The Maiden's Fall

Chapter II: Whisper on the Wind

My carelessness I blamed on hunger; the proximity of the attacker was inexperience. Widening my stance with one leg, I reluctantly hoisted my arms beside my head, before swinging my body at the waist. My raised arm batted the rifle to the side, clattering against the wall and down to the floor. Closing the distance in a blink, I unsheathe the remaining piece of Gambol Shroud, and let the chipped blade dig into his throat.

Eyes traced from his fallen weapon to the sword at his throat, and our eyes locked on one another. Dressed in the cheap red threads of a farmhand, he bared worn hands in surrender, and shrugged one shoulder in defeated chagrin. "You're alive."

Her eyes roamed over his amalgamation of clothing choices: Atlas military combat boots, Beacon student uniform, and farmer's leather gloves. Settling the blade beneath his Adam's apple, I said, "Do you...do you own a keycard?" Silence for months reduced my throat to sandpaper, the wheeze coming out I didn't recognize. It was deeper, and I hoped more intimidating.

"Keycard?" His bewilderment at the question tempted my wrist, before understanding flickered behind his eyes. "Keycard. For the door? No, I used to work on bullheads. As long as the batteries still power the door I can..." Honestly I'm not certain what he said next because I was already tossing him outside. He tumbled to the rooftop, quick to dart up again. Then he saw Gambol Shroud. "You're a huntress? Are you a-" With a grunt I slammed the door shut with a two armed heave. The bullhead rocked from the motion, not unlike being on the seas, before it settled.

Standing at the ready, sword in hand, I heard a clunk and rattle as he wrestled with the controls to the door. But as I thought, the use of my keycard had drained the battery and left him trapped outside. His frantic smacking against the hull confirmed it and I put my sword away, blocking out his calls as I busied myself with other things.

When writing this I knew I wouldn't always be shone in sympathetic light but recounting myself as anything else would be lying. Mountain Glenn was my home for three months, two of those months were without my partner, and isolation had stripped humanity away. At the end what laid bare to the world was some inhuman uncaring thing. Being in the presence of death left me apathetic to atrocities around me. In my mind I'd rationalized what did it matter if another died, or I died? How great was our society if we could disappear from it within two years? At the end of the world I'd chosen to eat enough, drink enough, and sleep enough. Any other work wasn't worth the trouble. The embers of my soul were dying.

A turkey bar betwixt my teeth, I came upon the strangers fallen rifle. A huntsman's weapon from an earlier age, it was an assemblage made of both stone and iron with ornate carvings on the sides. The buttstock dug into the crook of my arm, the stone chilling my pale skin, and sported unusual heft for a typical AR15. A white stone plate clicked behind the grip; it had the face of a humanoid Grimm. Sliding the plate down opened the Grimm's mouth and expose a button beneath.

Click.

The grip slid back into the buttstock with gentle whirring and the magazine collapsed in on itself. Several wedge-shaped blades jutted from the bottom of the handguard, slipping down the barrel and locking in place. A skull shaped trinket snapped over the muzzle topping the ensemble. Holding the base of the stone handle, the rest clacked into place weighing down the blades so much they pierced the floor. It was an old rune crested axe made from stone and iron, a single shot from the mouth of the skull.

Click.

Just like that it was an AR15 again, never the journey but the destination that mattered with these weapons. The thuds against the hull grew more frantic, I ignored them. As far as I was concerned, I'd commandeered a ship, it's bounty, and the Captain's possession. The day was looking up from what it'd last been. Creeping to the helm of the ship, I used the sleeve of my cloak to brush away dried blood from the inside and popped open another turkey bar with the other. Staring across the rooftop, I seated myself in the relative comfort of the bullhead's damp seat.