Adrift Somewhere

An adventure or a struggle; call it what you will, you won't leave so easily. [Written Blog]

[stranded-warriors]

 The key slid in, turned, and the first wooden door he had seen for a while opened with a welcoming creak. Behind the door was a tightly packed room with barely enough space between the two rag-covered beds for most pokemon around these parts to wriggle into bed. Wedged between the two beds was a stone nightstand covered with papers, an inkwell, and the silvery quill of a skarmory. Normally people didn’t use pens sharp as swords to write day-to-day in, but suppose when everyone around here had hardened scales rather than skin they could afford to risk a few nicks. Save for a pen as well as the door they came through, the only thing worth commenting on was the view from the room’s tiny window.

 Quilava turned to the Abra at his feet, took his hand and carefully guided him across the floor to the foot of the closest bed. Jeremiah still had enough strength in him to hoist himself up onto the ragged bed where he sprawled himself out like a lizard in the hot sun, and Quincy sat himself on the one across from the Abra, his eyes more or less fixated onto the pink artificial landscape as his drinks settled in his stomach.

 “The pokemon downstairs was real weird.” Jeremiah spoke up.

 “Well it’s too late now, already drank his ale.”

 “No, the other one.” the boy sighed, sitting up with a pillow between him and the stone wall. “The dragon-type sitting alone at the table, the person worming around and snoring? I saw him too.”

 “When people are snoring on a tavern table it’s usually only ever for one reason, Think he  must’ve had something real bad to eat to go with his ale, or something. Who cares?”  Quincly almost laughed at the idea tha who was likely just a town drunkward could have more going on than his bad habits. So easily was he enterained he came close to forgetting what Jermiah said altogether, and it hit him like a sack of bricks.

 “You said you saw him?”

 “Yeah.”

 “That makes no sense.”

 “Well it’s not-”

 “If it’s not seeing than what is it?”

Keep reading

[stranded-warriors]

 The key slid in, turned, and the first wooden door he had seen for a while opened with a welcoming creak. Behind the door was a tightly packed room with barely enough space between the two rag-covered beds for most pokemon around these parts to wriggle into bed. Wedged between the two beds was a stone nightstand covered with papers, an inkwell, and the silvery quill of a skarmory. Normally people didn't use pens sharp as swords to write day-to-day in, but suppose when everyone around here had hardened scales rather than skin they could afford to risk a few nicks. Save for a pen as well as the door they came through, the only thing worth commenting on was the view from the room's tiny window.

 Quilava turned to the Abra at his feet, took his hand and carefully guided him across the floor to the foot of the closest bed. Jeremiah still had enough strength in him to hoist himself up onto the ragged bed where he sprawled himself out like a lizard in the hot sun, and Quincy sat himself on the one across from the Abra, his eyes more or less fixated onto the pink artificial landscape as his drinks settled in his stomach.

 “The pokemon downstairs was real weird.” Jeremiah spoke up.

 “Well it's too late now, already drank his ale.”

 “No, the other one.” the boy sighed, sitting up with a pillow between him and the stone wall. “The dragon-type sitting alone at the table, the person worming around and snoring? I saw him too.”

 “When people are snoring on a tavern table it's usually only ever for one reason, Think he  must've had something real bad to eat to go with his ale, or something. Who cares?”  Quincly almost laughed at the idea tha who was likely just a town drunkward could have more going on than his bad habits. So easily was he enterained he came close to forgetting what Jermiah said altogether, and it hit him like a sack of bricks.

 “You said you saw him?”

 “Yeah.”

 “That makes no sense.”

 “Well it's not-”

 “If it's not seeing than what is it?”

 Jeremiah's fur bristled, and his puffed-up chest flattened after a deep sigh. The bands around the blind pokemon's eyes abated his gaze, but Quincy could still feel his fustration through the dirty cloth.

 “As I was going to say,” Jeremiah reluctantly explained, “it's just not the same as the way you, or how I used to see things. My ears are fine, they can get me through the day when I don't need someone like you to carry me around, but my eyes don't work and it think it'd be pretty dumb of me to believe they would magically fix themselves some day. The guy you were talking to was right about one thing, I'm a psychic.”

 “I heard about you psychic-types, does that mean you can lift me in the air or read my fortune?”

 “Uh.. no.” Jeremiah smiles, “Can't think I'd ever be that strong.”

 “I just feel things, you know. It's hard to put into words when you don't have visuals to go off, but when I first met you, long before you even picked me up I somehow knew from just hearing your voice what sort of pokemon you were. I knew you were a fire type, about the same size of me, probably longer than me if you stood on your legs and a rough idea of what you do. Minus a few exceptions, it's like that for everyone. I can sorta see them without ever laying my eyes on them.”

 Coming from anyone this sounds borderline insane, and to be fair it was Quincy's first instinct to label this talk about psychic drudgery as nothing more than a kid's fascinating imagination, but out of a natural curiousity – or perhaps even boredom, he hadn't tuned out just yet. It was tough to read a pokemon without any eyes, doubly so when they only ever faced him with his ear. He eventually had to ask himself what would this kid possibly gain from stringing him along? A free ride, a free room? He's already gotten both, so what more could he ever want? Whether there was truth in the kid's divulge, Quincy was still listening.

 “You understand right?” Jeremiah waited at the edge of his seat.

 “I never said stop.” Quincy scratched his head, “I'm gonna guess the exceptions to your thing has something to do with downstairs?”

 “Yeah.” Jeremiah sunk back into his pillow as he pulled one of the several rags over him, “I can't sense things behind metal, ghost-types just rub me the wrong way whenever I'm near them, and dark pokemon – they somehow bother me more. It's like as though they're nothing, like a blank spot when you know something should be there.”

 Jeremiah took a deep breath.

 “I just find it weird you didn't say anything about the second pokemon at that table”

 “What?”

 The Abra laughed slowly, nervously, a laught which looked like it shook the entirety of his frail body. When he moved his mouth to speak nothing came from the abra save for a quiet sigh. Quincy wasn't given a moment to ask before the Abra tucked himself in and turned his head towards the wall.

“Good night.”

 Weird kid.

[stranded-warriors]

 His answer to the kid's question would've been a flat no if he had bothered to entertain the notion, Quincy would much rather live in the time line which had the possibility of an Abra one day crawling up to a merchant, borrowing something, and then waving his blatant theft by saying to the merchant he “owes them one”. Were Jeremiah actually bordering on stupid, yeah he'd probably try it, but he reckons a psychic-type would likely have more brains than any run-of-the-mill kid his age. He's a psychic, heck give it more time and Jeremiah could maybe pull some psychic shenanigans to get them out of this mess. It would be a more worthwhile shot than potentially being thrown out of a tavern for dragging a kid in with him.

 Speaking of, Jeremiah absolutely insisted he was fine being lugged around by one arm and having his lags run across the smooth stone streets, but he wasn't about to have that. If the kid got hurt, it would be Jeremiah's problem up until he'd inevitably start asking if he could be brought to a doctor, which first of all he wasn't, secondly, if they were to start looking for a medicine-pokemon who knows what sort of people are around here? If they found a healer, Jeremiah would probably wind up with more broken limbs than when he first got there. Can't trust a physician, can't trust the guards, but he'd be more than happy to trust the first hopeless chap he sees in the closest tavern.

 Thankfully for Quincy and his back, he wouldn't need to go very far into this city to reach his destination. Wherever this strange city happened to be built, it was both sprawling, and maze-like in it's compactness. For every archway cutting above the stone streets there were about two buildings sitting under it, narrow corridors running through those. The homes themselves, entirely made of strange white stone or quartz, ranged from tiny holes into the towering crystals which a majority of them were homes on their own. Why someone would need so much space all to themselves? Who knows, although some of them did occasionally have the winged dragon type soaring to perch up there, so they could likely be watchtowers for the local guard. It had to be a great view from up there.

 Frankly with how similar everything is here, would've skipped past the first tavern if he hadn't seen the tiny, out of place, sign plastered right next to his swinging doors. Unless the sign were somehow lying to him, he'd found his place. “Wit's End Tavern” it read, how deliciously ironic.

 Quincy ducked under the swinging doors with an Abra on his back into a completely empty tavern. There was nobody here, save for a gabite collapsed in one of the booths and a man who stood behind the crystal-clear bar side. There was a thin glass separating the tavern's two halves, and on the far side of the in were several disjointed platforms making a stairway up to where the bedrooms probably were. Admittedly he couldn't help feeling dissapointed, although; he was able to give his back a rest.

 He heaved over to the nearest stone booth, lifted jeremiah onto its obtuse seat and breathed a deep breath.

 “I'm gonna talk to the fellow in front, just stick right here, get yourself comfortable or something, okay?”

 “Like I'd ever go far.” Jeremiah answers.

 “I know.”

 While trying to peek at the man behind the bars, Quincy makes sure to plod around the tavern the long way. He passes by the blue Gabite to get one good look at them. Their head is sitting flat onto the table, appearing as though they had knocked right out right – it looked like a concussion for sure. They've must have had too much, but there wasn't the usual stacks of bottles strewn across his table, so either the innkeeper was doing their job, which already puts this place way above the two other taverns he's been too, or the gabite had fallen asleep like that. Every second or so when he looked at them, he'd see the fellow shake violently, grumble, never saying anything coherent. It was strange; it was none of his business.

 Quincy pulled up the bar-side, hopped onto the giant stools with the last strength he had from carrying around Jeremiah, and waved over the bartender. He walked past the many crystal glasses on the display towards the Quilava. The Bartender was a gaunt Lucario, slim of build. Perhaps it was just the way the fighting-type moved, hunched over, making larger steps as supposed to many smaller ones that made him look bigger than he actually was. The dried, red warpaint around his accentuated a dull gaze, and his mouth hardly move when he spoke. He simply slid a half-filled wineglass to the Quivala, then spoke in crisp voice.

 “First's on the house.”

 “Thanks.”

 He took a quick sip. Wine wasn't his thing, but who would ever complain about free things? After wetting his mouth, Quincy struck conversation.

 “Where you from?”

 “I was just about to ask you. Does the typing a giveaway?”

 “I'm not judging, but when all you've seen are dragons everywhere, people who aren't covered in scales really stick out.” Quincy took another swig, “You know what's the deal with this place?”

 “As much as any other person,” Lucario folds his arms, and leans against the cupboards behind him, “I've only been here for so long, had this place for less, and I regret every moment of it. The people here have little respect, or if they do have it they have it for the wrong person. All they do is work, beat eachother to death, and occasionally talk about their benevolent conqueror. It's hard to stomach, except for the bloodsports –  it’s good entertainment.”

 “What's this about a conqueror?”

 “I expect someone who came here to be more versed in legendary scripture, or you have some common sense to reconsider the mistake they're about to make” he laughs as his eyes stare right through the fire-type,“You strike he me as having neither, you never planned on coming here did you?”

 “Uhhh...” he bought himself time to think by taking an especially long drink of the remaining glass, “I can say I got involved with something I didn't think was going to go upside-down as quickly as it did, and then I suddenly found myself here having flown in on a giant rock. Wish I could tell you what happened in-between, but I  have a hard time explaining it to myself.”

 “I've heard similar, did the psychic come with you?” the Lucario takes Quincy's glass and points with it across the inn.

 “The kid was there when I woke up. You sure he's a psychic?”

 “After you have lived long enough, you tend to recognize which pokemon are problems to you and which are easy pickings. I learned what an Abra was very quickly.” he fills the empty glass from a keg, “Here's another, you've been good company so far.”

 “I get the feeling I'm your only company.”

 Quincy swallows about half down in a single swig, which again, the drink isn't much. The bitter taste of berry-water is enough to clean out his throat, but that's about it. He's just happy to have more.

 “This conqueror person is someone I admit I'm not very fond of. You can call him by Palkia, Conqueror of the Stars or whatever moniker he decides to go by, it's all the same. I hope I don't need to explain what a God is, or what legendary pokemon are but he's very, very strong.” the lucario explains, “This rock, the entire city we're standing on? He made it one day after he had decided to kill another legendary out of a petty scuffle, made commemorating a great battle which was really him just gutting the poor thing. There's a whole museum here dedicating to it and the rest of his curbstompings.”

 The Lucario doesn't so much as sigh, but his nose wrinkles like a prune.

 “If you can stomach the chest-thumping, you can probably learn a thing or two. It's all the way next to the biggest pillar in the city, wouldn't recommend it, only went in there once and I ever since my life's been down the drain.”

 Quincy's paws tap against the now empty glass. After downing two drinks, he knows he's had enough, and listening to the Lucario was way more information he was willing to handle in a single night. If he were to summarize the stew of disjointed thoughts whirling around in his empty skull, the main thing he felt was hesitation. Not the dread which made his insides into a knot, more so the malaise of having put himself into a situation which while not the worst, was bogged with uncertainty. He had a plan inside there for everything except for appearing in a completely different world filled with the worst sorts of people, ruled by the worst legendary he'd dare to imagine.

 “If it's not too much to ask-”

 “You want a room, don't you?”

 “Yeah.” Quilava sighs, “We'll take the closet if we have to.”

 Not a moment later the Lucario places a small, silver key on the counter.

 “Furthest one on the left, you can have it.”

 “Am I expected to pay you back, or...?”

 “No,” Lcario's lips furl into a smile, “but I would like to speak with you the morning, if it’s not too much to ask.”

[stranded-warriors]

// Don’t worry about him. art@yonder

[stranded-warriors]

 It was hard to believe the tower was still standing. The quartz structure had a whole side of it torn through by a molten hot asteroid which had nearly gone though the entire building, but the thin, tall structure stood defiantly even as it burned away in the night. A large crowd was to be expected as a cluster of dragon-types gathered around to watch the ongoing bonfire with awe as fire-resistant troops flooded onto street's overhead walkways into the belly of the beast. The threat of anyone becoming glassed by the meteor was done and over already, but a mere fire wasn't what the dozens of guards were storming through the crowds of people into the structure for; it was the thing making mince-meat of them on the scorched floor.

 Was it a monster from parts unknown, a pokemon who had ridden the comet with them, some kinda mythological entity? He called it a good distraction, the Quilava wouldn't have made it all the way down to street level if there hadn't been something up there keeping those arms-men in a bind.

 He reached ground level, slipped through the legs of the surrounding Haxorus and beefier folks all whilst dragging the limp body of an Abra on his back. Only halfway down the first alleyway away from the tower Quilava was utterly beaten, falling like a brick as he welcomed his back to the loving embrace of a cold stone floor. From the floor he saw glimpses of Abra he thought he just dropped pull himself to the nearest wall, sitting snug under the shade of the nearest roof. There was no blaming the Abra for his own legs feeling like jelly, or his back wanting to snap into two, he had brought this on himself when he decided he couldn't bring himself to leave some fool trapped under rubble. He got what he deserved.

 “Hey.” Quilava groaned, “I'm going to say it: I don't think our relationship's gonna last, kid. Don't take it the wrong way, it's not like I hate you, however if you really expect me to carry you around everywhere, I kinda can't.”

 Quilava felt a perplexed look staring at him from behind Abra's blindfold.

 “Remember what we said before we left?” he reaffirmed, “I'll make it up to you, just gimme some time.”

 “You can get away with saying that to me, but I'm going to let you know: I-owe-you's are a currency accepted practically nowhere.” Quilava sighed deeply, “Look, I hate hounding you like this. I just need to be sure we can safe, and I don't feel safe right now. I am with a complete stranger had only dug out of a whole an hour ago only to find-

 “Jeremiah.”

 “What?”

 “My name is Jeremiah.”

 “Quincy” the Quilava sighs, “I don't see how this changes much.”

 “Okay Quincy, what are you good at?”

 The Abra was smiling at him. He could see his teeth from here: they're a bit yellow, pointed on the ends, very feline-like, and they stick out of his mouth as he holds his dumb smile. The stupidity of his look didn't come off as intentional, by the tone of his voice the kid was sincere about his question. Jeremiah just wanted to know what Quincy was good at. Among the hundreds of questions which had arisen in the past hour, it was the one of the few Quincy knew how to answer.

 “I'm good with my hands, a-and I used to spar with a shortsword – good luck finding one for a pokemon of my size.” Quincy raised an eyebrow. “I'm going to guess you're one of those psychics or something? I recognize your species a bit.”

 “You could say that.”

 Quincy paused to take in his surroundings. Cool air, the lack of a sky, quartz – lots of it, as if he weren't sure anyone he knew he had to be somewhere he did not belong. This place was a city, but even then most pokemon-run “cities” were nowhere near as complex as this place. It had a web of complex walkways which would take years to build; a whole system of tight stone streets, not a spec of dirt of stone; that's not even getting started on the pillars high as mountains standing everywhere! It was all so odd yet familiar, and though he hasn't visited many towns as he'd like in his life they all meant one thing in common to him.

 “Kid, you ever visit a tavern?”

 “What’s that?”

 “As long as we stay away from mead-houses,” Quincy mumbles then picks up his voice, “-uh, they're places where you can drink and sleeps. Big cities have them, we're in one.”

 “That sounds great,” Jeremiah smiles again, “Can I pay them in 'I-owe-you's'?”

[stranded-warriors]

 The Quilava's head peeked into the hallway. In the time it took for them to become somewhat acquainted the hallway had been stuffed full of people, none of whom with their eyes so much as open. Everyone looked to have been smashed against the walls or otherwise piled together, unconscious and barely breathing. Save for the dozen or so guards getting their armors dented there was a surprising lack of blood in the slaughter. Someone went easy on them.

 “Is everything okay?” the abra asked. “How bad is it?”

 “It's hard to really tell if they're dead from over here, but there's plenty of bodies. Could swear I saw someone ripping through them earlier, they must've ran off to find other people to beat down. I'd give our situation a three.”

 “Out of five or ten?”

 “What do you think?” 

 Quilava stuck his head into the hallway again, and scratched down a few mental notes, notably that the hall went both ways. Honestly they weren't all too high off the ground, maybe three stories at most, but comparing his height to sort this building seemed made for those floors may as well be double in height. While he didn't like his chances with running into dragon types, or worse, whoever was tossing them around, and jumping out of three story window right now was the last thing on his mind.

 “There's probably somewhere all these people are coming from, soon as we get there we'll be on our way out.” he looked back at the Abra, “You can keep your head down, right? That's easy enough.”

 “I can try. What are we going to do once we get out of here?”

 “I usually don't think that far. I guess I'll go find a roof to put over my head and call it a night. You're not seriously about to consider following me?”

“As long as you don't leave me behind.”

 Yeah, like he’d ever do that. 

 “We'd better get moving.”

 Until he stepped into the hallway and saw the beads of sweat running down the Abra's brow he didn't notice how hot the building had become. Dense smoke sprawled across the ceiling, pouring out from the ballroom like a flood of black water. If the rubble passage hadn't somehow collapsed under the heat and weight, they would've been chocked out eventually. Suppose to dragon and fire-types this type of dry heat was normal, but tough luck breathing if you aren't any of those two sorts. It was a good thing they left when they did.

 “Alright,” Quialva helped the Abra wriggle out, and set up against the nearest wall, “so how am I going to carry you?”

 “Maybe with both arms?”

 “Obviously, but can I get you something to prop yourself on? Are you able to use your legs at all, is one busted – what's the deal here? I'm not commenting on your weight or anything, I just can't be expected to carry your all the way unless I want us to topple over each other.”

 “You got it right the second time,” he explained, “It's not something I feel comfortable getting into now, not that I don't want to tell you why, but I really want to get out of here – same as you. Just carry me till we get out, I can make it up to you, alright?”

 The Abra was right, now wasn't a time to talk. The building's on fire, there's someone huge beating the daylights out of people, and for all he knew they could be pinned as responsible for setting this place up in flames. On their own they were good enough reason to get out of here, when put together he was beginning to ask himself why he wasn't out the door already. Truth is, the Abra's the only thing slowing him down. He'd got the kid this far, he won't risk their life based on the goodwill of the beast next door.

 Quilava placed his arms under the abras' then lifted him as high over his head as possible before practically dropping the fellow onto his back. His shoulders buckled under the weight but slowly settled once the abra wrapped their arms around him. He didn't like it, his shoulders were already telling this was a terrible idea, but it was like the kid said – he'd carry him down to street level and then he'd never have to think about him again.

[stranded-warriors]

reply to this

 Honestly, it's quite difficult to read a burnt up book no matter how legible it's supposed to be. Not even the shade from the tiny brim of his hat did much to help, it could be making things worse for all that he knew. This was something best saved in direct sunlight, or surrounded by a dozen or so lanterns, but chances are this was to be his only look at this exceedingly rare tome. He fought the urge to ask if he could take it off the fellow's hands tooth and nail; however, after looking it over not once, but thrice the Gothitelle seemed to be satisfied with his gander.

 “I must admit, I had a bit of trouble trying to read this tome of yours.” Kaz remarked, “I'd advise you put this in a place somewhere safe and sound, preferably a vault. The open air's going to be none too nice to it as those pages look as though a gust of wind could tear them apart.”

 He took another glance at the opened pages alongside the many more hiding underneath all the tattered holes and scorched bits. One could only wonder how this precious thing had come to be a charred mess, but if he were to make a guess he'd hedge his bets on some spell going wrong or some similarly naive circumstance where the previous owner had gotten too excited with whatever nonsense they were dabbling in. There was also the likelihood someone had wanted this burnt for a reason, although he couldn't quite see why. The book seemed as though it were nothing else than a catalog of artifacts pertaining to the legendaries, a subject he always ecstatic to read about. Then again he wasn't dealing with the full picture here, just tatters and the passion to know more.

 Oh right, didn't this fellow ask him something?

 “There's yet to be someone to come along to completely revolutionize what many of my colleagues had come to practice, so as far as I'm aware my 'magic' hasn't received a proper name as of the last time I had been home. I believe we had last called the process 'Scribing' or 'Transcribing', we could never settle on either. I can't tell you the exact process other than it being slow and quite expensive, but its purpose is to allow us to stow certain techniques or powers in scripture. In essence, this allows someone to use moves which exceed what's normally possible for them.”

 “So far this 'magic' is entirely transient. The moment they're used they end up much like your book here, albeit without the possibility of ever salvaging it.” he chuckled, “I won't be breathing fire anytime soon, sadly.”

 “Now that I've rambled on for far too long I should probably make my leave. Before I do I must ask: what's so important about that staff?”

@gothinthewoods

[stranded-warriors]

 Although it is dark in, there is still sound. A constant crackling, things and structures snapping. It wasn't the ambiance he'd come to expect of his new home, there he was more worried about getting caught in a firestorm than an actual fire. Wherever he was, where ever here was supposed to be, he found himself warm, quite warm indeed. When his eyes fluttered themselves open after many moments of writhing on a cold, flat floor, he found himself surrounded by a great orange glow.

 The pitch-white marble wasn't entirely new, but the architecture and the very material this entire chamber was built from was entirely alien. He was in a palace, or some similarly romantic place made entirely of crystal to the hard checkerboard floors to the high ceilings where a crystal chandelier used to be before it was turned into dust by a gargantuan, flaming object. A red hot boulder had burst through a wall then became lodged into the other, scorching everything in its path and still melting the wall its become a fixture to. Had it somehow flown at a different angle, it was likely he'd have joined the chandelier in becoming ground into dust. Fate, or a sheer stroke of undeserved luck was the only reason he was still breathing right now. The same couldn't possibly be said of this building.

 All around were chunks of quartz, stone which seemed to have been chipped off the glowing red rock, and similarly crystal furniture which had been decimated by the meteor. Looking to where it had come from there what was left of a colorful mural depicting who knows what strewn all over the floor and beyond the giant hole in the wall was a sky, or a lack thereof. A most beautiful night where cosmic bodies twinkled with the utmost clarity, something he'd much love to get a better look at when he wasn't inside of a burning tower but considering everything on his mind, the fire was the least of his problems.

 His ears hadn't quite adjusted themselves to hearing, and there was nothing about the fellow's physiology as a Quilava – a fire type, that kept smoke from getting into his beady eyes. There had to be a way out of this mess before it came tumbling down on his head, or worse he'd be detained for obviously having started this mess. It's going to be real hard trying to convince people the flame he's got roaring on his head somehow didn't spark this entire mess. No, he wasn't likely to be detained, but yes it was better to be safe than sorry. By time he had gotten off the floor he'd already seen his way out blocked by what appeared to be a whole roof's worth of rubble.

 No problem, he must've thought to himself as he approached the priceless blockade, he'll just find a slip between the cracks. He began to sift through whatever bits he could move with his tiny hands, looking into the seams, and after he had lifted a considerably larger piece from the heap he saw a clear path to the next hall over.

 That was when he heard a sound different from all the burning. It was muffled like the rest; however, it had more reason to it than the chaotic ambiance, for that reason it stuck out to him. Quilava's whole body perked up as he listened for what it came from, and no more than two meters away did he find its source squirming under another mound of quartz. Just as luckily for whoever was behind the yellow furry arm sticking out from the earth, they hadn't been completely crushed, just stuck. It was likely he couldn't do much for them other than offer the fellow words of encouragement, and frankly, he was not prepared to have someone's life be trusted into his hands.

 He spoke something to the effect of “I'll come back with help”, but how was he was supposed to tell what he said when he couldn't hear a thing, he didn't know nor did he truly have any plan on coming back. Saving this person was a problem for the next person to stumble into himself, so he pushed onward.. Not a second later he was out in a hall.

 There wasn't much in way of tinder for the fire to possibly grow beyond this room or two, nor were there anything to catch fire in the hall to a point where the rug wasn't even real, just something which was painted on the stone to give the impression the architect was someone of class. Thanks to each three meters or so of the curved hallway being covered in smaller windows he was able to tell he wasn't as high up as first thought, and what he thought was a palace he trashed by sheer coincidence was one of thousands of oddly shaped “towers” strewn about these lands, cut from the same imposing material and of varying degrees of shape and transparency. The sky was uncharacteristically bright, and as clear as nights he only thought possible in dreams. Of the closest among millions of uncountable objects in the sky was a sphere he could only describe as being entirely made from storms which absolutely dwarfed whatever this strange city was.

 For the few minutes he spent staring at the skyline in pure amazement, the fire-type's ears flickered and flickered till they popped on their own. Everything sounded a bit more clear now, even if it didn't change the fact it was all pretty deafening. He would've liked to test his new found clarity and see he couldn't what the poor sod back there was on about, but the moment he looked back to the hole a loud bang yanked his attention back to the hallway where he saw the next door over fly right open. The corpse, or the unconscious body of a dragon-type was hurled out into the hallway like a rag-doll. He only looked long enough to catch a glimpse of their assailant charging out from their room and descending on them, swinging lethal punches left and right as the sounds of more guards came barreling down the hallway.

 Liking his chances in the fire, he reluctantly crawled back to whence he came till he reached the burning chamber again. There must've been something inside the giant rock because everything was still on fire, the ceiling wasn't fairing much better either but provided he stayed in the parts which had already caved in there wasn't much to worry in regards to a chunk of the roof coming down on him. Much to his earlier dismay, this time around he was able to hear the little hand sticking out from the rubble.

 “Someone's there?” the arm spoke weakly, “You- You've come to save me, right?”

 The fire-type coughed, the smoke must be getting to him.

 “Right?”

 He walked over the mound, and grasped whatever loose bits of the stone he could get his hands on. By no means was he qualified for digging people out of graves, he wasn't even a good fighter, but it was the least he could do. Several longer pieces of rubble have folded over the person on the inside, so if he could roll one or two rocks off the pokemon-shaped mound the person will at least have a better time getting out on their own. Sure enough, right after he had removed a sizable chunk away the buried pokemon began to wriggle, and after the second they got both arms out. Whereas they were completely immobile seconds ago, they were slowly making their way out using their hands to grasp, pull and drag themselves out from the dirt.

 A minute or two later they were sprawled out onto the floor huffing and puffing as thick beads of sweat ran from down their head. The fellow looked remarkably unkempt, his yellow fur looked like that of a rat's but they were simply too large to be such a thing. Their tunic, their armlets and the earring attached to one of their big ears were all equally ragged or tarnished, but none of those were nearly as important as the many rows of cloth strips wrapped over their eyes. Whoever they were, there was a reason why he only turned their ear to Quilava when he began to chat.

 “Do you think you can get me out of here?" the young pokemon's voice was plagued with a stuttering inflection, “I already had a hard time getting out of.. um, those rocks, or whatever.”

 “Can you tell me where I am first?” Quilava's voice however, was unnconventionally boisterous for something as little as he, “I have never seen - been to a place like this. There's crystal everywhere, the sky doesn't make any sense, oh and don't forget about the army of dragon-types having a party in the next room.”

 The yellow pokemon carried themselves off until he reached another piece of the rubble where he slowly propped up his back, his legs sprawled out in front of him. “Dragon-types you said?” he wondered, “how do they all fit in there?”

 “It was a big hallway.”

 He began to head back into the hall, slowly making his way towards the tunnel with every intent to leave the fellow behind before he was stopped by the youngster's call.

 “You're going to leave me here?” he could feel those puppy eyes from behind the cloth, “You're not gonna call for help, are you?”

 “Who said you couldn't just follow me?”

 “My legs.”

[stranded-warriors]

 The greatest of their worries were done and over, but the stairway to the city proposed a new challenge: getting Kaz to climb them.. One foot after the other Kaz would slowly climb one fight, round the corner, and then see another flight waiting for time. By time the two of them had reached the fourth corner in the long spiral of doom, Kaz decided he's had enough. Gripping on the stair's railing in a death vice, he slowly leveled himself onto the nearest stair huffing and puffing a storm.

 “These steps are thrice the size for any ordinary man, and how long have we been climbing? I swear there's no end to this!” Kaz sighed “Care to give your friend a moment to catch his breath?”

 Feraligatr took watch in the turn, their back against the closest wall. There was no foul in giving the man some time to rest, but if they were going by Kaz's plan to keep as much attention away from them as possible, it didn't make sense to stand out on a staircase like a couple out-of-place strays, not to mention the dock workers along with whoever else were climbing had no problem getting upstairs. Maybe Kaz was just weak, maybe comparing a man who spent their lives study to a person who's clearly fought in wars was entirely unfair, but to tell the truth there wasn't too much harm in letting him take a break.

 Out of habit Feraligatr reached around to pull something out from the imaginary backpack, alas they still had nothing other than the armor they rode in here on. They even checked around their waist where they would occasionally stow rations in pouches, yet all they found were a few scraps of lint stuck to their armor like tiny burdock. Kaz was quick to catch on.

 “Ah, did you forget something?”

 Feraligatr shook their head, and breathed a sigh of defeat.

 “Whatever great force is responsible for putting us in our strange predicament, they were graceful enough to let me keep the few things I had. All it had decided to take from me were a couple scrolls, and a few odd tokens for the record. As if anyone was going to believe me in the first place.” Kaz chuckled as if what he said was remotely funny, “That said...”

 Kaz reached into his robes, pulling out a small black journal emblazoned with a symbol of a great serpent over its cover. Its crammed pages were somehow held together by a golden buckle and a leather strap. Just as quickly as he was to flash his prized possession he was swift to put it back where it belonged.

 “I would be more lost than I am without this.”

 They would've loved the chance to ask what it was all about when instantly the marching of many armored footsteps put Feraligatr on alert. Much to Kaz's disdain he was lifted up by Feraligatr, and made to begin walking  up the stairs alongside them. Kaz who was in the middle of being dragging their tired legs up the steep incline took a moment to see what had gotten his friend so riled, and whereas he only stopped to breathe earlier, they should really look at what was coming.

 Three dragon-types in varying degrees of armor – a sort who really seemed as though they were in charge – collectively hauled someone on a canvas stretcher. This poor somebody was adrift between a state of consciousness and unconsciousness, thrashing about like they were living out the last moments of their lives on repeat. They were fighting something more horrifying than all the things Kaz could imagine, and between their frothing growls and close swipes at their captors, Kaz caught a few words from the dragons muttering among themselves.

 “You think after the third one they'd stop going after foreigners?”

 “Who cares? We'll lock him up like the others.”

 As their chatter would suggest, this person clearly didn't belong to New Palkia. Their stark black fur and the occasional bouts of electricity which sparked during their panicked fits, meant they could only be one pokemon and one all too common where Feraligatr hailed from. Not only that, but most worrying of all about the Luxray was the ornate, charcoal-colored armor whom his captors have yet to strip from him. One look at the Luxary's helmet-less face, then back at the feraligatr who had decided to see the commotion for themselves, and something clicked.

 The guards would leave soon after, leaving the two pokemon to stir in an empty corridor.. The thoughts they had were each troubling. It seemed all too coincidental, and the painful sting of worry lingered in Kaz's chest. The guards had mentioned this had only happened to foreigners, and who were they but strangers in a strange land? Whatever was happening to these people, it seemed likely they would come into it's cross-hairs. Their safety couldn't be guaranteed until they got as far from New Palkia as possible, however they are supposed to leave this realm out in the abyss. As for Feraligatr, they clearly thought differently. They stared long and hard at the Luxray being hauled off to their imprisonment, honing their eyes into a glare sharp enough to cut the three who had taken their comrade away.

 “I hurts me too, but now is not our time.” he didn't need to look to see Feraligatr stare daggers at him, “It would be wise for us to find a roof over our head-”

 Feraligatr dismissed any notions about subtlety then and there as they left Kaz to march up the stairs. Kaz paniced, scrambling as fast as they could up around the bend only to see they hadn't beaten three fully armored beasts to a pulp, but his Friend stopped to behold something great, and bright. Each painstaking step would clear up the vast swathe of light Kaz could only see as a blur from below, eventually he would begin to see shapes: outlines of tall, rectangular structures; crystalline growth which defied all plausible explanation, twisted and transformed into chaotic shapes; the forms of dragon-types lugging their bodies through tight marble streets; above all was a great crystal palace held high in the stary skies by unfathomably large growths of quartz.

 It would be hard to mistake the palace as anything other than the home of this city's leader, so too did they know they've reached the thick of it: the city known as New Palkia. Whatever they will come to make of this place along with its denizens, the road out of here will be hard fought. Before they would ever think their way out of this they would need somewhere to speak quietly, preferably with a roof overhead.

[stranded-warriors]

“Since this direct approach had only painted our – mostly your hands in blood, I have a suggestion if you’re so inclined.”

// art and new icon from @askhallofdemons

 I can finally get rid of this blurry hecking sprite avatar. Go tell the mod that they’re a cool fella.

[stranded-warriors]

 The druddigon's unconscious body laid before the Fighter, who without a moment to spare wrapped their large hands under the fellow’s shoulders and unceremoniously dragged him behind one of the thousand stacks, where he was dropped to the ground then laid against the wall like some plaything. Immediately Feraligatr padded down the fellow’s clothes, checked pockets, and searched everything shy of somehow turning the poor fellow inside out. A minute or two passed without much, but when Kaz stopped to see if they weren’t pummeling the poor fellow, Feraligatr stood up and handed him something small but heavy.

 This something was a flat stone object, as thing and as broad as it could possibly be without it becoming brittle. On one side was an emblem of two ornate spears crossed over a spherical object, and on the other side were rows of scratchy writing with a series of hieroglyphs in the bottom right. Although a clear amount of work had to be put into carving into such a frail object, the text was borderline illegible. Nobody, not even the best scholars in Kaz's homeland were mad enough to comprehend the text, but the more he stared at how each line had been arranged Kaz was able to make some sense of it.

 “If I'm expected to read this, I can't.” he admitted, “However, what I can do is make a fair guess: believe this here is a piece of identification, it may not have the dragon’s name on it, but I am going to assume it was his. He won’t be needing it anymore.”

 Kaz looked towards his friend, which judging by the long look strewn over their face they hadn't found what they were looking for. It would've been a fair idea to ask what, but provided they went around beating up more innocent dock workers they’ll be sure to stumble onto whatever it is they needed. Then Kaz looked back at himself, then back at Feraligatr, and after a minute of awkwardly shifting in place waiting for Feraligatr to signal they should better get a move on, tossed the stone back to them. He had thought of a plan.

 “One of us is covered in scales, and I am as pale as the moon. Since this direct approach had only painted our – mostly your hands in blood, I have a suggestion if you're so inclined.”

 They nodded.

 “We know there’s a checkpoint just down the way, and if all they are looking for is a piece of identification we might be able to slip past the guards provided we keep our cool.” he looked behind the corner where the Druddigon laid on the floor like a sack of dirt, “I can’t imagine they would let us pass if they saw what you did to that fellow, so we’d better act fast.”

 Feraligatr tapped the stone then pointed at themselves

 “Yes, you’ll be going first. You needn't tell me your much of a talker, I think you've established that fairly well, but whereas I know you’re not a dragon, compared to me you sure look the part. I don’t want them to be asking too many questions, and seeing a psychic type where he has no right to be raises too many on its own.”

 “Unless you have any objections my friend, then lead the way.”

>This plan is stupid

>You could come up with a better plan if you had time and the confidence, but without a weapon in your you lack the latter and can't buy the former.

>It must be the best Kaz can do.

 The fact Feraligatr was just stood there for a while had been a bit worrying, but Kaz breathed a sigh of  relief once they got the move on. The continuous roar of machinery they had come to tune out grew louder and louder as the stepped further away from the walls of cargo, and by time they stepped free from the maze they laid eyes on what was making all that ruckus. Within a clearing toward the gates stands a massive, crane-like machine operated by a dozen pulleys straining and squealing under the might of its deafened operators. Dozens of burly pokemon stood before a large tower, pulling massive ropes which all fed into an over-sized wheel, then all the way out into the docks where a harpoon big enough to catch three waillords was speared into the rock they came in on. On the other side of the dock was another machine operated by another army of mons, their collective strength coming together to slightly nudge the colossal boulder in the right direction. A feat of ingenuity; a testament to Palkia's brute strength.

 A few surveyor, and the flyers who they previously saw offloading the valuables from the rock onto shore and into these crates the former presided over, were the only people paying mind to the two strangers strolling by; however, none of them cared enough to go out of their busy day to bother them. Which was odd, considering the first person they met from here wanting nothing less than to ruin their lives. Perhaps the ones pulling the machines were slave laborers, but they too couldn't care any less  about the adventurers. If these workers weren't a problem, then it was bound to be something else.

-

 Two small structures spaced evenly apart lied at the end of the road. The distance between these two cabins were barely enough to fill two single-file lines, anyone who tried circumventing the check-point would come face first with heavy crystal bars stretching all the way down from the archway above.

 “It seems we’ve come at the worst and best of times, friend.” he tapped his friend’s back and murmured, “If they ask why you’re leaving between shifts, just say you’ve gotten ill. It usually works for me.”

 Feraligatr’s blank stare didn’t inspire much confidence in Kaz’s plan, but they were going to with it – they came this far anyways. Taking a wild guess they began walking towards the right booth, gripping the stone tightly in their claws. Inside it they saw stacks of stone plates, behind which was fraxure who had to be no less than a foot shorter than the water-type. The pokemon held their stubby hand open, and Feraligatr dropped the stone in their hands. In the dim candlelight they put their eyes up against the stone, flipping it over, scanning it for a dozen times, before finally saying something about it.

 Maybe Feraligatr’s blue and red scales were similar to the worker, but nothing about what they wore fit a part of someone who spent their time lugging boxes around. A person doesn’t simply go out to their job wearing full plate mail, a face mask, and a black hood unless they had something to prove. Feraligatr did have something to prove, but it wasn’t for this little runt.

 “It seems like today's going to be a good day.” the guard smiled as he began to fumble behind his desk, “The old geezer finally got what was coming for him!”

 Feraligatr queued their friend over, and Kaz was quietly made his way in line till he stopped shy of the  windowframe. The Fraxure didn’t notice the shuffling until he poked his head up, saw Kaz, sighed and put his head back under his desk. A minute later the dragon rose again, slapping down blank slabs exactly like the one they plucked off the Druddigon.

 “Oh, no.” Kaz interjected, “I'm simply the doctor they had check the body. Should it satisfy you, I'll have you know the old man had become truly unsightly.”

 The Fraxure quietly stowed a slab away.

 “Where's he now?”

 “Back where I had found them. I was told to leave the body the way it was so the just authority can handle it from there. My friend here was the first to find him, and needless to say they’re not feeling too well.” he leaned in like Feraligatr couldn't somehow hear him, “My friend quite hasn't the stomach for this as you and I.”

 Not a second afterwards the voice of Kaz rang inside Feraligatr’s head, “Look as though you hate everything about everything right now.” and Feraligatr’s blank stare warped into the most glower look of disgust imaginable. Their face melted into this horrible, glowering frown, and their teeth sagged out from their gums like furs on a wet, stray dog. Fraxure took a single look at the fighter only to pull away immediately, then slowly put the other slab with the rest of them.

 “I'll process you some other time,” he groaned, “get out of my face before your friend pukes all over my desk.”

 “My thanks. I'm sure the old man left doing what loved best.”

 Out of the all the lies Kaz just said, that last had stung the worst. The horrible feeling he suddenly had gotten in his gut was only made better by the knowledge that he, and his friend had gotten away with his hobbled-together plan.

[stranded-warriors]

 Not another word was shared between them as the person marched towards their position.  As their dedicated spokesperson, Kaz had no choice other than to face the man head on and engage him in linguistic combat.

 “Ah, hello there!” the Gothitelle stumbled from behind a column of crates. The worker, a greasy-looking druddigon clad in equally greasy scruffs wasn't happy to see him in the slightest. “I'm deeply apologize for the inconvience, but as you can see – I'm quite-”

 “Lost?” the dragon scoffed, “You realize how much work I would'a gotten done if I didn't need to come all the way down here to tell you to stop messing with everything?”

 “I'll be happy to know soon as you inform me of where I am.”

 A furious dragon rattling off to an oblivious scholar, a truly riveting conversation was being held back there. It would take a fool not to see what Kaz was doing, and a fool the Fighter was not. There wasn't much chance the worker was aware there was more than just a lost pyshcic snooping around, so Kaz's speeches had bought his friend some time, but what were they to do with it was entirely up to them. The Fighter did so by quietly creeping around their stack of crates, sticking close to its wooden walls.

 “You serious?”

 “I beg your pardon?”

 Never mind him buying time, it was beginning to sound as if Kaz were actually confused. Who can blame him when they had gotten nowhere close to getting themselves out of their current predicament, and if the types of people here are those who shout and yell everyone down for raising the slightest question, the two weren't likely to get far asking questions. Maybe the fact he had been trespassing on some important workplace, but for Kaz this was entirely uncalled for!

 “Do you have any idea where ya are?  Never mind, forget I said that. I'm not getting into the details, but people don't show up here to this city out of the blue, and they ain't coming all the way down here unless they're intentionally coming to mess with me and my workers, got it?

 “So it is a city?” Kaz was amused, “I had mistaken it for some shiny rock on the way here; you can never be so sure of course, it was only when I had begun to approach your this domain did I consider it more than an abyssal oddity. What is this city's name?”

 “New Palkia.”

 Kaz took a sudden deep breath. The name was familiar to anyone whom studied how the world had come to be, for Palkia has never once been the herald of good omen. Were it not for Palkia the great void would've long since been the home of multiple civilizations – worlds even, but from time immemorial he had fought for it to be recognized as his domain. Those who would question him were silenced by his mighty spear, said to rend time and space itself. Kaz could not imagine stepping foot into the cosmos; no less the Conqueror's territory, yet here he was in the thick of it. Palkia himself could be waiting in this very city, ruling over all of the cosmos in a palace of crystal The thought of coming into the presence of a being who's body count included gods sent shivers down his mortal spine.

 “Surely you jest,” the scholar stammered, “did you happen to have a slip of the tongue or have my ears decieved me?”

 “No.” Druddigon stepped closer, and grasped the scholar's arm with a leathery hand, “I know you're stupid, so I'm gonna be nice – I'm not gonna punch yer face in. Instead I’m gonna give you’re gonna be given a nice cold cell to think in.”

 With a hard tug Kaz was being dragged away by the little dragon. For such a smart man he hadn't stopped to consider maybe he was still in trouble. It was better he let himself be taken away, so that in the time it would take to get from the docks to the jailhouse he could think his way out of this. But as they began to shuffle their way out of the rows of shipment in roughly the same direction as those faraway stairs, the Gothitelle's protests would be cut short when they heard the sounds of someone slithering around.

 “You didn't tell me there was two of yous!”

 “There was?” the worker tugged hard on the psychic's arm like they were reigning in a dog, “Is that how you treat your guests? I said I didn't know!”

 “You're not a guest, you're a criminal! I bet you heard it too, so tell me where your friend is!”

 He was smart enough not to let the psychic go, but there was no way they heard where it was coming from over the roar of distant machinery, and frankly Kaz wasn't paying enough attention to know more than the dragon-type. Should he be wrong he might get the smacking the worker's been talking about, but that wouldn't be as worse as getting it right and ruining his chance at dodging incarceration. He glanced around as though he were looking to druge up something from his memory, then finally pointed in the direction furthest from his captor.

 Just as the worker turned his the fighter emerged from behind the cargo and slammed their claw fist down upon their head.. Before he could even stumble away from the blow, another struck right into his gut. The fighter stepped forward, grasped their shoulders with their other hand and effortlessly shifted their weight towards the wooden wall, sending the worker crumbling into the nearest crate. He hit the wall with a satisfying clonk then became a lump on the floor.

 Kaz almost got his hands dirty, but it was good knowing he had a friend who'd do it for him.

[stranded-warriors]

 When they fell off and onto a hard floor the duo landed with a crack each. For the moment or two before making the jump they had in their heads they were landed on thin glass but were proven wrong the moment their feet touched the ground. The clear-as-crystal stone swept the ground from under them like a rug causing both of them to collapse. Without missing a beat the fighter got their bearings and was already set to go, Kaz had been painfully peeling themselves off a cold unfeeling floor.

 “Great thinking my friend,” he coughed, and dragged himself towards a nearby rail, “if we had kept going I didn't know what would've become of our rock – no less us. I'd happen a guess it wouldn't be fun to be picked apart by those things or ground to a pulp; however,”  Kaz flattened themselves against the rail where his feeble arms were able to lift himself off the earth onto his legs. The Gothitelle lurched over the bars in exhaustion, “I’d kindly ask you warn me next time we preform a similarly bold leap, as I’m afraid my legs can't handle another.”

 Kaz peeked back over his shoulders to Feraligatr who seemed to have gotten up without a hitch.

 “I'm sure you must have an idea where we are if you were so confident we'd make the jump, right?”

 The Fighter shook their head, “No.”

 “Oh dear” he sighed, “That would make us both.”

 What they had expected to be a hollowed out cavern not unlike a massive cave along a seashore, what they were drawn to had turned out to be a massive a massive dock. Multiple layers of dockyards are build into the marble walls to the west where workers lugged massive hauls of stones and minerals, and where rudimentary machines chiseled apart the asteroids the moment they made shore. Those who were vested with wings or otherwise had the ability to fly did work atop of the masses of stone, scouring the surface for any valuables before the island-sized stone is slowly hauled off behind a large bend up ahead. The work looked to be arduous as well as dangerous, for there was little in way of a safety net preventing them from falling straight into the great void below. Neither wishing to be found by the hands of the flying workers or to see what was the end of the conveyor the duo made the leap to presumed safety the first chance they got. They'll come to learn whether it was or wasn't a wise decision another time, but aside from being in some sort of cosmic shipyard, they've made no progress cluing together where exactly they were.

 “One thing is clear, believe I can hear now – not much mind you,” after Kaz pointed out, the continuous hum and crunch of machinery went from silent to deafening. Kaz wasn't even going to try speaking over the dreadful sounds cape. “but though I hear little, that’s one sense we can make sense of. Do you care to be my ears, while I continue to speak on our behalves?”

 Feraligatr nodded.

 While Kaz had just started to glance at his surroudnings, Feralgatr had spent the minutes it took the Gothitelle to get up running surveillance. They realized that if they had both landed any further they would've toppled over a crate full of messy cobble, and as well that their section of the docks was filled to the brim with open crates of earthy materials which seem wholly unimportant on the surface, but had to have some use to the city. In spite of their strange contents the crates were neatly ordered in two by two stacks spread across the docks in several rows with stacks about four Feraligatr high.

 Without warning the Fighter crept towards the rows of shipment ready to face the challenges ahead. A tired Kaz sighed, and slowly followed dragging the tails of his robe along the crystal floor. Feraligatr would be leading the charge this time, as they lead their duo past the first of a few rows and stopped at their first of hundreds of four-way intersections with their Back pressed against the wall of crates.

 “May I recommend we opt for a more casual approach? If our plan is to sleuth around I believe we'd only draw unwarranted suspicion, ” Kaz fretted in a voice only the fighter could hear. “and secondly, that armor of yours is no fit for a thief's job. I can hear it over the machines!”

 The Feraligatr gave the man a look somewhere between anger and confusion, then nodded towards the long hall around the corner for Kaz to peek for himself.

 Far beyond the rows of evenly stacked crates the dock stretched on, but just before the curve lead the shores out of sight there was an alcove carved into the planet's white stone where the distant shapes of pokemon walked down and up a tremendous staircase. Compared to all other paths in the dockyard it was their best available route, unless they wanted to see where all those asteroids keep vanishing to; however, between them and there was a great archway looming over a guard post and many more workers going about their day oblivious to the two strangers slithering around.

 Before Kaz had a chance to comment, Feraligatr slid from their corner to the next row down and an ill-prepared Gotithelle had no choice other than to drag their heels in pursuit. All along the way the sounds of plate armor crinkled and the chain mail under it jingled. The fighter sound like a storm was ripping through the crates compared to the fabric of the scholar's gown.

 “Can't you hear yourself?” Kaz lamented when the two came to a stop, “I beg you to reconsider, friend. This can only end terribly-”

 “I can hear yous back there!” a voice caught them by surprise, one because it had  crept up on them, and two they were shocked to hear the voice speak in Common tongue. The grizzly tones of a tired old worker came from the next row over and only became louder as it encroached on the two's position. “I'm about to exercise my right to beat you to a pulp, so if you dirtbags quit messing with our work here I'll put you in a coffin, and have your friends dragged off to a cell!”

 There was a pregnant silence between the would-be sneaks. The Fighter had their confidence destroyed, Kaz had his horrors confirmed, they needed to think their way out of this and quick.

[stranded-warriors]

 “How long were you soaring?”  Their ride in particular was calm as the duo were on about as even ground as a rock drifting through space could offer. The Fighter had began licking their wounds, picking out the tiny bits of shrapnel which had gotten wedged into their scales then tossing them off into the abyss, and Kaz, who was the only person capable of speech continued rambling as he was eyeing the road ahead. “I swear I had not seen arrows that could fly as fast as you were soaring. The whiplash couldn't have been pleasant.”

 The Feraligatr had seen worse days in their time, there were only a few cuts – none too serious – and occasional scuff marks which had managed to flake off partial amounts of their scale. By chance they had landed somewhere relatively safe from the surrounding chaos, but right now was by no means a safe place to nurse any wounds back to health as there was still no tell of what might be cast their way. Although nothing had been posed as a yes or no, the Feralgatr looked over as they extended a scaly hands and bid Kaz a thumbs up.

 “I see,” Kaz looked away as if it would hide the confusion plastered over his face “is there anything you can point at I'd best be keenly aware?”

 There still the light light from some object from Feraligatr had seen earlier, and if it hadn't vanished then it should be behind the massive body the great stones encircled. The Fighter extended a finger from their thumbs up and pointed it beyond the psychic's shoulders to a place far off in the distance where they were absolutely sure the object would have to be. The Gothitelle glanced back to draw some lines from here to wherever there was, then after a long minute of watchful silence he looked at Feraligatr for a second time.

 “I'm afraid to admit I might be missing something,” he humored, “unless it is rock a hundred out of thousand you mean to be pointing at?”

 At this point the Fighter rose then approached in a shambling stride. They didn't put a hand on the flimsy psychic as they used both to direct the man's attention to the planet's horizon where upon edge crested was a large light and something hidden within. Kaz was initially stunned before he placed a hand beneath his chin and pondered aloud.

 “What is that supposed to be? A shiny stone, another sun? I tell you my friend, if that is a sun then we'll both be burnt to a crisp. So if it is not another giant stone or a sun, then perhaps it is this earth's moon? I'd imagine it would be bigger, it doesn't quite explain how bright it is but for once, I have never visited a moon before.”

 The two watched on, eagerly waiting the moment where their platform would drift across the planet enough that they could peek beyond the bend. The Feraligatr had no words for Kaz, as they were busy saving everry pent up question for the time they'll get together to chat.  Who know it might come earlier than expected and all this time their rock was heading for a place where they could breathe easily without questioning how they could possibly be drawing air. The Fighter will have to find out once they got there, for all too soon they saw it encroach the horizon.

 An intense, pink light clawed from behind the vast planet and nearly blinded the two as it slowly came into the view. It had come from a body much larger than any of the asteroids, but still somehow dwarfed by the sheer vastness of the planet. The object seemed wholly unnatural as if though a terrible force had swept across what was once a pale white moon, tearing it apart from the inside such that the surrounding asteroids could easily glide through its remains, and whatever had ripped through the planet had left a mark which had grown into the form of an unfathomably large quartz. From the top to the bottom of the narrow – albeit formidable structure were palaces and cities carved meticulously into its foundation. It was not the least impossible thing either of the adventurers had experienced today, for Feraligatr it was the most gorgeous.

 Silence befell the two as they had gazed on in amazement, confusion, and anticipation as during their stares they came to realize they were headed straight towards it and that on occasion, for only what they could assume was the whim of the port's operator did the asteroids fly towards the structure. Theirs was covered in all sorts of metals and otherworldly objects, even if they didn't match a written criteria they were bound to catch somebody's eye.

 So the Fighter prepared the only way they had seen how as they turned around and plundered any helm which could fit their head. There were many to choose from, some meant for small pokemon, others large, and from both sides of the conflict which the Fighter thought was the most important thing on earth. They looked until they could find one that could fit the shape of their reptilian head, but found the next best thing: a set of ornate black mail which was meant for his prestigious forces discarded without so much a dent. Although the helmet was made for a more bipedal pokemon, they took it anyways along with a helm from the enemy to Kaz.

 Kaz, who was puzzling out their next moves noticed the Feraligatr waltz into periphery with a helmet in each hand: one winged and white, the other black, jaded but ornate. The Fighter glanced at both then at the psychic as if to suggest a question, and Kaz ran with it.

 “Ah, I'm of no use wearing either of those.”

 The fighter repeated the gesture. He seemed to get it this time as his gaze turned into a squint.

 “I was strictly neutral during my one visit to your realm, and I didn't stay long enough to become embroiled in any side of your war; although, I did have a chance meeting with Zekrom when I was there. I got the impression he was a great man, but going off a few words is no way to judge any person's character.”

 Feraligatr let out a silent sigh, tossed the white helm aside, and donned the other. All the way to the leather straps at the back of their head to two-thirds down their snout they felt the helmet weigh down on them, to a point they felt as though they were about to have a headache. If the soldiers who left these here had come this far wearing the total weight of their armor on their backs, then dropping the load just shy of their goal was admitting defeat.

>You won't be like that

 The Fighter stood with Kaz, both waiting for the moment they will be docked into this crystal city. Surely a city could be a great starting point for anyone lost in a strange land, and though they've yet to see a single inhabitant of this world they can only hope they were as respectful as the two were to themselves. If they can just find someone to talk to their journey would end in time for brunch.

 Oh how little did they know.

[stranded-warriors]

// Gothitelle are strange. art@yonder 

[stranded-warriors]

 Every scrap of metal and rubble along the cliff face went soaring down with the Fighter, but in the very last moments the Fighter managed to grab something while inches away from doom. In hindsight looking straight up was a horrible idea because they didn't see a thing other than a whole wave of shrapnel headed their way. Instantly the fighter braced themselves for the worst, tightening their hands so much around whatever they could feel their fingers claw against their palms.

 As though it were destined at this point, they were saved one again. That invisible something they had grasped onto wrapped tightly around their hands, slithering between their fingers and nearly pulling them off as they were raised with enough force to send the fighter violently upwards. Their stiff, aching back was given the treatment of crashing up against many stones on their way to the “surface” before they landed against the cliff side without the weight of the world and flight pulling them to their death.

 A cloud of dust rose where their body had skidded to a halt, and all the malformed things that were previously falling with them were sent in the abyss. Around them were many more of those metals and armors – none were too unfamiliar. While they'd likely comb through the chaff to find treasure later, at this moment they were wondering where in the world that rope or force had found its way into their grasp. Who was behind it, was it a trick of this world? As luck would have it for the battered Feraligatr, they'd get their questions answered and then some.

 The stranger would come with the silence which had come to characterize this world; however, if the Fighter had decided look away from the sky they would clearly see the clouds of dust the stranger's long garments brewed with every step. Gothitelle had themselves of standing out from the crowd and this person was different, for the fellow wore a macabre combination of a scholar's uniform crossed with a traditional robe-like dress which complimented much of his glower features. He quickly adjusted his loose cap before he looked down upon the warrior, managing to show a modicum of concern through his dull white eyes.

>You see a gothitelle

>He eyes you, and normally the time where you must work your courage to speak, but you remember very well that would be useless.

>Thank goodness he knows.

 A cold sigh left the psychic.The least he could to was pick him up during the minutes-long staring contest, but he was keen on hawking over the toppled fighter. Despite the awkwardness, each were given a second to get their thoughts on track.

 “If I hadn't stepped up you would've kept going until you hit something hard and-” his voice if you want to call it such, was as close to calming as a buzzing at the back of your brain could possibly be “never mind; I think we both knew that. If you think you owe me a life-debt, then we can put it on papers once we've escaped our current predicament.”

 The Feraligatr's mouth moves to speak, and as expected, nothing comes of it. They make a defeated rise, getting their torso upright despite the pleasant feeling of lying in the dirt.

 “Right,” Gothitelle's blank expression keels into a frown. “don't bother. Conversation is two-way street I'm in no way talented enough to man, and two, you're no psychic-type. I am not going to explain why we can still breathe in spite of standing a realm deprived from wind because I've yet to wrap it around my head as well. Just be grateful you haven't turned purple, that you still draw breath.”

 “My name is Kaz,” he extends a pale hand “and I expect you will uphold a promise to introduce yourself properly once you no longer have to put up hearing my voice inside you.”

 It wouldn't be of much help, yet the Fighter accepted the offer as they extended out their claws to meet theirs, but this Kaz fellow could hardly support hoisting up an armored feraligatr. The hand he gave like it were about to fall off, his knees were on the verge of collapsing, and not wanting to be responsible for making them topple over only to never get up the Fighter let go to help themselves again. As they rose they'd come face to face; their hollow reptilian eyes looking down their astute gaze. It was a good idea never to be trustworthy of a someone right off the bat, although saving the fighter's hide was a good precedent to set. There was always strength in numbers, because two 'mons who knew nothing about their strange circumstances was better than just one of them soaring to their death in perpetuity.

 Even thought it was a hunch based off their looks and demeanor alone, they got the distinct feeling Kaz knew a bit more than they did.

[stranded-warriors]

// Holy smokes it’s been a month.

// Update coming in an hour, had internet issues last week preventing me from doing this any earlier.