[RWBY] RWBY Shorts

[AndrewJTalon]

Synopsis: The Tragicall Historie of Camelot or King Arthur

Written by the great playwright Billius Schakkenspell, this is a romantic historical tragicomedy in five acts, set in the past of Albion, whose eternal capital remains the gleaming castle of Camelot — a bastion of chivalry and ancient magic perched upon misty cliffs and surrounded by enchanted forests filled with Grimm and other dangers.

Principal Characters (with their Shakespearean correspondences)

• King Arthur Pendragon — The noble but grieving monarch of Albion (Cymbeline)
• Queen Morgause — Arthur's ambitious and treacherous second wife, a sorceress of subtle poisons (the Queen)
• Prince Mordred — Morgause's arrogant and brutish son by her former marriage, covetous of power (Cloten)
• Princess Guinevere — Arthur's virtuous and courageous daughter by his first queen, named for her (Imogen/Innogen)
• Sir Lancelot du Lac — A valiant knight of humble origins, raised at court and secretly wed to Guinevere (Posthumus Leonatus)
• Sir Agravain — A cunning continental knight from Gallia, sly and boastful (Iachimo)
• Sir Bedivere — Lancelot's loyal companion and servant (Pisanio)
• Sir Belinus — A banished lord, living as a hermit in the wilds of Albion (Belarius)
• Sir Gawain and Sir Gaheris — Belinus's adopted "sons," brave young warriors unaware of their true birth (Guiderius and Arviragus — in truth, Arthur's long-lost sons, kidnapped in infancy)
• Merlin — The enigmatic prophet and advisor, appearing in visions (Jupiter/the Soothsayer)

Act I: Courtly Intrigue at Camelot
In the grand hall of Camelot, King Arthur mourns the disappearance twenty years prior of his two infant sons, taken in the night. Influenced by his cunning second wife, Queen Morgause, he seeks to secure his line by wedding his beloved daughter Guinevere to her son, the vainglorious Prince Mordred.

Yet Guinevere has secretly married Sir Lancelot du Lac, a peerless knight of mysterious low birth raised at Arthur's court. Furious at this defiance, Arthur banishes Lancelot to the continent. Before departing, the lovers exchange tokens: Guinevere gives Lancelot a sacred bracelet woven with her hair, and he bestows upon her a ring bearing the Pendragon crest.

Queen Morgause, plotting to elevate Mordred, feigns support for the lovers while secretly brewing poisons and schemes.

Act II: The Wager and Deception
Exiled in Gallia, Lancelot boasts of Guinevere's unmatched fidelity among the knights there. Sir Agravain, a smooth-tongued Gallian, wagers a fortune against Lancelot's ring that he can seduce the princess. Lancelot accepts, staking his honor.

Agravain travels to Camelot bearing gifts and flattery. Failing to woo Guinevere openly, he hides in a great chest delivered to her chamber (under pretense of safeguarding treasures). By night, he emerges, memorizes the secrets of her room — including a mark upon her breast — and steals the bracelet from her arm as she sleeps.

Returning to Gallia, Agravain presents the "proofs" to Lancelot, convincing him of Guinevere's betrayal. Maddened with jealousy, Lancelot orders his servant Bedivere to slay her upon her arrival in the wilds.

Act III: Flight and the Wilds
Guinevere, warned by Bedivere of the order, disguises herself as a young page named Fidelio and flees Camelot to seek Lancelot. Prince Mordred, enraged at her rejection, pursues her clad in Lancelot's armor.

Lost in Albion's ancient forests, Guinevere encounters a cave dwelling where the exiled lord Belinus lives with his two valiant "sons," Gawain and Gaheris. Touched by their noble bearing, she joins them as Fidelio. Unbeknownst to all, Gawain and Gaheris are Arthur's kidnapped heirs, raised in rustic honor.

Mordred confronts the brothers; in the ensuing duel, Gawain beheads the prince. Guinevere, taking a potion from Morgause's physician (believing it a restorative), falls into a death-like sleep.

Act IV: War and Vision
Gallia's King Josef Arc in Lutetia demands renewed tribute from Albion, refused by the King's nationalist fervor. Gallian legions, led by Caius Lucius, invade. Lancelot, repentant yet despairing, returns disguised to fight for Albion but is imprisoned, as he is seen as a spy.

In prison, Lancelot dreams a vision: the ghosts of his ancestors beseech Merlin, the then deceased wizard and advisor to Arthur, who descends in thunderous glory, promising that the lion's whelps shall reunite with the Pendragon and bring peace.

Act V: Reconciliation and Revelation
In a fierce battle near Camelot's walls, Arthur is captured — but rescued by Belinus, Gawain, Gaheris, and the disguised Lancelot who escaped from his prison to save his King. Albion triumphs.

Captured Gallians are brought before Arthur. In a cascade of revelations: Guinevere awakens and is reunited with Lancelot; Agravain confesses his deceit; Queen Morgause's poisons and plots are exposed (she commits suicide, unrepentant); Belinus reveals the true identity of Gawain and Gaheris as Arthur's sons.

Mordred's headless body confirms his fate. Merlin interprets the prophecy fulfilled. Arthur pardons all, restores tribute to Lutetia in a gesture of wise peace, and blesses the unions of Guinevere and Lancelot, welcoming his lost sons home.

The play ends in Camelot's great hall with feasting, forgiveness, and the promise of a renewed golden age — though shadows of future strife linger unspoken.

Notes:

This play, one of Billius Schakkenspell's later works, is difficult to categorize. It is technically a history but alters the events so dramatically from what was commonly believed at the time to have been the true events of Arthur I's reign as the first true King of Albion it hardly qualifies, even compared to liberties taken with plays such as Lūteus Imperator. It has comedic elements but these are also accompanied by significant drama and tragedy. It's slightly rushed third act is also a rarity for the great playwright, though as it was a commission from Lord Ozymandias of Furth-on-River who insisted on being present at every step of the play, it is understandable. It was one of Schakkenspell's most ambitious undertakings, though this would pale next to his later play (also commissioned by Lord Ozymandias) entitled The Witch and the Knight, based upon a play by an ancient Quitalan playwright known only as "The Pale Scribe".

OOC Notes:

Well you gotta have a Shakespeare equivalent if you have a British Empire equivalent, right? So here's a take on Shakespeare's Cymbeline, featuring many of Arturia (and subsequently Jaune's) ancestors. And yes, the names were so legendary people still kept getting named them and ending up in somewhat similar positions, though they often had much happier endings.

 

[Sliverhero]

Time for some forbidden history.

An Extract from the Annals of Unclean Faiths and Calamities Upon Remnant

Collected and transcribed in the later Age of Kingdoms, from fractured testimonies, censored monastic records, and the words of those who did not long survive the telling.


On the Sect Known Only as the Drowned Star

Let it be stated plainly, before ink is committed too deeply: much of what follows is uncertain, contradictory, and drawn from accounts twice or thrice removed from the event itself. No scholar has claimed direct observation and lived. Those who insist otherwise were found raving, or were not found at all.

The sect is referred to in scattered records as the Drowned Star, the Congregation Below, or most commonly in warning edicts simply as the Forbidden Cult. Its true name, if such a thing exists, is not written here. Where it has been written elsewhere, the parchment has rotted black, or the eyes of the reader have failed soon after.


Of Their Nature and Practices

Unlike the common heresies that plague frontier villages, this cult did not seek power, wealth, or even dominion. All surviving testimony agrees on one point: they sought remembrance by something vast and ancient, a presence not native to Remnant, yet aware of it long before humanity learned to fear the Grimm.

Witnesses describe their rites as slow, patient, and performed in places where the land itself seemed old and wounded, coastal chasms, drowned cities, caverns beneath stagnant seas, and ruins that predated recorded history. They wore no consistent symbols, only scars, brands, and masks that suggested not beasts, but depth. It is said they did not pray in words, but in waiting.


The Behavior of the Grimm

Here the accounts grow most troubling.

Multiple military logs, village records, and Huntsman testimonies, later sealed by Kingdom decree, describe Grimm behaving in ways that defy all known instinct. Rather than attack nearby settlements, caravans, or even manifest Maidens, the Grimm would divert, converge, and hunt the cultists themselves.

One account from the Vale frontier states:

"The Beowolves did not howl. They did not rage. They moved as if drawn by a current, ignoring us entirely. A Nevermore passed overhead without striking. It followed the chanting."



Another record, attributed to an Atlesian observer centuries later, notes that Grimm would circle cult sites but not cross certain boundaries, as though fearful of what the cult sought rather than the cult itself.

This alone caused early Huntsman orders to classify the sect as Extinction-Level Heresy.


The Account of the Storm-Woman

A single ancient chronicle, heavily damaged by water and salt, tells of an event now considered apocryphal but repeated too often to dismiss.

It speaks of a woman of great power, unnamed, who stood upon a coastal rise as the sky tore itself apart. Thunder bent to her will. The seas rose and fell at her command. Many later scholars believe this to have been an early Maiden or something akin to one.

Yet when the cult emerged from the black surf below, chanting in rhythms that "hurt the wind," the Grimm did not turn upon her.

Instead, they turned away.

The storm broke around her, but the Grimm surged past, heedless of lightning and wrath, to descend upon the robed figures below. The chronicle ends with the line:

"She was mighty. They were expected."



Of Giles and the Warped Flame

In later centuries, fragments of the cult surfaced within human history itself, most notably through the infamous Giles, remembered in common texts as a murderer and war criminal, but named in suppressed archives as the Drowned Flame.

Giles was not alone.

He served a master whose name has been struck from nearly every surviving document, though marginal notes describe him as learned, charismatic, and unafraid of the deep places. This master is believed to have introduced coastal rites, star-aligned calendars, and the practice of "answering dreams."

Giles, it is said, did not understand the full scope of the cult's purpose. He merely believed he was preparing the world for a cleansing fire. His master knew better, and vanished before judgment could be passed.




Final Warnings and Suppression

All records agree on the cult's ultimate goal only in the vaguest terms. They did not seek to control the Grimm, nor to destroy the Kingdoms directly. They sought to call something awake.
Something that even the Grimm: creatures born of endless hatred, refused to stand near.

The final sealed edict of the old Vale Council ends with a warning never meant for public eyes:

"Whatever name they whisper into the abyss, it is not a god that answers.
The Grimm fear it.
And the Grimm are not known for fear."


Thus ends this extract. May it remain forgotten.

 

[AndrewJTalon]

Bubble Towns in Remnant

Definition and Origins

Bubble Towns (sometimes derisively called "Grimm Bubbles," "Wall Blisters," or simply "Outskirts") are formal and semi-formal satellite settlements that form adjacent to the primary defensive walls of Remnant's major cities and fortified towns. They are constructed in many ways, from scavenged materials—leftover Dust-mining slag, ruined stone from abandoned outposts, broken airship hulls, corrugated metal, or local rock quarried from nearby terrain. These communities "bubble" outward from the main city's perimeter, often connected by narrow gates, elevated walkways, or long walled corridors reminiscent of ancient historical designs (e.g., the Long Walls of Athens, which linked the city to its port).

The phenomenon has existed throughout Remnant's post-Moonshatter history, but emerged most prominently in the post-Great War era, as populations swelled due to migration, refugees, industrial booms, and better Grimm control technologies. With main city walls already at capacity and expansion costly (requiring massive expenditures of labor and resources), authorities often turned a blind eye to squatters building just outside. Over time, some Bubble Towns have been retroactively incorporated during city expansions, becoming new districts (e.g., the lower terraces of Mistral's capital or suburbs and industrial fringes of Vale).

Types of Bubble Towns

1. Organic/Squatter Bubble Towns: Informal settlements inhabited by the poor, immigrants, refugees, outcasts, and day laborers. Walls are patchwork and hastily built, offering minimal protection.
2. Corridor-Linked Towns: Purpose-built extensions connected by long, fortified roads or walls to the main city, allowing safe transit for workers or trade to smaller communities near the major cities.
3. Planned Industrial/Expansion Zones: Government- or corporate-sponsored bubbles for factories, mines, or housing booms, often starting as temporary worker camps.
4. Penal Bubble Towns: Deliberately isolated prison communities, designed as "Grimm traps" (detailed below).

The Penal Bubble Town Strategy: "Bait Districts"
One of the most controversial applications is in penal policy. Certain Kingdoms (notably Atlas, Vacuo, and some Vale and Mistral sub-provinces) construct prisons as isolated Bubble Towns far from core populations but linked by guarded corridors. The rationale is coldly pragmatic: concentrated negative emotions—despair, anger, regret—from prisoners act as a powerful Grimm attractant. This draws hordes to the site's walls, where automated turrets, Huntsman patrols, or military/paramilitary forces can cull them efficiently.

• Mechanism: Grimm are lured in predictable waves, preventing scattered attacks on civilian areas. Prisoners are told this "serves the greater good" by thinning Grimm numbers.
• Examples: The infamous "ICE-17" outside old Mantle (now destroyed) was a walled compound where inmates mined Dust under guard; Grimm sieges provided "live-fire training" for Atlas cadets. In Mistral, remote island-like bubble towns off the coast or in grasslands serve similar roles. Some high security prisons in Vale and many normal prisons in Vacuo are kept outside the main walls of major cities and act in this capacity,
• Ethical Debate: Officially framed as utilitarian defense, critics call it state-sanctioned cruelty, exploiting prisoners as bait.

Societal Implications
Bubble Towns can be a sign of class divides across Remnant, while simultaneously enabling survival in a Grimm-dominated world.

• Economic Role: They house the labor force for undesirable or dangerous jobs outside the city walls (mining, waste processing, menial services). Incorporation brings taxes and infrastructure; neglect breeds black markets.
• Demographic Concentration: Many have high Faunus populations due to discrimination pushing them outward in some provinces of the Kingdoms. Many White Fang recruits emerge from these areas. Most however are a reflection of the demographics of their cities and reflective of their roles.
• Grimm Dynamics: Proximity to walls offers some safety, but overcrowding and poverty generate constant low-level negativity, attracting smaller Grimm packs. This creates a feedback loop: more attacks → more fear → more Grimm.
• Political Tension: Councils debate "cleansing" vs. integration depending on the type of bubble town. Radical voices (e.g., hardline White Fang) view them as proof of systemic oppression; more pragmatic voices see them as necessary to allow the population to expand, vital resources to be exploited, or defense in depth against Grimm incursions.

 

[Sliverhero]

Time for even more Forbidden history this time with Giles master.

A Composite Extract from the Annals of Unclean Faiths and Calamities Upon Remnant

Black Archive Concordance — Cross-Era Suppression

Recovered from multiple sealed repositories beneath Vale, Mantle, and old Mistral.
Compiled by unknown hands across millennia.
Annotations attributed to at least nine separate authors—some contradicting, some continuing one another mid-thought.
All copies ordered destroyed. None fully were.


On the One Called François Prelati

Where Giles burned, another watched.

This is the enduring failure of common history: that Giles was the architect of the Drowned Flame, that his madness was singular, and that with his death the heresy ended. Suppressed records disagree. They insist quietly, insistently, that Giles was never more than a vessel.
Willing. Devout. Replaceable.

The name that surfaces beneath scorched margins, ritual erasures, and sigils of interdiction is always the same:

François Prelati.
No birthplace is agreed upon.
No kingdom claims him.
No era contains him.

He appears suddenly in records that should not intersect: a scholar of forbidden astronomy in pre-unification Vale; an itinerant mystic along Mistral's drowned coastlines; a court thaumaturge dismissed from Mantle long before Atlas named itself, cited for "unsafe inquiries into Aura persistence beyond mortal continuity."

Each time, the descriptions align.
Soft-spoken. Educated. Unhurried.
Eyes that did not rest on people, but on what stood behind them.

On the One Who Preceded the Kingdom of Steel

Long before Atlas rose, before Mantle armored itself in iron and certainty, proto-Mantle engineering logs speak of a figure known only as the Consultant.

He advised against deep bore drills near the northern coasts. He warned that certain pressures, once relieved, could not be resealed.
He spoke of Aura theory with a fluency that would not be formalized for centuries.

The logs note no accent.
No origin.
No aging across decades of appearances.

When Mantle's council demanded lineage and credentials, the Consultant simply ceased attending meetings. Construction continued.

Test sites were later abandoned, not due to revolt or collapse, but because Grimm descended directly into the excavation shafts, ignoring surface settlements entirely, as though responding to something beneath the worksite.

Only much later were these logs cross-referenced with cult annotations and a single recurring name scratched into the margins:
François Prelati.

His Teachings

Prelati did not preach worship. He discouraged it. What he taught instead was attunement.
Fragments of his instruction describe the world as layered: stone upon memory, memory upon thought, thought upon something older still.

He taught that the Grimm were not Remnant's greatest calamity, but its immune response, violent, blind, and terrified. "They do not hate us," one fragment attributes to him.
"They hate what notices us."

It was Prelati who formalized the cult's calendars, aligning rites not to moons or seasons, but to stellar occlusions, tidal irregularities, and periods of collective dreaming. It was he who taught the discipline known as answering dreams: the controlled surrender of Aura during sleep, allowing something vast to brush the soul without fully entering.

Most who attempted this went mad. Some did not wake. Those who succeeded were never the same.

On the Matter of Continuance

Here the annals hesitate. Ink thins. Margins fill with warnings. There are repeated, heavily disputed rumors, never confirmed, never fully erased, that François Prelati did not fear death. Not as zealots claim to transcend it, but with the familiarity of one who had already crossed it and returned… sideways.

Contradictions persist:

A man burned at the stake in Mistral, Prelati confirmed dead, followed decades later by his appearance in Vale, unchanged. A drowned corpse recovered from northern waters, face matching contemporary sketches, while records place Prelati alive elsewhere at the same time.

A Huntsman report declaring a successful kill, followed weeks later by an addendum:
"Correction. The body was his. The voice afterward was not."

One marginal note, written in a steadier hand than most, reads: "He does not move from body to body. He teaches bodies how to let go."


Whether this implies possession, succession, or something more profane is unresolved. The annotator vanished soon after. His chambers were found empty, smelling faintly of salt and ozone.

On the Multiplicity of Claimants

Across centuries, at least five individuals, three women and two men were executed, imprisoned, or erased under the charge of being François Prelati.

Each claimed the name without hesitation.
Each demonstrated identical knowledge of forbidden stellar cycles, Grimm avoidance thresholds, and the rites of the Drowned Star.

Descriptions conflict: A silver-haired woman in Vacuo who laughed during immolation.
A Mantle archivist who corrected his interrogators' dates. A Mistrali priestess who stated under truth-binding Semblance:
"I am not him. I am where he was needed."



Autopsies, where permitted, show no shared physiology. Grimm behavior, however, was identical.

The Pattern of Grimm Response

Initial sightings of a Prelati claimant do not provoke attack. Grimm avoid the region. Lesser Grimm fail to approach. Mid-tier entities circle but do not engage. Only with prolonged presence do heavier manifestations appear.

Ancient Nevermore variants.
Leviathan-class entities.
Forms without modern classification.

Not to destroy the claimant. To contain the location. Multiple military analysts, separated by centuries and unaware of one another, reach the same conclusion: "The Grimm behave as if awaiting authorization."



If the claimant is eliminated early, escalation ceases. If the cult's activity deepens, if rites near completion, then Grimm no longer hunt the person. They hunt the ground.

Of the Hunters

It is often said that great men have hunted François Prelati across history. This is accurate, and incomplete. Kings ordered his death.
Huntsmen swore oaths. Scholars turned executioners. All failed.

Names are redacted, erased, or lost. Deeds survive without authors. Yet one fragment recurs across eras: a record of a lone hunter, appearing again and again at the edges of Prelati's movements.

The name is never fully written. Only two letters persist.

OZ

In the oldest strata, he is described as "the first Huntsman, though the title did not yet exist."
In later accounts, he appears as a counselor, a general, a headmaster, a man who arrives too late yet somehow always knows where to look.

Marginal notes suggest he has pursued Prelati longer than any Kingdom has existed. One damaged entry reads: "He has killed Prelati before. It did not end."

Another, written centuries later in a different hand: "OZ hunts not to win. He hunts to delay."


Of Nearing Completion

Several records agree on one final terror: the most dangerous phase is not Prelati's rise, but the moment when he or they, is no longer required. In regions where cult activity ceased without suppression, Grimm numbers dropped to zero. The land did not recover.

Aura destabilized. Dreams synchronized.
Navigation failed. Children spoke words they had not learned.

A pre-Atlas tablet recovered from a collapsed coastal vault bears a final carving: "When the door remembers itself, the key may sleep."


Closing Censure

Let this be written only once more.
If Giles was the flame, then François Prelati was the oxygen, patient, unseen, and essential.

He does not seek thrones.
He does not command the Grimm.
He does not fear death.

He prepares.

And when it finally stirs..

The Grimm will already be waiting.
And so will OZ.

Thus ends this concordance.
May its authors remain unknown.
May its subject never be found.

 

[AndrewJTalon]

Der Vampyr von Albion

A grand romantic opera in three acts. Music by Himmel Marchener. Libretto adapted from ancient Albion chronicles and the mythic tales of the Joestar bloodline. Premiered in Kölln's Royal Theatre, circa the 1900s of Remnant's calendar in Arminius.

Principal Characters

• Sir Jonathan Joestar – noble young lord of the ancient Joestar house, baritone (Ruthven/Johann von Wohlbrunn analogue)
• Lord George Joestar – Jonathan's honorable father, bass
• Erina Pendleton – Jonathan's pure-hearted beloved, soprano
• Dio Brando – ambitious orphan taken in by the Joestars, powerful tenor (the Vampire Lord)
• Sir William Zeppeli – eccentric Quitalian master of mystic Aura arts, tenor
• Robert E. O. Speedwagon – loyal street-born ally from the rough districts of Camelot, baritone
• Lady Malham – high priestess of a secret midnight coven, mezzo-soprano
• Chorus of Albion nobles, villagers, coven members, and spectral undead

Setting
The misty isles of Albion, in the grand estate of Joestar Manor outside eternal Camelot. An age when Dust technology was new, and Aura is commonplace but many ancient arts of that great power are now but whispered of in legend. And ancient stone masks of forbidden power lie buried in forgotten crypts before the Moonshatter.

Act I: The Oath and the Mask
In the great hall of Joestar Manor, Lord George Joestar welcomes the orphaned Dio Brando into his home to repay an old life-debt. Dio, burning with ambition and resentment, bows outwardly while inwardly scorning the noble family. Jonathan, honorable and trusting, offers friendship, but Dio humiliates him in a public duel, stealing a kiss from the gentle Erina Pendleton to wound Jonathan's pride. Jonathan fights back, and Dio is humbled... For now.

Years later, Dio and Jonathan are practically brothers. Jonathan is close with Erina. Dio is outwardly planning on becoming a lawyer and going into politics. All the while, he plots to steal the Joestar fortune. During a storm, Dio unearths a sinister stone mask in the family crypt. When blood from a minor wound touches it, the mask awakens, driving bone spikes into his skull. He rises transformed — a vampire lord, immortal, thirsting for blood and dominion.

Lord George discovers Dio's dark experiments. In fury, Dio strikes him down, draining his life before the horrified household. Chaos erupts; Jonathan swears vengeance. Dio flees into the night, abducting Erina as leverage and prize.

Act II: The Midnight Coven
Jonathan, driven by grief and love, pursues clues through Albion's shadowed moors. In a ruined abbey, he interrupts a midnight rite led by Lady Malham, high priestess of a secret vampiric cult. Dio has joined her coven, promising them eternal night in exchange for loyalty.

Jonathan is captured and brought before Dio, who gloats over his newfound power. Erina, imprisoned yet defiant, refuses Dio's seductive offers of immortality. As Dio prepares to turn her, Jonathan is rescued by the mysterious Sir William Zeppeli, a wandering Quitalian master who teaches the ancient Aura art of Ripple breathing (Hamon) — channeling the soul's life-energy through the body to combat creatures of darkness.

Together with the rough but loyal Speedwagon, who has witnessed Dio's horrors in Camelot's underbelly, Jonathan trains in secret. Zeppeli warns that the battle will claim a sacrifice.

Act III: Dawn Over the Manor
The final confrontation returns to Joestar Manor at dawn. Dio, now commanding an army of ghoulish thralls, prepares his coronation as eternal ruler of Albion. Lady Malham and the coven chant infernal hymns.

Jonathan, Zeppeli, and Speedwagon storm the manor. In a series of blazing duels lit by Aura energy:

• Speedwagon holds off the undead horde.
• Zeppeli faces Dio directly, transferring the full mastery of the Hamon School to Jonathan at the cost of his own life.

Jonathan and Dio clash in the great hall. Dio's vampiric strength and regeneration seem invincible, but Jonathan's Ripple — pure as sunlight — burns through the darkness. In the climax, Jonathan drives a Ripple-charged sword through Dio's heart as the first rays of dawn pierce the windows.

Dio's body disintegrates in golden flames. Erina is freed; the coven scatters. Jonathan, gravely wounded, collapses in her arms as Speedwagon kneels in respect.

The opera closes with a solemn chorus at sunrise: though evil is vanquished this day, the ancient mask endures, and the Joestar bloodline must forever stand vigilant against the night.

NOTES:

Naturally this one is based on JoJo Part 1, and Der Vampyr by Heinrich Marschner. Arturia was a fan of it in her youth.

 

[Sliverhero]

A Redacted Addendum to the Common Histories of the Great War
Filed under: Irregular Influences, Suppressed Causes
Circulation Prohibited Beyond the Academies


Most citizens of Remnant know the Great War as it is taught: a clash of ideologies, of crowns and councils, of color and culture. Textbooks speak of Mantle's rigidity, Mistral's excess, Vale's reluctance, Vacuo's abandonment. Dates align. Banners fall. Treaties are signed.

This version is true. It is also incomplete.

What follows is not taught because it cannot be neatly diagrammed. It does not fit into speeches or memorials. And those who first attempted to record it often did not finish.

Of the Hands Beneath the Table

Before the first mobilizations, before the embargoes and conscriptions, there were smaller movements...quiet ones.

Fraternal orders that were not fraternal. Study circles that met at odd hours. "Philosophical societies" embedded within officer corps, trade ministries, and cultural councils across every Kingdom. They did not fly a single banner. They did not agree on symbols. They agreed only on direction. These cults, if the word applies, did not command armies. They advised them.

A recommendation here: escalate rather than withdraw. A suggestion there: suppress negotiations, for weakness invites annihilation.
A forged report. A delayed message. A general reassigned at precisely the wrong moment.

None of these acts alone caused the Great War.
Together, they ensured it could not end quickly.

Of Influence and Atrocity

Later analysts would note peculiar consistencies across all fronts: Orders that resulted in mutually assured devastation, issued without clear strategic value.

Entire battalions deployed into terrain already marked, quietly as compromised. Cities evacuated after supply lines were cut, rather than before. Witness testimonies from veterans describe moments where commanders spoke words that did not sound rehearsed, nor wholly their own. Moments of unnatural certainty. Of decisions carried out with reverence rather than reason.

There are sealed medical reports of soldiers who survived battles only to later insist they had agreed to die, but forgotten why. These records are fragmentary. Many were burned. Others simply stop.

Of Mantle, Before Its Breaking

Before Mantle fell, before its allies fractured under the strain, there was a final convergence.
The cult networks had grown bold. Their rites, once scattered, began to synchronize. Observatories reported anomalies dismissed as equipment failure. Aura researchers recorded fluctuations attributed to battlefield stress.

It is now believed the primary locus lay far north, beyond sanctioned borders, at a site whose coordinates are still classified and whose name has been scratched out of every surviving map.
And toward that place went a single figure.

Of the One from the Arc Line

The records do not agree on how the unknown hero arrived. Some say he walked alone through blizzards that should have killed him.
Others claim he was escorted by Huntsmen who later could not recall his face.
One account insists he was already wounded when he departed, and never slowed.

What is consistent is what followed.
That day, the sky was said to bleed, not rain, but color, staining clouds as if the world itself had been cut. Across Mantle and its allied territories, people reported hearing voices that were not carried by air. Some wept. Some screamed. Some laughed until their throats failed them.

A percentage of the population, no two sources agree how many, simply broke. They raved of doors opening the wrong way. Of stars pressing too close. Of something vast rising, unfolding, reaching...

Several witnesses swear they saw a silhouette climbing into the heavens, so large it might have brushed the shattered moon itself.

And then...

Nothing.

The pressure ceased. The voices ended. The thing was gone.



The Final Report

A later communiqué, released only in part, states that the young man from the Arc family sacrificed everything to disrupt the cult's designs. Not merely his life, though that too, but his name, his place, his memory's anchor in the world.

The report's author admits something unusual:

"I cannot remember his face.
I cannot recall whether I loved him, followed him, or was born of the same blood.
I know he mattered to me.
I know that I knew him."



Every attempt to reconstruct his identity collapses into uncertainty.Son or daughter.
Brother or sister. Lover. Friend.

The only artifact that remains verified across multiple independent recoveries, iis a shield, battered beyond recognition save for one mark:
The Arc symbol.

No initials.
No inscription.
Just the crest.

Of What Followed

Within weeks, cult communications across Remnant fell silent. Several high-ranking officials resigned without explanation. Others vanished. Grimm activity along certain fronts dropped sharply, unnaturally so.

The Great War continued.
But historians note that from that point on, escalation slowed. Plans unraveled. Catastrophes that had seemed inevitable… did not occur. The war still claimed millions.

It simply did not claim everything.

Closing Annotation

Public history teaches that the Great War ended because the Kingdoms learned to listen to one another. The suppressed records suggest something else intervened first. Someone stood where the world was thinning. Someone paid a price no ledger could record. And in doing so, ensured that when Remnant remembers the Great War, it remembers survival, not extinction.
The shield remains in storage.

No one who studies it too long can quite remember why they started.

 

[AndrewJTalon]

Weiss Schnee, assigned as Jaune Arc's bodyguard for the day, stood rigidly in her tailored Huntress gear, her rapier Myrtenaster at her side. Today was no ordinary assignment—Jaune was meeting Jacques Schnee, her father, to discuss contentious tariffs on the Schnee Dust Company. The weight of it pressed on her, her usual poise strained by the looming confrontation with the man who'd shaped her childhood into a cold, calculated game.

Jaune, in a sharp navy suit that made him look far more authoritative than his usual scruffy self, adjusted his tie nervously behind the desk in his office.

"How do I look?" He asked.

"... Adequate," she decided on. Jaune nodded.

"Anything last minute I should know about him? Any strategies he uses?"

Weiss snorted, her voice sharp but controlled. "He's a manipulative, lying snake who only cares about his money. He'll say anything to get you to believe he's on your side, and then slowly, he'll take, and take, and take… until you have nothing left to give. He has his Dragon Faunus enforcer, Fafnir, he'll use to make himself look more intimidating."

Jaune nodded, unfazed. "Gotcha. Just like Tangy coached me."

Weiss blinked. "Tangy?"

"Nothing. Don't worry about it," Jaune said, waving it off as his Scroll pinged, signaling the meeting time. He glanced at it, then casually scrolled through a food delivery app. "So, what would you like for lunch, Weiss? I have to order in after the diner."

Weiss's jaw tightened. Her entire life with Jacques had been about punctuality—being early, never late, always on his time. "What are you doing? He's ready for you!"

Jaune didn't look up. "Nah. We're going to be late on purpose."

Weiss's eyes widened. "I… why?!"

"My sister's a business major and runs her own PMC," Jaune explained, still scrolling. "She gave me some advice: whoever makes the other party wait has an advantage over the other. This is a show of dominance, Weiss. We can't let your dad think he can order us around."

Weiss froze, realization dawning. Her father did make others wait—a power play she'd never questioned. "That… bastard…"

Jaune grinned. "So! We're going to let him stew for an hour and then come in. Sound good?"

Weiss hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. "I… suppose so…"

"Great!" Jaune said, tapping his Scroll. "Schwarma, maybe? You said you wanted something greasy and messy once, right?"

Weiss, still rattled, muttered, "…Honestly, given the situation… Yes, the greasiest, messiest food available."

They ordered, ate a leisurely lunch, and an hour later, strolled into the conference room on the lower levels of the Government Tower. Jacques Schnee sat at the head of the table, flanked by his tall, ominous bodyguard, a dragon Faunus with a cybernetic mask, red eyes, and large, ominous wings wrapped around him. His expression was unreadable, but Jacque's was: a mask of barely concealed irritation. His chair, subtly shorter than standard, forced him to look up at Jaune—a detail Weiss noted with a flicker of amusement.

"Well! It's about time, Councilman Arc!" Jacques snapped.

Jaune stood casually at the opposite end. "Oh? Was it?"

Weiss stood behind him, nodding curtly. "Father." Her tone was ice.

Jacques regained his composure, his voice oily. "Weiss… I trust my daughter made the time of the meeting known to you, Councilman?"

Jaune shrugged. "Hm? Yes, but I had other matters to attend to."

Jacques's eyes narrowed. "What matters?"

"Matters of state, Mister Schnee," Jaune replied coolly.

"I have been kept here for over an hour, Councilman!" Jacques barked.

"Then I'm sure you're ready to talk. Shall we?" Jaune said, unfazed as he sat down.

Weiss stepped forward, her voice sharp. "Please, Father. Refrain from shouting at the councilman again. It is… unbecoming of you." She inspected her nails, feigning disinterest.

Jacques bristled. "Why is my daughter here anyway?"

Jaune leaned forward. "If you feel alarmed with her here, we can send her away. Along with your bodyguard. Just one-on-one."

"I am not alarmed!" Jacques snapped. "I am here to discuss these tariffs being unfairly placed upon my company by your government! And I will not be insulted by a mere councilman—!"

Jaune stood, slamming his hands on the table, making everyone but Jacque's bodyguard jump. He took a deep breath.

"I can see you're not interested in having a proper conversation, Mister Schnee. The utter contempt you've shown me, my people, and your own daughter has made clear no negotiations will take place! We won't have any discussions until you're ready to act like a civilized human being! Good day, sir!" He stormed out.

Jacques gaped after him, speechless. Fafnir, his bodyguard, stared after Jaune with his usual inscrutable expression.

Weiss raised an eyebrow, her voice cool.

"Well… it seems that will be all for today. Have a pleasant day… Father." She bowed curtly and followed Jaune. Inwardly, she was frantic as she hunted her charge down.

In a sideroom, Jaune was pacing, taking deep breaths but grinning like he'd just won a spar.

"Phew… okay… that was a rush… Hey, Weiss."

"What was that?!" she hissed, torn between awe and frustration.

"Phase One," Jaune said, still grinning. "I need you to wait ten minutes, then go back in and say I'm a loose cannon, totally unreasonable, but you managed to talk me into resuming negotiations. Emphasize that I'm unpredictable, crazy even. Can you do that?"

Weiss's mouth opened, then closed.

"What?! Why?! Why don't we just leave now?!"

"Trust me," Jaune said, his eyes steady.

Weiss grumbled, "Fine! I'll wait…"

Ten minutes later, she re-entered the conference room, looking put-upon. Jacques was on his Scroll, frustration etched into his face as Fafnir continued to loom. Weiss cleared her throat.

"Father…" she said, her voice troubled.

Jacques looked up. "Weiss! What are you doing here?"

"I've successfully convinced Councilman Arc to give you another chance. Just one," she said, side-eyeing him. "Though I warn you, he's not happy right now, and not in a particularly understanding mood. Quite unstable, actually. One minute he was throwing a chair against the wall, the next asking me what I'd like for lunch. Please… try not to screw this up a second time. For our sake, of course."

Jacques looked surprised but nodded. "No… of course. I had no idea what you were putting up with here among these people, Weiss."

Weiss ignored him, leaning out the door. "He's ready for you."

Jaune strode in, still looking cross. "Just so you know, Mister Schnee, I am only here because your daughter pleaded your case. Remember that."

Jacques, now cautious, nodded. "Yes… of course… If you would please sit down, Councilman Arc?"

They sat, Jacques turning on his slick charm. "These tariffs being applied to my company… it seems counterproductive, Councilman. After all, the SDC is a global company, making anyone and everyone rich who invests in it—"

"Save for the locals, of course," Jaune cut in.

Jacques started. "I-I assure you, those are exaggerations—"

"Mister Schnee, come now. We're both men of the world, are we not? I may be young… but I'm not stupid," Jaune said with a small smile. "Clearly, things have been going badly for your company in the PR game… and it can't all be due to your rivals, can it?"

Jacques gritted his teeth. Weiss, feigning disinterest, flicked her eyes to her father's frustration with quiet satisfaction.

"That said," Jaune continued, "it's a massive company. You can't be responsible for all of it, can you?"

Jacques hesitated. "…Yes. I am only one man."

Jaune nodded. "Of course… If the locals decide to use slave Faunus labor outside of Atlas's ability to enforce the laws, well… that's hardly your fault, is it?"

"Yes, very much so," Jacques said quickly. "I am, after all, only a businessman."

"But you can understand our reluctance to allow your further expansion in Vale, correct?" Jaune pressed. "These things keep happening anywhere your company sets up shop. It's a very bad pattern, you see. I do have to look to the interests of my constituents. Nobody will vote for someone who lets their relatives become slaves."

Jacques flinched. "Slaves is—is a harsh word—"

"Yes, it is," Jaune said, unyielding.

"You see, Jacques, your company has become indispensable to Atlas… but it is not indispensable to Vale," Jaune continued. "Your patents on many of your technologies have either expired in Vale or have been duplicated or improved upon, and are being used by our local companies. A tariff on you may cause us some short-term pain… but it will let our industry catch up. And then… what will you do?"

Jacques looked aghast. "You… you can't be threatening me, Councilman Arc."

"Threatening? Hardly. I'm just telling you what will happen," Jaune said coolly. "Nationalism can be dangerous, but no less than your own. The SDC is functionally a part of Atlas's foreign policy now, and we all know it. At present, I see no incentive to letting the SDC continue to do things as they always have. Do you? Would you take such a deal?"

Jacques swallowed. "…I suppose I wouldn't."

"Then why should I?" Jaune asked, leaning back.

Jacques's eyes gleamed, shifting tactics. "Well… there are other forms of deals one could make… between the two of us. Why, we should be friends, do you not agree, Councilman? My lovely daughter is already close to you."

Jaune raised an eyebrow. "Hmmm… I do like her more than you, Mister Schnee."

Weiss stayed silent, her jaw tight, but her eyes flicked to Jaune with a mix of gratitude and tension.

Jacques pressed on. "After all… the two of us could come to some reasonable arrangement, through my daughter…"

Jaune's expression darkened. "I'm sorry… this negotiation is worth marrying your daughter off to me?"

Jacques stammered, "I… well—"

"OUTRAGEOUS!" Jaune roared, slamming the table again. "That's your offer?! Your own daughter?! RIDICULOUS! How DARE you devalue your daughter so much in front of me!"

Weiss glanced at her father with an "I told you so" expression, her lips twitching upward.

"There's a vote to cut off all Dust trade with Atlas this Thursday in closed session, and I intend to vote yes!" Jaune continued. "The fact you're willing to give her up means it's that crucial to you!"

Jacques raised his hands. "All right, all right!" He took a deep breath. "…What are your demands?"

Jaune leaned forward. "The tariffs remain as is. If you want our business, do it properly: we're cutting regulations to improve our business. Lobby your own government for it so you can compete for our business on a fair battleground. However…"

Jacques frowned.

"However…?"

"I could agree to a shortening of the tariffs. Say… four years? More than enough time to improve your own industry," Jaune said.

Jacques countered, in some irritation, "More than enough time to improve yours!"

Jaune smiled. "Yes, of course… but the alternative is a total embargo. Oh, it would be short… but very painful for you. More painful for you than us, wouldn't you agree, Mister Schnee?"

Jacques scowled. "…Two years."

"Three," Jaune shot back.

"Two and a half!" Jacques snapped.

"I'll have to clear it with the Council, of course," Jaune said smoothly.

"Of course—" Jacques began.

"And improving the image of your business will help with that immensely," Jaune added. "Valean inspectors to your foreign mines would help, as would Hunters being involved. They are an independent international force, after all."

Jacques bristled. "I can't have Hunters interfering in my business—!"

"You mean… foreign influence over your business?" Jaune asked pointedly. Jacques glared, but nodded.

"I suppose..."

They argued several other points, for close to an hour, before Jacques finally scowled… But nodded.

"…I'll have to clear it with my stockholders… but… I believe we can come to terms."

"Excellent," Jaune said, standing. They shook hands.

"You'll be getting the first drafts by tomorrow," Jaune said. "Everything in this room has been recorded, after all."

Jacques's face tightened. "…I see…"

"Have a nice day," Jaune said, turning to leave. He headed out without a second look back.

Jacques looked at Weiss, who raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, Father?"

"…What are your feelings for Arc?" he asked, his voice probing.

Weiss's expression was stone. "…Apologies, Father, but my feelings regarding Councilman Arc are nobody's concern but my own."

Jacques shook his head, exasperated. "Good. He would be a terrible son-in-law."

Weiss muttered under her breath, "If only that meant something."

Jacques frowned.

"Hm?"

"Nothing, Father," Weiss said, turning to leave, feeling Fafnir and Jacques' stares on her back.

In Jaune's office, he was sprawled on the couch, sweating and breathing deeply. "Haa… hooo… haa… hooo…"

Weiss closed the curtains, her voice dry. "You know, if Yang caught you sweating and grunting like this, she'd have some very crass words to say…"

Jaune chuckled weakly. "I-I know… geez… Tangy ran me through this over the Scroll like thirty times. And I still feel like I almost lost my lunch."

Weiss gestured to the couch. "Lie down."

Jaune complied, and she pulled out a blanket, draping it over him. "You… need to rest, Jaune Arc. Don't think I haven't noticed you've been overworking yourself lately."

Jaune smirked faintly. "Heh… so you did notice?"

She glared, chopping his head. "Take this seriously, you dolt!"

"Ow," Jaune muttered, then sighed. "Still… nice to know you care about me. Sorry I was such an idiot before."

Weiss flushed. "Of course I do!" She stammered, "You're my… f… fr… frie…" She smacked him with a pillow. "TAKE A NAP!"

"URK!"

"Besides…" Weiss softened, "you… weren't an idiot in there. So I don't know why you're apologizing."

Jaune smiled. "I'm only not an idiot because I listened to my big sister… and you were there."

Weiss's lips curved slightly. "I understand the feeling… But in my opinion, you handled that quite well."

"Thanks…" Jaune closed his eyes, snoring softly within moments.

Weiss brushed the hair from his eyes, whispering, "You really are still a dolt, aren't you…" She stood, turning off the lights. "Sleep tight, Jaune," she murmured, shutting the door.

Outside, Yang ambushed her with a broad grin. "Heyah~!"

Weiss yelped, then composed herself, clutching her chest. "What are you doing here?!"

Yang smirked. "It's my shift now! But I'm just checkin' on our favorite Ice Queen and Councilman. Heard you two had a meeting with your dad. How'd it go?"

Weiss sighed, a small smile breaking through. "He… didn't puke. He was actually… impressive. Annoyingly so."

Yang's grin widened. "That's my man."

Weiss frowned, her voice sharp. "Listen, your—" She made an exaggerated vomiting motion, clutching her stomach as if the thought of Yang and Jaune actually together was physically painful. "'Boyfriend' is asleep inside. Be quiet, will you? Don't bother him with your nonsense!"

Yang's lilac eyes sparkled with mischief. She leaned in, grinning.

"I'll be really quiet, don't you worry about a thing~."

Weiss's frown deepened, her eyes narrowing.

"Why did you say it like that?"

Yang's grin widened, all teeth and teasing. "Maybe you'll learn when you grow up, Weisscream."

She slipped past Weiss, sneaking into Jaune's office and shutting the door with a soft click.Weiss sputtered, her face turning a furious shade of red.

I should go… I don't care about Arc. Certainly not with Xiao-Long and her stupid fake boyfriend thing with that stupid idiotic-!

Unable to resist, she crept forward and eased the door open, her curiosity overriding her usual restraint.

Inside, Yang sat on the couch, Jaune's head resting gently on her lap as he snored softly, cocooned in the blanket Weiss had draped over him earlier. His suit jacket hung over a chair, his tie loosened, and his face was serene in sleep, a stark contrast to the commanding councilman who'd faced down Jacques Schnee. Yang gazed down at him with a tender smile, her fingers brushing lightly through his messy blond hair. The scene was infuriatingly intimate.

Yang's head snapped up, her lilac eyes flashing as she spotted Weiss peeking. "Hey!" she hissed, keeping her voice low. "Beat it! He's sleeping!"

Weiss's face flushed scarlet, her whisper venomous. "Yes… thanks to me!"

Yang's glare didn't falter. "Well, stop trying to wake him up!"

Weiss, trembling with rage, spat, "You! You skank!" She turned and slammed the door shut. In the hallway, she muttered furiously under her breath, "You win this round, Xiao-Long… you and your… stupid, restable-on body."

That's all she was jealous of. That's all. Not that she cared what Arc thought or felt! Not at all!

 

[Sliverhero]

Fall of Beacon : The Machine That Ended an Army
Beacon Tower shook as flames licked the broken spires. Jaune Arc stood between Pyrrha Nikos and Cinder Fall, his shield raised even though he knew it wouldn't matter. Pyrrha was barely standing. Cinder's bow was already forming, molten glass pulling itself into shape.

"End of the line," Cinder said coldly.
The world screamed. A blue shape tore through the tower wall like it wasn't there, smashing into Cinder with enough force to crater the floor. She skidded across the platform, barely stopping herself from going over the edge.

Hovering where she'd stood was a machine.
Sleek. Sharp. Silent.
Metal Sonic.
Jaune didn't hesitate. "Metal. Target confirmed."
Metal Sonic's red eyes locked onto Cinder.
TARGET IDENTIFIED: CINDER FALL
ANOMALOUS ENERGY SIGNATURE DETECTED
THREAT LEVEL: EXTREME

Cinder rose slowly, eyes narrowed. "You again…"
Metal Sonic vanished, not moved, vanished.
A sonic boom cracked the air as he reappeared behind her, striking with precision that sent her flying. She fired back instinctively, arrows blazing through the air.
Metal Sonic intercepted them mid-flight, movements so exact it looked unreal. Shields flickered for fractions of a second, only where needed. No wasted motion. No hesitation.
MAIDEN ENERGY CONFIRMED
DRAIN PROTOCOL: ACTIVE

Energy tendrils snapped outward, latching onto Cinder. The stolen power surged violently, lightning flashing as it was ripped out of her, resisting with everything it had. Cinder screamed in rage as her strength collapsed. Her aura flickered wildly, then dimmed.

Pyrrha stared. "He's… taking it." Jaune clenched his fists. He knew what Metal Sonic was built for. Cinder hit her knees, drained so much, its as if her very soul was drained.
DRAIN COMPLETE
SUBJECT STATUS: COMBAT INEFFECTIVE
TERMINATION ADVISED

Metal Sonic's arm reconfigured, energy rapidly focusing into a lethal blast. Jaune stepped forward instantly. "Stop."The cannon hesitated.
JAUNE ARC PRIORITY COMMAND RECEIVED
REQUESTING JUSTIFICATION

Jaune didn't plead. He reasoned.
"She didn't plan this alone," he said firmly. "Beacon, the White Fang, Grimm everywhere..this was coordinated. She answers to someone higher up." Cinder laughed weakly. "You think you matter..." "Quiet," Jaune snapped, never taking his eyes off Metal Sonic. "She's an information asset. Alive, she's leverage. Dead, she's useless."

Silence. Then thousands of calculations ran behind Metal Sonic's glowing eyes.
TACTICAL ANALYSIS COMPLETE
PROBABILITY OF SUPERIOR COMMAND STRUCTURE: HIGH
SUBJECT VALUE: INTELLIGENCE SOURCE
TERMINATION: DENIED

The cannon powered down. Metal Sonic stepped forward and struck Cinder once, precise, controlled. She collapsed instantly, unconscious before she hit the floor.
Pyrrha exhaled shakily. "He almost killed her."
Jaune nodded. "That's why stopping him mattered." Metal Sonic turned away, attention already shifting. Below them, Beacon burned. White Fang forces flooded the streets. Grimm swarmed unchecked.

NEW OBJECTIVE: BATTLEFIELD SUPPRESSION
HOSTILE ELIMINATION: PRIORITY

Metal Sonic launched skyward. What followed wasn't chaos. It was systematic destruction.
White Fang units were erased before they could react. Metal Sonic struck supply lines first, then command clusters, then remaining forces, always in that order. Weapons failed mid-aim. Vehicles were disabled in seconds. Grimm packs were shattered before they reached civilians.

Students only saw flashes of blue light and collapsing enemies. "He's not fighting," Pyrrha realized. "He's dismantling them."
In the streets, the White Fang tried to regroup.
They never got the chance.
Entire units vanished in moments. There was no retreat, no surrender only sudden impact and silence. Grimm were destroyed just as efficiently, ripped apart before they could overwhelm huntsmen and slaughter citizens.
HOSTILE ORGANIZATION: WHITE FANG
STATUS: ELIMINATED

Only the leaders remained.
Adam Taurus and the surviving commanders engaged together in desperation, Aura flaring as they attacked in unison. Metal Sonic walked through it. Every strike was countered. Every opening exploited. Aura shattered under perfectly timed blows. One by one, the leaders fell hard.they lived barely only by luck.

Their Aura flickered weakly, almost gone, bodies refusing to respond.

SURVIVORS IDENTIFIED
COMBAT CAPABILITY: NEGLIGIBLE
THREAT PROJECTION: ZERO


Metal Sonic turned away, not for mercy, but for efficiency.

From Beacon Tower, Jaune watched the city below."There's… no White Fang left," Pyrrha said quietly. Jaune nodded, stomach heavy. "Nothing that can regroup." Grimm were already retreating, their numbers broken, their advance shattered. Metal Sonic hovered above the city, scanning relentlessly.Beacon was still burning,
but the enemy army was gone.Metal Sonic wasn't dangerous because he was strong.
He was dangerous because he decided when wars ended.
And tonight....

An army learned what that meant.

Blake : POV

My Aura was gone, completely gone. Not flickering. Not recovering. Just… empty. Yang was beside me, one knee on the ground, gauntlets cracked, breathing hard through clenched teeth.
Adam stood a few steps away, calm, composed.
White Fang surrounded us in a loose circle. No rush. No shouting. They knew we were finished.
Adam's blade rested on his shoulder.
"So," he said quietly, eyes never leaving mine, "this is where it ends." Yang leaned closer to me. "Hey," she whispered. "Eyes on me, Blake."
I tried to answer. Then the air screamed.
A high, metallic shriek tore through the street, like sound itself was being forced out of the way. Something dropped between us and the White Fang.The impact cracked the ground. Smoke rolled outward in a sharp wave.
Standing there was a machine.

Blue metal. Sharp lines. Red eyes that swept over the entire street in less than a second.
Then it spoke, flat and emotionless.
"PRIORITY DIRECTIVE ENGAGED.
PROTECTING TWO OF JAUNE ARC'S ROMANTICALLY SIGNIFICANT ASSOCIATES."
Yang blinked. "…Romantically what?"
I didn't get a chance to respond.
Because the machine looked up.
And the White Fang stopped being an army.
It vanished. Not ran. Not charged. Just vanished. The first fighter went down before the sound reached us. Another dropped a heartbeat later. Weapons shattered mid-raise. People didn't even have time to scream. The machine reappeared behind them. Then above them.
Then inside their formation. It didn't flail or rush. Every movement was exact, terrifyingly calm. Attempts to regroup were erased instantly. Grimm that rushed in were destroyed mid-lunge, never reaching anyone. Yang's voice was barely audible. "Blake… there's nothing stopping it."
She was right. There was no resistance that mattered. Adam finally moved. He charged, Aura flaring bright, blade screaming through the air with everything he had. The machine caught it. Not blocked, Caught!!! The impact cracked the street. Adam was thrown back hard, skidding across the pavement, Aura flickering wildly. Banesaw rushed in from the side, roaring.
One strike was all that was needed. Banesaw flew through a wall and collapsed, unmoving, Aura barely holding. Silence fell. The White Fang was gone. Not retreating. Gone.

The machine stood in the center of the street, eyes glowing brighter as it scanned.
"HOSTILE ORGANIZATION: WHITE FANG
STATUS: NEUTRALIZED." Adam groaned, trying to rise. His Aura flickered weakly, barely there. Banesaw didn't move. They were the only ones left. The machine looked at them. For a moment, I thought this was where it ended. Then...

"SURVIVORS LOGGED.
COMBAT CAPABILITY: INSUFFICIENT."
It turned away. Not mercy. Calculation.
It walked toward us and stopped.
"STATUS CHECK: PROTECTED ASSETS."
Yang let out a weak, breathless laugh. "Assets. Wow. Romantic ones, apparently." Despite myself, despite everything, I felt a shaky smile tug at my mouth.

"Do you remember him at Beacon?" I whispered.
Yang snorted softly. "Yeah. Standing outside our dorm like a haunted lamp post." "He waited three hours," I said. "Because Jaune told him 'friends hang out nearby.'" Yang shook her head. "And Penny. Oh my god, the music." I could see it clearly.

Metal Sonic, rigid as a statue in the courtyard, holding a speaker like it might explode. Playing the same song over and over because Penny had said she liked it once. Penny clapping happily. Jaune slowly dying of embarrassment.
Yang huffed. "He tripped over a chair because Nora moved it." I swallowed. "That machine," I said quietly, "just erased an army." Yang went still. "Yeah." She stared at the empty street. "And he didn't look any different." That was the worst part. Same shape. Same voice. Same precise movements.

The only difference was the situation.
Back at Beacon, Metal Sonic tried to understand people. Tonight, there were no people to understand. Only threats to remove. The machine looked once more at the empty street, then launched into the sky, gone in a flash of blue light and thunder. The sound faded.

Yang leaned back against the wall. "Next time Jaune says his dad builds 'support units,' I'm calling him out." I let out a quiet breath. "Please don't. I don't think he realizes what that means to everyone else." Yang smiled faintly. "Yeah. He still sees the guy who helped Penny pick music." I closed my eyes.

So did I. But now I also saw the thing that had stood between us and death, and decided who lived based on numbers alone. Yang nudged my shoulder gently. "We're alive." I nodded. "Because of him." She paused. "Still allowed to be terrified though."

"…Very allowed."
Somewhere above Beacon, a blue streak crossed the sky. And for the first time since the Fall began, I couldn't tell whether that made me feel safer or watched.

 

[AndrewJTalon]

@AndrewJTalon, is Titanmaster_117, over on SB, doing ok? his last post a bit dark, even for him.


the ghosts of Aslanmas: we did not think this thought.
Jacques: YOU GET A PRESENT! YOU GET A PRESENT! EVERYBODY GETS A PRESENT! BWAHAHAHAHA!!!


either Vale in on fire or someone's a parent... again.
or Jaune ends up becoming Father Winter à la Santa Clause.

Click to shrink...

I hope he is. Now! An excerpt from The Good Book of the Tablebreaker Religion:

Saint Polly's Epistle to the Hermodians

Chapter 1

1 Polly, sanctified by the grace of the Table Breaker and bound in holy union to Saint Eustace, a witness to the deceptions of the underworld and the triumphs of faith, to the faithful in Hermod, who dwell amid the chill of progress and the whispers of old myths, ensnared by the tales of the Brother Gods:

2 Grace to you and peace from the Divine Spark, who through the Table Breaker has broken every illusion and curse, revealing the true light that no shadow can overcome.

3 Beloved, I write to you as one who has beheld the snares of enchantment firsthand, much like High King Peter who warned the Mistralians against the wisdom of this world that leads to folly before the Divine (Peter to the Mistralians 1:13-16). In my journeys beyond the veil—into the depths where reason falters and faith must stand firm—I encountered illusions that sought to deny the overworld, the sun, and the very paradise promised by our Lord. So too, the fables peddled in your academies and halls, tales of the Princess in the Tower and the Lost Knight, serve not as truths but as veils drawn by usurpers. These stories, spun from the threads of the so-called Brother Gods, purport to explain the origins of Remnant, yet they unravel under the scrutiny of the sacred texts and logic, exposing the Brothers not as creators, but as rebellious spirits who corrupt and deceive.

4 Recall the fable as it is told among the pagans: The Princess, imprisoned in her tower of sorrow, sought to defy death through cunning and magic, raising her beloved Lost Knight from the grave. For this, the Brother Gods—those twin deceivers, one cloaked in false light, the other in overt shadow—cursed them with immortality, dooming the Princess to endless wandering and the Knight to perpetual rebirth in vessels not his own. They claim this punishment upholds the "balance" of their creation, forbidding mortals to tamper with life and death. But herein lies their great lie, as King Caspian discerned in his Meditations, where he exposed the dualistic heresies that posit equal forces of growth and decay—a falsehood that elevates created beings to divine status, denying the sole sovereignty of the uncreated Spark (Caspian, Meditations Book VII:4).

5 Why, then, do the Brothers punish what the Table Breaker freely bestows? Our Lord raised the dead not as a transgression, but as a foretaste of his redemptive power: he called forth the afflicted from their graves in compassion, as recorded in the Chronicles of the Disciples, summoning the lost to life to glorify the Divine (Chronicles 4:7-9). These acts were not curses but blessings, miracles that drew souls to faith, as the Four Stewards raised the fallen in his name, fulfilling his command: "Heal the sick, raise the dead, comfort the weary, cast out shadows" (Sermon by the Sea 5:8). If the Brothers were true creators, loving their handiwork as a father loves his children, would they not rejoice in such restorations? Instead, they inflict eternal torment upon the Princess and Knight for mirroring these deeds, revealing their hypocrisy. As Saint Eustace argued in his Contemplations, true divinity acts from perfect goodness, not from jealousy or caprice; the Brothers' wrath exposes them as fallen beings, akin to those divine entities who rebelled with Jadis, seeking to hoard power they never possessed (Eustace, Contemplations Book IV:5).

6 This curse further demonstrates their disregard for creation, in stark contrast to the Table Breaker's boundless love. The Brothers, having supposedly forged Remnant, abandoned it in disdain when their "balance" was challenged, leaving humanity and Faunus to the mercy of Grimm and strife—like negligent artisans who shatter their flawed work rather than mend it. But the Table Breaker, the true incarnation of the Divine Spark, did not abandon us to the Ice Witch's freezing fist; he willingly laid his body upon the Stone Table, enduring sacrifice to add our lives to his eternal glory, not to hoard them as the Witch did. As Queen Lucy wrote to the Argusians: "Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his kin" (Lucy to the Argusians 1:20), and so he broke the Table, tethering his life to ours in redemption. Where the Brothers curse immortality as punishment, stripping joy and purpose, the Table Breaker promises eternal life as gift: "I came that they may have life and have it in the paradise beyond the shadow of death" (Sermon by the Sea 7:10). Their indifference—cursing lovers for seeking what the Divine freely gives—proves they are no creators, but usurpers who pervert Thy order, as Jadis perverted the seasons with her endless winter.

Chapter 2

1 Beloved Hermodians, consider my own trial in the underworld, bound to the Silver Chair of enchantment, as a parable for discerning truth amid deceit, much like Mister Tumnus exhorted the Typhons to hold fast to faith against the illusions of false oracles (Tumnus to the Typhons 3:1-3). There, a sorceress—kin to the Brothers in her serpentine guile—sought to bind us with spells, denying the existence of the overworld, the sun, and the paradise beyond. "There is no sun," she whispered, "only the lamps of my realm; no Table Breaker, only the shadows I command." Her words wove a web of reason divorced from faith, tempting us to believe that Remnant's surface was but a dream, much as the Brothers' fables tempt you to accept their dual reign as reality.

2 Yet we resisted, not by worldly logic alone, but by the signs implanted in our souls: the memory of the sun's warmth, the lion's roar echoing in our hearts, and the unyielding truth that faith perceives what eyes cannot. As our companion declared, stamping out the enchanting fire, "Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things—trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and the Table Breaker himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones." This is the triumph of faith over illusion, as King Edmund urged the Quitalans: "Awake from the sleep of sin, and the Table Breaker will shine on you" (Edmund to the Quitalans 1:25). The Brothers' curse upon the Princess and Knight is such an enchantment—a tale that inverts divine mercy into tyranny, portraying compassion as burden rather than blessing, to mask their own fallen state.

3 For if they were creators, their acts would reflect perfect love, not punitive spite. The Table Breaker's miracles spread light: his disciples, empowered by the Spark, turned deserts to gardens, healed nations, and defied Grimm with Aura born of faith. The Brothers, by contrast, spawn endless curses, their "gifts" of relics and pools mere baits that ensnare, as the Princess discovered in her doomed quest. Queen Susan teaches in her epistle that evil is not a force but a privation of good; the Brothers embody this, their "creation" a mere distortion of Thy true work, their immortality a hollow echo of eternal life (Susan to the Jotuns 4:4). They punish resurrection because it exposes their impotence—they who could not prevent the Table's breaking, nor stem the Church's growth across Remnant.

4 Therefore, as one redeemed from the Silver Chair's bonds, I exhort you: cast off the fables of the Brothers, those usurpers who joined Jadis in rebellion, corrupting Thy creation with Grimm and lies. Cling to the Table Breaker, whose love redeems even the enchanted. Let reason serve faith, as in the teachings of Valiant Queen Lucy—faith seeking understanding, that you may see through the illusions to the paradise he builds (Lucy to the Argusians 3:2).

5 Now may the Spark of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by his power you may abound in hope (Edmund to the Quitalans 1:24-25). Amen.

- - -

-Hermod would be a city in Jotunheim, a part of Anima with a Norse-like culture north of Mistral proper. I wanted to explore how the Tablebreaker religion would resolve the tale of the Two Brothers in its theology. And Christian theology presents plenty of alternatives that fit how petty the Brother Gods are, and still allows for something greater than them to exist. This doesn't deny their magical power but it is a different force than the magic used, and it's not perfect. But I thought Polly would be a good choice to write about the Brother Gods and how to address it in a Christian-inspired theology.

Plus, anything that mocks CRWBY's 12 Year Old's First Time on Reddit view of religion is all good.

 

[Sliverhero]

This idea is that some of the cast are Reincarnate souls who been reborn over the eras of remant and at beacon they are with each other , now they have to regain their memoires

Those Who Remember, and Those Who Feel

Beacon Academy was loud.

Too loud for how quiet Jaune Arc's thoughts suddenly felt.He stood in the main courtyard, fingers fumbling with his transcript as if it might explain the strange pressure building in his chest. He had barely arrived. barely lied his way into the academy and already something felt… off. No....Not wrong, instead it feels more like familiar. He though a feeling he had, he looked up.

A girl in a red cloak was laughing nearby, silver eyes bright, voice tumbling over itself as she spoke too fast and moved too much. For a split second, Jaune forgot how to breathe. He is thinking, I know her. The thought struck him with quiet certainty, not panic. It made no sense. He had never met her. He was sure of that. The girl Ruby Rose, suddenly stopped mid sentence and glanced his way. Their eyes met.

Her smile faltered. Just a little. She tilted her head, brows knitting together as if she'd heard a sound no one else could hear. "Uh," Ruby muttered, more to herself than anyone else, "why do I feel like I've seen you… die?" Jaune blinked. "I ... what?" Before either of them could unravel that thought, a calm, steady voice cut in from behind him. "Excuse me." Jaune turned and there stood Pyrrha Nikos stood there.

World-famous. Composed. Confident.
And staring at him like she had just found something she'd been missing her entire life.
Her hand hovered near his shoulder, not touching, as though some instinct warned her against breaking an invisible boundary. She seemed almost startled by her own hesitation.
"I'm sorry," Pyrrha said carefully. "Do we… know each other?" Jaune shook his head, a little too quickly. "No. I mean... I don't think so." Pyrrha smiled, polite and practiced. But her eyes said liar, not to him, but to the universe itself.

Nearby, Weiss Schnee paused mid-step as the shadow of an airship passed overhead. The Schnee insignia gleamed against the hull.
For a heartbeat, the world shifted. Ruins, smoke. A simple salute held too long. Someone she loved standing where they shouldn't have been. Weiss sucked in a sharp breath and clenched her fists. "Get it together," she whispered, shaking the sensation away. Across the courtyard, Blake Belladonna froze when Yang Xiao Long laughed. The sound hit her like lightning, Not any form of attraction she knew but a strange sense of recognition.

Like finding a lighthouse she'd been steering toward for centuries without realizing she'd been lost. Yang noticed Blake staring and raised an eyebrow. "Uh… hey?" Blake swallowed. "Have we met?" Yang grinned easily. "Not unless you've been secretly punching monsters with me for years." Blake didn't laugh. At the edge of the courtyard, Ren stood with his hands folded behind his back, watching everything unfold.

Nora leaned against him, chewing on a candy bar she definitely wasn't supposed to have yet.
"They're early this time," she said quietly.
Ren nodded. "Much earlier." Unlike the others, there was no confusion in his eyes. No fleeting unease he couldn't explain. When he looked at Jaune, Ruby, Pyrrha, Weiss, Blake, and Yang, he didn't question the weight in his chest. He just knew.

He remembered standing beside them under skies that no longer existed. He remembered battles erased from history, victories that never stayed won. He remembered holding Nora's hand at the end of worlds, promising, every time that the next life would be different.
Nora followed his gaze, her grin softer than usual. "They don't know yet," she said. "Do you think this one will stick?"

Ren closed his eyes briefly. "It feels… different."
Nora tilted her head, watching Jaune's awkward laugh, Ruby's instinctive warmth, Pyrrha's quiet gravity. Watching Yang drift closer to Blake without realizing why. "Yeah," Nora said thoughtfully. "That's what you said last time too."

Ren allowed himself a small, almost fond smile. "True." They stayed where they were , and do what tell always do watching and waiting, getting ready for the time their family is together.

They knew better than to interfere too soon.
Across campus, far from destiny-heavy conversations and soul-deep recognition, Cardin Winchester sat on the edge of a bench near the locker area, tightening the straps on his gauntlets. His leg bounced nervously.

Initiation loomed, and no matter how loudly he bragged, the truth was simple, he was scared.
He looked up as someone passed by.
Velvet Scarlatina walked across the courtyard, adjusting the strap of her bag, ears flicking slightly as she reviewed her class schedule. She slowed for just a second, no reason she could name and glanced in his direction.
Their eyes met. The feeling hit both of them at the same time. Not memory, not understanding.

Just a strange, uncomfortable sense of familiarity. Velvet frowned, heart skipping. Why does he look… does she know him? Cardin scowled and looked away first. "Tch," he muttered. "Get it together." Velvet continued on, unsettled, unable to shake the feeling that they had stood like this before, on opposite sides of something important. Something unfinished, something that was once was but torn away from them.

High above it all, unseen and silent, Ozpin watched from his office window. His gaze moved from Jaune and Ruby, to Pyrrha, to Weiss, Blake, and Yang.Then to Ren and Nora.
Then to the countless smaller threads tightening across Beacon. Too many pieces were aligning. Too many souls were finding each other too quickly. Salem would feel it soon.

Below, the reincarnated stood together for the first time, not knowing why they were drawn together, only that being apart felt wrong.
Jaune looked between Ruby and Pyrrha, heart pounding. "Maybe," he said slowly, "we're supposed to know each other."
Ruby smiled, softer now, uncertain, but real.
"Yeah," she said. "I think we are."
And deep within their souls, something ancient stirred. Not a memory, Nothing but a promise.

 

[Sliverhero]

Part 2
The Ruins Remember

The forest was wrong. Jaune felt it the moment his boots hit the dirt. Initiation had scattered them across the Emerald Forest, teams forming through chaos and instinct, but the air itself felt heavy, like it was watching. Towering trees loomed overhead, their canopies thick enough to blot out the sun. Somewhere above, cameras hummed softly, hidden among the branches.
Jaune and the others just naturally joined together.

Nora skipped a few steps ahead, hammer resting on her shoulder like this was all a game.
"Well!" she said brightly. "This place still gives me the creeps." Ruby glanced at her. "Still?"
Nora froze for half a second.Then laughed louder than before. "I mean—uh—now. Creeps me out now." Ren didn't look at her. His eyes were on the trees. On the faint glint of metal half-buried in bark, Cameras. He stepped closer to Nora and spoke so quietly only she could hear him.

"Give me ten seconds." Nora's grin sharpened. "Ooooh. Distraction time." Before anyone could question her, Nora suddenly gasped and pointed deeper into the forest. "OH NO," she yelled. "IS THAT A GRIMM WITH, LIKE—EXTRA TEETH?"
Yang spun. "Where?!" Nora bolted forward, shouting increasingly dramatic nonsense. "IT'S GOT TOO MANY EYES! AND I THINK IT'S JUDGING ME!" The team's attention snapped to her instantly. That was all Ren needed.

He exhaled slowly, centering himself, not just his breathing, but something older. Deeper.
A Grimm lurked nearby, drawn by fear and noise. Ren stepped deliberately into its awareness, guiding it with subtle movements, gentle shifts of aura and intent. The creature lunged.
Ren dodged, not toward the team, but toward the trees. The Grimm crashed through the underbrush, its mass slamming into thick trunks. Wood cracked. Branches shattered. One tree fell, then another each impact tearing through hidden surveillance equipment.
Metal sparked and thw cameras went dark.
To anyone watching, it would look like an accident. Grimm activity. Environmental damage. To Ren, it felt like clearing space in the world where truth could breathe. When Nora finally doubled back, panting dramatically, she gave him a quick thumbs-up. "Ten seconds!" she stage-whispered. "Na-nailed it."

The team regrouped near a break in the forest where ancient stone jutted from the earth.
Old Ruins so much older than history remembered. Jaune stared at them, chest tight. Thinking that his aura is flickering weakly but is some reason thin and unstable. Every step through the forest had felt like walking through a dream he'd forgotten.
Pyrrha noticed immediately, once she payed attention to jaune, seeing all the wounds on him.
"You don't have your aura," she said softly.
Jaune frowned. "I—I thought I did."
Ren turned to him then, eyes calm but heavy with meaning. "You never needed it before."
Silence fell. Ruby blinked. "Before what?"
The ground hummed beneath their feet.
Blake pressed a hand to her temple. Weiss's breath caught. Yang clenched her fists, heart pounding without knowing why.

Images surfaced, fractured and incomplete.
Jaune running through this forest, bleeding, exhausted, alive anyway. Steel in his hands that felt like part of him. Falling. Standing. Falling again. "I've been here," Jaune whispered. "I've… done this." Pyrrha stepped closer. "You walked this forest without aura," she said, voice trembling, not with fear, but recognition. "You survived because you already knew how."
She met his eyes. "May I?" Jaune nodded.
Pyrrha placed her hands over his chest and focused. Aura flowed, not forcing, not overwhelming, but unlocking something that had always been there.
Light flared.
Jaune gasped as warmth surged through him—stronger than he expected. Familiar. His stance shifted without thought. His grip steadied. His movements felt practiced.

Yang stared. "Okay. That's new."
Ren spoke quietly. "No. It's remembered."
The ruins listened. Stone vibrated. And then...
The world tilted.

Not collapsing, but sliding sideways, like a page turned too fast. Stone became smooth beneath their feet. Broken pillars straightened. The forest receded. They stood in a town that no longer existed. Not the town, but one of many.

Sunlight spilled across wide streets and low stone homes. Banners fluttered softly in the breeze. Children ran laughing through the square, some already carrying faint sparks of aura. Parents called after them, smiling, unafraid. Jaune felt years settle into his bones.

This body was his. Older. Scarred. Known.
Ruby knelt near a fountain, helping a child fix a broken toy. Weiss and Winter spoke quietly at a watch post, not of war, but supplies. Blake and Yang stood together, guarding out of habit, not fear. Ren rested beneath a tree. Nora leaned against him, relaxed in a way that felt heartbreakingly rare.

And Cardin... He leaned against a wall, arms crossed, scolding kids practicing with wooden swords. "You don't swing like that," he grumbled. "You'll knock yourself over." They laughed. Velvet captured it all with a humming camera a new creation of her. It was peaceful, not perfect as nothing is but chosen for a simple life.

But it would never last, the warmth withdrew.
The air tightened.Two figures stepped into the square. Salem arrived first, pale and unmoving, eyes sharp with calculation.Beside her stood a man Jaune recognized instantly. Not Ozpin but the wizard knight Ozma. This incarnation was robed in white and gold, eyes burning with conviction. "You should not exist like this," Ozma said. "This place defies the will of the gods." Jaune stepped forward. "We're protecting people." "You gather souls," Ozma replied. "You teach them to remember.

Humanity must move forward or be judged." Salem laughed softly. "They grow without us," she said. "Without intervention. That is unacceptable." Ren moved to Jaune's side. Cardin followed.

"This ends here," Jaune said. Ozma's grip tightened. "You force my hand."What followed was not a battle. It was a correction. Stone collapsed precisely. Barriers shattered. The town was dismantled, not destroyed, but removed. Jaune fought Ozma, steel against light. "You taught us to protect humanity!" "And you taught them to defy the gods!" Salem struck, not to kill, but to separate.

When the dust settled....
Only three stood, Jaune, Ren and Cardin. The town was gone. Salem turned away. "This path leads only to grief." Ozma lingered. "The gods will not tolerate defiance." The vision shattered. They were back in the ruins.

Ruby fell to her knees. Weiss wept silently. Blake trembled. Yang burned with fury.
Jaune clenched his fists. "That wasn't the end."
Ren shook his head. "No." "There are more," he said quietly. "Different towns. Same result." He looked toward the sky.

"Before the wizard and the witch lost their children… there were many tragedies like this."
Silence. "So this time," Jaune said, standing tall, "we will be remembering everything." Far away, Salem felt the echo stir And in a quiet cliff, Ozpin paused, haunted by a town he could not remember, and many a choice he once believed was right.

 

[AndrewJTalon]

Pyrrha Nikos had always been alone in a crowd.

Back in Mistral, at Sanctum Academy, she was the Invincible Girl—untouchable, literally and figuratively. Tournaments, cereal boxes, sponsorships, agents scheduling her every breath. People cheered from afar, whispered about her feats, but no one ever just... talked to her. No one dared sit next to her in the cafeteria without asking for an autograph first. She smiled politely, signed whatever was thrust at her, and went home to an empty dorm room that felt more like a trophy case than a living space.

Then came Arslan Altan.

Arslan was everything Pyrrha wasn't allowed to be: grounded, intense, unflinchingly serious. Training to become a warrior nun in the Tablebreaker Church, she moved like poetry in violence—bare-handed strikes that could shatter stone, aura control so precise it hummed like a hymn. She moved and spone with quiet authority, and from the moment they sparred in their first Sactum academy exhibition, Arslan locked onto Pyrrha like a heat-seeking missile.

"Pyrrha Nikos," Arslan had said after their match, bowing deeply. "You are a worthy opponent. I challenge you to prove who is the superior warrior between us."

Pyrrha blinked, flustered. "I... thank you? But it was only an exhibition—"

"Next time, we settle it properly."

And that was how it started.

The challenges escalated quickly, but never in the arena. Arslan, in her infinite stoic wisdom, decided that true superiority could only be determined through... everything.

First came the pie-eating contest at the Mistral Harvest Festival. Arslan cornered Pyrrha outside the tournament grounds, arms crossed, expression grave.

"Pyrrha Nikos! I challenge you to a pie-eating contest to determine who is the superior warrior between us!"

Pyrrha stared at the table piled high with blueberry, apple, and pumpkin pies. "Arslan, this is... a festival booth. For charity."

"Precisely. A warrior must endure hardship. Begin!"

They sat. The bell rang. Pyrrha, ever polite, took dainty bites at first. Arslan inhaled pies like a vacuum, face utterly serious, crumbs on her cheeks but eyes burning with competitive fire. By the end, Arslan's stack was gone, Pyrrha's barely dented.

"I... concede," Pyrrha said, wiping her mouth.

Arslan nodded solemnly. "Victory is mine. You fought well."

Pyrrha smiled hesitantly. "That was... fun, actually."

Arslan paused, then gave the tiniest upward twitch of her lips. "Indeed."

Next was rock-paper-scissors. In the middle of the Sanctum library, no less.

"Pyrrha Nikos! I challenge you to a best-of-twenty-one rock-paper-scissors contest to determine who is the superior warrior between us!"

The librarian shushed them furiously. Pyrrha, cheeks burning, agreed just to end the scene. They huddled over a study table, fists pumping.

Rock. Paper. Scissors.

Arslan threw rock every. Single. Time.

Pyrrha, trying to be strategic, varied her throws—and lost spectacularly.

"You... always throw rock," Pyrrha pointed out afterward.

"A warrior must be unyielding," Arslan replied, as if that explained everything.

Pyrrha laughed—a real, surprised laugh that made Arslan's ears turn pink.

Then came the shopping mall. Arslan appeared outside Pyrrha's favorite boutique, arms laden with bags already.

"Pyrrha Nikos! Today we shall go shopping and to the salon. We will determine who can achieve the greatest beauty, and thus prove who is the superior warrior between us!"

Pyrrha's agent nearly had a heart attack when paparazzi photos surfaced of the Invincible Girl trying on dresses with the stoic Haven prodigy. Arslan critiqued outfits with military precision: "This red complements your hair but lacks defensive coverage." At the salon, Arslan sat ramrod straight while stylists fussed over her platinum blonde hair, declaring, "Shinier hair denotes superior vitality!"

Pyrrha's hair ended up in loose waves, Arslan's in a sleek ponytail that somehow looked even more intimidating. The stylists declared it a tie.

"Acceptable," Arslan said. "For now."

There were more. Who could sneak into the back row of a movie theater longest without getting caught (Arslan lasted until the credits; Pyrrha got nervous and confessed halfway). Who could eat the spiciest street food without flinching (Arslan's face turned red, but she did not flinch; Pyrrha teared up and conceded immediately). Who could win more prizes at the arcade (Arslan dominated rhythm games with monastic focus; Pyrrha swept the crane machines with Polarity cheats she felt guilty about).

Pyrrha's agent banned "unscheduled public appearances." Pyrrha obeyed—mostly—but found herself looking forward to Arslan's dramatic declarations. They were the only times anyone treated her like a normal person. A rival, sure, but someone who saw her, not the pedestal.

Still, as fun as it was... Every challenge felt like proof Arslan was obsessed with beating her, proving dominance. It hurt, in a quiet way. Why couldn't Arslan just... be friends?

So when Arslan came to Beacon for the Vytal Festival, it weighed heavily on her mind.

"What's wrong, Pyr?" Jaune asked, noticing her tense mood at breakfast.

"It's Arslan," Pyrrha sighed. "She was my rival at Sanctum and now..." She winced as Arslan stared intensely at her from across the cafeteria."

"So, want us to break her legs?" Nora asked cheerfully. Pyrrha shook her head.

"No! No, not that! Just... Well... She was so perplexing."

"Oh? How?" Jaune asked, leaning forward. Ren watched Arslan carefully as Pyrrha spoke.

"Honestly, it was kind of fun in some ways, but also exhausting. Arslan wouldn't stop challenging me to duels. Duels at movies, restaurants, the shopping mall..."

Jaune paused mid-bite of pancake. "Wait, wait—she challenged you to duels as part of your rivalry at places other than the ring?"

"Yes! Like who could eat more pies or who could get their hair shinier or who could sneak into the back of the theater without getting caught longer... My agent hated it!"

Jaune stared. Nora snorted syrup. Ren kept eating calmly.

"...But did you hate it?" Jaune asked gently.

Pyrrha frowned. "I mean... sometimes it was fun, but I just wished she could be friends with me."

Jaune set his fork down. "Pyrrha. You went to movies, dinners, games, and had fun together, right? You were friends."

Pyrrha's eyes went wide. "Wait... we were?!"

"Yes," Jaune said with a nod. "I mean, she's a Stonebreaker Nun. Of the order of Saint Peter-Right?"

"Yes...? Is that important?" Pyrrha asked curiously.

Jaune sighed.

"To them, a rival is basically their best friend," he explained. "The person who helps them grow, become better, stronger, as a warrior and person."

Pyrrha blushed deeply.

"Y-You mean...?"

"She could have at least said as such," Jaune groaned, slumping forward onto the table. "Why are all Huntresses freaking insane...?"

Ren, without looking up, patted Jaune's shoulder with one hand while feeding Nora another pancake with the other.

Nora beamed. "Because we're awesome!"

Pyrrha blushed furiously. "I—I suppose you're right. I feel rather foolish now."

Jaune lifted his head, grinning. "Hey, at least you figured it out eventually. Better late than never."

Later that week, during a joint training session with visiting teams, Arslan approached Pyrrha—this time without a dramatic declaration.

"Pyrrha Nikos."

Pyrrha tensed out of habit. "Yes?"

Arslan shifted, almost shy. "Would you... spar with me? As friends."

Pyrrha's smile lit up the training yard. "I'd love to."

They fought—beautifully, fiercely, evenly matched. When it ended in another draw, Arslan offered her hand.

Pyrrha took it, pulling her into a quick, awkward hug instead.

Arslan stiffened—then relaxed, hugging back.

From the sidelines, Jaune watched with Ren and Nora.

"See?" Jaune said. "Told you."

Nora cheered. "Friendship through violence! The best kind!"

Ren nodded. "Efficient."

Arslan then let Pyrrha go.

"I am sorry I did not make my intentions clear-"

"I am sorry I didn't recognize it," Pyrrha said softly.

"Well..." Arslan glanced at Jaune, and then back at Pyrrha. "I have a new challenge. Let us go out with our teams and see who can have the most fun!"

Pyrrha grinned.

"I would like that!"

 

[AndrewJTalon]

RWBY, JNPR, SSSN, and a few others were all in a Secret Father Winter... And so...

Nora: "Ooh! Money? Who gave me this?"

All: "Weiss."

Weiss: blush "What?! Everyone could use some money!"

Nora: "Aw, I wanted pancakes!"

Nora's Brain: Money can buy many pancakes!

Nora: gasp "Explain!"

Nora's Brain: Money can be exchanged for goods and services.

Nora: "HOORAY! THANK YOU WEISSY!" Hugs her

Weiss: blush "Well... At least someone appreciates me!"

Yang: "Uh huh. Well... Let's see... What did I... Huh? Goggles and a headscarf? And a tool set?"

Jaune: "That's from me. My dad and sister both ride motorcycles, so I asked them what you needed. I mean, your hair is really pretty when you're riding your bike in the wind and all, but keeping it covered means it doesn't get caught or ruined."

Yang: blush "Ah, well... Thanks, VB. Heh. Maybe I'll give you a special gift later~."

Jaune: "But that's not how Secret Father Winter works-"

Pyrrha: "Jaune! How about you open my gift to you?"

Jaune: "Oh, thanks Pyr!" opens it "Oh wow! Swing Dance lessons! Great! But I already know how to do it."

Pyrrha: "Oh, um, I don't! You could take me!"

Jaune: "It would be nice to teach you something, even if it's useless."

Pyrrha: "Oh, it isn't!"

Yang: "Or you could take me, Stud. I'd love to learn how to swing it with you."

Pyrrha: "I-I need the lessons more!"

Weiss: "You're seriously arguing over who gets to spend time with the Dolt?"

Jaune: "We could go dancing, Weiss!"

Weiss: "Fat chance!"

Jaune: "Aw..."

Sun: "Let me see my gift... Ooh! A weapon cleaning kit! Let me guess Blake, you got me this?"

Ruby: "What? No! I did! Everyone needs a good weapons cleaning kit! Especially you!"

Sun: "I... Oh. Thanks kid."

Ruby: pouts "I'm not a kid dangit! Blake! Open your gift!"

Blake: "Very well..." She opens it. She blinks "This is just a link to Neptune's Flashygram page."

Neptune: "Of course! What would be a better gift that the gift of moi?"

Sage: "That's a non-refundable gift, isn't it?"

Neptune: "HEY!"