I Dream of Darkshire

[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.