Jet turns away from the group while Auron preaches on the weight of the kids' decisions to become Hunters. The lecture had him feeling somewhat guilty for offering such a blasé response. The fact that it wasn’t true was of little comfort when he recalls how equally uninspiring and thoughtless the actual reason was. He briefly wonders if Caramelle feels the same, but the blunt assuredness of her answer didn’t suggest as much. And people reckon I’m cocky.
He reaches down to pick up a handful of coarse, desert sand while Auron continues by reminding the quartet of how Shade Hunters are generally received around these parts. He let’s the sand sift through his fingers, watching the streams in quiet contemplation. His old mentor Diesel was once a Shade hunter and he had often heard as much in one of his caregiver’s ramblings. Honestly he’d usually chalk it up to the old geezer just enjoying a good whine about almost anything.
Bleedin’ Vacuans got no respect for us Hunters! Jet holds back a snicker, mimicking Diesel’s voice in his head. He claps his hands free of any remaining dust and dirt, turning back to see the group's attention had shifted to something about tinted windows? Crap, he really ought to be paying more attention.
Jet’s teammates were convinced that Auron’s test had not truly ended. Go figures. He could tell gramps was the type of sly bastard to pull a stunt like that. The stragglers in the junkyard caught his eye, shifting around the trash as if they were looking for something a little too specific to be found in a pile of crap. He slides his visor back over his eyes, scoping in to get a clearer view of them.
Closer inspection revealed that they weren’t in fact searching for something, but rather unearthing a peculiar structure embedded into the ground itself. It was white and jutted from the earth like some sort of rod. “Awfully clean hands for junkers.” He muses aloud, reminiscing on the many evenings spent scrubbing dirt and grime from his hands after a long day in the junkyard. He scans the remainder of the gathering, keeping an eye out for any other details of note. A few of them have flecks of what he thinks to be dried blood scattered about their garbs.
The same uneasiness and suspicion that gripped Veloce and Turq now churns within Jet’s own gut. He rises to his feet, slinging Obsidian End back into his grip. An accusing glare meets Auron’s eye. “What game are you playin’ at Gramps?” He said, keeping his rifle at the ready. A younger, more naïve Jet would have hoped this to be some sort of misunderstanding. But this was Vacuo; where hopes come to die.
Priscilla found herself unexpectedly heartened by the thought of Jack coming to visit her quaint home in the Silverbranch Glade. “Oh you simply must visit. It is a lovely place.” She takes a drink from her cup, holding a finger up with a startlingly abrupt mumble. Downing the mouthful she turns her attention back towards Jamie. “Oh of course the invitation is extended to yourself as well, my dear.” They so rarely received visitors, even now. It was a shame. She had spent her entire life there and couldn’t think of a more magical place. The forest raised her equally, if not more so, than her own mother. She had many teachers over her life. From the whispering canopy above to the rich soil beneath her feet. The rivers and creeks that pooled into great lakes, flowing from the mountaintop like veins pumping blood from the heart. The wolves were her favourite. They taught her resourcefulness, loyalty and the importance of keeping those you loved close. In her younger years she once confessed to her mother that she wished to become a wolf.
Perhaps you will, one day.
She finishes the last of her tea, eyes gazing downwards into her cup. The remaining leaves, well steeped and happy to have been of service, clump together to form a chalice. Three hands hold it up. The three of cups. “Of course.” Priscilla smiles, musing to no one in particular. She places the saucer down upon the table, thanking Jamie once more for the tea. She hears a commotion downstairs. Revelry. A party, perhaps? Jack is quick to comment on the noise and Jamie confirms her suspicions. Her lips curl even further into a cheerful grin. “A festival, you say?” She wraps her fingers around the grain of her staff, bringing herself to her feet. “Well,” She continues, flourishing her robes with a quick turn on her heel towards the door. “I see no better way to end our meeting than with a celebration such as this. Jamie my dear, please lead the way.” She takes one final look at the cup on it’s little saucer and then takes a moment to look upon the faces of Jack and Jamie. Perhaps she stares for a moment longer than she should, but she doesn’t mind. Some moments shouldn’t be rushed.
Meredith sits with her nose buried within Grizabella’s tome. Her glasses start to slip from her nose and she readjusts them. Her eyes never leave the pages, even when she addresses the two witches assisting her; hustling about the greenhouse with arms full of powders, crystals and candles. She barks orders, demands specific reagents and corrects rookie mistakes with an exasperated sigh and a roll of her eyes. Amateurs. “Honestly, have either of you never drawn an alchemical circle before?” She snaps, their heads lowering under her scrutiny. “Those sigils need to be written in the proper order. These are the basics, girls!” The two hurried off at a brisker pace, eager to meet Meredith’s standards and avoid another scolding. She peers up through the canopy to see the sun just starting to poke out from behind the verdant veil. Almost noon. They ought to hurry.
Manami returns with a bottle of translucent, yellow venom and a mortar filled with a fragrant, ashy powder. Meredith nods in appreciation, holding the vial up to the light to confirm if the venom is still potent enough for her purposes. She swirls it around. The substance is viscous and clings to the glass for a moment before seeping down and settling back at the bottom. She keeps an ear open whilst Manami confides her own opinion on their young, fiery friend. Her work takes a momentary pause to consider if perhaps she had been somewhat dismissive. “No, I’m sure we can make something suitable.” She says with a comforting certainty. She pops the cork from the vial and watches the thick, honey-like venom decant into the cast iron cauldron bubbling away over a candle. The venom sizzles and sputters, a nasty odour of sulfur filling the room. “Zhulie does not need her feelings spared. If I had a need for her I would have asked, but I didn’t.” She says, sprinkling a handful of the ground clove into her mixture and beginning to stir in a counter-clockwise motion. “The best place she can be right now is by Karla’s side. I’m sure that foul mouthed meathead will keep her adequately entertained as well.”
Meredith rose, gesturing for her assistant to prepare the now completed potion for the ritual. The circle, drawn upon the ground in chalk and soot, was an array of varying lines, shapes and symbols. At each cardinal point a specific, elemental offering was placed with an empty circle. A peacock feather, grave dirt, a red candle and a fossilized abalone. Large rods of selenite and quartz points were purposefully placed in a grid, interwoven among the other components and charged with energy. A witch placed the still bubbling cauldron in the center, her partner crouching before it with a black, silken veil obscuring her face. A shadow. The two hold hands, chanting in a tongue unfamiliar to most. Meredith slipped the elastic for a small set of copper cymbals. She offered a similar pair to Manami. “Follow my lead, if you feel comfortable to do so.” She steps towards the circle, wandering around it’s circumference with soft, purposeful movements. Orbiting the two witches, she clashes the cymbals together at each inter-cardinal point. The clang reverberated with a frequency that caused the crystal grid to resonate with energy. A small contribution of her own magic power was all Meredith could offer. the ritual. She was no longer a witch, relying on others to bring her carefully crafted potions and salves to life. She didn’t mind so much anymore. If she could play a small part in easing the pain of her beloved sisters then it would all be worth it.
Bullet stares after Zhulie for a moment after her ginger braids trail down and around the curve of the spiraling staircase, leaving only the flickering candelabras and the elongated, spiderleg-like shadows they cast upon the steps. He has walked these halls many times during his stay within Wolven Pyre, but it only now has daunted on him how stiflingly dark they are. Now he stands at the landing to Priscilla’s quarters, holding a silver tray of the same baked pastries he had eaten earlier. Alongside it Olga had also fashioned some asparagus wrapped in thinly sliced pork belly, as well as a steaming cup of tea. Chamomile, with the sweet scent of honey and lemon and warm hugs, mornings spent wrapped in thick blankets and all the comforts one feels when surrounded by those who make their heart flutter. For a moment he is taken back by the sensations, overpowering his palate with memories and smells that are somehow one in the same. His chest aches with nostalgia for scenes that did not unfold in his own life, and only then does he feel the familiar tinge of magic emanating from within the cup. Only Olga could masterfully bind such intense, vivid feelings to a cup of tea and serve it on a porcelain saucer shaped like a golden lilypad. It need only be delivered to the one who requires it most of all.
Bullet turns to face the door leading into Priscilla’s chambers. The door is nestled in cozy alcove, framed by piles of beeswax candles that burn at different heights. Their multi-coloured wax pools on the floor around them, melting into one another and hardening into a spiral of colour. The door itself is in stark contrast to the rest of the wall, being made of timber that was not cut from the same tree as the guild hall. He hazards a guess that it could be oak; it is about as educated a guess as one who is not familiar with such things can make. His eye is drawn to a recurring pattern of carvings at eye length in an embossed circle that sits right in the middle of the door. A torch, a key and a branch. He remembers that Priscilla herself wields a torch. He can’t quite place the relevance of the key and the branch.
There is no handle, but a cursory nudge with the sole of his boot pushes the door slightly ajar and he can hear the strained creaking of worn hinges. He leans his shoulder against it, heaving with more might than he had anticipated needing and pushes himself into the antechamber.
If the stairwell had felt uncomfortably dark, then the room Bullet now found himself in was suffocatingly so. He blinked a couple times, hoping his vision would adjust but it did not. He could make out a few details thanks to a muted, violet light that seemed to wax and wane from behind the velvet drapes which led to the main chambers. Each step forward brings with it a palpable dread, like icy claws clasped around his chest. He parted the drapes, revealing the purple light to be far more illuminating than he had initially thought. As it waxes into it’s full radiance he can clearly make out various pieces of furniture throughout Priscilla’s room. A four poster bed draped in the same velvet as her entrance, matching side tables littered in various crystals, candles and cards used for fortune telling with intricately drawn illustrations upon them that would have been better appreciated with better lighting. In the corner of the room is a large desk covered in half open books, messy notes scrawled onto scraps of paper and many an empty wine bottle. Priscilla’s latest vintage was still half filled with a rich, burgundy liquid. The thought of her pacing about the room, glass in hand, whilst musing over paperwork seemed appropriate to him. The light once again began to wane and the darkness crept inwards and all around them. He follows the light to a dark crystal that he does not recognise (though he does not recognise many crystals). It beats in Karla’s hands, a soft murmur of a heartbeat. Her face is the only part of the room illuminated by it now. Her eyes are puffy from crying, her hair tangled and strewn across her face in uneven strands. Her mouth is moving, whispering something just above a breath. One word stood out to Bullet. A name. One he had heard from the tongue of many a witch during his stay. Hecate.
The light flares to life once more. This time it burns hotter and brighter than before. The darkness skitters back into the nooks and crannies it had flooded in from, shielding itself from the all encompassing light. Now, face to face with Karla, Bullet is able to see a magic circle drawn into the wooden floors in blood. The witch’s fingers are stained red, her eyes bloodshot and fierce. He took an instinctive step back, eyes locked with the source of the encroaching dread from earlier. He wanted to ask her what was going on. He wanted to crack a joke or make a blunt remark and then she would laugh and explain herself and his mind would be at ease. But he doesn’t. He already knows what is happening. He has never seen a witch’s curse before, but the sheer malignance that festered within Karla was all he needed to confirm his suspicions. It was both poignant and malevolent, writhing with the most intense of emotions. He could feel all of it. Karla’s maelstrom of rage and sorrow and anguish tore at him from the inside out. The tray had long since fallen to the floor, it’s contents scattered. The tea filled with warmth, love and all things comforting seeped into the cracks in the wood and Bullet wasn’t sure he’d ever feel those things again. His vision began to blur and turn white. “I’m sorry, Bullet.” He heard Karla say. The tightness that had gripped his chest earlier now spreads to his arms and his legs and his head and every part of him he could imagine. “But I won’t let them take him.” She continued, watching his body fall limp in a heaped pile at the entranceway. Nigel coils himself around her, the slits of his eyes gazing up into Karla’s. Her chanting resumes, a vision of a clear meadow amidst the Silverbranch Glade flittering to life in the black depths of the serpent’s eyes. There is a wolf. It is larger than most wolves. The serpent hisses, sharing his secrets with wolf and master alike.
The last blow from Hagar struck Henri’s jaw with a resounding crack. His face stung and he could feel something sticky and warm trickling down his temple. Head to head with his assailant, he could see the hungry ferocity deep within the constricted blacks of his eyes. Between the ringing of each blow in his head he could hear the hearty laughter of the brute. He wrestled against him with all his might, but Hagar’s knees were pressed firmly against his forearms, keeping his upper body pinned. “Ain’t got nothin’ smart to say now, aye mate?” He taunted. Henri tilts his head, glaring at him whilst a low growl forms in the back of his throat. This guy was an eyesore. He would love nothing more than to smack that sick grin from his face. He digs his fingers into the dirt, magic swelling at his fingertips and into the soil. The ground became damp and bloated, his weight sinking him down an inch or so into the mud. Murky waters rose to form small puddles across the meadow, a sticky humidity clinging to the air like flies to honey. Hagar reels his fist back, prepared to strike once more when his face shifts from smug satisfaction to a bewildered discomfort. His tunic clung to his skin with sweat and his blows were far more laboured than they ought to be. He glared down at his victim, rightfully assuming him responsible for the drenching pressure. And that was when the kick landed, in that moment of realisation.
Hagar tumbled a few meters away, planting face first into the mud with a satisfying squelch. His assuming build carried enough weight so that he wasn’t sent flying by Shiro’s kick, but he was nothing if not shell shocked.
Henri brings himself to his feet with only a slight falter. He spits a glob of spit mixed with blood and discards his muddied overcoat. His torso and arms are adorned with a sprawling tattoo of a kraken. It’s tentacles wrap around his chest, neck and biceps. The inked appendages glow a luminescent teal. Henri leans his head to the side with a satisfying crack, glaring as the lumbering Hagar rose to his knees and groaned. His eyes settle on Shiro. He stood tall, flaring his arms out into a wide stance with a magic circle forming at his feet. “Right spoilsport you are, love. Was startin’ to enjoy meself I was.” With each word his magic power spiked, radiating from him like a burning sun. The circle expanded to encompass the soil beneath their feet. Henri stares down, gasping in alarm, water spilling forth from his tattoos and engulfing his arms in the wet visage of squid tentacles. He takes a knee, pounding the earth with his knuckles. The ground besides Hagar began to gurgle and bubble, two identical cephalopod appendages sprout upwards before collapsing downwards onto Hagar as he attempts to finish his spell. The interruption is all but certain, were it not for the sudden flash of steel swiftly dispatching Henri’s conjurations with a hefty slash. Hagar’s dancing blades hover at his side. He lets out a rapturous laugh. “Aw, bit slow mate. No matter. We’re just getting started. Sword Magic: Iron Maiden.” He bellowed, the circle collapsing beneath their feet to reveal a familiar gleam of light crisscrossing across the soil and erecting around the trio in a large, dome grid. The light fades, revealing rows upon rows of steel blades. The blades share a likeness to each other, but are all somewhat different in their own way. Different blade lengths, hilt designs and engravings distinguish the collection. The swords orbit the arena. Henri attempts to disperse their formation on one side with two water jets thrust from both palms, but the blades flourish nigh instantaneously to dissect the attack with razor precision before settling back into their former position.
The realisation that he’d have to fight his way out of this arena was no cause for alarm. Henri had already hoped to repay Hagar’s earlier punishment with interest. He takes a firm stance, tentacles at the ready.
Talos had grown silent amidst the conflict between Regan and the other poachers. More bared arms against her after she so easily dispatched the first two. No doubt she wouldn’t struggle too much with them. There were a couple mages among them, but their sorcery was of little impact. The direwolf had halted his movements completely, his eyes turning cloudy and vacant. It was as if he were in a trance. When the dark returned to his eyes the wolf raised his snout to the sky and howled. A short lived but intense pulse of magic washed over everyone present. The crippling dread that gripped their very souls was there only for a moment, but it was enough to stop the poachers in their tracks. A growl unlike any Talos had ever uttered burst forth from his gullet. It was a discordant screech that tangled the anguished cry of a woman with the sputtering hiss of a serpent and then ended with a pained yelp. The yelping persisted, Talos’ legs buckling beneath him. He collapses to the ground, clearly discomforted by a writhing sensation beneath his skin. Talos’ bones snap and contort with sickening crunches, his limbs almost doubling in size before soon being accompanied by the rest of his body. His fur hardens into razor needles, fangs grow and sharpen to the point where they threatened to tear the sides of his mouth.
A familiar hiss comes from behind him, the wolf’s tail extending and shifting into the form of a great, tawny boa constrictor with cream patches. The snake sets its sights on the only poacher too stunned to run for the hills like the others. The serpent stiffens, but there is nary a moment for the poacher’s heart to beat one last time before it lashes out to strike. The beast wastes no time savouring the kill, hungry wolf and serpent eyes befalling upon Regan as an enraged Talos pounces with tooth and claw.
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."
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.