Heavy footsteps stride over the snowy tundra, crunching the white earth beneath them with every step. Two pokemon, a Gardevoir and his fiery companion carry themselves through the vast fields of nothingness. Whenever they stop to catch their breaths, Azur is swift to uncork a bottle of Chestro then shove it down his throat. By miracle of his typing or the healing ales provided to him, Azur marches on through the snowy colds without so much as taking an unassuming nap.
Glaciers tower in the distance, though none of these catch their eye as his companion turns his gaze eastward, to a mountain wherein his target lies. The Gardevoir reaches his own map, unfurling for both of them to see. The map, whatever mystery material is is made from, glows faint in the eternal twilight. A wonder map, a few of a kind given the signature from Percival at its bottom left.
A couple of words have been lingering on Isvar's tongue since they left, many of whom do not have the heart, nor knowledge to answer, and much are directed towards the conduct of his "partner".
What about Azur, what is so important to make the Honchkrow a while back suffer more? This continent is in clear decay, and for what? Isvar has only the slightest idea, though the thought of him worsening the lives of the few left which makes his stomach churn.
"Why do you think it is wise to stir Winter?" Isvar asks. "There are few who the federation lacks the tools to handle, and I dare not say this Winter is among them. I'd just rather we don't disturb her."
Azur gradually comes to a halt. He exhales a plume of warm air, then glances back at Isvar.
"We are not going to fight her, I believe I do not have to make this clear to you." Azur speaks. "We are only going to ask her questions, the same way we treat every other pokemon - be they of fabled blood or not."
The plates of Isvar's armor rattle as he exhales an anxious sigh.
"We came in search of answers and I think we've found what we were looking for. I don't believe stoking the slumbering Beartic's ought to do us good." Isvar goes off, standing as firm and speaking as sternly as his mind permits "The superiority card is easy to pull on a freshly appointed crime boss; it will not work on a Legendary."
Azur smirks in the face of Isvar's worries.
"Do not take me as uneducated - I'd never pull such a card against one who could freely blast us into oblivion, yet alone a legend. This 'Winter' is entirely out of my influence." The Gardevoir flicks open the journal he has graciously borrowed from the honchkrow and opens it to a marked page. "Besides, she dares not dip her talons in matters outside that which concerns her flock.. We've no worry lest we threaten her followers directly."
Before Isvar can catch a single glimpse of the Honchkrow's journal, Azur shuts the book and stows it underneath his dark gambeson. He flashes his partner a satisfied smirk.
"Was there anything else you'd like to question me on, Isvar?"
Plenty, far too much to list in a brief smattering of seconds. What makes the pet project of the Federation, helmed by its superiors with too much time on their hands, so important as to wake legends from their rest? Ideas whirl about his mind clawing for some fact or answer to latch them into existence. Isvar draws a short breath as he speaks…
…but he cannot, he has yet to find the right words to say to his partner - yet alone the words most ripe for this moment. No sound escapes Isvar's nonexistent mouth and nothing gleams within his ghostly eyes. The ghost-type's gaze remains steadfast, frozen during its bid to think of any kind of response.
Take a look at this explorer! Can't even fend himself! Watch him curl over and stick his belly up!
A voice pierces him like a needle at the back of his head - hitting his nonexistent fleshy cranium from whence he was a little fire-type. A piece of himself which stuck through his death and beyond, spites his living self.
No, don't. Keep a heel in reality as you've always done. This will not phase you, yet.
A second voice, more matured, shushes out the other. He can feel the other squealing in the annals of his mind, pouting, trying to say something before-
"...we will keep on moving, then." The Gardevoir ends the bickering, as he marches onwards through the snow. "Is there any left you'd like to say?"
Certainly, far too much to say, but at this moment nothing rises to his tongue.
He is better off saving this for another time, Isvar tells himself, another time. Bottle all of this up then let it burst when they make land in the Federation.
Isvar shakes his head. Azur leads them through the hills of dusk-lit snow, leading them to a distant, quiet glacier
Without going into too much about her past, there are a couple things she knows about Guildies, Societies, Governance or whatever she is happy to tell the likes of Greenhorn here.
"And so we're not Guildies, right?" Oz, Floragato asks.
The three supposed 'explorers' traipse down the dimly lit streets of Capim Town. Shutters slam, doors lock as they make their way out of the coastal town. The gentle smell of the sea mixed in with the verdant greens of the grass continent blows through their nostrils, the latter scent becoming stronger with each step.
"No, we're-"
The Roserade leading the flock glances back at the two. Oz has his fingers in a knot, practicing something with the rose-shaped bud at the end of a sinous twine while Blackmore keeps her eyes crossed, scouring the horizon like a predator at night.
Chrysan quickly scolds the thief of their group. "-why don't you just tell him already instead of sitting there all quiet, Babygirl? Do you want us to get busted? You behave like a babe who just snagged the jar of gummies.'
"One, why are you calling me a babe?" Blackmore's crest feathers plume out. "Two - I-I am just keeping an eye out for us, okay?"
"Sure you are, you can do that without fidgeting in place the entire time looking like you've got something you wanna say!" Roserade scolds. "That's how that big guy caught you two, didn't he?"
The Sawsbuck? Oh of course Chrysan knows about the Sawsbuck; way throw more onto her stack of failures. Heck, Chrysan probably knows more than he's willing to let on!
"Okay, okay, we're…" Blackmore takes one look between her two would-be companions and swallows her pride in a big old gulp. "We're Idies, Team Lavender-"
"And you're just gonna tell them not to ask!" Oz scoffs. "You didn't tell me about our other options and you decided we're indies?"
"I'd have chosen indie too." The Roserade shrugs, continuing to walk while the bickering pokemon traipse behind him. "Got a problem being labelled nobodies? It is not the worst thing to happen to us today, you know?"
Oz folds his arms and shakes his head, letting out a frustrated sigh.
"I wanna know the difference, okay? Say I got a choice between being Indie or Guildie."
Why does someone like Oz - who clearly has more education than the rest of them - who probably has a noble lineage they're hiding behind all their pouting, is making demands to know basic information? It is not her job to amuse or to pry greenhorn but she is happy to go off if it means he keeps the yap of his shut on the way to the Circus.
What they are going to is not a circus, it is a test of feats - a competition held by those stuffy idiots back on the Mist Continent. Everything is a game for those people there, everyone wants to watch battles and learn about battles so they can think of themselves as heroes. Every now and again, a group emerges to draw these gawkers to flood the place like Venmoth to an open fire.
Something clearly has to be important enough to hold a circuit in the Grass Continent other than its usual stories outsiders hear about. There has to be other people just like them working for guilds, for thieving bands or societies who have their eyes on this prize. The prize being- wait a minute…
"Okay, so what is this thing, Chrysan?" Blackmore asks. Chrysan stops a few short hops away from where the cobble roads end. "Y'know, I don't wanna throw myself into the fire without knowing what I've signed up to, gotcha?"
"Y-yeah! I ain't gonna do so either!" Oz sputters out in agreement..
Chrysan scoffs at them, shaking his head before he continues up the roadway. His words cut through their defenses in a fell swoop.
"That's for me to worry about and for you to ask the captain."
He is their superior, after all. Nevermind how pirates care little about rank and more about camaraderie. Sir Knows-Everything here obviously has something he is hiding which Blackmore is keen to unravel. And pretending to be satisfied with her answer, she keeps on following. Oz also trails the Roserade.
"Hey, you wanted to hear about what I knew, right? The big world-things?" Blackmore turns to Oz, smiling. "Y'wanted to know?"
The answer is obvious when Oz breathes a sigh and his ears flick in attention. Blackmore, collecting herself, continues where she left off.
"So there's three, or more, right…"
There's only so many types in these lands. A couple of them are more labels than everything, while the rest are tried and true factions who pirates like they know best to stay away from her. Beginning her spiel is the not-so-favorites of the criminal world:.
Guildies are those who fall under the Federation banner but are not the full Federation lackeys. They are what everyone thinks of as an explorer, general good doers who're being puppetered around by the federation itself. Though they mean well, they still are guild lackeys.
Worse than them are the other-types of Guildies, same sorts but they're directly employed by the Federation themselves and have way more connections. Call them by whatever one likes, Blackmore labels them as Feddies, they are easily seen by their darkly clad guild apparel and answer only to the stuck up leaders of the world.
And at last, there are the Indies. Indies were at some point supposed to be every explorer who deem themselves a Rescue Team or something without fully assigning themselves to the federation nor its numerous guilds it has its tendrils in. These are people who only want to support their community, and as of late - anyone who refuses to assign themselves to a Feddie-associated group. This means every little Society out there is now considered Indies regardless of structure.
Blackmore belongs to the latter camp, which is why she became a pirate in the first place - to leave everything resembling structure or guildie bickering to the wayside. Yet no matter how far she makes it this force of explorer nonsense follows like a shadow.
Blackmore exhales after blathering her mouth off for far too long. Chrysan's gaze is first to befall her.
"Look, I've not the slightest clue who you wanna disguise ourselves as, got that? I just wanted to decide our name, and that name is-" The Weavile stays her tongue, looking upon her two companions. "Chrysan? What do you think?"
"What do I think? Everyone/'s gonna think we're guildies from parts unknown." The Roserade laughs. "What did you name ourselves again?"
Team Lavender. Blackmore regrets ever saying anything about it.
"Team Lavender, yeah, and it will be." Blackmore declares once again. "Unless you two ought to fight me over this."
And to her delight, her partners raise no quarrel.
"Good," Blackmore sighs, repeating to her fellow for the umpteenth time, "we're just some indies who have a knack for battling and talents, understand?"
There is no whining from her friends. They are all in the same boat after all, so why is she worrying herself silly over a contest?
"And are we gonna give up? Or do we have our heads in the game?" She raises a claw, the others in her troop reply with unethusiastic 'yeahs'.
Blackmore is enjoying this, maybe a little too much. Her two companions smirk her way, and she grins back at the tricke ahead. Beneath towering sheets of fabric are two lanes feeding into the show, and flying types man the counters, stamping each group as they come along. Blackmore chuckles, raising her voice.
"Team Lavender's gonna make its mark tonight."
Sheltering the visitors are gargantuan tarps sewn by a legion of bug types, a shadow stares out their office window. They draw a deep, concerned breath, watching the commotion down below as microscopic-looking pokemon go scurry into their places for the games to come. come. Nothing else in this world satisfies him more than seeing his machinations come to fruition - nothing short of running a guild could reach such satisfaction.
Blue, Green, Red, Yellow, they really do not care what color their scarves the people down below don - everyone's the same to him.
A bored growl from his guard awakens him out of his ponderous stupor. He is expecting the creature, Chien Pao - to snuggle up in front of their desk and purr but they don't. The fanged beast lets out a growl of dissatisfaction as he coils underneath him and glares at him.
"Kitty, I politely request you keep whatever irks you on the low." The floating legendary speaks down to the other in the room, his own serpent-like coiling around his towering figure. "Lest it be an adversary of yours, what visitor could possibly irk you? I've already cast out the inventations, every exploration team with their salt - indie or otherwise will answer its call."
A warbling sound echoes from Chien-Pao and booms throughout the office. They lay their head in their front paws, snarling in defeat. The figure sipping on his wine is able to interpret these animalistic noises as a long winded criticism.
"Dear oh dear, why the silence? Do you think my conduct is crude? I am no less nor greater than those I tempt with invitations. " The pink legendary laughs, filling the air with his snide drivel. A lick of wine upon his mouth draws him right back to reality. "You should know that I am an equal opportunist! No matter the color of one's scarf, I welcome them to my games!"
The icy feline warbles out a complaint.
"Just like you welcomed that killer back into your fold?"
The pinkish, humanoid figure whirls around and faces Chien-Pao. Enamorus swiftly retorts.
"Oh nonsense! Aqua suggested he be brought back, and I duly trust her judgment just as I trust yours! She and her fellows were swift to quell the rising calamity in the Mist Continent, real superstars their lot!" The pink legend clears his throat. "Lucy - oh yes - that was the gal's name. Don't act as though you can't remember her!"
The ice-cat hisses in defeat. The floating humanoid takes a short sip of wine and continues to prattle.
"And I'd have paid them handsomely if they were insistent upon it, so don't you growl at me!": The pink legendary laughs. "I still yield thy sword, I am not the sort of lout to yield it like a toy - you know this well enough about me."
He could have done with a team of champions, a squadron of pokemon seduced by his immortal gaze - the finest warriors who will kneel and obey their every command, anything could have done him better than having only one pokemon to his command. He was hoping to have more than the couple of champions he has on call, but not a single person from the Mist Continent seems keen on answering his beckons.
"Oh~ Chien!" Enamorus shouts. "Can you play one of those auto-tunes? Put it down on the player so I can think for a second."
A distinct pause overcomes the office space as Cien-Pao slithers its way to the back wall. They palm giant shelves full of circular discs until their paws wreath around one of them, one they are sure they have not played before. Without even looking at the sleeve nor the disc itself, they veer around and slam the disc into the slot of an overly complicated box.
Mechanics whirl inside of it, then a brass horn atop the contraption billows out a dismal tune. Slowly, the silence of Enamorus' office becomes overtaken by a bellow of saxophones.
"Good, good, good little kitty." Enamorus laughs. "Now, now, did you spot anything peculiar in our applicants I have failed to notice?"
The living weapon nods its head to the sky, then lowers it. The two, jutting fangs from its mouth keep it from resting its head.
"I've looked over everything, J- Enamorus." Chien-Pao bite their tongue before continuing "Of the many who have answered your call, there are a few 'teams' which stand out to me."
"Enamorus." The legendary is swift to correct his living weapon; he takes a long draft of his brew. He tosses the wine glass aside, and an unseen psychic force carries the glass out of sight. "I've told you once, and I will not tell you again. Just because you are bequeathed such knowledge does not permit you to call me by my name!"
Enamorus' yellow eyes stare straight through the living weapon. And before their pet responds, he reaches into the cloud beneath his torso and tucks upon an ancient corroded blade. It rattles something within the heart of the living weapon, causing them to instantly shiver and shriek as they instantly kneel at Enamorus' cloud-covered heels. Enamorus laughs.
"Good Kitty."
Enamorus pats the creature on its skull as they release his hold. He folds his arms, glaring down at the creature as he backs away.
"Now tell me, who are these unusual fellows you've locked your eyes upon? What are the names of their Teams, and should I fear for my dear old life?"
Chien-Pao grumbles. The not at all gentle purr of this killer legendary fills the office space, and their handler is not the least perturbed.
"There were plenty of explorers, milord - dozens of them. I'm sure a repertoire of their persons lie upon your desk." Chien-Pao speaks.
"Of course, dearie, I'm much too aware! You and the hirlings from my Battle League have done much to flood my table with needless drivel." Enamorus glances towards their desk wherein a comedic stack of papers lie. "I've too many to look through tonight, from Indies, to Criminals claiming they're indies, to Explorers and those fools who call themselves Societies.. I've little time for each claim save for three seconds and a stamp of my approval."
"Oh but ye should s-spare more, milord! My eyes are diligent, they have scanned each and everyone of these parchments since you stew me from my slumber." The ice-cold feline paws in the direction of Enamorus' hidden blade. "Though I may not have awoken in time to see all of them, that which I see is most concerning, specifically one guest team in particular."
One in particular? Oh no, it sounds like some guild has put it upon themselves to infiltrate his fair and just competition. It cannot be! And as tempted as he is to whirl around to face the sword-pokemon, he instead remains gazing out of his office space down upon the empty field. Dozens upon dozens of bug types continue to sew a gigantic sheet of canopy deep into the night, clouding all those below in much-needed shade. Several rings encircle a showfloor below, a flat, circular surface with nothing else to it.
This is the same as every other inter-continental game, but now there is someone tempting to destroy the sanctity of his plays? What unrighteous curs!
"What is it, 'C?" Enamorus stares the icy legendary down, his glare peeling at their wintery pelt. "Who would be so bold as to defy the Fighter's League, hmm? I've witnessed plenty of claims from many ambitious ilk, and nary do they reach the skies before they burst into storms of flame."
"Nothing, milord!"
He does not even need to look Chien-Pao in their onyx, blank eyes, he can sense dissenters enough alone. Enamorus rattles the rusted sword, and the creature lets out a pained yelp, folding instantly. The two, metallic sword-fangs protruding from their maw quiver and shake with agony, and the eyes above them light with fear.
"M-milord, please! I protest!"
Enamorus relinquishes his grasp, there is no point pushing down the pedal more than need be. Facing down his subservient treasure, he cocks his head aside. A sinister smile curls up the edges of his lips.
"Pray tell, do speak of these mystery guests of ours."
"Just another fellow! Nay, the fellows like the ones you had me hired long ago!" Chien-Pao rattles in place, shaking off the pain, staring at their pinkish master. "They dare not breathe their names, they kept it swift, and only told of their Team's Moniker. Team Lavender they be!"
And before he has the chance to ask what in the world this means, their hound continues.
"Team Lavender: Roserade, Weavile, Florgato! They are unaffiliated with any guild my liege, and joined the competition within moments of closing hour!"
What a name Team Lavender is! Are they criminals, unsavory louts?. No - no! They cannot be! The Circuit welcomes all; ex-criminals, explorers, and actual criminals alike! This is a competition for every person beneath the shining sun.
"Why'd they hide from me, what made them come so late?" Emaorus' words slip from his glossy white lips. "I am the head and sole proprietor of the Fighter's League! Do you think these people fear me?"
There is a pause from the creature at their feet. Chien-Pao's dark eyes glance up upon him, pleading, begging for them to brush this question aside.
"I fear you plenty, milord!" Chien-pao hisses quietly.. "I fear you plenty, but I still writhe in constant worry. This new Team, they are unlike any explorers nor independents, nor even criminals! This trio and their tardiness marks them as peculiar, and I beg you give them the same heed as I have!"
There is no sense wringing out this poor feline for anything else. Enamorus finally eases up on the grasp of an ancient hilt hidden in his clouded lower body. He flutters up to the precipice towards a window overlooking the games below.
Entertainment, Battling and Charisma - these are the three totems which have made the League famed on the Mist Continent, and these are which he intends to introduce to the ever-diligent people of the Grass Continent. Unknown teams, or conspirators be damned, Enamorus intends to see this competition to its end.
He sighs, satisfied with his work, then turns to his bickering two-pronged tooth servant.
"If you're so scared, then I command you to keep an eye on this Team. Do not let them escape your gaze, and do report anything queer to yours truly."
The icy feline bows its head. With a leap and bound, they dash out of the office space within seconds, vanishing into the rows below to keep their eyes on everything and everyone beneath the gargantuan drapes. Yet still, above, Enamorus can see everything from his glass. Hundreds of figures scurry about the open field below, preparing for day one's troubles. Many others dwell in their hovels, waiting for their respective turns and sheltering teams for the coming war.
It is all so satisfying to him, much, much better when there no longer is the wretch of a legendary - sorry, weapon - chewing out his ear.