Rowan The Decidueye

There is a peaceful weightlessness to the void. While your limbs are slow to answer your call, they feel comfortably loose in this endless sea of merciful subconscious. Concern tries to wriggle its way into your meditative rest, but it is easy to ignore as the gentle breeze carries much of your woes off to bother some other poor sod. You even find yourself wondering if this is what the end might feel like; lost to the world but without a single care to the fate of it. The pleasant sidebar couldn’t last, though. The void is reserved for the fallen and you seem to have survived yours.

It starts with a creeping heaviest that invades your extremities, disrupting the ‘lighter than air’ sensations you’d grown to like. As you feel yourself pulled back to earth with the unforgiving tug of gravity, you feel the rough touch of bark across your back and a building pressure upon your chest. Each breath you draw seems to take more effort than the last. Eventually each inhalation is a struggle against the entity that would deny you fresh air. A familiar fear colors your wistful thoughts and you realize that while you aren’t dead, you very well might end up that way if you don’t act soon. With a ragged cough, your lungs sputtering to grab more of that precious oxygen, your eyes creak open to a display you weren’t ready for.

The discomforting weight battling your lungs for air turns out to be the fluffy rump of the mystery ranger. He’s sat ‘side saddle’ upon your chest, occupying himself with something in his hands. There is a persistent throbbing in your head, likely a remnant of that nasty fall you took. As you go over that awful ordeal, your last coherent thought being of that damned moth descending over your pained..

The moth!

Instinctively you scan your surroundings for the woman that had plagued your evening. Initially you see nothing beyond the hazel plumage of the man pinning you. Frantically you begin your search in earnest though your panic seems to catch the attention of the aforementioned ranger.

“She’s been dealt with.” He doesn’t even look up from what he’s fiddling with as his icy tone addresses you. Your awkward position makes it difficult to face the owl just and his bulk (which you now notice sports a dainty, moth sized lump), makes it equally challenging to answer. With a groan you try to shift the man from your chest only to find that your wrists are bound, pinned to the bark beneath you. Weak kicks of your leg to signal your displeasure are all you can manage, though this thankfully seems to prompt the bird to react. With an annoyed huff, he rises from your chest giving you a much needed chance to gasp at the evening air (which now lacks that sickly sweet taste of stunning poison).

The relief is short lived as most of the breath you take is stolen right back when he plops that soft rump upon your middle, causing you to sputter. Thankfully, this new position, as humiliating as it is, affords you more room to fill your aching lungs. After doing so a few times to shoo away the spots in your vision, you struggle to **** out, “T-thought we were past this..” There is an attempt to color your words with sarcasm to ease the tension, though your current state strains your tone. Regardless, this does capture the owl’s irritated attention once more.

“YOU might be past it..” again he speaks with a shortness that makes you wonder if the danger has truly gone. The stranger fixes his still, slightly disconcerting lavender eyes upon you before continuing. “...But I’ve no intention of ending up like this one tonight.” You hear him pat his pudgy belly causing it, or perhaps its occupant to groan softly in response. Confirmation that the threat has been rebuked does little to quell the worry upon your visage, or the soreness in your limbs. Again you try to make the flippant warrior see reason.

“If I wanted to eat you, wouldn’t I have done so after that ‘cheap shot’?” Your voice is weak but serious, forcing the conversation in a direction you hope may garner answers or at least understanding. Making mention of that embarrassing occurrence does shake some of the stoicism from the ranger, as he glances to the side to avoid your stare. He remains quiet from a time, you hope to moll over your words to find they might ring of truth, though his earlier outbursts makes you wonder if he was capable of sound reasoning. After a time, his attention returns to you, apparently coming to a conclusion.

“.. Be that as it may, cat, I’ve been given no reason to assume you don’t have another nefarious plot brewing.” For the first time since you traded words with the man, there is no hint of venom or accusatory slant to his tone. You couldn't really deny his point either as your kinsmen had an unsavory reputation long before you left the clan. You are about to concede the issue of your heritage before he cuts you off. “You wear the mark of the Huntsman clear as day…”, and punctuates the statement by holding up the small satchel marked with the emblem of your people. Again you mention that you are no longer affiliated with the village of Yelsdin. His scoff is expected, though to your great relief, he does not launch into yet another unhinged rant about Sneasels and their lies. You swallow a couple of deep breaths and go on the offensive.

“I wasn’t trying to deceive you earlier.” You start, your voice firm and pointed, causing the lout atop you to cast an eye from the ongoing scan of your bag. You are quick to return the ire he bestows as you’ve finally gotten him to shut up and listen. You continue, “Look at it from my perspective. I was moments from sleep only to be fired upon by an unknown foe. I even attempted to defuse the fight with you about to skewer my face…” This time there is a little annoyance in your words, unable to let the unprovoked **** go. The owl is unfazed by your barb and is about to retort. You aren’t about to let him mire the flow of thought just yet though.

“Even after I justifiably freed myself and had you dead to rights, did I continue the attack..? Did I flee and leave you to the damned feral?!” Anger is seeping into your tone now as you go over the dismal evening in your mind. Your tirade is having an effect on the ranger, as well, and his usual sneering face is now drawn back in the beginnings of guilt. You go in with the big guns.

“No! I stopped her from taking off that squawking head of yours and what do I get for my trouble?! Shot out of the trees and sent falling to what should have been my ****!!” The silence that follows your heated volley is occasionally interrupted by the ragged breaths it takes to steady yourself as you stare the man down. You can see it in his eyes that he knows the truth of your words. The only question left is whether his remorse will color his response, or his pride…

“But it wasn't your ****… Was it?” The retort is sharp, spoken with a heated exhale and violet glare to match. Your rant has certainly captured his attention, though the look he’s giving makes you doubt that is a good thing. “You have me to thank for that, scavenger!” The fluster is clear upon his angled face and you begin to think you might have pressed too far when the staring contest begins to run over long. In the end, however, reason wins out as with a disgusted grunt, he turns away from your laser focus. Knowing you’ve begun to get through and eager to capitalize on the weakened defenses, you ask if he could plant his backside elsewhere. Again, you worry your tease is poorly received when a grimace crosses his features, though again you are rewarded for your straightforwardness. A labored *Hrmph..!* is all he offers you as he rises despite his occupied belly, and steps off toward the trunk.

“ ‘Preciate it..” is all you can croak out between unobstructed lungful's, though if the man heard you, he doesn’t show it. You prop yourself up on still bound arms and with the extra bit of freedom afforded to you look after the ranger to find him now sat against the tree, your satchel atop his rounded gut. You think to ask if the wrist bindings are still necessary though the look he’s giving you makes it clear that while you’re off the menu, you’re not above his suspicions. Despite vastly preferring his newfound silence over the usual banter, you know nothing is to be gained from another glaring match and attempt to assuage his doubts.

“Listen, if you still aren’t in the trusting mood…”, you are careful with your phrasing. It is clear that the avian is on the back talon and you intend to keep him there, though you needn't shame him. The brooding bird could still send a volley your way before you ever slip your bonds, after all. Instead of prodding, you decide upon a civil invitation. “..might I suggest that you rummage through that satchel?”

There is a brief hint of intrigue in his eyes when you make the offer to explain each item as he produces them. It is snuffed quickly by that judgmental glower you’ve learned to hate. Not to be deterred, you vocalize your own conclusions about the unlikelihood of your escape, mentioning the tight binds and even playing up his archery skills, insinuating that he’d easily put a quill in your back before you made it to another branch. You make a mental note that ego is a soft target for this one as you watch him shift into a more relaxed sit against the trunk. You allow him to begin the invasion of your privacy.

The first few items are of little import; mostly your basic tools and traveling gear for making camp or preparing simple meals. The ranger continues to probe and eventually draws out your teal journeying cloak, worn from use and still marked with the emblem of your former clan. The insignia gives pause to your captor and wince as an accusatory glare settles upon you. The first big hurdle is upon you.

“That’s nothing..”, you start, the owl obviously doubting your words. “A tattered garb from my youth that holds more sentimental value than anything else.” To confirm your assertion, he palms of the cloth to find multiple holes and rips in the material, making it almost useless for keeping warm or concealing oneself. Still, he seems unconvinced.

“Sentimentality for those that scorned you? Not likely, tree cat…” The arrogance in his voice coupled with a cynical grin creeping along his beak give off an air of superiority. He thinks he’s begun to unravel your perceived lies, thinks he’s cornered you.

He has not.

“… It was still my home. Even if Yelsdin was filled with assholes that I’d never wish to see again… It was still the place of my birth.” Your gaze turns from the man, instead opting to stare out into the vast forest beyond your perch. As you continue, you aren’t entirely sure your words are meant for the ranger alone. “I don’t miss what I left behind, but… I do miss the few good memories I have of that place. I hold onto that cloak for the good times and for the hope, however slight, that they might one day change their ways.” A long silence follows and the breeze rustling the leaves becomes oppressive once again. The smallest hint of a lump begins to form in your throat as you think of what could have been, though it is quickly subdued. You have neither the time nor the inclination to reminisce with your arms still bound and a twitchy archer holding your fate in his hands. The moment is interrupted by snide chuckle which then is followed by the owl wondering aloud if the ‘good times’ pertained to the destruction of homes and the hunting of innocents. You let the insult wash over you, refusing to take the bait.

“I speak of simpler things, smaller moments lost in the minutiae of daily life.” You stare skyward now, letting the contentment mix with your tone. “Things like the first time I scaled the oldest tree in our grove unaided. Or when I built my first fire to warm myself under the stars. Or my first real attachment..” You go on to reference the short-lived puppy love you shared with a Sneasel by the name of Teyrn. “She was the first friend I had, my first hug… And, once I found out what a psycho she was, my first heartbreak.” Another chuckle is heard, though this time it is not without mirth. When you turn back to the man now reclining comfortably against the trunk, you catch a small but genuine grin which, you hope, might’ve been brought on by a shared experience between the two of you. With a wry smirk you ask if he had any wild past partners.

“Past..? Heh, try current, Sneasel.” It was your turn to let out a bemused laugh at the implications. This would draw another concerning look from the man when he realized you might be getting through his defenses. His half smile was suppressed quickly and the bit of good will he’d lent was fading fast. You weren’t done with him though, as common ground was forming and you’d not sacrifice your progress so easily. Softly, you ask if he’d like to continue with the inspection. Obviously wanting to maintain control of his ‘interrogation’, he quickly delves back into your bag in search of something more damning. You allow him his illusion of control for the time being. Up next was the ruby red scale that Elder Lyra left with you, its luster no less brilliant in the dim moonlight. A cocky sneer plays across the stranger's face when he thinks he’s at last got you cold.

“Ah… Been to Cove Crest have we, little thief?!” The mention of the seaside hamlet is surprising at first, though your mind immediately pivots to how it could use this to your benefit. When you ask how he might know of the secretive commune, the bird excitedly blurts out that his people and their have a storied past of trade and cooperation in times of scarcity. You let him ramble freely, happy to let him devulge without your constant prompting. He declares that any lie you might concoct of the town would be easily debunked by him as his earliest excursions were to ensure good relations between the two societies. “So tell me the truth, cat. How did you steal this scale from the coastal chieftain? What underhanded, knavish deception did you use to trick their Elder into parting with such a rarity?!” He was so very confident that he had you pinned down that you almost felt bad at the simplicity of your response.

“... You think me capable of tricking Lyra?” A crack in his smug face appeared when you poised the straightforward question. You could almost see the doubts settling within his brain, but you had to be certain of your victory. “I’ve watched that mountain of a woman expel a feral from her home with a single strike. The Milotic is a lot of things, friend, but a fool isn’t one of them. You can be sure that anything I have of hers was not taken, but freely given.” As you finish, the sag in his shoulders confirms another defeated narrative left to fade away in the back of his mind. Not wanting embarrassment to fill the void left by his fleeting confidence, you quickly assure him that it was a valid concern to raise as the people of the small village aren’t exactly keen on outsiders. You say this as he sheepishly replaces the scale in your pack before withdrawing the slim pale jar adored with paint in the shape of a peach. As it would turn out, you wouldn’t even need to explain this one.

“You’ve met the Vaporeon, as well…” He doesn’t look up from the bottle as he turns it over in his fluffy palm. Another nervous laugh escapes you as the notion of Arro being in everyone’s business makes perfect sense. The ranger doesn’t share in your fun, however, instead asking about the lather jar. “Odd that you would have taken this, though. We can usually smell your kind before we see them…” You merely shrug, conceding the point. The clan didn’t care for much outside of expanding their hunting grounds and like most other things, bathing fell to the wayside. When you confirm as much, you go on to rely how Arro essentially **** a shower on you before you spent the night. When a look of shock crossed the avian's face at the mention of your sharing of the Vaporeon’s bed, you are quick to explain that it wasn’t what he was assuming, rather you were again ‘politely ****’ to ride out the recent storm within his home.

“Heh…” The soft chuckle was a hopeful sign your words were reaching him. He again meets your gaze with a grin to match your own. “That certainly sounds like the pompous, self-obsessed tour guide I know.” Nodding in agreement with his assessment of the Eeveelution, you explain that the bath had been a surprise, but a welcome experience nonetheless. “That would certainly explain your strange odor, ‘Peach-Cat’.” The beginnings of understanding were in place and it was time for the coup-de-gras.

“ ‘Told ya already the name’s Kale, friend...” The slight smile that had been developing on the man's beak faded into its usual stoicism at the mention of names, likely knowing what you were up to. Regardless, you press onward. “.. And honestly? Gettin' a little tired of calling you ‘stranger’ or bird..” You let the statement hang in the air a bit, hoping that the man might meet you halfway. The pause in conversation begins to drag on and you start to prompt him further when he cuts you off.

“Decidueye…” Comes the soft retort. In the face of your obvious confusion, he explains, “... Not just a bird… What? Never seen one of my kin before ‘KALE’?” While it’s not what you were after, it's something about himself and at this point you’ll take anything he’s willing to share. When you state you’d never met a Pokemon like him, with the hood and arrows and the like, he seems to take a bit of pride in that. “Most don’t get the chance. The Nest doesn’t clear foolish scouts for solo assignments.” At the mention of what you assume to be his home, much of that ego is deflated when he realizes that he’s said too much. You fire off one last quip to slip past what remains of his resolve.

“Might’ve just been easier to give me a name…” You know the barb will sting but at this point your arms are starting to grow numb and you just want your mobility back. You watch the man roll through several emotions, likely thinking of a way to salvage his blunder or hit back with a witty retort. In the end, sense, or more likely acceptance of his screw up, crumble his icy exterior. Defeated and tired of your verbal onslaught, he sheepishly looks out over the trees, obviously avoiding your victorious smile.

“... It’s Rowan.”