Artorias was awakened by a weight settling on his chest. One eye cracked open – a large grey cat was sat there, watching him, her tail flicking idly from side to side.

"What time is it?"

The cat, being unable to understand language, did not respond. Artorias rolled his eyes and reached for his scroll.

It was five in the morning.

"You're worse than Gil," he muttered. Despite his annoyance, he focused his semblance-

Impatience. Anger. Loneliness.

"Sorry Alvina," he said, ruffling the cat's fur. A quiet purr-

Annoyance. Love. Comfort.

"I thought so," Artorias smirked. His semblance allowed him to understand what it was animals tried to communicate – but was limited somewhat to the animals' own understanding. They did not communicate through complex language, but through emotion. He'd met a few – mostly housepets – with a basic grasp of language, but for the most part his semblance was restricted to threadbare communication. And it only went one way – if he wanted to talk back (and be understood), it was always through body language or through tone of voice, not through the words themselves.

He still wasn't quite sure whether anybody owned Alvina. The grey cat had just showed up at Team Gwyn's window one day, back when they were first years. Apparently, she'd lived at Shade for as long as anybody could remember, but since Artorias had arrived she'd stuck around with him more than most other students, probably because he could understand her better than anyone else.

Alvina purred again – this one a louder, more defined "meow".

Alarm. Stranger. Curiosity. Distrust.

"You gonna see who it is, or- okay, I probably won't be back again for a few months, bye kitty cat!" Alvina slipped from his hands and darted for the window (which Artorias could have sworn had been closed when he'd come back from the bar), leaping into a bush a few stories below. Artorias watched her scramble free and take off into the waning night.

Someone knocked at his door – presumably whoever it was that Alvina had heard.

"It's five in the morning," he said, throwing it open.

Winter stood there, one eyebrow raised. "Good to know you can read a clock," she said.

"I hope you're not just here to annoy me," he said, though he stood aside to allow her entry.

"I want to go over our findings."

"It's five in the morning," he said again.

"So it is." Winter's eyes narrowed, and she sniffed suspiciously. "You're not hungover, are you?"

"I'd like to think that I don't get hungover – only irritable."

"Are you irritable?"

"It's five in the morning," he repeated.

"Then you're fine," she said, though her trademark vicious smile said she didn't particularly care if he was anything else. "Did you find anything in town? You did talk to Quelana, didn't you?"

"…It's five in the morning."

"If we're heading to Izalith today, I'd rather we leave early."

"Early is a relative term."

"Early is when I say it is," she said. "Did you talk to Quelana?"

"Do you really think I'd drink alone?"

"Depends," she said, "on why you're drinking."

"I talked to her," he said. "Nothing on Anastacia. How about the academy records?"

She shook her head. "Nothing – unless he was going by an alias. Do you know what kind of weapon he uses?"

Artorias thought back to their brawl. "Curved swords. Like, super-curved, not regular-curved like yours. Don't think they were mechashift, but hey, I was drunk."

"Very helpful," she said dryly. "I'll keep that in mind, but it won't be easy to confirm anything on weapons alone. Especially ones so… basic." She let out a sigh. "I'll meet you at the ship. You've got half an hour; don't be late."

"Late is a relative term."

"Late is when I say it is," she said, walking out the door and disappearing into the hallway.

/-/

Artorias stepped into the cockpit, humming quietly to himself. Winter's ship – as he'd expected – was very sparse. The main compartment was lined with storage rooms full of disabled Atlesian robots. One locked door, he assumed, lead to Winter's personal quarters, leaving only the boarding ramp and the cockpit.

If her narrowed eyes and tense jawline were any indication, Winter was annoyed by his incessant humming. That, of course, was his goal.

"So…" he said, "you don't have a butler stowed away somewhere?"

She sighed. "No."

"A cook?"

"There's no kitchen."

"Of course, who am I kidding – it'd be a chef."

"There's no chef."

"How about a pilot?"

"I'm the pilot."

"Yeah, but are you? I mean, did you have to fire someone else so you could fly the ship?"

"Perhaps I should hire you," she said, arching an elegant eyebrow.

"No thanks. I'd be in a dust mine before I could say 'minimum wage'," Artorias joked.

Her face fell, and she remained silent for a time. "We're close," she said at last.

Artorias looked out the observation window. On the horizon, he saw Izalith, its streets paved with red sandstone winding between buildings of brick and timber. Artorias recalled his first visit – the air had shimmered with the heat, giving the town an ethereal atmosphere, as though it was hardly there. Now, the air was still. But the town wasn't there – not properly. Its people had left, or been killed.

A shame, really. Izalith had been a dream in the summer.

As they came closer, the edge of the desert came over the horizon. To the west, mountains; to the north, forests. Then, closer still, the damage to the town became more apparent. Grimm were rather inconsistent after an attack. Sometimes, they stick around to consume the fallen, to destroy humanity's creations. But sometimes, they'd move on as quickly as they'd come.

It seemed that they'd taken at least some time out of their busy schedules to ruin Izalith. Some buildings were mercifully spared, but the majority had been damaged, ranging anywhere from having only some windows shattered, to being reduced to piles of rubble.

"I'll open the hatch for you," said Winter. "We'll fly over once before landing – keep an eye out for Grimm."

"Or our large-weaponed friend," he said. "I'm on it."

He tapped the doorframe as he exited the cockpit, making his way to the boarding hatch. It opened for him, though the ramp did not extend. Artorias grabbed a handhold and leaned out to look down over the town.

For a while, it seemed eerily empty. He'd expected to see half-eaten bodies lying abandoned in the streets, some stray Grimm that had yet to move on – perhaps even looters who had come to grow rich from others' suffering. But he saw none of those things.

Not for a while, at least. When the ship came to pass over the main square, he spotted a pile of bodies around the side of the town hall. But not any evidence as to who put them there – or why.

He made a mental note of it and maintained his vigil.

As they approached the northern edge of the town, Artorias spied some Grimm – Howlers, by the look of it, as common to Vacuo as Beowolves were to Vale. Howlers were eerie, spindly creatures that laughed and looked like hyenas, but the largest could grow to be taller than a man. Dangerous in numbers, but otherwise easy prey.

The pack he spotted numbered a little under two dozen – not enough to pose much of a problem even if he'd been alone.

He turned away as they flew clear of the town and returned to Winter.

"Report," she said. He rolled his eyes.

"Not even a please. Grimm in the north, manageable. Bodies have been piled up in the main square – might have been looters, but there's no other sign of them."

She nodded. "We'll land to the north, clear out the Grimm, then make our way towards the middle of town."

"Do I-"

"Only if you have anything to say," she said, manoeuvring the ship over to a clear space for landing.

He smiled a little, and drummed his fingers against the wall. "Just wanted the option," he said.

She was silent for a few seconds, focusing on landing the ship. As the landing gear locked, the ship shuddered light, and Winter let out a sigh. "You're insufferable," she said. She stood and pushed past him.

"I know," he teased, following her down the boarding ramp. "But I have to suffer myself every single day. How do you think I feel?"

"I tend to severely dislike people like you, you know."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He adopted a light-hearted tone in saying it, but it was a legitimate question – he'd felt a shift in her tone, a certain gravitas to her cadence that didn't quite suit banter.

"People who struggle to take things seriously."

"I make light of things. It's what I do," he shrugged. "If I spent all my time taking things seriously, I'd have hair so white I'd be mistaken for a Schnee."

"Well, you already have grey hair."

"Silver hair," he corrected. "I just don't see the point of worrying about things," he said. They rounded a corner to find the pack of Howlers staring them down. "Unless those things have glowing red eyes and bone-armour. And even then… Plan?"

"Boost me. You attack from the front; I'll flank from behind."

He smiled gently, flexing the fingers of his gauntleted left hand. "You got it."

A small push with his aura sent the thick metal plates of the gauntlet sliding apart rapidly, unfolding and expanding piece by piece until he wore no gauntlet at all, but instead held a large shield, thin but sturdy.

He'd kept it a secret at Beacon – a hidden advantage to save for the tournament. But now he was free to use it – unless Winter told Weiss about it. But then, it wasn't like Winter hadn't already known.

He bent his knees, held the shield above him, and then the moment he felt a weight settle on it he pushed upwards with all his strength. For a moment, he considered ditching the shield for his dagger, his usual style for fighting Grimm, but taken by whim he decided to stick with sword and shield.

He dashed forwards, meeting the Howlers head on. The first slammed into his shield, and he ducked into it, throwing it behind him bodily. His sword sang upwards, slicing the second's head off in a single blow. His left arm came back into position and the bottom of the shield braced against the dirt, catching the biting strikes of two more on its surface before he thrust forwards, impaling one, and cutting outwards to knock aside the next. A brief respite afforded him the opportunity to finish off the first Howler, only just recovering from where it had landed behind him.

With a laughing howl of his own, he charged deeper into the fray, blade whistling through the air again and again to cut down the Grimm, using his shield as a bludgeoning tool almost as much as a defensive one. Not far off, he saw Winter doing very much the same, carving a path through the Howlers like they were but paper.

It was a short, bloody affair, lasting five minutes at most, ending with the two Hunters standing strong and the Grimm disintegrating around them.

"That went well," he mused, dusting himself off.

"A good exercise," she agreed, sheathing her sabre and setting off towards the middle of town again. Artorias rolled his eyes.

"You wouldn't mind not mentioning my shield to Weiss, would you? I'm keeping it under wraps for the tournament."

"I won't make promises," she grinned. "I'm rather hoping to see her succeed."

"And not me? Ouch," he laughed. "Team Gwyn had a real chance at the last tournament, you know."

"I remember," she assured him. "If you make it to the one-v-ones again, who do you plan to send?"

"Gil wants to see what the other combatants can do first," he said. "We sent Ciaran last time, but Havel beat her in the first fight." It had been a long, drawn out fight – Ciaran could barely chip at Havel's aura, but she'd been too agile for Havel to land many blows of his own.

"Mr Rockwell isn't in the tournament this year, correct?"

"Haven't you read his file?"

"We don't have a file on him, Artorias. We don't have files on most people."

"But you do have one on me, right? Artorias Nym, the Wolf Knight, an overall decent guy, instrumental in saving Amity."

"Involved in disrupting a terrorist plot to destroy Amity Colosseum," she corrected. "While I agree it would have been difficult without your assistance, Atlas records are worded a little more objectively. And there's none of that 'Wolf Knight' nonsense, either."

"Rude," he muttered. "Eh, whatever. What else does my file say about me?"

"You know this is classified, don't you?"

"Is it anything I wouldn't already know? Do I have a secret half-brother who rules a criminal empire or something?"

"I'll admit, I haven't read it since I sent it in."

"You wrote my file?" he asked.

"It was part of my report for the Quill conspiracy," she said. "I'm… sorry if you consider that a breach of trust. I have my orders."

"Pfft. I'm flattered," he said, though not entirely truthfully. He couldn't quite place his finger on it – he didn't particularly mind, but it didn't feel terribly right, either. "Nothing too condemning in there, I hope?"

"We received baby photos from your mother as part of the background check."

"Very funny," he said. But Winter only looked at him, a deadly smile plastered on her face. "You're not serious, are you?"

"Classified."

They passed through narrow sandstone streets, some a little obstructed by debris from the damaged buildings, but for the most part still clear. At length, they reached the main square. Across from them sat the town hall, one of the few built from imported materials; greenish-grey brick. In its shadow was the pile of bodies, its peak a little higher than Artorias was tall.

"I see what you mean," Winter said.

Artorias nodded dumbly. They approached the bodies.

Artorias felt the hairs rising on the back of his neck, and his ears twitched at the slightest sound – even their own boots striking the stone. Something felt very wrong. Perhaps he was just jumpy – they'd fallen quiet during their walk, and the empty streets had somehow become very oppressive. And besides – corpses were hardly a pleasant sight under any circumstance.

As they came closer, he spotted a shield leaning against the town hall's wall – a rectangular wooden shield embossed with steel and with the effigy of an eagle painted on its surface.

The mangled bodies grew in detail. Given that it had been days since the attack, they reeked horribly, the rot of death setting in. Flies flew around them, their incessant buzzing doing little to stave of Artorias' feeling of dread. But whoever had piled them up obviously held some respect for the slain – their eyes were all closed in their bloated faces.

A nasal voice he didn't recognise spoke. "Thirty-three and a half."

Artorias whirled around in surprise, cocking his fist back to face the stranger. But the man who spoke held his hands up warily to show he was unarmed, though there was a spear on his back. "Careful, friends. I'm not looking for a fight."

Artorias was struck with the thought that the bald man in front of him was rather angular: an angular jaw, angular brow, angular narrow eyes that slanted towards an angular nose.

"Sorry," Artorias said, lowering his fist. "Just… a little on edge."

"Well, I don't blame you," said the angular man. "Let's let bygones be bygones, shall we?"

Artorias nodded. "Are you a Huntsman?" Winter asked, gesturing to the spear on his back, and to the shield leaning against the wall.

"Me? Heavens, no – well, actually, I suppose I could be. I'm whatever I need to be. Huntsman, merchant, beggar… gravedigger." He gestured into the building to the pile of corpses. "Digging would take too long for that lot, though. Thought I'd go for a pyre; a funeral fit for a Lord."

Artorias tilted his head. "You're a religious man?"

The man laughed. "Gods, no. Yourselves?"

"No," said Winter curtly.

"Familiar, but not a believer," Artorias said.

"Ah, a man after my own heart. I have a certain fascination with religion. Lords, Brothers, Blood – I don't care what faith it's from. It's all very intriguing. Can't stand their worshippers though, I tell you what. Glad there aren't many of them left." He clapped his hands together. "Just gotta burn this lot and I can head home. You got any burn dust?"

Artorias reached into his pouch for a red crystal. "Not much. What did you mean by 'thirty-three and a half'?"

The angular man shook his head and waved a dismissive hand. "Gonna need powdered dust, not crystal," he said.

"I have a little," Winter said, "but I doubt it'd be enough."

"Hmm. A shame. Well, I suppose it could be thirty-four. Depends on if you count the all shrivelled-up woman as half, or as a full person. Actually, you know what? I'm gonna stick with thirty-four. Show of respect and all that."

"And you are?"

"Thirty-five, at this rate. Not that it's particularly dangerous around here anymore, but I'd rather be home by nightfall. Any idea where to find some more dust in this place? I mean, could go with some sticks and a bit of the old-fashioned friction, but…"

"Wait," Artorias said. "The shrivelled-up one?"

"Exactly. The shrivelled-up one. Skins all dry, not very pretty."

"That doesn't sound much like a Grimm," Winter said.

"Doesn't look like it either. Wound on her throat – clean kill with a clean blade." Artorias frowned; Grimm claws were jagged and serrated to draw out the pain, create negative emotions, and attract more Grimm.

"What did she look like?"

"Dunno. Never saw her living, and now she's all…" he grimaced in disgust, "you know. What's it to you?"

Artorias and Winter shared a glance. "Mind if we take a look at her?"

The angular man shrugged. "Tell you what, though, she's right at the bottom – it's gonna be a struggle to get her out from under there. I'll give you a hand if you help me find some burn dust afterwards."

"Deal," said Artorias.

Thirty-five clapped his hands and turned to walk towards the corpse pile. "So," he said, grabbing an arm and unceremoniously dragging a man from the top, "what's your favourite religion?"

"Hmm?"

"Rather, which one interests you most? Everyone has their own perspective on such things, I find – and I'm interested in all of them."

"The perspectives or the religions?" Artorias asked.

"Both," he said, grabbing the arms of a rather obese headless body and motioning for Artorias to help with the legs.

"I'm most familiar with the Lords," he said, referring to the stories surrounding the belief that the kingdoms were built by the wielders of immensely powerful souls – the Lords – except for Mantle, for which the religion offered no explanation. "Not something I really think about, though."

"Fair enough, fair enough," Thirty-five mused. "Well then, given our current occupation – what's your take on the death of sunlight?" Artorias thought back to the story, in which the Lord of Sunlight was betrayed and killed by the other Lords.

"I think it's nonsense," Winter cut in. "I don't much see the point of a religion if the gods can die."

"Except for the immortal one," said Thirty-five, looking distastefully at a splash of rancid blood on his arm. "That one's undying by definition." He sighed and tore a relatively clean scrap of fabric from the clothes of the dead, wiping away the blood with it. "Let's say there were gods, capable of impacting our world – would you rather have them mortal, or immortal?"

"A fair question," Artorias said. "But the Lords have both. I'd rather have none."

"Fair, but boring," Thirty-five scoffed. "Well then, take the Brothers. You're familiar, yes? Two brothers, one makes the world, one makes some Grimm, they both make us – then they piss off and don't do anything ever again. See, it might be true. Might not be. But the thing is, it doesn't matter, because even if they do exist, they don't do anything, not anymore. Them's the kinda gods I wouldn't mind believing in. They don't punish, they don't reward, they don't care. Doesn't matter if they exist or not."

"If I had a drink, I think I'd drink to that."

"Good news," laughed Thirty-five, "Grimm aren't alcoholics. Should still be something in the inn. Hey, maybe I could use that instead of dust." He shrugged and got back to work digging through the bodies.

After a few minutes, he said, "Aha!" reached down, and grabbed a decrepit left arm. "Found her. C'mon, get the other hand now."

They dragged the woman from the bottom of the pile. And Thirty-five was right – her skin was dry and wrinkled, browned like leather, clinging to her bones. Her eyes were sunken pits in her face, her pale, brittle hair hanging from her scalp as though it could fall from it at any moment. Dried blood full of spidery cracks flaked away from her neck at every movement, revealing more and more of a long, thin wound.

Even in such a state, she looked familiar, though Artorias considered that he might just be seeing what he expected to see. With a sigh, he crouched down and forced her mouth open.

The shrunken, twisted black stub in her mouth confirmed his suspicion. She had no tongue.

"Winter," he motioned for her to look too.

"Who was she?" asked Thirty-five.

"Somewhere between one and thirty-four, I'd imagine," said Winter, kneeling next to the body.

"You're a barrel full of laughs, aren't you? Well then – given as I ever-so-graciously offered my assistance digging her out of the pile, why don't you give me a hand giving these sorry fools a drink?"

"Hmm?"

"Dousing them with alcohol, I mean. You can douse yourself too, if you want – I won't judge."

"We'll pass on that one," Winter said, giving Artorias a meaningful look. He pouted, but couldn't hold the expression for long and broke into a half-hearted laugh. "But we'll help."

"Excellent." Thirty-five clapped his hands again. "I'll just grab the booze, then."

Artorias pointed to a wooden building across the square. "Tavern's there. We'll pile everyone back on, then come and help."

"Oh, I'm well aware," Thirty-five said. "Shan't be long, then."

As he headed off, Winter turned to Artorias. "Do you think it's Anastacia?"

"Yup."

"It looks like she's been dead for years," she said, "but she obviously wasn't buried. And the wound looks recent."

Artorias threw a corpse back onto the pile. "What do you think killed her?"

"Someone slit her throat."

"Obviously. But that doesn't explain the… everything else."

"I don't know either," Winter admitted. She stood and, with a grimace, moved over to a body to threw it back on the pile. "It's… unsettling, I admit. We only speak of this to Professor June, Professor Ozpin, and General Ironwood. Understand?"

"Hey, I get it. Secrecy and all that, panic draws Grimm, blah blah. Reckon there's anything else in town?" He heaved another body onto the pile.

"You were the one looking out, Artorias."

"I mean, I didn't see anything, but we were pretty high up, you know?"

She nodded. "We'll ask our new friend if he's seen anything out of the ordinary, I suppose."

"How long do you think he's been here?"

"Two, maybe three days. He must have searched the town quite thoroughly to find all the bodies."

"That I did," Thirty-five said. Artorias jumped in surprise – the angular man moved incredibly quietly. "Dreary place, I tell you what."

"Did you notice anything odd?" Winter asked.

"Not at all," he said. "I mean, aside from old shrivelled over there." He put the bottles on the ground gingerly and helped Artorias throw the last body onto the pile. "You want to keep looking at her, or should we throw her on?"

Artorias raised an eyebrow to Winter.

"Burn her," she said.

"Your call," said Thirty-five. "Looks like we'll need more liquor – if one of you wouldn't mind starting to pour, we'll grab some more."

Winter nodded and reached down, grabbing a bottle of rum and eyeing it distastefully.

"Well then, it's just you and me, friend," said Thirty-five. He slung an arm around Artorias' shoulder as they walked. "What say-"

"Don't get him drunk," Winter ordered, opening the bottle and pouring it over the corpses.

"Fine, fine," Thirty-five said, steering Artorias away.

"So," said Artorias, as they made their way across the square, "what's your real name?"

"I put great value on my name, you know," he said. "Call me trusty, call me friend, call me thirty-five, if you want, but if I told you my real name, I think I'd have to kill you."

"You're welcome to try."

"Trust me, if I were to try, it wouldn't be with an Atlas Specialist around. I'm a lot of things, but I'm not an idiot."

They stepped through the open door, which hung listlessly on its hinges, the lock broken.

"What about your name, Wolf?"

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."

"I really don't want to kill you right now. I've had a long few days, you know?"

"Fair, fair. I'm Artorias." He walked behind the bar and started grabbing bottles – whiskey, rum – there was even some Mantle vodka.

"Mind if I ask why you're here?"

"One of life's great mysteries, isn't it?"

"Religious discussion is over, friend," Thirty-five said, "but I'll respect your privacy if you respect mine."

They made their way back over to the pile, their arms full of bottles. They clanked loudly as they put them on the ground, then grabbing one each to pour over the corpses. Working in silence for a few minutes, the stench of rot and decay was soon overtaken by the acrid smell of alcohol as it soaked into the skin and clothes of the deceased.

Artorias pulled out a red crystal from his pouch. "You want to do the honours?"

"A strange honour," said Winter. Thirty-five nodded in agreement, but took the crystal anyway. He closed his narrow eyes and focused, and the crystal began to glow. He threw it on the pile.

The flames caught quickly.


Not my best, I admit.

I almost cut the Alvina part, but I wanted to establish how Artorias' semblance works now rather than later. And, as much as I'd like for Alvina to be communicating in thous and thouests and knowests, giving animals a complex understanding of language is a can of worms I'd rather not open. I don't want literate cats and dogs here, no sir.

If Coco's handbag can turn into a minigun, Artorias' gauntlet can turn into a shield. Mechashift weaponry is convoluted in Remnant.

I desperately wanted to have Patches do the classic Patches kick, but in the end it didn't really work here on account of him doing something slightly altruistic, and not wanting to piss off a dangerous Hunter. Left unspoken is that he looted every single one of those corpses before burning them.

Next chapter - April 21st.