[You must be registered and logged in to see this image.]Celestic Pokécenter | Noon || 15
“If trust was so freely given it would not have the worth of greenstone.”
Trust is like snow; it melts quick under the heat of conflict yet fortifies with the temperance of ice. Shaka smiles slightly, already enjoying this Golbat’s company--he may not trust him too much yet, but he cannot help but give him respect. “And if these lands are mine then I am ready to defeat any challengers to me territory.” He gives a tiny bow to the chieftain, and responds with the words of his clan passed down from his own father. “As Shaka, Youngblood of the Frostclaw Tribe, I may consider your proposal--your alliance-- Ponamu, chieftain of the Zubat tribe of Coronet.
Just as his addressing ends, Shaka hears a weak, groaning voice. It is followed by the sound of ice crushing beneath weighted feet. His eyes creep over his shoulder, and when he realizes what is behind him he spins around, his short fur frilling up on his back. A fusion of fear and aggression has come over him, as he stares at a large, begging undead Magmortar, with vividly purple flesh. It looks to them all, and as it reaches out with its claws it regurgitates a gory deluge of lava. Shaka looks back at the Bulbasaur and Squirtle, who both have arisen from their rest. Ponamu has turned around himself, to look at the monster standing before them. Shaka’s ears flatten against his head, as the Magmortar begs for them to help her. What exactly this Undead is, he does not know--but it is something very bad. There is a prevailing sense of power coming from it, which warns of its true dangerousness. There is no reasoning with it, and possibly no victory over it--he can easily sense it. He floats steadily within the air, not exactly knowing how to act upon the horror in front of them. His head and heart are feeling fresh and full with the prospect of retreat or combat, and he is favoring fleeing right now.
He gives a momentary gaze to Ponamu, the chief Golbat. Somehow, looking at him reminds him of someone--his father. His zealous father, who died in a similar battle, at the hands of this monstrous epidemic. Shaka can tell that he will not back down, and he knows what the proud warrior will do. The Raichu mutters one word within his mind--
Cerrus. When the Magmortar bellows, demanding for their aid, it opens up both of its barrel arms and aims them directly towards them all. A faint inner heat distorts the air around it, as it looks to be ready to incinerate them all. The sheer heat exploding from her external fires causes the ceiling’s ice to melt at an incredible rate, and makes the frozen floor around her to form into a puddle.
During the moment of silence before battle, he gives a quick thought as to how they are going to all survive. First, the others must go to safety. He speaks grimly over his back to Narron and the Squirtle, his voice a dark and uncharacteristic monotone. It shows honest concern for them, but sounds much like a command, for the two that might die or become infected at this forbidden horror’s claws. While he does so, he takes the bag of berries and stuffs them into his cloak, wrapping his tail around it to make sure it is secure during the oncoming fight. “Squirtle, Narron. Get to safety. Please do not argue.”
He now readies himself for battle, knowing that he might just not live through this without a severe injury. That does not mean he has given up, though, but against a Harbinger either he or Ponamu may just end up suffering, or worse. But there is no other choice. His cheeks spark, and he floats stably in the air, ready to dodge whatever attack will come his way within a moment’s notice. But out of respect, he waits for Chief Ponamu to make the first move, floating a fair distance from the Golbat but staying at his side. Just as soon as the first flames come, he will try and flank the monster--it is a large opponent, but there is plenty enough space within this lobby for him to avoid getting too close to the Undead.
