It was a quiet night in Mistral. Barely anyone was outside. Not that anyone wanted to, anyway. It was the anniversary. The fifteen year anniversary of the death of the most loved couple in the neighborhood, the Evans. No one knew what happened, only that when the Huntsman arrived on the site, there were on the bodies of a smaller Deathstalker and the older Evans bodies. The sole survivor of this event was Dranik Evans, their son.
After these events, the Huntsman, by the name of Qrow Branwen, took Dranik to his only relative, his grandfather. Ever since then, for the past fifteen years, he lived peacefully with his grandfather. Well, as peacefully as the sole survivor of the first in-wall Grimm attack since the Great War is allowed.
When Dranik turned seven, his favorite teacher passed away. It hit Dranik hard. It was the first time he actually understood death. For weeks, he cried non stop. A few years later, his best friend died.
"Dranik," his grandfather said one day. "Sometime, people leave us without saying good-bye. It's always better to let go and keep going."
He just shrugged it off and never responded. Now, on this night, Dranik was crying again. His grandfather was dying.
"Grandpa," he said, holding his hand. He looked into his grandfather's eyes, squeezing his hand. "Please, just hold on a bit longer. You can make it through this."
"Dranik. Remember what I told you? At least I'll… *cough* I'll be able to say goodbye."
Dranik smiled slightly, holding back a tear. "But you don't have to go, Grandpa. Stay here, don't go…"
"My boy, it's my time. *cough* You have to let go. Let me go."
"But.." It was too late. With one final cough, his grandfather passed over into the next life. Crying, Dranik bowed his head, still holding his grandfather's hand. He sat there crying until he fell asleep.
He woke up to the sound of paramedics rushing through the house, taking his grandfather's dead body out of the house. While they were doing this, he grabbed his jacket and left the house. They attempted to stop him, but he just kept walking. I can't take this anymore, he thought to himself. Everyone I love or get close to dies.
As he was walking down the path, he saw a shadowy figure. Suddenly, his head started to hurt. Don't fret, young one, said a voice in his head. Everything happens for a reason. Nothing happens by chance. None of this is your fault.
"What do you want?" Dranik whispered to himself.
From you, nothing. From the world, everything.
"What does that mean? You make no sense."
Patience is a virtue, young one. All in due time.
During this conversation, Dranik continued to follow the figure. Eventually, he caught up with him.
"Who are you?"
"No one that you need to know just yet." The figure grabbed his throat and threw him off to the side, knocking him out. When he finally came to, he got up and ran to his house, scared. Yet, when he got there, his house wasn't there. In its place was a pile of burnt wood. Falling to his knees, Dranik began to cry yet again. In less than twenty-four hours, he had lost his grandfather, and his only home.
Kill her. Kill her. Kill her.
Stop it. Shut up.
Dygmann Aquino was having this argument inside of his head with a voice he only met less than twenty-four hours ago. He was at a dinner party at the Schnee Residence. Around him were a bunch of businessmen and women. The only reason he was there was due to the fact that his aunt was "friends" with Jacque Schnee, head of the Schnee Dust Company.
Kill her. Kill the little Schnee. She will only bring you great harm in the future.
The Schnee in question was Weiss Schnee, heiress to the Schnee Dust Company. He didn't understand why the voice was telling him to kill her, but he was tempted to listen. The Schnees were a bunch of lying, stealing, two-faced crooks, and used Faunus labor. While Dygmann wasn't the biggest fan of the half-animal, half-human race of people, he didn't like the way the S.D.C. treated their workers.
Stealthily grabbing a steak knife off of a table, he walked towards Weiss. As he approached her however, a firm hand grabbed his wrist.
"Now, I'd put that knife down kid, that is, if you want to keep your hand"
Dygmann looked up. The person speaking was a boy of roughly his own age, fifteen. He had pitch black hair and dark grey eyes.
One of little princess's bodyguards.
He took the knife from Dygmann. "I'd get going if I were you."
Quickly walking away, he thought to himself. Maybe next time...
Hey guys. Around here, I go by Qrow. Not Branwen. Just Qrow. Anywho, I hope you all enjoy this, and be sure to follow me and my buddy RedDragonEmperor for more great stories. Also, don't get used to the frequent chapter. Starting Wednesday, it will be weekly chapters. Let me know what you guys think and if you'd like to see your favorite character in here or have a OC of your own make an appearance, don't hesitate. Thank you all!