Troops of mistfolk didn't take kindly to obstructions on their routes, to the tune of stolen things and blighted gardens and, sometimes, damaged walls. Molka knew this because they were currently sitting out in front of their new house, admiring the second doorway that had been smashed into the left side of the facade. It even came complete with a lovely view of the matching one in the rear. How they'd slept through that, they had no idea. The holes had to be the size of beartic.
The other townsfolk helpfully suggested that they give up, tear down, and rebuild someplace else. But Molka liked this spot, damn it, and would not be so easily deterred. So the scrafty squinted at the breach, tweaked a sketch, and, satisfied, headed back to the bibarel lodge.
The renovations took a little while, sure, but when Molka finally moved back in they were plenty pleased enough to wake up not sprinkled with splinters. A scrafty's head with a beartic-sized scoop out of the left side didn't look much like them anymore, but it was good enough if they got to keep their home. Good enough for the mistfolk, too, if the little scrap of parchment half-frozen to the ground nearby was any indication:
There was nothing but rain and then they were there, the storm-shrouded clearing suddenly awash with amber light traced with white. Bright, golden mist-shapes darted out of the trees, then across, then vanished when they reached the clearing's edge: indistinct, quick as lightning, and yet with a crackling, sizzling presence that she felt even as she pressed herself further into her barely-dry alcove. A long creature swam sharp zig-zags through the air, back-forth-back-forth-back-forth-back, like an eelektrik made of angles. Another hulking figure loped past with its massive arms swinging, many sparking, snapping tails waving on its back. She almost wanted to lean out of her tiny shelter, see where the procession of storms would strike next, but the wet grass seemed to burn beneath their feet and her fur was already standing on end. If she got too close—if they saw that she was watching—she'd likely end up more than thunderstruck.
So she made herself as tiny as she could, telling herself that she really ought to shut her eyes but unable to tear them away as a pack of shining almost-boltund crossed the clearing with jagged leaps and bounds, as a graveler-shape rumbled past, a literal roll of thunder. Not a one stopped or slowed. As the last leaping raichu flashed by, the amber light dimmed and she remembered how to breathe. She'd just about managed to unfold herself when the clearing went pure white.
Something towered above her alcove, blazing like a lightning bolt that struck and refused to stop burning. Its shape never quite resolved, always sizzling and shifting, something almost tall and catlike with arcs of electricity striped around it, then snapping back to buzzing white. Two searing blue lights gazed down, locked with her eyes, held there, she could almost smell the smoke rising from her back as it glared, blue points stabbing down like bolts, and then—
The clearing went white. She sank back down, panting, shaking, staring wide-eyed out of the alcove.
It was there, and then there was nothing but rain.