Brinie
xd
ARC 1: The Trials
Summer, in Nebuline, is an extravagant spectacle. The breeze carries far across the ocean, flowing through the verdant grass and animating the flora. The gentle rustling of the leaves gradually deafens with time. At first, it falls into an ambient noise, and eventually… the mind forgets the noise is there entirely. Everything is alive. Motion is present in every corner, whether it be the avians stealing the sky’s crest, or the Beedrill plucking fresh nectar from a flower’s core.
There is never a quiet moment in Nebuline; in Dewspire Isle, they say that even the trees have mouths.
The city’s din is carried by the ocean breeze. The delicate words from the market are audible on the footpaths leading to the town. Dealings of all sorts are made, while the Isle-renowned Kecleon Shop stands at the forefront–the heart of the district. Further in, behind the clatter of coins exchanging hands, is the town’s beating heart. Central Park.
Ribbons of all colors sling from tree to tree, post to post. At the Park’s entrance is a large banner, with the exploration guild’s logo planted front and center: a Murkrow with a single piece of hay held in its beak. Painted by the hands of a Smeagle, the symbol is minimalistic yet beautiful in its simplicity. Individuals gather here for one of Nebula Guild's famous recruiting festivals, previously an annual event–now held monthly.
Wooden planks crudely form a large platform at the center. The grass is tramped underneath the mass. Civilians gather around the stage, while individuals wearing the Guild’s crest stand by to answer questions. The Guild’s mass recruiting festivals each bring something different. No matter of study or practice is great enough to escape the power of sheer whimsy.
Curiously, there have been reports of a strange noise coming from the center platform. It is a simple wooden strange meant to house a speaker. The interior is hollow, and the composed wood is thin enough for noise to easily travel.
“Snrrrkkk. Phew-phew-phew-phew,” the noise lowly vibrates through the wooden stage. A bystander Caterpie eyes it curiously. Antennas raised high above their head. It stills for a moment, compound eyes staring intently. A second passes and their antennas fall low before they slink off to become another figure in the surrounding crowd.
“Wake up. Idiot! We have to take the stage!” A voice cries out from behind the barrier. A feathered chop comes down hard on a furry yellow head. The electric Pokemon jolts from his sleep, paws scratching at the air, while bright yellow rivets form connections between his body and the ground below.
The Zeraora opens his mouth to scream, but he is stopped before his vocal cords can process the sound. The same ebony wings secure his mouth. A look of recollection glosses over the feline’s eyes in recognition and its guard lowers.
“Awh boss, already??? I swore it’s only been a few minutes…” The Zeraora speaks, defeated. The Murkrow gives no response–save for the look of sheer irritation that twists his face. A long, drawn-out sigh, breezes through his pursed beak as he shakes his head. “Come on. Let’s not waste any more time.”
Outside of the structure, the festival begins to crescendo. A gossamer of hope mists over the eyes of many of the youth gathered here. There is tacit respect in becoming a member of a guild. Given freely by all denizens here. You are seldom to find a child without hopes of finding themselves among their ranks, one day. Tragically, not everyone is cut out for the job.
Pokemon begin to turn toward a mysterious silhouette. There is an aura about them, one that trespasses traditional conceptions of authority. Murkrow's gaze passes across the throng. His dark eyelids are low in appraisal. He meets each of their faces with a stern, yet challenging glare. He says nothing, but his demand for silence is loud.
To his side is a Zeraora with a dazed expression. Droopy eyelids and slack shoulders. His tongue enters a room before he does. It hangs slightly from his maw, pink flesh perching on his lower lip. He yawns. His bright white fangs catch the sunlight, and for a moment, the crowd’s heart hitches in their chest. An off-note in an otherwise lackadaisical tune. As carefree as he appeared, those who knew the Zeraora were wise enough to not underestimate the Guildmaster’s second hand. That old crow did not keep him around due to obligation or nepotism.
“Good evening, everyone,” the Murkrows voice is baritone. It reverberates freely through the open space. “Thank you all for coming today. It brings me joy to see so many eager faces.”
“Today, I come to you all with high hopes for your future. An old bird like me can’t do this forever.” A soft snicker comes in at his side. Wordlessly, Murkrow stares at the offending Zeraora, then returns to his stream of thought with an introductory couch.
“As I was saying.. you are the future. So I come to you in a request for aid. A new phenomenon requires new minds. And with this danger we face, the urgency for powerful and talented individuals is greater than ever.”
As he speaks, two Machoke begin to bring out unmarked crates from the interior of the stage. They are small enough to fit into a human palm. “In keeping theme with this urgency, we are doing something very new this time. In these boxes, are a collection of badges. There are seven different badges, each with a different color.”
“Collect one of these boxes. Once you have the one you desire, open it. Then, gather under the flag with the matching color.”
The Murkrow raises a feathered wing and points it in the direction of a set of flags, spaced apart by a couple of meters. “Those that gather under the same flag are to be your team for the future.”
“Afterwards, please await further instructions. While we will begin this day with seven teams, by the end of it–there will only be four.”
A collection of chatter resounds at Murkrow’s conclusion, as numerous bodies begin crowding around the boxes. Hope dims into uncertainty… then, anxiety. The trials to come are not known. But knowing Murkrow, there is a promise that they will not be easy.
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