The silver-veiled knight, wearing his restricting schoolboy's attire, found leisure from a desk in no discernible classroom. Seated atop an adjacent desk, resting his feet on a chair, was Sky Lark; slouched and scribbling into the contents of a leather-bound journal. Resting within the window sill, a leg draped to the floor, was Dove Bronzewing. Dove, as per usual, glanced into a pocket-sized mirror he held, nudging his hair with care and precision reminiscent of a surgeon.

A scratching of granite filled the room, the buzzing of the illuminating lights accompanying the berated breathing of Dove Bronzewing. He cleared his throat. Nothing. Again, he set forth a rumble of the throat, garnering no observable acknowledgment from his teammates.

This would simply not do, not one bit...

The appearance-centered boy snapped his mirror shut, jumping into a seated position. Sky fidgeted at the sudden act, clasping a hand to where his halberd normally lay, followed by the snapping of lead and the wrenching smear of paper. "Asche" though, having noticed the building annoyance from the boy seconds before the act, turned his head idly. With the focus of the room realigned, Dove sheepishly cleared his throat.

"Sooo," Dove almost curiously began. "Ms. Goodwitch is kind of an asshole. The extra courses totally fucking blow."

The only other audible member present fought back a grumble, grimacing at the fractured and smeared picture he had nearly ruined. "Ehm, I don't really know..." Sky trailed, sighing as he erased another slip of hand Dove had incited earlier. "It's not like... Ms. Goodwitch is... Uh, the worst of the worst."

Sky broke his gaze from the imperfect drawing, meeting the hollow eyes of "Asche's" mask. The silent man politely shrugged, utterly indifferent to the instructor in question. Mr. Lark felt his shoulders drop as he broke contact. "Asche" was nearly on par with the Schnee girl in terms of academia, and widely recognized to be well above average in terms of combat prowess. He, for all intents in purposes, was spared of the ire judgment of Glynda the now dubbed Not-So-Goodwitch.

He shoved these thoughts aside, freshly recalling what happened to Jaune after unintentionally letting the student assigned name slip in her presence. To say Glynda's fury was a cruel mistress, was an understatement. Sky shivered yet again. He'd need to hold his tongue with extra care during the additional classes. Still, even as notorious of a woman Ms. Goodwitch had become, there was always a worse outcome.

"Well... At the very least, she doesn't make us... write entire essays every class..." Sky lightly reasoned, sharing a moment of the near-distant stress that doctor Oobleck's class brought. "Or worse... Ramble about stuff from four decades ago." The mellow artist shivered.

The other two shared a sigh, Dove most of all. It was humorous to jest at the expenses of those who ignited Glynda's sense of discipline, yet not the same when directly bound by it. Even as gracious as Aura was, the welts on either of Dove's hand's stung, a trophy for his slipping of the tongue. "Eh, fair enough. She's sure as hell, not Port I guess." Dove offhandedly agreed, rubbing a red-blemished hand underneath his chin.

"Then again, I think I'd prefer to sit through some old geezer's 'Back in my day' speeches over Goodwitch's P.T. any day." He added.

"Don't let Cardin hear that... he gets kinda... heated when people blow off Port's 'manly' stories." Sky cautiously reminded.

"Right, right... He's entitled to his shit opinion" The dual short-swordsman of CEDL lamented at the mention of Cardin's misplaced respect.

"But anyway..." Dove trailed once more. "Our leader-merry-dearest is still gone, He'll be understandably peeved when he gets back; sooo, I was thinking... Maybe we should all do something for him?"

Sky blinked several times, his mind threatening to turn to mush. Had dove lost his own senses? The trio would be better off domesticating an elder Beowulf or filing down the winding horns of a Boarbatusk. Yet Dove wanted to... surprise their leader, Cardin with a gesture of fondness? Taking a moment to narrow his already skeptical eyes, Sky leaned ever so slightly closer to Dove, as if this closing of distance could aid in sniffing out the ulterior motive. "Us? Do... something for Cardin Winchester?"

"Yeah, dumbass. Our Cardin. Who the hell else?" Dove scoffed, smacking the scalp of an all too close Sky with the force to separate the two, but not so hard enough to cause substantial worry. "Look fellow gents, his aunt's health has always been shit. He'll probably do something dumber than usual if we don't do something to take the edge off a little."

"Take the... edge off? My dad usually uses whisky... o-or a fishing trip..." Sky pondered, adding little to the conversation. "I'm not sure Cardin would appreciate the jab... at him being... uh, older than us."

"Because that's totally what I meant, Sky." Dove unamusingly stated, rolling his eyes at the small smile from the other boy. For a moment, that very second, he waved off the half effort joke, until an idea struck him. His eyes widened and a smile of his own soon formed. As the thought took fruition, he straightened his posture, reinvigorated with malformed creativity. "No, I mean...Well... No, that's a really good idea. Wait no, no-not the fishing part. But the drink? Going outside somewhere? It... just might work."

"Hmm?" Dove's attention was pulled away, the silent member of the team revealing a photograph from his scroll. The image itself was rather plain, though the meaning was understood nonetheless. A sunset, a hilltop, a checkered blanket, and various refreshments and medium-sized weaved baskets. "Hey...that may work too..."

"Asche has a good point. What if we did an afternoon or evening picnic? It could be a team moment. We could go to one of the cliffsides, crack open a bottle, share a bite to eat, and... I don't know, talk about whatever comes to mind?" Dove shrugged. "Hmm, I think I can swipe some liquor and snacks from Vale tomorrow. Sky, how do you feel about shopping for some baskets, a blanket, plates, and other utensils?" He asked, receiving a thumb's up from the boy.

The champion of ash then shook the shoulder of Dove, catching Sky's attention as well. Their eyes narrowed to the book the masked boy now held high. It was a simple photo, one taken from a common fairy tale. The scene drawn was of a portly baker, wearing a towering stark hat, holding a tray of freshly made muffins.

Sky and Dove both went pale, oblivious to the hidden glee from behind "Asche's" mask. "Asche", as he presented the depiction, offered nothing less than an innocent shrug. By itself, it was a gesture that incited no harm. However, his painfully obvious request most likely would be cause for a trip to the infirmary.

"You want to...bake the treats?" Sky stammered, his stomach already attempting to flee from thinking of how vile the boy's cooking was. The pit only deepened, threatening to swallow him whole as "Asche" offered a resounding nod of confirmation. "N-not to be rude but your skill... in the kitchen uh, so far has been kinda...well... you know... Uhm, a little not so goo-"

"Straight up fucking hazardous," Dove bluntly interjected.

"Yeah, that."

The unkindled one crossed his arms, tucking the book to his side. His gaze narrowed and his stance became poised. Much like the trickster Unbreakable Patches, he would be unbending in his choice. The remaining members of CEDL sighed... They had long since become aware of the young man's stubbornness.

"...If you promise not to make another disaster..." Dove trailed hesitantly. His eyes glanced toward Sky's own, and as the two shared in their reluctance, they had no reason (aside from their appetites' wellbeing) to deny the other boy. In the end, they reasoned that if the treats turned to be as horrendous as the dish from nights prior, they could always buy store-bought pastries. Dove sighed, shaking his head. Despite his screeching survival instincts kicking in, he surrendered. "...Then I guess you can."

The champion of ash closed his fists, allowing his excitement to shine through, as inaudible it had been. He became so enthralled in his "victory'', that the gaps in his mask threatened to close shut, much like the eyes that lie behind them. Dove could only sigh, Sky already at work writing an apology letter and unneeded disclaimer to their absent leader.

"Just keep it simple, nothing fancy. I'll send you some cookie recipes, they're easy, sweet, and enjoyable enough. If that doesn't work, there should be cookbooks in the culinary classrooms, they're open to using after hours." Dove cautioned, receiving a confirming nod from the masked teammate, who had wasted no time in his abrupt exit.

In record time, the ashen one had risen to his feet, breaking into a dead sprint. Before either could blink, Dove Bronzewing and Sky Lark were forced to watch their teammate blitz his way into the corridors of the university. Impressively, it appeared as if the boy had left an afterimage.

"I have a bad feeling about this..." Sky murmured. "Two hundred Lien says he burns them."

"Three hundred says he burns the culinary room down." Dove retorted.

The two shared one final glance, bearing into the other's gaze. "Oh, you are so on." The said in unison.

||| Much later... |||

Within the hallways of Beacon Academy, in a room used for culinary-centered classes, a sweet aroma cascaded from the closed door. The corridor outside expelled a scent of warm and homely cocoa, a sugary smell of brown sugar further captivating any passersby. Behind the door, the enchanting fragrance became near intoxicating. Further inside, a familiar silhouette waltzed as they silently hummed a foreign and long-forgotten tune. If memory had served correct, it was a lullaby for a noble of sorts, though the name escaped his mind ages ago.

"Asche Embers" washed the bowls, mixers, utensils, and so forth. The sink water, which had once been only lukewarm, now boiled, conjuring a screeching wave of steam as his bare arms plunged and wavered in the soap-filled water. He paid this no mind, it had been only a novice pyromancy meant for more idealistic uses. After he had finished scrubbing the last of the pans, the task of storing away excess ingredients came next. With the exception of the universities provided commodities, "Asche" stowed away the remaining flour, baking soda, sugar, and chips of cocoa into his bottomless pouch. Once finished, he stole a glance at the timer placed atop a local countertop.

Five more minutes, he had timed everything almost perfectly. As a slight reward, he allowed his thoughts to drift. Subject by subject, memory by memory, and so forth. Soon, all too soon, his mind shifted on his misplacement. More specifically, of those who knew of his misplacement.

Blake Belladonna was certainly not the only soul to have heard the tale of the "Ashen One". that much, by the account of Lie Ren's own sense of familiarity, was certain. Doubly so, the elusive and estranged headmaster proved time again he knew more than what was initially let on.

Though despite this, there had been a question burrowing its way into the silent warrior's mind.

What would another soul gain from the knowledge? Thus far, not one of the individuals made an attempt at profiting from the information. In regards of appearances and behaviors, it seemed as if the issue was merely superficial; a conniption of unneeded paranoia. If another would know, then what was lost? He, "Asche", by all accounts had no genuine reason to hide who and what he was.

By his own merit, he figured the conversations made from the revelation would grant him enough content to never tire or overstay a conversation. He could speak of his fondest compeers, the fiercest of blood-curdling duels, each masterly etched sight, or even of the more... stomach-wrenching moments.

But he, not unlike Seigward of Catarina, had a solemn vow to uphold.

It was a strange scenario the Ashen One had become entwined with. Though not plagued by the constant reminders of rot, corruption, defilement, or the utter loss of hope; it was foreign in a way that abyss itself would have been envious of. Speaking of the abyss... a billow of darkness soon engulfed the champion.

His thoughts were driven away, fleeing at the screeching of what he figured to be a siren, banshee, or any other similar creature. "Asche" felt an invasive stench resonate in his nose, one that even his beloved mask could not filter. Beneath the same veil, his violet eyes shook with fear... Had this impairing visage and unsettling miasma been the work of a witch? Perhaps it was corrupted sorcery, miracle, or pyromancy?

No... not quite, this was far more familiar to the unkindled one, one a being of ash should be all too acquaintanced with. This was no work of dark sorcery, no, this was a far more sinister

He fought back the curtain of shadow, shrugging away from the horrendous odors that came with it. With a small clearing, he eyed the object of his desire, a way to confirm what was transpiring around him. His gloved hand reached for a handle, the other switching a lever as the torrent of overhead fans bellowed.

The smoke began to dissipate, giving way to reveal a now open oven. With worry, the champion revealed two separate trays of round-shaped disks. One tray held two dozen blots; each blot matching the color of the smoke. Contrary, the other tray held just as many blots, though their color was far lighter, being a deep and lush brown.

His cookies... had burnt.

This was how "cookies" should look, correct? He wistfully pondered, doubting he could let such a trivial task incite worry. In truth, the "cookie" was far more akin to charcoal.

Both of the platters were set atop the stoving fixture, "Asche" waving the remaining smoke away with a handtowel. As the air cleared and after he had disengaged the smoke alarm, he looked over the pastries once more. They were still incredibly hot...the steam (and traces of smoke from the first tray) making it obvious. But, he himself was used as fuel before, his own bosom still flared with the first flame. And so, he grasped a jet black pastry, ignoring how much of a struggle it had been to pry it from the baking sheet. With a hesitant motion, he lifted the bottom of his mask, sliding the burnt desert over his cowl until...

He cringed at the sound, feeling as if he had tried to snap his jaw onto a rock. This was no "cookie". This thing, whatever it was, had been vile. He was deceived by his peers, by that forsaken "D. Goldman" recipe he had found within that damnable cookbook, utterly bewitched by his teammates into "expanding his horizons". His effort had been in vain, this realm's variant of "sweets" were unruly, and, for a moment, he wondered if consuming a literal piece of charcoal would have granted a more satisfactory taste.

He was disheartened, an inaudible whimper of defeat escaping his metallic second-face. His dress shoes, though thoroughly polished, were coated in shameful traces of lost effort and slain aspirations. No beast could compare to his blight. The countless deaths graciously bestowed from Darkeater Mydir, Slave Knight Gael, nor The Nameless King could hope to bask in the hue of crestfallen the champion of ash currently felt.

"Asche" trudged onward, albeit unwillingly. The silver tray reflected his own silver mask. For a moment, one onlooker could vow they saw the unmalleable veil form into a frown, despite it not having any facial carvings aside from the abysmal eyeholes. For another second, the unkindled one paused, the baking sheet raised above the opening of the trash bin. These...horrors were of his own making. To an extent, his children, his very own art of creation.

But they were perverse, unneeded, and born to wrought destruction on the pallets of man. With the shatter of his cindered heart, "Asche" cast his folly mistakes into the void of the plastic rubbish bag. Humanity and faunas both were saved from his dire abominations... but only at the cost of his pride and prior joy at having made the once delightful cookies.

How dare he, such lowly smoldered ash, even think of opening a bakery? More so when mistress misery is already a business.

As the last obsidian-like chunk clambered into the depths of the bin, the champion of ash hear an audible crunch from behind. He shook the pan, rapping the metallic surface against the ridges of the bin to shake away any remaining crumbs...or chunks of blackened stone. Throughout this exchange, the sound of chewing, the lapping of a satisfied tongue, and the slight intake of a fluid resonated the fairly quiet room.

Soon, "Asche" turned his body, locking his eyes on a familiar figure. The man licked his chocolate-smeared lips, a soft smile accompanying the last tinges of the devoured sweet. His white hair, forest-themed ensemble attire, and lavish cane left no mystery as to who the cookie burglar was.

"Hmm... I'd say more chocolate chips and of course...Sugar." Professor Ozpin advised before shoving the last piece of pastry into his mouth. After taking a moment to swallow the treat, he retraced his words. "And admittedly, far less emphasis on the baking time."

Even with the assuring smile from the headmaster, "Asche" dropped his gaze. Though the professor had yet to show discomfort in the probable awful taste, the unkindled one figured he had only been gifted in fighting back his instinctual gag reflex. Ozpin was only being nice. His cookies were horrendous, he knew it to be true. As brutally honest as CEDL had been from the weekend's cooking, he at least knew they were being blunt for the better. With a botched batch as he had just made, it was impossible for someone to enjoy unless they really had the most forgiving tastebuds.

"Still, they were enjoyable enough for crispy cookies. I didn't know you were trying your hand at baking, Asche." H continued, brushing away any already deserting crumbs on his deep-green sleeves.

"Are these for Miss Ruby Rose by any chance? I was informed you comforted her after a scuffle she had with Miss Weiss Schnee." Ozpin half-mindedly questioned. His hazel eyes met the pitch-black crevices of the champion's mask, the lighting allowing a sliver of still dulled-violet to faintly glimmer through. "Asche" shook his head, these were for another person entirely. "No? Then they're for... someone else?"

The champion gave a nod of the head. Before the older gentleman could form the next question, "Asche" revealed his scroll, flashing the lock screen to the headmaster. The pin code was placed affront a rather fitting image. CEDL, each member, including a still masked "Asche Embers" sat affront a camera. Each boy had an arm wrapped around another, an ensemble of haughty, confident, and uneasy smiles shown on each face. The champion of ash, however, cupped the two of his gloved hands to his "cheeks", accompanied by a slight tilt of the head. Clearly, it had been a primitive and rather plain and cheeky grin; the best to be afforded by an emotionless veil of silver.

A single finger tapped against the leader of the team, breaking Ozpin from the small trance he had placed himself under. As he blinked and returned to reality, he wiped away the smile he had seemingly formed from nowhere. How strange... He briefly thought before returning his focus on where "Asche" was gesturing at. His eyes squinted, not due to a struggle of sight, but rather from habit.

"Mister Cardin Winchester...? I see..." He softly murmured. The instructor cleared his throat, fixing the alignment of his back as the student turned off and subsequently pocketed the device. "His aunt has my deepest condolences. She was a fine student, one of the brightest, so long ago... much simpler times, they were..." He concluded with a breathless mutter.

As quickly as it began, the subtle air of calmness dissipated. Ozpin, both metaphorically and literally speaking, waved the stifling weight before it could take hold. His demeanor revitalized itself, only continuing to do so even as he began to communicate his departure. "Well, I shouldn't be taking up any more of your time. I merely came to check on what exactly that foul smell from earlier was. I hope you enjoy the rest of your day, Mister Embers." He announced, nudging his spectacles and collecting his trusty mug from a countertop.

With one fluid motion, the headmaster spun on his heels. He walked with the grace, comfort, and pride of a true headmaster, something Oorbeck of Vinhei would have respected dearly; even if out of necessity. As he stood in the doorframe, Ozpin glanced over his shoulder: a soft, small, simple, and honest smile painting its affectionate path across his lips.

"Oh, and if by chance you wish to bake again, Mister Lie Ren frequents here after dinner most days." He softly chuckled, offering one final word before he disappeared into the hallways of Beacon Academy. "His pastries are simply a delight."

After Ozpin took his leave, "Asche" glanced to the now empty tray.

...How in the first kiln was he supposed to give Cardin cookies if the headmaster had eaten them all?

||| [BONFIRE: LIT] |||

||| ["...Don't You Dare Go Hollow."] |||