Title: Moonlight

Disclaimer: I don't own pokemon, blah blah (nor do I own the idea of pokemorphs)

About: Inspired by a random fit of insomnia and wanting to write about pokemorphs in a naturalistic setting. I wanted to try out a different style and approach to my idea as well, and it all kinda unravelled in one sitting, which was awesome. I'm not that happy with the ending; I'll probably edit in a month or two after I've had time to think on what I've written. I was considering what would happen (Rather roughly actually) to a human pokemorph who went native- and if 'human' morphs could be born, then 'pokemon' morphs had to occur. Naturally a human is curious about/will repress their other side, so would a pokeon do so as well...? Anyway, enjoy.


She sits in the shadows and watches him.

The houndour pup is too small yet to know or recognise the strength of her regard, and blindly roots for his mothers teat. It is hard to gain sustenance; the other pups are all so much stronger than him, and it isn't long before his growing body begins to shrivel. As the runt he is the last to feed, the first to be bowled over by rambunctious littermates, and always, always ignored by the rest of the pack.

Life in the Blackthorn mountains is hard, and they cannot afford to tolerate weakness.

Her intrusions are small and infrequent at first. The flash of fang, a sudden rumble of warning, a pointed snarl all serve to curb the energetic and carelessly cruel actions of his littermates. But as he grows older and begins his first, tentative explorations, her intrusions become more noticeable. She hovers at the edge of his vision, always watching him, and the pup learns enough to be curious.

Bellies full from a successful hunt, the pack leader comes first to his mate, offering her a meal of regurgitated meat. It is always this way; as the mother, she demands tribute in order to nourish the houndour pups so dependent on her. But they are almost eight weeks old now and more interested in meat, so they mob the returning hunters with high pitched, yapping cries and eager writhing bodies.

By now the pup knows that he has little chance of gaining a meal, and feels far too lethargic to bother trying. Sighing, he curls up in his little nest of leaves and shivers, knowing that death will soon come to claim him. He is roused form his uneasy slumber, however, by an insistent nudging. Making a quiet noise of protest, he pushes himself up on wobbling legs and stares at the female houndoom in quiet amazement.

Her red eyes catch the faint light as she shifts closer and nudges him again, urging the pup to his feet. Bewildered, the houndour stumbles forward against her forelegs, developing mind trying to understand what is happening. Then the bitch lowers her head and regurgitates meat for him, and the rich scent of it makes his thin body tremble with eagerness. He gorges himself on it, and all too soon his shrunken stomach has rapidly expanded until it is taut and round.

Grunting with satisfaction, the houndoom bitch scratches at the leaves, turns about a few times and then lays down. The pup watches her, waiting for her to snarl and drive him away- but instead she reaches out, grabs him firmly by the scruff of the neck and drags him between her paws. Ignoring his high-pitched complaints she treats him to a thorough tongue bath, and by the time she is done the pup is drowsing. Tucking him close against her body the bitch curls about him and drifts off into a light sleep, ready to awake at a breath of trouble.

When the pup wakes his silent benefactor is gone, and he tumbles back in with his littermates as they yap and squabble, chasing one another about and teasing their resigned gaurdians. By the time hunger begins to gnaw at his belly the hunters have returned; feeling strong now, he moves towards them. Silent as a ghost, the bitch drifts from the bushes, grabs him by the scruff of the neck and drags him back to her small patch of leaves.

He wriggles and squirms impatiently until she feeds him, and then looks at her with a kind of silent wonder. They settle into a routine quickly enough, and under her care the runt quickly grows stronger. With one adult solely devoted to his care it is not long before the runt is almost equal in size to his littermates, and he takes great pride in his few victories against them when playful mouthing and tussling turns series.

As the pups grow they slowly learn the subtle language the adults of the pack speak, made up as much of body language as it is vocalizations. The runt learns to listen and watch closely, to guess the moods of his play mates before they become evident, as the bitch rarely speaks and when she does it is succinct and to the point. By the time the pup is almost a year old most of his littermates have earned names, and they taunt him for his lack and the strange bronze mark on his shoulder.

He does not understand what is so strange about this mark. The bitch who cares for him has one also, shaped like a crescent moon, and she flicks one ear in silent amusement when he whines about it to her, flopped out in the shade. She considers him for a long moment, and as she does the houndour pup marks the differences between them.

Like all houndour he is half the size of his fully evolved counterpart, with bone armour about his wrists, ankles, and across his back. He has the same black and tan colouring, the long and whippy tail; but where as the bitch has long, sharply pointed horns, he has a smooth bone armour covering his vulnerable skull and upper neck. It is shaped much like the skull present on every houndoom chest, and he thinks wistfully of the day when he can evolve and wear it as a badge of pride.

That which is different is always feared,

The bitch tells him, and nudges him with her nose when he drops his forepaws, whining and barking that it isn't fair it's not a proper answer and why does she have to be so cryptic, anyway? Smacking him lightly with her tail, the houndoom bitch taunts and teases the pup until he forgets why he is so upset and confused, and then tells him to stay put.

She drifts off into the undergrowth, and the pup watches her leave. He thinks now he knows something of the way she achieves this, and he practices the movements with exaggerated care on his littermates. They don't particularly care for being ambushed, but that is fine; it gives him more practice at hiding, anyway.

When the houndoom bitch comes back later that evening, she does not bring a half chewed carcass or a hunk of meat. Instead, she brings him a small, frightened rattata with a broken leg. The pup crouches and watches it avidly, as the mouse pokemon whimpers and tries to crawl away, whiskers twitching and ears flickering every which way. Excited, the pup pounces, and lets out a shrill yelp of pain when the rodent sinks its fangs into his paw. His movements become cautious and wary as he stalks the rattata about the small clearing, darting in an about before it has a chance to strike.

Eventually he wears it down the point of exhaustion, and it watches him through glassy eyes as he cautiously nudges it. Her expression exasperated, the bitch heaves herself to her feet and pads over, bowling the pup over with a lazy flick of her tail.

You show the prey no respect by taunting it so. Give them a quick, clean death and be thankful that they give us life.

She admonishes him sternly, and the pup whines, ears flattened against his skull and tail wound about his legs. The bitch narrows her eyes and rumbles with irritation, but relents and moves away after a long moment. Trembling with nerves, the pup edges closer to the half-dead rattata and nudges it onto its back. He circles it for a minute or two before cautiously mouthing at its throat.

Making no comment, the bitch settles down and watches, occasional flicks of her tail and twitches of her ears informing the pup to her temper as he glances at her for encouragement. Growling, he sinks his teeth in a little deeper and worries at the neck of the rattata. It is hard for his baby teeth to cut through fur and gristle, but after a while he succeeds in gnawing through its neck.

Though clearly unimpressed by his technique, the bitch does not take the rodent away from him, and the pup feels a flush of pride at the thought of his first kill.

After this, she begins bringing him wounded prey. His littermates receive the same sort of attention from the rest of the pack, of course, but the pup doubts that they are being taught how to hunt just yet. The bitch corrects him on his technique and gently encourages him, teaching him the life skills he will need to survive. Slowly, he learns how to ghost through the underbrush with barely a sound, to approach prey from downwind so they do not scent him, to rush forward and pounce and snap before the prey have a chance to escape.

He is well over a year old now and drawing away from her; he has earnt his name now, the last of his litter-mates to do so. Quiet-feet they call him, on account of his near silent footsteps and fondness for sneaking up and pouncing on his packmates. He accepts the name gratefully, but wonders if he has really earnt it; he still cannot surprise the bitch, after all.

And then one night he does.

It has been a long day with an unsuccessful hunt leaving the pack tired and sprawled in the shade near the den when Quietfeet sees the bitch quietly slip away. He knows of her habits, of course, and that is partly why the pack shuns her somewhat, but feels that this time is different. Getting up, Quietfeet pads into the sparse undergrowth after her, using every skill he has learnt so far to his advantage.

The young houndour is stunned when he follows the bitch to a trickling, water-fall fed pool and the bitch shows no sign of noticing his presence. Fairly trembling with excitement now, he readies himself to leap forward and pounce- but something gives him pause.

Expression serene, the houndoom wades until the pool, and as she does so her entire body ripples like the reflection of the moon in water. Quietfeet watches this, stunned, and cannot understand what is happening when the bitch straightens and stands up in the water, a houndoom no longer.

She is, instead, the one thing the pack has always been taught to be wary of and even fear; a human. The houndour sniffs cautiously, relaxing only when her scent remains familiar. It is different, of course, but not radically so and this reassures him. Making quiet human noises, she splashes about in the pool, soaking herself completely.

Quietfeet wants to understand this strange behaviour and creeps forward, examining this not-her closely. Just like the young houndour she has a strange mark in her fur, and he is puzzled to see it ion her human body also. The sight confuses him, for it means that they two must surely be linked, and yet...

Perhaps this explains things, like why she is only tolerated by the pack, yet never attacked or driven away by the higher ranking members. She has no proper name, either, but most have taken to calling her Walks-alone and she seems content enough to answer to this. Still, she is never completely accepted and now Quietfeet thinks that this must surely be the answer.

Mind buzzing, he breaks out into the small clearing, a quiet bark of welcome rumbling in his throat when the moonlight slides across his fur. A strange, rippling feeling courses through him, and Quietfeet shivers as the bronze mark on his shoulder begins to itch and burn. Whining deep in his throat as Walks-alone turns to look at him, clearly startled, Quietfeet drops to his belly as the moonlight ghosts over his body, leaving pain and a fiery itchiness in its wake.

He trembles and strains against it, mind blurry and chaotic with thought as he strains to bring some form of clarity to this situation. He feels cool hands slide across his muzzle- and then suddenly they are not catching on fur but slipping from slick skin, and he is trembling in the sudden cold. Quietfeet is terribly confused, and automatically looks to the bitch for answers.

Human lips curl into a whimsical smile as she brushes strange not-fur from his eyes and pulls him close to her in a gentle hug. The houndour-turned-human is not quite sure what to make of this. He has no idea how to communicate with Walks-alone in this strange body, and yet something is allowing him to understand the gestures and movements she makes.

Pulling back, the young woman searches his eyes, and reads his confusion in them.

"Sshh, little one, it will be alright. When the moon passes over head you will return to your previous form. Rest here with me for a little while. Sshh, sshh."

The strange noises should make no sense to him, but something deep within Quietfeet stretches and yearns towards them, and he makes out the most rudimentary of meanings from them. He is safe here, with Walks-alone, and when he is in his proper form she will explain things to him. This is enough to calm the pup, and he readily slips into a troubled sleep as his guardian runs her fingers through his hair.

Fat and full, a golden moon rides the sky above the two. Walks-alone wonders bitterly how long it will be before the moon sees Quietfeet only as a houndour, and no longer a boy. She knows she cannot stop the inevitable but- for just a little while, she would like to keep him by her side, before curiosity inevitably strikes him with its deadly poison. For a little while longer she would like him to remain innocent of the cruelty of man, to ignore and disregard that hidden side of his heritage.

For humans bring nothing but trouble and pain.