Special Episode 1: Aftermath

Palomere Kingdom – Arkenarr “No Man’s Land”

Desolation, everywhere he went. The general glided over the valley of death and despair. Mangled, rotting corpses littered the arid battlefield. Another meaningless mass loss of life, hundreds of hopes and dreams crushed in the span of just a couple hours, and for what?

He had made no headway into penetrating the Resistance fortress of Arkenarr, and he was on a timer. The Resistance had been getting more and more ambitious following their victory at Cairne Bridge. He wouldn’t be getting any more troops for another month, when the Silver Souls will have finished their next batch of “projects”.

The gliscor clenched his claws as he landed on the bloodstained grass next to the body of a rhydon, laying headfirst in the sandy dirt, a deep gash in his side still oozing dark, crimson blood. He recognized the ground type as one of his men. Dirthen of the Kingswood District, age 22, in his last year of mandated military duty. He had worked in his father’s bakery before he was forcefully enlisted.

The general lay a claw on the fallen soldier’s back, closed his eyes, and sighed. What was he even fighting for?

After burying his comrade in a shallow grave and paying his respects, the general glided further along the war-torn valley as the sun met the horizon, painting the dried grass scarlet. A warm breeze brought a tingling feeling to his wings. The feeling unearthed a deep memory of when his closest confidant became his greatest enemy over half a decade ago…

Scoria soared through the warm skies of the Palomere Kingdom, the afternoon sun reflecting off the sandy structures underneath him. The skies were clear and the air was fresh. He could faintly hear the buzzing of the common folk as they went along their daily lives. Small figures darted to and fro, likely merchants peddling their wares to whomever would listen. A large, marble castle could be seen in the distance, glowing golden in the searing sun. Ornate pillars supported various structures embedded into the building, and a vast garden surrounded its base. This was his homeland: a golden landscape filled with liveliness and prosperity. And he loved every inch of it.

Scoria landed at the entrance of the grand castle and walked up to a barred gate manned by a bored looking escavalier and a one armed heracross.

“Hoi Sir Scoria,” the heracross greeted him with a smile. “Here to see Sir Ptera again, I take it?”

“Good afternoon Pastel. And yes, I woke up early today in hopes of catching him as he returned from his downtown duties,” Scoria replied cordially, flicking his tail up to scratch behind his wings as he let out a yawn.

“Mhmm very well, my friend. I shall get the gate for you.” Pastel lifted his good arm and yanked on a contraption behind him. The bars of the gate lifted upwards. Scoria nodded at the bugs and headed inside.

He navigated his way up several long, ornate flights of stairs to a room he was all too familiar with and knocked on the rich mahogany door.

“Scor? Is that you?” a muffled voice came from behind the door.

“No it’s the fuckin’ king,” the gliscor replied sarcastically, then chuckled. “Of course it’s me, you oversized bug. Can I come in?” He heard a snort from inside the room, followed by a quiet sigh.

Ptera seemed to have had a lot on his mind recently, and Scoria felt like it was his duty to raise his brother’s spirits. Well, they weren’t actually related by blood, but their noble families had great ties to each other and as a result they were practically raised together.

“Alright Scor, come in. Wait hold on, I’ll get the door,” Ptera answered from the other side. Scoria heard the sliding of a door guard followed by the clicking of a lock. The door swung open and he was greeted by the sight of a very tired flygon looming over him, antennae drooping and eyes a darker shade of red than usual.

“Hey Ptera,” Scoria greeted his morose friend. “You look super beat today.”

“Yeah. Long day in the city,” Ptera mumbled. The flygon was in training to be a criminal informant, and, as a result, was often stationed in the deepest corners of downtown Arbury, where only commoners lived. Scoria closed the door behind him and walked to the galvantula silk couch by the entrance. The room looked peculiarly empty today. Ptera took a seat beside him.

“I know it’s more than that, Ptera. You’ve been moping around holed up in your room for the past couple of months, and recently it’s been getting worse and worse,” Scoria replied. “Come on, you’re worrying me. Can’t you tell a brother what’s clouding your mind?”

The dragon to his side sighed again, seemingly deep in thought. After an awkward few seconds his voice broke the silence.

“I suppose I can’t keep everything bottled up forever. And if there’s anyone I should open up to, it’s you, brother. I trust you.” The flygon lifted his head up and stared at his ornate ceiling. “I’ve had it with this place, Scor.”

“What do you mean?” Scoria shot his friend a quizzical look.

“This damn kingdom. Everything it stands for. We’ve lost our way.” Ptera slammed a claw on the ornate wooden armrest, leaving visible scratches.

“I-I don’t understand. What’s gotten into you, brother? We’ve lived here all our lives. Palomere has given us everything we have ever wanted. We are respected wherever we set foot. We owe this kingdom everything!” Scoria replied, shocked by his friend’s fervor.

“Tell me Scor, when was the last time you’ve been downtown?” Ptera asked, still staring at the ceiling. Scoria scratched his back with his tail, giving it some thought.

“When I was still a gligar, some four or five years ago? I still remember that day. You brought me there, insisting that a run-down eatery at the end of an alley served the best shadegrass soup in the whole kingdom,” the gliscor replied, reminiscing fondly. “It was a bold statement, but so far I haven’t disproved it. That soup was godly.”

“The owner of that place is currently rotting in the dungeons. Missed a month of taxes, sentenced for a decade,” Ptera said suddenly, locking eyes with Scoria, his expression solemn. Now it was the gliscor’s turn to sigh.

“I know you’re an adamant proponent for change to our judicial system, but isn’t that what we’re here for? We’re still young, but can change things when the time for it comes. Palomere is glorious, there are just a few kinks that must be ironed out,” the gliscor replied.

“The time is now, Scor. You are blind to the injustices we commit on our own people. My damn job is to rob the livelihoods and freedoms of civilians. I cannot continue on this path of treachery. Every time I see the pained reactions of innocents to what we take from them, it never gets any easier,” the flygon exploded. He slid a piece of paper to Scoria. It was a list of names written in red ink. “The death row for this month. Met with one of the accused’s next of kin today. Third name down, Kimmel Floatzel, single father of Sammi Buizel. Accused of thieving almost a dozen revival seeds from Grand Duke Emerel and selling them on the black market to feed his son. Sammi’s an absolute sweetheart, and he has no idea what’s coming to him. The orphanage breaks children, Scor. And this is just one disturbing case of hundreds I’ve seen in the past half a decade.”

A painful silence filled the room as the two friends stared each other in the eyes. Scoria was at a loss for words. He knew any comforting words would be futile. The flygon’s words were brimming with passion and bitterness. Ptera finally stood up and broke the silence.

“We rob our citizens to fund our luxuries. We turn a blind eye when they need our help most. We take their heads when they show any resistance. And then we call ourselves nobles. Is there anything noble about leeching life from our already deprived people?” The flygon continued his angry tirade. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m leaving this city tonight. You’re right about one thing. Someone needs to knock some sense into this nation, and that someone will be me. I’m forming a resistance against this tyranny. Many already share my conviction. Whether you join me or not is not in my control, but just know I extend the offer to you.”

“I-I don’t know… I don’t think I can,” Scoria stammered, not knowing what to make of Ptera’s request. Was he serious?

“Then so be it. I guess this is goodbye, old friend.” The flygon scratched Scoria’s head between his two large ears. Scoria hated it when he did that, but was too engrossed in his friend’s scathing words to stop him. Was he just going to leave the kingdom they served their whole life? He just spewed the most traitorous blasphemy Scoria had heard from someone of his rank. Such words could land one in the gallows.

But was he right?

Moments later, the dragon got up and went behind a marble counter. He slung a large bag over his shoulders, donned his favorite furred cap, and opened the door. “I’ll miss you, Scor,” the flygon said as he left the room and closed the door behind him, leaving Scoria alone with his conflicting thoughts.

A slight movement in the bloodied grass at the corner of Scoria’s vision snapped him out of his reminiscent stupor. He dipped down to get a closer look, curious. In the middle of the field of death, a modicum of life persevered. A single discolored minccino lay face-down in the earth, oozing blood out of her mouth but still breathing lightly. A torn medical bag spilled its contents around the minccino’s feet. Scoria landed as he watched her small body rise and fall. He carefully flipped the pink pokemon onto her back. He vaguely remembered a discolored minccino in his ranks, from the orphanage probably. It wasn’t uncommon for Palomerian armies to recruit child soldiers who wouldn’t be missed back home, especially during wartime. Scoria racked his memory for a name, but came up empty.

Scoria carefully recovered a yellow berry from the dirt that had fallen out of the child’s bag. He used his left claw to force her mouth open as his right claw crushed the sitrus berry, spilling its sour healing juices into the unconscious minccino’s maw. The child took a sharp breath before hacking violently, large eyes fluttering open. She sat up suddenly and tried to stand.

“Don’t,” Scoria warned. “Stop moving so suddenly, it’ll only hurt more.”

“Nngh, G-general?” The child looked up in confusion, breathing raggedly. Scoria sat down on the dried grass and placed his large tail behind her back, supporting the minccino upright.

“Close your eyes, kid. Get some rest,” Scoria said softly. The child obeyed. The gliscor general did the same. He sat on the patchy grass thoughtfully, cradling the child in his large tail as the air around them grew colder and the sun dipped below the horizon.