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Snippet #2469964

located in Shannia Region, a part of The Making of Legends, one of the many universes on RPG.

Shannia Region

None

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: [NPC] Bartender Character Portrait: Faye Sterling Greyson Character Portrait: Liana Amber Hale Character Portrait: Felix McCoy Character Portrait: Reagan Chase Maverik Character Portrait: Luke Cardwell Character Portrait: Damia Dantz
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'Mmhmm. What a fitting morning to a day like this. Clear skies, an ungodly hour, thirty pounds of fur on my face...' Smothered under an ecstatic, insufferable (yet affectionately named) nuisance, Amber could only sigh, roll over, and burrow deeper under her bedsheets. She had, after all, been having a perfectly good dream --something about snowmen, reindeer, and peace--, and no amount of rude awakenings would cut short her last proper morning/sleep at home. Or so it would have been, theoretically.

"Nope, nope, nope, Sherlock, stop it. I'm not getting up at six in the morning I swear to -- god damn it stop jumping on my face do you know how much you weigh-- FINE."

And so it was: Amber, six-thirty at dusk, with a mug of tea and news on her TV; completely ignoring some conspicuous dejected mass on her floor. At no point in her life had she ever been a morning person, the early hours being one of the only times when she was especially gloomy, or a bit crabby. But honestly, Amber was annoyed at more than just Sherlock's over-excited prancing there-- just as she'd finally gotten her life worked out to no strings attached, some mysterious light had claimed her for a journey, of all things. It was unfair, totally out of her control, and the concept of that responsibility always made her shiver-- 'Man, I was not this bad yesterday. Really got to lay off on the sunrise wake up calls.' As much as she'd always wanted to leave, home was always infinitely less depressing on the day of.

And speaking of which, wallowing in self-pity was exactly what her psychiatrist told her not to do. 'Old habits die hard, I guess. But I should probably...' Nudging a small bowl of grapes towards the sulking Psyduck-Zorua, Amber crouched down next to her peace offering; watching as her pokemon, after a moment of hesitancy, take the bait. Not that it was anything new, she'd used this exact tactic more times than she could count (which she discovered only after flailing repeatedly in the face of Sherlock's downtrodden face). It wasn't long before he was back to his old (and real) self in the presence of his favourite food.

He was affectionately nuzzling her after, and she dutifully settled into messing up his fur; as she was always obliged to be doing, in much the sisterly fashion. "You know, I don't really get why you're so excited over this whole quest thing. But I never figured out why you wanted to be my pokemon either. If it'll turn out like how this did, maybe I don't need to know." Then, as if to ruin the mildly sentimental moment, the news channel turned to a segment on the Fog Island; detailing the stolen tablet, strange lights, and the journey about to pass. And while Sherlock stood entranced, Amber sighed, stood, and stretched out her arms-- heading for her bedroom.

"Right, and I should probably pack now."




By the time noon rolled around, Amber had double and triple-checked her apartment for things, bought a quick coffee, and cooked breakfast (she's weirdly efficient when she stops procrastinating). Now, she was awkwardly waiting by the entrance of her buildings' complex-- with Sherlock in his pokeball and the urge to just ditch her late father and leave. But Alan had insisted, and 'this might as well be the last time that they'd ever see each other, so if she'd just give him one more chance...' She suddenly wished that she hadn't, 'when have I ever wanted to see his face?'

"Liana! Over here!"

'Whelp. Too late.' She turned to see the large frame of her father some ways away, bulky next to the Yamask at his shoulder. She managed a smile at that little guy, but gave and said nothing to his master. As always. And by then they were just silently walking along to the Northern Gate, Alan discouraged by his shot-down attempts to start a conversation. It was depressing, how little he had ever connected with his daughters. So depressing that it made him want to reach for the flask of vodka that he'd left at home, knowing that that Zorua of hers would sniff it out like a bloodhound. He reasoned that she was being kind, keeping Sherlock away from him-- considering, last time, he had tried to bit off Alan's face.

The two had said nothing substantial from the point of leaving to their arrival, only cursory words. You could almost cut the tension with a knife, quite discouraging to anyone that might want to approach. And, as Alan was determined to at least see her off, they were alone on a bench until dignitaries came to speak.

He was less anxious as he thought he would be, knowing that Amber was tough and could handle herself. He could see that she was beyond the point of needing him, and in that point decided to leave her be; there was no use in forcing her to be in his presence, seeing as how all of his attempts always ended in awkward conversations or outright arguments. Thus, when the speech was over, Alan mustered up the courage to give his daughter a half hug-handshake, an escape rope, and a hasty "Take care, call Ali if you need anything. She'll find you." -- and in a moment of truth, "I don't know if I would." And then he left, in her momentary surprise.




'Well, that was new.' Amber expressionlessly watched her father's back for a second, then absentmindedly released Sherlock and put away her new pokeballs. He was, apparently, a Growlithe now-- when he realized where he was, the bugger scampered off to run under the other travellers' feet. 'Well, if there's any way to make an impression, that's it.' Amber was feeling, surprisingly, pretty good; perhaps because of the fresh air.

"Well then, looks like it’s time for the merry band of misfits to shove off, eh?” The girl's sarcasm made Amber smile. She crouched down to grab Sherlock-Growlithe as the introductions came on, momentarily reining in his dog-like tendency to smother strangers. 'God knows if he's scared anyone already.'

"This little guy here is Sneaks. He's basically like my brother. We're really happy to be able to travel with you guys."

With a naturally friendly tone (and mildly fond smile), Amber continued. "Nice to meet you. I'm Liana, but Amber or Hale is fine. This here is Sherlock--", she thought back to his tendencies towards illusion, "--sometimes. He's really energetic, sorry about that. If he's being a bully, just give me a shout--" A paw swiped at her head. "See what I mean? But anyways, hi."