The morning light, pale as the sea, had been replaced by that yellow tinge that provided the life-giving sphere stationed in the clouds above them. Faint golden glow bathed the myriad pine-top trees, their leaves stirred in unison by the light breeze, which descended to push the invaders out of the peaceful forest.
Rising in inclination, the many ridges and cut marble-clad mountains seemed impossible to climb. Tall and imposing as the trees would be to a wurmple.
Nature had reclaimed the dirt road that had led them there. Grass consuming it like a parasite, fallen brittle emerald green leaves and tiny mounds of snow drifted down from the summit that he was unable to see. Each step was a step deeper into the snowy maw of the forest.
Though greenish, each footstep could feel the rough, scratchy rubbing of the stone touching his soles. The circular marks lingering clear as water among the white.
With his steps ahead, the zangoose led the way. The claws of his right paw were closed around a dark wooden branch, positioned to avoid the multiple splinters protruding from it. He had acquired such an object a while ago—extended forward as a cane, the rounded tip of the branch pushed sideways those bushes growing out of the snowy ground.
Each faint movement was another gentle shake of the leather ball hanging from a diagonal leather strap, bouncing against his chest.
Behind his back, the dusclops made those stubby legs of his work. Translucent liquid gushed from the cracks between his bandages, flowing silently like the wind down his body, ending up as droplets sunk into the snow. His hands wet and soaked to the fingertips, that same fluid oozing between the holes. His chest swelling and distorting with each heavy breath, with each struggle of his lungs for fresh oxygen. His eye squinting, with slow, lethargic blinks... so slightly gawking, his breath seemed damp and his tongue was visible with every gasp. The strip of leather sandpaper on his bandages—for a moment, he tried to slip a finger through the middle of the strap, but barely faltered, and a breathless sigh escaped from that half-open maw of his.
He was meters away from the zangoose, with every step the other took, Banmo had to take three more to even keep the distance—those long legs were advancing faster than his racing heart could. The stinging sensation coursed through his legs like roots, reaching down to the soles of his feet each time the daring mistake of stepping was made by him—that burning throbbing in his growth was nothing in comparison. It didn't help that the ground was littered with nature's sharp claws.
It was clear—his appearance was miserable, and he was fully aware of that fact. Even with his lungs grateful for every inhalation and the throbbing that plagued his legs, he could at least be thankful that he wasn't being dragged out of the growth like some bratty child.
The pain, at least, was only physical, not mental.
An hour ago he had achieved the monumental accomplishment of convincing the stubborn mongoose to let go of him a little, at least when they reached the forest.
For a mere beat of his heart, he reckoned he should be grateful for that—but the next, the right thought presented itself; why should he be grateful to an immature brat just because he had stopped dragging and physically assaulting him? There was not a hint of thankfulness in his heart, instead, he was met only with the sensation of boiling blood under his bandage.
Ahead, Ganmo was still walking, soft whistles drifting out of his mouth in a short melody. That was interjected by sparse gasps and deep inhalations, his chest equally inflating with each breath, brushing against the leather hanging from the strap. His feet would pass over the rugged terrain as if he were traveling on the flattest of meadows, and his ears twitched briefly before he turned his head.
The look in the bloodshot eyes was only sidelong. "Hell, that hard for ya to walk? like a normal 'mon?" his eyes were squinted, furrowing his brow—he could have sworn his head tilted to the side ever so slightly. That didn't last long, as his mouth twisted into a cocky grin, "that's what you got for doing less than a slaking and not punch like one. Don't have even the body to be an explorer," that was accompanied by a taunting snort.
Banmo's breath hitched.
In that moment, which counted as dozens of his heartbeats, his feet did not stop. His gaze fixed on the zangoose's eyes, now with his single one widened almost imperceptibly.
...
Of course.
His head tilted downward briefly. He didn't have the body and condition necessary to be an explorer, he was aware of all those obvious facts...
His stare lingered.
He also knew that Ganmo was unaware and insensitive. Ignorant of the memories his words had awakened—those that could leave a bitter taste on the palate, that made him sleepy. The zangoose was probably also oblivious to the blood boiling beneath the dusclops' bandages.
He frowned, his hands shaking with a subtle hot shiver, he could feel his jaw tensing. His half-open mouth; letting out gasps, stung with such a suffocating burn that it urged him to release those memories from deep within his hollow body.
But only a sigh slipped out.
He looked away, and clenched his fists—he was better than Ganmo. He was better than some unconscious man living a comfortable life in a big city. He refused to let himself sink to such an extremely low level, yelling like a feral and releasing that frustration to a totally meaningless pokémon.
That red pupil eye closed.
A heartbeat, then another. Equal to his steps.
And when he opened it once more, it remained squinted.
Ganmo's sidelong glance had lingered—it was noticeable now the cocked head he had to one side. "...What? Gonna say something?" he asked, blinking before frowning, "Or you just like to complain when a 'mon tells you the truth in the face? Maybe you're really lazy to not say a word," there was no wait, just another heavy snort, and he turned his head to face the world in front of him. "Don't wanna say nothing? Aight, don't care. Gonna be soon there anyway, there ya' can count all the leaves you wanna while I do, you know, my work."
That absurdity once again. His gaze remained, but he briefly rolled his eye—now those leafy trunks uncommon in his peripheral vision. The friction of the rock floor was now impeded not by the greenery, but by the snowfall clinging to the soles.
"...I'm going," he replied, words drier than the icy windchill, spat out with the scant air in his lungs.
The zangoose let out a long exhale heavy as a mound of snow fell beside him, that did not cause him to falter in his walk forward—it was impossible to see his face, but he could imagine the distinct frown on this one. "Sad. Would have been easier for both."
For a mere instant, his eye widened, jaw still slack. He blinked a couple of times, watching Ganmo's back.
Has the zangoose just...?
"With how lazy you're, you sure can barely land a punch. And since you like your easy work, thought you weren't gonna bother me."
He narrowed his eye.
Of course not, what did he even expect? That was the only response a 'mon like Ganmo was capable of giving.
Only exasperated exhales and sharp inhales followed his silence.
Pokemon like the mongoose did not like to look back.
Footsteps and their faint sound made their way through the soft crunch of snow that reached their ears. Each breeze felt like he could hold it between his fingers, and the leafy emerald that hid them from the world was as sparse as in the desert. Marble completely overflowing the floor with a gritty feel, the snow with its invisible claws clinging to their legs pulling them to the side.
Shivers on his back and suffocating burning in his stubby lower extremities. That fluid marking a trail on the ground barely felt refreshing to his strained bandages—
They had to be close—Banmo knew it when the zangoose's footsteps became two for every heartbeat instead of three, like a lost stantler turning his head from one direction to the next, tossing his cane away from his sight.
With a sigh that released all the air from his tense chest, he slowed his pace. The cool air slid down his throat almost like a liquid. Pupil swinging like a pendulum, observing his mountainous surroundings—
There.
Shy hollow in rocky soil, the gray cement glowed like a neon light among the pure snow, like a slugma in a jungle. Outwardly submerged, the earth sunk abruptly, from afar it was a rectangular hole difficult to glimpse.
He turned to the direction, soon at the edge of it—he didn't poke his head out, just lowered his gaze. "I found the entrance."
The zangoose's ears twitched as those breathless waves of sound reached them. "Finally you do something," he clicked his tongue, dry words, but he noticed how his tone grew high. As he turned to trot toward the stairs beside Banmo, his black pupils had a fleeting shine, the corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly upward.
Both gazed downward, four steps equal to the sky of a rainy day, each one descending deeper... until consumed by the endless darkness. Swallowed by that ebony —like black hole— was the middle of the fifth step, leading somehow to a place that perhaps they were not able to understand. A hermit hole, from the world and the sun, perhaps even from its laws.
Banmo's right leg lifted, flexed briefly in the air, the sole pointing down to the rocky floor in front of the first step.
That movement interrupted when the force of gravity pulled him in the opposite direction. Balance leaving his body as his energy did every morning—he felt his body falling off balance towards his back. A vibration accompanied with a stinging sensation spread through the right side of his body.
His heartbeat faster than his eyesight, his whole body staggered to the left, a breathless exhalation escaping from his mouth.
A glance at the source of his wobbling was necessary confirmation of his suspicions: Ganmo's left paw was extended toward the dusclops, a dent in the side of his thorax.
Pushed and out of the way, just to make room for the zangoose to take the first step on the stairs.
"Out of the way, I'm gonna first!" He exclaimed, quick words with an increase in the pitch of his tone, descending a step further.
Gravity, with its paws on his back, tried to drag him to the floor with its gargantuan strength. Banmo moved his left leg to compensate for his lost balance, avoiding that cold, sharp fate. He frowned, gaze frozen on Ganmo, lowering from his line of sight with no action now within his reach—what was his problem? Why had he even done such a thing? Not a shred of advantage was to be found in those futile actions. A gratuitous act of violence, done to further spite him.
Around the indentation throbbed the inside. He opened his mouth to complain.
But his voiceless words were answered by the void, as the zangoose took his last steps, disappearing into that impossibly dense sea of shadow.
And he knew that those words would only be heard by himself.
He blinked.
Then again, a groan beneath his breath accompanying that sigh that created a misty haze. The fallen leaves rustled to the melody of the bone-chilling wind.
He could appreciate that soundless world, but the bitter sensation on his palate and the burning on the tip of his tongue prevented him from even that hint of satisfaction. No tree in sight, nothing but the desolation of the mountain.
The breeze roared, able to push him, to make his growths wave like a flag. His left hand rose to shield his large eye with the milky palm—but the quiet cries of the mountain were not enough to quell the stagnant acidity in his throat.
Stagnant words, dripping with chill, ready to burst out at the highest volume they could... those were the ones that wished to leave his mouth instead of the exasperated sighs. But a message without a receiver was shouting into space.
He shook his head—was he complaining about the lack of company? That was what he had longed for from the first minute his eye had opened, even so...
His right hand reached down to press his fingers around the dent, feeling the throb, like a heart, the palm facing that same wound. He felt it sting.
...
What was he doing?
The leaves continued their creak for every second he remained immobile in his position, the wind impassive.
His jaw clenched for an instant. If he stayed there any longer, Ganmo was going to end up thinking he really wasn't going to participate in the dungeon—he clicked his tongue at the thought; not that he cared what that violent mongoose was thinking either.
He relaxed his jaw, a sigh fleeing in the process. Positioning himself in front of the first stair step, that darkness appealed to his senses like honey—the night sky staring back at him, within reach of his milky fingers.
Within his reach... to graze the sky. The impossible dream, in front of his gaze.
His right hand clutched at the leather strap that crossed diagonally across his chest—its rough texture ached from so much pressure. His eye lifted briefly, the bandages crinkling... he felt hard to swallow.
It was useless to think of that unattainable dream.
His right foot took its first step into the darkness. Cement threatened to freeze his feet, so solid but the touch was brittle as ice, rough as mountain rock.
Another step.
As many as it took before half of his right leg was submerged in that opaque layer of false dreams, hidden as threads protruding from bandages hide in hay. He took a deep breath—this action was a habit, so for a moment, he pondered why he felt his bandages tighten and hesitate at the entrance. Perhaps it was because he expected simple missions; futile, the waste of a fake collector's time...and even that was more worthy than enduring incessant complaining.
Futile.
Thoughts leading to nothing were nothing more than fog inside his mind. His only job was to hang on, endure, and get through the day. Just this day, and then he could go back to his usual days, wasting the hours in pointless activities...
Thankfully he was unable to finish that thought, interrupted by the last step, completely consumed in that rectangular shadow.
His eye opened wide, not half a heartbeat passed before the white covered his vision. Not the snow that blanketed the mountains but the almighty sun now etched on his retinas. A blinding glare that caused his eye to close violently—burning was something missing, just affecting his gaze.
Barely ten beats of his heart were necessary for the glow to grow dimmer. That which had invaded with its radiance had hardly the power to maintain the blurred outline of things as he looked. He blinked as fast as that body of his would allow.
"Huh, ya actually came," grumbled that high-pitched, bitterly spoken voice. "Thought you were gonna stay outside counting leaves, or snow, whatever."
The light continued to get stuck in his retinas, so he rubbed his eye with his left hand.
"By Arceus— takes you this LONG to see something? Take away you're just a slakoth, now I wonder how the heck you're still alive."
He blinked a couple of times to clear his vision—
The zangoose's expression and bloodshot eyes—that was the first thing he spotted. His imagination of the idea of the mongoose with his arms crossed disagreed with reality, with limbs loosely at his sides. The chin slightly raised upward, the brow furrowed, the inner end of the eyes cocked upward. Those ears twitching and raised, contrasting claws pointing to the ground.
Banmo averted his gaze as he blinked, with each movement detaching the flash trapped in his sense of vision. Ignoring the rough ground beneath his feet, blue-green brazens, little saturation as if the life had been drained from them —like the walls, which were pale— and on that warm ground scrubby bushes not halfway up his legs bloomed with young green.
Cadaverous walls, snowy rock bone, beaks like nature's claws in a random pattern. They were titan-colossals, soaring higher than his fingers could aspire to reach. Bathed in the cold light of the sky, gray clouds like patches, blanketing the atmosphere in its entirety. The star in the sky had deserted them, as it had abandoned the whole of that land, now provided with abnormal radiance.
The surroundings were irrelevant in the end, for what his gaze had stuck to like glue was that in front of his eye—not the zangoose, but the two openings in that pale wall; natural fissures, from which tiny cracks were growing. A dense fog prevented him from seeing beyond, the tunnels emanating from their unknown interior the scent of earth.
So soft copper.
In his peripheral vision, yet another corridor was hidden. He turned his head to the right, his gaze swinging to that —what could be defined— as east wall. Gears began their grinding, rubbing creating sparks, the mechanism whirling in his mind once again...
Three rooms. In the corner of his vision, the contour of a white rectangle made its presence known, like a light that had been burned into his retina, those incomplete lines dancing to the rhythm of his thoughts to build in 2D the room they were in, joined by the veins of the dungeon, the corridors.
How many objects? How many enemies? They had been lucky there was nothing in the first—
He blinked.
Out of the corner of his eye there was one more corridor, to his left. His body turned to the right, and his head went in the same direction. A corridor just like the others, a crack in the wall on the way to an unknown room.
The tiny bushes smelled of sulfur, a specific stench he had not felt before. Smell of danger, of heat that contrasted with the icy wind that drifted through the green stalks. A floor of the same sensation to the smell that permeated the room, laced with copper, so characteristic of any dungeon.
So this was Shimmer Hills.
"First time here?" the mongoose interrupted, his words breaking the silence with his tone dry as well as bitterly malicious. With a gaze that swung from one direction to the next, shoulders raised and pupils ever so slightly lengthened. Those eyes fixed on the corridor to Banmo's left.
The dusclops rolled his eye, and his sigh was heavy. "Have you even been here before?" he asked sharply, a tone louder than the usual monotone—he was aware that the two of them hadn't been to Shimmer Hills before, that Ganmo wanted to mock him for looking around was absurd.
His gaze flicked to the dusclops with a blink, his eyes growing in size, "well—" another blink before he frowned, "no, but heck, not wasting time looking at nothing. So come on, let's get to work," he said gruffly, his chin lifting slightly. Banmo barely had time to blink before Ganmo's feet were moving forward, walking in front of the dusclops, toward the north hallway of the room.
The tip of his tongue burned once more, and Banmo opened his mouth—once again, Ganmo acted as if he were the leader of the two, he had not even taken the simple action of consulting him before acting. Knowing Ganmo, they were walking into a room overflowing with ferals, or that every footstep sprung a trap. He knew it as a hunch.
But still, only his snort came out of his mouth. He closed it and began to walk behind the zangoose leading the way; who still looked from one direction to the other, his claws curled.
First the zangoose stepped inside, and soon the dusclops followed. The mongoose's back hid the front, his gaze only watching the sides, the pale rock walls giving him a claustrophobic feeling—
The dusclops bumped against Ganmo's fur. He blinked, stepping back and opening his mouth.
Ganmo had stopped abruptly, immobile, staring straight ahead. Seeing that, Banmo fell silent—had he seen something? a feral?
"...Dead end."
Of course. He sighed in exasperation—it was clear that his hunch was right, he should have said something to avoid wasting time like that. However... he felt his chest light, a deep inhale as the thought of 'I knew it' briefly flooded his mind with pettiness.
Ganmo turned around, his right foot tapping rhythmically on the ground beneath his feet, "what you're waiting for?" his words came out quick and sharp, glancing at the dusclops as his back faced the exitless end of the hallway. The rhythmic muffled sound coming from the stone mimicked the environment.
Banmo's gaze lingered like cutieflies to honey. Once again that authoritative and brusque tone—just the thought of the zangoose believing himself to be a leader in this little duo made his guts churn so slightly. He sighed, "sure," his words came out in a flat tone, and with his body loosened, he turned to leave.
The first second his foot made contact with the floor of the room they had appeared in, his right side felt the throb of a sudden push once again—a quick glance confirmed to him that the paw of the zangoose that had emerged from the hallway was the culprit, again.
Putting his hand on one of the spikes protruding from the wall, he kept gravity from claiming him with its invisible claws. Meanwhile, Ganmo merely turned his head from one side to the other, striding forward to position himself in the center of the room. Soft as air hums flowed out of his jaw, until he pointed his claw toward the opposite hallway from which they had come—the one to the left of the south wall. "There, gonna be there for sure! Let's go!" his noisy footsteps mimicked his tone. Those words were harsh, but hidden by it was something the dusclops had trouble noticing—it was a shrill tone, he could only describe it as bright.
A loudness to be heard from another room... such as those that were surely filled with ferals.
The mongoose was less stealthy than a loudred—just seeing that, the dusclops couldn't help but sigh in exasperation once more, squinting, and he took a couple of deep breaths, air cooling the itch on his tongue.
His stare drifted to the solid wall next to the south left corridor... barely a heartbeat, gazing at the rock. He could very well walk into the walls thanks to being a ghost type, as he always does.
At that very instant. Saving himself the trouble.
...
A blink, and he let out a weary exhale.
That would be low, even for him.
"You're waiting for the ferals to find us or what?" Ganmo's thunderous voice; which had half turned, emerged from the hallway entrance. Ironic that he would say so. "Instead of counting leaves do ya like to count the cracks in the walls? Get going!" he barked, turning on his heels once more to walk deep into the corridor.
...
He gulped a breath that could weigh more than a thousand-ton anvil. The fleeting desire in the back of his head lingered like mold clinging to walls—there was a brief glance toward the solid rock beside his destination, but he set those stubby legs in motion, accelerating but dragging his feet.
That he could speed up did not mean that the hot flush in the back of his body growing up his spine had vanished, for it was still as present as he had been for having walked that marathon to the dungeon. The clear liquid still gushed like droplets from the crevices of his bandages, but he knew he was forced to keep up.
He stepped into the depths of the hallway, the sky of clouds looming above them. For just an instant, a few beats of his own heart, he half-turned his head to look back—fog consuming from whence they had come. Soon he faced the front.
Banmo still required a few seconds to leave the passageway, the distance the two of them had all the time palpable. But even before he got there, he heard a sound. Screeching music to his auditory system, which made him skip a breath—the sound of a gasp.
"A-a feral espeon?!"
He gulped.
That red eye widened, quickening his pace to emerge from behind Ganmo into the room.
A quick glance allowed him to see that rectangular room, the spikes standing out with their sharp claw-like points, the length rather than the width of the room. The copper odor, at least, was still mild.
His gaze lingered on what was more to the center of the place, closer to the west wall. Brown seed resting gracefully on the floor, and next to it, a lilac-furred quadruped.
Its red gem emanating light that drew his eye like honey.
Purple eyes, white pupils focused on its white-furred prey, narrowed like slits. Rear end raised; forked tail swaying in the air with a staccato motion, and front legs low, front chest level with the ground. Bright crimson light softly tinging the short purple fur that covered its face, the stone glowed like a crystal in the sunlight. The tail continued its movement...
And stopped.
The mongoose's fur stood on end, freezing as did the dusclops. An arrogant quivering smile on its tips; threatening to break, flashed across his face, and he pounded his chest with his left paw clenched —as much as possible— into a fist. "...No problem, there's always a first time to defeat an evolved feral!" he exclaimed, there was an inner gleam in his eyes, "Gonna handle this!" he shouted, and without wasting a second, his back arched, he put his claws in front of his face, and ran towards the espeon.
Before he could reach it, the espeon leaped to the left. A wild growl of incomprehensible sounds escaped from its maw, its pupils shrinking—in the next heartbeat, eyes glowed with a pink aura, retinas steaming with color, and its gem glowed like the sun.
Banmo's capacity was of equal speed to his walking. Unable to tell if time was going too fast or too slow.
Losing his balance forward, Ganmo was inches from the ground, on the verge of falling—but nimbly stopped his fall with his forelegs and adopted a quadrupedal stance, turning on his heels to face the espeon. He lunged once more, his right arm swinging back sharply in the air. A thrust, with his sword-edged claws.
That sharp end of the claws inches from the glowing red gem on the lilac quadruped's forehead.
Because just like the espeon's eyes, Ganmo was also engulfed in that same aura. "Ngh—!" he felt as if his organism revolted when the gravity of his body abruptly stopped, an agitated quivering invaded his limbs as he was lifted into the air, and his immobile body was moved just like an inert puppet.
Wall against back, the only thing that moved from Banmo was his pupil. Slowed thoughts flashing through his mind that could only focus on the heavy movement of his chest and the semi-transparent liquid flowing. Between the agitated words rampaging through his head, he took a deep breath—it felt like work. It couldn't be that hard to fight a pokémon in its final evolution...
Lowering his pupil, he clapped his hands together, for the next heartbeat to separate them by about seven centimeters—invisible ball held between his palms. Another inhalation filled his lungs before he squinted his eye. Tingling in his palms, like an invisible feather gently rubbing.
Soon, in the middle of his milky limbs, a tiny purple sphere took shape.
He lifted his gaze.
Just to witness the rocks fly upward when Ganmo was sent violently crashing to the ground. Face down, the exaggerated gravity drop was able to crack the stone, pebbles shooting upward along with a thunderous thud—at the same time, a deafening scream. Ganmo's mouth opened, saliva spitting out of it. The ribs of his chest impacting against the raw granite threatened to cut more than his fur. The zangoose continued to agitate, clenching and baring his teeth as the aura lifted him up once more.
The espeon kept its gaze fixated on Ganmo. It swung its head to set its gaze on the dusclops—
And a purple ball impacted against its face. Squishy sound of the flesh of the face being hammered. The recoil sent the feline staggering backward, its forked tail brushing against the rock wall.
With the blink of an eye, that pink aura abandoned the mongoose, which fell to the ground. Even closing his mouth abruptly, the piercing choked scream could be heard by all those present. "YOU'RE GONNA PAY!" It was a guttural yet high-pitched sound that was followed up with a feral-like growl. His four paws on the ground, he lunged with his claws forward towards the espeon which was disoriented.
Slicing like butter, the claws cut through the feline's fur and flesh. The area impacted on top of where the legs began, a few centimeters below the neck. The espeon was pushed backward —Ganmo used his hind legs as an anchor— and its saliva mingled with the crimson threads that spurted from the lacerations, scarlet painting the zangoose's claws. Before the feral could utter a scream, Ganmo pulled his claws back, blood dripping from the orifices, and tried to back away—
With his step backward, the espeon swung its head forward, its mouth open to sink its black-smoking fangs into the mongoose's right arm. Warm drops of red splashed up to both of their faces, and due to the sudden movement, more blood leaked from the four holes of considerable thickness in the feline's body. "GHRA—" Ganmo's eyes widened, his scream clearly audible once again. He reared up on two legs, raising his arm—even so, the feline only dangled, clinging with its teeth deeper, sliding down and tearing wider the zangoose's open wounds. He gritted his teeth, another choked cry of anguish threatening to echo, and shook his arm viciously in the air. "STOP— STOP!" he repeated in his high-pitched, somewhat broken tone. He swung his left arm, slashing with his claws at the now exposed belly of the espeon.
Between exchanges of slashes and bites, Banmo could only watch every move from afar. He felt his heart hammering against his chest from the inside. If he approached, the espeon could bite him —looking at the black and blood coated teeth made him feel a shiver— but from far away it was impossible to throw shadow balls without potentially damaging Ganmo —he didn't mind that, but because he was a normal type, it would only nullify the full power of the attack— and he knew that using will-o-wisp wouldn't do much in this situation...
He blinked. Ganmo continued to swallow bloodcurdling screams as he filled the espeon's stomach with reddish lines. He was taking damage... but what did the zangoose expected?
Between the hammering of his heart, he felt bitterness right there in his chest. Sure, these were the consequences for his irrepressibly risky actions, like taking a mission out of his rank. With just one enemy he was already having trouble handling it.
He squinted, the only movement of his body that of his chest with heavy exhalations. He felt the throbbing behind his back, in the growth of his head. He had already saved him, he didn't have to do anything more. He was waiting for the words of gratitude, which he deserved for having helped the mongoose in the blunder of coming all that way, and for—
A growl from the right.
An abrupt spin. His left hand rising in front of his face.
The searing pain that blazed like a burn alerted him faster than his sight, for in the blink of an eye, teeth smoldering with ebony smoke sank into his bandages. Tearing easily—the strumming of paper in his mind like flesh being ripped to shreds.
The black-furred, orange-nosed canine stared at him with a piercing black gaze. Those eyes didn't even have a glint in them, with the saliva from the bite entering inside the thin gash on the back of his hand.
He didn't scream, but his breath shortened and a pained hiss escaped instead.
His right hand pulled back, forming a fist, the purple aura emanating from the crevices to coat it. Feeling as if gas escaped from the cracks in the bandages on his right palm.
The black stare swung to his fist, the houndour's jaw relaxed, but it was too late to let go, as Banmo's right hand landed against his stomach. Spit escaped from the canine's maroon-covered muzzle, and it flew back into the hallway, its side skidding backwards into the rock.
The bloodcurdling howl caused Ganmo's ears to twitch, and he quickly turned his head in Banmo's direction. "ANOTHER FERAL?! ARGH— JUST DISTRACT IT WHILE I DEAL WITH—! UGH—" he commanded, but was sent flying backwards as a pink, head-sized wisp slammed directly into his chest.
The belly covered in crimson slashes raised hurriedly with each heavy inhalation. Those elongated lacerations also on the sides, red dripping and soaking the ground—that too staining the fur on the front of the body. The espeon's eyes smoked once more, showing its fangs, flowing strings of blood. Another pink wisp forming in front of it.
Banmo turned, gaze swinging to the zangoose. Distract?! Blinking, thoughts feeling like hyperventilating exhalations— his enemy was a houndour, thus, will-o-wisp was useless— even more his ghost-type attacks, which would only tickle it as if the houndour were immune to them.
He glanced quickly at the back of his left hand, the torn bandage, displaying the white membrane of tiny pores throbbing like sponge squeezed purple liquid as his attacks. Each throbbing felt like stabbing electricity coursing through his veins in rhythm with his heart.
"You should handle the houndour, I'll handle the espeon!" his gaze lifted, fixed on the mongoose as he let out his exclamation. He could easily deal with the psychic type, and Ganmo; though incompetent, could counter—
"What?!" high, startled words cut off his thoughts sharply, "no way! This espeon much for ya!" words that slithered inside his chest like worms, "Just distract that houndour while I knock out this espeon—!" he swiftly dodged using his front paws to the side, the pink wisp brushing his tail for an instant, "—and stop interrupting, this serious!"
The bandages on Banmo's body tightened. He knew this was serious already! The breaths made certain words sting in his chest with each inhalation—even if he wasn't that good, he should be able to fight a psychic type. He should. He should—
Burn.
His eye widened, thoughts ripped like paper once he felt his back on fire, heat coursing through his bandages in a root-like pattern. Short but searing, he swallowed a scream as he turned, in his red pupil reflecting the houndour's piercing eyes. With its muzzle open, orange sparks crackling in the air, escaping from its hot exhalations, from its scarlet and purple stained tongue.
The pounding hammered in his chest.
How was he supposed to finish this feral?
Thoughts crowding, hammering in his mind. Rummaging through his imagination, wherever, to pull out a move or strategy.
Will-o-wisp. Shadow punch. Shadow ball— that, that could work—
A step back, and his palms clapped together once more. The purple sphere formed again between his palms, growing thicker with each throb he heard clearly in his mind. The ball that seemed to vibrate with life close to brushing against his fingertips.
'Hurry up.'
It grew larger, and larger, grazing the base of his digits.
'Hurry up.'
Growls from ahead, wilder, louder, joining the symphony of hammering.
A quick glance confirmed to him the houndour's scowl, its fangs glistening with saliva—bared as an intimidation technique. A very effective one.
'Hurry up!'
Brushing his palms, like a ball in his hands, he shifted his hands to bring both wrists together, fingertips pointed toward the feral in front of him, the beginnings of his palms making contact with the shadow ball. A thrust with his hands—the sphere being pushed forward.
That same second, the wet, bloody interior of the houndour's maw became visible. The dull orange fog bolted faster than any exhalation, just like lightning—the walls illuminated amber as the flamethrower tore through the air flow, consuming the oxygen in its flames. The shadow ball slammed into this barrier, the thunderous crash that added to the glow.
His pupil grew smaller at the light show —flames growing, enveloping the purple sphere like the tide of the sea devouring the corpses on the shore— and he recoiled. His bandages squeezed tighter than they had previously, keeping his legs from being able to move.
He saw the violet orb being consumed, the orange radiance about to illuminate his face—
Purple liquid flew in front of him.
An exhalation drenched in the fluid that felt as if he had run out of oxygen in the blink of an eye.
Instead of feeling the searing heat engulf him, he instead felt his right side sinking as if an anvil had fallen on him, like the ramming of a tauros, crushing his right growth against his bandages and attempting to break them with just the pressure.
He flew away, unable to control the agonizing shriek that caused him to shiver—on his tongue the unbearable taste of copper. The sharp, now wet sensation on the right side of his torso.
The hammering filling his ears, an overwhelming ringing drowning his sense, enough to muffle the other high-pitched scream that rang out at the same time as his own.
Traveling like electricity, the sharp sensation was swifter than his vision. Unable to register anything but the blur of white, red and pink at the right edge of his eye.
The pain in his flank was visceral—it spread up his right leg and into his head, with a sharp throbbing. No sooner had his brain processed the former than the left side of his body crashed violently against the dungeon wall. Another hoarse yell drowned out by the noise that crowded his mind, stone spikes sliding into his bandages, another prickling, wet sensation spreading down his other side.
Like a porcelain doll cracking—that was the noise from his body, thunderous, fast, making him feel as if the hammer pounding rapidly in his brain was speeding up.
His legs no longer had the strength to support him, his body threatening to fall due to gravity. The soles of his feet touched the ground, almost staggering to fall, and his hand moved of its own accord to grab onto the wall. His senses were still choked, but he was able to glimpse that which had struck him—it was the mongoose, surrounded by the transparent pink, floating against his will in the spot in which the dusclops had been seconds before.
Fur masking dozens of bruises on his left side, Ganmo's chest swelled with each breath, fast but heavy at the same time.
He was once again lifted into the air, propelled against the wishes of gravity. His twitching spasms were aggressive attempts to free himself.
The only reason Banmo was still standing were the rocks that had sunk into his left side which was leaning against the wall. "Didn't you say—" he tried to speak, a guttural groan disrupting his words with a searing pain in his chest, "—that you were going to handle both of them?!" he hissed, pushing his palm against the wall in an attempt to separate himself from the spikes.
He received a fulminating glare from the air. "YEAH! HAVE IT ALL UNDER CONTROL—!" he was slammed into the ground once more. His words choked with blood and spittle that manifested a heartbeat later as a piercing scream. Arrogant words that resulted in pained cries... that's what he deserved for deciding to go into that dungeon.
The familiar growl of the houndour broke his thoughts. He glanced at the feral, now in front of him; it had taken advantage of his slowness to corner him against the wall. Banmo tried to turn around to bump his back against the rock, but the sudden movement tearing the spikes from his left side prevented it; purple drops splattered on the floor, his bandages torn.
His distracted mind did not register the canine lunging at him. Its jaw open, the clear reflection of his eye staring back in the saliva of the fangs burning like incandescent metal. The teeth sunk in.
Piercing.
Burning.
Heat that stabbed into the right growth that seemed almost to be his shoulder.
The feral pulled hard; instead of hanging in the air it decided to forcibly drag Banmo down, using the full force of its jaw. The dusclops tilted to the right and his back arched. The sound of paper tearing agonizingly slowly was able to pierce through any noise that drowned out his senses—ignoring everything else.
His growth was going to be ripped off.
The feral was going to rip off a part of his body.
Now. Right now.
His chest was going to explode. His stomach had turned to solid stone.
An emotion crossed his eye—fear.
Unable to swallow, that sensation fueled the trembling of his body. A heart pounding as if it were about to explode demanded that, as an instinct, he gave a left lateral stop towards the wall.
And half of his body sank into the rock wall.
Thoughts pounded as fast as his heart in his aching chest. He had to hide. He had to run.
With another sideways step, he stepped fully into the wall. The houndour's muzzle and snout bumped into the rock, letting out a loud whine as it tried to follow the ghost into the wall.
Even though frigid the inside of the walls felt comforting. A heart still hammering in his ears, a chest still aching and fast moving as heavy as the world itself. He tried to take a deep breath but only inhaled shakily, not a shred of oxygen there.
The fluids had stopped. Like being wrapped in a tight blanket around his form that didn't let nothing flow. He brought his hand to his right growth—although something throbbed beneath the torn and scorched bandage, it was still intact.
Nothing had been torn away.
A sigh.
Thank Arceus.
Thank Arceus...
In the safety of the walls, his gaze flickered to stare in front of him. So far he had been... concentrating too hard to focus on it.
If it weren't for the fur, the bruises on Ganmo's body might have been crystal clear. He was sent crashing to the ground yet again, the chunks of boulder being shot into the air as well as the muffled screams and hisses. Blood flowed freely like a river on the floor, dripping from both the espeon and Ganmo.
He lifted into the air, and crashed once again. With each blow, his pained sounds were weaker and more faint.
At least the espeon was not in an excellent state—-his chest bulging sharply with each heavy breath. Eyes squinted, heavier than his own inhalations. The scarlet that illuminated his forehead glowed a fainter glow than of old, red still flowing from the holes beneath the base of his neck.
His gaze shifted to the houndour as he heard its growl. It snarled, staring at the wall with a reddened nose. It shook its head as whimpers leaked from its throat—but it didn't lick its wounds for long before turning to fix its piercing eyes on the only available prey.
A thunderous sound of Ganmo hitting the floor echoed through the room. His arms shaking and his limbs spasming, trying to aim for his vitals to protect himself. Unable to even arch his back to lessen the pain. Just another pathetic cry and the ever so soft snapping sound —probably some bone, like his ribs— joining that cacophony.
There, seeing the zangoose on the ground, was when the houndour pounced. Its front claws clinging to the top of the spine to sink its incandescent fangs wherever it could—the right side of the back, near where the arm began.
Another gasp that the mongoose had trouble swallowing. Eyes that widened, pupils that grew small.
"W-WHAT?!" an incredulous stare, a voice trembling as well as loud. Those pupils like black dots moving frantically to scan the room, unable to stay still—
Until they fixed on the houndour, and the pupils became trembling like his limbs. "...YOU—!" Letting out a forced exhale, his brow furrowed in a way it hadn't before. Tone piercing and still trembling, his voice was louder than any noise in the room, sharper than any scream before. He had an intense gaze, more so than the two ferals in the room.
Banmo, in the safety of those icy walls, knew to whom he was addressing.
...But he didn't feel a twinge of guilt. Why should he?
Ganmo was to blame for them being in that situation.
He was to blame for everything.
Where the serrations had dug in and latched on as if the houndour's life depended on it, the fur around it turned blacker, charred from base to tip. The back stained with fresh blood that splattered from the wound. Warm, streaming down to meet the red river on the floor.
Pink aura pulled Ganmo upward, the houndour clinging with claws and teeth, its hind legs dangling in the air and swinging in an attempt to grab hold onto the zangoose. With his one eye, he watched them ascend.
And he would see them fall—
The pink dissipated from the mongoose's body in the blink of an eye. Banmo's eye flicked swiftly to the lilac feline to confirm his suspicions. The espeon's shaking legs were buckled, no longer able to support the weight of its own body, and it collapsed. The pool of its own blood sprayed against its wounded belly as it hit the floor, spewing strands of red from its maw. The pink smoke in its gaze stopped dead in its tracks, the glow in that gem as dim as moonlight on a dark night, flickering out like a lamp about to be extinguished.
His eye flickered again. Not even a heartbeat had occurred yet, so Ganmo was still in the air—he didn't wait a second before moving his; now free, right arm. Claws caught the back of the houndour's neck, which hadn't even had the time to slacken its jaw. From the feral's maw fled a surprised whine, looking into the zangoose's eyes—which returned a fiery glare.
As soon as the long claws skimmed the black fur that concealed the softest part of the canine, they inserted themselves like blades. Another bloodcurdling whine.
Ganmo waved in the air, trying to shift his position but instead falling chest-first against the floor, but his grip on the trembling houndour did not falter. The aggressive expression morphing into hyperventilating breaths and uncontrollable whimpering.
Blood splattered Ganmo's right arm, that of his enemy.
Even with the horribly suffocating sensation in his chest, only a hiss escaped from Ganmo's clenched teeth; hard enough to break them. Instead, the claws of his right paw only dug deeper, touching bone.
And his claws made a sweeping motion.
Even for Banmo, the houndour's cry sent a shiver down his spine.
But with a glance at the charred bandages on his right growth, that feeling disappeared. Replaced by a slight warmth in his chest.
Another glance revealed the gaping wound on the houndour's neck—the flesh dragged raw and displaced, throbbing as the black fur around it was painted by the gushing blood. He could glimpse the white bone between the lacerations Ganmo's claws had caused.
The feral let out only agonized wails before closing its eyes and falling silent.
Only the noise of Ganmo's heavy breathing and the espeon filled the room with life at that moment. The mongoose leaned his left paw and stood up with both his feet touching the ground. He released the houndour —blood splattering on both the corpse and Ganmo's feet— and turned his head to face the espeon, still with a scowl, still with a smoldering gaze.
That feral could no longer do anything already—lying on the ground, its eyes barely open, and trying to back away as it growled and its short lilac fur stood on end. Truly, what a pathetic sight.
The mongoose did not retreat a step. His footsteps slowed as did his breathing, the red still streaming out of his body, forming a river and pressing his dyed fur down. Without even hesitating—the espeon could barely blink when Ganmo was close enough to swing his arm in a stabbing motion. The tip of the claw jabbing at the center of the scarlet gem.
The feline's eyes rounded, staring toward the very center with quivering pupils.
There was a single heartbeat before the cracks formed like roots.
What followed was a deafening mewl like thunder—almost as if it was being killed. And at the same time that gem of precious color turned pitch black, the espeon collapsed unconscious.
...
The silence that followed was overwhelming. Red painted the walls sliding down, flowing through the crevices and spaces to form thin, finger-like rivers. Amid the sounds of gasps and sharp intake of breath, the sound of droplets was clear as day—not just from the ferals, but from the zangoose. From his arms that dropped to his sides, or his claws drenched in red, and even from the back of his waist—a back decorated with crimson threads. A chest also with splashes, inflating and deflating.
The piercing sensation in his left flank was still there, and Banmo took a quick glance. Multiple holes in the bandages exposed to no one the wrinkled marble membrane beneath the thin white that was his first layer—with a tinge of purple like a scrunched sponge, the drops of liquid desperately seeking to flow outward... but stagnant.
He had subconsciously placed his wounded hand over the charred laceration in his growth—on his fingers the edges of the bandage were brittle, like strands of charcoal. Cold to the touch.
He took a few steps forward, and emerged from his hide place. He felt as if his guts were twisting.
The mere thud that followed from his back caused Ganmo's ears to twitch, trying to pivot in his direction.
He turned abruptly—even faster than with the adrenaline of combat, and his pupils fixed predator-like on the dusclops.
To say his expression was livid would be an understatement.
Red shined on his face, even if the fur tried to conceal it. A toothed grimace, as much as if he was a feral, and his jaw tensed tight enough to hear his fangs clench. Veins were marked in his eyes —if he wasn't covered with hair, also in his neck— and they throbbed with emotion. Eyes blazing, accented with a scowl... deeper than Banmo had ever seen before.
His chin trembled. His paws too.
Banmo's mouth opened—
"WHAT'S YOUR PROBLEM?!" Ganmo roared, his voice shattering the awkward silence with a voice more deafening than any cry.
Banmo flinched at the sheer waves of the sound.
Ganmo didn't even glance at the blood or his own hemorrhages as he made passage toward the dusclops. His heavy footsteps caused puddles of blood scattered around the room to splash—rough splatters that soaked his feet. Until he reached Banmo, and raised his arms, putting his claws in front of his own face.
Banmo's gaze flickered for a moment.
He saw the crimson drop that fell from one of the sharp claws.
He felt hard to swallow for a mere instant, and took a step backward. His back hit the wall, but didn't go through it this time.
"COME ON, TALK! NOT GONNA TALK?! PREFER HIDING AND DROP ME IN A FIGHT, DON'T YOU?! YOU'RE GONNA HIDE TO SAY HECK TO EXCUSE, TOO?!" he vociferated—the guttural words scratching in his throat with no intention of controlling himself. Ganmo's feelings could be measured in decibels at that moment.
Banmo winced—the hot throbbing still in both sides, as if that was where his heart rested. "It was the most effective option—" a hushed tone yet with words forced from his throat.
Effective in avoiding harm, his own.
Ganmo's claws curled inward, like quivering fists. "EFFECTIVE!? THIS— THIS WHAT YOU CALL EFFECTIVE?!" his arms stretched out to his sides, and soon he flexed his left arm to point one of his maroon claws at his other arm—visible blood still flowing from the holes where teeth had dug in, fur ripped down, showing reddened skin and purple patches. "THIS EFFECTIVE?! COME ON, HECK, TELL ME!" he barked once more, and before waiting for an answer, he half-turned to show his back. He swung his arm to point towards the ebony furred area as fragile to the touch as glass, "OR THIS EFFECTIVE, TOO?! COME ON! NOT GONNA TELL A HECK?!"
Sharp, bitter words that tried to accuse him for things that were not his fault. He felt the tongue just as sour as Ganmo's tone. He wasn't to blame for any of those injuries; and even if he were, it wouldn't be his responsibility to keep the useless mongoose from ending up harmed. He frowned at such empty accusations, "not my fault," he replied in a snappy tone.
That Ganmo would try to place responsibilities that had nothing to do with Banmo was the last straw—the bandages on his body progressively tighten, the more bitter the sting on his tongue. "You left me fighting a houndour. You should have listened—"
"YA KNOW I CAN SAY THAT SAME HECK, NO?!" He broke in with another bloodcurdling yell and a stomp that caused more blood to be splattered onto the mongoose. His claws clenched once more as he turned again to face the dusclops, fists closed and trembling. "ONLY HECK YA HAD TO DO WAS TO KEEP IT BUSY, FOR, WHAT?! A MINUTE BEFORE I TIRED THE ESPEON OUT AND BEAT IT UP?! AND THEN WE COULD KICK THAT DOG TOGETHER!" he waved his paws a moment with a sarcastic gesture, "BUT NOOOO, YA CAN'T EVEN DO THAT!" another stomp—the blood felt warm still. "THAT'S WHY WE BOTH HURT RIGHT NOW, BECAUSE YOU JUST KNOW HOW TO HIDE LIKE THE BAD MADE SLAKOTH YOU'RE!" his left claw opened, and with a quick motion, he pointed the piercing tip of it at Banmo and struck it with this one.
Distracting a pokémon with a type advantage and probably experience advantage on his own—of course, it was a brilliant idea that only the mongoose could come up with. He didn't even muster the energy to sigh. That was a ridiculous plan—yes, that was the problem! If it weren't for such an ludicrous strategy, then he wouldn't have had to make a strategic retreat into the wall. That plan —made by Ganmo— was the reason for the injuries to both of them, and if he had followed it, he would have been even worse off—
"WHAT?! SOMETHING WAS THAAAAT BAD THAT FOR YA TO HIDE LIKE A WIMPOD?! THINK YOU'RE THE ONLY HARMED HERE, SLAKOTH BASTARD—?! YOU'RE AN EXPLORER, FOR THE LOVE OF ARCEUS!"
His saliva felt sour, like bile. "Your plan was garbage," that quiet, forced tone was becoming more bitter with every word that slipped out of his mouth, "if I had dealt with the espeon and you with the houndour, I wouldn't have had to retreat—"
"I DID THAT!? DID I HIDE?!" his guttural remarks burst out with a forced, loaded exhale, disrupting once again. "DID. I. HID?! EVEN IF YOU'RE HOW YOU'RE, DID I THOUGHT OF LEAVING YA BEHIND!?"
Banmo blinked, his mouth hanging with the words stuck. No—
He felt sour the roof of his mouth—
Of course, the mongoose hadn't considered that because— because his head was empty, of course. Nothing but air in that skull of his. That he had lunged like a feral, incapable of reasoning, and had ended up wounded like the beasts they fought day in and day out.
That they were in Shimmer Hills in the first place was unmistakable proof of that. "The espeon wouldn't have beaten you up if you'd listened to me instead of your garbage plan—"
"WOULDN'T HAVE GOTTEN MY BACK KICKED IN IF YA WERE A REAL EXPLORER!"
Ganmo's claw struck Banmo's chest once more, pushing him against the wall—this one pressing against the rock. "BECAUSE YOU'RE NOT! YOU'RE NOTHING!" the marked veins in his eyes seemed to throb like a heart, the exhalations more forced and sour. "NOTHING! YOU HEAR ME?! YOU'RE NOTHING!" the voice grew shrill. "YOU'RE NOTHING BUT A COWARD AND AN UNGRATEFUL IDIOT THAT—!"
And those words were cut off by a guttural groan of pain. Howls stopped abruptly by Ganmo's grimace, who took several steps in reverse as his back arched slightly. That expression more bitter than a durin berry melted into wide eyes and a furrowed brow but for entirely different reasons.
His right paw opened —still trembling— and reached out to his flank, trying to touch the burn on his back. He hissed, swallowing a cry of agony and staggered further back.
Banmo tracked the scarlet droplets oozing from the hemorrhages with his eye. Of course, there was no reason for them to halt... more so when the adrenaline of combat had already left both bodies.
The throbbing in his sides and arm was suffocating. Banmo couldn't help but groan as soon as he became aware of the fact, leaning his back against the wall—he soon realized that wasn't a good idea, specifically the moment the stone pressed against the charred bandages on his back, causing another groan.
His blood was still boiling, but the sharpness put more pressure on his brain.
Looking ahead, with one of his claws the zangoose seized the badge he used to close his satchel, and easily slipped up the small leather flap to open it. He dipped his other paw in, his claws fishing out a bluish colored sphere, the size of the pads of his paw. A ball with a small green stem growing on top—an oran berry, it went straight up to his open maw.
Strands of light brown fluid dripped from Ganmo's closed muzzle as he chewed vigorously.
Banmo blinked twice. Right, healing. The thought made his mind wander from the bitter aftertaste on his tongue, and his right hand descended to his own satchel—
"Here—"
The mongoose's high-pitched voice caused the dusclops to stare straight ahead.
There, a white-furred paw extended toward him and offered him an oran berry resting between the claws. The mongoose's limbs shuddered as did his body, and as he let out a pained groan, the red lines on his body scabbed over and swollen areas disappeared.
Banmo stared— just stared at the berry for a heartbeat.
The fleeting thought of opening his mouth came, but not words abandoned his throat—instead, his tongue turned bitter again. Of course, he knew he earned that berry for his efforts and for saving Ganmo earlier. Besides, it was the least the mongoose could do to repay him after saying all that.
His right hand did not move an inch, but his left; with which he grabbed the oran berry. Taking advantage that his mouth was already opened, he shoved it inside.
It had hardly any taste—like drinking water with a slightly bitter hint in its aftertaste, of a mushy texture as if it was crushed from before; even the stem felt limp. The fruit melted with the slightest of pressures, cold, brown liquid sliding down his throat.
He let out a sigh of relief once that coldness reached his abdomen and back. The oppressive burning sensation vanished as if it had never been there, and the throbbing in his flanks disappeared as well. He took a quick glance at the multiple gashes and torn bandages on the left and right side of his chest that began to close in an accelerated fashion.
He removed his hand from his growth, to see the carbonization getting lighter, and the marks of the canine's fangs sealing shut as if they had never been there. The same happened with his hand, that gash getting smaller and smaller until it vanished.
He still felt that throbbing, mostly on the back of his left hand. Gentle burning, but nothing else. Even the scorching feeling on the top of his head felt more relaxed.
When he raised his gaze, he saw the zangoose still grimacing. His eye flicked down to his right arm, clearly seeing how the wound had reduced in size... but was still gaping open, blood oozing from it.
Of course, the thickness of the laceration was too wide for the oran berry's juices to seal it. He knew that both fang marks would shortly close, but the blood loss he was having could be a problem for later...
Ganmo still had a scowl, a tense neck and a piercing stare—though it no longer smoldered, it was just exceedingly bitter. He snorted, bringing his right paw to his wound once more, his pads drenching in his own blood. He resembled a statue for a couple of heartbeats before turning to the right to face the east hallway. He tore his pupils away from the dusclops sharply, "...ya been the same since the start... you're not worth time. Just," the zangoose's grimace tightened, "just don't hide again. Come on," he growled, his legs beginning their motion.
Scarlet droplets splashed on the floor. Watching his back sideways, the red trickled down like a gory root in his fur.
...
Banmo sighed in exasperation.
The mongoose was an immature, unbearable brat... and even with that, he didn't want him to die— clearly because that wouldn't be beneficial to either of them. And those poorly treated hemorrhages could also be a problem for subsequent fights.
"Wait," his interruption made the zangoose stop in his tracks. A single intense sidelong glance was answer enough, but the dusclops ignored him and his left hand dipped into his open satchel. Catching a roll of linen in his fingers, "you can't continue if you bleed to death."
The mongoose blinked, and before long, his gaze softened. That frown remained, but with the inside of his 'brows' more upward, his mouth slightly slack. "H-Huh?" he blurted, and blinked twice. "You have bandages?"
He didn't retort, only stepping closer toward Ganmo. In his left hand he held that roll of linen the size of his palm; a snowy color, and with his right hand he unrolled part of the bandage—even if he preferred not to use so many items, there were always four that were vital and never left the comfort of the leather bottom: linen, a bone needle, a reviver seed, and a canteen full of water.
At the lack of reply, he received a slight frown once again. Reaching behind the zangoose's back, Banmo just rolled his eye —of course— and soon hummed affirmatively. He pulled his right hand away from the linen, and instead, reached out for Ganmo's right arm. He tugged —with more force than he meant to— to turn the mongoose slightly and position his limb in a proper position.
"Even for this ya can't say heck—?" he spoke, but as he felt the tug, his eyes widened, "hey, wait—!" he barely offered resistance, but as soon as he could react, he pulled his arm away and escaped Banmo's grip. "Can do that later, no need to lose time now!"
He tugged yet again, his fingers still around his gnawed fur. "No. An open wound means you'll fight worse," he blurted out gruffly and that flat tone of his that he didn't even bother trying to lighten up. He leaned in slightly, examining the wound.
From close now, it was clear where the fangs had dug in —and how much, at least they barely reached the muscle— and the movement they had made to elongate the multiple lacerations. They were as lengthy as his own fingers, but much thinner. "You're wasting time leaving this open."
Ganmo blinked, his gaze fixed on him. He clicked his tongue, once more frowning and forming a grimace before averting his stare. "Well—" with a sigh he brought the claws of his left paw between eye and eye, pinching a bit, "...heck, just be quick."
He'll take as long as he has to—he thought but the words didn't roll off his tongue.
He released the zangoose's arm, and it stayed in the same place. Good. Still holding the roll in his left hand, his right drew another object from his open satchel: the canteen. With a single finger he opened it, and tilted the nozzle above the wound.
A stream of crystal clear water poured over the injury. Clear lines pushed the blood from the fur to underneath, from the cuts. The base of the hairs were still a charcoal color —for a moment he thought they would snap under the pressure of the water— and before more scarlet could gush forth, he closed his canteen at the same time as he tore off a piece of linen.
One of his fingers wrapped around the nozzle, while with the others of his right hand he clutched the piece of whitish linen. He pressed the cloth against the general area of the wound—receiving Ganmo's hiss; but he did not exhale a single letter.
He kept pressing for a few seconds, the white now tinged with soft red in the center. More beating of his heart as he just stood waiting... he had to be sure the bleeding had ceased—he didn't want to waste time. Once not a hint of red peeked from those slices again, he unrolled more of the linen, beginning to wrap it around the wound.
It was about four loops, counting each one in his mind. With each turn he went a bit higher, measuring the distance between each turn with his gaze—at the end of the fourth turn, he began the fifth, but he put one of his fingers above the wound and crossed the linen over it, then lowered it, and made the turn on the opposite side to finally tuck the linen roll into the space that had been left under his finger to form a knot.
With a sigh, he pulled so that he could separate the bandage from the rest of the roll that still remained. "There, now turn around."
"Ah— yeah, sure..." the zangoose's look was somewhat erratic; looking at him for a while, turning away at the next heartbeat. That slight grimace with his tight mouth indicated that bitterness—but it wasn't just that. There was an emotion in his fleeting glance that Banmo didn't understand, nor the frown so slightly upward.
It wasn't like he cared, either. He was too focused on fixing Ganmo's mistakes to pay attention to whether or not he was angry —which he knew he was— and just waited for the mongoose to turn around. Soon he complied.
He could instantly glimpse the blackened fur on the right side of his back, below his shoulder. That deep bite had ripped out some of his fur, and the red was streaming down the brittle charcoal.
Banmo just stared for a moment before reaching out to push the black fur aside.
He got a small gasp from Ganmo, who turned his head to stare at him. "H-H-Hey, what you're doing?!" he interrogated, flinching slightly and hissing at the end of his sentence.
Shifting the black hairs to the side, he saw the skin—it looked a tad red, but there were no blisters growing on the reddened edges, "Shut up," was his only reply. It didn't appear to be a serious burn, it would probably heal in a couple of days...
"You're not gonna tell shut up to-" he said, just at that moment Banmo opened his canteen again and let the lukewarm water drop on the wound as in the burn area, "oOO MEE—!" his voice rose abruptly and he muffled a shriek of surprise. Ganmo decided to stare straight ahead and grit his teeth.
He kept pouring water. He knew he didn't have enough, though, so he stopped soon and with a soft thud the lid of the canteen nozzle closed as it was pushed down by Banmo's finger. He unrolled the bandage roll once more, and began to make loops—first a horizontal loop, then one two across, and then he pulled it to the opposite side to tie the knot.
"There, done," with those words, he stepped back and rolled up the leftover linen, shoving it inside his satchel, and did the same with the canteen. He still had some water left, though the zangoose should visit the town doctor once they returned from this dungeon... just in case. He didn't care too much.
The mongoose's gaze wandered from his arm to his chest. He blinked a couple of times, eyes locked on the slight movement of his upper body with each breath. He turned his head to look toward Banmo—that grimace tightened some more, and his left claws went to the side of his neck, scratching ever so slightly. "...You..." he didn't make eye contact.
...?
He seemed about to say something, but as soon as he started his words faded away. With an open mouth but nothing to speak, he closed it and abruptly turned his head to the front, "bah, never mind," and then his feet started walking down the hallway in front of him.
And yet again Ganmo thought he was the leader. He rolled his eye and a soft grunt escaped his mouth, taking a step forward to follow him from the rear.
But before entering the corridor, he blinked, and felt a hunch—no, a memory. He half-turned to glance behind him, at both ferals resting in pools of darkest scarlet—
"Wait," he interrupted Ganmo once more. His eye was fixed on the circled elongated object protruding from the grotesque reddish-tinged scene.
Light brown—nothing glistening, but he had vision trained at this point to identify a seed, especially when it was in a pool of blood.
...Not that that was a huge skill, either. For a mere heartbeat, he felt swallowing was beyond him.
Blinking to focus on what was important, he noticed that from a distance it was complicated to see clearly what kind of seed it was.
A growl came from the front, and Ganmo turned with an exasperated look. "What? What now-?" his somewhat raspy question was interrupted by himself once again his gaze fell on the seed. Those eyes shone, "oh, seed!"
Amidst so much bitterness, hearing excitement felt unnatural.
Ganmo in a heartbeat was already setting off toward the little earth-colored walnut. With a quick step, he ignored the dried blood that threatened to stick to the soles of his feet and the droplets that brushed his legs. Quickly he reached the item, curling his back and reaching out his paws to fish out the seed—it wasn't a good idea, as the linen pressing into his injuries made more pressure. He skipped a breath and hissed before standing up straighter, "agh— have to get this off soon..." he muttered.
Banmo had also went for the object—at a more appropriate pace, of course.
It was actually to avoid touching the crimson with his feet.
Once he arrived, he watched Ganmo's pathetic attempt to reach for the seed. So pathetic... he rolled his eye and sighed. "Don't take it off," meanwhile, he also curved his back to try to grasp the walnut.
...
He was aware of the bitter wood-colored juices his membrane had absorbed.
And even so... as soon as he arched his back he felt as if the cracks in his back were opening. The sutures tearing at the stress. The bandages straining so uncomfortably. His fingers desperately tried, but only his fingertips could graze the seed—he thought that was enough, but his attempts to fish it out were all unsuccessful.
A slight sound of pain left his mouth as he felt the effort.
This was like...
Oh.
That sound was about to turn—
A sneering snort came from his right, that both disrupted his train of thought and caused him to squint his eye. His gaze flickered, taking in a clear view of Ganmo's expression; with a slight cocked smirk and a frown, an incredulous stare. "Really ya can't even grab something?" he didn't laugh —as Banmo had expected— but only bent again, this time catching the seed between the middle of his two claws.
Banmo's gaze remained on the seed, and he snorted slightly sharply. This is what he obtained for a split second's thought about that brat... he rolled his eye—he shouldn't have even mentioned that he had linen with him.
He shouldn't have to be there.
Since Ganmo had already grasped the item, Banmo stopped arching his back. The pain melted like electricity coursing through the membrane beneath his bandages—so slightly stinging, but so pleasant.
His eye lingered. Before taking an object, he should check to see what kind it was, also consider its value, its usefulness where they were—and knowing his 'competent partner', he knew he should do such a task himself.
He reached out his hand to try to grasp—
He failed in the process—the furry arm reacting further to his attempt to snatch the seed. With his left limb elevated, Ganmo took a step to the side to get some distance from the dusclops, "hey, no touching it!" a squeak as he spun on his heels to face Banmo, "first one to grab it keeps it!"
Banmo clicked his tongue, frowning. It was not that, for it mattered very little to him who got to keep the seed —though deep down, he knew he should; he found it first after all— but the kind of it, its value. "I'm going to check it."
For a moment, Ganmo's mouth hung slightly ajar and he blinked a couple of times. "Ah...?" a grimace formed on his face, giving another blink, "could at least ya make the effort, just a wee bit, to talk like a normal 'mon!?" he demanded, his free paw gesturing sharply to accompany his words. "What ya even mean by che—!" and eyes widened like saucers, "oh—" he clicked his tongue. "Should told me sooner..." he suddenly moved his paw to place his claws in front of his own face—seed dangling in his grip, between his two eyes, "let me look..."
"No. You'll do it wrong, give me the seed."
He also saw the sudden blinks Ganmo did, meanwhile aparting the seed to the side. A scowl formed in his face, a grimace accompanying that expression, "...are you calling me incompetent... again?" those eyes were not smoldering, but instead, were cold and that same feeling dripped from his words like the blood had from his claws.
...Yes, he had.
His gaze followed a red drop for a moment.
He wasn't foolish enough to be honest with Ganmo. "Give me the seed—" he repeated, taking a step to try to snatch the walnut.
Ganmo mimicked him. Remarkable how the muscles in his neck tensed, his chin lifting as did his shoulders, a bit more with each heavy inhalation. Pupils like black dots once again. "...You're—" pupils quivering, "YOU CALLED ME USELESS, AGAIN!" his voice exploded, "YOU'RE KIDDING ME?!" even his bandaged arm made jerky movements as he spoke, the zangoose didn't even wince. "YOU'RE WORSE THAN A COWARD, YA AN HYPOCRITE, AND CALL ME USELESS LIKE YOU'RE!" he clenched his jaw, his chin quivering. "YOU THINK— YOU THINK I'M THAT DUMB TO NOT KNOW HOW TO IDENTIFY A SEED?! YOU REALLY THINK THAT?!" he vociferated.
Veins throbbed in his red eyes.
"DON'T ACT PROUD WHEN YOU'RE NOT A REAL EXPLORER!"
Vibrating once again, the bandages on his body were tight as a rope for executions. For a moment, he felt the air clog in his throat. He took a deep breath so softly so the mongoose wouldn't notice —or so he hoped— and scowled.
What was a real explorer supposed to be?! A luck-filled brat who didn't know anything about the real world or him?! This was what happened when he tried even the slightest bit to help. He— someone else ruined it.
Had the mongoose received cracks in his egg at birth, that he always was never able to understand? Did... did he himself have cracks in his egg, that he always never learned—? he just had to be quiet, and watch as Ganmo walked on his own to jump off the cliff.
Ganmo extended his bandaged arm and pointed with the point of his claw at Banmo, still with his pupils tiny as dots. "I'm perfectly capable of identifying a seed, and WILL SHOW YOU RIGHT NOW!" He yelled, at a volume that even a feral outside the room could heard, and turned his head abruptly to shift his gaze to the small seed in his grip.
…A tricky item? Those were hard to even find, even more to identify and confuse. He lifted his single eye, and now knew he had to check the object by himself, "sure? Let me check," perhaps after checking the seed by himself, the mongoose would finally come to his senses and finally give him the item.
The mongoose's smoldering gaze did not waver—teeth clenched, brow scowling with pupils quivering with offense.
There was silence, both keeping their gaze on the other.
Ganmo eventually yielded, averting his gaze as his chest deflated. "...Aight, whatever," he shut his eyes, "you'll see I'm right," he blurted out before handing him the seed—it was as if he'd thrown it at him.
For that very reason the seed almost slipped from Banmo's grasp for a few milliseconds. Securing his hold, he sighed, and grumbled incomprehensible words. Of course, Ganmo was a sore loser at even something as trivial as this. He brought the seed closer to his large single eye, squinting it.
Everything looked blurry. Just a bit.
From up close, those lines and patterns of such a slightly different color from the light brown were more obvious, still he had trouble counting them. In the center of the seed, between the lines, a natural imprint was formed... barely whiter than the rest of the transverse stripes on the item.
A drawing—blurry and tiny, smaller than his fingertip. Focusing his glance on a single point, he could discern the vague shape of an arrow pointing downward. There were three lines that formed that... the fourth he saw below the tip of the arrow was a figment of his imagination.
Undoubtedly, a doom seed.
He shifted the seed away, his gaze settling on Ganmo.
Forming expressions for a dusclops was complex... even so, the appendages of his head lifted as shortly as a chin would, and there, in his mouth, was an almost imperceptible arrogant smirk.
Decorating his victory.
"It's a doom seed."
The sensation of slight warmth he felt spreading beneath his bandages as he watched Ganmo's scowl melt into perfect circles was the only reward he'd gotten from that dungeon. The slackened mouth, the backward step... he had been defeated, once again.
"What!?" the zangoose's blinks were swift. Unfortunately, the frown formed on his face again, "n-no, it's not! It's a dough seed, I'm sure!"
He shook his head briefly, "It's a doom seed," he repeated, still with that petty satisfaction shining in his one eye. He did not waver in his words.
"I'm telling it's a dough seed!" with one swift movement his left claws snatched the item from Banmo's hands. "You're blind or what?! It got four lines!"
"It's three. You're imagining it."
"Now you're calling me crazy! It's four, know it!"
He rolled his eye, and squinted.
Again that game of stares. It wasn't long until the zangoose's foot began to tap the ground rhythmically waiting for an answer that never arrived, "...now ya don't say heck?!" he barked, with an even more pronounced scowl on his expression. "Want me to show ya is a dough seed, no?!" he crossed his arms. "Well, then look! Look how it is!" and he began to squeeze the seed with his claws, very small cracks—
Banmo's eye widened. That brat was about to waste a valuable object over a childish and futile argument, of which it was obvious who was right. On reflex, the dusclops took a step forward to pounce at the mongoose, his hand reaching out to try to seize the seed. Struggling with the zangoose to prevent him from making the mistake.
"Hey, back off—!" he stepped back, and won that struggle of strength by taking more distance. "What?! Bothers ya I'm gonna show you is a dough seed?!" he exclaimed, still his pupils tiny.
This low demonstration of intelligence was already irritating him. "No, I'm stopping you from using a valuable item for no reason—" he spoke, again reaching for the seed with his digits. But Ganmo had raised his arm to a height the dusclops could not even hope to reach with his fingertips.
"Valuable item? Just told ya is a dough seed!" the tips of his claws clutching the seed began to press hard.
Just a bit more and it was going to crack. "What if it's a doom seed?"
That knocked some sense into him. The claws relaxed their pressure as did the mongoose's expression. A short silence before he squinted his eyes, "...if it was one."
It was one. "Do you want to get the job done already or win an argument?" he inquired, icy words. It was an offense he didn't even realize it was one until the words slipped out of his mouth.
The zangoose's neck tensed. He could see his paws shaking ever so slightly, his shoulders ascending...
A short quiet moment. Ten heartbeats could the dusclops count.
But, at last, he lowered the seed and pushed it gently against the dusclops' chest, as if tossing it roughly. "And you're telling that," those words were laced with bitterness and acid resignation, "take the stupid seed, you'll see what it is," he grumbled, turning his back to Banmo, instead facing east.
Shocking—the mongoose had shown some sense for once. Banmo sighed—it was about time, wasn't it? And even in a moment of losing and accepting that he was wrong, he couldn't help but insult. Yet, the dusclops felt inwardly a petty shred of satisfaction at having won the argument. He slid the seed inside his satchel and closed it.
"Ya tell of working? Well, then let's work instead of wasting time talking about stupid seeds," Ganmo turned his head briefly to glare at him, with those words brimming with cold hostility, "after all, ya like working soooo much." Nor did he wait for a retort before heading towards the east wall hallway, the one to the right of the corridor from which they had come.
With a sigh, his stubby legs were also set in motion, following the mongoose from behind.