Dreams are funny things. They seem so clear, so alluringly persistent at the time, but only when we wake, when we take a step back, do we see that it is all an illusion. The illusion of grandeur. A weakness that everyone mistakes for ambition. A mistake that can prove more fatal than we realise.
When I was young, my father would read to me; stories of mystery and intrigue, of heroes and villains, and of Pokémon and Trainers. Ever since I can remember, I dreamt of being just like one of those heroes in the stories, a protector of justice, and a voice for the weak. The tales moulded me, guided me, indoctrinating my very core with whispers of grandeur and greatness, and like the naïve child I was, I soaked up every word, every lie, and every exaggeration. I believed that good would always triumph over evil, that honour, respect and power came to those who were of true spirit. I know better now. Stories, history, legends, they are all one side of a twisted story we call life. A story without any heroes. A story without a happy ending.
It is clearly from the Era of the Gods. The meticulous craft of medieval brickwork testifies as much. The well spirals from deep below the surface flowering in an array of eloquence and precision that is practically unrivalled throughout the known world. The 'Slowpoke Well', a rather mundane name for such an exquisite piece, but I suppose it's only fitting. The well stands as the single most preserved ruin in all Johto, receiving its mundane name, from the unordinary influx of Slowpoke wildlife in its proximity. Understandably, this put me on edge. Pokémon are dangerous enough, but Psychic Pokémon. Just thinking about it unnerves me, despite the Slowpoke's seemingly indolent exterior, I know better than to cross a psychic type. Psychic Pokémon are amongst the most dangerous in existence. Coming here alone was a risk, but I had to see the well for myself. I had read numerous legends about it, many of which discredited one and another, but this only fuelled my curiosity. Hmph, from tales of the coronations of the old kings, to accounts that suggested that the well stands as physical embodiments of peace, between the Kingdom and the feral Pokémon that stalks the wilderness, each story seem to be more extravagant than the last. Whatever it is, why ever it was built, I have to find out. I had to see it for myself, see if I could unravel its mysteries, and learn the truth behind the veil of time.
My first impression? It is a well. Okay, this may seem like an oversimplification, especially for such an exquisite piece of work, but it is a well. Seeing it in person has only served to quell the falsified images of a monolith that is portrayed by the history books, through which I had spent the last few weeks scavenging, and instead raises one question. Why are historians so obsessed with this, what about this well ignites the spark of imagination in the minds of so many scholars and adventures alike? The truth will not reveal itself I suppose. I lean in, and tentatively inspect the medieval structure that lies in front of me. Running my hands of the chiselled ledge, I find the kingdom's brandish carved into the brickwork.
If only I brought an escape rope. I sigh in resignation. But still, I should take a closer look. The exterior can only tell half of the story. Maybe I can use the rope attached to the… Huh, where is the rope and pail? My eyes squint as I examine the small structure in front of me. Vandals must have taken it. I decide, peering deep into the blackness of the well I squint my eyes gingerly scanning the darkness for a hint, from deep below a flicker of light catches my eye. Someone's down there. The realisation sends a jolt through my body. Gazing deeper I strain my eyes, desperate to discern the source of the light, leaning forward, deeper and deeper. Shit. Vertigo rushes through my veins as the world around me starts to rush up, engulfing me into the darkness. Panic starts to ebb through my mind, a thousand desperate pleas, yet unable to form a voice. Is this how I die? The thought sends me into a deranged laughter. Before I can do anything with my life? What about my ambitions? My dreams? Do they mean nothing?
[Foolish human.] A tendril jabs into my skull piercing my thoughts with an intense power that subdues my madness, sending me in to a paralysed state, my world slams to a halt, thoughts, actions, my very existence fades as I lose control over everything, as if my soul has slipped out of my body, I experience my demise from an outside perspective. Unable to conceptualise time, reality fades and the void of nothing begun to seep into my soul. Through the veil of death, I see mu body. As if possessed it rapidly decelerates and collapses lifeless onto the damp surface below. [You are fortunate that fate smiles upon you.] With the final words, the tendril releases its grip from my consciousness and sends me spiralling back into my body, away from the empty void.
I lie there, cradled into a ball, trapped in the fetal position; my body shakes uncontrollably. Wh-what was that? Agony twitches throughout my mind, aggravating an enraged migraine, that seems to tear away at my consciousness. Am I alive? I don't continue the thought, afraid of the answer I may divulge, instead my body shakes, riddled in the agony that possesses my mind. The sound of footsteps grow louder, each step booming across my head, colliding into my skull like a hammer, and I feel the warmth of a flame brought before my face.
"I do apologise about that, but it was the only way we could have saved you." I don't respond, nor do I look towards the light, instead I shiver violently as the cold swarms over my consciousness. "What you are experiencing is perfectly natural, I ensure you." The voice is gentle, yet firm, offering me an anchor to root my reality in, reluctantly I turn to inspect the figure, tears begrudgingly cascading down my cheeks. A man kneels before me, his grey hair streaking down above his eyeline, as the rich hue of his silver eyes analyse the mess that lies before of him. With a tender smile, he offers me a hand. Demon. My heart races as my eyes fall upon the yellow humanoid that stalks behind him. Panic enthrals me, desperate to escape the beast I cower back into a ball, helpless and defenceless. My mind retreating from the encrypted images. Desperate to escape my body trembles violently.
The man nods knowingly. "Return Merlin." The creature disappears as a brilliant red light floods the cavern. But, my body continues to shiver, traumatised from the prior intrusion. The man sighs, and steps away, offering me space to recover. Thoughtless I lie defeated by the fear, unwilling to move, think or speak I allow the darkness of the cave to cover me for what seems like hours.
I'm alive. The realisation fails to offer any reassurance, but instead leaves me feeling empty. Weakly, I steady myself onto my knees, my hands balancing the constant trembling of my body by grabbing onto the pale stones beneath me. The shuddering does not hinder and the pale stones brittlely break apart in my grasp. Panting with distress I raise my head and examine the cavern, desperate to find an escape. It's gone. I feel the weight upon my consciousness dissipate. The light from the man's torch is enough to illuminate the darkness, revealing the emptiness of it all, no water encompasses the floor of the well, instead the surface is over-encumbered by the remnants of the pale stones, dust and rusted iron, piled in a heap, like a scrap being discarded. The walls rise high above us, engraved with sporadic edgings and markings, that portray no intelligible pattern or meaning. I struggle to my feet, unable to keep my hands from shaking as they track the scratchings along the caverns wall.
"Do you understand where we are?" The man asks, his voice colder than before.
"I do." My voice can barely break the heavy silence, brought down upon my shoulders by the realisation. "We're inside a mass grave."