Septhis, approved to Enter the Gates
“My word I give you, fellow guard. My word.”
Brushing aside a tinge of snow that coated his grey, cloth-like skin as the Grumpig released him from his psychokinetic grasp, he passed through the gate mechanically, slowly, wanting to indulge in every step as he would now finally set foot on the theatre he would direct. Sights of the many structures erected from an art alien and unrecognizable were set into place before him as civilization painted itself before him, many Pokemon amidst the hustle and bustle moved about committing to each of their own individual duties, to selling to running.
Such was the life and idiosyncratic elements that he had yearned for. Five painstaking days of nothing, but the scene set out before him seemed worthwhile-
But where was the effervescence he was promised to see? What of the peace and vibrancy that should've stood here, instead of greeting him with medics treating the wounded, a gloomy, dolorous atmosphere set out before him? What of the stagnant, malaise faces of Pokemon as they lived their lives here? Not a single shred of a smile stood on the scattered, unfamiliar faces as they ignored him while he walked amidst the crowd. What of the rumours he had trusted and pursued to see here? What of the wonders he was promised upon overcoming that via dolorosa? Where? Where were they?
Alas, not but a venue such as this is spared from loss and strife. He should have expected as much, really; much like how he appeased and distracted himself with the stupor of his past glories where he was granted the privilege to perform amidst the cold, unmoving journey to the lands his feet now stepped on, many ignorant of the reality here, confined to the harshness of the world out there had equally found the Enclave as the glimmer of hope needed to move forward. The Pillar was as much as place of war as the rest, if not worse.
Of course, he wasn’t disappointed in the slightest. Had it been the haven akin the rumours the many ignorant souls out there believed in, what but a stagnant opera would come out of it? Granted, this was much better off than many a struggling fate lost and hungry out there, but it was the conflict that truly mattered. Life was, after all, not a bed of Roselia – where would the drama be in that?
His first thought in mind was to look for someone to talk to, to appease and to learn of the many features that the Enclave provided. It was but a moment before the Grumpig's words echoed again in his head, pausing him from beginning his first act for a moment.
Wherefore would the presence of a presumably esteemed superior result in the withering of public etiquette? His fervor drooped slightly as he contemplated the Grumpig’s words intuitively; an audience like that certainly wouldn’t prove discerning. Issue after issue sprouted itself before him, leaving him with an entangled set of a puppet’s strings.
The world is cruel, but it needn’t be ugly. Alas, it is time I pulled the strings.
While he enjoyed a good flow of the plot for research, he returned a few steps into the gate as he called for the Grumpig above the wall. It seemed that his endeavor for a desirable exposition would be difficult.
“Enlighten me, my sedentary sentinel.” He inquired, bluntly. “Your aforementioning of the statement of your General’s return. Simply speaking, this isn’t the world the souls outside depict it to be – yet so it seems in a grander scheme of things, it seems the dangerous waters themselves aren’t the only things tainted by corruption. Why? What reason would his return bring to sully the morality of those warmed up within these shelters?”