Some dread the spiny skin that itches across a rose's neck to more of all of my people. As a child, I would always receive roses without the knives that grew with them. More of all, my people would tear them off faster than a man removing his oath-ring after catching his wife with one of my Hunters.

"The little things are what gives you away."

My people hated the ugly to the point of eating the ugly.

My people loved the beauty to the point of bathing in beauty.

So, as my name reached top rank, after showing my love for my people, through the spirit of my semblance, showing my pride through the strength of my weapon, and showing my motivation through the flag of my patriotism, none of that mattered to my people after I... accepted the thorns from my rose.

"I told you I don't have the answer, Witch. So, stop asking; his absence speaks louder than his past actions."

Their chatter echoed bluntly, with a little hit of boldness, sassiness, and foolishness. Obviously, they didn't want a single word to sound weak in this argument. The echos made their bickering seem small, as if the forest mocked their childish nature. It mimics the small workroom of her father's; even with the door closed, you can hear the most of everything across the glacier hallway. And as they top the ladder of witless actions, with the fact of attracting not just two, but four Beowolves (lucky there were young.) during their conversation. They nagged the Grimm to death with their powerful weapons, like how Goodwitch nagged on the argument, her ability to talk like she fights. Overpowering the enemy, never giving them an equal footing.

"In what world does that make sense?"

"Apparently, mine's."

Glynda smacks her teeth.

"The fact of the matter is, Rosefield is missing, and no search party has been dispatched in a year."

"And two weeks," Stoven adds.

Weiss had her mind dip from the conversation to listening to the binding bone trees, back to the conversation, and then to the singing blue bird that flew ahead, and back again to the conversation as she heard the name Rosefield echo from their voices. The name meant nothing to her, but she thought of Ruby in away. She knew how small the world could be when it came to relatives and their last names, as the origin of a family name could've started with a single word or a meaning of a single picture. Like a Cook called Cooker to Baker or Blacksmith to Smith or after the Great War turning Blacksmith into Black. Ruby probably wouldn't be related to this hunter anyway, as she brainstormed. The name came back to her with another thought. "What is he to them? Is he a Pyrrha within Beacon to Goodwitch, or is he a Blake from the White Fang to the hunter?"

"I'm overthinking it." She thought again.

"Young huntress, do you know the tale... Peter and the Bullsnake?" Stoven asked.

Weiss's inner thoughts faded like her father's thick wallet after being noted; the family dust had been stolen. Even after the wallet, their account still took a hit, as the next wave took form within Goodwitch's stare. She saw it as a warning, but she answered anyway.

"Of course."

Goodwitch eyes widened.

"Don't lie, huntress."

As she heard the word "lie," it encouraged her to speak of the familiar tale, harmless, she thought.

"The tale beings with a Young Pioneer that lives with his father in a forest clearing. If I got the short tale right, one day, the Young Pioneer, Peter, goes out into the clearing, leaving the gate open. Two young girls from the village who had the power of birds ventured out the gate with Peter, as they argue. "How do you have the power of birds if you can't fly?" "How do you have the power of birds if you can't swim?"

The Professor held out her hand, stopping Weiss from moving forward in motion and thought, while quietly whispering.

"How did you get that far in the book?"

"It's... In the book?"

Weiss repeated sickly through her head after saying it out loud once. She saw the concern in her Professor's glasses, not knowing what came next, as the little group stopped walking. The Hunter, Stoven, spoke up.

"Well… Weiss Schnee, at less I know who I'm working with." His catchy voice silenced the singing bird. With him looking up to find it's position.

"What motive do you have, Seph Stoven?" She strangled her crop.

"If you are talking about Old Sport here, then I just wanted to know who I'm working with. Think not. I still need to get you, humans, out of my wretched woods."

His walk through the grossly brown muddy was like thick shaving cream. Of course, the boots he wore were the fingers as the mud spread across the sponge of grass. Ready for a half-ass shaving. He continued his walk without a look towards the humans; with his sickle in hand, he casually fixed a clear path.

"It's… In the book?" She questioned again.

The professor nodded as if saying..."Yeah… but you knew that, though."

"Where did you hear that tale?"

Weiss shakes her head. and said. "It's nothing, just a common… Family tale." She paused again with her mind thinking about Klein.

"If you knew it was a family tale, they why act on it?"

"It's obvious…" She looks at herself as if looking for a mold of answers.

"My family's name, write in the symbol that I display. The Schnee name, my name."

"Ms. Schnee, this forest has been isolated long before the Schnees had even found a dust mine." She quietly stated. "The only outsiders with world knowledge of the Schnees, let alone to have a scroll, can't even muster the Grimm infection of the thicker part of the forest. And speaking of, Beowolves are and maybe the only type of Grimm that rule this forest, showing how ossified the brush has become."

Weiss thought like a gentle furnace, trying her best not to sound "as" disrespectful to her. The girl does have nag of being heated in cold ways, but this isn't the time for it, sure as hell, not the place (if you would call it a place). "Hell..." she thought to herself. "This damnation they live in." Weiss never gave the notes of the mission time to wrap around her one-sided mind (it's common), but… this forest… Everest Forest looked more protected than one of the four wonders of Remnant. As an overpaid tourist would say, "The highest mountain is the one that never touches the ground; it's worth every credit because they never take a pound." Her stomach growled softly like the sound of a new push broom, those brooms that military personnel (mostly grunts and extra duty) use to clean spilled oil in their busy mech bays. (not mentioning the dry sweep) The trees towered towards the fake blue-sky like her mother's wine bottles stored in customs, west of their palace, but north of her training spot, like the village is to her, under the toxic bottles of lying joy while walking away from her safe sparing area.

"So that leaves one possibility." She draws her weapon.

"My Grandfather."

She cuts ahead with Professor Goodwitch thinking of the brave huntsmen that made her fighting style possible. Dust. A trail of sound and smell of frosted ego crossed the Stoven's noise.

"Don't walk too ahead there, Old Sport. The Grimm may attack again."

"Your concern for my safety is not welcome now."

He laughs while saying.

"So sincere, like dry water (he looks at the light blonde) or wooden iron."

Moments passed in a short burst, like hearing a song for the first time, concentrating on the new rhythm and lyrics that hit the runtime of one minute and forty-five seconds with the rhythm guiding the last fifteen seconds to mask its meaningless lyrics. Maybe, overthinking it... "Neither that. Your thoughts seem lost in that twig of thorns you call "ponytail." "Believe" to yourself, you most."

The drunk voice neither fazed nor confused the paled girl; it only purged her hidden anger to the surface. How steam erupts from a tank's cooling engine… An engine that lacks maintenance. However, during her little walk, she noticed the bird again. Not having the keen eye to see its grotesque body, she enjoyed seeing a color not sparked with ash and death. Its color reminded her of the necklace she cares, with it's cradled baby blue shell that paused her internal utterance. Then, feathers started to flaccid to the muddy ground that she stood. Not aware of the zombified bird, she held her girlish and puerile acts as the plumes glided to her.

The banana-shaped feather stayed silently as the young heirs held the rich sky fruit. The seeds of this fruit made a sharp edge in her mind, like a denizen who comes to the capital, screaming for benefits that were never earned through sweat, and after a little tussle, they scream a line of "I don't need your help now, I can stand my ground." And yet, the feather didn't fuss. It calmly said, "You don't need their help now; You can stand your own ground." The peace that the feather made. The Sky Fruit. She started to lift her feelings of doubt as her poise extended tenfold. But this also made the area around her to go still as she went deaf for her favorite color. A voice from a distance had a keen pressure on the fiendish feather that knocked her out of alienation.

"Old Sport, your tree stand is over here."

She looks back at the foliage that made a concealed looking box, fooling her for a minute as she thought of the chained branches that held other logs; well, they held other branches. She quickly remembered seeing more chained branches like this, thinking that they too were tree stands. She puts away the feather for a trade of baby-blue dust. As she walked back, she saw a look on her teacher's face. It was pinkish red as if her face down to her neck started a blood gathering within. Weiss's poise from the feather faded as she thought.

"How long were they calling me?"

She quickly shook off her madness while giving a thought to her Professor's needs.

"This should help, Professor; I didn't see you care any extra dust."

"I wouldn't have to use it... but I appreciate it." she paused, baffled at her student's acts. It didn't add up during the raid of calling her a daydream in a dark forest. Weiss saw this on her teacher's face.

"I understand, Professor, this place is dangerous. And I'm acting out of line; I'll take the punishment if need be, once we return."

"One bridge at a time, just don't allow tension to cloud your judgment."

Goodwitch didn't understand the reason for her saying that, but she thought up a reason. With how much the young girl had received more than lost, hell, even then, she was just like her when she was young.

"There's no ladders." Weiss thought, then answering for herself.

"The tree... itself is a ladder."

"Ms. Schnee, remember the serpent walks from deadlight to sunlight, follow that backward, and that would lead you to the village. However, you know the plan to stay in place if help isn't needed… Understand?"

"Understood."

"Witch, the clouds are almost here."

She rolled her eyes and said, "Yes."

Weiss started her climb to the tree stand. As she studied the position, she got a little more idea of how stable this stand might be. With its floor and walls fused with dust making it not bind from old age, yet she thought that she might activate the dust if she used the same type. Even though she knew she wouldn't fight in this compact tree stand, it was just food for thought for a time of panic.

The Gunfire

She jumped! Dozing off, she was but granted her a boost of mystic energy that favored her Time Dilation. But mostly fear did the work of waking her body for her mission. The mission that will test her ability to survive, and yet she thought only to defend her family's honor as the real test. It didn't take long for her to switch her mood, catching the fear by its maw, like a seven-year-old child catching a cold after being persuaded by the phrase "sharing is caring."

"Was that Ruby?"

She thought with a guessing blood vessel straining her mind to a crisp. Another loud but wavy clap joined the louder but controlling zap singing with no rhythm for the forest to enjoy. However, the Grimm showed much glee during their painful grunts. Those grunting sounds took no victims as if they knew fear would crawl to the doorsteps of human's skin, causing frostbite to rub it in. Immune to the cause, with honor feeling her resolve that pitched her eyes to show baby blue pride.

She peeked out the crack of the foliage, not trying to get ahead of herself. "Success will follow as I follow my orders," saying it over and over. Until she had the view of midnight colored dogs with hellish red eyes, fighting the gravity that held them down while they scattered. It felt like a festival shooting; instead of the victims running from screams, they flared to their shooter with a snarl of joy. The smell of mud evaporated the greens and life, turning it to an abandoned meat factory type odor that flickered her nose. The search for her targets did not attempt to draw her full attention as the smell held her high. But she noted that older Grimm and even Alphas seemed rare for this crowd.

"Well, that overtook my time."

She said to herself, not seeing her targets after the younger monsters made their trails. Relief spread across her lower spine like the nerves of her brain. Disappointment is what she'll call it, but a relief nonetheless. It took some time for her to release the fake persona. To show a relaxing slouch frame that her family wouldn't approve of, an image of sleeping house maiden after making gooseberry pie.

Thump…

A sinister sliding…Thump... Thump...

She couldn't even describe it fast enough before it…Thump.

Again! She rooted her breathing like weeds choking a Lily flower. The pitched edge of fear juggled cut after cut under her beating heart. Awareness to her. The resound of nothing flooded her movements to the back window she found. Ripped by the feeling of being alone, ran deep through her empty stomach. Pride to her. The adrenaline climbed her veins like vines with happy prejudice. When she picked out the covered window, she had a perspective of branches covering the backyard of the Grimm stand, like a fountainhead covered with water as it struggles to see the wavered version of humans.

Thump...

The sound echoed from the back, and with no view, she started a noticeable panic, silent and frozen, internal dismay. Calmness to her.

"Think…"

She didn't; she only held visions of patches of leaves moving. Baffled as she was with not hearing any grunts that the Grimm would make during their joyful raiding, and the stand didn't make any type of movement that would suggest an oversized dog would be digging in this tree. Without warning, her poise returned, and it was stronger than before. As if this high came from a drug that only gets better after your first time. (We all know what that type of drug is) Scorning away from that matter, she spotted the source of her bravery, with the coming of another feather. She allowed her puerile emotions to take action, with a swift jog to the staggered patches of leaves. It was smaller than the one she had, but she didn't care; it held her mind in a fort of safekeeping.

This time her thoughts didn't make her deaf while she listened to the other "Thumps" that gave life to the censored tree stand. She couldn't see them, but she knew that there were more bluebirds up and around the tree stand; it felt empowering.

Then… an ignition of some sort made a mad hell scream, as crackling branches turn into a popcorn machine. Weiss started cycling through her dust, giving the flower-shaped flame no thought, as it tainted the inside like a pumpkin orange with a bleeding lime torch. Burning winds sounded as Weiss formed a pose with the precision of a Schnee. Branches turned leather black with leaves puffing like pus covered in blackheads. The wind dust was the tree's oil glands like the fire was the tree's infection, while the wind dust turned red and tender, developing lumps in the old made dust. Faded but selfish, the birds wept in the distance as if they knew fire would strike, not allowing an unsync moment during their retreat. Jaded and helpless, Weiss broke through the floor of the Grimm stand to make her signature glyph as her aura warmed up for use.

From another branch, close to the blooming embered tree, the Grimm grow wild as they praised the site of flesh, praised the site of a familiar power with joyful pouting. This brown garbed man watched the welcomed misery, like an old neighbor watching an inexperienced kid whining while mowing his father's lawn. In his case, he quickly perked his ears up, pointing away from the Grimm to another person behind him.

"Boy, the stone." The man uncharged his weapon, as it closed as a sleeping rose. With that, it formed a sharp dome that looks to have connected three-four shovels and could now be propped up against the moving dead tree. The young man dragged a ruby shaped rock from his old-looking garb as his gloves gripped the rock with friction giving a helping hand.

The brown garb man showed he only had his left arm to grab with, as his other arm, wrapped with grey bandages and hollow ropes. After grabbing the stone, his black and white ears twitched again to the mission directions; however, it wasn't the gunshots that were awakening his fears. He quickly turned the stone to the blooming tree as the smoke started to move to his hand, like flies navigating through artificial light. The barbecued stone began feeding on the smoke, sipping away what the fire creates. However, the fire still burned. It seems he didn't want the smoke to be seen by anyone but him.

"Boy, go see what that is."

"The shooting?" The messy one coldly asked.

"No, you will see them. Just follow Snake Way to the south." He perked up his chin as if it gave the direction.

"Roger." The boy shook his head, wanting to ask a question that even the forest knew the answer to.

The older man used the smoke absorbing stone like a fan. Directing it towards the Grimm below. The messy boy didn't hesitate; he took this opening for a better chance of not attracting Grimm to his unstealthy movements. (Like the young bluebirds from early). The older man watched the boy jump out of the lingering smoke like the ash doubled its defenses. Then, the tree that bloomed without smoke started steaming slowly but rapidly cooling. As if the fire was fighting each other to burn a bottle of water. One side eating the plastic with the otherside drinking the water; however, both sides shared the same mouth.

"Someone is in there… Good." He grinned a little until his right arm began to spaz out. Gripping it tightly, he flashed his ears to the now rapidly steaming but slowly cooling fire. It would seem the fire started taking turns eating and drinking the bottle. However, this bottle most had a hidden ingredient because it took the bleeding fire and made frozen weaves for the dying tree, freezing the ash into a cloud of solid hail. The older man's ears collapsed as he said…

"A child?!"

He quickly throws the rough stone in his velcro pocket, which is in the right arm of his garb. Grabbing his domened weapon, he rushed for the pale girl.

He started descending when he passed the Grimm and the smoke, speed walking, not wasting energy. The messy boy's garb matched the older man to an extent, as he meshed with the forest. The boy felt the vibrations through his skull. Feeling far away, but the close battle between the other huntsmen. He wasn't sure of the number, but it had to be a full team of half connecting like squares and a right triangle.

"Or maybe just an acute angle." He said out loud. Looking at the trees to see if they cared. But they cared for the fate breeze that gave joy. Compared to the boy, his dark skin shivered in the forty-degree breeze. Twenty to him. Keeping his sight true, the light hid on top of the mountains of trees, trying its best to keep the boy cold as due possible. The boy cared dearly for the sun as it gave him energy for his muscles to move and grow. Protein to him. He was lucky enough to walk through a shimmer of light that glared his fake-looking eyes, like a painting of a blood moon that was further adjusted through 3d software. (As if the boy knew what the word "software," let alone "3d" meant.)

He wanted to stay in place, but he had an order… "Go see what that is." As if he could read minds. Just because he can track movement with vibrations through his crown doesn't make him a Rodent Thinker like the old man. He went on thinking about the old man as he quoted him out loud: "No! Killing them will only make things worse for the villagers as the canyon is not clear." Or. "Boy. Go find us something to eat." And some much more. He never showed pride in giving the boy guides, as if he feared to help a Dry Skin even after his fall from grace.

The boy went on thinking, yet even with all the negative emotions, the Grimm were all distracted by the dust rounds fired by the huntsmen or the smokeless Grimm Stand that Old Rodent burned up. Then, he started feeling and even hearing a fight up ahead. He slithered through the bushes as he crotch-walked to the vibrations. The erupting noise of dust and steel where far, needless to say, instinct over-concern. His legs (use to the crotching) warmed up the rest of his body, like that nasty pedophile that tricked a child or two to play hide and seek with him. Come to think of it. The boy started using this tactic to avoid those types of rodent fags. It made him a better killer with it. He grows closer to the battle, not blinking even after the pinned shaped leafs hit his eyes, vision gave immunity to his orbs.

He watched… As a blonde-haired woman that wore a lavender color juggled some form of dust. Her heels damned the grass and mud beneath her. While in some way, thanking them for holding her footing. She held a whip-like item that the boy never in his short life had seen in this small but tall forset. She held it tightly as her body looked sweaty from head to shoulders as if the whip would slide from her soft baby hands. She rose her darkish leg as she showed that the whip was indeed her weapon, with hail coming in the form of broken knives. The boy looked over to the blades' receiving end as they slowly became nothing but sheets of moisturized air. His head's vibration extended into a deja vu state while identifying the source of the blinding light.

Luxston Ridge, the Flashing Weasel. His jacketless garb showed his veins that seemed to be pumping with blood and a yellowish aura. Clinging every part of his nervousness into his soulless grip, he shot the head of the pitchfork of the long handle, with a rusted chain tailing it. The woman started twitching her wrist clockwise, making purple shading around the sharp forks; however, whatever she was doing, it didn't work efficiently, as the forks scraped her waist with it trailing over giant roots. And then, another man, Seph Stoven, came out the cover of the dead trees and attacked her armed hand. She used the debris from the firm roots to shield her arm. Her eyes were wide open as the sickle drove through the elephant-sized roots, hitting her mental stress more than anything. She pushed the roots back as he finished cutting through the tortured puffed finger. She backed stepped into one of the trees noticing the knives coming her way.

The boy's bloody eyes stared back at Luxston, looking for the damn Fur Necked bastard that throws those dart-like knives. His blood formed a heaven of hatred that was waiting to drag the fateful to its paradise, making the boy unbuckle his weapon from his thigh, showing its copper wrappings and grey metal textures that looked to be more wealthy than the user. It is shaped like a coughed and yet folded short spear with a handle that resembles a revolver. He slowly charged the weapon with it already being load. And then he saw him.

"Kai!"

The boy jumped out of his little den, like a serpent attacking a Charley wagon from instinct instead of purpose, not shooting his loaded weapon. This darkie's face showed how red his eyes were; in the shadows of the hollow timber. Making his demonic demeanor known through the sheath of his second weapon, a curved weapon (like the other) extended in width and length for more longer swings, a welded fang for a quelled thing. It was wrapped in copper, of course, with a more hit of steel grey. Instead of a pistol grip, it had a complete sword handle that balanced the folded blade. His jump was pretty low, and gravity made short work of his leap, crashing him down before he got to pin his target.

Now, in front of the blonde-haired woman, he prepared another upsurge, just to only be held in mid-air. Even then, he wasn't the only one; Seph and the boy's target, Kai, were primed for a picture of their own, showing their fussy expressions through the two's inelastic faces. The boy stiffly turned his left weapon, and his aura glowed in rejection of the blue-wine silhouette that took his shadow. With this, the lavender woman showed an expression of shock that took a chunky of age out of her, leaving the green like salsa light to return her youth, like the Green Apple brand that young girls use for makeup.

Like an eleven-year-old boy trying to whistle with a dead leaf during a lightning storm miles away, the sound of light came after that. The crackling of the dead leaf faded quickly as the bullet made with dust pierced the woman's face, destroying her glasses with a glassed mist coming after. The push from the shot scattered across her bosom, leaving remnants of electricity that guided her to its next source, not thinking of her well being. The hollow hunters separated as the blond woman's telekinesis faded into their clothes, leaving the boy in the air while using his twin like weapons to deflect the scissors in his wake.

"He's still here? But I thought…" Ridge didn't repeat himself as he watched the boy collide with Seph and Kai, surprised maybe or because he said it in that leather mind of his. He cut himself off as he saw an opening, while the boy swung his right sword like a heavy mace, creating a crowd of mental yelling for freedom as it rams against Seph's sickle.

Kai dropped back for he can consolidate his dust, hopping and jolting backward like an ice skater. With the repeating man coming in like a power forward hockey player, fresh, no penalties, and no points for bluster. He drove the teeth of his pitchfork into the boy's short weapon. He released a laver that rested near the trigger with it still folded, causing the saw like-pistol to turn in the form of a saw like-spear. It was still short compared to the repeating man's pitchfork; to his disadvantage, he used it to close the gap while maintaining a safe distance.

Vertical and horizontal slashes came after, all parried by the pitchfork's old handle; it brought time. Grassy rocks and slabs of roots ran towards them, blocking the boy's momentum, with a bookshelf of bugs and spiders that never wanted to see the light of day.

The sickle of Seph stretched turns the boy's neck for a quick kill. Even with aura, that sickle has sharp earth dust infused into its textures; the hard the surface, the easier it becomes brittle. So the boy used his right weapon as a guard for the back of his neck. With this uncomfortable position, the boy's hair flared dusty green as his saif turned into a curved longsword. A loading mechanism started to sound, showing a barrel that stuck out like a broken pinky with the nails gone and the bone cut to match a knuckle. His twisted hair moved with extreme joy, like itself was a Grimm, dancing with its storm of lightning nether dim, and pumping its veins without a limb. He points the curved sword to the heavens as the handle showed a guard for his hands during close quarter combat. He held it tightly as another green light followed by a sound that resembles a rifled barrel shotgun.

The exchange of blows took the form of a petty argument, like a wise woman who debates over a wage gap (while only counting the single mothers, of course) for them to come to a standstill. The green dust up above tainted the trees, using their own shadows as cover from the unnatural light, as if cold. "Keep your hand in mine." the trees said to each other as the ground rumbled with echoes of dire joy. Lucky misery to the boy.

"Nothings even with you, how defenseless." His fur started to glow in a sinister blue leather as he jerks in place.

"It's alright... Show me how it ends, Old Sport." He firstly pushed his sickle into the stone that strained his back.

"Let's. Let's give this another try." Mucus held his throat, even more, slimy glands yelled as he stuttered.

The boy's mind started to come to after hearing this stuttered, like a supernova that occurred to be after a soft pulse. His garb showed how deprived of energy he was, armpits moist in rice of sweat, as his sleeves showed to be damped like boiled sausages. His smell took the leather and made its version of a crying bulb vegetable, leaving his brow's sweat to resemble tears. More sweat dripped to his gloved hands, creating sparks that steamed his closed palms as it slowly infected his body. The aura or even his semblance showed his nerves; he caught the Hunters off guard, however, with him being unprepared. His instincts got him under the amateur umbrella. As the past rain down their shared secrets, he sees them as only souvenirs of the old. This umbrella keeps you dry while leaving you sightless, destroying the Organon for a jejune franchise (common instrument), and blaming the tool instead of the green of the mind. The boy seemed alone, as he knocked out or even killed the only one that might have helped him; as jaded as the flair above, he loaded another round into his curved sword.

Life to him.

I took inspiration from Bloodborne and Destiny when it comes to some weapons, as the Boy's weapons are twin swords that resemble Saw Spear mixed with a revolver like Thron (left) Beasthunter Saif combined with a shotgun that I'll let you figure out what it is. (right) I'm not going to hold you for long (free time is hard to get), so I appreciate you for giving this a read. Please leave a comment for I can further improve my writing.