Hello everyone.

I've had some…… interesting ideas brewing in my head lately, from original stories and worlds to just my crazy head producing some random crap every few seconds on repeat. But out of all of these ideas this one kept popping up, mostly because I was so pumped with all of the new Chaos models and books being pushed by GW these past two years, and I figured I would finally act on it.

Originally this was going to be a reboot of Dancing in the Garden, but it has since evolved into its own special beast, one that I've fed very well after the reveal that Atlas and Mantle are under heavy military control after the Fall of Beacon(thanks volume 7, in addition to bringing back Penny you created a perfect place for chaos to bloom). We won't be starting there though, I'll take us back to volume 1 and will explore the criminal underground for a bit, where(in my opinion) the seeds of chaos have the best chance to grow.

If this doesn't sound interesting to you then I wish you a good day. If it does then stick around for awhile and offer your own twisted ideas, and maybe they'll make it into the story proper.

WARNING

The following story contains extreme forms of HERESY. Examples include

Chaos

Cultists

That Which Shall Not be Named

Oc's

Gangs

Deviations from the RWBY storyline(like Ozpin not being demonized for keeping humanity's hopes up, reasonable police).

Foul language

I don't own Warhammer in any of its myriad versions, nor do I own RWBY. They are own byGames Workshop and Rooster Teeth respectively. I will only say this once.

Dark Changes

Chapter 1: On The Winds of Change…..

The kingdom of Vale is considered the most prosperous of the four kingdoms of Remnant. Easy access to the ocean, natural defenses against Grimm, and the routine purging of the few that sneak through by the students of Beacon Academy have given way to an era of peace surpassing the time before the Great War.

It was also because of this stability that crime had been able to grow so quickly inside the humble city. While many of its citizens prefer not to dwell on this subject, clinging to the fragile ignorance that they are a beacon of decency in a world sliding ever closer back to the dark ages of barbarism and hatred, at the end of the day that is simply not the case.

In every civilization there is a tipping point where the population is simply too large for the resources available to be spread equally. When combined with the last vestigial instinct for man to divide himself into different roles and ranks from when we were simple monkeys trying to avoid becoming a meal, it means that eventually there will be a group of people who are left to struggle and die while the better off grow fat and happy. The most cunning and ruthless of these downtrodden fight tooth and nail for the smallest scrap of power and begin to gather like- minded individuals in an effort to consolidate that measly scrap into something more.

These groups go by many names: gangs, cartels, syndicates, mobs, and may even be able to pass themselves off as legitimate businesses. Often one member will become the leader or "face" of the gang, giving the group a scapegoat or a figure to turn to when things get bad.

Roman Torchwick, Adam Taurus, Madam Malachite…… whenever these names are spoken in the public domain, they are met with fear, disgust, and, in some cases, respect. But they are just the tip of the strange subculture known as the criminal underworld.

It is well known that every organization survives on its myths and reputation and will develop its own unique rivalries and traditions. Police officers will drink at certain bars and each precinct is its own kingdom to be managed by its captain. In the military each branch will claim that they are better than the other and create their own slang to describe enemies and combat situations. This is no less true amongst the criminal element, who create various initiations, mandate certain clothes to be worn, and require tattoos with meaning only to those who are a member of the same gang as the tattooed. Many of these traditions are leftover pieces of culture from when their ancestors were immigrants struggling to make a living, an old saying here, an odd belief there. Sometimes a small religion is kept up solely by one group of crooks descended from a village long since destroyed by time, war, and Grimm.

These beliefs often focus on a group of four or more deities, or sometimes just one in particular, that highlight a certain aspect of civilization and its negative opposite. A god of War and Bloodshed, a master of Hope and Treachery, a being of Beauty and Excess, or a Father of Life and Decay. Most of the time these rituals are scoffed at, considered nothing more than a bit of legend twisted to fit the purpose of the criminals who hide in the shadows. But sometimes…… sometimes these cults are made up of the truly faithful, offering sacrifices and prayer in the dark corners where no one sane would ever dare to look.

And sometimes the gods listen………

City of Vale Dockyards

In the ever busy docks of the Kingdoms of Vale's harbor, a dread ritual was occurring. The faithful gathered slowly, wearing long robes and elaborate masks to conceal their true faces. They marched in groups no bigger than nine through the seemingly ever changing labyrinth of cargo containers and machinery. They followed seemingly random paths, marked with graffiti that only held gravitas with those familiar with the cults secrets and forbidden lore. As the acolytes grew ever closer to their destination, the veil between reality and the beyond grew ever thinner. Voices whispered madness, and faces of the long departed could be seen for brief seconds, highlighted by multicolored light of the few torches that lit the path.

Eventually they made their way to the ancient warehouse, long forgotten by the kingdom they toiled for but built to endure the harsh bite of time. Once inside, the cultists shed their cloaks, revealing their bodies covered in tattoos of dark scripture and devotional images that seemed to writhe and distort themselves as soon as they were no longer viewed. Soon the faithful joined their voices in ritual chant, offering praise to The Architect of Fate in the hopes that tonight their prayers might finally be answered and one of his loyal servants would bless them with his presence. In the center of the warehouse, a complex circle had been drawn with the blood of nine mad souls. In this circle were nine suits of armour, their design ornate, covered in what appeared to be ancient Vacuan text and symbols. These were known as the Nine Ravens and had been the sole objective of the cult's efforts since its inception.

Standing in the center of the circle was the magus of the cult, known only to his followers as The Tattered Scholar, his features hidden under an ornate robe made from various materials and designs. His face was wizened with age and the knowledge he held locked within his mind. Soon after 80 long years his lifelong goal will finally be completed, and with it, his long awaited reward.

The when the ritual entered its final stage he began to chant in the forbidden tongue, each syllable tearing his scarred vocal cords with each utterance, until blood was freely flowing from his mouth. One by one the eyes of the Ravens began to glow with a pale blue fire as they subtlety leached the souls of the cultists in the room, necessary sacrifices to allow his master into the material world. As the last cultist died The Scholar finished his chant, the power of the mass betrayal and his followers shattered hope tore a hole in the thin veil. From this tear a man step forth, his form shimmering with barely contained power, flickering between the two realms despite of the Scholar's efforts. Much like the prized Ravens he wore an ornate set of blue and gold armour, it's blue plate covered in whirling script and ancient phrases of protection and fealty. In his right hand he held an ornate but ancient flintlock pistol, wrought into the shape of a serpent's skull, in his left was a long staff topped with the ancient symbol of Hynek's shared god. His face was hidden behind a horned helm, but his eyes glowed with an ever changing fire.

"My lord, I have completed my long task," the Scholar said as he bowed before this warrior of change "I have spent my life in the service of the Architect of Fate and have no plans of changing that one fact, I only regret that it has taken me so long to complete my given goal." The horned knight took a few moments to contemplate his blatant ass kissing before he spoke "Indeed you have," his voice sounded so….. normal, and relatively young, despite the fact that The Tattered Scholar had been listening to this voice for decades "and here is your reward."

A searing pain filled every bit of the decrepit old man's being as the raw power of Chaos filled his being, but it was a good pain. His muscles swelled with new strength, his body warping with the gifts of his lord Tzeentch, and he could hear his laughter echoing in the warehouse, unaware of the presence that was slowly carving out his body to make it its own until it was far too late…… what was once a man now rose from its knees as nothing more than a puppet of flesh for the creature within.

While the change took place in his former tool's body, the sorcerer looked around the warehouse, taking stock of the tomes and scrolls kept hidden and preserved. "This will do nicely….. wouldn't you agree old friend?"

The Tattered Scholar turned to face its benefactor, a too wide smile showing off its collection of jagged teeth "Indeed Azraq, a fitting place to help this kingdom burn."

Azraq smiled behind his helm as he gazed at the shattered moon, imagining the carnage that will unfold according to his many plans…..

Meanwhile throughout the city, omens are sent by rival gods to their worshippers in an attempt to prepare them for what is to unfold.

In the waste management plants and garbage dumps the children of decay are awoken to find that their fevers are broken and new symptoms occur in diseases that have never been recorded. The lords of disease gather their families around ancient, gnarled trees, and ring the ancient bells hanging from their branches.

In the pleasure houses and dance clubs across the city, men and women alike are driven to commit every depraved act under the sun. Each elicit feeling coming from the pain and misery of others as the sons and daughters of pleasure celebrate the newest song gifted to them by their dark muse. The finest duelists in the land polish their weapons to perfection, waiting for the chance to feed their egos and vanity.

In the ash choked industrial area an unfortunate menial is thrown into a vat of molten metal hewn in the shape of an angry bull. His companions mourn his death, while at the same time thanking their own gods that it was him instead of them sacrificed in the name of the ashen bull. In payment for the sacrifice a fell rune is formed from the metal, held in the hand of the smith priest who ruled over the forge, and he found it's message to be clear as day.

The blades of the lord of skin and sinew hunger for new challenges, no longer satisfied with hunting down their rivals and each other. Paths are sworn and skulls are stacked in his sacred image.

And in the towers of both the Wizard and the Queen the wind blows the scent of tainted magic into the air. Both are shocked by this event, both believe it to be the other's doing, and when both find that this is not the case they rally their allies and thralls in preparation for the likes of which have not been seen in millennia.

Well? What do you think? If you like this story then leave a review and stick around, if not then don't report me to the commissar or the inquisition. Until next time.