The Cult of Rynsel

Uneven steps crunched down on the light snow of the harsh Siberian mountains. Icy winds razed the peaks and bit at the face of a young man, who, unbeknownst to himself, was steadily making his way towards an inevitable peril.

"Ace, this is the fifth meister that's abandoned you this semester."

A voice drifted through the man's head as he examined a fine map. The materials used to make this map were durable enough to survive the harsh environment of the European winters, but could the same be said of the map's owner?

"If you keep treating them like this, no one's going to want to be your partner. You have to learn to co-operate with someone other yourself."

More gusts of wind quickly brought tears his already-frostbitten face. His attempts at shielding his tear ducts from the unforgiving weather proved futile, and he soon gave up, deciding to utilize his free hand for the purpose of adjusting his bag, which contained nothing more than a communication device and a few provisions.

"They don't understand what they have! Why should I have to put up with their ignorance, when I'm the best tactician in the DWMA?"

The supposed 'best tactician in the DWMA' had reached a lofty overhang, which was situated above his destination. Without hesitation, his right arm morphed in to a long chain, which he wrapped around the conveniently placed stone beside him. His hand, which still resided at the end of the chain as if his arm were still there, latched itself on to the sturdy metal links encircling the rock, ensuring it's stability as a repelling anchor. Without considering the consequences of a failure in his plan, such as his hand slipping, or the rock being unearthed, he launched himself off the ledge, resulting in his feet steadily planting themselves on the icy wall.

"Well, if you're so concerned with proving to the other students that you're a diamond in the rough, then why don't you do that? We have a special mission in mind, and I think you're the perfect student to do it. What do you say?"

Once the man reached the point at which his chain could extend no further, he quickly released his grip and retracted the steel in to his body. His left arm became a blade, which plunged itself in to the arctic surface before him. About ten feet above the ground - which had seemed so far away until now - the ice that stood in the blade's future path broke off from the wall, releasing it from the blade's grip, and sending the man plummeting for the remaining distance. He landed roughly, but not fatally, on the chilled, Siberian, canyon floor.

"I say it's about time someone took me seriously, Mister Akagi." These were the last words Ace had with his teacher before setting out to Europe.

When the man lifted his head to examine the strange object he'd seen from his previous position, Ace was baffled.

Ace would hear a voice. "Stuck, my friend? Hold on, sending a rope down." He would then see, coming from the top of the canyon wall, a rope, with several large studs in it that seemed to be designed to aid in climbing. "Hurry up, I have not all day and I wish to return to the outpost before the soup overcooks."