Zaxarie

Raspberry barreled through the desert, heedless of the sandstorm that whipped across her face or the howling wind that would have thrown a smaller Pokemon like a doll. Gloved hands gripped at her fur and the iron-like mud caked on his body, anchoring the trainer pressed flat to her back. Even with a hood pulled over his head, a cloth covering his mouth and nose, and a pair of tinted goggles blocking out the grit, Bronte’s face felt dry and hurt, flayed by the detritus in the air. He ducked his head when he was able, trusting Raspberry to direct them towards the newly-emergent ruins. As a Ranger, he was used to extreme conditions, hostile Pokemon, dangerous environments. He’d been caught off guard once to unimaginable consequence — he wore the three scars slashing at a harsh angle across his face — and he’d vowed since to be prepared. Always. He’d made a career out of it. Yet, the world continued to change. For example, sometimes an earthquake shifted sand and stone, pushing a buried