Town Hall, 21:52:
The wind blew beyond the thick windows of the Town Hall, but its chill was not felt within. Great fires roared, more for decoration than warmth, and the glittering chandeliers cast their coruscating light through both the great ballroom and the bedecked corridors hosting the great and the good. Armistice Night had been the premier celebration for the moneyed classes for more than half a decade, and the powerful individuals of Vale had not spared a single expense.
The stately corridors, the grand sitting rooms, the colossal ballroom were all hives of activity, gossip, recreation. The great, wide windows and the decorated walls guided the sound of the band to every ear in the sea of elegant men and women, a soft wafting noise not meant for the clatter of dance but as an accompaniment to the gentle scrape of cutlery; the great banquet table had been unveiled, and hungry eyes roved the hundred yards of delicacies.
The celebrants were unique, each in their own way. Certain traits were shared, of course: there were plenty of diamonds, dust-embedded clothing, long form-fitting dresses and well-tailored suits. Most of the party-goers had the soft, pale skin native to Vale, though there were plenty of different colors festooned with the shimmering reds, golds, greens, and blues of the elaborate outfits. The towering majority were, of course, human, though what faunus were present earned derisive glances from only a smattering of people. In fact, a truly stunning fox faunus was drawing jealous, interested eyes as her curvaceous form pressed politely at the edges of a sequined gown of red and silver.
The Chancellor was present, as was the High Justice. The Mayor was making his portly rounds, shaking hands and trying to earn votes for his continued rule over the city-state. Ozpin was presumably hidden away in the far tower of Beacon rather than at the gala, despite being the one who offered the job. The silver haired administrator hadn’t signed the notice himself, of course, but only the ignorant would think that any job bearing the seal of Beacon Academy was not given at the behest of the world-famous warrior. It was a simple job, despite the high pay and free entry to the hallowed halls: to present a good impression of Hunters and Huntresses during the celebration for the event of their founding, and to augment the already impressive security bristling just below the surface of the elegant venue.
The music played, the gossip flowed alongside the wine, and the early night strode forward as the shattered moon made its slow procession across the sky.
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Dilapidated Tenement, 21:56
The chill wind blew through the broken window of the long-abandoned apartment, and filled the gray-stone rooms with the crisp ice of winter night. The place had long been abandoned, by the looks of things. Not vacated out of any sort of fear or danger, but merely vacated and never filled, forgotten by the wheels of capitalism, being cheaper to merely abandon than to rebuild. A cheap sofa was rotting in one corner, the boltholes of mice could be picked out by the keen observer. It had been occupied at least once between its abandonment and Armistice Night. The remnant of a great war boot in one of the cupboard conflicted with the dates atop the stacks of newspapers ordered neatly opposite the couch.
It was an ordinary home for the area: three rooms for a single family in the industrial district, south of the elegant dockside addresses and west of the central business district’s spires. The smell of smoke and pollution could be picked up through the window even during the biggest holiday of the year, as the factories offered double pay to those who would be willing to oil the gears of progress at the expense of fireworks, drink and merriment. The great crowds were not present here: the thronging celebrations skirted the dilapidation and industry and clustered in commerce and wealth, leaving the place eerily quiet, a ghost town for a single night.
Quiet, of course, save for a wizened, scarred man perched against a wall. He wore plain clothes, though everyone in the room knew he was Military Police. The veteran men and women who kept Vale’s streets pacified and safe seldom worked with hunters, especially young ones, but apparently today would see one of the few exceptions.
He eyed what recruits he had earned with sharp, midnight-black eyes. He looked dissatisfied, as though the money he had offered for a job only described as “Elimination of Heavily-Armed Terrorist Cell” had not bought him what he wanted. He huffed, ran a hand through the graying hair which crowned his harsh, heavily-bearded, olive-skinned face. He was a bear of a man, and he growled like one from atop his towering muscle. The movement of his burly arm pulled at his thick coat just enough to reveal the pistol tucked under his arm.
“You’ll do, I suppose.” His accent placed him as a Colonial, apparently moved from the western satraps to Vale, for reasons perhaps only he knew. “Lieutenant Colonel Malachus, Military Police. The clever ones will have known that already. To the rest of you, be careful tonight.”
He was not a well-known face, except to those within the MP establishment or particularly invested in the gripes of Vale’s upper management. A respected figure, by all accounts, and his bearing confirmed some level of veterancy. “Don’t mind the eyes. Semblance. Not all of us can do what you can, and that’s why the Military Police have hired you. You’re going to be stopping a bomb from killing hundreds of people, and you may need to hurt people to do so. Any of you who don’t want a part in that, leave.” He shifted against his wall, waiting for some signal from those before him before beginning his brief. There was not an ounce of levity to be found in the freezing, dilapidated room.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Airfleet Street, 21:49
The wind did not trouble the revelers on Airfleet Street, blowing over their heads as the great crowd churned and roiled through the organized celebrations in and around the town square. Generously provided food and beverages was sustaining the cosmopolitan crowd’s jubilant spirits, and pockets of singing or dancing could be heard over top the general roar of conversation and festivity.
In the town square, at the terminus of Airfleet Street’s wide, crowded boulevard, two structures dominated. A great stage, on which lights were currently brightening and onto which eyes were rapidly turning, and a large cage of gilded silver, studded with gems of orange, blue and green. Onto the stage, a man strutted: a faunus, apparently possessing bull traits if the horns on his head were to be believed. He was clad in an elegant tuxedo, contrasting him alongside his prestigious position with the casually-dressed patchwork of the crowd. The noise stilled slightly, in anticipation.
It had been tradition, the performance. Choosing a faunus performer was something of a stir, the first one in Vale history, but no-one could say Lucius Caestovani was not qualified. Internationally acclaimed performer, strong pacifistic stance, a history of charity without a speck of controversy: he was a natural choice. The noise dimmed, and as the orchestra began to play, he readied himself for the opening number.
Meanwhile, before the colossal silver cage, more a Colosseum without seats, a woman whispered to assembled hunters, acclaimed youths. Elaine Cardamom’s frizzy red hair bubbled and tossed as she spoke in hurried, ill-fitting whispers to her hirelings. It was another tradition, besides the Dirge: that hunters would work together to kill Grimm, to show their talents and symbolize the collaboration of the nations, the combined armies which had so thoroughly thrown back the Grimm in the wake of war. The job didn’t pay very well, and was selective in the extreme, but there was no higher honor. Or, at least, so many thought. Many others valued the opportunity as an excellent way for a young Hunter to begin to earn national acclaim and some measure of stardom.
“Alright, as soon as they’re done with act one, we’re going to kick it off. You’re all going in together, so be mindful of each other, but we’re going to start you easy. Ursae, and young ones too.”
Caestovani began to sing, his powerful baritone ringing the mournful words through carefully-tuned speakers, his talent clear. Word over all, beautiful as the sky. Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage must in time be utterly lost
“We’re going to ramp up, so give them a good show: people want to see you be amazing, not just efficient, understand?” Cardamom’s boundless enthusiasm clashed with the baleful, hopeful singing, but she didn’t seem to notice.
That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly softly wash again and ever again The choir joined behind him, setting the landscape for the baritone to waft through the chill air. “We’ve not got long now: any questions? Anyone have any business they need to get done?”
The mistress of ceremonies bored into the hunters with gleaming eyes as the dirge continued: festivities swirled around the hunters as all gave silence to the tradition that had lasted nearly a century.
The wind blew beyond the thick windows of the Town Hall, but its chill was not felt within. Great fires roared, more for decoration than warmth, and the glittering chandeliers cast their coruscating light through both the great ballroom and the bedecked corridors hosting the great and the good. Armistice Night had been the premier celebration for the moneyed classes for more than half a decade, and the powerful individuals of Vale had not spared a single expense.
The stately corridors, the grand sitting rooms, the colossal ballroom were all hives of activity, gossip, recreation. The great, wide windows and the decorated walls guided the sound of the band to every ear in the sea of elegant men and women, a soft wafting noise not meant for the clatter of dance but as an accompaniment to the gentle scrape of cutlery; the great banquet table had been unveiled, and hungry eyes roved the hundred yards of delicacies.
The celebrants were unique, each in their own way. Certain traits were shared, of course: there were plenty of diamonds, dust-embedded clothing, long form-fitting dresses and well-tailored suits. Most of the party-goers had the soft, pale skin native to Vale, though there were plenty of different colors festooned with the shimmering reds, golds, greens, and blues of the elaborate outfits. The towering majority were, of course, human, though what faunus were present earned derisive glances from only a smattering of people. In fact, a truly stunning fox faunus was drawing jealous, interested eyes as her curvaceous form pressed politely at the edges of a sequined gown of red and silver.
The Chancellor was present, as was the High Justice. The Mayor was making his portly rounds, shaking hands and trying to earn votes for his continued rule over the city-state. Ozpin was presumably hidden away in the far tower of Beacon rather than at the gala, despite being the one who offered the job. The silver haired administrator hadn’t signed the notice himself, of course, but only the ignorant would think that any job bearing the seal of Beacon Academy was not given at the behest of the world-famous warrior. It was a simple job, despite the high pay and free entry to the hallowed halls: to present a good impression of Hunters and Huntresses during the celebration for the event of their founding, and to augment the already impressive security bristling just below the surface of the elegant venue.
The music played, the gossip flowed alongside the wine, and the early night strode forward as the shattered moon made its slow procession across the sky.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Dilapidated Tenement, 21:56
The chill wind blew through the broken window of the long-abandoned apartment, and filled the gray-stone rooms with the crisp ice of winter night. The place had long been abandoned, by the looks of things. Not vacated out of any sort of fear or danger, but merely vacated and never filled, forgotten by the wheels of capitalism, being cheaper to merely abandon than to rebuild. A cheap sofa was rotting in one corner, the boltholes of mice could be picked out by the keen observer. It had been occupied at least once between its abandonment and Armistice Night. The remnant of a great war boot in one of the cupboard conflicted with the dates atop the stacks of newspapers ordered neatly opposite the couch.
It was an ordinary home for the area: three rooms for a single family in the industrial district, south of the elegant dockside addresses and west of the central business district’s spires. The smell of smoke and pollution could be picked up through the window even during the biggest holiday of the year, as the factories offered double pay to those who would be willing to oil the gears of progress at the expense of fireworks, drink and merriment. The great crowds were not present here: the thronging celebrations skirted the dilapidation and industry and clustered in commerce and wealth, leaving the place eerily quiet, a ghost town for a single night.
Quiet, of course, save for a wizened, scarred man perched against a wall. He wore plain clothes, though everyone in the room knew he was Military Police. The veteran men and women who kept Vale’s streets pacified and safe seldom worked with hunters, especially young ones, but apparently today would see one of the few exceptions.
He eyed what recruits he had earned with sharp, midnight-black eyes. He looked dissatisfied, as though the money he had offered for a job only described as “Elimination of Heavily-Armed Terrorist Cell” had not bought him what he wanted. He huffed, ran a hand through the graying hair which crowned his harsh, heavily-bearded, olive-skinned face. He was a bear of a man, and he growled like one from atop his towering muscle. The movement of his burly arm pulled at his thick coat just enough to reveal the pistol tucked under his arm.
“You’ll do, I suppose.” His accent placed him as a Colonial, apparently moved from the western satraps to Vale, for reasons perhaps only he knew. “Lieutenant Colonel Malachus, Military Police. The clever ones will have known that already. To the rest of you, be careful tonight.”
He was not a well-known face, except to those within the MP establishment or particularly invested in the gripes of Vale’s upper management. A respected figure, by all accounts, and his bearing confirmed some level of veterancy. “Don’t mind the eyes. Semblance. Not all of us can do what you can, and that’s why the Military Police have hired you. You’re going to be stopping a bomb from killing hundreds of people, and you may need to hurt people to do so. Any of you who don’t want a part in that, leave.” He shifted against his wall, waiting for some signal from those before him before beginning his brief. There was not an ounce of levity to be found in the freezing, dilapidated room.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Airfleet Street, 21:49
The wind did not trouble the revelers on Airfleet Street, blowing over their heads as the great crowd churned and roiled through the organized celebrations in and around the town square. Generously provided food and beverages was sustaining the cosmopolitan crowd’s jubilant spirits, and pockets of singing or dancing could be heard over top the general roar of conversation and festivity.
In the town square, at the terminus of Airfleet Street’s wide, crowded boulevard, two structures dominated. A great stage, on which lights were currently brightening and onto which eyes were rapidly turning, and a large cage of gilded silver, studded with gems of orange, blue and green. Onto the stage, a man strutted: a faunus, apparently possessing bull traits if the horns on his head were to be believed. He was clad in an elegant tuxedo, contrasting him alongside his prestigious position with the casually-dressed patchwork of the crowd. The noise stilled slightly, in anticipation.
It had been tradition, the performance. Choosing a faunus performer was something of a stir, the first one in Vale history, but no-one could say Lucius Caestovani was not qualified. Internationally acclaimed performer, strong pacifistic stance, a history of charity without a speck of controversy: he was a natural choice. The noise dimmed, and as the orchestra began to play, he readied himself for the opening number.
Meanwhile, before the colossal silver cage, more a Colosseum without seats, a woman whispered to assembled hunters, acclaimed youths. Elaine Cardamom’s frizzy red hair bubbled and tossed as she spoke in hurried, ill-fitting whispers to her hirelings. It was another tradition, besides the Dirge: that hunters would work together to kill Grimm, to show their talents and symbolize the collaboration of the nations, the combined armies which had so thoroughly thrown back the Grimm in the wake of war. The job didn’t pay very well, and was selective in the extreme, but there was no higher honor. Or, at least, so many thought. Many others valued the opportunity as an excellent way for a young Hunter to begin to earn national acclaim and some measure of stardom.
“Alright, as soon as they’re done with act one, we’re going to kick it off. You’re all going in together, so be mindful of each other, but we’re going to start you easy. Ursae, and young ones too.”
Caestovani began to sing, his powerful baritone ringing the mournful words through carefully-tuned speakers, his talent clear. Word over all, beautiful as the sky. Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage must in time be utterly lost
“We’re going to ramp up, so give them a good show: people want to see you be amazing, not just efficient, understand?” Cardamom’s boundless enthusiasm clashed with the baleful, hopeful singing, but she didn’t seem to notice.
That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly softly wash again and ever again The choir joined behind him, setting the landscape for the baritone to waft through the chill air. “We’ve not got long now: any questions? Anyone have any business they need to get done?”
The mistress of ceremonies bored into the hunters with gleaming eyes as the dirge continued: festivities swirled around the hunters as all gave silence to the tradition that had lasted nearly a century.
