Chapter 0--Prologue
Three Hours Before Moon-set (10:00 mst)
Dragoonian Army border camp
Fort Hydra, Dragoonian Protectorate
In the weeks it had taken me to flee Obair Paiste, I'd never had the urge to look back.
It was funny how that works. You spend so long among a group of Pokemon you learned to call your friends. Then in the end, when they're all dead and gone, you eventually learn to toughen up and forget about them. Sad, isn't it? But during my time in this world, I'd come to learn that it was the Obairian way. Hell, the rulers among the Council of Kings that ran the country couldn't even keep from stabbing their allies in the back, so who was to say that their subjects would be any different? From my point of view, getting out of there as quickly and quietly as I could was probably my best option anyway. I'd lost the protection of two royal families, and despite the fact I had not chosen what I had become (not to mention all the time I had spent trying to prove to the country that I was not something to be feared), I was an enemy in the eyes of the Patchwork Kingdoms.
There was no use in keeping the target on my back, so at first light I'd set out for the land that every ruling tribe spoke of with scorn; the land beyond the borders of Pepan Territory where the thick trees of Glenwood Forest gave way to scarred, rocky wasteland. This was the shattered remains of a state that was once a proud member of Obair's royal confederacy. However, dissent and distrust among the ruling tribes had caused it to secede, creating a sovereign state that eventually became Obair's military rival. Apparently, it was the perfect place for a "barbarian" like me.
I caught sight of the Dragoonian Protectorate's royal flag just as I crested one particularly rocky hill. I stopped for a moment to dig a pebble from the sole of my foot, sighing with relief at the knowledge that food and rest were mere paces away. I was famished (the consequence of eating the last of the berries and Borealin crackerbread I'd packed a couple of days prior) and my feet were killing me. Right now, I could care less if all they had was raisins and hard straw mats to sleep on...anything was better than walking for another hour in this godsforsaken crag, with only the scorching sun and painful memories to keep me company.
Shortly after I raised myself back to full height, I could hear faint shouts and see a swarm of activity from the tents closest to my location… I'd been spotted. Either there were flying sentinels I hadn’t noticed, or these soldiers had stupendous eyesight. Either way, I knew one of two things would happen: they could see me for who I was and call me a sister, or they could kill me and call me a spy. Since I had destroyed my Rescue Team badge long ago (thus breaking all ties I had had with my former team and erasing my involvement with the Pepan Royal Rescue Guild), I just had to hope these Dragoonians were charitable enough to not consider the latter.
"Hark, brothers!" I called out in the loudest voice I could muster -- not an easy task for how beaten I was. I couldn't help but wince at my voice as it cracked halfway through my sentence. "Perhaps you could spare a bed for a weary traveler?!"
There was a brief, orange flash of light as one of the soldiers' armor caught the light of the late afternoon sun. I was briefly reminded of a flame inside the rind of a pumpkin, but shook the thought from my mind as the soldiers came closer, bearing swords and spears and various regimental markings. With all my strength suddenly sapped from my body, I fell to my knees, keeping my red eyes down at the ground as the Dragoon soldiers surrounded me.
“Great Arceus above -- it
is one of ours!”
“From the direction of Obair? But how can that be?”
“An expatriate, perhaps?”
“Or a traitor!”
Their confused banter swirled around me as I was roughly pulled to my feet and dragged back in the direction of the camp. My aching soles scrambled to find purchase as I was tugged along, but thankfully, the guards wouldn’t walk too fast with me. I knew my species was… bulky, to say the least, so there was no use dragging me off like a sack of potatoes if nothing was visibly broken. That was just begging for some back strain.
Despite the one soldier’s deduction that I was a possible traitor, at least it didn’t seem like they were going to kill me. Imprison me, maybe, but so what? At this point even being held prisoner here would be better (not to mention safer) than where I'd come from. On top of that, a place to rest was nothing more than that, be it in some prison cell or in the commander’s own accomodations (like I’d be that lucky). At least I wouldn’t be wandering any longer.
"I suppose the questions can wait until later," a voice from off to my left was saying. The authority his words carried lead me to believe that he was probably an officer, or at the very least a sergeant. This observation was confirmed when he immediately began barking orders left and right.
"You! Go alert the medic! And you! Go to the barracks and get the commander. Tell him we have a visitor, and it's urgent."
Quiet affirmations were given and the crowd around me shrank by about four…good. As tired and hungry as I was, I still didn't feel too comfortable having so many press so close to me. Those who still had their arms around me had fallen silent, but now that same authoritative voice was in front of me, his three-headed shadow imposing against my dark green scales in the fading sunlight of the wastelands. The Hydreigon mumbled quietly to himself as he examined my weary, battered form, taking particular interest in my face.
"This is excellent workmanship," he mumbled, tapping the metal caps that covered my broken tusks. Of course he was going to go for those. I'd told Rinkus when he ordered the Glenwood blacksmith to prepare them for me, crafting them primarily from gold was probably not a good idea; especially when I started running missions after outlaw Pokemon. But, true to the fashion of his people, he'd insisted. And so now I am currently the only Fraxure in the known Pokemon world with gold teeth. I know the priest had had good intentions; I was his charge after all, and in Pepan culture, the amount of gold you had indicated your status. To let the dependent of a high-ranking Pepan go without showing the world how wealthy their household was equated to insulting them. But I'd be damned if my tusks weren't the most useless part of me now.
The officer was gripping them now, probably testing to see if the metal was strong enough for practical use. I winced as a bolt of pain shot across my face from a particularly emphatic squeeze, turning away from the offending hand as the soldiers pressed me forward. The officer must have seen it as he immediately lowered his arms, his voice soft as he spoke. "Though the injury must be recent… I apologize."
"Eh, you're fine… sir," I added quickly. "They're just sensitive is all."
I swallowed noisily, still putting every last bit of effort into taking each step so that the Dragoonians weren't working overtime to drag me along.
"Also...I'm not a traitor." Not to them, at least. I still wasn't quite sure what fleeing Obair had made me. It's not like I had any hereditary claim to the land. I never pledged my allegiance to any ruling tribe. A few months ago I wasn't even a Pokemon.
"Never said you were," the voice replied dismissively. "Though that doesn't mean we don't have any questions. We are indeed on the outs with the Confederacy, and surely the commander isn’t going to overlook the fact that you came from their direction.”
Despite my weary condition, I couldn’t help but laugh. It was a forced, harsh sound; one that cracked instantly when it left my parched throat, and carried no mirth in it, but I could tell from the way the two lesser soldiers shifted me in their arms that it had been unexpected. I raised my head up as high as I could, my eyes traveling the rest of the way until I met my eyes with the officer’s.
“Believe me, sir,” I spoke to the Hydreigon, my gaze unwavering as red irises met purple. “By the time I'm through with your questioning, one rogue Pokemon is going to be the least of your concerns."
An awkward silence passed between us, and for a moment or two, I was half-expecting one of the officer’s smaller heads to slap me across the face for daring to look at him without permission. But instead, he gave me a small, imperceptible nod and continued walking (or flying rather) with me into the main camp.
It was a pretty fancy place for a rebel outpost. It seemed as if the rumors of Dragoonians preying on each other for lack of food were completely false; the sweet, tangy scent of broasted berries wafted from one of the bigger tents in the main square, and every soldier I saw seemed to be eating well. Predictably, my own stomach complained loudly at the multitude of food smells cloying at my nose, drawing the officer’s eyes to me at the same time my gaze met his. “...S-Sorry,” I stammered. “I’ve been walking for a long time.”
“I’ll be sure the cook provides you with some rations while you wait,” the Hydreigon officer replied softly, turning his main head and relaying the necessary command to whatever laymon wasn’t holding me still. Another head vanished from our group, and our posse kept at their solemn march until we finally stopped at a large canvas tent, colored a hunter’s green and marked with both the dragontooth symbol of the Protectorate and the universal symbol of medicine: a simple white cross inlaid on a red shield.
I’d never seen anything more beautiful in my life.
Darkness swam across my vision for my moment and I stumbled as the Hydreigon pulled aside the tent flaps, my legs painfully protesting my every step until the Dragoons holding me upright were practically carrying me. Pungent alcohols stung my sensitive nose, and more commotion arose around me as the shadow of an Audino passed over me. I don’t know at what point they laid me down on an open cot...I just know that I was not on it for very long until my eyelids grew too heavy for me to keep open, and I fell into a fitful sleep.
Vernal.
It is a word describing that which is associated with the season of spring, or pertaining to something spring-like. It is a word that calls to mind clean air, new life, and renewal. Hence, I had thought it the perfect name for our Team, as we had big plans to make a difference in a country embroiled in the political tensions of a decentralized state. We were supposed to be the “new life” of the Patchwork Kingdoms, bringing law and order to the increasingly lawless Territories...but in the end, we’d failed to do even that.
If only I’d noticed it from the start, perhaps I would not have been so blind. Perhaps I could have stopped it--no. A foolish notion. A human state of mind. Upon coming to terms with who I was, I was also beginning to see that humans seemed to have a way with clinging to any glimmer of hope with white-knuckled determination, no matter how nonexistent it was. We were simply caught in the shockwave of a truly gargantuan political ploy, and even if we--I--had been able to stop it, it would probably have made no difference on the final outcome.
Which leaves me with one question: why? Why call me forward? Why place me in this position? I had been explained my purpose here, of course, but I don’t see how I could implement it now. Obair is at war with itself. My friends are dead, missing, or turncoats. Team Vernal is no more; as lifeless as the bodies still lying under the rubble of the Glenwood Justice Building. Heaven knows what will become of me now...I am not entirely sure what happens to Pokemon like me when we fail to serve our purpose.
My name is Cyrena, and I’m going to say up front that my story does not have a pleasant end. I wish I could tell tales of triumph, of how a lowly human like me got a second chance at life to save a foreign world. But instead, I’ll simply be telling a story of how I’d wished I’d died instead. Sure, we had a promising run, but in the end, we’d all gotten the proverbial knife in the back; ultimately failing at our task and scattering us across the continent, perhaps never to reunite. My words are a cautionary tale to the next hero of the realm; the next human to come try to fix the mess I have left in my wake. If only I could be in Obair to help them, but I’m afraid I am not exactly welcome there any longer.
I do not know who they might be, or when they will arrive...just know that when they do, they have my blessings. As a faithful citizen of Pepos turned Dragoon refugee, I grant them good luck and Godspeed, as they rise to face the master of these forsaken puppets.
