Azure Trailer

Song: From Can to Can't

"Under the water.
It's cold, and it's gray."

The hooded figure walked through the forest, either oblivious, or uncaring to the rainstorm that was currently pouring down upon him. His normally ash-grey denim jacket was almost as dark as the azure-tipped black hair that fell down from his head. The hood, from the white sweater that laid underneath the jacket, did an excellent job covering the facial features above the eyes. He continued to walk his path, with his black boots leaving imprints in the muddy water beneath him. And, as the water pooled in the tracks, one could see that it was slowly beginning to freeze, leaving a trail leading back to the direction he came. But it wasn’t the weather, or the way back that worried him. It was the shadows in the trees that moved with incredible speed. The low, guttural growls that taunted him from inside the forest.

“My torrid autumn,
Another season decays”

His gaze was averted to the ground, yet, even with the increased thickness of the trees that were massing around him, he never once looked up. It was almost as if he didn’t need to. Like he knew exactly where he was going.The rain was still pouring, and showed no signs of letting up. Other than the violent torrent of rain hitting his body and the growing thickness of trees in his way, the only thing his senses detected were the occasional shadows in the corners of his vision, and the crunching of twigs beneath his feet, and the soft squish of damp leaves and mud. There was suddenly a clearing in the trees, and he brings his gaze up again.

“Open up the hollow,
And my walls come down.”

In the break of trees lies an abandoned cabin. It looked like your classic fairy tail house. Door in the middle, two large panel windows on either side, both on the first story and second story. And, in a sense that can almost be described as deja vu, the young man can see a warm, comforting light coming from the window to the right. Inside are three figures. Two belonging to an adult male and female, and a smaller one, that must be a small child. The child steps in front of the man and raises his arms. The gentleman places his hands on his belly and gives what must have been a hearty laugh, before picking up the child and embracing him lovingly.

“I tell you it’s a problem,
Just when no one’s around.”

In the back of his mind, the hooded figure can still hear the crunching of twigs, the squishing of mud. He turns his head to look over his shoulder for a second, before looking back in the window. The man was gone, leaving only the child, hugging, or perhaps even crying, in the arms of the woman. He still hears the crunching. And not only was it the disappearance of the man that bothered him.

“But then…”

But, also, the fact that the young man hadn’t taken any steps since approaching the cabin.

“I know what’s wrong,
God, you complicated everything.”

He hears another growl, but this one, closer than the others. He turns around, finding himself to be surrounded by terrible creatures of Grimm: Beowolves. A whole pack of Beowolves had surrounded him, some standing on their hind legs, towering over him, ready to attack. Others were more feral, crouched down on all fours and snarling menacingly, ready to tear apart into their prey and devour his flesh. He takes a moment to glance over his shoulder, not only getting a better look of his surroundings, but to also realize how surrounded he truly was. But, in the corner of his eye, he also noticed one thing.

“I know you’re gone, gone, gone…”

In the split second before the light in the cabin suddenly flickered out, there was only the child left in the window. Two of the Beowolves saw this as their chance, and made their move, leaping high into the air and heading straight for the young man, claws outstretched, and fangs bared. But the young man had anticipated this. His right fist was already curled into a ball, and his left hand was reaching to what looked like a firearm, holstered in a brown leather strap that was hanging from his two back belt loops.

“This is where I will draw my line.”

As the Beowolves draw closer, the young man turns and draws the weapon, aiming straight for the closest beast’s muzzle. And, just when it hit the right angle, the monster could see under the hood for just a moment, seeing the faintest glint of emerald green in his right eye.

“I will draw my line.”

Click.
Bang.
Bang.

The two Beowolves fell dead on the ground, their heads with bullet holes in the front, and practically no back of the head. The other monsters snarled and howled in anger for their fallen brothers, and lunged in, ready to tear the human into ribbons. But the young man lept high into the air, firing down a maelstrom of bullets. A few of the Beowolves that managed to avoid the gunfire met his tactic, and lept up after him. Expecting this, the young man snaps his arm out, causing the firearm to extend into a beautiful black blade, with azure and cyan hues running up the edge of the blade. He then allows himself to fall, lunging his blade into the closest beast. It didn’t kill it, and may have only angered it more. But, he smirks and pulls the trigger on the hilt, pumping the beast full of led. Wrenching the blade out halfway, he fires again, propelling him higher into the air and delaying impact with the ground beneath him. As he descends, he is able to slash, hack, and stab any unfortunate beast that happens to cross his path, discharging his weapon on occasion to avoid any attack lucky enough to get close to him. He flips at the last moment, landing perfectly, and safely, almost ignoring how high up he really was. As he stands, the dismembered limps and corpses of the Beowolves fall around him. The others still remaining growl menacingly. The young man plants a foot forward. His right hand, clenching his weapon tight in his grip, is brought back. His other off hand raised for defense. A small pack breaks off, and rushes right for him. He lunges his blade forward and into the ground.

“Burning my cathedrals,
‘cause I don’t pray any more.”

A collection of jagged and razor sharp icicles violently erupt from the ground. Not only do they impale a few of the beasts that had rushed him, but it also acts as a good shield. He smirks at the sound of the monsters running right into the wall of ice. But they’re quick to burst through, tackling him and crashing straight through the front door of the cabin. Luckily, he had impaled his attacker straight through the chest, firing into it as it collapsed on top of him. The warrior shoves the body off and stands upright, panting lightly.

“Look at all these people,
Tragic little people.”

The others storm into the cabin, surrounding the azure warrior in the cramped and confined spaces of the near-empty room. The beasts’ lips turn up, showing their jagged fangs, almost in a mocking grin. They even have a guttural snarl that sounds like an insulting chuckle. The young man himself smirks, and the mocking creature is almost confused, watching as he brings his blade up again. The last thing the Beowolf sees, before the human lunges his blade forward, is the glint of his left eye, a blazing amber in color.

“They smile, and they don’t know what for.”

As the young man reaches the peak of his lunge, a trail of jagged ice whips out from the blade, embedding itself into the beast’s throat. It gives a gurgling sound, before falling over.

“But then,”

He brings the ice-whip back and out of the beast’s flesh, whipping it around to keep some pressure off of him. A few monsters try to rush him, but are met with the ice-whip impaling straight through their bodies, or a loss of a head.

“I know what’s wrong,
God, you complicated everything.”

A Beowolf was lucky, able to evade a snap of the whip and tackling the young warrior through the walls into another large room. He’s quick to regain his feet, showing an excellent display of swordmanship how to really wield a blade.

“I know you’re gone, gone, gone.
This is where I will blur my line.”

As the fight rages on, the little furniture and picture frames that are left are badly damaged in the wake of the attack. The warrior is able to evade, dodge, and parry most attacks that came his way, but the area around them was suffering, becoming more unstable and more cluttered.

“I will blur my line!”

Reaching the peak of his anger, the young man’s attacks become more erratic, more violent. Spikes of ice are thrown into muzzles. Whips of ice used to decapitate, dismember, and split in two. Blood of his enemies spray all across the rooms.

The Beowolves realize the battle isn’t working. To lose this many brethren for a single meal: even they can understand when they are not prepared. There’s a commotion outside, as well, which only encourages a retreat. The warrior is left in the aftermath of the battle. Left in the chaotic and visceral madness that surrounds him.

“My houses are haunted, dark and deserted.
They’re made of my secrets and shame.”

As he walks around, he raises his head, causing his hood that was losing its place on his head during the skirmish to further lose its place, nearly revealing his face. He walks back into the main room, and picks up a picture frame showing three people. A man, woman, and a young boy. He glances over his shoulder, hearing someone approach the house. He sees the figure of a familiar young woman, and turns his head back to the picture.

“Baby I want it, I know I’m not worth it,
I can’t even tell you my name.”

She approaches the young man, taking care not to step on any broken glass, dismembered limbs, or other debris. She tilts her head to the side, and the young man wipes a bit of blood off the shattered picture frame, ignoring the small cuts it gives him as a result.

“But then…”

With a slightly clearer view of the picture, what he sees is enough pain to have him squeeze his eyes shut, refusing to look at the picture.

“I know what’s wrong.
God, you complicated everything.
I know…”

His hood falls off his head, just as the girl reaches a hand out, comfortingly placed atop his shoulder.

“You’re wrong,
God, you took it all away from me.”

Under the blood and the shattered glass, the girl could make out a man and a woman, but not their facial features. But she could make out a young boy with jet black hair, and azure tips in his shaggy mop of hair. His eyes were the most unique, though. One was green, and the other, amber.

“I know you’re gone, gone, gone.
This is where…”

She manages to turn the young man around, still tightly gripping the picture frame in his hands, which are beginning to shake violently. Blood drips from the wounds on his hand, splattering onto the ground beneath the two.

“I will cross…”

The young woman places another hand on his other shoulder, closing the distance between them. She seems to be trying to talk to him, almost trying to console him. He shakes his head vigorously again, but suddenly stops.

“My line!”

He opens his eyes, showing the brilliant heterochromia of his eyes. One eye, a brilliant emerald green, and the other a burning amber. Tears began streaming from his tormented, painful and exhausted eyes.

“I am crossing my line!”

He drops the picture frame, allowing it to shatter completely, before the two pull eachother in an embrace. She allows him to cry into her shoulder, patting his back, and supporting him as he slowly drops to his knees. He clutches onto the girls sleeves, almost as if he’s trying to maintain his grip on not only her, but the one thing that seems to be holding him steady. He continues to sob into her shoulders, refusing to look at the now-clear picture, with no glass or blood to block the view of the little boy, with the woman with jet black hair on his left, and the man with shimmering emerald green eyes on his right, both holding his hand and smiling at him lovingly.