Under the weak light of the last of the oil lamps, put out and then lit anew — unnecessary for sight, maybe, but much welcomed in keeping them warm during the cold nights, which seemed to have gotten only more bitter since the Nightmare Weaver's arrival — the Murkrow stood in a circle, flooding every crevice of an alleyway: while everyone else was asleep, a meeting had been arranged in the deepest depths of the deepest dead-end, and some deal was expected to be concluded between insomniacs there.
"So what do you want? An arrangement of some sort?" Finally, Honchkrow flew in — silent as night — and landed in their midst, raising into the air the layer of dust which had accumulated on the unused road over the months and years and decades, making it sparkle under the rays from the flanking lamps.
He refused to advance any further, making the other raptors vacate his sides and agglomerate in front of himself — where they could be kept an eye on — and, even then, he began to speak again only once he had given his peripheries another series of scouting glances.
"I do owe you all an apology, I suppose," finally somewhat comfortable, he cackled. "I remember saying that none of you had the intelligen— finesse to organise anything more sophisticated than petty theft, and I guess I have been proven wrong: after two years of you lot accomplishing nothing, you finally figured out that you could schedule a dialogue with me," his expression soured, but he did his best to keep in his seething anger at them abandoning him for so lo— at them being so insolent.
Insolence, yes. He was mad at them because they had been insolent and — thus — had obstinately kept themselves from crawling back to him — as they should have! — even after he had warned them that they would be lost without him!
... that was, until now. They had reached out to him again... and... and... he could feel such a quiet contentment spread through him. His spirits bounded high, his spirits... sparkled, shined, he did not know, but he was aware that he was winning. Winning at an opportune time, no less! He needed them.
One concern came to mind suddenly, though, as he analysed each and every bird of his— as he analysed each and every bird. "Only... you could easily be heard here. I do not fear for my safety, as I do not intend to inculpate myself any way whatsoever, however..." the poor fools could've been forced to deal with the warden, and not even due to the contents of the discussion, but over the ruckus they would inevitably cause! "Do consider holding any of your other meetings in the meadow from now on."
"Sure! Sure! Sure!" The birds responded one by one.
"No, you're doing this all wrong!" Honchkrow hushed them — in a still restrained whisper, of course, masterful — making his... the flock recoil in unison. "And they tell me that I speak too much... you are not meant to lose time by showing your intent to assimilate anything of what I tell you!"
"But—"
"You ought to be keeping me guessing and worried! 'Will they do as I say?', 'ought I be worried that they had a reason to make me talk in such an exposed position?', those are all questions which I ought to be asking myself! Do better!"
They considered for a moment, shooting each other glances. Reverent glances. Glances of admiration. It was good that they were willing to take his advice all the same... only because he adored to be adored, of course. They were vermin, otherwise. Traitorous vermin.
"Sure, bos— Honchkrow!"
"You're doing it again! Don't tell me that you'll take my advice, let me talk while assimilating information!"
"Of cours—"
"No! Stop!"
"Aww..."
"That was enough," those hints of being in a good mood during this discussion had gone down the gutter now. He ought to be doing something better with his time at night. "Get on with whatever it is you lot have to tell me."
"Well..." one began, soon regretting having uttered anything at all, as he saw his murder abandon him, retreating away with a hop or two. "As you may know, we aren't on good terms with the shadow—"
And Honchkrow hopped away as well, into the air, attempting to get out of whatever abyss they were trying to lure him into, only for the another part of their flock to emerge from the void of the night sky and intercept him.
"Get out of my way!" He shrieked, now no longer keeping himself quiet.
"Stay!"
"Stay!"
"Stay!"
"Please be diplomatic!" The Murkrow asked, but they had no intention of being so either: when things did not go their way, they took on their usual routine of repeating themselves over and over with increasing volume, and the noise of their cacophony would eventually increase to such a degree where he would have to relent, lest they cause him issues with Gallade.
Gallade, a character whose actions and reasonings made him appear increasingly ominous...
"Stay!"
"Stay!"
"Stay!"
"Fine! What is it?" The raptor reluctantly composed himself and landed once more, returning to the tamed — but now angered — murmuring from before.
"We wish for..." another Murkrow began to talk, only to halt for a moment, just enough to search out whether the collective was in agreement with him being their spokesperson. "We wish for reconciliation."
His eyes lit up. He wanted to cry out with the obvious 'yes'! "Why? Elaborate on your interests. Elaborate on the transaction you're offering. Elaborate on my interests in this transaction you're offering. Now."
A second look to its flock preceded the Murkrow advancing even closer. "Our interest is protection, the transaction is protection in exchange for submission, your interest is our submission, again," it bowed.
Submission.
In exchange for protection.
A return to normalcy.
In such an abnormal situation.
Honchkrow gulped.
And now he wanted to run away again... but they'd do their usual trick... and...
And...
"We saw how strong you've become, chief — at the training grounds, and at the arena — and how brave, as well — at the arena — and we plead for your protection once again," it hopped away and over to another bird, this one shaking, with its feathers ruffled, being stored in a cosy spot at the very core of their group. The first avian put its wings around the other, comforting its trembling friend. "He swears that he was attacked, and we know that something awful happened to him in that dark place he was pulled into, we don't understand it, but we know that Darkrai wishes us harm!"
"He does—?"
"Espurr told us! Espurr told us! Espurr told us!"
Honchkrow, befuddle, utterly befuddled and not knowing what to say, stepped back at the first sight of the rattled bird staggering towards him like one of those vacant Parasect. This was not enough, however, as the Murkrow leapt onto him right after, tackling the larger raptor to the ground.
"Boss, please come back to us! We need you!" It cried to him, and he pushed it away with the same, controlled gesture he would have his subordinates, had they never parted ways.
...
He would provide them protection, but they would also provide it to him... and with reconnaissance included! They were a potential labour pool for any other operations! And...
And...
This was a golden opportunity, was it not? An opportunity he had been craving. Not one to advance his self-interest but... one to advance the only thing he was truly interested in anymore, yet could not quite get right: to be a positive influence on the community. He needed to master that much more quickly now, they needed it.
He had sent his Murkrow to the edges of the woods, he had on multiple occasions toyed with the idea of putting those who irritated him to sleep with Hypnosis — a move he oughtn't have ever learned, and which he would soon do his best to forget — and so, so much more. It had been so long since a death had occurred, back then, they had done well to stave the threat off, but the loss of Bisharp had put an end to that.
Bisharp was not a pleasant Pokemon, but admirable all the same. Much like the chief of the flock. Poor little Ralts had come out of there right after, harrowed... and Honchkrow had shown the sad creature no respite beforehand.
But what if the little Ralts had been one of his brethren, a Murkrow? Would he have gone in after them, to save them? If Bisharp could do it for the village, then why not Honchkrow for the flock, to whom he was bound since birth? He wasn't sure, but... he began to think it best to avoid even getting into such a situation in the first place, to avoid dividing his kin form the village, if the village's protection truly was needed, and its well-being needed to ensure its ability to protect...
The Murkrow did not follow his line of thought, they did not like his change of heart, and he had only responded with frustration towards them. But now... now they had seen...
He had tried to be helpful on his own, yes, and, so, he had let the village use his bank on the night of the New Moon without a fee... it was a minor gesture, but he believed it nice.
During that same festival, he had proposed his aid to Arbok... and then floundered the affair through sheer instinct... curses.
Curses indeed.
After that came the games... he complimented Ursaring on his sculpture... and then couldn't keep himself from trying to rob it.
And then attempted to cheat at the Mareep Stack, telling himself that the toddlers would find it amusing. They did not. Pricks.
He could have taken the opportunity to be helpful the night Darkrai had attacked, but... he was too cowardly.
His idea to evacuate the village had been struck down. He had been far too unconvincing, when everyone would have wanted for his motion to pass.
"Are you... trying to get yourself out of training, or are you setting up some sort of gloat?" Gallade's words were quite upsetting as well...
Even during the stadium he had the urge to help but... but he did help. But it was useless, Darkrai wasn't going to do anything to Gallade... that he was certain of. But... but he sometimes misremembered why he had even attacked. Why had he attacked? With what courage?
...
With the same courage he was going to rely on to protect them, now. "I'm in!"
Generalised jubilation ensued.
"And I have a last scheme to propose to you all, as a treat!" He couldn't keep himself from seizing at the first idea that passed through his mind.
Down the dimly alleyway Morgrem crawled, sliding through the gaps in the walls and up the cobble stairways that lead in and out of abandoned rooms and neglected booths, forgotten nestled between the thick, stone structures of Haven. The motion of his slithering hair cut through the fog and made the fragile flames of the oils lamps dance, with the long shadows they spawned joining along with great elegance.
The growing weight in his chest was slowing his advance, becoming like a palpable mass that would make him lose balance, and sometimes almost tip over and crash against the ground. There was no one, and he was afraid, and his heart was lurching as if there was some thing. The accumulated sweat of fatigue and anxiety slid down his forehead. There was no one. The tensing of his muscles, arms, legs, fingers made the sprint on the rough, cold sett all the more excruciating. There was no one. He did not know how he knew, but there was no one. He did not know what he feared, but there was no one and there was some thing.
Morgrem stopped, right in front of an opening to the Town's Heart, and to the sea of fog that had overtaken the Town's Heart: there was the motion of the haze, but he had seen something else, as well... no, he hadn't seen anything at all, but he knew that it was there, that some thing was there, stalking and watching. It was stuck with him.
Suddenly, he was in the middle of the Town's Heart, the alleyways and streets were no longer places for him to hide in and gaze from, but for some thing to lurk away within, and to glare back at him. He was vulnerable. Dread gripped his throat. Pathetic, incoherent yelps and gurgles began to seep out. He scurried a few steps back, to the entry of a random alley behind him, before lunging for the comfort of its wall.
No, that wasn't enough: he would climb it as well, his fingers scraping against the painful stone of the building, up until he reached the overhangs, into whose wooden supports he planted his talons, and whose sharp splinters planted themselves into his talons. Again, he yelped, but could barely feel it anymore. What mattered was that, from there, he could see all that the mist drowning out the village would allowed: there was no one that he could spot, was the most important observation, no one he could spot, only some thing he could sense—
There was someone!
Before he had even made put who it was, his hairs grew and wrapped themselves around him, overtaking arms, legs and chest. It was Endure, and Miss Leavanny had taught him him always use it before any situation he thought would maybe be dangerous. Only then did he dare look back to the silhouette piercing through the fog. He squinted: Mawile!
The goblin's mane let go of the overhang, the claws of his fingers and feet dislodged themselves, and he ran down to meet her, before... again, he abruptly halted, halted before her vacant eyes. Again, the same dread began to course through his veins, as he gaped on at his friend, standing just a few, tiles away, the mechanic wave of her hand shearing the flow of the mist.
"There you are!" She called. Her voice was different, and perceiving the difference made his face slowly fold back into a trembling, disgusted grimace. "Come on, already!" She gestured towards an alleyway — as if he was supposed to know where they were going — an alleyway much darker than the others, leading not only away from the square, but... down, deeper, each row of its surrounding cobblestone becoming darker than the previous, plunging.
The buzzing that pervaded the air made his head hurt and ears fold, the armour of his Endure tightened, braced itself. "I... I have other places to be, I'd... I'd rather not follow you."
And follow he didn't, Morgrem even took a step back, and then another step back, and then it took three steps forward. Her expression turned sour, and disappointed, and angry, and he retreated onto his overhang, making sure that his eye hair was well tucked away up there during the agonising moment of its approaching further.
...
Its eyes... it up? No... she was scared, her eyes had widened with a realisation, but...
But...
The ground boiled black, a trident rose up, dark and fine and with its three teeth writhing and spiraling like tendrils at one time, and trembling and twitching like the many legs of an insect at another. The column ascended and coagulated and extracted from the crack in the pavement yet more boiling ooze, overtaking the area around Mawile in a crescent.
The clawed hand forwards and down, its sharp talons slowly descending onto his friend like a cage.
Mawile screamed in a voice not her own — fear made certain that Morgrem's wouldn't even manifest for a whimper — and attempted to escape — the goblin was paralysed, the burden in his chest now sinking him into the ground — only for her to abruptly join him in both, becoming suspended mid-air, silent like a statue.
Her still vacant eyes gaped at him for a long few seconds — still frozen in a running motion, with one leg off the ground, her jaw raised in the air — before her lips first twitched, and she then began to speak once more: "It'll take me if you just cower, so come closer," the paralysis broke, and she leaned towards him, with hand outstretched. "So come closer and help! You'll have a lot of ways to be helpful and brave!"
The triune spears were still descending around her like an acute trap, but Morgrem had no will to do anything at all, not even for her... it.
"Well...?" Her word trailed off. "I'm giving you an opportunity to be brave!" His friend's hand shot forward to try and catch his arm, but slowly enough for him to dodge. Mawile would have used her jaw. "I can help you in many more ways, make many more... scenarios! There's much to do, much that can be done, much that we can make happen!"
"No... I refuse!"
"This was a simple chance to be brave," were her last, nonchalant words before the claws' grasp finally closed down on her, striking like lightning and pulling her into the depths of the inclined alleyway, displacing tiles and ground, as they dragged his friend into the abyss.
...
There was silence from Morgrem, and there had been a terrifying silence from Mawile. The goblin's ought to have been a guilt-ridden one, but... no? She hadn't screamed, he did not feel guilty. Why did he not feel bad? His friend... had...
"Morgrem..." Leavanny now whined, emerging from a foggy alleyway to his right, and swiftly making her way to the stretch of the Town's Heart that had been scraped by the talons. "You abandoned her!" Her line of sight followed the markings to the stairway into which Mawile had been pulled, before turning back to him. "This was a golden opportunity to be courageous, dear, and you squandered it!"
"I..." the goblin pulled on his hair, before pointing to the pit behind her. "I... it just— it— it just took her! Why are you mad at me for this? Let's help get her back instead! We need to get Gallade! Ursaring! Let's not just stand around!"
"You do that, dear," she grinned, stepping over and gesturing to the darkness. "You go and help her, I believe in you. We'll help you have fun, back there, as well! It'll be fun, but also helpful, you will get to act the way you always wanted to. To be seen the way you always wanted to. Be brave on your own just this once — follow her — and we'll help you be brave every time after!"
"Wah— no? Miss Leavanny, please help get her back!" He whined. "I can't go alone!"
She stared.
"Please," a tear began to form. They were abandoning her! He couldn't go alone!
The bug's eyes widened. "Are you sad? Do you need comfort?"
"Y—Yes..."
She stretched her arms open, all the while taking a step back, down towards the abyss. "Come and I'll give you a hug, and you'll get all of the comfort and safety you need. Is that alright, dear? Do you want us to help you feel safe? Just that? Come on," she took another step back, and then another step back.
The goblin wiped the coalescing water off his cheeks and nodded. "I... yeah..." he took three steps forward, and from above Leavanny descended the looming claw. Its grasp crushed his fingers against one another, reducing his bones to shards and rending his flesh, the urge to cry out drowned by shock. A single tear had time to rush down his face, before as he was pulled under.
Gruesome. So much so that Darkrai was left agape for a moment, even after it had all come to a close. It made his skin crawl, as if it was some vile little Joltik infestation, the painful stinging remaining after the fact. These nightmares were detestable, these last few days more than ever!
...
Well, he could not exactly make such a broad statement, when he was in the midst of finding a positive use out of them. And speaking of finding, he now needed to find her.
And it would not take Darkrai long to stumble upon... some thing, to say the least.
Down the inclined alleyway he descended, trailing after the goblin and it, with the fog and darkness becoming much denser the deeper he ventured and, in tandem, the disposition of the surrounding bricks repeating itself, yet with each of its blocks becoming more even, taking on a yellow tint, flashing with symbols even he could scarcely register, before they faded the next instant.
As somber and murky as it was, however, an outline became apparent all the same: that of a serpentine, black tendril, slithering by the corner and into the depths, leading his way down the abyss, and then to itself, the amorphous, fanged, clawed, and many tentacled beast at the bottom of the pit, grasping a mangled, decaying mass in its skeletal claws.
Bothered by what he knew it to be, the Nightmare Weaver looked away, and his eyes fell onto something else, when the rapid shift of his attention tore a hole in the Dream Realm: Espurr, even more perturbed than him, floating through the dark void outside.
Right, the Morgrem had been a figment of the dream's construction, the emotions he exhibited were hers. It was her nightmare, after all. The centrality of Morgrem was odd, but... then again, he knew well that she cared deeply for her friends, and had them on her mind often. He had experienced that first hand.
He approached his friend, cowering there, in the middle of the air, floating through the blackness while curled into a ball of fur, with her little paws covering her eyes, though they would sometimes become transparent at random, and she would once more recoil and swirl around, emitting faint squeals.
"Espurr," he uttered her name, giving his friend a moment to register his voice.
Her distraught, little eyes widened, and hovered up to meet his own. The distress mildly subsided, and she weakly waved at him.
"Do calm yourself," Darkrai gently cleared her tears, and ran his claws through the fur of her head. She purred. "Are you well?"
She blinked a few times, looking around herself — upset — into the surrounding void, which the scene of the Blightwoods she knew all too well was beginning to overtake. Her gaze veered back to him, and she rubbed her head against his hand. "I'm alright... much the usual, as whenever we meet," his friend gave a nervous giggle. "Somewhat frightening. I even forget what it was that happened before I went to bed, which is quite frustrating."
"Of course," suddenly, she found herself sitting on his coiled tail, and him leaning against a tree. Much the usual, as whenever they met. "Do assure me that you do not believe me responsible... right? For the distortion... in the meadow, I mean to say."
"Oh, I know," even if her tone was rather dismissive, she ended up losing herself in thought, fidgeting with his plume. "However, what if you were?"
'But what if he was'... Espurr... no... "Pardon?"
"Well, you've done plenty of rather dumb things, so what if you did end up doing something like that, for some reason? Everyone would get mad at you, and I'd need to look after you some more!" Ah. "That does not mean I would not do it, however!"
"Oh... so you still do trust me, correct?"
"Of course, silly! So much trust here!" She tapped her chest with both hands. "But what I meant is, if you get accused of having done it, then what do we do? I believe that you did not do it because you said that you did not, but then who else could have? It looked like a Shadow Ball, but it just... stayed there!"
A thought crossed Darkrai's mind. "Do leave the handling of the situation to me, for the moment. However, if I truly was causing... issues for your village, for no discernible reason whatsoever, I would not want you to aid me in doing so, no."
"Right, right!" She nodded. "But if it wasn't for no reason, I should trust you, right?"
"I... probably. Though I'm not wholly certain," the wraith laid his head to rest against his hand. "I would advise you to advise me to give protracted consideration to any risk-filled maneuvers of mine you catch a whiff of. I have been rather... incompetent, throughout these last few... these many situations."
"Well, we're progressing, are we not?" She put her paw to her lip. "Well, with some problems starting now, but we were doing pretty well, and Gallade doesn't think it was you, yet!"
'Yet'. Still, they still had made good progress indeed, against all odds, even. He could rest easy knowing that he was neither unconscious or severely injured now, so, for so long as he was in a position where he could freely exert decisive, physical power over them — so long as they could not effectively threaten him — Darkrai was in a secure position. He had a baseline: they couldn't end him, and would likely not try to.
"Aww, come on," she now placed her little paw on his claw. "Who was it that told me to be patient with them, now?"
... and, in front of them, the Dream Realm conjured a moving image. Them.
"Oh?"
"And, while I have never been an accepted member of the community here, I've watched it from afar for a century now and know how it operates," the him of the past boldly declared to the her of the past. "All this to say that you don't need to worry too much about what they think of you now, it won't be indicative of your treatment in the long term. Give it some time and, even before you evolve and this all stops being a problem for you, they'll accept you, I'm certain of it."
It was their first moment together, in the same place, that spot in the Blightwoods which he had done well to simulate as a setting for their talks... he had been proven fairly right, he would say. Even though the Nightmare Weaver had approached her, that she had claimed to be its friend, that it was 'kind' and 'good', the village had never quite turned on her — as he had once feared, not even Gothitelle had openly attempted such a thing — only questioned whether she was being deceived, tricked.
That meant something, did it not?
"Another thing you said was that they're quite very hospitable, eventually," she continued on, leading him through his memories, as if this were her realm and not his own. Her dream, yes, but all dreams belonged to the Original One foremost, to his sister second, to himself right after, and to the dreamers only finally...
All the same, he saw as it twisted itself to the memory of when he had uttered that observation and reassurance.
"You didn't cause this, of course, and we've made them realise that they were wrong on much, much... much..."
"More important things? More complex things? Much harder to disprove things?"
"Yes! Much harder to disprove, like you not actually being evil. It worked well! We can do that again, and this time we already have a few Pokemon who trust you! And since you did not cause this whole mess," Espurr wrapped her arms around herself. "We'll eventually understand what did, or it won't matter anymore. One or the other, and both are quite good options!"
"Right..." to figure out what or who did it, or why it happened, or... all such questions which implied him doing more than waiting around and hoping that it would not continue, would be the goal of this night... well, the goal was to begin hammering away at the task, at the very least. "I do already have certain initial steps in mind for an investigation," the tree and ground began to meld into Darkrai, who got up and rose into the air, as if emerging from a pond of ooze. "I shall conduct it right away and return to you with the preliminary results."
"Ooh! Do tell when you return!"
With a gesture of the hand, she now found herself among those carnival games of the New Moon Festival, standing before the Mareep Stack, statuette of the sheep in hand. "Amuse yourself for the time being. Concentrate on keeping the games simulated and on remaining lucid."
From the darkness of the alleyways they slid into the almost equally somber town, overtaking its heart like a flood of shadows, slithering below benches and porches, sailing up walls and down roofs, going invisible — one with the night and obscurity — so soon as they halted at their designated locations.
The Tailwind in support of their operations subsided, once the vanishing act of the flock of Murkrow was executed and, now, another herd of shadows — much smaller — slid not into the Town's Heart, but away from it, back into the alleys: these phantoms were feathers conjured with Feather Dance, and they were the signal to the rest of the murder that the area was clear.
Signal received, Honchkrow and the remainders of the pack entered the operational zone, him with none of the secrecy of the others, simply landing and then waltzing into the middle of the scene. The prime perimeter had been secured, it was now time to commence the second phase of the mission: while he had promised them adequate protection, Honchkrow was not certain whether he could offer it, yet.
What he was certain about, however, was that the Life Orb held a certain potential which had captivated Gothitelle, frightened Gallade, and motivated the Nightmare Weaver into action, attempting to acquire it. He knew not how great this potential was but, even if possessing it would not wholly shield them from harm, then it could be offered to Darkrai still, in exchange for a pact of non-aggression. That was the theory.
He fired off a volley from Feather Dance in turn — with his subalterns narrowly dodging — to communicate the beginning of phase two. His 144 Murkrow had been divided into 3 Wings of 48 birds, and those further into 4 Squadrons of 12, and then those into 3 Flights of 4 Murkrow. The entire 1st Wing had been left in a dispersed, sentry role throughout the length of the village, the 2nd Wing would remain close-by, as a reserve force, while the 3rd Wing and its subdivisions would be the ones to carry out the retrieval of the object of interest from Gothitelle's Sanctuary.
Honchkrow and the third grouping moved in, but with less nonchalance this time around: for they were right next to the objective... and the designated enemy. Gothitelle was in her tent, that much was a certainty... but it needed to be a double certainty, and her exact location within it — whether in the core room or the antechamber — was required to be one as well.
The 25th Flight — 9th Squadron, 4 Murkrow — was assigned as a special task force for the occasion, moving in closer to the periphery of the tent. The first bird, the Flight commandant, listened closely for any immediately suspect noises — there was nothing — and then the supporting and central operatives got to work: one rose the drapes of the tent, and the other stuck his head inside to gather visual and auditory intelligence.
Once his head and then half of his body were inside, under the cloth of the establishment, the formation was slightly altered, as planned: the supporting bird kept the gap open, the last of the four grabbed the first's tail in his beak — prepared to reel him in, at the first sign of trouble — and the commandant placed himself beside them, ready to use Mirror Move.
If the Murkrow inside saw someone, then he would use Nasty Plot — a move limited to the confines of his mind, imperceptible, which prepared him for potential conflict — and the outside commandant's Mirror Move would conjure similar negative thoughts as well. If the antechamber was clear, the agent inside would summon Calm Mind, and the commandant would calm himself in turn, in preparation for a delicate order.
The moment of truth came, and said commandant's facial features lightened, and his feathers smoothed. In other words: he had calmed down. In further other words: they were golden.
A motion of the head signal to reel the bird back in, the task force was removed of its functions and authorised to rest. The initiative would now be Honchkrow's: he would enter with an escort from the remains of the 9th Squadron, right after they had all used Calm Mind as well, preparing themselves for the fine mission.
Four birds took to the sky and held up the drape with their beaks, while their chief strutted in, with the rest following suit, immediately sticking to the corners of the room, henceforth ready to support their operation with an attack, if need be.
There was no one but them in the antechamber however... but that did not stop one of the birds in their ranks from starting to jitter and flail around, suddenly afraid of something. Honchkrow acted fast with a Mean Look to freeze it in place, and then a Quash from its compatriots assured that it would remain neutralised for the duration of the mission.
It was the one raptor which had gotten stuck in the netherrealm of that portal Darkrai had probably conjured in the meadow...
Well, he had not the time to interrogate the sudden hysteria right away, of course, they were so close to their goal, dangerously close: with the one Murkrow having been restrained, he could now clearly hear Gothitelle mumbling something to herself from behind the fine drape separating the entryroom from the core.
At this hour of the night, still? For shame. Luckily, there was a contingency for it, one he had always used sparingly, and kept from his kin, in case they would accidentally divulge it.
Speaking of kin, Honchkrow soon joined them, melding into the corner of the dark room by the doorway into the main chamber.
He cleared his throat.
"Gothitelle?" Gallade's voice suddenly echoed through the drapery. Echoed... it shouldn't have echoed there.
A long silence.
"Ga... Gall? Gallade, what are you doing here...?" Her voice was weaker than Honchkrow would have thought. The need to sleep was an odd one indeed, one he could barely grasp.
...
What was Gallade doing there?
"I... uh... Isn't it obvious?" He got a hold of himself. "Get out right this instant!"
"Fine... don't let yourselves be seen," she attempted to whisper to... someone, but it was quite obvious.
Eh?
Silence.
"I said... not to let yourself be seen, you idiot... I... I don't want to have to spend the rest of tomorrow explaining the why and the how of this," her voice from the other side of the celestial cloth went mute once more, and from the core of the Sanctuary came sounds of shuffling, scraping, gathering, before something was locked, and out stumbled Gothitelle, unwittingly passing beneath Honchkrow's pack, clutching her forehead with her palm, seeming like she had overdone it with the Odd Incense once more...
... there was no such odour of incense in the air, actually. Was it the need to sleep, then? Not that he would know.
She joined first the antechamber — seeing none of his birds posted there, nor himself — and then the outside, calling for the warden, who was not outside, and never had been.
Keeping his voice mimicry a secret had proven an arduous task indeed, but that it had come into good use — and that not even Gothitelle knew of it! — was a far more delicious victory than every opportunity that had come and gone to humiliate Chatot and his own, apparent 'skill' combined.
His grip softened, and he fell to the ground, quickly acting to move the drapery and enter the main tent.
"HONCHKROW," Gothitelle — eyes gushing with a fountain of energy and her voice resonating like a Noivern's — abruptly warped in front of the avian, the recoil from fright made him lose a few dozen feathers — scattering them into the surrounding air — and crushed his throat into silence.
He was petrified in motion. He couldn't move, and she didn't move. His sights could only instinctively retreat away from those of the banshee and, in between the sobs and gasps for air, he glanced left and right for his family — his tear-filled eyes begging for aid — only to see them suspended in the air like him, above the flowing grasslands and below the rainbow moons they now found themselves — all of them, every dark-type in the Sanctuary — over and under.
Lost, with nothing else to turn to, his vision slowly veered back towards Gothitelle out of a morbid curiosity — towards her still shrivelled expression, as if the moment between her shriek and him looking away had not passed — and her blinding eyes swallowed him.
He was made to know that around him there was silence. The deep, heavy silence of the bottom of a body of water.
And, then, he was made to know that there was the distant, approaching rippling of a stream.
And, then, he was made to know that he had already been helped.
And, then, he was made to know what was being proposed to him now.
And, then, they knew that he had accepted.
And, then, he was back in the Sanctuary, holding up the drapery of the entryway from the antechamber to the heart.
There was no longer need for any complexity, the order was simple: march.
And, so, they did, hopping in a disordered column into the core of the establishment. The ground had been twisted and pored, exuding multicoloured fumes that rose, glazing the surrounding cloth and furniture with crystals, coalescing into stalactites overhead, before dripping down to form stalagmites on the floor... but they did not care.
A pervasive sense guided them through the maze of formations and dance of rainbow exhaust, up until they reached a shelf, itself half crystallised: the Life Orb was there, on the middle one, though there was nothing spherical about it anymore, it was a searing, blackened, and dissolving mass.
Still, Honchkrow had been made to know that he needed to take it, and, so, he did, rolling it down onto the floor and across the room — followed by his Murkrow — to the next location he had been made to want to arrive at: a small drawer, one that was entirely closed and locked, but which he could still see into, as if the air was bending to show him the sandstone tablets — engraved with letters and symbols — inside.
With a stroke of the wing he pulled them all out of the closed box, and onto the floor. The Life Orb fell alongside them, and the last flame of energy it had within itself flared magenta again, boiling its way out of its cocoon.
The aura sheathed the ground and runes, and the Murkrow began to drive their beaks into the slabs. The rhythmic tapping reverberated through the otherwise silent night with increasing intensity, soon being joined in by the sound of sizzling and cracking and, eventually, of chirping and gurgling.
The smoke of the Life Orb's power subsided, and the second of the living symbols rose into the air. It opened its eye, staring down at its liberators. Soon, another rose. Soon, they had all risen, and V made himself visible and joined them, and only the excess shards of their prison were left behind, scattered between the feet of the suddenly nervous flock.
They weren't meant to have let themselves be seen, he was made to know.
Just as suddenly, there were deafening shrieks from the letters, and blinding, white lights, drowning out the Sanctuary. The rhythmic tapping of their beaks upon the sandstone had been replaced by the plummeting of the now unconscious birds, one by one, onto the floor.
With every second, it rose. Rose by but a centimeter, but rose unopposed, bubbling and boiling the grass and plants and doors and windows, searing through the stone of the houses and walls of Haven, dissolving and devouring them into its ever-growing self, the bursts of fumes ascending to shrivel the few trees tall enough to have thought themselves out of harm's way and to disfigure the hitherto untainted upper levels of buildings.
And it had done all of that to the villagers, too. Those villagers who had been dancing and chanting in those inundated trees but a few, short moments before.
All of that to all of them... except the Murkrow — mourn, almost lifeless, immobile on the overhangs and roofs, staring down at the dark ooze overtaking what was their home as well — and Scyther — mourn, uncertain whether he would soon become lifeless himself, whether the entire village had become lifeless, immobile, with talons firmly planted into the structure of the summit of the library — all of them left to watch as all of that unfolded and all that they loved was reborn as a monotonous sludge.
The black sea jumped by a few meters, to the very edge of his roof, the alternating heat and cold it gave off hit him like a shock wave, Scyther's heart jumped out of his chest, and he into the air, with the Murkrow dispersing into a screaming cloud. It rose faster, more, swallowing the establishment whole, and the disoriented Scyther tried to do the same as them, to fly away from there, already dreading where he would land, and hitting bird after bird with every confused, erratic movement.
Suddenly, the black raptors stopped their frenzy, and shed their feathers into a whirlwind. Slowly, they coalesced into a single, looming, mountainous silhouette.
"Greetings," the cyan eye appeared at its crown, and Darkrai's voice echoed through the now silent void. He gently took Scyther by the wings and set him back on the ground — an endless, nighted expanse of dirt and pebbles — shrinking down as he did so.
The bug leapt back and away from the Nightmare Weaver, but turned around only to see himself back in the middle of the sky, above the boiling pool, feeling his tired wings give up. He fell, yet somehow he could still look away — mid plummet — and back to the Moonshadow: the grim thing was hovering there, listless, with its single eye piercing through the darkness of the night, and skewering the bug with a gruesome stare.
"You will not fall, no," it told him. "I am sorry to bother, but may we converse on an important matter?"
Scyther gave his surroundings another look, wishing to escape, but there was only forest now, endless forest, he knew, one that he would not be able to escape, nor hide in, he had been made to know.
"You are dreaming, yes," it continued. "As for my request?"
"No, get out of my head!"
...
The monster glared, calculating. Scyther wanted to cry.
"I am sorry," its words now echoed, the void was being granted form. Darkrai's retreat into his typical stature was undone, and the Nightmare Weaver was the size of a distant mountain once more, everything but his eye fading to an abyssal black, the folds of his plume, his long claws, his cloak becoming all the more serpentine. "But I do not have time for this. Truly, I would not enjoy such a conversation, and neither would you," his tentacles overtook the lands. "Let us get this over with quickly."
The fields. Scyther was back in the fields. The... sterile, gray fields, through which even the slight breeze was howling a deafening cry, with the morning's cold and humidity gnawing at his eyes, legs, abdomen, and every body part his carapace did not cover. He would fly, but his wings were included.
Fog had overtaken the lands, it had overtaken everything, and it was becoming deeper, darker, solidifying its dominion behind and around him, in all but one direction. A row of blue eyes shone from his left to his right. He would run, but he was not allowed to, and so he marched faster, his breath becoming short, his exhales and inhales frantic, as if drowning. The horizon was getting darker, his vision blurring.
And then he was fine. He had been brought where he needed to be. He was among Espurr, Mawile, Morgrem again, before the... the it... the...
"The spatiotemporal distortion," Darkrai said.
Yes, before the spatiotemporal distortio—
"Alright, actually, here's the game plan!" He felt himself be lead to say. "Morgrem, run off and—"
Morgrem faded into invisibility, and yet his voice could still be heard for a short moment: "And alert Gallade, got it!"
"Alrighty then..." Scyther responded, confused by... what... had just... nothing out of the ordinary had happened, he could carry on, he was made to know. "Mawile, I want a Misty Terrain up, just in case this stuff's poisonous or something."
Scyther suddenly felt proud, he was made to know that his forethought was commendable.
"Wait, what do you intend on doing?" A worried Espurr asked... again.
"Espurr, get to the other side of this thing, in the air, and be ready to catch anything that shoots out of there with your telekinesis," Scyther was warped back next to the orb. For a third time, he felt like he couldn't breathe, but.. this once... it was being caused by himself, by his fear, he... he knew where this was going, he would not return into there again. No. No— A mass formed in his throat, he was choking on it, it was a worm, slowly burrowing upwards, through and out of his neck, filling his mouth until he could no longer keep it in. "I'm going to try and thrust myself into whoever's in there," he vomited it out. It was a sentence. "If I'm fast enough I'll hopefully be able to get to the other side with minimal damage and resistance, understood?"
No. No. No. No. No.
It began, he could feel it, but he would not allow himself to reach its end.
He was forced to use Agility, but did not allow himself to concentrate.
He was forced to use Laser Focus, but did not allow himself to stare into the darkness.
One Quick Attack would not knock whoever was in there out, this would not be a one second adventure, he would not be able to get out, he would get hurt, it was worse than being burned, poisoned, whatever that thing had done.
He did not allow himself to budge, he would not carry out the events again. One by one, he was taking back control of his body.
"Hurry! Hurry! HURRY! HURRY! He's stuck! He's stuck!" The toddlers chanted in unison, but he would not move, he knew what was happening, he would not move.
And the children went silent.
"You are testing my patience in a time where I have very little of it to spare," Darkrai materialised. The world froze and became more somber. "Your lucidity throughout has been a major annoyance so, my condolences," he was paralysed, it grabbed him by the head. "But you are going to have to go forward with this, and let yourself be devoured by the anomaly."
The claws blocked his vision, but he could feel himself be risen into the air. His jaw clenched, his muscles tensed, the motion towards his left began, before the Nightmare Weaver would throw him into the pit of horrors to his righ—
A white light rocked the dream, Scyther shrieked, feeling a great fire overtake him... Darkrai shrieked, and was burned away.
The Moonshadow was expunged from the shadow he had been lounging in, and crashed against the trunk of a tree.
Dazed and tired, the wraith got up, rubbed his head, sat down on the rare patch of green — one whose colour he maybe could have appreciated, had it not been the middle of the night — and heaved a sigh of... it was not relief, no, though he was happy that was over with.
The wraith had not been relieved of anything but having to torment Scyther, and that only meant that he would now have to worry about everything else once more. It was bothersome to do, to scare the poor fellow in such a way, but he knew that it would have lasted far too long for him to have attempted and established an at least not thoroughly unpleasant dream... frightening him into submission ought to have been the easiest path forward. The one task he had managed to identify in this quagmire of confusion had just been failed, he was even quite sure of what information he wanted to get out of him.
That they were hiding it meant that there was something, right? Had he just shown himself to be imprudent on that front, as well?
He was lost. He was sluggish. His investigative talents had corroded, as had every other aspects of him by that point. He had truly become worthless...
He looked to the sky, to the stars, to the moon. He missed her...
Good grief, he hadn't been given the opportunity to wipe Scyther's memory.