The world is not ours; we are only its inheritors.
We beasts of claw and tusk. Of fickle fangs and flawed forms.
Let us never forget those that granted us thought:
Humankind.
Some of us are more blessed than others. Some have almost human shape.
But let us never forget; we are beasts of the earth and sky.
Unfit. Incomplete.
We are the ones they called Pokemon.
We will never forget.
The Book of Humanity, Verse 26
Corrin knew each of the verses. He kept them close to his dusty heart – quite literally, he wouldn't be caught dead without his worn Book of Humanity tucked deep within his dull blue scarf.
Corrin was not the kind to forget. He clutched that same book with his small, dry hands, gently rubbing its smooth leather cover. The sea air around him was an awful blend of cold and damp; he couldn't let the pages yellow. Not after having kept the book intact for so long, and over so many turbulent voyages.
Corrin was blessed with almost human shape. A rough, vaguely reptilian shape, but still. To have hands and walk upon his grey feet was more human than most Pokemon could claim to be. Perhaps the least human things about him were his stumpy brown tail and the cracked, steely Aggron-skull he wore over his fur-lined face. Such a mask was what distinguished his species: the brutish Marowack.
A sharp chill ran up his spine alongside a bitter breeze. Emerging from his thoughts, Corrin glanced around furtively at the rocky, gored-out interior in which he was currently sitting.
This was Precipice: a dock built around a small, claustrophobic travellers' bar that had been crudely carved out of a formidable chunk of rock sticking defiantly out from the raging sea. The bar in question was a sordid, acrid-smelling cavern, somewhere fit only for those with no real standards. In other words, it was a place for smugglers, and pilgrims. Corrin liked to consider himself amongst the latter, at least in spirit.
"Your dedication speaks for itself," said the beast sitting across from Corrin.
They were sat in the farthest corner of the bar that Corrin could find around a lopsided table cobbled together from faded wood. He tried his best not to nudge the table with his tail, fearing it would collapse at any moment. Well, no matter. Corrin had finally found what he had been waiting for in this musky hole: a captain looking to fill out a crew.
"A worthy pilgrim if ever I saw one," the Pokemon continued. He was a large, blubbering Walrein with two ungainly flippers and a tail streaked with sky-blue amongst the whiteness of his fur that matched the cold silver of his icy tusks. In nature he might have swum along northern shores and hunted atop freezing crags, but Pokemon had not acted as nature intended for a very long time. Now he seemed out of his element, huffing in between his sentences.
This was Scrimshaw, the captain of St Luthar's Revenge, a venerable old vessel. You would never find a finer zeplin docked in Precipice, and what's more, it was no merchant's balloon. No, this was a ship of pilgrimage, bound for the Festival of Humanity far to the south.
Now these were people that would understand Corrin. He could not have asked for a more fortunate turn of events than to meet Scrimshaw out here while his crew stopped for supplies. Corrin had wasted no time in dragging the old seal over to a quiet corner, in the hopes of riding with St Lothar's Revenge as an aeronaut.
He had his own destination in mind, but surely it would be no trouble for Scrimshaw. A few days' flight in admirable company was exactly what Corrin needed.
"… However," the old seal said shifting his blubber, "things are tight. We have more than enough capable hands. I'm sorry, Corrin, but there just isn't room for you to join us."
At this moment, as if choosing the worst possible time to interject, one of the many avian Pokemon that haunted the upper rafters of the inn swooped down to their table. Corrin dismissed the bird as just another lackey of the inn, here to pester them into buying some beverage or other. Ignoring it, he kept his eyes on Scrimshaw.
"None at all?" He replied, hoping his voice sounded professional, "I have more experience in the air than half your balloonists put together. Just you wait until you end up in a real tempest, then you'll miss having me on board."
Scrimshaw was the kind of Pokemon who never admitted to disliking anybody, not even to himself. He gave a strained kind of smile.
"Well… we might be dropping some of our folk at the Divide. Make it there and there'll be room for you."
The Divide? He might as well walk to the Ivory Plateau himself at that rate. In any case, Scrimshaw had clearly had enough. Rising from his seat, he gave the Marowack a nod.
"Good hunting", he bade Corrin.
"To you as well," the Marowack muttered.
Lurching his way out of the inn, the walrus-Pokemon left Corrin to his thoughts. A particularly nasty sputter of sea-salt-stained air brushed past Corrin's rough skin, leaving a tingling sensation that lingered unpleasantly. He found himself shivering. What sort of Pokemon thought building an outpost in the side of a cliff was a good idea? The ventilation alone was enough of a problem, not to mention how hard it was to access. If not for the popularity of ballooning, Precipice would have been abandoned long ago.
Corrin felt more than heard a gentle rapping on the table, breaking through his muddled thoughts.
Tap… tap-tap-tap.
The sound grew more insistent as Corrin turned to see the bird that had swooped down from earlier had not left the table. It was pecking at the wood with its beak; a polite if simple way of getting his attention. On closer inspection it was a tiny thing; mottled brown wings cloaked a round head with an oddly impressive, feathered mantle. It was about the only impressive thing about the Pokemon. It looked to be a male Noctowl, and a small one at that.
For reasons unknown even to himself, Corrin could not hold back a profound sense of unease. This owl unsettled him in a way he could not entirely explain. Here was a creature – by all rights fully intelligent – pecking at the wood like some overgrown woodlouse. If Corrin had not known better, he would have assumed that this was not a person at all. With a sudden chill he wondered if he would look the same, to a human observer. Just an overgrown lizard, playing at intelligence.
This was the unfortunate reality many Pokemon found themselves in. Pokemon came in all manner of forms. Some, like Scrimshaw, were indistinguishable from beasts, while others took on a more humanoid form. Others were stranger still. Not quite animals, but not quite humans either. They were only really united by their ability to think and the old ties they once had to humanity long ago.
Perhaps he was overthinking it. Corrin didn't like birds in general. While he would never admit it, they would always be far more at home in the sky than he could ever hope to be. Having wings just felt like cheating.
Tap-tap-tap, the bird continued, like the tick of a dying engine. He seemed to be growing impatient.
"What do you want?" Corrin snapped at last.
"You are Corrin the aeronaut, yes?" He chirped, "In search of a crew to fly south?"
"Well… yes, I suppose I am, on both counts," Corrin replied.
The Noctowl twisted its head, as if judging him with every squint. "We have a crew, but no aeronaut. Ossawa thinks you will do."
Corrin inhaled sharply, shifting his weight uneasily. "Ossawa?"
"That's Captain Ossawa to you." The Pokemon replied. Whoever this Captain was, they sounded respectable enough to Corrin.
While not able to fly with St Lothar's Revenge, Corrin still needed a crew. He had been grounded for far too long and his own, personal pilgrimage could not be made on foot. Besides, he was beginning to miss the hiss of gas-fire, the taming of wild cords and, most of all, the open sky.
"Where are you heading?" Corrin asked.
"To the festival, on a supply run. We have silver if you need paying."
Another merchant crew. Corrin suspected he'd never board a true pilgrim ship at this rate. He heard they were such enlightened vessels by comparison.
Oh well, it would do for now. After pretending to give the owl's offer a bit more thought, Corrin nodded. "Show me to the captain and we'll see."
Without another word, the owl fluttered up into the rafters before gently gliding out of the inn and into the sickly golden sunset.
Resigning himself to his fate, Corrin plodded after the owl, out of the bar and onto the tangled, wind-worn mess of wooden walkways that was the edge of Precipice. Following this strange Pokemon, a sickly yellow orange washed over the Marowack's mask as the last rays of the sun shone farewell for the day. The air lied in a cool miasma somewhere between pleasant and muggy.
Here was the razor edge upon which Precipice had rooted itself. Jutting out from the grey, treacherous ocean waters was a slim cliff of granite, like some celestial toothpick discarded long ago. For generations now Pokemon had begun toiling at this rock face, clawing and scratching into it until a series of sizeable burrows had been worn out. It was here that Precipice was founded.
The worst part was that this was the closest excuse for dry land around here. Peering through his mask-sockets down at the ocean below, Corrin could not help but feel a deep, primal shiver quake through his body. He imagined himself falling, falling, and sinking straight to the bottom of that watery grave.
Forcing the thought down deep into his mind, as he tended to do with such unwelcome ideas, Corrin found he had fallen behind. Settling into a half-jog he hurried after the owl along a rickety strip of wood; one of the many interlinking walkways that were used to connect the moored airships around Precipice.
Oh, the airships! For all Corrin's misgivings about this place, he could never fault the wondrous traffic that made its journey through this otherwise desolate rock. Ships of burnished steel topped with billowing balloons of stained canvas; those were the mechanical beasts Corrin looked up to. Of all the achievements made by Pokemon, reinventing these leviathans of the sky was by far the greatest, at least if you asked Corrin. Not that anyone did.
In truth, very few people spoke to Corrin. Whenever anyone tried it always seemed as if, somehow, they were falling short. As if they failed to meet some inane standard Corrin had set for them as soon as their eyes had met. He was a difficult lizard to get along with, to say the least, and he was determined to believe that he liked it that way.
Pokemon were such awkward things. Always making a fuss or blaming Corrin for something or other. They were like red, burning welts bouncing around Corrin's whirring mind.
Pokemon like that poor excuse for an owl, flittering its way just ahead of Corrin. At times it waddled on awkward talons, at other times it flew over the precarious wooden planks and poles that had been thrust deep into the rock of Precipice, reinforced with viscous clay. Here was the protruding lower jaw of the colony, jutting out from the rock burrows and spreading out into a patchwork of mooring bays. To Corrin's dismay there really was no rhyme or reason to the complex. It was as if someone had started nailing a cross-section here, an anchor post there, and never knew when to stop.
If not for the zeplins that docked here, Corrin would have found some other rock to live in long ago. As they made their way towards the outskirts of the walkways, he spotted some of the more impressive specimens: rugged sloops bound for warmer skies, a merchant's mariner, even a pockmarked zeplin that seemed straight from a skirmish, but none quite compared to the marvel that was Saint Lothar's Revenge.
It was a noble vessel indeed. Every inch of the thing bore some mark of use, from the cloud-stained steely hull to the patches in the bulging balloon that kept the airship aloft. Any lesser zeplin might have been long retired by now, but not St Lothar's, not this stalwart old pilgrim's dream. Even now its canvas was dotted with the old Humanist colours: blue and gold, faded but far from forgotten. Corrin squinted, keen to catch a glimpse of the humble Pokemon that wandered this venerable airship's deck. They had a solemn air about them; a thoughtfulness deepened by a sense of simple awe. For a moment Corrin could not help but wistfully imagine himself up there with them. What good company he would have been in for the coming voyage. The long, winding discussions about the human legacy he could have had, the wisdom he might have learnt. Not all those Pokemon looked all too human in form, but they made up for their physical failings with their faithful attitude, Corrin mused kindly.
"How much further?" he called ahead to the bird.
"Hold on, hold on," it twirped impatiently, turning its head in almost a full circle before finally settling on a point just behind Corrin, "Oh, there it is. Funny that. Almost missed it."
The Noctowl gave dry gulp of a laugh. Corrin spun on his heel, his eyes searching for where the avian had been looking but saw only dry boards and clumps of hempen rope.
"Look there," it pressed, fluttering over to his side, pecking at one of the larger coils. Corrin looked closer, realising that it was in fact a rusted metal mooring almost entirely swaddled in rope. He wondered what could possibly warrant so secure a hold, only to look down and see what at first appeared to be a monstrous wicker cocoon.
His first impression was half-right. Below Corrin hung a thicket of branches, interwoven and tangled together into a roughly cocoon like shape. It was as if some colossal caterpillar had begun its metamorphosis right under Corrin's feet. With an involuntary sniff of the brisk air, he surmised that if there was some giant bug hanging below him it must be rotten within, for there was a faint but foul smell drifting up from the balloon.
Nevertheless, it was a balloon. Not a zeplin, nor an airship, no, it was far too small for that. Corrin supposed that its wicker hull could hold no more than two floors of tightly packed chambers, and to his dismay it seemed neither of those floors were reserved for the crew. The top of the cocoon-shaped thing had been roughly flattened to reveal a deck upon which stood a rusted iron brazier to warm the air, and a few coarse shelters made from wind-worn branches. Was this where he was to sleep for the coming voyage?
"There she is: the good ship Dragalge. It's as bad as it looks," the owl said bluntly, "but you'll get used to it. Down we go, then."
And with that, the Noctowl skipped its way off the boardwalk and drifted leisurely down to the deck, which Corrin now noticed was not devoid of life. A young ship hand tended to the array of straps and rigging that covered the balloon like a silken veneer, tightening knots and, slowly but surely, pulling up a heavy green canvas from the side of the hull. It seemed as if the balloon itself that would give this wicker basket rise had been hung out to dry, leaving this poor sod with the hard task of heaving it back onto the deck to prepare for take-off.
Still, Corrin could not help but notice, they handled the task admirably. Looking closer, he realised that this was no flat-footed beast fumbling around with ill-shaped paws, but rather a remarkably human figure. More so than even Corrin himself. He recognised the species as Kirlia; a spritely lot that once pitched camp in ancient prairies. They weren't far off being human even while the humans were still around, and it seemed this ship hand was no exception. Standing upon stilt-like, verdant green legs and possessing a pair of stark white hands, it was as if this Pokemon were born for life aboard an airship. Its oval head and much of its body was rimmed with thin, ribbon-like strands of hair that whipped about in the wind.
Well, introductions would have to wait. Wasting no more time, Corrin held tightly to the cord from which the balloon hung and began inching himself down onto the top deck. With no wings to call his own it was a delicate, painful procedure. Every reliable hand on a ship like this needed a touch of rope-burn every now and then, to keep the palms rough.
The Kirlia was too busy to greet him when Corrin slid down to the deck, struggling as they were with the weighty balloon canvas, so without thinking Corrin grabbed a corner of the green sheet and helping the ship hand with their task. With the two of them working together, the balloon was packed away in no time, and before Corrin had caught his breath the ship hand had already started speaking.
"Thanks for that," they blurted out, "'it was more than I'd have asked for." The green Pokemon's voice was vaguely feminine. Not bothering to ask, Corrin decided to assume it was female unless proven otherwise.
"That's the new aeronaut, the one Ossawa spoke of", the owl hooted, having perched upon the iron brazier, "treat him well. He's seen more of these skies than you."
"Not a high standard to beat, I'm afraid," the deckhand replied, before holding out a hand to Corrin, "welcome aboard, sir."
A handshake! Corrin had only heard of such a profoundly human gesture. And to think he'd find it offered here, of all places. The Marowack knew he was not worthy of something so human, but it would be rude to turn down the greeting. Compromising, Corrin held out his smallest finger and allowed it to be shaken with much enthusiasm.
The owl watched with amusement.
"Captain is down the hatch. Don't keep her waiting," it chirped.
Indeed, there was a trapdoor nestled between two of the flimsy-looking shelters.
Again, Corrin caught a whiff of that horrid stench emanating from below. Something was rotting. Steeling his nostrils as best he could, Corrin clambered his way down the hatch and into the innards of the Dragalge.
What a sweltering nest it was, the inside of that wicker hull. Even with Corrin's short figure the ceiling brushed up against his head, sounding a shrieking scrape as the many twigs and branches that made up the craft scraped over the Marowack's steel-rimmed mask. What little light down there came from several tarnished oil lamps scattered haphazardly around the interior, struggling to fill the space with even a dim, yellowish glow. With so many open flames it was a wonder the whole thing did not combust.
But, as Corrin's eyes adjusted to the gloom, he realised that however disappointing the dimensions and lighting of the Dragalge's insides might be, it more than made up for it with the wondrous display of treasure, scattered about the room he now found himself within. Gold and green spyglasses were sprinkled across weathered shelves, each marked by a notable imperfection – cracked lenses and shattered shafts – while torn maps of the known skies were used like wallpaper. A mighty trunk of leather and hardwood stood in the corner, locked with a formidable iron brace, but even this container had a large gash upon its top like an open wound. In fact, everything in here was broken in some way, from the items on display to the captain sat at the back of the cabin.
For this was the captain's cabin and home to the wind-worn Ossawa.
She was one of those strange, middling Pokemon, vaguely human in shape but still very much a beast. Ruddish red hair covered her hide, mingled with strands of grey. Buisel – yes, that was the captain's species, Corrin remembered – but one that was rather old for not yet having evolved. By nature, she was an otter of river and marsh. Even in this new, very different lifestyle, her face still bore a set of whiskers while a twin pair of orange tails sprouted from her back, twisting together like a corkscrew. Like all Buisel her neck was circled by a ring of golden, inflatable skin, meant to allow for a quick rise to the surface when underwater, although Ossawa's own ring would serve no such purpose as it was marred by an old, jagged gash. Not that it mattered much where they were headed.
The captain sat towards the back of the cabin at a desk of burnished wood. A large, but simple brown hat with a wide brim hung upon her head, obscuring her eyes from Corrin's view.
Surely here was a captain of legend. Doubtless she was in deep meditation, the kind that only the wisest and most weathered of souls can fall into. Even in this reserved pose there was something undeniably awe-inspiring about her. Corrin almost considered returning up the hatch without saying a word, so hesitant was he to break her concentration, but there was business to attend to.
"Good captain of the Dragalge," he spoke, trying to sound as dignified as possible, "I am Corrin, the aeronaut. I'm given to believe that you asked for me?"
There was no response. Corrin peered a little closer, only to see the captain's body shift a little. Perhaps, somehow, she had not heard him.
"I was given to believe," he repeated, very carefully, "that you might give me passage to the Ivory – "
With a sudden woosh akin to fuel setting alight, a terrific gust of air pounded through the musky chamber. Despite himself Corrin gave a yelp before taking one – two steps backwards, darting his head around to find the source of this brief cacophony.
The captain sat up. Somewhere in the noise her hat had blown off her head revealing a pair of small blue eyes. She squinted fiercely.
"Forty-six seconds! Forty-six!" Ossawa cried, "Did you hear that?"
It seemed no real damage had been done. Only then did Corrin realise that the sound he had heard was not the ship bursting into flames, but simply a very loud sneeze coming from the captain.
"Sorry about that," she continued, "how rude of me. Now, you're Corrin, right?"
Not wanting to prompt another eruption from the captain's nostrils, Corrin nodded his head. She straightened some stray whiskers and studied him intently.
"And you want to ship with me, on this floating wicker basket? To… where was it you said? I didn't quite catch that."
He swallowed. "The Ivory Plateau," Corrin replied.
Ossawa frowned deeply, her face contorting into a matted mess of wrinkles. She sniffed the air, as if trying to gain a bearing on the lizard standing before her.
"It's not far out of our way, but I was hoping to never make that passage again."
"Not as such, ma'am," Corrin replied, "I'm secure enough on that front. Take me to the Plateau and I'll serve you well enough on the journey."
Ossawa fell into thought. A gust of sea breeze rocked the balloon, forcing Corrin to steady himself against the wall, but she barely moved an inch. Eventually, she opened her mouth to speak.
"I'm not one to turn up free service, especially not from a fancy aeronaut. Well, perhaps if we were careful, and kept to the night skies…"
Another moment passed in silence.
"If you wanted silver, that I'd understand, but what business do you have dragging us all out to that blasted plateau?" The captain said at last.
Corrin had hoped this wouldn't happen. Well, there was no avoiding it now.
"Hunting is my passion," he chose his words carefully, "and the hunt leads me to the Ivory Plateau."
"A hunt for what?" She pressed.
The Marowack paused for a moment before replying.
"Humans."
And with that word, the spell was broken. Ossawa smiled.
"Oh, you had me worried there," she said, "I thought we might have trouble. But no, just another mad one. That, I can work with."
Corrin felt the need to argue back but bit his tongue.
"We'll stop by the Ivory Plateau and, when there's nothing there, we can drop off our cargo at the festival," Ossawa continued, "but I swore to myself I'd never fly that way again. If you really want to fly with us, I'll need you to agree to some conditions."
She breathed in deeply, having not yet quite recovered from her monstrous sneeze not so long ago.
"Well, multiple conditions, but one that matters. I want you to apprentice Kiwi for as long as we're in the air."
"Kiwi?" Corrin asked.
"Oh, right. That's our ship hand, the Kirlia," she explained hurriedly, as if it were already obvious, "just show her how to fix a skysail or something and it'll be a done deal."
"A done deal," he echoed. Well, Corrin was not so foolish as to look a gift-Mudsdale in the mouth. This captain seemed amenable enough, if rather demeaning.
"… And the other conditions?" he asked.
With a pointed paw, Ossawa gestured down to the floor below her.
"First rule of the Dragalge," she said with utmost seriousness, "never go down to the lower hold. Got that?"
A strange rule but considering the foul stench rising from the bottom of the vessel, Corrin harboured no desire to head any further down than the captain's cabin. He nodded.
"Good. Rule number two: the captain is always right. Except about geometry. Never could work that out," Ossawa continued, "or flying the balloon for that matter. Terrible at that."
She pondered for a moment. "On second thoughts, forget it. Just don't go down below this cabin and we'll get along fine."
Corrin realised he had been tensed for the entire exchange. He forced himself to relax. "Right you are, captain."
"Excellent!" she replied, "Welcome aboard, aeronaut. We set out tomorrow, early, catching the morning winds. Will you stay the night on deck?"
"I… suppose I will," Corrin said, still a little bewildered by the whole affair.
"Good, you'd best find yourself a place on deck then. Forty-six seconds. That's a record if ever I saw one," Ossawa trailed off as she stood up from her chair and collected her hat from the floor where it had fallen after her outburst earlier.
This seemed as good a que to leave as any. Leaving the captain to her mutterings, Corrin worked his way back to the top-deck. As he clambered his way up the ladder, he came to the startling realisation that he was growing used to the monstrous smell wafting from the depths of the Dragalge. What would this voyage make of him?
His fellow sailors were there to greet him. "How long was it?" the owl asked, leaning its head forward in anticipation.
"What?"
"The sneeze," he elaborated, "how long did the captain hold it in for?"
"Oh," Corrin scratched his mask, "forty something seconds. Forty-six."
A hush descended upon the top deck like a rolling bank of fog.
"Forty-six!?" Kiwi hissed, as if this were some legendary feat, "No wonder it was so loud."
The owl nodded his head with an air of reluctance. "She must have woken up half the dock. It's getting rather late."
Turning his keen eye back to Corrin, the bird sighed, as if remembering that the two had not yet been properly introduced.
"I'm Darow," he said formerly, "and the first mate of this ship. You won't have a problem working under a bird, will you?"
"Why would he?" Kiwi cut in before Corrin could reply, prompting the Noctowl to ruffle his feathers.
"He's one of those zealots. You know, the crazy ones," Darow explained tersely, "they hate anything that doesn't walk like they do. There are some nasty ones – "
"Hang on, hang on," Corrin broke in, feeling his honour challenged, "hang on just a minute. It won't be a problem at all, first mate. And, to make one thing very clear, we don't hate the less humanoid forms of Pokemon. It's simply a matter of perspective."
The owl cocked his head. "Perspective?"
"Perspective," Corrin affirmed before turning to Kiwi, "Besides, you don't need to worry about that. You're about as human as they come. If you were one of us, you would be a great champion of Humanism."
"Really? That's –" Kiwi asked, eyes widening, intrigued.
"– not the lesson we should be taking from this." Darow interjected swiftly, glaring at Corrin, "The point is that while I'm first mate, there'll be none of that Humanist nonsense on board. Do you hear me?"
It seemed he was outnumbered. The Marowack bowed his head and gave a begrudging nod.
"Good. Good," the owl sighed, "it'll be an early start tomorrow. If you're sleeping here, best get to making a bed. There's plenty of straw to go around."
It turned out to be soggy straw, the second worst kind in Corrin's experience, only slightly more bearable than sticky straw. That reminded him briefly of his younger days catching sleep in old barns and lofts. Memories he'd rather forget.
Still, it soothed Corrin's craggy soul to be off that blasted boardwalk. The gentle sway of the Dragalge in the evening breeze calmed his nerves and helped usher in the warm cloud of sleep. He tried his best not to think about the first-mate's faithless eyes, which were doubtless staring at the back of his skull while he tried to rest.
I left this online overnight and to my surprise, Good Hunting has already had a fair number of views. Honestly, I thought I'd be lucky to get a dozen people reading this thing, and only then after a bit of effort on my part to spread the word.
I'll be uploading a chapter of Good Hunting every Friday. Stay tuned if you're interested in where the story goes.
Around a third of the story has already been written. If there's enough interest in it, I'll probably finish the rest. In any case, I've built up a sizeable buffer of chapters so there won't be content droughts any time soon.
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