Summer Rose was not a thing to be fought. She was somehow a whirling discus, so that no side could be faced without bladed rebuke. Her arms were tactical, her legs strategic, her control over that stolen corpse growing more complex by the second. It was as though she had been born to those feathered arms, those long, sharp-ended legs— as though she adulated the form. She worshiped the reach of it. She made a marriage of its weight and her Aura, her swollen soul as fuel for fast-twitch muscle fibers, her form ballet as each forceful blow carried her with them, a feather dancing on its own winds.
[49] It is this play that my Master made me know only once. It is the one of your instinct, with any blade of practical alignment. Have you forgotten it? I will remind you.
[50] Here I have drawn you unarmed. This is because I will make a fool of you no matter your wielding, and you will thank me for it.
[51] Here I have come upon you from my Middle Guard, and I have come close. If you see I have come closer than reason, you may make objection to it, but in the next drawing I will show you my play.
[52] Here I am, and I have shown that you will not move before me.
[53] Do you feel it? That is the haft of my weapon, and with it I have struck your ribcage. If you think this ineffective, I invite you to receive it yourself. If it is the well of your Soul that runs dry, then you are surely breathing the marrow of your ribs. But if you are a fellow Martial, and my blow has yet struck you to the flesh, then I will draw for you my next play.
-Availed Manuscript of the Sanctified Second, Foreign Martial of the First, St. Belaflor Sanguiverdarius
She was at once Saint Belaflor Sanguiverdarius— with the arms of the Second she did make game of them; Summer did beat them at ends blunt, she did batter them with haft and butt and fist and chine. Summer did also give cuts unto them; like a fastidious Second she did take the unruly flock into her crook, hers a bladed thing that rent soul like thread, thread like skin, skin like paper; she did make wounds upon her lover; with scorn and disgrace she put her own wife to the blade, and she did throw her from the crook with a riven belly, and with a wail of pain did Raven Noct Branwen fall to a knee.
Thus came them all in retribution, four at once they did strike, but the blade of the Sanctified Second became like the halos of her great enemy the Seraphim. With the length of her blade and the surety of her strength she did hold herself fast, and a single sweep of her scythe could take some three or five blows against its guard.
Thusly did stand one Weiss Schnee and Ruby Rose; two as one, yet still two. In mastering puppetry, she was a pauper compared to Summer Rose. It is only with full, concerted effort that they could move as one. Only with full, unshaken, unified will could she make even a pithy swing of their sword. It is even from the indirect attacks of the Second's defense that she found herselves reeling.
Which, really, wasn't her fault. This was all some hot bullshit. Summer got to be one will with one body, sure, but how the fuck did she just click into a completely different form? Does being a crazy bitch just make you supernaturally apt? Well she was two crazy bitches in one! Why wasn't she getting to click!
But the girls did click, eventually. All it took was losing an eye.
It was barely even a glancing blow. Summer was coming off an advance on Blake, having figured out she could simply not fall for their feinting Semblance. She'd made them reel with a cross of rapid vertical blows, then danced back as soon as Yang came to relieve them, swinging the scythe fully around herself to ward any attackers away. Normally, Ruby would've been able to dodge it. Weiss would have, too. But together, both trying to dodge in slightly different ways at once?
The scythe's long tip—
TOE
That sounds—
The stupid, incredibly minor argument over scythe-specific terminology was cut short just before it could truly bloom. The tip started its furrow in the corner of her right eye— the one she'd only just regained sight in— and hooked into the orbital, slicing a blinding line through the organ before catching the skull. The weapon jostled her, forcing her aside and freeing the scythe from her head with a horrible squoulch.
She only felt the pain when she saw the limp eyeball hanging from the scythe's tip, nerve dangling, excised.
It was an icicle in her skull— a hot one— or an iron rail spike— also hot— or a giant scythe that just hooked her fucking eye out— but made of lava. It was a stupid amount of pain. It made her nerves crackle. She felt it in her teeth, in her toes. In her eye. Obviously.
She screamed. They screamed. Her back arched. Their back arched. She nearly dropped her weapons. They.
The pain was so shitty and ubiquitous that it was universal. Weiss felt it just the same as Ruby felt it; Ruby felt it just the same as Weiss felt it; their pain was each other's— their own. A tuning fork in the shape of their fucking eye on a fucking scythe. Ow.
But the resonant, clarifying pain ran through them both, and they thought as one:
That Bitch!
The line snapped into perfect clarity before them— them as one, not her as an indeterminate struggle of two individuals— and shunted their one-eyed form across the slipspace. They reappeared, KNIF between teeth, freehand thrusting for a singular object that still dangles from the back of the corpse-woman's belt: their folded staff.
Summer turned and kicked them in the gut, but they'd taken their true quarry and Summer's stomps weren't as debilitating without boots and mass behind them. They reeled to a safe distance, getting bewildered looks from Qrow and Blake as they flicked out their staff. With far too little awkwardness— with two bodies' concert worth of grace— they fit the KNIF from their mouth to the staff.
The CYTH override cut the corners of their lips as the blade extended, still between their teeth, but the pain was only another aligning bell-toll. The relaying pain-receptors reminded them where their face was, their neck, shoulders, wrists, fingers, and with singular purpose they flourished the scythe in their right hand.
It was skinny. It wasn't a giant gun. It didn't have a chine longer than her body. In all likelihood, it couldn't pierce the hide of something like a Seraphim. The squishy, unprotected eyeball of an Ur-Dragon? Sure. But anything bigger than a Sundog? Probably not. It was hard enough to rip into Ursae as-is.
It didn't even have a name— nothing like 'Imulin's Grace Goes First To The Wicked' or 'Shearer Of His Tomes', not even something simple like a shapecolor (unless 'red disc' counts? But it's not even capitalized so who cares). It was just Multi-Weapon Discus Platform (Plus Staff). MWDP(S).
Moldpiss? If you stretched the possibilities of 'W', maybe. Hell, it didn't even deserve a name…
Except it did. Of course it did. Had she worked on it?
Yeah. Obviously. Who else was gonna make it?
Did she work hard?
Tirelessly. The thing was a bitch to get working.
Did it serve her?
For the most part, yeah. It worked really well against Penny, that one time. And the penguin-person.
So she worked hard to make it, could use it well, and had even won the Singles with it. She deserved to name it.
Why?
Because she did good. She should be proud.
This… is about something other than the scythe, isn't it?
I Deserve It.
Hey! You Cant't Do That! Or— We!
Subconscious Agreement Is Agreement, Still! We Deserve To Name The God-damn Thing And We Know It!
Fine! Uh…
Crescent Rose— Or Something.
Their cheeks tightened.
No, Wait, That's Gay As Hell.
Moldp—
No, We're Obviously Not Doing Moldpiss. 'Twas A Joke.
Know We Any Good Flowers?
Oh, they were into flowers?
'Into Flowers'? Who Would Not Be 'Into Flowers'? They're Flowers. Everybody Loves Flowers.
Myrtenaster, Perchance?
Is That The Only Atlan Flower We Know?
Not Very Many Grow Here, Okay! Altitude! And It's Cold! And… Stuff! Whatever!
Summer and Yang were embroiled. Raven lunged, both feathered arms driving down a hefty slash overhead, Qrow darting in with his fists raised— forcing Summer high or low. This, of course, achieved nothing, as Summer simply shifted into petals so Yang's punch whiffed, then hooked the girl in her crook and flung her into Qrow. The tumble of niece and uncle forced Raven to abandon her attack.
Are We Sure Crescent Rose Won't Work?
It's Got A Certain Panache— One We Don't Have. We Need Something Stupider. But I Do Agree With A Floral Component.
Myrtenaster… Rose…
Their right hand twitched around the scythe, as if reacting to something the weapon had said.
Roseaster!
They blinked. Was this a bad time to get stuck in their head?
Rose…
Aster!
Like…
Dis-aster! But Rose!
They sighed. Deep from their soul.
We Don't Even Like It.
We Love it.
Inarguable, that one. Shit.
Good Job, Me! Or— Us? We?
Isn't It 'They'? 'Twould, Therefore, Extend To 'We'.
But—
Because We Are Technically Two People, Not Because We Identify Ourselves Outside The Gender Spectrum.
Wow. Since When Did—
Since We Started Sharing A Brain, Idiot.
So Much For Self-Respect.
We Say It Lovingly, Idiot. Dolt. Fucking Dumbass. 'Heart.'
Never Do That Again.
With Raven down, leaning against her sword and trying very hard not to pass out from anemic blood loss, Summer was that much more free to punish them.
Blake and Yang moved to halt Summer's momentum first, but hers was a force inexorable. She struck Yang the same as she did her mother, taking her in the crook and tossing her out, then setting upon Blake with the same aggression the now-distanced brawler had taken. Blake's hand-sickles were a paltry defense against the colossal scythe, and they made horrible 'please put me out of my misery' noises whenever Belaflor tried to reap of their sullied lands.
Doth That Sound Like A Sex Thing?
In Sooth. Big Time.
Yang charged her again, pops of angry flame bursting out of her mouth as she grunted, but Summer kept swinging around her whole body, somehow wielding the scythe like a god-damn hula-hoop. Yang couldn't press in without getting batted off to the side.
With a beseeching look to her fellow brawler, Yang invited Qrow Noct Branwen to the fray.
[14] Here I have drawn a situation most unfair, and my solution for it. It is only with a Master's ability, which I hope to have given you, that you may make this play to any effect. If ever you doubt your own skill, you should hope to be fast friends with your legs.
To make such a play, see that you have borne deep the well of your Soul, such that you may take a blow and remain yet unpained. But also know that I have done this without being sullied a blow, and because of my Mastery those of lesser skill may wet their lips with my name. And so, before you set your revenant spirit upon me, know that I have taken pains to warn you here.
In this I have drawn myself accosted at disadvantage, whether by three at once or reinforcements of a first, or even greater. In the next drawing, I will show you my play.
-Availed Manuscript of the Sanctified Second, Foreign Martial of the First, St. Belaflor Sanguiverdarius
The move was inspired.
First, Summer swung the scythe hard around her middle, forcing Yang and Qrow to hop away.
Then, when that same swing came fully around to impact Blake's left side, it was just barely caught by both hand sickles— regardless, the blow's force left them dazed.
Thirdly, Summer lifted her leading right hand from the scythe, letting the weapon rest in Blake's defense, and turned to bring about her whole body's force behind her fist. Yang was struck in the cheek, caught mid-resurgence and thinking she could charge when Summer's back was turned. Blake cried out as the blonde girl stumbled on her feet, blazes flickering warily about her body, only for Summer to turn, grip the scythe once more, and yank Blake in to savagely knee them in the gut. The student doubled over and gagged unproductively, made useless when Summer battered the side of their head when her scythe's shaft.
But Qrow, albeit aged and slower than the girls, was made of grit, grizzle, and experience, and he was still moving with knuckles of metal and intent to use them.
[66] You come to me full of swagger, as you did some three winters and one autumn ago, with your wielding made bare to me, and your body also, and your Guard, and your mind was of some stuporous state as well. You made demands of me before my Flock, and before my house, and in the light of the sun, and out where could be seen your shame by the eyes of Man and Arch and God.
[67] See now, and that day, that I am shouting to you. I am making known my self, and my Mastery, and the state of you as Fool.
[68] See this drawing? You turn from me. You have heard me, this I know, and yet you have turned your cheek with rudeness. You are a Fool. In the next drawing, I will show you what you have done.
[69] You have made your first step to me, and I can see that you are stuporous, but I can see also that you have some inkling. This is your Guard, and it is not so terrible; alas, you are stuporous. For this disgrace that you have shown before my Flock, and under my Arch, and in the light of the sun, I will draw for you my play.
[70] Fool! I have shown you my Blade! I have made it naked to you, and I have told you my Mastery, and you yet remain! You will die unloved. See your blade's reach, and see mine also: has your stupor rendered you blind? You will be hewn before you can touch me. It is here that I could have killed you. But mercifully, I let you see my next play.
[71] Do you see my hands? With my Forepalm to you, I have made my play disguised: you, feckless, see my Stance is of Hewing, and you have neglected my Hindgrip.
[72] See me; has the Master struck you? No. But you, craven, retreat as so. This is because I have advanced on the Line and in your Guard. You have surely now seen It.
[73] Here I have drawn my chastening play. See that I have closed upon you? See that I have met you upon the Line? Here I cast It down, and I will give you misery.
-Availed Manuscript of the Sanctified Second, Foreign Martial of the First, St. Belaflor Sanguiverdarius
Summer lunged into him, scythe held out head-down in a defensive, diagonal kind of 'J' shape. Qrow's own steps stuttered as he puzzled, then reversed, but he wasn't faster than his sister-in-law. She advanced, talons loudly clacking against stone, then thrust out with the edgeless front of her scythe.
He should've caught it. He should've let it hit him. He should've taken the small blow to his Aura in favor of controlling her weapon— or even getting in range. That was what you'd do if you were a rational creature, though: a diagram drawn in a manuscript, a theoretical thing unburdened by fear, or by uncertainty, or by the haunting, dead expression of Summer fucking Rose.
But Qrow wasn't one of those, so he flinched. He wavered with indecision. For this, Summer made a mockery of him.
She literally threw her scythe down at his feet— on his feet, his retreat snagging on the weapon's huge bulk— and proceeded to punch him repeatedly in the face.
Worse, she didn't just punch him. She treated his feathered head like a speed-bag, and for every five lightning-quick blows that left him bobbling, she slapped him. And he tried, good god, he tried to get his hands up, but Summer would lash him with her claws or duck low and slip an uppercut through his guard. It was like she was actively making a case for the revocation of his Huntsman's License— his, and Raven's— along with a concise essay on why every single one of them should be expelled from Beacon and forced to flip patties for the rest of their long, talentless, miserable lives.
Desperately, Qrow threw a punch. Summer slapped it away with the back of her hand, snaked her arm into his, and locked the limb between her own arm and chest. She barred her forearm under his elbow. She jerked up.
The sound was horrific.
[98] Now, I beg of you honestly, learn not from this section whilst residing within borders of the First, for there is one thing of which I am gravely afeared: for my Master's ghost to know what I have learned.
[99] Look here, upon this drawing, and speak your mind aloud.
[100] Yes. It is a cursed wielding. An idiot's wielding. Look upon it and sneer; know that I have sneered much the same.
[101] Now I will show you: this is the play of my fifth wife, who is now dead, who did shame me with her Mastery of Sword and Scythe. She named this play, 'The Most Awful Way I Can Make You Weep.'
-Availed Manuscript of the Sanctified Second, Foreign Martial of the First, St. Belaflor Sanguiverdarius.
We Know That?
Thou'st Met Mum. What Do You Think?
Thus Crumbleth The Cookie…
"Mummer!"
Summer Rose, her scythe a guillotine poised to excise Qrow from the world of the living, stiffened. She turned. She addressed the wielders of Weiss Schnee's corpus. "What?"
Fuck. Fumbled It.
Act Like We Didn't.
"I challenge you! A fair duel!"