Music Choices: On by BTS and Sia, Le château abandonné by Guilhem Desq, My Blood by Twenty One Pilots
Author's Notes: Ok, so I kinda totally lied and I'm sorry. lol. The raid is next chapter.
Eclipse
Chapter 19
The Great and the Good Part II
She didn't remember much of her life before the Hunters had rescued her. Frankly, she'd done her best to forget most of it, seeing as the first six or so years of her life had not started off on the right track. They had not started off on any track, in fact, right or wrong. Because Regalia had been born into a state of complete free-fall.
Hunger and anger. Desperation and uncertainty for the future. Grimm and murder after murder after burning cars and homes. Domestic violence and a parade of vile people, who acted little better than animals and thought nothing of hurting others or taking that which did not belong to them. It was all a hectic, awful blur, whipping at breakneck speeds past a little girl who had been tossed into that world and told to 'fly or die'.
One of the only truly vivid memories of her previous life involved watching two cretins, cretins whom she assumed had been her biological parents, rob and kill an innocent man and his wife. Afterwards, they'd strung the couple's disemboweled corpses up on the side of the road, calling it 'a right good gift for the Grimm'.
Regalia recalled the exact way their voices had cracked from thirst as they cackled, clambering back into the grungy jeep they'd hidden behind the brush on the side of the road. They'd stank of blood, gunpowder, cheap booze and the suffering of other people. It was a very specific, rank cologne that clung to the skin and clothes of all the bandit types; she still used that stench to help pick the bastards out of a crowd.
However, as her so called parents hooted victoriously in the front seats, overjoyed about the lien and personal effects they'd acquired, Regalia remembered how she had felt, trembling in the back. She had been so scared of them in that moment, that she'd shifted skins right there and then.
They'd yelled at and slapped her for being so afraid that day; sometimes, a small, hurt part of her still wondered if they had been ashamed of what they were, in that moment. In the end, though, it didn't matter if they'd had the sense to feel shame or not for the things they'd done. They never changed their ways, and eventually got what they deserved.
Meanwhile, Regalia somehow got salvation, before her 'parents' had had the opportunity to warp her into something as equally base and cruel as themselves. People -good people, that did not hurt children or maim innocents- found her. Two Hunters, who by providence pulled her from the wreckage of the bandit tribe's camp; and instead of handing her over to the BTF, Valish authorities or foster system, they took her home.
The two Hunters, Jorinde and Joringel, took care of her for a time, and even gave her a proper name; and the chance to put her gifts to good use, once those were revealed. Regalia would always be grateful to them, but even more so to one man in particular. The King's man who had discovered and fostered her talents, along with those of other rescued waifs, and eventually inducted her into the King's Service himself: Verdant Crom Cruach.
Few knew anything of Verdant's past. He was a man who did not speak frequently of such things, as he was too often focused on the here and now or the future. The most that could be said of his shrouded history, was that he was the first skinchanger to come forward from the wilds to pledge himself in the direct service of the King of Vale.
He revealed to His Majesty alone the existence of abilities beyond the scope of mere Semblances, what some might call magic; and he informed the King of the bandit-tribes use of skinchanging to infiltrate Settlements and Kingdoms, to scavenge, steal, and plot, all without regard for walls or guards. Yet, he had not come without also offering a viable solution to this problem; and thus, the Service was reborn into what it was today - an aegis cloak, one that protected all of Vale from enemy magic users, and rehabilitated rogue shifters into productive members of Kingdom society.
Yes, she was grateful to Verdant and the Hunters for giving her this chance at a good life. She recognized how fortunate she was, in that regard. However, gratitude without action was not enough in her opinion. What good was gratitude if one did not take every opportunity to repay one's debts?
Today was the start of yet another opportunity to do so, and it had set her nerves alight since before the sun had even risen that morning. Regalia's mind was racing eagerly as she strode purposefully down the marbled halls of the palace, smiling and nodding at familiar faces. People smiled back, some greeting her by her name or rank. It made her walk a little taller. She was in a good mood, no, an excellent mood and she could not hide the spring her step.
Despite that extremely unpleasant fumble the other day, things had quickly turned around in her favor and she had been swift to press her advantage. After explaining the situation to her superiors and debriefing the rest of her team, she'd returned to headquarters and immediately set to work planning their response to this new threat to the safety of the Valish citizens and King's sovereignty.
She paused as she passed a balcony that overlooked the Kingdom, taking in the glimmering skyline. In the distance, the towers of Beacon loomed, nearly level with the castle itself. She had never personally set foot in Beacon, but she had always admired it from a distance; and she had had the pleasure to work with many of Beacon's graduates over the years. Beacon graduates were, in her opinion, always a cut above the rest, but she was admittedly a bit biased.
Without thinking, Regalia moved to the banister and leaned upon the cool marble with both forearms, before wincing slightly as she put weight on the arm that that girl had cut. It had mostly healed by now, thanks to aura boosters and the excellent medical staff that looked after the King's people; but it was still a little tender. She took some, admittedly tasteless, satisfaction that the bandit girl had suffered more grievous injuries than herself.
Irritated by her own thoughtlessness, Regalia's amber eyes cooled as she stared out at the distant shadow of Beacon. No, she had never laid a foot (nor wing) there; it was not her domain, and service-members were expressly forbidden from entering the campus. Apparently, there were some rather mystical protections laid into the very fabric of the school itself, that were hazardous to unwelcome magic users (including skinchangers). It was suspected to be a leftover of some lost era, perhaps, when the knowledge of magic was perhaps more common. Beacon had existed in some form for several hundreds of years, after-all. At least as long as Vale had (and some even suspected longer, still - but those were mostly conspiracies).
Which really, truly begged the question of how the Branwen had infiltrated the school when such unseen measures were in place? They had to be more clever than she'd originally credited them. Regardless, the fact that something so illustrious had become infected with such vermin was something she found to be personally insulting.
What is that man thinking?
Ozpin. The mysterious, and ridiculously young, headmaster of Remnant's number one Hunter Academy. She had met him a few times during her career and had always found him to be a bit unsettling despite his surface level charm. There was something about his eyes that suggested they saw too much when they looked at you; and rumors abounded about his allegiances. His Majesty did not fully trust him, and neither did the Council, for what little their opinions actually mattered (no one honestly valued the thoughts of the mighty Council members, the loftiest of pearl clutchers and most lauded hoarders of public lien).
Still, surely Ozpin knew about those people in his ranks? He was one of the few "respectable" individuals in the world who was aware of skinchangers, she knew that from the warnings of her own mentors. He was also one of the most well informed men in Vale, possibly in all of the Kingdoms. So to think that he had allowed this to happen out of ignorance was unlikely. Which meant it was entirely intentional. Regalia couldn't wrap her own head around it.
And to say nothing of Arc…
That, perhaps, was far worse a betrayal. Joan Arc had been lauded as one of the most righteous Huntresses on the scene in the last fifty years. Her entire career had been built upon weeding out corruption by the roots. The woman had even whipped the bloody BTF into shape, and Dust knew that entire establishment had been viewed as a lost cause for decades. However, even the brightest spark was capable of falling back to the ground as ash, apparently.
Regalia knew Arc's dubious history, and who her partner had been at Beacon. It was common knowledge in most law enforcement circles, though no one dared to ever mention it, save in whispered conversations that were quickly quieted and forgotten. No sane individual would ever be impertinent enough to suggest that a Huntress of Arc's caliber and good standing could be swayed by someone so poisonous as Nwyfre Donovan, the shared shame of the Hunter and Witchfinger communities.
Had it all been a ruse? Have they been collaborating this entire time?
She had no concrete evidence, at least not yet. However, Regalia was aware that the terrorists that called themselves the Branwen had always been a step or ten ahead of those desperately trying to put a stop to their activities for the past fifteen years. Arc and Donovan had even been recorded clashing on multiple occasions (particularly after the incident) before Joan took up her post as a reservist officer of the BTF and a full time instructor at Beacon. Regalia had taken the time to pour over the limited surveillance of those encounters, reading witness testimony after testimony; their ire and conflict had seemed real to everyone involved. To suggest that they had been faking seemed utterly outlandish.
And yet, Arc personally came to the rescue of the Branwen girl….
Regalia frowned in thought as she stared at those towers in the distance, that seemed so much more sinister now than they ever had. This was all deeply troubling, and she could feel her good mood trying to sour. After a heavy breath, Regalia let her smile return.
It did not matter. They would do their duties, and rid Vale of these parasites permanently; and if Arc, or even Ozpin tried to interfere, then that was their folly.
Regalia turned away from the balcony and strode briskly back inside, heading for the elevator. She would not allow her personal feelings or doubts to prevent her from doing what was just. Because she remembered what Arc had perhaps forgotten; and that was that the Kingdom came first.
"Joan?"
She glanced up in mild surprise, several locks of blonde hair falling temporarily across her field of vision. Ozpin was looking at her with that expression, the one where he peered over his folded hands and tried to see the heart of you. They were currently in his office at the top of the tower, but she was admittedly not present for their conversation about the bloody budget.
"My apologies, Oz, you were saying?" she prodded. He meant well, but she didn't want this to turn into another Joan Arc's therapy hour again. She didn't have the time or the desire.
"Nothing particularly interesting, if I may be honest," Oz chuckled lightly, keeping his fingers steepled. She stared at them with a mounting sense of wariness. "However, you seem worried about something. And I doubt it involves our beloved budget. May I ask what is troubling you?"
She hesitated for the briefest of moments.
"I'm thinking of a suitable punishment for STRQ's behavior the other day," she said confidently. She didn't even blink as she said it.
Ozpin's brow rose a fraction and his eyes shone. Beneath their feet, gears for the clock tower spun under thick, reinforced glass.
"Oh?" he hummed impishly, mouth pulling. "I thought you had that all figured out by now?"
She paused, remembering Nwyfre's accusation of bugging STRQ's room; of Raven's extreme distrust of the Headmaster, and desire to keep her and her brother's abilities a secret from him.
What an awkward position...
"It's more…complicated, perhaps than I originally hoped-" she said, shrugging lightly. "But you know how it goes."
His smile widened a fraction.
"Yes."
He leaned back in his chair. It did not creak or groan. Nothing in his office made any obnoxious amount of noise; she couldn't even hear the machinery that surrounded them, or the giant clock when it chimed.
"I do. I have a suggestion, actually, if you're willing to hear it?"
Joan nodded her chin, meeting his eyes unflinchingly.
"Take them for a week of remedial training," Oz waved towards the blue sky beyond. "One of the nearby Settlements surely has some nests that need clearing out; you'll be able to pick the jobs, and their names will go on the board with yours since they'll be shadowing you. I bet being reminded of why they're here will motivate them a little."
Joan opened her mouth, completely confused, before realizing the full nature of their conversation.
Oh, you little wanker!
"It isn't motivation that I'm worried about," she continued, carefully monitoring her indignation. "And I would need someone to cover for my classes while I was away. Honestly, now might not be the best time for me to take a full week. Maybe four days at most."
"I see," he nodded reasonably, as if they were discussing the weather. Or the bloody budget. "Well, most of the others are loaded down or abroad, at the moment. But you know, Tormund called the other day? Apparently he's in the area for some Witchfinger business that's wrapping up, and I distinctly remember that he owes you some favors as well?"
Joan didn't know whether to be irritated, horrified or amused by the suggestion. She settled for a compromise of all three.
"I would greatly prefer it didn't come to that, since I'm already dealing with some…extreme personality conflicts on the personal front-"
He nodded, his face the portrait of empathy; but it didn't hide the amusement in his eyes.
"An impressive amount, I am sure."
A vein in her temple was beginning to throb.
We should have picked another location besides that damn library, I knew it had too many mirrors…
"Yes," she glared, not buying the innocent look on his face for a moment. "And with my current schedule, I honestly don't know if I could deal with all that."
"It would be difficult. However, if time is against you, Tormund should be one of your first calls as a professional," he said solemnly, before grinning lightly. "Besides myself, of course."
Joan fought the urge to groan in exasperation. He hadn't called her up here to actually talk about the gods damned budget at all. She shouldn't be surprised, considering the man's nature; and it's not like he wasn't already aware of the situation with the King already. However, it was this exact sort of double speak and roundabout bullshit that unsettled all the paranoids that came into contact with him and made her job more difficult than it should be; as well as tempted her to throttle him at times.
"You know why I didn't," she clipped, raising her eyebrows. "And can we just drop the Ursa-manure and speak frankly?"
He folded his hands atop his desk.
"Consider the Ursa manure thoroughly dropped."
"Good- why did you put that thing in STRQ's room?" she asked immediately.
There was a startled pause as he blinked owlishly behind his spectacles. He had not expected her to ask that; but that's what he gets for trying to play games with her.
"….Which-"
"Remember," Joan reminded him firmly. "No manure."
He paused, automatically considering the various angles in which he should broach the topic, yet knowing that any but the most direct would be unacceptable to her.
"I put the glyph there to help them gain some…independence," he finally admitted. She fought a mighty urge to face-palm. "I was worried about certain forces attempting to manipulate them. Namely Nwyfre and potentially Set – he'd been skulking around the campus for months and it was making me rather nervous-"
A memory of silver eyes, a cheshire grin and subzero winds screaming in anguished fury rose out of the dark gulf where it lurked beneath the surface. Joan frowned.
I hate that blighted cat.
"You violated their personal space to give them independence?" she interrupted, eyes hard. "Are you a hypocrite, or just daft?"
He considered the question, mouth pursing.
"Well when you put it that way," he finally grimaced. "I guess I'm a little of both."
She took a deep breath to calm herself and exhaled. The vein in her temple drumming cheerfully away. Outside the windows, sunlight glinted off the distant skyscrapers of the Kingdom.
"You really shot us both in the foot with that little maneuver, I hope you understand that," she reprimanded him, instinctively sliding into her 'instructor voice'. For a brief moment, Oz actually looked his current body's age: a sheepish twenty something year old, fidgeting behind a fancy desk that was too big for him. "More importantly, our students should be able to trust us, Ozpin, regardless of what outside 'forces' you're worried about affecting them. By pulling that stunt, you not only did not dissuade Nwyfre from trying to influence her children, you fractured their trust in us. And that? That is unacceptable."
Ozpin opened his mouth and, after a moment of consideration, shut it.
"Right. So - not only did you damage our reputations with our students - you also made her completely hellbent on getting back at you! As if we don't have enough problems to worry about!"
The gears spun, spun, spun around them silently as he sat in thought. Joan quietly decided this man needed to get out of his creepy office more often and get some good interaction with average, living people. Gods knew he needed some sunshine, at least. Sitting up here all day or roaming the back-halls of Beacon to sneak up on students or staff was no way to keep oneself grounded or sane; and gods knew what he drank besides coffee, she'd never seen him touch of a bottle of water or even tea in her entire life. Did he ever even see the sun in person, save when she made him?
Listen to me, like I'm his bleeding mother. I have enough damn kids to look after as it is!
"Wait, she wasn't already?" he quipped finally, tone deceitfully wry. Joan didn't entertain his attempt at humor and carried on solidly.
"The fact that you didn't wake up with a knife buried in your throat is utterly absurd to me," Joan glared, folding her arms. "And the only explanation I can reach for that? Is because at the time, she wasn't sure if it was you or me who was responsible. Which put my life at risk as well! Do I need to spell that out for you?"
"Ah, no," he coughed awkwardly, struggling to meet her gaze. "I understand-"
"Do you?" Joan leaned forwards, ferocity bleeding into her tone. "I'd almost say you would have earned that reincarnation for being so manipulative and foolish! Don't ever pull something like that on our students or put me in that position again!"
Joan shook her head in disappointment. "They at least deserve better than head-games and politics."
Oz hesitated, his eyes meeting hers. A silence stretched between them, and he seemed to deflate a little, aging in the blink of an eye. He looked deeply tired. The kind of tired that Joan sometimes saw in soldiers or Hunters who had survived experiences no one could put into words. It was a feeling that she was not unsympathetic to.
"They do. And so do you. I am truly sorry, Joan. It was…short sighted and unfortunately very petty of me."
She stared at him, her own feelings trying to get her to soften the blow. She honestly couldn't say what kind of person she'd be, if she had lived the same existence he had. Hanging on to one's values in a single lifetime was hard enough as it was. But hanging onto them for thousands of years, many of which were full of grief and loss and darkness? Just thinking about the worst day of her life so far-
Silver eyes, gale force winds and blood covering her arms up to the shoulders. A twisted monster, warbling and howling where her friend's body had just been; and Arcene standing between them all. In the treetops, Set was laughing wildly at the display.
"MOVE ARCENE!"
"Shut up, Joan."
"IT ISN'T HER, ARCE! PLEASE!"
"For once in your life….JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!"
Could she endure days like that, over and over and over again, without an end in sight? Could anyone, human or faunus, manage to hang on to their soul when faced with that? It seemed like such a cruel fate.
"Well. If anyone is capable of making you feel petty, it would be her," she declared, raising an eyebrow. "Just don't let yourself get drug down to her level, Ozpin. She delights in it."
"Hm," he murmured, turning to look out the window. "More than you know."
She gave him a curious look, following his gaze towards the glistening peaks of the Kingdom's castle.
"Thank you. For keeping me grounded. After so many years, it's far too easy to lose sight of what actually matters."
That I do not doubt whatsoever.
He turned back to her, the exhaustion gone, hidden away under a wry smile and spectacles. It was a familiar maneuver, the lowering and lifting of the mask. Ozpin was nearly a shapeshifter in his own right.
"But now, if we are still speaking frankly, I do have some more suggestions about how to proceed. If you'd like to hear them?"
She considered the offer briefly before accepting, setting aside her initial reservations. Ozpin, despite his flaws, irritating quirks and immortality, always strove to do what was right and owned his mistakes when he didn't; and for this to work, they would need all the help they could reasonably get. Those shifters and their children's lives, hells, their very sovereignty, were hanging in the balance. Anything else distracting from that could be set aside, redirected or overcome; because if she had ever believed in just one thing her entire life, it was that helping other people in need always came first.
The library alcove was empty, save for her. STRQ had fled to go get something to eat from the galley and likely vent. Meanwhile, Joan had been called up to speak with Ozpin about 'the bloody budget' out of the blue, and had marched out of their makeshift war-room irritably.
Nwyfre knew immediately that that was complete horseshit. Ozpin did not want to talk about Beacon's budget during the second week of the first semester, and in reality was trying to meddle in the raid from a distance. She could feel the invisible noose tightening around her neck already. She never should have agreed to this, and she knew it.
Too late now.
Snorting in disdain, she pushed away from the slightly tilted table covered in maps, diagrams, and photographs; she ran her fingers over the walls, sending out gentle threads of aura, searching. Nothing pinged back at her, dismissing the idea of a hidden glyph or item in the walls.
She'd already warded the room as best as she could on short notice; but apparently she'd missed something. Perhaps it was something non-arcane, like a hidden microphone? Those had definitely gotten smaller over the years. No. She would have found that too.
Nwyfre paused near the closed door, eyes roving over the nooks and crannies of the small room. She'd searched all the typical places someone would hide surveillance tech or glyphs, and already wasted a copious amount of good black salt and ash trying to nullify any unseen little nasties creeping out of sight in the corners.
Unless, of course, the bastard had had Joan herself bugged? She tilted her head, considering it. That shiny new armor would be perfect for holding a discrete mirror glyph or two. She felt her lip tug in sardonic delight. Even Ozpin wouldn't fucking dare.
Something scratched at the back of her awareness. Nwyfre did not react, instead returning to look at the table, wearing a thoughtful mein. Her helmet was on the table, and it would help her see the entity creeping along the astral planes nearby; however, if she reached for it suddenly, her new friend might become alarmed and flee back to the safety it's master.
This is why we don't take the damn helmet off afield. Ugh. I'm getting fucking slow.
Nwyfre yawned and stretched luxuriously; as she moved, a small vial of herbal tincture Ciara had made for her slid into her hand, hidden from immediate view. She pretended to go back to studying the castle diagrams. A minute passed. A soft skittering echoed in the corridors of her mind.
The astral planes surrounding Beacon were a relative fortress, protected by wards, traps, watchdogs and other creatures loyal only to the warlock upstairs. None of Salem's more ethereal forces could infiltrate Beacon via the astral, and frankly, neither could Nwyfre. It had been one of the selling points in sending the twins here originally; to get them away from the things she saw coming for them in the dark.
No, the only entity capable of such a feat would be Set, simply by the nature of what he was; and even for him, it was a difficult task that he did not attempt frequently without some other purpose. Anything here belonged solely to Ozpin.
I need to pull it closer to physical reality and silence it.
But what would be the point? Ozpin already knew she was here and the hounds had not descended upon her, STRQ or Joan. Which meant he must ultimately approve of what they were doing. He was, once again, using others as his personal weapons to do the things he did not dare risk doing in person. Even though he had the lives to spare.
A bitter taste rose in her mouth as she narrowed her eyes at the paper. Rage simmered in her gut, in her heart. They were not his playthings.
Nwyfre glanced towards the door, calmly picked up her helmet, and put it on as she made to leave. The world shifted focus as she pretended to investigate the shelves and aisles outside the alcove. One second, she was looking at a bookshelf covered in copper coins and photographs of dead teenagers; the next, a million winding corridors, leading off into the aether. Gravity and natural physics or geometry had no real influence on the astral planes; they looked however they wanted, and sometimes, however the looker wanted them to. Either way, navigating them when you were not a local was, frankly, a right bitch.
Nwyfre was no aetheri. She could not use Hekate's gift to find spirits nearby, banish or summon, nor rearrange the astral planes to suit her wants; she could not return corrupted entities to their natural, sane forms without outside assistance or interrupt Salem's hold over them.
She was also alive, so the further her spirit drifted into them, the more danger she was in; one good slip up, and she might not be able to get back to her body. Worse yet, something with enough gumption and gall might try to take it for a joy ride. However, Nwyfre had taken many, many precautions over the years to ensure her spiritual safety. The result of lessons learned by too many close calls.
She glanced down at her fingers and forearms, expecting to see armored gauntlets and gloves. Instead of the familiar grey and red armor, however, there were black, spiky feathers spreading up to and past her elbows; she also had three fingers on each hand instead of five. The helm had also automatically attached itself to her astral form, melding with her aura and supplementing her with further protections.
Nwyfre paused, going over her options. She was further out than she had wanted to be, due to the liminality created by the students and their shrine making. Such activities made the veil thinner, and incidentally, easier to project further with little effort. The problem with that, however, is that it left her physical body vulnerable to attack, no matter how alert she was. Unless she left it in a circle of warding - but that would ruin the element of surprise.
A voice, hollowed out by the void, grabbed her attention immediately. White claws shot from her fingertips as she spun, focusing on the source not by sound, but by a different sensory pull entirely.
"You know? Looots of people have accused me of being a coward over the years. Including you! But it's funny: doesn't your name mean some type of yellow?"
She paused, an angry hiss escaping her chest. So it was one of these, then. One of the fractal corridors had been rearranged into a literal memory lane for her. The warlock's spiritual lackey would then try to pull her further from her physical anchor and out into the aether, trapping her in her own personal purgatory; if she lacked the vitality to overcome it, that is.
She grinned, as well as she could in such a form and moved, leaping into the spiraling corridor of forest and snow. A long ago voice to her left, or what counted as her left; Nwyfre ignored it.
"What- what are you doing here? Where is-"
Shadows of the past. She watched the trees, felt the fabric of the memory spinning and warping around her, through her like waterfalls of light.
"You know what they say about naming things? Right? Perhaps your parents should have put a bit more thought into choosing yours. "
"...Stop it."
"I wonder, what would they think of their daughter now? I actually, almost feel bad for them. In fact, I bet this would just break their sweet little hearts. Gods, they were always so proud of you, weren't they? Everyone was. You made sure of that, didn't you?"
"STOP."
An entity that feeds on and is made of memory and light. A Mnemosyne. It was one of the denizens of the higher astral realms and therefore could not be corrupted by Salem due to its nature; but it was something that Ozpin could easily tame and keep cozy for a very, very long time.
A Mnemosyne could also weasel out snippets of information from passersby of its territory, and burrow even deeper into their squishy little minds without leaving a trace or damage. A mental parasite, here spying and feeding away in Beacon's library, the perfect hunting grounds; and passing on whatever it discovered to its master. How downright devious.
Her own voice echoed around her as she brushed between the reconstructed trunks, hunting.
"Come on, what's with that face? I thought we were friends!"
"Stay away from me, Witchfinger!"
"Oh but I can't, now, can I? Because I know who you're really working forrrr, Omi~nae~shi~"
Nwyfre darted backwards with a hiss, dodging several threads of light; a few feathers disappeared in puffs of black smoke, extinguished by the lightform attack. Above her, in the twisting maze of trees and her own memory being played out over and over, she saw a nearly invisible figure scuttling away. She pursued it, weaving soundlessly through the labyrinthe.
"What? Ha, you've finally gone off the deep end haven't you? I knew you would, you've always been so screwed up!"
"Tsk tsk. You were going to do something baaad, weren't you? And then, have me take the fall! Wow. Pretty sneaky of you, Ohms. Downright….devious for such a goody little two shoes."
"I- you're crazy. I don't know what you're talking about-"
"You don't? But your little friend just told me all about it -Awww, wait, don't run! I swear. I just wanna talk."
More threads of light, dozens of them; trying to ensnare her, burn her astral body away to ashes. Nwyfre dove through and around, summoning gusts of wind to assist in dodging; she could make copies of herself here, much like in physical reality. However, they were still made of aura; and a spiritual injury to aura lasts far longer than a physical one. She would make due without using her Semblance.
"STAY AWAY FROM ME!"
Nwyfre sneered as a thread of light lanced across her exposed shoulder, burning free more feathers and black ash. She made a quick hand signal, cutting her finger in physical reality with a tack on her thumb; then she activated the glyph with blood and flung the mark back at the Mnemosyne. The bindrune expanded, manifesting like a tacky net that eagerly glued the previously invisible entity to the tree behind it and revealed its true shape.
"Nooope. It doesn't work that way, Omiii~"
"T-They'll never believe you! If you kill me here, they will never believe you! An-and Jo will never, ever forgive you!"
Nwyfre diligently ignored the past-forms drama behind her, focusing intently on the spindly, crystalline creature struggling to break free from her spell. It was shrieking, and the glue-like bindrune she had pinned it with was beginning to smoke as light flared in its innards. She weighed the tincture and ash in the palms her physical hands.
"Oh really? The same Jo who you were just conspiring against as well as all the other nasty bullshit you were doing? You mean that Joan?"
"What- no! No, I would never-"
"He told me about that, too, Ohms. And I know he wasn't lying….unlike you."
The Mnemosyne's legs were burning free. It hadn't grown any eyes to look at her with, but it didn't need them. The memory-scape around her was beginning to flicker as the entity focused its energies on breaking free of her. Nwyfre smirked bloodily at it, her eyes smouldering like embers in the helm. It hadn't tried to bargain with her yet, and likely wouldn't. It was more afraid of its master's ire than anything she could do to it.
The thoughtforms were moving past her, pantomiming their movements from years and years ago. She spared her younger self a brief glance; a young Nwyfre stood by her shoulder, looking right past her.
"I've always known when you lied. Man, you lie a lot, don't you? Why don't you take that mask of yours off for once?"
Ominaeshi's face flickered with light and contempt. Nwyfre pulled her eyes back to the Mnemosyne, waiting. It was her memory after all; she remembered perfectly well how Ohm's eyes had grown instantly colder, empty as void once she realized that acting like a scared rabbit wouldn't convince Nwyfre to show her mercy or make her slip up.
Ominaeshi had never liked her, but not for the reasons the others had thought. It wasn't because Nwyfre was mean, or cruel or had become a Witchfinger. Those weren't things that Omi actually cared about, despite being very good at pretending that she did. Omi had loathed her since their second semester together at Beacon. Because it was then that Nwyfre had finally recognized a similarly calculating mind, one that wore a much more effective social camouflage than herself; and it was then that Nwyfre had started to keep a watchful eye over sweet, dear Omi, much to the other woman's displeasure. If only she had watched closer.
"Hmph. Well you know what they say: it takes a liar to know one."
Thoughtform Nwyfre smiled hungrily at her former teammate.
"Or maybe you're just shit at it?"
Memory Ominaeshi continued, acid coating her tone.
"...You have no real evidence. I know you don't, because I didn't leave a trail. Plus you killed the only other witness like a complete fool. And that cute little microphone under your collar? It's dead now."
Thoughtform Omi smiled brightly, a gesture that didn't reach the black of her eyes, and waved a small emp device, one of several she had hidden in the treeline to prevent anyone trying to record her conversation. She had pretended to flee Nwyfre to lure her closer to it, so it could completely fry any surveillance tech the Witchfinger had been carrying; not that she hadn't been aware that that was what she was probably doing.
"-Honestly, what a joke. Shouldn't you be a bit more clever about getting a confession, Witchfinger?"
"Sure, but I didn't come here for a confession. Even if I marched your sociopathic little ass into HQ wearing a sign that says "I betrayed the entire world for one chicken nugget" and video evidence of you sucking off a battalion of Salem's henchmen, for some mysterious reason, I'm betting they'd still let you go?"
"Tch. So you fully understand your position, then. Either way, you'll lose everything, you know? The house always wins."
Thoughtform Nwyfre continued to smirk.
"I'll bounce back."
"Not this time, Donny. You're typically smarter than the others, at least, and I've always respected that about you. But you are also faaar to openly indulgent of your own sadistic nature to make yourself socially viable; and in the end, that's what actually matters, you know? Perception."
The thoughtforms were beginning to flicker in and out entirely, as the Mnemosyne finally broke an arm free, rainbow fractures splintering down its limb. Nwyfre could feel the corridor around them being shifted through the aether, pulled back towards physical reality as the entity tried for a new escape route; she could smell something like hot copper, and realized the coins back on the shelf in the library were likely melting as the entity grabbed onto them for anchor points.
Thoughtform Nwyfre glared as Ominaeshi tossed the Dust infused emp in her glittering hand.
"None of those people will ever take your word over mine, not with your track record. Not even our glorious fool of a leader. So walk away; you'll get a good head start if you start running now."
Both thoughtforms faded briefly, as the Mnemosyne thrashed, before popping back into existence.
"And just let you sell out my partner, huh?"
"Now who's playing games? Come on, masks off, Donovan! You don't care about any of that either! Joan's made far too many waves, too fast; all the factions in all the world despise her - gods, especially her own! Someone will remove her eventually, no matter what you do. Arcene too, if I can't get her under control."
The Mnemosyne finally scrabbled completely free of the bindrune's grasp, screeching in fear and anger; the aetherial corridor had unraveled completely, and the thoughtforms bodies faded away into static, if not their voices. Those continued to echo in her head, even as the entity bolted for reality, trying to rush her physical body in an attempt to surprise and overwhelm her. Nwyfre snapped back, realigning her astral form with her physical one instantly.
"Wow, Tabby too? You've been busy."
"It isn't preferable. I do care about her, you know? But poor Arce is far too emotionally vulnerable for the power she possesses and the world we live in. Death would genuinely be a mercy at this rate. Besides, who are you to lecture me? We're of the exact same cloth if not the same shape - you always put yourself first, just like I do. Don't worry, I don't actually find that despicable at all! It's perfectly natural, no matter what other people pretend to believe on the surface. One should always embrace their better instincts."
Several bookshelves were toppled to her right as the spirit sprinted on dozens of nigh invisible, crystalline legs; it's mouth had opened, a fractal maze full of rainbow teeth and the stolen memories of everyone it had ever fed on.
She sneered beneath the helm, broke the tincture in one hand and flung a palm full of white hot banishing potion in the spirit's face; it reared back, kaleidoscope body and maw steaming as it screamed in pain across the astral planes. There was no way that Ozpin could not hear his pet, even up in his little tower. She hoped it gave him a a terrible fucking headache.
She ducked away from it's razor sharp feet, before whipping free a bag of ground white oak, wormwood, rosemary and mugwort from her belt; she ignited it by rubbing the Dust infused wick at the end and threw it. The chaotic library aisle immediately clouded with thick smoke and the Mnemosyne finally lost its foothold on reality. It began to dis-corporate, billowing with white steam.
"Borinnng. See, this is what always annoyed me the most about you- you just don't fucking get it."
"Oh? Care to spell it out for me?"
"No. Something like you could never understand…."
Nwyfre threw up a few more warding and binding glyphs after the entity was vanquished, weaving protective magic throughout the fabric of the astral and physical planes of the library; aetherial barbed wire and ghost's teeth, vectors to drive out intruders and protect secrets. Any active mirrors she found hidden about she smeared with ash and oil, front and back, nullifying them as portals. When she was done, nothing other than Set himself would be able to enter these rooms through the astral planes; and even he would struggle to find a backdoor.
By the time STRQ and Joan returned to the alcove, Nwyfre had already moved the toppled bookshelves back into their previous positions; the damage hadn't been that severe after-all, and the banishing incense was covered up by the sticks she had lit at the makeshift shrines. Nobody even noticed that anything was amiss, save Qrow.
He kept looking at her, the helm and then back out at the barely off kilter room, pale red eyes curious. Qrow had always been more sensitive to astral disturbances than his sister, at least on a subconscious level. Raven, meanwhile, was still too angry with her to think about anything besides what was right in front of her face.
Joan was equally hyper-focused now that she had finished her 'budget meeting', brimming with new ideas about how to approach this rescue without causing the 'complete collapse of Valish society'. Like it was all her idea, and not a part of the calculations of the man perched up in his tower, surrounded by the gears that spun, spun, spun without end.
It doesn't actually matter what they think of me. If they hate me. Or even if they completely, absolutely piss me off-
"Nwyfre….WHAT DID YOU DO?!"
In the end, family always comes first.
