Good Hunting Chapter 5

The time is not yet right.

Have patience.

Soon, the key shall walk with us,

Robed in pale flesh.

Book of Humanity, Providence

As soon as he had been awoken so suddenly that morning, Corrin's mind had been caught by one, barbed thought, that manifested itself as a question once Darow returned from his swooping search of the balloon.

"Where is my book?" Corrin asked, as much to himself as to the Noctowl that was hopping his way over to the trapdoor leading to the gloomy cabin below.

Without a word of response, Darow flicked open said trapdoor with one of his talons and poked his feathered head into Ossawa's cramped den. Even from across the deck, Corrin could hear Darow's sharp voice conversing with the captain, no doubt delivering his search report.

It did not take long for Darow to raise himself back onto the deck, letting the trapdoor fall with a dull thud. The owl seemed ever so slightly different. After talking to the captain, his usual quiet resolve seemed to flicker.

Not that Corrin gave it much mind. "Where is my book?" He repeated, a little annoyed that Darow was ignoring him.

"What book?" the First Mate replied, his gaze drifting away.

"My book, of course," Corrin returned, "it's gone. Did you see it?"

It took a long moment for Darow to respond. When he did, he looked at Corrin squarely in the face.

"I don't like this. Something is wrong down there, below the decks. I won't ask, but I can feel something is wrong, and now Kiwi's got it too. Whatever it is."

"But what about my book? I need my book," Corrin said simply.

For a moment, Darow seemed a little more like his old self. "Would it kill you to look up from your dogma, for once? I don't know what your book is, and I don't care."

With that, summoning a brittle burst of wind beneath his wings, Darow took flight, returning to his airborne watch. Corrin watched him go.

Kiwi was missing, that much he knew, although the information had yet to really settle in. How very odd, he thought to himself. To get lost mid-air was almost an achievement.

Corrin thought back to the short time he had spent teaching the young deckhand. However skilled he was at piloting the Dragalge Corrin was far from good at imparting said knowledge to Kiwi. He rambled through long, convoluted explanations, then grew irritated when Kiwi did not immediately understand him. He had little patience and suffered few questions.

Still, thinking back on it now, Kiwi had not been a bad student. In fact, for all the patience Corrin lacked, Kiwi always found a way to bear with her teacher and learn what she could. Now she'd gotten herself into some sort of mess.

It was nothing. It was probably nothing. Ossawa would come out of her cabin any second now and pronounce that Kiwi had fallen asleep in the hold. Everyone would laugh, and Corrin would get back to the winds and ways he knew best. The things he could understand.

But there was something about the way they had acted, both Ossawa and the owl, something that was deeply off-putting. Feeling the need for comfort, he instinctually clutched at the scarf around his neck where the book – his oldest companion – was meant to be, only to be left with an empty hand.

A wave of dizziness washed over him, just as a deep and distant rumble reached his ears. Peering towards the source of the noise, Corrin saw it: The Ivory Plateau, looming in the distance. What could be the end of his journey, so close now.

Like some solitary tooth of a continental beast, the salt plateau stuck out from the fetid swamp of marshland that surrounded it. Long before that, however, was a great wall of steam, far greater than any forge could muster. Where the ocean met the mirelands, there was no grimy beach, no salt-shod cliff-face; only a ravine that stretched deep into the depths of the earth, so deep that Corrin glimpsed the dull glow of magma far below. This was what had come to be known as the Divide.

Where the ocean collided with this scar in the land, a mighty waterfall had formed, tumbling into the abyss, only to rise again as a curtain of steam after falling into that well of lava at the base of the earth.

This was no natural formation, and fittingly, it was put to an unnatural purpose. Long ago, something great and terrible lost to living memory had rendered this scar into the ground. From that desolation, a thriving community had grown, built upon rocky outcroppings that still stood amidst the lava. There, Pokemon from all lands gathered to mine the valuable ores exposed in the walls of the Divide, only to smelt those treasures in the boiling steam that shrouded the sparse settlement.

It would be on this settlement that the Dragalge would dock, readying its supplies for the journey ahead. Their last stop before the Ivory Plateau.

Corrin wiped his misted eyes. This was no time for sight-seeing. "Ready the rear sails!" He called out to Darow before moving to the still-burning brazier beneath the balloon.

For a moment there was silence. Corrin turned around to see the First Mate nestled in his shelter. His eyes had a glazed look to them, as if he had been lost in thought for some time.

"Darow?" He repeated. This was enough to shake Darow out of his stupor.

"What? Oh, right, we're landing," the Noctowl said before shaking his ruffled feathers and, without another word, taking to the skies.

They were almost directly above the Divide now. Looking down, Corrin could see a web of slated roofs and stone walkways that made up the settlement below. He grabbed a bucket of water left half-full of the rain from the previous night. Before he could douse the brazier's flames, the Dragalge lurched as Darow – still airborne and working on the side of the hull – released a billowing pair of rear sails, bringing the balloon almost to a halt.

"Bring it down!" was Darow's muffled squawk from below the vessel.

Without another word, Corrin threw the cold bucket of water onto the brazier's sputtering flame, snuffing it out in an instant and sending a small torrent of steam rising into the air to mirror the Divide's vaporous eruption.

At first it seemed to make no difference. However, after a moment or two, the Dragalge started its slow but steady descent. Releasing some of what warm air was left in the balloon, Corrin watched as they drifted down towards the ocean level, then past it, deeper and deeper into the ravine until the surface towered far above. The air was treacherous here. Corrin took care to steer the Dragalge, avoiding any sudden updrafts of steam that might drive them into the Divide's cracked walls.

Not long into the fall, Corrin's ears picked up the steady prick of a hundred pickaxes, toiling away at the unyielding rock, followed by a low hubbub of voices rising to greet them alongside the endless wall of steam. In time Darrow deftly caught a small updraft beneath his wings and rose back up to the deck. Despite the excitement of landing, that same, distant pall hung over the owl. It was unnerving. Corrin tried his best to ignore it and focus on the descent.

A quick glance over the side of the Dragalge revealed their destination: the mining colony itself. At the base of the Divide broiled a churning lake of lava, from which rose several large spires of granite which served as tiny havens from the heat. The heat itself was palpable, hazing the air and slightly searing Corrin's skin. How the residents of the colony bared it was a mystery to him. To help make life at least liveable, they had taken to living atop those granite spires in small communities made from tightly cobbled huts of obsidian and slate. Precarious bridges could be seen connecting each of these spires, either made from interlinking metal chains or simply carved out of some of the rocky rubble that littered the Basin of the Divide.

One of the tallest granite outcroppings had been purposed by the denizens of the Divide as a makeshift docking area, and it was here that the Dragalge finally came to land. It was a haphazard affair with barely enough room for half a dozen craft. This made it all the easier to spot one airship that stood out from the rest.

A faint spark of hope alighted in Corrin's dusty heart. He would recognise that blue and gold canvas anyway. Docked within a stone's throw from the Dragalge was the airship known as St Lothar's Revenge, in all its grizzled glory.

For a moment, Corrin was able to push his worries aside. He had failed once before to gain passage with Captain Scrimshaw's pilgrim crew, but he would not fail again. This was his chance – perhaps, his last chance – to travel with people that understood him.

But what a state he was in. First Corrin had lost his mask to that dreadful storm, and now his book had been lost on the journey. Would they accept him as he was?

Reminded of his nakedness, Corrin self-consciously pulled the hat Ossawa had lent him over his face. It was difficult to see with the hat's brim worn so steeply over his head, but that was a sacrifice he needed to make. To be seen with his face exposed was too grave a hurt for any Marowack to abide. Corrin did not entirely know why. It was a primal urge; an ancient fear that manifested in a subconscious need for privacy. He hated being beholden to such a base instinct, but there were some things even Corrin dared not challenge.

With his vision obscured, Corrin could only hear a thump as the trapdoor down to the captain's cabin opened. Peeking below the brim, he caught sight of Ossawa's lower paws as she emerged, at long last, onto the deck.

There was no cheerful tint to her voice. The captain simply sounded tired when she said "We must get moving. Corrin, come with me. You can help carry the supplies. Darow…"

She paused for a moment, lost in thought. "You can stay here. Watch the balloon."

"What about Kiwi?" Darow chirped, perking his head up.

"Just make sure she isn't on this balloon when we take off," Ossawa replied, her face cold and stern.

This was enough to silence the whole deck.

"Corrin, follow me," Ossawa repeated. The Marowack did as he was told.

They clambered down the Dragalge in silence.

Steam clouded the air. Even once they had touched down on the rock and began making their way towards the mining town, Corrin could barely make out anything in front of him. It was as if a deep fog hung over the base of the Divide, obscuring almost all vision, and leaving its people to stumble on in semi-blindness.

As such, it was little surprise that many of the Pokemon that had chosen to make their home here were not reliant on their eyes. While walking Corrin spotted what he thought to be a pool of water, only to realise on closer inspection that it was in fact a pit filled to the brim with Nincada. These Pokemon, little more than bugs, had made a home for themselves here. Their pit was buzzing with activity as the Nincada scurried about, moving chunks of rock or burrowing deeper down. The sight sent a squirming mote of unease deep into Corrin's stomach.

Giving this nest a wide birth, the captain and Corrin made their way across rocky outcroppings that had been crudely sculpted into archways, and through tight bundles of buildings each roofed with black slate tiles. There was nothing so bustling as a marketplace here, but it seemed that Ossawa had made this journey many times before and knew the best place to find new provisions. As it turned out, that place was the basement of a packed household teetering on the edge of a blocky outcropping.

Such arrangements were not uncommon around this town. With so little space, almost every building had a lower layer, accessed from the street by a walkway of grated iron. It was in basements like these that the real business happened around here, where goods were exchanged, and more dodgy dealings were decided. This basement seemed familiar with both kinds of commerce.

As they made their way below, Corrin could hear the cheap metal of the stairs leading down to the basement vibrating with every step. Once they were finally beneath the street level, they were greeted by a low-ceilinged, stuffy interior filled to the brim with supplies of all sorts, from food packed into barrels to spare bundles of rope and canvas. There was no counter as such, but trawling the isles of this cluttered establishment was a Pokemon that sweltered with the same heat radiating out from the Divide's basin. It was a small, slithering slug of a thing, with two bright yellow eyes set atop a pair of freakish stalks. All this would be disturbing enough, but the Pokemon's body burned with a fain red glow. In fact, its very form seemed to be made from some kind of living lava, as if it were some stray pile of sludge from the burning abyss below that, through stubbornness alone, had come to life.

Corrin was never a fan of meeting new Pokemon. They always found new ways to make him uncomfortable. Ossawa, on the other hand, had no such presumptions.

"Slugma, my friend. It's been a long time," she called over to the blazing Pokemon. One of its eye stalks turned to face the two of them, and then the other as this Slugma began oozing its way towards them.

"Ossawa!" It called over, it's voice gurgling. "You crazy otter, you're still alive!"

Despite herself, Ossawa's bad mood softened a little. "Despite the world's best efforts, yes, and I'm ready to make the old trip again."

Stopping in front of them, Slugma chortled, body rippling with the motion.

"Well," it said, "I just lost a bet. Onix swore you'd still be alive, somehow, but I didn't believe a word. I've never been happier to lose a wager."

Slugma turned to face Corrin. "… And look at you. What happened to the Marowack? He looks awful."

This sudden attention caught Corrin off guard. Thankfully, Ossawa came to his rescue.

"It's a long story," she cut across, "and one he'd no doubt prefer we don't get into. There have been some… complications on the journey here. We all want to get this job done sooner rather than later."

"I can help with that," Slugma replied.

The next few hours were as boring as they were a relief. After the difficulties of the morning, this period of drudgery was exactly what Corrin needed to collect his thoughts while he helped Ossawa and the shop's warm proprietor pack up boxes and crates filled with a week's worth of provisions. He was grateful that the Slugma chose not to talk to him during this time, instead choosing to babble on about various nothings with Ossawa. While he grew no less comfortable with Slugma's physical form, Corrin's anxiety eased once he became used to the Pokemon's presence. He even began to enjoy listening in on the chatter between Slugma and the captain. As it turned out, Slugma was not an it, but a he, and he had a big, boiling family of lava slugs living in the household above. He took pride in his work but enjoyed knitting in his spare time. How Slugma was able to do this despite his lack of appendages was a topic of great curiosity for Corrin, but even so, he could not muster the courage to ask.

There came a moment when, his shoulders aching from the packing, Corrin took a short break outside of Slugma's shop. He emerged back onto the street and, much to his surprise, found himself missing the company he had left behind. All such thoughts, however, evaporated in an instant, when he caught sight of a small huddle of Pokemon across the street.

They were four or so in total, but one Pokemon in particular stole Corrin's attention. It was a great Walrein of a Pokemon, with two great tusks of hardened ice and a blue, blubbery hide: no less than Captain Scrimshaw himself. He looked completely out of place in this sweltering ravine. His icy tusks were slowly melting almost as fast as they could reform while the rest of his body was speckled with sweat.

This was it. This was Corrin's chance to gain passage aboard St Lothar's Revenge. Scrimshaw and his crew were laden with barrels, no doubt having finished their gathering of provisions and making their way back to the dock. Corrin paid little mind to the Pokemon in Scrimshaw's retinue, focussing wholly on the captain.

Hurrying over with a panicked gait, Corrin needed to consciously steady himself. He had to look professional. He began striding up to the captain just as the Walrein looked up to see his approach.

"… Do I know you?" Scrimshaw asked in a deep rumble of a voice.

Corrin paused, unsure how to respond. "It's me, Corrin. Don't you remember me?"

"Oh, oh yes, I remember now" the Walrein blustered, "What happened to you?"

Hesitating, Corrin reluctantly explained. "It turns out that the mask I was wearing had some metal in it. We had to throw it overboard during a storm."

Scrimshaw hummed in thought "… Right. I see. Didn't you think of that before you bought it, being the aeronaut that you are and all."

"I should have done, yes," Corrin replied, steeped in embarrassment, "but I'll get a new one, eventually, one without any metal."

The Walrein shared a glance with the Pokemon with him.

"Well, nice seeing you again, I suppose," he said, before continuing his slow plod back to the dock.

"Wait, please wait," Corrin called, trying to keep pace with them, "I wanted to ask if there was space on your crew for another aeronaut? As we discussed back on Precipice, remember?"

Scrimshaw sighed but did not stop moving. "I'm sorry old fellow. We did have a spot open on our crew, but it was just taken by someone else."

Someone else? How many idle aeronauts were there loitering around this steaming refuge? Corrin felt his insides contort with frustration, but he knew better than to show it.

"Right. Well. Good hunting to you, then." He said at last. Scrimshaw did not return the sentiment, as he and his crew had already passed Corrin by on their way to the docks.

The Marowack stopped in his tracks and watched them for a moment. His thoughts were whirring around inside his skull too quickly for him to keep track of. Who was it that stole his position? Had he been in a clearer state of mind, he might have guessed.

Corrin scrunched up his eyes as tightly as he could, keeping them closed for a moment as he composed himself. When he opened those eyes again, Scrimshaw's group had almost reached the dock. Now that his head had stopped spinning, Corrin could begin to focus on the other members of the Walrein's party. There was a long, brown furred creature – like a snaking ferret – lined with cheerful beige stripes that contrasted with the deep, tired recesses beneath its eyes. Ahead of it and besides Scrimshaw trawled a curious, slimy thing not unlike Slugma in its form, except made from a viscous purple goop that singed the rock beneath its oozing body. Nestled between the two, there was a green, impish Pokemon that walked on its hind legs, keeping its white head low.

No… that was not just any Pokemon. Corrin looked again. That was Kiwi, he could have sworn it. What was the poor girl doing in Scrimshaw's company?

For all his frustration, Corrin's mind gave way to concern, and then guilt. He'd barely even noticed her, wrapped up as he was in his own problems. What would he tell Darow? While Corrin had only known Kiwi for a matter of days, Darow seemed to have flown with her for much longer. Perhaps that was what had thrown him off that morning? Of course, it was, what a stupid question.

Corrin looked down at his own dusty hands, and for a moment, felt a surge of that same disgust – that same fear – he usually reserved for less deserving Pokemon than himself. Even now, Corrin had allowed Kiwi's suffering to become centred around himself. He knew this, and yet, could not bring himself to stifle the boiling pot of self-loathing within.

"The time has come," he heard Ossawa call from across the street, "we're leaving."

Shaking himself out of his stupor, Corrin pulled down the captain's hat to better obscure his face. He needed to be professional.

"Of course, captain. I'm on my way," he replied, scurrying back over to Slugma's shop. There, he found Ossawa taking up some of the last of the Dragalge's provisions in a roughly hewn barrel bound with rusted iron. Corrin took another barrel filled with supplies, keeping his eyes to the ground.

Together, they bid Slugma goodbye and began to trek back to the docks. There the Dragalge waited, casting a long shadow over the two Pokemon as they trudged up to its hull and began hauling up their cargo with an array of twisted ropes. Darow, having stood watch while they were gone, helped bring in the cargo before carrying Corrin and Ossawa up in his talons to the top deck, one by one.

All of this was done in silence.

"Is Kiwi gone?" Ossawa said at last.

Darow nodded. "She wasn't any trouble. Slipped away while I wasn't looking."

"Good… good," the captain replied, "the route ahead is one I know well. It's a perilous current we'll be riding."

She paused for a moment, her eyes growing distant, before replying. "I've made the mistake of flying over the mirelands by day. The storms are always calmer at night. If we lift off now, it'll be dark by the time we come to the worst of it."

Corrin could barely see the sky, as far down as they were, but it had been several hours since they landed. The afternoon must have been dying by the time all the cargo had been loaded.

"Have you checked the balloon for damage?" Ossawa suddenly asked Darow. This seemed to catch the owl off-guard.

"… Yes, yes of course," he said hurriedly.

"Then let us take to the air," Ossawa concluded, "If you need me, I will be in my cabin."

Not long after, she was gone; disappearing below the trapdoor and down into the underbelly of the balloon leaving Corrin and Darow to their own devices.

The two set about preparing the Dragalge for flight. Corrin, using a wax-sealed bottle of some sickly oil and a worn tinderbox, lit the brazier on the top deck alight, creating a sudden updraft as Darow circled the Dragalge while pulling firmly on the ropes that held the craft together to direct it safely out of the Divide.

Before long, they were rising, and rising quickly. As a warm band of steam filled the balloon, it was only a matter of seconds before the Dragalge breached the surface.

For the first time in hours, Corrin was embraced by the warm evening sky. The grey hues of the morning had given way to a gentle red glow emanating from the horizon, where the sun was just beginning to set. Ahead, he could see a vast expanse of discoloured swamp pockmarked with pools of water. Beyond these mirelands, poking its head just above the clouds, was the silver brilliance of the Ivory Plateau that shone with the setting sun's dying light.

Not much longer now, he thought to himself. Once they reached the Ivory Plateau, none of these worries would matter anymore, Corrin was sure of it. It would be better to simply put the crew out of mind and stay quiet for the rest of the journey.

A gentle breeze rose behind him. For a moment, Corrin could not help but feel that familiar surge of contentment that came with being in the air. There really was nothing like it.

But that breeze was not formed from random chance. Hearing Darow's talons land on the deck besides him, Corrin realised that this wind had come from the first mate's winged arrival.

Curiously, Darow had something in his beak which he promptly let clatter to the deck.

"Don't ask me why, but this is for you." The Noctowl said. Corrin looked down to see what he had been given.

It was a small, hollow thing carved from wafer thin obsidian. A mask fit for Corrin's own head.

"You're welcome," Darow muttered, before preparing to take flight once again. Before he could, Corrin interjected:

"I saw Kiwi," he said quickly. "She found a new crew to fly with. I think she will be all right."

Darow paused. "… Thanks for letting me know," he said, before taking to the skies at last with a fierce beat of his wings, leaving Corrin in silence.

A long moment passed before Corrin could bring himself to do anything else. At last, taking the obsidian mask Darow had given him, he carefully swapped it with the captain's hat that had previously occupied his head. To have a new mask fastened tightly to his face was a great relief. He had not quite realised how on edge he had been without it.

Darow must have slipped away from his duties while Corrin and the captain were away, just to buy this thing for him. Such generosity was difficult to understand. Perhaps this was some sort of ploy? Did Darow hope to get something out of Corrin by winning his favour? Corrin certainly couldn't think of anything the owl might gain by doing so.

Regardless, Corrin was grateful. Despite having lost both the help of Kiwi and his prized book, for the first time in a long while, Corrin could not help but be a little hopeful.

Thank you for reading this far. This has been a lot of fun to write, although unfortunately I'll be a bit busy these next few weeks writing my thesis, so the next instalment will be delayed somewhat.

In the meantime, I'd very much appreciate it if you considered leaving a comment on one of these pages. I'd be happy to answer any questions about the fanfiction that I can, without giving away too many spoilers of course.

For now, goodbye, and good hunting!

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