Chapter 41 – Day 16, Part 1: True Beauty

Chapter 41: Day 16, Part 1 – True Beauty

True beauty flourishes in times of great hardship.

That much is true. All of those years ago, when flames raged across the country, Larkspur set his eyes on something truly magnificent: an entire generation’s obsession, pursued by suitors from every corner and every pit of this wasteland they called Pamtre. The kind of catastrophic allure that brought the world to its knees.

Yes, he viewed it once, shimmering with its faint glow. So far away, yet so potent that he could taste it on his tongue. Even now, it lingered in his mind, like true beauty should.

He reflected, morbidly, on that sensation—now so dull—as his beak poked the red liquid still in its glass. The thought came abruptly, and without recourse—that enough time had passed for true beauty to shine once again. Today would be a day to drink, he had then decided.

Another generation! Cheers to that! Even the whelps that venerated him were faster than they were three decades ago; Larkspur had received his wine within only a minute and 38 seconds past his request. Impressive.

Time flowed so quickly when one’s goal was so clear—so vivid.

He took another poke at his wine, and the alcohol surged like lightning through his tentacles. Said tentacles swayed atop his head as though there were a light, consistent breeze. A Malamar’s mood could often be determined by the ferocity of their tentacles, and with Larkspur it was no different. Except…they were frequently uncontrollable, only acting on fresh impulse and emotion.

There was an uncomfortable itch that came with being unable to control one’s own bodily autonomy. Who was to say that they, too, would not one day betray him?

Larkspur’s beak curled into a sinister smirk as he took yet another sip. He knew that quite well that his own rebellious tentacles were of no issue. A lesser pokemon would sever the source of any dissent, but Larkspur was no lesser pokemon.

Dissent was necessary for growth, if only so that his own hardships held meaning.

It was peculiar, then, that his tentacles continued to sway just as calmly as they had before. Were they not aware of their own demise? Or were they just as eager for catharsis as he was?

Larkspur set the wine glass down on a nearby table and sighed to himself. From there, he floated off the meticulously scrubbed carpet, drifting from one end of the room to the other. His eyes trailed the walls in search of something specific, hindered only by his own wandering mind.

From the bookcases lined with ancient memoirs of a deceased age, to wood garnishing on bed-side tables so extravagant that they bordered on pointless, to the golden frames bordering paintings of past battles—even Larkspur had to admit that he did not miss the countless hours spent in that dank chamber with that blasted orb. He had no desire for opulence—not like Crane, the glutton or Canary, the greedy—but Larkspur had taken this room for himself regardless.

The Captain’s Chambers, as it was once dubbed, was slotted neatly within the brain of the Oriole. Naturally, as the proper leader of this band of conspirators, miscreants, and outcasts, only Larkspur could reside there.

More frequently than not, however, the chamber lacked the insulation to be anything but stifling. The men of the past obviously designed it with that purpose, but Larkspur was no man. Time had since granted the room with a new designation.

A perverse thrill coursed through the Malamar at the idea of using this room for drinking wine, reminiscing, and nothing more. The books themselves offered more utility to those of his coalition than any tome of hidden knowledge—or orb of magical significance, for that matter. But, well, giving them more use hardly aligned with his goals.

In every respect but name, Larkspur was royalty. And, like royalty, he had no reason to feel shame. His tentacles whipped in satisfaction at that fact. Even more so when he recalled that Anemone—who also counted as royalty—must hate the isolation.

Larkspur reveled in it.

It was one of the paintings that finally caught his eye. Situated between two end tables, each holding a vase with a moonflower in its grasp, was a sizable painting surrounded by a frame engraved in pure gold. Slowly, he approached with his arms behind his back.

Depicted with care and detailed with the most expensive paint a mon could buy, a Delphox stood cloaked in silver flames. Her fur flowed like the ocean’s waves, perfect in every conceivable way. Her paw expertly gripped a wand constructed with the bark of a tree harboring Xerneas’ blood, effortlessly casting an inferno as brilliant as the moon.

She shot Larkspur a glance over her shoulder, despite being frozen in time. Mysterious, confident, sultry—Larkspur could see the nefarious plots she would set in motion sparkling in her eyes. A witch of mythic proportions, a temptress, a sovereign of the stars…

The world was hers, and she knew it. She held power beyond the greatest of legendary beasts; she never so much as dreamed of squandering it.

Larkspur’s arms quivered as he reached out to her. Gently, he dragged his tentacle across her cheek, caressing her as though she were right at his side. His body surged with color, and for a moment he shook as though he were a little ill Inkay begging for comfort.

A shuddering breath escaped him. Inconceivable. Perhaps it was the brief twang of alcohol causing him to become frail…regardless, he struggled to keep himself upright.

He could not stop himself; the urge was too strong. Larkspur uttered a faint, wistful, “Ah…Luna. You were my favorite…”

There was a knock at the door.

Larkspur hissed, fluorescent lights blaring from his torso, the tentacles above his head stabbing the air, out for blood. The alcohol in his system burned away from the intensity of his anger, and he whipped his head around so he could glare at the door.

“WHAT?” he snarled.

“Did I interrupt your private time, Lark?” came a voice from behind. Larkspur’s tentacles functioned as raging flames.

When Larkspur whipped back around, seething, he soon found a familiar imp leaning against one of the tables and sipping at the Malamar’s wine. Said imp’s self-satisfied demeanor shot a rush of hot-blooded ferocity through Larkspur’s veins.

“Yes, you did,” Larkspur snapped. “I do believe I told you not to intrude, Crane, you wretched smear of slime.”

The Sableye smacked his dirty lips, put the tainted wine glass back down, and smiled like the glob of shit that he was. A mental note was made to burn that wine glass after Crane would be forced to leave—and perhaps the carpet, as well. Larkspur could smell the black gunk sticking to the glass even from the other side of the room.

“You said to knock, Lark,” Crane sneered. “I did that, didn’t I?” Black flecks of something foul fell from Crane’s neck as he scratched at it, solidifying that yes, Larkspur would burn that carpet later. “Stewing in your hatred again?”

What a fall from grace Crane had taken. Larkspur could recall the time when Black Shadow Crane, The Vicious commanded a sect of devoted resistance fighters with guile. There was once a time when the name Crane inspired hope, as well as fear. At such a young age, too, many aspired to follow in his footsteps.

But Larkspur had seen through the minds of many how Crane was viewed now with disgust, its own vile form of respect. He was always sneaky and conniving, but he knew better than to antagonize and aggravate. Something had changed over the years, and it only appeared to be getting worse.

Worse still after their last excursion, that of which coincided with the attainment of the East Enigma key, Crane had begun outright frightening the mercenaries. Demanding favors and persisting with the practical jokes. Some had already left out of fear.

Larkspur, despite his own distaste for those he commanded, was less than pleased. He floated closer—but not too close—and loomed over the imp like a tower of spite. With his telekinetic powers, he swiped the glass from the table and shattered it on the carpet. No use in being courteous if his mind had already been made up.

“I am not in the mood for games,” Larkspur said with a glare. “If you would perhaps prefer to stick your disgusting fingers in the business of another busy mon, then by all means.” Larkspur leaned forward, his tentacles casting a menacing shadow across his face. “My patience is thinning.”

Crane, who uncharacteristically reacted to the breaking glass by flinching, giggled maniacally. “Ehehe! Well, you having a thick patience would just make me gag, Lark.”

“Say what it is you want and leave.” Larkspur’s waning patience was no lie. Two keys had since been acquired, but it had taken him two weeks to get to this point. He either wanted good news or no news at all.

“Oh, Larky,” said Crane. “Maaaalarky. I remember when you used to treat to me so tenderly.” He clasped his hands together and rested them against his cheek sweetly, blinking his eyes several times. “I miss those days. Don’t you? When we used to kick each other’s feet under the table and giggle and blush and-“

“I SHOULD STRANGLE YOU!” Larkspur was positively steaming, his broad shoulders raised to make himself seem massive, his tentacles shot up like spears. Furniture and silverware all throughout the room began to tremble, one command away from flying off the shelves and tables.

And, to no one’s surprise, all Crane did was laugh. “Ehehehe! You could. But then who’s gonna tell you to open the door?” He pointed to something behind Larkspur.

Had he a reason to, Larkspur would have absolutely choked the feeble life out of the Sableye and hung him out like laundry. There was a moment where Larkspur chuckled internally, realizing that today would finally be the day he would do it. But Crane, smartly, stopped just short of pushing Larkspur to that point.

That was, unless the door would aggravate him more. After all, no living being was allowed to see Larkspur unless given explicit permission. Crane had already caused enough grief previously by revealing Larkspur’s name to that Darmanitan; this would be the final straw.

Larkspur’s glare lingered on Crane for a moment. He weighed his options, then steadily came to the conclusion that no matter how bad it was, Crane would end up dead in the end. Nothing lost. But even in his unhinged state, Crane was often smarter than he acted. He would not have gotten to this point otherwise.

Another moment passed before Larkspur aggressively floated towards the door, wasting no time to swing it open. At first he was confident that it would be yet another joke, but then he was surprised to find that, of all things, there was another pokemon there.

Crane did not knock on the door. This Persian did.

The first thing the dark type did was grovel at Larkspur’s feet. The second thing he did was blabber out formalities.

“OhpleaseohwonderfulCountIamforevergrateful!” the Persian mumbled too quickly for Larkspur’s confused brain to understand.

The Malamar’s beak twisted towards his earholes, contorting into a disgusted glower. He flinched, even. How was that possible?

Undoubtedly, the reason for such an extreme reaction had to do with what Larkspur witnessed upon taking in this peculiar mon’s features.

It was as though the Persian’s face had been morphed 15 degrees counterclockwise, shifting his mouth, nose, and eyes in an unnatural way. His whiskers were unkempt and unruly. His ears, nicked and chipped. For a moment Larkspur thought he detected cataracts in one of the cat’s eyes, but that proved to be nothing more than the malformed creature’s dull look. Whoever had spawned this inbred moggy clearly did so out of spite.

It was so distracting that Larkspur forgot to practice his standard sanctimonious routine and instead opted to stare in disbelief.

“…Is this another one of your jokes, Crane?” Larkspur muttered, searching for any sign of foul play. Was it him or did the cat have a cleft foot, too? He did not, as it turned out. But Larkspur could not blame himself for coming to that conclusion, what with how the beast presented himself.

Crane may as well have materialized next to Larkspur, as he had made no sound before getting closer. “Are you kidding?” Crane laughed. “I wish I could come up with a better joke than this. You should’ve seen your face!” He pointed at the Persian, grinning. “Nah. This mon here has something to tell you, Count.”

I have better use for my ears, thank you, Larkspur thought scornfully.

“It’s very important, my lord!” The Persian pleaded in a voice that Larkspur could finally understand. Which was good because now Larkspur could definitively state that he despised it. Formal language alongside brash, uneducated speech wriggled like Wigletts down to his eardrums. Disgusting.

That was the problem with presenting oneself as above others while attempting to maintain an image: Larkspur realized that he would have to formally invite the cat inside if he wanted privacy. He then decided that the remains of that carpet would need to be cast into the deepest pits of the earth following its burning.

With disdain pinching his facial features into a hateful scowl, Larkspur floated aside. “Make it quick, Persian. I have important matters to attend to.” Drinking wine counted as important matters.

Crane giggled to himself.

There was something uncomfortable about the way that the cat hobbled his way past the door frame, trudging onto the carpet with nervously unsheathed claws. The fur on the back of his spine was bristling. What was this cat hiding…

“Thank you! Thank you!”

The door closed and the air became still. Larkspur’s tentacles whipped impatiently. “Speak, and make it quick,” he hissed, clacking his beak.

Stuttering, the Persian said, “I-I’m Moa, my lord-“

“I did not ask.”

Crane giggled more.

The cat’s gaze fell to the floor in shame. “R-right, sorry. I’ve been on the run for the past few days and I f-forgot my manners.”

Larkspur’s eyes narrowed. He was immediately reminded that this Persian—Moa as he was called—blocked Larkspur’s own mind reading abilities. Dark type pokemon were troublesome for that reason; he would have to ask questions and take Moa at his word.

As a being possessing the dark type element now, Larkspur understood the power that came with it. Something that was notably wasted on a whelp like this cat.

Anemone doesn’t have this problem, the wench.

She had once told Larkspur that the worst thing dark types did to her was create interference, and cause a horrible headache when trying to parse the thoughts behind it, often resulting in some details being lost. Anemone took extra effort to avoid the ones who caused that interference, going so far as to resent them for existing.

But even that was a league above what Larkspur was capable of.

“Get to the point,” Larkspur growled.

An audible gulp, then the Persian continued. “I think I…” he started, quickly lowering his voice after glancing left and right, “…I think I found the human.”

The human.

“Oooh!” Crane grinned. “Hear that? Didn’t see that one coming, did you?”

But Larkspur was unphased, his eyes no less narrowed than before. Perhaps he did not expect that response exactly, but this report was not in any way new. Over the course of the past two weeks that they have been on the hunt thirteen pokemon have come to Larkspur with the exact same claim.

All of them were lying and were promptly dealt with. Unfortunately, Larkspur could not just read this Persian’s mind and get it over with. So, he humored the claim. Moa, as unlikely as he seemed, was at least appropriately nervous.

“Elaborate,” Larkspur said sternly.

Moa clawed at the carpet nervously. “Okay…It was in the Fairy Fields, my Lord. I…I happened to be there when I overheard one of those guildies talking to this…this Dewott- hewokeupthere! And…and-“

“Slow down!” Larkspur snapped.

“R-right…” The Persian cleared his throat.

Crane clicked his tongue, turning to Larkspur. “He was hysterical when he showed up here,” Crane remarked. “All wide-eyed and screaming at the top of his lungs, pleading with the guards to see you. I was impressed.”

“I used the chant!” Moa blurted out, completely unprompted. “They didn’t get a word out of me, I swear!”

A second had hardly passed where Larkspur could think properly. Yes, he was aware of the “chant” taught to the mercenaries here, to ward off not only mind reading but also potential interrogations. Though most of the time those chants were just pure nonsense, concocted to instill hope. No mons were expected to actually enter Kebia Castle and become vulnerable to such tactics. No unreliable mons, that is. None of them would actually meet Anemone.

But Larkspur was getting ahead of himself.

“How do you know it was a human?” Larkspur asked cautiously.

The Persian yowled in distress. The sound irritated Larkspur. “He woke up in those fields- the Dewott did! I saw it, I saw him appear! Dewotts can’t appear out of thin air!”

Crane and Larkspur exchanged glances.

A Dewott…? Of all things…

This was starting to sound more and more plausible, and Larkspur hated that. Of the thirteen that had previously claimed to have seen the human, most if not all of the accounts were clearly constructed tales that exaggerated the details in confusing ways.

First it was a simple Riolu, better in every way than his classmates. Larkspur quickly surmised the tale as nothing more than a ploy by a deranged mother trying to make her son happy.

Then it was a powerful legendary out in the open, threatening to destroy towns and burn down forests. This was a clear lie. Larkspur did not even entertain it by reading the fool’s mind.

And then it was a monstrosity, hiding in the back alleys of Rabuta, right in Larkspur’s backyard. The details of that one were less clear, so Larkspur sent insurgents to confirm this. It ended up being nothing more than a discolored Patrat with a disease that caused it to appear bloated.

Foolish, all of them.

But those were all stories of living pokemon, integrating into society as any other pokemon would. None of those stories dared to start at the beginning, when the human first arrived.

Until now.

Larkspur glanced back at the Persian. “And?”

There was a rapid nod from Moa, as though this was going well for him. “A-and, uh, I ran as soon as I realized that I found it, but those guildies– they caught me! Sent me to jail! I might’ve…been on the run before they found me- but…that’s why I couldn’t get here sooner—honest!”

Incongruous details that contributed nothing. Larkspur rolled his eyes—why did they all have to be petty criminals?

“Where is the Dewott now?” Larkspur pressed, audibly sounding tired of having to ask all of these questions.

Moa’s twisted face somehow became even more twisted as he braced himself, his tail flicking anxiously. “I got out of there as soon as I could,” the cat said. “It was in the castle- at Kebia. He was there when they put me in jail, and half a week later I saw him again, then I saw him one more time before I got out of there a few days back.”

“…The Dewott is living there.” Larkspur said it plainly, as though it were a known fact.

“He was wearing a fancy scarf last I saw ’em, yeah. A purple one!”

Hm.

This could make the difference. Larkspur prodded further. “Did you hear his name?”

Moa, mournfully, shook his head. “Oz…something,” he tried. “Oz-something. I can’t remember more than that, honest- it was going too fast!”

Hmm.

Larkspur’s demeanor had shifted since the beginning of the conversation. He started out skeptical, irritated, annoyed. But the cat’s testimony had since eased him into a sense of apprehension.

There was quite a bit that could have gone wrong after Larkspur activated the orb. With how the artifact worked, Larkspur was not in control of where the human ended up, what they would be, or what state they would be in.

As soon as he said those magical words, the race was on.

A paralyzing fear had coursed through his veins during this conversation. The fear that, from the very start, Larkspur had already lost that race. Anemone, by complete accident, found the human first; she had them in her grasp.

If what this Persian said was true, then…

No.

No, Larkspur was better than this. Above this, even. He turned to Crane.

“It seems we are left with no choice,” the Malamar said.

Crane cackled, already aware of what Larkspur was implying. “How ya wanna confirm it, Count? Bait ’em out? Get Jasmine and her cronies to do it?”

That would be the easiest answer, no doubt. Team Snow In Summer was not even the sole source of information for Larkspur in Kebia. But still, Larkspur answered with a simple “no.” He then ignored Crane’s bewildered expression as he waved the Persian off. “Thank you…Moa,” he grumbled. “You may leave now.”

Moa’s face lit up, though Larkspur was not entirely certain from a glance. It could have been terror, relief, sadness, or overwhelming joy for all he knew. Once again the Persian groveled at Larkspur’s feet, though. “Itismygreatestpleasuremylord-“

“Yes yes, now leave!”

The cat promptly jolted to his paws and dashed in the pointed direction of Larkspur’s outstretched tentacle. Crane was already there, holding the door open, so within a moment it was just the two of them again.

Crane closed the door, dusting off his claws afterwards as though he had done all of the hard work. There was that grin of his, too. Always at full toothiness, always demeaning. Larkspur was forced to stare at it for a couple brief moments, and even that was too much.

So, Lark,” Crane started, “what’s your plan?”

Something strange occurred with Larkspur’s tentacles then. Their unruliness all of a sudden almost seemed placated—disintegrated entirely. He was swaying, and his tentacles swayed with him. Listening. Obeying.

He was smiling, too.

“We both know how easy it would be to accomplish this,” Larkspur stated facetiously, almost jovial in his tone. “Knowledge is simply the first step. At the end of the day, it all comes down to how we play our cards.”

His body turned, his tentacles swaying with his movements as though he were floating in water. Larkspur soon found himself face-to-face with that Delphox, her haunting gaze sending a shiver down the Malamar’s non-existent spine.

He wondered…what would Luna do?

Luna would not just uncover the information she needed, she would do so while causing as much pain to those she despised as possible. Anything less was insufficient.

It was not enough to have the human stolen right under Anemone’s nose—the mon responsible needed to walk right past her defenses and lead the human through the front door.

Larkspur glanced at Crane sadistically, licking the edges of his beak.

“Crane,” Larkspur started in a sing-song voice, “it was the prince that brought back the second gem, was it not?”

As unhinged as Crane was, that grin of his faded to concern.

“Hehe…yeah…?”

Larkspur looked back to Luna. For a moment, he could detect a hint of approval in her gaze.

“Good, good…”

True beauty will flourish once again.