[attr="class","bisc"]The Charizard collapses with a roar. Soon enough, the army disappears with it. The air around him is stifling in its silence. Only the pounding of his heart and sharp blade of his shame are palpable. Then, all at once, the sensations rush back in. His sister is burrowing into his arm and
thanking him. She says something about
he gave her courage.
What a bunch of bologna.
He’d be on the other side of the wall if she hadn’t been up there. There was nothing to be proud of. He didn’t do anything
important. No. Biscotti Kingsley was put to the chest and he failed. He didn’t draw Excalibur from the stone; he’d cut his hand on its blade. But he couldn’t find the words to correct his sister. None of them felt
right. Telling her Santa was fake was one thing, but shattering a straw totem she seemed to
desperately need?
“Yeah. Heroic. That’s me.”Then, someone’s
applauding. A few people bow. Biscotti’s cheeks color in response. He even goes as far as to bow back, drawing bug-eyed stares from a few of the peasants. Old ladies press their lips to his cheek and mutter thanks in rushed antiquated English. It all happens so fast. And, when he collapses into his hastily constructed cot, it’s with the weight of questions and an undeserved mantle.
The moon is full.
One Month Later
Biscotti has the ruins of the bakery in decent shape. Or, to be accurate,
they have it in decent shape. The townspeople’s willingness to help is enough to keep up the rain. Pretty soon, the smell of fresh baked goods fills the street. As time goes on, the fanciful cupcakes become serviceable bread. No point in drawing silly things in frosting when the world was ending.
When done working for the day, he paces the streets, amazed by how
small Motostoke suddenly feels. Surprisingly,
Elise Calcifet is a regular visitor to the bakery. As time passed, his nerves around her began to calm.
She becomes just another Kingsley. A friend he feels he can rely on.
He helps out where he can. Pushing an old woman in a wheelchair there. Using his eldest sister’s love of soap making and camp showers to stop them from smelling like spoiled onions. But, as the other “royals” find their groove, he still feels out of place. Like a Vullaby stuck in a Taillow’s nest.
When the full moon appears again, it suddenly feels so real. Tears sprang unbidden to his eyes as he shatters. He wonders what his family is thinking about at home. How long it will be before he sees them again?
A Year Later
His ability to walk off injuries earns him the title
Revenant King. But, no matter how many times war comes, it still churns his stomach.
Sometimes, he takes breaks to do silly things. Play kick the can with kids in the alley. Put on a stupid shadow puppet show in the square—something he
definitely didn’t have the dexterity for. With all these competent people around, he doesn’t see a reason to go all out. Until
Elise Calcifet speaks up.
“Biscotti, they look up to you. You need to take this seriously.” The princess’s words cut him to the bone. She was right.
That stuff didn’t matter.
He tried so hard to be the king he saw around him. To imitate the prim and proper bearing of the other royals. A dour figure who had no time to play. He regularly attended weapons training with @thomas. His lanky build quickly shifted to something muscular. Dark armor was crafted for him, making him feel like a child in dress-up. And the only time he enjoyed it was when the helmet fell too low, blinding him. It made the kids laugh.
Tears fell from his shadowed helm on the eve of his first battle. Beneath him, an Incineroar was twisted in pain. Poison had eaten through its skin, leaving its jaw exposed in a nasty, macabre grin. Next to that, a little shoe jutted out. The owner was unrecognizable, its body marred by fiery scratches.
Whispers rippled through the crowd. He was studded with wounds. A shard of rock jutted through his shoulder. They called him a zombie. Some shrunk back. But, again and again, he stood back up. The townspeople asked what they should do. Turned to
him for advice.
The helm dropped to the ground. He wasn’t cut out to be king. But—when he tripped over his cape—laughter erupted. As he lifted his eyes, he found dour, worried faces peering back at him. Biscotti wiped his tears away and smiled. Even as his insides wept, he forced himself to grin. He stuck his tongue out.
A child laughs. For the first time in months, his heart stirs. Suddenly, he isn’t some distant, frightening figure. He’s just another dork willing to lend a hand.
This is what he was here for.
Every court needed a jester.
Five Years Later
What scraps weren’t repurposed in weapons or defenses became Biscotti’s domain. A thousand scars dot his hands from a thousand lessons learned. From a carpentry novice, he becomes competent at turning scraps into something
useful. First, there’s a set of swings built from deceased Pokemon hides and twisted pieces of metal.
A slide and small series of ramps follow. He also manages to coax some creativity out of the townspeople. Once a month, they gather in the square for a talent show. It’s at one of these that he meets the Galarian peasant girl with spring-green eyes and curly hair. She always hides her laugh behind her hands, as if embarrassed the world would see.
When he finishes the golf course, she’s holding his hand. Biscotti wondered how long it’d take for him to ask her name. Gods, he sucked at those.
Gone is the Revenant King. Now, he's the King of Smiles.
Ten Years Later
Necrozma came back. He creamed them. The city was left in ruins. And, just like that, his wife is gone. There'd be no more bleating laughs to warm up the dinner table.
He'd never get to anticipate the child he never knew was coming.
Even clowns cried sometimes.
STELLA: This spear was crafted in memory of Biscotti’s wife. It shares her name. As her death was the result of his inaccuracy—a centimeter awry in a vital battle, it is imbued with a move that cannot miss: Swift. When lifted, this spear summons a swirl of sharp bits of light that always hit the enemy where intended (unless they’re immune). What these attacks lack in power, they make up in spread and interruption. The spear has a star-shaped cross guard and a garishly painted hilt.
But, for them, he
smiled.
BISCOTTI KINGSLEY [break]
