The night was silent, save for the whistle of the wind across the snowy plain. Like all winter nights, it was dark, and cold; by principle, the most unfavorable conditions for travel on foot. Setting up camp would have normally been the appropriate call, several hours ago, but Qrow didn't bring anything to substitute even the basics of camping essentials besides arguably his cape and weapon. Perhaps I should have partnered with Summer, he thought, could probably have made a tent for four with her cloak. He grinned at his quip, but it did little to warm him on his freezing march. The young huntsman decided instead of freezing to death attempting to use a sheet of snow as a bed, he would simply take his chances and press on until he reached the town of Clive, but at this point a cave wasn't even out of the question if it meant getting out of this cold. He had severely miscalculated how long it would take to reach Clive on foot; he hypothesized he would be entering the town at… he glanced at the moon to get an idea of the time... right about now. Qrow sighed in irritation at his accumulating number of bad calls in one night. The full moon seemed to be the only thing granting him mercy in this dark, cold night, far from home.

Qrow squinted his eyes as he saw movement in the distance, closing in. Its erratic behavior and speed suggested it wasn't anything related to a human, and its size suggested it wasn't going to be a nice animal either. That narrows it down, he thought as he pulled his weapon around from the small of his back. He slid his hands up and down the leather-wrapped hilt in an attempt to warm it and his hands before he'd have to use it, continually walking forward. The creature was wasting no time closing the distance between them, close enough that its glowing red eyes and white mask could easily be seen. His suspicions were confirmed; it was definitely a beowolf. It, like all grimm, was a pure black monster that wore a bone white mask; but unlike other grimm types, it resembled a canine, if a canine could walk on its hind legs, had spikes of bone protruding out of its arms and spine, and claws that could tear a man open in a single swipe. It was a weaker grimm on the totem pole, which was a horrifying thought if one spent too much time on it, as even just one could be the death of several unlucky people in an unprotected town, and they usually weren't alone. But this one, may be an exception. The beowolf finally spotted the huntsman and skidded to a halt, about 25 meters away from him, glaring at him directly in the eyes. He stopped as well, aimed his weapon to his right, and extended it to its full longsword form. He stared right back at the beowolf, as though if he stared hard enough, the beowolf would back down and pass on. Unfortunately, no understanding between man and beast would be found here. The monster stood on its hind legs, and confidently howled and growled into the night sky, challenging the huntsman. The young grimm had no idea how outmatched it really was. This is going to be too easy, he thought.

Qrow felt a twinge of excitement, a feeling he had not felt since long before he had enrolled at Beacon academy. This would be the first grimm he will have killed since graduating Beacon, this would be the first grimm he will have killed as a true huntsman. He was suddenly feeling more theatrical, and pulled a lever on the hilt. The weapon responded with a sequence of mechanical sounds as gears shifted each other into place, the blade extended between its creases, then curled upwards into a scythe, a razor sharp red blade exposed itself as the finishing touch of a double edged scythe. Once the transformation of the blade was complete, Qrow reflexively moved his hand on the hilt slightly behind him before the rest of the weapon transformed. The hilt extended from the top and bottom, revealing two more red leather grips like the original, all bound to a black metal shaft making the snath of the scythe, which curved only slightly outward. With the transformation complete, he slowly rotated the scythe around himself, slicked his bangs back, placed his left hand on the lower grip, held it in front of him, and assumed a combat stance; all complete with his signature, complacent grin, taunting the grimm.

The beowolf accepted his challenge, and broke into a sprint towards him with a bark. The huntsman responded by running towards the creature as well, holding his weapon to his right with the blade behind him, facing toward the ground as his form demanded. The distance closed quickly, and the grimm went all in, lunging straight towards him with both claws ready to tear open his chest. He effortlessly dodged such a sloppy attack to the left, and using his forward momentum, pulled his scythe through a horizontal slash straight through its abdomen. The grimm froze in place standing up, but its hunter wasn't nearly finished. Qrow, coming from behind, added an additional slash going upward from between its legs and through its skull in a millisecond; while on the momentum of a counterclockwise spin, followed up with a diagonal, downward slash going from its right shoulder through its left hip. Qrow pulled the lever on the middle grip once again, and the blade quickly retracted into its simpler, straighter form, the red razor sliding back into its place inside the blade, and the snath sliding back together forming a single grip once again; he slowed his final spin so the transformation could complete for his finishing attack. He gripped the hilt with both hands and slammed the flat of the blade into the beowolf's back, the sheer force blasting the grimm in its precisely cut pieces away.

Blood painted the snow in front of him; small puddles of the liquid began to form from the pieces that were strewn about, a leg there, half a head here… he stood up straight and rested his sword on his shoulder, striking an almost heroic pose. But after a moment, his smug grin shifted into an oddly disappointed frown, his brow furrowed, and he scratched his head.

"That…" he pondered for a moment, "Didn't feel any different," he said aloud.

Qrow collapsed his sword into a shortened, more portable version, and holstered it upon his lower back with a disappointed hmph. That beowolf may have been the first since graduation, but it was definitely not the first in any other regard. He probably killed hundreds of beowolves during his time at Beacon alone, enough that it felt as natural to him as brushing his teeth. In fact, the only difference between that one and all the others, was his execution, and that it was terrible. He was far too flashy, used way more strikes than necessary for a single beowolf, and exerted much more energy than needed. He could expect a full lecture on technique if he were to show that display in class; Professor Draven would have been ashamed of his true huntsman. Qrow took a look around, just to make sure his old teacher wasn't hiding under a sheet of snow waiting to chew him out. After a moment of silence, he moved on from his silly paranoia, and began marching towards Clive once again. It was still a long ways away, Qrow recalculated, he should at least be able to make it there by morning.