Mockery of the Saints

Evernight Castle, Entrance Hall

2:15 PM — Thursday, 15th October, 2015

The entrance hall of Evernight Castle is decorated for a celebration.

A carpet of woven red wool stretches down the central aisle, flanked on either side by neat rows of heavy stone benches. Bound in cold iron chains and tightly gagged with thick strips of dark leather, the four girls of Team RWBY occupy the front row.

Weiss and Blake sit rigid, their eyes darting around the cavernous hall in unadulterated terror. To them, this place is a structural impossibility—a gothic fortress buried deep within the uncharted dark lands, surrounded by creatures they were taught to believe were nothing but mindless forces of destruction. Beside them, Yang and Ruby stir heavily, their auras flickering sluggishly as they attempt to repair the lingering trauma from the ruins of Mountain Glenn. None of them know where they are. None of them know who built this palace, or why the creatures of Grimm are acting like civilized guests.

On the benches behind and beside the captive huntresses, Beowolves, Ursai, and Beringels sit upright, their lupine and ursine limbs awkwardly mimicking human posture. Up in the vaulted stone balconies, airborne and spectral Grimm—Nevermores, Lancers, and shifting Poltergeists—perch along the balustrades, peering down with unblinking crimson eyes.

Strangest of all are the bipedal Grimm weaving through the aisles. Dressed in tailored, high-collared servant uniforms, they carry polished silver trays laden with flutes of champagne, sparkling water, and delicate skewers of fruit, cheese, and cured meats. If not for the monstrous nature of the attendants, the gathering would perfectly mirror the high-society galas Weiss grew up attending in Atlas.

A low, resonant bell tolls from the shadows.

The monstrous congregation rises to its feet in perfect, synchronized unison. The ambient illumination in the hall dims, leaving only a brilliant white spotlight focused entirely on the altar. Standing beneath the beam is a towering Beringel. Its white bone mask is meticulously polished, and a heavy, dark ceremonial sash is draped across its massive, furred shoulders, waiting with the mock solemnity of an ordained priest.

You step onto the dais. Your tailored black coat cuts a sharp silhouette against the ambient purple glow of the chamber. You glance down at the front row, watching the frantic, muffled whimpers instantly die in the girls' throats as your gaze locks them in place.

The heavy doors at the back of the hall grind open.

You turn your attention toward the aisle, watching the entrance of your two whores. They appear in matching, decadent **** attire: glinting golden bikini tops that barely cover the undersides of their swollen breasts, heavy golden armlets, and sheer red pelvic curtains that trail between their knees. Around each of their throats rests a thick leather collar set with a pulsing, crimson magic gem—the exact same binding enchantment you used on Salem. They are far too brainwashed to ever try to escape you on purpose, but their minds are so thoroughly vacant now that you installed the wards purely to ensure they don't wander off, get lost, and escape the Land of Darkness by accident.

You don't even give them the dignity of walking down the aisle. Instead, you have them crawl.

Each of them have a Beringel to act as their handler, moving in lockstep beside them while holding a red dog leash connected to their collars. The red leather strains as the two women advance on all fours, their modified, heart-shaped rears swaying in an exaggerated, heavy rhythm that leaves them jiggling with every forward shift of their knees.

You glance down at the front row to gauge the reaction.

Yang’s eyes widen through her leather gag as the woman on the left crawls into the spotlight.

You note the sudden, frantic tension in the blonde's posture, a flicker of familiarity passing through her eyes as she stares at the sharp facial structure and the thick, raven-black hair cascading down your ****'s back. Despite the resemblance, you don't think she realizes this is her mother yet. The vapid, crawling creature before her, sporting a permanent, glossy pout and vacant eyes, bears no resemblance to the legendary bandit queen Yang spent her life chasing.

Her sister is closer to realizing the truth. Ruby freezes entirely when the woman on the right crawls into the spotlight, her breath catching hard against her leather gag.

You trace Ruby's gaze as it locks onto your second ****'s long, soft black hair tipped with dark crimson. The woman navigates the stone floor with a soft, clumsy ineptitude, her heavy, gravity-defying breasts bouncing violently with every movement. But it is her eyes that draw Ruby's frantic focus—wide, unblinking silver eyes, entirely vacant of thought, staring blankly ahead with an airheaded, blissful smile. You can practically see the denial warping Ruby's expression. Summer Rose has been presumed dead for over a decade. To Ruby, this must look like an impossible nightmare. She doesn't want to believe her mother is alive if it means seeing her crawl on a leash after being turned into into a hyper-sexualized, drooling breeder.

The Beringels bring them to the base of the altar, pulling gently on their leashes to signal them. The two bimbos transition smoothly from all fours onto their knees, sitting back on their heels and looking up at you with synchronized, simple-minded adoration. Small trails of saliva glisten at the corners of their plumped lips.

The officiating Beringel raises its massive, furred arms to signal the gallery to be silent. After a second, it lowers it's arm and opens its polished bone jaw. The sound that emerges isn't a mindless grunt or a primal roar. Instead, a deep, unnaturally resonant baritone echoes through the cavernous rafters. "We are gathered today beneath the unblinking eyes of the true Master of Remnant," the Beringel intones, its smooth, articulate speech resonating through the hall.

In the front row, Weiss and Blake flinch, their eyes widening in a fresh wave of psychological horror. A Grimm speaking with the refined cadence of an Atlesian high priest shatters the very foundation of their understanding of the world.

The beast turns its grim crimson gaze down toward the two kneeling figures. "Before the court of darkness and the guests of honor, speak your vows to your God. Tell our Master who you are, and what you surrender to his grace today."

The whore on the left giggles—a high-pitched, syrupy sound that causes her massive chest to jiggle violently against the gold fabric. She presses her oversized tits together, looking up at you through long, dark lashes.

"My name is Raven Branwen," she squeaks in a breathy, vacant Valley Girl accent.

Down in the front row, Yang's entire world shatters. You watch with a dark sense of satisfaction as her eyes bulge and a muffled, strangled scream tears at the back of her throat. She begins violently thrashing against her iron chains, her gaze locking onto the mother who abandoned her at birth—now reduced to a mindless doll.

"And I swear to be, like, your totally mindless cocksleeve and fuck toy forever, Master!" Raven continues, completely oblivious to her daughter's torment. "My only purpose is to take your cock whenever you want it!"

Before Yang's mind can even process the devastation, you gesture to the second ****. She leans forward, her silver eyes shining with a blank, beautiful light as she rests her heavy cheek against your thigh, nuzzling your leg like a loyal hound.

"And my name is Summer Rose," she chirps, her voice dripping with the exact same brainwashed, syrupy sweetness.

In the front row, Ruby goes completely limp, the color draining from her face as her entire reality collapses into ash. Weiss and Blake stare in mounting horror, their heads whipping between the brides and their teammates as they finally recognize the names of the legendary Team STRQ huntresses.

"I promise to be your obedient little breeding bitch forever, Master!" Summer says, tracing a finger along your boot. "You can use my body however you want, whenever the mood strikes you!"

You smile, placing a hand atop both their heads and petting them like dogs being rewarded for amusing their master.

"And in return," you announce, turning your gaze to the monstrous congregation, "I promise to use you both exactly as you deserve. Today, we celebrate a true upgrade. Taiyang Xiao Long may have laid claim to these women separately in the past, but today, I am going to do something he never could." You undo your pants, letting it drop to around your ankle. Your now exposed cock bobs freely in the air. "I am going to take them both together, right here, right now."

The announcement triggers a wave of absolute jubilation through the hall. The Beringels roar, beating their chests in a deafening rhythm, while the Beowolves howl and the Nevermores screech from the balconies, creating a wall of monstrous cheering for their new master.

"How about a blowjob, sluts? Whoever does a better job gets fucked first."

As Raven and Summer slobber over your dick, you look back at the front row. Ruby is staring at the floor, tears silently spilling over her leather gag, her spirit completely shattered before you have even laid a finger on her. Yang has stopped thrashing, her eyes wide, glassy, and completely broken as she watches her mother and her step-mother eagerly suck your cock as a prelude to being be used in front of your entire court.

Beacon Academy, Headmaster’s Office

7:45 AM — Friday, 16th October, 2015

The rhythmic, mechanical whirring of the clockwork tower is the only sound cutting through the stifling silence of the headmaster's office.

Ozpin stands by the massive glass windows, his hands resting heavily on his cane as he stares out over the emerald cliffs of Vale. The morning light filters through the giant, rotating brass gears overhead, casting long, fractured shadows across the polished floorboards. A crystal mug of coffee sits untouched on his desk, completely cold.

The elevator doors at the rear of the room grind open with a violent, pressurized hiss.

General James Ironwood steps out onto the tiles, his white military uniform immaculate, but his posture is uncharacteristically rigid. His jaw is locked in a tight line of barely suppressed tension. Directly behind him stumbles Qrow Branwen. His gray coat is disheveled, his eyes bloodshot and heavily sunken, and the faint, bitter scent of cheap flask **** trails in his wake.

"James. Qrow," Ozpin says softly, not turning his gaze away from the window. "I assume the Atlesian detachment has completed its sweep of the subterranean sector."

"The reconnaissance team just finished their reports, Ozpin," Ironwood says, his voice flat, professional, and deadened by disbelief. He steps forward and drops a data drive onto the central desk, bringing up a flickering, blue holographic projection of the Mountain Glenn plaza. "We found Bartholomew. His body was located directly above an old underground railway line—one the White Fang has spent months converting into a massive staging area."

"And the girls?" Ozpin asks, his voice dropping a fraction of an octave.

"Gone," Qrow barks out. He doesn't just speak; the word is dragged from his throat, raw and trembling with a rising, manic panic. He slams a heavy fist onto the edge of the desk, causing the cold coffee mug to rattle. "Crushed like a damn bug, Oz. The medical droids say Oobleck's chest cavity was imploded instantly by some kind of impossible atmospheric pressure. No aura defense, no chance to fight, no wounds. He was just compressed into the floorboards. And the kids... the kids aren't there."

"If Oobleck was killed right on top of their primary underground artery, the conclusion is obvious," Ironwood interrupts, his pacing growing more erratic as his boots click sharply against the stone. "The White Fang caught them spying on the operation, executed Bartholomew, and took the girls captive. And considering Weiss Schnee is one of those girls... if Taurus has the heiress to the Schnee Dust Company in his custody, the political leverage he holds over Atlas is catastrophic."

Qrow pulls his flask from his coat with a trembling hand, taking a long, **** swig before wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. "It’s a hostage nightmare, Oz. They could use Weiss to completely cripple Atlas's supply lines, and God knows what they're doing to Ruby and Yang. If the White Fang is weaponizing this..."

"It gets worse," Ironwood cuts in grimly, adjusting the holographic display to show a real-time, smoking satellite map of Vale's industrial district. "The train tunnels underneath the city weren't just a hideout. They were a delivery system. Hours ago, a White Fang train loaded with explosive Dust breached the lower district walls. The train hit the commercial center without a single hitch. The city is currently crawling with Grimm, and my Knights are struggling to contain the perimeter."

Ozpin closes his eyes, his knuckles whitening slightly against the handle of his cane. A heavy, profound weariness settles over his features as the crushing reality of the situation sets in.

"The dominoes are falling exactly as Salem intends," Ozpin says softly, finally turning away from the glass to look at his two most trusted allies. "With the city walls breached and the Schnee heiress in their hands, Vale is already entering a state of fundamental compromise. James, coordinate with the local huntsmen to push the Grimm back into the tunnels. Qrow... you must look into the underground channels. Find out where Taurus is keeping his high-value prisoners."

"I'll pull my paladin units to secure the central plazas," Ironwood says, already typing rapid tactical commands into his scroll as he turns toward the elevator.

"I'm on it, Oz," Qrow mutters, slamming his flask away and pulling his weapon from his back with a dark, hollow look in his bloodshot eyes. "I'm not letting them touch those kids."

Ozpin watches the elevator doors slide shut, his mind bracing for the long, grueling tactical response against a devastating terrorist cell. He stands completely alone in the clockwork tower, deeply analytical and completely defensive, entirely oblivious to the fact that his ancient war has already been permanently derailed.