Chapter Text
The gateways mankind have placed upon themselves are guarded by tradition. Rites of passage have been revealed to occur even in our most ancient of civilizations. Stroll back through the millennia of history, uncover the ancient earth of our ancestors tombs, and the you shall see that unbroken line of self-devised and self-inflicted activity. We test ourselves, so that those found wanting are banished from the halls of the worthy. From an early age I learned this; from my childhood haunts and adolescent scraps at combat schools, all remained the same. In all walks of life, this has remained constant.
There can be no initiation, without blood.
The Widow spits yet another barrage of acid-green globules; recessed eyes glint in the afternoon sun, dark and beady, filled with hatred for all things human. But its acidic spray does not touch my flesh as I dive to the side, rolling through the long grass. The impact of its missed strike scatters the clay-like soil of the savannah all over my coat and hands and neck. Faintly, I can hear the hiss of its venom as the substance begins to eat its way through the ground, and form the hollow pits that are this Grimm’s trademark.
Yet my Aura remains strong, if not pure, the result of a lifetime of training and my family’s own rites and rituals. That force, that substance which separates the animal from the abomination. I can withstand a killing blow with will alone, turn aside sharpened spears and jagged daggers with bare hands. What are mere dirt and grime compared to such things?
Yes, a Huntsman, even one such as I, yet to be fully trained, and having not yet fulfilled my school’s initiation, is made of far sterner stuff than flesh and sinew alone.
I am shielded by all that I am. I remain immaculate.
The dark creature chirps in rage as I get to my feet, staring the monster down. From the holster at the back of my coat, I draw my weapon, the dueling pistol which my ancestor named “Time,” and level it at my foe.
The Widow is an enormous, spider-like creature with 10 legs and 10 glowing red eyes; it stands the size of a small truck or a large sedan. The thing is covered in coarse hair; a white hourglass marking lies upon its belly, and white shards of bone what passes for a face among the Grimm.
I cock the hammer of my weapon back as it charges at me, the creature’s many-jointed legs scurrying, eager to devour my flesh with its beaked maw. It chirps again, a horrid click-click as its maw snaps in anticipation.
For my part, I grin as I face it.
“Foolish horror!” my deep voice booms outwards. “Brought low!”
I fire, and the Dust in the weapon ignites: an artificial roar of sound and scent.
The creature crumples as the single round of ammunition I carry, the shot known as “World,” pierces one of those eight glowing red eyes, traverses its brain cavity, and weaving its way through the things body, explodes out the center of that white widow’s mark.
“And driven into the mud!”
Momentum carries it forward, but the husk that was once a thread is already beginning to fade away; without a will to drive it, the carcass, simply slides to my feet, hairy legs barely brushing against polished boots.
I spare a moment to savor my kill, before extracting World from its place amidst the ichor of the dead Grimm. Looking at the sky, I sigh in disgust; it’s going to be dark soon. The savanna is vast and open and for all I can see, empty.
There are still two days left to go.
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I know not how the other Huntsman Academies perform their initiations, but Shade Academy holds to endurance, and in the freedom to choose. Unlike the other Academies, they take a very lax view in their philosophies, loathe to create rules, eager to allow their students “room to grow and flourish as they see fit.”
It is little wonder that Shade is considered the worst of the Four Huntsman Academies, the easiest to get into, and the clear underdog in every Vytal Festival Tournament.
Shade was far from my first choice, of course - I applied to all of them; even in our current state of affairs, my family could well afford the application fees. My proven record at Sanctum Academy, had been more than adequate; a distinguished instructor had written effusively of my skill with Semblance and weapon alike; I had even risen to earn the bronze medal my senior year in the Mistral Regionals. But of course, my family name counted against me - none of the other Academies, including Atlas, my first choice, were willing to have me. Even now, they feared to take responsibility for the instillment of martial prowess to one bearing that foul, hated surname.
It is one of life’s little ironies that Shade, the most liberal of the academies, was the only one willing to take me, even as my native Haven would not. Not, of course, that I could blame that school; the War… had not been kind to it.
The Initiation Shade required, therefore, was a reflection of their philosophy - endurance and freedom. Early this morning, we, along with the rest of my would-be peers, had been dropped into the wild savannah with nothing but a map and a canteen of water. In three days, we would be picked up at a given site; during this time, we would neither be supervised nor interfered with. Yet by the time we were to be extracted, we were expected to have formed up into teams of four, chosen by mutual accord.
As much as I enjoy the chance to prove my worth… I will admit that there were misgivings to be had. Rejection is a terrible affair, even to one used to it. When the new headmaster had asked for comments or queries, I had shamefully remained silent, even as my own burned within me.
What if none would have me? I had skill, yes. But nearly two decades of effective social isolation had made those softer skills nearly alien to me; I could command, yes, but to cooperate, to listen, to advise… simply to talk as a peer were activities I was rarely able to partake in.
My stomach rumbles again - I hadn’t had the chance to breakfast; too little time after I woke. Mornings are… difficult.
I scowl at the now-wrinkled paper. If I were indeed reading the thing correctly… I was getting closer to one of the supply drops. Food. Water. A tent for shelter. Wood for fire. True, I could subsist without the latter two, could endure the night without sleep or succor… but even I had my limits. My Semblance is deep, and I have yet to fully grasp or control all its terrible manifestations.
The sun is nearly halfway over the horizon when I see the supply drop; the half-deployed parachute lies draped over the branches of a great baobab tree. Luminescent panels on its sides ensure that any would-be student has a clear line of sight to it.
As can only be expected, I see other students; a trio ahead of me, another foursome moving past, their arms and backs filled with boxes. I quicken my pace.
“Hallo from behind!” My voice booms out, my normal confidence shaken, and a normally impressive cry cracking due to adolescence and nerves. “Room for one more?”
The three of them turn warily to face me - there are Grimm in the savannah capable of mimicking human speech. Not enough to strike a conversation, of course, but enough to distract and delude while an ambush is prepared. Silently, I applaud them for their caution. Yes, this might indeed be a fortuitous night….
And yet that approval, that… that [i]hope[/i], is instantly snuffed out, as the leader of the trio snorts at my appearance. She is tall, haughty, arrogant, her nose wrinkles in instant and hypocritical judgement.
“What are you even wearing?” she mocks - a shallow insult for a shallow individual. She herself is no better than I in that regard, and perhaps far worse. My clothing, as impractical as it might seem at first glance, is well suited to a Huntsman’s tasks, and if the cut of the velvet frock is a bit archaic… then let it be known that I had no choice in the matter. That I had been allowed to choose the color alone (a rich and full tawny, the exact shade of the darkest honey) had been no small miracle.
Yes, the insipid woman herself came out far worse than I. The black dress was, in and of itself, acceptable, though the “combat skirt” concept was a frankly ludicrous fad at best. No, the issue was that damnable pelt across her shoulders - a sad attempt at imitating a Beowulf’s natural armor. Completely tasteless, and obviously fake to anyone with a rudimentary knowledge of the Grimm.
I meet her gaze with my own, and perhaps allow a touch of my Semblance to coalesce. A spark of indeterminate [i]Other[/i] is lit in my gaze; a glimmering of What Lies Beyond. The First Sign appears: my sigil - a black arc pierced by five inward spikes - imposes itself upon my pupil.
Her face pales as she takes in that awful visage, feels that unnatural and true Dread.
“Clothes,” I respond, simply enough.
Her face continues to pale at my singular word, even as one of her companions lets out an involuntary giggle; under the effects of my minor working, my voice has turned hollow, cavernous and unnaturally echoing. I smell her fear, that reflection of the true effects of this manifestation.
I can feel the sly and arcane power course through my veins, whispering sibilant suggestions in my ear - tactics, stratagems crafted from centuries of refinement. It would be so simple, of course. So very…
No. Control. Always, control.
I close my eyes, and when they open once more, my Semblance has withdrawn.
“You… you’re….”
“Yes,” I say shortly, before turning my attention towards the other two members of their party.
The second member of their gathering looks similar to the haughty one; cheeks and nose and pointed chin all identical. Yet while she is slender, bordering on skinny, his frame is bulky, and stout, with muscles rippling over his body. She wore a gown and stole that would not be out of place in a high society ball; he garbed himself in a utilitarian leather vest - true leather, not an insulting imitation of something far better -, a drinking horn and a Bowie knife at his belt. Yet that same, holier-than-thou expression, that arrogance was fixed upon his face.
But the third member of their party, the one who giggled at my rejoinder, she is far more fascinating. She looks nothing like the other two, no family resemblance at all: short hair the deep black of midnight, delicate features, and amber-red eyes silently pleading for help.
“Hello,” I say to her - and only to her. “I am Ambrosius…”
No. No, that is far too formal for this occasion. Charm, poise, eloquence… no, the latter two are useless here!
“What… what’s your name?”
The powerful voice I’ve inherited, and the timbre instilled from birth,,, have crumbled under the weight of my nervousness.
“Don’t answer that, [i]sis[/i]” the leader’s brother scowls. I find myself puzzled by the term he uses - she looks nothing alike. “He’s a [i]Darkest[/i].”
She flinches at that - and those gorgeous eyes turn away, her already skittish movements and poise in retreat, dependent… helpless.
That reaction is one all too familiar to me. I shall be forever judged by my family’s actions. I would say that I have become accustomed to it… but such withdrawals do not get easier with time.
I will not allow this to happen again! Not now! Not here, so far from home and without the so-called comfort of my family to back me!
“Yes, I suppose it is,” I say, admitting to my heritage. I rack my brains and memory, countless hours spent being tutors in the ways and names of high society. Thankfully, I come across the answer. “But you can’t choose your family… Ermine.”
The leader flinches as I name her. Her body language is guarded, but I see with an outsider’s eye.
“And of course that makes you Guere,” I continue, referring to the brute. “But I’ve never heard about a third sibling….”
“Shut up!” Her hands shake but she still has some skill to her. The two siblings draw their weapons, levelling them at me. Ermine’s gown has a braided belt at the waist, one that I dismissed, to my detriment, without further examination; a simple twist, and it unravels into a wicked-looking whip with a black orb at its base. Guere’s weapon, that Bowie knife, quickly unfurls into a longspear, the thick blade supported by a wicked-looking cross-brace, a bulbous cylinder perched on the butt.
“We don’t take kindly to poaching,” Ermine drawls. “Especially when it’s family.”
Their companion has gone very still in the interim, not trusting herself to make any moves.
It is not so one-sided as it might seem. Though I am outnumbered, Time is in my hand, and while the antique duelling pistol is seemingly outmatched by their more modern arsenal, I know far better.
“This late in the day, that supply drop probably won’t have enough for all of us,” Ermine sneers. “Why don’t you find another one?”
Obstinance and pride keep me upon my feet, but it is that most rare of emotions, hope, which propel me to continue. There is someone here who might not judge me for what was done decades ago. I will not abandon that.
“She has the chance to choose her team,” I adopt a lighter tone even as my hand remains steady. The pistol isn’t pointed at either of them, but a point halfway between the two of them. “Isn’t what this rite is all about?”
Their eyes take in at my weapon. It appears to be crafted of wood and steel
“You think that little trinket’s going to do anything to us, Darkest?” Ermine spits my name out like the curse it has become. “You only have one shot for the both of us!”
My grin widens.
“I only require one.”
I spare a second to refocus my gaze upon the object of our little dispute. My words come far too slowly. “Unless… of course… you are… satisfied with your current...”
“No!”
The word bursts from her lips in a gasp, in a squeak, in a sudden release of pent-up emotion. Her eyes immediately widen, and she claps her hands to her mouth.
“I… I mean… yes! I mean… I want to go with you!”
“Excellent!” I begin to strafe to the right, towards my new partner and eventually, to the supply drop itself.
They don’t attack, of course. When it was two on one, they had felt confident. Now, with the one they had bullied for so long compromised and in a position of relative strength they wouldn’t dare, lest she lash out with all of her hatred.
“Then Ermine… Guere... I shall see you at Shade. Madam?”
I proffer my arm, pistol still pointed at the pair, and she can’t help but giggle at the sight. The sound is… really quite pleasant.
“And a good night to you both!” I cry out, as we fade into the long grass, and I finally remember to holster .
“So… I realize… we’ve never been introduced” I say quietly.
“Oh!” she starts again. “It’s… my name’s Cinder. Cinder Ella.”
“I’m Ermine and Guere’s stepsister.”