He can tell something has changed by the time he steps into the meadow. There's a faint stir running in the air, a new excitement that's confirmed when only a few of the usual Pokemon come running up to him. Honey all but rams into his legs, a vigor in her limbs Wulfric thought had left her long ago. Honey's one of the oldest at the Village, an award-winning Furfrou doted on until she started to lose.
She's one of the few Pokemon he sees fairly regularly- most come and go, resting for some time before going off in search of whatever they need to find. Those that stayed tended to be the saddest cases; Pokemon abused to the point where they quaked in fear when Wulfric moved too close, others injured too badly in battle to ever travel again, let alone battle. He'd found Honey in a patch of flowers, ribs showing through and fur so long and matted she could barely move.
Consistent trimming and feeding had done wonders, but she always moved delicately, even before she started to grow properly old. Her fervor now surprises him; he wonders if a group of Pokemon has arrived, or perhaps another legendary. Mewtwo had had them stirred up for days.
Custom held his curiosity at bay for a few moments, bringing him to kneel down and rub a large hand across Honey's head and offer sunflower seeds to the few Fletchling that flutter down to him. Wulfric grunted as he stood back up- internally, he marveled at the speed with which he'd aged; he'd never been the spry type, but the aches and pains were a recent development he could do without.
The low, murmured voice instantly sets him alert- other people haven't visited in years, and the cluster of Pokemon startles him when he realizes they surround the man, seemingly attentive rather than fearful.
Honey's the one who introduces them, barking and startling some of the other Pokemon, who hover fretfully for a moment before relaxing and coming to greet him.A relatively new Espurr settles on one of his feet, nuzzling his leg, strikingly bold in comparison to the rest, who simply perch themselves around him. The ones who didn't move compensate in a cacophony of sounds, seemingly directed at their visitor, who watches him without apology.
Now, close up, he can see that the man is filthy. Dirt runs across the skin of his face and arms, and his clothes are blatantly old- wrinkled horribly, and at least one size too small. Wulfric wonders if the green of his hair is natural, or some sort of algae or plant growing in it; both are fair possibilities, what with the nest of sticks and leaves clustered in it.
A foreigner, then, certainly. Kalosians prided themselves on cleanliness and fashionability, and even the most unapologetic of citizens upheld a somewhat decent appearance.
"They like you," the man says, voice oddly high-pitched and sharply blunt, absent-mindedly curious.
Hell, he thinks. If the Pokemon trust him, then Wulfric could do the same. He likes to think he's not so stuffy as to reject a stranger on the basis of his clothes. He shifts his weight, slowly sitting down to face the man. The Espurr climbs into his lap right off the bat, while Honey is perfectly happy just laying her head on his leg.
"The same could be said of you."