It was sometime around midday when Winter received the news; about the incident concerning her sister at Father’s latest ‘charity function’ from General Ironwood.
Now it was approaching dusk and with a swipe of her hand, the Atlas specialist smeared her military issued training clothes, with the evidence of her labor.
Step forward. Lunge. Deflect. She moved with the precision and focus that had pushed her through the ranks at such a young age.
Inhale through the nose. Exhale through the mouth. Concentrate.
Arm straining forward, light pulsed forth and at her command she called on yet another summons to attack the training bots ahead.
As she has told Weiss, summoning was like a muscle and needed to be exercised properly. But today, she was pushing herself beyond what was necessary.
Her aura strained against the abuse but she took no heed of it, allowing the anger and irritation at the upper echelons of the Altlesian society to spur her onwards.
Separating her second blade form it’s hidden sheath, she slashed downwards, carving twin lines of pent up emotion into solid metal.
Jump back. Rise. Lea-
Without warning, exhaustion weighed down on her like the unrelenting sun of the menagerie desert. She stumbled; only to catch herself in a low crouch, with a hiss of frustration.
Blast it. Blast it!
Often disapproving of foul language (even within her own head) she found herself mentally cycled through each and every curse that she had ever heard during her service.
She sunk down as gracefully as she could manage - the shameful weakness of her limbs making her put up with the discomfort, of lying on of the unforgiving ground.
Time was an abstract thing right then, as she began to recollect herself. At least, until an annoyingly familiar voice rang out across the large space.
“Tough day, Ice Queen?”
And just where was - there!
Perched on a high beam, was what would be in other circumstances, an uninteresting sight. A black bird, surveying the land below.
Not bothering to answer aloud, Winter waited while watching, with admittedly a little interest, as Qrow shifted into his common form. When finished, she politely shifted her grey eyes to gaze upwards at the curved ceiling.
A brisk nod (which rewarded her with a pulsating headache) was her reply.
Being unusually tactful for once, Qrow lay down alongside her in a show of solidarity (and was that…affection? Or was she just hallucinating?)
Still, the regularity of his breathing was more calming then it had any right to be. Perhaps, this was why his nieces so clearly adored him, despite his less than savory habits?
Taking this rare opportunity to sneak a proper look at the man, she found herself cataloging each and every visible wound, no matter how small. (And oh, how she hated those monsters, that were now roaming the land with ever increasing frequency, since the fall of Beacon).
Not having the energy, necessary to question just what on Remnant he was doing here of all places, she accepted whatever courtesy this was that the Huntsman was offering.
During however long it was, that the two of them stayed there, like schoolchildren that neither of them still were, she vowed to herself that she would lessen her sharp comments concerning Qrow’s drinking. If he was allowing her obvious failure at keeping her composure, just now, through recklessness to slide, she supposed she could do the same with his own faults.
The life of those on the battlefield is harsh, after all, no matter who you are.
And later on, removed from all of her other concerns, maybe she’d even admit, that having him next to her…felt rather nice.