Catching Up On Current Events

“So wait, those arrows EXPLODE when they hit living targets?”

The astonished question comes as you rub at the sore lines left in your wrists by the recently removed bindings. Much of the conversation post interrogation had gone in a more hopeful direction, starting with the both of you swapping quiet apologies for past grievances. Whilst he was hesitant to return to the embarrassing subject of his wounded pride, Rowan lost much of the tension he’d been carrying after your equally shameful admission of guilt. Regardless of the awkward moment, he’d thankfully seen fit to make up for knocking you from the canopy by offering to clip your viney restraints. You would quickly agree to refrain from sudden movements if he freed you. Naturally, you chose to keep the fact that you’d nearly slipped a hand out of the rope to yourself. Thankfully the ranger wouldn’t notice you fidgeting your wrists back into place before turning to let him ‘free’ you.

Another uncomfortable silence followed as he backed away from the Sneasel he’d just turned loose, both of you taking an uneasy stance facing the other. Not wanting fresh doubt to cloud the chance before you, a neutral topic was offered up instead. Playing into his **** ego once more, you ask him about how he’d managed to ‘rescue’ you from the moth. This works like a charm, of course, as he excitedly regales you with his heroically foolish dive-bomb. It was after he recounted his cunning blow to the moth’s back that you blurted out your question, a genuinely dumbfounded expression smeared across your face. He, apparently not understanding the frantic look you wore (because of course he didn’t..), proudly exclaims that he’d learned the technique from his master and that the alternative was far too messy for a noble hero such as himself.

“... But you aimed it at my head point blank..?” You can almost see the wheels spinning in his head as he follows your line of inquiry. When at last Rowan pieced together the narrative you’d been walking him through, the scout loses a bit of the vim he's been flaunting.

“Well.. I-i mean..” his explanation is significantly less boisterous than the tale he was just spinning, taking on a shaky, sputtering tempo. Through flustered half sentences and soft mutterings he states that he ‘knew what he was doing’ and had the utmost confidence that his methods would **** a surrender. Essentially, he claims that he never intended to fire, and to do so would be the mark of someone unworthy to serve the Nest. The memory of a shrieking Decidueye with a quivering hand upon a taut bowstring made it hard to take him at his word. Regardless, this conversation was wholly unproductive in the face of much more pressing questions. With a less than convincing smile, you nod in acceptance of his excuse to move the dialog along.

Similarly, you speed through the expected topics such as ‘what are you doing here’ and ‘why you’re not a bloodthirsty egg snatcher like the rest’. Rowan doesn’t mince words even when he’s trying to be diplomatic, but you take it all in stride just to keep his confidence. The crude bark map gifted by Lyra goes a long way in convincing him of your understandably outlandish goal of investigating the corruption and its source. He’s just as dismissive of your quest as the folks of Cove Crest, of course, but he doesn’t try to spare your feelings, openly scoffing at the ridiculousness of it all. Not to be deterred, you squeeze another question in between his condescending quips about the location of this elusive grove and the ‘Ginkgo trees’ therein.

“Heh.. you're serious, aren't you?” The question comes in the face of your neutral expression, your unwillingness to engage with his jabs seemingly damping his jeers. A small shrug is all you offer in response, hoping that at last you might be passed the mockery. When you offer no other explanation to the young scout, his own features take on a more serious tone, possibly considering your story. After a brief pause, Rowan flatly states that he has no knowledge of the groves to the north.

“My work for the Nest has only ever seen me to the southern reaches of the Great Expanse. Mostly within the forests along the coast.” He goes on to proudly proclaim that he'd shown such ‘bravery and valor’ during his earlier years that he'd recently been granted the honor of flying solo patrols for his unit. “Senior Scouting and Exploration. The most noble calling saved for only the most worthy of the Treehoppers elite!” His preening hits an awkward snag when he lays eyes on your bafflement. With an annoyed sigh he summarizes, with patronizingly slow words you note, that his mission is more important than locating and categorizing simple trees. Rather, he has been tasked with recon and, if deemed necessary, the removal of hostile entities. “That means interlopers like you who do not respect the Cheslin Concord…”, he smugly concludes.

You knew the name. Though you’d never been, the few souls kind or brave enough to trade in resources and gossip with an outcast had mentioned the tiny plot of prairie. Not big enough to claim to be a proper town, as you recall, but rather utilized as a valuable way station where weary travelers of the vast forests might find clean water and safe keeping for the night. This ‘Concord’ on the other hand was entirely lost on you. It must’ve shown as Rowan, ever in need of a reason to keep himself upon a loftier pedestal than you, somewhat conceitedly offers that he was referring to a pact that, if upheld, ensured peace between the Nest and their adversaries.

“Simply put, if you do not wish to incur the wrath of our mighty legions you best keep out of our territory. There are further provisions, but I wouldn’t want to tax your mind, treecat.” It was getting difficult to ignore the slights when they came with every other flap of the owl's sneering face, but you were finally getting somewhere with him. Another deep breath and another provocation dodged, you **** your tightening jaw open to inquire as to the ‘signing’ of this accord. You’d never heard of such a thing back when you lived amongst the clan so you had to assume it was a recent measure. Eager to keep the spotlight, Rowan continues to explain that the Concord is nearing its first year.

“The early months went surprisingly well as the Elders of various villages and clans all respected our proclamation.” He snidely adds that this was likely due to the unification of two of the oldest avian tribes. This, in turn, saw the Nest’s strength nearly double and granted it the ability to manage enough of the surrounding forests to quell interterritorial disputes so that commerce and agriculture could flourish. Soon, if the outlying tribes could not be made to set aside their differences, they could at least be enticed by the surplus and safety the Nest could provide. He went on like this for a while, singing the praises and virtues of his home and kin, you listening in earnest as the fresh information about worldly goings on poured freely.

However, as Rowan’s saga started to catch up to current day, there came a notable lapse in the recounting. The upbeat enthusiasm the ranger had shown in his history lesson thus far was acutely absent when at last he spoke again.

“Everything was fine and everyone was thriving… until a few months ago..” The dour look on the man's previously smirking face made it hard to maintain your annoyance at his rudeness earlier. Even in this twilight hour as the moon began its western descent, you could almost see a dark cloud cast over the young warrior as he continued, unprompted. “First, came the rumors of disappearances. Mostly of the stubborn hermits that chose their seclusion over the security of larger numbers. Worrying, but not unheard of as folks that live alone don’t feel much need to inform others before leaving for greener pastures..”

“Harder to ignore were the brazen attacks that came next. Trade caravans, small scouting parties, even a remote hamlet or two would go unaccounted for.” The unmistakable look of shame slowly crept across Rowan’s lowered face as he relayed the grim tidings, likely **** to relieve the terrible events before expressing them. “When at last the Nest took notice of these dire circumstances, it was far too late..” There was a mournful unease in his tone now, his mumbled words barely breaking a whisper as he spoke of the slow fracturing of their newly formed confederation. Cries of cowardice and corruption were leveled at the Nest’s ruling body as the outlying enclave were either burned or **** to flee from the growing, yet still unknown menace coming from the east. Panic-stricken pokemon turned from the concord in droves, **** to save their own from the threat their protectors had failed to combat. Soon, the halls of the Eternal Elm grew quiet as many of its inhabitants returned to their hometowns to aid in their exodus.

“It’s falling apart…” The soft whisper is amplified by an ebb in the wind, though if Rowan noticed this slip of the mask, he didn’t show it. So genuine was this accidental admission from the sullen man that you bit back the pithy response you’d thought to employ, asking the wisdom of confiding this failure in a complete stranger. Instead, you chose your words with a modicum of tact in the hopes of shaking the man from his gloom whilst also gleaning more about this collapse.

“A few months ago…” Your line of reasoning is spoken aloud with as much consideration as you could manage. “That would be around the time that these damned ferals began to crop up, yes?” Rowan is already shaking his head before you complete the thought.

“We knew of the plaguebearers before most. One of the benefits to having a well organized reconnaissance network.” The comment tracks with his previous statements about the Nest, but you question why it took so long for everyone else to get the message so as to aid in the fight. Rowan scoffed at the question before rejecting it entirely. “The ferals are too many, treecat. You think we didn't try to defend our borders? Try to resist the steady loss of villages and pokemon to their endless numbers?” Venom is creeping back into his tone as he takes a worrying step toward you, likely misunderstanding your query as more of an insult. Not wanting this newfound rationality to be lost to the same mania that saw him launching arrows at you previously, to attempt to interject. Rowan steamrolls your pitiful stuttering all the same.

“For weeks we sought to learn of this emergent evil and tried stemming the tide of loss. You know what we learned Kale?! We learned that these unthinking monsters are anything but…” While the raised volume was disconcerting, the Ranger would go on to explain that aside from the elevated levels of aggression and uncommon spikes in power, the ferals were capable of group reasoning. Through simmering anger-filled squawks, Rowan explained that if they were lucky enough to repel an attack, the infected would simply return the next day with greater numbers. He likened the behavior to a collective hysteria or maybe even a hive mind mentality. The avian shot back his own question of, “A horde that grows stronger with every victory and is reinforced with every defeat. How do we compete with something like that!?”

An uncomfortable quiet follows, only broken up by the occasional calming breath from your new acquaintance. Knowing that just about anything you follow that furious discourse with will likely only serve to anger him further, you let Rowan collect himself before finally he is ready to continue. “..When we failed to protect the outliers, most of the other villages pulled their support to focus on their own survival. Heh…” A heated exhalation punctuated the joyless laugh.

“This only made them easier pickings for the real danger…” The fur at the back of your neck prickles as those heavy words reach you. A grim smirk plays across the Rangers face when he sees you stiffen at the ominous threat. Again he takes enjoyment from observing your discomfort. You really didn’t like that side of him… Eventually, and to your momentary relief, he would return his attention to your traveling satchel, still in his hands from when he’d pilfered through it. He turned it over in his hands as he spoke.

“You see Kale.. The Nest can handle diverging opinions on the future of its residents. It can handle the occasional incursion of the virus spawn. It can even handle the painful realization that it may one day descend back into meaningless obscurity…” The look Rowan then shot at you, one borne of pure malice and pitiless hatred, had you almost missing the air of superiority he’d ‘graced’ you with previously. He stalked closer as the pause drew on, those violet eyes sending a numbness through your limbs, not too dissimilar from when you had faced the moth. He came to a halt when he stood but a couple paces away, the extra foot in his stature really coming into play as he towered over you. “But when it cannot handle, what I cannot absolve…” A sudden jerk of his feathered fist sends the bag and its contents speeding toward you, thankfully within easy catching distance.

“Is treachery.”

You miss the edged remark at first, worriedly checking the satchel to ensure that none of its precious cargo had been harmed by the unexpected flight. You are relieved that while the contents have been jostled somewhat, they remain intact. You fire an accusatory glare at the bird and are about to chastise him for the foolish act, though Rowan proves the quicker.

“We thought the mindless cannibals were the worst of our problems, but the true ruination of all goodly folk in the expanse was yet to creep from the shadows.” A fluffy finger is thrust in your direction, causing you to flinch in anticipation of a possible second confrontation. Despite the tense standoff, you do well to keep composure and continue to stare the man down. He continues his torrent, “Weakened and spread thin as we were, we unknowingly presented a golden opportunity to the Nests most insidious foes.” His eyes narrowed dangerously as he once again stabbed his finger toward the crest upon your satchel.

“.. The Huntsmen Clan…” You mutter aloud, finally coming to understand at least some of the hostility he’d shown this evening. A single, churlish nod is all you receive in confirmation. This unsettling revelation weighed heavy on your fatigued mind, though something wasn’t fitting. The Clan had always been aggressive to outsiders and there was a dark history of the reclusive tribe launching unprovoked attacks upon unsuspecting innocents (a fact you were keenly aware of…). Though these accusations seemed unlike the men and women you once knew. Cruelty and hunting for sport were all within the depths of their depravity, but one thing your people weren’t was foolish. The elders might authorize an **** on a fledgling group to ward off others, but to terrorize the forests to this degree when such a calamity was unfolding just seemed… Irrational. You share these thoughts with Rowan, insisting that while your people weren’t known for their kindness, it would be far too great a risk for the olds ones to allow the clan to operate in such a manner. You explain that if you knew your kin, they would sooner flee from an unstoppable crisis rather than profit from it.

“Then you don’t know your people half as well as we do, Sneasel…” The icy rebuke makes it hard to doubt the things he’s said, outlandish as they seem to you. Under the scouts consent stare, you face away toward the sea of black as you try to remember that which you’d like to have left buried. The ruling council, three elderly Weavile, had never had any compunctions about destroying the lives of what they considered to be ‘lesser’ pokemon. Rather, they often made the hunting of a secluded group or freshly built outpost part of the yearly ‘Proving’. You wince at the memory of the barbaric practice, having been sent out with one such skirmishing group with orders to ‘cull the trespassers’. The guilt began to seep in as you remember the pride you’d felt the morning of your ‘trial.’ You were so young… So naive to what was really happening until.. Rowan catches the trepidation upon your face as the past engulfs you, though he misinterprets its meaning.

“It's not easy to learn that you’ve been the bad guy your whole life, huh?”

Much of this last year had been devoted to learning the ways of self-sufficiency as the idea of returning and submitting to the traditions of your homeland was a vile notion. You recall the anger and self-loathing of those first few months of isolation, still raw from the injustices foisted upon you. In time, however, you began to take solace in the quiet evenings, eventually allowing the toxic emotions to bubble up from where you'd buried them. Under the radiant moonlight, surrounded by the whisper of the ancient woodlands, you had found the strength to confront and analyze what had occurred. Through these months of reflection, you'd learned to forgive what you could and bare what you could not. What transpired could've even been called ‘enlightenment’ if you'd known the word for it. What you did know, however, was that understanding and patience could unravel even the most confounding of obstacles.

The pigeon's last remark was about the closest you'd come to breaking that conviction…

“I've always known!!”

The explosive response shatters the relative calm that had blanketed the evening, startling the taunt flinging Decidueye. Your outburst is accompanied by a vicious turn as you take aim at the reeling man, glaring with intent though the movement scarcely registered in your mind. The formerly grinning beak of your smarmy tormentor now betrays him as the inexperienced owlet he truly was. Even as he stumbles back to brace himself against the trunk, you hear that tiny voice of reason pleading for you to back off. You'd taken his barbs, verbal and otherwise, for far too long though, and it was time for answers.

“I know my kind are the monsters you warn of before setting the young ones to rest! I know we have decades of misdeeds affirming your distrust…” Rowan has largely righted himself as you lay down your cards, even matching your glower with a dangerous one of his own. No longer concerned with his constant derision, however, you power through. “Even as a kitten when I would hear the stories and tales passed down by our elders of the great and prominent warriors of our clan… Deep down..” The heated passion that had tinged your words moments ago had already begun to subside, the coming admission stealing much of its momentum. You feel the hardness in your face loosen as you look upon the bird, his expression a mirror of how he’d first appeared to you, so full of suspicion and hostility. Solemnly with little weight behind your words, you murmur..

“I always knew..”

Though a foolish prospect with his ire freshly reignited, you turn away from the owl, **** to be free of that well earned scrutiny. The laser focus of those judgmental violet orbs can still be felt boring into the back of your skull as the moments tick by, apparently neither of you wishing to break the comparatively blissful silence. Still, you stood to gain nothing from the standoff, so you subdue the lump forming in your throat.

“My kin aren't the ones committed to tale or song. We aren't noble, nor heroic, or even particularly brave. The clan takes from who they can and runs from who they cannot.” You wonder if the shortsighted owl would be able keep his arrows sheathed long enough to let your self-deprecating monolog reach its point. It was likely a toss up based on the ‘greeting’ he'd offered earlier. Though, so long as your back remained projectile free, you'd speak your piece.

“... which is why I can't imagine those dusty old elders ever allowing these heinous attacks.” Rowan, naturally, is irritated with your refusal to accept his premise. He loudly protests, chirping about Sneasel lies and accountability and all the same tripe you've come to expect. You let him ramble, your own mind searching for the logic behind this disturbing revelation. Hirsh and his mate Kolica had been among the longest lived Weaviles in recent memory, though their advanced age had dulled their minds. As such, they'd rarely strayed from the edicts of the 3rd and most imposing of the council; a crotchety though no less intimidating Weavile you knew as Loric.

A grimace accompanies the memory of him standing there upon his balcony perch, surrounded by loyalist sycophants as he oversaw your exile. In the 2 years leading up to your lone exodus, you'd butted heads frequently with the crusty warrior. After that ill-fated Proving, your new found abhorrence to the traditions that had defined the clan, the unwarranted raids and the cruel practice of consuming the still struggling victims, drove a wedge between the two of you. There was a time before your ‘enlightenment’ that you'd honored the man, you held him and the other elders with reverence like the rest of your people. With each failed attempt to sway his and the others minds to your adopted ideals, his true nature bled through the cracks of his perceived superiority. As you'd climbed the ranks, both of cunning as well as martial prowess, he must have grown wary of the threat your derision posed. At the same time you'd claimed victory over the clan's most prominent warriors, he'd begun to poison the village against you. You had thought that defeating proponents of the past would garner support for the new path you offered, showing the entire clan that even a ‘berry eater’ could stand tall, though they were all too quick to align themselves with their old masters. When at last the mob openly began to call for your removal, you were only too happy to oblige.

Still… Despite everything that shortsighted bastard had done to make your time with the clan as insufferable as possible… This current wave of **** didn’t fit. Loric was a proud man, this much was true, but he’d never sacrifice the security of his followers for potential gain. More likely, though, he’d never sacrifice the security of HIS standing within the clan. The faded warlord was pragmatic if nothing else and to wage war upon the whole of the Great Expanse while this new viral danger loomed would be disastrous to his continuing rule.

So if not the council.. then who.. would..?

“...Rahken.”