O: The Beginning
Humming softly in their dimly-lit home, their glossy, waterlogged appearances only adding to the gleam on their wet bodies, the pokemon smiled and chatted loftily as they moved about the room, cleaning the airy-yet-snug chamber they used as a restaurant together. The first, a large, glossy bird bloomed in the color of white feathers combed about her, sang freely through her pale blue bill as a deeper blue for her webbed toes stamped accordingly to the ground. Her partner, the wet, floppy one roaming behind, trounced aquamarine toes flapping and squishing as he stepped to a less-elegant tune in his head. They sang to their hearts' content to completely differentiating songs, but that did not matter: they were connected in the chords of their love for one another, deep inside each entity.
"MMmmmmmmMary, did you hear?" called the other one through his floppy steps.
"Mm? Ah, yes, I did. Llana seems to be recovering well after all that happened, what with the ice castle in the sky or whatnot." She paused in her music, the swanna did, pondering over the pale-scaled grass reptile, scrawny but warmhearted anyway. "You know... how those bitter what-was-it attacked the sweet what-was-it and... her dear Elijah died. And her odd little celestial Stella..."
They stayed silent for an entire moment in their time spent with one another: Elijah was the sacred word of a long-dead emolga, the bright, cheeky, flightful mammal now long-dead with cold bones. "May he rest in peace on the Glacial Palace's floor."
"Yes," whispered the floppy one, "yes... mm... indeed. Mmmmmay her dear friend Zoey help her recover." Cheerful banter ensued at that name: Zoey, the peppy little water mammal herself, the color of the sky on a great, cloudy morning. Quite a naïve oshawott, she was. "And may the others recover as well."
"Oh, Quagsire," cooed the swanna toward he—who was, in fact, a quagsire. "I'm sure they're doing fine now. It hasn't been too long, but they seem to smile more now. Stella, too... I feel—as I'm sure you do—that she'll show up sometime. But... er... Do remind me... what was Llana again?"
In voice of the steadily-healing snivy, their persiflage again dipped so softly. "She's the Sweethot, course. Special celestial being surrounded by others, attracted to her just by her identiy. And... mmm... Sweethot—that's that word they use nowadays to call that mmmmmmutation of happiness, and how... hummmane it became, eh?
"Course, Bittercold's their opposite, hmm. Lady MMmmmMunaah—that dead, pink mmmmunna we all forgot—was Llana's antonymmm. She was well hated and a poor desperate little child. Now she's dead. Llana's left. The mmmmmmutation of rejoice seems to've beaten the mmmmmmutation of fear, hate, all that."
"Let us hope it stays that way, dear."
He paused—not for the deceased munna, but for Llana. "That's all she can do—she's the Hope indeed."
"Indubitably," reminded Mary, though quite softly.
They then left the information, like a batch of stale cookies, sitting out, tabled, ready for a response only to go without one. They each recalled with vivid passion—a passion that keeps one up at night, terrified to fall asleep—what the great palace of ice in the sky had looked like, sitting atop the clouds and corrupting further with ice, and with icy cold, chilling-to-the-marrow hate, and pain, and suffering. Now that the castle had fallen, they could merely wish to never see its frigid, frozen tips again. The blood that spilled from the edges of cold, hard, merciless fate.
May it never return to the tiny island of Truught again.
Chapter 1: We Return
Auburn eyes wide open, head swiveling about and inadvertently smacking just the slightest against the yellow leaflets ringing my shoulders, hand squeezed thoroughly by the wet, white one tied within it, we pant like a team, dashing along the lines of the well-worn path in a further-out Mystery Dungeon, ready to take on the challenges before us. Whatever they may be. My head flickers to the right again, catching glimpse stride-by-stride with the oshawott beside me, her eyes and smile bright: weightless and doubtless. Zoey appears just as happy as I feel that we've gotten this far.
Up ahead, the large, grassy green legend pulls to one of her gentle stops. The flecks of loose grass beneath her pale toes shine through, nigh matching to her furry composure—surreal, almost appearing like a living plant. "Well, I think we're about to get up this hill soon," she states, wise tone rising and falling onto each of our shoulders with each and every word. "And... we'll find out what's on the bottom. Zoey, what was this Mystery Dungeon called again?"
Her watery gaze brightens further. "Oh, yeah, Virizion! I think it's like... uh... wait..." The light dies, flickers again. Her seawater accent sticks out further like the sore toe it can be. "Ah... I just had it! Sorry!" Her face blisters out in bright red.
"It's fine, Zo—"
"AHA! I remembered! We're in Honeydew Basins! I told you I just had it!" Beneath fronds of sopping wet, tropically blue shoulder fur, Zoey's back straightens: pride curls her cheeks into a bigger, brighter grin.
"Ah, okay. Thank you for that. I'm happy you recalled." Purple eyes brightening, Virizion's own grin strengthens as well and she and Zoey share that small moment before the legend shakes herself and turns ahead, amid the flower fields and glowing sunrise at the tip of the mountainous hillock. Upon reaching such depths, we turn our heads to the circle in the sky, luminous through even the gentle-hued clouds varying from colors of soft pinks and blues.
Within a squeak of her own, our final member tromps up the grassy pathways and lands with a squeak in a cluster of petals that flow into her silvery braids. "A-ah..." mumbles the bagon. Her head follows ours, amber orbs catching drift of the sun and its rise once again. "It's funny... how pretty these sorts of places can be, especially with all the death watch and... stuff..." Jen's soft, high-pitched cry draws me away from the oshawott and virizion, down into her view. We sit in the petals like this, a silence soft like the warmth in our shared hearts wrapping about.
Guiltily, Jen's eyes hastily clamber up to mine. "Llana... does it still hurt?"
She doesn't have to tell me; I know who she speaks of. A dull ache pinches my chest up tighter, but just to a slight edge. I'm recovering from it, from the events that sent his life down the drain. "It does, but... it's a better ache. It's one that reminds me of him... and it doesn't hurt all that much." That doesn't mean I'm still afraid to sleep at night, to close my eyes when I know that a nocturnal creature like an emolga would watch over me—over us—best late in the evening; or just catching a glimpse of his pained best friend, of what he's left behind.
"I'm sure Elijah's watching over you—wherever he is now. I'm sure of it..!"
My lighter, royal tone washes over again. "I think so too." And a thought touches me. "Jen, your voice is a lot... prettier, now that the stutter doesn't break it off."
Even beneath piles upon piles of pastel-colored petals, I can sight the cyan dragonet's smile beneath her large, ovular snout. Truly, though, she has changed after those events as well. I do recall what happened in the... the ice chambers, the cold wind settling down deep in my blood, almost a puppeteer to my motions and stringing me along in cold silence... I freely loathe that castle; the thought snaps within me and I turn back to concerned amber orbs containing the light of the sunrise. "Thanks, Llana. May we all stop breaking off like it."
"Yes..." And it's true; the words cling coldly, softly, like bells in my chest as I raise a pale green scaled hand and pluck Jen's out from the sea of flowers, taking her up along with our other friends to meet the ends of the hill within, and whatever could encompass the bottom. Her silvery braids, tossed over one shoulder, quiver through what must be excitement as we set out again.
Amber orbs meet blue. "Zoey, what was the Mystery Dungeon called again?"
"Honeydew Basins! Jeez, Jen, get it right!" An affectionate wink turns from any accidental harm caused by her words; Zoey's face widens into a great, white grin, teeth showing themselves off excessively. "So... anyone else wondering when we'll start beating up baddies senseless? Er, I guess not you Llana since you're all Sweethot or whatever but—gah! You guys know what I mean." A flurry of awkwardly-paced nods reassure the oshawott of this. "Yeah, yeah, you guys know what I mean." Zoey adds to the bobbling cacophony of heads. "So who wants to go first down the hill?"
Virizion blinks slowly. "I feel it would be safer if we all went together, especially when Jen came so far behind prior. Would you not agree?"
"Yeah, but I kinda liked the idea where we all went down one-by-one..."
"Zoey, we need to act by what's safer: not what you think sounds the most fun." Her renewed grin softens the blow, though.
"Aw, okay. I'll go nicely."
Our feet dip and plod endlessly through the pastel-colored petals, sending us further through the tip of the hillock like walking through the hairs of a head until we cross the edges of such elevations and begin the painfully obvious steep trek down again. The flowers slip from view until only the patches of dirt and sea-like expanse of grass enters our fields of vision. Through a rising sun, the Mystery Dungeon's dip below cannot be easily interpreted: shadows stretch too far and thick to produce a clear enough envisioning. Notions beating firmly in my heart feel much safer than I predicted; perchance this will lead to a more careful sort of place, a bubble of peace amid the hapless destruction in Mystery Dungeons through all their dangerous glory.
There is a reason, I vaguely recall, that we live on a rather large island donning the name of Truught; or the fact that it goes by "trouble isle" as well. Enough of such reason defines why we may feel wary here. But if creatures like us can meet creatures like Jen—so docile and, as memory serves, in such a monster-filled Dungeon itself—there can be peace. And in the end, sometimes those simple statements prove the only sort of hope: there can be peace.
Oddly, the notion rings thoughts, colorful thoughts, of the pokemon currently left behind in some way or another, spending their time in Paradise. Of Cheeka and Ember, who surely would feel pride in my thoughts of this peace; of Burr the brown-furred, cheeky-eyed timburr and his mienfoo girlfriend, the mostly-healthy magenta- and yellow-furred biped always flocking toward him; of Tim and his dark eyes, that of course recall empty throbs in chords of Elijah and his own black orbs; of Bay as well, the flighted reptile himself and his sadistic loss of his best friend. Emotions and thoughts, attached carelessly to one another, spiral about and flock as they please until the rustle of footsteps signals that Zoey has noticed my daze and grew tired of wait, flinging herself into the hillock once again.
With nothing else to do, I give chase, easily catching placement within the fronds of our team to an ensemble of moves.
Lying at the crook of the hillock shines none much more in the dreary half-light than a stream. It talks as it goes, a babbling run of water amongst the hills that dashes along as it pleases, perhaps in a game of tag with some other celestial water source refusing to show itself in the morning darkness. Later on, further out in our little crook, the stream loses tendrils of its siblings, splitting on its own in differing directions, causing a web of waters, crisscrossing all throughout the grassy nadir and dying out as it reaches upward again into the reaches of other hillocks we'd caught sight of prior. And eventually, the waters and their lined currents toil out of existence, their lines shrinking the further my eyes can go.
"Odd. I expected at least a single pokemon here."
Zoey blinks slowly, as if unable to take in our surroundings. "Yeah, Virizion. It's kinda weird. But... it looks like it's pretty too."
"I wonder where the pokemon go when they aren't attacking us," mumbles Jen beside me, half into her cyan fingers.
In response, I give her a light nudge in the shoulder and turn my pointed head toward the oshawott. But it is... an odd notion. "I think you're all a little right."
"But mine was a question."
I turn back to the bagon. "It was a good question."
"It was?"
"It was," echoes Virizion. "A question we just don't hold an answer yet to. But... I do like this turn of scenery. I'm sure we all do. Quite a beautiful sight, it is." We each nod toward her own addition. "We should come back here sometime. Maybe bring other members. Just enjoy the scenery."
"We should..."
"We should..."
"Aw, yeah! Let's totally do that!" Heads turn back to the water-dripping mammal. "That plan sounds great! Yay!"
Virizion blinks, squeaks a muffled giggle. "I'm happy to know you like that idea, Zoey." Her eyes glow with a luminous, churning sensation; soft laughter colors from hillock horizon to hillock horizon. It's nice, this gentle feeling holding us all in our team and ensnaring us with multiple, metaphorical bindings, ensuring our togetherness. Such a warm, bubbly thought: how we stick like this. My eyes glaze over in this pool of kind emotions. I know that this can't possibly last forever, and I should take in what I can. When I can. From my best friend and my team: and sometimes I feel like those words ensconce much more than they regularly do.
Keeping Honeydew Basins in mind, our small group turns back round and we begin our trek back up the trail we'd just left off of, up toward the call of the flower hillock and the gentle slopes and streams and petals that lay on ahead.
"Oh, but when we come here next time, we'd better have some Mystery Dungeon spawn pokemon things to fight because that was like boring." Zoey's shoulder thumps into mine as we walk.
"Yes, Zoey." I smile slowly back at her, and an eradicating grin bounces along her cheeks, bubbly and big.
"Yes indeed~!"
Stella
The majestic, white-furred creature stepped slowly and shakily down the glimmering pathway. Her purple eyes continued darting nervously throughout the quiet, serene landscape, cracking the royal air carried about her. Fear so plainly painted her face: not even the white fur and deep, luminescent, purple orbs could hide her frozen-up worries building up on the inside. With each step, her fluffy paws released an audible residue—a deep, puffy fump, fump that went along with her motions and layers of white fur, like banks of snow poured down onto the quadrupedal.
"A-ah... I hate this so much," she grumbled, the royal tone still holding true, though thinner and weaker. Another stiff, stilted movement with her paw and it appeared she was ready to crack into an innumerable amount of little Stella giblets. "I hate this. I hate this." She chanted the words under her breath like a spell, a mad fizz sizzling in her pupils. "Hate... hate... A-hh..." She blinked slowly, shook out fluffy white curls. "Where are th-"
A louder, wider-pawed fump, fump broke through the odd, weak mumble of words Stella had begun. Still, the fuzziness in her orbs flickered as she turned, facing a furry creature not much differing of her own form: the largest difference was his bright red streaks of hairs instead of the unbreakable whites, other differences quite minor.
"You took longer than I predicted, Father."
"Why, Stella, you've grown." His voice held strong and pure, the royal accent so thick and full Stella obviously received her own version of the tone from him: her father indeed. "Quite a bit, I see.
"We've missed you so."
Her fizzy orbs crackled. "That cannot be true. Not after..." Stella didn't finish, just slowly shook out the starry-white furs about her narrow head and snout and stared her father down once more.
His own eyes blinked—surprised, could he be? "Aye, it can. And it is. Just because you've committed a deed entities find disastrous does mean naught when compared to entities like us. And the daughter of the chieftain is destined to be missed. There's not a soul here who knows not of your name."
"There—n-no, you're right," she replied, mumbling half into her fur as her head lowered in a sign of obeisance—or shame, possibly. "There's not a soul, I suppose."
"You suppose..? Well, as your father and ruler, however lax that latter niche may stand with our kind, I assure you without such a fragile word that they do. Stella, they know you."
Gaze unmoving, cheeks rounding to a sight pink, she mumbled a few inaudible words. Her father chortled in response: a great, bellowing sound filling the yellow-sparkling hallow with voice. "Yes, your friends missed you as well." Another mumble; another laugh. "Yes, he did as well—yes, I'm sure. "Quite"—the gently rounded red eyes flashed—"indubitably, if I may."
Finally, a round of voice echoed in his daughter's tone. "You may."
"I thought, I suppose, 'twas cute how your little friends down there caused that."
"Y-yes, Father..."
He smiled for the umpteenth time, but the toothy show seemed to lose a flow of vim. "Yes, dear. But I'm afraid we do not have much time until... your friend realizes something."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"That's because it... is. Stella, the Bittercold you thought you'd ridden that poor nation of was the wrong soul this entire time. Who you took out was just a desperate little puppet hung by strings for that... darker one to use. I'm afraid your little friends could be in... a sort of danger."
Me: And of course it's impossible to start the second Llana story without Stella making a show.
Stella: Why thank ya.
Me: Ignoring that snide little... well, here we go. The first chapter of the story. I've officially decided that here on out, any sequel I made NEEDS a prologue to cover everything. Like serious need. So I trust that helps new readers comprehend what's going on a little more. So, uh, thank you!