L


He lay on his bed, idly flicking through a book, one eye on the clock by his bedside. Another hour before he had to leave. The blond turned the page and frowned, trying to memorise the words and images on the pages. It seemed like a good move, but it relied too much on reaction speed. A lot of fighters had very good agility and speed. But against someone who focused more on strength, it would be much more effective.

Luke sighed as he sat up, rubbing his eyes. He had been reading for two hours straight now, trying to memorise all the manoeuvres the manual contained. He doubted they would help him, but some part of him held onto that hope. He hadn't really found a style that fit him yet, after all. So far, the only thing he was anywhere near proficient with was a shield. Luckily, his mother didn't know that. She would have been outraged and demanded he find a private tutor to improve. He sighed again and closed the book, putting it on the bedside cabinet before stretching out. It wasn't his fault he wasn't confrontational. There was nothing wrong with being defensive. Sooner or later your opponent would tire themselves out, and then you could safely retreat.

Yet it seemed like he was the only one to see things that way. Everyone else kept going on about victory and vanquishing their opponents. He shook his head as he lay in bed. Maybe he was just not cut out for the life of a huntsman, no matter what his mother thought. The blond smiled slightly. She'd never accept that. It wasn't as if he could do anything else. He sat up, scratching the back of his neck as he glanced at the clock. Still over half an hour. He sighed. Whatever, he'd just head there early. Not like he had anything else to do.


Their training sessions were run in the old sports hall, near the stadium. Their teacher was already there, always an hour early to set things up. The old man, Oker, had been forced to retire as a Huntsman after losing his leg. He got around with a simple wooden prosthetic, which clacked on the polished floor every time he moved. The man had elected to become a tutor, and refused a number of positions with various academies and schools, preferring to teach those who lacked such support.

Luke got on well with him, as far as things went. Sure, he was a failure as a student, but Oker never held it against him, having him try out as many weapons as possible until he found one that felt right in his hands. That they had gone through the whole armoury had left him somewhat frustrated though. Still, Oker was confident Luke would find something to suit him eventually. The boy himself was far less optimistic.

The rest of the class had long ago moved onto sparring sessions, having found weapons that suited their preferred style of combat, and mastered the basic manoeuvres associated with them. Luke leaned against the wall of the hall, lights glowing in all the windows as he waited for the class to begin, hands in his pockets. Maybe Oker would finally give up, declare him a failure and send him home. The blond shook his head. No, the old man would never do that, even if it was the easiest option. Actually, probably because it was the easiest option. The man would always pick the harder choice when it came to decision making.

He shivered as the evening gloom deepened. Slowly the other students began to arrive, and trudged into the hall with nods or waves of welcome. Luke smiled and responded, though he never met their eyes, loathing to see the pity that was undoubtedly there. Ten minutes passed like that before he entered at last, the chill of the air outside replaced by the recycled warmth of the hall interior. He was already in his workout clothes, and set about doing his warm-up stretches whilst the other students changed.

"Ah, Luke, good," said Oker, walking up to the youth, his fake leg clacking against the floor. The blond glanced up at him and nodded in welcome, smiling. He like their tutor – he was a hard man but fair, a legacy of his life as a huntsman. "There's someone I want you to meet," the man said, waving at another approaching adult. "A...well, I wouldn't say friend, but certainly someone I trust. Gelb, this is Luke Mason, the boy I talked about earlier."

Luke turned to the man Oker had introduced, and bowed his head. Obviously the man was a Huntsman. He was tall, and clad in a smart suit that was totally inappropriate for him. He could tell the man would have been more comfortable in something far more casual, easier to move in. Luke kept his mouth shut though.

"Yes, the...problem student, as you mentioned," Gelb said, looking down at Luke, pushing up the shades he was wearing with one solid finger.

Luke felt his cheeks colour in shame as he spoke. "A pleasure," he replied, making sure to keep his tone neutral. The man seemed to inspect him before nodding to himself.

"Interesting. Very well Oker, fetch the equipment."

"Uhm...what's going on?" asked Luke, looking to his tutor as he grinned.

"Gelb here is going to see what you have learned and if there is anything I have missed," Oker explained, hobbling away to fetch a selection of weapons, leaving the boy alone with the stranger.

"Oh...uh...thanks," the blond offered, unable to bring himself to meet the man's eyes, still hidden behind his shades. The man just nodded in response. Right, not much of a talker. One of those kind of teachers then. Never explaining their methods, cloaking their techniques in confusion and misdirections. Like in those old movies from Vacuo.


Alright, he wasn't like those wise old mystic teachers. Gelb was a jerk. A grade A jerk. He had Luke go through all the weapons they had in the hall, going through manoeuvres and mock combat against other students, all of which he decidedly lost. And Gelb just sat there, nodding now and again as if confirming his thoughts. It was annoying, to say the least. He would only speak whenever he wanted Luke to change equipment, or start a bout, or announce a winner.

It was all so frustrating. And soon enough, they ran out of equipment, and Luke was sat on the floor, panting. He had thrown all of himself into the bouts, and still failed. Some huntsman he was going to be. Maybe grimm bait was an actual job for Huntsmen? He could do that at least. Gelb was stroking his chin as he walked up to the man, studying him.

Luke looked up at him, too tired to care about what the man thought right now. "So? Got any words of wisdom to share with this poor unfortunate soul?" he asked, his shoulders slumping down.

Gelb smiled suddenly, nodding. "You do best when staying on the defensive," he observed.

Luke looked up at him. "Uh...yeah..." he replied. That much was obvious, Oker had said as much about a month ago.

"Why do you want to be a Huntsman? To slay grimm?" Gelb suddenly asked, making the blond look back up at him.

The real answer wouldn't fly, Luke knew that. Because it was expected of him by his mother. So she could be oh so proud. Never mind that he was ill suited to it. "To protect others," he said simply.

Gelb seemed to think about his answer before nodding. "A satisfactory answer. Your marksmanship is decent enough...maybe you need somehting of an irregular setup."

"W-what do you mean?"

The tall man nodded to himself and turned away from the boy. "Oker. I have it," he called as he walked across the hall towards his tutor.


It would be another week before Luke Mason realized what Gelb had meant, when Oker handed him an enrolment form for Lantern after their training session. Lantern was not an academy he had heard of, let alone applied to. Yet Oker seemed to think highly of it, and recommended the boy to attend. Apparently the student body was much smaller than in other academies, permitting a more one on one tutoring setup. That actually sounded rather intereting to the youth, so he agreed with his tutor's suggestion.

His mother was somewhat unhappy that he wasn't aiming to get into Beacon, but Luke knew his transcripts would never get him in there. Plus, Lantern was all the way in Mistral – far away from his home. His mother hated that, but he welcomed it. He was almost an adult now, and he really needed his independence. Maybe the distance would lessen the pressure he felt. Maybe not. But he owed it to himself to try.


Luke Mason – Shieldman. Grey.