Life is a funny thing, isn't it? We live it, cling to it, convince ourselves it has meaning—and then, without warning, we simply stop knowing it. That's how it ended for me, at least. No grand finale. No final words. Just a walk down a familiar street, and somewhere between one step and the next… everything slipped away.
When awareness returned, nothing fit.
My hands were wrong—smaller, softer, unfamiliar. I felt something attached to me, heavy and alien, swaying with a presence I had never known. Faces loomed overhead, strangers looking down at me with quiet fondness, as if they recognized me while I didn't even recognize myself. I tried to speak. Tried to ask what was happening, where I was, who I was.
My voice never made it past my throat.
I started panicking, thoughts unraveling into an incoherent babble, words dissolving before they could exist. The world blurred. Breathing hitched. And then there was nothing left but crying—raw, instinctive, and utterly helpless.
Whatever life I had before was gone.
And whatever I was now… had just begun.
Time passed. Or maybe it didn't. It was hard to tell.
There were moments of light and moments of dark, stitched together by warmth, by sound, by hands that lifted me and held me close. Voices came and went, soft and strange, their meaning slipping away before I could grasp it. I tried to think, but thoughts came apart just as easily as they formed.
Something was… wrong.
My body didn't move the way I expected it to. When I clenched my hands, they felt small. Weak. When I kicked, my legs flailed without purpose. Panic bubbled up, but even that felt distant, muffled, like it belonged to someone else.
Sometimes, I caught glimpses of faces. Too large. Too close. Some had noses that twitched when they spoke. Some showed teeth that were a little too big, a little too sharp. And every time I noticed, my thoughts slipped, drowning beneath hunger or exhaustion or the simple need to cry.
There was something else, too.
A weight. A presence behind me. It moved when I moved, curled when I curled, tugged when I shifted. At first, it terrified me. I tried to ignore it. Tried not to feel it. But the feeling never went away. Slowly, without permission, it began to feel… normal.
Like it had always been there.
Understanding didn't come all at once. It crept in, piece by piece, between naps and feedings and half-remembered dreams. I wasn't where I was supposed to be. I wasn't who I was supposed to be.
And then, one quiet moment, the thought finally settled—heavy and undeniable.
I was a baby.
Not just that. I was someone else's baby. Born into a family that wasn't human. Rat Faunus, I would eventually learn. Different faces. Different bodies. And a long, living tail that belonged to me as much as my hands ever had.
Months passed like this
My vision sharpened. Sounds stopped blurring together. The world became larger, clearer—and far more frightening. I learned quickly that this wasn't just a world with rat people. No. Apparently, there were monsters here, things everyone called The Things Outside.
Outside of what? I didn't know. And from the way the adults spoke about them—always in lowered voices, always when they thought my siblings and I weren't listening—I hoped I never would.
And yes… siblings. It seemed I belonged to a big family. I didn't know how many of us there were, not exactly, but I had seen at least five others who shared a resemblance with me, with my mother and my father. Similar faces. Similar traits.
Slowly, I began to accept it. For now, at least, this was my life.
My new life.
So I tried to let go of the regrets I carried from before. The attachments. The lingering weight of a world that no longer existed. I focused on the now. That mindset had helped me survive in my past life—and wasn't it strange that I could already think of it as past?
Anyway, Life went like this for a few more years before I was at the grand age of eleven years old, I could already "speak" more or less this new language that this world used (Something that I leanerd is called Common Valean) and already could walk on my own easily. I also Learned my name, and the names of my very, VERY Large family.
My new name was Tyrian Merrill, son of Mauve Merrill and Virelle Merrill, Younger brother to Marrow, Tawny, And Slate Merill, and older brother to Dove, Pewter.
"Tyrian! Stop daydreaming and come eat dinner. Mom's already set the table. Go get Dove."
It was Marrow's voice. Firm, familiar.
He stood in the doorway, tall but not tall enough that he always seemed to be looking down at the rest of us. His build was lean but dense, all tight muscle and hard angles, like someone who was constantly training even when he said he wasn't. His claws—thick, slightly curved—rested casually at his sides.
He was the oldest among us.And he acted like it.
"Alright!" I snapped out of my daze, pushing myself up from the sofa. I padded down the hall toward our room to call my sister
Dove was there, curled up on the floor.
She was small for her age, 7 Years old—short, light, with narrow arms and legs that always seemed cold no matter the weather. Her tail was thin and expressive, curling around the leg of the table as she worked. She moved quietly, carefully.
Like a mouse.
…Heh.
"Dove! Mom's calling for dinner!" I said as I reached the doorway.
She was sprawled on her stomach, crayons scattered around her, scribbling on a piece of paper. When she heard my voice, her eyes lit up. She scrambled to her feet and barreled straight into me, wrapping her arms around my waist in a bear hug fueled by all the strength a child could muster.
"Okay! But—look, look!" she exclaimed, releasing me just as quickly and grabbing my hand.
She dragged me back to the paper and proudly held it up. The drawing was a mess of stick figures, uneven lines, and bright colors—but every figure had a little name scribbled beside it, arrows pointing out who was who.
Me. Her. Everyone else.
I stared at it. is this what it feels to be a older brother? I think I like it.
"Hey, hey—what's taking you two so long, huh?" Tawny's voice cut in, loud and sing-song. "What, are you two doing naughty things back here? Huh?!"
She leaned into the hallway, blocking half of it with her frame and wearing a grin that promised trouble.
Tawny was as tall as Marrow, but built broader through the shoulders and hips, sturdy in a way that made her feel planted. Her rat ears sat high on her head, half-hidden by her hair, twitching sharply at every sound. They swiveled toward Dove immediately.
Dove froze.
Her tail snapped straight, then curled tight around my leg like it was trying to hide there. Her eyes went wide, and she shook her head so fast I thought she might topple over.
"N-No! We weren't!" she blurted out, face flushing.
Tawny burst out laughing.
"Oh my gods, look at her!" She crouched down and ruffled Dove's hair with one hand. "Relax, I'm kidding. You're way too cute to be naughty."
Dove puffed her cheeks, clearly offended, but she still let Tawny take her hand.
"C'mon," Tawny said, already steering us down the hall. "Let's go before Dad starts telling one of his stories and dinner turns into a three-hour event."
She was constantly trying to prank everyone—always joking, always poking at someone. The clown of the house, through and through.
"Was it Mom or Dad who cooked today?" I asked, mostly out of curiosity… and maybe a little hope.
Tawny just smirked and shrugged. "Dunno. All I know is that I'm so hungry I could eat one or two little snacks before the main course…"
Then she jabbed me and Dove in the sides.
Dove gasped dramatically, eyes wide. Her tail snapped around my waist like a lifeline."Quick! Tawny wants to eat us! Let's go before she devours us!"
I rolled my eyes at my sisters' antics—but I played along anyway.
We took off running, racing through the house toward the dining room, Dove squealing with laughter as we fled our so-called predator, all of us trying to reach the table before we were "eaten."
For a moment, it almost felt like this was all there ever was.
We skidded into the dining room in a tangle of footsteps and laughter, Dove still half-wrapped around my waist as Tawny barreled in behind us, clearly enjoying every second of the chaos she'd caused.
And then we froze.
Mom was already there.
She stood at the head of the table, hands resting calmly on the back of her chair, one eyebrow raised—just enough to silence the room without a single word. Her eyes moved from Tawny, to Dove, to me. Slow. Assessing.
Marrow was already seated. He paused mid-motion, fork hovering halfway to his mouth, and gave us a long, flat look that said I told you so without needing to open his mouth.
Slate, slouched back in his chair, snorted quietly into his sleeve, trying—and failing—not to laugh. Pewter didn't even look up at first, focused on arranging his utensils with almost ritual precision… until Mom's gaze passed over him too. Then he stiffened and sat up straighter, pretending he'd been perfectly behaved the whole time.
Tawny, for once, stopped grinning. She straightened, cleared her throat, and folded her hands together like she hadn't just incited a household stampede.
Dove slowly unwound her tail from me and scooted closer to her chair, suddenly very interested in sitting down properly.
Mom sighed—soft, patient, fond.
"…Dinner," she said.
And just like that, the chaos melted away, replaced by scraping chairs, quiet shuffling, and the familiar, comforting rhythm of family settling in
Slate is a little shorter than Tawny and Marrow, with a narrow, wiry build that makes him look fragile until he isn't. He's all angles—sharp shoulders, sharp elbows, sharp eyes. His pointy nose twitches constantly, picking up things the rest of us miss. He breathes through it slowly, like he's always testing the air.
Pewter is my other younger brother shorter than Slate and thinner than all of us. His shoulders slope inward, and his movements are hesitant, like he's waiting for permission to exist. His front incisors are larger than human's, and he keeps his mouth closed as much as he can. When he does speak, his voice is soft and careful.
and then theres me, Tyrian Merrill.
I'm… small.
Not baby small anymore, but not big either. Shorter than Marrow and Tawny, obviously—but also shorter than Slate, and somehow still shorter than Pewter, who is younger than me and shouldn't be allowed to be taller.
My body hasn't decided what it wants to be yet. My arms are thin, my legs short, and I trip over my own feet more often than I'll admit. I'm not strong, not fast, not impressive in any way that matters—except that I don't fall over every time anymore.
My tail, though, is long. Too long for someone my size. Strong too, It drags sometimes if I'm not careful, swaying behind me like it's trying to balance out the rest of me.It moves on its own, curling and flicking like it's already figured things out even if I haven't.
That might be the strangest part.
Well—maybe not the strangest, but certainly one of the strangest ones. The actual strangest part being the fucking Moon being shattered. Yeah. That. Kind of hard to beat.
Also, apparently, I'm in that show. RWBY. The one I watched a long-ass time ago.
Joy.
I remember the main cast. I remember, roughly, how things went to shit—and how fast it all unraveled once it started.
But not everything is doom and gloom. At least… I don't think so.
I'm almost certainly in the past. How far back? No idea. All I know is that Beacon hasn't fallen yet, which is a very good sign. And during the last Vytal Festival, I didn't see any of the main characters. That's also good. Probably.
On the other hand… that could mean a lot of things.
For example—what if the main characters in this world were never born? What then? What if I got dropped into some off-brand timeline where Ozpin is secretly evil, evil-Dumbledore style? Or what if they're all genderbent?
…Okay, that last one would probably be the least horrifying option.
Still.
The point is—I don't know enough. And that might be the scariest thing of all. but in either case, I got to do as any isekai'd person and train to become strong enough to just bat away any of that shit.
I asked if I could have my aura unlocked, only to receive a resounding-
"Tyrian, whats wrong? you havent touched your food since you sat?"
My mom asks with a slighty worried face as she watches me
"hes probabilly just still moody about not getting his aura unlocked yet, despite his constant and incessant whinin."
Anwers Tawny with a mocking grin pointed at me while she flexes her Aura at me.
I respond with a not pout "I did not whine! I am just thinking about stuff, okay?"
"pff, sure Ty, just eat your food before it gets cold." she snorts and shakes her head before going back to eating, theres a little bit of laughter at our banter and then we just all eat quietly.
after everyone ate, we start to clean up our plates, before our father calls to me.
"Tyrian! My boy! come, I want to have a little word with you if you could." my father says in his bombastic way of speaking
"uh, Sure?" I answer him as everyone starts to evacuate the dinner table to do their own things
"My boy, I still remember when you first asked me to unlock your Aura," he said, "and I told you no! Not because I wished to deny you, but because you were still young—too unprepared to bear such responsibilities!"
He paused, thoughtfully caressing his shaved chin, putting on the air of a wise old master.
"But now that you're older," he continued, "I believe we can begin devising something—something to prepare you for the day you are truly ready to unlock your Aura."
My heart skipped a beat at his words, then slowly settled as I understood his point of view.
Still—
Finally.Aura.Magic.
My excitement must have shown on my face, because he let out a hearty chuckle, clapping a hand on my shoulder.
And just like that, my mind was already racing ahead.
Finally, I could begin my epic training.
"But I know I already asked you this once," he said, his voice lowering, "and I know you already gave me your answer. Still, I'll ask again—are you sure?"
His expression shifted, the bombast fading into something more serious.
"Unlocking your Aura isn't so you can go around beating up people who don't have that privilege. It's a duty you'd be taking on—the duty to become a Huntsman. And trust me, son, it isn't as easy as the cartoons and television shows make it look."
I straightened, doing my best to match his seriousness, and nodded.
"Yes, Dad. I'm sure. I can handle it."
He studied me for a moment longer, eyes searching, as if looking for something beneath my words.
Then he smiled, clapped a heavy hand on my shoulders, and nodded once.
"Alright. Go on. Get some sleep."
And just like that, the weight of tomorrow settled in.