Banner by bushtuckapenguin

“Civilization. In troubled times this word is the bastion to which we cling, a wall erected between us and the outside, the other. But civilization and savagery do not exist as distinct entities. In times of crisis, this becomes ever more evident, and the Great War has been no exception. Amidst the blood and slaughter, the War has become more than just another petty conflict. It is a reminder, that savagery is as much a part of civilization as the spoken word. It lies in wait, hidden, invisible, but it is always there. And if we are not constantly vigilant, it will make monsters of us all.”

-The letters of Timur Pike, hero of the Grey Reach and councilman of Atlas

Chapter One:

Homecoming

 

An unbroken moon shone above the kingdom of Vale. In its light, the city’s old brick buildings stood like towers, casting deep shadows across the streets. In one of those shadows, something moved. None were there to see it, as the two masked figures descended from the rooftops, none but an old man whose sight had nearly left him, and he did not think anything of it. The city’s industrial district, its buildings tall and featureless, was the kind of place where one learned not to ask too many questions. Especially, the man thought, when the Lost Men were on the prowl.

The larger of the two figures was carrying something, the old man noted, that looked oddly like a person. But, as the matter was not of his concern, he turned back to his business of feeding a fat grey alley cat. The two figures, the larger one a man, and the smaller a woman, continued silently, catlike, towards the shore, where long piers jutted out into the dark water beyond. They walked along the waterfront, towards an old abandoned warehouse that stood taller than the others, a relic of the old whaling industry which had long since been rendered obsolete. It was an unremarkable building, but its name was whispered in hushed tones all across the shores of Remnant: The Harbor of Lost Souls, headquarters of the Lost Men.

The Lost Men were, at their most basic level, smugglers, who brought illegally mined Dust from quarries throughout Remnant into the kingdoms, to be sold at far lower rates than the Schnee Dust Company could afford. It was a dangerous job, carrying the highly-reactive propellant across thousands of miles of treacherous water, but the rewards were immense. To supplement his dwindling workforce, the leader of the Lost Men, Petros Leanai, had taken up a secondary activity: piracy. The Lost Men would raid seaside villages for food, water, supplies, and, most importantly of all, recruits. In order to better indoctrinate these press-ganged servitors, Petros had decided that only children between the ages of 3 and 13 were to be taken. Once the children had been brought aboard, they would be taken to the Harbor of Lost Souls, to begin a process of training and indoctrination that would forge them into perfect minions for the old smuggler.

The Port of Lost Souls was not a pretty place, with several cargo containers stacked against a wall, and cobwebs filling the corners. Still, Petros preferred it to his expensive high-rise apartment. Sure, it looked nicer, but in that part of town, everyone was rich and powerful. Here, where all but himself were destitute and desperate, he reigned supreme.

This night, Petros sat upon his driftwood throne, idly twirling his chain-foil whilst humming to himself. His bodyguard, a bulky faunus named Sobki, lounged nearby, an enormous scissor strapped to his right arm. Petros was a lean man of sixty one, but due to very expensive treatments he did not look a day over nineteen. His scarlet hair fell in a messy tangle down his neck and past his shoulders, and his green leather coat was emblazoned with a falling star. His eyes, a slate grey, followed his blade as he spun it through the Port’s dim light.

Sobki turned his head to face the double doors directly across from Petros, and snarled. The bulky man stood to his feet, his scaly tail still dragging over the floor. The doors opened slowly, and a thin man with long rabbit ears, Petros’ attendant, stepped slowly inside. Sobki grunted and relaxed, once again unconcerned with his surroundings. The attendant walked forward to the foot of Petros’ throne and bowed deeply. “Sir… two of our scouts just reported back. Sir… they… they have Rowan.”

Petros ceased playing with his foil and shocked, turned to face him. “What!? Are they sure?” Rowan Royman, his one greatest failure, in Vale? This could get interesting, he thought.

The attendant swallowed. “Y-yes sir. His tattoos match with our files.”

“Well then… by all means, send them in. Tonight just got a whole lot less boring.” A thin smile spread across Petros’ lips.

The attendant, left, and, about a minute later, two Lost Men entered, dragging a half-conscious form between them. Even in the dim light, Petros recognized Rowan Royman. He still wore his distinctive yellow trenchcoat, and his hooked metal boots. Most telling of all was his left hand, or lack thereof, since Petros had cut it off in a fight over three years prior. Rowan had been one of his most promising recruits, Petros mused, until that girl had poisoned his mind and convinced him to run away. Seven years later, the boy resurfaced, and began plaguing Petros’ operations along with a crew of seasoned fighters. After a few years, however, he got cocky, and tried to attack Petros directly, in a fight that would end in the injury he now displayed.

Rowan raised his head, slowly, blinking. “Petros? How…?”

The female Lost Man spoke. “Sir, we found him at an old apartment building to the south of here. Looks like he’s been holed up there for a few months.”

Petros raised an eyebrow. “And how did you find him?”

“Hei Xiong, sir. He was willing to talk when we gave him a little incentive.”

Rowan blinked. “Junior? Dammit! You can’t trust anyone these days!” He tried to stand up, but he was obviously still half-unconscious, and he collapsed again.

“So,” Petros addressed him, “what brings back our little bird back home? Did you want to rejoin us? To take revenge for your hand? Or are you just plain stupid?”

The woman smirked. “It is Royman, sir. We can’t exactly rule that out.”

Rowan scowled at her, and then turned back to Petros. “I’m smarter than you think, Petros. But no, I have no intention of returning to your fold. Just as you have no intention of accepting me.”

“And why not? I notice that woman of yours isn’t here. Did she finally get sick of you? You have no one. Nobody to turn to. Why not us? Why not your family?”

Rowan’s eyes narrowed. “You are not my family. I’m never going back. That is why I’m here. I can’t move on while the ghosts of my past still haunt me…” In a sudden motion, he reached his left arm into his coat, and with a loud click drew a pistol katar, mounted on the stump of his left hand. Before the Lost Men could react, he lept to his feet, and darted forwards towards Petros, weapon at the ready. “… So I’m putting them to rest!”

Royman was fast. Sobki was faster. He went from relaxed and lethargic to as swift and powerful as an oncoming train in seconds, and he slammed into Rowan from the side a split second before he hit Petros. Both men tumbled to the floor. As they staggered to their feet, Petros shouted. “You didn’t take his weapon?!”

The two Lost Men looked at each other. “That,” said the woman, “was your job.”

“What? You said you were gonna do it!”

“No, I said it would be a good idea if you checked him!”

Petros sighed, his head in his palm. “Just… Just kill him. Please!”

Sobki charged again at Rowan, but this time he saw it coming. With inhuman grace, he vaulted over his opponent, slashing him across the back on his way down. There, the young faunus’ familiar cocky grin returned, as Sobki turned to face him. The two men traded several blows, but Rowan was fast, and avoided most of Sobki’s scissor strikes. Sobki, on the other hand, was like a brick wall, his aura deflecting several bullets as he snarled in rage.