Word Count: 656 words.
Premonition
The guru waves his fan with a still face and unreadable expression. Upon his instruction, you pour a bucket of water on the pile of stones set before him.
Steam pervades the humble little glade. The heat rises quickly, too quickly for your liking, but you endure it out of respect for the sage. Without word, he motions for you to sit across from him, and you do so without protest.
His silence continues, and for a moment you believe he's lost himself to his own meditation.
"Excuse m—" you try to speak.
Even through the thick of the steam, you can still see his face tense, his eyes narrowing.
"You've seen them, haven't you?"
His tone is a gravely one, grim and ominous, potent to the point that you find yourself at a loss for words. You can only nod.
"They call themselves a pack, but they're far from kin. They fend only for themselves—all seven of them, an alliance in name only."
Sweat starts rolling down your forehead, beads dribbling to your cheeks. You wonder just how long this will take.
"They haven't been here long, yet already their influence knows no bounds. Their foothold is one that encompasses every corner of the islands—each is home to at least one of them."
Perspiration is hitting him too, but he seems none too affected by it.
"And just as their reach has grown, so have their ambitions. They're a wild bunch. Reason and rationale do not exist in their minds, the only thing they answer to is the power they so desperately chase after."
A simian finger rises from the thick haze to point in your direction.
"They loathe humans. They loathe trainers even more. To be commandeered by man goes against their radical thought, few things are more insulting."
A lump forms in your throat but it's too hard to swallow. For some reason you feel like more than one pair of eyes is watching you. Noticing your unease, he lowers his arm.
"And what kind of thought would that be? That they're anomalies, that they need not rely on the bonds between man and mon to channel their true potential. And why is that?"
In a show of what almost seems to be trepidation, the mystic lowers his tone to mere whisper, his eyes focused on your wrist.
"They can harness crystals all on their own—that is the heart of their madness, what empowers them as a threat. They developed a taste, and that taste turned them savage—savage fiends that lust and hoard those shimmering stones, itching for just one more fleeting hit of warped euphoria."
He stops waving his fan.
"The one you encountered—is the one that unearthed and bestowed that terrible gift."
The steam, as if reacting to his spiel, swirls and whirls until it morphs into a spitting image of the monster he speaks of. Twisted, bloodshot eyes pierce into the back of your skull. They look the same now as they did then—empty.
"You came seeking my aid, didn't you? Then listen well—stay clear of them. No good can come from crossing their path. Don't even grant them the satisfaction of being acknowledged, it only gives them the high of knowing they're something to be feared."
You've no intention of taking his advice, but you're not one for discord, you nod compliantly.
The monster in the steam snarls at that, baring its fangs and lunacy. It's hard to believe it's merely an apparition, but the Oranguru dispels it before it can get too real.
"Just as vile in illusion as he is in reality, he's the most contemptible of them by far! He breeds havoc and feasts on the dread it festers! That mon is a menace, and our world will never know peace so long as he salts it! Heed my words—he is evil incarnate!"
"And they call him Garoon!"
I can't say I'm seeking critique on this. It's really only meant for a certain audience, they know who they are.