"i'm right here."

a voice calls out cold. it cuts through the bouquet of heat from cigarette and smoke. an old gogoat trods forth, carrying elijah on its green back. there is no saddle. just the loose fabric of his clothes.

"do i know you?" elijah's eyes remain narrow. judging discs that cut across the verticality of the wood. he rubs the back of his neck to massage it, his loose sleeve pooling underneath a sturdy forearm. "i was going to ignore you, but your voice carries too much.

Leon Vercetti

the corner of his lip sharpens at the sight of leon's litter. it's sickly sweet. the scent of smoke, that is. elijah can swear he can hear the soil seething in pain— but it is the whine of burning being snuffed.

elijah gouges him with his glare— but he isn't offended. it is the product of scrutiny. eyes sharpen to scythes: "i'm getting mixed signals," he dismounts his gogoat, "you always talk like this?"

a wooden basket dangles from one of his gogoat's horns.

his fingertips grab the tips of leon's bills. elijah leans forth, eyes falling upon the other's face. "tell me what you want and i'll tell you if this is enough."

Leon Vercetti

his gogoat does not stir. instead, the pokemon remains stoic, hooves planted firmly on the ground. perhaps, it does not like the stranger's sudden touch— but it remains still, like a glass bottle filled with bees.

elijah is no stranger to flirtation. at least, to be on the receiving end of it. he pockets the bills before bringing his arms together in a stern cross. "new to hoenn? you'd purposefully come to this shithole to expand?"

the apothecary's gaze is in lock step with the other's. every shift of their eyes is a rally altogether defensive and testing. in his bag, various herbs and shrooms peek out from their shaded microcosm of the wood.

"but sure. i'll bite." elijah's brow rises. "you have a name?"

Leon Vercetti

the plan seems too easy. too clean. but the story leon weaves becomes entangled with elijah's bitter hostilities. any mention of the league's medical institutions renders his saliva vile, like oil coagulating with sawdust. that enough hooks elijah in.

"fine." he winces when the cigarette whines, caught between sole and soil. "but i'd appreciate it if you didn't litter in my wood."

elijah runs a claw across his bare chest. a contemplative itch. a prelude for his ego.

"why me, though?"

there are others like him— and he is rarely anyone's first choice.

Leon Vercetti