RWBY: The Last Stand
W.T. Roberts
2
Cinder collapsed in the sand, spent of mind and body. The wind had picked up, allowing for some pretty nasty sandstorms. A blast of gritty wind slammed into Cinder like a cadre of bees, knocking her off her feet. Cinder lied on her back, gazing up at the merciless sun, while her cracked lips mouthed words that she couldn't speak. Then, everything went black as the world spun.
Raucous shouting awoke Cinder from her slumber. She gazed about her, only to find that she was lying on a sort of billiards table. A dusty, stinking raider came over to her, smiled toothlessly, and poured ale down her dry throat. Cinder coughed and sputtered, finally coming to. She sat up, but immediately wished she hadn't. Her surroundings were that of a club, but not your average, run-of-the-mill club. This one was dirty, smelly, and boasted some of the most disgusting patrons in the continent. One of the regulars stumbled over to Cinder, obviously plastered, and gripped her ankle. Cinder shook his hand off her, eyes flaring, and cracked him in the nose with her foot. The drunk tumbled back, towards the crowd, nose crumpled beyond repair. The rest of the clienteles took one look at him, whipped around to stare at Cinder, drawing knives and bottles. They started to surround her, grinning evilly. A shrill whistle called them to attention, even the music stopped. A tall broad man, with crimson hair and flaxen eyes, stood stoically defiant. In his left hand was a hatchet, with a pistol worked into it, the other a large dagger. Both weapons sported blood dripping from their blades. The bartender ducked under the counter, rummaged for a moment, and hefted a primitive firearm. The huntsman cocked his weapon and fired all in one motion. The adamantine bullet smacked into the barkeep's chest with a dull thud; the tender stared at the bloody hole in shock, then fell dead.
Every old salt in the bar backed up instinctively, understandably wary of this professional. "I don't want trouble here." the huntsman shouted. "What makes you think you can get though all of us?" a hothead hissed. "That's just fine with me." The huntsman assured him. "All you have to do is stand in my way."
As the scarred, tattooed huntsman walked towards Cinder, each patron backed off, wary of his lethal blades. The hunter, now at Cinder's side, heaved her up off the pool table, and set her down. She shunned him away, strutted out of the club, and into the main settlement grounds.
The huntsman started after Cinder, sheathing his weapons. He knew where Cinder was going, and didn't much like it, so he marched out of the bar. Cinder stood in the village square, waiting for him. She glared at him. "I don't much like stalkers," she placed a hand on his cheek. "But for you I'll make an exception." "And why is that," the hunter growled. "You've done Salem a service, and such acts should be rewarded." Cinder smiled.