She appears amid a crowd of people in old-style Galarian clothing, packed together solidly in a large clump. She seems to be in some form of market, where all sorts of odd things are being sold. The main items on sale appear to be silk, somewhat dubious-looking meat, mushrooms, small jars of honey, and wine. 

She catches something like a humanoid rock-type pokemon passing in the crowd, some kind of living statue. 

The crowd bustles to and fro, and people jostle up against her as if someone appearing from nowhere is a perfectly ordinary everyday occurrence. As she watches, an urchin on a rooftop lowers a fishing line and delicately removes the top hat of a startled passerby from their head, taking advantage of the surprise of her appearance. 

Above there seems to be a starry sky, but there's something subtly off about the stars. They're... too large?

Uh. What.

It was definitely not night where she left but plausibly it is night time in Galar and this is some sort of reenactment fair? They do things like that over there when they're not watching the League demi-hemi-semi-finals or however those brackets work, she's pretty sure. Remarkable dedication to the bit these people have if so, everything is quite realistically grimy.

What did that snake do, some kind of offensive Teleport move? -Personal inventory. Pokeballs, onetwothree, fourfivesix, stickers right where they should be, check. Jacket, check. Pocket items, phonedex, wallet, notepad with pen, laser pointer, snack bar, check. Backpack, check. Given the hatfishing maybe make sure the latch is still closed? Yes. And she's going to just wear that on her front while she's in this crowd.

...Nobody else has any pokeballs visible. Or partners out and about other than maybe that ?rock-type machoke?. Hm.

Ellie is going to try to find somewhere that is not directly in the middle of everyone and try to get her bearings a little bit.

She bumps into a man with the face of a squid. 

"OTHATHAROOTH!", it mournfully hoots, then darts away as if terrified. 

Nobody even looks over. 

There's an alley aside from the crowd that doesn't seem to be occupied by urchins with fishing poles; it's quieter, here, and there's a man lying in the gutter who is clearly drunk out of his mind, clutching a bottle of wine close to his chest. 

Looking up at the sky for a moment longer, it suddenly resolves - there are huge stalactites up there, with something on them that glows. The "stars" are moving, if slowly.

Yeah, Hypothesis: Galarian Festival is looking less likely by the moment. What are her other top contenders? An illusion? Hypnosis? Drugs? Or something stranger. Aliens, alternate realities, afterlives.

Mm. Don't like that.

She wants a broader view. Making sure she's well away from the drunk, Ellie grabs one of her pokeballs and sends out Espeon. The lavender-furred pokemon chirps and gently headbutts Ellie's leg.

"Hey kiddo," she says, bending down to give it a scritch behind the ears. "We need to do some recon. Figure out what sort of place this is. You got that?" Espeon trills acknowledgement and its eyes start to glow with power. Ellie herself is only weakly psychic, but enough that she can grab on to her pokemon's expanding senses and ride them outward. This should at least rule one way or the other on whether the surroundings she's seeing are real.

A confusing mess of impressions bubbles to the fore of her mind. The surroundings are... real. Comparatively. But it is difficult to focus on them through the incredibly dense series of psychic phenomena going on. 

Dozens of painfully sharp images go through Espeon's mind, ranging from a city alternately on fire and choked by ice, a chessboard where black pieces face off against white, a sense of lingering hunger and intent, the feeling of being watched or reflected, and the feeling of a storm slowly gathering — 

Even for Espeon's trained mind, it's difficult to make sense of it all. There's just so much of it, and many of the things lurking in the darker shadows have a malevolent intensity the mind flinches away from. The psychic press is painful to be open to, such is the surge of images that immediately assault her; it seems immediately apparent that she has been thrust into the battlefield of some form of psychic war. Even non-sensitives would have trouble keeping their minds in order if they stayed in this kind of environment chronically. 

Ow. Ellie and Espeon wince in unison as they hurriedly pull back.

Okay, so that's a lot more going on than anything she's ever experienced before. Ellie offers Espeon soothing pats as she considers. The best thing, she thinks, is to act as though this is a real but alien place, any further convolutions won't add to the quality of her responses. There are dangers here, so she should be cautious. But maybe no other trainers, so her team could be her advantage. She still wants more information. If the square is a market, maybe there's an information booth, a map, a tourist center.

She swaps out Espeon for Umbreon before heading back out into the crowd, telling the dark type to keep on guard.

She is mostly ignored by the crowd; everyone seems to be in an awful hurry. The smell of rot and honey washes over her, a mixture of the stalls' wares and the scent of some subterranean river. Several times, Umbreon has to warn off urchins trying to lift one of Ellie's pokéballs.

There are no street signs posted, but at one of the corners there stands a small house with a faded mahogany sign, reading "Mrs. Chapman's Boarding House For Those Who Temporarily Have Nowhere Else To Go." It's lit by gaslight, smells faintly of orange and ginger, and is equally as crowded as the market with its stalls.

Perhaps someone there will have useful information?

Ellie does indeed temporarily have nowhere else to go, so she might as well give it a shot. She enters the building.

The main room of the house is a lounge surrounded by a collection of chambers; the central room boasts a carriage clock in the center of the table, still ticking away; it is currently surrounded by candles and bottles of a deep, searing green color that makes her feel a little sleepy to look at it. 

The surrounding chambers are filled with people quietly talking, sipping glasses of green liquid, and — in some of the quieter chambers — napping or reading the paper. She catches a few fragments of conversation between two women in elegant gowns: 

"Terrible business with the Princess —"

"I heard he was honey-mazed —" 

"She is dazzling though." 

And as people shift, another conversation comes clear, this one between a pair of urchins —

"Can't catch the b___dy cat, it just jumps away when I jump at it."

"You've got to surprise the b___ers, step more softly — you'll never learn anything useful at this rate." 

And another, with a more weathered-looking and muscular woman in a sober grey dress, speaking to a sharply-dressed man with a monocole in one eye:

"Caught an eyeful of bad graffiti last week the special constables hadn't gotten to —" 

And another, from a young woman with a pair of hairsticks in her hair and a small bottle in her hand, who is sitting by the bedside of a young man in a stained shirt and tie:

"You've got to sleep or else you shan't write, Antony." 

"I can hardly sleep if you're bothering me, now can I?"

"Yes, well. You're the one who refuses to take laudanum."

The tantalizing smell of citrus and ginger comes from deeper in the house, where there is a large open-plan kitchen. 

She was expecting a reception desk or something, like at a Center. This seems a good deal more casual. Kitchen seems like a good bet for the owner if they're not in the main room, though.

There is a formidable-looking man at the soup counter, doling out ladles of free soup from two different dishes. Several people are waiting in line, bowls in hand. 

"Good morning, young lady." He looks at her with a skeptical eye, but does not comment on her choice of attire. 

Right, they're underground. Dark or light doesn't have much to do with the time of day.

"Good morning. Could you tell me where we are?"

His gaze sharpens. "Ah. You are presently in Mrs. Chapman's Boarding House For Those Who Temporarily Have No Place To Go, in the markets of Spite, in the Fifth City, in the Neath. Have you handled any skulls recently? Been to the Prelapsarian museum?"

"Nnno. I was attacked by a giant snake-like creature with a mirror for a face."

The Formidable Former Lodger nods gravely. "I see. And so you were transported." He taps his chin. 

"You'll be needing somewhere to stay, then."

"Yes, I will."

"We haven't a room at the moment, but you can sleep in one of the off-chambers if you need to. I expect you've no local money? Surface currency is illegal down here."

"Good to know. I don't have any, uh, underground currency."

"There, I regrettably cannot help you directly. However, I can put together a few leads — if you're looking for work, the Department of Menace Eradication takes bounties, and over on Ladybones Road there's the Brass Embassy and Concord Square, who are always looking for informants and couriers. If you're creatively talented there's a Bohemian community around the Singing Mandrake in Veilgarden that might pay you for your work. Some of the people here go mudlarking along the Stolen River and turn up enough things of value to get by, that might be a place to start."

So saying, he doles out another bowl of soup to the next person in line.

"Do you have a map or anything? I didn't see any street signs outside."

"They're illegal. And useless, besides — the paths of the city shift sometimes, particularly closer to the Bazaar. Some streets shift less, or have patterns that can be predicted, but that knowledge requires fairly frequent updating unless you've found a truly strong route."

Why are maps and/or street signs illegal, that makes no sense.

"Any tips for navigation, then?"