The hardest part to come to me when I got his journal was to pick up his pen. It was there in the yellowed parchment, it was his last request, I'd be damned not to honor it, but my heart ached each time my claws gripped around it.
"Eden, of all the ones who admired me, you intrigued me the most. I know this is likely to be my last excursion, dear charmeleon, so I must ask you a favor, in my absence. Tell the story you wish to tell in these pages, mine has, at long last, come to its close."
But what story was there to tell! My feats were overshadowed by his, my tutor, my trainer, my dearest friend and my closest colleague, and I was to write of my own stories?! The ones he helped make?!
That's when it hit me, like the tail of a particularly clumsy garchomp, strong and very obvious, that perhaps that's what he intended. For a man so entranced with his legacy, he had never wrote much down in this old thing anyways, three or four pages in all the years he had it? The sceptile could've been more clear that he didn't want to tell his story, he wanted someone else to tell the story of how he changed them! He... he always said that I had changed for the best out of all of them…
So I'll scrawl in these pages the stories I have of him, of how he created who I am now, and what better place to start than the day he saved me from myself?