The lower level of the ship smelled of rancid oil from the kitchens.
Breccia curbed her appetite on burned coffee, trying not to disturb the sailors above her. Forced to scheme her way onto a the boat, the only money she had was the little her friend sent.
"Here." A portly cook, the only other women on board, put a bowl on the crate before her. Her broken English was about as intelligible as the food was edible. "Hot mash, warms the bones. Birtan wind's will cut through you." Not wanting to be rude, the guest gulped the last of her coffee, swallowing a thin layer of grounds at the bottom. Seizing the plate: the milky, watery mash congealed. A mixture of flour and chopped orans floated to the top. "Well?"
"I-it's..." Breccia swallowed, coughing when a lump lodged in her throat. "Good..."
Her lie must've been convincing, as the cook clapped gleefully. "Swinub makes great portage, no?"
Hearing this, Breccia gagged, pausing with the plate to her lips. "Excuse me?"
The cook clicked her tongue, summoning a tiny striped ball of brown fur to come crawling up. She took it in her arms, squeezing and kissing it's snout. "It's Swinub first time as cook. Such good mash!" The creature snorted, wiggling with delight. "We should be in Birtan within the hour. Keep ear out for captain to call."
Setting her cup down and blowing into her palms, Breccia sniffled, her nose red and her breath hovering in clouds above her head.
On the deck, the sailors glared. Some gave degrading sneers. Others were nice enough to ignore her.
The captain, an aging man with matted gray hair, called at the first site of Isador. He whistled up to the lone Chatot on the mast, receiving a similar call back before it flew and perched upon his shoulder.
"The wife said you were scrawny." The captain commented as he called for the sails to be drawn. "Seen a lot of mainlanders on this ship. They last a few days before begging me to take 'em back."
Glancing out to the shore, the land looked like a frail strip against the sky.
Considering all that had occurred, the last thing Breccia wanted (or needed) was any more attention. It wasn't her first choice to travel with strangers who questioned everything from her sandpaper complexion to her thin build.
Had she had her way, she'd be on the S.S Anne. Though, the cruise liner hardly made trips beyond Unova. That, and the crew didn't want her kind aboard.
One hell of an adventure, huh dad?
It was the thoughts of her father that brought forth scarce feelings to joy. She was a rambunctious child. She was always getting into trouble or getting into something. Granted, any attempts she made to wander off always ended with his trusty Onix dragging her back.
Her father's pride and joy was the clinic. She loved staying there, but it was always a point of contention between her parents. Her mother, who was a basket full of crazy, hated the idea of her daughter being away. For a while, Breccia was allowed to visit her father in Lavender on the weekends and in the summer. One day, however, after learning the courts were going to change things, mommy dearest flipped her lid and fled with Breccia to Alola. They stayed in a hotel for a few weeks before the judge tracked them down. Breccia was sent to live with her father and her mother basically vanished.
As they docked, the port town of Isador came further into view. Pale natives went about their business, wrapped in heavy furs. Some stood behind their market stands while their children played in the allies. Coal was the main source of heat and it created billowing smog from the stone cabins.
The street-sweepers were in the process of cleaning the walkway on the main drag. A team of Machokes rolled the snow into massive piles while a Growlithe seared away the mounds of ice with the flames dancing on his breath.
Dodging the masses, Breccia found that, even in a crowd, body heat did little to protect her bones from the razor winds.