Hello, and welcome to my one of my Fan-fiction works. This is Shadow Moon.
For those of you familiar with my previous works that had a lot of transformation going on, this story is gonna be a little different. I blame a lot of RPing on-line with pokemorphs (Human-Pokemon hybrids for those of you unfamiliar with the term).
This story takes place in a Medieval era. Be warned: if you're used to my usual works, this story is gonna be a little darker than the norm for me.
Also, the usual disclaimer: this story is original to me (to my knowledge and intent) and Pokemon is the property of the Nintendo and GameFreak companies. I have no affliation with either of them and I doubt suing me for the use of Pokemon in this novel will be worth their time.
That said: I hope you all enjoy this Fan-fict of mine.
Shadow Moon: A Pokemon Fan-Fict
Prologue: Bad Night
A figure staggered into a church building.
The building was very old… cathedral-like. Its walls composed of stone and marble; constructed using skillful architectural designs and extreme care. The pews were lined up, one placed before another, made of a fine, polished wood.
The building was vacant of people for the night… save for its singular visitor.
The man-and it was unmistakably a human being- walked forward, his chest rising and falling from the effort it had taken him to arrive here. What clothes he had on weren't his, and they were torn from all that he had gone through. If he had had his original clothes, they likely would've been naught but tatters and bits of cloth that would've no sooner would've covered his body than cover the sun.
His skin was tanned from long hours of toil under heat and traveling under sunlight, working day-in and day-out. Yet it was an unnaturally dark shade, even for one that had worked so long.
His hair was as black as ink. A solid, almost iridescent covering upon his head, save for a few odd highlights on a couple of locks. It had, once upon a time, been a plain brown color.
He continued forward, using the benches lining his path down the center to hold himself up as his eyes searched for somewhere to duck into. Somewhere to conceal himself. He trailed blood as he went.
He had no breath to speak, and even if anyone had been present for him to speak to, he would not have wasted words trying to reason with anyone. Not at this point.
His bare feet made surprisingly little noise on the hard stone floor even as his feet fell heavily on the ground beneath him.
He was concerned about being heard nonetheless and tried to call more strength to his tired limbs. He managed to straighten up, relying slightly less on the pews to uphold him, lightening his steps and breathing softer.
He stopped before the plinth where the Bishop of the church building would regularly stand to preach… perhaps as if he were a sinner, come to beg forgiveness. He stood by the front-most bench, still holding himself up as he stared up at the stained glass behind, depicting angels and some blurred, indiscernible power being worshipped by them.
Experience had hardened his heart to any power that existed above though.
If God exists… then he has much to answer for…
He stepped around the pew, turning his eyes away from the art and found he ran out of strength. He collapsed on the seat, heaving for breath. There was no choice here: he had to rest.
After a few more moments, wherein the only sound was of his lungs taking in and expelling air, and the soft drip of blood, the man tried to straighten up again, using what cloth he had to staunch the wound across his abdomen and stem the trail of blood. It was a minor wound… much less than what he had dealt with in the past. That wasn't what he was concerned about. They'd know he was here… but if he could get somewhere and hide… without his own life-blood giving him away, perhaps he could finally escape this land.
He had once called this realm "home"… he had lived like any other man in the local towns. A blacksmith's assistant. He had hoped to support a family one day.
Those dreams were gone now though.
I've been turned into a monster now… His thoughts were still disgusted with what he was.
Spying a darkened hollow in one corner of the church, he walked over to it, his eyes roving over the area. Though it was dim save for some light from the moon outside, his crimson-colored eyes could see perfectly well in the space.
He closed his mouth, muffling his breathing down to the near-silent sound of air moving through his nostrils. He could smell the dust and the other creatures living here, but he was sure they would leave him alone. Anything that wished to live long would tread lightly around him and use caution if they dared approach.
He advanced into the darkened space and carefully lowered himself into a sitting position in the dusty area. He rested his rear on the hard, unforgiving floor and tried to compress himself into the shadows.
His breathing slowed as he felt his exhaustion start to overtake him. He still remained awake though… alert for danger that may have followed him here.
As he waited for anything to happen, the moon drifted across the night sky outside, creeping along. Some of the lunar light gleamed off of his hair. The locks… as well as a circular mark upon his forehead… then shined a brilliant gold. He gripped his own wrist, a similar ring-like mark also glowing around each wrist like shackles. They too were glowing in the moon-light. At a glance, one might've thought they were tattoos or tribal markings, painted on… but no, these marks were like brands in his skin. Impossible to remove and a permanent sign of his curse as he saw it. With some force of will, he made the marks cease glowing.
As he drifted off to a restless sleep, one question… the one that had been present all this time… these last three years, passed through his lips:
"Why?"
Then he was asleep, unable to stay awake any longer.