...drowned... ...trapped forever...

Drowned Roselia — Description Roselia is barely recognizable anymore. Her body, normally vibrant and delicate, has been drained of nearly all color. What once were bright rose-red and sapphire-blue blossoms are now muted, bruised shades of washed-out maroon and dull navy, petals clinging to their shape only out of stubbornness. The edges of each petal look waterlogged, frayed, as if the ocean has tried a thousand times to peel them away. Her green body has gone a sickly, pale teal — the kind plants turn when deprived of sunlight for too long. You can see faint lines of her veins through her skin, glowing with a dim, bioluminescent green whenever the Ingrain pulses. From the waist down, she is completely consumed. Thick, tangled roots coil around her like a gnarled dress fused to her body. They spiral downward, twisting violently into the seabed, pinning her in place. Some roots pulse faintly, carrying stolen energy toward you. Others are brittle, dead, like snapped cords of wood that never finished rotting. Her legs aren’t visible at all anymore. If she even still has them, they’re swallowed inside the knotwork of vines. Her posture is slumped, shoulders drooped forward, the weight of the ocean pressing down on her tiny frame. Her thorns have softened and darkened, more like wilted prickles than weapons. The tips of her roses tremble whenever she tries to breathe — a slow, weak motion that sends a few loose petals drifting into the black. Her eyes are the most haunting part. Wide, but exhausted, the pupils huge from the darkness. The usual bright sparkle is gone; instead, they have a glassy, hollow look, like she’s caught between drifting unconscious and forcing herself awake. Every time the healing pulse travels through her Ingrain, her eyelids twitch, struggling to stay open. Her expression is permanently stuck in a mix of fear and guilt — like she knows she caused this… but she can’t undo it. She doesn’t have the strength. Tiny bubbles escape her mouth now and then, drifting upward toward a surface neither of you will ever reach. And yet, despite everything — the wilting, the suffocating, the slow decay — Roselia still leans toward you, even if the vines hold her still. Her roses reach out as far as they can, trembling slightly, like she’s trying to touch you… comfort you… apologize. Every pulse of the roots keeps her alive just long enough to see you survive. And every pulse keeps you alive just long enough to watch her wilt again. A cycle neither of you can break. You are anchored to the ocean floor, miles beneath the surface, where the world is nothing but cold, pressure, and dark. The seabed around you stretches endlessly in every direction — a vast, uneven plain of silt and rock, shaped by currents that no longer matter. The ground is soft in some places, rising in subtle mounds, and jagged in others, where broken coral skeletons jut out like the remains of a once-living city. Everything is muted: blues, blacks, deep greens, all swallowed by the weight of the water. Above you, the water towers like a crushing ceiling. The surface is so far away it isn’t even visible — only a faint, wavering glow marks where sunlight gives up its last breath. Light reaches you in thin, trembling beams, like distant fingers trying to touch the bottom but failing every time. If you stare long enough, the beams look almost like ghostly pillars descending from a world you’ll never return to. The darkness around you isn’t empty. It’s thick. Heavy. It presses against your eyes, your thoughts, your lungs. It feels like the ocean is listening. A slow, cold current drifts through the area, stirring up clouds of sand. Whenever it moves, the silt lifts in a soft fog and swirls around you. It gets into your clothes, your hair, into the cracks of your skin. Sometimes it coats Roselia’s roots, piling around them like grave soil. Silence dominates everything. No bubbles. No distant calls. No movement. Just the quiet beat of your own weakened heart and the faint, wet creaking of Roselia’s roots adjusting under the pressure. To your left, the seabed drops slightly into a shallow trench — not deep enough to fall into, but dark enough that anything could be hiding inside. You can’t see the bottom of it; it disappears into ink. To your right, the ground rises a little, forming a low ridge. Algae clings to it in ragged sheets, shifting slightly with the current, like shredded cloth waving in the dark. Behind you is nothing but the same endless blue-black distance. And directly in front of you is Roselia — the only thing breaking the monotony, the only living color in a landscape that feels like time forgot it. Every so often, far above, you see something move — a massive shadow drifting across the faint light. Maybe a Pokémon. Maybe debris. Maybe Kyogre. The ocean distorts everything, making shapes look larger, slower, more monstrous. But the moment passes. The shadow fades. You are still here. Stuck. Rooted to the seafloor. Watching a dead world settle around you like dust. The ocean floor doesn’t feel like a place anymore — it feels like a punishment, a forgotten corner of existence where you were left behind, suspended in silence with only your suffering and your Roselia to remind you that you’re still alive. Barely.