View Full Version : The Portent: part 1/4

21st July 2006, 9:33 PM
Rated PG 13 mainly for violence and some crude language later.

Like there aren't enough OCs, well, here's another for your reading pleasure. I am writing it down so the thoughts will leave my head. It's a literary type of exorcism, you could say.

Follows the story of a young girl who must become a 'trainer' of sorts to defend herself during a war. She'll meet up with known characters, including Steven and Lance, who began training the same year she did. But no, there's no romance, not yet anyway...I believe that would be illegal...part 1 ends when she confronts the Elite Four.

Well, here you go.

The Portent

Part 1: Genesis

So this is what it has come to…

I’m lying here, weak. People. Staring at me. Weeping already. I try to comfort them. But my mind is not with my words. No, my mind is going. Already my life is flashing before my eyes.

Ah, you wonder what has happened?

Yes. Yes, I will tell you. It is long, after all. It is my life. A short span of time. A complete lifetime. I had an unfortunate childhood, you see. But I fought my way back to survival. I learned, and grew strong. Grew strong and undefeated. Perhaps it was an unusual life…yes; I was part of a legend. A legend, a prophecy, the auguries whispered centuries before my time. Their meanings have been forgotten. I only strove to preserve life, and as much of it as I could. Ironic, that in doing so I forfeited my own. But somehow, even as early as when I saw the phoenix, thought I had died, I knew it would never be the same.

To the wayward humans, I am a legend. They call me the God of Water. The Water Lord, though I am female. My predecessor was once my mentor, and he was rightfully deemed ‘lord.’ But he died, forfeiting his life for me. It was not until the moment of the prophecy was fulfilled that I inherited his title.

Oh…but I have forgotten what it is like to be human. I have forgotten hands, forgotten tears, forgotten the low threshold for pain…as the God of Water I had paws, and my eyes were cold as ice. I had divine powers that, coursing in my blood, fueled my spirit for battle, and kindled the discipline to ignore pain, no matter how terrible. It is strange when the weakness of humanity is juxtaposed with divine strength in such a manner…humbling, even. I have forgotten it, and how beautiful it is. I am looking into loving eyes…loving eyes. My friends, they are weeping…I had forgotten them. I had forgotten everything, everything until now. But now it is too late.

Shall I recall, as I feel the life force slipping from me? Shall I dare to remember my life, its tragedy; my naiveté, my destined path? Shall I reconcile my regrets with my past as I lay in a pool of my own mortal blood? It was all pre-determined, after all. Fate written by a portent of doom. Then perhaps my death was in vain, and everything shall end as it was said…as everything has happened as it was said. Oh, but they are holding me, and I am no longer breathing. Is there a soul within this still flesh? Is it that which is fading to the nothingness of beyond...

Guardians of the Sun-God
Messengers of the Golden Tower
Three Beasts alongside mankind
Lords of Water, Thunder, Fire
Purest and noblest they were
But man so tainted sought their spirits
To tame the Beasts and rile their powers
For gain in war across the land
For glory for the Golden Tower
And rumbling Thunder, fiercest
Of these titans three
Loved a young and unspoilt child
As brother loveth sister
Their powers harnessed, war fed
The Lord of Thunder sought a mew
No better than the Tower Gleaming Silver
And hid the child therein;
But war-cry signaled victims
The Tower’s gilt structure gleamed ablaze
The Lords did all they could, alas
Innocent blood did shed that day
The Thunder Lord ran to the shrine
His loyal brothers pursued close
But all was lost; four lives that day
Claimed by the lustrate holocaust
And lo! The sun bowed to a storm
A temp of fury yet unleashed
Such rains of sorrow quenched war-mettle
Woeful pity on the blackened rest
But Lords of Water, Thunder, and Fire
They were, and messengers abiding
So did the Wrath of Fire incarnate
Breathe new life to dither the darkness
And woeful pity on the innocence gone
The youth thus loved by the Thunder Lord
Her prize, soul-cased in two flutes
Mother-of-pearl to enthuse
Crystal to pacify
Her bond with divinity unbroken in stone

Piteous chosen, thou hast the key
Thy lips inherited, in touching being
Shall then the Guardians reveal
Thy call to rouse them from dormancy
Thy name to kindle pitiful woe
Until thy lips, touched not the flutes
Man’s price for his faulted frequency
Thy name demands forgiveness

Water Lord, thy gentle soul
Recalling pain of raging fire
So linked inheritance, thy Mother-of-the-pearl
Did nobly submit thy ire
Thunder Lord, over all thy pride
Did death snatch in fit of anger
Never forgotten, thy betrayal;
Now, for man, Immortal danger
Fire Lord, last after thy brothers
To succumb to corrupted fate and lost
Thy spirit; unending, decided
Judgment through remaining chaos

The Lords and Master of Golden Sun
Recalled to inherit Armageddon
Roused by words, sole progeny knows
To kindle the Titans of the Earth
At this time, each must bond
Once again with man if to prolong:

Human, thy ire, thy rage of revenge
Thy sorrow, reconcile for life departed;

Human, cruel, danger in thy veins,
Turn thy ways as duty-bound;

Human, thy path leads but from and to
Chaos; thou strivest for balance;

Heirs, thy powers rest within
Only one need restore their Guardian
Thus thy Guardians shall restore thy might
Whence in burnt temple thoust recalled to night
Each fate combined delivers man
As how it ends so doth the world
Dark night waits to snatch thy fate
Each misstep to decide the time
No opportunity goeth amiss.

The cruel shall pay for their misdeeds
Sacrificed for the Tower Gold
Ageless price of blood sold
Man’s oath thus requests:

Righteous and unrighteous wrath
Clash, and if the latter lasteth
So shall life-kind for one more eternity
But if this not thy untimely match
Still thy vigor shall abscond
What else but shall man say
Unto thee: The Beast hath been tamed,
And reprisal’s honor shattered
From Ire’s lips, thy words alone
Both lost to eternal timelessness

Before where hearts of wind meet in pain
Only Chaos remaineth


It was a dark and stormy night, the waves tossing the ship like a toy sailboat caught in the currents of a child’s bath time pleasure. The rocking and creaking were nothing to the two children that sat in a small cabin, huddling next to each other, in the ship’s interior. After all, they had lived on it for the past four years at least. One was ten, maybe older; he was thin as a rail, though surprisingly tough, and held his younger sister to his chest. She was petite, a four year old born unto a cruel circumstance, and had learned since infanthood to accept life and its absurd hazardousness. If they were the same age, they may have well passed for twins—both had the same angular face marked by prominent cheekbones and a tapering chin, thin lips, straight noses, dark blue hair, and exotic, almond-shaped eyes whose irises were bright golden amber, catching the light in smaller, crystalline flecks. They were ship rats—gone with their mother to escape the mainland because of the war while she was still pregnant with their youngest sibling; she’d died during childbirth on the ship, as did the unborn child. The captain, a stern man, took pity on the toddler and the then-eight-year-old boy, and had allowed them to stay, giving them their own cabin no larger than a broom closet, feeding and clothing them, and letting them explore ports with the security of knowing he would not embark until he was sure they were back on board.

The children were in fact used to such gales as this, for it was not the source of their fear. Recently the war had escalated, soon to reach its climax. The ship had been in contact with another trading barge, warning them of an enemy cruiser that had been tailing them. Then the barge they’d been in contact with had been attacked, and they’d lost contact. The captain had notified the children that their own ship was the next target, so that they would be able to prepare for the worst. Over their ragged clothes they wore stiff life-jackets, and the brother clutched a sack slung from his shoulder to his knobby knee, his other arm wrapped around his sister’s back as she buried her head in his chest. They did not speak now; they were awaiting the true storm, the terror they knew was ominous.

And then it came.

The ship jerked, and outside the cabin there were the stomps of footfalls on wooden planks, and upon hearing the first cannon fire there were yells and the siblings pressed against each other even harder. The ship was now rocking, bashing against something, and tilting. They could hear the grate of metal on metal and knew the enemy ship was now going to take them. They had been expecting torpedo fire—manual conquest was a far worse fate, after all. The torpedo would have hit the ship, it would have sunken, and it would all be over fast enough. But manual conquest—men with guns and knives and slaughter in their hearts, and the screams of the innocent felled like lambs at a the new harvest…it wasn’t until they heard the cries of fear that It was not until the screams of pain and the triumphant, primal raging of the killers that the brother quickly got to his feet and yanked her hand along with him.

They emerged from the cabin. Out on the deck, they could see and smell fire, smoke, and death. The brother only paused for a moment, letting this sink in, and then he began running towards the rear of the ship, yanking her along.

“Where are we going?” she whimpered. He pulled them into a dark corner, away from the shouts and scents of war, and hugged her to his chest, and she saw his cheeks glisten.

“We have to leave now, Iris, just stay with me, we’ll be alright…we’re going to leave, Iris. I’m going to get us out of here…”

He brought them through the ship, away from every movement he detected; they had grown up on the ship, and knew it better than even its crew, the captain exempt. No one would find them, he was sure; no one until they were exposed, at least. And after that, all their lives would count on was luck.

They were coming to the opening to the rear deck now, and he paused, for something was slumped in the doorway. It was barely moving, and seemed to be glistening. He approached, and his sister hid behind him in fear. When the figure lit up under the light of fire and stars, they gasped. It was the captain, dying, his blood spilling out onto the deck. He was trying feebly to drag himself along, and with each ragged breath blood bubbled up and out of his mouth, as would spit-up from an infant’s. As they approached, he stared at them, his eyes vexing; suddenly they grew round and horrified.

“Run…” he croaked, and the brother yanked his sister with him as they heard the men behind them. The gunshot echoed and the captain jerked, blood spurting from his nostrils and mouth. The sister began whimpering and trembling, but her brother knew they were not yet safe. He brought them behind supplies, and hidden in the darkness they waited until the men had passed, the sister sobbing silently for fear. They crawled along the hard, wooden deck, and they could now see the ocean, dark and foreboding. He held onto her tightly, then pointed at a small, wooden life boat next to the railing.

“There,” he said, looking around, and she saw the fear glistening in his eyes. He looked at her and all she saw was warmth and love, and they got up, still crouching.

Suddenly there were shouts, beams of light flashing, and he pushed her and said, “Iris, I want you to run!” The shouts were becoming louder. “Run, Iris! Get in, and get down!” She grabbed his hand, tears spilling off her small cheeks.

“Come with me! I don’t want to be alone!” she begged.

He smiled, and then untied the sack on his shoulder and gave it to her. She clutched it gently. “The boat’s still far off. We have to go one at a time to be safe. Take care of this for me, I’ll be coming right as soon as you get there, but you have to make sure the egg’s safe first.”

She began forward, glancing back, as he smiled and her trust for him welled up; ignoring the rocking of the ship, she sprinted, she ran, ignoring the yells and the men’s big footsteps, the death-threats. She jumped into the boat, hearing her brother yell to her, “Cut the rope!” As quickly as her small hands could, she threw the tie off the boat and it fell shortly to the ocean. The current immediately picked up the craft.

She turned, smiling, hunching down, yelling, “Aras, we did it!” But there was no Aras. Horrified, she stared at the deck, and there he was, pursued by men, running barefoot towards the railing, and she stood and screamed, “Aras! Don’t leave me!”

As he lifted himself over it he yelled, “Iris!” and suddenly he jerked and she heard the second gunshot and he jerked again. In his starch white shirt two dark spots appeared and began expanding, and a look of perplexity crossed his face. Slowly, as though suspended, he fell stiffly, face-first into the surf. She screamed, but the yells of men drowned her out, and she could see the blue moonlight glistening on the water red with her brother’s blood. She cried for his name but already the curtain of misty fog was blocking her view from the sinking boat, and suddenly she was in a sea of white, floating on a blanket of ink, crying, cold, alone…

“Be careful, Nana!” Mrs. Soleggiato called from her window.

The old woman looked over her shoulder. “Don’t tell me to be careful! I know this island better than you, missy!” but she chuckled as she walked, slightly bent, down the beaten sand and tile pathway to the jungle.

Mrs. Soleggiato shook her head. Nana was well into her 70s and lived alone on the outskirts of Wildflower Town, nearest to the beach. Everyone loved the old woman; she was their matriarch, the oldest inhabitant, and had lived their all her life. She’d been widowed a few years back, and since then it seemed that her age had begun to catch up to her. Now her wrinkles were plain to see; she walked with a little hobble, and was not as fast or flexible as she once was. Yet that didn’t stop her from performing her daily routines, the first being collecting herbs for cooking and medicines on the beach in the early morning. No one except Mrs. Soleggiato rose as early as Nana, as Mrs. Soleggiato owned Seaside Inn and had to be up before her guests so she could cook a large breakfast, every day. She, along with the other dutiful citizens of Wildflower Town, was concerned that Nana was all alone now—she did not even have a pokemon to accompany her in her little house near the beach.

Nana was, however, far from concerned that blissful, shining morning. She was quite content with life, watching the sun rise over the sea, admiring the same scenery she’d admired all her life. Life on the island was simple, and though she was widowed, she’d continued her traditional housewife-lifestyle. Her solitude was no longer so much of a curse than a blessing, for now she was experienced enough to appreciate the peaceful moments in life, and after a long life of hardships and toils, she had been blessed with abundant peace.

Nana hummed idly, watching the glistening sand for the telltale sparkle of a seashell. There had recently been a freak storm, and after storms there were usually many seashells washed up upon the beach. Yet so far she had not found many. Perhaps this storm had not riled the deepest ocean currents? But the winds were surely strong enough, and the waves would have signified otherwise. She didn’t let these things bother her; it was still a good walk to get to the area of the beach near the places she’d find her herbs.

As the sun climbed higher, she came into view of the great Rock Pillar. It was said that an ancient people once lived right there in Wildflower Town, and worshipped some sea monster or something or other on the tip-top of that pillar. Archeologists many years earlier had found the etchings the tribe had left intriguing; nowadays, no one remembered, least of all cared. Wildflower Town had no remnants of an early civilization other than those etchings; otherwise, the closest artifacts were located many miles away, on the opposite corner of Verbena Island. Nana had once been fascinated with these things, and it had inspired her to teach herself about archeology and history. Yet she never did get to study the world up close; instead, she married young, and lived there all her life. She had a daughter once, but the girl ran off when she was seventeen with some scoundrel and Nana hadn’t heard from her since.

Nana frowned. There seemed to be a driftwood pile or a rock near the base of the pillar. Well, whatever it was, it hadn’t been there before. As she neared it, she saw it was most definitely something wooden. Near enough, she gasped—it was a small wooden boat, overturned. She shuffled over to it, examining it. It was stained with seawater, but did not appear to have been sunken, as there were no barnacles attached to it. She bent slowly, lifting it. It was light, though it was a bit large; that, and Nana was quite strong and robust for her age. Nana nearly dropped the boat. Underneath of it was a canvas cloth, ragged, torn, and dirty. The floor nearby was littered with eggshells. And underneath the cloth was a child—a small, dirty, emaciated-looking child. A girl, possibly no older than four, if even. She had wavy, dark blue hair and was huddled, hugging a small, lizard-like orange pokemon—a Charmander. The Charmander was also quite small—it had only recently hatched, which explained the eggshells. The flame on its tail was dangerously small, barely a glowing ember.

Nana sat on the sand. “My goodness,” she stated, clutching her chest.

The Charmander apparently heard her, and stirred weakly, opening its eye to look at her. It was pitifully weak, and its eye was deep indigo, almost black—a far cry from the healthy turquoise blue the species’ eyes normally were. “Chah…” it said faintly. Then the girl stirred, hugging it more tightly, murmuring something to it.

Nana bent over gently, touching the little girl and shaking her. “Dear…” she said. “Dear, are you all right?”

The little girl looked up, almost gasping, and nodding slowly. Her dirty cheeks had lines of clean skin connecting her chin to the corners of her eyes—tear streaks. She faltered, and Nana held her tightly, despite her griminess.

“Love, come, let’s get you cleaned up,” Nana said gently. The little girl could only get to her feet, and then fainted, the last thing she saw being Nana’s concerned and already loving face over her, catching her fall.

That face was to be the face she would call grandmother for her newfound life.