Spirit of The Congo
The first thing he noticed, as his leather boot shod feet hit the wooden gangplank with a dull thud, was the darkness. The hushed air that hung about them all, the vicious looking vegetation, full of thorns, and even the stench of decay that hung in the air were nothing compared to the total, complete darkness that hung over the area. Bright lanterns, filled with fast-burning oil, barely made a crack in the gloom. The murky shadows hung over the area like vultures, just waiting for a feast.
Shuddering, he put his other foot on the wooden ladder resolutely. Rather than stomping down it as he usually would, he walked softly on his toes, almost creeping down the ladder. Now, he understood the tales of sneaking to the Mango tree and back. The feeling of all sorts of evil skulking in the bushes was enough to make anyone naturally cautious. This place seemed to warn its occupants right away, with the overpowering grim, ghastly aura that hung about it. Macabre tribes and grisly battles aside, just living here would be repulsive, even without the repugnant war going on around them.
Suddenly, his eyes shot to the side. One hand reached up, pressing his hard, green army helmet to his head. Narrowing his vision as his eyelids partially closed, he crouched low, his companions standing stock still in the silence. It was a full minute before he breathed out again, slowly standing up normally again. His feet brushed against the gravel, the out of place gravel that had been tossed down in the dense forest, and the sound that came from that was indescribable. Once, he would have that of it as the sound of construction, of a man with a hard yellow helmet patiently going about his work. Now, he clutched his own helmet tightly to his hand with one hand, the other clinging to his machine gun as if it were a teddy bear. Out here, the only comforts were tools of death.
“Move out,” he ordered, and stepped towards the forest. Up close, it no longer seemed impenetrable. Instead, it looked as though it was trying to ward off anyone who might enter- no, fend them off. There was an air of defiance in the air, coming from even the very trees of the land.
Slipping a hand from his helmet to his pocket, he checked to make sure his Pokeballs were all there. Four camouflage colored spheres, warmed by the heat of his body, rolled against his hand. He took Venonat’s in hand first, reaching his hand out of his pocket while still holding on to it. Ponyta, Zangoose, and Voltorb remained in his pocket. None of them were, at the moment, needed. He was beginning to question if two of them ever would be. Ponyta was swift, but not in a forest so full of vegetation and foliage, unless she burned her way through. That would be obvious to the enemy. As to Voltorb, well, the Pokemon wasn’t of a very useful type, after all. Zangoose was powerful, and would be good against Seviper, the Pokemon Charlie preferred when they could get their hands on them. Seviper were terrifying to him- in the States, all they had were Arbok, which were a far cry from being a vicious, as good at slinking by unnoticed, as good at being so forboding- and Zangoose, as their natural enemy, would be immensely useful. But neither Voltorb nor Ponyta were helpful, nor able to fight against the other Pokemon commonly used by the people they were fighting.
My hands have yet to build a village, have yet to find water in the barren desert, have yet to plant a flower, and I have yet to find the path that leads me... I have not loved enough, but the wind and the sun are still on my face.
I have yet to sow green fields, yet to raise a city, yet to plant a grapevine on each chalky hill... There is so much to build and so much to be, and my love is just beginning.
Last edited by FireflyK; 03-31-2007 at 05:02 PM.