A RWBY Christmas Carol is not endorsed by Rooster Teeth in any way. Views, opinions, and thoughts are all my own. Rooster Teeth and RWBY are trade names or registered trademarks of Rooster Teeth Productions, LLC. © Rooster Teeth Productions, LLC.
Ozpin
woke with a start. He was surprised to find himself in bed. Then the previous
visions of the evening struck him, but he couldn’t tell if they were dreams,
manifestations of his imagination, or if they had been real. Thinking it best
not to dwell on them too intently, he laid his head back down and tried to fall
asleep again until he heard the church bell ring twice. “‘Expect the second
when the bell tolls two’,” he quoted Ironwood.
Suddenly
there was a shining light from across the room. Ozpin lifted his head and
looked at the door across from his bed. Lights danced from underneath it and
through the door itself. He then heard jolly laughter. “Oh-ho!”
More
out of fright than curiosity, Ozpin rose and went to the door. Just as he was
about to turn the key to lock it, a voice bid him by name to enter lest he
wanted to be fetched in person. With a shaking hand, Ozpin grabbed the knob and
gave it a turn, but when he opened it, he was amazed at the wonders he saw.
It was
his own room; there was no doubt about that, but it had undergone a surprising
transformation. The walls and ceiling were draped with living green from which
bright gleaming berries glistened. The crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, and
ivy reflected back the light, as if many little mirrors had been scattered
throughout the room, and there was such a mighty blaze roaring up the chimney
unlike any there had ever been before. Heaped up on the floor, to form a kind
of throne, were turkeys, geese, great joints of meat, suckling pigs, long
wreaths of sausages, mince pies, plum puddings, cherry red apples, juicy
oranges, immense cakes, and seething bowls of punch. Atop the throne was a
jolly giant with grey hair, a moustache, and beard with not such a little,
round belly but a portly belly. In one hand, he held a weapon that was a
blunderbuss musket on one end and a double bitted axe on the other, while in
his other hand, he bore a glowing torch in the shape of Plenty's horn. He held
it up high to shed its light on Ozpin as he came peeping round the door.
“Oh-ho!
Come in!” exclaimed the Ghost. “Come in, and know me better, man!”
Ozpin
entered timidly, still shaking. He kept his gaze low and tried not to meet the
spirit’s, but Ozpin had taken notice that the spirit’s eyes weren’t immediately
visible.
“I am the
Ghost of Christmas Present,” said the Spirit. “Look upon me.”
Ozpin
did so slowly.
“You have never seen the likes of me before?”
“Never.”
“Have
you never sought out and met my brothers?”
“I
don’t think I have,” said Ozpin. “Have you had many?”
“Oh,
just more than eighteen hundred.”
“Eighteen
hundred? Quite a tremendous family to provide for.”
The Ghost
of Christmas Present rose with a chuckle.
“Spirit,”
said Ozpin submissively. “Conduct me where you will. I went forth earlier on
compulsion, and I learned a lesson which is working now. Tonight, if you have
something to teach me, let me profit by it.”
“Teach?!
Why, if I could will myself mortal, I would be a professor,” said the Spirit.
“But enough of that. There is much to see. Touch the hem of my robe.”
Ozpin
did as he was told and seized the edge of the Spirit’s red robe. They were
conducted away from Ozpin’s room and down into the streets of Vale. The sun was
high in the sky and people were bustling about in their finest clothes and highest
spirits wishing the day’s best to each other. Some cluttered the streets with
joy, singing carols while children threw snowballs at one another in good
humor.
The
Spirit and Ozpin happened upon a market where although it was busy, the people
were courteous to each other like they had never been on any other such day.
Ozpin noted that he had never heard the market sound so joyful. Even the
jingling of coins and ringing of scales against the countertops sounded all the
cheerier.
As
Ozpin and the Spirit waded through the people, the Spirit would pause to pinch
the flames of his torch and sprinkle a flavor upon the people’s food as they
carried it about.
“Is
there a particular flavor in what you sprinkle from your torch?” asked Ozpin.
“Oh-ho!
There is. My own.”
“Would
it apply to any kind of dinner on this day?”
“To
any kindly and lovingly given. But to a poor one most.”
“Why?”
“Because
it needs it most. Come!” said the Ghost, placing a hand on his shoulder. He led
Ozpin down the street to a handsome home wherein they walked straight through
the wall into a room brightly lit, gleaming, and warmly furnished. Men stood
next to high back chairs where their wives sat, sipping tea, and all faced a
man standing at the hearth.
It was
a great surprise to Ozpin to hear the man have a familiar laugh. It was a much
greater surprise to Ozpin when he recognized the man as his nephew who the
Spirit smiled at with approving affability.
“He
said that Christmas was a humbug. As I live,” cried Qrow. “He believed it too.”
“Then
all the more shame on him,” said Ozpin's niece, Winter, indignantly.
She
was very pretty; exceedingly pretty. She had snow white hair tied into a tight
bun with a single curled tress dangling next to her left ear. She had blue eyes
and a fair complexion with a stately face; she looked as if she had never known
any stress or drink in her life. And as she sat on a stool, sipping tea, she
sat regally with her back impossibly straight and one long leg crossed over the
other. It was actually a shock to Ozpin that his messy, alcoholic nephew could
court a woman of such noble bearing. She was more akin an Atlesian soldier than
a drunkard’s wife.
“He's
a comical fellow,” said Qrow. “That's the truth. And as unpleasant as he is, I
have nothing to say against him.”
“At
least he is blessed with a miser’s fortune,” replied Winter.
“What
of that, my dear? His wealth is of no use to him. He doesn't do any good with
it. He doesn't make himself comfortable with it. He hasn't even the satisfaction
of thinking that he is ever going to benefit us with it,” chuckled Qrow.
“How
is it that you’re able to stand him, Qrow?” asked one of the huntsmen present.
“Truly,
I feel sorry for him; he who suffers by his own ill whims. He takes it into his
head to dislike us, and he won't come and dine with us. What's the consequence?
He didn’t lose much of a lunch.”
“I think
he lost a very good lunch,” quipped Winter. Everybody else said the same.
“Well,
I'm glad to hear that. But the consequence is much more severe than that. In taking
a dislike to us, and not making merry with us, is, I think, a great loss of some
pleasant moments, which could do him no harm. I am sure he loses pleasanter
companions than he can ever hope to find in his own thoughts, whether in his moldy
old office or his dusty chambers.
“He
may rail at Christmas till he dies, but he can't think worse of me—I defy him to—if
he finds me going to his office, in good temper, year after year, and saying,
‘Uncle Ozpin, how are you?’ And if it only puts him in the vein to leave his
poor clerk fifty lien, that's something. And I think I shook him yesterday.”
Ozpin
balked. “Surely you jest, nephew. I was neither shaken nor stirred. Humbug.”
But
despite his words, Ozpin found himself thinking at least a little bit better of
his nephew. He had always been of the mind that his nephew enjoyed bothering
him once a year to wish the spirit of the season upon him, or he only did it in
duty to the memory of his mother. But if Qrow truly meant what he said, then it
was more than Fan’s memory that propelled Qrow, but Fan’s adoring spirit.
“All right,
that’s enough,” said Winter, standing. “I refuse to have my Christmas haunted by
Uncle Ozpin. So let’s have some music and then some games.”
Following
Winter’s directive, they cleared away their tea and proceeded with the music.
They were a musical bunch, and sung well the old glees and catches. Winter
played the harp and among the many songs she knew, there was one piece that Ozpin
remembered from the dances at Ooziwig’s. Those fond memories of Christmases
shown to him by the Ghost of Christmas Past further softened his disposition
and he found himself wishing all the more he had not surrendered Pyrrha.
But
when Winter plucked the last string, Ozpin’s reverie was gone and he returned
to the present.
“Where
did you venture off?” asked the Spirit heartily.
“Hmm.”
“I saw
it in your eyes. You were far from here. Dwelling amongst other ghosts were
you?” said the Ghost, smiling.
“I was
just… It doesn’t matter.”
“Oh-ho!”
smiled the Ghost. “Well, we have lingered here long enough. Come, there is much
to see.”
Ozpin
and the Ghost headed for the door when a voice rang out, “Hey-ho, Winter! That
was lovely, but I was promised games, and by gods, I’m going to get one.” Many
people laughed at the simple demand.
Ozpin
stopped. “A game? I wonder which they’ll choose.”
“Very
well,” said Winter. “Qrow, why don’t you start us off with a game of Yes and
No. He always picks the most delightful subjects.”
“I
love Yes and No,” said Ozpin. “I was great at it when I was a young man.” Ozpin
turned to the Ghost. “May we stay for one game, Spirit? Only one?”
The
Spirit chuckled. “Good to see you in such fine spirits! But, yes, only one. We still have much to see.”
“Very
well, my dear,” said Qrow. “Now, for those of you who have been living under Mountain
Glenn, the rules of Yes and No are simple. I’ll think of an object, person, or
thing, and you have to guess what it is, but I can only answer with either yes
or no.”
“Think
up a good one, Qrow,” encouraged Winter.
“Will
do, my dear.” Qrow looked up to the ceiling and was silent for a moment.
Suddenly, he chuckled to himself. “All right, I’ve got one. You may begin.”
Qrow
was beset by a brisk fire of questioning from which it was elicited that he was
thinking of a live, rather disagreeable animal, which growled and grunted sometimes,
lived in Vale, stalked the streets, wasn’t from Menagerie, was never killed in
a market, and was never any sort of Grimm.
At
every fresh question that was put to him, Qrow had to stop himself from bursting
into a fresh roar of laughter. The ones about the Grimm especially tickled him
for if Qrow’s animal could be hunted, it would be hunted more passionately than
any Beowolf on Remnant.
At
last, Winter, who had been silent for a while now, stifled a snicker. “I know
what it is, Qrow.”
“Go
on, my dear.”
“Well,
if it can’t be my own father, then it must be your Uncle Ozpin!”
Qrow
burst into laughter. “You’re right!”
“Excellent choice!” congratulated one
huntsman.
“I
still think it should’ve been the Beowolf,” said another.
“What
can I say,” said Qrow with a shrug. “He has given us plenty of merriment, and I
am sure that it would be ungrateful to not drink to his health.” Qrow lifted
his flask. “To Uncle Ozpin.”
“Uncle
Ozpin,” chimed the rest with their glasses raised.
“A
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to the old man, whatever he is. He wouldn't
take it from me, but he may have it, nevertheless. Uncle Ozpin!”
Ozpin
had imperceptibly become so light of heart, that he would have pledged the
unconscious company in return, and thanked them in an inaudible speech, but the
Ghost hadn’t given him time. The whole scene passed off in darkness at the
breath of the last word spoken by his nephew.
A new
vision came into view of a snow covered cottage in the middle of a wide
clearing somewhere out in the middle of the woods.
“Spirit,”
said Ozpin. “Where are we?”
“The
island of Patch.”
“And
what chore brings us?”
“It’s
Christmas here too, you know. And there,” said the Spirit, pointing, “is the
dwelling of one Taiyang Cratchit, Esquire, whose family owes their good fortune
and Christmas joy to the high principles and esteemed charity of his employer,
Ebenezer Ozpin.”
Ozpin
took a long look at the cottage. It was a fine log cabin, large, well built and
sufficiently impressive. “It is quite the handsome home,” said Ozpin. “I didn’t
think Taiyang could afford such a home on his salary.”
“Out
here on Patch, property values are a tuppence compared to those in Vale.”
“Did
you say Patch? This is indeed quite a ways from the city. No wonder Taiyang is
perpetually late. But even for Patch, this home is a palace.”
“It
might seem that way, but before you get any ideas of cutting your clerk’s
salary, perhaps you should look in the window and see things as they really
are.”
Ozpin
did as was commended. He wiped the frost from one of the windows with his
sleeve and looked through it. Inside he saw a home scarcely furnished, dark
except for the few windows that let light in, and it was quite dusty. The few
pieces of furniture that there were seemed old and rickety as if they could go
any minute.
Ozpin
wondered at the dinginess of the home when he spotted a woman in a white riding
hood bustle around the kitchen counters, preparing a Christmas supper. She
peeled potatoes and let them boil in water while she checked on a Christmas
fowl in the oven and several saucepans on the stove. For such a diminutive
woman, she moved quickly indeed.
“Is
that Mrs. Cratchit?” asked Ozpin.
“It
is,” replied the Ghost. “That is Tai’s wife, Summer.”
“She
has silver eyes…”
“That
she does.”
“Such
a remarkable woman to take on so great a task by herself.”
“She
must be remarkable for she is a huntress.”
Ozpin
looked up at the Spirit in awe.
“She’s
one of the best on the island.”
“Remarkable.
I had heard the legends about silver eyed warriors, but I didn’t think they
were true. This must be how Taiyang affords a house like this. His wife
supplements his income.”
“Not
just his wife.”
Ozpin
looked up at him confused again. Suddenly from around the bend in the forest
came a girl with long golden locks and violet eyes, pushing a rusty, yellow
motorcycle that had seen better days. She pushed the bike into a nearby shed
and closed the door before rushing through the door of the cabin.
“Mom!
I’m home!”
“It’s
about time, Yang,” replied Summer. “I was afraid you’d miss surprising your
father.”
“I’m
sorry. Bumblebee isn’t what she used to be. Some trips she just can’t make
anymore.”
“Well,
never mind. It’s almost your father’s time. Hurry up and hide!”
Yang
shook the snow and chill from her body before bounding up the stairs to the
second story and hiding in a bedroom.
“Who
was that young lady?” asked Ozpin.
“That
was Tai’s daughter, Yang.”
“I
didn’t know Taiyang had a daughter.”
“Not
but one.”
Ozpin
looked at the Spirit all the more confused. But instead of getting an
explanation, the Ghost looked up and away along the path leading to the home.
Ozpin looked too and saw Tai approach with a young girl riding up on his
shoulder and wearing a red riding hood. The two seemed happy as can be as they
marched home through the slowly falling snow.
“I’m
so hungry, Dad,” said the girl with a smile.
“Me,
too, Ruby. I hope your mother has supper ready as we get through the door.”
“Ruby?”
repeated Ozpin.
“Tai’s
youngest daughter, Tiny Ruby.”
“Why
does he carry her on his shoulder like that?”
As Tai
and Ruby made it to the front door, Tai put Ruby on the ground gingerly. He
held onto her shoulder as she pulled a giant, red metallic object from
underneath her cape. It sprung open into a deadly design that made Ozpin
recoil.
“Is
that a scythe?!”
“It’s also
a gun!” replied the Spirit fondly.
“What
is such an adorable little girl doing with such a dangerous weapon?!”
“It’s
her crutch.”
“Crutch?”
Ozpin
felt a tiny tinge of pity hit his heart when he saw the young girl hobble
through the front door followed by her father.
“Mom!
We’re back!”
“It’s
about time you two,” said Summer. “Supper’s almost ready.”
Tai
closed the door and looked around. “Where’s Yang?”
Summer’s
face fell. “She’s not coming.”
“Not
coming!?” repeated Tai.
“What
do you mean?” wailed Ruby. “It’s Christmas!”
Suddenly
there was a creek from the upstairs bedroom followed by a heavy footstep. Tai
looked up and with a smile stretched from ear to ear, he threw a punch up at
the air and it collided with a yellow metallic gauntlet. The two fists pushed
off each other to the side, forcing Yang to one side and Tai to the other.
“Yang!”
said Tai as she rebounded off the floor.
“Merry
Christmas, Dad,” she said, giving him a jolly hug.
“Yang!”
cheered Ruby.
“Ruby!”
said Yang. “Oh, how I’ve missed my baby sister!” she exclaimed, embracing Ruby
in a grisly hug before lifting the young girl up oton her shoulders and
gallivanting around the house.
Summer
sidled up to her husband. “And how was little Ruby in church?”
“As
good as gold and better. Somehow she gets so thoughtful, sitting by herself so
much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. She told me, coming home,
that she hoped the people saw her in church because she was a cripple, and it
might be pleasant for them to remember upon Christmas Day those who fight to
keep the kingdom safe and the sacrifices they’re forced to make.”
Tai's
voice was tremulous when he told Summer this, and trembled all the more when he
said that Tiny Ruby was growing stronger and heartier every day.
“Spirit,”
said Ozpin, “I am much confused by what I see.”
“Ask
your question then and I shall answer.”
“You
implied that Taiyang’s income isn’t just supplemented by his wife’s. Tell me
truly, is his oldest daughter also a huntress? Is that why she bears those
shot-gauntlets?”
“Aye,
indeed,” replied the Spirit. “She has as much brawn as she does beauty,” said the Spirit with a smile and
a strange humor.
Suddenly,
inside the cabin, Yang stopped laughing and smiling, and shivered.
Ruby
looked down at her sister. “Yang? Is something the matter?”
“I
just felt as if some lecherous gaze from an otherworldly place fell upon me and
admired my figure in an ungentlemanly way.”
Ruby
cocked her head to one side. “What?”
Ozpin
looked at the Ghost who cleared his throat and looked the other way.
“One
more thing, Spirit,” said Ozpin. “I can believe that Mrs. Cratchit and Tiny
Ruby are related—the resemblance between them is uncanny, right down to their
hair and clothes—but what of the oldest daughter? She takes much after Taiyang
but is neither like her mother nor sister.”
“Tai
once had a wife before Summer. She was Yang’s mother.”
“What
happened to her?”
“No
one quite knows. She simply vanished one day and has never been seen or heard
from since.”
The
mysterious disappearance of Tai’s first wife disconcerted Ozpin greatly. How
terrible it must have been for Tai to not know what could have happened to his
first love. But Tai’s great loss reminded Ozpin of his own and he began to feel
a kinship with his clerk he had never felt before.
“All
right, you two,” said Summer to Ruby and Yang. “Sit down. Time for supper.”
Yang
listened to her mother and set Ruby down on her chair and sat down next to her.
Tai sat at the head of the table as Summer served the Christmas goose, boiled
potatoes, and apple sauce.
“Such
a scant dinner,” commented Ozpin. “Especially for a family of warriors.”
“But
very much appreciated,” replied the Ghost. “It would be heresy to say otherwise.”
The
last thing Summer served was the roiling punch. Once everyone had their glass,
Tai lifted his and toasted, “Mr. Ozpin. I give you Mr. Ozpin, the Founder of
the Feast.”
Both
Summer and Yang’s faces reddened, putting their glasses down.
“What
do you mean by that?” asked Summer.
“Yeah,
Dad,” agreed Yang. “Are you trying to ruin our Christmas?”
Tai
was shocked into silence.
“The
Founder of the Feast, indeed,” said Summer. “I wish I had him here. I'd give
him a piece of my mind to feast upon, and I hope he'd have a good appetite for
it.”
“Summer,
Yang,” Tai pleaded. “It’s Christmas Day.”
“It
has to be Christmas Day,” continued Summer, “on which one drinks to the health
of such an odious, stingy, hard, and unfeeling man as Mr. Ozpin.”
“Well,
now—”
“Yeah, Dad,” interrupted Yang. “You know he
is. Nobody knows it better than you. How long have you been working for him and
he hasn’t given you a raise yet, forcing Mom to risk her life and slay Grimm? Cruelly
forcing me to take all the hunting jobs I can in Vale so far from home? And
what about Ruby? Will there come a day when she’ll have to help support this
family, too?”
“But I
want to help, Yang,” replied Tiny Ruby.
“I
know you do, sis. But you shouldn’t be forced to.”
“Now,
now,” said Tai. “I know Mr. Ozpin can be a little hard, but for the sake of
Christmas, we should be thankful for all we have and for those who grant us the
privilege of buying what we need.” Tai raised his glass, waiting for his wife
and daughter to do the same.
Summer
sighed before lifting hers. “I'll drink to his health for your sake and the
day's, but not for his. Long life to him. A very Merry Christmas and a Happy
New Year.”
“I’m
sure he’ll be very merry and very happy,” mumbled Yang out of the corner of her
mouth.
Tai’s
eye twinkled. “That being the case, Merry Christmas, my dears. And gods bless
us!”
“Gods
bless us. Every one!” said Ruby with an innocent smile.
“Such
a remarkable child,” said Ozpin. The child too had silver eyes which Ozpin knew
would destine her to the life of a warrior. But how could she fight in her
condition? “Spirit,” said Ozpin, with an interest he had never felt before. “Tell
me: is Tiny Ruby sick?”
“Oh-ho!
What’s this? Concern for the well-being of another?”
Ozpin’s
bottom lip trembled. “Will she die?”
The
Spirit looked up and his eyes lost focus. “I see a vacant seat in the poor
chimney corner, and a scythe without an owner, carefully preserved. If these
shadows remain unaltered, none other of my race will find her here.”
Ozpin
rubbed his hands together nervously.
“But so what, then? If she’s going to die, she
had better do it, and decrease the surplus population.”
Ozpin
recoiled in shock to hear his own words quoted against him. He was overcome
with penitence and grief. A single tear tracked down his face.
“Man,”
said the Ghost, looming large over Ozpin, “if human you be in heart, forbear
that wicked cant until you have discovered who the surplus is and where it is.
Will you be the judge of who shall live and who shall die when it may be, that
in the sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than
millions like this poor man's child?”
Ozpin
bent before the Ghost's rebuke and trembling, cast his eyes upon the ground.
“Come,”
said the Ghost, again placing a hand on his shoulder. “There are more shadows
to see.”
The
island of Patch drifted away into the darkness and was replaced by the burning
of a bonfire far from any civilized place on Remnant. Around it were four
huntsmen, sitting on logs and cradling their weapons. The Ghost plucked another
flame from his torch and sprinkled it on the nearest huntsman. Finding a new
spirit, he pulled out a flute and began playing a Christmas carol. It took
several bars, but soon his fellows began singing along with his tune. Ozpin
became aware of dozens of red eyes glaring at the four huntsmen. Their low
growls could be heard just over the flute, but as the men sang, their spirits
gained strength. Filled with the season’s tidings, they all rose and likewise
lifted their voices up to the night sky to give thanks and praise on this
Christmas night.
As
their song drifted over the country side, Ozpin saw many similar gatherings,
from Anima to Menagerie, from Vale to Atlas. There were many bonfires, many
huntsmen far from home who had naught but each other for company. Though peril
surrounded them, they became cheerful as the Spirit visited them. Even when
their songs had ended, their joy was still present, forcing the Grimm to
retreat as if they were afraid to contract some disease.
Ozpin
recognized many of the huntsmen as being those in his employ, and he was
surprised to find them capable of indulging in the spirit of the season. They were
struggling, desperate men, but they were patient for their greater hope, and in
it, in misery’s great refuge, they found themselves very rich indeed.
The
night was long, as if it could only be one night. Ozpin doubted it could be as
the holiday appeared to be condensed into the time he passed with the Ghost. It
was strange to him as well that while Ozpin remained unaltered in his outward
form, the Ghost grew older. Ozpin did not comment until they found themselves
in a churchyard.
“Are
spirits’ lives so short?” asked Ozpin.
“Oh-ho!
My life upon this globe is very brief. It ends tonight at the stroke of
midnight.”
Ozpin
looked up at the church as the great bell began tolling. “Must you go? I’ve
learned so much.”
“There
is never enough time in the world to do all that we should. All we can do is do
what good we can with the time we are allotted.”
Ozpin
sought for something to say, something to keep the Ghost rooted to the world,
but as he looked at the ground, something caught his eye. “Forgive me if I am
not justified in what I ask,” said Ozpin, looking intently at the Spirit’s
robe. “But I see something strange, not belonging to yourself, protruding from
your robe. Is it a foot… or a claw?”
“It
might be a claw for all the flesh there is upon it,” said the Spirit. “Behold!”
The
Spirit opened his robes and there within its folding were two children;
wretched, abject, frightened, and miserable. They knelt down at the Spirit’s
feet, clinging to his robes.
The
children were a boy and a girl. The boy was in green with dark hair and looked
descended from Anima, but the girl looked descended from Vale with faded orange
hair, bearing pink tatters. But despite their differing clothing, they were
both yellow, meager, ragged, and wolfish. Where graceful youth should have
filled their features out and touched them with fresh tints, a stale and
shriveled hand, like that of age, had pinched and twisted them and pulled them
into shreds. Where angels might have sat enthroned, devils lurked, and glared
out menacingly. No change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any
grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has ever spawned
monsters half so horrible and dread.
Ozpin
stared at them, appalled. “Spirit. Are they yours?”
“They
are Man's,” said the Spirit, looking down upon them. “And they cling to me, appealing
from their fathers. The boy is Ignorance. The girl is Want. Beware them both,
and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy for written on his
brow I see Doom.
“Deny
it!” cried the Spirit, looking to the city of Vale. “Slander those who tell you;
admit it for your factious purposes, and you will bear witness to your just
punishment.”
“Have
they no refuge or resource?” cried Ozpin.
“Are
there no prisons?” said the Spirit, turning on him for the last time with his
own words. “Are there no workhouses?”
Ozpin
felt a chill shoot down his spine, but before he could compose a response, the
bell stroke twelve and suddenly, Ozpin could no longer see the Ghost or the
wretched children he bore.
He turned about in
the churchyard and recalled Ironwood’s last prediction that the third spectre
would appear in her own time. “Her own time.” Those three words spooked Ozpin worse
than any he had heard that night for he knew not their meaning. But as he
ruminated upon them, a circular red and black energy appeared before him and
out stepped the dread phantom.
***
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