I Dream of Darkshire

[Xehanort]

Xehanort relished in the familiar rush of travelling through a gate. It actually felt quite invigorating to simply 'be' in a new place so suddenly. From behind him, the curious little Heartless Ximche would emerge and peer out around the dark master at the surrounding terrain. And almost immediately, the lack of color seemed oppressive in nature. It was as though the world itself was washed out with the moor's muddy waters, taking on a drab, grey hue.

"Even the realm of darkness is more interesting than this place." Xehanort finally comments upon the appearance of this land, getting a surprised look from Ximche. The old man straightened out, holding out a hand to focus on getting their carriage back up so as to keep them out of the dirt. Once it was back into being, they both enter and it's back along its creaking way. He had it following the most basic of paths, intent on drawing it to the nearby town. Depressing. Dreary.

Yet, even as they approached, Xehanort could feel the sheer POWER of Pale Moors welling up. So many hearts; lost, confused, angry. So many potential Heartless. And so, as the carriage approached, he would seize the weakest and give them the simplest of uses as Shadows. Slipping through cracks, hiding in the darkness cast from the once magnificent buildings. Quiet and stealth, so as to not draw attention. Only watching for now. They weren't the most intelligent, but even the most basic of information would be of use to Xehanort.

As the wheels of the carriage met with the cobblestone streets, he couldn't help but notice how.. empty this place felt. Not for lack of people, but lack of will. As his gaze would rest upon an individual, it was as though looking at the previous person. All of them worn from what the world threw at them, but a ridiculous determination to keep pushing through. It spoke for how resolute humans could be. Or how incredibly stupid they were. Either way, he soon grew weary of the same look in each person's eyes, and turned to gaze upon Ximche.

"Perhaps you should lighten the place a little. Play us a little song?" He muses, a smile cracking on his lips as his carriage rumbled its way down the street slowly. And only a moment later, the bells would start to play a tune.

[Albert Wesker]

So....this was Darkshire. The last true bastion of the Pale Moors.

As he strode through the gates after parting with his newest little cold-blooded tool, Albert Wesker was far from impressed. The entire town, no matter where he looked, carried an air of quiet desperation about it. Not quite given up or failing yet, but standing at the top of a slope where one good push toward the edge would send it all toppling over. One more good loss, a sharp blow to their pride, and the entire place would collapse under the weight of its own stubborn pride. Like a house of cards on a table someone kicked.

The fact it was still standing at all, given the state of the Moors, was nothing short of miraculous, however. He could see it, written on every face he looked at. The soldiers of Darkshire on the walls, the citizens of Darkshire in the streets, the ones from outside of the town who had only come to visit or who were here because they had nowhere else to go. Determination, resolute and harsh. Whatever final defeat eventually came by to push them over the edge was going to have a fight on its hands. They might have been chipped, cracked, beaten, battered, bruised, bloodied, exhausted and downtrodden, but they were far from beaten. The human spirit truly was admirable in the face of adversity.

....even if not everyone here was human. Even the dead here didn't get any peace. He saw them. On the walls. Bones showing through armor. Flesh rotten and sagging. Eyes not sitting right in sockets. Posture grossly askew.Standing guard, lurching and patrolling along behind their living fellows. Still serving, still defending. Shoring up numbers of the able-bodied and willing with the ones who had formerly been able-bodied and willing. Ingenious, really. Moreso because they were all so well under control, dedicated to and focused on their task.

All that and more, Wesker took in within a few quick glances. It told him a great deal, and confirmed what he had learned from his perusal of various information regarding the place via the Dataverse on his trip here. A dreary, depressing place, but a sturdy and resolute one. Not welcoming of outsiders, exactly, but neither were they going to turn them away. Anyone who walked through the gates was potentially another pair of hands to lend strength to Darkshire's defense, after all. Desperate times, as they said.

Wesker had just been considering seeing about lending his own hand to the aid of the town, putting up a good front, as they said, and garnering a positive image while sharpening his dulled skills, when a little peculiarity caught his attention. The sound of bells. Not like the ones he expected might be heard ringing and clanging in the churches of a place like this. Far too musical and whimsical for that. He turned away from the notice board he had been perusing about postings and recruitment for guards for the city, tugging at the collar of his coat as he did.

And the sight only served to bring a faint smirk to his face. "Well...that certainly explains the bells..." he mused. "A little traveling music. How quaint."

[Xehanort]

Xehanort's smirk had widened as the music continued to play, casually moving his index fingers back and forth, as though conducting. In truth, he was more encouraging the young one to play without feeling self conscious. After all, even the most hardened of individuals likely didn't have it in them to tell what appeared to be a young girl to stop playing for what appeared to be her grandfather. And, to be honest with himself, he was enjoying seeing her smile. Vanitas was useful and all that, but he was the embodiment of negativity. A Heartless (ironically enough) was meant to embody any extreme emotion. Come to think of it, he doesn't seem to remember WHY he called them Heartless, since they were the realized form of a heart.

His attention is snapped back to reality when he notices that the bells have stopped. His gaze would rise to curiously peer at Ximche, who was staring off to the side. A slow turn as he would follow her gaze to the source of a rather odd looking man. Odd in the sense that he was... out of place. A more resolute individual. More alive, if such a word could be used here. And much more of a beacon that glaringly stood out to Xehanort. This man just oozed darkness on a level that he hadn't seen since Braig had so willingly offered himself over. Luck, it seems, was on his side today. A potential ally, or recruit, at least. But, he will remain humble in this strange universe.

Slowly, he pushed the door of the carriage open, motioning for Ximche to step out first, then playing the part of a feeble old man needing the help of the youth to step down. Folding his hands behind his back, he stood facing towards Wesker and his aide, speaking lowly to Ximche.

"Play him another little tune, young one. Something gentle and inviting." He encourages her. The worry was evident on her face, but she did begin to play. Pale fingers lightly shaking the bells to the tone of almost portraying a beckoning finger to the man. He did want it clear that he wasn't looking for a fight just now.

[Albert Wesker]

Wesker just watched in mild amusement at the act. The old man clambering slowly out of the carriage, with aid from the younger one. Behind his sunglasses, eyes slowly flicked from one to the other. The old one to the young and back again. He'd had long years of experience carefully studying people, during his time at Umbrella, acting as captain of the STARS unit, and then his days with the organization and Tricell. Getting a general read on someone, gauging what they were about. It had been easier, before, when there was only 'humanity' to consider; it had been a known thing, something he could easily quantify and guess at. Not exactly so, here. Anything was possible here.

But that did nothing to change the fact that even a child would be able to put the facts together here and reach the proper conclusion: there was more to this one than met the eyes.

Then came the bells, again. Odd little things, now that he could see them, not like any bells he'd seen before. Gentle, and altogether pleasant enough in sound, though. And after only a minute of listening, he offered a faint smile and held up a hand to his chin, as if pondering something thoughtfully. "Well, I can't say I've ever seen something quite like that first-hand before," he stated , amusement evident in his tone. "Though I suppose I should take it as something of a comfort that I am not the only one so..." He looked aside, down the main street of the town. "...out of place in such a place."

[Xehanort]

As the man began to approach, Xehanort took some more time to get a gauge on his ability. For his apparently age, Wesker looked surprisingly capable of himself, a rare trait if you asked the dark one. He did notice that as the man approached, Ximche seemed to slowly circle in the opposite direction, the young heartless not eager to be so readily reachable. Like a meek child hiding behind a relative at a party, almost.

"She is quite unique, isn't she?" He muses at the compliment, deflecting it as though the words were directed at the young one instead of himself. "I was beginning to think that this place was completely lacking of heart. Though based on your words, it would seem it actually is. After all, does it really count towards the town's populace if the largest sign of life is a guest?" He asks, a light smirk forming upon his lips.

"It seems as though there is more in common between our two parties than either of us is willing to admit in such an open space. Perhaps we should find somewhere less... public to discuss these matters?" He extends out the offer. Hopefully, the man knew of such a place, though Xehanort is certain that they could find one, if needed. From behind, Ximche just quietly player her fingers along one of her bells, quite clearly not a threat.

[Albert Wesker]

"Yes...she certainly is rather unique." Strange would perhaps have been a better word, but to each their own. In this place the definition of 'strange' was bound to be stretched rather thin on occasion. "Though as you say, in such a place as this...that isn't a hard bar to set. The town is rather dreary." It was somewhat amusing to see the young one flitting and circling around, hiding behind the hunched over form of the old man. Almost like a child hiding and shying away from a stranger.

Though he had only come to this town to do a quick bit of scouting and start his work toward the eventual end goals he had, things certainly did have a way of turning aside. It was hard to tell, at just a glance, whether the inhabitants of this world were among the numerous masses of secondaries that seemed to be everywhere or one of the comparatively fewer primes. Even seeing them in action wouldn't be a surefire way to tell much of anything; there were plenty here, of primes who could do anything and yet were fairly mundane in their displayed abilities and appearance, and equally as many if not more secondaries who displayed fantastic and strange abilities and ostentatious forms of appearance.

It was only the possibility that this old man, given his out of place appearance and the way he carried himself, so completely at odds with the rest of the town, might be a Prime that Wesker didn't dismiss him entirely and go on with his own business. The chance for a potential ally, or even a pawn, was not one to be missed.

"Yes...I suppose that such a public venue is ill-suited to such a conversation," he finally agreed, turning aside and starting to slowly pace away down the street. "I believe such a place shouldn't be too difficult to locate." The town was fairly large, and less than spectacular, but if history was to be believed it had once been quite the opposite. There should be no shortage of suitable places for a civilized discussion away from prying eyes and ears.

[Albert Wesker]

For all its dreary and depressing condition, Darkshire was not without remnants of its once resplendent nature. Only a short while of searching had lead to a suitable place for a conversation in relative private. A tavern, its appearance old far beyond its years. Sagging weathered, worn from the sour weather and condition of the Pale Moors themselves and wearing a veneer of depression and stubborn persistence like those who went in and out of the old structure.

It couldn't have been more than a decade old, and yet it stood like it had endured for a century and change. Inside it was much the same, though in somewhat better shape. The crackle of flames cast flickering, pale light over the rustic interior, in shades of pale yellow and orange. Lanterns hanging from the ceiling, torches set on the walls, candles on tables, and a huge fireplace roaring along the wall opposite the bar itself.

The, apparently, always dreary and overcast weather out made it difficult to tell, but a quick word with the bartender -- a stocky man, who might have been described 'as wide as he was tall' in some fanciful story, stood behind the counter, wearing an expression somewhere between exhaustion from poor sleep and simple resignation that he was never going to get any sleep -- had confirmed it to be somewhere among the hours of late afternoon. The place was, as a result, quite empty, with only a few souls who had little better to do occupying the building. Many of them sat near the fireplace, huddled around the largest and most open source of warmth. They talked among themselves quietly, and despite the many drifting topics of conversation there was rarely a laugh heard.

It was suitable enough. A table in a dark corner served for the purpose needed here.

When the conversation between old man and older man started to roll along in earnest, it became clear rather quickly that there was no small amount of information to be shared. Both of them quite new to the Omniverse, though one of them much more new than the other. A similar mindset became evident, and a peculiar philosophy on both fronts.

But both were equally reticent, and evasive of their true motives.

Wesker idly spoke of his work as a pharmaceutical agent and researcher, developing countless medicinal agents and formula. From simple painkillers to more powerful medications and restoratives. It had been said to border on the supernatural on more than one occasion, and at least the absurd on many others. From the simple First-Aid Spray developed by Umbrella, to their work in combining and tinkering with the natural herbs grown in the Arklay Mountains to develop powerful antitoxins and cures for poison and venom from countless creatures. Cures for viruses small and great, benign and terrible. And even the superhuman formula, engineered viruses to improve and forcefully evolve humanity.

Xehanort, in turn, spoke of his former status as a scholar and researcher. A philosopher, too, peering into the nature of the mind and heart of living creatures. There was power there, in the understanding of others and even of yourself. A metaphorical sense, in the form of simple understanding and the surety it could lend you, but also a very literal sort. Strength of heart was apparently quite a tangible force, in his world.

But beyond such sweeping generalizations and deliberately tantalizing hints as they skirted around the truth, neither was willing to say much of any true substance. Between them, the little girl looked warily, glasses slipping down her nose. Her fingers idly played with the little bells on her person, eyes going downcast as the conversation hit a lull.

For his part, Wesker had turned his attention elsewhere. In the relative quiet, even the hushed voices of those by the fire carried well enough for a truly focused listener to hear them. And as the day wound on, more people slowly drifted in, adding their voices to the sea of chatter that would soon flood the room. With the increase in volume, came an easing of worry and a lessening of the hesitation that kept their voices low.

It became less an issue of hearing the words as it did of understanding them.

The thing that continued to grab his attention when he heard of it, whispered and floating through the talk of a group sitting at the table nearest the fire, was the mention of 'Spencer'. Oswell E. Spencer, his estate, and the work he had done for...Silent Hill.

Many years past, now, but the town was still present on the minds of those who had long been here. Some of the chief residents and founders of that town had come from here, from Darkshire. Well in the city's past, before it had sunk and degraded into this hunched, soured husk.

"I believe...I've some sudden business to attend to," Wesker voiced quietly, after letting his thoughts mull over in his mind for some time. He watched carefully as one of the speakers roused himself from his conversation and headed for the door, before the executive turned his eyes, still shaded behind sunglasses, back to the old man and his young acquaintance. "Please excuse me, mister...Xehanort."

And he rose from his chair, sweeping through the room with all the grace of a cat stalking its prey. Weary eyes glanced up at his passage and quickly back down. Like any other bystander near a predator ready to pounce, they wanted no part in whatever business he was prowling after.

Out the door, a quick pair of tinkling chimes, one just a second behind the other as a bell over the door jangled. The weather had turned foul, rising up into a drizzle that cast the town into a faint mist. The man he had pursued had taken time to pause, tightening up his jacket and pulling it close against the damp chill, muttering complaints. "Couldn't have held off for just another couple a' minutes..." he grumbled, trudging through the already puddle-laden streets.

Behind him, the deposed god stalked after. His stride was even and measured, several paces behind the complaining man. He was in no rush. He would follow this one all the way back to his dwelling, if need be.

Things never needed to get that far, however. After only another handful of minutes, the sky rumbled its fury, as lightning forked and flashed through the clouds. Like the dam had cracked further, more water pouring through, the intensity of rain steadily increased. From a mere drizzle to a heavy downpour. Thick, silvery sheets battered the town, and the number of those loitering on the streets diminished rapidly. Only the occasional guard, muttering darkly at their lot in life as they trudged under waterproofed cloaks, could be seen. Guttering, fitfully flickering torches and lanterns glowed dimly among the downpour, clear beacons to where their holders were.

And Wesker's prey slipped off the main streets, into the winding alleys and side paths. More covered and sheltered under the eaves of roofs and out of the wind on the open roads. Rain fell in light curtains, blew in thin and whispery trails of glass rather than a battering, icy blanket. It wasn't good, but it was better. Better than being out in the open, where rain and wind could mercilessly assault you.

And also better, because the narrow alleys amplified the pounding of rain and the screeching of wind, raising it into a terrible din that drowned out all sound more than an arms' length away.

A perfect situation for Wesker, as he picked up his pace, quickly stalking and splashing through the damp alley to catch up to his prey. "Pardon me, sir..."

"Eh? What's yer..." As an iron grip clamped down on his shoulder, the slightly inebriated man turned around with a grimace, and his irritated demand died in his throat.

Behind his sunglasses Wesker's eyes glowed a dim red. "I would like to have a word with you..." A smile curled at his lips as he spoke. Lightning flashed overhead, the darkened lenses of his glasses turning blazing white. For an instant, the glare of a red, inhuman gaze flickering in the cornered man's vision, before it went dark again and he sucked in his last breath.