Okey-dokey, a little later than planned, but it's here.
For those of you who don't know me (and that's probably gonna be a fair proportion of the people that read this) the name's JammyU (or Zan or Agent P in the unlikely event that you may know me from another forum). I've been writing fan-fiction for little under a year now and this is my second chaptered fic. My first, Just Another Journey (re-written as The DreamScope Chronicles) has been abandoned due to the fact that writer's block's a b*tch and I thought the ideas I had could be better put to use in this story.
So, without further ado, I present to you: Equilibria, well, the prologue anyway. It's basically a short (and I mean short) introduction to the region and it's... political state.
The Cuaro Region. A dramatic place where towering mountains meet peaceful plains, boiling volcanoes meet sapphire lagoons and scorching deserts meet verdant forests. A place left untouched for millennia and unknown to all but the indigenous peoples of the mountain villages and the roaming tribes of the vast plains.
But as the years of technical advancement in the regions across the sea have continued and the need for energy has swelled, the black gold of the Ouwahlu Desert and the towering trees of the Serpent Forest have drawn in many outsiders: scientists from the dismantled oil-works of Fiorre, miners from the long-spent quarries of Orre, and money-hungry tycoons from the grand cities of Kanto and Sinnoh.
These people have profited enormously from the land and its bounty, building sprawling cities on the great, flat, plains; pumping the resources for all they’re worth and spreading there poisons like a plague across the once magnificent region.
This time is proclaimed as a golden age for the once ‘primitive’ land of Cuaro in the rich cities of the plateau. But elsewhere there are those who would rather see the land returned to its natural glory than drained of its energy and left to crumble like a dry husk when the corporate fat-cats finally move on; those who would sympathise with the locals being forced from their homes and even fight for and with them to right the balance in this land of disgustingly rich and poor, even the scales in this region of the appallingly weak and terribly powerful - in short, those who would reclaim their:
And for your reading pleasure (I hope), a small excerpt from the main story that I just had to right down when the idea came to me:
In a clearing in one of Cuaro’s many small, isolated forests which dotted the southern edge of the great plains, a heated argument was under way.
<I tell you, they’re a bunch of stuck-up, Grumpig-headed, bast-> fumed Psymon into his wooden cup of Lum Berry juice.
The brooding Gardevoir sat in the campfire’s glow on a fallen log, the ends were clean cut; a reminder that the cities’ influence was everywhere.
<Symon, please! There are children present!> protested Orvel’s rasping voice from within the foliage of the tree opposite the psychic.
The figure on the log lifted his head and stared with red-rimmed eyes at the tree through the flames. His awesome powers of metal detection told him the annoying reptile was perching about half way up; that, and the two green claws gripping a branch just above head-height clearly visible on the edge of the ring of light.
<What have I told you about pronouncing my name properly?> said Psymon angrily, <There’s a silent “P” and you know it, Orvel.>
<If it’s silent then how do you know whether I pronounced it or not?> teased the shadow-cloaked tree-dweller.
<Brainwaves,> came the indignant reply.
<Brainwaves? What do they have to do with anything?>
Orvel swung down onto another log opposite the figure, revealing the rest of his body. His claws, now being scrutinised by his large, yellow eyes where the ends of lithe arms with three dark green leaves sprouting from each wrist. A further two leaves extended from the creatures rump and another, longer one flowed languorously from the top of a raptor-esque head. A crimson belly and hind legs as vicious-looking as the front completed the image of an agile, speedy predator known to the experienced pokemon spotter as a Grovyle.
<Brainwaves, my dear friend,> answered the humanoid pokemon, <have everything to do with everything when you’re a psychic type.>
He stood up as if to emphasise his point and attempted to jab an accusing finger at his reptilian companion. The effect would, however, have been more successful if he hadn’t stumbled and almost fallen over before managing to gain some semblance of balance.
<Yes, I suppose they would,> remarked the reptile absent-mindedly, <I’m starting to think that that juice may have been slightly off after all,> he added to himself.
Part of the reason that Psymon was being a heavily affected by his slightly fermented beverage was that alcohol has the effect of dampening psychic ability, and the Gardevoir had the misfortune of relying on this ability to support himself during most of his locomotion.
<Unless of course you one of those b*stard Gallades!> he slurred at an unnecessary volume.
<Psymon! The child!> warned Orvel again.
<Child? Oh, the primatoid pipsqueak. What do you have to add to our little discussion, Simantha?>
<Have you ever actually met a Gallade?> asked the small, orange primate, emerging from the fire where she’d been trying to get to sleep.
<Met one? I’ve fought one in hand-to-hand-combat!> Psymon proclaimed loudly.
<That was an arm wrestle,> interrupted Orvel.
<That’s not the point.>
<And you lost.>
<How was I supposed to slam his arm onto the table after he sliced it in two with his blasted elbow-swords!>
<That was a uncontrollable reflex. Gallade automatically extend there arm-blades in response to a threat.>
<Well, I expect the kick in the balls you gave him may have had something to do with it.>
<Yeah, well…. bugger it, I didn’t think anybody saw that.>
“Psymon, what’s all this noise?” Ethar strode out from between the surrounding trees, his arms laden with firewood and Lance following just behind.
“Garde-” Psymon started to explain, but he was suddenly cut of by Lance leaping from his trainer’s side. He swiped at the Gardevoir’s hand with his ever-present bone club, knocking the juice, cup and all, into the fire. The flames turned visibly green-hued as the liquid vaporised.
“Orvel, I told you to throw those berries away!” shouted the pokemon’s frustrated trainer, “the Shuckle shell Hermes found them in had been abandoned for months!"
So yeah, your views, pointers and opinons if you would be so kind, oh fic-savvy Serebiiers.
Oh, and what should I put as the age rating?