Ignace splashed water onto his face. He'd turned in far later than he intended the previous night, having spent most of it deliberating on d'Artagnan's cryptic advice. "Kindling" as he called it, could hardly have meant actual material to burn. He sniffed and brought a razor to his face to shave. "Then again, he really could have meant, hey, just bring me some fucking sticks," he mumbled to his reflection as the razor removed the stubble on his chin. He ran the razor under steaming water and continued shaving. "I've got nothing in the way of leads though. I could just check the crime scene again I suppose." He set his razor down. It was likely the police would be investigating the scene for most of the day, and possibly even well into the night. He turned about and went back out into bedroom. It was still worth it to stake out the location – perhaps their investigation would finish early.
He peeked through his blinds and scowled. D'Artagnan was right, it was indeed raining out there. He pulled out a coat alongside his clothing and thought longingly of a cup of coffee and a croissant from one of the many cafes he'd pass on the way to Cafe Ultimo. He stopped by his front door and pulled a duckbill cap and a brown medium-length wig from the drawer next to it. He pulled the wig over his short black hair, adjusted it in the mirror above the drawer and then fixed his hat. If this was anything like the last time, it was highly unlikely that the police had a particularly effective sketch of his face.
Ignace popped the last of his croissant into his mouth and stared out at the street. Most of the early morning traffic had cleared, leaving only the occasional pedestrian out and about. The majority had their heads bent against the pounding rain, and some had clearly been caught unawares by the weather as they ran from overhang to overhang. He tore his eyes from passersby and glanced down at his watch. It was only eleven in the morning, but it would be worth a quick glance at the alley, right? He finished his coffee and thanked the waiter on his way out. The loud patter and pleasant scent of rain met him immediately and lifted his spirits somewhat. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but somehow, he felt that checking on the alley would be worth it.
It was. The scene seemed to have been completely cleared of police and prying eyes, though Cafe Ultimo was closed. He crossed the street and strode up to the entrance of the alley. With a furtive look around, he walked down it, heading towards the dumpster where the body had been. The overcast skies left the alley darker than it would usually be at this time of day, and the patter of rain would hopefully help muffle his own footfalls.
Here it was, the spot where that poor soul died, though no sign remained. Ignace frowned and strode down the end of the short alley and then turned about. Nothing. He rocked forwards and then backwards on his feet hoping to catch something he'd missed. Still nothing. He sighed – perhaps it would have been wise to ask d'Artagnan to have come along with him; he'd have some idea what to do, yes? He strode back to where the body once laid and crouched down to stare at the unusually clean concrete. There should have been stains, even faint ones. He ran a finger across a patch of wet concrete and mumbled, "Maybe they pressure washed it? Blood was fresh, might not have soaked in proper- what?" He lifted his hand and watched a dark patch of deep red begin to expand across the surface of the concrete.
A strange sense of dread filled his stomach, and the air became thick with the scent of death. The patter of the rain seemed to die out, and the winds stilled, replaced with oppressive, thick loathing and blind rage. Ignace scrambled away from the spot and tossed a pokeball out. "Charles, defensive stance, something's on the way to fuck us." The bisharp materialized and raised its bladed arms up and dug its feet into the ground with a growl of affirmation. The patch of deep red bubbled out of the concrete. "Blood?" muttered Ignace incredulously. "How?" The patch bubbled more and spat out a formless figure that slowly coalesced into the shape of a dusknoir. The temperature in the alley dropped considerably.
A glowing red eye fixed itself upon Charles, then Ignace, and then a deep, raspy voice filled the air. "Taken. Lifeblood soaked into the earth, dusksoul taken by the King. Fortress unassailable, souls stolen away, swirling reliquary lost to time." Charles took a step towards the dusknoir and grit his teeth. The reaper ignored him and pointed to Ignace, "Are you Kingseeker, dawnsoul?"
The detective stared back at the dusknoir, visible confusion etched upon his face. "I have no idea what the fuck you're saying," he said at last, "Souls? Kingseeker? The hell are you talking about?"
The dusknoir shuddered erratically from top to bottom, and the temperature in the alley dropped considerably. "Knight of the Kingseeker: the dusk beckons. Rage and loathing of lifeblood; dusk consume the dawn!" The dusknoir lifted a scrap of cloth, tugged from somewhere unseen and dropped it into the puddle of blood below him. The blood bubbled intensely and the puddle grew in size before ejecting several shuppets and duskulls from it. They fixed their eyes on Ignace and Charles and charged them.
Ignace tossed another pokeball forward and called out, "Arcanine, give Charles a hand!" The imposing canine materialized before the approaching wave of ghosts and, after a howl of intimidation, shot a billowing ball of fire at a cluster of shuppets, setting them all ablaze. Deathly howls pierced the air, and Ignace saw the smoldering remains of the pokemon drifting to the ground, extinguished upon the wet concrete. Several avoided the gout of flame however, and took to assaulting his arcanine with a flurry of attacks, knocking it about and eventually over. With a howl of pain and frustration, the arcanine rose to its feet and launched a much longer gout of flame from its mouth, sending more smoldering shuppets and duskulls to the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the puddle beneath the dusknoir begin to bubble intensely again.
Meanwhile, Charles deflected attacker after attacker, bladed arms seemingly sucking the light from their immediate vicinity, sending many of them rebounding away from him in pieces. There were still too many, however, and several shadow balls connected squarely with his stomach, leaving him doubled over and wheezing. Suddenly, Ricard's prior insistences on training more than just two pokemon for combat haunted Ignace. The deaf bastard always won out in the end. His hand made for his drifblim's pokeball but faltered - it would be as effective as an actual hot air balloon right now.
The pokemon swarmed about Charles and closed in, launching still more volleys of dark spheres of energy at him. They closed in further, obscuring his frame from Ignace's eyes, who launched himself forward in a vain attempt to pluck his pokemon from the assault.
A great groaning sound akin to tearing metal rang out, and the shuppets and duskulls went sailing away from Charles, thoroughly perforated. The bisharp fell to one knee, a grimace of pain etched across his face; metal burst was not a particularly pleasant technique given how much punishment it demanded for effectiveness. It looked to the dusknoir along with Ignace's arcanine and rose unsteadily to its feet. The ghost stuck out its arm, palm facing the ground and let out a low groan. The cloth it had dropped into the boiling blood began to lift itself out – as it floated closer to its hand, the puddle began to calm and changed from a deep crimson to a pitch black.
"Impressive, dawnsoul," it moaned at last, "But the dusk is inexorable." A small mote of deep purple rose in its fingertips and fell onto the cloth, which responded by emitting a brilliant purple wave of energy. All around Ignace and his companions, the broken and burnt bodies of the shuppets and duskulls began to shudder and reform.
"Fire blast him, the cloth, fucking anything!" shouted Ignace in a panic, "Charles, night slash the fucker!" A massive burning symbol flew at the dusknoir, with Charles following closely behind, arms shrouded still in an aura of darkness. The fire blast connected first, sending a plume of flame exploding outwards from the pokemon, and out of the flames Charles drew a long slash across the dusknoir's midsection. It pulled the glowing cloth from the air and balled it up in its hand. Before him, the dusknoir drifted down to the earth, the gaping tear in its midsection radiating the same curious purple aura that had surrounded its fingers. The reforming shuppets and duskskulls shuddered and collapsed into similarly colored motes of light, and the dusknoir slipped slowly through the concrete to the sound of a long, rasping moan.
Ignace ran up to Charles and knelt beside him. "Nice going there Charles," he said with a pat on its shoulder, "You managed to grab that cloth too. Might come in handy if we hand it to d'Artagnan. You doin' alright?" The bisharp nodded and handed the cloth to Ignace. "Perfect," he began, but was interrupted by a low whine and a nudge against his back. He looked back at his arcanine, which stared back at him with drooping, expectant eyes. "You did fine too," he said, amused, "I didn't forget." He rubbed the side of the arcanine's face and ruffled the wild mane of fur atop its head. The pokemon's eyes brightened and it barked happily in response. "Let's get back to d'Artagnan and see what he makes of this weird piece of cloth."
Weird didn't exactly begin to describe this curious cloth the dusknoir had left behind. It seemed to be almost lighter than air, catching on the light breeze simply walking about with it in his hands generated. The faint purple glow that surrounded it would intensify for a brief instant at seemingly random intervals, and other times it seemed as if the glow had disappeared entirely from it. The simple act of holding this cloth alone filled Ignace with an odd sense of dread and fatigue, and he swore he caught the old scent of death on the wind at times.
He turned the cloth over several times in his hands, eyes poring over the frayed ends, wayward threads and curiously intact and smooth span of the cloth. He wasn't too sure what drew him to it, other than a desperate desire to find something, anything that could be construed as kindling, and the cloth certainly had some kind of odd power imbued into it with how much it made that weird pool of blood boil. He looked about the street, up at the dark grey skies and the now pouring rain and frowned. For one, the cloth completely repelled both blood and water. He watched the drops rolling freely down and, after a few seconds, tried to rub a droplet of water into the cloth - but it simply broke apart into smaller beads and slipped off all the same.
He crossed the street and looked up at his looming apartment building. Ricard or d'Artagnan would know something about this, he wagered: they were always the ones to dabble more in the occult and its history. It wasn't so much that he didn't set store by the concept of ghosts, ethereal energies, and lingering spirits - the existence of some particularly stubborn ghost pokemon made sure of that - but the shadier aspects of occultism left him doubting. Summoning rituals, arcane circles, the theatrical grandstanding of sacrificial offerings, and all the trappings associated with everyone one of those so called "occult practices" seemed unbelievable. He ascended the several sets of staircases to his floor and made his way down the hall to Ricard's door. After several pounding knocks against it, the door cracked and a bloodshot, unamused eye peered back at him.
Ricard opened the door proper for Ignace, revealing his crumpled bedclothes, stubbled face and drooping eyes and signed furiously at him, "I may be deaf, but I'm not numb. You're going to break my door off its hinges at this rate you brute. As it stands, I was sleeping, I'd expected you have guessed as much after last night." He bent forward and pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation, head shaking slightly.
When his colleague had stopped being disappointed in him, Ignace signed his apology and offered the cloth to Ricard along with an explanation of what happened in the alley. "Sorry, I forgot that you might have turned in late trying to figure this out too." He pointed to the cloth he'd handed his friend. "But I think we've got something a bit more pressing on hand. I have no idea what the hell it is that's happening here really. Guesses, and maybe some really good ones, but just guesses," he explained, "But I know this thing has some kind of crazy fucking power, or at least I'm thinking it does, seeing everything that it did. Anything in any one of those books you've got on ghost pokemon or something? And where's d'Artagnan?"
He crossed the threshold and scanned the room; the foyer of the apartment remained largely unchanged, though he did notice several more books scattered about, likely all dead ends with no real information for Ricard to relay to him. A few cups of half-drunk coffee were sprinkled about as well, lending the entire room the delightful scent of coffee - soaked thoroughly into the air several times over to the point of being overpowering and slightly sickening.
He turned to see a figure emerge from Ricard's study, as the ruffling of feathers and an angry clicking answered him. "I was resting from the considerable amount of duress I put myself through last night reading the tapestries, but you have done a splendid job of seeing to the end of that," replied the xatu, the echoing tones of his voice thoroughly irritated. He landed beside the two and flapped his wings in annoyance. "Nevertheless, I made a promise to Ricard and I intend to uphold it. What did you procure?"
Ignace gestured to the cloth in Ricard's hands and said, "Cloth. Ghost cloth or something. Not sure if it burns, but I was hoping this might have been the kindling you were talking about. Any thoughts?" He looked between the two. "Either of you?" he added in sign.
Ricard and d'Artagnan made their way to a bookcase towards the back of Ricard's apartment, in his study proper and began scanning the myriad of books. Personally, Ignace found his friend's affinity for texts to be a bit off-putting. They gave his study an incredibly imposing air, as his not inconsiderable wealth allowed him to purchase shelves that ran from floor to ceiling. Stranger still was Ricard's insistence on keeping his bed in the study, where it clashed horrifically with the rest of the room. His eyes lingered upon the deluge of books upon his bed (and spilling out from underneath it) and wondered if Ricard even slept in his bed some nights.
"What exactly was it that dropped this cloth, Mortician?" called out d'Artagnan from the shelf.
Ignace snapped out of his reverie and joined the two in looking the shelf up and down, eyes scanning for any title that might help. "A dusknoir. A really cryptic dusknoir. No idea what it was talking about," he explained. He tapped Ricard on the shoulder to get his attention and signed, "Mentioned dusksouls and dawnsouls, maybe dusksouls are what they call themselves, I don't know - either way it didn't take to Charles cutting it across the stomach too well though. Bit odd I think; never thought ghosts bled, nevermind purple energy."
"Antiquated terms for the living and departed," replied Ricard, "I believe it has some link to an old order of faith that existed in the Kalos region several centuries ago. Remnants are all we have left of them. It is a coincidence more than anything that the pokemon and term share a word."
"If this is true, then you have come into contact with quite the ancient being, Mortician," added d'Artagnan. He almost sounded amused. He went on, "And you have slain it?"
Ignace pulled a book labeled, Discourses on the Departed: Examining the Trinkets of the Dead, from the shelf and shrugged, signing, "Doubt it. Charles got a really good slash across its stomach, but I seriously doubt that he killed it." He set the book down and opened it to its table of contents before adding, "But it did let out some weird, long moan, so I could be wrong. You want to ask Charles yourself?" His hand went for the ball at his waist.
"That may be a good idea, yes," replied d'Artagnan. Ignace obliged and tossed the ball out towards the xatu; with a flash of light the form of a bisharp materialized before the bird. "Thank you. Charles, I have a few questions, if you don't mind my asking." The bisharp responded by crossing its arms and giving the xatu a meaningful look and a sharp nod. "Splendid. As far as you know, did you kill that dusknoir?"
Charles looked taken aback, but his gaze hardened almost immediately as he shook his head, uttering a grunt of denial. His vocalizations were coarse, punctuated with sharp stops, and to Ignace, almost entirely nonsense. The detective's eyes lingered on his pokemon as Charles gesticulated, tone rising and falling as the bisharp recounted what Ignace imagined was his take on the fight. He turned away and flipped through the book before him - this was d'Artagnan's territory, he'd fill him in on the specifics of what Charles said afterwards. Body language only got him so far. He would busy himself instead with attempting to find some mention of anything a dusknoir would keep with it. He flipped to the index of the book when a voice spoke out.
"He has given all he can, I think," said d'Artagnan placidly. He looked at the bisharp and clicked his beak approvingly. "Thank you. You can return him to his enclosure if you so wish, Mortician."
Ignace waved the comment off. "Grab yourself some food or something Charles," he mumbled, "Stretch that leg out or something if you really don't want to bother going to a Center." The bisharp nodded and made for Ricard's kitchen. "Anything interesting?" he asked, glancing at d'Artagnan for a moment after scanning the index. "Something we can maybe use - ah, dusknoir, perfect." He leafed through the pages, looking for those noted as bearing mentions of dusknoir.
D'Artagnan flapped up to the sturdy cedar table Ignace was using to pore over the tome. "To an extent," he said, somewhat unsure, as he shifted aside a short stack of books. "As far as he knows, the dusknoir was injured, but not killed," he continued, "But he did have something curious to say about the cloth. You said holding it made you uneasy, yes?"
"Hah!" shouted Ignace suddenly, "Got it! Listen to this!"
"When it comes to the discussion of the reaper's cloth, it is necessary to first examine Dusknoir.
Dusknoir are known for their fascination with death and the spirit world, and some are seen to be responsible for ferrying souls to the afterlife in traditional Kalosian lore. Legends speak of dusknoir acting in a more sinister capacity, appearing at the site of the deceased, opening the ominous maws upon their stomachs and supposedly consuming the spirit energy of the soul that lingers within the body. Though this legend is the most widely circulated, there are those that paint the dusknoir is a more positive light, seeing them as guardians of the departed, easing the journey of the departed to the world beyond our own.
Another even less prevalent view of dusknoir is one endemic specifically to the kingdom that once occupied present day Lumiose - tales spoke of dusknoir as neutral agents of death. They ferried spirits tirelessly and emotionlessly, and avoided contact with the living. Their neutral disposition has led to long forgotten tales speaking of foolish humans attempting to appeal to the emotions of a dusknoir and finding themselves injured or slain when they impede its single-minded mission.
The reaper's cloth, then, is a modern day item with roots in an ancient trinket of the same name - these curious purple strips of cloth were said to harbor the very essence of death within them. Some tales mentioned that they were made of material found only in the realm of spirits, while others explained them as the customary shrouds placed upon the deceased, but twisted and imbued with eldritch energies. The cloth itself was fabled to be alight with the whispers of the dead, and it supposedly filled any human alive who touched it with terrible dread and a sense of impending death. Some tales say the cloth could kill any human or living pokemon that touched it, and the more hysterical variants speak of death from simply witnessing it.
Today, reaper's cloth is notable for being heavily imbued with ghost energy, and it is a favored item of the duskull line - indeed, an evolutionary link between a dusclops holding a reaper's cloth and a dusknoir has been drawn many times over by several notable researchers that have studied pokemon evolution and evolutionary catalysts. It is, however, an otherwise moderately unsettling but largely mundane piece of cloth, no different from one imbued with psychic or dark energies. It is largely believed that the reaper's cloth of legend is much like the cloth we have today, though perhaps more strongly soaked in ghost energy, and surrounded with that powerful hallucinogen, superstition.
As such, in the modern age, these tales are thought to be products of a time when the dynamics between Trainer and Pokemon were non-existent, and the more dangerous species that roamed the world were not so easily tamed -"
"Alright, then it just trails off from there into looking at other shit, but damn, this is helpful, isn't it?" he said after finishing the entry. He looked between Ricard and d'Artagnan. "Oh crap." He signed at Ricard in apology, "Sorry, I read that aloud, here, read it yourself."
Ricard waved the book off and signed back, "Don't worry about it, d'Artagnan was kind enough to translate for me. You've certainly found a reaper's cloth. The only issue is if it is this so-called 'eldritch' trinket or just a cloth that has been particularly inundated with ghost energy."
"And if it is the kindling we require to continue our investigation," added the xatu shrewdly. "Moreover, if it is indeed what we seek, there is the matter of discovering how we are to burn it. In a manner of speaking."
Ignace closed the book and looked back at the shelves in Ricard's apartment. Several stacks of books sat beside some of the shelves, as there was no longer any room to store the mute's ever-expanding collection of texts. He gestured to the shelves and the stacks and then signed, "So, do we keep looking? Or is this enough? I've got a lighter on me I can try using, but I doubt we have to literally burn the kindling."
The xatu clicked his beak in agreement. "I believe it was, as many of the visions that befall me as the Conduit are wont to be, a metaphor. A means to relight the flames that guide us, a way to prevent this other force that would keep the tapestry shrouded in the dark from hindering us," he mused.
Ricard dropped into his chair and signed to d'Artagnan, "How do you propose we use this cloth then?"
"The text that the Mortician read offered one idea as to the origins of these strips - burial shrouds. It would struggle to cover my entire form, but a single part, in that respect it is more than adequate," explained d'Artagnan. With a flourish, he raised his right wing. "My right eye." He turned to look at Ignace and added quickly, "Not the one in my head. The one I bear upon my chest."
The detective frowned. "Wouldn't that just blind you?" he reasoned, "Don't you use that thing to see into the future?"
The xatu flapped its wings in annoyance and said exasperatedly, "The world of mysticism is not bound by the laws that govern the mundane. Blinding oneself to see, that is but the surface of paradoxes that I have contended with. Have you learned nothing of the cryptic messages woven into our fates?" His wings settled next to his body. "A shroud, yes, but if this is a shroud then it is not one designed to blind me to the workings of the tapestry, but rather one to act as a disguise. Not an invader upon the house of this strange entity, but a welcome guest, clad in the fineries expected of those blessed with an invitation."
"Quite the leap of logic, d'Artagnan," mused Ricard, a slight smirk on his face, "You must be rather excited. You're usually quite fond of Ignace's cold reason."
The entire body of the xatu shuddered in indignation and ranted, "Cold reason helps us only so long as the relentless tide of the unknowable is kept at bay! Cryptic musings, flashes of insight and glints of possibility fall into the world of the mundane, where the skills of the Mortician are tried, but applicable. Now, however, with this cloth, with the wild speculation and legends that surround it, we move from those shores to the surf of the occult! Now, Mortician, shroud my eye that we may see if precious reason or bold intuition prevails!"
Ignace looked at Ricard who looked back and after a beat shrugged his shoulders in a way that told him, "Might as well." With a sigh, Ignace knelt before the xatu and draped the cloth across his body, letting it hang across the right eye on his chest.
There was a brilliant flash of purple light and the room exploded.