[RWBY] RWBY Shorts

[Sliverhero]

Snow hammered against the glass of Atlas Tower, winds screaming high above the Kingdom. Inside the office, the storm was quieter, but far more venomous. Jacques Schnee stood before the tall mirror mounted between awards and commendations, jaw tight, eyes burning.

The insignia of the Schnee Dust Company gleamed behind him, he did not look at it.
He looked at the man in the glass. "You disgust me," he said flatly. The reflection scowled back, same posture, same face, but the hatred in its eyes was not ancient patience. It was human.
The hated pure and raw. Jacques Schnee's soul, trapped behind his own features, glared with undiluted fury. François Prelati smiled.

"You always were small," Prelati continued, voice smooth but laced with contempt. "Petty ambitions. Market dominance. Council seats. You thought Atlas was power." The reflection's lip curled silently. "Yes," Prelati mocked, studying the anger in those eyes. "You built an empire of Dust and exploitation. You believed yourself ruthless."

His expression darkened. "But you have no comprehension of scale." He began pacing in front of the mirror, forcing Jacques' soul to watch through his own stolen eyes. "The Arc line," he said sharply, the name bitten off like something foul. "Interfering, sanctimonious pests."

His composure cracked into open hatred.
"Every generation. Every cycle. When the rites align and the thinning begins, an Arc appears. Shield raised. Bleeding. Smiling like sacrifice means something." His fist clenched.
"I arranged their erasure more times than you can fathom. During the Great War, one of them dismantled a convergence that would have unmade Mantle entirely. He tore apart decades of preparation."
His jaw flexed.
"he sacrifice his name and being from history itself, to stop me but he only partially succeeded. I paid his family in blood for that annoyance!" A flicker of irritation passed across his face. "And still the bloodline persisted."
He leaned closer to the mirror.

"So I refined the method." The hatred sharpened into something colder. "Kill too many, and they grow vigilant. Martyr them, and the next generation trains harder." His smile was razor-thin. "But cripple them? Break them subtly?"
He tapped the glass once. "That breeds doubt."
The reflection's eyes blazed brighter with fury.

"Yes," Prelati continued, voice lowering. "I ensured tragedies were precise. A Grimm migration here. A caravan 'accident' there. Just enough loss to make the family cautious. Just enough fear to keep the latest male heir from proper instruction." His sneer deepened.

"A boy raised on stories of heroism and graves. Surrounded by sisters who had already seen too much blood. Convinced he was the weak link."
He laughed softly, but there was no humor in it.
"No Huntsman tutors. No sanctioned training. No preparation." His eyes burned with frustrated rage.

"And yet he sought Beacon anyway." He spat the word like poison. "You see, Jacques? This is what separates you from me. You cared about reputation. I care about inevitability." The reflection's glare intensified, pure loathing radiating through the glass.

"You think you lost your company to political rivals, to friends ," Prelati continued. "You think your downfall was miscalculation."
He smiled faintly. "You were selected."
His hand rose and pressed against the mirror.
Jacques Schnee's trapped soul mirrored the motion instinctively from within, palm meeting palm through the barrier. His eyes were full of hate, directed not at the Arc line, but at the thing wearing his skin.

"I required a body embedded in Atlas infrastructure," Prelati said softly. "A man positioned to shape industry, to reroute Dust shipments, to reopen old bore sites under the guise of 'economic necessity.'" His voice grew colder. "You were convenient."

The office lights flickered faintly. "The witch believes brute force will win her dominion. The wizard believes he can stall eternity with children and relics." A low, humorless chuckle.
"They cannot stop what they do not see."
He straightened, adjusting his cuffs with deliberate precision.

"The SDC grid now hums in harmonic alignment with sites older than Atlas itself. The northern excavations thin the veil precisely where it must be thinned." His eyes gleamed.

"The Arc heir was meant to remain weak. Irrelevant. A symbolic ending to a troublesome bloodline." His jaw tightened. "He is not."
The admission tasted bitter. "But one persistent boy does not undo centuries of preparation."
He looked back at the reflection.

Jacques Schnee's soul glared with undiminished hatred, fury radiating from every line of his face. "You hate me," Prelati observed calmly. The reflection's expression answered plainly: yes. Prelati's smile returned, thin, controlled, but edged with irritation.
"Good."

He stepped back from the mirror.
"Rage all you like. You cannot move a finger. You cannot warn your daughters. You cannot undo what I have set in motion." His voice dropped to a whisper. "The Arc line will fall. This time not by slaughter." His eyes darkened.

"But by inevitability, Then the Gods will rejoice.." Outside, thunder rolled over Atlas. Inside, two souls shared one face. One ancient and seething with calculated hatred for a bloodline that would not die. The other trapped, furious, and utterly powerless to stop what wore his name.

 

[revetwrot]

Snow hammered against the glass of Atlas Tower, winds screaming high above the Kingdom. Inside the office, the storm was quieter, but far more venomous. Jacques Schnee stood before the tall mirror mounted between awards and commendations, jaw tight, eyes burning.

The insignia of the Schnee Dust Company gleamed behind him, he did not look at it.
He looked at the man in the glass. "You disgust me," he said flatly. The reflection scowled back, same posture, same face, but the hatred in its eyes was not ancient patience. It was human.
The hated pure and raw. Jacques Schnee's soul, trapped behind his own features, glared with undiluted fury. François Prelati smiled.

"You always were small," Prelati continued, voice smooth but laced with contempt. "Petty ambitions. Market dominance. Council seats. You thought Atlas was power." The reflection's lip curled silently. "Yes," Prelati mocked, studying the anger in those eyes. "You built an empire of Dust and exploitation. You believed yourself ruthless."

His expression darkened. "But you have no comprehension of scale." He began pacing in front of the mirror, forcing Jacques' soul to watch through his own stolen eyes. "The Arc line," he said sharply, the name bitten off like something foul. "Interfering, sanctimonious pests."

His composure cracked into open hatred.
"Every generation. Every cycle. When the rites align and the thinning begins, an Arc appears. Shield raised. Bleeding. Smiling like sacrifice means something." His fist clenched.
"I arranged their erasure more times than you can fathom. During the Great War, one of them dismantled a convergence that would have unmade Mantle entirely. He tore apart decades of preparation."
His jaw flexed.
"he sacrifice his name and being from history itself, to stop me but he only partially succeeded. I paid his family in blood for that annoyance!" A flicker of irritation passed across his face. "And still the bloodline persisted."
He leaned closer to the mirror.

"So I refined the method." The hatred sharpened into something colder. "Kill too many, and they grow vigilant. Martyr them, and the next generation trains harder." His smile was razor-thin. "But cripple them? Break them subtly?"
He tapped the glass once. "That breeds doubt."
The reflection's eyes blazed brighter with fury.

"Yes," Prelati continued, voice lowering. "I ensured tragedies were precise. A Grimm migration here. A caravan 'accident' there. Just enough loss to make the family cautious. Just enough fear to keep the latest male heir from proper instruction." His sneer deepened.

"A boy raised on stories of heroism and graves. Surrounded by sisters who had already seen too much blood. Convinced he was the weak link."
He laughed softly, but there was no humor in it.
"No Huntsman tutors. No sanctioned training. No preparation." His eyes burned with frustrated rage.

"And yet he sought Beacon anyway." He spat the word like poison. "You see, Jacques? This is what separates you from me. You cared about reputation. I care about inevitability." The reflection's glare intensified, pure loathing radiating through the glass.

"You think you lost your company to political rivals, to friends ," Prelati continued. "You think your downfall was miscalculation."
He smiled faintly. "You were selected."
His hand rose and pressed against the mirror.
Jacques Schnee's trapped soul mirrored the motion instinctively from within, palm meeting palm through the barrier. His eyes were full of hate, directed not at the Arc line, but at the thing wearing his skin.

"I required a body embedded in Atlas infrastructure," Prelati said softly. "A man positioned to shape industry, to reroute Dust shipments, to reopen old bore sites under the guise of 'economic necessity.'" His voice grew colder. "You were convenient."

The office lights flickered faintly. "The witch believes brute force will win her dominion. The wizard believes he can stall eternity with children and relics." A low, humorless chuckle.
"They cannot stop what they do not see."
He straightened, adjusting his cuffs with deliberate precision.

"The SDC grid now hums in harmonic alignment with sites older than Atlas itself. The northern excavations thin the veil precisely where it must be thinned." His eyes gleamed.

"The Arc heir was meant to remain weak. Irrelevant. A symbolic ending to a troublesome bloodline." His jaw tightened. "He is not."
The admission tasted bitter. "But one persistent boy does not undo centuries of preparation."
He looked back at the reflection.

Jacques Schnee's soul glared with undiminished hatred, fury radiating from every line of his face. "You hate me," Prelati observed calmly. The reflection's expression answered plainly: yes. Prelati's smile returned, thin, controlled, but edged with irritation.
"Good."

He stepped back from the mirror.
"Rage all you like. You cannot move a finger. You cannot warn your daughters. You cannot undo what I have set in motion." His voice dropped to a whisper. "The Arc line will fall. This time not by slaughter." His eyes darkened.

"But by inevitability, Then the Gods will rejoice.." Outside, thunder rolled over Atlas. Inside, two souls shared one face. One ancient and seething with calculated hatred for a bloodline that would not die. The other trapped, furious, and utterly powerless to stop what wore his name.

Click to shrink...

How canon is this to The Arc Family snips, since Prelati is there too, just in a woman's body?

And if it is a different canon, this would be the first time I think I've read a fic/snip where's a different reason why Jacques is a hate sink.

 

[Sliverhero]

And if it is a different canon, this would be the first time I think I've read a fic/snip where's a different reason why Jacques is a hate sink.

Click to shrink...

Its a different canon its tied to previous post i did explaining about lovecraftican cults on Remnant and Prelati here would be a recurring villian as he would be last true magic user from the the era of gods alongside Salem and Ozma.
Also for this the hiccup that happen to Prelati is that Jacques semblance actived in response to his body being jacked by Pretlati.

If Jacque had the proper training and actived he would have been fine but he never did and his semblance was forcibly and partially activate.
He only did enough to save his soul and mind.
So he is the full power of his semblance.

Semblance: Sovereign Clause
User: Jacques Schnee
Description
Jacques' soul is permanently anchored to his body and cannot be erased, overwritten, or permanently displaced.
If another soul attempts to possess or suppress him, he may be forced into the background, but his core identity remains intact. No invader can fully replace him. Over time, his anchored soul destabilizes the intruder and pushes to reclaim control. Any attacks that attack or effects the mind and soul can be easily resisted or blocked by aura.


Secondary Function: Binding Contracts
Jacques can forge Aura-based "contracts" with others through a mutually acknowledged agreement (verbal deal, signed document, sworn promise).

Once established:
He gains limited influence over the target's actions. He can issue simple compulsions (hesitate, stop, speak, stand down).
He can siphon a small portion of their Aura to reinforce his own. The stronger the target's ambition or greed, the stronger the contract.
The contract only forms if the other person willingly agrees, even if they don't realize Aura is involved.

Limitations
Contracts weaken if loyalty fades.
Strong-willed individuals can resist direct commands. Breaking too many contracts at once strains his Aura.
He cannot control someone who never agreed to him. He has to go through with the end of his deal.

 

[AndrewJTalon]

An Encyclical Letter from the Low King of Justice
Terrence II, Steward of the Second Chair
To the Faithful of the Concordance of Bishops
and all who hold fast to the Broken Table
Issued from the Hall of Judgment in Aelia Paravel
in the year 1598 AMF
on the Vigil of the Feast of the Third Dawn

To the beloved in the Table Breaker, scattered across the continents yet united in the one faith delivered once for all to the saints:
Grace, mercy, and peace from the Divine Spark who raised our Lord from the Stone, and from the Table Breaker Himself, who is both the Sacrifice and the High Priest forever.

It has come to our ears, through the vigilant watch of the Stone Breaker Order and the reports of faithful bishops in Mistral and Vacuo, that a pernicious heresy—long thought extinguished—has again raised its venomous head under the name of the so-called Church of the Ashen Bride. This sect, whose roots lie in the ancient poison sown by the Green Sorceress Viridis Serpens in the second century AMF, now spreads its lies in shadowed conventicles, among the disaffected, and even in certain noble houses that have grown cold toward the true light.

We, Terrence II, by the grace of the Table Breaker Low King of Justice and guardian of the Second Chair, declare and condemn this teaching as damnable heresy, contrary to the sacred deposit of faith, destructive to souls, and a direct echo of the deceptions once employed by the Ice Witch and her fallen allies.

The Ashen Bride doctrine asserts that the Table Breaker was not Himself the Divine Spark incarnate, but a created instrument, a puppet moved by the hand of a higher and hidden God; that His death upon the Stone was the act of a subordinate being, not the self-offering of God in flesh; and that further revelations are yet to come through an "Ashen Bride," a supposed future messiah who will complete or supersede what the Table Breaker began.

This is nothing less than the revival of the Serpent's ancient lie in a new guise. Viridis Serpens, that false nun whose true name and nature were later revealed as the Green Sorceress of Underland, sought to bind Prince Rilian and through him to enslave all Narnia. Her teaching—that the Table Breaker was but an avatar, a temporary vessel—served one purpose: to prepare the way for a counterfeit deliverer, an ashen figure whose coming would be heralded as the true fulfillment. We now discern that this figure is none other than the ancient enemy who has long worked in secret, she whom the records name the Witch of Ashes, whose servants have whispered her praises among the Grimm cults and in the councils of those who hate the light.

Let no one be deceived. The Table Breaker is not an instrument; He is the Divine Spark Himself, begotten not made, of one substance with the Father, true God from true God. As the sacred texts proclaim:
"He is the image of the invisible Divine, the firstborn of all creation… For in Him all the fullness of deity dwells bodily" (Edmund to the Quitalans 1:15, 19).

And again: "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with the Divine, and the Word was the Divine… And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us" (Chronicles of the Disciples 1:1, 14).

To deny His full divinity is to deny the efficacy of His sacrifice. If He were but a created being, then His death upon the Stone could not have broken the curse engraved there; it could not have paid the infinite debt of sin; it could not have shattered death itself. A creature cannot redeem creatures from the doom written by an infinite God. Only God, Son of the Emperor Above, in flesh could stand in our place, bear our curse, and rise victorious.

This heresy, like its ancestor in the days of Serpens, opens the door to every darkness. It claims the Table Breaker's work incomplete, awaiting a "true messiah"—a claim that invites the rise of false tablebreakers and deceivers. It sows division among the faithful, tempts the proud with secret knowledge, and lures the despairing with promises of a different salvation. In its most virulent forms it has allied itself with the cults that worship the Grimm as agents of necessary destruction, and with those who secretly honor the Ashen One, another form of the White Witch herself.

We therefore solemnly declare:

1. The doctrine of the Church of the Ashen Bride is heretical and anathema.
2. Those who teach it, or who knowingly adhere to it after due warning, will separate themselves from the communion of the Table Breaker's Church.
3. The faithful are exhorted to avoid all fellowship with such teachers, to refute their errors with charity and firmness, and to report their activities to the bishops or to the Stone Breaker Order.
4. Let all bishops, priests, and monks renew their oath to guard the faith once delivered, confessing with one voice that the Table Breaker is true God and true man, who by His own power broke the Table and opened the way to paradise.

Beloved, be watchful. The enemy prowls as a roaring Grimm, seeking whom he may devour. Yet the Table Breaker who overcame the Witch and rose from the Stone is greater than all who oppose Him. Hold fast the confession: "Thou art the Breaker, the Son of the Emperor Above." In this truth is our strength, our hope, and our victory.

May the Divine Spark who kindled the light in the darkness guard your hearts and minds in the Table Breaker, now and unto the paradise of growth.

Given at Aelia Paravel,Terrence II, Low King of Justice
Steward of the Second Chair
In the name of the Table Breaker, who was, and is, and is to come. Amen.

 

[ThunderBasilisk]

Oh my how devious.

 

[revetwrot]

Its a different canon its tied to previous post i did explaining about lovecraftican cults on Remnant and Prelati here would be a recurring villian as he would be last true magic user from the the era of gods alongside Salem and Ozma.
Also for this the hiccup that happen to Prelati is that Jacques semblance actived in response to his body being jacked by Pretlati.

If Jacque had the proper training and actived he would have been fine but he never did and his semblance was forcibly and partially activate.
He only did enough to save his soul and mind.
So he is the full power of his semblance.

Semblance: Sovereign Clause
User: Jacques Schnee
Description
Jacques' soul is permanently anchored to his body and cannot be erased, overwritten, or permanently displaced.
If another soul attempts to possess or suppress him, he may be forced into the background, but his core identity remains intact. No invader can fully replace him. Over time, his anchored soul destabilizes the intruder and pushes to reclaim control. Any attacks that attack or effects the mind and soul can be easily resisted or blocked by aura.


Secondary Function: Binding Contracts
Jacques can forge Aura-based "contracts" with others through a mutually acknowledged agreement (verbal deal, signed document, sworn promise).

Once established:
He gains limited influence over the target's actions. He can issue simple compulsions (hesitate, stop, speak, stand down).
He can siphon a small portion of their Aura to reinforce his own. The stronger the target's ambition or greed, the stronger the contract.
The contract only forms if the other person willingly agrees, even if they don't realize Aura is involved.

Limitations
Contracts weaken if loyalty fades.
Strong-willed individuals can resist direct commands. Breaking too many contracts at once strains his Aura.
He cannot control someone who never agreed to him. He has to go through with the end of his deal.

Click to shrink...

Thank you for clearing this up.

 

[Sliverhero]

Thank you for clearing this up.

Click to shrink...

No problem

 

[AndrewJTalon]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/56670802/chapters/169439965

- - -

The sun climbed high over Beacon's sprawling grounds, beating down like a relentless judge on judgment day. Noon sharp, and the shooting range was already drawing a crowd-students murmuring behind barriers, professors watching from shaded stands, even Goodwitch with her riding crop tapping impatiently against her palm. Word had spread like wildfire through dry grass: Emerald Sustrai had challenged Jaune Arc to a duel of marksmanship. Folks whispered about grudges, about pride, about that hat full of holes.

But mostly, they came to see the cowboy shoot.

Jaune arrived calm as a desert morning, Orleans tied up nearby with a feed bag to keep her occupied. He wore his usual rig: brown stetson (a fresh one, no bullet holes this time), poncho draped loose over his shoulders, revolver low on his right hip, the old Winchester '76 slung across his back like an afterthought. His blue eyes scanned the range, polite nod here, tip of the hat there. Pyrrha stood close by his team, her expression a mix of worry and quiet pride. Ruby bounced on her toes, Crescent Rose folded away for once. Yang was smirking at Emerald like she knew a secret about the Vacuoan's mother. Weiss was haughty and confident, while Blake was silent and stoic as ever. Nora had a bag of popcorn. Ren just watched though his eyebrow was slightly raised.

Team CMEN arrived fashionably late-Cinder leading with that predatory grace, Mercury limping along with a smirk, Neo twirling her parasol like she was at a garden party. Emerald strode ahead, Thief's Respite gleaming at her hips, face set in a mask of cold determination. But her eyes burned.

Goodwitch stepped forward, voice cutting through the chatter like a whipcrack. "This is a sanctioned accuracy duel. No Aura enhancement beyond standard bullet charging. Targets at progressive distances. First to miss three shots loses. Or until one party yields. Begin at fifty paces."

They took their marks side by side, lanes separated by a low barrier. First targets: simple bullseyes at fifty yards. Emerald drew first, smooth and fast, twin revolvers barking in rapid succession. Six shots, six dead-center hits. The holographic targets flickered red, perfect scores glowing on the board. A murmur rippled through the crowd-impressive.

Jaune tipped his hat brim up, drew his Nell Goldstone revolver in a motion that was almost lazy. One-handed, fanning the hammer with his palm. Six shots blended into one rolling thunder. Six perfect centers. The board updated: tie.

Emerald's jaw tightened. Next round: one hundred yards, moving targets swinging on pendulums. She holstered, drew again-dual-wielding now, bullets chasing the swaying disks. Five hits, one graze. Close enough for full points.

Jaune reloaded with that border-shift trick of his, thumb spinning the cylinder across his belt line, loading fresh rounds in a blur. He fired standing, no stance, just as natural as breathing. Six clean hits, the pendulums shattering mid-swing.

The crowd grew louder. Mercury whistled low. "Damn, cowboy's got hands."

Cinder's eyes narrowed, watching Jaune with that calculating hunger. Neo signed something filthy; Mercury snorted.

Two hundred yards now-small silhouette targets popping up randomly. Emerald poured Aura into her shots, bullets screaming faster, hotter. She clipped every one, but two were edge hits. Still winning on points, barely.

Jaune switched to his Winchester '76, lever-action working smooth as oil. Boom-boom-boom. Each shot a thunderclap, each target vaporized center-mass. No edges. Perfect.

Emerald's knuckles went white on her grips. Three hundred yards-tiny plates no bigger than a lien coin, flashing in and out. She was sweating now, breaths sharp. Four hits, two misses. Her score dipped.

Jaune rested the shotgun across his shoulder, drew his revolver again. Calm. Steady. Six shots, six plates gone like they'd never been.

Goodwitch cleared her throat.

"Miss Sustrai, I believe the match is over. Perhaps-"

"No!" Emerald snapped, voice cracking like a green branch. "We're not done. New challenge."

Cinder leaned forward from the spectator bench. "Emerald. There's nothing left to prove. He's clearly-"

"Everything to prove!" Emerald whirled on her, eyes wild. Then back to Jaune, who stood patient, hat shading his face. "Coins. We toss coins in the air. Shoot them before they hit the ground. First to miss loses."

The crowd went dead silent. That was old-school gunslinger stuff-legendary, borderline mythical. Even Goodwitch raised an eyebrow.

"That's highly irregular and dangerous-"

"Please, Professor," Jaune said quietly, tipping his hat. "If the lady insists."

Goodwitch sighed. "Very well. Safety barriers up. One coin each per round. Mister Black-toss for them."

Mercury grinned like a coyote, walking forward with a sack of lien coins. "This oughta be good."

First round: Mercury flipped two coins high, one for each shooter. Emerald drew and fired twice-ping, ping. Both coins spun away marked.

Jaune drew once, fanned three shots. His coin took all three, tumbling like a drunken bee. Clean hits.

Second round, higher toss. Emerald nailed hers twice. Jaune once-dead center.

Third. Fourth. Fifth. Emerald's shots grew frantic, bullets screaming. She hit every time, but sweat beaded her brow, hands trembling just a hair as the strain wore on her.

Jaune remained stone-still, revolver barking steady as a heartbeat. Every coin danced with his mark.

Tenth round. Mercury tossed higher than ever, coins glinting like stars against the blue sky. Emerald's shots-ping-ping-perfect-Almost.

Jaune's single shot rang out. The coin flipped end over end, bullet hole clean through the center.

Emerald stared, chest heaving. Her score: flawless. Jaune's: flawless.

But everyone knew who'd been chasing. Who was struggling.

She holstered her guns with a clatter, face burning crimson.

"Enough!" She stormed off the range, shoving through the dispersing crowd.

Jaune watched her go, then holstered his gun. He murmured thanks to Goodwitch, nodded to his team-Pyrrha's proud smile, Ruby's cheering bounce-and followed at an easy stride.

Emerald ducked into the treeline beyond the range, heart hammering. She triggered her Semblance-hallucinations blooming, herself vanishing into a dozen false images scattering through the woods. Real her pressed against an oak trunk, breathing hard. He'd never find-

Hoofbeats. Soft, deliberate. Orleans nosed through the underbrush. Jaune was riding her, reins loose. The mare snorted, stopped right in front of the real Emerald's tree.

Emerald's blood ran cold. He knows my Semblance. He's come to kill me for it. For threatening Cinder's plans, she thought.

She dropped the illusions, hands hovering near her guns, eyes wide.

Jaune dismounted slow, hands visible and empty. He tied Orleans to a low branch, then leaned against a boulder ten paces away. He tipped his hat back, those blue eyes calm as a still pond.

"I know killin' intent, Miss Sustrai," he said quietly, voice carrying that soft drawl. "Felt it on the drives more times than I care to count. You ain't got it right now. Scared, maybe. Angry, sure. But not murder."

Emerald's throat worked. "You... you saw through my Semblance."

"Orleans did," he admitted, patting the mare's neck. "Good nose on her. But my lips are sealed. Word of honor. Ain't my secret to tell."

She stared, fists clenched.

"Why? I challenged you. Shot your hat. Humiliated myself trying to beat you-!"

"You were jealous," Jaune stated, "Of Miss Fall spendin' time watchin' me."

Emerald sputtered, face flaming.

"I-That's-She's the first person who ever showed me kindness! Real kindness! I owe her everything!"

Jaune nodded slowly, no judgment in his eyes.

"That's a pity. More folks oughta be kind in this world. Seems like you've had a rough trail."

Emerald looked away, arms crossing tight. "Don't pity me, cowboy!"

"Ain't pity. Just a fact." He pushed off the boulder, voice gentle. "You're an incredible shot, Miss Sustrai. Best I've seen with dual irons. No need to feel jealous or lesser. Miss Fall's a mighty pretty woman-sad, powerful, dangerous. But I ain't interested in courtin' her."

Emerald glanced back, suspicion warring with something softer. "You're not?"

"No, ma'am." He offered a small, sad smile. "Got my reasons. But I hope... maybe we could be friends, at least. Beacon's a big place, but it gets lonely."

She barked a bitter laugh. "Friends? I don't have friends."

"That's a shame," Jaune said earnestly. "Way you stand by Miss Fall-loyal as the day is long-I reckon you'd make a fine one. And maybe... a good person, underneath."

Emerald scoffed, but it cracked. "I'm not good. Not at all."

Jaune considered that. He then plucked a wildflower from the grass-simple white petals, tough little thing growing between the roots. He held it out.

"Good ain't in the bein', Miss. It's in the doin'. And anybody can choose to do good, if they set their mind to it."

She glared at the flower like it had insulted her. She snatched it, cheeks burning scarlet.

"Do you have to be so damn infuriating?!" she yelled, storming past him into the trees.

Jaune watched her go, shook his head with a rueful chuckle.

"Women."

Orleans snorted and bit him.

"Ow!"

- - -

Back in the dorm that evening, shadows long across the floor, Emerald slipped in quietly. Cinder sat at her desk, reviewing scrolls-plans, maps, and the Fall Maiden candidate's possible identities. Mercury lounged on his bunk, Neo painting her nails something violent.

Emerald bowed her head. "Cinder, I... I'm sorry. For losing control today. It was inelegant. I-"

Cinder turned, golden eyes warm. "No apologies necessary, Emerald." Her smile was honey over steel. "Jaune Arc keeps company with several powerful young women-Nikos chief among them, the one Ozpin is likely to choose when the time comes. Having him believe we're... friendly? That's useful. Very useful."

Emerald straightened, relief warring with confusion. "Yes. Of course."

Cinder's gaze drifted to the flower Emerald still clutched, half-crushed in her fist. "And where, pray tell, did that come from?"

Emerald flushed dark. "Arc... gave it to me. After."

Cinder's smile stayed perfect, but something cold flashed behind her eyes-sharp as a skinning knife. "Did he now?"

Emerald's heart stuttered.

She's... jealous? Of me?

A strange, wicked warmth bloomed in her chest. For once, the devotion flowed both ways. She tucked the flower behind her ear almost defiantly.

Mercury swung his legs off the bunk. "Well, this is gettin' too much like a Vacuo soap opera for me. I'm headin' out-gonna see if Arc's buyin' beers for the drama. Later, ladies."

He limped out, whistling. Neo signed something obscene after him.

Cinder watched the door close, then turned back to her scrolls. But her fingers tightened on the edge of the desk, just enough to crack the wood.

Emerald sat on her bunk, touching the flower petals lightly. For the first time in a long while, something besides devotion stirred in her chest-something dangerous, something almost like hope.

Outside, the moon rose over Beacon like a silver coin tossed high, waiting to be shot.

 

[bazerkerking]

I love Cowboys of Remnant. It is by far one of my favorite serial posts you have done

 

[ThunderBasilisk]

LoL let the drama commence!

 

[ExFelineServer3]

Are we certain that Orleans isn't like Rapidash-lite?

 

[dogbertcarroll]

Jaune gets gifted a Free Assassination card from Neo, but as she was about to give it to him she hears him wishing Salem was dead.

Turns out everyone trying to kill Salem were clumsy unimaginative fools in comparison to our favorite murder muffin.

 

[MetalHead]

Jaune gets gifted a Free Assassination card from Neo, but as she was about to give it to him she hears him wishing Salem was dead.

Turns out everyone trying to kill Salem were clumsy unimaginative fools in comparison to our favorite murder muffin.

Click to shrink...

Ice dust/liquid nitrogen?

 

[CountvonBarnOwl]

Its a different canon its tied to previous post i did explaining about lovecraftican cults on Remnant and Prelati here would be a recurring villian as he would be last true magic user from the the era of gods alongside Salem and Ozma.
Also for this the hiccup that happen to Prelati is that Jacques semblance actived in response to his body being jacked by Pretlati.

If Jacque had the proper training and actived he would have been fine but he never did and his semblance was forcibly and partially activate.
He only did enough to save his soul and mind.
So he is the full power of his semblance.

Semblance: Sovereign Clause
User: Jacques Schnee
Description
Jacques' soul is permanently anchored to his body and cannot be erased, overwritten, or permanently displaced.
If another soul attempts to possess or suppress him, he may be forced into the background, but his core identity remains intact. No invader can fully replace him. Over time, his anchored soul destabilizes the intruder and pushes to reclaim control. Any attacks that attack or effects the mind and soul can be easily resisted or blocked by aura.


Secondary Function: Binding Contracts
Jacques can forge Aura-based "contracts" with others through a mutually acknowledged agreement (verbal deal, signed document, sworn promise).

Once established:
He gains limited influence over the target's actions. He can issue simple compulsions (hesitate, stop, speak, stand down).
He can siphon a small portion of their Aura to reinforce his own. The stronger the target's ambition or greed, the stronger the contract.
The contract only forms if the other person willingly agrees, even if they don't realize Aura is involved.

Limitations
Contracts weaken if loyalty fades.
Strong-willed individuals can resist direct commands. Breaking too many contracts at once strains his Aura.
He cannot control someone who never agreed to him. He has to go through with the end of his deal.

Click to shrink...

Interesting… a Semblance that specifically thwarts Ozpin… at the logical cost of being a zombie after death

"Soul permanently anchored to the body"

There's an idea, Jacques walking around, his flesh puppeteered by his Aura, with a bullet hole in his head or heart, or, more comically, missing a sizable chunk of himself. Perhaps he is just an impotent hopping foot, or maybe a crawling hand?

Now, I have my own ideas about how and why Oz is able to possess others. But that is neither here nor there.

---

By the way, I wrote these two short pieces


#1 Uninsurable:

Yang: "Why the FUCK does it say I owe the school 21,800 Lien for the past two weeks?"

Weiss: "Well you and Blake both have criminal records-"

Yang: "Juvenile only!"

Weiss: "And I assume the school is secretly inflating our prices because they know my family can afford it."

Ruby: Definitely going to complain about this at leadership class.

Blake: "Friendfic idea - Uninsurable, unemployed, floozy has to find rich husband who will let her have his name and add her to his insurance plan."

Yang: "Now... who has a well off family and is at least kind of fuckable... HEY VOMIT BOY!" - Runs out of room

Weiss: "Get back here you slattern, he was into me first." - Chasing her.

Ruby: "Weiss you have a brother my age, right?" - Chasing Weiss

Blake: settling in with her book "Peace at last..." scroogles which kingdoms don't do background check's on the wife's maiden name before selling insurance.

---

#2 The Xiao Long Bloodline - AKA Rubyposting

Ruby - completely unsolicited: "Alright Jaune, I've made up my mind. You want my sister? You can have her. I've left everything you two need in our dorm.

"Jaune: "Wha-?"

Ruby: "Seriously, Jaune?! Yang's not getting any younger and she looked at one of the cats at the pet store on the way back for three seconds too many. You need to secure the Xiao Long bloodline."

Jaune: "Xiao Long bloodline? Wait... What about you?"

Ruby: "What? Ew, no! That's gross. Besides we're sisters, so I couldn't get her pregnant even if I wanted to."

Jaune: "Pregnant?"

Ruby: "Yeah, call me when she is. Crescent Rose wants a cousin."

PS. Yes I have tried making AI art of Ruby punching a boulder. It only makes her punch brick walls.

 

[zMADLAXz]

You know what would be fun? An Isekai.

Specifically a Jacques Schnee Isekai. Preferably before he becomes a Schnee.

Like can you imagine, an ambitious young Jacques, seeing his deals, their consequences, makes the executive decision, to fuck off in an underground bunker with food, necessities, and everything else, but fate tries so hard to put him on the path of a "Hero" solely because of Weiss's involvement in the Ever After, so since she needs to be born Jacques needs to marry Willow.

So his plans of running away seem to be inviable, he the thinkS to go and join up Salem, but the thing is, his patron, gave him the full run down of Salem's plan, making him realize that there is no escape.

It all ultimately culminates into him accepting that he is fucked, and then investing rest of his prep time in making sure he's got enough firepower to make it hurt.

Starting by abandoning his kids at birth giving false news of his death, then engineering hardships in their life, and then making them meet mentors that make his kids act like shonen protagonists, because if blonde haired, blue eyed, loud mouthed buffoon could deal with immortals, then surely three Schnees of same measure and tendencies could do the same?

How did he end up with this Aizen mixed with Minato Namikaze level plan? Simple, he realized that his life is bullshit Mistralian anime now.

Only thing? He fails, and makes his Kids the silent broody secondary characters. The Vegetas, The Sasukes, The Hieis etc.

So then who do these edgy Schnee kids end up with?


EDIT: In retrospect, I may have given an alternative origin story of Bleiss Schnee.

 

[MetalHead]

Interesting… a Semblance that specifically thwarts Ozpin… at the logical cost of being a zombie after death

"Soul permanently anchored to the body"

There's an idea, Jacques walking around, his flesh puppeteered by his Aura, with a bullet hole in his head or heart, or, more comically, missing a sizable chunk of himself. Perhaps he is just an impotent hopping foot, or maybe a crawling hand?

Click to shrink...

How about Headmaster OzBONE then?
Ozpin as a talking skeleton in a suit. Still wise, but not really combat-capable and breaking-prone. Part of Glynda's new job is putting him back together.

 

[Gur40]

Sunk Cost Fallacy

Spoiler: Being A RWBY Fan

---

Fun idea

Spoiler: inspired

Would the Shirt work?

---

Sisters Forced To Act As Mothers

Spoiler: Same

With the irony That Yang see's how Tai and Qrow see Raven in her

Spoiler: As Raven Spies

and on the flip side Whitley knows his mother and sisters look at him and see Jaq

Spoiler: volume 1

---

if Raven Stayed

Spoiler: wine mom

she would joke like that

---

Jaune opinion of himslef

Spoiler: Amp is Math

Post Fall Jaune seeing himself as a 0 in the math

---

Ozpin is suffering

Spoiler: Nightmare Fuek

and the mastermind

Spoiler: Ascend Him

---

WHAT CRWBY Tried and FAILED To Do With V9

Spoiler: CRWBY FAIL

 

[Johnson smith]

Trying to come up with scenarios of Glynda goodwitch wearing progressively skimpier bikinis any suggestion or comments? Does she start off with normal or high coverage swimsuit. I posted something similar in the main rwby thread I hope this is ok to post this here the main rwby thread didn't really seem to want to theory craft

 

[Gur40]

Trying to come up with scenarios of Glynda goodwitch wearing progressively skimpier bikinis any suggestion or comments? Does she start off with normal

Click to shrink...

Spoiler: ideas

 

[Johnson smith]

Spoiler: ideas

Click to shrink...

I was thinking Glynda won a vacation her luggage containing her modest swimsuits got damaged and all she had was the resort boutique swimsuits.

 

[Gur40]

I was thinking Glynda won a vacation her luggage containing her modest swimsuits got damaged and all she had was the resort boutique swimsuits.

Click to shrink...

Spoiler: refs

So Glynda would try to buy a more modest bikini like Nemu and Soifon but it would be to small on her and be a wardrobe malfunction waiting to happen
Next she'd try for a two piece that covered more like Nanao but would end up looking like Rangiku in the changing room mirror
Maybe something happens and the only available options a floss bikini or the backless like Unohana or massive cleavage window like Isane

 

[Johnson smith]

Spoiler: refs

So Glynda would try to buy a more modest bikini like Nemu and Soifon but it would be to small on her and be a wardrobe malfunction waiting to happen
Next she'd try for a two piece that covered more like Nanao but would end up looking like Rangiku in the changing room mirror
Maybe something happens and the only available options a floss bikini or the backless like Unohana or massive cleavage window like Isane

Click to shrink...

After returning from her vacation Glynda keeps the assortment of skimpy bikinis and sunbathes.on her lunch break or otherwise at Beacon having to be careful to avoid the staff and students alike maybe in an emerald string bikini with under and side boob and thong bottoms? @Gur40 thank you for theory crafting with me it's fun!!

 

[zMADLAXz]

This is more of a meta thing so I don't know if it would be valud for this thread, but I have to ask,

Aside from Ozpin or Salem, which character do you think that if you Self Insert into, you could make the largest positive impact on Remnant.

It could be entirely your preference how you want to go about it, through sword, through brains, through wealth...

I feel like as Jacques Schnee I could absolutely do a lot in Remnant.

Ironwood too actually. But I would prefer being Jacques Schnee more if I had to change Remnant.

Or you could be meta and say Salem's father but that's kinda uninteresting to me.

EDIT: Oh yeah before I forget, you knswrt into the character and keep their skills, intelligence, body, Semblance etc.

Like for example if you chose to reincarnate as Pyrrha(my 4th favorite option, possibly could be 2nd favorite), you'll be the Invincible Girl woth all her skills, physique ,experience etc.

 

[Johnson smith]

Spoiler: Ai assisted Glynda bikini adventure.

The sea mist, thick with the scent of salt and exotic blossoms, clung to Glynda Goodwitch's severe bun, softening the edges of her usually impeccable coiffure. She stood on the private balcony of her villa, overlooking the cerulean expanse of the Argus Ocean. Before her lay the pristine, deserted beach of an island resort so exclusive, so discreet, that it was rumored to exist outside the standard shipping lanes of Remnant. This was it: her two weeks of sanctioned solitude, a mandated reprieve from the relentless demands of Beacon Academy.

Glynda sighed, a sound that held both exhaustion and a flicker of… something else. Anticipation? Perhaps. Loneliness? Unlikely, she preferred her own company. Liberation? Now that was closer to the truth. For years, her life had been a meticulously constructed edifice of duty, decorum, and unwavering professionalism. Every hair in place, every word measured, every emotion rigorously contained. Even her rare, brief forays into leisure had been undertaken with an almost military precision – a quiet tea at a secluded café, a rigorously planned hike, always in attire that spoke of understated elegance and complete coverage.

She unpacked her single, sensible swimsuit: a classic, navy blue one-piece, cut high on the neck and low on the thigh, designed for maximum coverage and minimal fuss. It was the kind of garment that announced, "I am here to swim, not to be looked at." She held it up, a familiar, comforting weight in her hands. Then, she looked out at the shimmering water, the swaying palms, the dazzling, untamed beauty of the place, and a tiny, almost imperceptible tremor ran through her.

"Nonsense," she muttered to herself, but the word lacked its usual conviction. The sun, a golden orb in the distant sky, seemed to mock her. She felt, for the first time in a very long time, an itch beneath her skin, a nascent curiosity bubbling up from a place she had long since sealed off.

The resort boutique was a sun-drenched haven of silk and light, a stark contrast to the imposing stone of Beacon. Glynda found herself drawn inside, ostensibly to purchase a new sun hat, a practical necessity. But her eyes, despite her best efforts, kept drifting to the racks of swimwear. Bright colors, daring cuts, fabrics that shimmered and hugged. It was all so… different from her own utilitarian choice.

Her gaze snagged on a display mannequin. It wore a bikini. Not a scandalous one, not yet, but certainly a departure from her norm. It was a high-waisted design, the bottoms reaching almost to her navel, offering comfortable coverage over her abdomen. The top, a balconette style, was structured, providing lift and support, though it revealed a modest curve of cleavage that her one-piece would have meticulously concealed. The color was a deep emerald, a hue that she knew would complement her hair and eyes.

A familiar voice of reason, her own inner critic, immediately began its reprimand. Overly revealing. Unnecessary. Undignified for a woman of your standing. But another voice, softer, less defined, whispered, You are on vacation. You are alone. Who is here to judge you?

She found herself, almost against her will, plucking the emerald bikini from its hanger. The fabric, a rich, subtly textured material, felt surprisingly pleasant beneath her fingertips. "Just to try it on," she rationalized, her cheeks warming slightly. "No harm in that."

In the privacy of the changing room, the full-length mirror reflected a Glynda Goodwitch she rarely saw. The high-waisted bottoms, while still providing ample coverage, accentuated the gentle curve of her hips, drawing attention to the lean strength of her thighs. The balconette top, designed to lift, gently pushed her breasts upwards, creating a tantalizing swell above the fabric. It wasn't overtly sexual, not by a long shot, but it was undeniably feminine in a way her severe professional attire never allowed.

She turned, admiring the smooth line of her back, the way the fabric hugged her curves without constriction. A novel sensation blossomed in her chest – a lightness, almost a thrill. She could feel the faint breeze from the changing room vent on the expanse of her midriff, skin that had almost always been sheltered. It was a small concession, truly. Just a sliver of abdomen, a little more cleavage. But for Glynda, it felt like an act of rebellion. She bought it.

Stepping out onto the beach later, the emerald fabric a vibrant contrast against her pale skin, she felt a peculiar mix of apprehension and exhilaration. The sun warmed her exposed skin in a way it never had before, a gentle caress that seeped into her bones. She lay on a chaise lounge, shielded by a wide-brimmed hat, and found herself smiling, a genuine, unforced smile. The initial discomfort gave way to a burgeoning sense of ease. This wasn't so bad. In fact, it was rather… nice.

The emerald bikini became her daily uniform for the first few days. She swam, she read, she walked the deserted shore, her mind slowly unclenching from the iron grip of responsibility. The feeling of the sun on her midsection, the way the slight exposure of her chest caught the breeze, began to feel natural, even desirable.

One afternoon, browsing the boutique again – this time with acknowledged intent – her eyes caught on another display. This one was a classic triangle bikini, a simple string design in a vibrant coral. Immediately, her inner voice flared. Too much. Far too much. Entirely inappropriate. But the new Glynda, the one slowly emerging on this isolated island, merely hummed a thoughtful note.

The bottoms were low-rise, sitting on her hips, with thin ties at each side. The triangles of the top were adjustable, sliding along a string that tied behind her neck and back. It was significantly less fabric than her emerald set, exposing a far greater expanse of her abdomen, the elegant line of her hips, and a more generous portion of her cleavage.

In the changing room, the coral fabric felt almost featherlight. The low-rise bottoms barely clung to her hips, revealing the delicate slope of her pelvic bones, an area of her body that had never seen the light of day. The thin side ties made her legs appear longer, her waist more defined. She adjusted the triangle top, pulling the fabric slightly wider, then slightly narrower, marveling at how a small shift could expose so much more, or less. She settled on a position that offered just enough coverage to be decent, but pushed her breasts together, creating a deeper, more pronounced valley between them.

She turned to the side, then the back. The bottoms, while not full thongs, left a significant curve of her derriere exposed, a tantalizing peek at the firm, powerful muscles that moved beneath her skin. A blush crept up her neck, but it wasn't one of shame. It was a blush of audacity, of curiosity. Her fingers traced the thin strings, the minimal fabric. It felt… daring. It felt exciting.

Stepping out onto the sun-drenched pool deck, the coral a vivid splash against the azure tiles, Glynda held her head a little higher. The sun kissed her stomach, her hips, the swell of her chest. She could feel the slight jiggle of her breasts as she walked, unrestrained by heavy padding or firm underwires. The feeling was intoxicating. She found a secluded cabana and settled in, closing her eyes, letting the sun soak into every exposed inch of her. There was a faint hum, a vibration in her core, a secret pleasure she couldn't quite name. She was enjoying this, truly enjoying the sensation of liberation, of shedding not just fabric, but inhibition.

Days blurred into a delicious cycle of sun, sea, and self-indulgence. Glynda found herself lingering longer at the beach, taking more swims, feeling the water lap against her skin, the cool currents a gentle caress on her now more exposed form. The coral bikini, once a bold step, now felt almost… commonplace. She craved more.

It was an evening stroll along the beach, the moon painting silver streaks on the water, that sealed her decision. She saw shadows of other guests, distant figures, embracing their own freedom. A thought, mischievous and tantalizing, wormed its way into her mind: What if?

The next morning, with a confidence that would have shocked her Beacon colleagues, Glynda marched back into the boutique. She bypassed the standard bikinis, her gaze now drawn to the more adventurous section. Her target was a vibrant cerulean set, almost the exact color of the ocean. This was a Brazilian-cut bikini.

The bottoms were significantly skimpier than anything she had worn before. They plunged low in the front, revealing a generous curve of her lower abdomen, and the back offered minimal coverage, disappearing almost entirely between her cheeks, leaving a daring curve of her buttocks exposed to the sun. The top was a halter-neck bandeau, a simple strip of fabric that tied behind her neck and back, designed to lift and push, creating a generous, almost overflowing cleavage.

In the changing room, Glynda felt a tremor run through her hands as she unwrapped the cerulean fabric. Sliding the bottoms on, she had to maneuver them carefully. The minimal fabric rode high on her hips, cutting deeply into her groin, revealing almost the entirety of her pubic mound beneath the thin cloth. Her breath hitched. The back of the bottoms was a mere whisper of fabric, leaving a shocking amount of her firm, round derriere exposed. She reached back, touching the exposed skin, feeling the warmth of her own flesh, the smoothness, the daring curve of it.

The bandeau top was equally audacious. She tied it tightly, pulling her breasts together, causing them to swell and press against the fabric, creating a deep, enticing chasm between them. The delicate swell of her nipples was clearly discernible beneath the tight cloth. Her shoulders, usually so straight and rigid, seemed to soften, her posture subtly shifting to accommodate her new, more overtly sensual form. She turned, admiring the almost scandalous display in the mirror. Her lips parted slightly, a soft, almost imperceptible moan escaping her throat. This wasn't merely revealing; it was an invitation. An invitation to herself, to a side of her she had kept locked away for decades.

This time, she didn't just walk to the pool. She strode, her hips swaying with a newfound freedom. Head held high, a slight smile playing on her lips, she felt the eyes of distant, anonymous guests flicker towards her, and for the first time, she didn't recoil. Instead, a delicious shiver of excitement ran through her. She was a vision of confident sensuality, her body a testament to years of rigorous combat training, now showcased in a way that was undeniably, deliciously slutty. She spent the entire day lounging, swimming, feeling the sun bake her exposed skin, savoring the feeling of the barely-there fabric, the almost-nakedness. Her fingertips often drifted to the edges of the tiny garments, marveling at how little separated her from complete exposure. Her tan was deepening, painting her skin a golden hue, making her feel even more vibrant, more alive.

The final days of her vacation approached, and Glynda felt a strange melancholy mixed with a powerful, almost primal urge. She had come so far from the woman who had packed the navy one-piece. The stern professor was a distant memory, replaced by a woman who reveled in her own body, in the feeling of sun on bare skin, in the sheer audacity of her choices. She wanted to push the boundaries one last time, to fully embrace this wild, uninhibited self.

She returned to the boutique, her stride purposeful, her gaze unwavering. She knew exactly what she was looking for. Tucked away in a discreet corner, she found it. A microkini, almost laughably small, in a rich, shimmering gold fabric. It was less a swimsuit and more a collection of strategically placed ribbons of cloth.

The bottoms were a true thong, a mere string disappearing between her buttocks, leaving them entirely, shamelessly, exposed. The front was a tiny triangle, barely covering her labia, revealing the dark shadow of her pubic hair line, hinting at the depths beneath. The top was composed of two minuscule triangles, held together by strings that tied around her neck and back. Each triangle was barely larger than the palm of her hand, designed to cover only the barest essentials of her nipples and the swell of her upper breast, leaving the lower curve entirely exposed.

In the changing room, Glynda stared at the golden microkini, a mixture of shock and fervent desire warring within her. This was it. The absolute extreme. This was beyond bold; this was an act of pure, unadulterated erotic exhibitionism, even if only for her own eyes.

She tugged the thong bottoms up her legs, the string disappearing almost immediately. Her entire derrière was on display, firm and round and gleaming in the changing room light. She ran her hands over the exposed flesh, a shiver tracing her spine. The front triangle was so small, so impossibly tiny, that she had to adjust it carefully, making sure it covered just enough to avoid complete nudity, but still left the distinct, intriguing swell of her mound prominently outlined. Her fingers brushed against the sensitive skin, a faint warmth spreading through her.

Then the top. She placed the minuscule triangles over her breasts. They barely covered her areolas, leaving her nipples almost entirely uncovered, a blatant suggestion. The undercurve of her breasts spilled out generously beneath the fabric, showcasing their full, ripe roundness. She tied the strings, feeling the delicate pressure against her skin, the near-total lack of support, the sensual freedom.

Glynda stared at her reflection, a long, lingering appraisal. Her breath was shallow, her heart thumping a rapid rhythm against her ribs. She was transformed. The stern, reserved professor was utterly gone. In her place stood a magnificent, sun-kissed woman, her powerful body almost entirely bare, save for the strategic, shimmering gold ribbons of fabric that clung to her. She looked brazen, uninhibited, exquisitely slutty. A slow, knowing smile spread across her lips. Her eyes, usually so sharp and analytical, now held a deep, sensual glow. She touched her own body, tracing the lines of her figure, the exposed curves, the daring expanse of skin. A low, guttural purr rumbled in her throat.

For the rest of the day, Glynda reclined by the most secluded part of the pool, utterly unconcerned by any potential glances. The microkini felt like a second skin, or rather, the absence of one. The sun warmed her bare buttocks, her exposed breasts, the intimate curve of her groin. She felt utterly at peace, utterly alive, thrillingly defiant. The sensation of the water against her almost-naked body as she swam was a profound, sensual experience, each ripple a caress. She wasn't just enjoying the vacation; she was enjoying herself, in a way she never knew was possible. This was her secret, scandalous pleasure, a hidden facet of her being that had finally been allowed to bloom under the tropical sun.

The final morning dawned, painting the sky with hues of rose and gold. Glynda packed her suitcase slowly, carefully. The gold microkini, the cerulean Brazilian, the coral triangle, and the emerald high-waisted set were all folded and placed in a separate, silk pouch, tucked deep within her luggage. Her navy one-piece lay on top, ready for her return to Beacon.

She looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror, clad once more in her sensible travel clothes. The stern professor was back, her posture erect, her expression composed. But beneath the facade, something had irrevocably shifted. Her skin was bronzed, glowing with health. Her eyes held a new depth, a knowing glint.

Glynda Goodwitch would return to Beacon Academy, poised and professional as ever. She would resume her duties, discipline her students, and maintain her impeccable reputation. But within her, a delicious, private secret would reside. A memory of sun-drenched skin, of barely-there fabric, of a liberated self who had dared to shed not just her clothes, but her inhibitions, and found pure, unadulterated pleasure in the process. And sometimes, when the wind whispered just right through the corridors of Beacon, or the sun caught her precisely, she would feel a phantom warmth on her exposed skin, a ghost of a sensation, and a tiny, secret smile would touch her lips.

@AndrewJTalon I hope you dont mind me posting this in your thread also any comments or suggestions for ideas?????

 

[NightDranzer]

Throughout EVERY timeline, one thing remains constant: these three will forever be Jaune's greatest muses and sources of inspiration (even if they do not get romantically involved)

Spoiler: Jaune Arc's Three Muses

 

[NightDranzer]

A RWBY Headcanon of mine; in case anyone wants to use it as well:

Since Anime often loves giving out character Blood Types, I figured I'd assign the RWBYJNPR cast their own as well, using Japanese Blood Type Personality Chart:


Ruby Rose: I'd guess would be a B+
Weiss Schnee: I'd guess would be an A+
Blake Belladonna: I'd guess would be an AB+ (Universal Receptor. Main character syndrome. All Take No Give)
Yang Xiao Long: I'd guess would be a B+

Jaune Arc: I'd guess would be an O- (Universal Donor. Thematically pairs well with Aura Amp. Self-destructively Selfless.)
Nora Valkyrie: I'd guess would be a B-
Pyrrha Nikos: I'd guess would be a B+
Lie Ren: I'd guess would be an O+