A Ballad for Icarus - A Historical Pokemon Quest (2025)

You know these woods, you know your way out.

On the way out of the woods you hear a cry. A terrible, pain-filled expression of grief. And though you, too, want to do nothing but collapse and cry until all those emotions are finally gone, you know one thing that even your distance from Skiddle cannot take away: You cannot ignore someone's plight.

It has never been a question of whether you should help or not, has it?

You can help, so you will help, because that's the kind of person you are. You don't care to call it Noblesse Oblige. You don't care to think you're better off and thus should help those who have it worse.

Even those who are not fortunate will still reach out and give someone a hand if the content of their character matches that ideal you have been chasing for ten years.

So when you find a Sneasel tied to a tree, shaking against the electrified net of what looks like an automatic trap, you do not hesitate. She glares at you, her eyes red in anger and distrust. Her claws lash out as you approach, though she cannot properly reach you. When you grab the net, she does manage to scratch your hand, but you cannot stop now.

Even as it hurts. Even as your entire body vibrates with the energy of that net. It runs up your fingers and into your shoulders before you manage to pull the net off. It takes all the strength you have left, finding yourself ripping it apart on the way down.

You land in the cold snow. It feels like you'll never stand up again.

The sky above you is dark. Heavy moonlight still finds its way through the treetops and grants you some relief from the blindness that a winter night would usually impose. The world below you is cold and soft.

The aftershocks of the trap are still there, forcing your arms close to your body. You are tense, but you cannot keep lying here. You turn to look at the tree—the Sneasel is no longer there. You breathe out of your nose, glad for the one good deed today before turning your head back to the sky.

The Sneasel fills your vision, sneaking up on you. She looks… normal for a Sneasel. A short feather in its ear, bright blue in color, contrasting its thick, dark fur it must have grown for the cold weather. She pokes you, the sharp claw sending some pain up your side as it checks for signs of life.

You roll out of the way, forcing yourself to stand up. "Please don't do that."

She crosses her arms, grinning up at you. Sneasel are… not rare in the woods, but not very common either. They usually hang out on higher ground, grouping up with a Weavile, which means this one either strayed off too far or was separated by the sudden storm.

That makes two of you.

"Well, go on then," you say, looking up. The sky reveals your position. Atlas' Star is very bright today, pointing north. You point towards the direction of that star, knowing that's where the mountains are. "Your group should be somewhere in that direction."

Silence. You look down again, finding Sneasel looking confused. You feel jealous at how casual she seems in this weather, how little she cares for the frozen world around you. It makes you shiver.

"I don't have any food," you say. Well, you do. But not for freeloaders. Sneasel are perfectly capable of finding their own food, they have excellent noses and are adept hunters and gatherers. Sneasel looks insulted.

'You think I need your food?' its expression is so loud it might as well be shouting the words in a human tongue.

"Fine," you say. "Do what you want."

You turn around, trying to find your way again. The way east, toward the Spectrier Guard. Toward the Reichert family, where the letter in your pocket must reach. Where Drake would have sent you, in the end. You shake your head, taking a step forward.

Something pokes your side again. You jump, ready to draw your sword, only to notice the Sneasel still bothering you.

"A simple thank you would've been enough," you say, sighing. Sneasel shrugs. "Just leave me alone, girl."

Sneasel shrugs again, as if to say 'That's not going to happen'. Then it points at you, before pointing at herself. She holds up a scrap of the net she must've picked off the ground, waving it around.

"You don't owe me anything," you say. You pat down your shoulders, getting rid of ice and snow. "I'm perfectly capable of continuing by myself."

She does not look convinced in the slightest, and you don't have the energy or time to argue with a 3 foot bipedal mustelid.

"Fine," you settle. "I'm on my way to the Spectrier Guard territory, you know? Big and scary people in black armor?"

'Let them come,' Sneasel challenged. You sigh, rubbing the bridge of your nose. It's no use, rather than wasting more energy trying to talk you turn around and start walking. East is the way. East will continue to be the way.

Sneasel's smug face as she follows one step behind you makes you wonder if you're going to regret this.

The red in her eyes starts to change into a different hue as you glance back. Probably nothing, and with that journey ahead you cannot afford any distractions. If nothing else, not having to walk this path alone helps a lot.

You have formed a new bond. This Sneasel embodies the aspect of Authority. You already have a partner, though. You have one Skiddle. Forming this new bond makes you wonder, has Skiddle also found someone else to take care of her? Is she looking for you still?

Until that day you meet again and give that girl a hug, you must accept this distance. But you will never forget her, and you will not forget what she means to you:

Wisdom and Authority become one.

You are [Imp l]. This aspect of you is not yet fully formed. It seems to be missing a few letters.

For now you should choose a name for your new friend.

[ ] Capo
Again. Do it again. The melody keeps repeating from the start.

[ ] Inana
A hero, named after Kael's wife. A name Lissy would love for sure.

[ ] Obsidian
Minerals and gemstones are so, so beautiful. They remind you of someone.

[ ] Charon
A monster in Ancient Elysium, like those that Drake named his Pokemon after.

###

You and that Sneasel are not a perfect pair. It's so easy to point out the differences to Skiddle—in most part it's the way Sneasel decides on things. She does not listen, which is fine, you aren't prone to listen either after all. She will do what you ask if you say please and thank you. She will do as you ask if you ask, not order.

Because nobody should order someone so admirable. Skiddle was cute, and she knew she was cute, but knowing she was cute made it cute!

Sneasel is… well, cute. But she knows she's cute, and that makes her not cute.

Despite your apprehension, the routine between you develops quickly. She points out shelter, you point out directions, traveling so far off-road that you can avoid people but still close enough to it to feel safe.

At this point, you are not sure just what you can do once you reach the depths of the Reichert territory. There should be few blue knights behind you at this point, Carrier-Pidgeys are much better to send around even if the harsh winter slows them down to a crawl.

The storm has ended, at least. Instead, slow and steady snowfall that does not melt in this climate and makes the already perilous path into something uncomfortable.

"Hey," you call out, frowning. Sneasel stops in her tracks, turning around with narrowed eyes, still somehow suspicious of you. "Is it easy? To just leave your family behind to follow me?"

Pokemon have different ties to their families. Some species simply don't have them, some only move in packs until the end of their lives, and some are a bit more free spirited.

But humans are humans, and Pokemon are Pokemon.

"Snee," Sneasel says, actually verbalizing her answer for once. You still can't speak Pokemon, but you imagine it's something like 'Family stays family'.

"I get that," you say, pursing your lips. "But that doesn't mean it's easy, does it?"

'We are not separated,' Sneasel says. It points at her feathers. 'We share our feathers, our bond does not break so easily.'

"Feathers…" you say, thinking about Skiddle again. That dark feather in her hair. Thalia and the Squadkrows who saved your life in that cold storm.

'Do you not have their feathers?' Sneasel asks. You look at the pouch at your waist. At the small book inside. At the box of rations. At Drake's letter and Capella's thread that tied the pouch shut again.

"I do," you answer. You don't know what emotion you're feeling now, between the storm of strange ideas and weird thoughts. Even Zack is still with you, in a way, in your name, in your actions. "Thank you."

'You're welcome.'

Well, at least there's some common ground you can find.

###

The rations are still plentiful, but warmth is hard to come by. The hours you've walked, the nights you've slept in small crevices that Sneasel pointed out. You find yourself comforted by her presence, more than you care to admit out loud. The winter is too harsh, the snow too high, to really look for you. Or perhaps Capella pointed them into the wrong direction.

Bells ring in the distance. The vibrations echo in your bones and you clench your teeth through the clattering, facing the cold as you look up.

DING. DONG. DING—

You don't know how long you've been walking today. You do know, however, that you should have gotten caught by border guards by now. Sneasel stands at your side, but the journey to here was… too easy. The bells— you know the code, you try to remember but it eludes you until you see a large group of people sitting in carriages in the distance.

Evacuation.

DING. DONG. DING—

The village you find yourself in is being evacuated, the bell rings three times, then takes a break. Then three more. You have heard of this before, when the winters are very harsh, how the villagers are taken in by the city of Marquess Reichert to stay until the temperatures rise again.

Your dangerous choice has become a good opportunity, it seems.

Or it would have been, until you notice the gaze of the armored man sitting atop a strange looking Rapidash. It has no flames on its head, instead a mane of hair that looks like candy adorns it. It makes for a contrast you would have found funny on any other day, the black sheen of the heavy armor against the pale beauty of the Rapidash—the emblem on that armor, a mirror of the Glastrier Knight's, pointing in the wrong direction with a cross instead of an oval in the middle.

You tense up as he approaches. You haven't stopped your own feet. If you look casual, natural, maybe he will assume you're a—

That damn uniform, still. You tighten your cloak around you, hiding everything but your head. The approaching knight calls out.

"Halt," he calls. He doesn't look that old, perhaps in his early twenties, and his voice is also young to match. His blue hair is long and tied up, revealing a rather ridiculous scar that travels from the top of his ear down to the side of his neck. "Who goes there?"

A million possible answers, and very few convincing. You managed to scrub away most blood from your face, but the bruises are still healing and sore. You definitely do not look like a normal villager.. Sneasel is hiding behind you, ready to strike, waiting for that moment where the knight's eyes meet yours.

"Sofia!" a voice calls out, killing any thought of violence. You turn away from the knight, your gaze meeting that of an elderly woman. She's dressed much like you, coat and all. You can see a stick to help her walk under it, gripped by pale and thin fingers. She ignores the knight completely, walking toward you with a purpose and then grabbing your head, forcing it down, away from the man's gaze. "Oh dear, what a mess you made of yourself. Come, we must get you warmed up."

You don't get to protest as the woman drags you away, just past the knight, who looks too stunned and confused to really doubt the woman's words. For a moment, you're just as confused. Did she mistake you for someone? No, though the woman is quite old and her eyes are half-lidded and unfocused, the sharpness of her movement makes you realize she's helping you escape notice.

Her other hand just grabs Sneasel's claw and drags her with you as well.

The village looks absolutely drowned in snow. Knights are sitting on various mounts and keep watch over the evacuation efforts. Mudbray stand tall in front of the carriages, waiting for the order to move. Nobody gives you a second glance as the old woman moves you forward in line, skipping ahead of most villagers.

What you don't know is why. The villager woman gets you into one of the carriages with her. It smells of a campfire that must have burned last night, spartan but full of people who are huddled up together and giving each other warmth and comfort. None of the villagers inside, who would no doubt know that she is not your grandmother, make a single sound.

Two of them grab heavy blankets, throwing them over you, warming you up and hiding you between them. It is the first of real warmth you've felt in the past two days.

You don't know what to say, so you say nothing. The sting in your eyes that announces tears is simply because of the cold wind, nothing else.

"Why are you helping me?" you manage to ask. You notice Sneasel at your feet, hiding in between the blankets and enjoying the warmth all the same.

"Because you look like you need help," the old woman answered.

"Aria," your grandmother says, her voice weak, her fingers thin and pale as they hold onto your hand. "You are a good child."

You must help those who you can help, so why is accepting help in return so hard?

"A child like you should not look like she had a life well lived," the old woman says. You freeze.
A life well lived. A curse to any noble, and the common man's most polite way to say that one was run ragged by circumstance.

"I'm not a child," you say. She smiles at you, with all the softness and generosity that someone could muster for a stranger. It is much, much kinder than you're used to. Her hand reaches out, and though you want to do nothing more than grab and stop it, you don't want the attention.

Her fingers trace your shoulders. "A child does not stop being a child by being a warrior."

"I'm not a warrior either," you say. You don't know what you are. Some vagrant, a masterless knight.

"We may not all fight the same battles, Sofia," she says. You frown, that name again. "But we are all warriors, each and every one of us. We fight for our family, for our friends, for our homes."

Your frown deepens. You know those words, a prayer, though you cannot remember what church it belongs to. Regardless, the words of that old faith resonate with you. She isn't wrong, and even then, trying to hide your origin with that sword sticking out of the blankets is futile.

"Aria," you say, introducing yourself. You cannot give them a wrong name, you cannot hide who you are again. This is what you picked, and this is what you stand by. "I am Aria."

"Welcome to Traviolle, Aria," the old woman said. The others in the carriage echo her words. "I am Beatrice. The young ones call me Old Bea."

"Thank you," you say, nodding at her. You draw the blankets closer, your arms hugging around your legs, putting your chin on your knees. "I've been freezing for a while."

There's no reason to start doubting people's intentions today. There's no value in constant paranoia. That is not the person Drake wants you to be. Not the person your grandmother wants you to be.

Wanted.

You shake your head.

"I could be a criminal," you say. The blood on your hands is still fresh on your mind. For the first time in three days, you feel safe enough to think. To feel. Why is it always so easy to share with strangers? "I could be dangerous."

Old Bea simply laughs. It's such a mess. Sneasel seems to have found herself quite relaxed already, sleeping in between your feet without a care in the world. As if everything is fine now. As if—

A girl pokes your blanket. You look toward her, finding yourself in a staring contest with a six year old child. She is holding something, struggling slightly as she raises it to you. It's—it's clothes? A bundle of them. You take them with shaking hands, before two other women lift the blankets, blocking everyone's sight from you.

Ah.

They know, of course. About the blood, the smell clings on you even if you've already gotten used to it. You take the uniform off, laying it in a heap on the ground before untangling the clothes they offer. A loose shirt with long sleeves and thick trousers that'll stave off the cold. There's even a hat there, to hide your hair and ears. There's not much that can be done for your skin, but from the looks of it, this close to the border you're not the only person that has a darker complexion.

"It doesn't matter how many children van Kesteren raises to be his soldiers," Old Bea says as you settle back onto the seat. Changing is an awkward affair, though there is more space in these evacuation carriages than in the ones used to transport Glastrier knights to their duties. She holds the bloodied clothes and you can see something that looks like disdain on her face. "A child is a child, Aria. And no child deserves to freeze to death. If you have done something that brings you shame, it will not change my decision to help you now."

"The people I've met under his employ are not bad judges of character," you say, frowning. "The Duke is not… a perfect person, I know this. They took me in when I had nowhere else to go."

"It is not a time to argue politics, I suppose," Old Bea says, nodding. Someone hands her something, pieces of firestones. She crushes them, pouring the pieces into a cup and filling it with a liquid from a pouch. It quickly begins to steam before she hands it to you. Tea, you notice. The small pieces of firestone look like stars at the bottom of the cup. "But if you wish to ponder on something before you fall asleep, keep this in mind. Why did you wear a uniform, and all the knights in the east and west wear armor?"

You don't know.

Or rather, you do. You can extrapolate. You can guess. You can make educated assumptions. You have a billion different ways to take what you know and create an answer that makes sense. The tea warms you, tires you out, and makes you think—a Skarmory's shedded steel can make for a single armor, or five swords. A Corviknight is bigger, though the amount of steel is much the same.

One chose weapons, the other defense.

You try to stay awake, but the exhaustion catches up to you.

There is so much more you must think about…

###

You wake up with a start. You try to stand, but a hand on your shoulder stops you, saving you from an embarrassing and loud injury. Old Bea puts a finger to her mouth, motioning for you to stay quiet. Most of the villagers are still asleep, and the children who have been the loudest on the journey here are finally quiet, leaning against their parents.

Family, you think to yourself. What a beautiful picture of family.

Outside, you can hear the knights speaking. Two of them, the young man from before and an older woman. Sneasel has climbed from the floor of the carriage into your lap, clutching around your waist and just barely avoiding stabbing you with the sharp claws.

"Duke van Kesteren is furious," the woman says. You shake your head. You can't even get nervous at this, how can those two be called knights? They're practically shouting this for everyone to hear! "It sounds strange either way, doesn't it? Someone like Drake dying?"

"Age will be the end of us all," the young knight says. "But the report does sound off, I agree. An unknown assassin? Who escaped after killing four more knights?"

You draw a sharp breath. There's no way the information could've gotten twisted like this, not unless the guards decided to abandon you as a scapegoat. No, there is something terribly wrong in Caer Rivenhold. Capella knew the truth, after all, or at least the truth that the guards were spreading.

Which means—what exactly does it mean?

The only two people who could suppress this information once it's out would be Drake himself or the Duke, whose orders are absolute. If he tells the knights not to speak of her, then they would not, but—

Your head starts throbbing. You raise your hands, rubbing your temples, trying to make sense of it. The pain behind your eyes spreads until it touches your spine. Their reputation would be tarnished if they admit that some third-rate aspirant killed the commander. This does not mean you're off the hook, but it does mean that your face will not be on bounty posters across the entire country.

It does mean that you have to avoid anyone wearing blue and white though, and burn that uniform Old Bea is hiding for you the moment you have the chance.

"Still," the woman speaks up again. "If it's true, his death is just the beginning."

"Aye," the young man answers. You can't see him, but you can hear the way his voice shifts, nervousness spreading through his chest. "I imagine it is simply a prelude to greater conflict."

The conversation dies off, but your own thoughts are still racing. The carriage slows down. It's time to open a camp for the night. The further east you come, the thinner the snow gets, the less bad the cold. In between the border and behind the mountains, the warm winds of Sol come and give the Marquess' territory a less harsh winter.

Gildera's geography feels more and more like a prison. If it wasn't for the abundance of fire stones in the mountains, it's likely the capital would've frozen over hundreds of years ago.

You help with the camp, of course. You still try to hide your face from the knights, even as you realize that they will likely not be suspicious of you. It takes only a few minutes for tents to be set up with such a practiced perfection, you realize that your help is barely needed.

These are people who have survived these winters longer than you've been alive, and yet they do not mind that you take a little bit longer to set that fire compared to them.

In the end, Old Bea is not keeping you constant company. You find yourself at the large campfire set up in the middle, keeping watch over it as you warm yourself. It's so important to you, as if you have to charge at the flames, as if you'll freeze again soon. Something like this is hard to describe to others, you realize, the feeling of cold and loneliness.

Not that you're truly that lonely. Sneasel moved away from the camp to hide in the trees when children were trying to pull at her feathers, but you can still feel her presence in the dark, watching over you, meeting your gaze when you look into the treetops.

You can still feel those hands on your back, and you wonder when you'll be able to hold them again. The bag in your hands weighs heavy with those promises. In one moment, you draw out Lissy's book, staring at the cover, tracing the title with your fingers.

Someone pokes you again. You try not to sound irritated as you turn around and smile at the child that gave you those clothes earlier in the day. You don't know her name, but with how many people you've met today there's no way you can memorize them all anyway.

"What's that?" she asks, pointing at the book in your hands.

"It's a book," you say, "a friend gave it to me."

"What's it about?" she asks.

"Old stories about heroes," you say, "like Emperor Kael."

Her eyes light up. Even those who don't know folklore and fairy tales know Kael, such is the influence of that man.

"Can you read it?" the girl asks, smiling up at you. You are eternally tired, but you've rested enough. If you can distract the kids long enough for their parents to get some rest, the first step to repay these people's kindness is already done.

"Of course," you say, sitting down next to the fire, the book opening up to the first chapter. "A is for Atlas," you read, "who protects us from the stars."

"Are the stars dangerous?" one of the children asks. You notice that the girl who asked is not the only one who's decided to listen in on the reading. The girl that speaks up is looking at the sky. She is pale and scared, shivering against the cold even though the fire is so strong you can barely feel it yourself.

"No," you say, "because Atlas protects us."

You point at the stars and find the brightest one in the sky. It shimmers, various colors coming off it when one squints. The children follow your gaze, and their shivering stops. You continue reading.

"Once, there was a great evil in the night sky," you read, trying to put on a voice like your grandmother used to do when she told a story. "It came from far, far away. A distance so great, one could cross from here to the east of Sol and back a billion billion times and still not reach it."

"That's really far…" one of the boys says, his voice low and awed.

"An oracle walked to the greatest city in Elysium and called out for a hero," you continue, "she said 'Soon there will be a challenger, who will take from us our mother earth. The stars will devour Elysium!'"

The children huddle together, the story catching their interest. You can see some of the adults listen in too, some laughing at the way you tell it, some interested in ways that make you wonder just how many of them have ever learned how to read, or if the many years of war have never given them time to enjoy their childhoods.

"But whenever we are in trouble, there are heroes who we can look up to," you say, your voice rising slightly. "Heroes like Atlas, who lived in that city! Atlas was not a warrior at all, he was a craftsman, but he knew that he was destined for something greater than himself. He would become a hero."

"A hero!" the children echo. You smile at them, standing up as you hold the book open with one hand and remove the sword from your waist, keeping it inside the scabbard before pointing it over the flame.

"Atlas gathered help. Dozens of Pokemon who were friends with him: fearsome Ursaring, intelligent Kadabra, and fearless Psyducks!" You point the sword up at the sky again. "A gaggle of Clefairy were with him, sending him up and up and up into the sky. Until under him there was Elysium, and above him, there was the eternal night sky."

You put the sword aside, leaning it against a log and focus on the words. How did your grandma do this again? You cough slightly, changing approach again. Regardless of your inadequacy, the children are entertained, and that's what matters, right?

"As he stood on the edge of the world, it appeared. It was red and blue, its eyes an empty maw, its hands stained with the light of all those stars it devoured. The Starscourge!"

The children make a loud noise together, something between a scared scream and an excited shout. You nod, continuing without missing a beat.

"'You fool', the Starscourge said, 'do you not see that you will lose? Do you not see that this is your fate written in the stars?'"

"'No', said Atlas," you say, finding the right tone finally. You can see that scene in the fire, you can see Lissy in it, swinging a sword as a child so happy and carefree as she re-enacts the very fights that made her who she is. "'I make my own fate'."

Atlas swings the spear in his hands, and the weight of the world rests on his shoulders as he fights back against the Starscourge. It fights back, but the power of his friendships, the power of his Pokemon friends at his side, prove too much for it.

The Starscourge runs, but Atlas does not descend. He knows, after all, that one day it will return.

And until then, he keeps watch for us. He guides us at night, and protects us when the sun is up, locked in an eternal battle until the end of time.

You finish the story to the cheers of the children. You don't know if you've done the right thing, now, considering how excited they look. There's no way they'll just calm down and let their parents rest now, will they?

You see them run off to grab sticks, pointing them up at the sky like you did earlier. Some begin fighting, rolling in the snow and tackling each other. Within seconds, the children forget the situation and just enjoy themselves. The sound of snow crunching under feet behind you makes you tense up.

"Your storytelling might use some work," the young knight says, smiling at you. You swallow the lump in your throat. The lack of suspicion and the fact that the story surrounding Drake's death has not properly reached their ears made you careless. "Still, it's good to see that you take your education seriously. Not many children learn to read in the villages."

"I couldn't disappoint my grandmother," you say. Half-truths and terrible, shameless lies. "I'm sorry, I made them more excited than before."

"It's fine," he says, waving off your concern with a hand. The armor reflects the bonfire, the Corviknight steel looks very nice and polished. "By the time they stop playing 'Atlas and the Starscourge' they'll probably be tired enough so they're still asleep for the rest of the journey. Any distraction's good at times like these."

"Yes," you say, pursing your lips. Times like these. Times you've never really had to consider. When winter was heavy in the Flamberg house, they simply had Arcanines warm everything up. When the snow got thick in the Caer, classes became more frequent and outside training was used to toughen up. The fact that villagers at the edges of those territories could suffer like this was never something that crossed your mind. "How long until the city?"

"We have one more village to stop at on our path tomorrow, then we should be able to reach it by nightfall or early light if we can afford to. It depends on the weather."

At least there's no fear of starvation. Gildera remains abundant, and in the cold weather preservation is very easy, snow and ice allowing for storage boxes that have become a very important exported good to Sol, who replace the natural resources with ice stones.

"You're Sofia, right?" he asks. You almost speak the truth, suppressing the reflex at the last second as your lips part. Your teeth slam together with a loud click, and you nod instead of speaking. "I am Leif, Knight of the Spectrier Guard. I lead this evacuation effort."

"You do?"

That's not the right tone, is it? You open your mouth to apologize, but the man just shrugs.

"I know I'm too young for it, but age matters little here," he says, laughing it off. "I used to grow up in a village, so I know the people and the paths better than some knights who've been around longer."

"That's… fair," you say. Experience can be useful, but the different kinds of experience are often difficult to weigh against each other. "I suppose it's easy considering how practiced they are."

"Does it seem that way?" he asks, turning his own gaze toward the fire. "Winters have grown harsher over the past years, even as we evacuate them and offer to expand the city, they keep returning here in spring. Is it good to get used to these things?"
"Is it so hard to imagine people that wish to return home?"

"Home is where my people are," he says, and you realize it is not him you are arguing with, or you that he is complaining to. It's surely an argument he's had with someone else, whose answers mirrored your own. "But enough about me, where did you learn to swing a sword?"

You look at the sword still leaning against the log. Fortunately it lacks and emblem, and the only thing that could really implicate where it comes from is the kind of steel it's made of. You decide not to draw the blade until you're out of sight.

"I picked it up here and there," you say. "The woods are dangerous, after all."

"That's true," he says. Again, he laughs it off, again you wonder just why he's focused on you. The group of villagers has reached a hundred men, women, and children. "You've been injured recently, though that does not look like a wild Pokemon did that to you."

Ah.

Why do you keep assuming everyone around you is too stupid to put two and two together?

It must be the time spent with Lissy. You hear Sneasel laugh.

He probably knows that you're not a villager.

"Still, the efforts of Marquess Reichert are appreciated," you say. "Not many nobles would help smaller villages like he does, after all."

"It is the duty of nobility, is it not?" Leif asks, crossing his arms. "Noblesse Oblige, and all that."

"That's nonsense," you say, unable to stop yourself. You slap your hands over your mouth, but he simply laughs. This makes it harder to hold back. "Noblesse Oblige puts all the responsibility on the shoulders of nobles. You can't be absolved from being a good person like that, people should help each other regardless of status if they can afford to—"

The wave of words crashes against the man's even louder laughter. You shut your mouth and glare at him, unable to mask your emotions. You just know Sneasel is somewhere out there absolutely laughing her ass off at you. You can hear that cackle from miles away.

"Well, regardless, you and your Sneasel can help us once we get to the city," Leif says.

"She's not my—" you begin, but somehow you can't continue. You shake your head. "Sorry, help you?"

"There's some problems that usually crop up around the city during winter," he explains. "It's nothing major, but you'll be compensated. While there's obviously enough food for everyone, that's rationed and mostly bland. Money's the best way to get some proper food on the table."

"Ah," you say, nodding. Of course, no single territory can just live on the labor of knights alone. "Thanks for the information. I'll keep that in mind."

He smiles and nods again before leaving to join the other knights at the tent they share.

You will be there soon. Before that last stretch, you should get some rest.

The Border City, Wallburg, is visible.

There's no way you'll be able to get that letter to Marchioness Reichert right now. You also can't just hand it over to someone, that's not what Drake would've wanted. So for now, you have to settle in, make some money, survive the winter before you can work on a new plan.

[ ] Join the patrol.
There is money to be made helping the knights patrol outside the city. The knights are looking for volunteers that can help them secure the area around the city, as wild Pokemon become desperate for warmth and food in the harsh cold and might attack civilians that travel in and out for various reasons.

[ ] Work at the camp.
This will not really earn you any coin, but it'll keep you distracted. Just because you're evacuated to the city doesn't mean that the villagers can simply stay idle. They make clothes, take care of their young, and make sure that everyone gets by.