Under a half moon, flecks of its matter peeking out, a hill slopes softly toward the sky. At the peak of winter, snow cakes it as it did the rest of the landscape. Within a sleeping forest, the hill acts as the plot of a singular tree, a specimen that through decades has nearly overtaken the hill's peak. Through the white powder, its roots peek out, big as a hand at the smallest. Wide-reaching roots they were, flowing over the hilltop, like a crown of wood. At the center of the network, the trunk stands strong, yet scarred. Thick and tall, its many barren branches can hold several humans on it with no bother. The trunk is rugged, dipping and bulging as you run up its length, bark wrinkled like an elder. Old and strong, it is the definition of a grand oak.
On one side of the grand tree, a crack in the wood presents itself. Not necessarily wide, it was long as an adult human was. If one were to squeeze their way through, they would find that it leads into a hollowed-out chamber within the organism. Compact, it offers enough space to stand in with a hunch inside. A grown man could lie down straight on the floor though. A creature has seen it a fine place to rest as well, a dark furry mass curled up in the mostly breeze-free crevice. Sizable, its body takes up nearly all the ground inside, brushing against the tree's heartwood walls. White bone-like spikes break up the cavernous black of the being's fur, jabbing up along the spine and the limbs. Muscles even at rest promise great power, flexing now and again as the creature swells and deflates from long-drawn breaths.
The sleeping body twitches and jerks, before uncurling and stretching as much as the cozy chamber would allow. Clawed furry hands push against the wooden floor, raising the creature to a squat. The face of a wolf reveals itself, though much bigger than a typical wolf. A duo of fires flares in the middle of two red pools, peering through a white mask crisscrossed with red markings. Yawning, the wolven creature reaches into a nook in the wall of the tree, retrieving a length of black cloth from it. A somewhat frayed thing, the fabric is tied around the being's waist, wrapping around the male's lower body in a loincloth fashion, though the flap doesn't go past mid-thigh. Decent, the being crawls inside his chamber, slinking through the slit in the bark into the open air. He overslept it seems, the sunset has long passed him by. No matter. There are bound to be human or faunus warriors out at this time. An aging deer would be a good snack. For a moment, he scans the sleeping, freezing landscape around his chosen den. He admires the pale snow, how it reflects the moonlight, and illuminates the wilderness in turn. The fresh, biting air running through his muzzle and into his lungs energizes him, baring his body for action. It motivates him to find warmth to absorb, be it fire or the blood of a kill. Remnant's natural state is one to bask in.
From his vantage point, his eyes catch a red and black blur rising through the canopy of the forest below him. A cacophonous sound follows their ascent, one of a rifle no doubt. A powerful one too. When the blob disappears back under the tree line, the canid creature rolls its shoulders and breathes in the cold air again. Seems a "hunter" has come in contact with his brethren. Time for him to show the value of his admittedly extensive sleep.
Mind on task, the wolf bounds forward in a mighty leap, sailing down the slope of his den's hill. When his rear paws finally touch the snow halfway down, he lets momentum plant his front paws onto the powder, rolling down the snow for a spill before lunging onto flat ground. On all fours, the werewolf facsimile canters through the trees and bushes, around rocks, and over ditches. Little unnecessary sound is made, only the thumps from his paws hitting the snow and dirt. He doesn't even pant, this wasn't his full effort. His pack father and mother have taught him to conserve energy until it is needed, that the extra inch of energy can decide life or death. Who was he to question the wisdom of those that lived decades over his year and a half of living? They have scars to prove it. He was a pup in comparison. Not even a mark on his fur.
The closing telltale sounds of howls, growls, and yelps tell him two things. Fellow beowolves are fighting and the hunter is not dead yet. Soon, the sounds of gunfire outnumber those of his kind, a worrying case.
He finally dashes through a tree line, into a clearing of the forest. The corpses of his brethren litter the battlefield, crimson blood staining the pale powder. Limbs and torsos were separated from their bearers, scattered like branches after a storm. All of them lacked any bone protrusions as he did, a pack of young adolescents then. The used shells of a firearm are in a similar state. In the center of the chaotic mess was a young human in a black and red dress. A red hood attached to a waist-length cape tops it off. Raven hair with red ends frames a face as pale as the snow, perhaps a shade pinker. What a small human too. There were beowolf pups taller than her. Her size compared with her massive red scythe resting on her shoulder makes a rather funny image. She did slay his fellow grimm however, being the only one present. She was a hunter, by all intents and purposes. Another soldier of humanity is to be put down.
The young human female's gaze points in his direction, relaxed posture immediately lowering and tensing. The blade of her weapon recedes and collects into the haft of the weapon, forming a barrel reminiscent of rifles he has seen her kind use. Fiery irises shrink in realization. He is already retreating into the tree line as she lowers the weapon in his direction. He steps sideways behind a tree, hearing and almost feeling a whizzing bullet missing him barely. He watches the round perforate a nearby tree behind where he was, spitting out splinters and bark on the exit. The bullet didn't stop there, continuing on to punch into another tree, only then stopping. He is right to dodge that. Now the girl has a ranged advantage against him. One wrong step and he will be whimpering with a hole in him bleeding on the snow at best.
However, what kind of grimm would he be to admit defeat now?
Suddenly feeling the urge to duck, he does. The trunk above him explodes, scattering his fur with wood shrapnel as the responsible bullet sails into the bushes. The echo of a gunshot follows after. He needs to move!
He swings around the tree and pushes off its base, galloping diagonal to the sniper. His tactic works, the angle combined with his sudden speed saved him from one shot, whizzing past his ass. Not arrogant enough to tempt fate, he extends an open palm to drag through the snow as he zigzags toward the huntress. When another shot launches out, grazing the left shoulder of the wolf, the beowolf yelps but pushes through. When satisfied with his gathering, a compacted snowball is presented by his paw. As the girl racks the bolt of her weapon, he uses that opening to lob his projectile of ice, snow, and rocks toward the lass. The girl brings her eyes up from her scope and lifts her rifle up, using it to deflect the ball with an audible clang. Several pebbles explode from the snowball, a broken promise of hidden pain.
The young beowolf isn't one to be idle, closing the between him and the huntress's fallen foes. Promising to pray later internally, he clasps the severed torso of a fallen beowolf and drags it behind him briefly before swinging the cadaver into the air and at the human. The girl sidesteps it, but he wasn't done. He keeps on with the barrage, sending legs, arms, heads, and whole chunks her way as he closes the gap. When she does get a shot off, the projectiles messing with his silhouette help him dodge, if barely.
Within ten feet of her, he lunges into the air, dodging another round by the literal skin of a right leg. His large body accepts gravity again and leads him directly to the huntress in question. Long limbs extend pale claws at prey, a drooling tongue wetting the mouth. The girl doesn't just accept her end though, transforming her weapon again into the scythe. She slashes at him from below, gunshot firing out the back of her weapon. The weapon swings past the speed of sound.
The beowolf predicts where the weapon would swing and acts fast before the swing. By the time the blade closes on him, both his hands clap on both sides of the scythe's skyward blade. He angles his lower body toward the moon and holds the steel tight at the same time, letting the weapon continue on its arc with him riding the force applied by it. In essence, he performs a front handspring with the scythe as a platform. He releases the blade at its apex and flies into the air behind the huntress, rolling mid-air with leftover momentum. He hits the ground tumbling, twisting to face the huntress whilst grinding to a halt in the snow, leaving a massive trail where he slid. He bounds forward, gliding over the snow before she can get a shot off. She was quick to adapt, slashing at him with the aid of anti-material recoil. He backs off for one and parries another with a redirecting palm. He goes for a wide right swing of his claws, but the smaller girl rolls underneath it. She cuts at him from his left side at his legs, but the beowolf jumps in place and vaults over the horizontal attack. When he makes contact with the ground again, he throws a backhand at the red hood. She blocks the attack with her scythe, but she is taken off her feet and flings away. The beowolf chases after her.
The huntress backflips and lands on her boots with a slide. The beowolf lunges, but claws air as the girl hops aside and slashes at the same time. Only the tip catches on him, marking him with a shallow scratch on the left thigh. Too caught up in the fight, he doesn't even notice it. Improvising, he digs both hands into the snow and swipes through it, sending a screen of snow at the huntress. While she was blinded, he circles her and grabs the arm of a dead beowolf with their torso still attached; he takes his makeshift weapon and slams it down at the girl, blood trailing in the air after it. She retreats and smacks the corpse aside with a bat of her scythe, shoving her back. He doesn't let her rest, bludgeoning at her with the makeshift flail with constant walking forward. The attacks overwhelm her and she catches a stomach against her scythe. The weapon is knocked aside, the beowolf takes advantage with a push kick. The massive paw contacts her whole chest, flinging her in a roll across the snow. He doesn't let her finish tumbling, trailing after.
Suddenly, the hooked end of the long scythe is stabbed into the snow, halting the girl's roll and landing her in a crouched position. The weapon is angled up, where the closing monster's muzzle would be. She racks the bolt, launching a spent casing.
Oh no.
The bullet acts before the sound, piercing through the chest of a haphazardly raised flesh shield. An explosion of red bursts through the back of the corpse, before the living beowolf's head snaps back. The beowolf stumbles limply onto its back, no more movement following.
The echo of a gunshot echoes a second later throughout the wilderness, the girl that unleashed it panting as she quickly rechambers her scythe/sniper rifle hybrid at the prone beowolf. When not even a flinch came from the grimm, the lass in red sighs out a ragged breath before rising and plopping the long haft of her precious weapon on her right shoulder. Just taking in the recent peace.
"Golly, this grimm is a step above the other beowolves. It used projectiles and distractions at the same time." She looks around at the pure black bodies of her would-be predators, then at the white bones of her recent opponent. "You were an adult one, weren't you? Close enough anyway. Your spikes and mask are as fresh as cookies cooling down in the oven."
Giggling at the notion of the deserts, she walks closer to the fresh kill, the upper body piled on by the grisly weapon he just smacked her with. "Anyway, nothing that my beloved Crescent Rose couldn't handle. You had me going for a minute, though."
Curious, the girl kneels and moves aside the body atop him. Jeepers, the juveniles only six feet tall; the beowolf below her was easily over seven feet. Somehow the muscles were even more defined even at rest, let alone bigger.
She looks up at the fluffy body of the beowolf to its mask. Utterly covered in crimson blood, it is hard to tell whether it was an exposed skull or truly a mask. There wasn't a hole in it.
Wait, no entrance wound. Just a groove in it.
The resting "corpse" flexes and bends, and a massive hand lashes out, clasping around her neck. Only the index finger, middle, and thumb wrap around her neck; the beowolf's hand is bigger than her throat is long. It has the intended effect, of constricting her neck in a vice and keeping her in place. The other hand comes around, ripping the scythe from her hands and tossing it aside to splash in the snow.
Red gasps and claws her pale fingers at the beowolf's own around her neck, no give in sight. The Grimm's free hand swings at her face, smacking her head to the side as claws grind across her skin, no blood being drawn. Her Aura protected her, a shield willed forth by her instinctually. She still felt the claws jab and grind across her skin, eliciting a scream from her. Dazed, she can only experience the feeling of being lifted off her two feet easily, following after the black hand as the grimm ascends from the snow. He towers over her, flames from two pools of blood glaring at her, promising doom. The growl ever present from the male beowolf fades away and flared ears soften ever slightly as it stops to stare at her. Why does it look confused?
Silver eyes…
He hadn't had a clear look until now, but the girl's eyes colored like the moon is indisputable. Tales and warnings from his elder kin rise from dormant memories to scream at him. Those with eyes of the pure ore can make even the oldest grimm seize, literally and figuratively! Defenseless, grimm can do nothing as warriors slaughter them. Why hasn't this girl used them at all? Against him?
The shock that has taken the beowolf gave Red a pause in the assault. She shakes her dome, then rocks her lower body back to swing upwards. Two legs, trained for speed, slam into the jaw of her captor from below at the same time. The strike shakes him, loosening his hold on her. She acts on her ability, her semblance, throwing her away from him in a blur. Only a flurry of blown rose petals marks her escape.
Stumbling and kicking up snow, the creature rubs its jaw with its left paw, flaming eyes flaring after the trail of rose petals in a line over the snow. The girl soon enough materializes again, sliding to a stop in the snow on all fours, hunched over as she coughs and covered her esophagus. She is fast, something the agile beowolf can respect. A worrying combination with silver eyes, however…
She is still an adolescent by human standards, close to his maturity at most. She hasn't learned to use her powers yet. She can't ever for his kind's sake. She needs to be eliminated from the board immediately.
The beowolf dives forward on all fours, galloping at the huntress in red. Her silver eyes widen and then narrow off to the side. He follows her gaze, landing on the discarded red and black weapon covered in snow. It was closer to him, he changes course to it. The huntress sprints, kicking out snow as she heads toward her weapon. The warrior then again blurs to the beowolf's eyes, separating the snow from the dirt below as she blitzes over. The beowolf reaches for the weapon but is instead blown into a spinning cartwheel as the blur clips his arm blowing past him. He managed to grasp the weapon nonetheless and doesn't release it even as he rolls over the snowy ground.
Sliding to a stop, he stands with the scythe in hand. Pain fills his mind as a red cape fills his vision alongside a red-lined boot that lodges into his sternum. The girl had blitzed into a jump kick. He flies back for what felt like the nth time now, but he refuses to roll again, digging into the snow like a skidding rock. She goes for it again, but he adapts, swiping at her with her scythe in an under-swing. The blade's tip catches on her leg, throwing her into a haphazard backward somersault onto the powdered earth in a cloud of frost. Coughing up snow and seething at her aching leg, she didn't notice the grimm closing the distance between them until he was right on top of her; her weapon is raised over the grimm's head, ready to impale her.
Thinking fast, the huntress rolls to the side and avoids the hook of her scythe, the weapon instead perforating the ground where she lay before. The wolf wrenches it out and makes a golf swing at her, shoveling dirt and snow along the way. The blade caught under and flung the girl into the air and back onto the ground with an oof from her. Advancing at her, he makes to cleave her in two again. She yelps and scoots back, parting her legs. The red edge of her black skirt is stabbed through as the scythe misses and sticks in the snow again. The beowolf growls in frustration. Like dealing with a mouse.
Sighing in relief and smirking, the caped pest lifts and throws her legs to spin herself like in a dance, propelling herself into a handstand and flipping forward to land on the blunt end of her scythe with a wobble. The beowolf briefly marvels at such acrobatics she thinks, or it was her red cloak limiting his sight. Neither was truly sure. The pause gave her time to activate her semblance again, extending out her knee as she jumped up the length of Crescent Rose's haft. The beowolf wasn't completely distracted, throwing up an arm to shield his face before her semblance activated. The accelerated knee thuds against his spiked forearm, hurting her but shoving its fist into its muzzle, on the snout. Both combatants recoil at their self-inflicted pain, the girl bracing a foot on the bolt handle of her sniper while the grimm steps back, hand sliding up her scythe. Bolt?
An idea pops into the youth's mind. She drops prone on her scythe and racks the rifle segment of her precious weapon. The casing expels, she pulls it back to chamber the next cartridge, then puts her thumb inside the trigger guard. Her beowolf opponent's ears tilt at the sounds before snapping in her direction. His eyes twitch to the bottom of the scythe, where a segmented spearhead now points at his chest. Sucking in a hissed breath through his nose, he moves to sidestep the incoming trap.
Smiling, the girl in red presses the trigger of her sniper rifle, firing a round into the snow and dislodging the blade from the ground. The weapon propels itself opposite the gunshot, stabbing the short blade into the left arm of the beowolf as he attempted to dodge. Howling, he is carried away with the scythe and the girl just over the ground. Into a pile of dead grimm he crashes, prone on his back with a dagger in his limb. His arm feels nearly run through, screaming in agony as even bone is pierced. Before he can act on the pain, the huntress drops from her weapon's haft and kicks off his stomach, airing him out and ripping out the spear with bone and flesh to spare. It was barbed too. He laments, cradling his bleeding arm as he forces himself to bend forward into a kneeling position; the creature of canid design keeps his gaze square on the huntress, watching her put distance between her and him in two hops.
The girl in red twirls her weapon from one to the next, building up momentum until finally staking the hooked blade through the snow into the earth; the beowolf sees the barrel pointed his way and immediately runs as fast he can on three limbs, injured arm braced to his side. The girl racks the bolt as she spins to keep him in her scope's sight, but feels no weight. She tilts her head and pulls the trigger to only receive a click. She's out of ammunition, rats!
Ears sharp as they were, the grimm hears something else than the familiar boom. Her weapon was out of projectiles. He can't let this opportunity slip through his fangs. With that, he changes from zigzagging in a circle around the girl to a beeline at the crimson brat. Blood trails from his arm onto the snow due to the blood pumping, but adrenaline has taken over since. The girl scrambles a bulky magazine from a hip pouch, but before she can slot it in, the grimm snatched a set of legs from the snow and whips it forward, flinging them at her. It smacks into her, knocking her arm away from the rifle well. She couldn't do more than look at it before the beowolf acts again. Slamming his uninjured hand into the snow, he balances on it mid-dash and spins both legs around. He pushes off the ground, sustaining his speed and launching himself forward like a spear, his stiffened legs the head. The girl manages to free her scythe to hold it in a static block for the incoming attack. The paws clash with the scythe's haft, pushing the huntress back as she braces her legs. She makes a trail in the powder for several feet before her upper body finally bends back, legs flinging out before her as her weapon slams into her chest from the furred rocket's impact.
Both the creature of Grimm and Red speed across the clearing, wind flinging grimm body parts and blowing up a snowy fog in their wake. Red, used to such speedy circumstances, manages the slap her magazine into Crescent Rose. Staring right into the eyes of her unsanctioned transport, she yanks the bolt and fires. The shot goes off who knows where, but she only needed the recoil. It dislodges her from the beowolf's paws, throwing her to the snow and into a tumble. The change in resistance destabilizes the grimm's legs, soon after splaying him out. Like an arrow caught in a gust, he too arcs into the snow, bouncing off it like a skipping stone.
Both combatants of their respective species painfully travel through the pale sheets of winter, eventually reaching the treeline of the clearing they battle in. They both attain some control over their shared predicament: The female human scraping her crescent blade into the earth to slow herself and the male beowolf digging his three healthy sets of claws into the earth to do the same. Effective as their efforts were, the duo still slam into the trunk of separate trees. Against her back for the human and his left side for the grimm, facing her. The flora shakes from the impact and snow from branches falls upon the fighters in clumps. Now they are wet, cold, and in pain. Neither move much as they agonize and fight nausea. This is not their day, they feel.
Huffing frost, the two of them glare at each other from their hunched positions against the steadfast trees. Two pairs of eyes meet with utter focus, showing each other everything yet saying nothing. Two suns in a red sky. Two crystals on a cushion. Both are symbols of death to the other.
The human and the grimm slowly stand from their knees, using the trees as support; the two beings' hearts thrum in anticipation of a sudden action. Act? React? The seconds tick away. She hums, and he growls. Her brows tilt down, his pale teeth bare to the world. His fur is wet and dusted with snow, with scattered wounds leaking red blood. She feels bruises all over her, her outfit fringing on the edges and damp in some parts. Both lower their center of balance, legs spread for movement. Artificial and natural weapons are primed. The wail of a breeze was the most noise in the tree line, a storm forming.
The huntress breaks the stall first, transforming her scythe to its rifle configuration. Her target briefly breaks the line of sight by moving behind his tree. He appears on the other side of it, but now on three limbs. Her shot whiffs past where his torso would be if he was still bipedal. He keeps sprinting, grabbing up a rock the size of her head and chucking it her way. She runs into the forest as he does, dodging the rock. It cracks off a tree behind her. Now they both are moving deeper into the sleeping forest.
She shoots and he throws, both equally adept at avoiding their prey's projectiles. Her rounds shrill through the air or hollow out trees that the beowolf passes or hides behind. The beowolf jumps and grabs onto a branch, snapping it off and running on two legs for a time. He rears back and throws it like a spear at the huntress. She activates her semblance and avoids it, running between the trees at him. He doesn't idle, jumping to avoid a now much closer rifle's payload. His hand and paws catch in the bark of a tree, the monster shoving off to repeat the maneuver further down the canopies. He can't be still or predictable for a moment. For a few seconds, the girl fires rounds after him from below. Erratic movements from the creature across the branches successfully sabotage her attempts, going wild or destroying bark.
Growling, she fires at her feet with her rifle, launching her upwards into the branches as well. Mid-flight, she transforms her weapon into its scythe again, swinging with the velocity to catch the grimm from below. He didn't see or hear the bullet fly anywhere near him and deduces why. He briefly stops on a tree branch, shoving himself against the trunk. As he thought, the huntress was literally at his feet, cutting cleanly through the branch and into the trunk above him. He looks up, she looks down. A crashing branch sounds, then she fires again, dislodging the blade from the tree and swinging 180 degrees downward at him. He brings his spiked forearms and pressed them on top of each other. Her blade connects with the bone spikes, halting it dead-stop, but shoving him against the tree. Snarling, he swings both arms out, shoving the blade away. Both weapon and huntress spin away, the warrior planting her feet against the side of a different tree. She kicks off, spinning till her front faces the ground, then shoots the scythe behind her again to boost to him.
Eyeing the incoming sideways slice, the grimm jumps away to another tree, scraping down the tree before halting. The moment after he jumped, the huntress chops through the tree itself and bypasses it entirely to land on another tree. The loose log slowly tilts off the point of chopping.
Getting an idea, the beowolf jumps to the same tree the huntress boosted off of and shoves himself toward the leaning log. Baring his right fist, he slams it into the separated trunk, knocking it through the air sidelong at Red.
Eyes widening, the girl fires a shot for recoil and slices it down the middle with her scythe. When the two pieces separate, the beowolf is revealed flying at her from behind it. He jabs at her, catching her on the nose and knocking her across her branch into the trunk behind her. His large hand clasps her whole head and slams the back of her head on the trunk. As she is dazed, he opens his jaws and chomps down at her. With a gasp, she blocks it with her free right hand, screaming in pain as the sharp fangs jab her limb.
Like a wolf with a bone, the beowolf shakes its head, wrenching her arm as he gnaws on it. Grateful for her aura, the girl pants, and hisses as she maneuvers her scythe with only one hand. The blade is brought behind the small of the Grimm's back, the haft jutting on the creature's ribs.
The beowolf isn't completely bloodthirsty and realizes his situation. However, he feels the huntress's aura seep into his mouth. A pressure that spreads across his body. Remembering old lessons, he closes his eyes and focuses.
The huntress pulls the trigger, propelling the hooked blade into the grimm's lower back. To her surprise, instead of bisecting him, the blade only jabs into him as a bar would. However, not only did it pull him forward against her, it bowled him backward like a bent stick. Either out of pain or sudden force, he releases her arm from his jaws. His large body thuds against the girl, trapping her between the tree and him. She wrenches a foot between her and shoves him back. He doesn't resist much, falling onto his ass before rolling back into a crouch.
It worked! Hurt like a dull guillotine, but he wasn't cut in half at least. It sapped a big chunk out of his collected aura though.
His mental celebration is cut short when the huntress brings her scythe down onto him. He rolls off the branch, the blade impaling the wood. A chase commences again, the beowolf weaving around the base of trees as Red fires after him.
Fed up with the gunshots at his heels, he leaps high and at a tree; instead of digging his claws into the quickly approaching flora, he only extends one paw out and grabs it as he soars by. Like that, he swings around the tree like a fireman, flinging himself off the other side at the crimson pest hopping among the trees. Squeaking, the girl launched a recoil attack at him. He focuses on the stolen aura within, willing it down his long right arm to the palm. A nearly transparent shield projects from his hand, a perfect circle with a black ring marking the edge. He juts his hand upward, meeting the blade of her scythe with his aura shield. The shield projects a black ring from the center to the edges rapidly when contact is made. The arm buckles and he braces the back of his hand on his forehead. Less than a breath away, he sees the fine hooked point just past his thrumming shield, geared for his eye.
The next moment, they glance off each other and continue on their trajectories, albeit with more spinning. The grimm barrels through several thin branches before a grouping of the twigs finally stop him, several bent or straining out as they cushion. His body found itself caught in a stiff web of branches, holding him in a rather awkward position.
When the huntress rolls roughly on the snow and looks up to aim, the sight through her scope makes her giggle. Her "hunter" had branches supporting his legs and back, but there was a gap between them. His bum was drooping through the said gap, his little tail limply hanging out of his loincloth. The monster looked like he fell through the weak plank of a bench, folded through the hole like in cartoons she watches.
Huffing, steam expels from the grimm's snout, performing a crunch to set himself down on the branch fully. The branch snaps from the sudden weight, sending him down the tree canopy. He braces into a ball as he crashes through weak sleeping sticks. He catches himself on three legs, all the while sneering at the pest. The fingers of his hand feel something smooth, prompting him to glance down. His landing had dispersed much of the snow, revealing ice in front of him. A frozen pond perhaps? A devious idea comes to mind.
The huntress shrugs herself back into action, racking the bolt and firing behind her to close in on the grimm. As she closes in, the grimm's grimace suddenly goes tight-lipped and it rears back its leg. Like kicking a ball, he swings it forward, but the ice sheet was the ball. The ball of its paw impacts the ice in an arc. In response, the ice shatters, and the fragments, blunt or sharp, fly up as if propelled by a geyser. The artificial geyser travels down the pond in a wide line, right at the huntress. Unable to react, she is caught in the chaos and carried into the air by the geyser. Whilst tumbling in the ice and frost, pelted by both, a black mass breaks through the mess at her. Back to him from being thrown in a literal loop, she doesn't realize the beowolf's approach. His right hand comes around and slashes her with its claws, wrenching out a scream from her and sending her careening out of the ice geyser. She crashes onto the unbroken ice of the pond at an angle, cracking it as she bounces off it on the initial impact. Rolling and sliding to a stop, she shakingly shoves herself to a knee, snapping her head up while racking another cartridge in her weapon.
The beowolf too appears out of the line of mayhem he caused, landing on its three uninjured limbs in jogging distance of her, ice spiderwebbing beneath him. He huffs, eyes briefly scanning the pond's frozen surface before locking onto her with his set of suns. He makes for her, snarling and bleeding.
Growling with much less gravel, she waits till the last second for him to attack. He does, trying to slash her again in an uppercut. She performs a backflip, dodging his claws by the hair of her chin, kicking the arm away with a double-legged kick from below. The arms go higher than they were supposed to, making the beowolf halt in his tracks by digging his rear paws into the ice. Transforming her scythe into a rifle for easier maneuvering, she aims at the ice at the grimm's paws while upside down. She pulls the trigger and the high-caliber bullet unleashed immediately obliterates the sheet below. The kinetic force spreads, breaking apart the ice roughly within ten feet of her enemy. He had no way to escape, inevitably dropping through the weakened ice into the freezing waters below. Black fur completely disappears from her view.
An overwhelming cold encompasses the canid being, shocking it from any musings he may have; the cold is biting, and it shunts past his thick fur to penetrate deep in him, past the hide, past the vessels, and into the bones. Even as what feels like an eternity passes by, the cold keeps penetrating his whole being in revolving waves. His front faces the darkness below him, as abyssal as his fur. Take him, it easily would. His overwhelmed mind can't find the words to define the feeling he experiences. All he knows is he can't be here, he needs to surface!
His unconscious mind has no resistance from him, gladly swiping through the crystalizing liquid to reach the light shining through, any pain in using his shanked arm second fiddle to his desperation. As the tip of a middle finger peeps through the surface, a splash of bubbles and age fill his vision and what feels like a rock jabs his chest. He looks down to see that not a rock, but a bullet that had bounced off his chest. Immediate death trumping imminent death, he swims in a backstroke. None too soon as two more large bullets perforate the surface of the water in his general direction. Even bullets capable of bypassing trees slow and go off course. Deep air pockets form where the slowing bullets travel before collapsing behind them. He watches as the bullets slowly drift deeper into the frozen hell beneath him.
Despite his instincts imploring him, leaving the water from whence he fell is inviting death upon him. He needs to find an alternative exit or make one.
Mind steeled, he grits his fangs and swims under the ice in the general direction he remembers the huntsman being, keeping in mind the trajectory of the bullets. Settling on a spot, he rears back his right fist and punches as hard as he can in spite of the cold water's resistance. The ice shakes and cracks, but as he slams away, it becomes clear the progress isn't fast enough. Only an inch of fractures has been made. He stops when his knuckles start bleeding black, only being obvious when it starts to float off his fist and the ice. Numbness was setting in.
Chuffing, accidentally letting out precious air. The creature paddles until his paws are against the ice. Squatting down, he shoves off the ice sheet and dives further down the depths of the pond. For a time, it was nothing but pure darkness, slowly replacing the faint blue of the water. Every now and then, he blows air from his sizable lungs to clear out his nose and repressurize his ears. Panic starts to set in, but he pushes through. The opening would have mostly frozen over by now, also a bloody rifle is waiting for him.
The glee he feels when his right hand finally touches the sediment and rocks that mark a lake bottom. He even sees fish hovering or ambling above it with him. He could for a fish right now. There was a fat, juicy one not too far away. No! He needs to focus!
Realizing his mind is now being affected by his brushing on death's door, he quickly shoves off the pond bed and reorients himself until his head points to the pond's icy lid. The beowolf lets his body slowly descend, coiling his knees up to his stomach. Everything left of the aura he has leached is focused on his legs just as the raised legs are a hair away from padding the bottom of the pond. In a last-ditch to live, he tucks his arms straight against himself and kicks out both paws.
The surrounding rocks and sediment blow aside from the site of contact, and the Creature of Grimm darts upward through the freezing hell, ascending like a swordfish at its prey. His whole form is straight, every limb extended opposite his destination for the least resistance. Darkness fades as he nears the window to the outside world. Truly an underwater prison, he the prisoner. The Grimm doesn't extend a fist, even if he could fight against the water. He was numb everywhere anyhow. All he could do is angle his muzzle down to bare the top of his skull to the approaching wall. He will escape. He will live. He will destroy!
Above the ice, the huntress stands ready. Silver eyes and scythe now aimed at the now freezing hole where her enemy has fallen. He hasn't appeared ever since he tried to pop out the first time. She is certain he is up to something; the ice around shook as if a slight tremor ran through it. Nothing of note though since. A few minutes had passed by now.
The girl in red finally eases, placing her precious love on a damp shoulder. This grimm has to be the strongest she fought alone. Mostly monsters that haven't even gained their mask yet were her usual. Juveniles. This one didn't just rush in. It adapted, moved like it had a brain, and was stronger. Fast too. She was used to being the spry one against the grimm. Her semblance put her above it in speed, but it predicted her movements for the most part. The huntsman-in-training has to admit, this was an exhilarating event. Both fear and excitement fill her. She needs to keep up her training, the Grimm are only going to get tougher. At least this one was defeated, she had just run out of ammo with those potshots. Only the six dust cartridges on her belt were left.
When she lifts her leg to walk, the ice sheet next to her suddenly explodes in a flurry of ice and water. A domino effect occurs, a shockwave tearing through the ice near the source, including what was beneath her. Launched into the air, she was, no recoil to recover control. Thus, she arcs into the very hole she dropped the beowolf into.
Almost immediately, her body shocks her into scrambling to the surface, swinging out her scythe and planting it in the ice to drag herself out. She can't resist the urge to shiver in a fetal position, yanking up her hood for some kind of shield from the utter cold piercing her soul. Nothing could repel the cold now that she was completely drenched. The pain was so much, everything else was blocked out by her mind! Warmth! She needs to heat up!
The beowolf wasn't much better off. Nearly every fiber of its being was numb. He lands on the ice with a wet thud, not even able to catch himself. He was the absolute image of misery, water rolling off his fur in rivulets to run across the ice; though he drains, plenty of water still holds in the canid beast's coat. A puddle of water, blood, and fur forms around him. All the abuse certainly irritated the wounds on his left arm and both legs, eliciting more blood from what is still desperately trying to heal. If anything positive can be stated about this debacle, at least his cloth still held.
Over the course of their conflict, a storm has manifested over their area of the forest. Snow hails down upon them slowly, but the increasing wind just adds the cherry atop a shit sundae. Beyond a radius, neither could see beyond the snowfall. The two enemies are sequestered into their own little world, most of it made up of the wide pond they both just had a swim in. They are not quick to unwind from their scrunched positions. Separated by the hole the grimm made, the two keep eye contact as they force themselves to their feet, in their own ways. The huntress stabbed the bottom of her scythe into the ice like a flag pole, the beowolf all but throwing his upper body into a kneeling position. The huntress climbs the scythe's haft, the grimm tosses his body upward so fast that he stumbles back before stamping on the ice in defiance, slight cracks under his paws. There, they stare daggers into each other's eyes, panting and shaking from exertion and temperature; both challengers bide time as they recover as much energy and motivation as possible. Neither was expecting just how intense and long-lasting their fight turned out to be. However, they were willing in spite of their bodies.
The one to act first is the huntress, fading into a blur of roses along the hole in the ice. Out she comes with the scythe swinging from her side, thwacking a chunk of debris from the broken ice at the beowolf. He swings out his right arm, shattering the ice chunk on his spikes. He too runs, clockwise around the artificial pond like the huntress. He kicks and lobs ice remnants at her as she smacks more at him. She opts to dodge, he strikes them away or tanks them with snarls.
When a chunk of ice manages to smack onto the long graze on the grimm's right leg, the already tired grimm loses his stride and slides to a stop on the ice, growling as it palms the inflamed wound. The pause gave the opportunity for Red to commit her semblance, swirling around the hole's circumference till she zeroed in on the beowolf's back, blasting water off her form as a plus. She leaves her rosy blur spinning like a top at the creature, scythe blade now nearly tilted parallel with the hilt.
A searing pain wracked the grimm's back as the blade's tip met his hide first. A long shallow line is carved through him and he moves forward in reflex, pretty quickly continuing his movement forward voluntarily to avoid the red and black buzzsaw behind him. Nipping at his heels, the weapon cuts into his already injured left arm when he spins around in anger. Backstepping, he sees the spinning huntress slowing down. Not slow enough to completely predict though, yet another slice catching him on the pectorals before he can react. From his perspective, the now wobbling buzzsaw is counterclockwise, so he takes his naturally armored right forearm and steps forward, turning his whole body left to face the scythe head-on. The weapon closes in, meeting his raised forearm with a searing clang.
Both combatants slide away from each other after the impact, the raven-haired brat's long scythe resting against the ice sheet as she loses control of it after the clash. Not missing a beat, the grimm surges at the wide-open warrior, jumping at her with a flying knee. The spiked knee meets her torso and throws her back again, a delicious screech leaving her limp body as she meets the ice sliding. He builds upon his assault, leaping high in the air toward her prone form. He sees the shock in her cursed silver eyes when her clenched eyelids open to observe his paws trained for her. She rolls aside, just avoiding the beowolf's crushing weight, that not just cracks the ice, but the paws put dents in it. Scrambling to her feet, she is not given any quarter as the grimm uses whatever energy is left to keep moving against her, never completely stopping. She weaves around sluggish, but passionate cuts of its right clawed hand, throwing her own laborious swings. It is for naught, as the monster is past dodging anymore and, in its adrenaline-fueled rush, hits away her scythe counterattacks with its stupidly fortified lower arm. The soaked monster was persistent, its arm shaking more and more, water flying off its fur like a sprinkler as it just won't stop.
Fed up with no blood being drawn from her after all his efforts, the abyssal-shaded being's exhausted mind prompts him to muscle through the slippery wretch's guard with a heavy, wound-up kick of the left leg; he should have known better, would have, if he was of a fresh mind. Alas, even the simplest mistakes can be made if long without rest. Desperation is a ruiner of sense. When he fully committed, the leaf that was his prey sidesteps most of his attack, groaning as his paw grazed her left side. His leg slaps the frozen water underneath, overextended. Over her head, the scythe comes, weaving through snowflakes whistling at her right. Her hips, her legs, her everything was committed to destroying his leg. Time stutters for the black canid, fiery eyes following the blood-colored blade aimed at his limb. Desperation and instincts scramble, selecting a factor left most on the wayside in his arsenal since the beginning of the duel.
The scythe's arced tip pierces the beowolf's thigh, stabbing into the meaty body part with a splash of red blood. It would have hit bone but halts a third of the way in. Its obstacle? A tarnished left arm with angled spikes running down the outside of the forearm squeezed between steel and thigh. A bittersweet rescue.
Sore arm flattened, bone jabbed by a cold point, the excruciating agony is something new, not welcome. The organism at its mercy wrenches its head at the thick clouds above, showing an auditory glimpse into its current experience with an expulsion of sound divided between a howl and a snarl. A roar from a tortured being projected from a maw split apart so harshly, jaw bones crack from the force. The air streaming from a deep hot core shoves the diagonal snow, refusing to let any chill touch its mouth. Foggy vapor flows out its mouth as mighty as any steam engine, condensation fighting against his hot breath.
The sound and volume shock the huntress, making her turn away from the fearsome, teeth-gritting noise. Even as brave as she was, this roar shook her to the core, fear welling in her. How is this a sound a being can make?!
Her freezing was a bad choice, because when the roar nears its end, the beowolf's muzzle snapped at her, its flaming irises constricted. Its open maw comes down upon her, the monster pushing her down to the ice with its free right hand and sheer body weight. As they both meet the floor, its massive jaw closes around her left shoulder and neck, squeezing both with its fangs against the aura. Her hands are knocked off her scythe, still stuck in his leg
It was her turn to scream, matching its snarling with her soul-cutting pitch. She feels each individual enamel dagger poke at her flesh through her clothes, tears made in the dress as a red shimmer wafts over her body. Tears bead and flow from her eyes with little abandon, the pain overwhelming her to the soul. It is a solid pressure with no reprieve, the enemy of mankind intent on ripping her very bones apart. Her legs flail, her right arm slams, the girl struggling for any reprieve. The monster doesn't even budge. His powerful body has trapped her flat to the floor.
Is this truly her end?
No! This is not the last page of her story! The hero wins, and the hero keeps going! She'll show it pain!
Out her free right arm thrusts, poised phalanges striking like a snake into the gash she made long ago in the grimm's left bicep. Her nails bang off something solid within, under layers of soft something. Bone.
The response was obvious, a muffled roar rising from her predator's throat and past its teeth. Its maw's hold on her left upper body lessens briefly, before coming down again on the youth, though weaker than before. She can its irises freak out all over the red sclera from out of the corner of her eye.
"Let go!" Said the girl, pulling in her right leg and kicking out, striking the handle of her Crescent Rose, burying her deeper in the muscular, leaking thigh. This cherry on top finally made the grimm release her from its mouth. It whips down its right hand and grabs her by the black blouse of her dress, throwing her out from under him, tearing it as a result and showing hints of the crimson sports bra underneath. She is sent sliding on the ice away from him, not putting any effort into stopping herself. The more distance, the better for her.
The beowolf lurches back and on its hindquarters, pushing himself across the ice with an uninjured right leg propped up awkwardly on the right elbow. He looks over her with erratic eyes, growling and whining in the same breath. Her own eyes are stressed too, twitching to look at her scythe still in its thigh. All things considered, she drew the long straw compared to him. Its left arm was leaking blood from two wounds she made, one she just made worse. His chest and black have superficial but bountiful cuts. Even with how much it moved since swimming, the fur was still dripping, actually frosted over on some spots. Its panting was ragged and its body won't stop shaking. A mess of fur, blood, and frost overall. How its cloth stayed on was a mystery to her. She wasn't complaining, though.
Seething suddenly from pain in her side, she looks down at herself. She herself was damp mostly. However, her dress from chest to left sleeve was tattered. The beast's teeth and claws somewhat pierced her aura and got to her outfit. Hold on, was she actually bleeding?!
Across the way, the ragged canid demon of Remnant watched as the pint-sized adolescent touched at her ruined dress, where pinpricks of blood already soak it. What a farce. She got away with scratches while he sat with streams of blood coming out of him for his efforts. Practically, the whole left side of his body was nearly useless after what she did to him. Fair enough, she fought for her life. It is agonizing nonetheless. He would love nothing more than to carve out those silver eyes as repayment, then she can fret over wounds. He was nearly crippled.
However, was killing this swine worth the risk of death? He certainly can't utilize his speed with a hole in his thigh. His left arm was useless as well. Her aura was weak, but it didn't shatter. The aura he leeched won't give enough healing to matter. In summary, he is the one on the back foot, not her. As much as it angers him to admit it, it wasn't worth the risk. He has her scent after all this sweat and blood was spilled, she hasn't won, just survived.
Grumbling, he awkwardly reached over to the weapon sunk in his thigh, blade slick with blood. The removal was slow and painful, and he didn't bother hiding his pain. The two of them already knew just how messed up he was. His snarl was steady until it finally slid out with a final push, eliciting a yelp from him. The pain was getting familiar at this point. The slippery rose petal in the distance visually flinched and cringed at the whole process. It amused him, the discomfort she had is a small win. Weapon in hand, he sneers at it and tossed it aside, far away from the huntress's cross-legged form. It slid even farther away until slipping from the edge of the frozen pond into some snow. To hell with that wicked thing.
With that, he slowly stumbles to mostly one paw, glaring at the red menace all the while. She moves into a crouched position, ready to act if he attacked her. Tempting, but he already made his mind up. The creature of Grimm hobbles toward the tree line with his front facing her, keeping an eye on her in case she attempts anything. A limited understanding seems made then. Glad he could instill fear in her.
Finally, when his bleeding back hits something solid, a look confirming a tree, he leans against it with a hand to turn around toward the foggy darkness of the forest. He looks over his left shoulder, peering at a now-standing huntress. Their eyes meet, fire to silver. He lets loose a final noise, a howl that echoes for miles around. After, he limply jogs into the wilderness, fading away in the fog from the red-cloaked girl's perspective. He will be back for her. Healing and learning need to both run their course. The silver-eyed huntress has gained his attention.
As the wolven creature disappears, the girl in red jogs to her weapon, so carelessly cast like trash. Brushing off the weapon, she states, "There you are girl, we showed that grimm what for, didn't we?"
Though the voice was mirthful, her face wasn't. She nearly died! That was the most dangerous fight she has ever been in. While pondering, the girl's hand floats over to her now exposed skin, thanks to the beowolf playing tug of war with her left shoulder. Healing bite marks stained with a small amount of her blood meet her fingertips. In fact, a lot of the grimm's blood was on her too. This situation was no doubt terrifying to her. In hindsight, however, exhilaration was mixed in there too. Such a thrill! The close fight motivates her to become better, not cower!
Still, she is in a rather bad state. The cold was even worse with her damp, now torn clothes. She needs to get home pronto. What time was it, even? She fishes out a white slip of metal, tapping the red button in the center to reveal a transparent screen as it expands out. " It's 20 past midnight!?" She quickly folds it again and pockets the scroll. "I got to get home!"
And so, the short crimson-clothed girl puts up her hood and sluggishly runs off the pond into the forest as well. Crescent Rose folded and slotted against her back waist. Red cloak blowing behind her as the wind howls thanks to the storm sounding above.
Little Ruby Rose has had quite an eventful night. She wonders what else is in store for her.
Nothing boring she bets, especially with that beowolf still kicking around.