A Realistic Pokemon RP
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Franz Wikstrom left home aged twenty-one, leaving behind his piano, his instructors, the locked room with its woman at the window. The environment that had taught him so much but left him with so little. With naught but his sword and his iron-clad will he prospered in Kalos, fighting down great trainers, capturing and raising those he considered to be of the same honour and will as himself. His Honedge was joined with others of the Steel type and soon as they clambered from strength to utter strength laying low all evil-doers and those who sought to do harm to the innocent or the downtrodden. He smote them with his wrath and with the power and discipline that years of hard training brings to a man, his eyes wild and his face calming only when the victim of his temper had been battered into submission and dragged to a relevant authority.
Wikstrom slaved away at his passion with the relentless style he had slaved away at all things, the piano, speech, sword fighting, diplomacy, poetry and languages. The fire of honourable battle and the exhilaration of victory or the bittersweet sting of losing to an opponent of strength and valour warmed his titanic frame. He fought his way about the world, knocking aside any who would array themselves against him with the disciplined aplomb of an experienced general, drawing out opponents too strong with confusing and intertwining stratagems only to charge home at the last moment, wiping out opposition in a fashion that satisfied his own code of honour. These victories draw Franz many things, money, fame and a title. After mauling his way through the Battle Maison, he became a Duke. Duke Wikstrom and it was in his hubris and in his revelling that he forgot his home, that he sought out the duel and the valorous combat through which to showcase his honed skills. He had forgotten the piano that had sat unused, the instructors who had drilled into him the knowledge he utilised with such efficiency, he forgot about the distant woman who watched him practise with the sword and the bow from the windows of a room with a locked door. He forgot about all of it as he reached the pinnacle of his craft.
Hubris, is the act of styling oneself as a God and thus brings Nemesis. The Gods make an example of such people so that mortals might not forget their place. It was a lesson from plays written so long-ago dust and sand obscured their origins and it was perhaps the one important thing the now Duke should have paid closer attention to.
It began with a faint knock at his door, Wikstrom recognised the guest as his former archery instructor, now withered and broken down, a shell of the barrel-chested man who had once bellowed at him to draw harder and faster. The Duke brought the man indoors and bade him speak. The once instructor did so in a quiet, sorrowful tone
“It is your mother Sir. She has taken ill.”
“Begone from my presence foul messenger, Thy words and trickeries are not welcome here, I have no mother.”
“You must not delay Sir. For she will surely die within the month.”
“Thy words are falsehoods, crafted from some malevolence! Ist thou jealous of thine own ability? For I am no longer simpering boy to be battered into shape any longer! Begone!”
“As you wish Sir.”
The suited messenger left the Duke to his contemplations. The large man in a larger house surrounded by nothing aside from his loyal companions. The Aegislash that had been his most trusted of all seemed to almost will the Duke into action, the anger in the man’s eyes broached no further argument nor rapprochement for even his most honoured of partners. They left the man to his musings and he mused in silence at the head of his grand table, alone as he always had been.
It was only when his arrogance had broken and Wikstrom began to realise the implications of the locked room, of the woman at the window whom smiled at him as he passed beneath her watchful gaze on muddy days to cross steel with his tutor. Or to fire his bow at a target whilst a burly man berated and shouted at him. The Duke sat at his piano, playing for many hours attempting to banish the welling anger at his own idiocy. Considering reasons for why the woman had never spoke a word to him nor ever even unlocked her door to see him. Why had she not shown herself to him? Said something?
Fingers move over keys and press down to draw out the corresponding mournful tune is required.
The duke hunches over the grand piano his heart heavy with the loss of a mother he never knew as he draws out that first song, his fingers move and his eyes close tight and shut as he begins to draw the song towards a crescendo, his Pokémon flit about and watch as their trainer plays, fingers shift and then one snags and a note is dropped.
Without even thinking the Duke draws his fingers back so fast he had no time himself to consider the motion. He feared the snap of the ruler across his fingers even now and returned to his play, his scarred hands shifting back across the song.
Hours turned to days and days into weeks and months and finally a year passed by as the Duke sat there in his mansion, silent except for the sound of the grand piano blaring with the heartfelt agony of a man who had not yet expressed his rage nor his grief in any fashion befitting someone of his character. Following only the most imploring, instinctual notions of hunger and thirst, he would return to his piano and play until he slept upon it. No other messengers came, no other letters found the heartbroken house of Franz Wikstrom till a note arrived at his doorstep.
‘We ask humbly Franz Wikstrom, Duke of the Battle Maison, if you would care to join the Kalos Pokemon League’
Wikstrom, girded himself by returning to his ancestral home. The place was decrepit now, a broken husk of the great mansion he had grown and been shaped in. He stepped through a door that hung limp off its hinges, with no servants left to clean nor money left for upkeep the place had fallen into disrepair as the great figure of its last scion stepped into the threshold and his mouth fell open at the destruction elements, Pokémon and people had made to the great entrances, mold crept up the walls. He stepped up the great staircase he had once ran down to some lesson on some ancient tongue or text. He stepped up the stairs fingers dragging through dirt as he came to a door that had once been locked. He pushed it open in silence, his bedraggled features mad with unrestrained grief and weariness.
Nothingness stared back, a broken-down bed, looted wardrobes, no prophetic note, nor shred of clothing, nor jewelry to remind him of her. The place was bare and as weather worn as the rest of the house now. Whatever shred of his mother had remained here had been banished long ago whilst he had sat at his piano unwilling to face some truth about his own existence.
Upon the floor lay dirty papers, notes, countless ones. He picked out recent dates, excitable writing of her son, worry for her own health, her inability to share with him, the jumbled, dirty sheets were torn and tattered in places but Franz bent to pick them up fingers brushing off dirt and mud and lifting them into his arms.
He found the star beneath a small stack. Some false metal used to give the faint idea it was valuable but he could see by examining it that the thing was just what it was, a six-pointed metal star with no extraordinary value.
For my Emmanuelle,
From your Josef
The Duke gathered the papers and with the star in hand he set himself to a new task.
Utilising every skill he had learned every practised ability, every single piece of information he could scrape together he began to forge for himself a set of armour, a fitting tribute to an unknown Father and a Mother he had not the courage to confront. His response to the League was returned immediately, he would be happy to take part given a month or so to allow for some training. Filled with a new fire, a new desire to better himself and to test those who would seek to do combat with both honour and valour.
He took up his position with a clean-shaven determination and discipline to his posture and since doing so he has worn the star that Josef gave to Emmanuelle on his breastplate as a point of pride.
But he returns to his mansion alone and continues to tap at the keys of his piano once his armour has been cleaned and his training for the day completed. For music brings discipline and strength to the discordant soul that lurks beneath the steely gaze and the honourable words.