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Winter was here.
Her breath frosted in the orange twilight as the forest's darkness settled in. In the distance, monsters stirred, and the prey began to hide for the night.
Pixis stamped the ground and snorted, her ears twitching at a threat hidden in the darkness. The blue fire of her mane glowed in the dim light, throwing wild shadows over the thin layer of snow.
“Easy, friend.” She patted her partner's neck. “We needn't fight.”
Pixis could outrun the wind if need be, yet the old mare hungered for a fight, eager to test her strength against any creature bold enough to challenge her.
Wind cut through the trees as distant battles for territory, food, and mates begin. She shivered against the cold and pulled her cloak tighter. Pixis flared her mane, but that can only do so much against the winter chill.
"We must find shelter before the snows deepens," she murmured, voice nearly lost to the wind. "It is no easy task with you beside me."
Pixis snorted again, as if to say, I could toss you, you know!
She smiles and pat her partner's neck again. “I know, girl, I know.”
Still, she couldn't shake her worry. People here feared monsters, rightfully so. Pixis was a true beast—standing twenty-three hands tall, weighing nearly two hundred and fifty stone, and shining with living fire. She doubted any soul in these wilds had ever laid eyes upon such a wonder.
Not that there were any folk nearby to witness such marvels; the forest kept its secrets well.
She and Pixis had crossed this whole accursed forest, looking for the star that fell from the sky four moons ago. But luck was never on her side; her blood's curse made sure of that. The woods kept confusing them, twisting their path and changing around them until they were well and truly lost.
The narrow Wyrdeer trail they follow was the first real path they'd found in a fortnight, a slender hope winding through the snowy trees. Maybe it would lead them to shelter strong enough to withstand winter and then, at last, their search could begin anew.
“Halt!”
Pixis skids to a stop as a rickety wooden palisade materializes out of the forest. The Rapidash rears her head back in fright and turns.
She swept her gaze along the jagged crown of the wall, searching for any sign of sentry or watchman.
“Secure your beast! Witch, or begone!”
She turned sharply, catching sight of the gate held partially open, heart pounding in her chest. The gods had played their hand once more.
“Apologies, my lords.” She patted Pixis's neck to calm her down. “We are lost, and we were following the trail.” The Wyrdeer trail is gone when she looks back.
Beyond the wooden gate sprawled a humble village of stick and mud, a single dirt road stamped hard by countless feet. Two guards stood watch, clad in patched cloth and boiled leather, their long spears gripped tight with white-knuckled fear.
"We said, secure your beast!" Their eyes, wide and wary, never strayed from Pixis's towering form.
She sighs. “May I, girl?”
Pixis answered with a low whinny, and she slipped from the saddle, drawing a small capsule from her pouch. Her fingers lingered in the sapphire fire of her companion's mane before she pressed the softly glowing stone to Pixis's breast. "Rest now." In a burst of white light, the great beast vanished, leaving only the scent of smoke and the memory of warmth.
“A real witch,” one of the guards murmurs.
“Apologies again, my lo—”
“No closer!” Their spears turn on her, and she holds her hands up.
“I am lost,” she calmly states, “looking for shelter for the winter. I can pay my way.” She doubts they will accept the coins she has, but it is winter. “You must have some sick? I can heal them.” It is not her first time paying for shelter this way.
The guards shared a look and have a silent conversation. Finally, after a moment, one runs off; the other hefts his spear and keeps it pointed at her chest. It is too far for her to smack away, but close enough to stab her quickly.
They stand there for a tense moment. Behind the nervous guard, townsfolk poke their heads out of their huts, whispering to their neighbors about the stranger at the gate.
Down the rutted road, the guard returned, leading a man whose beard was streaked with grey and whose head shone bare in the torchlight. She kept her hands aloft, even as he dismissed the spear-wielding sentry with a curt gesture.
"Speak, witch, and swiftly." His voice rumbled through the cold air. Arms folded across his broad chest, as he scowled down at her. "Night draws near, and with it, the monsters."
"I am called Rystal, I come from beyond the sea, seeking the star that fell from the heavens four moons past." The chief's face betrayed nothing, but the young guards exchanged startled glances at the mention of distant shores. "Your village I found by chance, yet perhaps fortune smiles upon us both. I offer healing for the winter's ills, and in return, I seek only shelter from the cold."
The chief glances around the exterior of his village. “I was told you have a beast under your control?”
“Pixis.” She points down at the pouch on her belt. “I stowed her away for the moment.”
The chief inhales deeply. “I've heard of your people. Their curse—”
“Afflicts only myself.” Rystal bows her head. “I've been lost in this forest since arriving.”
The chief stares her down for a moment. “Fine,” he barks. “You may enter for now. You'll heal our sick and wounded, and we'll give you the fallen star.”
Rystal straightened, heart pounding. At last, the star was here.
"But you cannot remain," he said, slicing the air with his hand. "Our stores are too meager to feed both you and our own through the long winter."
“May I see the star?”
“Healing first.” With that, the chief turns and marches into the village.
Rystal followed, the heavy gate closing behind her with a sense of finality she could not shake. The village sprawled larger than she expected for such a primitive place—rough-hewn timber dwellings huddled together, with a handful of sun-baked clay huts standing apart.
The village was messy, with tools scattered everywhere, strips of meat hanging between homes to dry, and firewood piled in heaps by every door. The villagers peeked out from behind thick curtains, watching her with wide, cautious eyes as she walked by.
As she passed a squat mud hut, she paused, a shiver running down her spine. Something within called to her—alien, yes, but not the dread she had braced herself to face. The energy was—
“Healing first.” The chief places a rough hand on her shoulder. “Then the fallen star.”
“Let me ensure it's not dangerous,” she pleads. Maybe it is being crafty.
The chief shakes his head. “He's not moved in moons. I doubt he'll move soon.”
“He?” Rystal murmurs. She allowed herself to be led toward the sickhouse, mind whirling with questions. He? That was not what she had expected—not at all.
A wet cough from behind a thick wooden door reminds her of her task. The chief tenses when she reaches for her pouch, but relaxes when she pulls a cloth mask from its confines.
“One for you.” She passes him a spare. He inspects it thoroughly. “No magic, just a mask.” She shows the back of her own with runes stitched into it. “Mine has some, but for simple protection yours will do fine.”
“Hmmm,” he rumbles, then puts it on. He raps a calloused knuckle on the door, making it rattle. Another wet cough answers, then a tired-looking woman gently pulls the door open.
“Hiwada,” the chief nods. “This is a traveling witch who's agreed to help.”
The older woman's tired eyes slide over to Rystal. “Hope this one's better than the last.” She hacks a wet cough.
“I'll give you five days. If there's no improvement in the sick, you're gone.” He jerks a large thumb over his shoulder toward the gate.
“I'll see what I can do.” She bows lightly.
He grumbles a noncommittal noise and waves her into the hut.
As the door rattled shut behind her, she surveyed the sickhouse. It seemed a place of sorrow, where hope seemed as thin as the gruel. How far we have fallen, she thought, before straightening her back. "Who is your sickest?"
There are three other women here with her: Hiwada, the oldest, whose hair is just starting to turn grey, and two younger girls just entering womanhood.
“Curren.” Hiwada slowly points near the back. “We keep the worst back there.”
Rystal pulls spare masks out for her new helpers. “Put these on.”
“What's it do, milady?” The youngest woman wraps it around her ears, but covers her eyes.
Rystal gently tugs it down over her mouth. “There is… bad air.” She sighs. “Every breath they release is poison.”
Hiwada stares down at the mask. “Suppose I'm—”
“Better off with it than not.” Rystal takes the woman's cloth and puts it on for her. “All poison is not the same. What you have and what they have are similar, but not identical.”
“You're much kinder than the last of your kind that came through here.” The second youngest smiles at her with her eyes.
“When've you seen another one of her?” The youngest chirps, planting her hands on her hips.
“Once, out in the wood.”
“Shaaa,” the youngest waves a dismissive hand. “You've never left the village. How'd ya meet another witch?”
“I've left the village!”
“Enough, you two.” Hiwada smacks the back of their heads. “We've got work to do.”
“I did meet her.” The second youngest rubs the back of her head. “Told me ’er name was Cyntia, or sum'in like that.”
“Cynthia?” That was a common name for her people.
She brightens up. “Aye, milady! That's what it was.”
“Although, I don't know any living Cynthias. It would not surprise me if a few were roaming around.” The girl shoots a smug look at her counterpart, who rolls her eyes.
She believed she knew the names of all who remained. Fewer than a hundred of her kin still wander the earth. It was the solitary, the wanderers, and the outcasts who had endured The Fall. It would be easy for one to go unnoticed in the chaos that followed.
Curren is a young man—a boy, really—with thin brown hair and bleary blue eyes that don't register her presence.
“I have another partner who may be of some help.” Rystal pats her pouch. “May I release her?”
Hiwada's eyes narrow, while the other two back away slowly. “A beast?” she mutters.
“Aye, her name is Mellis, and she's a better healer than I.” Rystal holds Mellis's stone up.
Hiwada relents after Curren releases a long cascade of wet coughs. Rystal holds the stone in her hand and runs her thumb across the rune. “Come forth.”
In a flash of white, Mellis appears. The Audino blinks a few times, then coos in distress at the sight of nearly twenty sick and injured.
“I ain't ever seen one so cute before.” One of the younger aides leans in. “Thought the beasties were all… teeth and claws.”
“Here, yes. You have quite a few more agressive ones. But there are places where they're docile.” All three women's eyes go wide at that. They probably can't even imagine not being prey to the monsters.
“Mellis.” Rystal pets her friend's head. “We need your help.”
“Dino!” She nods, then tugs on one of her listeners.
Rystal doesn't need to hear these people's lungs to know they're suffering from pneumonia. She can smell it on them, and their coughs are another sign.
“What help do you need from us, milady?” Hiwada stares at Mellis.
“Boiled water, soaps if you have them… and rotten fruit. Not black rot, but molded with green fuzz on it.”
“Rotten fruit?”
“Aye, I'll use it to make a medicine.” Rystal tugs her pouch off her belt and begins pulling some supplies out of it. Their eyes go wide when she pulls a bowl out of the palm-sized bag.
“Spirits preserve us,” one mutters.
“Hitta.” Hiwada waves at the youngest. “Go get the water. It'll have to be snowmelt; the wells froze.”
“Strain it, please.” Rystal needs it as clean as possible.
“Strain?”
“Remove all the floaty bits.”
Hitta giggles and nods. “Aye, milady.” She bows and moves to the door.
“And keep your mask—” The door rattles shut. “—on.” Rystal sighs.
“I'll find yer fruit, milady.” The other one bows, then leaves.
“What do you need of me?” Hiwada bobs her head.
Rystal presses the back of her hand to a nearby patient's forehead. “Strips of cloth, dampened, and let cool outside for a time.”
“You're… not going to use magick?” The older woman slumps a bit.
Rystal smiles. “I could… but it's better to save it for emergencies, and better for you to learn the medicine.”
“Dino!” Mellis waves at her from a nearby sickbed. “Aud.”
Rystal lets her magick flow through her body and glances into the wellspring of life. Her hand glows white as she sweeps over the young woman's body, ruling out the easiest problems before settling on the hard one.
“This girl is with child.”
Hiwada blinks out of her awed stupor, then scowls. “Damned brat.” She tuts her tongue at the sleeping girl. “I told her fooling with that merchant was going to curse her.”
“Merchant?” She doesn't know this place has advanced far enough to have a merchant economy.
“Bahhhh, that beggar calls himself a peddler of goods. Yet his only sales are shit remedies and false tonics.” Hiwada hacks a cough and lightly pulls her mask off to spit on the floor. “Apologies for the rudeness, milady, but I have no love for that charlatan.”
“Do you have any of the tonics he's sold?” Fake ones could do more harm than ill-made real ones.
The old matron shakes her head. “Nay, Azalea tossed them out.” She waves a hand out toward the village.
Rystal nods and turns back to her patient. “She'll need extra care.” She peeled back the girl's lips to expose poor teeth and foul breath. And even from less than an arm length away, Rystal can hear her heart pounding in her chest.
“Found some moldy berries, milady!” The one whose name she has yet to learn pushed through the door. “Smells ‘orrible, though.”
Half the fruits are rotten; most will be unusable. “Thank you…”
“Cryine!” She bounces excitedly, but when Hiwada shoots her a stern glare, she wilts a bit. “Cryine, milady. A pleasure to serve.” She performs a horrible curtsy.
“Rystal is my spoken name.” She bows lightly.
“Spoken name?”
Rystal waves them girl forward, taking the rotting fruit platter from her hands, then begins inspecting it. “My people are… careful about names. We've a spoken name that anyone can use, and a private name for friends and family.” And a personal name for ourselves.
“I'd heard about you folk.” Hiwada nods. “Never thought I'd meet one. ‘Eard you all died out ages ago.”
“Close to.” Rystal sighs. “Maybe a hundred of us left? Maybe fewer.”
“What was it like?” Cryine squats down to examine a fruit she'd dismissed, then tosses it away. “Everyone's heard of your people, but the rumors sound so… unreal.”
“If you're referring to the white marble city, that was real.” Rystal peels off the usable mold with a small knife. “We had plumbing, too.”
“Plumbing?”
“The nearest city probably has some.” Rystal points in the direction she thinks it is. “We took metal and shaped it into small hollow pipes. Like a downed tree with the center cut out.” They nod at that. “Then we pushed water through. It let us bathe and handle other necessities with ease.”
“Sounds magical.” Cryine sighs at the thought.
Rystal snorts a laugh. “It really was.”
“I heard you all barely walked. That you flew through the air like birds.” Hiwada eyes the window longingly.
“Some of us, yes. I… can, but…” Rystal bites her lip. “I'm afraid of the fall.”
Both of them cock their heads in confusion.
“It's a wonderful view, but like a man can fall from a ladder or a roof, so too can we fall from the sky.”
That makes them wince. “Did you ever fa—”
“Got the water, milady!” Hitta struggles into the abode with a heavy, steaming pot. “‘Ad to use a clean cloth to strain it, but it was very hot.” She shows off reddened and blistering hands.
Rystal stands. “Thank you, Hitta.” She summons her power and commands it to heal. A soft white light sprinkles off her palms and sinks into Hitta's hands. After a moment, when Rystal pulls away, they are perfectly soft and unblistered.
“Wow!” The youngest girl turns her hands over in awe. “Blessed by a witch. Think Suki will like 'em?”
Hiwada scowls and slaps the back of the girl's head. “‘E's bad for you, girl. Don't shack up with that loiter-sack.”
“But he's so handsome.” The young girl sighs deeply.
Hiwada and Rystal both roll their eyes. “Come, we've work to do.” The old matron shakes her hands menacingly at her help. “Get to it!”
They poured the steaming water into bowls, and Rystal, seeing no other way, wove runes into strips of cloth to strain the mold. The knowledge of true medicines was lost to these people, perhaps for generations yet to come. For now, they must make do with what they had—water cleansed by magic and hope.
“See how this one's turning blue?” Rystal points at a bad bowl. “That means it's toxic, like a bad mushroom.” All three of her helpers wrinkle their noses. “Don't give it to anyone, and pour it out safely. Some, like this one, look alright.” She holds a slightly yellow bowl up to them. “But the colors are off enough to make it induce poor health.”
“‘Ow can you tell, milady? Looks the same to me.” Cryine pokes her finger into the off-colored bowl.
“Practice and experience.” The other two look up brightly at her, but Hiwada gets grim. “Mistakes will happen. You will need to learn from them.”
They soak more clean rags in the good bowls and begin treating the ill. Hiwada drinks a bowl herself and makes an ugly face at the taste.
The night was long and bitter, the work unending. Six souls slipped away before dawn, among them the girl heavy with child. They toiled through the darkness, boiling pot after pot of water, and when the first pale light crept through the high window, they knew their labor must begin anew.
“They ain't gettin' better.” Hiwada scowls at their coughing, groaning patients.
“They won't for two, maybe three days. No cure, not even magical, is instant.” Rystal sighs. “Freeze this.” She passes the last bowl of good water to Hitta. “We'll need it for their treatments tonight. And find more moldy fruit.”
“Aye, milady.”
The other smallfolk rose with the sun; out in the frosty air, they began their daily tasks. Exhausted guards accept warm bread from the early morning cooks before heading to bed. A new wave of eager young boys marched out to man the rickety palisade from the monsters in the forest.
Women resume their last-minute winterization of the town: reapplying clay to cracks, sewing fur into cloaks, and preserving food. Hunters armed with well-crafted bows nervously stepped out of the gate and into the forest beyond.
Rystal stifled a yawn as she watched the village stir to life. How swiftly the world can change, she thought, and let out a weary sigh.
In the heart of the village, a tall wooden obelisk stood above the rooftops, topped with an unlit beacon, ready to send smoke into the sky if danger appeared.
The chief stood at its base, deep in conversation with a man dressed in fine raiment—not the charlatan mentioned before, she judged. No, this one bore a pin of burnt silver, shaped like Ho-Oh, upon his breast. Perhaps a sign of some fledgling authority.
“Witch.” The chief nods a greeting. “Hiwada mentioned your work, as well as your teachings. You have our thanks.”
“Ahhhh! The traveling witch!” The small, spindly man rounds on a well-made boot to look her up and down with a smile. “Pretty, too.”
“Thank you, my lord.” She bobs her head to the official. “And it was the least I could do.”
“Could you do more?” The thin man cocks his head to this side inquisitively. “Ah, apologies, my lady.” He offers a stiff bow. “Myron Zappi! Of Kogane.”
“Rystal, of Akagi.” She places her hand over her heart and nods.
“Wonderful to make your acquaintance. Now,” he leans in, “could you do more?”
“Healing? Yes, but if you've an offer, I must insist that my current quest takes precedence.” She waves back where the fallen star is housed. “The fallen star of—”
“Yes, yes, we all saw it.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Azalea, let the lady see the man, then let us wash our hands of this stranger. There's a sickness about, and she may be our cure.”
Chief Azalea sighs, then waves a meaty hand at the shack. “Come, then.”
Myron swept them onward with a grand bow before returning to his caravan. Rystal followed the chief to a humble mud shack, unremarkable to the eye, yet blazing like a beacon in the sight of her spirit.
"He has not stirred since the day we found him—not so much as a twitch. Hiwada's fed him broth through a cloth, but ceased when things turned..." He broke off, unlocking the door and pushing it wide. "Strange."
“That is not a man in lay,” Rystal mutters. “That's not a man at all.” It is…, but it isn't. She stands stock-still, staring at the form lying on a bedroll. “You say he fell from the sky four moons ago?”
“Aye, I can have some of the lads take you there. It's not far, and we found him in the hole.”
The man was whole—impossibly so. Four moons of lying abed should have left him gaunt and hollow, like a thin hungry beast. Yet here he lay, untouched by hunger or wasting, his flesh unmarked by wound or scar. Only his strange garb set him apart from any other sleeper.
“All his stuff's there.” Azalea pointed at a cloth sack. “I'll leave you to whatever it is you need to do, milady.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
When the door closed behind her, Rystal drew a slow breath, steadying herself before turning to the stranger's belongings.
The cloth sack he arrived with is clearly not his, but the items inside are as strange as he is.
A small, black, mirrored device shows her own face back at her for a moment before lighting up to show a picture of some… four-legged creature. “That's not a monster?”
A wallet of some sort, although not like any she's seen before. It's thin and made out of a rubbery, false leather. Inside is money made of paper? And small plaques made of some firm material.
“Oh-hi-oh Stay-tee.” She squints at one; the letters look like the language of the Unown, just made simpler. “Kent-ucky?”
Both plaques have small paintings of the man, although in both, his hair is nearly black, not the blue it is now.
The rest was just the usual things a traveler might carry—random items, a slip of paper she thought was a receipt for food, a folding knife of fine make. Nothing spoke of the otherworldly or the unnatural; indeed, it reminded her of her own few belongings. Better made than what's possible now. Her cloak alone was worth more than everything here, and it was made with skills lost to this time.
“A victim of the Trio, then? Possibly their servant?” She turns away from the items to examine the stranger.
He was tall—taller than any living soul she had seen, herself included. There was a softness to him, a fullness that called to mind the old lords of Celestica, grown fat on comfort and idle study, though he was not so vast as some she remembered.
Yet beneath the thin layer of softness, she found muscle, strange, and unfamiliar. These arms were shaped for throwing, not for the work of spear or sword. Her own kind were crafted for perfection, their bodies unmarked by the slow drift of time. The folk of this age, too, bore little of the thrower's build; their recent ancestors had known the thrust of the spear, not the cast of stone. There had not yet been enough generations for such change to take root.
His shoulders were supple, more so than any she had seen, and his hips set wide. He seemed made for throwing, or for climbing.
"Hmmm." She knelt beside him, hands hovering above his chest and brow. Whispering an old prayer, she let her senses drift, seeking the truth of him. The energy that flowed from him was alien—strange, but not the terror she had braced for. Beneath it, she glimpsed the shape of his soul, and peered deeper still.
All mortals bore the mark of their maker, hidden deep within the soul. Perhaps Lord Arceus had—Rystal gasped and recoiled, eyes watering as the unfamiliar sigil blazed before her sight, burning with a light too fierce to bear. She blinked, struggling to clear her vision.
“Oh… my… god.” An unfamiliar voice echoes through the room. “Oh… oh fuck!”
She blinks down at the man. “You're awake.”
“You're an elf!” His hand reaches up to touch her ears, and she swats it away. “There's no… plastic.”
“How are you feeling? Tired? Sore?” She swats his hand away again, grabs his face, and examines his eyes.
“Like I've died and gone to heaven! A real elf!” This time he does get his hand on her ear, and she smacks his hand away.
“I'm a human of the first age, built by the Lord himself. Not an… elf. She scowls down at him. “How are you feeling?”
“Great! Uhhhhh… where am I?” He looks around the shack. “When… am I?”
“It is the four-hundred-and-seventh year of the third age—”
“I got isekai'd into Lord of the Rings!”
“I… don't know what that is. You're in an unnamed town somewhere in Sekiei, the current name for the region.” She leans back and plucks his stuff from the chair. “You fell from the sky four moons ago; I've only just managed to track you down.”
“Don't think I read about any Secky, but sure.” He grabs his stuff. “Phone still works?”
“Should it not?” She watches him expertly maneuver through the… whatever it is. He taped the fine glass, and it moved, and she jumped when it spat out a noise after a moment.
“You said four months?” She nodded. “No, this shouldn't work… got no signal, but my stuff's here.” He checks his wallet and the other items he has. “No more Qdoba.” He sighs at the paper receipt.
The power that drifted from him was strange—alive, and restless. It flowed behind him like a river, not in the fitful bursts she had come to expect from mortal souls.
“So uhhhhhh… pretty elf lady? Now what?” He pushes up and begins to stretch. “Some grand quest you've gotta give me or something?”
“No, you were my quest, but you're not what I was expecting. Seeing as you're harmless, I'll move on, I guess.” She shrugs. It is hardly a waste of time searching, just tedious.
“Hold on, you can't leave me here!” His eyes boggle. “I don't even know where I am.”
“I'll guide you to the nearest city if you wish, but ultimately, my task is done.” She rises. “You don't seem like a Deoxys.” She leans in to examine his face. “And you don't feel like a trickster.”
“D-d-did you say Deoxys?” His eyes gleam with recognition, and his presence warbles with confusion.
“Yes, that's what I feared had arrived, but it's just you.” She has been preparing for that battle for months.
“Deoxys… the Pokémon?”
“I don't know what a Pokémon is.”
He scans her up and down, his eyes going to her belt. “Pokémon! You know… fluffy, cute yellow mouse that shoots lightning. Pocket monsters.”
“Pikachu are monsters, yes.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ.” He groans and rubs his face with his hands. “Do you know what Johto is? Kanto? Team Rocket? Team Galactic?”
“I'm familiar with the Galaxy Team.” And Volo, that waste of space.
“Oh… okay, yeah! Alright, I kinda know when I am.” He perks up. “The Hisui thing must have already happened.”
“You've never been to this world, but you know of the Hisuian crisis?” Does he have knowledge of the future?
“Yeah, I know lots of shit… er, stuff, sorry.” He nods eagerly. “Bet we could stop some stuff.”
Her eye twitches. “This is worse than a Deoxys.” She needs to speak with the chief.
“Worse! What do you mean, worse? Hey, wait!” He follows her out the door.
He pauses at the edge, wide blue eyes taking in the quaint little town. “Oh my god, this isn't a dream.” His face turns green when he watches a pair of village men carry one of the sick bodies out on a makeshift stretcher.
“Keep close, stranger.” She tugs his collar to get him moving.
“My name's—” She rounds on him when his aura swells with power.
“Do not say your name.” She reached into his pocket to pull out his wallet. Found the cards with his name—she memorized it, just in case, then with a flash of power turnex them into melted goop.
“Hey!”
“Your name has power, stranger from Kent-ucky! More than you realize. With your knowledge and experience, things could be made great, or go very poorly.” She plants her hands on her hips. “You're not supposed to be here, and many will try and use that in ways you do not yet comprehend.”
Rystal had made her peace with the world as it was. Contentment eluded her, but she could accept that her people no longer ruled this world. Others, she knew, still nursed old wounds and longed for lost dominion.
“My name... oh Jesus, oh… shit, I know who I am.” He tugs on his long blue hair to examine it.
“Is your memory addled?” That would be the berry on top if it is.
“No, I… I was at a party. It was like a dress-up party where we wore costumes. I played a character from this world." His world must possess wonders beyond reckoning, to gaze so easily into another realm.
Oh! It clicks in her brain. “I guess you know your name.”
“Uhhhh, what did you say yours was?” He suddenly becomes nervous.
“Rystal of Akagi.” That town no longer exists, but it was home.
“Oh, oh man…” He paces back and forth. “I dunno if I can do this. I'm not special.”
"You have crossed time and space, fallen through the veils of worlds, and survived the earth's embrace," she prodded his chest with a finger. "Never have I met one more remarkable, and I was the thirtieth soul shaped by the hands of Arceus himself."
He stares at her for a long moment. “Oh, this is not the Pokémon I know.”
He follows after her quietly. The smallfolk give them a wide berth; their eyes watch as they whisper behind their hands at the two of them. Chief Azalea stands at the base of the obelisk, and Official Myron looks ready to depart with his small caravan.
“My Lady Rystal! And stranger!” Myron offers a relaxed yet formal bow. “Wonderful to finally see you awake, good man. And my lady, I ought to propose you come with us for this journey; Burakkusōn always needs the help.”
“I will be joining you in a moment, my lord. But first—” She pulls a small coin out of her pouch. “I know not if my kinsmen will honor this, but typically, should one of us receive a coin like this, we'll grant some sort of boon.” She passes it to Chief Azalea. “I must depart with—”
“Oh! Me!” The man straightened up when they turned to him. “I, uhm, guess my name's Lucius,” he muttered at the ground.
"Lucius of Kent-ucky and I shall depart," Rystal said, bowing her head in respect. "Your hospitality has been beyond reproach, yet I must ask one thing more of you."
He rolls the coin in his palm for a second. “What do you need, milady?”
“He was never here.” She points at the now-named Lucius. “If another sorcerer or one of my kind were to arrive and investigate his presence, tell them the issue was handled by Rystal, but no more.”
“Aye, we can manage that, milady.”
The caravan is small: twenty guards of good make and Official Myron to lead them. Two men pull a small cart filled with what she assumes are taxes.
“So, uhm, hey.” Lucius tugs at the fine clothing they managed to find for him. “Where are we going?”
“Away. Anywhere but here.” It's a miracle she was the first to arrive. “Your knowledge is power—the kind likely to draw the wrong attention.”
“And you're gonna keep me away from them… you're not gonna kill me for this, right?” He takes a step back.
"You were sent here for a purpose; I will not be your executioner. Guard your tongue, and think before you speak such foolishness." She paused, recalling his words about the yellow rat. "And think before you act. You see monsters as friends, but do not trust appearances. Even my own companions are not always gentle."
He lights up like a beacon. “You have a Pokémon!”
“Ah, Lady Rystal! I was just about to ask that very question!” Myron saunters up to their huddle. “We encountered an angry beast on the road and are unsure if it has gone on its way, though we know we cannot handle it ourselves.”
“I have Pixis for a mount, and Mellis for healing. My third may be able to assist, though he does not look it.” She pulls his stone from her pouch. Both Lucius and Myron look excited at the idea she'll let her monster—Pokémon, a fitting name—out. “Come forth.” She mutters the prayer and lets him loose.
“Terapagos!” the little guy cheers.
Around them, the smallfolk relax; a few even coo at how cute her newest friend looks. Next to her, Lucius sighs in defeat.
“Man, I'm so fucked.”