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/farewell lullaby/
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prologue
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"Tis' a bad day fur fishing," Miss Agatha from the Apothecary had said, shaking her head disapprovingly as she noted the fishing rod slung casually over his shoulder, and now Lance was starting to regret not listening to her sound advice.
The familiar smell of wet earth permeated his senses as he breathed in slowly, trying to stay as still as could so that the fish would not be scared away by any movements and sense a predator. This season meant for the return of Magikarp and Tynamo and Stunfisk and Qwilfish to the waters of the Viridian Forest, and he knew that if he could bring back a good, solid haul to the Fish Market he would get a sizable amount of PokeDollars in return.
So much for that.
One undersized Feebas struggled futilely in his bucket, its tail flapping loudly against the plastic container. It couldn't have been much older than a couple of months or maybe a year, and was obviously inexperienced to the harsh reality of eat or be eaten. He contemplated on the idea of releasing the practically worthless fish back into the river- but then again, it was his only catch for the day, and if he sold it he would get enough money to buy a pennycandy or two.
Lance sighed once again, leaning back against the trunk of a great oak behind him and startling away a curious Poliwag. The prickly bark dug uncomfortably against his back but he didn't mind; his skin was tougher than leather after all the time he spent romping in the wild outdoors.
"Isn't this just a fantastic day," he grumbled to himself, absently tracing the hardened calluses on his palm. If he couldn't manage to catch any more fish by noon, he would have to give up precious time that was usually spent tromping around with the other boys to pick berries of all things, to sell at the PokeMarket. And then Lorelei, who was the prettiest girl in the entire village and didn't have a boyfriend yet, would see him trying to barter with the villagers like a middle-aged woman, and she would think he was a wuss, which he definitely was not.
A splash sound interrupted his thoughts, and he started. Wincing as his head crashed into the tree trunk behind him, he wiped his watering eyes and stood up unsteadily.
His fishing rod had caught something.
Glancing over the edge of the creek, he felt his eyes widen almost involuntarily as he discerned what the object below was. Carefully, as not to rip his clothes again for being hasty, he rolled up his pant sleeves and stepped into the icy cold water.
The reed basket floated shakily as he neared it, and with trembling fingers, he reached in and pulled out a sheet of paper that contained a few hastily scribbled words written in smeared black ink:
Her name is Yellow de Viridian.
Please give her a home.
And swathed inside a few rattan blankets, seemingly stuffed unceremoniously into the basket, was a sleeping baby girl.
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The woman runs, and for once, her pursuers do not follow.
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