TheFictionNetwork

The year was 1779 and every schoolboy hears, Of how we battled Britain in those distant far-gone years. Burgoyne had just surrendered and the French had joined the fray, And battle broke out on the lake one fine September day. Like France, the Spanish grumbled at Britannia’s growing might, Like France, they backed the Patriots from sheer vindictive spite. They owned New Orleans at the time and used the river well, To send us what we needed so we'd give the British hell. They gave us shot and powder so we'd bloody Britain's lips, But most importantly of all, they sent us scores of ships. The rebels had no navy, not a single man-of-war

The free city of Embercrest, situated on the banks of the large Gulf of Koresh, west of the Choral Sea, was a true contemporary wonder among the free city-states dotting the Gulf's shoreline. Its natural harbor acted as a gateway to the Ivrohanian Empire, just across the Choral Sea. Ivrohanian merchants would come and go as quickly as the changing of the seasons, bringing boundless spices, quilts, and commerce to Embercrest. Many different cultures have left their mark not just on the city's people, but also upon the city's identity. What historically was a city of no variation, Embercrest has grown into a multicultural hub and it's this that

He had a habit of catching things. Usually, good things. A basketball, or a cat falling from a tree, or his baby sister, one memorable time, as she fell out of her crib. It was instinct to him, second nature. He didn't need to think about it—his hands acted independently from the rest of him, completely on their own accord, risk and volition. His hands, to him, were unbearably selfish. They thought very little of consequence. Didn’t they care about the potential pain? Did it matter to them that what they caught might. . . hurt?  He was still rather young the first time he caught a knife that had fallen off the kitchen counter.

This story is part of the Tyler's Search universe, and takes place after the events of Chapter 26.    It had been eight days. Eight days since I showed Tyler to that den in the Catcher town. Seven since I’d given up on him coming back the way we’d gone. Circling around town, I’d encountered scents of a lot of Catchers and pokémon passing through in different places, so I knew he’d done something, but they were all a day old already. I caught traces of his scent, but his trail disappeared with no sign of what had happened.    When I’d finally gotten back to my den, I was surprised to find a flareon and an

    Pulse-pounding days turned into torturously slow months as I worked my way through Vindicta’s ranks. Despite my implied warning to the man, Drake Costel’s intrigued attraction to me persisted. Thankfully, though, it acted in my favor, allowing quicker access to higher levels of clearance. Slowly, small tests of my loyalty were added to my workload, replacing menial tasks like restocking food stores or polishing the armory’s contents. I surpassed weaker fighters in rank with each display of leadership, tact, and precision.    Visiting Kira again or attempting to contact one of the experiments was too risky. Though there

I am dying. The fever. My bones ache. I coughed so hard that I nearly blustered my head off. My hide is blistered like old cracked leather. I am dying, mate, but I ain’t dead yet. Nay, I ain’t dead. Not yet, my sir. There is time yet to pen my testament before I grace the underworld with my company, though damned if I know a soul who will chance to read it. Aye. Damned is the word, sir. You may trill it at will, for it is a label I claim proudly. Salvation ain’t for the likes of me. It ain’t lively enough, I say, and it ain’t exciting enough neither. Heaven sounds terribly dull. Up there I would be adrift in