Gus Gungus
One Thousand Club
Prologue: An Epilogue
Huntsman or huntress; human or faunus; hero, killer, or somewhere in between. The road you walked here is long and winding, the boots that carried you worn almost to the sole. You recall the journey well enough.
Remembering how it ended is the hard part.
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Legends. Stories scattered through time.
It started, as these things often do, with a dream, a voice, and a vast, blank space. Raw materials, through a certain lens; ones many a wordsmith might use to commence the process of putting words to page. To forge a new beginning.
Or was it an ending?
Mankind has grown quite fond of recounting the exploits of heroes and villains; forgetting so easily that you, yourselves, amount to little more than stories in the end. Tales that have yet to be told.
Stories that are still being written.
Those cognizant enough to take stock of such things noted there were twelve of them, all told: Twelve mortal frames, grouped in fours, arranged in a loose triangle and framed against an ocean of endless white. That their faces were familiar may have posed some small reassurance; There was the maiden, Cinder Fall; the tinkerer, Arthur Watts; the scorpion, Tyrian Callows, all appropriately punctuated—and dwarfed—by the mountainous form of Hazel Rainart. At equidistant points opposite them were fate's perennial latchkey children, team MTEN: Mercury Black, killer-by-nature; Emerald Sustrai, thief-by-nurture; Neopolitan, enigma even to those who knew her best.
And a corpse.
He was as still as the rest of them, any kind of movement at all a feat beyond their collective ability in whatever transient dream they found themselves in, but there was no mistaking him for anything else. Where their immobile states were akin to a bad dose of sleep paralysis, the sluggish passivity of the dreamer, their eyes still functioned and their chests still rose and fell in a steady affirmation of life; Roman Torchwick was dead, through and through. His clothes were stained a faded crimson, his head lolled uncomfortably to one side, and though his once-smooth, fiery bangs thankfully hid the worst from view it was plain to see he was in the late stages of decomposition by now, his skin bleached grey and missing patches.
Off to one side were the outsiders, migrants from another world, another story; Qrow Branwen's form indicated a flurry of motion before they had all been rendered still, posture coiled as if mid-flight, scythe clenched in one fist and teeth bared in a fierce snarl. His twin and her daughter flanked either side of him, almost a mirror for one another in themselves, while rounding out their quartet hung one Ruby Rose: eyes closed, skin pale, a match even for Roman in her uncompromising stillness.
It all seemed of little consequence to the god standing before them.
It was next to impossible to mistake the figure for anything else, even to those who had not once been afforded a relic's glimpse into the distant past. His vessel was one of light, not flesh; He appeared weightless, despite a frame that eclipsed even Hazel's with ease, nigh-featureless save for the pulsing set of antlers emerging from His head like a crown, immaculate in their symmetry. He looked at all of them with eyes that weren't there, and His voice, though plainly lacking in warmth or attachment, seemed to carry all the comfort of an embrace.
But this story's ink has run dry. Its pages are weathered and torn. The heroes of this tale are flawed, imperfect; They require guidance from those whose souls were always set on the path they now tread, yet in the face of adversity each of you fell to pieces no less readily than they did. As you are now, not one among you is prepared to face the battles to come.
At some point during the sentence His horned visage had turned to study the other Remnant's four, radiating a shocking amount of disappointment for a face so expressionless.
And yet... you twelve are the ones who must. I am certain of it now. And so I will tear the pages from the book, return you to the blank script, bless you with greater drive and purpose. The time for evaluation has passed. There are others who have shown promise, and some may yet have their own part to play in this tale, but...
His ethereal gaze lifted, and the outskirts of their barren surroundings began to find themselves populated by ghosts of memories, faint, translucent outlines more recognisable to some than to others. Witches, wizards, generals and inventors alike; all were reduced to mere echoes in whatever sterile plane they found themselves in.
...It falls to you. You alone will be the executors of my will. You will be the ones to stem my brother's tide of darkness, and in doing so give this story its rightful end. You—
A sudden impact and thunderous crash saw the void's peaceful tranquility disrupted, the entire realm rocking like a kayak on stormy waters despite the lack of any notable floors or geometry to speak of. More disconcerting still was the sight of a god doubling over in pain, hands on His abdomen and a strained grunt escaping His being as cracks started appearing in the reality around them, allowing a viscous black substance to begin squeezing its way through. He spoke again, this time in hallowed tones marred only by a twinge of exertion.
My intervention has not gone unnoticed. He nears, and our time grows short.
Heed these words well, mortals: seek the four relics. When you stand before Jinn, speak forth the question, "What would He have of me?" When the road is dim, look only to the child of light for guidance.
Though His was a visage bleached by light, the shadowed area under His eyes seemed to darken, and for the first time during His address the deity's tone grew truly grave.
But beware the daughters of darkness. The discord sewn into this world's fabric has made my brother strong, and as I have assembled my chosen in the realm of dream, so too will he come to them in their darkest nightmares. The embittered. The downtrodden. The disillusioned.
Already there exists one whose destiny I cannot see. One who will seek to untether the others like her. She is the envoy of his chaos, and his... shadow looms larger... with every... b-beat... of her... pestilent... wings...
ᑎO ᖴᑌᖇTᕼEᖇ, ᗷᖇOTᕼEᖇ!
Whatever unseen intrusion the entity had been struggling to prevent was abruptly crystallised as the sky itself caved in, white fragments raining down amidst a sea of primordial black that cascaded into the tranquil white like a waterfall. Its inky mass swirled and coalesced before it had even finished settling, shaping itself into a gnarled set of limbs, horns, and teeth, which themselves twisted with a sickeningly visceral series of snaps and crunches into a form that was terrible, unnatural, yet not entirely unfamiliar.
The dragon touched down on four legs with an unholy THOOM, taking no apparent notice of the mortals gathered as it reared back on hind legs and roared its fury at its elder sibling.
TᕼIᔕ IᑎᔕᑌᖴᖴEᖇᗩᗷᒪE ᑕYᑕᒪE ᗯIᒪᒪ Eᑎᗪ! YOᑌᖇ ᗯEIGᕼIᑎG Oᖴ TᕼE ᔕᑕᗩᒪEᔕ ᗯIᒪᒪ ᑎOT GO ᑌᑎᗩᑎᔕᗯEᖇEᗪ!
The god of light stood, calm in the face of such unbridled destruction, but what lay behind His tone's firmness when He stared back at His brother across the crumbling purgatory of His creation was as unyielding as it was terrifying, a darkness unto its own.
Nor will your impudence.
Then His own form shifted, light bending and contorting around Him until it settled on the shape of a long, coiled, wingless dragon of more a more Mistralian provenance, already channeling His powers of creation into a huge, swirling orb to counteract the volatile sphere of crackling energy conjured by his counterpart. What followed when the beams collided, from the perspective of the mortals caught in the ensuing blast's radius, could only truly be compared to the perspective of an ant being torched by light funnelled through a magnifying glass.
The most merciful thing to be said for it was that it was quick.
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