Thunderlight

Exile

Montgomery clenches a fist.

"Yeah!" Torquil agrees, already taking a bite of one of his own apples. Juice dripping down his mouth, he says, "You could learn a trade or become a merchant. You could do pretty well for yourself—like these people here."

The thought of being anything like these people makes the contents of his stomach threaten to rise up.

"I think you could be really happy here, man," Torquil rambles, as oblivious as ever. Florian scoffs at the juice running down his face and whips out a handkerchief for Torquil to use. Wiping his face, Torquil states, "This way, you'd be out of your family's expectations. You could do whatever you want. The sky's the limit for you now!"

"Easy for you to be so optimistic," Montgomery snaps, tossing his sack of apples over his shoulder as he makes his way toward a merchant with traveling gear. "You haven't been kicked out. You've actually gotten your family crest. The sky's the limit for you; I'm stuck here on the ground with all these—" He shudders at the sight of a peddler with dirt all over their hands— "commoners."

"What, this old thing?" Torquil says, taking a look at his family crest. He shrugs. "Truth is, I only wear it around to keep my old man happy. I don't care about it too much."

The way Torquil talks about it makes it sound like it's a funny little sticker and not an emblem of insurmountable respect and recognition.

"I think," Torquil begins, "you might be happier if you cared a little less about your crest, too."

Montgomery turns on his heel to snarl at him. "And I think you two should get lost. I didn't invite you two out here, did I? Scram, get out!"

Florian rolls his eyes. "You're being immature, as usual."

"And you're being a prick and Torquil is being an idiot. Fantastic, it's just like old times!" Montgomery spits, smiling ruefully. Torquil flinches but says nothing. Turning his back on them and marching away, he barks, "Get lost. I don't want or need your help."

Montgomery storms away, not bothering to check over his shoulder and see if the others left. He knows how it'll play out: Torquil will be reluctant and Florian will leave without a word, ordering Torquil to follow him. The pushover will flounder for a bit, and then he'll choose who he follows. It better not be Montgomery, or Torquil is going to get punched.

He reaches the merchant with traveling supplies, dropping his bag of apples on the floor. As he searches for what he wants to buy, his eyes just happen to glance back. Both Florian and Torquil are gone.

Fine. Good! He meant what he said, he doesn't want or need them around. They'd just slow him down and grate on his nerves. Getting them off his back was the first step in actually getting something done today. Without them, it's just him on his quest to beat Zekrom.

Just him. Just how he wants it.

He directs his gaze back to the travel gear the merchant is selling. He'll need a bag, for sure, to hold medicines and other medical supplies. On that note, he'll need healing items, because the wounds he got from his duel haven't quite patched up yet. A tent of some sort might be necessary if he can't afford to sleep in an inn every night. Speaking of that, he'll need to find a way to make money to buy food and other necessities...

As he's pondering this, he almost doesn't feel his money pouch slide off his belt. But he does, and the moment he turns, he's met with the retreating form of a pansear, clutching the bag.

"Hey!" Montgomery shouts, releasing his bag of apples to chase the thief. "Stop! Give that back!"

Really. The moment he sets off on his own, he's pick-pocketed. How bitterly hilarious.

He dashes after the culprit, reaching out and nearly grabbing them by the scruff of the neck. But before he can lay a hand on them, the pansear leaps into the air, clinging to a building wall. Like a spider, the crook crawls up the wall with ease, his money pouch dangling from their tail. When the pansear reaches the roof, they toss the bag into their hand, wave it tauntingly, and race away.

There's no way he can climb that wall like they did, but he can guess where they're headed. Along the side of the building, there's a narrow alleyway. They must be using it to make their escape. He hurries there.

Shoving past people and carts and boxes, he leaps over at least a dozen obstacles before the alleyway comes into sight. As much as he'd like to make a beeline for it, there's a huge cart full of flour bags blocking the way. A handful of merchants scratch their heads and try to figure out how to cram this giant wheelbarrow into that tiny alley.

He doesn't have time for this. Every second that passes lowers his chances of getting his money back. That money pouch is all he has left. If he doesn't get it back, he can kiss his already slim chances of beating Zekrom goodbye.

Running straight for the cart, he barrels past the merchants that try to stop him. Lunging into the air, he lands on top of the bags, flour rushing out in a cloud of white dust. Disgruntled shouts and complaints lash out at him, but he ignores them in favor of sliding back on the ground. Tucking and rolling, he races the rest of the way into the alley.

He waves away dust from the streets and coughs as he stumbles to a stop in the narrow passageway. The tall building blocks out the sunlight, casting cold shadows on him. He shivers, raking his eyes over every surface in the alley. There's no sign of the pansear anywhere. Did they already escape? Or could they really not have come this way? Where else would they have gone?

A sound makes him turn. In the far end of the alley, the sewer cover rattles shut. Montgomery grins.

Dashing over, he bends to lift the metal grate. It's heavier than he anticipated, but with a determined heave, he tosses it aside. He sees a shadow inside scurry away.

"Hey!" He yells, jumping down. The ground is slimy and damp where he lands. He grimaces, but presses on. "Get back here!"

The sewer somehow smells worse than the marketplace, but it's abysmally quiet. Only the sound of rhythmic dripping echoes through the chamber. His footsteps and his breathing are so loud in comparison, he wonders how he can't hear the thief. They can't be that far ahead. They must be hiding.

That thought renews his resolve. If they're hiding, then they have nowhere else to go. He's going to find them, beat them, and get his money back if it's the last thing he does. Nodding with conviction, he hurries around the corner only to get kicked straight in the face.

He staggers back, holding his nose and glaring at his attacker. Surprisingly, it's not the pansear, as he expected; rather, it's a panpour. Before he can gather his bearings, the panpour swings a fist at him. In the nick of time, he dodges, feeling the rush of air from their attack prickle his fur. Equipping his scalchop, he slashes at his attacker, striking their face. The panpour falls back, holding their bloody cheek.

From the corner, a rush of flames burn toward him. He douses them with a quick jet of water just in time to see the pansear jump at him from the steam. Swiping his scalchop at them, he cuts their face just like he did with the panpour. He grins. At this rate, he'll get his money back in no time at all.

That, of course, is the cue for everything to go very, very wrong.

A vine whips out at his ankles, tripping him. Slamming to the ground on his back, he coughs out a lungful of air from the impact. The panpour and pansear giggle and snort like wily ghouls. From the shadows, a pansage struts out, tossing his money bag in their hand. They sneer down at him with yellow teeth.

"Nice try, pretty boy," the pansage taunts, their eyes glinting in the dark. "But you ain't gettin' this back."

From the ground, he rasps, "I'm gonna kick the shit out of you."

They promptly kick the shit out of him instead.