zion of arcadia
too much of my own quietness is with me
- Pronouns
- she/her
- Partners
-
Author's Note: Oh my god, I finally posted this story LMAOOOOO. To say it's had a turbulent development time would be an understatement. I think I started working on it all the way back in... 2019? Originally it was supposed to be a response to one of Windskull's one shot prompts, and somehow it spiraled out of control from there. Largely because I'd never written journal format before and had (still have tbh) no idea what I was doing. It's undergone numerous revisions since, and honestly feels a bit frankensteined as a result. But, whatever, I'm just gonna post it and stop obsessing over this thing.
Special thanks to @Adamhuarts for being patient and illustrating so many scenes for me. I probably never would've posted this if not for his amazing art. Also shout out to MJ for beta reading, always appreciate the insight.
Written in large, bold letters on the inside of the leather bound cover:
THIS JOURNAL IS PROPERTY OF
Written in elaborate cursive:
Wanderer
WARNING: ANYONE ELSE THAT READS THIS JOURNAL SHALL BE CURSED FOREVER AND ALWAYS TO SUFFER A MOST PAINFUL MALADY OF BOILS! ERGO, DON’T TOUCH MY SHIT!
Found this journal in the back of the caravan. Doesn’t seem to belong to anyone and when I asked Smiles about it he just grunted noncommittally. Could’ve meant anything, really, so decided it meant house rules were finders-keepers. These lot don’t talk much and I’m bored out of my skull. And it’s been harder to keep track of memories lately. They jumble in conflicting layers over each other. If I write stuff down, it might help.
Hitched a ride with some traveling merchants just outside the city. They’re heading north to visit mountain villages scattered throughout. Make the rounds every year, when the cold can’t kill you quite as quick. Silverback Range is a curious place. Folks there have a lot of wilderness to them. Remnants of ancient, mindless violence echo in the clawed-out crevices—hard to tell the animals from the pokémon, sometimes.
We’ve been traveling for several days and are already deep and high in the mountains. The air here burns like frozen fire; snow hangs heavy on dense clusters of fir trees. I hate the cold. It settles deep in my bones, straight through to the marrow, making my inner flame sputter and fade. I’ve been so restless lately though. And I haven’t visited the Range in years: it’s a lonely place.
Turns the merchants taciturn too. Only Smiles has said more than one word to me and even that seems a strain for him. Their dialect is rough around the edges, a mishmash of common tongue with slang from other, harsher languages—words and phrases are low, guttural, uttered deep in the back of the throat.
Might shove off at the first village. Something about only having my thoughts for company while in the presence of others pisses me off.
The trees thin; the path opens up; we enter the valley of the arctic flower.
…
Tapeesa Village is home to a lycanroc clan. They’re different from their southern brethren: ice and snow glitter diamond-bright in their pelts. Their speech patterns are cold, frozen. When I tried talking to them in their own language they laughed and called me a bounder. No one respects me these days.
…
Took a while for any of the clan to open up. Standoffish bunch, like keeping to themselves. Except the pups—they followed us around, ears perked and tails wagging, asking questions about the south.
Told them about Diamond Gorge. How you can watch with a bird’s eye view all the different pokémon milling and mulling through the bazaar like a living river. They listened quietly, huddled close, before telling me how everything they’d heard about the southern cities involved evil foreigners.
Because of that, I told them the story of the Heart Thief Killer. Pokémon would fall asleep and wake the next morning to find their loved ones dead, their heart (or hearts) carved out of their body with surgical precision. It sent everyone into a panic, and the murderer was never found. They just stopped killing out of nowhere.
Once, a witness claimed they caught the back of the killer’s head after the deed was done. She described it as a tall, lank, dark creature, poison dripping off claws so long they dragged against the ground. When it turned and looked at her its eyes were pulsing organs, burning bright with supernatural light.
Now, I might’ve exaggerated the tale here and there, but you should’ve seen the look on those pups’ mugs. Their eyes bulged until they almost fell out onto the snow. Priceless. At that point, a lycanroc came by and snapped at me. Told me to stop talking southern nonsense and then stalked off. He wasn’t exactly wrong, but still. Rude.
One of the pups said, “That’s just Kal. He’s always like that.”
The wisdom children have compared to those who are older and should know better still surprises me from time to time.
Notes are jotted beneath the last sketch:
-Supposedly the layout was inspired by an old human legend. Something about a table. No idea if it’s true or if they’re just saying that to make it sound more interesting than true. Either way, I can respect it.
-Maglan is the village shaman. He deals with medicine and spiritual matters, and is a lot friendlier than most of the other lycanroc. Not bad on the eyes, either. Lets me putter around and tinker with things in his den. Says he saw me in a dream. Odd, but also kind of flattering.
-Dens are marked by scent. Fat lot of good that does for me. When I asked Maglan to try describing it, he just wrinkled his nose. Best I can understand: the chieftain, for example, smells like the lone sapling on the northern high ridge. None of the others translate well to common script.
-Their own language is a variant of the frozen tongues, supplemented by growls. The same sound can be followed by a high whine or a low bark and have two completely different meanings. Tricky to pick up the nuances.
-Food is brought out to the green by hunters for villagers to enjoy whenever. It’s so cold that the meat long stays edible. If required, leftovers are salted and stored away for lean periods. Some of it is also traded away to the merchants.
Inventory
Merchants:
-Jewelry
-Hard candy
-Berries
-Canvases
-Cloth
Villagers:
-Fur
-Iron
-Oil paint
-Solid wood
-Dried meat
-Hierarchy seems to be chieftain, shaman, hunters, everyone else. Pretty standard for small, insular villages like this one. The elderly and infirm function as mentors until the pups are old enough to learn how to hunt. Allows the mothers to rejoin the fold quickly.
-When they greet each other, the greeter will say, roughly: “Here I am.” They then answer: “As are we all.” Fancy way to reinforce community. Makes sense if you ask me. Surviving out here isn’t easy, not together and certainly not alone.
-There are two types of lycanroc. They call themselves summer and winter lycanroc. There’s also Sedna, so I suppose I lied: There are three types of lycanroc.
-They say Sedna’s kissed by sunset, whatever that means. She looks like a strange mix of the two lycanroc forms. It’s unsettling. Maglan believes she’s destined for great things.
-Sedna avoids participating in social events whenever she can help it. Sometimes she’ll come sit beside me at night, on the cusp of the village, while I’m sketching the surroundings. She’s the type where you can be alone together.
-Kal is a lot younger than I realized. He only recently evolved into a summer lycanroc. I’ve decided to call him Chip because he has a chip on his shoulder that makes boulders look like pebbles.
The hunters let me tag along with them on a trip. Several were against it at first, but Maglan convinced them it would bring favor from the Ancients. Bless him. I’ve been adjusting my sleep schedule to wake up on time, although I’ll still be grumpy having to rise that early. We manage.
Before we left, Maglan performed a traditional Rite of Permission. Our bodies were once empty vessels of Mew, our souls bound to the light of Xerneas. When some types of pokémon began to devour others of their soul-kin, Yveltal, with the help of Giratina, responded by creating animals, crude mimics destined for death and unmoored from the wheel.
We may partake of their flesh for sustenance, but never more than what’s needed. It’s not a gift to be taken lightly; thanks must be given. Or so they say. Personally I think it’s nonsense, but… most down south have forgotten the old ways. It’s nice to see these rituals still persist in remote locales. The memories of the mountains lasts forever.
The hunters are elegant in their coordination. They’ve planned this one out quite a bit in advance, scouting multiple trails and herds, because they want a massive feast for the upcoming Great Journey. They’re well-organized and almost seem to read one another’s thoughts whenever they fan out together, ghosting over the snow on delicate paws. They have the steady, methodical patience of pokémon that live far longer when they don’t force matters. I can only drag my fat old ass behind them and try not to slow anyone down too much.
Chip led the group. He knew what he was doing (and didn’t hesitate to let us know that he knew, either). Made the decisions when it came to closing out the kill or backing out, and seemingly got it right every time. Sedna tagged along too, a rare occasion. From what I could tell, she really got under Chip’s fur. They barely spoke two words to each other.
(Then again, Sedna doesn’t speak much in general. Mostly she just comes across as bored. No wonder she rarely joins them. The other lycanroc seem to respect her quite a bit, though. They always hitch their breath on the rare occasions she decides to speak. I see why it irritates Chip. She’s just passing through the world, rather than living in it. Except not really, because screw Chip.)
I kept my bow nocked and drawn, but mostly let the others work their magic uninhibited. They would cut off the weak or lame elk lagging behind their herd and take them down in efficient fashion. The calves and cows were left alone. I did sight one shot, piercing a big ol’ bull through the heart. He died standing up, looking at me with this wounded expression. It reminded me of the time I stole Proudfoot’s prized twenty-tine antler. But it’s not a very interesting story, so nevermind that.
Bagging my mark earned me a bit of respect. Not from Chip, though. He called it cheating. Definitely the type of guy that’ll talk about how he went uphill in the snow both ways when he gets older, and how the newer generation has it way easier. When we came back from the hunt, towing along multiple heavy carcasses, the appreciation from the other villagers felt nice. Almost better than haggling for wares.
Speaking of which, the merchant caravan will be moving on soon. I considered mentioning the journal again but ultimately kept my mouth shut. Smiles still hasn’t said anything, so there’s no point dredging up old news.
The upcoming “Great Journey” festival is a big deal from what I can tell. Maglan has asked me to stay behind and help him with preparations.
I think I will.
Blueprints for a sled and harness are shoved between the journal’s pages. Dimensions and parts are all labeled in meticulous detail. Suggestions for minor changes and a list of needed materials are scrawled underneath. The next page is a redesign based on the original blueprint. It seems to be sleeker and lighter while still managing the same weight capacity.
Every day when the sun begins to set, Maglan will set up a bonfire and spin the pups a yarn. As the days blur together, he sometimes lets me tell a tale or two as well. Today is his turn. He paces and prowls around the edge of the fire with a manic energy I've never seen in him before. He opens his maw:
The Great Journey Myth
“Once there was a rockruff born east of the northern chasm. He hatched alone, because his family had abandoned him. The rockruff did not know what to do, but because he was cold and hungry, he had no choice but to trek through the snow.
“The northern chasm is a cruel place. The True Shadow lurks there, waiting to devour lost ones for breakfast. But on the horizon always rests the Great One; she overlooks the northern chasm and promises sanctuary to all who embrace her. She is ancient and yet not one of the Ancients, an anomaly in every sense of the word.
“Now, the rockruff was too young to know this. But when he saw her, the wind changed direction, and he caught the scent of the arctic flower. He began heading home.
“The Great One’s size is deceptive—the rockruff walked many days and many nights, yet drew no closer. With each passing moment he became colder, hungrier, weaker. The horizon remained unchanged, and the shadows lengthened.
“At last, the rockruff could take not another step. He laid down and cried for help.
“The shadows rippled then vanished, and the qimmiq answered his plea. They stepped forward, hoarfrost pelts shardlight under the mooneye. Their paws left no marks on the snow and they moved with the stillness of silence. They brought him food and sang forgotten northern ballads. Ice shards replaced the rocks in his ruff, and his fur turned pure white.
“Newfound strength filled the rockruff. With the guidance and protection of the qimmiq, he reached the summit of the Great One and beseeched her. She responded, returning to life: an enormous figure carved from the face of a glacier. The Great One gifted him a sleigh filled with everything needed to start a new life. The qimmiq were harnessed to the sleigh and flew the rockruff home.
“And that is the story of how Tapeesa Village came to be.”
Upon hearing the story of the Great One, I knew immediately what Maglan meant. Something lost within me stirred. Sometimes I need to be reminded of things to care about.
Half-finished concept drafts of a crystal harness expanding and retracting around a lycanroc with no discernible energy source:
They announced Chip as the sleigh bearer. Pretty much everyone in the village is shocked that it’s not Sedna. Even Chip seems surprised at first. Then he became even more smugly superior like the unbearable prick he is.
Been spending most of my time with Maglan, in his den, away from annoyances such as Chip. I think Maglan might be in love with me, which is both inconvenient and also not. When I ask him if I can tag along on the Great Journey, he hesitated before saying no. I’ve been working on him ever since. If I can bring him around, he might bring Big Chief around.
I’ve already got it figured out. Some mystical dream featuring me as the wise guide assisting the trials and tribulations of the Great Journey. Something something symbolic alliance between the north and the south yadda yadda yadda singing around a fire about the power of friendship. It’s surprising Maglan has resisted a pitch like that as long as he has, considering it’s definitely convinced me.
Now, Chip being the one I’d have to guide is an unexpected, irritating addition, but oh well.
The rockruff have formed a choir. They practice singing the traditional hymn for the Great Journey early every morning, which isn’t great when you’re the exact opposite of a morning pokémon.
Maglan will often start humming along, tuneless, reminiscing on his participation as a pup. Then he’ll become sheepish and admit he mostly found it boring back then, standing still for hours on end, rotely memorizing words and harmonies—now, however, time tints the banality in shades of rose-colored nostalgia. He can be pretty cute when he gets like that.
Lyrics to All We Are:
[A Section]
In winter's grasp, come walk with me;
In darkness' grip, come walk with me.
The road is long, the journey great,
But end's in sight, soon day will break.
[Chorus]
Don't be afraid as all we are,
Here together we can be free.
Don't be afraid as all we are,
for here I am. Come walk with me.
[B Section]
We never walk alone, hear the call of the moon
Howl together in the shadow of the Great One
Let the frozen sleigh soar high, let the arctic flower bloom;
The ice tells many tales.
[Chorus Repeats x2]
…
Damn. So close. Maglan was willing to give me away to Chip as his gift for the sleigh. What a sweetheart. I almost feel bad. Big Chief put his paw down, though. The spirit of symbolic alliance is not alive and well within him.
The night is dark and the moon is high, for the festival of the Great Journey has finally arrived. Chip had to fast and sit vigil outside the village for twenty-four hours. The peace of mind is quite lovely.
Strings decked in glowing crystals criss-cross overhead. They crest atop rocky dens, casting the village in a myriad of silver lights. Within the dens’ darkness, sometimes the lights reflect back at us. These lycanroc are settling in early, skipping the final portion of the festivities.
The sounds and smells of merriment become ever more present. It snowed the previous night, the wide, flat village road already packed hard by the churn of many paws. Rockruff and lycanroc tussle in the snowbanks, kicking up white clouds sparkling with joy. Elk carcasses lay strewn across the grounds, to be devoured at the villagers’ leisure. Around them the snow is chaotic, stained pink with blood. Occasionally, lycanroc will leave to drink at the partially frozen watering hole.
I can hear a series of howls going off. That’s the signal for the beginning of the ceremony.
…
It’s interesting, watching the rest of the village react to Chip. I’ve never noticed it before. Their eyes burn with unspoken judgment. Or maybe it’s just because this night is special.
Chip holds his head high and refuses to meet anyone's gaze. They harness him at the center of the village and then he slowly spirals out along the concentric circles, pulling the sleigh along. He stops at each den, accepting a gift from every head of hearth.
All sorts of interesting knick knacks are added to the sleigh: fur dolls, dried leather, wooden figurines, pressed flowers, beef jerky. What does the Great One do with all this crap, anyway? Rituals can be so strange. Gifts start piling up on the back of the sleigh. The tip totters like a particularly tipsy spinda. Heh.
Note to self: Find way to use that line in conversation.
Chip meets Big Chief and his mate last. They baptize each other in the watering hole, an elderly rockruff chanting All We Are all the while. Then they spray Chip with water droplets while shaking themselves dry. Chip’s pelt glitters diamond-bright under the moonlight.
Big Chief utters words in their guttural language. I only catch some of it; it sounds like a refrain from the original Great Journey myth.
The sleigh overflows with gifts by the end. Chip strains against his harness, panting hard despite best efforts to stay quiet. Many of us trail along behind him. If a gift falls, a rockruff pup scrambles to pick it up and place it back on the sleigh. Supposedly, a gift that falls beyond Tapeesa’s perimeter will become soiled and must remain untouched.
Sedna pads silently beside me. As the elevation rises, Chip’s panting and straining only becomes more pronounced. No one remarks upon it, and we wend our way upward. The path narrows and snakes, curving along the steep slope that curls higher and higher. Thick pine trees burdened with snow stand sentinel over us—through the bristle and the brush light and shadow flicker and flash.
The crowd halts at the entrance to Tapeesa Village. Or the exit, I guess, depending on your point of view. Once Chip and his sleigh vanish from view, the crowd slowly dwindles.
I remain left behind.
Sedna stays, too. She watches me write in the journal without comment. It’s deep into the night when we’re finally alone. She asks me if I can keep a secret. I tell her the crevices of my skull are lined with secrets.
They offered her the position of sleigh bearer first. When I ask why, she shrugs, ears flat against her skull. When I ask why she didn’t accept, she’s silent for a time.
At last, Sedna answers: “It means nothing to me. But it meant everything to him.”
Fair enough.
…
They expect Chip back tomorrow. Everyone is fasting after gorging themselves the previous night. No one’s allowed to speak until then. It’s damn boring.
Thought I saw Seeker. Just a trick of shadow, but now I’m paranoid. Might need to leave soon.
…
I had a weird dream.
It’s midnight and I’m floating in mid-air. The frozen face of the Silverback Range stretches out before me. There are arcanine there. They look like none I’ve ever seen before. Snow white pelts and electric blue eyes fade away at the edges into starshine.
Directly below us lay a behemoth, taller than multiple wailord lined nose to fluke. A terrible blizzard masks it from view—only the shadow remains. Thick flakes spin across my line of sight, whispering secrets. Then, as if jerked by the navel, I’m pulled toward the ground.
White-dusted trees rush to meet me. I pass through them, pass through the ravenous madness of a mystery dungeon, then freeze abruptly. There is a cave, and within the cave, Chip and his sleigh. His hind leg is twisted at an awkward angle, ears pinned back as he stares beyond into the darkness. Bright red eyes stare back at us.
Someone taps me on the shoulder and asks if I’d like a cup of “kahfey.” That’s when I wake up.
Maglan didn’t even stir. Guy can sleep through an avalanche, I swear. I shake him awake and ask what will happen if Chip doesn’t deliver the gifts.
Exile. Exile?! Are you kidding me?
Son of a bitch.
...
Now I’m in that damn cave I dreamt about with Sedna and Chip. Worse, I have to sit here listening to them snipe at each other. It’s the most I’ve heard her talk, and it’s an unpleasant change of pace. And yeah, I wanted to accompany Chip, but not like this. Not like this at all. My hands are going numb from the cold. I don’t know how I keep getting myself into these messes. Well, I suppose I do.
Here’s what happened:
Sedna caught me sneaking out of the village. Apparently, she’d had the same dream. A sign from the Great One or whatever. Whoop de fucking doo. We track him down, running into and running away from a vicious froslass along the way. Can’t stand ghosts, creepy blighters.
I got nicked in the process too, like some fresh-faced, runny-nosed hatchling. Embarrassing. The froslass must’ve messed up Chip as well. His leg is broken and the ice in his fur has taken on a bruised-blue coloration.
Sedna wants to bring him back to Tapeesa, but he’s a stubborn mutt. Keeps going on about how she doesn’t know what it’s like to earn even a scrap of appreciation since she’s born special. And she keeps going on about how everyone in the village is a brainwashed, traditional idiot. It’s too damn cold for this bullshit.
My hands won’t stop shaking.
I’m going to tell these pups to shut it so we can figure out how to scale that mountain. I want to see the Great One. It sent me a dream for a reason, I’m sure of it. This isn’t how I wanted things to go down, but I’ve always been good at improvising.
…
Well, yesterday was wild.
…
I’m not sure where to begin. I don’t want to forget, though, so I’m going to write down what I remember as best I can:
First I smacked some sense into the pups—I mean, diplomatically negotiated an understanding between them—by arbitrating their issues.
Chip was angry that he had to work twice as hard to receive half as much recognition as Sedna. Sedna was angry because Chip’s an enormous cunt. And also seeking validation where it didn’t matter. It was a bit touch and go, but they did eventually reach an agreement, an agreement achieved in part by my vast talents for diplomacy, and in part by my skin turning blue from frostbite.
After, we loaded Chip onto the sleigh. The way he’d been wedged between the gifts might’ve been funny if the situation weren’t so serious. He whined like we were about to kill him, the big baby. Sedna pulled from the front while I pushed from the back. The snow came up past my thighs, burning like salt and iron on an open wound. Still aches too.
I’d wanted to cut through the mystery dungeon to save time and heal Chip’s leg quick. But they balked at the notion, for it’s considered cursed grounds to be avoided. It would defile their gifts. In retrospect, they probably had the right of it. Especially with an injured party member. Rabids, they can sense blood in the proverbial water. Dungeons too. And I’ve never died in a dungeon before. Glad I didn’t have to find out what might’ve happened that night.
A hard trek, though. We worked our way uphill through thick brush in the dark of night. Now, as a nocturnal creature, that wasn’t so bad for me. But since I was stuck pushing from behind, I couldn’t help much. The starlit sky peeked through the tree clusters every so often to better illuminate the well-worn mountain trail.
Sedna had taken point and was mostly navigating by scent and sound, with Chip throwing out “helpful” suggestions every so often. This is why I’ll never have kids. Sedna snapped back at him, and I thought I’d have to break up another pointless argument. But instead, to everyone’s surprise, he went quiet, later thanking us both for our help.
We couldn’t really savor the moment, though, because those froslass from earlier returned with friends. They surrounded us, eyes glowing like will-o-wisps in the dark, outnumbering us three-to-one.
I’ll be honest. I figured that was the end. I’d be okay, although it’d hurt like a bitch—and the Graveyard was always an unpleasant place to revisit. But the pups... that’s always the rub, yeah? Others end up hurt too, and when they break they can’t be fixed as easily.
So I fought, and Sedna did too. We got in some good licks. But there were too many. Their gazes were implacable in that way ghosts get—operating by a code known only to them while they darted and danced to their own death song, invulnerable and cruel like a northern wind. Even Chip tried his best despite the broken leg. But it was a losing battle, our blows little more than vain mockeries.
That’s when the qimmiq came.
An aurora borealis shone through the nettle, a sea of green and purple light snaking above the snow. The qimmiq appeared snarling and snapping, tearing apart their ghostly counterparts. The froslass fled, shrieking, noise escaping them for the first and last time as they spat foul curses at the ephemeral pokemon.
Some of the curses are jotted down, alongside the words: ‘not too shabby.’
We were wounded. Sedna had long claw marks along her side and I’d taken several shards to the gut. I wasn’t sure what would happen next. The qimmiq loomed over us, enormous muzzles gently grasping us by the scruffs of our necks before depositing us on the sleigh. Should’ve seen the look on Chip’s face, thought he was going to piss himself.
I was nervous too. But in a more dignified way.
The sleigh jingled with bells chiming somewhere unseen. It began to move, lifting into the air. We were flying. I hate flying. Almost hurled at one point.
Both Chip and Sedna loved it, though. They sat upright, tongues rolling, eyes bright under the moonlight while wind streamed through their ice-stiff fur. They exchanged a glance with each other and had a little moment of camaraderie and okay, sure, it was somewhat adorable.
The qimmiq galloped in the air alongside us, movement an easy glide. The world just passed straight through them. Below us spread snow and trees racing along the veins of mountains. Then it opened up into a valley.
There was the Great One.
She was magnificent. How else to describe her? A dream couldn’t compare, nor a nightmare. Some in-between instead, a mix of frigid dread and crystalized wonder. The towering ninetales was carved out the side of a glacier, crafted from glass-clear ice. Previous years’ gifts were locked within her body, frozen in time, their count innumerable. The aurora borealis around us intensified the longer we gazed upon her.
Howls could be heard from Tapeesa village. The qimmiq howled back. Their cries were melodic, perfect harmonization. A melody played in our heads as well. It strengthened when we drifted closer, almost painful to hear.
The behemoth ninetales came to life, twisting and turning, setting the mountain alight with song. Our sleigh touched down on a rocky outcrop before her. She dominated everything with her presence, trunk-like tails shifting as she lowered her slender muzzle down to meet us. That ethereal purple-hazed gaze could pierce the heavens themselves, I reckon.
There should be one. There are three. And one of three a stranger. Explain.
Her regal declaration rattled inside our skulls like the striking of a gong. The words had a metallic, imprinted quality to them. I can almost feel them, even now, carved along the interior of my skull. The qimmiq pulled us off the sleigh before surrounding us much like the froslass had earlier.
We lowered onto our bellies. We knew we were in the presence of an ancient: the Great One. Her eyes alone were bigger than me. I had seen myself reflected in them.
Then Sedna spoke, quavering: “We never walk alone.”
And Chip added: “Here together we can be free.”
The ninetales regarded us silently for a moment. Then her tongue rolled out to swallow the sleigh whole. We watched it slide down her gullet and rest below her sternum, above a smattering of stuffed dolls. After a moment it shattered, the gifts within floating free like driftwood caught in a river’s current.
As are we all. You’ve done well. Go home.
Her tails snaked onto the outcrop. She paused and fixed her omnipresent gaze on me.
Beware the skinwalkers.
I still don’t know what that means.
She brushed her tails against our shoulders. I had a vision. A lake, a sword. In the distance, across the pale, lies Seeker. Watching me. Always watching. It would follow me until the end of days.
I don’t know what most of that means, either. But it’s clear there’s still much for me to learn. My journey isn’t over yet. Maybe not for a long, long time.
The ninetales straightened and froze back in place. The qimmiq and the aurora borealis vanished. The lycanroc of Tapeesa village continued singing. Chip’s broken leg had been healed.
We left.
…
I needed a few days to recover. Bad case of frostbite. The Great One couldn’t have fixed that too? Rude. Maglan fussed over me the whole time. It was sweet, if a little humiliating.
There’s a song stuck in my head. It hasn’t left since our meeting with the Great One. I catch myself humming it, sometimes.
When the traders come through again, Sedna and Chip want to join them. They asked me to show them around the city. Whatever visions they had, they never shared with me. But it’s clear they’re different. Chip isn’t quite so angry anymore. Sedna no longer seems like she’s sleepwalking through life.
They’re still quite young and stupid in a lot of ways. Also brave and inquisitive. Natural leaders. A quiet village like Tapeesa just isn’t large enough for them. Not anymore. I can respect that. It won’t be long before I grow restless, too, I think. Companions that can hold an actual conversation might make for a nice change while on the road.
It’ll be neat to see old places through their fresh eyes, too. When I think about it, leaving an insular place for the first time is sort of like its own form of death. Reincarnation. Metaphorically speaking, y’know? The birth of new beginnings.
I’ll miss Maglan. But it’s time to move on.
Special thanks to @Adamhuarts for being patient and illustrating so many scenes for me. I probably never would've posted this if not for his amazing art. Also shout out to MJ for beta reading, always appreciate the insight.
Written in large, bold letters on the inside of the leather bound cover:
THIS JOURNAL IS PROPERTY OF
Written in elaborate cursive:
Wanderer
WARNING: ANYONE ELSE THAT READS THIS JOURNAL SHALL BE CURSED FOREVER AND ALWAYS TO SUFFER A MOST PAINFUL MALADY OF BOILS! ERGO, DON’T TOUCH MY SHIT!
Found this journal in the back of the caravan. Doesn’t seem to belong to anyone and when I asked Smiles about it he just grunted noncommittally. Could’ve meant anything, really, so decided it meant house rules were finders-keepers. These lot don’t talk much and I’m bored out of my skull. And it’s been harder to keep track of memories lately. They jumble in conflicting layers over each other. If I write stuff down, it might help.
Hitched a ride with some traveling merchants just outside the city. They’re heading north to visit mountain villages scattered throughout. Make the rounds every year, when the cold can’t kill you quite as quick. Silverback Range is a curious place. Folks there have a lot of wilderness to them. Remnants of ancient, mindless violence echo in the clawed-out crevices—hard to tell the animals from the pokémon, sometimes.
We’ve been traveling for several days and are already deep and high in the mountains. The air here burns like frozen fire; snow hangs heavy on dense clusters of fir trees. I hate the cold. It settles deep in my bones, straight through to the marrow, making my inner flame sputter and fade. I’ve been so restless lately though. And I haven’t visited the Range in years: it’s a lonely place.
Turns the merchants taciturn too. Only Smiles has said more than one word to me and even that seems a strain for him. Their dialect is rough around the edges, a mishmash of common tongue with slang from other, harsher languages—words and phrases are low, guttural, uttered deep in the back of the throat.
Might shove off at the first village. Something about only having my thoughts for company while in the presence of others pisses me off.
The trees thin; the path opens up; we enter the valley of the arctic flower.
…
Tapeesa Village is home to a lycanroc clan. They’re different from their southern brethren: ice and snow glitter diamond-bright in their pelts. Their speech patterns are cold, frozen. When I tried talking to them in their own language they laughed and called me a bounder. No one respects me these days.
…
Took a while for any of the clan to open up. Standoffish bunch, like keeping to themselves. Except the pups—they followed us around, ears perked and tails wagging, asking questions about the south.
Told them about Diamond Gorge. How you can watch with a bird’s eye view all the different pokémon milling and mulling through the bazaar like a living river. They listened quietly, huddled close, before telling me how everything they’d heard about the southern cities involved evil foreigners.
Because of that, I told them the story of the Heart Thief Killer. Pokémon would fall asleep and wake the next morning to find their loved ones dead, their heart (or hearts) carved out of their body with surgical precision. It sent everyone into a panic, and the murderer was never found. They just stopped killing out of nowhere.
Once, a witness claimed they caught the back of the killer’s head after the deed was done. She described it as a tall, lank, dark creature, poison dripping off claws so long they dragged against the ground. When it turned and looked at her its eyes were pulsing organs, burning bright with supernatural light.
Now, I might’ve exaggerated the tale here and there, but you should’ve seen the look on those pups’ mugs. Their eyes bulged until they almost fell out onto the snow. Priceless. At that point, a lycanroc came by and snapped at me. Told me to stop talking southern nonsense and then stalked off. He wasn’t exactly wrong, but still. Rude.
One of the pups said, “That’s just Kal. He’s always like that.”
The wisdom children have compared to those who are older and should know better still surprises me from time to time.
Notes are jotted beneath the last sketch:
-Supposedly the layout was inspired by an old human legend. Something about a table. No idea if it’s true or if they’re just saying that to make it sound more interesting than true. Either way, I can respect it.
-Maglan is the village shaman. He deals with medicine and spiritual matters, and is a lot friendlier than most of the other lycanroc. Not bad on the eyes, either. Lets me putter around and tinker with things in his den. Says he saw me in a dream. Odd, but also kind of flattering.
-Dens are marked by scent. Fat lot of good that does for me. When I asked Maglan to try describing it, he just wrinkled his nose. Best I can understand: the chieftain, for example, smells like the lone sapling on the northern high ridge. None of the others translate well to common script.
-Their own language is a variant of the frozen tongues, supplemented by growls. The same sound can be followed by a high whine or a low bark and have two completely different meanings. Tricky to pick up the nuances.
-Food is brought out to the green by hunters for villagers to enjoy whenever. It’s so cold that the meat long stays edible. If required, leftovers are salted and stored away for lean periods. Some of it is also traded away to the merchants.
Inventory
Merchants:
-Jewelry
-Hard candy
-Berries
-Canvases
-Cloth
Villagers:
-Fur
-Iron
-Oil paint
-Solid wood
-Dried meat
-Hierarchy seems to be chieftain, shaman, hunters, everyone else. Pretty standard for small, insular villages like this one. The elderly and infirm function as mentors until the pups are old enough to learn how to hunt. Allows the mothers to rejoin the fold quickly.
-When they greet each other, the greeter will say, roughly: “Here I am.” They then answer: “As are we all.” Fancy way to reinforce community. Makes sense if you ask me. Surviving out here isn’t easy, not together and certainly not alone.
-There are two types of lycanroc. They call themselves summer and winter lycanroc. There’s also Sedna, so I suppose I lied: There are three types of lycanroc.
-They say Sedna’s kissed by sunset, whatever that means. She looks like a strange mix of the two lycanroc forms. It’s unsettling. Maglan believes she’s destined for great things.
-Sedna avoids participating in social events whenever she can help it. Sometimes she’ll come sit beside me at night, on the cusp of the village, while I’m sketching the surroundings. She’s the type where you can be alone together.
-Kal is a lot younger than I realized. He only recently evolved into a summer lycanroc. I’ve decided to call him Chip because he has a chip on his shoulder that makes boulders look like pebbles.
The hunters let me tag along with them on a trip. Several were against it at first, but Maglan convinced them it would bring favor from the Ancients. Bless him. I’ve been adjusting my sleep schedule to wake up on time, although I’ll still be grumpy having to rise that early. We manage.
Before we left, Maglan performed a traditional Rite of Permission. Our bodies were once empty vessels of Mew, our souls bound to the light of Xerneas. When some types of pokémon began to devour others of their soul-kin, Yveltal, with the help of Giratina, responded by creating animals, crude mimics destined for death and unmoored from the wheel.
We may partake of their flesh for sustenance, but never more than what’s needed. It’s not a gift to be taken lightly; thanks must be given. Or so they say. Personally I think it’s nonsense, but… most down south have forgotten the old ways. It’s nice to see these rituals still persist in remote locales. The memories of the mountains lasts forever.
The hunters are elegant in their coordination. They’ve planned this one out quite a bit in advance, scouting multiple trails and herds, because they want a massive feast for the upcoming Great Journey. They’re well-organized and almost seem to read one another’s thoughts whenever they fan out together, ghosting over the snow on delicate paws. They have the steady, methodical patience of pokémon that live far longer when they don’t force matters. I can only drag my fat old ass behind them and try not to slow anyone down too much.
Chip led the group. He knew what he was doing (and didn’t hesitate to let us know that he knew, either). Made the decisions when it came to closing out the kill or backing out, and seemingly got it right every time. Sedna tagged along too, a rare occasion. From what I could tell, she really got under Chip’s fur. They barely spoke two words to each other.
(Then again, Sedna doesn’t speak much in general. Mostly she just comes across as bored. No wonder she rarely joins them. The other lycanroc seem to respect her quite a bit, though. They always hitch their breath on the rare occasions she decides to speak. I see why it irritates Chip. She’s just passing through the world, rather than living in it. Except not really, because screw Chip.)
I kept my bow nocked and drawn, but mostly let the others work their magic uninhibited. They would cut off the weak or lame elk lagging behind their herd and take them down in efficient fashion. The calves and cows were left alone. I did sight one shot, piercing a big ol’ bull through the heart. He died standing up, looking at me with this wounded expression. It reminded me of the time I stole Proudfoot’s prized twenty-tine antler. But it’s not a very interesting story, so nevermind that.
Bagging my mark earned me a bit of respect. Not from Chip, though. He called it cheating. Definitely the type of guy that’ll talk about how he went uphill in the snow both ways when he gets older, and how the newer generation has it way easier. When we came back from the hunt, towing along multiple heavy carcasses, the appreciation from the other villagers felt nice. Almost better than haggling for wares.
Speaking of which, the merchant caravan will be moving on soon. I considered mentioning the journal again but ultimately kept my mouth shut. Smiles still hasn’t said anything, so there’s no point dredging up old news.
The upcoming “Great Journey” festival is a big deal from what I can tell. Maglan has asked me to stay behind and help him with preparations.
I think I will.
Blueprints for a sled and harness are shoved between the journal’s pages. Dimensions and parts are all labeled in meticulous detail. Suggestions for minor changes and a list of needed materials are scrawled underneath. The next page is a redesign based on the original blueprint. It seems to be sleeker and lighter while still managing the same weight capacity.
Every day when the sun begins to set, Maglan will set up a bonfire and spin the pups a yarn. As the days blur together, he sometimes lets me tell a tale or two as well. Today is his turn. He paces and prowls around the edge of the fire with a manic energy I've never seen in him before. He opens his maw:
The Great Journey Myth
“Once there was a rockruff born east of the northern chasm. He hatched alone, because his family had abandoned him. The rockruff did not know what to do, but because he was cold and hungry, he had no choice but to trek through the snow.
“The northern chasm is a cruel place. The True Shadow lurks there, waiting to devour lost ones for breakfast. But on the horizon always rests the Great One; she overlooks the northern chasm and promises sanctuary to all who embrace her. She is ancient and yet not one of the Ancients, an anomaly in every sense of the word.
“Now, the rockruff was too young to know this. But when he saw her, the wind changed direction, and he caught the scent of the arctic flower. He began heading home.
“The Great One’s size is deceptive—the rockruff walked many days and many nights, yet drew no closer. With each passing moment he became colder, hungrier, weaker. The horizon remained unchanged, and the shadows lengthened.
“At last, the rockruff could take not another step. He laid down and cried for help.
“The shadows rippled then vanished, and the qimmiq answered his plea. They stepped forward, hoarfrost pelts shardlight under the mooneye. Their paws left no marks on the snow and they moved with the stillness of silence. They brought him food and sang forgotten northern ballads. Ice shards replaced the rocks in his ruff, and his fur turned pure white.
“Newfound strength filled the rockruff. With the guidance and protection of the qimmiq, he reached the summit of the Great One and beseeched her. She responded, returning to life: an enormous figure carved from the face of a glacier. The Great One gifted him a sleigh filled with everything needed to start a new life. The qimmiq were harnessed to the sleigh and flew the rockruff home.
“And that is the story of how Tapeesa Village came to be.”
Upon hearing the story of the Great One, I knew immediately what Maglan meant. Something lost within me stirred. Sometimes I need to be reminded of things to care about.
Half-finished concept drafts of a crystal harness expanding and retracting around a lycanroc with no discernible energy source:
They announced Chip as the sleigh bearer. Pretty much everyone in the village is shocked that it’s not Sedna. Even Chip seems surprised at first. Then he became even more smugly superior like the unbearable prick he is.
Been spending most of my time with Maglan, in his den, away from annoyances such as Chip. I think Maglan might be in love with me, which is both inconvenient and also not. When I ask him if I can tag along on the Great Journey, he hesitated before saying no. I’ve been working on him ever since. If I can bring him around, he might bring Big Chief around.
I’ve already got it figured out. Some mystical dream featuring me as the wise guide assisting the trials and tribulations of the Great Journey. Something something symbolic alliance between the north and the south yadda yadda yadda singing around a fire about the power of friendship. It’s surprising Maglan has resisted a pitch like that as long as he has, considering it’s definitely convinced me.
Now, Chip being the one I’d have to guide is an unexpected, irritating addition, but oh well.
The rockruff have formed a choir. They practice singing the traditional hymn for the Great Journey early every morning, which isn’t great when you’re the exact opposite of a morning pokémon.
Maglan will often start humming along, tuneless, reminiscing on his participation as a pup. Then he’ll become sheepish and admit he mostly found it boring back then, standing still for hours on end, rotely memorizing words and harmonies—now, however, time tints the banality in shades of rose-colored nostalgia. He can be pretty cute when he gets like that.
Lyrics to All We Are:
[A Section]
In winter's grasp, come walk with me;
In darkness' grip, come walk with me.
The road is long, the journey great,
But end's in sight, soon day will break.
[Chorus]
Don't be afraid as all we are,
Here together we can be free.
Don't be afraid as all we are,
for here I am. Come walk with me.
[B Section]
We never walk alone, hear the call of the moon
Howl together in the shadow of the Great One
Let the frozen sleigh soar high, let the arctic flower bloom;
The ice tells many tales.
[Chorus Repeats x2]
…
Damn. So close. Maglan was willing to give me away to Chip as his gift for the sleigh. What a sweetheart. I almost feel bad. Big Chief put his paw down, though. The spirit of symbolic alliance is not alive and well within him.
The night is dark and the moon is high, for the festival of the Great Journey has finally arrived. Chip had to fast and sit vigil outside the village for twenty-four hours. The peace of mind is quite lovely.
Strings decked in glowing crystals criss-cross overhead. They crest atop rocky dens, casting the village in a myriad of silver lights. Within the dens’ darkness, sometimes the lights reflect back at us. These lycanroc are settling in early, skipping the final portion of the festivities.
The sounds and smells of merriment become ever more present. It snowed the previous night, the wide, flat village road already packed hard by the churn of many paws. Rockruff and lycanroc tussle in the snowbanks, kicking up white clouds sparkling with joy. Elk carcasses lay strewn across the grounds, to be devoured at the villagers’ leisure. Around them the snow is chaotic, stained pink with blood. Occasionally, lycanroc will leave to drink at the partially frozen watering hole.
I can hear a series of howls going off. That’s the signal for the beginning of the ceremony.
…
It’s interesting, watching the rest of the village react to Chip. I’ve never noticed it before. Their eyes burn with unspoken judgment. Or maybe it’s just because this night is special.
Chip holds his head high and refuses to meet anyone's gaze. They harness him at the center of the village and then he slowly spirals out along the concentric circles, pulling the sleigh along. He stops at each den, accepting a gift from every head of hearth.
All sorts of interesting knick knacks are added to the sleigh: fur dolls, dried leather, wooden figurines, pressed flowers, beef jerky. What does the Great One do with all this crap, anyway? Rituals can be so strange. Gifts start piling up on the back of the sleigh. The tip totters like a particularly tipsy spinda. Heh.
Note to self: Find way to use that line in conversation.
Chip meets Big Chief and his mate last. They baptize each other in the watering hole, an elderly rockruff chanting All We Are all the while. Then they spray Chip with water droplets while shaking themselves dry. Chip’s pelt glitters diamond-bright under the moonlight.
Big Chief utters words in their guttural language. I only catch some of it; it sounds like a refrain from the original Great Journey myth.
The sleigh overflows with gifts by the end. Chip strains against his harness, panting hard despite best efforts to stay quiet. Many of us trail along behind him. If a gift falls, a rockruff pup scrambles to pick it up and place it back on the sleigh. Supposedly, a gift that falls beyond Tapeesa’s perimeter will become soiled and must remain untouched.
Sedna pads silently beside me. As the elevation rises, Chip’s panting and straining only becomes more pronounced. No one remarks upon it, and we wend our way upward. The path narrows and snakes, curving along the steep slope that curls higher and higher. Thick pine trees burdened with snow stand sentinel over us—through the bristle and the brush light and shadow flicker and flash.
The crowd halts at the entrance to Tapeesa Village. Or the exit, I guess, depending on your point of view. Once Chip and his sleigh vanish from view, the crowd slowly dwindles.
I remain left behind.
Sedna stays, too. She watches me write in the journal without comment. It’s deep into the night when we’re finally alone. She asks me if I can keep a secret. I tell her the crevices of my skull are lined with secrets.
They offered her the position of sleigh bearer first. When I ask why, she shrugs, ears flat against her skull. When I ask why she didn’t accept, she’s silent for a time.
At last, Sedna answers: “It means nothing to me. But it meant everything to him.”
Fair enough.
…
They expect Chip back tomorrow. Everyone is fasting after gorging themselves the previous night. No one’s allowed to speak until then. It’s damn boring.
Thought I saw Seeker. Just a trick of shadow, but now I’m paranoid. Might need to leave soon.
…
I had a weird dream.
It’s midnight and I’m floating in mid-air. The frozen face of the Silverback Range stretches out before me. There are arcanine there. They look like none I’ve ever seen before. Snow white pelts and electric blue eyes fade away at the edges into starshine.
Directly below us lay a behemoth, taller than multiple wailord lined nose to fluke. A terrible blizzard masks it from view—only the shadow remains. Thick flakes spin across my line of sight, whispering secrets. Then, as if jerked by the navel, I’m pulled toward the ground.
White-dusted trees rush to meet me. I pass through them, pass through the ravenous madness of a mystery dungeon, then freeze abruptly. There is a cave, and within the cave, Chip and his sleigh. His hind leg is twisted at an awkward angle, ears pinned back as he stares beyond into the darkness. Bright red eyes stare back at us.
Someone taps me on the shoulder and asks if I’d like a cup of “kahfey.” That’s when I wake up.
Maglan didn’t even stir. Guy can sleep through an avalanche, I swear. I shake him awake and ask what will happen if Chip doesn’t deliver the gifts.
Exile. Exile?! Are you kidding me?
Son of a bitch.
...
Now I’m in that damn cave I dreamt about with Sedna and Chip. Worse, I have to sit here listening to them snipe at each other. It’s the most I’ve heard her talk, and it’s an unpleasant change of pace. And yeah, I wanted to accompany Chip, but not like this. Not like this at all. My hands are going numb from the cold. I don’t know how I keep getting myself into these messes. Well, I suppose I do.
Here’s what happened:
Sedna caught me sneaking out of the village. Apparently, she’d had the same dream. A sign from the Great One or whatever. Whoop de fucking doo. We track him down, running into and running away from a vicious froslass along the way. Can’t stand ghosts, creepy blighters.
I got nicked in the process too, like some fresh-faced, runny-nosed hatchling. Embarrassing. The froslass must’ve messed up Chip as well. His leg is broken and the ice in his fur has taken on a bruised-blue coloration.
Sedna wants to bring him back to Tapeesa, but he’s a stubborn mutt. Keeps going on about how she doesn’t know what it’s like to earn even a scrap of appreciation since she’s born special. And she keeps going on about how everyone in the village is a brainwashed, traditional idiot. It’s too damn cold for this bullshit.
My hands won’t stop shaking.
I’m going to tell these pups to shut it so we can figure out how to scale that mountain. I want to see the Great One. It sent me a dream for a reason, I’m sure of it. This isn’t how I wanted things to go down, but I’ve always been good at improvising.
…
Well, yesterday was wild.
…
I’m not sure where to begin. I don’t want to forget, though, so I’m going to write down what I remember as best I can:
First I smacked some sense into the pups—I mean, diplomatically negotiated an understanding between them—by arbitrating their issues.
Chip was angry that he had to work twice as hard to receive half as much recognition as Sedna. Sedna was angry because Chip’s an enormous cunt. And also seeking validation where it didn’t matter. It was a bit touch and go, but they did eventually reach an agreement, an agreement achieved in part by my vast talents for diplomacy, and in part by my skin turning blue from frostbite.
After, we loaded Chip onto the sleigh. The way he’d been wedged between the gifts might’ve been funny if the situation weren’t so serious. He whined like we were about to kill him, the big baby. Sedna pulled from the front while I pushed from the back. The snow came up past my thighs, burning like salt and iron on an open wound. Still aches too.
I’d wanted to cut through the mystery dungeon to save time and heal Chip’s leg quick. But they balked at the notion, for it’s considered cursed grounds to be avoided. It would defile their gifts. In retrospect, they probably had the right of it. Especially with an injured party member. Rabids, they can sense blood in the proverbial water. Dungeons too. And I’ve never died in a dungeon before. Glad I didn’t have to find out what might’ve happened that night.
A hard trek, though. We worked our way uphill through thick brush in the dark of night. Now, as a nocturnal creature, that wasn’t so bad for me. But since I was stuck pushing from behind, I couldn’t help much. The starlit sky peeked through the tree clusters every so often to better illuminate the well-worn mountain trail.
Sedna had taken point and was mostly navigating by scent and sound, with Chip throwing out “helpful” suggestions every so often. This is why I’ll never have kids. Sedna snapped back at him, and I thought I’d have to break up another pointless argument. But instead, to everyone’s surprise, he went quiet, later thanking us both for our help.
We couldn’t really savor the moment, though, because those froslass from earlier returned with friends. They surrounded us, eyes glowing like will-o-wisps in the dark, outnumbering us three-to-one.
I’ll be honest. I figured that was the end. I’d be okay, although it’d hurt like a bitch—and the Graveyard was always an unpleasant place to revisit. But the pups... that’s always the rub, yeah? Others end up hurt too, and when they break they can’t be fixed as easily.
So I fought, and Sedna did too. We got in some good licks. But there were too many. Their gazes were implacable in that way ghosts get—operating by a code known only to them while they darted and danced to their own death song, invulnerable and cruel like a northern wind. Even Chip tried his best despite the broken leg. But it was a losing battle, our blows little more than vain mockeries.
That’s when the qimmiq came.
An aurora borealis shone through the nettle, a sea of green and purple light snaking above the snow. The qimmiq appeared snarling and snapping, tearing apart their ghostly counterparts. The froslass fled, shrieking, noise escaping them for the first and last time as they spat foul curses at the ephemeral pokemon.
Some of the curses are jotted down, alongside the words: ‘not too shabby.’
We were wounded. Sedna had long claw marks along her side and I’d taken several shards to the gut. I wasn’t sure what would happen next. The qimmiq loomed over us, enormous muzzles gently grasping us by the scruffs of our necks before depositing us on the sleigh. Should’ve seen the look on Chip’s face, thought he was going to piss himself.
I was nervous too. But in a more dignified way.
The sleigh jingled with bells chiming somewhere unseen. It began to move, lifting into the air. We were flying. I hate flying. Almost hurled at one point.
Both Chip and Sedna loved it, though. They sat upright, tongues rolling, eyes bright under the moonlight while wind streamed through their ice-stiff fur. They exchanged a glance with each other and had a little moment of camaraderie and okay, sure, it was somewhat adorable.
The qimmiq galloped in the air alongside us, movement an easy glide. The world just passed straight through them. Below us spread snow and trees racing along the veins of mountains. Then it opened up into a valley.
There was the Great One.
She was magnificent. How else to describe her? A dream couldn’t compare, nor a nightmare. Some in-between instead, a mix of frigid dread and crystalized wonder. The towering ninetales was carved out the side of a glacier, crafted from glass-clear ice. Previous years’ gifts were locked within her body, frozen in time, their count innumerable. The aurora borealis around us intensified the longer we gazed upon her.
Howls could be heard from Tapeesa village. The qimmiq howled back. Their cries were melodic, perfect harmonization. A melody played in our heads as well. It strengthened when we drifted closer, almost painful to hear.
The behemoth ninetales came to life, twisting and turning, setting the mountain alight with song. Our sleigh touched down on a rocky outcrop before her. She dominated everything with her presence, trunk-like tails shifting as she lowered her slender muzzle down to meet us. That ethereal purple-hazed gaze could pierce the heavens themselves, I reckon.
There should be one. There are three. And one of three a stranger. Explain.
Her regal declaration rattled inside our skulls like the striking of a gong. The words had a metallic, imprinted quality to them. I can almost feel them, even now, carved along the interior of my skull. The qimmiq pulled us off the sleigh before surrounding us much like the froslass had earlier.
We lowered onto our bellies. We knew we were in the presence of an ancient: the Great One. Her eyes alone were bigger than me. I had seen myself reflected in them.
Then Sedna spoke, quavering: “We never walk alone.”
And Chip added: “Here together we can be free.”
The ninetales regarded us silently for a moment. Then her tongue rolled out to swallow the sleigh whole. We watched it slide down her gullet and rest below her sternum, above a smattering of stuffed dolls. After a moment it shattered, the gifts within floating free like driftwood caught in a river’s current.
As are we all. You’ve done well. Go home.
Her tails snaked onto the outcrop. She paused and fixed her omnipresent gaze on me.
Beware the skinwalkers.
I still don’t know what that means.
She brushed her tails against our shoulders. I had a vision. A lake, a sword. In the distance, across the pale, lies Seeker. Watching me. Always watching. It would follow me until the end of days.
I don’t know what most of that means, either. But it’s clear there’s still much for me to learn. My journey isn’t over yet. Maybe not for a long, long time.
The ninetales straightened and froze back in place. The qimmiq and the aurora borealis vanished. The lycanroc of Tapeesa village continued singing. Chip’s broken leg had been healed.
We left.
…
I needed a few days to recover. Bad case of frostbite. The Great One couldn’t have fixed that too? Rude. Maglan fussed over me the whole time. It was sweet, if a little humiliating.
There’s a song stuck in my head. It hasn’t left since our meeting with the Great One. I catch myself humming it, sometimes.
When the traders come through again, Sedna and Chip want to join them. They asked me to show them around the city. Whatever visions they had, they never shared with me. But it’s clear they’re different. Chip isn’t quite so angry anymore. Sedna no longer seems like she’s sleepwalking through life.
They’re still quite young and stupid in a lot of ways. Also brave and inquisitive. Natural leaders. A quiet village like Tapeesa just isn’t large enough for them. Not anymore. I can respect that. It won’t be long before I grow restless, too, I think. Companions that can hold an actual conversation might make for a nice change while on the road.
It’ll be neat to see old places through their fresh eyes, too. When I think about it, leaving an insular place for the first time is sort of like its own form of death. Reincarnation. Metaphorically speaking, y’know? The birth of new beginnings.
I’ll miss Maglan. But it’s time to move on.
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