The night was damp with the smell of rain.
The huntsman stopped beneath a tree and looked around, his dark brown armor dappled by moonlight. A sigh of wind brought movement to his attention, sharp eyes discerning a pattern not part of the swaying branches and whispering red leaves. He recognized Beowulf fur through the brush, full of twigs, mud and matted fur. Only Grimm ever had fur that dark, and a white mask to hide behind.
Rord held no fear of Grimm, as a huntsman. Satisfaction and anticipation brimmed in his chest, and he thumbed his scroll, alerting his sniping brother and quick, silent sister. As he raced through the forest, his teammates followed, swift at his back. They had spotted the signs as well. He saw through their eyes with his semblance, and spied himself running ahead. The fluttering leaves shivered as they ran by. The hunt was on now, their prey ahead.
Single wolves were easy targets. Swift, with a sharp nose and sharper ears, but near blind for the masks, and prone to stupidity. Ursae and Boarbatusks were fiercer in single fights, but Beowulves in packs were dangerous. As they closed in, he heard them notice, and run away, twigs breaking fast and fur slipping away into the dark. They fear me, he thought, as they should.
The trees had mossy fangs snarling down from the red leaved branches. Rord tore ahead through the undergrowth, spraying water. His teammates followed, until the wood gave way to a clearing, and the Beowulf was there. It stood on a rock in the middle of the clearing, staring right at them. There were two others, females by their masks, one on each side, as well as a juvenile in front. It growled and barked at them, but RFLE was not that easily scared.
Then the team was upon the Beowulves.
Longshot rapidly took aim and shot the one on the rock. His sister quietly snuck beside the males falling body and silently sliced open the wolf on the left. That left the juvenile and the last female for Rord. His axes easily cleaved through the juvenile's weaker mask, and he swiftly followed through and gutted the female as it leaped at him. She stopped struggling soon after, and Rord wiped the blood off of his axes on the beast's fur.
"Well, that was easier than I anticipated," said Longshot, "But did you have to take a look? You know how we feel about it, right?"
"What, and miss a chance to see Faye looking at my ass?" said Rord.
"Hardly," She replied icily. "Larry had almost lost you, and I was helping him out."
"I thought we settled on calling me 'Longshot' in public?" interjected the man holding the rifle. "And I didn't lose him; it's just hard to see with only one eye. I'm not used to it yet."
Rord laughed, and motioned Larry to take out the backpack. "You're crazy. If you're not at a hundred percent, then those Grimm really must have been weak."
"Oh, ha ha Mr. Axe-crazy. It's actually easier to aim, and a good thing that Ursa only got my left eye," said Larry, as he reached and grabbed three cups from the bag he had been carrying. When all the cups were out, Larry reached into the bag again, grabbed a canteen and filled each with a measure of amber liquid.
They all raised their glasses, saying "For Edward," in unison, and drained their cups.
Faye's eyes watered, Larry coughed, and Rord wanted another. The burning sensation in his throat became warmth in his chest, staving off the cold that came from the chilling rain that was starting to fall. This was a ceremony they had always performed, as instructed by their late leader. It was his old favorite drink, and though Rord preferred beer, this was still drinkable. Thanks for the drinks, Ed, he mused, as he thought about pouring himself another half measure. You always had the finer tastes. I just wish it didn't make living on the streets a possibility for a huntsman.
Edward Stone had been a fine team leader, at least according to Rord. Given the fact that they had never worked together before graduation from Beacon, it seemed incredible that Ed had been able to make a seemingly mismatched group of hunters into such an effective unit. They weren't legendary, by any means, but each one of them could take a Deathstalker singlehanded, if properly prepared. Like a rifle barrel to the bullet, cartridge, and powder, Ed had guided them towards kill counts they wouldn't have seen otherwise.
But that was before his death a year ago. He took an airship to Vacuo on leave, as he had some family there he wanted to see. Judging by the wreckage, the airship was attacked by several Nevermores along the way. I guess Stones were never meant to fly.
"I can't believe you're drinking more of that," Larry said as he took his sister's cup and began to put it away, along with his own. "I thought you said it was too expensive for 'a huntsman's salary.'"
Rord opened his mouth to reply, when the back of his neck tingled. He whirled around, axes drawn, aura flaring to life. He heard Longshot and Faye ready up, the patter of rain starting behind them. Rord waited for something, anything, muscles tensed and ready to react at an instants notice. Then he heard a soft, pitiful noise beyond the sound of raindrops. It seemed to be a mewling of some sort.
"Any idea what that is?" he asked his compatriots. Neither answered, but Faye guardedly walked toward the female Beowulf Rord had killed. She turned the eviscerated thing over with her foot and jumped back, pale, as the mewling grew louder. She called back to them.
"Unborn pups. Several of them, though only one is still…" She shook her head. "She must have been pregnant when you got her, Rord." Faye had gotten paler, Larry looked like he was going to be sick, and Rord was uncomfortable listening to the poor thing. He knew he shouldn't feel guilt about killing a Beowulf, but this still disturbed him. He walked Past Faye, over to the body of the dead mother, axe drawn. A wet thunk sounded as he cut the pup's cries short. There were three others, already dead as Faye had said; killed by the shock of their mother's death, except that one. He was feeling relieved, but he was wondering what Ed would have said to the team. He didn't get to finish his thought, as Larry interrupted it.
"Why're we here?" he mused loudly, causing Faye and Rord to look at him. "I mean, we're three, highly skilled Hunters. Three Beowulves? That's overkill."
"Don't forget the young one," interjected Rord.
"Fine, three and a half. I know we're supposed to be on patrol, but seriously, students should be doing this kind of grunt work. Our skills are wasted here."
Rord hesitated before replying, "Look, I know it seems like a misallocation of resources."
"Ooh, big words," sniggered Larry, who was then silenced by a murderous glare from Faye.
"I know something seems off," continued Rord, "but we're getting paid for easy work, and easy work is a good sign. It means we're doing our job, and Grimm numbers are going down." It was true. Fewer and fewer supply convoys had even been attacked on the way to Vacuo over the past year. Huntsmen and Huntresses seemed to be in less and less demand, which made the three of them on a simple patrol, whilst a waste of time and effort, a living sign of the times: Hunters now have trouble getting steady work. Luckily, these three were paid by salary, though they received no bonus from commissions. That went straight to The Order.
"We should get moving," said Faye, her arms crossed, shoulders back, looking disinterested. Rord knew full well she was always looking for more potential Grimm, though.
"Alright," said Rord, turning to face the rock, "We head-" the hairs on his neck stood up again, and he whirled around once more.
Longshot had his rifle up, and Faye had already disappeared. There was nothing in sight, but he didn't let his guard drop. The backpack lay forgotten on the ground, its owner still looking for the source of the alert. He whispered to Longshot, "See anything?"
He was still scanning the trees with his rifle, which Rord understood as 'no,' and turned back to the edge of the clearing. He activated his semblance, and tried to see through Faye's eyes. It wasn't painful, but it was uncomfortable for her. He noticed her squinting, and then he saw rain, trees, and red leaves. She seemed to be looking past all that. Faye moved a branch out of the way, her arm invisible thanks to her semblance, and looked toward the forest floor. There didn't seem to be anything there, just piles of dead leaves and mud. False alarm? She moved again, so quickly Rord felt uneasy, and barely noticed that she was moving closer to the pile of leaves. It seemed to be much larger than a mass of crimson leaves had any right to be in the middle of a forest. She walked up to it, utterly sure of its unimportance, but still cloaked in her semblance. Never hurt to be too careful. A twig snapped to her left, and she glanced quickly at it, still trying to keep the suspicious foliage in the corner of her eye. Always the professional.
Then the leaves moved. Fast.
Rord was jolted back into his own sight, unexpectedly, and took a step back. That had never happened before. Crimson? Did I see blood? He shook his head, and banished concerns for Faye from his mind. As the rain pattered down, the blood red leaves were rustling, a few falling as the wind picked up briefly. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, trying to anticipate anything that might come from the trees ahead. The stench of Beowulf blood was being washed away. He felt the smoothness of the leather on the worn grips of his axes and the hard metal underneath as he slowly brought them together, forming a two headed war axe. Somewhere in the darkness, a branch shattered.
Faye was thrown lifelessly toward them, throat slashed, streaming blood. She landed gracelessly, tumbling like a broken doll. A Beowulf, red as the leaves on the trees around them, slowly stalked toward the stunned pair, its black mask glistening in the rain.
This Beowulf was far larger than any Rord had ever seen. It was as large as an Ursa Major, yet still lean, and moved with a lithe grace he had never seen before. And it was red. Blood red.
"NOOOOOO!" bellowed Longshot, regaining his senses and quickly pulling his trigger, eye glowing with semblance. A flash lit up the clearing, and in its absence, the Beowulf was gone, but Faye was still limp on the ground. "Dammit! I never miss! What the… hell?"
Rord turned to see the Crimson Beowulf withdraw its claw from deep within Longshot's side, his face already pale save for the blood pouring from his mouth, rifle dropping to the ground with a wet clatter. Then the Beowulf turned its dark mask to face Rord, and it began to rush towards the axe wielder.
Rord sprinted forward to meet it head on, and slashed at the oncoming creature, hoping to cave it's skull in. It was only after his axe had sunk into the mud did he notice the wilted rose petal he had sliced in half drifting toward the ground. Missed?
Something hit Rord's back like a freight train, and he was sent sailing through the air to the sound of metal screeching off dark claws. He landed roughly, but rolled to his feet, axe at the ready. The Beowulf was nowhere to be seen, but he knew it would be back. He eyed his teammates quickly. Faye's head was almost completely torn off, no chance for her. Larry had half his ribcage caved in, his viscera spread on the ground next to him, steaming in the rain. A howl sent shivers down Rord's spine.
He turned around, and faced the creature that had killed his friends. It stared back, not moving a muscle in the rain. Rord's jaw clenched, his grip on the axe tightened as he separated it into two single-bladed axes again. He needed as many blades as possible between him and this beast. There he stood, water steaming off his exposed skin from the aura he generated, staring the Crimson Beowulf down. Both were immobile save for their heavy breathing. He began to evaluate his foe: It's strong, but it has no pack; no backup. It may be fast, but I doubt it can take a serious hit. I just need to hit it before it hits me. If it does, I have to make sure it's my chestpiece; anywhere else, it'll break a limb or kill me.
Rord waited for it to move, not petrified, but patient. He couldn't rush it. One wrong decision and he was dead. He had never felt more alive, despite being surrounded by death. He smirked at the irony. His every muscle was tensed, ready, his focus was laser-sharp, and he felt no rush, no compulsion to spring forward. He waited for his and his foes, fate. Rord didn't know how long he stood there.
The Beowulf suddenly sniffed. Loudly. Rord was surprised, and it almost killed him right there. He got his two axes up just in time to stop the claw rushing for his face. He slashed with his right axe while still holding the claws with his left, but by then, the Beowulf had moved, leaving wilted petals behind. Rord whirled around and deflected a glancing blow aimed for his head, right arm snapping under the unexpected force. As even more adrenaline pumped into his system, he lashed out with left arm, and his axe rebounded awkwardly off the dark, bony material that made up the creatures skull. His wrist shattered under the change in direction, and he dropped the axe, its partner following soon after. The Crimson Beowulf quickly snapped its jaws around his left leg and shook. Violently. Rord was separated from his leg, and sent flailing through the air, to land in a bloodied heap in the mud, next to the dead Beowulf pups. He felt no pain, only an unbearable cold, and an incredible pressure that would not stop growing. The Beowulf turned to stalk out of the clearing
"M-...mer...cy," he breathed. The Crimson Beowulf stopped at the noise. It turned, and padded back to him. Staring at him, framed by the moon, it lowered its jaws around his head, its breath hot and wet on his face as the world imploded into nothing.