Charizard04621
5th April 2004, 04:14 PM
Sorry, Lune's not done yet... But this one is.
~ Flint ~
My father was a crooked thief and a criminal. That was what they always told me. Even my mother warned me never to tread in his path. Everyone knew me as Flint the Sneasel, son of the most despised feline criminal of all time.
We lived in a small village surrounded by trees. Soft dirt pathways wound around quaint houses like streams in the middle of a golden forest. In fact, the village was in some ways an extension to the woods that protected us. Each cottage had a unique garden of its own, with blooming emerald vines cascading from the yellow straw roofs. The climate seemed never to change here; it was always pleasantly warm with a cool, gentle breeze, and we had no storms. Flowers of all colors bloomed year-round. Gentle nature watched over us, as if with her lovely perfection she was trying to compensate for the ugliness of our souls.
I was an outcast from the day I was born. My mother separated me from the other children; they would have nothing to do with me. If I happened to pass by some of the older villagers, they would give me a sympathetic look of disapproval, and perhaps shake their heads or mutter something about a poor misguided soul. Others would shout curses at me even if I did nothing to them; some even chased me to throw things at me although I tried my best to avoid conflict. Everyone believed that I was a lost cause. Everyone, that is, but me.
What I could not understand was what I had done wrong. In the beginning I had always tried to help or work or play, but cruel words or physical blows and the ever-present air of untrusting resentment eventually drove me away. After some time I stopped trying to befriend the rest of the villagers.
My father was a criminal, but why did the villagers punish me for sins that were not mine? I recalled a time when I found one of my neighbors’ priceless family heirlooms. I showed it to my mother only to find out whose it was, so that I could return it. She immediately gave me one of those looks of sympathy that I had become accustomed to receiving, and told me very quietly that she would not punish me if I wanted to keep the treasure, because she understood the tendencies of my “kind”. She was no help. I had to make the search myself. When I did manage to find the owner, he gave me a kick in the chest so hard that I fell to the floor and found it difficult to breathe. Then he slammed the door in my face, cursing loudly about crooks and criminals and other bad things.
Only the surrounding nature seemed to understand my plight. When the hatred in the village became too much to bear, I retreated into the woods to take a walk and become refreshed by the cool air. There was a well-hidden clearing that I had found by chance. This was my sanctuary, my momentary escape from reality. In this flowering meadow, time seemed to pass slowly. I could lie in the soft grass and gaze into the sky for many hours in peace, without once thinking about the life that I would have to return to once it was over. The airy fragrance of the flowers cushioned me and made me float, like I was in a dream; always when I breathed in the sweet scent I could forget all of my worries and relax. But one thing continued to bother me: My mother used to tell me as a child that every cloud had a silver lining. Every time I returned to that meadow I would lay back and stare into the sky, but I could never seem to find that mythical cloud, that soft white wisp of delicate foam in the deep blue heavenly sea with a faint breath of silver on its gossamer frame.
As I saw it, I had only one chance of restoring faith in my character. Our village had, above all, a single most cherished tradition. This was the annual race, a test of endurance, courage, and determination. Everyone, and I meant everyone, came to watch the race. Weeks before it started, the entire village, from the young children to the town elders, would talk about the upcoming event. For that one portion of the year, time stopped for everything in the village save that sacred tradition. Champions of the race were remembered with honor ever after.
In order to earn the privilege to race, potential participants were required to pass the qualifying round. Every year the test would differ, but the objective was the same: overcome all obstacles to retrieve the medallion assigned to you. Each coin was engraved with the participant’s face, name, date of registration, and assigned number. Medallion hunters could not just pick up any coin, therefore; it had to be their own, and it couldn’t be one from a previous year. None but those who scattered the medallions knew what the year’s test would be until the day of the test itself.
It would be months before the next race, but I began training early. As soon as my mother sensed my interest in joining the race, she turned me out of my home, in effect disowning me. In the confusing din of her strident screeches, I could only pick out words such as “disgrace” and “family ruin”. I made no further attempt to understand my mother. All I knew was that I now had no home and no kin, and that I felt quite frustrated at the unfairness of it all.
Perhaps, however, this turn of events helped me. I no longer had to tell my mother where I was going or when I would return. I was now free. The first thing that occurred to me was that I no longer needed to live near the other villagers. After some searching, I managed to find a cozy little cave in the back of an obscured hill some miles away from the main village square. Foliage shaded this hidden retreat; small fruit bushes grew at the entrance; a babbling creek ambled nonchalantly through the trees, leading deep into unexplored forest. I had everything that I needed.
Over the months, I spent my time building up my strength. Although as a Sneasel I did not lack in speed or agility, I continued to improve on that attribute. The area that received my utmost attention, however, was my endurance. I understood that the preliminary trials could consist of anything. If so, I needed to be prepared to last out whatever test I would be required to pass.
Every day, at the break of dawn, I climbed up the hill in which my cave lay hidden. When I reached the pinnacle, I sped downhill as fast as my legs would take me, accelerating even more rapidly because of the slope. The terrain was treacherous, littered with sharp pebbles and the occasional trunk of a great fallen tree. During the first weeks of my training, I tripped constantly, and bled. Yet none of the hill’s grass grew red where I shed, because like lightning, I never fell in the same place twice. With this exercise, I learned how to handle dangerous speeds, how to sense upcoming obstacles even with blurred sight.
As soon as I reached the foot of the hill, I turned back and immediately ran upwards, ignoring any cuts or bruises I might have received on the way down. At the top, I would shoot back down again through the sea of perils, and then repeat my ascent as rapidly as I possibly could. These two exercises I continued until I was convinced that I could take no more; when this happened, I would push myself up and down the hill once again, and then jog for however long it took me to cool down. Come midnight, I would do the whole thing again. When the hill proved no more challenge to me, I went in search of steeper mountains.
In this way, I prepared for the races that were to come. The proving day crept ever closer. When that day finally arrived, I had just begun to feel confident that I was ready to take on many challenges.
At dawn, the elders announced out test. We were to search for our medallions atop our land’s cruelest peak, evil Furybane. The death mountain was actually a volcano, but it had lain dormant for many years. Even in its nadir of power, as though it forever thirsted for the blood of those who dared to challenge it, the volcano posed a serious threat to climbers. Now its wicked body was the sickly yellow-green of the ferocious jungle that covered it. So dense that no speck of sunlight ever reached the infested jungle soil, the dark scourge held a reputation for swallowing up travelers whole, leaving not even their wraith-like shadows in the total blackness. Only the very peak of the mountain lay bare of these terrible trees. There yellow snow resided, and high winds, and conditions so cold that no foul plant could ever spring up from the barren ground and hope to live. Our elders told us that somewhere on that lifeless, frostbitten peak lay our scattered coins. When I looked around me, I saw that all of my opponents had wings, or stood by friends who did. The land-bound had to go by the forest.
I entered the dark jungle in a fervor, not afraid, but furiously determined. I would be the last to complete my task, no doubt; but I would still qualify. The rules stated that I would have to produce my coin by sunrise the next day, during which time the race would officially begin. I had many hours of daylight left.
Vines hung from jagged branches. Thick roots of ancient trees jutted out from the thorny ground. In the darkness, I relied not on my sight, but on my senses. Instinct told me where a low-hanging branch was, or a deep pit, or a fallen tree filled with spines. Still, the jungle dug its claws into my flesh, drank greedily of my blood, closed in upon me chokingly hoping that I would despair and drop on my knees to die. By the time I escaped the forest, my blood-matted fur had been painted a deep red, and bare flesh lay exposed to the frostbite’s fangs.
My quest was nearly complete, and the sun still hung high in the sky. By its position, I guessed that it was just past noon. There would be plenty of time to find my medallion.
For hours I searched, plunging my hands into the sticky yellow snow, hoping to unearth my prize. I found it not. Just when the sun had begun to hide behind the clouds, a Skarmory who had turned in her medallion hours earlier flew overhead to taunt me. She pointed her steel-blade wings at the fading sun. “Not much time left now, huh, Flint?” she squawked in glee. “Want to know where your medallion is?” She hovered directly over me, snickering, regarding me with contempt. When she became tired of holding me in suspense, she flew up safely out of my reach. “We threw it into the forest,” she squealed delightedly. “That’s what you get for being a sleazy cheater like your father! Cheaters will always be punished fairly.” On that note, she soared away with a beat of her wings.
Night fell. Stars packed the sky, and the pale moon emitted its feeble beams of light. Under these conditions I continued the search for my medallion. In the jungle, darkness reigned supreme. I used to invite darkness; it was cool, it was soothing. But now it only kept me from my goal. I needed light. Turning my head skywards, I fired frost towards the heavy canopies. The leaves in contact with my Ice Beam froze instantly; after that, it was only a matter of blowing them away with a gust of Icy Wind. Through the holes that I created in this manner, sickly beams of moonlight could creep into the mess of trees. For the first time in centuries, Furybane’s forest floor touched light.
Hours crawled by, slowly. Sometimes the moon went behind the clouds, and then I would wait until there was light again, for fear of missing my medallion in the darkness. I could smell dawn creeping closer. I hadn’t much time left. I needed to work harder. In order to find my medallion, I had to push myself harder.
Failure was not a possibility. I would find and present my medallion. Having qualified, I would win the race fairly. Winning would earn me respect. The villagers would never talk down to me again.
During my final hours of night, I plunged into a frenzy. First I doubled my pace, doubled my effort. When that did not work, I pushed myself to quadruple. Just when I thought I would have to increase my effort eightfold, I spotted a glinting piece of gold. I stooped to pick it up automatically, and checked it. In the center of the coin was a carving of my father robbing an old villager. Under it was engraved:
Name Flint
Species Sneasel
Gender Male
Date of Registration XX/XX/XXXX
Registration Number 666
I had my medallion. Now all I had to do was return it. The weary moon was suspended very low in the sky. Soon it would go behind the mountains.
I crashed down the mountain through the forest, not feeling the things in my way. Fresh wounds opened as I ran past thorns, sharp branches, small hard stones. The wet red streak on my face would become a scar. But I felt no pain. The moon shone on my trail of blood.
When I reached the foot of the volcano, it was still night. It was still night but no one was there. They had all gone home.
The judges were supposed to wait till dawn, or until all the medallion hunters had returned, empty-handed or not. They had gone home, but it was not yet dawn. This did not stop me. I knew where they would be. That is where I headed.
All of this year’s judges sat in the village meetinghouse, processing the results of the qualifying round and chatting merrily about the race that was to come. When I stepped into the doorway, they blanched as if they had seen a ghost. Without a word, I handed the closest judge my medallion soaked in blood. He examined it, and then shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, grinning widely, “We were not present to supervise your actions. You could have cheated in our absence. I apologize, but you will not be able to participate in this year’s race.” He did not invite me to try again next year.
I knew then how the other villagers saw me. In spite of my name, they would prefer that I not gloriously spark, but rather fade like a dying ember, unheeded to the very end of my dark days. But I did not live to fade.
~ Flint ~
My father was a crooked thief and a criminal. That was what they always told me. Even my mother warned me never to tread in his path. Everyone knew me as Flint the Sneasel, son of the most despised feline criminal of all time.
We lived in a small village surrounded by trees. Soft dirt pathways wound around quaint houses like streams in the middle of a golden forest. In fact, the village was in some ways an extension to the woods that protected us. Each cottage had a unique garden of its own, with blooming emerald vines cascading from the yellow straw roofs. The climate seemed never to change here; it was always pleasantly warm with a cool, gentle breeze, and we had no storms. Flowers of all colors bloomed year-round. Gentle nature watched over us, as if with her lovely perfection she was trying to compensate for the ugliness of our souls.
I was an outcast from the day I was born. My mother separated me from the other children; they would have nothing to do with me. If I happened to pass by some of the older villagers, they would give me a sympathetic look of disapproval, and perhaps shake their heads or mutter something about a poor misguided soul. Others would shout curses at me even if I did nothing to them; some even chased me to throw things at me although I tried my best to avoid conflict. Everyone believed that I was a lost cause. Everyone, that is, but me.
What I could not understand was what I had done wrong. In the beginning I had always tried to help or work or play, but cruel words or physical blows and the ever-present air of untrusting resentment eventually drove me away. After some time I stopped trying to befriend the rest of the villagers.
My father was a criminal, but why did the villagers punish me for sins that were not mine? I recalled a time when I found one of my neighbors’ priceless family heirlooms. I showed it to my mother only to find out whose it was, so that I could return it. She immediately gave me one of those looks of sympathy that I had become accustomed to receiving, and told me very quietly that she would not punish me if I wanted to keep the treasure, because she understood the tendencies of my “kind”. She was no help. I had to make the search myself. When I did manage to find the owner, he gave me a kick in the chest so hard that I fell to the floor and found it difficult to breathe. Then he slammed the door in my face, cursing loudly about crooks and criminals and other bad things.
Only the surrounding nature seemed to understand my plight. When the hatred in the village became too much to bear, I retreated into the woods to take a walk and become refreshed by the cool air. There was a well-hidden clearing that I had found by chance. This was my sanctuary, my momentary escape from reality. In this flowering meadow, time seemed to pass slowly. I could lie in the soft grass and gaze into the sky for many hours in peace, without once thinking about the life that I would have to return to once it was over. The airy fragrance of the flowers cushioned me and made me float, like I was in a dream; always when I breathed in the sweet scent I could forget all of my worries and relax. But one thing continued to bother me: My mother used to tell me as a child that every cloud had a silver lining. Every time I returned to that meadow I would lay back and stare into the sky, but I could never seem to find that mythical cloud, that soft white wisp of delicate foam in the deep blue heavenly sea with a faint breath of silver on its gossamer frame.
As I saw it, I had only one chance of restoring faith in my character. Our village had, above all, a single most cherished tradition. This was the annual race, a test of endurance, courage, and determination. Everyone, and I meant everyone, came to watch the race. Weeks before it started, the entire village, from the young children to the town elders, would talk about the upcoming event. For that one portion of the year, time stopped for everything in the village save that sacred tradition. Champions of the race were remembered with honor ever after.
In order to earn the privilege to race, potential participants were required to pass the qualifying round. Every year the test would differ, but the objective was the same: overcome all obstacles to retrieve the medallion assigned to you. Each coin was engraved with the participant’s face, name, date of registration, and assigned number. Medallion hunters could not just pick up any coin, therefore; it had to be their own, and it couldn’t be one from a previous year. None but those who scattered the medallions knew what the year’s test would be until the day of the test itself.
It would be months before the next race, but I began training early. As soon as my mother sensed my interest in joining the race, she turned me out of my home, in effect disowning me. In the confusing din of her strident screeches, I could only pick out words such as “disgrace” and “family ruin”. I made no further attempt to understand my mother. All I knew was that I now had no home and no kin, and that I felt quite frustrated at the unfairness of it all.
Perhaps, however, this turn of events helped me. I no longer had to tell my mother where I was going or when I would return. I was now free. The first thing that occurred to me was that I no longer needed to live near the other villagers. After some searching, I managed to find a cozy little cave in the back of an obscured hill some miles away from the main village square. Foliage shaded this hidden retreat; small fruit bushes grew at the entrance; a babbling creek ambled nonchalantly through the trees, leading deep into unexplored forest. I had everything that I needed.
Over the months, I spent my time building up my strength. Although as a Sneasel I did not lack in speed or agility, I continued to improve on that attribute. The area that received my utmost attention, however, was my endurance. I understood that the preliminary trials could consist of anything. If so, I needed to be prepared to last out whatever test I would be required to pass.
Every day, at the break of dawn, I climbed up the hill in which my cave lay hidden. When I reached the pinnacle, I sped downhill as fast as my legs would take me, accelerating even more rapidly because of the slope. The terrain was treacherous, littered with sharp pebbles and the occasional trunk of a great fallen tree. During the first weeks of my training, I tripped constantly, and bled. Yet none of the hill’s grass grew red where I shed, because like lightning, I never fell in the same place twice. With this exercise, I learned how to handle dangerous speeds, how to sense upcoming obstacles even with blurred sight.
As soon as I reached the foot of the hill, I turned back and immediately ran upwards, ignoring any cuts or bruises I might have received on the way down. At the top, I would shoot back down again through the sea of perils, and then repeat my ascent as rapidly as I possibly could. These two exercises I continued until I was convinced that I could take no more; when this happened, I would push myself up and down the hill once again, and then jog for however long it took me to cool down. Come midnight, I would do the whole thing again. When the hill proved no more challenge to me, I went in search of steeper mountains.
In this way, I prepared for the races that were to come. The proving day crept ever closer. When that day finally arrived, I had just begun to feel confident that I was ready to take on many challenges.
At dawn, the elders announced out test. We were to search for our medallions atop our land’s cruelest peak, evil Furybane. The death mountain was actually a volcano, but it had lain dormant for many years. Even in its nadir of power, as though it forever thirsted for the blood of those who dared to challenge it, the volcano posed a serious threat to climbers. Now its wicked body was the sickly yellow-green of the ferocious jungle that covered it. So dense that no speck of sunlight ever reached the infested jungle soil, the dark scourge held a reputation for swallowing up travelers whole, leaving not even their wraith-like shadows in the total blackness. Only the very peak of the mountain lay bare of these terrible trees. There yellow snow resided, and high winds, and conditions so cold that no foul plant could ever spring up from the barren ground and hope to live. Our elders told us that somewhere on that lifeless, frostbitten peak lay our scattered coins. When I looked around me, I saw that all of my opponents had wings, or stood by friends who did. The land-bound had to go by the forest.
I entered the dark jungle in a fervor, not afraid, but furiously determined. I would be the last to complete my task, no doubt; but I would still qualify. The rules stated that I would have to produce my coin by sunrise the next day, during which time the race would officially begin. I had many hours of daylight left.
Vines hung from jagged branches. Thick roots of ancient trees jutted out from the thorny ground. In the darkness, I relied not on my sight, but on my senses. Instinct told me where a low-hanging branch was, or a deep pit, or a fallen tree filled with spines. Still, the jungle dug its claws into my flesh, drank greedily of my blood, closed in upon me chokingly hoping that I would despair and drop on my knees to die. By the time I escaped the forest, my blood-matted fur had been painted a deep red, and bare flesh lay exposed to the frostbite’s fangs.
My quest was nearly complete, and the sun still hung high in the sky. By its position, I guessed that it was just past noon. There would be plenty of time to find my medallion.
For hours I searched, plunging my hands into the sticky yellow snow, hoping to unearth my prize. I found it not. Just when the sun had begun to hide behind the clouds, a Skarmory who had turned in her medallion hours earlier flew overhead to taunt me. She pointed her steel-blade wings at the fading sun. “Not much time left now, huh, Flint?” she squawked in glee. “Want to know where your medallion is?” She hovered directly over me, snickering, regarding me with contempt. When she became tired of holding me in suspense, she flew up safely out of my reach. “We threw it into the forest,” she squealed delightedly. “That’s what you get for being a sleazy cheater like your father! Cheaters will always be punished fairly.” On that note, she soared away with a beat of her wings.
Night fell. Stars packed the sky, and the pale moon emitted its feeble beams of light. Under these conditions I continued the search for my medallion. In the jungle, darkness reigned supreme. I used to invite darkness; it was cool, it was soothing. But now it only kept me from my goal. I needed light. Turning my head skywards, I fired frost towards the heavy canopies. The leaves in contact with my Ice Beam froze instantly; after that, it was only a matter of blowing them away with a gust of Icy Wind. Through the holes that I created in this manner, sickly beams of moonlight could creep into the mess of trees. For the first time in centuries, Furybane’s forest floor touched light.
Hours crawled by, slowly. Sometimes the moon went behind the clouds, and then I would wait until there was light again, for fear of missing my medallion in the darkness. I could smell dawn creeping closer. I hadn’t much time left. I needed to work harder. In order to find my medallion, I had to push myself harder.
Failure was not a possibility. I would find and present my medallion. Having qualified, I would win the race fairly. Winning would earn me respect. The villagers would never talk down to me again.
During my final hours of night, I plunged into a frenzy. First I doubled my pace, doubled my effort. When that did not work, I pushed myself to quadruple. Just when I thought I would have to increase my effort eightfold, I spotted a glinting piece of gold. I stooped to pick it up automatically, and checked it. In the center of the coin was a carving of my father robbing an old villager. Under it was engraved:
Name Flint
Species Sneasel
Gender Male
Date of Registration XX/XX/XXXX
Registration Number 666
I had my medallion. Now all I had to do was return it. The weary moon was suspended very low in the sky. Soon it would go behind the mountains.
I crashed down the mountain through the forest, not feeling the things in my way. Fresh wounds opened as I ran past thorns, sharp branches, small hard stones. The wet red streak on my face would become a scar. But I felt no pain. The moon shone on my trail of blood.
When I reached the foot of the volcano, it was still night. It was still night but no one was there. They had all gone home.
The judges were supposed to wait till dawn, or until all the medallion hunters had returned, empty-handed or not. They had gone home, but it was not yet dawn. This did not stop me. I knew where they would be. That is where I headed.
All of this year’s judges sat in the village meetinghouse, processing the results of the qualifying round and chatting merrily about the race that was to come. When I stepped into the doorway, they blanched as if they had seen a ghost. Without a word, I handed the closest judge my medallion soaked in blood. He examined it, and then shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, grinning widely, “We were not present to supervise your actions. You could have cheated in our absence. I apologize, but you will not be able to participate in this year’s race.” He did not invite me to try again next year.
I knew then how the other villagers saw me. In spite of my name, they would prefer that I not gloriously spark, but rather fade like a dying ember, unheeded to the very end of my dark days. But I did not live to fade.