The scene unfolds around a small campfire on the outskirts of the Branwen tribe's camp. The smoke curls upward, effectively warding off mosquitoes and gnats. Qrow Branwen sits hunched forward, animatedly recounting a tale of wooing some barmaid from a distant tavern. Across from him, his nephew—Raven's son, known as Ray—listens half-heartedly, arms wrapped around his knees. Ray's mind wanders elsewhere, too occupied with weightier thoughts to engage with his uncle's story.
Qrow notices the distraction and pauses mid-sentence. "What's up, kid? My story not interesting enough for ya?"
Ray offers only a noncommittal hum. An awkward silence settles between them, broken only by the crackle of burning wood.
After a moment, Ray speaks. "Say, Uncle... you and Mom went to a Huntsman academy, right?"
"Yeah, what about it?" Qrow replies, his tone light but cautious. "Hungry for some more stories about the good ol' days of Team STRQ?" He lets out a nervous chuckle and glances around, as though checking for eavesdroppers. The topic is a sore one for Raven; she has never liked Qrow sharing those memories.
"I've been thinking about attending one," Ray says quietly. "Following in Mom's footsteps, you know?"
Qrow groans. "Geez, kid, land me in some hot water why don't you. Your mom's gonna have my hide if she hears you sayin' stuff like that. What happened to put that idea in your head?"
"Well... it was a few weeks ago, during a raid..."
Qrow's expression darkens. "Kid... don't tell me..."
"You know me, Uncle. I suffer no weakling to stain my blade. Taking scraps from peasants is a waste of time."
Qrow nods, visibly relieved that Ray draws a line against senseless slaughter.
**Four weeks earlier.**
Another raid, another nameless village falling to the Branwen tribe's "braves." Ray yawns theatrically into his hand as he watches two Huntsmen-in-training standing across the street, arguing loudly enough for him to overhear.
A pretty boy with long orange hair tied in a ponytail—dressed in an honest-to-goodness doublet—lectures his rougher companion. "Professor Cyan's orders, Ferren. We were hired to stop the Grimm, not these bandits." He sneers the last word, glancing toward Ray without concern.
"So what, Nigel?" the thuggish boy, Ferren, snaps back. "We're supposed to just watch these assholes tear apart the village while we sit here and do nothing?"
"Yes! What do you think is going to happen after they leave? Negativity is gonna be sky-high, and you know what that means. Grimm will be crawling all over the place. We can't afford to waste strength on these brigands. Better these folk lose their valuables than their lives."
Ferren snarls in frustration.
Ray sighs, weighing his options. He wants to test himself against real Huntsmen-in-training, but this is also his first chance to learn about their world from someone other than Qrow. His warrior spirit burns for a worthy fight, and provoking one seems simple enough.
He recalls some of Qrow's old lectures on what it means to be a Huntsman. Time to strike where it hurts.
"It must feel terrible," Ray calls out, "to sit there and watch helplessly as my tribesmen brutalize these innocent villagers. I thought Huntsmen were supposed to protect the weak?"
Ferren grinds his teeth, rage flashing in his eyes. He opens his mouth, but Nigel shoots him a sharp warning look, and Ferren closes it again.
Ray presses further. "You know, I'm the tribe leader's son. It sure would stick it to them if something bad happened to me. Too bad none of these weaklings have a shot at hurting me... a real shame. Mother would be so distraught she might do something stupid enough to bring the Mistralian military down on this whole bandit menace."
"THAT'S IT. YOU WANT SOME, YOU GOT IT!" Ferren roars, yanking out a flail with holes along its sides—clearly Dust-powered. He charges.
Ray's mouth splits into a manic grin. Finally, a worthy opponent. He draws his naginata from his back, spinning it in a flashy, complex routine as he meets Ferren's gaze. "Well? Don't keep me waiting."
Ferren swings overhead with furious force. Ray ducks under it smoothly.
"Wrong move, bandit prince," Ferren smirks, triggering a Dust cartridge. The blast propels the flail in an unexpected arc toward Ray's head.
Ray had anticipated the trick. He weaves behind Ferren in a blur, delivering quick draw-cuts to the backs of both knees, then slamming the shaft of his naginata into the base of Ferren's neck. The weapon shrieks against Ferren's Aura. The boy gasps in panic and stumbles back, desperate for distance.
"Really?" Ray taunts with an exaggerated sigh. "I expected more from a Huntsman-in-training. Perhaps I've drawn my weapon for nothing."
Ferren, apoplectic, slams his flail into the ground, kicking up a blinding cloud of dust. Ray stays calm, listening to the sounds of Ferren's wild swings, and slips behind him again during an overcommitted attack. He presses the naginata's shaft against Ferren's throat like a vice, squeezing until the boy's flailing weakens and his Aura flickers dangerously low.
After agonizing seconds, Ferren wheezes, "Yi-yield."
Ray releases him and kicks him to the ground. "Really? Is that the best you can do? Pathetic. No wonder mankind loses more ground to the Grimm every year. With Huntsmen like you protecting them, these weak civilians are better off crawling inside the belly of an Ursa. It'd save them the pain and the Grimm the trouble."
Ferren burns with humiliation but offers no retort.
"I'm not so bloodthirsty I'd cut down a man in cold blood," Ray continues, "but there's a problem. I'd love to accept your surrender, but I need something to make it worth my while. How about your friend's fancy-looking watch?"
Nigel clicks his tongue in annoyance. "Really, Ferren. You owe me for this. I fucking told you to leave it be." He unstraps the gold watch and tosses it over.
Ray examines it briefly—nice enough, though he knows little about such things. Sometimes the value lies in what it means to the owner.
He turns back to the pair. "Where do you two go to school?"
Ferren stares dejectedly at the dirt. Nigel gapes at the audacity. "Haven. What business is it of yours, bandit?"
"Idle curiosity." Ray studies their clean clothes, their grooming, their lives free of patching holes or digging latrines. If weaklings like these could become Huntsmen, he could rise far higher—with proper training and, of course, proper pay. He loves his mother deeply, but the tribe would survive without him. And if he is to rule it someday, an education like hers makes sense.