Post by Z'vondt Sotaughey on Aug 17, 2013 21:30:41 GMT -5
Here is my sheet. A very sincere thanks goes out to those who've helped provide clarity whilst this sheet was coming together.
Forthcoming, too, is the background piece for Z'vondt. Following some corrections, that'll see a posting, too.
Forthcoming, too, is the background piece for Z'vondt. Following some corrections, that'll see a posting, too.
{Z'vondt's Background... (tl;dr version: Formerly military, he is an older man, embittered by time and experience. And he means to seek a new purpose, while he is still able.)}
As a younger man of Liacara, Z'vondt Sotaughey pursued a life away from home to Kaliastr at his father's insistence, to attend a respected school. At his side was his loyal and affectionate Rattata, Yevva. He had captured and befriended him years earlier, and he could be seen ever at Z'vondt's side.
Well into his life at the Kaliastran school, he had developed an interest in things athletic, leading him to activities in and out of class that honed and hardened his body, often alongside his companion Rattata. His young, eager mind also enjoyed the benefit of soaking in those subjects that stirred his imagination, spanning poetry, philosophy, and the arts.
Come the eve of his graduation from his schooling, the oft-disputed border regions that define Kaliastran territory from Liacaran, had escalated. His father, Schülvain Sotaughey, was a tenured soldier in the Liacaran forces, and informed his family via hand-delivered correspondence, of his accounts and experiences, and ended each letter with a wish and a promise: that they'd be kept safe in his absence, and that he'd return to them. The young Sotaughey, however, was on his way back to Liacara just when hostilities broke out.
His passage to return to his country was not without delay or difficulty when he had approached the border-crossing checkpoint come one early evening. An immense facility with bodies flowing toward and away, he approached with all haste and his migrant documentation in hand, as well as his Yevva, in his PokéBall. All throughout, either standing to watch dutifully or patrolling about the environs, armed men and women (and their Pokémon) carried about their work. Kaliastran officers, all.
Before he could make his way inside for processing, however, an unseen attack (later discovered to be from the Liacaran side of the border) came upon the center. An explosion of deafening sound and ferocious fire was heard and seen, followed by a cacophony of battle cries and shrieks from the witnessing civilians as they fled. From what seemed to have come out of nowhere, a horde of camouflaged men and Pokemon moved at speed and precision, assailing the uniformed militiamen all at once. Z'vondt panicked at the outbreak of sudden violence, frozen and seized by fear at the sight of men and women locked in combat.
Summoning his courage, Z'vondt tried to run toward any large enough structure in which to hide. But, with his first long stride, he heard a woman's deep voice calling out to her comrades. "Runner!" He could neither pause nor think with any coordination, and obeyed his first instinct. As he felt himself pull away, he heard the woman issue commands to what he thought was a Pokémon. He was too afraid to turn to look over his shoulder, and continued to run. Ahead of him, was a stack of military-marked boxes, large and numerous. His intent was to hide behind them and attempt to escape to cover, but his plan would not be realized - not with a sudden attack that was felt in a strike to his back - specifically, at his left shoulder - which sent him violently to the ground.
As he rolled over and was able to focus his vision, a female soldier and her Pokémon - a Rhydon, he recognized - encroached upon him. She commanded in a deadly tone that he remain still lest he die; Z'vondt thought that perhaps she realized he wasn't wearing anything to suggest he was military, and thus wasn't a target of importance, nor could she have recognized a fellow countryman. Reminded of his helplessness, he kept still as he took a few seconds to witness the terror happening away and around him.
A fire was now threatening to engulf border checkpoint building and those within. The slain bodies of suspected Liacaran soldiers littered the grounds alongside and upon the Kaliastran forces. Amongst the bodies, Pokémon both living and dead.
Z'vondt focused on the fearful, sorrowful expressions on what faces he could see of them, and in himself he felt an anger rising to the surface. In a moment where both the female soldier and Rhydon were not looking upon him, Z'vondt pulled out his PokéBall and called Yevva to the field. Upon materializing into view, Z'vondt immediately commanded his Rattata to attack the foes before him. Reacting primarily from instinct and a stark sense of abandon, Z'vondt used his gathering aggression in the only way he knew. The Rhydon's response to Yevva's attack was not received well, resulting in a grievous injury to the Rattata, a few seconds after the command left the woman's lips. Before the Rhydon could execute what would've been a killing blow to the staggered Rattata, Yevva dodged and - to his Trainer's astonishment - had begun to evolve so suddenly.
Gone was Z'vondt's small and cuddly companion. Appearing before him, was a significantly different Yevva, the fact of which took both Z'vondt and the female soldier by some surprise. Their fight continued, whilst around and throughout Liacaran and Kaliastran fought as well. Before long, a force of Kaliastran soldiers appeared and overpowered the Liacaran incursion, forcing their retreat. Once some manner of calm has been restored, Z'vondt collapsed to his knees, noticing only then the wet stains of crimson on his cloak and trousers, and more pooling at his feet. Fainting, the world around him fell away to an echoing darkness.
He awoke - the day following the attack, he was told - his torso bandaged and still aching in waves and throbs. As his conscious mind tried to recall the day of the Liacaran border raid, he immediately asked the physician of his Yevva, panicking. The aid had no answers of any use. Rushing to his feet, he stumbled and balanced himself upon weak legs as he hurried out of what seemed a triage tent outside the smouldering remnants of the border-crossing checkpoint. Relieved that he wasn't taken anywhere far and away, he asked of any uniformed men or women around of his Raticate, approaching one and another as he explored the grounds.
One such woman of the militia, provided an uneasy reference to a tent that contained the bagged and tagged remains of either side's collected dead. Hurrying with unsure balance, he found a large tent, its entry way naught but a bloodied flap. He pushed his way inside with an anguished grunt. The air inside was cool, apparently made chilled by the pair of Vanilluxe at the far end of interior. On the ground and on tables and stretchers, around and between the support poles of the refridgerated tent, bodies kept in black bags, each affixed with a white tag, filled his sight despite the poor illumination of the nearby lamps.
Z'vondt then trudged inward, his eyes shifting from bag to bag with purpose, going from tag to tag and sounding more aggravated with every passing second. Minutes passed. A militiaman had then come along to investigate the disturbed entrance to the refrigerated tent, and entered to behold the sight of a young man with tears streaming down his face. Z'vondt had knelt down to a bag, which had appeared to had been ripped open, and was cradling a dead Raticate in his arms. Through his sobs, Z'vondt remained with his Yevva until he was pulled away by a woman in uniform.
Prior to his release from the triage hospital, it was learned that the attack on the border-crossing station was the work of a renegade unit that splintered away from the Liacaran forces, acting independently in efforts to encourage more breakaway behaviour in their uniformed countrymen of Liacara. They were successful in only heightening the current tensions.
A fortnight into Z'vondt's recovery, he was well enough to journey into the Liacaran countryside. He traveled with a group of farmers and people of business, whom themselves were trying to make their way safely and quietly while the border disputes would carry on unabated. Melancholic with the absense of his oldest and dearest friend, the mere thought of Yevva would still mist his eyes with tears.
In the following week, his caravan of sorts would lessen in number as men and women would have arrived at their destinations and parted ways. As they'd stop to rest or to eat, idle conversations overheard would give second- and third-hand accounts of the progress of the tensions between the neighbouring nations. The supposed movements and meetings of military forces, and the losses and gains to either side. Forced discussion of lighthearted affairs to distract from the bleakness of reality.
As he neared his hometown, he kept his father in his thoughts. Shortly thereafter, he arrived to his destination, and hurried to the north end where the Sotaugheys resided. Inside the humble abode, was his mother, Aysinam, and his younger twin sister, Catha. With them, a third presence, an unfamiliar man in a Liacaran uniform. Only then had the expressions of mother and sister fall within his notice, specifically, their glistening eyes as tears began to well.
A friend of Schülvain's, a fellow Liacaran militiaman, paid his respects by delivering the tragic news of what had befallen the husband and father. Killed in a defensive action, he received a fatal wound from which there was no hope of recovery. Whereas Z'vondt's mother and sister wept in each other's arms, the son himself felt a numbness that swept over his being. He had no words, other than that of thanks, upon being given his father's last hand-written letters which he was not able to send away.
Upon shaking the Liacaran soldier's calloused hand, he became aware of a new responsibility to himself and the family. Upon his full recovery, he enlisted to the Liacaran military, determined to ensure the name, Sotaughey, would be spoken with pride once more. His first year saw the completion of his physical training, and the commencement of his technical education, as well as exposure to field activities and the dangers thereto. Often would fellow men-at-arms liken the son to the father, and more would the need to meet and surpass his father, grow.
As his time and experience deepened, much of his twenties would be spent honing his training as a Medic and officer. He would survive and narrowly escape bloody and violent encounters, but few of his brothers and allies, Human and Pokemon alike, would not be so lucky. As the weeks and months went on, and the hostilities would never seem to arrive at any peaceful conclusion, Z'vondt began to lose hope that tragedies of war would ever end.
Meanwhile, despite the insistence of his colleagues, and even their attempts to maneuver him into such situations, his attempts at courtships and meetings with the opposite sex often fell short. Too preoccupied with thoughts of his future and the enacting his duties, he often kept to himself, alone.
This flow of negative sentiment would wear on his heart and mind in the years that would follow, with each friendly face lost; with each partnered Pokémon he would have to bury. By the time he had devoted close to fifteen years to the Liacaran military, and once enough stress and heartache had piled upon itself, he felt his faith in his own commitment beginning to seem meaningless, beyond adding another willing participant in the cycle of violence.
The following year, his mother and sister were killed whilst trying to cross the border to Kaliastr, to attend a wedding of a family friend. It was believed that their passage would be a safe one, given the relaxed tensions at the time. Following the funeral service, he had begun to grow a beard. The ancestral home of the Sotaugheys, too, was burned down by Z'vondt's hand, as he could not suffer sleeping in a house filled only with ghosts. Into the fire, he fed, too, his father's letters. He did not stay to watch them burn.
Later, while on leave, he was found heavily drunk and singing at a local graveyard, as if in the company of friends, merrily slurring his songs with a bottle of spiced Berry rum. He was later deemed psychologically unfit to remain in the service, and was discharged. He retained his honour, and received the well-practiced words of thanks and gratitude for his years of service, but those words fell short of bestowing him any sense of value.
Now a man in his thirties, he indulged his invigorating sense of freedom. Freedom from duty, except to himself. His was a purpose he would begin to craft for himself. He would take to wandering the countryside, through the communities, and would sell his talents in medicine and medical care to those willing or able to pay.
He wouldn't always accept hard currency; lodging, or a hot meal, would always meet his preference. Occasionally, he would meet the odd man, alone or with others, daring or desperate enough to want to deprive him of his possessions, be it his money or the coat off his back. And of those meetings, he would come away less the weight of a possession or bruised; beaten; bloodied. Unwilling to succumb, he was persistent in standing up again whenever he found himself on his knees. He found some pleasure in fighting, and in fighting back.
And he continued this wayward, wanderer's lifestyle, finding along the way the means to improve himself and further his understanding of the world around him. Usually at cost to any principles or values he would've upheld or cherished, as a younger man of ideals. He would come across, too, the odd people willing to share a tale or two of their own exploits, and he would intently listen with a drink to enjoy. These different points of view would reveal to him new and interesting ways by which to further a person's abilities, and push back their boundaries.
This included, too, one's interactions and understanding of Pokémon, an aspect he had never forgotten in all of his dealings with them, be they his friend from his youth, or those he'd fight and die beside whilst in the military. He had decided, then, to again take and train a Pokémon at his side. The prospect felt uplifting and strange, like walking into the home of an old friend long unvisited.
He had wandered the countryside once more, and happened upon a lone Cyndaquil. A brief battle and a capture attempt later, he assigned unto himself a new duty: to befriend and perfect his newest partner. He carefully considered his naming of the brave little fellow, and soon arrived to "Taryevva," a variant and homage to the original Yevva. He wasted no time in introducing himself to Taryevva. To see the Cyndaquil's bright eyes, made him feel overcome with a feeling he couldn't quite articulate. But it felt too good to ignore.
With Taryevva at his side, he returned to a familiar town, and therein, to a familiar graveyard: the military burial site where his father was committed to his final rest, as well as those other faces alongside whom he fought. He conversed, briefly, with his father. He made a vow, to Schülvain and all those other names and faces burned into his memory, that he had begun a path and that would not falter from it. While the object and destination of this path wasn't quite so visualized in his mind, he wanted to believe that, at the end of it, he would be a better man for it.
Leaving the resting place of the honoured behind, he happened upon an unexpected sight. By the gated entrance, was a lurking Frillish. Though with some difficulty, he lured it away from the graveyard and provoked it into a battle. While his Taryevva was at some disadvantage, Z'vondt managed to successfully capture the Frillish with a timely toss of his PokéBall. After a brief time, he would come to call his second friend, "Echonne." Departing finally, Z'vondt made for the nearest Pokémon Center to see to Taryevva and Echonne's rest and recovery. Elsewhere, at an outdoor eatery, he sat down to a meal of noodles and dumpling-wrapped beef. As he dined, he overheard conversation making curious references to another country that was accepting refugees from the Kaliastran-Liacaran crisis. He heard a name spoken aloud.
"Kanto," Z'vondt would go on to ponder, thinking next that it might be worthwhile to get his travel documents in order. Pausing to sip of his glass of chocolate MooMoo Milk, he gave thought to the path his life was to walk, and felt a twinge of optimism. To those discussing Kanto and the opportunities therein, he approached with intent.
"Good evening, gentlemen," Z'vondt greeted, sitting down. "Tell me about this 'Kanto'..."
As a younger man of Liacara, Z'vondt Sotaughey pursued a life away from home to Kaliastr at his father's insistence, to attend a respected school. At his side was his loyal and affectionate Rattata, Yevva. He had captured and befriended him years earlier, and he could be seen ever at Z'vondt's side.
Well into his life at the Kaliastran school, he had developed an interest in things athletic, leading him to activities in and out of class that honed and hardened his body, often alongside his companion Rattata. His young, eager mind also enjoyed the benefit of soaking in those subjects that stirred his imagination, spanning poetry, philosophy, and the arts.
Come the eve of his graduation from his schooling, the oft-disputed border regions that define Kaliastran territory from Liacaran, had escalated. His father, Schülvain Sotaughey, was a tenured soldier in the Liacaran forces, and informed his family via hand-delivered correspondence, of his accounts and experiences, and ended each letter with a wish and a promise: that they'd be kept safe in his absence, and that he'd return to them. The young Sotaughey, however, was on his way back to Liacara just when hostilities broke out.
His passage to return to his country was not without delay or difficulty when he had approached the border-crossing checkpoint come one early evening. An immense facility with bodies flowing toward and away, he approached with all haste and his migrant documentation in hand, as well as his Yevva, in his PokéBall. All throughout, either standing to watch dutifully or patrolling about the environs, armed men and women (and their Pokémon) carried about their work. Kaliastran officers, all.
Before he could make his way inside for processing, however, an unseen attack (later discovered to be from the Liacaran side of the border) came upon the center. An explosion of deafening sound and ferocious fire was heard and seen, followed by a cacophony of battle cries and shrieks from the witnessing civilians as they fled. From what seemed to have come out of nowhere, a horde of camouflaged men and Pokemon moved at speed and precision, assailing the uniformed militiamen all at once. Z'vondt panicked at the outbreak of sudden violence, frozen and seized by fear at the sight of men and women locked in combat.
Summoning his courage, Z'vondt tried to run toward any large enough structure in which to hide. But, with his first long stride, he heard a woman's deep voice calling out to her comrades. "Runner!" He could neither pause nor think with any coordination, and obeyed his first instinct. As he felt himself pull away, he heard the woman issue commands to what he thought was a Pokémon. He was too afraid to turn to look over his shoulder, and continued to run. Ahead of him, was a stack of military-marked boxes, large and numerous. His intent was to hide behind them and attempt to escape to cover, but his plan would not be realized - not with a sudden attack that was felt in a strike to his back - specifically, at his left shoulder - which sent him violently to the ground.
As he rolled over and was able to focus his vision, a female soldier and her Pokémon - a Rhydon, he recognized - encroached upon him. She commanded in a deadly tone that he remain still lest he die; Z'vondt thought that perhaps she realized he wasn't wearing anything to suggest he was military, and thus wasn't a target of importance, nor could she have recognized a fellow countryman. Reminded of his helplessness, he kept still as he took a few seconds to witness the terror happening away and around him.
A fire was now threatening to engulf border checkpoint building and those within. The slain bodies of suspected Liacaran soldiers littered the grounds alongside and upon the Kaliastran forces. Amongst the bodies, Pokémon both living and dead.
Z'vondt focused on the fearful, sorrowful expressions on what faces he could see of them, and in himself he felt an anger rising to the surface. In a moment where both the female soldier and Rhydon were not looking upon him, Z'vondt pulled out his PokéBall and called Yevva to the field. Upon materializing into view, Z'vondt immediately commanded his Rattata to attack the foes before him. Reacting primarily from instinct and a stark sense of abandon, Z'vondt used his gathering aggression in the only way he knew. The Rhydon's response to Yevva's attack was not received well, resulting in a grievous injury to the Rattata, a few seconds after the command left the woman's lips. Before the Rhydon could execute what would've been a killing blow to the staggered Rattata, Yevva dodged and - to his Trainer's astonishment - had begun to evolve so suddenly.
Gone was Z'vondt's small and cuddly companion. Appearing before him, was a significantly different Yevva, the fact of which took both Z'vondt and the female soldier by some surprise. Their fight continued, whilst around and throughout Liacaran and Kaliastran fought as well. Before long, a force of Kaliastran soldiers appeared and overpowered the Liacaran incursion, forcing their retreat. Once some manner of calm has been restored, Z'vondt collapsed to his knees, noticing only then the wet stains of crimson on his cloak and trousers, and more pooling at his feet. Fainting, the world around him fell away to an echoing darkness.
He awoke - the day following the attack, he was told - his torso bandaged and still aching in waves and throbs. As his conscious mind tried to recall the day of the Liacaran border raid, he immediately asked the physician of his Yevva, panicking. The aid had no answers of any use. Rushing to his feet, he stumbled and balanced himself upon weak legs as he hurried out of what seemed a triage tent outside the smouldering remnants of the border-crossing checkpoint. Relieved that he wasn't taken anywhere far and away, he asked of any uniformed men or women around of his Raticate, approaching one and another as he explored the grounds.
One such woman of the militia, provided an uneasy reference to a tent that contained the bagged and tagged remains of either side's collected dead. Hurrying with unsure balance, he found a large tent, its entry way naught but a bloodied flap. He pushed his way inside with an anguished grunt. The air inside was cool, apparently made chilled by the pair of Vanilluxe at the far end of interior. On the ground and on tables and stretchers, around and between the support poles of the refridgerated tent, bodies kept in black bags, each affixed with a white tag, filled his sight despite the poor illumination of the nearby lamps.
Z'vondt then trudged inward, his eyes shifting from bag to bag with purpose, going from tag to tag and sounding more aggravated with every passing second. Minutes passed. A militiaman had then come along to investigate the disturbed entrance to the refrigerated tent, and entered to behold the sight of a young man with tears streaming down his face. Z'vondt had knelt down to a bag, which had appeared to had been ripped open, and was cradling a dead Raticate in his arms. Through his sobs, Z'vondt remained with his Yevva until he was pulled away by a woman in uniform.
Prior to his release from the triage hospital, it was learned that the attack on the border-crossing station was the work of a renegade unit that splintered away from the Liacaran forces, acting independently in efforts to encourage more breakaway behaviour in their uniformed countrymen of Liacara. They were successful in only heightening the current tensions.
A fortnight into Z'vondt's recovery, he was well enough to journey into the Liacaran countryside. He traveled with a group of farmers and people of business, whom themselves were trying to make their way safely and quietly while the border disputes would carry on unabated. Melancholic with the absense of his oldest and dearest friend, the mere thought of Yevva would still mist his eyes with tears.
In the following week, his caravan of sorts would lessen in number as men and women would have arrived at their destinations and parted ways. As they'd stop to rest or to eat, idle conversations overheard would give second- and third-hand accounts of the progress of the tensions between the neighbouring nations. The supposed movements and meetings of military forces, and the losses and gains to either side. Forced discussion of lighthearted affairs to distract from the bleakness of reality.
As he neared his hometown, he kept his father in his thoughts. Shortly thereafter, he arrived to his destination, and hurried to the north end where the Sotaugheys resided. Inside the humble abode, was his mother, Aysinam, and his younger twin sister, Catha. With them, a third presence, an unfamiliar man in a Liacaran uniform. Only then had the expressions of mother and sister fall within his notice, specifically, their glistening eyes as tears began to well.
A friend of Schülvain's, a fellow Liacaran militiaman, paid his respects by delivering the tragic news of what had befallen the husband and father. Killed in a defensive action, he received a fatal wound from which there was no hope of recovery. Whereas Z'vondt's mother and sister wept in each other's arms, the son himself felt a numbness that swept over his being. He had no words, other than that of thanks, upon being given his father's last hand-written letters which he was not able to send away.
Upon shaking the Liacaran soldier's calloused hand, he became aware of a new responsibility to himself and the family. Upon his full recovery, he enlisted to the Liacaran military, determined to ensure the name, Sotaughey, would be spoken with pride once more. His first year saw the completion of his physical training, and the commencement of his technical education, as well as exposure to field activities and the dangers thereto. Often would fellow men-at-arms liken the son to the father, and more would the need to meet and surpass his father, grow.
As his time and experience deepened, much of his twenties would be spent honing his training as a Medic and officer. He would survive and narrowly escape bloody and violent encounters, but few of his brothers and allies, Human and Pokemon alike, would not be so lucky. As the weeks and months went on, and the hostilities would never seem to arrive at any peaceful conclusion, Z'vondt began to lose hope that tragedies of war would ever end.
Meanwhile, despite the insistence of his colleagues, and even their attempts to maneuver him into such situations, his attempts at courtships and meetings with the opposite sex often fell short. Too preoccupied with thoughts of his future and the enacting his duties, he often kept to himself, alone.
This flow of negative sentiment would wear on his heart and mind in the years that would follow, with each friendly face lost; with each partnered Pokémon he would have to bury. By the time he had devoted close to fifteen years to the Liacaran military, and once enough stress and heartache had piled upon itself, he felt his faith in his own commitment beginning to seem meaningless, beyond adding another willing participant in the cycle of violence.
The following year, his mother and sister were killed whilst trying to cross the border to Kaliastr, to attend a wedding of a family friend. It was believed that their passage would be a safe one, given the relaxed tensions at the time. Following the funeral service, he had begun to grow a beard. The ancestral home of the Sotaugheys, too, was burned down by Z'vondt's hand, as he could not suffer sleeping in a house filled only with ghosts. Into the fire, he fed, too, his father's letters. He did not stay to watch them burn.
Later, while on leave, he was found heavily drunk and singing at a local graveyard, as if in the company of friends, merrily slurring his songs with a bottle of spiced Berry rum. He was later deemed psychologically unfit to remain in the service, and was discharged. He retained his honour, and received the well-practiced words of thanks and gratitude for his years of service, but those words fell short of bestowing him any sense of value.
Now a man in his thirties, he indulged his invigorating sense of freedom. Freedom from duty, except to himself. His was a purpose he would begin to craft for himself. He would take to wandering the countryside, through the communities, and would sell his talents in medicine and medical care to those willing or able to pay.
He wouldn't always accept hard currency; lodging, or a hot meal, would always meet his preference. Occasionally, he would meet the odd man, alone or with others, daring or desperate enough to want to deprive him of his possessions, be it his money or the coat off his back. And of those meetings, he would come away less the weight of a possession or bruised; beaten; bloodied. Unwilling to succumb, he was persistent in standing up again whenever he found himself on his knees. He found some pleasure in fighting, and in fighting back.
And he continued this wayward, wanderer's lifestyle, finding along the way the means to improve himself and further his understanding of the world around him. Usually at cost to any principles or values he would've upheld or cherished, as a younger man of ideals. He would come across, too, the odd people willing to share a tale or two of their own exploits, and he would intently listen with a drink to enjoy. These different points of view would reveal to him new and interesting ways by which to further a person's abilities, and push back their boundaries.
This included, too, one's interactions and understanding of Pokémon, an aspect he had never forgotten in all of his dealings with them, be they his friend from his youth, or those he'd fight and die beside whilst in the military. He had decided, then, to again take and train a Pokémon at his side. The prospect felt uplifting and strange, like walking into the home of an old friend long unvisited.
He had wandered the countryside once more, and happened upon a lone Cyndaquil. A brief battle and a capture attempt later, he assigned unto himself a new duty: to befriend and perfect his newest partner. He carefully considered his naming of the brave little fellow, and soon arrived to "Taryevva," a variant and homage to the original Yevva. He wasted no time in introducing himself to Taryevva. To see the Cyndaquil's bright eyes, made him feel overcome with a feeling he couldn't quite articulate. But it felt too good to ignore.
With Taryevva at his side, he returned to a familiar town, and therein, to a familiar graveyard: the military burial site where his father was committed to his final rest, as well as those other faces alongside whom he fought. He conversed, briefly, with his father. He made a vow, to Schülvain and all those other names and faces burned into his memory, that he had begun a path and that would not falter from it. While the object and destination of this path wasn't quite so visualized in his mind, he wanted to believe that, at the end of it, he would be a better man for it.
Leaving the resting place of the honoured behind, he happened upon an unexpected sight. By the gated entrance, was a lurking Frillish. Though with some difficulty, he lured it away from the graveyard and provoked it into a battle. While his Taryevva was at some disadvantage, Z'vondt managed to successfully capture the Frillish with a timely toss of his PokéBall. After a brief time, he would come to call his second friend, "Echonne." Departing finally, Z'vondt made for the nearest Pokémon Center to see to Taryevva and Echonne's rest and recovery. Elsewhere, at an outdoor eatery, he sat down to a meal of noodles and dumpling-wrapped beef. As he dined, he overheard conversation making curious references to another country that was accepting refugees from the Kaliastran-Liacaran crisis. He heard a name spoken aloud.
"Kanto," Z'vondt would go on to ponder, thinking next that it might be worthwhile to get his travel documents in order. Pausing to sip of his glass of chocolate MooMoo Milk, he gave thought to the path his life was to walk, and felt a twinge of optimism. To those discussing Kanto and the opportunities therein, he approached with intent.
"Good evening, gentlemen," Z'vondt greeted, sitting down. "Tell me about this 'Kanto'..."
