyes pop open, his feet hitting the ground rapidly.
"What?! You can't retire yet! I still have three years left in this apprenticeship." He belts out. "Out of the seven we agreed to, if I don't finish it out, I can't get my huntsman's license. What am I supposed to do then?" His eyes alight, wings flaring behind him.
"Sit your sorry ass down, you hot-headed young fool. I wasn't done speaking." Carus breathes. Once, twice and relaxes. He slumps down back into the dirt, not bothering with hovering anymore. He glances back at his teacher waiting for him to explain.
"If your done with your hissy-fit," Vetus glares, "I called in a favor for you. With your training I have covered combat, tactics, wilderness survival and even some of the theories surrounding the Grimm in your education. What I have lacked to give you was book learning, so I sent word over to one of the academes in Vale. Ol' Ozpin had a bet he lost to me once, good for one favor, no questions asked."
"How did you manage that?" "Never once in the years we have trained together, have you asked how old I am."
"Well what does that have to do with anything?" Carus asks, thin eyebrows arching upwards. "Who do you think trained that guy, eh lad?" Carus jaw drops at this revelation. "That would make you like…" He starts counting out on his fingers.
"I am one hundred and seven years old lad. But no, I didn't actually train Ozpin." He chuckles, "No, I just happen to know the man, and you have talent that would be wasted in a lesser school. On top of that, you have a dual-natured Semblance. Those, while not rare, are quite uncommon. They can help you continue to master it at Beacon."
"When do they start? I'd have thought that the admissions department were already done with sifting through the transcripts?" Carus asked. "While normally that'd be the case," Vetus replied, "You have already shown promise without question, that being proven in my recommendation letter. I included in it a bit of general info about you boy, as well as details about your fighting style, Semblance, and your medical records."
"When did you do that? The hell haven't I noticed any of this?" Carus start pacing in front of the now revealed, not merely old, but rather ancient Huntsman. His wings shift about on his back, a visible sign of his confusion and discomfort.
All eight of Vetus' eyes roll at his pupil's blatant ignorance. He takes a pull on his pipe, exhaling the smoke slowly, forming a ring, followed by a smaller one that sails through the larger one. "The last time we were in a town, what did I have you do? Think about it." "Uhhhh…" Carus starts, thinking back about a week "Get preserved foods, and buy ammo while you rented a room at the inn, then you had me take a delivery to the…" He trails off realization dawning in his eyes. "I had you deliver a parcel to the Post station. Bet you thought it was only bounty confirmations, eh? No, there were a few letters included in that stack, one of which went to your folks."
"So, they know what's up then? They know I'm going to the city? How do you even manage getting a letter to the Greylings' nomad tribe?" The many eyes of Vetus twinkle. "I have my ways lad. With luck, over your tenure in the city you'll pick up a few yer'self. Now then, how about you GET THAT FIRE STARTED BACK UP!" He roars at the idle boy, nay, the young man before him. "I'M GETTING COLD!"
Carus scrambles up from his sitting position, bowing once and starts looking around for one of the travel bags that have the tinderbox in it, or at least some of the old coot's pipe matches. "And if I catch you using my matches again, you'll be cleaning my rusty, slimy, old leg for the rest of the trip back to the city!"
A tedious search, and a dash of tinder-wood later, a small cheery little fire rests in the reassembled circle of rocks. "Hope you don't mind sleeping under the stars tonight lad, I'm taking the tent."
"But it's barely even sundown, and shouldn't we put up sound traps?" Carus asks. When silence is all the response he gets he looks back over at the tent. Wasn't it just a pile on the ground a few seconds ago? A metal foot-shaped lump of iron, and a scuffed shoe poking out of the tent are his only answer. It would seem that he must do it himself. Again.
VALE, Beacon Academy, the Headmasters office
Strewn across a large desk are several packets of paper. Each one of them detailing the story and skills of a potential huntsman or huntress. Each one of them barely even an adult, yet willing to lay down their life for the common folks. Such a world that has been made, and such the games that are played.
Ozpin looks over all of them, wondering how many will even live to see twenty-five, let alone live to old age, or see themselves with children. Many of them stand out, others not so much. Some with true talent, others that rely on skill more than natural ability.
He sighs, bringing up a coffee mug to his lips. Only a few more to look over before the final tally is done. If that Juane boy can get transcripts forged that well then perhaps his cunning could get him far. There is more than one type of huntsman after all. Or perhaps it would doom his entire team to an early demise. Hmm. Perhaps after the seventh cup was when his mind started to wander some. All the same perhaps a refill sounds good now.
Getting up from his seat and walking over to the small percolator hidden over by the elevator doors, he sees a transcript which had fallen to the floor. Setting the mug down he looks over it. Ah yes, Vetus' apprentice. One last look couldn't hurt, and besides that it seems it had fallen out of the accepted's tray. One wonders what could have happened without its presence there. The total downfall of the world, perhaps? Ozpin shakes his head. Perhaps it would be a good time to turn in for the night, after reviewing it
Name: Carus Greyling
Race: Fuanus, Golden Eagle Sex: Male Age:18
Eye color: Gold Hair color: Brown W/ Gold-Yellow highlights
Weight: 180 lbs. Height: 6' 3 Blood Type: A-
Aura Strength Level: 8/10 Aura Manipulation Skill lv. [derived]: 4/15
Handedness: Ambidextrous
Physical Strength: B-
Speed: C (B with flight or Semblance being used)
Agility: B+ (A with flight utilization)
Durability [derived, merged old scaling systems of Defense and Endurance]: B-
Tactical mind: A
Semblance: Personal and remote (see X-Factor) levitation
X factor: A- (Carus processes a unique type of Semblance, that being one of a dual nature. He can levitate and can cause others near him to do the same. Little control is had over the levitation of others but given his ability to fly on his own this can be used for superior elevational approaches. He can hold them {similar to telekinesis} and then fly somewhere else with them. This hold is not easy to break but someone {or something} can get loose with some effort. Evacuating a fallen comrade with such a skill is extremely useful, should it come to that. Carus also holds whatever secrets that have been passed down the Greylings' lineage.)
Where there would normally be a questionnaire filled out by the applicant is a letter of recommendation by the young mans mentor. As he turns the second to last page Ozpin notices a rip along the small staple holding the packet together. It seems that a page is missing. Across the bottom of the last page is a large red stamp which reads 'ACCEPTED' in large lettering. Ozpin blinks. No bio page? How odd. Never mind that with another student he no longer has a year's class that is divisible by four. 'Maybe one of them will die during initiation?' Ozpin blinks yet once more. Far too many morbid thoughts tonight. He looks down at his coffee. He doesn't even remember filling up this cup. Shaking his head, he sets it down once more. It truly is time for bed.
The following day, En route to Vale
"Come on then lad! Hurry up. The tent doesn't weight that much, and neither do I!" Carus glares down at his mentor. The old spider was making him, what did he call it? Oh yeah exercise his semblance. 'What a pile of horseshit!' "You know I could just drop you, don't you?" He yells down at him, the golden energy surrounding the man and the camping gear wavering for just a second. Eight yellowed eyes stare right back at him.
"And if you did, you'd lose the map too." 'I hate it when the old man is right.'
"Well since you have the map then how far are we till we hit the city boarders?" "That is a great question I should check that." Vetus reaches into a pocket on the inside of his waistcoat and pulls out the map, unfolding it in the process. The reality of this situation lasts for about five seconds before the wind pulls the map from his grip. "SHIT!"
Carus lets out another grunt, wings straining to flap enough in leu of any thermals to drift on, and snags the map with his semblance at the last second. "You're welcome."
Grumbling at his little lapse in judgment, Vetus looks over the map. Squinting with 5 eyes he seems confused. With a 90-degree rotation he lets out a confirmatory grunt. "Veer left 20 degrees, and we should be there in around a half an hour. Seems we were a lot closer than I'd thought before."
The rest of the flight passes without event. Looking around Carus manages to find an air-field not to far past the walls. Setting down at an air pad that seems to be designed with flight capable Fuanus in mind, the two huntsmen begin walking towards the shopping district. "Why are we heading this way again?" Carus asks. "Ye need new clothes and yer uniform fitted lad." Vetus exclaims over his shoulder. Carus looks down at his ragged gear. A long time past it could have been called a tunic and leg wraps with greaves and armored boots. No longer. "Not to mention you could use some new armor."
At that Carus perks up some, feathers audibly rustling. "Last time we did that it cost a lot of Lien to get it fitted for my wings. You sure you wanna do that? Besides I grew out of it in like three months." Vetus starts to chuckle. "Remember that Alpha we killed? There was a bounty on that one, good for two thousand, plus the funds I had wired to the bank here last month. Besides you should be done growing by now." He mumbles out "At least I hope so, brothers be praised, but you grow like a weed lad."
Vetus reaches down into a satchel he carries on his waist and pulls out some modified sunglasses. (Last person that called it a fanny-pack got put six feet under. Yet being a huntress herself she came out laughing.) He slides the shades onto his scarred nose, fully covering all his eyes with the opaque lenses. "Not what I was looking for but still works." He reaches back in again and pulls out a billfold. Tossing it to Carus he says "Careful where you go to. Vale can be, shall we say, 'picky' about their clientele." making air quotes with his fingers.
"You mean racist?" "Yes, I mean racist lad. Why do you think I broke out the face-plates? Can't be too careful, banks tend to be over zealous. EVEN if you're a huntsman it seems." As Vetus starts walking off towards the financial district he calls back, "And if somebody tries to mug you, don't go tribal on them eh? They have a decent police force here, so no chopping off anyones hands!"
Carus laughs out loud at that. The scrawny, ragged looking man behind him, suddenly decides that maybe he best try his luck elsewhere. Carus checks the contents of the fold. "Nice." He glances back at his wings. Racists are allowed to discriminate here then? "Maybe I should get a nice, big backpack. To carry all of my stuff of course."
As it turns out finding armor shops wasn't hard at all. Finding ones that openly served Fuanus? Slightly more difficult, but not unreasonable. Getting pants, and his greaves/boots combo detailed and repaired was a cinch in fact. But locating an outfitter that can cater to winged customers was. Getting. On. His! NERVES! "Seven blasted stores and still piss all! Mind that last one was fine but still. Eight G's for a dammed gambeson? That's just a bunch of shirts layered over each other." Carus grumbled. Never mind that he still needs to get the uniform fitted. At least the school will reimburse you for that if you pass initiation, or the store will let you return it with their "MONEY BACK GUARANTEE!" If you don't die during it anyway.
At least he doesn't need to buy ammo. That shit gets expensive. No, his twined meca-shift hook blades are all that he needs. Turning down yet another side street, he sees another armor store. Looking up at the sign he gives it a read. 'The Winged Hussars' eh? Sounds good so far. Entering the store, a little bell rings being attached to the door frame. Some intense metal music plays over speakers set up in the ceiling. A voice calls out from the back "GivemeabitI'llbewithyoushortlike." Several cusses, two crashes and a… (was that a cymbal?) some strange sound later, a short vibrantly green being buzzes into focus. "NicetomeetyakidnamesNexGreenIownthisfinestorewhatcanIhelpyouwith?" Carus blinks, trying to sort the onslaught of words just spewed forth by what can only be a hummingbird Fuanus.
Good thing he has a cousin like that back in the tribe or else this would be torture. The little man has a six-pack of 'people like grapes' soda, half gone, in one hand and a sewing kit in the other. Carus lets out a breath. "I am Carus Greyling. Pleasure to make your acquaintance Mr. Green. I need some armor and I need it fitted over my wings." The bird looks at him with joy for a fraction of a second, then confusion. "WhileI'mgladyoucanunderstandmekidreallygladinfactIdon'tseeanywingsTheyhideninthatbagorsomething ?" Sorting out the words between the blurred drinking of an entire can of the soda, Carus remembers he had actually manged to get a bag modified at the last store before this one. 'I must look so stupid, I forgot to take the bag off.' Carus reaches around to his back and the heavy-looking bag over-top his wings. "Gimme a bit."
The hummingbird fidgets restlessly as Carus carefully pulls his wings from the bag, more worried about ripping it than hurting himself. "NicewingspamyougottherekidWhatsthatlikefortteenoverall? NomorethanthatwellyoujustwaitrightthereI'vegotstuffthatshouldbefineforyou." With a blur yet another empty can flys away from said blur. Soon several suits appear before him. Carus grins." I can work with this."
As he walks away from the store fully kitted out Carus grins back at Nex. "I'll be sure to let the clan know about this place next letter I send back. Expect more business in about half a years' time! That's when the lot of them should be passing by on the circuit." A rapid wave meets his farewell. "Youbringmemoresaleskidandifthathuntsmanthingdoesn'tworkoutI'llsaveajobforyouhere!" Carus lets out a real belly laugh and bows to the frantic caffeine addict. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind. See you when next we meet Mr. Green."
All in all, that turned out rather swimmingly. Carus shifts about getting a feel for the new weight on his shoulders. A used, but sturdy set of linked multi-layered pauldrons made of a composite material cover both shoulders. There is a high collar guarding the back of his neck and upper back without limiting vision or neck movement. The gear is asymmetrical with the left side a bit more like a spaulder, being smaller and covering less of his upper arm. With plain vambraces covering his arms he feels much more protected. Carus snorts. 'Feels protected. Yeah, like that ever does anything.' His greaves still sit upon his thighs overtop a pair of light gray cargo pants. The fabric bunches a little where he tucked it into his boots but that's no big deal.
A black turtleneck completes his current attire, but he also got some other clothes tailored to fit his unique physiology including two sets of the Beacon uniform. Seems that it is a standard stock item for huntsman type stores. Go figure. With everything accounted for that he needed Carus pulls out his scroll and calls his mentor.
"Yeah?" Loud EDM music can be heard from the background and a strobe sequence can be seen behind the wrinkled face of Vetus. "I got my stuff…" Carus trails off looking at the scene behind the weathered face. "Are you in a club? Is that what a club looks like?" "No, I'm not in a club." Carus' face deadpans. "Okay yeah, I'm in a club, but its owned by an info broker. I need his services to send your letters back to your kin lad. I'll send you directions, you need to relax a bit. Besides you got like a week before classes. I think…"
Carus can't believe his eyes. His mentor is drunk. Oh, by the Brothers, this is bad. He's not just buzzed either, he looks a few sheets to the wind here. "I'm on my way, old one. Try not to destroy the place, okay?" The shades slide off his face somewhat, reviling a few eyes and a grin. "No promises lad."
A/N: Did I just throw my OCs into the yellow trailer? Who can say? I will. And the answer is yes, yes I did. Now the question lies here. What happens now? Find out next time on 'Fight And Flight'!
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