Zugzwang

RWBY: Brilliant Horizon

Town Hall

The fox faunus shifted a lock of hair from her cerulean eyes, her form shifting beneath the tight dress in pleasing, no doubt meticulously-orchestrated, ways. She smiled a winning, amused smile at Carmine, as though the whole affair, introduction included, was some big joke. A joke which she was, at least if her smile was to be believed, the punchline. A soft hand and strong grip took Mina’s offered appendage and squeezed, and the characteristic slightly-slippery sliding of aura on aura could be felt, the feeling of shaking hands with a trained hunter. It was near-universal, among those trained as Hunters, to have one’s aura at least present at all times: what with Aura being remarkably susceptible to blunt force trauma, the shield existing while the warrior was dazed or fully unconscious was required for success.

“Amolia Fairfax,” her blonde hair made a nuisance of itself and was once again corrected gracefully. “Here to be protected and served, I suppose.”

Her voice was crisp and delightful, musical in an entirely fabricated way. Everything she did was purposeful, and as she reached with a blind hand for a shrimp dish she regarded the whole of Mina. “It’s good to know there are Huntresses here for our safety. I’d like to thank you, for all the good you do the world. Though, I’m sure you hear that more than enough.”

Nura and Noel could hear a ringing laugh swell over the ball, as the fox faunus laughed in a conversation with another of the Huntresses on security detail. Nura’s suited figure blended into the background of servants, the invisible caste siphoning money from those within while deigning to fetch and carry. The wall she was holding up bore her weight, and kept silent company as she fumed. There were no threats visible to her eye, more partygoers making merry in the celebration of peace. Her watch showed her a group of three, all of whom hated one of the other two but was rather taken with the remainder. It showed her a surreptitious exchange of a letter, sealed with red wax studded with what looked rather like gold, of all things. The most dangerous thing on display was a soldier, clad in the dress uniform of Vale and well decorated, lighting a cigar on a balcony with a burn-crystal lighter, a luxury in the age of petrochemicals but fitting his gravitas.

Her vigil was interrupted by a man sliding in beside her. Clad in the suit of the wait staff but looking too haughty and self-possessed for a veteran servant, he was impeccably handsome. A roman nose, a strong jawline, a well-groomed crown of navy-blue hair. His eyes gleamed with interest, boredom, mischief, a hundred small emotions all focused on Nura. He cleared his throat, as though he needed to further announce his presence after the thud of his back on the wall and the clack of his shoes on the floor. His rich tenor was amused and welcoming. “It’s a shame, to have someone scowling so.” He looked out into the crowd, but his attention was still clearly directed at Nura. “I’m sorry you’re troubled. Can I get you anything? It’s the responsibility of people like me to improve the mood of beautiful young women, or so my father always said.”

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Dilapidated Tenament

The older man smiled, just a sliver, pleased with the answers. “We’ll save honor for when we’re done. I’m glad you two’re not going to turn coward. The Government paid for the best, and I don’t doubt you’ll provide. Earn your pay, and do your duty to whatever you claim to serve.” Colonel Malachus stood, and gestured for the two hunters in his presence to follow. As he stood, the pistol was once again visible, and he adjusted the beret back atop his head after removing it to sit and address. He spoke as he walked, quiet as he made his procession down stairs and into a dank basement. Water dripped from long-broken pipes, but the walls of earth blocked the wind, dilapidated or otherwise. “You’re going in without support: we know the cell is operating in a sewer annex accessible through a tunnel beneath our feet.” His boots rang out on the hard floor, clacking against an extended nail every once and a while.

He stopped before what was little more than a hole in the floor, leading to a broken pipe perhaps seven feet in diameter. It smelled of filth and rainwater, of rust and darkness. Malachus looked down at it without relish. “Once you go in, a MP team will secure this exit and be prepared to follow if either of you become casualties. We hope it won’t come to that. Your objective is simple: find the terrorist cell, eliminate their capability to cause harm to civilians or property, and either call me to collect prisoners, or bring them to this exit.” He turned, looking at the hunters with extraordinary gravitas. “Rules of engagement are clear: lethal force is to be used without warning or hesitation if necessary. Time is of the essence, the cell is expected to be moving out in a half an hour at most. Are there any questions...” he gestured towards the open sewer pipe. “...before you go in?” His tone expected an answer in the negative.

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Airfleet Street

“ This soiled world…

After several minutes, the performance stopped, to be met with uproarious applause. Caestovani took a very polite bow, the picture of humility, and slunk behind the falling curtain as the band picked up a warming medley of folk songs, warming the crowd from the ceremonial dirge to a mood more befitting celebration. The music would continue, after an interlude of impressive violence. Lights flashed on around the colossal cage, and eyes began to turn as the tone brightened to fevered excitement.

Cardamom beamed at the hunters, humming with energy, clearly as excited for her own role as the people were to see the coming performance. Her voice was clarion clear, a bark of energetic denial. “Of course it’s too late! You’re on the billing now, and the show must go on!” She hit a button, and the sole visible entry to the cage opened. With a brisk step, the interim mistress of ceremonies zipped behind the hunters and without warning shoved them towards the gate, pushing them in from the dark of the annex and into the gleaming floodlights of the cage.

“Ladies and Gentlemen!” A moment later, Cardamom’s voice rang from speakers cleverly concealed. At her voice, the crowd erupted in cheers. “Children of all ages! The city of Vale presents to you, your Hunters !” Another cheer. “The defenders of peace, justice and tranquility, keeping us all safe from the forces of Grimm.”

She had the voice of a circus presented, and the crowd was eating it up. The band swelled a brisk, chipper military tattoo, proud brass and deep drum ringing joyous over the thronging crowd. “Without further ado, the first Slaying!”

A cheer greater than the others rang out, and on the opposite side of the flat, plain, circular colosseum, the floor opened. A platform rose, and atop it sat six ursae. The great bears were roaring, held down by what looked like steel cuffs pulled to the platform by hidden magnets. They screamed their hatred through wide mouths, hungry voices baying for the death of humanity. They snapped at the hunters within the cage, and with a shout of “Begin!” from Cardamom, the magnet flicked off. With a blazing, furious speed, the fully-grown and menacingly angry ursae split into pairs, each pair charging headfirst without forethought towards one of the hunters which held the eyes of every face in the churning crowd.

RWBY: Brilliant Horizon

Post coming tonight, come hell or high water.

Avatar: The Cycle of the Seasons

Now, should my antagonist be Luigi Galleani, or Ernst Junger? I'd write a fascist, but I feel like we have that covered.

RWBY: Brilliant Horizon

Fuck, sorry folks: my post will be delayed until tomorrow. I am busy AF, and classes start tomorrow. I gotta get a good measure of sleep. Please forgive me <3

RWBY: Brilliant Horizon

@Dragonbud

I figure, be considerate. Give people a day or two more, just to clear everything up in the first posts. After this first cycle, I trust you all to post when appropriate and when when consideration is required.

I'll be posting probably tomorrow, so maybe wait until I have a post up to go? Maybe? I honestly didn't think that far ahead ;_;

Hunafoli Saga

Boots of calf-skin, worn and hardy from long marches, crunched through the first morning frost, the regular pace of a steadfast stride. The talismans rattled, bone on metal on stone, in Alfhild’s sack, the implements of her craft stowed from prying eyes and snapping cold. Her distaff joined it, slung across her back beneath blue, gem-studded mantle: in her hands, an ornate spear gleamed gold and chalcedony in the early sun. It was the gift of Charles, of the Franks, who judged her talents be rewarded by gift of riches and punishment of sword-forced exile.

She was weary, as she leaned upon the pillar of ash, pushed herself onwards. Her travels had been long, in need of an end. Her pale skin was glossed with sweat, her mane of raven-black hair unruly beneath her hood of black lambskin. Her youth made her desire to use the runes carved upon the ash of the spear, on the copper in her pouch, but she rejected the disrespectful action. A score of summers and six were enough to teach her respect of the Norns.

Her feet were guided to the Wight-Stone, at which sat a mug of ale. She could feel the cloying of the earth-spirits, though their call was faint: in their area her talents did not lay thick. She bowed, and let the ornamental spear rest on her shoulder. Long, clever fingers brushed along her slight, boyish frame, finding a skin of good Alban mead. She said prayers to Odin and Freya, her masters in the halls of Valhalla, and thanked the spirits for their service. As she sprinkled the mead, and laid the skin at the base of the colossal stone, cerulean eyes flicked to the smoke while offering the final chant of her closing prayer. Shelter, as required. A place to ply her trade and earn a keep, to hide from the snows and winds of winter. Or, a place to be cast out as evil, to be extorted by seax and wide-bearded axe.

The dice would fall where they may, she was their servant and guide only. She turned her back on the stone, and continued her feet-aching procession towards the long-house. Such was her fatigue that she was forced to rest, and chew on a strip of salt-cured mutton, before cresting the final hill. The workers gave her curious looks, none greeted her. She pulled her rich cloak tight over her narrow hips, her slender frame, and kept her face pointed towards the great wall, as though to broadcast her intent to those who might inform the leaders of this place.

She crested the hill, and stopped at the wall of the longhouse, not intending to so offend the family within by entering uninvited. With the butt of a spear she could not use, she rapped upon the gate twice, and after a light pause, twice again. Further attention was drawn, but Alfhild simply waited, patient as the great stone in whose fashion she stood in the early-winter air.

RWBY: Brilliant Horizon

Hey everyone! It's been recommended that I make a discord server, and so I have. Come on in, let's talk and plan and all that good stuff.

discord.gg/yjD5A

RWBY: Brilliant Horizon

Oh, I might have miscommunicated: just get posting, it'll be clear. Go ahead and hop right into the scene, but be warned that I won't be able to respond until tomorrow most likely.

RWBY: Brilliant Horizon

FIRST POST MOTHERFUCKERS!

@Lasrever@Kit N Kat@Zarkun@Plank Sinatra@Onarax@gohKamikaze@EnterTheHero@Spoopy Scary@Dragonbud@Aziraphale

The fist post is up! Feel free to slot yourself into either: Doing security work for a ball of the rich and famous, on whose elbows you may rub, work with the MPs to stop some terrorists and muck through the underbelly of Vale, or participate in a spectacle to signify the unity of the world, and show off just how rad a hunter you are!

If you, for some reason, don't think any of these three can be done by any of you, let me know in PMs. Until then, I have to skedaddle for a while!

RWBY: Brilliant Horizon

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.

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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.