It turns out I had far more on my plate than I thought. Sorry.
Emerald muttered angrily to herself as she swiped her scroll over the keypad locking Councilman Sulyvahn's room. Why did it have to be her? They all knew he'd be elsewhere: specifically at Amity to watch the first fight. Most likely, he was in the VIP box with the Valean councilmen. It certainly seemed like his scene. If his room were unoccupied, she wouldn't have to use her semblance.
And besides, if he came back early it wasn't like she could use her semblance on him. Why couldn't it be Mercury, or hell, even Neo?
The keypad flashed red, and the image of a chess piece appeared. The door clicked open, and, after checking the corridor one last time for observers, she slipped inside.
"Oh! Ah… I was expecting someone else?" It wasn't Sulyvahn's voice, that much was clear. But in checking behind her, she'd forgotten to check in front of her, and now somebody had already seen her. That wasn't good. Grimacing, she looked up.
"You're not a cleric, are you?" asked the man, who she found bent over Sulyvahn's terminal, a guilty look on his face. He was bald, with slanted narrow eyes and an angular face. He didn't seem at all the type to have business at Beacon; she could see no weapon, and he was clothed like a civilian anyway. Still, something about him suggested confidence.
"No?" Emerald guessed.
"Well, uh, I was here for a confession," said the man. "So… if you're not a cleric, you're not needed."
"That's why I'm here too," she lied, before realising how stupid it was to try lying when clearly this guy was lying just as much as she. Besides, as far as she knew, confessions weren't a practice of the Church of the Deep anyway.
"But how'd you get in here?" asked the man.
"How'd you get in here?"
A wide grin spread on his face, tempered by a guilty shrug. "You got me," he said. His eyes flickered back down to the terminal, and his hands flew across the keys. A moment later, he ejected his scroll and pocketed it. "All done," he said. He grabbed a tissue and wrote something on it. "You're on Black's team, right?"
"Mercury?"
"That's the guy, yeah." He offered her the note. "Tell Cinder dearest to call me," he said. "Preferably some time before four in the afternoon and twelve at night. Or after, works too, though I do like my beauty sleep."
"Why?"
"Because I don't want to get fired. Speaking of which—let's keep this little break-in between us, alright?" He winked knowingly, then laughed. "Have a wonderful day," he said cheerily, offering a quick wave, then he pushed past her towards the door. A moment later, he was gone, and Emerald was left feeling a little bewildered by the absurdity of it all.
She shook her head to clear her thoughts, then looked down at the tissue. A number was written on it, followed by a single name: Lapp.
/-/
"Dust?"
"Bloody hell, Gil, I'm not an idiot. I'm prepared."
"Good."
Artorias adjusted the strap on his pauldron and flexed the fingers on his left hand, feeling his shield-gauntlet move around them. The mechanical parts were relatively non-intrusive, but it was still important to acclimate to the gauntlet's movements.
"Dagger?"
"Very funny, C. Keen for the crowd?"
"I've done this before. I can handle crowds, Arty. It's strangers that bother me. You know, actually talking to them."
"You've done fine with the first-years," Gough pointed out.
"You didn't see when Blake told me about her books. That girl has a twisted mind, I tell you."
"Blake? Really?" Gough raised an eyebrow. "She's so sweet."
"You don't want to know." Ciaran shuddered. "My point stands. The tourney's here and you still haven't got a new dagger. You might want to get on that."
The doors into the arena opened, and the team stepped out. On the other side of the colosseum, Team Harvest was doing the same, squinting a little from the change of lighting. It hardly bothered Artorias, though.
"Seems a bit late, don't you think?" Artorias asked over the roar of the crowd.
"Just saying."
"Mind if I borrow one of yours?"
"Maybe if you're nice to me."
"How nice?"
"Really nice."
They walked to the middle of the arena. Over the speakers, the announcer's voices blared out, announcing the names of their teams. Artorias cast his gaze over the opposite team
Solaire, the only member Artorias recognised, stood to on the far left, a dust-embroidered handkerchief in one hand and a circular shield in the other. Next to him was a man in a red cloak—Hawkwood Crest—wielding a greatsword not unlike Artorias' own. Then came Ricard, wearing nothing but a kilt and a crown and wielding a long, thin rapier, and after him Rendal, clad in heavy armour from head to toe and armed with a massive shield and a flanged mace.
The terrain roulette began. For the four-v-fours, the battlefield was split in half; for the two-v-twos it would be split in quarters, and the finals wouldn't be split at all, taking place on the central stage with no faux-natural terrain whatsoever. Behind Team Harvest, a desert was raised from below; behind Team Gwyn, a geyser field. "Alright," Ciaran murmured, "we can work with this." The desert was, as students of Shade, technically their 'home field'. However, the danger of the desert only became apparent in prolonged expeditions, not in short-burst fights. It was all too easy to lose one's sense of direction after long weeks alone in the desert, and to become utterly lost among the shifting sands, leading to either insanity or death—neither of which were a real threat in such a short battle.
Still, Vacuans knew nothing if not the desert, and were accustomed to the soft sand beneath their feet. It wouldn't count for much, but it'd at least be something if they could push team Harvest back from the central platform.
"Remember, bulwark strategy," Gilderoy said, drawing his bident and couching it under his right arm. 'Bulwark strategy' was simple enough; Gough would sit back and crush them from afar. Ciaran was to rush their back line. Gilderoy was to intercept anyone going for Gough while Artorias sat front and centre to take their attention. Of course, no plan survived first contact, and so the plan became more of a guideline, but, as always, it provided a starting point.
"Three!"
"Good luck, team," Gough said.
"Two!"
"We won't need luck," Artorias scoffed.
"One!"
"Don't get cocky," Ciaran said.
"Begin!"
/-/
"We could end up against either of them," Weiss said. "Don't just watch; analyse!"
"Boring", Yang drawled. Not that the fights themselves were boring, but actually breaking down the nitty-gritty of it? Nah. Not worth it. Instead, she watched as Artorias battled Hawkwood and Rendal in the middle of the arena. It occurred to her that she hadn't really seen him fight a human opponent before. She found herself enjoying the spectacle; his style was half brawling, half swordplay, pushing and pulling (and sometimes simply punching) his opponents with his free off-hand to keep them distracted while doing the real damage with his sword. It wasn't a complete domination, however; Hawkwood was giving him some trouble, taking on a nimbler approach that could duck and weave and backstep away when Artorias was too aggressive and landing one or two solid hits while his attention was on Rendal.
Meanwhile, Solaire and Gough had both removed themselves to the backlines of their respective teams. Gough's bow was a familiar sound—first the release, then the heavy impact—but Solaire's lightning bolts were new to Yang. She couldn't see clearly, but she was fairly sure he had nothing more than a handkerchief in his right hand. Whatever it was, it glowed with yellow energy every time he raised it to form long lances of crackling lightning.
Ricard, spotting an opening, dashed past Ciaran, but was knocked aside by a bident halfway across the battlefield. Gilderoy was relentless, giving his opponent no opportunities to safely flee. Ciaran, seeing that Ricard was taken care of, closed the gap on Solaire, who, using his shield as an offensive tool as much as a defensive one, met her blow for blow.
"Team Gwyn's totally got this," Yang said. "Gough's the easiest to drop, and Harvest isn't doing a damn thing about him."
"Good. You're paying attention."
"I'm just enjoying myself," Yang retorted. "So what if I pick up some things along the way? Maybe I'm just clever and observant."
Ruby and Blake snorted.
"Shush, both of you," Yang quipped. "Just because I'm such a good student-"
"I didn't say anything," Blake said.
/-/
Ciaran weaved between the surprisingly fast—but not fast enough—strikes Solaire aimed at her. She'd not expected him to use a shield quite so aggressively, though she was more than capable of handling it.
"Hey," Solaire said, in a brief reprieve. He wore a friendly smile, despite their circumstances. "It's been a while."
"Mm. Still working?"
"Nah." He fended off a flurry of strikes. "I had to study, and then Rendal had us sparring for about twenty-seven hours a day, so I quit."
"That's a shame."
"Well, it was good while it lasted." He aimed for her face with the edge of his shield; she ducked it and scored two solid slashes across his midriff. They hurt his aura less than she'd anticipated, sliding off his chainmail and his tabard, but it was a start. He summoned lightning in his right hand and brought it crashing down on top of her; she danced to the left and dropped low to kick his legs out from under him. He withstood the blow and clipped her with his shield, knocking her off balance, though it did little to her aura. She recovered quickly enough to dodge away from the next lightning bolt—albeit barely.
"You're faster than you look."
Solaire shrugged, though it seemed it was more to keep limber than anything else. "I'm glad to hear it."
Ciaran gave him an odd look. Though she'd certainly meant it as a compliment, he'd taken it strangely. Not badly, just… well, he was odd.
Their battle continued, Ciaran's relentless assault quickly pushing him deeper into the desert. Rarely, she managed to dart past his guard and score some good hits on him, though he was always agile enough to guard the chinks in his armour. And sometimes his shield, swung in wide arcs, was enough to open her guard, and every time he'd take the opportunity to smack her with a lightning bolt. Some were even fast enough to hit, and though they dispersed across her aura they still stung.
"Ooh, that's got to hurt!" Port's voice boomed over the speakers, and Ciaran could vaguely hear beeping to indicate that somebody's aura had dropped below the threshold. "On the receiving end of Mr Iris' bow, Rendal Vermeil is eliminated!" Ciaran winced. That must have hurt.
"Incoming!" Ciaran recognised Gilderoy's voice instantly, but heard two pairs of footfalls behind her. She charged Solaire, sheathing her silver tracer and drawing her revolver. She leapt at him, and, when he raised his shield, jumped off it into a backflip. Ricard was crossing the desert towards them, Gilderoy in hot pursuit. She squeezed off two shots at him—one of which hit him square in the chest, though he deflected the other—before falling back to the ground.
Solaire's shield was coming up to meet her, and she caught its edge in her stomach as she fell. The air rushed from her lungs, and when she hit the sand she rolled twice before managing to find her feet.
"Very flashy," Solaire said.
"I practiced-" she gasped for air- "very hard."
"I can imagine."
She could hear the clash of metal on metal to indicate that Gil had caught up with Ricard, and that he wasn't letting him get away. At the very least, she could focus on Solaire again without worrying about a sword in her back. "Mind giving me a breather?"
He spread his arms—and, more importantly, let down his guard—to shrug. "Sor- heck!" She fired off the remainder of her bullets, and, perfectly timed, a massive arrow came flying past her. It slammed into Solaire's shield as he brought up just in time, and he was sent flying backwards over the dunes. He wasn't quite out of the arena, but he was close.
"Sorry," Ciaran said, only a little sincerely, and far too quietly for him to hear. She holstered her revolver, drew her silver tracer, and gave chase.
/-/
Artorias caught Hawkwood's blade on his own and twisted, reaching in and grabbing his opponent by the arm. A strong tug brought Hawkwood tumbling closer, and a well-placed foot sent him falling towards a geyser, mere moments before it erupted. Hawkwood, to Artorias' surprise, threw himself into the fall, embracing the unexpected movement, and came up behind the geyser. For a brief moment, their vision was obscured by a column of scalding water and steam, then it dissipated.
"Nice," Artorias said approvingly.
Hawkwood said nothing, instead dragging a cleaning cloth over his blade—no, it wasn't for cleaning. There was a gem of burn dust within, and when he drew the blade free it burst into flame. For the first time, it seemed Hawkwood was truly smiling, though it was a small one that didn't last long at all.
Artorias re-engaged, sure to set the tempo of their duel. He dove beneath Hawkwood's flaming sword and, tearing a handful of dust crystals from his pouch, punched his foe in the gut. Ice formed around his hand, and around Hawkwood's midriff, and, not expecting the weight, they fell to the ground, Hawkwood's sword extinguishing only moments after he'd lit it. Artorias slammed the pommel of his sword into Hawkwood's nose once, twice, a third time before the ice shattered. A fist flew up towards Artorias' face, but he leaned to the side and it whistled past harmlessly.
Snarling, Hawkwood shoved Artorias away, dangerously close to a geyser. Artorias rolled to his feet and charged in again, not giving the younger student a moment's reprieve. He grabbed another random dust crystal and this time elected to throw it; Hawkwood batted it aside with his blade and it was pushed skyward by a geyser, exploding in a shower of sparks somewhere above them. A short exchange passed, then they locked blades. Artorias won the contest of strength and shoved Hawkwood's sword aside, his fist flashing out to collide with the younger man's nose a moment later.
Hawkwood's eyes watered, but he didn't give any ground. Instead, he stepped into the blow and rammed his elbow into Artorias' chin. His head snapped back, and he staggered away, rubbing his jaw. Hawkwood followed, face still blank and stoic as before, and raised his weapon. Artorias sent the first strike slanting away, parried the next, then grabbed Hawkwood's wrist as he chambered another blow. He tightened his grip, then yanked hard, pulling Hawkwood into a headbutt.
"Bloody Vacuans…" Hawkwood muttered, staggering away. Aura flickered and sparked, setting his nose straight; it had finally broken from the impact, even through aura. Artorias winced. He'd not meant to be quite so rough.
"I'm from Vale, actually. Sorry."
"Didn't even want to do bloody Vytal, but nooo, Solaire just had to convince us all. Gives me-"
"Ricard Balth is eliminated by Gilderoy Ornstein. With their leader on the edge of the map, and Mr Crest's aura running low, Team Harvest is in serious trouble!" Port's voice boomed.
Hawkwood sighed. "What a sick joke." He hefted his weapon. "Do you mind if I break something in return?"
"I'd really rather you didn't."
"Pity. I need cheering up."
Artorias doubted anything could cheer up this man.
/-/
Artorias clapped Gilderoy on the shoulder as Team Gwyn made their way to the airships off Amity. "Smile for the cameras and all that," he said, not that there were any cameras on them. "Give your oh-so-dear boyfriend a wave—oh, what the hell, I'll do it for you." Spotting Smough coming out from the colosseum, Artorias raised a hand in an overly dainty wave.
"You're the worst," Ciaran said.
"Not taking sides, but do you really have to provoke him right now?" Gough asked.
Artorias ignored them. "Just smile and wave, Gil. What could you possibly do with Vacuo if the public don't like you?"
"Artorias, behave," Gough said, a little more sternly this time. "Don't ruin the day. It's been a good one so far."
"Hey, hey, I'm making a point," Artorias said. "And not even a bad one. I'll shut up now, I swear."
"Doubt it," Ciaran muttered.
"It is a good point, actually," Gilderoy acquiesced. "I've been thinking about that a bit, actually," he said, following not far behind. "Especially over the past week. There's been a lot of reading."
"Reading? I- about Vacuo?" Artorias asked.
"About King Vendrick, mostly." King Vendrick had been the second-to-last monarch of Mistral, peacefully coming into power and regaining Mistrali independence after a generation of vassalage beneath Mantle. While the decades of vassalage had established such strong trade between the two kingdoms that it had been beneficial—even lucrative—to maintain ties with the northern kingdom (thus laying the foundation for their alliance in the Great War), Vendrick was still a beloved figure in Mistral's history.
It was his rise to the power that interested Gilderoy—not that he had any intention of reinstating any monarchies, but Vendrick's rise to power paralleled some of Gilderoy's own goals.
Though, judging from the way Ciaran's eyes lit up at the mention of Vendrick, he suspected he'd just poked a hornet's nest.
"Nice one, mutt," said Smough, walking over to them. Gilderoy was suddenly sure he'd rather listen to Ciaran ramble about historical figures than be privy to this particular conversation. There was still a chance Smough would be amiable, but Artorias…?
"Nice what?"
"Don't push it. That was a compliment." Smough's previously purposeful tone dropped away quickly, and it became clear to Gilderoy that he had absolutely no idea how to be nice to Artorias. "Take it however you want."
But at least he was trying to play nice. Artorias seemed puzzled. "Who are you and what did you do with Smough?"
Smough closed his eyes, breathed out heavily through his nostrils, then opened his eyes again. "Uh… good afternoon," he said, nodding awkwardly to Ciaran. She too looked utterly confused by Smough's relative cordiality.
"Hi?" she said uncertainly.
"I think I need a drink," Artorias muttered. "I'm gonna-"
"I'm coming with you," Ciaran said, already three steps ahead of him and making her way towards the colosseum docks.
"Are you alright, Smough?" Gough asked, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder.
"Mm. Don't worry about it." He shook himself, and the moment seemed to pass. "You both did well," he said.
"And Artorias too, apparently," Gough commented, raising an eyebrow. Gently mocking humour was written all over his face.
Smough grimaced, then nodded, the action seemingly forced out of him. "Look, I'm a changed man or something, alright?"
"A changed man," Gilderoy quoted. "Elegantly put."
"Starting change with Artorias," Gough mused. "Good luck. I'm proud of you for trying, though."
"Alright, alright, let's just forget it, alright?" Smough said. "Didn't you say you were going to help… Penny, wasn't it? Before her match?"
"Mm-hmm. I'll meet you at our seats?"
"Sure," said Smough. "What's she need help with, anyway? She doesn't have some ridiculously complex weapon, does she?"
"He's painting her nails," Gough said, chuckling.
"I'm painting her nails for her," Gilderoy confirmed.
Smough, not for the first time today, seemed unsure of what to say. "Uh-"
"Oh, right, I still need to do a carving for her." He patted down his pockets. "Do you have a knife, Smough?"
"Not for whittling, no."
"Hey, I'll see you in there," Gilderoy said. "I'll ask Penny's team. One of them might have one."
"Oh. Thanks."
Smough stooped down so Gil could give him a brief peck on the cheek, then Gil departed in search of Penny, hearing their discussion over the value of knives for purposes other than whittling fade behind him.
/-/
"Ah, Cinder! Hello there."
Lapp had answered her call, though he'd refrained from showing his face, leaving it audio-only for the time being.
"You've taken an interest in Sulyvahn?" Cinder asked.
"A passing interest, for the time being. Did Emerald find anything?"
Cinder chose not to answer that. In addition to allowing her to view the camera feeds, the virus gave her access to all of Sulyvahn's files. Nothing was particularly damning just yet, though she'd barely scraped the surface. "What were you looking for?" she asked.
"He has something on you. Blackmail?"
Cinder didn't respond.
"He's not coercing you, is he? What in the world could...? Bah. It doesn't matter what he has over you. What matters is what he wants from you."
"What's your stake in this?"
"A favour for a friend, in this case." He muttered something under his breath before continuing. "Don't pay it any mind at all. None whatsoever. Don't worry, though. I have nothing against you, dear. Not yet."
"You're not doing much to convince me."
"Look, for the most part I hate blackmail- oh, who am I kidding? And besides, this is for your own good. I have that file, remember? The file that's not on Ozpin's desk right now? That one. What does Sulyvahn want from you?"
Cinder grimaced. "He wants power," she hedged. She couldn't be quite sure how much he knew about-
"The Maiden's power? What an asshole. He's rich; he could just get a sex change operation. Do you think that'd work?"
Cinder took a moment to compose herself. "He's a bit old," she said, not sure what else she could say.
"True. Maybe if he moisturised more he'd be eligible. Well, at least he can't easily kill you for it." He paused, and audibly hummed to himself. "You don't have the power yet, do you?"
"No."
"But you will soon, and he wants your loyalty before then. Does he have it?"
Cinder paused, weighing her options. She was loyal to herself first, and always would be, but she had no plans of turning her back on Salem. But what she was or wasn't going to do didn't matter; Lapp had something to hold over her head, so she needed to say what he wanted to hear. She wasn't quite sure what that was. It was clear he didn't like Sulyvahn on grounds of suspected treason, but he also clearly didn't like Raime, Salem's most loyal servant (save maybe Tyrian). Did that point to some opposition to Salem herself? She couldn't say for sure without knowing why he hated Raime.
But then, as he'd put this was for her own good. So, perhaps the truth was the best response.
"He does not."
"Good. Good." He sighed loudly. "I don't like Sulyvahn," he said, and though his delivery was almost juvenile it seemed at the same time a damning condemnation.
"Or Raime?"
"Or Raime. But that's personal, not professional… kind of. Look, it's complicated. I like Sulyvahn less, though, and for more important reasons. Although… hmm. How much sway do you have over Sulyvahn?"
"I'd say he needs me, though I'm not sure what for. He says he owes me a favour, at the very least."
"A conditional favour, I'm sure. And what are your thoughts on Raime? Don't mince words, I hate him too."
Cinder frowned, puzzled. "Why do you-"
"Look, do you want to fuck with Raime or not? That's basically what I want to know. Do you care about Raime at all?"
Well, he was kinda important to Salem, and Salem was kinda important to her, but it wasn't like she didn't plan to screw him over, even if that plan was born of Lapp's blackmail in the first place. "Not really."
"Well, good. You and I, I do believe we can fuck them both five ways to Sunday and you'll come out of it smelling like roses—well, whatever flower Salem likes best. I think she prefers orchids."
"Orchids aren't flowers," Cinder said offhandedly. "I already-"
"Not now, shush! I'm scheming."
"Don't shush me!" Cinder said, a little more heatedly than she'd intended. She hadn't even met him in person, but she could just tell he'd have an extremely punchable face. She sighed. "I already have a plan."
"Right, right, very good. Ooh, but think of how I could improve on it. They don't call me the Trickster for nothing, you know."
"I sincerely doubt anybody calls you that."
"Forgive me, but I'm going to shush you again. Except I'm not, because I want to hear that plan. Shush on the rudeness, un-shush on the plan, okay? Let's hear it."
/-/
"Oh, uh, well, I- how to put this, good morning," Artorias mocked.
Ciaran shook with hardly contained laughter. Some of the other passengers on the airship back to Beacon gave them strange looks, but Artorias paid them little heed, and it seemed neither did Ciaran, distracted as she was by his crude mockery of Smough. It wasn't for another five minutes, after they'd touched down at Beacon, that she finally regained the ability to speak clearly.
"You're terrible," she wheezed. "He could have just been genuinely nice to you."
"Yeah, but it's Smough. I mean, come on. He's only ever nice to Gil, and that's like… pseudo-nice."
"And Gough."
"Everyone's nice to Gough. That doesn't count." Something about that made her snicker again. "What? How is that funny?"
"It's not, just—nevermind." She took a few deep breaths. "Alright. I'm good. I never thought I'd take his side, but don't be so mean to Smough. It's bad for my lungs."
"That's a win-win." She punched him on the arm. "Okay, I deserved that."
They reached the courtyard in front of Beacon tower, and the statue loomed over them. "Gods, I need a shower," Ciaran muttered. "There should be showers at Amity, really. You know, for the combatants."
"Strange that they never thought of that."
"It's not like they could realistically add it after it was built. Could you imagine how expensive it would be to renovate a floating colosseum?"
"A floating colosseum intended to house the world's biggest gladiatorial event," he corrected. "They can afford it. They're just stupid, or maybe they're just really cheap. Or lazy, actually—the paperwork really sucks."
"I can imagine." She smiled a little, then shook her head. "I'm going for a shower."
"I'm going for lunch. Want me to bring you anything?"
"Now that's just suspicious. No mustard, okay?"
"No promises."
"Well, be sparing with it, at the very least." She set off towards the east wing, lazily waving to him over her shoulder as she left.
Artorias' face fell, and he glanced around. There weren't many people in the courtyard, and most were preoccupied in other conversations. He started making his way towards the cafeteria before ducking off into an alcove between two buildings. He pulled out his scroll, and composed a short message:
OZ SAYS YOU DYE YOUR HAIR.
He didn't have to wait long for a response:
June
Team: _ _ _ _
MSG: WE'LL TALK AFTER VYTAL.
A little more than a week, then. Not too long. What could go wrong in a week? And besides, he knew half the important stuff. Ozpin had told him where the relic of Choice was kept, and, more importantly, how to reach it. But, as for his other duty… well, he really had to talk to June about that. Ozpin hadn't known what to look for to find June's reincarnation, should she die. Some habits, he'd explained, were retained over all reincarnations—like letter-writing for the other immortal, who he'd spoken little about.
But Ozpin didn't know what June would retain. He'd only met her in two lives.
As long as June didn't die within a week, everything would be fine.
/-/
The clocks were striking eleven at night when Cinder Fall entered the Church of Many Faiths. Like most cities, Vale had only a small religious demographic split between a number of different religions, and so it was difficult for each church to build their own houses of worship. Instead, about a year after the House of Dreams burned down, they'd all come together to build a place where they could all worship their separate deities and idols under the same roof.
It was here, she knew, that she could find Sulyvahn. While during the day the church was open to all, at night it was reserved for sermons, masses, and other such religious rituals. On Monday and Thursday nights the church was given over to the Deep. As the Pontiff's first official visit to Vale since his appointment to the position, it was widely known amongst the Church of the Deep that he'd be delivering a sermon.
The great doors to the church were left slightly ajar, and Cinder slipped through. It was quiet inside, almost abandoned save for the Pontiff and one last civilian, speaking in hushed tones at the front of the church. She'd arrived at a good time, then; she had no interest in listening to Sulyvahn preach to his flock of sheep. Artificial light shone on the stained-glass windows, the brightest being the effigy of Saint Aldrich: a portly man in white robes. In his right hand, blood spilled from a golden chalice; in the other, he held a black book. Cinder found his smile unsettling. Rows upon rows of pews stretched towards the front of the church. Atop the altar was a golden chalice.
A chill ran through her. Her footsteps echoed on the stone floor as she walked towards the Pontiff.
He looked up at the sound. He said something to his devotee, who, after bowing to the Pontiff, made his way down the aisle towards the exit. "Partake in peace," he murmured as he brushed past.
"Partake in peace," she responded, her teeth gritted.
She came to a halt at the steps leading up to the altar. Sulyvahn came down to meet her. "I don't suppose you're here to give yourself to the Deep."
"No." Her eyes flickered to one of the dark hallways leading to rooms behind the altar. "Vordt isn't here, I take it?"
Sulyvahn's eyes darkened. "No. He… departed after a meeting with Polendina. I'll be most interested in hearing his report upon his return. What business do you have with him?"
"I don't," Cinder said. "Raime is in Vale. He wants to meet with you."
"With me?" Sulyvahn frowned. "He contacted you to reach me?"
"He doesn't like me."
"He doesn't like me either." Sulyvahn stroked his chin.
"It's because he knows about your plans."
"My plans?" Sulyvahn said, raising an eyebrow. "I don't know what you mean."
"I'm not stupid."
He was silent for a moment. His brow furrowed in thought. At last, he said, "Do you know what Saint Aldrich feared most?"
"Do you know how little I care for your faith?"
"Aldrich feared death: a fairly rational fear, all things considered. And so, he sought the power to conquer death. When he found it, his fear did not leave him."
"If he conquered death, why does he have a grave?"
"I would be elated that you're taking an interest, but I know you just want to undermine my argument. He watches. He waits. One day, when death is truly no more, he will return to lead us to a new age," he said. His face showed no signs of joy at the words, or even hope. There was a bitterness to his voice, and a slight growl as though from anger. "Though Aldrich conquered death, he continued to fear it. And, like Aldrich, though Salem conquered her cage, she fears it more than anything. It is why she is unfit to lead."
Cinder paused, more for effect than anything. She didn't care what Salem feared. She cared what Salem offered her; power, and a chance to wield it. A chance to change the world. Salem had not once ever lied to her, not out of stupidity but out of trust. "I don't care," Cinder said, sticking with the truth. "If you want my loyalty, you'll need to offer me more than threats." Or, more accurately, she had to pretend to put up resistance to make the lie more convincing.
"Power—but that's already within your grasp. Salvation—but you care not for such things. I simply believe I am more fit to carry out Salem's goals than Salem herself."
"And Aldrich," Cinder said. It had just clicked. He was comparing Salem and Aldrich for more than one reason. "You see Aldrich as a coward. You want to take his place."
He smiled. Cinder flexed the fingers of her left hand, feeling the muscles cramp from the cold. With her right hand, she ended her scroll's recording. "I need Creation," said Sulyvahn. "Salem wants it left here for later recovery not because it is of any real danger to us, but because she is afraid."
"Of her cage?"
"Aye. The Ringed City, it was called." He shook his head. "I digress. I have been honest with you now. Coercion aside, do I have your loyalty?"
She hesitated, breathed deeply, looked him in the eye, then lied. "Yes."
He looked back, his mouth set in a thin line. "Good," he said. "Now—what makes you say that Raime knows of my… ambitions?"
"You do him too little credit. You've hardly hidden your presence in Vale: he knows you're here, and he knows that your assigned relic is-"
"It is also here," Sulyvahn dismissed. "Not within my grasp just yet, but I was able to have its location moved so as to not draw suspicion from Salem, should she hear of it."
"Does Raime know that?"
"Touché. But I also doubt his first conclusion would be treachery. I'm not sure he thinks it's possible for anyone to betray his oh-so-precious queen." He hummed in thought. "When and where does he want to meet?"
"Tomorrow, at noon. Auxiliary aircraft hangar twelve."
"Is this hangar safe?"
"Maybe. It was in use by the White Fang, last I heard, but they must have abandoned it after the Breach." They'd better have abandoned it. Lapp had assured her that it was empty, but she wouldn't put it past him to throw the Fang into the fray for his own amusement. Lapp had also assured her that he could get into contact with Raime, which she'd found hard to believe given their apparent animosity. Worst-case scenario, they'd just set up Sulyvahn to be ambushed by the White Fang...
Or for the Schnee and the wolf faunus to find the two of them conspiring. Lapp had been in contact with them, after all.
How could that loop back to her? Raime, if he even let himself be taken alive, would never talk. Sulyvahn was another matter, but if they came to blows he'd be seen as at odds with the Fume Knight, thus eliminating him as a suspect for conspiracy. If not… well, she could be in trouble, particularly so soon. It wasn't that she didn't want Sulyvahn to go up in smoke, but if he talked he could blow her cover.
Damn Lapp...
"Hmm. I see why Vordt would be useful. You'll be indisposed, correct? You have your match."
"Mm-hmm."
"A shame. I'll hardly be without backup." He fidgeted with an onyx ring on his right hand.
"Can your pet speak?"
"My Dancer? No. I'm afraid I've taken that from her. A shame in this instance, to be sure, but I assure you it's an improvement. I'll attend this meeting in person." He turned back to the altar, waving a hand dismissively. "I have a lot to ponder, and I have a vigil to keep. We'll speak soon."
Cinder nodded, and made her way back out of the church. Though the night was cool, the moment she stepped outside she felt warmth return to her. She looked back through the doors, brow furrowed. Something always felt off when she was around Sulyvahn.
She shook it from her mind and made her way back to the Vale airdock. The final Bullhead back to Beacon for the night departed not long before midnight; she had about half an hour.
It was only after her Bullhead reached the Beacon landing pads that she sent the recording to Lapp.
Her pilot waved to her from the cockpit as she walked up the path to Beacon.
/-/
To the Sovereigns of Vale and Vacuo; and to Chancellor Alonne of Mistral,
I, Malgwyn, declare the sovereignty of the city of Mantle. We shall be self-governed and independent, and will not be subject to any authority save our own. With the lands of Solitas as our domain, we name this realm the Kingdom of Mantle, and with the support of the people I am named king.
To the Sovereigns of Vale and to Chancellor Alonne of Mistral,
I bear no ill will to you or your peoples. I ask that you officially recognise our sovereignty and offer you my continued friendship. May our realms prosper in the years to come.
To the King of Vacuo,
I offer an ultimatum. Cease all research into the Relics and the Flame. Release my siblings from custody. Recognise the sovereignty of the Kingdom of Mantle. Recognise the vassalage of the isle of Patch to the Kingdom of Vale.
Do this, and I will consider the feud between us put to rest.
You are all witness.
Signed,
Malgwyn
So, it's almost four in the morning right now. I've been trying to get GWIN v HRVS right all night, and this is how it ended up: mediocre, and cut short. It's almost like RWBY v ABRN, in that there aren't any stakes. You know who's going to win. It's a beat that has to happen, but one that I can't really inject tension into without it just being superficial. It wasn't even worth a full "gives me conniptions". Pfffffffft. I tried to use it to reinforce the brutality of fighting with aura. Yes, people can take more punishment, but if you get hit it'll still hurt, and if you get hit hard enough it has the potential to do serious damage. Problem is, that because aura is a standard for tournament fighting, regulations and rules are far more lax than in real life.
And what sucks is that the intended 4v4 matchup (GWIN v JNPR) was the entire inspiration for this fic. Around December last year, I was rewatching RWBY and thought to myself 'what if May Zedong were replaced with Gough from Dark Souls?' And thus was born... this. GWIN v JNPR will probably show up as an omake for The Gospel of Lapp or Special Beings, once the ball gets rolling for whichever one I write these holidays. I'm still not sure if I'll write both.
Oh, right, Ricard. So, Ricard's DS1 design is super boring. He's basically Oscar, but with Ricard's Rapier. He's kinda boring in DS3 as well, but at least loincloth!Ricard is memorable. Of course, I seriously doubt a Huntsman would go into battle wearing only a loincloth, so I took some liberties and made it a kilt.
Hmm... what else do I need to talk about? A lot of minor lore: a little Vendrick backstory; Alonne gets namedropped; and the Nameless King sends another letter. I liked the idea of all the religious groups in Vale coming together regardless of their differing beliefs, so I stuck with it. The Church of Many Faiths isn't supposed to be "basically Sulyvahn's boss arena", though it might end up being that... or not. Or will it?
There were two fairly important bombs dropped in the V5 episodes recently, and you should probably be aware of how I'll be handling them. Namely:
a. that only the Maidens can access the relics (which is not a rule I will be following due to the fact a huge amount of backstory + everything to do with the Ringed City relies on that not being true), and
b. Ozpin is cursed by the gods for failing to stop Salem (eh... close enough? I won't be changing the backstory too fit this, but honestly it kinda fits anyway).
It's good to be back, and with uni over I'll (hopefully) be able to go back to the weekly updates.
Next chapter - November 10th.
