If It Be Thusly (Weiss Schnee x Reader)

Reflections of the Soul, of the Self

Imagine a small cottage, nestled neatly within some snowshod trees and bushes, almost hanging over the edge of Atlas' flying island. Below is the city of Mantle, much poorer and spewing the smoke of cheap industry and cheap warmth. Regardless, the cottage has flowers and ivy crawling up every nook and recess in the wall where it might be safer from the fierce winds. So too do clay pots and woven baskets litter the tiled walkway up to the door. (Tessellated diamonds, cream and dark red.) The actual brickwork is starting to come undone, but that only adds to the charm of the home.

If someone were to ask whether you'd want this cottage, a manor or a luxurious apartment in the city, you'd choose this place in an instant. The rustic style and location lend well to your penchant for solitude, and there's enough space for gardening and botany without worrying about anyone messing with your stuff.

With a content smile you walk up the front garden and slip your key in the lock, which goes in somewhat harshly, catching on rust. In truth the lock is more performance than anything, and the dark, wooden door could be kicked free of its hinges at any point. As it opens you step inside the dimly lit living room, at its very left side, and take off your shoes. Dark wooden walls, dark wooden floor, darkly coloured furniture. If not for your arsenal of white roses, dahlias, poppies and tulips this place would be far too gloomy. You throw your bag over the burgundy sofa and follow the steep stairway upstairs, each step making an ominous creaking sound. There are only two rooms on the upper floor, your bedroom, and your guardian's. You approach her door, which is dark and stained with a dried, crusty substance you know to be blood. You wash it off at least every month, and every month she carelessly covers it again.

You take a deep, steeling breath, and knock once. After a second you hear a shuffling sound, and the faint but distinctive plush sound of a duvet hitting the floorboards, and then the gentle padding of barefoot steps. Finally, you hear the tumbler spinning and the lock clicking, followed by the door opening just enough so that you may open it.

When you step inside, she's leaning her shoulder against the wall, waiting for you.

"Yes?" She asks, quietly and lowly, barely louder than her earlier footsteps.

"Are you okay?" You ask, as you always do. As is typical of Yushan Bifeng, her pale skin is covered in dried blood. It's not unexpected that huntsmen should find themselves injured while on the hunt, but only she can do it with quite so much talent and consistency. Though that doesn't make her poor at her job, to the contrary she's one of the greatest huntresses Mistral has ever made... at least in your opinion.

"I'm fine," she says, her eyes half lidded and tired, dark marks hanging underneath them. As she turns away from you, you can see the entirety of her impressive wings. Starting from her wrist and running across the outside of her arm, then across her shoulder blades and the nape of her neck, before running down the outside of her other arm. At the very top it's a dark colour of jade, and as the feathers get closer to the floor they quickly become a shade of vibrant, ignited orange, spotted with red splotches. As well as that she has a hood made of her jade feathers, attached to the skin of her neck. Compared to many faunus she has very exaggerated traits, whereas most have simple ears or a tail, maybe patches of scales or claws, she has an unhideable, majestic trait. Whether or not they're actually usable, you're not too sure, but they certainly serve well as a cloak and hood. To be honest you find her feathers stunning at a distance but more disturbing at close. It's something about the way her skin pinches up and hugs a cylinder of bon that protrudes clumsily from her flesh. She's like a butterfly, amazing to watch in motion and stasis but, like all insects, distinctly unsettling up close. You'd never say that to her though, you know she takes a great unspoken pride in her faunus traits and identity.