Cello

RWBY: Chasing Shadows

---

Jet slung his rifle over his shoulder, taking a load off on a large rubber tire stuffed with rusted pipes. While not physically taxing, there'd been a few intense moments during their little bout with gramps. Auron's critique of his physical ability and aura control was met with a short, knowing nod. He couldn't deny it; had it come down to direct blows there'd be no telling how much damage he'd have sustained in that fight. Veloce's stepping stone comment prompted a slight smirk on the young boy's behalf - glad to know that little stunt would go down in their group's history.

Jet's mood sobered at the mention of why the group had chosen to pursue the life of huntsmen. Everyone's reasons were standard enough, the spotlight eventually turning to Jet who stood within it like a deer in headlights. Why did he want to be a huntsman? Truthfully, he wasn't sure. It had always been Slate's dream, and Jet had simply resigned himself to riding those coattails wherever they may lead. Growing up his older brother had often teased him for acting like his own shadow sometimes. God he missed him. He supposed he could say he was doing it for Slate, if not for the tiny detail that that's who he was pretending to be. It took him a minute to realise the silence had grown stifling. He'd been sitting there like a bump on a log in lieu of providing an actual answer to the question.

"Uh," He coughed, trying to think of something on the spot. "I guess, there ain't many other ways to make an honest living where I grew up. Being a Hunter was really the only choice I had."

RWBY: Chasing Shadows

---

Auron’s crouched figure was locked square within Jet’s sights, his finger itching at the trigger in anticipation of the Hunter’s next move. A half-assed compliment wasn’t a satisfactory surrender. Not in his books, anyway. He wouldn’t put it past the crafty geezer to fatten them up with sweet words before catching them off guard with another one of his wicked haymakers. Vacuans; trust ‘em as far as you can throw ‘em.

Jet caught the salute from Veloce, lowering the rifle to return the gesture. Bird brain had gotten a nice, solid blow on gramps afterall. Everyone performed well. Not something to write home about; he had expected his teammates to be somewhat competent. Still, that small ounce of recognition was nice. He shook his head, perishing the thought.

Things looked steady down below, the crowd’s excitement over the bout washing over the group. Latching his hook onto the beam, Jet stepped from his perch and gently lowered himself to the ground. The wire reeled back into his wrist with a satisfying snap whilst he approached the group just in time to hear Turq running his mouth.

“If nothing else, you made a good stepping stool.” Jet snickered, readjusting his goggles back onto his forehead. He kept the rifle at the ready, but was otherwise relaxed when addressing Auron.
“You ain’t an easy mark, Gramps. Annoying as hell.” He whined, thinking back to those lightning fast reflexes and movements. There was no doubt in his mind; Auron would have kicked his ass had he been up against him alone. Like the others, Jet was curious as to what their overseer would have them do next to prove their mettle.

RWBY: Chasing Shadows

---

‘Bang.’

The ensuing retaliation of their Overseer had definitely taken Jet by surprise. He didn’t doubt the geezer’s ability, but he hadn’t quite expected him to come out of that assault without so much as a scratch. The gesture towards his vantage point was the icing on the cake.

“Real funny, gramps.” He muttered, keeping Auron locked in his sights. Damn that grin was an eyesore. A momentary glance towards the others kept him up to speed on their movements. Caramelle’s improvised launch pad garnered a curt snort. He didn’t bother to check on Turq; he was probably fine. Veloce seemingly didn’t fancy another embarrassing display and was laying low, figuratively speaking. So the bird flies, huh? Credit where credit is due; that was cool as hell. His sights fixated back on the exchange between Auron and Caramelle. She was fast, he’d give her that. Yet if the last attempt to rush down their tutor was any indication, she’d need a little backup.

Aiming his rifle lower, Jet locked in on Auron’s back leg. Firing almost seemed hopeless at this point, a mere annoyance to the veteran more than anything. Though maybe that was all that was needed to gain the upper hand - or at the very least ensure someone smacked the smug bastard in his stupid face. Jet’s breathing slowed right down whilst he watched the openings between Caramelle’s strikes. Timing each attack from another, he waited until one looked like it had a decent chance of landing and squeezed the trigger. A deafening crack ran throughout the yard, a sound Jet had become so accustomed to over the years that it barely registered anymore. The shot fired with such intense impact and velocity the hot desert air seemed to warp around it’s trail. Electricity danced along the barrel, still aimed at Auron whilst Jet primed his next shot. The casing rattled off the steel beam and became another addition to the mountain of junk.

Whether the shot landed didn't matter so much to Jet. Not really. It was more his way of letting Auron know he wouldn't simply be ignored. Taking a moment to lower his rifle, he waited until the next chance he could catch Auron’s gaze. Raising his arm into a familiar gun point, he returned the earlier gesture the Overseer had found so amusing. Accompanied by a singular, mimicked phrase.

‘Bang.’

RWBY: Chasing Shadows

---

The sweltering heat bore down on Jet without remorse whilst he rummaged about the pile of junk he and his team now found themselves near - not that he felt much in the way of comradery with these three strangers. Still, at least their little expedition had led him to this wonderful assortment of crap. A Vacuan scrapyard was as close to home as it got for him; a bittersweet reminder of everything he chose to leave behind when he came to Shade. He wiped a few beads of sweat from his forehead whilst squatting amongst the heap. Mostly rusted parts with some Atlesian refuge sprinkled about. A few choice pieces caught his eye, but Jet’s train of thought was derailed by their overseer’s instructions.

Overseer. Jet clicked his tongue, hopping down from the pile to stand beside the other first years. He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets whilst sizing up the Huntsman with a callous, sidelong glance. Simply put, Auron was pretty intimidating to the young man. Not that he’d ever admit it. He could tell he meant business, an assumption further proved when he proposed a challenge to the four of them without so much as flinching. Something about it really irked Jet. His words dripped with overconfidence - as if they were mere insects to him. Perhaps that was the case, but it still pissed him off. Caramelle’s query mirrored his own thoughts, but it would seem Turq and Veloce had no need of such clarification.

“Name’s Slate” He drawled, fully aware that Caramelle was probably the only person left to hear him as his more bombastic allies charged headfirst into the fray. Sliding his rifle from the back of his right shoulder into his grip, Jet dragged the weapon along the ground while stepping forward towards their target. Assuming their instructor was now busy dealing with the head on assault, Jet took his time to scan the surroundings for what he thought would make for a suitable perch. A rusted steel beam jutting out from the top of a nearby pile caught his eye. Thrusting out his left arm towards the vantage point triggered a distinct click followed by the affixed, compacted metal claw detaching itself from Jet’s wrist mounted grappling hook with a burst of dust powered propulsion. Latching itself to the steel beam, Jet pulled the wire taut before a similar click reeled the boy skyward with a whirring drone. He pulled himself up onto the beam, giving it a few cursory stomps to test it’s stability. The large, rusted chassis of what he assumed was some kind of crane kept his perch nice and stable. For now anyway.

Taking a knee, Jet raised his rifle in both hands and peered down the sights, flicking his goggles over his eyes with a curt nod. The simple flick of a switch on the side of the firearm saw the barrel extend outwards by a few feet, a few of the parts shifting to compensate for the new weight distribution. The rifle pulsed with energy as Jet felt the lightning dust canisters click into place on the magazine. His breathing stilled, watching the ensuing battle through his visor. His sights set firmly on the metal pipe; or more specifically where Auron was gripping it. Veloce and Turq were too close now to get a clear shot, so he decided to lie in wait until the attacks had resolved themselves. He didn’t consider himself an irrational sort, but there was something tingling within him at the prospect of taking this man down. However faint their chances were, goddamnit he was going to try. He would not be considered the weak link among these other hunters in training.

Phoenix Wing: New Dawn

Henri Baptiste

Keeper’s Crossroads | Silverbranch Glade
Interacting with: Regan Hadou @CitrusArms, Argus Leandras @Raijinslayer and Shiro @Lunarlord34

---

The assembled teams scattered from the guild hall and began their trek through the glade post haste. Henri swung from the treetops with the aid of his watery appendages, a familiar tinge of delight that was not his own stirring from within him. No doubt Sycorax was enjoying getting some use after what seemed like a long time. Life in a dark, watery tomb wasn't exactly invigorating after all. Henri couldn't enjoy himself, not with the image of Karla sobbing away into Meredith's arms still etched in his mind. Those who knew the comfort of a familiar couldn't imagine what that must feel like. The bond was more than just that of a pet and master - it is eternal, sanctioned by a Witch's Deity themselves. Within the lush greenery beneath him he could see the rest of the forces mobilized. Regan and Shiro were among them. Despite his opinion of her, when it came down to it Shiro was a very reliable sort. Not to mention Regan, who had only just met them and was willing to offer her assistance. She was quite astute in her judgement that the lanterns would indeed guide the way to the crossroads - though of course she need only follow one of the guild members who were familiar with the area. Even Argus' determination was somewhat surprising. Not that Henri didn't think him capable, but he always seemed so down on himself. Taking charge when it counted was truly admirable.

Argus had departed earlier than the others and was no doubt close to the clearing where the crossroads lay. As the name suggested, the place was just a convergence point of three separate paths within the Glade. A marble statue of the Goddess Hecate stood at the meeting point of the three roads. It was kept in pristine condition, tended to frequently by the Daughters of Hecate. The three forms of the Goddess stood facing a different path each; the inquisitive Maiden held a ring of keys within her hands, the pensive Mother gently caressed her pregnant belly and the wizened Crone bore a mighty staff of fire. At the foot of the statue was an upturned silver tray that once offered incense, flowers, oils and wine which were now scattered across the path where the struggle had taken place. Karla and Talos seemed to have been ambushed whilst she was tending the altar. Sure enough, dried blood stained the cobbled path as well as a trail of claw marks and splintered trees that further illuminated where the Direwolf had been taken. Faint voices on the wind indicated that the poachers hadn’t gotten far - and sure enough if one only followed their path of careless destruction they would find a group of men struggling to contain a great, tawny wolf that towered over most men. Talos snarled and snapped at their attempts to subdue him with chains. A larger man with a red scarf wrapped around his head blue a puff of cigar smoke into the direwolf’s face. Unkempt stubble littered his square jaw and thick neck; adorned with golden chains and beads. A tattered vest openly framed his bare chest where an insignia of an eagle’s talon was branded proudly.

“Bloody Hells, ‘e’s a right beaut this one! ‘Urry up an’ muzzle ‘im! T’was s’posed to be a discreet operation ya worthless shites!” The man seemed to be the ringleader; barking orders at five brutes who were cursing and heaving as Talos fought in vain to escape their bindings. His vicious snarls turned to defeated whimpers; a final cry for help as the realisation set in that he would not be returning to Karla today. It all seemed pretty dire until the great creature felt the pressure on his right hind leg disperse. Not wasting the opportunity, he used his free leg to shift his weight around in an attempt to knock the others off balance. It startled them but wasn’t enough to secure his escape.

“Oi! Yer ain’t pullin’ your weight over there Freddy.' ' The man bellowed, spitting to the ground as he gestured for another pair of men to prepare a rusty, iron muzzle for the beast.
“Hagar, Boss! Freddy’s gone!” Another voice called out in panic. Hagar, the assumed leader, sauntered around with a slight limp. His right leg was an old prosthetic that looked in dire need of a tune up. It creaked with every step, it’s parts rattling about as if it were to fall apart at any moment.
“’ave you gone loony? What’chu mean ‘gone-’” He was interrupted by a sudden yelp from the one remaining henchman on the beast's side. This time he was close enough to spy a large, spindly arm of roots and vine emerging from the depths of the forest and grasp the man by his ankle. Before he could even scream the woodland mass had reeled him back into the dark woods and his visage faded from view. Hagar’s cigar fell from his mouth as yet another arm reached out in an attempt to wrest control of him. Fortunately for him he was no amateur and a quick flash of steel saw the animated appendage torn asunder by a flurry of scimitar swipes. It would seem the trees weren’t the only forest inhabitants fighting back against these poachers. Turning around to the rest of his men, Hagar found them under assault by all manner of woodland creatures - birds pecked away at their heads, deer buckled up to charge and it even seemed a swarm of gnats had made their way into the clearing.

“These bleedin’ woods ‘ave gone mental, they ‘ave!” He grit his teeth, reeling back his scimitar to ready a strike against an oncoming deer. Before he could bring his arm back he found himself buffeted by a sudden blast of water. Skidding along the dirt into a crumbled pile, the ringleader was left winded by the sudden attack. Using his blade to push himself into a kneel, Hagar glared across the clearing to find the source of his attack. Henri’s stance was firm and strong, one arm reared back behind him and the other extended out in a fist. Both arms were entrenched by a watery mass that resembled that of a squid’s tentacles.
“You ‘ave made a grave mistake today, mes amis. Let them ‘ave it!” Henri cried out, his fellow companions charging from the woods to meet the poachers head on. A few of the witches began gathering around the frightened Talos - his ensnaners releasing his bindings to combat them. The great beast thrashed about and growled, his eyes darting from person to person as the battle ensued. One witch muttered an incantation under her breath, sending forth a red flash of light from her fingertips towards the metal shackles that continued to impair the creature. The magic turned them to rust, crumbling away within a matter of seconds. Now free, Talos scampered back to the edge of the woods; still in shock from everything that had happened. He snapped at any of the witches who approached too close, a clear warning that he wasn’t yet calm.

Sure enough the poachers drew their weapons, the mages among them readying their spell circles to strike back at their assailants. Hagar was now back on his feet, spinning his scimitars around him menacingly.
“The only mistake here mate, is that you lot think you’re getting between me and the fat wad of jewels I’ll get for bringing in that monster.” Hagar smirked at Henri, holding his arms out wide as two magic circles appeared around his wrist.
“Sword Magic: Dancing Blades” He let his grip release from the hilts of his scimitars. Rather than fall to the ground as one would expect, the blade hovered in place for a moment before beginning to spin in large arcs. An ethereal energy poured from the blades edge, surrounding the spinning blades in a whirling mass of slicing magic. Hagar cracked his knuckles before charging headfirst at Henri. Readying his tentacles, Henri thrust one hand forward to send another precise stream of water towards his assailant. Yet before the jet could make contact, the spinning blades crossed before Hagar in one fluid motion - disrupting Henri’s attack and leaving him exposed before the bull rushing opponent. Hagar charged shoulder first into Henri’s abdomen, wrapping his arms around the back of his legs and heaving the large man to the ground with a hefty thud. Anyone who came to his aid was met by a slicing onslaught of the animated swords. For all his size, it would seem Henri had met his match as the brute Hagar kept him pinned whilst delivering blow after blow to his skull. He managed to weave between a few of them, but every now and then he’d get in a lucky slug. If it were to keep up for much longer, Henri wouldn’t be able to fight him off.

Bullet, Meredith Clagnan and Zhulie Pesta

Wolven Pyre Greenhouse | Silverbranch Glade
Interacting with: Manami Fuyu

---

Amidst the canopy of the great hollow that houses Wolven Pyre laid one of the greatest accomplishments of the Daughters of Hecate - the greenhouse. Once home to all manner of magical reagents and flora, the greenhouse now only houses a limited range of plants to be used for potion crafting and rituals. The White Witch Grizabella once proudly tended to these gardens, her healing hand invaluable to the coven. Yet she left long ago, and took her knowledge on plant magic with her. These thoughts stirred through Meredith’s brain as she scanned what little remained. Herself a skilled apothecary; but without the magical touch of a deity it would be hard to produce anything nearing the caliber of what Grizabella once could. That wouldn’t stop her from trying.
“Manami, the cabinet over there should have a vial of asp venom - please fetch it for me. Then you can grind up some clove. Oh if only we had more treant sap. We’ll have to make do.” Zhulie twiddled her thumbs in the corner, awaiting an order from Meredith that never came. Regan had wanted her to watch the souffles, but she knew she could contribute something to help the others. Olga promised to look after the pastries so she could follow Meredith and Manami up to the greenhouse.

“What do you need me to do, Meredith?” Zhulie stood at the wooden table and watched the older woman skillfully clip, mix and extract all manner of various substances. She stopped momentarily to stare down at the young girl, rapping her fingers against the grain in thought.
“I need you to keep Karla company. I sent Bullet to get her some food from the kitchen.”
“But I want to help! Zhulie insisted.
“You will be, darling. The poor dear is devastated. You always put a smile on her face.” Meredith reached out to gently stroke Zhulie’s hair. The girl pouted at the floor for a minute before meeting the older woman’s gaze with a determined nod. She made for the stairs with a newfound ambition.

On his way up to Priscilla’s office Bullet nearly jumped as Zhulie came barreling down the stairs.
“Geez! What’s the rush, squirt!” He lifted the tray of food above his head, reminded of the detailed explanation of his demise Olga gave to him of he so much as dropped a crumb. That woman did not make idle threats. Zhulie was a few steps below, turning back quickly to address him.
“Meredith asked me to check on Karla, but I know there’s more I can do! I’m going out to gather treant sap for her.” She explained before beginning to bound down the remaining steps - only stopping when Bullet called out for an explanation.
“Woah, slow down. Meredith would never allow you to go off on your own - especially now.”
“I’ll be fine, I know these woods better than anyone! If we want the best chance of getting Talos back safely then we need the sap.” Bullet had never seen her so riled up. It was clear she wasn’t going to take no for an answer. He nodded to her, setting the tray down on the stairs.
“I’m coming with you.” He’d barely gotten the words off before Zhulie dismissed them with a shake of her head.
“No offense, Bull, but you’ll slow me down in your state.” She gestured to the stained bandages wrapped around his torso. He hesitantly touched a hand to the wound, trying to muster up some argument to the contrary. He had nothing.
“Alright, I’ll cover for you if Meredith asks where you are.” Zhulie beamed up at his words, leaping up the stairs to give him a big hug. He winced slightly at her arms pressing against his sore spot, but nonetheless let her have her moment.
“Alright alright, that’s enough.” He gently nudged her away from him. “Stay safe, alright?” Zhulie nodded, turning on her heel before disappearing down the stairs.

RWBY: Chasing Shadows

Jet Sullivan

"At first I thought you were some kind of idiot. Then you spoke and removed all doubt."


_{Theme: FMU (Explicit)}

A smart mouthed cynic with a snarky, dry sense of humour whose bluntness borders frequently on downright insulting. Pragmatic to a tee, Jet isn’t one to leave anything to chance where his own wellbeing is concerned. He’s short fused and impatient around others and doesn’t feel the need to filter his opinions. He has his pride and isn't over eager to prove anything to anyone except himself. In that sense he can be his own worst enemy. Jet will berate the shortcomings of others and himself mercilessly; projecting his own insecurities with little compassion or empathy. That isn’t to say he lacks those qualities, but his knee jerk reaction to most people is to err on the side of caution and scrutiny. There is no beating around the bush in Vacuo; you either get the job done or you perish. Jet remembers this lesson well and will do anything to get what he wants.

A scrappy, unassuming kid standing at an average 5’7” height with a lanky build just shy of 118lbs. His hair is an unruly mop of hickory with bold eyebrows a shade darker, sitting above a pair of pitch black eyes. His nose is slightly crooked from a few repeat scraps in his younger days and sports a black stud on the left side; his right ear also has a silver helix piercing. Jet’s years working the scrap heap under the Vacuan sun has left his cheeks, neck and shoulders littered with freckles and sun spots. He also has a distinct mole slightly to the left of his lips.

His apparel consists of a pair of ripped, tawny trousers that have definitely seen better days, ratty black and grey sneakers with worn, red soles and a beige singlet sporting more than a few oil stains. He wears his brother's hoodie at all times; mostly tied around his waist due to the unagreeable climate. A black leather utility belt fastened around his waist is equipped with his various dust chambers, ammo cartridges and satchel charges. His right hand has a single fingerless glove that is attached to the wrist mounted mechanism in which he keeps his grappling hook. His visor is a dilapidated pair of mechanical goggles where the screen in the left lens flickers on and off erratically.

---

Full Name

Jet Sullivan

Alias/Nickname

Slate

Gender

Male

Age

Fifteen

Kingdom of Origin

Vacuo

Race

Human

History

Born and raised in the Vacuan wastelands, Jet and his older brother Slate are no strangers to the harshness of their homeland. Their mother left, their father drank himself to death, the young boys were left to fend for themselves growing up. Other members of the settlement took pity on them, but Vacuo was no place for charity; the brothers would have to work to earn their keep. A retired huntsman turned mechanic named Diesel gave them food and board to work the scrapyard. The work was grueling; long days under the sweltering sun, stripping parts for scrap to sell to travelling junkers and tinkers. Jet fondly remembers Diesel not as an opportunistic entrepreneur looking to capitalise on the misfortune of children, but as the only person who was willing to throw them a bone - to give them something to cling to as they toiled day in and day out. He had taught them the ins and outs of his junkyard as well as many other tricks of the mechanic trade. Jet was quite the tinker for his age, taking apart broken machinery and rebuilding them into various tools and devices to help ease the physical burden of their work.

As the two grew older Diesel saw fit to train them as huntsmen. With grimm and bandit attacks on the rise their settlement could use all the able bodied warriors available to them. They didn’t have the formal training of those who attended the academies, but Diesel’s tutelage was satisfactory enough. So much so that Slate was able to pass the entrance exam for Shade with flying colours; Jet hoping to follow suit in a few years time.

A particularly large raid on their settlement had pushed the small town to the brink, but they were just barely able to fend them off. Though it was not without casualties. Among them was Slate, a mere month before he was to head off to Shade academy. Stricken with grief, anger and a thirst for vengeance against those who took his brother from him, Jet packed his things and departed for Shade in the dead of night. A note expressing his gratitude to Diesel was all that was left of the boy. Now attending Shade under the alias of his deceased brother, Jet hopes to train to be a huntsman in his place and have his revenge one day. Equipped with his brother's weapon and Scroll, he isn’t naïve enough to believe his deception will fool anyone for long. He just figures he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it.

Semblance

Jet has yet to unlock his Semblance

Ward keeps Jet acutely aware of flanking targets by primarily functioning as an aura fueled trip alarm he can remotely set up on any desired surface or object he touches. He is able to alter the trigger event to either silently alert him of an intruders presence or to create a loud ruckus when tripped.

Wards can also be fixed to devices. Triggering them in this case will cause the affixed device to activate its standard function. Jet uses this as a means to remotely detonate his satchel charges as proximity mines.

Jet can place long ranged Wards on targets by imbuing his sniper rifle’s bullets with aura and an additional dust type (Usually Combustion or Lightning). Whilst these wards do nothing on their own aside from mark their target at the point of impact, a successful strike at this exact point from either Jet or one of his allies will cause the dust to erupt.

Weapon and Fighting Style

Obsidian End, once belonging to Jet’s older brother Slate, is a crudely engineered semi-automatic rifle composed primarily of salvaged parts and that good ol’ Vacuan scrapyard charm. The weapon can seamlessly transition between a standard rifle best for mid to long ranged skirmishes, to that of an unwieldy sniper rifle that ideally functions over great distances. The rifle fires gravity dust enhanced bullets in a three round burst, whilst the sniper furthers the impact of shots fired by imbuing those same bullets with lightning dust. The resulting electromagnetic dust creates a railgun effect to propel rounds with intense velocity.

Jet’s sidearm is Tonitrus, a simple flare pistol that discharges a singular blast of electricity to shock a foe for a few moments. It has to be manually reloaded after each shot by taking the time to divert energy from the lightning dust within his primary weapon - but it is his best option in a close encounter to stun an assailant and create distance. Jet operates best when positioned comfortably away from the front lines, providing suppressive fire and support for his allies. When caught on his own, he favors hit and run tactics whilst whittling down his target with a rain of bullets.

Other tools he uses to help him while on the hunt are his trusty wrist mounted grappling hook - allowing him some extra mobility to stay on his toes or reposition to a better vantage point. He also wields an archaic visor as a way for him to scope in whilst aiming his sniper rifle. He usually brings about half a dozen homemade satchel charges imbued with combustion dust that need to be manually detonated after an arming period of a few seconds.

Strengths and Weaknesses

+ Tinker: He has a knack for engineering and mechanics.
+ Sharpshooter: He's a decent shot.
+ Cautious: He thinks before he acts and rarely makes impulsive decisions.

- Unrefined: Below-average skill level when compared to the other first year hunters.
- Uncoordinated: As good as he is with his rifle, he can barely scrape by in an up close and personal fight.
- Skeptic: He doesn't trust easily and is doesn't like to accept aid from others

Greatest Fear/Fatal Flaw

His habitual pragmatism and cynicism have ingrained a constant sense of fear and uncertainty in him. As much as he would like to let his guard down and just enjoy himself, he knows from experience how easily everything can be taken away from you. Vacuo has hardened him and turned his heart cold; and he's scared that it'll stay that way for the rest of his life.

Misc

His brother taught him how to ride a motorcycle. He used Slate's bike to get to Shade in one piece and treasures it more than any of his other possessions.

RWBY: Chasing Shadows

Jet Sullivan

"At first I thought you were some kind of idiot. Then you spoke and removed all doubt."


_{Theme: FMU (Explicit)}

A smart mouthed cynic with a snarky, dry sense of humour whose bluntness borders frequently on downright insulting. Pragmatic to a tee, Jet isn’t one to leave anything to chance where his own wellbeing is concerned. He’s short fused and impatient around others and doesn’t feel the need to filter his opinions. He has his pride and isn't over eager to prove anything to anyone except himself. In that sense he can be his own worst enemy. Jet will berate the shortcomings of others and himself mercilessly; projecting his own insecurities with little compassion or empathy. That isn’t to say he lacks those qualities, but his knee jerk reaction to most people is to err on the side of caution and scrutiny. There is no beating around the bush in Vacuo; you either get the job done or you perish. Jet remembers this lesson well and will do anything to get what he wants.

A scrappy, unassuming kid standing at an average 5’7” height with a lanky build just shy of 118lbs. His hair is an unruly mop of hickory with bold eyebrows a shade darker, sitting above a pair of pitch black eyes. His nose is slightly crooked from a few repeat scraps in his younger days and sports a black stud on the left side; his right ear also has a silver helix piercing. Jet’s years working the scrap heap under the Vacuan sun has left his cheeks, neck and shoulders littered with freckles and sun spots. He also has a distinct mole slightly to the left of his lips.

His apparel consists of a pair of ripped, tawny trousers that have definitely seen better days, ratty black and grey sneakers with worn, red soles and a beige singlet sporting more than a few oil stains. He wears his brother's hoodie at all times; mostly tied around his waist due to the unagreeable climate. A black leather utility belt fastened around his waist is equipped with his various dust chambers, ammo cartridges and satchel charges. His right hand has a single fingerless glove that is attached to the wrist mounted mechanism in which he keeps his grappling hook. His visor is a dilapidated pair of mechanical goggles where the screen in the left lens flickers on and off erratically.

---

Full Name

Jet Sullivan

Alias/Nickname

Slate

Gender

Male

Age

Fifteen

Kingdom of Origin

Vacuo

Race

Human

History

Born and raised in the Vacuan wastelands, Jet and his older brother Slate are no strangers to the harshness of their homeland. Their mother left, their father drank himself to death, the young boys were left to fend for themselves growing up. Other members of the settlement took pity on them, but Vacuo was no place for charity; the brothers would have to work to earn their keep. A retired huntsman turned mechanic named Diesel gave them food and board to work the scrapyard. The work was grueling; long days under the sweltering sun, stripping parts for scrap to sell to travelling junkers and tinkers. Jet fondly remembers Diesel not as an opportunistic entrepreneur looking to capitalise on the misfortune of children, but as the only person who was willing to throw them a bone - to give them something to cling to as they toiled day in and day out. He had taught them the ins and outs of his junkyard as well as many other tricks of the mechanic trade. Jet was quite the tinker for his age, taking apart broken machinery and rebuilding them into various tools and devices to help ease the physical burden of their work.

As the two grew older Diesel saw fit to train them as huntsmen. With grimm and bandit attacks on the rise their settlement could use all the able bodied warriors available to them. They didn’t have the formal training of those who attended the academies, but Diesel’s tutelage was satisfactory enough. So much so that Slate was able to pass the entrance exam for Shade with flying colours; Jet hoping to follow suit in a few years time.

A particularly large raid on their settlement had pushed the small town to the brink, but they were just barely able to fend them off. Though it was not without casualties. Among them was Slate, a mere month before he was to head off to Shade academy. Stricken with grief, anger and a thirst for vengeance against those who took his brother from him, Jet packed his things and departed for Shade in the dead of night. A note expressing his gratitude to Diesel was all that was left of the boy. Now attending Shade under the alias of his deceased brother, Jet hopes to train to be a huntsman in his place and have his revenge one day. Equipped with his brother's weapon and Scroll, he isn’t naïve enough to believe his deception will fool anyone for long. He just figures he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it.

Semblance

Jet has yet to unlock his Semblance

Ward keeps Jet acutely aware of flanking targets by primarily functioning as an aura fueled trip alarm he can remotely set up on any desired surface or object he touches. He is able to alter the trigger event to either silently alert him of an intruders presence or to create a loud ruckus when tripped.

Wards can also be fixed to devices. Triggering them in this case will cause the affixed device to activate its standard function. Jet uses this as a means to remotely detonate his satchel charges as proximity mines.

Jet can place long ranged Wards on targets by imbuing his sniper rifle’s bullets with aura and an additional dust type (Usually Combustion or Lightning). Whilst these wards do nothing on their own aside from mark their target at the point of impact, a successful strike at this exact point from either Jet or one of his allies will cause the dust to erupt.

Weapon and Fighting Style

Obsidian End, once belonging to Jet’s older brother Slate, is a crudely engineered semi-automatic rifle composed primarily of salvaged parts and that good ol’ Vacuan scrapyard charm. The weapon can seamlessly transition between a standard rifle best for mid to long ranged skirmishes, to that of an unwieldy sniper rifle that ideally functions over great distances. The rifle fires gravity dust enhanced bullets in a three round burst, whilst the sniper furthers the impact of shots fired by imbuing those same bullets with lightning dust. The resulting electromagnetic dust creates a railgun effect to propel rounds with intense velocity.

Jet’s sidearm is Tonitrus, a simple flare pistol that discharges a singular blast of electricity to shock a foe for a few moments. It has to be manually reloaded after each shot by taking the time to divert energy from the lightning dust within his primary weapon - but it is his best option in a close encounter to stun an assailant and create distance. Jet operates best when positioned comfortably away from the front lines, providing suppressive fire and support for his allies. When caught on his own, he favors hit and run tactics whilst whittling down his target with a rain of bullets.

Other tools he uses to help him while on the hunt are his trusty wrist mounted grappling hook - allowing him some extra mobility to stay on his toes or reposition to a better vantage point. He also wields an archaic visor as a way for him to scope in whilst aiming his sniper rifle. He usually brings about half a dozen homemade satchel charges imbued with combustion dust that need to be manually detonated after an arming period of a few seconds.

Strengths and Weaknesses

+ Tinker: He has a knack for engineering and mechanics.
+ Sharpshooter: He's a decent shot.
+ Cautious: He thinks before he acts and rarely makes impulsive decisions.

- Unrefined: Below-average skill level when compared to the other first year hunters.
- Uncoordinated: As good as he is with his rifle, he can barely scrape by in an up close and personal fight.
- Skeptic: He doesn't trust easily and is doesn't like to accept aid from others

Greatest Fear/Fatal Flaw

His habitual pragmatism and cynicism have ingrained a constant sense of fear and uncertainty in him. As much as he would like to let his guard down and just enjoy himself, he knows from experience how easily everything can be taken away from you. Vacuo has hardened him and turned his heart cold; and he's scared that it'll stay that way for the rest of his life.

Misc

His brother taught him how to ride a motorcycle. He used Slate's bike to get to Shade in one piece and treasures it more than any of his other possessions.

RWBY: Chasing Shadows

As you know, I'm down

Phoenix Wing: New Dawn

Priscilla Duran

Jamie’s Office, Phoenix Wing Guild Hall | Magnolia
Interacting with: Jamie Beltras @MarshiestMallow | Jack Goran @Zarkun

---

Priscilla graciously accepted Jack’s generous offerings of a select few jobs from his own guild. Sitting back in her chair, she bowed her head to her fellow master before turning her attention back to Jamie. Her words stirred something within her, prompting a warm smile.
“Jamie and Jack,” She began, narrowly suppressing a joyful tear, “you cannot begin to imagine how much your kindness has touched me. Rest assured, my kind are not wont to squander a gift such as this. We will soon return the favor; to both of you.” The requests were not much at first glance, but it was a start. The rewards were enticing enough to keep her guild happy for now, and surely if they performed well these clients would secure more work for them across the land. A handful of Fiore’s citizens were already beginning to see the benefits those who walked betwixt light and shadow could provide - Wolven Pyre only needed time to grow in infamy throughout the nation.

The talk of a communal job board further piqued her interest; the idea of their guild mages working together on a unified front to complete requests around Fiore with much more efficiency than ever before was most welcome. Though Jack’s comment about embracing innovative technology brought an uneasy look upon the witch’s face.
“I’ll be the first to admit that technology and myself are not great friends, but I am willing to learn.” The Daughters of Hecate had little need for machinery, the natural energy residing throughout the Silverbranch Glade was enough to fuel their various bewitchments throughout their home. Everything from lightning to plumbing and heat was the byproduct of a magical enchantment that had been maintained throughout their home for generations. It was only recently with the advent of new wizards joining them that Priscilla had saw fit to invest in some newer equipment like radio and communication lacrima - though she still preferred the old ways.

“Oh, that reminds me!” Speaking of the old ways, Priscilla reached into her robes and removed a pair of matching black candles. Runic engravings lined the sides, emanating with a faint power that resonated with Priscilla’s own magical presence.
“These are for you.” She handed a candle to each of her fellow masters. “Somewhat primitive compared to your devices, but should you ever need my assistance you need only light your candle and speak your message into the flame. A gift, as a token of our newfound alliance.” It would be best if the masters could easily keep in contact, and this was Priscilla’s preferred method. The Unyielding Flame of Hecate linked directly to the enchanted candles; the torch rarely leaving her side. A direct line of communication was the safest bet, afterall.

Bullet, Henri Baptiste and Meredith Clagnan

Wolven Pyre Guild Hall | Silverbranch Glade
Interacting with: | Manami Fuyu and Shiro @Lunarlord34 | Argus Leandros @Raijinslayer

---

The gathering at the bar had grown somewhat in size, with almost every stool now hosting a patron. Meredith buzzed around behind the counter, preparing her signature tea blend tailored to the tastes of her guild mates. Surely enough, each patron had a steaming cup of tea in front of them. Except Bullet, who instead received a tall, chilled glass of pop. The young man voraciously downed the contents without so much as an afterthought, prompting an annoyed huff from the server.
“It is customary to thank someone when you are given a treat - free of charge, I might add.” Meredith watched him shrink into his seat, glancing away whilst tucking his chin down to his chest in a vain attempt to hide the vermillion flush spread across his cheeks.
“Thanks.” He mumbled, barely louder than a whisper. It was good enough for her; or rather about all she would expect from him.

Henri nodded towards Meredith when his own cup was placed in front of him, turning to Manami with a coy smirk at her own little teasing.
“I ‘adn’t noticed ‘ow much attention you’ve been paying to our little chats, madame.” Henri ran his fingers through his hair and leaned in closer so that only Manami could hear him. “If I didn’t know any better I’d even say you fancied the- ow! Bon Dieu!” The shout of pain caught a few people around the hall off guard, Henri springing to his feet at the sudden, intense burning that resulted from scalding hot tea being poured on his leg. Bullet piqued up at the sound before snorting a ridiculing chuckle.
“Aw, looks like someone’s jealous.” He snickered at the little act of aggression. Shiro didn’t seem the sort to be so high strung, but even a saint will lose their cool if you know just the right buttons to press. Meredith clicked her tongue in disapproval, handing a rag over to the counter to help soak up the now warming tea from his trousers. She shot an irritated glare at Shiro.
“You and your lady will need to get your refreshments elsewhere if you insist on engaging in such childish tomfoolery.” She glanced back at Henri to see he had managed to clean himself up, but the pained look on his face made it evident that the burn still stung somewhat. Rather than bother anyone over something he deemed so trivial, Henri simply grinned and beared it whilst returning to his seat. This time he leaned across the counter to have a word with his assailant.
“You know,” He began, an eerily pleasant smile stretched across his face from ear to ear. “A lesser witch wouldn’t think twice about returning the favor to the poor fool who scorned them. ‘Ave you ever been ‘exed, Shiro? I think you will find the experience quite… dismal.”
“Let it go, big guy” Meredith warned. Henri sat back up straight and lifted his hands up before him in compliance.
“It is good that I am no lesser witch, no?” He winked at her, deciding to leave the matter to rest. For now. A hex would definitely be going too far, but he’d find some way to enact vengeance in time.

Argus’ comment regarding the state of Henri’s trousers prompted him to look down to assess the damage. Sure enough, it seemed like a small patch of discoloration was beginning to stain into the fabric.
Damn. He liked these pants.
“Eh, nothing a little elbow grease won’t be able to get out.” He assured Argus, taking note of the young man’s attempts to hide the stinging handprint from the new arrivals. Hopefully he found some solace in not being the only man that was on the receiving end of a woman’s fury today.
“As for that woman, I cannot say.” He rubbed the stubble on his chin, perhaps wondering if they should have been a bit more cautious of a stranger in their midst. “Bah, Zhulie is a clever fille. If she trusts ‘er then there is no worries ‘ere.'' Meredith didn’t agree with that sentiment, but she was confident that Regan wouldn’t try anything if she did have malicious intent. She was surrounded by many skilled witches and mages afterall.

“God, what’s taking the food so long? I’m dying here!” Bullet proclaimed, standing up from his seat and making his way towards the kitchen.

Bullet and Zhulie Pesta

Wolven Pyre Kitchen | Silverbranch Glade
Interacting with: Regan Hadou @CitrusArms

---

Zhulie hung upon every word that came from Regan’s mouth, followed every instruction with an elated enthusiasm and was overall thrilled to be participating in some baking with her newfound companion. The dish in question was something Zhulie had heard of but never had the luxury of tasting - a souffle. She had read about the curious delicacy before, described to be a finicky treat that was so light and fluffy that even the slightest of disturbances would cause it to deflate. Olga directed her staff with a tone of urgency as they bustled about the kitchen, yet even she found herself catching glimpses of Regan's handiwork. Every so often she would inquire about certain techniques or offer some advice. Not that it was needed; Regan seemed quite at home in a kitchen.

“How long does it need to bake, Miss Regan?” Zhulie had watched the older woman place the dessert into the oven. Her excitement was evident by the way she crouched right beside the hearth and longingly gazed through the glass.
“Watched kettle does not boil little one.” Olga’s warm expression whilst addressing Zhulie quickly turned sour as her nose wrinkled with the stench of something most unpleasant.
“You!” The head chef pointed to the doorway without so much as turning her gaze towards the one who had just entered. “This boy, he reeks of sweat and grime and thinks ‘Oh, let us go and spread my grubby, dirty hands around Olga’s kitchen’?” Bullet stood dumbfounded in the doorway, his hands clenched over his exposed abdomen with an almost desperate pout.
“Aw, come on Olga.” He pleaded, almost wincing under the harsh glare of the chef who had now armed herself with a stainless steel ladle. “I’m starving. Don’t you have any leftovers to spare? Please?” Zhulie rolled her eyes at the display. It seemed manners came easily when he had something to gain.

Olga paused for a moment before inhaling sharply.
“Bah!” She placed the ladle back with the other utensils before moving over to one of the warming trays. She pulled them out to reveal several rows of what looked to be a sort of pastry stuffed with spiced lamb and potatoes. Removing a few into a paper bag, she walked over to the young man and shoved them into his chest.
“You grovel like bear cub who waits in cave for mother to return with dinner. Pathetic. Enjoy your scraps, cub.” He would take offence to such a demeaning comment in normal circumstances, but even Bullet knew not to bite the hand that fed him. He didn’t hesitate to wolf down one of his pastries, walking over to Zhulie and Regan just as he released a satisfied belch.
“’Sup” He narrowly scooted around the little girl’s attempt to throw a wet rag at his face.
“You’re disgusting!” Zhulie grimaced. Between his cold shoulder and terrible manners, Regan surely would be appalled by the cohort of their guild. Hopefully she knew that they weren’t all so vulgar.
“So, you seem to be baking up a storm in here? What’re ya cookin’?” Bullet crouched beside Zhulie to stare into the oven alongside her, not quite sure what he was supposed to be looking at. Some form of cake?

Before Zhulie was able to tell him to buzz off a commotion seemed to erupt from within the guild hall. The kitchen seemed to stop for a moment as the muffled sound of people talking over one another could be heard even from where they stood.

Meanwhile, in the Guild Hall

The chatter came to a grinding halt throughout the entire hall when the doors swung open to reveal a disheveled lady in a tattered grey cloak. She was limping, a large gash on her exposed leg. A few were quick to come to her aid, sitting her down beside the bar as Meredith rushed to deliver some healing ointment.
“Karla, what did this to you?” A concerned mage asked, knelt beside the witch as she struggled to regain her breathe enough to blurt out the cause of her current state.
“Talos… He’s been taken… Crossroads… Poachers. Karla stopped to drink the tonic Meredith provided, taking a moment to take a nice, long breath of fresh air. Once she was composed enough to speak in full sentences, she elaborated.
“Talos and I were meditating at the Keeper’s Crossroads when some poachers attacked us. They captured him. They put chains on him! I was able to enchant the forest so the trees may impede their path, but that’ll only keep them confined for so long. There were too many, I couldn’t fend them off on my own.” Meredith comforted her with a tender embrace. Talos was Karla’s familiar, a great direwolf whose size and might garnered him a fierce reputation even among the wolves of the glade.
“There, there love. It’s okay.” Karla quietly sobbed into Meredith’s shoulder, returning the gesture with her own arms wrapped around the older Witch’s.
“They’re going to take him away. Please, you have to get him back.” Meredith ushered for one of the others to take Karla somewhere to rest up, turning to the others in the guild with a look of intense determination.
“Alright, we’ll need to assemble two squads. Apprehending the poachers shouldn’t be too hard with our numbers, but don’t underestimate them. Karla may be young, but her magic is strong - strong enough to handle ordinary rabble even outnumbered. They must have mages among them. That’ll be nothing compared to handling Talos - even amongst familiars he is particularly powerful. Not to mention he’ll be scared and enraged from capture; you don’t try to tame a direwolf. Myself and a few others will remain behind to draw up a calming draft to subdue him. It’ll take us some time so whoever is going to confront Talos will need only distract him and make sure he doesn’t rampage into any neighbouring towns. Karla bought us some time with her forest enchantment, but we need to move quickly.” The group split off into their desired teams, rushing about the place to prepare for departure. Weapons were drawn, spell circles readies and nerves steeled. Meredith and a pair of witches began to gather a slew of potion regents before heading upstairs to the greenhouse to begin brewing the draft that would be strong enough to calm a raging direwolf. Time was of the essence here; and it was imperative that their Guild function together as a well oiled machine.

Phoenix Wing: New Dawn

Priscilla Duran

Jamie’s Office, Phoenix Wing Guild Hall | Magnolia
Interacting with: Jamie Beltras @MarshiestMallow | Jack Goran @Zarkun

---

Priscilla crossed one of her legs over her knee and leaned back into her chair whilst she listened to Jack speak about the supposed trouble in the desert. She took a sip from the black tea Jamie had offered her whilst her thoughts drifted to when she had met with the leaders of her sister covens many years ago on her inauguration. The camaraderie and willingness to cooperate wasn’t too far off from what she was experiencing here at Phoenix Wing. In fact, the same desert Jack spoke of was home to the Spears of Anat, a coven of nomad witches whom their own had been quite close with before Priscilla began integrating with wizards. It had been a few years since she’d heard from them.
“The desert can be a treacherous place indeed. She neglected to make mention of their sister coven; it wasn’t her place to reveal the location of her kin who wished to remain hidden from mage society. She just hoped that they weren’t involved in this incident.

She turned back towards Jamie as she spoke of the joy her guild members brought to her; hiding a smile in her cup of tea as she reminisced on the shenanigans of those whom she considered her own precious children.
“I would have to agree with you, Jamie.” She began, setting her cup back on the desk. “When I see how well my witches enjoy the company of mages like those who inhabit your own guilds, it gives me hope for a better future. I feel the same of our alliance. We are breaking down walls that have held strong for generations. Though it didn’t feel like much more than a simple meeting over coffee and tea, Priscilla could tell that what was happening right here in this room was history itself.

When it became clear that they would be the only ones in attendance, Priscilla decided to address Jack personally.
“As much as it hurts my pride to have to ask this of you, I’m afraid I may need to ask for your guild’s assistance.” She sighed, having barely held a seat in this alliance for half an hour and already asking favours of the others. It tore her up inside, but her guild was far more important than her pride. “The public has not yet taken to Wolven Pyre as much as we’d hope. We’ve had a steady stream of mages willing to give us a chance and work with us. However, the jobs we can offer them have been few and far between. With no revenue to show for their hard work, it would seem these new additions depart our walls as quickly as they arrive.” At this point she turned her body fully to Jack, placing a gentle hand on his arm rest.
“I know I am in no place to ask this of you, but our Guilds are quite close to one another. If there are any clients of yours who would be willing to give us a chance, and you can spare the potential income for your guild, we would greatly appreciate a few job referrals from your own listings. Just enough to get our name out there.” Being at the mercy of another was not a sensation Priscilla particularly enjoyed; but if she were to become a part of this alliance then she must learn to open up and admit when she needed help.

Bullet, Henri Baptiste, Zhulie Pesta and Meredith Clagnan

Wolven Pyre Guild Hall | Silverbranch Glade
Interacting with: Regan Hadou @CitrusArms | Manami Fuyu and Shiro @Lunarlord34 | Argus Leandros @Raijinslayer

---

Bullet was just about to enter the guild hall when a familiar voice brought a fierce scowl to his face. Just when he thought this trek through the woods couldn’t get anymore bothersome.
“Bite me, Manami.” He spat back. He wasn’t angry at her in particular, but rather the deluge of people who seemed to think it was their place to tell him what was best for him. He wasn’t simple; he knew he ought to be resting. He’d been doing nothing but resting for nearly a month, though. Pushing the massive doors of the guild hall proved somewhat straining, sending a sharp pain through the side of his ribcage that only proved everybody else right in their assessment of his physical form. He did his best to cover it up, but the sharp wince from the initial throbbing would definitely have been heard as he entered.

Zhulie watched Bullet disappear into the guild hall and shook her head. There was no sense in being so stubborn. She turned to Manami and offered an apologetic smile.
“I was just playing in the glade and I heard him training. She looked around for a certain, nonchalant companion. “Where is Shiro?” Manami and Shiro had joined the guild together, and whilst the former had seemed to possess a tentative interest in the other members; the latter couldn’t care less. Despite this, Zhulie had made every effort she could to make the brooding girl feel welcome; to various degrees of success. Their conversation continued into the hall, where Regan remarked in wonder about the sheer, natural brilliance of the structure. The young girl eagerly escorted her to the kitchen, passing by the group at the bar with a chirpy smile.
“’Morning Meredith, I found a friend in the woods. Why is Argus on the floor? Anyway, I’m giving her a tour, ‘kay bye!” Her rushed explanation faded off as the pair entered the kitchen, leaving a bemused Meredith as she offered a simple wave to the newcomer.
“Have fun, dear.” Meredith grinned at the sight of Argus on the floor, trying his best to play the little stunt off cooly. Shiro came up to the bar speaking of tea for her ‘lady’. The older woman clicked her tongue in disapproval, preparing a few teapots for the growing group of people.
“Your lady should order her own tea, Shiro.” She poured hot water readily prepared from the urn into the tea pots to help warm up the ceramic up in preparation for the loose leaves. She turned her back to discard the water down the sink, continuing to address Shiro whilst she scooped a few spoonfuls of a dark, aromatic earl grey blend into the pots. “For heaven’s sake, you’re not her servant.” She was mostly talking to herself; fully aware that her opinion would fall upon Shiro’s deaf ears. Not that there was anything wrong with ordering a drink on behalf of a friend; it was simply a matter of tone.

Henri was in the middle of hoisting up poor Argus, feeling somewhat responsible for his little accident, when Shiro made her usual dry, smug commentary on the matter.
“A little fun is good for the soul, no? Or ‘ave you not got one of those?” Henri jeered, clapping Argus on the back once he was steady on his own two feet. Shiro’s attitude of being so above it all didn’t sway him - he knew the joy of living for the simple moments. Meredith sat the tea pots down in front of Shiro, having let the leaves steep for some time to extract the perfect flavour. She folded her arms as she watched a familiar, blonde punk sit himself down at her bar.
“You got any more of that serum of yours? My side is killing me.” Bullet slumped down onto the bar, listening to the racket coming from the kitchen. Come to mention it, that Regan lady had mentioned something about food. His stomach grumbled once again.
“Your little expedition has cost you another week of recovery.” Meredith scolded Bullet, who simply buried his face into the side of his arm with a low growl. She slid a vial of a luminescent, silver liquid across to him. “I’m not giving you another drop this week, you hear me? There are other people who need it and you’re just wasting it by not following Priscilla’s medical advice.”
“Fine, I get it! Bullet snapped, yanking the vial from the counter. Why’d everyone have to be so annoying? He popped the cork and chugged the liquid in one fell swoop, feeling the instant relief course through his injured rib cage. Henri pressed his hand down on Bullet's scalp, ruffling his hair up whilst practically keeping the young man pinned down to the bar.
"You need to rest so you can regain your strength, mon frère. I've been keen to see you in action since I 'eard about you facing off against a wild chimera." Bullet's protests were drowned out by the hearty laugh of the older mage. Henri turned back to Argus with the same level of enthusiasm. "Strapping young lads like yourselves should be pushing your limits whenever you can."
"You speak as though you're not a spring chicken yourself, Henri. Perhaps you should take your own advice?" Meredith raised an eyebrow at the man; so quick to encourage others to better themselves and yet so content to seemingly drift along wherever the current took him. Henri rubbed the back of his head, a slight tinge of red forming on his cheeks. Nothing got past Meredith. Thankfully, Manami had also entered the guild hall to provide a suitable distraction.
"Ah, you are looking radiant today, madame.” He bent forward, reaching out to delicately hold Manami’s fingers. If she allowed him, he would go on to gently press his lips against the top of her hand. Standing up straight with a coy smile, he offered his seat to the lady.
“Come, come! We were just talking about these young ones. Speaking of, who was that woman Zhulie was with?” He sat back down beside Bullet who had reached over to grab a handful of the remaining almonds Meredith had put out.
“Some lady, her name is Regan. He chewed, gulping down the refreshments with an unsightly vigor that earned him a warning leer from Meredith. He made sure to finish what was in his mouth, knowing better than to test her ire. “She seems alright, I guess.”

Meanwhile Zhulie had introduced Regan to the kitchen staff. They primarily consisted of non-mage family members of her guild mates. However, the head chef was actually a witch who went by Olga.
“Olga is a ‘kitchen witch’, so she uses food as her medium for charms, hexes and other spells.” Zhulie happily explained, taking her over to a tray of freshly baked cookies that carried an intriguing, almost fruity scent. Olga wrapped a couple in some parchment paper, insisting the two try some.
“An age old recipe of my mutters. A salted rosemary base, sprinkled with pistachio and dried rose petals, drizzled with a pomegranate glaze. One bite will have you thinking of your beloved. Share it with them, and your love will bloom.” Zhulie was enamored with every word the chef spoke, eyeing her treat as she pondered who she might think of once she partook of it.
“Or,” Olga shrugged. “Enjoy on your own. It’s good recipe, ya? Please, help yourself to kitchen.” When Regan had walked in, Olga had instantly recognised a kindred spirit in her - a fellow connoisseur of delectable cuisines and tantalizing taste buds. Zhulie stared up at Regan.
“There must be something special about you, miss Regan. Olga doesn’t let just anyone have free reign of her kitchen.” She moved over to a large grimoire sprawled open on the counter - but rather than spells and rituals, the pages contained recipes for various magical and mundane desserts. Zhulie definitely had a sweet tooth.