RWBY: A Lord's Tale

Chapter Ten: Feet of Friendship

[ ...and remember, your failure to properly equip a support item may result in reduced benefits across all units, including but not limited to life— ]

"Mute," Quin groaned.

The holographic projection of the Spokesperson froze mid-sentence, still smiling that eternally placid, customer-service smile. Then it vanished with a soft chime, leaving only a faint blue afterglow in the air.

Silence.

Finally.

Quin half wondered why he hadn't tried that in the first place, but hey.

He let out a breath and leaned back against the mossy rock, the damp forest air clung to his skin as the earthy chill of night pushed through his sleeves.

And then they came.

With a sudden crack of energy, nine men appeared in tight formation, boots hitting the ground in perfect sync, pikes hitting the ground like thunder. All of them wore shining bascinet helmets with additional cloth face masks, padded coats beneath glimmering chainmail mantles. Steel gleamed along the reinforced cheeks of their ten-foot pikes, each shaft straight as a banner pole and twice as polished.

One took a deep breath, slammed the butt of his weapon into the earth, and shouted:

"GLORY TO THE SYSTEM!"

Another immediately raised both arms and shouted back, "TEN FEET OF FRIENDSHIP, BABY!"

"YEEEAHH!" came the unified, high-energy chorus as they all snapped into unnecessarily dramatic poses.

Quin blinked. "Oh no."

One soldier twirled his pike over his head like a baton, nearly hitting the man next to him, who ducked with a practiced ease. "PERIMETER SECURED! MORALE IS HIGH!"

"I brought extra rations in case of emergencies!" another cried, holding up a suspiciously glossy wrapped brick labeled Field Meat-Type 7B (Menthol-Cured).

"I named my pike," one whispered, "her name is Trudy."

"Requesting permission to guard literally anything, sir!" said the shortest one, bouncing on his heels like an overeager puppy in chainmail.

Quin rubbed his face with both hands and let out a long groan. "You have got to be kidding me."

The one in front, the leader made apparent by wielding the only sword and carrying a massive flag, stepped forward and saluted so hard it sounded like a whip crack. "Awaiting operational directives, Commander! We are Pikes-87! Ten feet of steel, ten times the loyalty!"

"OORAH" They all said in unison.

Quin glanced up at the sky through the canopy, deadpan. "Why… Are they all this loud."

From somewhere behind Qrow, half asleep, muttered, "Can you just shut up, I'm trying to sleep."

One of the pikemen turned sharply toward the voice. "UNIDENTIFIED HOSTILE! PREPARE FOR CHARGE!"

"Stand down!" the leader barked, raising his sword. "That's a civilian unit, though he is carrying a weapon… recommend we dispose of the threat."

"No, he's not a threat, he's just... Qrow. He lives in a tent. Don't provoke him unless you want to wake up with fewer kneecaps."

"Understood, Commander!" the leader declared, then pointed his flagstaff toward Qrow's general direction. "Unit formation: Respectful Perimeter, Casual Posture!"

The group immediately spread out in a circle, holding their pikes at a slightly less threatening angle, each man settling into a casual half-lean like they were posing for a propaganda poster.

Qrow sat up, bleary-eyed and wild-haired, squinting at the gleaming soldiers. "The hell am I looking at."

"Pike Unit 87," Quin muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. "Apparently they're... mine now."

"And… where did you get them?"

"I summoned them… magic, I guess?"

As if on cue, one of the soldiers perked up and pointed toward a particularly leafy shrub. "Suspicious foliage detected! May I poke it?"

"No," Quin said.

"But sir, the shrub…"

"It's a plant, stand down."

"Copy that."

"…Requesting permission to lightly poke-"

"Stand down, its just a plant." Quin added dryly.

The soldier sighed, his shoulders slumping, acting like a kid who'd just been told he couldn't bring his new toy to school.

"Sir," the flagbearer asked suddenly, standing tall. "With your approval, we will now begin construction of a temporary forward command encampment. I recommend logs, many logs at that, and possibly sandbags… Do you prefer a tower or trench aesthetic?"

"I'd prefer you don't build anything." Quin rubbed his temple. "We're trying to rest for the night, you yelling about loyalty and poking shrubs with a spear is not helping."

The soldier with the named pike gasped in outrage. "Trudy is a lady, sir."

"She's a stick," Qrow muttered.

Gasps rippled through the squad. The shortest one audibly whimpered.

The leader slammed his sword into the ground. "Silence! Do not besmirch the sacred bond between man and pike! Commander, if I may- should morale be considered a tactical priority, we are trained in thirty-seven chants, twelve morale-boosting songs, and one interpretive dance routine… We've recently refined our rendition of 'Through Ten Feet of Fog and Fire.' from our home island."

Quin stared at him.

"Hard pass."

The leader just nodded solemnly. "Understood, morale will be maintained silently. Hush mode, engage!"

All nine snapped to a dramatic kneel, weapons to their chests, gazing reverently into the distance… as if posing for a painting, or picture.

Qrow slumped back down into his bedroll. "I'm going back to sleep kid, if they stab me in the night, I'm haunting you."

"If they sing at night, I'll join you."

Poke.

"Shrub's clear!" yelled one of the pikemen.

…

Then another soldier leaned in towards him, "I think the bush was bluffing."

"So? we struck first," another muttered, tightening his grip on his pike like a man who'd seen too many tactical plants in his time.

"Any movement from the squirrel?" asked the one posted near a tree, staring upward with deadly seriousness.

Quin groaned. "It's not a sp- you know what, never mind. I'm not doing this."

He stood up, brushing leaves from his coat. His boots sank slightly into the soft moss, and the cool air still held the ghost of nighttime mist. Qrow gave a vague grunt of acknowledgement from his bedroll but didn't stir again.

Quin turned to Pike-87's leader. "Look, I don't know how long you're staying… or how long I can afford to keep you around, hell, I don't even know how you work yet. So unless the System wants to explain itself in something other than pop-up ads, I need you on standby. No drills. No building. No interpretive dancing."

( The Tactical Consultation Device will remember this, they were looking forward to a dance. )

"Yes, Commander!" the squad snapped in unison.

"And no poking the forest."

A few deflated noises followed.

"But if we don't poke, how will we know what's not suspicious?" one whispered.

"By using your eyeballs and not impaling everything?" Quin shot back.

The soldiers nodded in a solemn, almost reverent way. As if he'd just given them a profound piece of strategic wisdom passed down from legendary commanders.

Quin sighed again, quieter this time. He stepped away from them and sat back down near the cooling firepit, the embers now no more than faint red glimmers beneath a dusting of ash.

In the dark, the pikemen quietly adjusted their formation, moving with remarkable discipline despite their oddities, shoulders aligned, distance perfect, weapons held with ceremonial care. For a moment, they looked less like a joke and more like the disciplined, battle-born unit they were probably supposed to be.

Quin rested his chin in one hand.

Ten feet of steel. Ten times the loyalty.

"What the hell am I supposed to do with you?" he muttered.

Ten times the annoyance, more like.

Somewhere in the trees, a distant bird cried once and fell silent.

And one of the pikemen whispered, "Commander... I just wanted to say. Thank you. For this opportunity."

Quin didn't answer. But after a long pause, he muttered back, "…Yeah. Sure."

The soldier beamed like he'd been knighted.

And then quietly, reverently, he poked the shrub again.

Quin fell face-first into his nest, coat bunched awkwardly beneath him. His limbs gave up all function the moment they touched the floor, and the world faded under the weight of bone-deep exhaustion. The last thing he remembered was muttering something at a squirrel. Or maybe it was a slime, he wasn't too sure about that.

Morning came slowly. Mist clung to the forest floor, curling between roots. Pale light filtered through the trees, scattering gold across dew-slick leaves and the ashes of last night's fire.

Somewhere near the edge of camp came a familiar sound:

pap. pap. slurp. pap.

Quin cracked an eye open.

At a makeshift stump-table, nine armored pikemen sat in formation- though "formation" was generous, given the way two of them had their helmets tilted back and one was using his pike as support. Across from them sat a line of slimes, each wearing some kind of accessory: one had a tiny paper crown, another a crude scarf made of gauze, the last wore a broken spoon like a monocle, while the last was bare.

Cards slapped the table.

The spoon-slime gurgled with satisfaction.

"Read it and weep, gentlemen," one soldier groaned. "That's a royal flush."

The spoon-slime gurgled with satisfaction.

"Read it and weep, gentlemen," one soldier groaned, slumping back as he revealed the cards. "That's a royal flush."

Another slammed down his helmet in disbelief. "How do they keep winning?!"

One of the slimes, wrapped in a piece of frayed ribbon like a sash, did a little jig in place, just a ripple that jiggled up its sides and wobbled the spoon monocle.

Quin, still half-buried under his blanket, dragged a hand down his face. "…They're losing… to slimes."

The commander, now using his flagpole as a backrest, muttered, "We don't lose, we build morale through tactical humility."

"Sir, they don't even have hands."

"They have heart, and that's what matters," said the shortest one, already dealing another hand. "Well… they don't have any organs either, so I don't know if that works."

Qrow appeared beside Quin without warning, his coat barely rustling as he crouched down. In his hands, cradled with utmost care, was a bottle of liquor… guess the pikes came with a small supply, who would've guessed?

"Morning, sleeping beauty," he said, voice rough with half-swallowed laughter. "Taught 'em poker… figured it might pass the time."

He took a slow sip, watching the chaos unfold with the faintest smirk.

Quin reached out blindly, hand patting around until his fingers found the soft fabric of Mordred. He clutched her to his chest as he pushed himself upright, the thin blanket sliding off his shoulders and piling onto the dirt floor. His hair stuck up in angles that defied physics, and his eyes were still half-glued shut with sleep.

He stared at the poker game, at the slimes with their jaunty accessories and monocles, at the soldiers cheering them on like it was the championship round.

He sighed, long and low

"I have to explain exactly how I got them, don't I?"

"Wouldn't hurt." Qrow lifted the battered tin slightly. "Especially since I woke up to almost a dozen soldiers stabbing a tree... Kinda felt like I missed an invitation."

1930 Words

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A relatively shorter chapter than my usual, but figured this would be a good stopping point!

Just figured I should give yall some choice in the direction of the FF, which primarily concerns whether or not he should be brought to Ozpin cause yk, magic, or stay in Mistral where he can be kept an eye on

Aka, Vale or Mistral: the former means more interaction with RWBY characters, while the latter means more focus on him and his collection of little weirdos.