The quest for the legends
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Thread Topic: The quest for the legends
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Wolfnkitty NoviceChapter 1: The Pokmon on the Road
Exactly 999 years later, it was a beautiful morning in the town of Sailance in North-West Ouen.
The trees branches swayed gently in the soft breeze, providing a constant, quiet rustle. The sun was rising, coloring the sky in a glorious, vibrant red. The air was comfortably warm and fresh. The only thing the scenery lacked was birdsong. That was also the only part of it that Mark Greenlet even remotely cared about.
He was short, thin, dark-haired, and currently on the way to school. A year ago, he wouldve been with his best friend Alex, chatting and feeling good. Now, Alex was probably somewhere with his Totodile having fun, while Mark was home in Sailance, walking alone, quiet and feeling miserable.
Marks parents were over-protective. There was no question about that. Almost all the other kids had been taken to Green town last year to receive a Pokmon from Ash Ketchum. Out of the ones left, Mark was the only one who had been looking forward to it for his whole life, only to have his parents tell him that it was too dangerous. What did they know, anyway they had lived in North-West Ouen for their whole lives and never been trainers.
The problem was that North-West Ouen had no Pokmon in it, for some reason that Pokmon experts had always debated about. The people who lived there were all lawyers or other rich people who wanted a life in peace without Pokmon and little kids asking them for a battle all day. And if there was anything that people who had lived there for more than thirty years did not understand, it was the concept of Pokmon training. Marks parents kept pointing out to him the possibility of getting a real job. A programmer? How about a professional artist, since you draw so well? They would ask questions like that every time he mentioned that he wanted a Pokmon of his own, and were absolutely incapable of understanding how he felt when all his classmates and friends left.
Mark walked grudgingly into the school building. He hated it, especially the prison-like outwards appearance and that dull, lifeless, rock-gray color of it. Mark loved living things; he had since he was little, and hated gray because it was so lifeless. The corridors were even duller, even grayer and even more lifeless, which only added to the depressing feeling of the whole building. To top it all, all the students were snappy and irritated, usually because they wanted to train Pokmon, and the teachers were all snappy and irritated too, simply because of the gloomy atmosphere that never left the building.
Marks first lesson on Thursdays was Battling Strategies, a branch of Pokmonology. He sighed as he sat down in front of the classroom. What a waste of time; he would never get the opportunity to use any battling strategies. Besides, whether it was because of his rather negative opinion on the classes or because he would rather spend them drawing on the back of his school papers, he was completely lousy at Pokmonology. For tests, he desperately sank himself into the textbook and sure enough, he managed to learn the bits of the text he found the most interesting pretty well. The problem was that they always asked about the most boring and uninteresting things, such as the level at which one Pokmon approximately evolved into another. This just made him despise Pokmonology even more.
He preferred Pokmon Communication classes by far Pokmonish, as they were usually referred to in everyday speech. He was much better at languages than learning stupid things by heart, aside from finding Pokmons language very interesting in general. Those few things in Pokmonology that had sunk in over the years mostly had something to do with this remarkable language of syllables, bodily expressions and voice tones anyway.
One of the very best things in Pokmonish, also, was that in exams, live Pokmon were brought to classes and the kids got one Pokmon each to stage a normal casual chat with. At the end of the class, the Pokmon each gave the teacher a report on how well the students handled the conversation. Mark was very good at it, which he was deep inside rather proud of although he didnt like to brag. He remembered the test last year where he had discussed Pokmon rights with a Vulpix. He smiled faintly at the thought; it was probably one of the best memories of his life. The two of them had had so much in common, and they had ended up in an exciting discussion about Pokmon rights that went way past the time the exam was supposed to take. The teacher had been forced to recall the Vulpix into his Pokball in order to get Mark to leave the classroom. Since then, Mark had been daydreaming about one day sneaking out to Green town on his own account and getting a Vulpix; this one incident had bumped the red fox Pokmon to the awesome section of his favorite Pokmon list.
But the class he enjoyed the most was Art. His Pokmon pictures received very positive comments by Miss Taintor, who was a professional artist along with her teaching. She was the type of person that was always honest and all but afraid of telling somebody basically that their pictures sucked, but she mysteriously managed not to sound mean, however bad she thought the picture was. Mark was weird when it came to criticism; he subconsciously hated being criticized at all by other people, even if he completely agreed. That could be a good thing; in fact, it had been what caused him to suddenly decide to draw all day during the summer when he turned nine. When Miss Taintor saw his art in fourth grade, she had said, as he still remembered word for word: Big improvement, young man if there were more students like you in this stupid school, Id be out of a job. Probably another one of his very best memories being congratulated by a harsh critic felt a lot better than the constant compliments from his parents and relatives who always pretended that everything he did was the greatest thing since sliced bread, and hearing a teacher call the school stupid made him feel like they were on the same team. After that, he had started to appreciate constructive criticism he still didnt technically like it, but it definitely helped.
He was pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of the bell ringing. Mark hated that sound; it hurt his ears. To his opinion, it should just be about as loud as the beep of his digital watch at least everybody in the classroom could hear it quite clearly if he had forgotten to disable the alarm, and not even his own sensitive ears considered the noise too loud.
At least, he heavily stood up, and got in line with the few other kids in sixth grade who werent out training Pokmon. Mrs. Grodski, who taught Pokmonology, was a very grumpy old lady who wore the biggest glasses Mark had ever seen, spoke through her overly large nose and had developed a strong hatred for Mark for some reason he had never understood.
Good morning, class, she said sternly as everybody had taken their places standing behind their chairs.
Good morning, Mrs. Grodski, the class mumbled, apart from Mark, who said his usual Good morning, Mrs. Grumpy. He knew it was safe; it drowned completely in the rest of the classs murmurs.
Today, Mrs. Grodski announced with a frown at how tired all the kids sounded, we will be studying up on recoil attacks. Sit down and turn to page forty-two, please.
Mark sighed and opened his book as Mrs. Grodski watched him carefully, but as soon as she began talking, he silently took out his binder and started to draw a Lugia on the back of an English assignment. It was his favorite Pokmon of all; he drew it all the time. Articuno, his second favorite, was a bit trickier to draw, but that didnt make him like it any less. He loved all the Legendary Pokmon. In fact, he was utterly obsessed with them. He had been fascinated by those ultimate beings of the world since he was little.
And just what do you think youre doing, Mr. Greenlet? Mrs. Grodskis v
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