Post by Robert on Jun 27, 2013 1:01:34 GMT -5
Isle of the Holy
The Magby unleashed a fearsome Flamethrower, white flame swallowing up all that came around it. The flames danced and twirled toward Grovyle. Sven, realizing the damage that Grovyle would suffer if he didn’t jump in, rushed towards Grovyle and pushed her aside, ripping off his robes and revealing the clothes that he wore.
The white fire licked his clothes, attacking that he wore, the jeans being turned into a pile of ash, and the shirt off his back reduced to a bit of smoldering cloth.
_______________________________________
Anthony put a sweaty hand to his newly tan forehead, saluting the tall man before him. He was indeed intimidated by his tall stature and baritone voice. This was a man that could snap your back with a single hand; well, he used to be able to do that…he was far too old and frail now. Nevertheless, he was still the High Priest of the Xatans. "Sir," he hissed anxiety in his voice, "I'm back from the Isle. It's correct, your suspicions are true, an Unformed Angel is being held captive, and by an Aerodactyl no less,"
The short grey hair of the Commander seemed to spring up in glee at the middle of the sentence, and then went back down in depression at the end. It meant that his fears were not hollow. They were going to have to do a recon mission. His wrinkled skin seemed to fall another inch at the thought of going out to the field again. His hand was feeble and speckled with liver spots, a growth starting to form on his pale, almost ghostly white neck, and his stomach was starting to engorge.
And the outfit didn't match at all; he was in the robes of a Xatan clergyman: Green, long, and flowing, with grey trimmings, silver buttons lining the upturned collar. No, Sven would have to do this. Of course, mass was soon, and the blessings would be said for his journeys. He would succeed.
Commander Shoal looked at the newbie officer Anthony, his buzz cut blond hair, clergymen robes (the same as Shoal's), and his dark brown eyes. He would be perfect to eventually be a high ranking officer; he had charisma, talent, daring in some situation. All he needed was some real courage. But he couldn't be trusted with a mission as important as this, no, there were things that the highest ranking officer, or the Rounding Conductor. Sven had been in the Xatan religion for only seven years, and in that time he had attained the suave attitude, style, and skill that not even Shoal had ever achieved. And he wasn’t commander and High Priest for nothing.
Shoal looked at him and mouthed two words," Get Sven.” Anthony was appalled, he had just done the mission to go there and risk life and limb to find out if there was a captured Natu there or not. He had to fight off a Flygon, and now that he had done the first round, Sven was going to get all the glory when he had done only half the work.
“But sir!” he exclaimed, “I think I should have a chance at this too, I mean, I helped out on this! I was the one who had to go there and check if there was a Natu in the first pla-,”
“No,” Shoal cut across him, “You’re not ready. You still have much to learn. Sven, you’re not going to like hearing this Anthony, is the best trashman we’ve ever had. Better than I ever was; I’d wager he’s better than anyone will ever be,”
Anthony nearly exploded. Sven was his older brother, and he always had to live in his shadow. Why did he have to be overlooked in everything? Sven had always had looks, had always gotten the girls, and Anthony had a nagging suspicion that he was their parents’ favorite as well. Anthony stormed off, robes flying off behind him.
A few minutes later, Sven came walking in. He too, wore the robes of a clergyman. Green wisps of cloth fell to his feet and then back, lined with a grey thread. Two long arms poked through holes, reaching down to nearly his knee. Bright blond, almost white, hair fell to his shoulder, kept perfectly; it was straight, and fashioned to an exact angle. Red eyes stared from under his brow, which had incredible pale skin. It was obvious this man was an albino. He reached his deathly pale hands into pockets of the faded blue jeans he wore under the robes and procured a pair of special sunglasses, made to protect his eyes from rays (for as having no pigment they were more sensitive to light than usual eyes). “Sir,” he said, “I understand we have a situation on our hands and you need me to take care of it. I’ll gladly do it; it is my job you know.”
“Yes, you’re going to be doing a recon mission. Now, I must inform you, it is being held captive by an Aerodactyl. It has been prophesied that the Destroyer will be a descendant of an Aerodactyl who holds an Unformed Angel hostage. You must kill it. Your brother does not know this; it is only of the highest ranking members…you and I are the only ones to know it,”
Sven smiled, this was going to be fun, “Yes sir,” he said, bringing his pale hand to his equally pale forehead, “I’ll leave as soon as mass is over.” Shoal nodded at this and left the small room in a corner of the temple.
_____________________________
Shoal walked into a high ceiling-ed cathedral. Orange fire crackled and danced from torches, draping dim light over the patrons of the huge building. Men and women in the same green clergymen robes traipsed the halls, thick books, bound in black leather, clutched in their hands. They traipsed through the halls, heads held high, looking in front of them as they walked determinedly, almost religiously through the hallow halls.
Shoal, in all his priestly greatness, walked towards the high altar at the front of the church. With him he carried a large, leather bound book. It was about twice as large as the ones the other clergymen carried with them. Behind him marched all of the Rounders, or trashmen, that belonged to the Xatan Organization. They lined up behind him as Shoal began to speak. The first was an old man, around sixty two. His name was Walter C. Dornez. He stood at about average height, around 5'7", and had wrinkles lining his forehead, and several liver spots. In his right eye was a circular monocle. He wore the traditional garb: Xatan robes, green and flowing, lined with grey thread, and silver buttons on the upturned collar. He was the oldest active Rounder, as it was tradition for trashmen to retire at age fourty: He was the first to break this tradition. He fought with razor sharp wires, nearly unbreakable, and deadly strong. These weapons were able to cut through the thickest of hides and were used with great grace.
The next man went by Paladin Alexander Anderson. He was extremely tall, about 6’5” or 6’6”. He, like Anthony, had short blond hair. He wore wire rimmed glasses, and the same Xatan robes that were standard for the trashmen, clergymen, and worshippers. On his right hip were two wooden sheathes, inside of which were two bayonets. He smiled at the crowd, and spoke with a Scottish accent to one of the passing clergymen.
Next in line was Anthony, whose full name was Anthony Nakois. He was tall and tan, with buzz cut blond hair, brown eyes, and the Xatan robes. He had shining white teeth, and was slightly taller than average, about 5’10”. He stared somberly at the crowd, now forming a more compact group, getting ready to sit down on the long benches that filled the temple.
After Anthony came Sven Nakois. He had the pale skin, white hair, and crimson eyes of an albino. He stared distantly at the now sitting crowd, special sunglasses made to protect his pigment-bare eyes from harmful rays of visible light.
Last in line was Robert ‘Slice’ Nekain Sharpas. He had dark red hair, and stood a bit shorter than Anderson, about 6’4”, and like everyone else, wore the turquoise robes of a Xatan trashman. On his back were two sheaths, in which two black-bladed katana resided. On his right hip resided another dark brown sheath, which housed a cold steel blade, a falchion. His outfit differentiated from the other’s in the fact that on his right arm he wore a bracer, one which matched the shade of his hair. At the forearm sat three throwing knives that doubled as daggers. They were circular, with small poles at the end, like spears.
Shoal opened his book and started to read a passage. His voice filled the room, deep and enchanting, as he read from that holy book. “And so the great Prophet Xatu foresaw that the Savior would be a Vampire, and that the Destroyer would be the descendant of an Aerodactyl who kept an Unformed Angel captured. He decreed us to gather the Xatu of the world in the hopes that they would prophesize the origin of the Savior. And so we have been gathering Xatu, and although they have told us many a prophecy, none have been of any help to us,”
That was the opening of every seminar. It was a brief summary of the Xatan history. Of course, they didn’t go into how the Prophet Xatu was really an incarnated form of a God, but it would have to do for now. Tradition was tradition; you don’t break tradition.
After about half an hour of preaching, Shoal had two things he had to do. He pulled out a wooden statue of a Xatu and a small, electronic chip. “Now, Sven Nakois will be going to rescue an Unformed Angel today. Another officer has earned his chip via researching this. And therefore, I will present and implant Anthony Nakois with his regeneration chip,”
Anthony couldn’t believe he had forgotten: a Rounder, after completing a major mission, is presented with a regeneration chip. This can heal wounds and such, and were extremely useful in the field. “Also, we have an upgrade of the regeneration chip. (at this he pulled out another chip) It will be presented to Sven. By using it, it will hopefully make the user immortal,” that was the major with the regeneration chips, mortal wounds, if inflicted often and hard enough, were still fatal. This was an irreversible fact of life. Also, they didn’t prevent aging, something Walter and Shoal had both succumbed to.
“Now, Anthony and Sven, if you please,” beckoned Shoal. The pair strutted over to either side of the small stand which Shoal was standing at, and kneeled down. Shoal brought the small green chip to Anthony’s forehead, and let it go. Wires attacked the forehead, boring deep into it. Green and red, blue and yellow, their razor sharp tips attacked flesh. After a bit of screaming, the procedure was complete. Next, he walked to Sven. As a nurse in a white cap, a tank top, and Bermuda shorts dabbed at the wound with a square of gauze, Shoal held a small chip to Sven’s arm. It completed the same procedure as the other chip did to Anthony, but no sound passed Sven’s silent lips. The nurse in the denim Bermuda shorts took another square of gauze from a pouch on her waist and dabbed at the hot red blood.
Shoal gazed into the deep brown eyes of Anthony and told him to go sit down. He then approached Sven again, holding the Xatu idol. It was a standing bird, with both wings stretched out. It had a pointy beak and a cruel imitation of downy feathers. Nevertheless, it was a holy idol; one that dated back to the beginning of Xatanism.
He tapped it on each of Sven’s shoulders, as well as his head. As he did this, he muttered, “Of the Savior, the Prophet, and the fall of the Destroyer.”
He straightened himself up, and muttered to the man kneeling before him, “Get up.” Sven nodded and stretched his legs a bit as he stood up. He was taller than Shoal, but still intimidated by him. As he walked out, he grabbed the two loaded pistols on his right side; he knew that this mission wasn’t going to go well. He made sure he had three packs of bullets in each of the three pouches on his left hip, and that his two pistols were fully loaded. They were, and he walked out of the hallowed building and into the wilderness.
The Xatan temple was in a rather secluded area, as there were many people who didn’t like the idea of having an organization/religion like them around. Outside of the temple was a wild forest. On the outskirts of the forest was a small harbor, which was the only way off of the island that the temple was located on.
Thorny, dark green vines hung like snakes from burly, oak branches. Lizards, scaly and green, tails lagging behind them, scurried back and forth, from tree top to tree top. A Mankey, skinny limbs sticking out from a hairy body, swung from tree to tree. Green grass covered the dirt, constantly being trampled by Pokemon and humans.
Sven marched through the foliage, trampling grass and smaller animals alike. He clutched his pistol in one hand, and his other was preoccupied moving oversized bright green leaves from his path.
He walked up to nearly the edge without any hassle. As he approached a lighter part of the forest, there was a large piece of moss in the way of his foot. He kicked the moss, never looking at it. The stupid piece of disgusting plant wouldn’t budge, and finally, after a good few minutes of kicking, it gave way.
He laughed, and stopped just in time to dodge a blast of quick-to-strike flames. They were orange and red, and passed him in a compressed ball. The Pokemon facing me was a Magby.
Magby stood maybe two feet tall, and was a shade of light crimson. It had a cream colored underside, and was sort of hunched over. Its tail had a rather nasty bruise on it from the continuous kicking, and it was furious. Its head had a large amount of ridges, and was like a rotten apple, soft parts sagging in, and hard parts sticking out. Small ebony claws stuck out from its fingers and toes, and fangs bore from its mouth. Oddly enough, its eyes were crimson. Usually, a Magby had a snout like mouth, but now it had a more humanoid form, and fangs bore down it like some bloodthirsty beast.
It lunged at Sven, and in a flash of orange and cream, nearly bit him. Sven threw out a Grovyle just in time though, and its foot was able to smash into the oddly shaped head. Grovyle then landed a few feet away from Magby, excited for a battle.
A single leaf flew from her ovular head, and three each from her slim, green arms. Her belly was red; as was its neck, save for a dark green stripe going through the crimson at the naval. Two pronged feet held it up, and she bounced on its heels, eager for a fight.
The Magby initiated the battle by shooting a rather powerful Lava Plume at Grovyle. The fiery hot liquid pulsated with heat, and moved slowly as it flew through the air. Grovyle jumped up onto a low lying branch in a flash of green and red. The Lava Plume flew right into the branch and reduced it to a black, smoldering crisp, smelling of smoke and burnt wood. Grovyle unleashed a Leaf Blade, and the three leaves on Grovyle’s arm hardened at an alarming rate. Grovyle rushed up to Magby and sliced its stomach, the wound going deep, blood rushing out in a waterfall. Hot red liquid poured in a shower from the wound, though it quickly patched itself up. The Magby seemed tired, but its wound had left it as easily as it had come.
“What the hell is this thing,” muttered Sven, his white blond hair waving in the slight breeze coming from the east. He pulled out his pistol, a great gun for killing, and shot three shots. One hit the head, the lead boring deep into the skull, but it patched up easily, not as quickly as it had done with the Leaf Blade, but quickly nevertheless.
The Magby unleashed a fearsome Flamethrower, white flame swallowing up all that came around it. The flames danced and twirled toward Grovyle. Sven, realizing the damage that Grovyle would suffer if he didn’t jump in, rushed towards Grovyle and pushed her aside, ripping off his robes and revealing the clothes that he wore.
The white fire licked his clothes, attacking that he wore, the jeans being turned into a pile of ash, and the shirt off his back reduced to a bit of smoldering cloth.
.
But the worst was his body.
First degree burns bore deep into flesh bone even being singed in some parts. He was a real mess, his private parts exposed, contracting for warmth. He collapsed onto the ground, and the regenerator chips took effect, starting to heal his wounds.
Grovyle took over the battle from here. Knowing her master would be fine, she used Agility. A blue aura formed around her, and then immediately was sucked into her body. She became ten times faster, fast enough to beat the speed of the healings of the Magby.
She once again used Leaf Blade, the trio of leaves on both her left and right hands hardening, and sharpening to the point that they were as good, if not better, than knives.
She lunged at him with the knife like leaves, slicing off arms. Bones dropped on the floor, blood now cascading by the pint. She then slashed off both feet in blind rage, blinded by fury. The tiny bones fell onto the floor, and once again fresh, hot red blood flowed like rainwater from both wounds. The squeal from the Magby almost knocked the fury out of Grovyle: it was a sound of anguish, of pain, of regret. But there isn’t any rest for the wicked, and this Pokemon must be punished. She pulled back her hand one last time, and sliced the head of the Magby off.
As Sven rose from the healing, tired, he saw Grovyle slicing the head off of the Magby. Blood spurted out from the wound like a water gun, and the Magby corpse was almost completely drained of blood.
The healing started again, and Sven clutched a Pokeball. This was no ordinary Pokeball, it was purple and orange, and was a Teleball. It was usually used by Rounders to transport Pokemon that they didn’t want to kill to the temple quickly, as it automatically teleported any Pokemon captured in it to said temple.
He tossed the Teleball high into the air, and it dropped onto the Magby, whose legs had rejoined its body. Sven, noticing he was still butt naked, grabbed his robes and put them on, assuring himself that there would be a fresh set of his clothes on the boat.
The Magby was sucked into the ball in a cloud of purple light, and the ball jumped upwards, and then just as quickly fell down again. It shook back and force, the white circle in the middle flashing red with each shake. Once, twice, three times it shook, and then was fired back at Sven.
Magby jumped out of it, trying to keep its fearsome posture, but failing epically. It drooped and its fangs dropped down low. “Grovyle, use Leaf Storm, but soften it up a bit,” commanded Sven, making sure that Grovyle didn’t go into a fit of rage again. Just in case, he held his gun up, pointed at the Magby.
Grovyle attacked with the same attack as the double Leaf Blade, but involved her flowing leaf. It hardened a bit and smacked as she twirled and twisted, simply wearing down the Magby by forcing it to use energy to heal. Thwack thwack thwack went the single leaf, slapping the Magby like an abusive wife to her drunk, 130 pound husband.