In response to the guest reviewer who dropped a question (hi there!):
Everyone's PC is different, from gender and appearance to the way they fight to the endings they choose and why, and writing my PC as a protagonist (and this is the role they'd have to take, as I'll get to later) might make them completely unrecognisable to the PCs y'all imagine. A PC in Souls isn't a character, they're a vessel through which the player views and interacts with the world.
Because personality is not integral to the PC but rather imposed upon them (or not, for the less role-playing-inclined) by the player, the most defining aspect of the PCs is the adventures they must undertake regardless of who is playing them. Because these adventures are so grand in scale, they don't work for minor characters, but, obviously, we've already got a huge line-up of leading characters.
Instead, the Chosen Undead/Bearer of the Curse/Ashen One are the heroes of myths and legends from the distant past. But those myths and legends aren't entirely accurate to the true events. After all, Sulyvahn once said of Ozpin, "The King of Words became the King of Everything because writing history and making history are the breadth of a page apart."
I might be touching a little more on these myths when we get back to Patches.
"Hey. Wake up."
Artorias' eyes shot open, and his hand reached out for Quelana's wrist as she gently nudged him. She paused, an eyebrow raised.
"Are you…" she trailed off as she stifled a yawn. "Are you alright?" she asked.
"How long have I been out?"
"Six hours. I'd have given you more, but I can barely stay awake."
Artorias blinked, then realised he was still gripping Ana's wrist. He let go with a muttered, "Sorry," and pushed himself upright.
After activating Kali's aura, he'd collapsed on the spot. Ana must have taken his armour off and moved him to the next room. A little self-consciously, he crossed his arms to cover his chest, despite still wearing his undershirt.
"Are you sure you're alright?"
He stretched his arms, then rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "How's Kali?"
Ana sighed. "Alive. The wound's healing quickly, and her aura should help fight the fever. She should be fine in a few days."
"Has she woken up at all?"
"A few times, but not for long."
Artorias' eyes turned to the window. It was mid-afternoon, and quite warm for the season. The sound of business down at the docks floated up to the house.
"Artorias, if you need to talk—"
"Don't you need sleep?"
"I think I can last a little longer." Her yawn betrayed her, but she soldiered on, sitting on the bottom bunk across from him. "I was there when you unlocked her aura, you know. Those were not the words of someone emotionally stable."
Artorias squeezed his eyes shut. "Have you ever wanted to be somebody else?"
Quelana frowned in thought, then shook her head. "I can't say I ever have."
"I envy that," he said. "It comes and goes. It's usually fine. Just a little… whisper, I guess, in my head. But then I saw this emptiness inside myself…" He shook his head. "I talked to June about it before we left, actually."
"June?"
Artorias pursed his lips. Quelana didn't know about immortality or reincarnation. He sighed. "She told me there was no escape from being Artorias Nym. That hurt."
"Ignore her. What does she know about being you?" Ana asked.
It hurt because June quite literally had experienced being a different person. There was no cure for being himself. No known cure, at any rate.
He wondered, if Ozpin had asked it of him, whether he'd have agreed to be the candidate for the aura transfer. Not that he was eligible for the Fall Maiden's powers, but maybe it would have somehow fixed him.
He definitely would have agreed, he realised.
"Well, who do you want to be?" Ana asked.
"I don't know. Someone happy."
"When was the last time you were happy?"
He cast his mind backwards. Was it in Vale? Earning that rare grin from Winter, or sniggering at one of Glynda's snide barbs? Was it the night out with his friends, with Yang and Weiss and Sun and… Mercury?
Well, certainly not Mercury. Not now.
All had been fleeting. A smile to stave off the emptiness for another minute.
He searched further backwards through his memory: to the early days in Vale, to meeting new people before anybody had known things were going to hell and that not everyone would live through it. Further back, to Shade, to hot classrooms and hours spent teasing Ciaran, the weight of a wooden dowel in his hands as Gough had tried (and failed) to teach him how to whittle.
All distractions.
And then he remembered a lazy afternoon in Izalith, on the front steps of Quelana's home.
It had been in the early spring, and still quite cold. Ana had fallen asleep on his shoulder, his arm wrapped around her. The twins had received their acceptance letters from Shade that day, and Quelaan had dragged Quelaag out to celebrate gods-knew-where in town. Probably a bar. Ana had always blamed him for being a bad influence on them.
The sun had been sinking towards the horizon, sending shadows sprawling across the dunes. The forest, reaching towards them from the northern horizon, glowed gold and green in the sunset, the sky deep blue and purple. Wispy clouds had stretched ghost-like red and ruddy orange fingers across the sky.
Everything had been quiet.
There had been nothing to distract him.
And he had been happy.
That had been almost a year ago now.
Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes, and he stood and began to pace, keeping his gaze averted.
"Artorias?"
"I'm alright," he said. "Just, uh…" He wiped at his face with the back of his hand. "Baggage, I guess. Ha."
He felt a hand on his shoulder from behind. Ana gently turned him towards her.
"You know," she said, "this might be the first time I've seen you cry."
The tears began to flow and would not stop. He held her close and buried his face in her hair.
"I don't understand," he sobbed. "What's wrong with me?"
/-/
"The Book of Architects, the first book of the gospel, speaks of the early days of humanity, of a time before the Grimm. Great kingdoms were built, and men worshipped the world itself: the sky and the trees and the mountains and the sand. In those days, there was born a man named Aldrich, who amassed power—and I quote—'by consuming his fellow man'," Hawkwood explained.
"And how literally should we be interpreting this gospel?" Nora asked. "Say, if I eat enough, can I too become all-powerful? And I would I have to be eating people, specifically?"
"Some believe Aldrich possessed a semblance allowing him to absorb the auras of others. Others do take it literally, though nobody's been able to replicate his feat by eating people, so there's not much weight there."
"Except for the weight they put on, right?"
"Nora," Ren said sharply.
"Okay, I'll be quiet."
"Anyway, those who feared Aldrich's power bound him in the Deep—the afterlife—and set dark, evil things to gnaw on his soul. It had the unfortunate side effect of ruining the afterlife for the rest of us too. Our souls are chewed up and spat back out as Grimm." He shrugged. "The gospel claims that we are all doomed, and the only way to be saved is to show our faith in Aldrich, that he may consume our souls whole when we die and protect us with his body."
"Who wants to believe that?" Jaune asked.
"It's not a matter of want. Some are raised on it. Some feel they deserve it."
"I still don't understand what the Legion wants from this," Ren said.
"I'm getting there. Firmaments, the last book, says that the day of reckoning will come when Aldrich grows strong enough from consuming our souls to return to Remnant. The boundary between the Deep and our world will crumble, and it is our duty to destroy the evil that will be unleashed and make the afterlife peaceful once more.
"In the days before the Great War, there was an order of—well, 'knights' is a strong word, but they were officially a knightly order—called the Outriders. They believed that if the blood of a non-believer was drunk, Aldrich would still be able to consume their souls in the afterlife. The Outriders often travelled in groups, hid their faces, and wore red cloaks, slaughtering all the faithless in their path."
"A cloak like yours?"
Hawkwood gritted his teeth. "I… may have idolised them, when I was still faithful. It was not their sole goal to hasten Aldrich's return. They believed themselves the first line of defence for the day the Deep spilled into Remnant, not to mention that they were some of the most brutally efficient Grimm-hunters of their day. I saw that, at the very least, as noble. I'd like to think I've made the symbol my own since then."
"And you think the Legion is a new form of the Outriders?"
"A revival, certainly. I wouldn't yet rule out the possibility that they are a tool for Farron to gain power, whether to further the faith's purposes of her own. But right now they seem to be sticking to tradition."
"Wanton slaughter?"
"Ah, but it's not wanton," Hawkwood said. "They've burned a lot, but they've only targeted the faithful before now. They may have viewed Royce as an ineffective leader, or even a heretic, but he's no unbeliever."
"I see." Jaune stood and examined the maps. "Look at their targets. Aside from places of religious significance, it's all garrison barracks, law enforcement, CCT relays, the airport. They've isolated Irithyll and crippled its defences. Hell, we had to walk half an hour from our landing point to get here."
"And now their targets are Winter, the specialist assigned to take them down, and… that huntsman," Solaire said.
"What about him?" Nora asked.
Hawkwood and Solaire shared a glance. They'd both recognised Gilderoy Ornstein's bident.
But it was impossible. Ornstein was dead.
"He killed the people making the Legion's weapons," Hawkwood explained. "Farron framed the order on Winter and the huntsman as retaliation for this, but we didn't actually do anything to them there. It was all the huntsman."
"It's not retaliation," Jaune realised. "It's preparation. They're removing opposition so that by the time people are really panicking, there's nobody to save them."
"Then we can't let them know Winter's injured," Ren said, "or they might move ahead sooner. And we need to make ourselves as big a threat to them as possible."
"There's an easy way to do that," Flynt said. "We poke around this thing in the siege tunnels."
"We can't bank on it. It's outside the walls. For all we know, it's just an escape route in case the military rolls in," Jaune said.
"What about this golden huntsman?" Nora asked. "If we can find him, he might help us."
Hawkwood shook his head. "We don't know where he is."
"We could just attack them head-on," Jaune suggested.
He got a few odd looks and raised eyebrows. "Hear me out," he continued. "You estimated a hundred of them, right? Poorly trained?"
"Low estimate," Hawkwood corrected.
"There are six of us here, all huntsmen-in-training. Getting through initiation at an academy is a feat enough. If we take them by surprise, then Farron's the only real threat."
"She's the only huntress that we are aware of. And I wouldn't discount the possibility she could wipe the floor with us by herself. There's a stark difference between students and huntresses proper."
"We don't need to take her out immediately," Flynt said. "All we need to do is break into the police compound, get to the backup relay, and send word to the General that the situation's gotten out of control, and that the Schnee is injured. He'll send us some backup."
"One group can do that while the other investigates the siege tunnels," Jaune suggested, "while one person stays behind to watch over Winter."
"Me, I presume," Hawkwood said.
"It has to be you," Jaune agreed. Winter's aura was recovering slowly; his semblance would be invaluable if her condition worsened. Hawkwood nodded in acceptance.
Jaune glanced around the room, biting his lip. Solaire was keeping himself together—for now—but there was no telling if he'd freak out again in combat. It was so soon after Lily's death, after all. The police compound was definitely guarded, whereas the siege tunnels only held the possibility. Best to send Solaire down there, with Ren—
"I'll go into the tunnels," Flynt volunteered. "My trumpet's not much use in the storm, but in an enclosed tunnel? Should be sweet."
He had a point. But Jaune knew the greater numbers should go to the compound, with the increased risk of combat, and it was imperative that Ren and Solaire go together. If he panicked, Ren's semblance would help keep him calm. "Nora, you go with Flynt," he directed. "Solaire, Ren and I will head for the backup relay—if you're up for that, Solaire."
He breathed deeply and nodded. "I can handle it," he said.
"Good." Jaune glanced at his scroll. It was late in the evening. The darkness would provide cover, but the cold could very well ruin them. "We'll go in the morning, then," he said. "Get as much rest as you can. And stay warm."
/-/
Kali had moved—or had been moved—to the other side of the bed so she wasn't lying in her own blood. There was a half-empty glass of water on the bedside table. The scraps of cloth that had bound the wound earlier had been carelessly discarded in the corner; Ana had found a clean bandage to use instead.
Artorias refilled the glass and returned it to its spot, then sat next to the bed. His eyes hurt, and he wasn't sure if it was from the crying or that he was still exhausted or both. But Quelana had been going on over thirty hours without sleep, and now she was snoring in the other room. Somebody had to keep watch, especially with the sun now below the horizon. If Corsac and Fennec were going to make a move, it would be at night.
He held his face in his hands. It was hard to pin down exactly how he felt now. Tired, mostly. Always tired. Uneasy, discontent, broken.
But they were muted feelings now. Dulled, hiding away in that emptiness he'd seen.
It was better to feel nothing than to be miserable.
He sighed, stood, and made his way to the kitchen sink to splash water on his face. It made him feel a little more awake, a little more aware.
Discarded on the couch, a scroll began to buzz.
Artorias picked it up. The number was unknown. The scroll was Ilia's. He answered it.
"Who is this?"
"Nym," Ilia greeted curtly. "I'd hoped you'd kept my belongings. I trust you haven't scrapped my weapon for parts?"
Artorias rubbed the bridge of his nose, then put the scroll on speaker and placed it on the kitchen countertop to pour himself a glass of water. "If you're wanting to take me up on that drink, now's a really bad time, Ilia."
"Is Kali alive?" she asked.
"Why should I tell you?"
"They're going to blame Ghira's death on Quelana, claim it as racially motivated. She'd pass for human in a mugshot, after all, and that's all they need."
Artorias gritted his teeth. Now he felt something: anger.
"That's going to lead to Menagerie turning to the White Fang protection. But Adam also wants word of their death to get out to the kingdoms. He thinks it'll lure Blake here, and then the Albains will bring her to him."
"Get to the point."
"I don't want him to hurt Blake, Nym. Do I have to spell it out?"
"You very much do."
"I didn't join the White Fang to hurt my friends. We're just fighting for a better world."
"Aren't we all." Artorias pursed his lips. "Kali is alive."
He heard a sigh of relief. "Good. I'll be there tomorrow—I can help you all get out of Menagerie."
"Is that your plan? Run?"
"I won't be going with you; I won't abandon the cause. But it's too dangerous for her here now. Our word against the Albain's won't hold any sway, but Kali's? People will listen to her. Corsac and Fennec will want her silenced."
"Or we could just let Kali, you know, tell people what happened. Turn Menagerie against the White Fang. Seems a lot simpler."
"No. The White Fang is necessary, Nym. You may not like it, but it's the truth. Don't mistake this for an alliance; I'm only giving you two an out so Kali has somebody protecting her."
Nevermind the fact that the Albains were manufacturing the situation so that the Fang appeared necessary. Artorias stayed silent. He doubted he'd be able to sway her on that argument.
"I've got a simpler solution," said a voice from the hallway. Artorias looked up. Kali was pale, leaning against the wall for balance, but she was standing. "Tell us where Corsac and Fennec are right now, and Mr Nym and Ms Acribus can take them down."
"Mrs Belladonna?"
"Ilia." Kali took a shaky step forwards. Artorias moved to help her to the couch. "And if you could get me some more water, Mr Nym," she said, presenting her empty glass.
"Sure. Of course."
"Mrs B, I can't. The White Fang—"
"Ilia, if you truly still care for me—or for Blake—please. They murdered my husband. We cannot let this stand."
Ilia was silent for a long while. Artorias wondered if she would speak at all, or if she would just hang up.
"Very well," she said at last.
Ninja-Edit: There used to be a long-ass AN here, but this was an emotionally draining chapter to write, and the AN that followed was... also emotionally draining. So I deleted it.
I guess this is free space now, huh.
