the Harbinger
he/him
36
october 28th
circhester, galar
demisexual
the harbinger
underboss
I want corruption, I think I'm the devil in disguise.
TAG WITH @gavin
Cillian Quinn
harvest moon
POSTED ON May 28, 2021 8:09:51 GMT
He doesn't return for Spectrier.
Tonight, Gavin is here to mourn.
Two unmarked graves lie near the plot where he'd cultivated the twisted carrot. Two failed experiments in his rise to power. But it is not those Pokemon alone that he mourns, but others, too — countless companions lost to the Blackout.
It's Lucario and Crobat he thinks of, most.
He thinks back to a conversation with THEO BECKETT. Names. Of any Pokemon that Gavin has owned, the two that had helped him survive Kanto were most deserving.
As a child he'd favoured stories of Galarian heroes. It was their power that drew him in. To be strong enough that none could stand against you, that you might keep yourself safe. Silly, in hindsight, to be so naive. But there's a fondness to the memories.
Faolan, the little wolf. His bride, Maeve.
His throat closes around the grief that wells up.
It's in such a state that Spectrier finds him, sitting with his back to a weathered tombstone. He blinks up at it when he spots it watching him from a distance.
It seems less bold, but no less curious.
"Afraid —" His voice cracks, and he clears his throat. He'd be embarrassed if he weren't alone. "Afraid I've got no more carrots for you."
Yet still, it steps closer. Hesitant.
Gavin roots around in his bag until he finds the pouch full of berries. He offers a ripened yellow Grepa with a questioning look, wondering if the Spectrier had a taste for anything that wasn't Shaderoot. It snuffles at his hand, the sensation cold and unpleasant, before trapping the berry between its teeth and pulling away.
It vanishes as quick as before, berry juice between his fingers the only proof Gavin had seen it at all. He sighs, and returns to his grief.
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