Disclaimer: I do not own RWBY, but I do own all of the OCs seen here. Even the ones without names (yet). This fanfic was merely written in honor of Monty Oum and kitty0706. Credit to Shadow1176 for helping me with this oneshot too.
The woods. Not exactly the most exciting place in the world for some people. While the birds' songs and the colorful leaves were nice, they were all this forest had. Some people would prefer to head to the cities, bustling with activity. But for those looking for some peace and quiet, some chill time, this was the place.
Within one particular part of the forest was a pale man in his late thirties. He bore white hair and turquoise eyes, the latter hidden behind tinted glasses. His shirt and trousers were coated in an array of dried paint. Red, blue, white, orange, pink, violet, and yellow were the most common colors of the stains. Within his shirt's pocket was a paintbrush, still bearing a bit of fresh paint on it. Engraved on the pocket was what appeared to be a hyacinth.
The man bore another in his hand, waving it around on the canvas before him. Though it was incomplete, one could get the general idea behind this piece. A shadowy blur was facing off against an equally vague entity, dodging its many claws. So far, the only colors used on the painting were shades of crimson, pearl, ebony, and gold.
Zephyr Axel Elwood smiled. His masterpiece was coming together smoothly so far. Just a few more hours, and it should be complete. He glanced up at the sky, a frown appearing on his face.
The sun had already begun to set, giving a vivid array of colors. Though he wished to admire them, he know that it wouldn't be wise to stick around for long. He didn't want to get jumped by some Beowolf. Packing his materials up, the Huntsman returned to his assigned post.
His destination was an old building, large enough to house several dozen people. It was a mix of stone and wood, dating back to before or during The War. It was originally built to house its young victims, founded by a veteran of the conflict. And though the madmen behind the insanity were long since dead, children still seem to find their way here.
Still, they were not totally defenseless. Since its founding days, soldiers and veteran Huntsmen came here to raise these lost sheep. They would harden their shells, sharpen their teeth, and prepare them for the entrance exam. Already, there was promise among the older generation, those within their late teens.
Alhfer Pallas Orphanage. Noted the man. If you can't make it into an academy, then start from the ground-up.
Zephyr noticed a group of kids playing basketball, donning worn hand-me-downs. One of them caught his eye. It was a young Faunus, nine years old, bearing burnt-wood hair and golden eyes. She had a set of a bear's ears on her head, giving her a bit of a teddy bear appearance. He noted some other Faunus as well, yet they seemed to be getting along with their human counterparts just fine.
That brought a smile to his face. If only people were like that today, laughing alongside each other without regard to their race. Alas, this world is still tethered by xenophobia, and will likely be so for a good while. But in the meantime, let these souls have their fair share of innocent joy.
The girl broke off from the game, running toward Elwood. "Hey mister, got a second?" She asked.
The man turned his head. "Yes? Is there something you wish to discuss, Kuma?"
Kuma nodded, grinning at the response. A second later, she tilted her head. "Mister Elwood, where'd you learn to paint?"
Zephyr let out a soft laughter. "That's a bit of a long story, milady," He humored. "And I doubt that a girl your age would be interested in hearing some grown-up's old stories,"
The little lass giggled. "Oh, so the Circle of Nine are boring?" She teased.
The painter chuckled. "Nah," He admitted. "But this story of mine has barely anything to do with fighting."
"Well, there's other types of stories," Remarked the Faunus.
Again, his reply was that of a chuckle. Persistent little one, isn't she? The man thought to himself.
"Alright, I'll spill the beans," He said in defeat. "But don't expect there to be knights and dragons. Just give me a minute to pack up my materials."
The girl nodded, taking a sit on the porch. A minute later, the man returned, placing himself besides her.
"As you may know, art has always been part of our culture," Zephyr began. "Been that way since The War. Sculpture, theatrics, painting, writing... heck, even are the spices of life, of unity and individuality."
The man looked up to the sky, noting the colors within it. He could make out a good chuck of warm hues, such as red and orange. He caught glimpses of blue and purple as well. Far to the corner of his eye, he noticed the moon in its fractured season.
"When I was a young lad, we had this professor at Beacon," Said the artist. "He would show us all kinds of artwork, from across every corner of our world. He showed us cave paintings, tribal tattoos, ancient sculptures, epics of the lost times. From him, we learned about the history of our society, the lessons passed down from others. From him, we learned about life itself."
He plucked a blade of grass from the ground, holding it like a pen or paintbrush. "It was he who taught me the ways of the brush. Modernism, Abstract, Surrealism, Watercolor, Still Life. He showed me the geometries of combat and the colors of the universe. I learned how the blade danced, how the bullet flew, how Dust gleamed in the light."
He waved the plant around as he spoke, leaving an invisible trail as he did so. He imagined color flowing behind the tail, an infinite rainbow of possibilities. And somewhere within that splash of fantasy, he spotted the face of his professor. He smiled for a brief moment, but only for a moment.
"Alas, life isn't always so innocent and simple. He was besieged by a plague, being torn down from the inside. Eventually, he couldn't even leave his bed without falling. He passed away in what could've been his prime."
A frown formed on his face, turning that smile upside down. His vision blurred, depicting an empty classroom. Students bowed their heads, silently mourning their mentor. And yet, even in this state, they continued to work, to create.
"Even in the face of death, though, he always remained positive. He wasn't one for living in the past, nor did he really think much about the enviable. He was always optimistic, looking to the future. 'Keep moving forward', he always said."
He tossed the green makeshift tool aside, letting it glide to the ground.
"And so we did. He didn't want his death to slow or anchor us down. He wasn't one for flowers or gifts. Rather, he wanted us to simply be creative. To use our imagination to make the world a better place."
He turned to Kuma, flashing a grin on his face.
"Art, as history tells, has as much power as any force on this world. The War is proof of that, and so was he. So honor we him, honor the fallen, through this tradition. Through art, our ideas- and our brothers in arms- live on."
Zephyr rose, looking back at the night sky. Darkness had already fallen by now. He heard footsteps before them, causing his smile to brighten. His collage and their protégé had returned. They boy was about 17-years-old, standing at at least six feet. He bore pale skin and dark hair, the latter like the aftermath of a forest fire. He wore an old black t-shirt, worn jeans, and tattered navy-blue shoes. What stood out, though, were his eyes. The majority of them was silver, with a sapphire ring around the pupil. And in the darkness, one could've sworn that they glowed like fireflies.
The other thing that stood out was the object around his neck. Hanging on a thin thread was a silver key, gleaming in the moonlight. Most of this boy's history was shrouded in shadows, locked within a strange enigma. The only clue to it all was that strange relic of his.
Kuma ran before the older child, hugging his knees. He knelt down, patting her on the head. The strode into the building side-by-side, like brother and sister. Zephyr turned to his associate, who bore dark skin and tribal tattoos on his arms.
"How's your day been, my good man?" Zephyr asked his friend, with a hint of humor.
"Nothing much, really," He said. "We've done a bit of mediation and practice, but nothing out of the ordinary."
"Think he'll pass the entrance exam?" Zephyr inquired.
The other man paused, crossing his arms. "The boy possesses potential, of that I have no doubt about. It's just the matter of unlocking it."
The pale man noticed black marks under his associate's eyes. "Are you alright? You seem a bit under the weather."
The other nodded, placing a hand on his forehead. "I'm fine, just haven't gotten much rest."
Zephyr placed a hand on his collage's shoulder. "Why don't you get some sleep, then? I can hold the fort myself."
The dark one smiled, heading off into the building as well. Zephyr drew out his discus, the metallic disk changing shape as he did so. It stretched and folded into a charkam, riddled with glowing ports, each in a different color. A lance unfolded as he drew it out with his other hand, with glowing electric veins coating it. He heard a howling in the distance.
He grinned. Though he was a painter at heart, he knew of another art. He was a born fighter, a veteran of the craft of combat. He could hear a silent melody as his opponents revealed themselves, and he was eager to dance to its tones.
Another day, another battle. He thought to himself as he leapt into the fray.