Ch5: Attack, using emotional character development

Crouch huffed as he used his aura to try and sense his elusive grandson. The boy only became better and better at stealth and ambush tactics. He had his crossbow out, bolt pointed at foliage and branches that might hide a hidden snake. Suddenly, a trio of throwing knives were launched his way.

He dodged the first two, and blocked the second. Only to immediately have to retreat as a thirteen year old haired him with more blades.

Thin steel wires pulled the blades back into the branches and foliage, the wires controlled through aura infused inside the material. Hisses rang out in the forest, the boy echoing his voice through both technique and aura enhancement.

His grandson was someone who had taught the older huntsman more things about aura than any other individual or institution. Sadly, everything the boy taught him could be countered. The old hunter didn't dare enhance his senses in fear of having them abused and overloaded with flash-bangs and overpowered laser pointers.

Pushing through the foliage, he was dodging and skipping over traps and obstacles that his foe had set up all over the forest with practiced ease. Suddenly, a figure in green camo blind sided the fleeing man with a drop kick.

He mitigated the attack with his crossbow, flipping back and landing on a low hanging branch with his haunches. Snarling, the man shot a bolt at the boy, his semblance activated.

The boy suddenly glowed red as his semblance, 'Hunter's Mark' targeted him. The ability made it so that the next attack would deal several times more damage. If it hit.

The boy flipped over the bolt, and predicted his grandfather's next attack, a downward slash. He landed on the ground and crossed his blades, catching the attack on them.

Bolting up, he gave his grandfather no time to react to his following kick to the groin and impromptu left cross with his fist still holding one of his stiletto blades.

They then entered a brutal fight of melee combat, no holds bared. Groin, feet, head, teeth, eyes, ears, throat, everything was given and nothing was taken.

Basalin carved into his grandfather's face drawing a thin line of blood from the sheer force of the blow, before his aura could push the blade out.

Crouch meanwhile gave a jab to the boy's throat, folding the esophagus and nearly crushing it if not for his aura resisting the attack.

Fifteen minutes of battle, a short amount of time for many, but for two elite level combatants? That might as well have been the longest and lengthiest fight in history. For there was no real stalemate in this battle, no counter or impotency in this fight. It was just sheer brutal combat.

Crouch was hacking out blood, one eye closed as his newly earned scar leaked blood into one eye, dyeing half of his vision red. He gripped a dislocated right arm with his left. His right arm was a mess, three fingers broken, a shattered wrist, a hyper-extended elbow, and a dislocated shoulder. Further adding onto the pain, his right shoulder blade was aching up a storm, broken, shattered, cracked, he didn't know. His chest was also a mess of bruises and cuts, with a deep stab wound to his left lung causing him to gurgle blood.

Basalin meanwhile wasn't looking much better. His throat was bruised and each breath was a feat of intense will. His chest was one giant bruise, and he had at least five broken ribs. His left leg wasn't just dislocated or broken, but discombobulated and twisted into a wreck from a failed complex aura technique. His hands were bloodied and broken from fist fighting his grandfather, while his back didn't look much better than his torso. His solar plexus had been collapsed a half-a-dozen times, while each joint in his body was strained from the tension and exertion of repeatedly dislocating and relocating them for supernatural flexibility and agility.

Basalin and Crouch glared at each other, before giving bloody wide smiles. They then limped over to one another and leaned on the other's body for some semblance of support. Several painful minutes later, they limped over to their clearing and retrieved a satchel. Inside were various vials of dubious content.

Dust was an interesting substance, as to many a RWBY fan, Dust was magic. This was correct, Dust was indeed magic. Crystallized magical elements corresponding to their type. With magical substances came magical practices, and Dust Alchemy was one of them.

Many people regarded it as one did with organic clinics and Chinese medicine. Except, it actually worked here, you just needed someone who actually knew their shit, which due to modern practices that were far cheaper and easier to learn than learning from a mystical master, it died out. Nowadays, Dust Alchemy was stuff that helped fight the common cold, or was used as tourist trap stuff.

Basalin, in his many dungeon runs and his crusade against the Goblin race, was rewarded a book on Alchemy from slaying a powerful Goblin Shaman.

Comparing that book with guides and hearsay on the CCT, he eventually managed to create some actually decent potions in his first few days learning the craft. That was when he turned ten.

Now, at age thirteen, he had a full garden of extra-dimensional potion reagents and a shed of glass and metal work for brewing potions.

Both males took out a glowing vial of purple liquid and downed it. Crouch took out another one, this one gold. He then pulled out a hooka from behind the stump the satchel was placed on, filled it up, lit the hooka on with some pocket fire dust, and in a few minutes was puffing liquid Ambrosia.

From the purple liquid, all of their open wounds were slowly closing in a visually appealing fashion of purple smoke. Bruises and internal wounds fixed themselves and soon they were all fine and dandy.

Basalin sat on the stump with his grandfather, the man passing the pipe of the Hooka and Basalin took a puff. There they watched the setting sun, smoking distilled lesser dragon piss Basalin stole from the Dragon Instant Dungeon.

"Think there are other worlds out there?" Crouch asked his grandson as he stared at the sun.

Basalin chuckled, "Yeah, I do." He smiled, taking another puff and blowing the smoke out of his nose.

Crouch took his and let it slowly drift out of his mouth. "What makes you think that?"

"A lot of things, gramps, a lot of things." Basalin grinned at the man, "What brought this on?"

The older man sighed, smoke leaving his mouth in the action. "Death. Mine. Your mother's and father's. My sister's.... Your's." The man admitted.

Basalin smiled at the older man. "Death... its kinda scary." Basalin stated. "I once thought death was the end. You live, then you die. The end. Erasure of existence. Basalin Chrome has lived his last, and now all that is left is his bones and actions."

Crouch nodded, that's how he thought too. He just didn't think his actions were that great. "I don't think I left all that much around. Don't wanna die without leaving something behind. Something... great." He smiled, quoting his grandson a little.

"Yeah, that's what I think too." Basalin smiled. "Then I ask myself, what'd I leave behind? And then I ask, is any of that great?"

Crouch felt his smile fade as he was lost in his memories. His wife, their daughter, his grandson, his deeds, his prides, his joys. He turned his eyes to his grandson. "Hey brat." The man smiled, tears pooling in his eyes. "Be great, for me, you hear?"

Basalin smiled back. "That was already the plan, old man."

A silence fell between them.

"That rhymed." Basalin and Crouch said at the same time, before a laughter rang out in the clearing.

Calming down, Crouch took a puff while adding more fire dust onto the hooka. "Thirteen, huh." Crouch muttered. "You wanna go to Hunter's Academy?"

Basalin thought about it. "What'd I do there?" He asked, never researching it.

"A nice weapon for one." He scowled at the two stilettos that his grandson used. Cheap and poor, same with his crossbow and saber. His old rifle and saber hybrid broke years ago, and he took up his father weapon. "A nice mechashift, or a classic if you must. I know how much you dislike that stuff."

Basalin scowled. "I don't dislike it per say, not when it works right. Just dislike the principle of it. Feels too...unique."

"Too unique?" Asked his grandfather.

"What happens when a part breaks in the field?" The boy asked. "Standard issue, its easy to swap out. Custom? Gotta go back to the labs." The boy shook his head and sighed. "Ugh, sorry, I think hunters and I think soldiers."

Crouch nodded, it made sense and the boy had a point, but Hunters were the creme la crem, the peak of human ability. Super Soldiers with unique combat abilities were hard to counter. The boy was used to living frugally too, and disliked grandiose weapons. Each piece of steel for his throwing knives were lovingly cared for, and each throw was done with equal care.

"You have plenty of time to make a weapon, kid. Hell, you could make one the day before Beacon and master it the next week." His grandson's talent was unthinkable. "Still, combat academies have facilities for training and studying, far more than this dinky little town. An actual education would be amazing for one as bright as you." The grandfather praised without the typical parent's inflated pride. The boy was razor sharp in any intellectual pursuit.

The boy blushed lightly, before asking another question. "What about my heritage. This place knows I'd flay them alive if I saw any racism, and with our strength we get away with it. Big cities? Its us who get flayed for looking out of place." The boy spat, not out of the usual spite and angst for being discriminated against, but rather his inability to lash out against it without consequence.

"Signal and Beacon are more inclusive, and while the youth of your era might be mean and full of bullies, well." The badger faunas grinned a bloody grin, "You're a fucking monster."

The young man blushed and slapped his grandfather playfully. "Yeah, yeah. Freaky brat this, freaky brat that."

"Seriously though, you'll need to reign in those instincts of yours. I don't want to read the paper about freak faunas eats the intestines of noble human knight." The old man chuffed, actually being able to imagine that scene and possible future as his grandson licked his lips, tasting the air.

"Che, human knight? More like a dainty, tasty, nubile young huntress." The boy gave a savage and deranged expression, before getting chopped on the skull.

"Ow, I was joking." The boy pouted, while his grandfather gave him a look that said 'oh, really?'

"So, you in?"

"Yeah." The boy lazily pumped his fist and laid back on the stump, sucking on the hooka pipe. And continued sucking.

"Fucking brat, give the pipe back." The old man snatched it out of his hands only to catch a massive gout of smoke.

Hacking at the 'attack'. The man scowled at the grinning young man hanging from a branch by his knees a distance away.

"Fucking brat."