The Whirl Cup (T)
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November 27th, 2011 (7:13 PM). Edited November 28th, 2011 by Fuyu.
Join Date: Feb 2009
Location: Who knows?
I am called Coryn Eliade Williams the Third. But call me Ryn or Elly if you must call me anything. Formal titles are quite silly really, even by Father's standards.
I am most certainly a boy. I will even strip to prove it if I must. It is very uncouth of you to place the idea in my head however and you have lowered my impression of you.
I am sixteen years of age. Do I look it? People have told me so.
I was originally born in Violet City to an ordinary family. That was my first three years of life, with a pair of parents who had no clue on what to do with such a quiet, odd child. I was repeatedly taken to the doctors, who eventually diagnosed me with Asperger's Syndrome. My parents were unable to pay for the therapies and medication I would need. So... I am quite sorry, the story was told to me by my adoptive father Henry, who was rather shaky on the precise details of everything. I also remember his anger over it. I believe... I believe he said I was abandoned at Bellsprout Tower. I was too young to remember so I do not fuss over it or how he knows these details. I do know he took me away from the possible monk training to his home. No one stops mentioning that. It was a rather minor detail to me.
Once there, in a mansion outside of Cherrygrove (It truly is not that large, we are right by the City), I was formally adopted and put under the care of his wife, a member of the psychiatric field. She introduced me to Mrs Clarence, or Ophelia as she has preferred to be called. That woman became an aunt so to speak, helping me through all of my therapies as well as my medicines. The therapies were made easier with Pokemon by my side. They were easy to be interested in, to focus on. Because of them, I almost was able to go to a normal Pokemon Technical School.
However, there was no possibility of that occurrence. There was too much noise and movement. I was sent to a smaller school, where the conditions were quieter and there were other children with issues on noise. We were all supposed to get a Pokemon at twelve. However, the professors had stopped giving them out for trainers and I simply used the rental Pokemon for classes. I never forgot that feeling... that strange loss in my chest. I wanted a Pokemon ever since. Ophelia knew of this and showed me the tournament. I was leery of the possibility, not sure of the noise. The chance was quite too good to pass up however and I signed up. I did not expect such a positive response. This was kept a secret from my adoptive parents. I did not want to see their panic, as they are people, like Ophelia, who I have grown affection for.
People have called me quiet, intense, aloof, and even a bad boy. I agree with the quiet part, as speech is a difficulty of mine. I dislike talking immensely, most of my sentences sounding unfinished and improper in casual conversation. Even in parties and social affairs with my adoptive parents, I am quiet. When I speak fully, I am proper to the point of annoyance. It is a roundabout way of getting people to ignore me. It's that or I am constantly surrounded by noise. I am sensitive to changes in noise and appearance and despite the usefulness, it bothers me. I am usually rather expressionless and it takes a lot of effort for me to smile.
I know a lot about Pokemon, particularly battling them. I am commonly considered a know-it-all on the subject of the creatures to the few people who speak to me. I interact with them on a daily basis and have an, oh what is the term the doctor uses,
with them. Do I love them? Perhaps. Their habitats do not have unnecessary chatter and that makes it ever so much better. I am commonly considered intelligent for my knowledge but in truth I know very little on the broader scope of the world, a fact I will freely admit to. I know basic information, but Pokemon, baking, photography, and playing the violin are the only things I claim to expertise on. I can show my talents with them for hours at a time if I choose to. But most of the time I do not, having had multiple failures at social interactions in the past. It is lonely.
I am a boy with the utmost care given to my appearance, hair thin and wavy, the color of wheat stalks and reaching down to my shoulders. My skin is a light tan created by occasional weeks in the sun. I have the build of someone with just enough muscle to be able to fend for myself if need be. My eyes are of the deepest lapis lazuli, almond-shaped and called soul-searching. No one tells me I look like my parents. They know better.
I would normally wear a suit hand-tailored. However I insisted otherwise. Money does not protect your skin as a hardy shirt does. So my shirt is a pristine white, protected by the fabrics of my red jacket lined with Mareep wool. I would quite like a Mareep, they are very polite creatures. Moving on, my jeans are of a fabric supposedly the best money can buy but I am quite certain they are simply ordinary jeans. I will not waste time over such trivialities or on the plainess of my shoes. It's nice to be in nice, yet ordinary clothing again. Also, there is a scar on the back of my hand. I do not know how it got there but it is as much a casual flaw as the birthmark on my back. That mark is a small swirl. My skin also has fading stretch marks from a growth spurt. I used to be quite short. I am still quite clumsy however.
I carry a backpack and a violin case. My violin is my most precious possession and I truly cannot bear to be parted from it. In my bag are trainer necessities and a cellular phone for reasons I do not understand. THe necessities I am well aware of their importance as a trainer. As for the phone... I am not sure why Ophelia packed it. There is a note in here as well. How odd...
I would enjoy the company of a male Cyndaquil, if you please, to see the blaze of glory my dear friend's Houndoom once had.
He will be called Tory, a name for the elegant.
"Oh Lia, darling how are you?" I heard my mother's voice ring through the halls with the echoes of bells. Her brown hair swished as she reached to kiss her good friend on the cheek. Mother was beautiful, people said, suited more for the models instead of the mentally hurt. I disagreed; she made people smile. Looks were necessary for that, were they not? Ophelia looked more the part, people told me, this I was still uncertain of. Looks always puzzled me but I would solve it someday. Ophelia hugged my mother.
"Oh wonderful," my therapist told her with the charming smile that made people seem to glow. "I am proud to say my Rapidash is still going strong."
"Beautiful," my mother told her with a hug, glancing at me fondly. I attempted a smile, managing a tug at the corners of my mouth. Like Ophelia, Mother was pleased with this and stepped away, silent communication occurring between the two females at that moment. Ophelia nodded at the end and walked to me, gently patting my head as she passed. Ophelia did not hug very much while working, which I did not understand either. She led me to my room in silence, our long set routine.
Shutting the door behind us, the redhead gave me a serious look. "Elly," she began quietly, what appeared to be a smile quirking at the corners of her lips. "You're in."
The statement slowly sunk in and I tried to process its meaning. Then I remembered sending that letter to the Whirl Cup, as she had asked me to. I had forgotten, the bustle of classes distracting me from the hope and possibility of such an opportunity.
The Whirl Cup.
It was supposedly a not so subtle attempt to gather favor for Pokemon training. Whether you won or lost did not matter; you were going to be remembered. You had to be at least decent to be in of course, earn five badges before the tournament. It would be full of noise, of people and there incessant cries for attention. But there would be Pokemon as well, each able to hopefully keep their humans in line.
"Of course," she said quietly. "If you're still in." She observed me with those calculating green eyes, ones that seemed to know all.
I nodded without hesitation. "Yes...I am."
Ophelia squeezed my shoulder. "That's my good lad," she stated both with pride and business-like affection, as I believed they were identified. "Now pack. I will tell your parents."
"Yes ma'am." Their reaction would be ever so strange. I am their child in a sense, yet I am not. They love me yet want me to grow. Ah, the conundrum of adulthood.
"What Tama wishes for is..."
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