[color=0099ff]Well, here we go again.... Lovely....
Several things before I begin.
Firstly, I'm not going to rate this book like I have before, because, unlike Right Hand and Changing Hands, I intend almost to completely rewrite Left Hand. All I know at this point is where I'm going with this; the means by which I get there are nothing more than déjà vu....
Secondly, as I've alluded to in my first point, this is new grounds for me. Only the basest of ideas have been used before (Akai, "rebirth," and the Mahogany Catacombs), so I'm working this from nothing. I haven't done that in a long while. So you'll have to bear with me while I adjust to the means by which I weave my yarns.
Thirdly, I did follow through with a basic synopsis of RoseIII up to now. I hope you're all happy. *seething :-D* Actually, I wrote the preliminary draft of this chapter more than a year ago, so it's not your faults. :lol:
And lastly, there are several themes in this first chapter that are vital to pick up on, and I want to make sure you know to pick up on who the narrator is as you read. Use your analytical skills to pick out his characteristics. Figure out what makes him tick. And most vital of all, try to see the importance of Akai in deducing who our narrator is; she's a personal symbol. :-D
Figurative speech is good. Ambiguity is your friend.
And, as always, book order:
The Right Hand of the Dragon:
I: The Story of the Roses (1-17)
II: The Antics of the Roses (18-34)
III: Tokyo (35-48)
IV: Ecruteak (49-80)
Changing Hands:
V: A Little Game of Life (1-10)
The Left Hand of the Dragon:
VI: 2436 (1-4)
VII: The Cimmerian (5)
VIII: The Bamboo Dragon
IX: Fade to Black
X: Epilogue (Rose-X)
==============================================[/color]
Chapter One: The History of Evolution
Walking through the streets of downtown Mahogany was a Cimmerian, brooding figure. Though a mere youth, this boy wielded about him a great darkness, the depths of which only he understood. Light danced upon his face, revealing that his complexion was a pallid lavender, as his whole was downy with soft, long fur; one might not know this aside from knowing his kind. Twitching lightly as he went, his ears were long and tapered as a fox’s. In a matching shade a pair of feline tails, which were hidden from view from beneath his attire, whished gently in time with his step. The neck-length, dirty blonde hair which found itself upon his head shone like polished gold in the sunlight.
Looking to his face, his alluring, emerald eyes were outlined by fantastic lashes, which were dark and thick. A crimson third eye, trademark to many a breed of esper, marked its place upon his forehead, centered just above his brow, which, contrary to popular belief, is far from a falsity: it can see just as well as an esper’s true pair of eyes, and, in most cases, better. His mouth was but a solemn sliver upon his somber expression; with a part of these thin lips as he draws a breath, one shall take notice fangs, not animalistic but tamed and shaped. With this breath he sighed.
This Espeon hybrid wore an attire entirely washed in a glittering, deep green that most would merely dismiss as black. He arrayed in a long-sleeved shirt which clasped similarly in fashion to a vest tied up with frogs, and a long half-gown tied with a bright emerald sash at his waist. This flash of colour showed only when his outer cloak, which was fastened around his neck with frogs matching those which tied his shirt, felt the need to flap open temporarily as the boy moved through the streets of Mahogany. A pair of black leather, closed sandals laced up his legs in a crisscross pattern and tied somewhere on his thighs.
The maturity of dress placed upon a youth of ten or so years of age gave the boy an entirely abnormal appearance, though the fact he wasn’t even human gave clear distance from his being ordinary in the face of the public.
This peculiar boy.... I was he. And I came forth in order to spectate the Roslynk.
Roslynks... are tournaments in which Roslyngs of any and all breeds come to fight one another. The prize: the honour to be trained under Keiji Itoh.
And Rosylngs, you ask? Many generations have long since passed since the legend of the Roses took place in time. 330 years have fallen to the flow of time since the Roses were in their splendour. Roslyngs, thus, are the descendants of the Roses.
You might think me to be quite the egotist by saying this, being of the lineage of the Roses, but think about it this way. Roslyngs have made their mark in time and space. They’re here to stay. And, if Darwin’s Theory of Evolution holds true in the case of hybridisation, they shall obliterate humanity.
Roslyngs are strong. Some boast to be stronger than the Roses themselves, yet none can prove it, as those of the necklace rarely ever pay a visit for the auspicious event of delivering humility to their predecessors.
Electric-Rosylls such as Raichu and Electabuzz can power small electronic devices. Fighting-Rosylls such as Tyrogue and Machoke have no difficulty in halting moving objects, or bringing movement to most any object. Esper-Rosylls such as Girafarig and Natu have found understanding all walks of life far less difficult, as well as dealing with them. Flame-Rosylls such as Flareon and Growlithe enjoy pyrotechnics, and, often, sadly, arson.
And then there are those which are blessed with the original strands which belonged to the Roses themselves: argentine—Espeon, emerald—Celebi, topaz—Jolteon, pearl—Suicune, amethyst—Abra, ruby—Ninetales, sapphire—Dragonair, onyx—Sandslash, peridot—Vaporeon, aureate—Ditto, diamond—Haunter, and corinthian—Mew. Should a Rosyll possess any of these, they take the name of the pedaishi from which their strand originated and add it to their hybrid title as a prefix; in the case of an individual possessing more than one of these legendary strands, he will choose either whichever is more prominent physically or whichever is more aligned with the way he lives and breathes. I myself am an argentine Rosyll to most. But then again, most don’t know me.
Yet still are hybrid Rosylls. I’ve met Roslyngs who’ve had over nine elements at their command.
Which brings me back to the Roslynk.
What’s the big deal with Keiji Itoh? Keiji, better known as Ditz or Takeru to most, was the youngest Rose, and was first to wield Ditto DNA. Because of this, he became the first of what is known as a tencol, short for Tenshi Collector. This refers to one whom has devoted at least a period of time in his or her life in obtaining as many strands as possible. Ditz successfully collected all 133 separate strands of Pokémon DNA, and is the only Rose or Roslyng ever to know the secret to prevent the deadly clash of siding Espeon and Umbreon DNA in the same genome. Sad, really, that he never could have passed these down into the genome of the Roslyngs....
Big deal now? I should hope so. Ditz is revered by all Rosylls as the high mage of all Roslyngs, with wisdom and skill exceeding all others. He is, by far, the strongest splicer ever to grace the face of Gaea.
~*~*~
I found myself at the entrance to the underground pub. The bouncer at the front, a muscular Machamp-Rosyll, eyed me curiously.
“You here to watch or fight, kid?” he began, unamused.
“A bit of both, perhaps,” I replied nonchalantly, meandering in.
He rushed to grab me up by the collar. “Who’re you kidding? You wouldn’t stand a chance in there, kid!”
I wouldn’t? I muttered in telepathy to him, bemused. At this he merely stared in my face. I’m an esper, if it weren’t obvious enough. Leave me to my own.
“Y—yessir...” he stammered, putting me down again, returning to his post. Then I grinned and continued downstairs, grabbing a cold glass of red wine from the tender on the way. The gateway to chaos was located in the far back corner, which proved to be an obstacle, as I was four feet tall even, whilst many of the others trying to get to the Roslynk were anywhere from five to eight feet tall. Fortunately, I didn’t take too much offence and merely phased out in order to flow with the crowd. A Pidgeymorph had the misfortune of being the first who ran into the glass in my hand, however. I merely ignored him and moved on, knowing all well that there were bigger things on the plate than a roast bird.
When I found myself inside, I looked around to inspect under dim artificial lighting the all too familiar scene: the cracked cement floors, the caged ring, the stench of cigarettes and alcohol... and death. Sad, really, that a large quantity of Rosylls feel the need to destroy those weaker than themselves. But I suppose it adds drama to the soap opera that is the Roslynk.
The Roslynk rolls around every ten or so years, and every one of these can boast of hundreds of events. There are all sorts of different battles that go on down in the catacombs of Mahogany, which, if I’m not mistaken, were created by Team Rocket long ago. Humans generally don’t attend, as they are neither invited nor generally even aware of the occasion.
Most battles lay between the elemental divide, but once those battles conclude, the finalists in each of the seventeen categories fight each other. The champion of the Roslynk, of course, gets the training. But who knows whether the old coot’s still around to train the Rosyll? No one ever sees him anymore.... In fact, no one’s seen a Rose in eight or more years. In truth, the Rosylls only fight to prove themselves now. Though they believe in their legends, they have lost faith in them.
Sad, really.
~*~*~
As I made my way to spectate the match between the two finalists, something caught my eye that otherwise would have been seen as a commonplace alleyway assault had I not known what was happening. I’d never seen a feast before, but heard of the act as legend. Ditz had two sons. One was driven to insanity by an Espeon strand with the insatiable demand to be in the light; the other inherited his insanity from immolation by an Umbreon strand. The former died not even before he was a hundred years old; the latter, as I saw from this attack, remained upon this earth.
Roslyngs now see Take-ryuu as a god because he’s the closest link to Ditz, and, thus, the closest chance to witness a being of such greatness. They don’t seem to understand that the level to which he embraced his hedonism branched from the insanity he inherited from Daddy Dearest. They see the side of him that never found stability in a mate; Christian’s daughter Camellia had never been the anchor a man is expected to find in a marriage, as her decadent ways outranked even his. She seems to have gotten washed away in the waves as hundreds flocked to him, wanting no more than to be embraced by someone who would forever feel the perpetual loneliness of a Bamboo Dragon. He took advantage of this and amassed from these a following of those willing to cater to his every need. These needs spanned the spectrum; the most sacred to the eyes of the Roslyngs was his perceived vampirism. If you were kissed by the Black Rose, it may have meant that you were accepted, wanted, but it meant that you were likely never to see the light of day again. If you were kissed by the Black Rose... you were his.
A thorn in our side, I thought to myself. I shall deal with him later.
Then I moved on.
~*~*~
Through a grueling three weeks, over five hundred contestants were terminated from the tournament. Many lost a match or two. Some lost their pride. Others lost their lives.
The two finalists were decided. The first of these was an high-spirited Sandslash-Rosyll by the name Ckindou. His main techniques were of the ancient ninja: releasing poisoning, paralysis, and confusion upon his opponents whilst preparing for the finishing move, which was a terrifying combination of complex slashing attacks that quickly left those opposing him saying little more than a final breath.
The other finalist was a calculating Skarmory-Rosyll named Tetsune. Her winning tactics were comprised of agility and key hits. Every one of her blows left the spectators awestruck and speechless, and left the opponents hospitalised or dead.
Truly this was the match to see from my special place in the Catacombs.
~*~*~
I teleported up into the rafters and up in the crawlspace, which was about six feet both wide and tall. Perfect for little old me. ^ ^
Though I soon was not alone. I found two hybrids awaiting my arrival: a male Pikachu and a female Espeon.
The Pikachu-Rosyll wore an off-white long-sleeved shirt with a pair of darkly-coloured jeans and black boots. His sandy blond hair was plaited into a thick braid, which could have fallen to his knees had he been standing, and tied at the end with an emerald ribbon. His cold blue eyes were so pale that one might have gotten the impression that his irises held no colour. But I knew otherwise.
The Espeon-Rosyll with long, black hair had a complexion even paler than mine, and her cool hazel eyes, black lipstick, and deep purple eye shadow only furthered her gothic countenance. She wore nothing but black—something never seen of an Espeon-Rosyll. Her dress, long-sleeved with a sharply scalloped hemline and high collar, fell to her feet but did not cover her boots. A cloak not dissimilar to mine found itself cloyed around her neck by a silver frog with ornate tassels. A hood fell down her back from the collar of the cloak, and a pair of black fingerless gloves adorned her delicate hands.
“Ohayo,” I whispered. They smirked.
“Long time no see,” the Espeon cooed with her soft, soothingly rich voice.
“Well, I’ve been in hiding. Akai’s gang’s been after me.” The two stared at me. “What?”
“You can’t be serious,” the Pikachu muttered. “You’re hiding from a Roslyng.”
“Oh, I’m serious all right. I’ve even the scars to prove why.” I boasted of a knife-scar along the back of my right ear, which was about four inches long. The skin that had healed over the wound was still tinted, purple flesh. Also shown to the pair, albeit older than the first wound, was a stab in my right hand which had come within hairs of completely piercing the skin between my thumb and forefinger. “I dun enjoy being butchered. Literally.”
“Geez, what’d you do to get her after you?” the Espeon uttered, unable to do anything but stare at my hand. From the use of the Roslyng’s name I had derived doubts as to the origins of my scars.
“I freed one of her servants—a sapphire-Rosyll named Arashi. She’s stronger than most sapphires I know, but she couldn’t harness the true heart of her abilities cooped up in servitude under that evil....” I refrained from finishing my comment with cursing. However I may have tried, I failed to cover myself.
“Well, Mr. Underground Railroad, how’re you going to get yourself out of this one?” the Pikachu mumbled, unamused at the mischief in which I’d been in the past nine years. They were afraid that I’d fallen again. Yet I wasn’t about to explain myself to them; they had their own demons to handle, and I had mine.
“Akai’s no problem. It’s when she calls her goons on me....” I grumbled unintelligibly for a moment. “That ruby-Rosyll is so corrupt. She just doesn’t abide by morals, does she? Slavery, murder, theft, extortion.... You name it, she’s either done it, or has it on her to-do list.”
“How’re ya gonna get past her flunkies when she sends ‘em?” the Espeon began, worried and aggravated with me.
“I just need to learn not to panick when I see fifty Rosylls closing in on me. Maybe if I can do that, I can teleport down to see ol’ Akai and have a nice talk with her.”
“Sure. She’ll be real hospitable, don’t you know,” the Pikachu spat. “You never think, do you?”
“I think all too often,” I snapped. “That’s the problem, it seems.”
“Knock it off, you two, the final match is starting!” the Espeon complained, pulling the both of us apart with her Kinesis. “Watch the bloody match and shut up!”
“I just hope that this one doesn’t get bloody,” he uttered, worried.
Several things before I begin.
Firstly, I'm not going to rate this book like I have before, because, unlike Right Hand and Changing Hands, I intend almost to completely rewrite Left Hand. All I know at this point is where I'm going with this; the means by which I get there are nothing more than déjà vu....
Secondly, as I've alluded to in my first point, this is new grounds for me. Only the basest of ideas have been used before (Akai, "rebirth," and the Mahogany Catacombs), so I'm working this from nothing. I haven't done that in a long while. So you'll have to bear with me while I adjust to the means by which I weave my yarns.
Thirdly, I did follow through with a basic synopsis of RoseIII up to now. I hope you're all happy. *seething :-D* Actually, I wrote the preliminary draft of this chapter more than a year ago, so it's not your faults. :lol:
And lastly, there are several themes in this first chapter that are vital to pick up on, and I want to make sure you know to pick up on who the narrator is as you read. Use your analytical skills to pick out his characteristics. Figure out what makes him tick. And most vital of all, try to see the importance of Akai in deducing who our narrator is; she's a personal symbol. :-D
Figurative speech is good. Ambiguity is your friend.
And, as always, book order:
The Right Hand of the Dragon:
I: The Story of the Roses (1-17)
II: The Antics of the Roses (18-34)
III: Tokyo (35-48)
IV: Ecruteak (49-80)
Changing Hands:
V: A Little Game of Life (1-10)
The Left Hand of the Dragon:
VI: 2436 (1-4)
VII: The Cimmerian (5)
VIII: The Bamboo Dragon
IX: Fade to Black
X: Epilogue (Rose-X)
==============================================[/color]
Chapter One: The History of Evolution
Walking through the streets of downtown Mahogany was a Cimmerian, brooding figure. Though a mere youth, this boy wielded about him a great darkness, the depths of which only he understood. Light danced upon his face, revealing that his complexion was a pallid lavender, as his whole was downy with soft, long fur; one might not know this aside from knowing his kind. Twitching lightly as he went, his ears were long and tapered as a fox’s. In a matching shade a pair of feline tails, which were hidden from view from beneath his attire, whished gently in time with his step. The neck-length, dirty blonde hair which found itself upon his head shone like polished gold in the sunlight.
Looking to his face, his alluring, emerald eyes were outlined by fantastic lashes, which were dark and thick. A crimson third eye, trademark to many a breed of esper, marked its place upon his forehead, centered just above his brow, which, contrary to popular belief, is far from a falsity: it can see just as well as an esper’s true pair of eyes, and, in most cases, better. His mouth was but a solemn sliver upon his somber expression; with a part of these thin lips as he draws a breath, one shall take notice fangs, not animalistic but tamed and shaped. With this breath he sighed.
This Espeon hybrid wore an attire entirely washed in a glittering, deep green that most would merely dismiss as black. He arrayed in a long-sleeved shirt which clasped similarly in fashion to a vest tied up with frogs, and a long half-gown tied with a bright emerald sash at his waist. This flash of colour showed only when his outer cloak, which was fastened around his neck with frogs matching those which tied his shirt, felt the need to flap open temporarily as the boy moved through the streets of Mahogany. A pair of black leather, closed sandals laced up his legs in a crisscross pattern and tied somewhere on his thighs.
The maturity of dress placed upon a youth of ten or so years of age gave the boy an entirely abnormal appearance, though the fact he wasn’t even human gave clear distance from his being ordinary in the face of the public.
This peculiar boy.... I was he. And I came forth in order to spectate the Roslynk.
Roslynks... are tournaments in which Roslyngs of any and all breeds come to fight one another. The prize: the honour to be trained under Keiji Itoh.
And Rosylngs, you ask? Many generations have long since passed since the legend of the Roses took place in time. 330 years have fallen to the flow of time since the Roses were in their splendour. Roslyngs, thus, are the descendants of the Roses.
You might think me to be quite the egotist by saying this, being of the lineage of the Roses, but think about it this way. Roslyngs have made their mark in time and space. They’re here to stay. And, if Darwin’s Theory of Evolution holds true in the case of hybridisation, they shall obliterate humanity.
Roslyngs are strong. Some boast to be stronger than the Roses themselves, yet none can prove it, as those of the necklace rarely ever pay a visit for the auspicious event of delivering humility to their predecessors.
Electric-Rosylls such as Raichu and Electabuzz can power small electronic devices. Fighting-Rosylls such as Tyrogue and Machoke have no difficulty in halting moving objects, or bringing movement to most any object. Esper-Rosylls such as Girafarig and Natu have found understanding all walks of life far less difficult, as well as dealing with them. Flame-Rosylls such as Flareon and Growlithe enjoy pyrotechnics, and, often, sadly, arson.
And then there are those which are blessed with the original strands which belonged to the Roses themselves: argentine—Espeon, emerald—Celebi, topaz—Jolteon, pearl—Suicune, amethyst—Abra, ruby—Ninetales, sapphire—Dragonair, onyx—Sandslash, peridot—Vaporeon, aureate—Ditto, diamond—Haunter, and corinthian—Mew. Should a Rosyll possess any of these, they take the name of the pedaishi from which their strand originated and add it to their hybrid title as a prefix; in the case of an individual possessing more than one of these legendary strands, he will choose either whichever is more prominent physically or whichever is more aligned with the way he lives and breathes. I myself am an argentine Rosyll to most. But then again, most don’t know me.
Yet still are hybrid Rosylls. I’ve met Roslyngs who’ve had over nine elements at their command.
Which brings me back to the Roslynk.
What’s the big deal with Keiji Itoh? Keiji, better known as Ditz or Takeru to most, was the youngest Rose, and was first to wield Ditto DNA. Because of this, he became the first of what is known as a tencol, short for Tenshi Collector. This refers to one whom has devoted at least a period of time in his or her life in obtaining as many strands as possible. Ditz successfully collected all 133 separate strands of Pokémon DNA, and is the only Rose or Roslyng ever to know the secret to prevent the deadly clash of siding Espeon and Umbreon DNA in the same genome. Sad, really, that he never could have passed these down into the genome of the Roslyngs....
Big deal now? I should hope so. Ditz is revered by all Rosylls as the high mage of all Roslyngs, with wisdom and skill exceeding all others. He is, by far, the strongest splicer ever to grace the face of Gaea.
~*~*~
I found myself at the entrance to the underground pub. The bouncer at the front, a muscular Machamp-Rosyll, eyed me curiously.
“You here to watch or fight, kid?” he began, unamused.
“A bit of both, perhaps,” I replied nonchalantly, meandering in.
He rushed to grab me up by the collar. “Who’re you kidding? You wouldn’t stand a chance in there, kid!”
I wouldn’t? I muttered in telepathy to him, bemused. At this he merely stared in my face. I’m an esper, if it weren’t obvious enough. Leave me to my own.
“Y—yessir...” he stammered, putting me down again, returning to his post. Then I grinned and continued downstairs, grabbing a cold glass of red wine from the tender on the way. The gateway to chaos was located in the far back corner, which proved to be an obstacle, as I was four feet tall even, whilst many of the others trying to get to the Roslynk were anywhere from five to eight feet tall. Fortunately, I didn’t take too much offence and merely phased out in order to flow with the crowd. A Pidgeymorph had the misfortune of being the first who ran into the glass in my hand, however. I merely ignored him and moved on, knowing all well that there were bigger things on the plate than a roast bird.
When I found myself inside, I looked around to inspect under dim artificial lighting the all too familiar scene: the cracked cement floors, the caged ring, the stench of cigarettes and alcohol... and death. Sad, really, that a large quantity of Rosylls feel the need to destroy those weaker than themselves. But I suppose it adds drama to the soap opera that is the Roslynk.
The Roslynk rolls around every ten or so years, and every one of these can boast of hundreds of events. There are all sorts of different battles that go on down in the catacombs of Mahogany, which, if I’m not mistaken, were created by Team Rocket long ago. Humans generally don’t attend, as they are neither invited nor generally even aware of the occasion.
Most battles lay between the elemental divide, but once those battles conclude, the finalists in each of the seventeen categories fight each other. The champion of the Roslynk, of course, gets the training. But who knows whether the old coot’s still around to train the Rosyll? No one ever sees him anymore.... In fact, no one’s seen a Rose in eight or more years. In truth, the Rosylls only fight to prove themselves now. Though they believe in their legends, they have lost faith in them.
Sad, really.
~*~*~
As I made my way to spectate the match between the two finalists, something caught my eye that otherwise would have been seen as a commonplace alleyway assault had I not known what was happening. I’d never seen a feast before, but heard of the act as legend. Ditz had two sons. One was driven to insanity by an Espeon strand with the insatiable demand to be in the light; the other inherited his insanity from immolation by an Umbreon strand. The former died not even before he was a hundred years old; the latter, as I saw from this attack, remained upon this earth.
Roslyngs now see Take-ryuu as a god because he’s the closest link to Ditz, and, thus, the closest chance to witness a being of such greatness. They don’t seem to understand that the level to which he embraced his hedonism branched from the insanity he inherited from Daddy Dearest. They see the side of him that never found stability in a mate; Christian’s daughter Camellia had never been the anchor a man is expected to find in a marriage, as her decadent ways outranked even his. She seems to have gotten washed away in the waves as hundreds flocked to him, wanting no more than to be embraced by someone who would forever feel the perpetual loneliness of a Bamboo Dragon. He took advantage of this and amassed from these a following of those willing to cater to his every need. These needs spanned the spectrum; the most sacred to the eyes of the Roslyngs was his perceived vampirism. If you were kissed by the Black Rose, it may have meant that you were accepted, wanted, but it meant that you were likely never to see the light of day again. If you were kissed by the Black Rose... you were his.
A thorn in our side, I thought to myself. I shall deal with him later.
Then I moved on.
~*~*~
Through a grueling three weeks, over five hundred contestants were terminated from the tournament. Many lost a match or two. Some lost their pride. Others lost their lives.
The two finalists were decided. The first of these was an high-spirited Sandslash-Rosyll by the name Ckindou. His main techniques were of the ancient ninja: releasing poisoning, paralysis, and confusion upon his opponents whilst preparing for the finishing move, which was a terrifying combination of complex slashing attacks that quickly left those opposing him saying little more than a final breath.
The other finalist was a calculating Skarmory-Rosyll named Tetsune. Her winning tactics were comprised of agility and key hits. Every one of her blows left the spectators awestruck and speechless, and left the opponents hospitalised or dead.
Truly this was the match to see from my special place in the Catacombs.
~*~*~
I teleported up into the rafters and up in the crawlspace, which was about six feet both wide and tall. Perfect for little old me. ^ ^
Though I soon was not alone. I found two hybrids awaiting my arrival: a male Pikachu and a female Espeon.
The Pikachu-Rosyll wore an off-white long-sleeved shirt with a pair of darkly-coloured jeans and black boots. His sandy blond hair was plaited into a thick braid, which could have fallen to his knees had he been standing, and tied at the end with an emerald ribbon. His cold blue eyes were so pale that one might have gotten the impression that his irises held no colour. But I knew otherwise.
The Espeon-Rosyll with long, black hair had a complexion even paler than mine, and her cool hazel eyes, black lipstick, and deep purple eye shadow only furthered her gothic countenance. She wore nothing but black—something never seen of an Espeon-Rosyll. Her dress, long-sleeved with a sharply scalloped hemline and high collar, fell to her feet but did not cover her boots. A cloak not dissimilar to mine found itself cloyed around her neck by a silver frog with ornate tassels. A hood fell down her back from the collar of the cloak, and a pair of black fingerless gloves adorned her delicate hands.
“Ohayo,” I whispered. They smirked.
“Long time no see,” the Espeon cooed with her soft, soothingly rich voice.
“Well, I’ve been in hiding. Akai’s gang’s been after me.” The two stared at me. “What?”
“You can’t be serious,” the Pikachu muttered. “You’re hiding from a Roslyng.”
“Oh, I’m serious all right. I’ve even the scars to prove why.” I boasted of a knife-scar along the back of my right ear, which was about four inches long. The skin that had healed over the wound was still tinted, purple flesh. Also shown to the pair, albeit older than the first wound, was a stab in my right hand which had come within hairs of completely piercing the skin between my thumb and forefinger. “I dun enjoy being butchered. Literally.”
“Geez, what’d you do to get her after you?” the Espeon uttered, unable to do anything but stare at my hand. From the use of the Roslyng’s name I had derived doubts as to the origins of my scars.
“I freed one of her servants—a sapphire-Rosyll named Arashi. She’s stronger than most sapphires I know, but she couldn’t harness the true heart of her abilities cooped up in servitude under that evil....” I refrained from finishing my comment with cursing. However I may have tried, I failed to cover myself.
“Well, Mr. Underground Railroad, how’re you going to get yourself out of this one?” the Pikachu mumbled, unamused at the mischief in which I’d been in the past nine years. They were afraid that I’d fallen again. Yet I wasn’t about to explain myself to them; they had their own demons to handle, and I had mine.
“Akai’s no problem. It’s when she calls her goons on me....” I grumbled unintelligibly for a moment. “That ruby-Rosyll is so corrupt. She just doesn’t abide by morals, does she? Slavery, murder, theft, extortion.... You name it, she’s either done it, or has it on her to-do list.”
“How’re ya gonna get past her flunkies when she sends ‘em?” the Espeon began, worried and aggravated with me.
“I just need to learn not to panick when I see fifty Rosylls closing in on me. Maybe if I can do that, I can teleport down to see ol’ Akai and have a nice talk with her.”
“Sure. She’ll be real hospitable, don’t you know,” the Pikachu spat. “You never think, do you?”
“I think all too often,” I snapped. “That’s the problem, it seems.”
“Knock it off, you two, the final match is starting!” the Espeon complained, pulling the both of us apart with her Kinesis. “Watch the bloody match and shut up!”
“I just hope that this one doesn’t get bloody,” he uttered, worried.
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