AN: Here is my contribution to the already saturated market of Fairy Tail SYOCs.
October 19th, X786
He felt the train stop beneath him, meaning he had finally arrived. Folding the newspaper he had been reading, he stood up and looked out the car window. Past the concrete pad and the long red-roofed building that made up the train station, he saw the signature white fields of his hometown.
Stepping off the train, Damien wasn't prepared for the brisk wind that hit him. But he didn't dare zip up his aviator jacket; he had an image to uphold. And it was more important now than ever before.
Damnit, I forgot how cold it can get here.
Before he could make his way to the steps leading off the docking platform, a tall figure–taller than Damien himself–blocked his way.
"Mr. Howell," The conductor greeted, extending his hand for Damien to shake.
"Yes?" He took the hand.
"It's been a while since we've seen you in Fiore. What's the occasion?"
Damien pulled his hand from the other man's gloved grip. "I'm creating a guild. "
"Then, I guess I better stop wasting your time. Did you have a name in mind, 'cause give me the word and I'll spread it," The conductor chuckled earnestly. "And know that if you need to be anywhere, you're always welcome on this train."
"Message received, and Wreath Hunter. My intention is to beat SaberTooth, so I need strong mages if you can steer them my way," Damien stepped past the conductor once he concluded the conversation was over, but paused a few moments later. "What's your name, sir?" He said, turning around.
"Call me Blache, and don't worry. Talk of a new guild, created by the great Damien Howell, will be all across Fiore within the week," He smiled easily, his eyes thinning and his face wrinkled with smile lines.
With a nod, the conductor turned around and hoisted himself back onto the train. Damien waited for his body to fully disappear, before turning around and leaving the open-air station. The wind was a little more bearable on the dirt ground, but that mattered little to Damien.
There, beyond the snow-white ocean, was home. The town was appropriately named White Rose, and Damien would be lying if he said the sight didn't stir something in him, seeing the place he grew up for the first time in sixteen years. He squashed the feeling; he had work to do. This wasn't meant to be some great return of a hero. Just the beginning of something great.
Damien walked the cobble path splitting the white sea. The white flowers after which the town was named were a precious symbol, and it wouldn't be right to let them be trampled. As he stepped over the town's threshold, where the White Ocean–as Damien remembered it was called by the town's folk–met the sidewalk that separated the checkerboard street and the buildings on both sides of it, he heard the far-away shriek of the train as it departed once again.
The streets weren't crowded, which wasn't surprising considering the time of year, but there were a few pedestrians here and there. Some of them Damien recognized, and some he didn't. He did his best to not be recognized as well, but it was only a matter of time before someone called out his name.
"Damien?"
Sighing, Damien stopped and turned around to face where the voice had come from. It was a stocky man, mostly bald but for the gray hair on the sides of his head. Mr. Baker the baker, unsurprisingly. He had been middle-aged when Damien left, his hair still all there and still brown, though it had already began to go gray in some places.
"Hey there, Mr. Baker." Damien replied, feigning nonchalance. In reality, he was annoyed. He had only intended to make himself known once he had gotten everything set up.
"It's been a while, hasn't it? Sixteen years, if my mind isn't completely gone from me. Why, when you left you stood barely a couple inches above me. Now look at you," The old man chuckled. "What brings you back here?"
"Oh, just a personal project. How's Mrs. Baker?" Damien deflected. He already had a guarantee that word of his "project" would spread. He didn't need any fanfare about it.
"She's well. She's taken over the bakery. I got old, both in spirit and body, but she's still as bright as the day I met her," Mr. Baker was looking at him, but not at him. As if he was remembering days long past. The moment came and went. "What kind of personal project? It's been sixteen years. I think this town deserves to know why its hero has returned."
He hated that word. Hero. It implied expectations, and they weren't expectations Damien cared to meet. But he didn't despise it here, in the way he did when he heard others call him a 'hero' on the streets and in homes of towns where he didn't grow up. He didn't want to be a hero, just an adventurer. But he understood it here. White Rose was a town that not many came and went from. There wasn't a single person notable outside of the town that was born there. Not before Damien.
"I've founded a guild," Damien answered. "Approved by the Magic Counsel. And it's going to be here. I planned to make the old church the guild hall."
"Why didn't you say so?!" Mr. Baker exclaimed. "Melanie has been looking for an excuse to prepare a banquet. It's always been a dream of hers, you know?"
"I don't have a choice, do I?" Damien asked, resigned.
"Melanie wouldn't give you one, and by extension neither can I," The old man turned around to leave, but not before saying, "Don't forget to say hi to Hanna for me."
The thought of his mother struck Damien. He hadn't spoken to her since he left, and he was dreading the conversation he knew would be had eventually. But not right now. His pace increased with an urgency. God forbid he would ever run in a public place, but anyone who saw him would know he had a place to be. And hopefully they would take that as a hint to not get in his way.
After a few minutes' walk and multiple turns, Damien stood in front of a gray brick building. On either side of the dark double-doors–the wood scratched, cracked, and dented–was a tall, arched window. Cobwebs caked the interior of the glass, but did not block Damien's view of the inside enough to keep him witness from the eerily holy bath of light that flooded into the single-room structure through the row of windows on each side. The yellow rays stabbed through clouds of dust, allowing Damien to see them floating in near-perpetuity. Forcing himself away from the window, he moved toward the brown doors. Gingerly, afraid that something would break, he tried to push them open.
They didn't budge. Damnit, I forgot how heavy these doors were.
With an exhale, he planted himself perpendicular to the doors, lowered his shoulder and braced himself as he crashed through the brittle wood. Shrugging off the clinging chips and plucking splinters from his jacket, Damien looked around. The pews were made of stone and were still mostly-intact, but the top of the backs of a few benches were beginning to chip and the seats had a small amount of cracking. Much like the windows, webbing had consumed the stone seating. If someone wanted to be mummified in this church via silk, Damien was sure their wish could be granted within hours.
This is going to take more cleanup than I expected. Well, might as well get it out of the way.
Leaving the run-down building, Damien made his way back to the main street of the town. To his surprise, there were already streamers running diagonally all the way down the street, from building to building, and ladders where they had presumably been put up from. The Bakers' place even had a length of blue hanging in their window. It had gold lettering, but Damien couldn't read it from where he was. Unlike earlier, it was now throngs of people that meandered up and down the checkerboard way. Groaning at the future annoyance this meant, Damien resumed his quest to the other side of town.
His mother's house–the house he grew up in–was a red brick structure, now covered with ivy and vines. Honestly, Damien was terrified of what came next, but he had learned a while ago that the best way to deal with one's fears was to face them.
He knocked on the dark-oak door. There came a turbulent sound, muted by the heavy fixture. He waited for a minute and turned around to leave, when the door finally made a creaking sound and slowly opened. It revealed a stale darkness, broken by a pale and expressionless face appearing from the void. Yellow eyes identical to his own peered back at him. Moments passed as he stood there, uncomfortable as he felt that simultaneously familiar and unnatural gaze meet his own. Suddenly, the shell cracked.
His mother's eyes widened and regained their natural wetness, and Damien could see small pools begin to form in the corner of her sclera. "Damien?" Her lips parted slightly as the quiet gasp escaped her.
"Hey, mom," Damien tried for an easy, reassuring smile, but he knew it was a flimsy attempt. He did his best to keep the sobs in his throat, but the breakage in his voice was loud as a train in his ears.
The door swung open completely, and the woman stepped into the light. Coarse black hair appeared around her face, only making her skin's lack of color more apparent. She had lost weight since Damien had last seen her, and he couldn't recall a time when his mother had ever been overweight. Suddenly, Damien felt a weight on his chest, but it was no more of one than a thin blanket. After a few seconds of letting himself be held, he extricated himself from the embrace, though not without resistance.
"Mom," Damien addressed her, holding her at arm's length by her shoulders. "I'm just here to get a few things."
"You can't stay?" She asked wobbly, to which he nodded. "Well, you can at least stay for a cup of tea?"
He wanted to say no, but he knew that would be cruel. But wasn't he already being cruel, letting his mother see him for the first time in years, before he left again?
"Of course."
His stomach clenched as her face broke into a sunlit smile. She turned around and reentered the house, prompting Damien to follow her small form. He stepped past her as she turned on the lights, allowing him to see that nothing had changed in the house. The floor was spotless, the same dishes as the day he left sat in the sink, and there were even two porcelain bowls on the small wooden kitchen table. One was empty while the other was still full with milk and soggy cereal. Damien quickly averted his eyes.
"Green?" Her voice was suddenly cheery.
"Yeah." He responded instinctually.
Equipped with a broom and a small pair of garden clippers, Damien returned to the gray church.
Inside the building, he tossed the clippers into the air, and before they could fall they became covered with a yellow-golden aura. With a flick of his hand, the blades shot up to and through the layer of cobwebs in the back corner, where two walls converged and met the ceiling. Within moments, they flew to the next corner, and in the span of a minute all the webs that rimmed the ceiling had fallen to the gray-dusted floor.
Great. Damien groaned, eyes sweeping the walls. He had only taken off about half-a-foot near the top. Now, time to do the rest.
The sky was a canvas of orange, pink, and indigo by the time Damien had gotten rid of all the cobwebs. No longer was the church a box of holy light; the only light that filtered through the windows was a dry and gray one that left the farthest corners in shadow. Even the opening made by Damien's forced entry barely allowed the outside light to reach him.
"Um, hello?" A voice reached his ears, accompanied by an unnecessary knocking on stone.
Damien turned towards the voice. The voice fit the person who wasn't quite a man, but was bigger than a boy. His dark green eyes matched his jacket, which complemented his dark skin and hair nicely.
"Yes?"
"You're Damien Howell?" The kid asked.
Oh, great. A fanboy. Just what I need right now.
"Yes."
"Uh, my name's David, and…"
"Spit it out, kid," Damien knew his curtness wasn't called for, but he was tired and just wanted to finish cleaning before he went and found an inn to stay the night in.
"I…I was wondering if I could join your guild." David's words tapered off into nearly incomprehensible muttering as he finished his request.
Damien's first instinct was to say no. There was one purpose behind Wreath Hunter: to beat SaberTooth, and to do that his guild needed to be the strongest. And this kid didn't look like he fit the bill. Then Mr. Baker's words came back to him. This kid, David, looked up to him. If David were to think he was an asshole, who would he have to look up to? The kid didn't deserve to be another Damien Howell.
But of course, he couldn't be too nice about it. Damien turned around and went back to work, pushing the stone pews to the side of the church so he could clean the floor.
"Well, are you just going to stand there, or are you gonna' help?" Damien didn't look back, but he could hear the kid's shoes slapping against stone.
"Of course!"
AN: Hope you enjoyed. Form and rules are on my profile. I look forward to seeing the characters y'all come up with.