It took longer than Malic cared to ever admit recovering from his–in his opinion–disastrous meal with Nurse Joy. His walk outside of the Pokecenter was aimless, his head firmly in the clouds. He replayed the interaction in his head far too many times for comfort, cringing every time he remembered how stiff and awkward his replies had been. It wasn't that he was confused about what had happened; his most embarrassing memory to date was a very exhaustive conversation about the Pidgeys and the Beedrills from Ms. Chloe that left him unable to look at any girl his age for a week.
He knew, factually, what feeling attraction to someone should feel like. But actually experiencing it, the Tamato berry shade of his cheeks, the Beautifly in his stomach, it had knotted his tongue more thoroughly than a Tangela.
Regulus, perched lazily on his shoulder as usual, yawned and blinked slowly at him, almost as if he was silently judging Malic's internal struggle. Malic shot him a sidelong glance. "Don't give me that look," he muttered under his breath. "It wasn't that bad, right?"
Regulus let out a soft grunt, clearly unconvinced, but Malic's attention was stolen by a strained grunt. Across the cobbled road was an older man, silvered hair slick with sweat. His arms were full of large boxes, and trembled as he teetered to and fro.
Malic crossed over in four large strides, easily plucking the top three boxes of the four-box stack from the man's arms.
"Need a hand?" Malic asked, though he had already lightened the man's load by taking the boxes. The older man blinked up at him through coke bottle glasses, his face a mix of surprise and relief.
"Thank Arceus," the man sighed, straightening his back with an audible crack. "I was about to topple over. These old bones aren't what they used to be." He offered Malic a grateful smile, sweat transforming the deep lines along his face into glistening ripples.
"Where do you need these?" Malic's voice came out just a bit more forceful than it typically did; the boxes really were quite heavy. At least the weight of Regulus helped him keep more balanced than he would have been.
The man pointed behind him to a building that seemed older than even the old-fashioned buildings that surrounded it. "Just around the back of the museum if you don't mind."
A museum? Malic hadn't realized Oldale had one, though Nurse Joy had mentioned one. He shifted the weight of the boxes, glancing at the museum. It was small and weathered, the sign faded into near unintelligibility with windows more dust than glass.
The man led Malic around back, muttered curses accompanying the jangle of keys as he tried to unlock the door with one hand. Eventually the door got unlocked and Malic hurried in, relieving his burning arms of their burden in a quick but gentle drop into a corner of the room.
The inside was in much better condition than the exterior. Polished floors and antique furniture lined the walls, the lazy breeze from a ceiling fan rustling papers and opened books on a large desk.
"Thank you, young man," the old man said, shaking out his arms and rolling his shoulders. "You saved me from throwing out my back there. My name's Benn, Benn Eldon, by the way. I run this museum—or what's left of it, anyhow. We don't get many visitors these days, but it's important to keep the history alive."
Malic shrugged, brushing off the thanks. "Wasn't a big deal."
Benn chuckled, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. "It may not seem like much, but for us older folks, it means a lot. You're a trainer, right? See you got yourself a Pokemon on your back. You've probably got your hands full with your journey, but it's always nice to see young people willing to lend a hand."
Malic didn't know how to respond to that, so he didn't. Instead, he took a look around the room. "So, what sort of things do you have here?"
Benn gave Malic a grin, his eyes bright. "The storied history of Oldale. For your help, I'd be happy to give you a tour of my little establishment here. Only if you want one of course."
One look at the almost childlike glee on Benn's face sealed his fate.
"Sure, why not."
Benn opened a door and beckoned Malic forward. The room he entered was larger than expected, a high ceiling pushed even higher by the soft lights that illuminated the room. The layout was simple, with the walls lined with display cases underneath beautifully detailed portraits, each contained within intricately carved frames.
"Let's start with these ones here." Benn directed Malic to the front left corner of the room, where two portraits were hung side by side, each depicting a village of sorts.
On the left side, a village was nestled at the foot of a towering, active volcano. The top portion was hazy, as if the very atmosphere was a dancing haze distorting the landscape. Thick columns of smoke curl up from the volcanic craters in the distance, blending into a crimson-tinged sky, where the sun casts long, jagged shadows over the black and gray earth. The fiery hues of red, orange, and gold dominate the scene, giving the village an ethereal glow as if it exists on the edge of a molten world.
The village itself seemed a testament to survival. Structures formed from volcanic rock, their walls dark and rough, as though they were shaped by the hands of the earth itself. The homes are domed, squat, and sturdy, with thatched roofs glazed by the volcanic heat, giving them a glossy sheen in the volcano's light.
The villagers in the scene are depicted with fiery intensity, mirroring the molten rivers that snake their way down the mountain. Pale skin with a ruddy hue matched by their hair of red, their garments were leather, dyed in deep reds, oranges, and browns. Every detail of their attire is rich with texture; the fabric appearing grainy and coated in ash. Thick, weathered beads of polished volcanic stones dangle from their necks and wrists, catching the light like smoldering embers. The people are shown in mid-action. Some were tending to small gardens of gray-green plants that contrast the dark soil, leading Camerupt along with plows pulled behind them. Others appear to be crafting tools and weapons, heating the metals in the flames of Magcargo. At the center of the village was a monolith, a statue that seemed to be living fire captured in stone, delicate twists of each tongue of flame making the flat portrait almost seem to move.
Malic was transfixed by the artistic detail that brought the harsh landscape to life. The slightly blurred barrier burning red skies and the soot-dark earth. The texture of the volcanic rock was captured in jagged strokes, contrasting the softness of the ashen thatch on the roofs. The people and Pokemon were all posed in such a way to convey motion, as if the portrait was merely a brief snapshot into their daily life.
The lighting throughout the scene was intense and dramatic. The sun, half obscured by smoke, casts long, burning shadows across the land, making the jagged rock formations stand out like sentinels. The various fires in the village illuminated the villagers' faces in warm, golden hues, contrasting with the dark, shadowed edges of their surroundings. The entire composition of the painting used the flow of lava as a visual guide, leading the viewer's eye from the peak of the volcano, through the village, and down to the base of the altar.
Malic could hardly tear his eyes away to the second one, only to find himself once again lost in the painted world.
On the right side of the painting, the coastline stretched out before the viewer, the vast expanse of ocean meeting the rugged cliffs of Hoenn's coast. The sky above was painted with swirling shades of deep blue, indigo, and soft violet, blending seamlessly into the horizon where the sea seems to stretch endlessly. The sun is low, casting a faint golden light across the water, which reflects back in glimmering shards of silver and blue. The colors were soft yet distinct, varying tones showing the transition from the shallow, clearer waters near the shore to the deeper, darker blues further out at sea.
The waves were in mid-crash against the cliffs, the spray from the sea captured in delicate, almost invisible brushstrokes. The water was in constant motion, the crests of the waves foaming and swirling as they broke, with each wave carefully detailed to emphasize the dynamic movement, almost as if the ocean itself was breathing.
There was a village in this portrait as well. It clung to the edge of the coastline; a collection of huts raised above the waves on weathered stilts. The huts were constructed from driftwood, their walls woven with seaweed and scales that shimmered in the faint light, catching the subtle reflection of the ocean. The roofs were thatched with layers of kelp, still wet from the morning's tide, creating a glossy, deep green texture that melded seamlessly with the sea. Thin, frayed ropes criss-crossed between the huts while worn wooden bridges connect the stilted homes, arching over shallow tidal pools below.
In the shallows, where the waves gently lapped at the coastline, small boats carved from large bones and wood are tethered to the docks, painted with intricate wave patterns. The use of negative space around the boats highlighted the peaceful nature of the water near the shore, in contrast to the more turbulent waves further out.
The people themselves were captured in light, fluid brushstrokes, mimicking the flowing motion of their garments, woven from seaweed and adorned with shells and shimmering fish scales. These garments danced with the wind, echoing the gentle sway of the ocean. Their skin is kissed by the sun, glistening with a faint layer of salt, while their hair is adorned with small beads of coral and pearls that reflect the soft light of the setting sun.
In the foreground, a group of villagers is seen at work. Some were casting nets into the sea, their bodies taut with effort as they pulled in the day's catch. Others waded knee-deep into the water, gathering seaweed or tending to the Pokémon scattered around the scene. Wailmer and a lone Wailord were off in the distance, their size almost equal to the diminutive Carvannah that leapt in the shallow waters alongside the nets.
A last group of people were more towards the center of the village, gathered around the edges of a large tidepool. The water in the pool was crystal-clear, reflecting both the sky and the ocean, creating the illusion that it stretches out endlessly. The pool itself was a focal point, with villagers gathered around its edges and items—beautifully polished shells, pearls, and coral—are placed reverently on the stone ledges that surround the pool.
Whereas the first portrait seemed ordered and structured, almost forcing the viewer's eyes from top to bottom, this seemed much freer and more chaotic, tiny details one missed the first time suddenly popping out with a hint of vibrancy or a leading brustroke. Both were opposite and yet harmonized in a way that Malic felt compelled to glance between the two over and over again.
"Beautiful, aren't they?" Benn's soft voice nearly made malic jump. He had forgotten that the older man was even in the same room as him.
Once Malic registered Benn's words, he couldn't help but nod. "They're…incredible."
Benn cleared his throat. "These are the original guardians of Hoenn. We don't know what they called themselves, but the Indigonian's called them the Tribes of Ash and Tide. Before the Indigonians arrived, they were the inhabitants of Hoenn, and guardians of the land and the sea. Back then, Hoenn was untamed, wild in a way we can hardly imagine today. The tribes lived in harmony with the world, gently guiding it rather than forcibly shaping it, and believed the elements themselves were alive with wills of their own."
Benn pointed to the left portrait. "The Tribe of Ash lived near the heart of Hoenn's volcanoes. They believed that the fire beneath the earth, or lava, was a gift from the land, a force that could either nurture life or destroy it. They revered Camerupt, which was said to be the living embodiment of Fire. They used Camerupt in nearly every aspect of their life, from guardians and labor to food and materials."
"The Tribe of Tides was a bit different" Benn now pointed to the right portrait. "Whereas the Tribe of Ash was rooted in the earth, the Tribe of Tides drifted with the sea. Their homes were able to float you see. They would stay in place for a time, then they would drift to another place, their homes pulled by the ocean and the Pokemon they had tamed. Sharpedo were among the most respected for their strength and hunting capabilities."
"How have I never heard of these tribes?" Malic was sure he would have remembered something about them had he learned about them in the first place.
"These tribes are ancient history, literally before the founding of Hoenn as we know it. But the main reason would be shown right over here." Benn guided Malic to the right, past several glass-covered display cases to another portrait.
In the background, the rugged coastline of Hoenn stretches along the horizon in a parody of the Tribe of Tides portrait. Dark blues of the ocean met the deep greens of the dense, towering forests. The trees are depicted as ancient and immense, their twisted trunks and thick canopies looming over the coast. A stormy sky cast shadows out onto the golden sands of the shore, as if trying to hide the land. Sweeping brushstrokes had waves crashing against the rocks, their foam white and frothy, violently meeting the shore and the hulls of the ships.
At the forefront, towering ships dominate the beach, their masts dividing the sky with sails still half unfurled. The ships are painted in dark, somber tones—charcoal gray, deep mahogany, and black—standing in sharp contrast to the natural colors of the Hoenn landscape. Their hulls are massive, imposing, reinforced with metal bands, making them seem almost alien.
The ships sat heavy on the sand, their keels carving deep trenches into the sand. The banners of the Indigonians, a bright blue emblazoned with a golden sun symbol, whip fiercely in the wind. The flags were painted with crisp, clean lines, sharply contrasting the wild brushstrokes used to depict the landscape.
On the beach stood a group of people, a smaller Indigonian flag planted into the sand. Hovering around the edges of the portrait were faint whisps of the darker reds and blues that featured heavily in the previous two paintings.
"The Indigonians," Benn began, his voice heavy, "came here during a time of great turmoil in their homeland—what we now call Kanto and Johto. The Indigo region was once a unified empire, but internal strife was tearing it apart. Famine and a weakening economy had fragmented the royal family's once secure hold over the land. Whispers of rebellion had made their way to the ruling king, Estoc. He was desperate to retain control, and sent ships out in different directions, searching for new resources, new territories to control, hoping that expansion would solve the problems plaguing his people."
He gestured toward the ships in the painting, their dark forms looming like harbingers of change against the wild beauty of Hoenn. "However, not all who were sent sought to return. When it was discovered by this small group of ships, Hoenn was seen as a land of promise—untouched, rich with resources, and far enough away from the internal chaos of Indigo that the crew believed they could establish a new foothold here, free from the conflicts back home. However, they hadn't counted on the land being inhabited."
Benn now turned to the other side of the room, and Malic followed. He had never heard history talked about quite like this, and he found himself hanging on every word.
"The Indigonian's recorded their interactions with both tribes, and only some of those records are still around today. But from what has been gathered, the interactions initially were actually quite peaceful. The Indigonian's traded goods to the Tribes, even primitive Apricorn Balls, in exchange for their assistance in setting up what is now known as Littleroot. And for a while, it was good. The Tribes adjusted to the Indigonian's, and the Indigonian settlers contented themselves with the plentiful and fruitful land they had found. But the fragile peace was soon shattered by the second wave of Indigonians."
"What do you mean? I thought the Indigonian's wanted to find a new place to live?"
Benn nodded. "Yes, they did. But unlike the first set of sailors and crewmen that arrived, the ones that came next were loyal soldiers of Estoc. You see, the Indigo king had placed an agent with each crew and provided them with a Pidgeot. If they found land, they felt was suitable for his needs, they would send a message and alert the king. When Estoc found out the crew had decided to settle on Hoenn and not return to him with their discovery, he flew into a rage. He sent over soldiers, hardened warriors alongside their Pokemon, and forcibly overtook the Littleroot settlement, killing many Indigonian settlers."
"They killed their own people?"
Benn's expression darkened. "Yes, they did. To King Estoc, disobedience was treason, and he ruled with an iron fist. When the settlers chose to establish a life here instead of returning to the Indigo kingdom with word of the new land, they sealed their fate. It wasn't just a military action; it was a message. Estoc wanted to assert his dominance, not just over Hoenn, but over his own people. The settlers who had dreamed of a peaceful new beginning found themselves caught in a nightmare. Many of them—men, women, children—were slain on the beach, their homes burned, their Pokémon either killed or captured. The soldiers took over the settlement and fortified it, transforming Littleroot from a humble village into a military outpost nearly overnight. And when the Tribes next visited, well…" Benn trailed off and gestured to the painting now in front of them.
The portrait was technically painted just as well as the others. However, Malic couldn't help but find it an ugly thing.
In the background, the newly reinforced walls of Littleroot loom ominously over the scene. The wooden palisades that once marked the humble village have been replaced with high, imposing earthen walls, their rough surfaces jagged and uneven, as if built hastily to fortify against any remaining resistance. The artist has painted the town in cold, muted colors—grays, browns, and blacks—draining the landscape of the warmth and vitality it once held. Littleroot now looks more like a prison than a settlement, the towering walls casting long, dark shadows.
Atop the walls, soldiers stand guard against the overcast sky. They watch impassively, their figures almost blending into the walls themselves, as if they are extensions of the stone. Behind the walls, the tops of military tents and structures are visible, their sharp angles and harsh lines contrasting with the organic, natural forms of the Hoenn landscape. Smoke rises from chimneys and bonfires within the town, creating an oppressive haze that hangs over the scene like a shroud.
The entrance to Littleroot is guarded by two large gates, reinforced with iron and engraved with the Indigonian crest—a golden sun against a field of blue, though in the painting, even this symbol of power and conquest seems dulled by the grim atmosphere. The gates are partially open, but no one enters or exits; they are merely a backdrop.
At the center of the painting, a group of Tribe traders kneel in the dirt, their faces obscured by shadows. Their backs are hunched, hands bound behind them, their heads forced into the dirt as Indigonian swords press against their necks. The dark iron of the blades catches the dim light, reflecting it with a sinister gleam. The traders' clothes, once rich with the colors of the earth and sea—deep reds, browns, and blues—are now torn and dirty, blending almost seamlessly with the dust and mud beneath them. The faces of the tribespeople were not shown, shrouded in deep shadows, leaving them as faceless symbols of defeat.
The soldiers' helmets cover their faces entirely, leaving no room for emotion or mercy. The steel of their swords is gleaming, and the way they are held—hovering just above the skin of the kneeling traders—suggests a cold, calculated readiness to strike. The tension in the posture of the soldiers, with their feet planted firmly in the ground, contrasts with the resigned, slumped forms of the traders.
The entire painting made bile rise in the back of Malic's throat, and he tore his eyes from it.
Benn had continued talking, his eyes misted over, like he was in a dream. "The Tribes were furious of course. They had lived in harmony with themselves and the land for countless generations, and in the span of a few months, these invaders had desecrated Hoenn and stained the land with Tribe blood. So, they replied in turn, attacking Littleroot over and over again. But the Tribes were unused to war, while the Indigonians were trained for it. Step by step, mile by mile, the Indigonian's expanded their hold on the land, advancing until they reached here, Oldale."
"Oldale began as a simple trade post, a fortified hold in the Hoenn wilderness. Its main purpose was to stockpile and gather resources for use in expansion as well as to send back to Indigo. It was established with a garrison of soldiers and a new wave of farmers, craftsmen, and laborers who had been sent over from Indigo. The main military force continued on its way, and for the most part, Oldale didn't experience much in the way of war. The Tribes held a profound respect for the land and its natural balance. To them, war was not about domination or destruction, but a way to maintain equilibrium between man, Pokémon, and nature. Oldale, being a small settlement, was not seen as a direct threat to this balance. The tribes believed that attacking Oldale, especially a supply depot that wasn't directly involved in the military operations, would risk further damaging the natural harmony they sought to preserve. The destruction of resources or lives in a place that had not yet spilled blood on tribal lands would only bring negative spiritual consequences, as they believed the land and sea would retaliate."
Benn's eyes softened as he led Malic toward a series of smaller paintings. The first one depicted a dense, shadowed forest, dappled in sunlight, with two figures in the foreground—a young girl and a boy, their faces half-hidden by the trees. The Boy, young as he was, stood tall, sun-kissed skin visible through the half open, orange leather vest. A spear was gripped in his hand with a Torkoal by his side, smoke curling around the both of them. Behind him, peering around his shoulder, was a young girl with hair like sunlight and skin as pale as milk, with blue eyes that sparkled in a way similar to the ocean.
"Ah, this is where the story takes a more human turn," Benn said, his voice reverent. "While Littleroot and the tribes were locked in conflict, Oldale became the backdrop for a love story that would change the course of the war."
Malic blinked, intrigued by the sudden shift from war to love. Benn continued, his words carrying a song-like quality.
"An Indigonian girl, a settler from Oldale, was known for her curiosity, and always pushing the boundaries set by her family and the military. One day, she slipped past the fortified walls of Oldale, determined to explore the forbidden forests surrounding the town. But as she wandered deeper, she found herself cornered by a wild Pokémon. Her cries for help went unanswered by her people, for she had ventured too far into the woods. But they were heard by a boy from the Tribe of Ash who was passing by."
Benn pointed to the boy in the painting, his posture strong but gentle, standing between the girl and the shadowed Pokémon in the bottom left, his spear raised in defense. "He saved her that day, and though they came from two worlds at war, something changed in both of them. For years after, she would sneak out of Oldale, meeting him in the forest, and they fell in love."
A second painting depicted the boy and girl grown. The boy had grown tall, his fiery hair midway down his back and his body toned and faintly scarred. The girl had blossomed into a beautiful woman, her hair fluttering behind her with clear blue eyes gazing devoutly at her lover. Malic's gaze drifted to the intricate details of the painting, the small, tender gestures between the two—a soft smile, the girl's hand resting gently on the boy's arm.
"For a while, they were happy. Until one day, an Indigonian man, a soldier who desired her hand, grew suspicious of her disappearances. He followed her into the forest and discovered her relationship with the Ash Tribe boy. Furious and driven by jealousy, he alerted the guards of Oldale. When the truth came to light, she was sentenced to death for consorting with the enemy. But before they could carry out the sentence, she escaped into the forest, where she found refuge with her lover."
Benn's voice lowered to nearly a whisper. "When the guards came for her, the boy defended her, fighting them off before revealing to her his true identity—he was the son of the Chief of the Tribe of Ash. He took her back to his village, where she found sanctuary among his people, albeit with much scrutiny. For a time, she was safe, and she bore him a daughter in secret, far from the eyes of the Indigonians." The painting depicted the couple standing in a grove, their child cradled in the woman's arms, the forest offering them a brief moment of peace. But Benn's next words shattered that peace.
"One day, a scout from the Tribe of Ash brought word that a portion of the Indigo forces had returned to Oldale. After hearing the rumor that one of their own had been in relations with the Tribes and escaped punishment, a Captain sentenced the remaining members of her family to death in her place. When others spoke up in their defense, they were beaten and restrained for defiance. The whole colony of Oldale was in a panic."
"What did she do?"
Benn smiled. "Despite the way her people had treated her, she begged her lover to protect her family—her parents, her friends, the innocents of Oldale. The boy, moved by her desperation and love, convinced the Tribe of Ash to follow him into battle to protect the people of Oldale."
Benn's voice grew somber, his eyes clouded with the weight of what came next. "The Tribe of Ash arrived just in time to interrupt the executions. The battle was fierce, and the boy fought valiantly to protect the woman he loved and her family, his devoted Torkoal by his side. But, in the end, he was struck down after throwing his body between the jealous soldier and his lover, though not before piercing the soldier's throat with his spear."
Malic's throat tightened, the tragedy settling in his gut like a stone. He glanced at the third painting, the figure of the boy lying bloody on the ground, his hand outstretched toward the girl, who reached for him with teary eyes.
"Heartbroken but determined, the woman took up the mantle of leadership," Benn spoke softly once more. "She rallied the people of Oldale, urging them to stand against the tyranny of the Indigonians. Her love for the boy, for their child, gave her the strength to fight. Under her leadership, the people of Oldale began to resist the Indigonian leadership and became the first point for Hoenn's resistance to the Indigonians.
Malic's eyes flicked between the paintings and Benn. "What happened to her?"
Benn smiled faintly, his eyes glinting with respect. "No one knows for sure. Some versions claim she died on the front lines. Others claim she lived out her days in Oldale, never remarrying and dedicating herself to her child."
"And what do you think happened to her?" Malic questioned with a pensive look on his face.
"I like to think she found happiness once more. Maybe not the same kind that she once had, but enough that her life was filled with joy. Of course, that could just be my sentimental side showing."
Malic was silent for a long time before nodding slowly. "I think that's a good way to look at it,"
"Perhaps. But that's the beauty of history, isn't it? We have no way of truly knowing what happened, so all we can do is interpret what we do know with our own opinions. We can look at the same events, the same figures, and see different things. That's why we keep these stories alive. Not just to remember, but to learn from them." Benn blushed lightly as he realized how loud he had gotten by the end of his little speech and coughed into his hand. "At least, that's my take on it."
Malic grinned before remembering a question that had been on his mind since he first saw the artwork. "Benn, do you happen to know who painted these? They're…amazing, beyond anything I had ever imagined a painting could be! I mean, just the brushwork alone must have taken forever."
"I take it you're an art fan. Well, I'm afraid I don't know. They were donated anonymously back when I was first putting this museum together. There isn't a signature on any of them either." Malic couldn't help but feel a sting of disappointment.
He had never really given much thought to painting; his sketches were enough for him, and the orphanage couldn't afford paints and brushes. But seeing what someone could accomplish with paint and brush, he had this sudden urge well up inside him. Could he do something like that?