Separated by distance, connected by history

Truth be told.. Bridgette wasn’t sure if her eyes would ever open again. The fact that her consciousness had come back was a blessing she wouldn’t take for granted - even if it would come with an unavoidable sense of fear. After all, once her memories of where she had been came back to her waking self, she’d be forced to face what had happened. 

Not to mention, leaving her body at the mercy of whatever may come across it never sat well with her - she loathed leaving her wellbeing in someone else’s hands.

… speaking of… the witch’s eyes would squint as her vision became unblurred, allowing her to take in where she was currently located. Not where she’d last been, that’s for certain… but it was far less white and sterile than she’d figured the alternative would be. Scrolls, everywhere. Fabric ceiling… tent? Canopy bed? Snake pokemon everywhere on the floor, as far as she could see. And so many blankets, she lacked the will to try and move.

Eyes blink blurrily, slowly registering each one. Not a hospital bed, that’s for certain. Or a Pokemon center. There’s a white hat among the various blankets. A face she can see… she recognized this one. But where… not a trainer, definitely a mage. Someone from SIBYL? Wait, that’s it. The translator. Not someone she knew well, but someone she’d made sure to categorize as worth remembering. Anyone involved in their little underground world required that respect.

Another blink, a testing tilt of the head. It hurt to move - sluggish, like a headache gained by sleeping wrong. Her mana was still recovering, healing her body from the hit she’d taken. Was her brooch still intact? Or did it get destroyed under the force of that golem? Moving her arm, she’d search around her chest, trying to see if the trinket was where it’d last been pinned, and force the thoughts she’d wish to voice to the forefront of her intent.

If broken, well… she’d just have to try and force something out of what was left of her actual voice box, wouldn’t she? A tall order, she’d need to be mindful of how little.she’d be able to vocalize - anything she’d give would be not more than a whisper, more the strangled sound of moving air and the huff accompanying it. And if that failed? Well… she’d have to resort to whistling, wouldn’t she?

　 　 ‘ Hey. You. ’

Bridgette would find her brooch to be working just fine, as her words went throughout the tent. Many snakes stir at the sound, some turning to look at the bed, others just lazily shifting. Speaking of lazy shifting, the Translator mumbles then sort of curls up tighter under her hat. After a moment, the tail of a serviper would creep up from the floor and gently bop the sleeping witch on her noggin, making her stir.

“Hremblurblurmem-- I’m up I’m up I’m... oh.”

Fire magic, and why that’s a really bad name for it.

Consider the following, of the natural elements, most exist in some for of perpetuity. Water goes where it does, air goes where it must, earth is kind of... there. But what of fire? Fire cannot exist in perpetuity, eventually the fuel will be consumed and nothing will remain but scorch marks. But what is fire, really? Is material consumption in the presence of great... heat. And there you have it.

When you broaden your perspective to heat, you realize heat is everywhere. The heat of the sun, the warmth of the earth, the very blood in our bodies. And heat is a necessity for people. Warmth is life, heat is power. The power to make something inedible or undrinkable safe for consumption. The power to push back the cold and survive the night. The power to keep nature at bay and allow the community to flourish.

Heat is everywhere, but it must be nurtured. So those that aim to master heat magic, truly, must be patient and willing to nurture their tiny flames into great pools of warmth. So despite what tropes in media may tell you, hot-bloodedness and a fiery temper are counterproductive to the over practice.

If you must compare it to a heartbeat, it’s most like the hearth of a building, where people come together to keep warm and mutually nurture the flames. A fire’s heart cannot sustain itself, but for the sake of everyone around it, it will be sustained.

The name is all it takes is for Bridgette to freeze - as if a bolt of lightning had hit her in mid-air. She could feel the authority behind her true name - the severity of it’s usage, it’s interwoven threads commanding the power in the air around it. Enough so, to make her break her concentration on storing power.

Not that it was truly restricting her physically… but true names held power, when they were invoked none-the-less. The fact that her name was interwoven into this thing’s creation was not something she could ignore - surprise startling her into inaction just as much as the name’s usage tugged at her core, demanding at her instincts to stop running away and face it properly, to stop playing and treat it with the respect the invocation of a true name deserves.

How unfortunate, then, that it’s invocation was enough to prevent her from completing her move… her concentration of gathering power to heal and protect herself? Broken. Her ability to swerve and escape yet again? Out of time.

With a high-pitched whine from the brooch, the witch’s bird form would turn to face the swipe - acting fast as wings folded in to cover her body, as if she were crossing her arms in front of her self in some last-ditch effort of protection, a counter-current of wind whipping up for a split second in attempt to cushion the blow - bracing herself for inevitable impact and punch into the ground.. 

This… was going to hurt.

While she had collected enough power to protect her core (she doubted that this thing would kill her properly), she had a feeling that when she next awoke, it would be to the Pokemon Center’s ceiling yet again.

As Bri’s eyes grow dim, as the world fade around her, the sounds of sirens and wind, she’d see above her the construct rearing back, to finish the job. The last thing she’d remember before she fully lost her consciousness would be... a lot of fire.

When Bri comes to, she’d find she isn’t in a Pokémon center again, but rather a very comfy fluffy bed, with far far too many feather blankets on it, to the point where no matter where she is on it, she’d be waist-deep in blankets. Above her, the ceiling appears to be made of fabric, like a large tent. This bed really does just take up most of the room, easily enough room on it for 20 or so people. Instead, there’s only two people, Bri, and a lump balled up on another blanket nearby, topped with a big white hat.

If Bri’s memory was working, it’d be the translator she once met at a Sibyl gathering.

What in the ever living HELL? It was catching up with her already!? If only the color of the witch’s skin could be seen beneath her black feathers - she’d be going visibly pale. It’s like it wasn’t even remotely affected by the smokescreen’s haze. How could it have seen her through it?

Another flap of her wings and another Tailwind kicks up behind her pinfeathers, the magic allowing her to suddenly dart forward, and ride faster on the impromptu current. Not by much - having already been riding on another tailwind’s current, a second one wouldn’t boost her by much. But it may help her keep just enough distance from the spectacle chasing her… or at least, get her tail feathers out of sudden immediate grabbing range. She could feel the loss of a couple of them, as it’s swipe missed.

Where could she go, that whatever this was wouldn’t be able to follow? It had smashed through that table as if it were made of straw! Surely brick or concrete would be no sturdier. Steel she trusted even less - if it broke through that, the backlash may only serve to injure her further. Where could paper not go?

Fire?

Sweet Xerneas, no. She’s not getting near that double-edged sword. If anything, it may cause a moving cyclone to be on her tail, rather than just some weird paper golem.

… Underwater maybe. She had no ability to swim, but she was familiar with at least one water-typed form. She could breathe underwater, if need be. But if it could break through the liquid as easily as it could more solid matter… she’d have no ability to run.

Tsk. She’s just…. Going to focus on Roosting while safe in the Tailwind’s speedboost, gathering in as much spare power from the surrounding sky as she can. Something tells her she’s going to need it. Maybe not to fight back, but to make sure she can stay conscious if that thing catches her.

‘Cause it just might - if she’s focusing on absorbing surrounding energy, then she’s not going to be able to dodge.

Lumiose is a big city, but there’s lots of people, Pokémon, and scenery around. As people scatter for cover, and the air fills with the distant sounds of Gendarmerie sirens, some objects get caught in their path.

A tree? Splinters. A post box? Flattened. A parked car? Scrap.

Honestly, if people weren’t so used to dodging stray attacks from Pokémon fights, there might be casualties. but apparently even the elderly are still spy enough to duck out of the way, even as the paper slices through material like razors through soft butter.

But since she’s roosting, the beat of her wings is less apparent in her ears. The outside sounds beyond her immediate focus become muffled, the world is now little more that what’s in front of her, and what’s behind her.

And that’s when the voices become clear. Names. They’re all names, being uttered, spoken aloud, shouted, called for, cried out for. The cry of friends, lovers, parents, children, all crying out for lost loved ones, their voices full of affection and desperation. Whether or not she recognizes any of the names is on Bri, if she’s ever bothered to remember the names of her flock.

But there is one name unlike the others, spoken in a voice unlike the rest. Spoken in a guttural, otherworldly, hateful voice...

Brid de la Voye!

There’s a snarl marring the witch’s face, fangs instinctively baring as she practically flung herself away from the table. Well, not away. Up. Staying near a razor wind of paper would obviously cause no amount of damage to her health, so there’s no hesitation as a Tailwind kicked up at her feet, sending her skidding far from the weird paper creature and the demolished picnic table. The open use of the move would likely be ignored by others nearby - between the construct creating it’s own version of a smokescreen of pure destruction, and any bystanders too busy worrying about protecting themselves before watching the fight, she felt she could safely act.

She was no stranger to magical intent used to create whirlwinds - a favorite of Flying-type pokemon, and a trick she in fact kept up her own sleeve - but since when did one ever take on a form like this? It could almost be mistaken as a pokemon itself, if the flow of power around it didn’t indicate otherwise to her senses. The sort of handiwork required to make something like this - this was no hobbyist’s golem. If she didn’t know better, this almost felt like some sort of curse.

… it is a Curse, isn’t it? Not one she’s ever seen before, but the malice behind the intent felt the same.

　 　 “!!”

The destruction of a simple table wouldn’t be slowing it down, she knew - best to cover her tracks and run. Feathers would engulf the witch as her shawl stretched and grew, telltale wisps of a smokescreen or haze billowing out en mass from where she’d landed on the ground. Preventing all sight from eering into the battlefield.

It’d clear up soon enough, but it’s purpose was quite effective - when it dispersed, either naturally or through the wind cycling between the pages, the witch it’d been aiming for would be gone. No evidence of her ever having been there beyond the skid mark in the dirt, and some large black feathers on the field.

In the distance, the small form of a Murkrow fleeing the scene. Running wouldn’t stop the damn thing, she knew - but it’d at least give her some borrowed time to figure out a plan.

It isn’t the most elegant, pushing aside all in its path like a battering ram, but it is fast. The paper maintains its vortex through means other than the wind, and the changes in the air around it make no difference to its movement. It has no eyes, but it is not blind either, seeing without sight. The smoke, the dust, the haze? It does not perceive such unimportant things, it merely chases the target of the spirits.

Whether flesh or feathers the grudge of those seeking their lost loved ones clings to Bridgette like miasma, leaving a trail to follow. The construct charges forward, scattering all in its path as it pursues the bird. With every shift and turn, it emits a low groan. Not the groan of a living thing, but of wood held tightly packed together, a skeleton of plaques, emas, and carved signs.

It’s not long before the sound of rushing paper is close of the witch’s tailfeathers, reaching out with the intent to grab.

Old magic, that’s what it is, the unmistakable stink of old magic. But it’s foreign, unlike any magic found in the old world. And it is hunting Bridgette.

It’s persistent, seemingly undeterred by distance, walls, or even the boundaries of a fairy ring. Taking the form of a hulking bipedal beast, the body comprised of a swirling vortex of sheets of paper vaguely holding the shape. The pieces of paper are moving too quickly to see the words upon them, but every one of them has a picture of a person on it, ranging from sketches to printed photos.

“I would like you to... find my lost brother. He disappeared on a trip to Europe last year. He’s all I have left...”

“Your payment is... accepted. I will release a spirit that will find the truth of your brother, and if possible, return him to you.”

A clay jar is very slowly uncorked, letting a tiny bit of gas out. But something goes wrong, the jar shatters and all the shelves in the house begin to shake. The windows explode outwards, and both women and thrown from their seats.

“What was that? Is that supposed to happen?”

“No... what... whatever... whoever made your brother vanish... has a huge grudge against them. The spirit has decided it needs as much power as it can get to find the source. The spirits are angry, the angriest I’ve ever seen them.”

“Listen, you need to go home. I will contact you when I have the answers you seek, but the spirits are restless now. I-I... I need to...”

She needs a drink.

“...to calm the other spirits here.”

Because unless you keep a record of these things, other witches will conveniently “forget” what they owe, and how much. And a record of transactions allows her to make it clear that her services have a set cost, and the amount of negotiation can be limited.

… It wasn’t her sisters? Surprising. Those two loved to gossip, and teasing their youngest sibling was not beyond their preferred joys in life. No no, it was just sheer reputation. Not that the youngster was wrong, of course - there’s no mistaking the way the witch’s shawl would ruffle up in both embarrassment and pride. Yes. Yes she did have a viable kingdom of feathers. But goodness - every Murkrow in the nation? Just what sort of rumors had been spreading? There were thousands - millions, possibly - of Murkrow in the region. To think they were all hers - now that was just preposterous. Quite a few of the other wild flocks may be in her pocket with a bribe or two, but only a small percentage of them truly belonged to her!

　 　 “Well, it seems my reputation’s run off on it’s own at some point - I can assure you, every single bird would simply be too many for even me to manage.”

Who knows, maybe some of those birds had given up on returning to who they used to be, and grew comfortable living as Murkrow. There could of course be lineages which sprouted up in the centuries it’s been… but why would she know about things like that? It’s not as if what they got up to in their personal lives was within her interests. Why keep track of something she didn’t care about?

But thoughts about her flock could wait for another day - meeting a new witch was always something which peaked her interest, especially when the council had decided to offer seats to new faces.

　 　 “I can understand your lack of time, though - age of course means nothing in the face of proper skill and wit, but a few of us always have to learn that the hard way. We’re simply prideful beings to a fault, so many will want to test you in their own way, as a roundabout way of getting to know you, and deciding whether their respect is warranted. Anyone who is giving you grief will cease once they’ve seen what you can do with their own two eyes - and if they don’t, well… no-one will stop you from holding your ground.”

Words of encouragement from an elder member was always a good thing, if she remembered correctly - though there’s certainly no lie in what she said. Little fangs are even peaking out from behind that pleasant smile, at that last quip. Perhaps she was remembering some fond old memories of her own time being a youngster in the group? It’s easy enough to see how Bri would correct a naysayer… though she had to admit being curious about what a language witch would do to prove herself?

“Testing me? Ah, you’ve misunderstood. I’m well-proven in my ability. Being able to translate something that even the elders had struggled with for a thousand years won me that right. My position is proof enough of that.”

Older witch means old ways of thinking, it’s hardly a surprise Bri would think her unproven. Even though Severine could be considered old fashioned in modern society, compared to someone hundreds of years old she was downright modern. No her troubles are more centered in an older, more stubborn problem...

“No, rather, it seems many witches value age and experience a little too much. The feel age alone buys privilege, and can be used in the place of proper payment. Something about respect and the like. They come to me demanding work done for them, and think I have no right to demand payment.”

There’s another rattling noise, and just below the edge of her hat, the tip of an Ekans’ tail is briefly visible as the snake concealed within her hat shifts it position.

“I admit, perhaps because of my youth, that I enjoy watching older witches squirm when I refuse my services to them when they fail to offer adequate payment. They know they cannot force me without causing trouble with other young witches, and my talents are so unique that they cannot take their business elsewhere.”

　 　 “Old magic, for certain. You’d think there’d be rules regarding such the practice of such things by now, but rules only go as far as those willing to follow them…”

Oh, translator? The witch’s interest would be perked slightly, head tilting to the side. She didn’t frequent SIBYL’s headquarters often - much preferring to keep to her own devices in the forest. There’s a good chance she’s seen this one fleetingly at festivities, but Bridgette’s antisocial nature seemed to have gotten the better of her yet again. First time they’ve met in person indeed.

　 　 “Ah–  yes, that’s what I’m often called these days. Bridgette, of the Lavoie, a specialist in transformation. A pleasure to meet you as well - it’s good to hear we’ve gained someone skilled in language in our ranks.”

The shifter would bow her head slightly greeting, dipping lightly into a curtsy. Even if such shows were not practiced amongst the youngsters these days, old habits born of formality and respect seem to die hard. She’s… not actually questioning how the other witch knows her name. Given her family resemblance and her sisters sociability, the connection would be easy to make.

　 　 “Though, considering how infrequently i peek in, I’m surprised you recognized me - my sisters have been gossiping, I assume?”

“Yes, the council was seemingly quite excited over my unique talent, going so far as to instate someone as young as I into something of an official position.”

Severine shrugs, smiling. There’s a rattling noise from within her large white hat.

“Oh? Sisters? No, you’re famous among the witches of Kalos, Mademoiselle! The mute witch in the northeast who rules over a kingdom of feathers! It is said that every Murkrow in the nation is either a member of your flock or the offspring of one.”

She giggles.

　 　 “Hm… seems like a unnecessarily complicated ritual. More a necromancer’s deal, too. Wonder if a soul transfer like that would make them considered a lich…”

“It’s... old magic. Primitive, crude, cruel. A human’s soul is much more... vigorous than that of an animal’s. The body will not die, so long as the soul is not spent. I suppose it could be considered a form of lichdom, if a bit perverse and tragic. After all, an animal’s brain cannot operate at the same level, and madness is quick to follow. The cruelest part, is that it is a ritual that can be forced upon the unwilling. So more sinister practitioners may still see a use for such a thing.”