• We're currently experiencing a minor issue with our email system preventing emails for new registrations and verifications going out. We're currently working to fix this
  • Be sure to join the discussion on our discord at: Discord.gg/serebii
  • If you're still waiting for the e-mail, be sure to check your junk/spam e-mail folders

A Leash of Foxes

What they said, but be careful- Not only do you have Zavarat as whatever she is now, but Stone may or may not be able to work out who you are, unless you have the same kind of unrecognizability affecting other people as well as yourself.

Also, keep an eye out for that damn bird. It will have to show itself sooner or later...
 

Cutlerine

Gone. Not coming back.
Take a moment to take your bearings and clear your head. What even just happened?

It is no use trying to run with a muddled head: you'll only end up running into the desert alone, and that would be fatal. You take a few deep breaths, and a sip of warm water from your canteen, and try to pin down exactly what happened.

That artefact contained part of Zavarat, you think – whatever she is. It was a large and powerful part of her, and now that she has retaken it she is something more than human.

She mentioned Dirge a lot, too. At times, she seemed almost more concerned with him than with Stone. They seem to complement each other, in many ways; the invincible man and the chair-bound woman, the enforcer and the overlord, the strong arm and the quick tongue. There is a connection there. Perhaps you can find out what it is, if you search. Zavarat is meant to have many agents in the East, after all. Some of them may talk, with the right persuasion.

You feel a little better now. Calmer, if not exactly serene.


Also, keep an eye out for that damn bird. It will have to show itself sooner or later …

A quick glance up confirms that it is still out of sight. You will be watching for it when it reappears.


Be careful – not only do you have Zavarat as whatever she is now, but Stone may or may not be able to work out who you are, unless you have the same kind of unrecognisability affecting other people as well as yourself.

You turn your thoughts to the other side of the conflict you have just left, to the militia of Joshua Stone. They will definitely know who you are now, after what you have done to their leader and his mansion. You may find it hard to remember details about yourself, but no one else does. Stone's people will be sure to spread the word through the militia's ranks as fast as possible. There will be drawings made, posters produced, bounties set – and soon, every single soldier in this ants' nest of a city will be watching for the person with the scars, and the gun.

Yes, you think, it is definitely time to be leaving.


After that, time to go. Head for the nearest exit.

You start towards the road, and then stop. No. Leaving the city on foot would be suicide. Wherever your destination, if you try to walk there through the desert, you will be bleached bone in the dust long before you make it. If you are to leave, it will have to be with others.


What Deadly said. When escaping the city, make sure you have enough water with you. The last thing we would like is having the same scenario as when you woke up in the desert. Or try to get on some sort of transport. As long as you get away, quickly and safely.

You run over the options in your head. Perhaps you could try and cadge a ride on a thundertrain as unskilled labour. Or maybe they need rowers on an airgalley, although the Peak folk usually prefer to keep to their own. And then of course there are always guards wanted for the merchant caravans.

Whatever you choose, choose quickly. Every hour you stay here, more militia soldiers become aware that you are their foe. Given the outrage you have caused, it seems likely to you that the majority will have been alerted by sundown, though it will be a while longer before the wanted posters start appearing.
 

Pink Harzard

So majestic
After some consideration I think it's the best to go with a merchant. They travel a lot and dislike to waste time. It will be a good thing to use your talents for protection, instead of distruction.
Maybe you meet Rosalind again. (small chance but still possible)
 
The options you have are not terrible, per se, just limiting. If the Peaks people like keeping to themselves it would make people unlikely to look for you there, but also difficult to get in on. A thundertrain labourer might be an easy job to pick up, but there will be many not-so-fortunate people who would also want the job, plus you would stand out (Carrying a gun and all) and if spotted, would limit the search to a much smaller area than it currently is.

Seeing as you arrived as a guard, it's best to leave as one too- not least because people would expect a guard to have scars in some manner, but also because you know exactly what to do. The area that people would have to search to find you is much larger as well. The only trick will be finding a caravan to guard, so best hustle to find one.
 

Cutlerine

Gone. Not coming back.
After some consideration I think it's best to go with a merchant. They travel a lot and dislike to waste time. It will be a good thing to use your talents for protection, instead of destruction. Maybe you'll meet Rosalind again. (Small chance, but still possible.)

Consider stowing away on a train. I have a feeling that would result in some fun. And besides, good Westerns always have trains.

The options you have are not terrible per se, just limiting. If the Peaks people like keeping to themselves it would make people unlikely to look for you there, but also difficult to get in on. A thundertrain labourer might be an easy job to pick up, but there will be many not-so-fortunate people who would also want the job, plus you would stand out (carrying a gun and all) and if spotted, it would limit the search to a much smaller area than it currently is.

Seeing as you arrived as a guard, it's best to leave as one too- not least because people would expect a guard to have scars in some manner, but also because you know exactly what to do. The area that people would have to search to find you is much larger as well. The only trick will be finding a caravan to guard, so best hustle to find one.


Accompanying a merchant would be your best bet, you decide. You know you're good at that, and you have the skills for it. The pay would probably be better than on a thundertrain, too, and you have to take such things into consideration when all the money you have can be carried around in one pocket. And besides, anyone can be part of a train crew; all you need is willpower and a strong back. Let those jobs go to those who are not killers.

You think. While the bulk of the city's trade is focused here, this isn't where merchants look for guards. There is a small square to the north of here, in the grimier Iron District, where mercenaries can be found. That is where traders look for people to accompany them; that is where you need to be.

So much for that. You head down the arcade towards the turning that will take you northwards, letting your jacket fall over the butt of your gun. With your head down, you aren't very distinctive – another grimy mercenary in a city full of them – but that shimmering stone is definitely not normal. You don't want anyone noticing – or, worse, asking questions.

It is when you reach the corner that you realise you are not going unwatched.

A movement to your right catches your eye. Your hand is on your gun even before you look; when you see that it is two members of the militia coming towards you, one waving, your fingers tighten around it. It would be unwise to shoot two people in the middle of a crowded marketplace. That is not to say that you won't do it, if you have to.

“Hey,” calls the lead one, a short, stocky woman armoured with polished brown scales. “Have you heard the news?”

You blink. This was not the reaction that you were expecting.

“The news,” repeats the other, a sunburnt Peak man in requiemsteel. “Someone broke into the boss' house.”

You are not sure why they are telling you this. Thankfully, they take your surprise to be shock at what they have told you.

“Yeah, it's a real mess,” says the woman. “Tore up the place pretty bad, from what I've heard. And stole some―” She checks herself. “Well, maybe I'd better not say out here.” She indicates the people all around you. They are all doing an excellent job of pretending that the three of you are not getting in their way, and walk around you with feigned nonchalance. “Ask someone when you're off-duty,” she says.

“The news,” the Peak man reminds her quietly.

“Eh? Oh, yeah!” She grins and scratches her chin. “Yeah, yeah. Everyone is on alert, that's the thing. You gotta be watching for someone about average height, brown skin, bulgy eyes. They're gonna send out a more detailed description later, so I'd check back at the barracks in a couple of hours. Got it?”

You nod weakly.

“Excellent,” she says. “Be seein' you, then. We got a lot of other people to tell.”

The Peak man nods goodbye, and the two of them walk away. As soon as the crowd has separated them from you, you turn around and run.

It was the sash that saved you, you realise now – the militia sash that you still have around your waist. They saw that and didn't look at you too closely; if they'd known that you got into Stone's house by posing as a militia officer – or if they'd had a better description – or―

There will be a time for that sort of speculation, you tell yourself, interrupting your panic before it can get underway. But not now. For now, you have to escape.

Reaching the main east-west street, you stop and take off the sash, stuffing it into your pocket. It might be useful as a disguise later, but right now, the last thing you want is increased visibility.

You cross the street and plunge into the grimy brick maze of the Iron District. Almost immediately, the people begin to be more wary of you; children playing in the dust flee at your approach, and the adults stay on the other side of the road, if they can. A civilian as heavily armed as you is an anomaly here. They do not know what you are, and that makes you even more of a threat than the sword and the gun.

Past buildings that lean and others that sag; past tired shops with no glass in the windows; past a dead pigeon and the scrawny Lillipup fighting over it. It gets worse than this, further to the north, in the hellish smoke of the foundries. But after the mansions in the east, and the vibrant market afterwards, returning here is bad enough. You feel like an intruder; the street itself seems to fear you.

Spend too long here, perhaps, and you will begin to fear yourself.

Soon enough, you come to the mercenary square: a broad, paved area, fringed with saloons and posters advertising work. Tables spill out of the bars, filling the edges of the square with a tangle of wood and warriors of all stripes – swordslingers and gunners, arbalists and war-chemists, trainers of dogs and of Pokémon. The last group has enormous variety in itself; there seem to be enough species here to start up a respectable zoological garden. From humble Sandslash and Stoutland through more exotic Heliolisk and Donphan all the way to the Machamp flexing its enormous muscles in the corner, the sheer number of beasts is astonishing. It is not often that you see so much fauna gathered in one place out here in the East.

In the midst of all this, less well-armed people move about, occasionally stopping to question mercenaries about prices. Those are the traders, or their messengers. Some are simply picking the cheapest; others are looking for fidelity and skill. You will take any price to get out of the city, and it is no conceit to say that you are probably one of the more dangerous people here. If you can get talking to one of them, it shouldn't be too hard to get hired.

You pass a woman with four eyeless blue bats fluttering around her head – a species you do not recognise; it must be foreign – and catch the eye of a slightly confused-looking young man in a floppy hat. He is looking from face to hardened face with an expression that tells anyone who cares to look that he is both very intimidated and rather inexperienced.

He also doesn't seem to be the type to start a conversation, so you take the lead and ask what he's looking for.

“Oh. Er, hello,” he says awkwardly, flinching. “I've – I'm – er, I'm looking for three guards for my master's Crustle-train.”

What are the requirements, you ask, in a way that implies you already think you fulfil them.

“W-well,” he stammers, “you'll need experience, and not too expensive, and―”

You ask him to name his price.

“Fifteen dollars,” he replies. You are meant to haggle – fifteen dollars is only twice as much as you were paid for your work in the train shed – but you shrug and tell him that it's a deal.

He blinks and gapes like a dying fish.

“What – really?”

You nod. Really.

“Do you have your own horse?”

Ah. You sigh. Perhaps this is not going to be as easy as you think. No, you tell him, you do not.

“Then I'm sorry, but, um, we can't take you,” he says. “We haven't any to spare, and―”

It's fine, you tell him. There's no need for all that.

You walk away before he can tangle himself up in unnecessary apologies, wondering how many jobs will require you to have a horse. Most of them, you suspect; guards are at their most useful when they aren't attached to the wagon itself. You were lucky with Rosalind – in fact, you doubt she'd have taken you at all under less irregular circumstances.

Shouts ring out behind you. Another young man, this one evidently less timid, has started an argument with the bat woman over prices. She stares at him, unimpressed, and after a few painful seconds he seems to realise that his words are having slightly less effect on her than they would on a piece of stone. Worse still, no one listens to him now as a matter of principle, and after a couple of unsuccessful attempts to solicit others he slinks off, dejected.

Hm. Perhaps there is an opportunity there. After all, he doesn't have many options left, and it would be possible to take advantage of that.


Note: Oh my goodness, you guys are so nice and thoughtful. I wasn't expecting people to interpret our nameless protagonist as such a considerate, peace-loving person. This will certainly make some future events rather interesting!
 
Last edited:

Pink Harzard

So majestic
Follow the rejected guy and ask what he needs. This could be your big chance.
 
While trying to get a job, keep an eye out for anyone who might recognize you; it would be inconvenient to be caught now, just as you are leaving.

OOC: No, I'm not paranoid, why do you ask? *shifty eyes*
 

Cutlerine

Gone. Not coming back.
Look around and try and get a job, but don't draw too much attention to yourself.

Follow the rejected guy and ask what he needs. This could be your big chance.

While trying to get a job, keep an eye out for anyone who might recognize you; it would be inconvenient to be caught now, just as you are leaving.


After the young man disappears around the corner, you wait a minute – there is no sense in making your ploy too obvious; the other mercenaries would not approve – and follow him. In the distance, you see him turn right, and you have to break into a jog to catch up.

When you round the corner and finally do, you almost collide with three officers of Stone's militia.

“Well, then,” says one of them. “That was bloody easy, weren't it?”

You suck in a sharp breath. This was a trap? And so soon? How did Stone find out so much so fast? Or is this merely one of many traps laid at exits to the city in the hope of drawing you out―?

The glint of sunlight on steel brings you back to the present. One of the soldiers has pointed his sword directly at your breast.

“Yield,” he says, and something in you responds to his words with a sentence of its own.

Be bold, be bold, but not too bold.

You look at him askance, like a bird sizing up a morsel of food. He shifts uncomfortably, and his companions raise their swords as well. They have guns too, you see, but as yet they are holstered.

You are faster than them. You are stronger. You are in every way a superior engine for ending lives. Several ways to kill the three men compete in your head, jostling for attention, each proclaiming their own advantages – speed, silence, no use of ammunition.

But you are not so sure that you want to put them into action.


Note: Looks like your paranoia was justified, scizorstrike. I'm totally not sorry about that.
 
Last edited:

Pink Harzard

So majestic
Cr*p! Well, do the thing Deadly advised. If it is needed to kill them to get away, do that. You can even steal their stuff if you have enough time.
Then run away like the wind and steal a wagon. Get out of town. And fast.

(And suddenly our protoganist isn't that peacefull and considerate anymore :p)
 

Darkened_Kingdra

Whatcha want?
OOC: I am alive. Not on much, but still loving all of this stuff.

IC:Try to take out the guards nonlethally(although a few knocks to the head wouldn't hurt) and be quiet. No gun: way too noisy. Then get out of town any way you can.
 

Cutlerine

Gone. Not coming back.
Pretend to surrender, and make your move while they're off-guard.

If it is necessary to kill them to get away, do that. You can even steal their stuff if you have enough time.

Then run away like the wind and steal a wagon. Get out of town. And fast.

Try to take out the guards non-lethally(although a few knocks to the head wouldn't hurt) and be quiet. No gun: way too noisy.


You raise your hands, palms forwards, in the universal gesture of surrender.

“Smart,” says the militiaman, stepping forwards to take hold of your arm. “Now―”

Be bold!

Your fingers knot about his wrist and pull: half a second later, his arm is pinned behind his back and you have smashed his forehead into the pommel of his own sword. His fellows lunge for you, but you thrust the first man back in their direction and he lurches into them, groaning.

They don't fall, but they stagger – and that's enough. You have room now to draw the desert woodsman, and before anyone else can so much as blink you have swing the flat of the blade into the head of the man on the left. His head impacts on that of his colleague with a satisfying crack, and the two men hit the ground within moments of each other. Seconds later, the first man joins them.

For a moment, you are stunned. Yes, you defeated Lily easily enough before – but these were three men, and unlike her they were expecting you. And still, you floored them all without any of them so much as touching you. They were probably not well trained. Nor did they have guns. But still.

Then someone cries out, and you realise that you are standing in a busy street over the bodies of three unconscious militiamen, holding a broadsword. Dozens of pairs of eyes are on you now; you look at each in turn, and wonder what they see. A lunatic, perhaps. A monster, certainly.

You suppose you would rather be a live monster than a dead pacifist.

The harsh bark of a gun, and a star of flame blossoms on the wall next to you. Militia reinforcements are coming, then – and with houndtooth bullets, they only need to wing you to set you on fire. As charcoal sashes make their way through the staring crowd, you shove your sword back onto your back and run. People get out of your way with curious alacrity, despite the officers' shouted commands. Perhaps they are afraid – or perhaps they wish they had the skill to do what you have just done, and lay the militia out on the ground.

Or perhaps, you think, as the heat of a passing houndtooth warms your face, you ought to forget the hypothesising and focus on running.

Through the crowd and into a side-street – but here is another militia officer, her Houndoom snarling madly, and you turn right into an alley as a cone of flame bursts from its mouth and scours the dirt off the pavement. It reminds you unpleasantly of the sound that came from Zavarat's rooftop hideout, when you gave her the―

Something swoops down low over your head, cackling wildly. Wheeling around to face you, the Murkrow's eyes begin to glow, and you feel the unstoppable weight of a Mean Look settling over your limbs―

A thing like black lighting falls from the sky, and the Murkrow is abruptly hauled away again in talons bigger still than its own. It shrieks, calling out half in bird-screams and half in parroted human words, and you catch a glimpse, before a rooftop cuts off your view, of the silhouette of a great raptor bearing it away.

Your watcher, you think. Evidently it has plans for you that Stone's militia would get in the way of.

There is a howl and a crack of gunfire behind you, and you burst free of the alleyway as bullets and flame cast a harsh light on your back. You are back on a busy street – and here there are more militia still, and a few government soldiers, too. The former waste no time in pushing through the crowd towards you; the latter, confused but apparently convinced there is some crime going on, join them. How many of them are there? Has Stone pulled the entire force from their patrol routes to line the city with his traps? Maybe they aren't all after you in particular; maybe they are only chasing you because you are clearly fleeing their comrades.

You have time to think this – there is a temporary lull in the barrage of bullets and Pokémon attacks as you and your pursuers navigate the crowd. It gives you an idea; if you can get to a crowded enough place, perhaps you can lose them entirely – take off your hat and become one more citizen in the throng. With this in mind, you press south, towards the thickest part of the crowd, and unexpectedly emerge into Allomach Square.

The place is heaving. Yesterday's fair is still in full swing; citizens with nothing better to do are as fascinated as ever by the exhibitions, the merchandise, the Charizard at the centre. Here, the crowd is so tightly-packed it is a struggle to breathe, let alone move. You could scarcely wish for a better place to disappear.

Into the crowd, then, and off with your hat, tucking it under one arm. You aren't nearly so distinctive now, and you can hear curses from the group following you. The Houndoom barks; a child cries out in fear. The big dog seems to have caused something of a commotion, and its mistress is held back to deal with it. Other soldiers are having trouble getting the crowd to make way for them, and one has had to sheathe his sword for lack of space. You let out a sigh of relief. It seems like you are going to get away.

You slow down, trying to vanish – fairgoers don't run. The Charizard snuffles dismally beneath its iron mask; you glance up at it, and wander a little closer, as if curious.

A minute passes. Then another. No apprehending hands sink onto your shoulder.

You sigh again, and your heart begins at last to slow. Worming your way through the crowd, you head for the main thoroughfare. From there, you can make a long loop to the northwest and get back to the mercenary square via the back roads, or go south through the crowded markets to get to the docks and trainsheds. If you're careful, you should be able to avoid―

You halt.

There are no fewer than eight of Stone's agents posted at the west exit to the square, and they are slowly working their way forwards through the crowd.

A strange feeling comes over you. It is not fear, exactly, and not anticipation – though there are certainly elements of both in it. No, if you had to put a name to it – and you know that you could not do that without somehow spoiling it – if you had to put a name to it, you would call it concern. Something is about to happen, you can tell. And you cannot tell whether it will be to your advantage or not.

You fight your way over to the other side of the square, and see, as if in a mirror, another cordon of eight officers coming towards you.

The north, you know, still has your original pursuers. South? You are already certain of what you will find there. But you try anyway, only to back away as a line of soldiers rises to meet you.
You head to the centre, uncertain of what to do. The feeling that something will happen is getting stronger; your vision seems to blur and your head shakes as you look up, searching for the bird in the ocean of sky above.

There it is, circling as ever – an angel of misfortune, riding post before the tide of future evil. Sweat prickles on your forehead like warm needles. The air is hot and tense. The militia are not far off now. The air is too dry to breathe. The militia are not far off. Your vision shimmers. The bird shimmers. The militia are not far off.

Your head pounds.

The air chokes you.

The militia are close.

The militia.

Are here.


Then get out of town any way you can.

The bird suddenly glides out of sight, and your senses return to you with what feels like a palpable blow. You stagger under the imagined impact, and the fence surrounding the Charizard cage digs into the small of your back.

What happened? What did the bird do? Where did the last couple of minutes go?

“There!” cries someone, and you see the militia advancing very fast now, only a few yards away. They lie on all sides; the only place to go is over the fence, and so you vault it. There: another half a foot between you and them. But what good is that? Where else is there to―?

Time seems to slow. A bullet ricochets off the bars of the cage. You barely notice.

You draw your gun and put three rounds into the shackle of the padlock confining the Charizard.

Its head rises instantly, alerted by the noise. As the shattered lock falls away, you drag the heavy bolt across, hardly daring to believe you are doing what you are doing. People are shouting now; they back away, trying to get away from the door you are shouldering open. Most of the militia are caught in the tide, but one or two make it over the fence. There are no more bullets. They simply fling themselves against the cage door, trying to force it shut again – but you have slipped through, and are standing by the Charizard's great foreleg, slotting a houndstooth into your gun as the iron-bound head snakes back and forth above you, questingly, warily.

You raise your gun.

Someone yells at you to stop.

You fire into the hasp of the muzzle.

The Charizard's head rocks with the impact, and in sudden panic it tries to rear up, forgetting the cage. The metal bands begins to glow where the bullet hit, a deep orange red – and as its horns jostle the roof, the whole contraption slips an inch.

The dragon freezes.

It snuffles.

And it puts its head against the ground, plants its claws on the muzzle, and pulls.

As its neck arches with strain, its back lowers. There is a half-second chance here. If you take it, you are reasonably sure that it will probably kill you.

But if you don't, the militia certainly will.

Be bold, be bold …

You holster your gun, put one foot on its knee and jump up onto its back. Its skin is hot as metal in the sun, and it burns even through your clothes – but you grip the scaly nodules of its hide, clambering up and between its shoulder blades, in the hollow between its neck and its wings―

Abruptly, the Charizard's head snaps back, free, and its whole body jerks with the force of the movement. It nearly throws you off, but you wrap your hands around two of the fox charms attached to its neck, pieces of carved bone pierced through the flesh, and though you are lifted up and into the air you slap back down onto its back again a second later. It feels like being punched in the chest by a Magmortar – but you are still hanging on.

Dimly, through the pain and the effort, you are aware that the crowd is scattering; that the militia are staring, appalled and astonished; that the Charizard is rubbing its long-blinkered eyes as they adjust to the glaring sun. People are screaming.

And then the Charizard roars, and there is no other sound in all the world.

Your ears bleed and your face seems to sizzle with the heat and volume of the sound pouring out of the dragon's mouth; pigeons rise up into the air in clouds that should clatter but cannot, because all the noise in the world belongs to the Charizard's roar, every shout and curse and footstep, every gunshot and beating wing, everything is caught up and drowned out in that bone-shaking sound―

It walks.

Lumbering forward, it butts its head against the door and smashes it wide open, knocking a man flying and tearing a hole in the barrier fence. Someone shoots at it – or you think they do; you can hear nothing but a steady ringing in your ears – but it doesn't seem to care. It lurches out of the cage, unstoppable, and soldier and citizen alike scatter before it. Clinging tightly to the piercings on its neck, you feel like a mosquito caught up on the back of a hurricane.

And then it rears onto its hind legs and spreads its wings, and somewhere in the spinning morass of terror and awe that is your brain you realise what is about to happen―

You don't hear the displaced air. But you certainly feel it.

The vast wings beat, and a hot wind tears at your face as the Charizard rises. You are half certain that the impact has knocked your mind out of your brain, and left it pooling in the dirt while the rest of you ascends, so that the flight is a tangle of sensations without any connection between them―

―burning scales beneath and seething air above―

―blood trickling from your ears―

―rooftops spiralling away into a desert-coloured hole―

―the sky turning grey and narrowing to a pinprick―

And then, blissfully, nothing.

*​

It is quiet here.

Beneath the earth, there is no fire or wind, no sound and fury. There is just you and the stones, and the shadowed figure with three eyes who stands opposite you. Or perhaps the figure is the stones; they seem to flow out of it, an extension of the earth. They are old, that much is certain. Even without seeing them, you can tell that they are old. Their bones are those of the soil itself.

The figure watches, and says nothing.

Perhaps the time has come for you to speak first.

Note: Oh man. You have no idea how glad I am that you went down this route rather than the other two. This was by far the most exciting way you could escape Scourston. Also, Deadly: apologies, but it's hard to dual-wield guns when you only have one firearm.
 

Pink Harzard

So majestic
OOC: My goodness. Escaping on the back of the Charizard. I haven't been thinking about it. What you just pulled off was awesome. :O

Say hi and be friendly. If it asks questions tell the truth. This is probally something powerfull. (I mean three eyes, that isn't human.)
 
OOC: I go away for a week and look what happens. This is why I'm always paranoid. Although, is it really paranoia if they are actually out to get you?

Three eyes is obviously not human, and likely to not be a Pokemon either (That is, unless it's Jirachi, which seems unlikely). Don't make any threatening moves, or moves that could possibly be misconstrued as threatening, but look around for a way to exit if one exists.
 

Deadly.Braviary

Well-Known Member
It's the three-eyed crow! (Cutlerine, please tell me you read A Song of Ice and Fire. Or someone. Anyone?)

Anyway, for some reason, I have a feeling it's one of those prophetic cryptic foreshadowing things (like the Cthulhu-ish dreams in Petroleum). Or maybe it's the bird.

Check that you're in one piece and in good condition. Also, if the thing starts saying cryptic stuff, interpet it in the most ridiculous way possible.

~Deadly
 

Cutlerine

Gone. Not coming back.
Check that you're in one piece and in good condition.

Forgetting for a moment that this is a dream, you pat yourself, checking for anything broken. There is nothing, of course. You are unconscious.


Three eyes is obviously not human, and likely to not be a Pokémon either (That is, unless it's Jirachi, which seems unlikely). Don't make any threatening moves, or moves that could possibly be misconstrued as threatening, but look around for a way to exit if one exists.

Say hi and be friendly. If it asks questions tell the truth. This is probably something powerful. (I mean three eyes, that isn't human.)

You greet the stranger, who inclines their shadowed head.

“YOU HAVE DONE WELL,” they say, in their gigantic voice. The walls tremble a little as they speak; earth patters down from the ceiling in streams of fine powder. “YOU ARE NEARLY HOME.”

Home? Where is home? For that matter, what is it?

You voice your concerns to the being, but they merely shake their head.

“NORTHEAST,” they say. “GO NORTHEAST. THEY WILL BE WAITING.”

But who are they? Who is it who will be waiting?

They look at you. Two narrow white eyes and one wide red one shine like jewels in the dark of their face.

“YOU WILL SEE,” they tell you. “BE READY. AND BE BOLD.”

Your eyes widen. How did they―?

Without warning, the cave dissolves, and you wake.

Almost immediately, you wish you were still asleep.

Your hands are on fire with cramp, your arms ache, and your whole body feels as tender and taut as a fresh burn. There is a dull pounding in your head, like pain but more lethargic, and your mouth and throat are so dry they hurt.

But you are, at least, still holding onto the piercings.

The Charizard is coasting through the sun-bright sky, its great wings barely moving as it rides the thermals northwards. Hot winds still lash your face, but they are weaker now than before; of more concern is the heat radiating from the Charizard's back, and from the sun. Between the dehydration and the strain of holding on, you aren't sure you can maintain your newly-regained consciousness for that much longer. You haven't the strength to move your head to look down, or even to see if your host has noticed you yet.

If it weren't for the pain, you would be half convinced that you were dead.

You are thirsty.

You are badly injured.



Note: Deadly.Braviary: Sorry, I don't. I keep meaning to, but your author is a busy woman, and has barely had time to read even one book for pleasure in the last month. Also, apparently, she talks about herself in the third person. Which she should stop doing before it gets irritating. But - and this is the point I was aiming for before I got distracted - I do have a vague idea of what you're talking about. It's, like, a three-eyed bird that appears in a dream, right? If so, I swear the parallels between that and this are completely unintentional.

scizorstrike: yep, all that paranoia definitely paid off. Scourston is very much Stone's town these days, as you've probably gathered; it's hard to avoid him there if he wants to find you. Although what with Zavarat's restoration, things might be getting a bit less one-sided out here in the East ...

Pink Harzard: Yes. Yes, it was. I was willing to let everyone escape any way they wanted, but I was fervently hoping you would choose to be a guard, because what's the point of having a giant angry dragon in the middle of a city if you don't plan on releasing it?

Besides. Dragons are cool.
 
Last edited:
Badly injured, dehydrated, and only barely enough strength to hang on. Hmm.

Hang on and hope it lands or slows down soon. If you fall from this height without looking chances are you'll die from the landing, and you don't have the strength to check. Just hang on and hope for the best.
 
Top