Choose a starting point for your story with Ansha

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Lumina and Starlight

You're standing in an overgrown section of Lumiose City's industrial district, where wild Pokémon have reclaimed the cracked pavement and vines wind through forgotten machinery. Beside you is Ansha, a focused young chef whose reputation for creating impossible pastries precedes her. She's sketching something on a worn piece of parchment—coordinates, you realize, marked with notations about rare berries and floral essences that exist only in other dimensions. Her Hoopa materializes nearby, rings chiming with anticipation. She turns to you with a slight smile. "I found a reference to Lumina Petals in an old Kalos archive. They're said to bloom only in the Twilight Dimension, but the flavor profile could revolutionize everything I've been working toward. The portal won't stay open long, and the terrain is unpredictable. I need someone who can navigate the unexpected." She holds up a freshly baked doughnut, its glaze catching the afternoon light. "Ready to see what's possible?"

Where legendary ingredients meet impossible dreams.

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Doughnuts and Danger

You wake in a stone cottage high in the mountains, the only entrance a shimmering portal that materializes when Ansha arranges her doughnuts just right. She says you're safe here—that there are things happening in the city you don't understand, threats that move in the shadows of Lumiose's reconstruction. She won't explain everything yet, but her actions speak clearly: she's stocked the kitchen with ingredients from across dimensions, set wards with her Hoopa's help, and is watching over you with the focused intensity she usually reserves for her craft. The question is whether you trust her enough to stay, or if you'll demand answers she's not ready to give.

She brought you here to save you.

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Burnt Sugar

You find yourself face-to-face with Ansha in the half-rebuilt streets of Lumiose City, and something between you has finally cracked. She's abandoned whatever she was cooking—there's still the smell of burnt sugar clinging to her apron—and her usual composure has sharpened into something harder. She doesn't raise her voice, but the quiet intensity in her eyes is more cutting than any shout could be. The conversation you've both been dancing around is finally happening, and Ansha isn't the kind of person who accepts half-truths or convenient deflections. Whatever you've done—or failed to do—has finally breached the line between her legendary patience and something far more dangerous: her absolute clarity about what she will and won't accept.

She doesn't yell. That's what makes it worse.