I had completely disassembled my scythe and laid the pieces down on the dining table. Weiss sat in the kitchen polishing something, unbothered by all the space I had taken up. Noticing the wear that had come to weight on its parts made me somewhat sad. It was almost as though the weapon was tired. I felt much the same. Even still, the night would take no respite. I could not rest and neither could the scythe. At that moment it occurred to me that I had never given it a name. A twinge of guilt shot through my chest at the realization. We had been through so much together and throughout the whole journey I had been using her. Perhaps in the back of my mind I had never considered the chance that it would last this long, maybe it was made to be broken.

Putting her back together, I paid extra attention to the screws which held the black limbs together. A common mistake that amatuer hunters often made was tightening the screws of their weapons to excess. They would turn them, and twist, and turn them again and again until the screws made maddining snapping sounds. I was of the opinion that there was no faster way to ruin a good weapon. Not only did aggressively tightening the screws lead to noticeably worse performance, it damaged the parts as well. The grooves that let the screw slide in would become worn down. Some hunters would often spend years designing their weapons. I was no different, however I could never imagine spending all that time carefully crafting something only to then go on and treat it like some common mass produced piece of nothing! I suppose every weapon is designed with a different purpose. For my sake, the scythe only really needed to cut down evil. She came back together quite nicely in spite of the damages. I had polished the long straight blade and spent some time admiring the way it shined in the evening sun.

In preparation for my nightly vigil, I donned a red cloak and a grinning opera mask.

"Why do you wear that whenever you go out?" Wiess asked.

"I can't really say. For tradition's sake I guess." I answered, trying to simplify my reasoning as much as possible. Explaining my thoughts to Weiss on the matter was difficult. Neither of them served a practical purpose, per se. I would do my job just as well without the cloak and mask, but what is a hunter without a flair for the dramatic? You see, a hunter is a hunter and a hunter must hunt. It was as simple as that, yet at the same time so much more. "A hunter isn't just someone who mindlessly kills things," I told her "that would be too easy." Weiss came from the kitchen with an orange and a plate. She began slicing it when she sat down, still listening to me struggle to articulate my ideas in a concise manner. A hunter was someone who walked with purpose. We did not move, we stalked. We did not fight, we conquered. Everything we did was deliberate. Vibrant regalia, elaborate weapons, and bold sigils; they all served a purpose. A hunter would distinguish themselves from any other common killing machine by making dramatic deliberate choices about their appearance. Making those deliberate choices was our subtle way of telling the world that we were still human, that we still had our wits about us. Cutting a distinct figure helped one stand out as well. The bards loved hunters with strange weapons.

I would be lying if I said that my choice of weapon was not at least somewhat influenced by appearances. I wanted so desperately for some wandering luvvy to catch sight of me. The red death they would call me, the bloody muse who spawned a thousand ballads.

Weiss did not understand a lot of what I was saying, I suppose there were no hunters among the Spriggans. As I recounted some of the more famous tales of hunters and their heroism I noticed her eyes beginning to glaze over. Clearly, she had no interest in hearing me ramble about old stories. "Sorry, Sorry! I tend to talk too much if I believe anyone will lend me an ear. It's a bad habit of mine… I'll be going now, bye." I stammered.

"Aren't you going to the bonfire later tonight?" she asked. Apparently Yang had managed to convince Weiss to tag along with her and Blake. I had no intention of going at first. Nothing in the world seemed like less fun to me than faffing about at the bonfire. However, it also presented an opportunity to get to know Weiss more closely. Even if the event itself didn't seem like it would be worth much, I didn't want to miss a chance to get to know her better. There was a very real possibility that Weiss and I would be working together for years while we were at beacon. So it only made sense that I take the time to establish a bond with her. I agreed to go to the bonfire and she nodded her approval.

"Do we know how many people are going?" I prodded

"I don't know," She answered

"Should I bring anything?"

"I can't say,"

"How long do you think it's going to last?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," She stated, flatly. By then I was puzzled. At first I thought that I may have grown closer to her, but Weiss did not seem eager to talk. She had frozen over and placed a chill in the room. I sat there for a while not knowing what to say, or even if I should say anything at all. Perhaps the offer was extended out of a sense of pity rather than kindness. 'Oh poor, Ruby! The lonely little rose in a bundle of thistles. A Solemn little spot of red with no friends to speak of, save for her weird sister. Perhaps I'll show her a bit of kindness, the poor thing…" She must have thought. At that point there was no going back, no saving face. If that were all true then I had already embarrassed myself so much that there was no averting catastrophe.

I looked at her plate. She had removed the peel from the orange and started to eat. My throat had gone dry, my lips coarse. The heat that flushed my cheeks had evaporated all the moisture in my mouth. With a texture like sandalwood, I forced my tongue to produce five small words, "Can I have a slice?" The words wrenched out of my mouth so fast Weiss almost didn't notice. However, she did give me a slice of the orange once what I said had actually registered.

"Take the one with the funny shape," She handed the orange to me. Picking out the oblong shaped slice, I took the fruit into my mouth. It was sweet. In fact, it may have been the sweetest orange I ever had. The taste was more like a pineapple or a peach. More like candy than a fruit, I savored the juice. My throat felt less dry and I began to breathe again. I asked Weiss for another. she obliged.

She went to the ice chest and pulled out a couple more of them. So, there we sat, eating oranges. And things continued that way for quite some time. I decided to pivot to something else. I asked her about what had happened earlier that same day, "Do you think I should be worried?"

"About what?"

"Cardin."

"Yes. In fact, I think there's a possibility that you might not survive, that you break against him." She alluded. Cardin was a strong fighter and Weiss affirmed that fact. She urged me to call off the duel, but I refused. As the one who started the entire thing I was in no position to back down. It was then that I understood why she had been so cold earlier. It was born out of a place of frustration. Though I appreciated the gesture, I told her not to worry. Though not quite an adult, I was old enough to pick my own battles. Weiss was quick to bring the conversation to the topic of Cardin's aura. "It still doesn't make any sense. In spite of my better judgment, I attacked him with the intent to kill. I couldn't help it. Even still, he swatted my attack away with next to no effort. No burns either. I've seen that same fire burn away a man's aura and leave him curled over like a candle's wick, but somehow he was unphased," she elaborated. I put forward the idea that the answer did not lie in his aura, but rather in the unique way he used it.

Every creature that drew breath had an aura, but only man had the mind to use it. When in the field, hunters tended to regard aura as little more than a reservoir of strength to draw from. Though nothing resembling an endless well, when aura was used properly it could lead to a variety of supernatural feats. The focused application of aura would lead to the manifestation of a kind of pseudo-magic, called semblance. I was of the belief that Cardin had some unique semblance that let him deflect anything he perceived as a threat.

Explaining my logic to Weiss, she nodded. "That's one possibility. Such a semblance would be extremely powerful. Whatsmore, any hunter in possession of it would be completely unassailable. What do you have to say about the possibility of Cardin possessing no semblance, but rather an unusually powerful aura?" Weiss asked me

"Not likely." I answered "He knocked away your fire like it was nothing, there's just no way that was all down to his raw aura."

"I see," Weiss drifted off. Never before had I seen a woman so perplexed at her inability to kill a man. She put her hand to her chin and curled it so. I was content to watch her think, but then came a knocking at the door. It was Blake and Yang, come to pick us up.