This fic is a sequel from TTBOD, though the side story of this universe may provide some extra context in the future, it is not required reading.
The temp cover is done by weebawoof. This story has the same warnings as TTBOD as well as mentions of possible SH. You've been warned.
"Evidently, these are not the answers we seek. I trust you know why."
The flicker of a fireplace casts a glow upon three pokemon. The tallest stands firm, observing from the shade while the two sit in cushiony seats. The smallest of them, though it's not to say any of them were runts, dons a feathery hat. It ill-fits a Honchkrow who has recently taken up the mantle. The little boss' red eyes cannot hope to match the intensity of his two visitors as he glares back at them.
"What answers do you want?" The Honchkrow asks. "We're a mailing business, we're not a criminal empire! And were we before, what difference does it make? I'm the one in charge now. I can promise you I have been keeping a watchful eye on the family, and I can say for certain I would be first to know of any unscrupulous behavior."
The tall one standing across from Honchkrow pauses. The silent crackle of the fireplace is inevitably broken by a deep sigh as the figure leans forward, the fire illuminating the blue-haired, and white bodied shape of a Gardevoir. The figue clasps its fingers together.
"You are the patriarch by line of succession, yes?" The Gardevoir speaks in a softly masculine voice.
"Of course." The Honchkrow nods.
"And that the two who perished for your position - this being your former Honchkrow and your overboss both disappeared suddenly in mysterious circumstances?" Gardevoir's voice morphs into an accusatory tone. "I hear there was only held an honorary funeral for your former Honchkrow, that his body lie unfound and your Murkrow could attest to this pitiful display of yours."
There is a twitch in Honchkrow's eyes as his brow furrows. He pushes down his undersized hat in what seems to be a vain attempt to hide his blistering anger, it is quickly seen through by everyone in the room.
"What are you implying?" The Honchkrow speaks. "We could not find his body because it was lost in a dungeon, I was told this b-"
"By whom?"
Honchkrow's beak moves, nothing leaves it. The bird slowly shakes his head.
"By the Krows, my Krows."
The old cushiony chair creaks as Gardevoir rises onto his feet. He steps forwards, Honchkrow flinches, and he turns his gaze towards the fireplace, crossing his arms with a displeased sigh.
"We here at the Federation have a code of conduct for all of our affiliated guilds; imprison and reformation, fine the criminals who can be fined, imprison and reform those who cannot afford siad fines. There are those we make exceptions to however, but we spare such fates for those who would commit the gravest of acts." Gardevoir's dress fans the flames as he turns with dramatic flare. "Said barbaric lots are beyond redemption, wouldn't you say?"
Honchkrow says nothing. His feathers bristle, then shrink immediately as Gardevoir takes one step closer and leans down, leveling himself with the shrivelling bird.
"The Federation has many more resources than what to do with, though as of late, we're rather short changed. Would you inconvenience a business partner by having them spend time and wealth in search of answers you can readily disclose?" Gardevoir speaks coldly. "Or do you have something to hide? Guilt, perchance? I can see it within those eyes you shy from me."
The words linger through the charcoal-smelling air. Honchkrow, restrained to his chair by Gardevoir's words, resigns to his fate. It takes what feels like an hour for Honchkrow to muster up his words.
"What do you want from me?"
Gardevoir walks away, passing his seat and nodding in acknowledgement at the man observing this unfold - a tall, armoured phantom whose bladed arms remain holstered, a Ceruledge. Gardevoir grants this man an affirmative nod, letting him know to play along. Cerulege watches as Gardevoir approaches the other end of this long room where four pedestals stand, two are missing their glass and contents, while the others contain bits of unknown metal.
"Your overboss was famous for her collection. Dragon-types tend to covet certain things, hers were historical artifacts. She would go above and beyond to add more to her hoard so she can brag all about them to those who conduct business with her." Gardevoir glances at the two sets of metals - one a stark-white steel, the other a bitch-black iron. "The Federation was still wounded from what a Temporal Thief had done to them, and so we helped her officiate her scavenger hunt in order to prevent an alike disaster from occurring."
"The events of what would happen here are an embarrassment to the Guild Federation. We had suspected she was willing to go to certain lengths to acquire especially strange artifacts, two of whom unrelated to the hunt are now missing, and those two are of interest to us."
Gardevoir holds his hands behind his back as he lurches across the room towards the still trembling Honchkrow. His soft footsteps sound like the hammering of gavels in the dreadful silence.
"You will tell me how and where she acquired the items which were stolen from here, as evidently she had not acquired them through legal means." Gardevoir states succinctly. "You are the only one who can answer this."
"A-And what if I don't?" Honchkrow stutters.
"You already know the answer."
Honchkrow does - his question was a foolish one. With a pitiful patter of wings, he flings himself off of his chair onto his legs. He beckons Gardevoir over as they head towards a desk, behind which is an empty wine rack, now stuffed to the brim with maps and scrolls where there were once thousands of red beverages. Honchkrow opens up a locked cupboard and as he gingerly reaches for what is inside, Gardevoir simply swipes the thing from his wings. It is an old notebook.
"Hey-" The fledgeling Honchkrow sounds utterly offended. "That belongs to my old boss, okay? Bring it back, don't take anything out from it! I swear I'll know!"
"We have numerous mail pokemon beneath our wings - some within you very family. The journal will be given to you once we've combed through all its relevant information." Gardevoir shoves the journal into a black satchel. "The Federation thanks you for your cooperation."
Without a word Gardevoir turns towards the exit - two fanciful wooden doors which stick out in the stone-hewn interior. He beckons the Ghost with a nod as Ceruledge follows him. The doors open with an unseen force then close behind him to an old foyer. Outside a front desk collects dust from an ever-growing absence of customers and the dusk sun creeps in through paned windows. The only sounds are those of muffled feet up above, because as derelict as the desk seems, people of this continent still need their mail.
Ceruledge's explorers instincts kick in as he waits for a disturbance, any kind of sign someone is listening to them. A feeling in his chest bubbles to the surface then tells him what he needs to know: they are in the clear.
"What are we, Azur?" Ceruledge speaks his 'partner's' name.
"Members of the Federation's Inner Branch." The Gardevoir named Azur simply answers.
"Ah, pardon my confusion then, we were behaving a mighty lot like criminals in there." Ceruledge huffs. "I hate this line of work."
"As do I, but someone must do it, Isvar." Azur falls back on his tried and true defence, but this time he is not hiding behind some sense of duty. He seems a bit more genuine than usual. "We have gotten what we are looking for without quarrel, I'm sure the Federation - alongside every good mannered pokemon would be pleased."
"Good mannered pokemon who don't get to learn about this until it's too late or it's done already." Isvar sighs.
Words which come from his ghostly heart. What good is this preventative work, this espionage and intimidation? Isvar walks past Azur and stares out the window at a land once teeming with trade, now little bigger than a typical settlement, with much of the tents below left to be claimed by either the elements or travelling vagrants. This place, this entire land known as the Dusk Continent, feels hollow to him.
"Azur…what happened to this place?"
"It is still teeming with life, there are still people here. Historically the Dusk Continent and its sister has always been…tumultuous." Azur states, walking up behind Isvar to stand alongside him. "You can brush up on historical literature when we return to Federation HQ."
"I know, I-" Isvar nearly snaps. Biting on his nonexistent tongue, he restrains himself. "What happened to the guild - this continent?"
The Gardevoir sighs, already moving towards the long, spiraling staircase leading them down to the base of this gigantic rock. His words echo slightly.
"An answer you'll have to wrest from the unaffiliated to the North." Azur waves nonchalantly overhead. "Come along now. Our carriage is waiting, and Lapiz Town's dock fees are not cheap."
The answers Isvar can wrestle from the hands of the Anomalous Society or he can take freely from the tome belonging to the Honchkrow of that time - of during the calamity years ago. If his appointed partner is going to behave like a criminal…what is borrowing a sneak peek?
"Ahh! Thief!"
The words send a jolt down a Weavile's spine. Her head crest flaps wildly as she swerves right around to the sound of the voice: a little four legged creature. The electrike shrieks att them. The tent they are in is stuff full of pelts - of foods - of things collected from the wild lands. These are the stuff supposed "civilised" people are too squeamish to get for themselves; a pretty penny on the black market. And just because they are out of town, does not mean anyone can cause enough of a fuss to ruin their livelihoods.
A table of furs separates her from this Electrike. Its eyes widen at the weavile where hers narrow in onto the poor thing. Its shriek has yet to rally the forces - at least not now - as it turns its gaze towards the exit of the tent. Right at this moment, the Weavile leaps into action.
She swipes one of her claws down in a deadly Slash, the eletrike coming inches from meeting its end as it careeens to a halt just in time as she leaps over it and blocks its way out. With her in the way thereis no choice for this thing but to do what most outlanders do: fight and scream. It lashes out at her with a panicked Bite
Typical; the creature jumps, latching its jaws onto her arm with a dark-type move. It stings, but otherwise its ts fail to cut particularly deep.
The Weavile glances over the tent to the table of furs in the middle. She sprints forward, and in a devastating chop, brings the Electrike down like a hammer. The table shattering to splinters, the thing lets go only for its to shoot electric-type
move skyward - grazing Weavile's feathery crest.
Damn! She just combed them over this morning! Weavile lashes back at the thing, and rather than cut it to ribbons, she grabs onto the nearest blunt object and slams it right into the poor Electric type. A piece of the table knocks the daylights out of her target as her anger slowly pipes down.
This should not have happened. Where is her partner in this? She grabs the Electrike by its muzzle, dragging it outside to where she receives her answer. Across from her, a bipedal grass type is wrapping a long series of vine-like ropes around the maw of a Manetric.
"Hey, thought I told you to do that after we've cleaned here!" The Weavile yells to the grass cat who shoots up at the sound of her voice. "That big guy's already unconcious!"
Floragato's ears twitch with frustration as he leaves his work half-complete. He looks over to see the Electrike being dragged alon gas Weavile approaches him. His demeanor swiftly changes as he sputters out his words.
"Y-You said to tie 'em up! I'm tying them up!" The Floragato laments. "You didn't say when!"
"I thought it was obvious - guess I thought wrong!" Weavile sighs, tossing the body of the feral aside. Being on the job prevents her from saying anything further, but howdy does she want to yell at the fellow. "Look - just tie this one up. We're gonna wrap it up in the fabrics and drag 'em back to the ship, the boss will decide what to do with 'em, probably ransom him off! This was supposed to be a quick cut and grab…"
Floragato goes about trying to say something before she drops the body of the Electrike at his feet. Immediately, he begins pulling out vines upon vines from his fluff, and ties this creature up. She goes back into the tent before she can hear more as she starts plucking everything she can which is not nailed to the ground - furs of pokemon, ivory jewelry - typical outlander things which do not bother her in the slightest.
Plenty of rugs, plenty of fabrics, all of which are worth their weight in coin but as she delves through the tent she is looking for something more - something which will put a rightful end to her constant search. Then, in the back, hidden beneath a pile of fabrics a faint glimmer catches her eye.
The Weavile dashes across the tent, snatching the box. She slams it upon the table and wedges her claws into its seam. After a minute of fiddling the box clicks open, revealing all its contents for her to ogle at. Hidden underneath a mound of coins is a lone piece of parchment, too yellowed and ancient to be part of any traveller's journal. She plucks the paper from the box's contents.
It feels delicate in her claws, much too old and ancient to be something freely passed around. The paper is damp in her hands, threatening to crumble to pieces at the slightest mistreatment. The Weavile unfurls the paper slowly, and carefully. As Weavile flips it over she sees four prongs of a large, ancient emblem. Beneath it reads-
"B-Blackmore?!"
The incessant wine of a Floragato cuts her short. She closes the box, kicks it back into the pile, then swiftly stuffs the fragile paper into her satchel, praying whatever is in there survives the constant abuse of a thief's life.
"Yeah-yeah, we're good!" Blackmore responds to the Floragato. "If they're tied up then we ought to go, got a wrap ready for the little guy?
As she leaves the hut she gets her answer. The Grass type is already awkwardly trying to stuff the electrike into a roll of carpet. Blackmore helps out by splaying the creature as far out as it can be before she begins wrapping the long carpet Floragato has been using around the creature. She stops when the rug is taught, then lifts the thing over her shoulders, beckoning Floragato to lift up the other half.
"What we gonna do with this guy? You said no one's gonna find us ever." The grass-type whines, hoisting up the other end of the carpet.
"Leave it to our boss, now come on!" She says, lifting her piece of the carpet onto her shoulder. "We got our names to clear."