- Pronoun
- They/Them
And the tiny town would have another wild tale to tell: one that was truly out-of-this-world.
Like most days, there was little going on in the Luminious Square outside of the day-to-day farm tasks and literature breaks in between. Even something as mundane as the librarian wearing a green scarf instead of her usual red one was considered newsworthy.
So when the wind stirred and lights flashed inside Spinda's Workshop with a crackle of thunder, the locals had chattered up a storm to match.
Most of them dared not enter the mechanic's keep, for it was a dungeon of capricious contraptions and precarious prototypes, but a few curious Flying-types perched themselves nearby hoping to get a glimpse of what the inventor did this time.
Yet said inventor had nothing to do with the six figures that had suddenly appeared. He stepped in circles — as he always had — before peering down and asking, "Great Goodra's ghost, did anyone teach you how to knock before zapping into someone's home?"
Scattered gears, screws, bits and scrap were strewn about at random. Several metallic abominations hung from the ceiling. A workbench sat at the end of the room with what looked to be a hammock and a blanket just next to it.
Most striking, though, where the hundreds upon hundreds of papers that had once clearly been in neat stacks now having tumbled and scattered about from their entrance. "My perfect little mess, ruined! Ruined, I say! Who are y'all, anyways? And you gonna clean this up, or not?"
Like most days, there was little going on in the Luminious Square outside of the day-to-day farm tasks and literature breaks in between. Even something as mundane as the librarian wearing a green scarf instead of her usual red one was considered newsworthy.
So when the wind stirred and lights flashed inside Spinda's Workshop with a crackle of thunder, the locals had chattered up a storm to match.
Most of them dared not enter the mechanic's keep, for it was a dungeon of capricious contraptions and precarious prototypes, but a few curious Flying-types perched themselves nearby hoping to get a glimpse of what the inventor did this time.
Yet said inventor had nothing to do with the six figures that had suddenly appeared. He stepped in circles — as he always had — before peering down and asking, "Great Goodra's ghost, did anyone teach you how to knock before zapping into someone's home?"
Scattered gears, screws, bits and scrap were strewn about at random. Several metallic abominations hung from the ceiling. A workbench sat at the end of the room with what looked to be a hammock and a blanket just next to it.
Most striking, though, where the hundreds upon hundreds of papers that had once clearly been in neat stacks now having tumbled and scattered about from their entrance. "My perfect little mess, ruined! Ruined, I say! Who are y'all, anyways? And you gonna clean this up, or not?"