A/N: Hi. So I was trying my best to sleep one night, when I got an idea: why not make a story about the RWBY gang's ancestors? A bit of brainstorming later, and I ended up with this. Don't ask. Setting is approximately 120 years before the show. Dramatis Personae is at the end of this chapter.

RWBY is owned by Rooster Teeth. All other references are owned by their respective owners. I'm poor and Asian; I own nothing. Go figure.

Do these count as OC's? I guess so. Meep. ._.

RWBY: Bloodlines

Act I, Chapter I: Ave, Vale

"One unbreaking shield against the coming darkness; one final sword, forged in defiance of fate. Let them be our legacy to the world we conquered, and our final gift to the species we failed…"

A shattered moon rises over a darkened forest, waxing silver light upon the emerald trees. A legion of the soulless gathers, blood-stained bone helms reared and bared. Howls resound through the night, chilling the spine of all that hear it.

Well, perhaps not all who hear it…

"Beowolves! Purge the beasts!"

A shining warrior astride his destrier erupts from the bushes, blade flashing to cut down a ravening monster. His shield bears twin crescents, head held high and sword in hand. His name is Janvier D'Arc-en-Ciel, of the Luna Wolves legion.

A wolf lunges at his exposed back, claw drawn back to rake down the knight's armour. It never makes it, a gold-chased javelin pinning it to a nearby tree. Its owner emerges from hiding, another spear already at the ready. She is Angela Nikos, warrior of the Blood Seraphs legion.

"Apologies, Sieur Janvier. I had intended to strike it before it had the chance to menace you."

The paladin merely nods in reply, already wheeling his mount around to counter his next foe. He is confronted not with the snarling visage of a fell beast, but by that of a rapier-wielding duellist. The thin silver blade is sheathed within a Beowolf's neck, a trickle of tainted blood leaking onto the forest floor.

"Watch your back," he says with a rather refined voice, "Otherwise you may not live to regret it."

Janvier's saviour is Regen Schnee, White Scars legionnaire. A pale cape billows behind him, his matching chainmail-covering coat showing no signs of wear. His scythe-bearing comrade drops down next to Angela, reaping a toll upon an unsuspecting Grimm.

"I might say the same thing of you, Regen. Need I remind you of the last several times I saved you?"

The duellist turns to his partner, ready to counter her scathing remarks.

"Silence, Autumn Rose! The World Reapers have you for your scythe, not your lashing tongue!"

The red-clad girl vanquishes yet another monster, laughing childishly as she does so. Janvier ignores her antics, taking a step forward to cleave his foe in two. His partner follows suit, spear flashing through the air and ending a beast's ill-fated life. The Beowolf is halted mid-jump, its jaws snapping shut on naught but leaves. Its comrade meets a similar doom, the slender tip of a rapier piercing its eye to impale its cranium.

The remainder of the pack warily view their fallen brethren, primal minds uncomprehending of their all-too-short futures. The leader takes a single hesitant step forward, snarling incoherent commands at its followers. The other seem reluctant, but a single deafening howl from the larger Grimm dispels their simple fear.

The knight sees this, yelling out to his partner.

"Angela! Target the leader; the rest will fly without its orders!"

The flaming-haired angel complies, javelin tracing an arc from her hand to split a bleached bone mask. Janvier leaps towards the disrupted Beowolves with a cry of righteous fury, sword dealing death with every blow. Regen and Autumn are close behind him, assisting their leader in his task.

The efforts of all four warriors leaves the ground slick with tainted ichor, black-furred bodies littering the clearing. It takes little time for the heated skirmish to end, less than twenty seconds elapsing between the first slash of a blade and the final body crashing to the forest floor. There is nary a scratch upon the group, a testament to their skill.

The duellist takes out a parchment scroll from his messenger bag, eyes quickly perusing its scrawled contents. After a moment, he sharply looks back up and turns to his leader.

"The report mentioned twenty or so Beowolves. Judging from the results of our ambush, we have cleared this section of forest. It should be safe, for a spell. Might we return to Vale, Sieur Janvier?"

The knight scans the clearing, cerulean orbs piercing the shadows.

"…aye, Regen. Let us make haste."

He remounts his stallion, sheathing his blade in one smooth moment and crashing back into the forest. The remainder follow suit, cavaliers all. Stray branches whipping past them, Janvier leads them back to the finest of the four city-kingdoms.

They slow to a trot when they arrive where the forest meets the road, torches lighting the rough cobblestone path. There is a saying on Remnant: All roads lead to Vale. While far from true, the port city in Vytal was indeed the first to have an established road network. And, Janvier thought as he rode, it was indeed the finest of them all.

A similar party of four shadowy horseback figures appears past the crest of a hill, and weapons are quickly raised. From the glaring light cast by the torches, it is impossible for anyone to tell friend from foe. While most of humanity is united in their hatred of the creatures of Grimm, there still exist certain unsavory characters more than willing to relieve travellers of their wealth and their lives.

Angela takes the most traditional method of ascertaining identity, her sweet voice carrying over through the still night air.

"Hail, travellers! Quo equitare?"

The archer closest to Janvier answers, thick accent betraying his non-Valian roots.

"Pro homo, et pro Vale," comes the countersign. "Honestly Angela, who else could it be? No bandit is crazy enough to attack a team of Hunters," he continues. His name is Lie Shin-Yen, of the Dark Angels. Upon hearing his voice, blades on both sides are quickly lowered. No sense in fighting fellow Hunters, after all.

The rest of Shin-Yen's group rides closer, slowly becoming more visible with time. The woman next to him wields paired falchions, sun-colored breastplate covering little and baring much. She is of the same stock as her partner, bearing the same skin tone and unique eye colouring. She is Yang Dai-Long of the Imperial Eagles, though unlike Shin she prefers to be called by her last name. She has an easy smile on her face, as if every day is a ray of sunshine lighting up her life.

The robed man to her left is almost the exact opposite, a grimace on his face and a hard look in his eyes.

"He speaks the truth. If we were a band of those unclean Faunus Grimmspawn filth, it is unlikely that we would be carrying such consecrated weaponry like my sacred mace here. And even if we were, we would not dare risk our worthless lives attacking the anointed guardians of the True People." The Word Bearer priest hefts his aforementioned tool, steel flanges guarding a sacred Dust crystal in the centre.

"Peace, Brother Winchester. T'was naught but a cautionary measure, at most. She did not mean offense," says his warhammer-carrying partner. She is much like Yang, cheery and almost naïve. She is of the same legion as Winchester, sharing his penchant for blunt weapons. She carries an assortment of makeshift Dust explosives upon her back, her rather obvious lack of piety matched only by her nonexistent care of collateral damage. The name Sister Valkyrie is often spoken of in fear by both friend and foe alike.

"In any case, hail, brothers and sisters. I trust your hunt was as successful as ours?" At this the well-endowed blonde hefts up a severed Ursa head, heedless of the half-congealed blood dripping onto her armour.

Janvier only nods and says three words in reply, the hints of a smile growing on his face.

"Twenty-five Beowolves."

Yang lets out a low whistle, as that number is rather impressive even for an experienced Hunter. She makes as though to speak more, but Regen's impassive voice cuts her off.

"Aye, twenty-five. We may discuss the results later. For now, Vale awaits. May we ride?"

The white-haired duellist kicks at his mount's haunches, sending it trotting towards the distant city lights. The remainder of the warriors follow, much banter ensuing between them.

The guard at the city gates lazily waves the eight in, having heard their noisy chatter from a mile away. Janvier tosses a coin at him nonetheless, something that he graciously accepts with a bow.

"My thanks, sieur Janvier. Good night."

The remainder of the Hunters brush past him, Yang giving the hapless soldier a little wink before following. Their destination after such a tiring night's work is immediately in sight, they stable their mounts before setting off with somewhat renewed energy. The streets are remarkably clear, although the noise of the city is audible from just a few blocks away.

Nobody in their sane mind gets between a Hunter after a hunt and the nearest tavern.

What is the difference between a terrorist and a freedom fighter? A rebel, and a revolutionary? The answer, as always, depends on the victor. They all fight for the same things. But none of that matters. The only important thing is perspective.

The city-kingdom of Vale is the most advanced out of the four, referred to as the cradle of humanity. It is home to half a dozen legions of warriors, the best of them referred to as Hunters. Vale was the first to embrace Nature's Wrath, Dust, and as a result is the most successful in repelling the creatures of Grimm.

But for all that, the city still requires heroes to fight in its name. Hence, the Hunters. Perhaps, in a more civilized age, they would be ordinary, everyday children training in their sheltered lives to become champions. As it is, Hunters are simply the most fortunate of their kind. The best of the best, surely, but not by design or breeding. They are, as many would bluntly put it, just lucky.

Such is the cold hard truth of life, especially one that involves bloodshed. The shattered moon is perhaps a testament to that, a memento of sorts from an earlier conflict. The attempted genocide against the Faunus race is another reminder of the past. I of all people would know, after all.

My name is Cora Belladonna. The war is not yet over, and I will avenge my people.

Dramatis Personae…

Janvier D'Arc-en-Ciel: Knight of the Luna Wolves legion, wears light armour and wields a broadsword named Crocea Mors. Jaune's great-great grandfather.

Angela Nikos: Hunter from the Blood Seraphs legion, wears light plate armour, uses javelins and a round shield. Pyrrha's ancestor.

Regen Schnee: Duellist from the White Scars legion, wears a spotless coat over chainmail with a cape and utilises a rapier. Has several strange, as-yet-unmanifested powers. His grandson will go on to found the Schnee Dust Company.

Autumn Rose: Warrior of the World Reapers legion, wears a black combat skirt and a red-orange cape. Carries an oversized scythe. Ruby's great-great grandmother.

Lie Shin-Yen: Lancer of the Dark Angels legion. Has lacquered bamboo armour, uses a bow and a Guan Dao. Ren's ancestor.

Yang Dai-Long: From the Imperial Eagles legion. Excessively flirty, wears vestigial plate armour and uses twin falchions. Yang's great-great grandmother through several confusing affairs.

Brother Winchester: Of the Word Bearers legion, wears concealing robes and carries about a large mace. Skipped over his oath of chastity, Cardin's ancestor.

Sister Valkyrie: Also of the Word Bearers legion, wears a not-so-concealing robe and enjoys collateral damage. Not exactly the most devout of the legion. Nora's relative (She's somewhere up there in the tree. Don't ask.)

Cora Belladonna: Mysterious and unreliable narrator, maybe? A mystery, wrapped in an enigma, with a penchant for history. Blake's great-great grandmother.

End Chapter I