[attr="class","explorerheader"]▸ DESCRIPTION ◂

[attr="class","explorerheader"]▸ PERSONALITY ◂

[attr="class","explorerbox"]For as terrifying as it might be, Thing is not an actively malicious creature. They are instinctual, and lack much of the fundamental social skills most have. Survival will always take precedence, but curiosity comes to a close second. It regards others warily, but attaches quickly— and expresses such attachments in a variety of often concerning ways. It is a lonely creature, and territorial.

While much of typical pokemon behavior eludes him, he does seem aware of how the town regards his existence. Fear is expected. Hostility is anticipated. He does not attack unless threatened and will never attack children. It should be easy to keep to himself, but it isn’t. Something is pulling him to civilization.

She is missing something, and she knows. She’s unsure of who she is, or if anyone still alive does, but the lake has offered little in way of answers, and there’s really only one place that could. If she could just get close enough.

[attr="class","explorerheader"]▸ FREEFORM ◂

[attr="class","explorerbox"]It had to have been an eevee once. It’s impossible for it to have been born like this. At times, it itches its chest, as if expecting something furrier than sleek, water-repellant skin. At times, its limbs feel too long, especially on land. At times it feels as if it has grown into a body it’s too small for.

They have seen eevee a few times before— brave little ones or oblivious visitors who were scared off soon enough. Once, on paper. Oh, that paper… what a shame. It had kept it for a while. It couldn’t understand the big symbols, but the eevee’s face felt so familiar. It had stored that sheet in a tree hollow for months before a storm knocked the tree into the lake, and the paper was ripped and stained to nothing. It tried to make it, but drawing with muck couldn’t come close in likeness.

Without knowing who it was or where it came from, the Thing lives its days in the only place it has ever known. The bottom of the lake is cold. It is a treacherous labyrinth of debris and stone, yet it knows every inch as if it were its own fins. It sleeps in the deepest dark, undetectable in the water— nonexistent.

In his dreams, the murky waters become glinting blue stones. He dreams of standing on a precipice, staring into clear waters filled with them. He dreams of wet soil slipping from his paws.

She dreams of plunging into water.


And then it wakes up.