Post by katya on Aug 9, 2011 17:45:03 GMT
Griff had waited in the city a while as his pokemon recovered. Fighting a noctus pokemon hadn't been in any of their plans, but they'd all pulled through more or less not dead. Atlas had spent the most time in the emergency care ward of the pokemon center--although as Griff understood it, the chanseys had pegged Atlas as Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome, which meant he might've been stuck in the ward for a day or two longer than necessary. Griff gave Atlas the heads up that if any eggs popped up mysteriously, they had better remain in the care of the mother, a request that Atlas didn't bother dignifying with an answer.
There had been no eggs (not that Griff had noticed anyway), and now Atlas claimed he was up and running again. The weavile had tested himself by wailing on Sprite, who admitted that Atlas' attacks hurt just as much as usual. Still, the weavile wanted to test his strength at Featherwing's gym. "You don't test yourself at a gym. The gym tests you," Griff had tried to argue, but then he realized how Atlas wouldn't see the difference. Thinking about it, Griff wasn't sure there was one. Where else could you prove that you were truly fighting fit if not a gym?
It was just a precaution--if Sprite claimed Atlas was alright, he probably was--but Griff had taken him to the training center for a round of training. Freshly recovered as he was, there was no way for Atlas to claim that was anything but good idea.
The weavile's body was littered with fresh scars, vivid and gruesome (or manly, apparently, if you were a chansey) across his chest, but his wounds were completely healed. Even a sucker punch right over where his stitches had been hurt no more than a sucker punch anywhere else. Griff knew, because he'd tried. He didn't normally attempt to wrestle his pokemon, especially not Atlas with his lethal claws, but the weavile had requested it, and Griff saw no reason to turn him down.
Apparently, it wasn't usual for trainers themselves to fight their pokemon, but well, the weavile took one look at the training equipment and scoffed, making snide remarks about how unthinking, unresponding equipment could never prepare anyone for a real fight. With that, the weavile clapped Griff on the shoulder and led him to the mats before Griff even realized that he'd been volunteered to spar.
Atlas was out of practice though, not sluggish because of his injuries though, and that was something to be thankful for. Griff had a steel buckler on his left arm, his only defense against the weavile's claws, and he carried a blackjack in his right hand. "Do the chanseys like it slow and gentle? I think they've rubbed off on you, old friend, if you know what I mean. No wonder you're not a proud father yet, if you've been the one getting impaled."
That won him a fierce slash that Griff dropped low to avoid. All of Griff's fighting experience meant that he had lightning reflexes to avoid any attacks he could see, and his second priority when unarmed was simple: sweep his opponent off his feet. A pipe had always been his preferred weapon, but in this case, the blackjack was heavier and slower, but just as effective for taking out the weavile's knees. Griff never made contact.
Atlas leapt into the air to avoid being tripped. The weavile knew immediately that was a bad move, and in the back of his mind, he knew it'd have been an even worse move against flying type pokemon. Griff gave no quarter, and as the upwards momentum left Atlas hapless in the air, the blackjack swung upward after him. If it were a scimitar, it would've sliced Atlas' arm off, but it only rammed hard under Atlas' shoulder.
Griff stepped back, unguarded with his blackjack down. Atlas grumbled as he stood back up. "You alright?" Griff asked. The light in Atlas' eyes was enough for him; Griff didn't need to wait for Atlas to reply with a <Weav> of confirmation.
"Uh," Griff began, awkwardly, his usual eloquence fleeing his facilities. This wasn't a conversation he'd intended on having today, if ever. "About the chanseys. Sorry. I mean, if that's the reason there aren't any eggs. I didn't mean to make fun of you for that, because... you know, that's okay. That's great. I've liked men too. Or if not, that's okay too. It's all okay."
Atlas gave Griff a concerned look, balanced evenly between care and incredulity. <Weavile,> he said in almost fatherly exasperation. His tone took one of patient explanation given to someone you're very fond of, such as a two-month-old pichu with ADHD. <Vile weav avile, weavile weav weav vile weav. Ile weavile weav weavile. Weav?>
"I don't understand you, you know."
Atlas paused, then rolled his eyes, reverting back to the unaffected cool of Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome with a nonchalant shrug. With a casual grace, he gave Griff the finger (or the claw, such as it was), and then dropped into a defensive stance. <Weav,> he commanded and beckoned Griff to commence another attack.
"Right, I'm on it," Griff replied, glad that the conversation had come to quick end. "En garde."
In the end, Griff sat on a bench in the infirmary with Atlas snapping at any nurses that dared come close. The weavile handled bandaging his trainer himself, neatly handling disinfectants, cotton, and tape with a practiced ease. Cold compresses were made from thin air by Atlas' breath, and the weavile rattled off instructions to Griff that he couldn't understand.
As for the weavile, Atlas was certainly fit for battle again.
There had been no eggs (not that Griff had noticed anyway), and now Atlas claimed he was up and running again. The weavile had tested himself by wailing on Sprite, who admitted that Atlas' attacks hurt just as much as usual. Still, the weavile wanted to test his strength at Featherwing's gym. "You don't test yourself at a gym. The gym tests you," Griff had tried to argue, but then he realized how Atlas wouldn't see the difference. Thinking about it, Griff wasn't sure there was one. Where else could you prove that you were truly fighting fit if not a gym?
It was just a precaution--if Sprite claimed Atlas was alright, he probably was--but Griff had taken him to the training center for a round of training. Freshly recovered as he was, there was no way for Atlas to claim that was anything but good idea.
The weavile's body was littered with fresh scars, vivid and gruesome (or manly, apparently, if you were a chansey) across his chest, but his wounds were completely healed. Even a sucker punch right over where his stitches had been hurt no more than a sucker punch anywhere else. Griff knew, because he'd tried. He didn't normally attempt to wrestle his pokemon, especially not Atlas with his lethal claws, but the weavile had requested it, and Griff saw no reason to turn him down.
Apparently, it wasn't usual for trainers themselves to fight their pokemon, but well, the weavile took one look at the training equipment and scoffed, making snide remarks about how unthinking, unresponding equipment could never prepare anyone for a real fight. With that, the weavile clapped Griff on the shoulder and led him to the mats before Griff even realized that he'd been volunteered to spar.
Atlas was out of practice though, not sluggish because of his injuries though, and that was something to be thankful for. Griff had a steel buckler on his left arm, his only defense against the weavile's claws, and he carried a blackjack in his right hand. "Do the chanseys like it slow and gentle? I think they've rubbed off on you, old friend, if you know what I mean. No wonder you're not a proud father yet, if you've been the one getting impaled."
That won him a fierce slash that Griff dropped low to avoid. All of Griff's fighting experience meant that he had lightning reflexes to avoid any attacks he could see, and his second priority when unarmed was simple: sweep his opponent off his feet. A pipe had always been his preferred weapon, but in this case, the blackjack was heavier and slower, but just as effective for taking out the weavile's knees. Griff never made contact.
Atlas leapt into the air to avoid being tripped. The weavile knew immediately that was a bad move, and in the back of his mind, he knew it'd have been an even worse move against flying type pokemon. Griff gave no quarter, and as the upwards momentum left Atlas hapless in the air, the blackjack swung upward after him. If it were a scimitar, it would've sliced Atlas' arm off, but it only rammed hard under Atlas' shoulder.
Griff stepped back, unguarded with his blackjack down. Atlas grumbled as he stood back up. "You alright?" Griff asked. The light in Atlas' eyes was enough for him; Griff didn't need to wait for Atlas to reply with a <Weav> of confirmation.
"Uh," Griff began, awkwardly, his usual eloquence fleeing his facilities. This wasn't a conversation he'd intended on having today, if ever. "About the chanseys. Sorry. I mean, if that's the reason there aren't any eggs. I didn't mean to make fun of you for that, because... you know, that's okay. That's great. I've liked men too. Or if not, that's okay too. It's all okay."
Atlas gave Griff a concerned look, balanced evenly between care and incredulity. <Weavile,> he said in almost fatherly exasperation. His tone took one of patient explanation given to someone you're very fond of, such as a two-month-old pichu with ADHD. <Vile weav avile, weavile weav weav vile weav. Ile weavile weav weavile. Weav?>
"I don't understand you, you know."
Atlas paused, then rolled his eyes, reverting back to the unaffected cool of Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome with a nonchalant shrug. With a casual grace, he gave Griff the finger (or the claw, such as it was), and then dropped into a defensive stance. <Weav,> he commanded and beckoned Griff to commence another attack.
"Right, I'm on it," Griff replied, glad that the conversation had come to quick end. "En garde."
In the end, Griff sat on a bench in the infirmary with Atlas snapping at any nurses that dared come close. The weavile handled bandaging his trainer himself, neatly handling disinfectants, cotton, and tape with a practiced ease. Cold compresses were made from thin air by Atlas' breath, and the weavile rattled off instructions to Griff that he couldn't understand.
As for the weavile, Atlas was certainly fit for battle again.
words 940
notes FEATHERWING GYM, HERE I COME
tag exp!
notes FEATHERWING GYM, HERE I COME
tag exp!
