For all of his efforts, struggles and the endless torrents of acid, razor-edged leaves and thorny vines, Gourdon was going to lose. Karan was too fast, too advantaged, and too vicious. Every attack he launched at the weavile missed or failed to do little more than shave fur or lightly scratch. Each assault was met with two counters, and they were destroying him bit by bit. Somewhere behind him, Phillip sat, ankles slashed, incapable of walking and unable to help.
Gourdon was going to lose. He was going to die. And so was Phillip.
Karan sprang at the roserade before her and raked her claws against the bouquets he raised up to defend himself, shredding several petals in the process and driving the pokemon to wince. With a cry of defiance, vines tore out of the blooming flowers at the ends of its arms and lashed at Karan - which succeeded only at tossing the weavile back a few feet. With a grin, Karan launched herself at the wall and then straight at the roserade again. The same vines came up and only just managed to knock the weavile away.
She landed on all fours and studied the roserade with an even wider grin. Her opponent was tired. Gashes ran across his body, leaving clear, shining trails that dripped from them. In addition to mounting blood loss, small portions of his body were marked with the unmistakable greenish-browns of frostbite.
A cruel gash marred Gourdon's face as well, and it was through reflex alone that he had not lost his eye to Karan's roserade's breathing was growing more shallow with every minute, and the hapless owner of Cafe Ultimo looked on with abject horror, providing a stream of futile profanity and strangled cries as a backdrop to his pokemon taking ever increasing amount of punishment.
Phillip's hands were clasped at his own ankles to help stem the stream of blood running from his Achilles tendons and his stomach was turning with worry and fear. The weavile was out for blood, and Gourdon had all but lost what he had. He looked down at the pokeball that lay uselessly on the floor next to him and felt his stomach turn several times. He'd unknowingly sent his roserade to his death.
"Someone, please, anyone, help us!" The cry echoed in the empty, darkened cafe and was met with the usual silence. It wouldn't do him or his pokemon any good. It was far too late at night, or early in the morning – it hardly mattered: there were no cars on the road nor any people to save them. Why did he choose tonight to begin preparations to open again? Why did he believe the police when they told him the chances of the murderer returning were nonexistent?
With a great cry that signaled one final effort, the roserade drew himself to his full height and launched a flurry of leaves and a torrent of thick purple liquid at Karan, with vines following closely behind. Though she dodged the acid, leaving it to sizzle through the walls and floor behind her, the leaves cut into her, though only just. The few that struck her torso withered and died within seconds, and instead of lodging themselves into her body fell frozen from her. The vines wrapped themselves around her legs and one arm, but with one still free, she tore the vines apart with ease. The roserade's shoulders slumped, and its chest heaved in exhaustion. His last ditch effort left his opponent with naught more but a few cuts - he, on the other hand, could hardly stand now.
Karan walked up to the roserade with a swagger, and when he launched a feeble vine at her instead of cutting it apart, she grabbed it and wound it about a clawed hand and pulled the vine taut. The bouquet's chest was heaving now, the steady loss of blood taking its hold proper upon Gourdon's ravaged body. Karan was a foot away now and lifted her hand, and with it, one of the bouquet tipped arms of the roserade. She raised her free clawed hand and in a flash of white severed the arm from the pokemon and tossed it aside. The remaining arm of the roserade came up in an instant stem the torrent of clear, glistening blood that ran from wound, and the air filled with the scent of cut grass. A weak cry fell from Gourdon's mouth – a pathetic and pleading one – as he looked Karan in the eyes. Bitter tears of failure sprang up in his own as he thought of Phillip, sitting immobile somewhere behind him, and his own breathing began to grow ragged.
For a moment, the weavile's face bore no expression, but then the her eyes narrowed and a mocking grin alive with pointed teeth spread across her face. The sound of tearing foliage and wet splatters filled the air as Karan plunged a clawed hand into the roserade's stomach.
"NO! PLEASE, NO!"
Karan peered past the roserade at the incapacitated cafe owner and flashed him an even wider smile. The grass-type collapsed against her and let out a wet gasp. Splatters rang out again as she drove her claws deeper into the roserade's stomach, out through his back and a piercing scream of agony filled the air. The splatters became a stacatto on the ground when she tore her claws out and pushed the gasping roserade away, towards his trainer.
The roserade stumbled about, blood and strange organs falling from the gaping tear in its stomach as the remaining bouquet tipped arm futilely attempted to hold them in place. He fell to his knees and collapsed a few feet from his master. A pool of clear blood formed about him and his haggard, gasping breaths slowed and then, after several painfully long minutes, stopped. The cafe owner looked on in paralyzed horror, body wracked with grief, and mouth failing to form little more than terrified sputters before he finally found words to put to his sorrow:
"G-Gourdon, no." cried Phillip, crawling towards his fallen friend, "Please. No. No, don't go." He put a hand to the roserade's shoulder and looked into his glassy eyes. He turned, face contorted into a mix of sorrow and fury, to Karan, and wiped tears from his eyes and face haphazardly. "Why? Why are you doing this?" The weavile watched her remaining quarry silently in response. The smell of cut grass was overpowering now, and the creeping scents of sour, foul odors were beginning to wind their way into the room from Gourdon's innards.
The weavile brought a clawed finger dripping in clear liquid to her mouth and ran her tongue from the base to the tip before flexing all of her clawed digits before him. A soft purr hung in the air.
Phillip's eyes narrowed at the silent display, and with a grief-wracked bark, he commanded,"Why are you doing this?" His entire body shook with fury and his hands clenched together into fists, the shout ringing in the air of the cafe.
Karan was upon him a moment later, and drove a clawed hand into his shoulder and pushed him against the floor, straddling him. With a cry of pain he reached out and grabbed the weavile by the throat. "Get your filthy claws off me you sick fucking-"
With a snarl, Karan drew her free arm back and thrust her claws into the arm that was attempting to strangle her – he released his grip immediately, accompanied with another great cry of pain. The smile had fallen away into an ugly grimace of determination and Karan used the opening to drive her claws into Phillip's eyes. There was a long, carrying scream, masking a vicious snarl from Karan as she forced her claws down until they hit bone amid a terrible wet squelch, and the cafe owner fell quiet and still forever.
Karan dislodged her claws from the corpse and tore open his chest with some difficulty. She had not expected a battle, even as one-sided as it was, and it had sapped her of some of her strength. She let out a long breath and then tore Phillip's heart from his body along with a portion of his shirt to wrap it in. Once completely wrapped, she departed the cafe with hope in her own heart that her king would be pleased.
Vassal stalked into the king's chamber and knelt before the throne. "Mon roi, I have tracked down the ones responsible for interfering in your affairs." He looked up at the throne, bearing a black mass whose surface was in constant turmoil. Three purple lights winked into existence in the center of the amalgam of darkness and shone bright.
"It would seem my forgiveness was not wasted upon you, Vassal." A swell of pride welled within Vassal, crushed immediately when the voice boomed, "And you have seen to their ends? They will not interfere again, yes?"
The man's mouth went dry. "A-ah, yes, mon roi, I…that is, no, I haven't-"
"Then why do you return to YOUR KING?" The very chamber shook with the king's fury. "Are you something lesser than a Vassal? Need I name you PEASANT, and place you upon the same platitude as that insolent shade?" The words rang in Vassal's ears, and each word made his body shiver harder.
The quakes that ran through the ground did not compare to the quaking in his soul as he watched the shadows that surrounded the throne begin to creep out along the stone floor, inching towards him in sinister tendrils until he felt them winding around his ankles. These strange shadows sent his skin into the coldest pits of hell, their weightless touch producing unnatural cold. The tendrils wound higher; they soaked into his very spirit, tearing at the edges of his frail soul.
"It was a mistake, my king, just an error, I did not wish to put right something that may have demanded a royal hand!" The tendril that had wound about his midsection and chest stopped inches from his neck.
"Until the ascension is completed, Vassal, the only royal hands are those I work through you, the ingrate, and the whore." The tendrils began to recede, leaving in behind a horrific burning sensation as the chilled and frayed edges of his spirit came alight with some strange fire that he thought might cause his chest to erupt into flames. Vassal fell to his hands and knees and gasped for air, brow thick with sweat; he did not dare raise his eyes to his king until he had seen the tendrils recede completely back into the light-sapping aura that radiated about his king's throne.
A soft purr hit his ear from a few feet behind him. He sat up in a kneeling position and looked back. "Karan," he noted, doing his best to keep his voice even, "You've returned. With the heart, no less." The weavile gave him a quick smirk and then approached the throne. She presented the heart to the darkness and inclined her head.
"Vassal, take the heart to where it belongs and rid me of those that seek to undo my ascension. Return when that is complete or do not return at all." The last few words dripped with venom and made Vassal recoil.
"Yes, my liege, at once." He inclined his head. "It shall be done, I give you my word." He prostrated himself before the throne and then rose to his feet.
"Your word has nearly run the course of my good graces, Vassal. See to it that you do owe me your soul." There was a pause, and then the voice added, "As for you, whore, you have done well. Assist Vassal. Clearly he requires a more competent hand than his own to guide him." The weavile smiled and returned a deep bow to her king. She turned to Vassal, and her smile came away into the usual smirk she had reserved for him.
Vassal looked past the weavile, back to the shifting mass in the throne and nodded. "At once, mon roi." He looked back to Karan and added, "Let's go." The weavile sauntered past him and familiar scents drifted into Vassal's nose. "You smell like cut grass and copper."
Karan purred.
Ricard set plates of liechi filled pastry upon the settings he'd put out onto his dining room table - one each for Ignace, Charles and d'Artagnan. He poured Ignace a cup of coffee before pouring himself and then returned the pot to his kitchenette. He sat down to the sounds of Charles demolishing his own pastry, and with a slight grin, cracked his knuckles and looked to Ignace. The rogue detective raised an eyebrow and nodded. He picked the remote up off the table and lowered the volume on the television that stood several feet away from them.
"A bit of unusual breakfast news for you. Madame Victoire finally forwarded us payment, and only a month late. With that, we have received the last of the funds owed to us by our clients for the work we performed for them. I suggest we seek to resolve the current dilemma as urgently as we can - my own coffers are, ah, impressive, but not limitless." Ricard took a bite of his pastry and wiped crumbs from the corner of his mouth, then produced an envelope from his jacket. "I was less than interested in finding out how she procured it, before you ask." He pulled a sizable bundle of bills from the envelope and slid them across the table to Ignace. "I've already deducted what you owe for rent."
Ignace took a sip from his coffee and shrugged. "We got paid and she got her shroomish back; that's all that really matters. And thanks." He glanced down at his own pastry and then over at Charles, who had, until that point, been staring at it with a hungry look in his eyes. Crumbs adorned his own plate and his coffee was neglected. He noticed Ignace however and looked away, having suddenly become very interested in the blank wall to his left. With a chuckle, Ignace slid the plate bearing his own pastry over to his friend. "Just ask next time ya idiot."
The bisharp threw him a look of mock offense and tore into the pastry with glee.
"Surprised we got it back in one piece honestly," he signed, looking back to Ricard, "I was under the impression they'd dried and powdered him already." He took a sip from his coffee before continuing, "Change of pace was at least nice."
"You must be enjoying the fact you don't have to put on galoshes and wade through the rouge."
Ignace leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face. "Too much shit moves through or ends up there. People, pokemon, narcotics, fucking weapons - and we're still number one for tourism." He sat up and leaned forward to prop his chin up with his hand. "I shouldn't be amazed people still visit. They hardly know. The extent of it anyway."
Ignace's eyes flicked to d'Artagnan for a moment, but saw only the xatu sitting quite still upon his chair, a half-eaten pastry floating next to him ready for another bite.
"You can thank well-intentioned corruption for that." signed Ricard, his face twisted into a wry smile. "Pay off the right officials and keep your nose clean and no one has to worry. Fatten a few wallets, trickle the rest into the system to keep the windows gleaming, the bakeries inviting and the rouge relatively safe." He rubbed his hands together and then pulled them apart, spreading his fingers wide before signing, "Pure profit, minimal crime, and all the whores and powder you could ever want to spend a vacation inside." He leaned back in his own chair and heaved a silent sigh. "And here we are, hands tied and hearts heavy. Too insignificant to fight the many-headed beast that lurks in the rouge, so instead we help those affected that they may find some small comfort in a city the transients glimpse only through soft thighs, tall buildings and addled hazes."
Ignace finished coffee and pulled a face of distaste into the empty mug - not for the coffee, but the sour feeling in his stomach as his thoughts slipped back in time two years. "I didn't leave Unova for this." He looked up at Ricard. "I didn't bring Ana here for this. And yet, the more things change…"
The deaf-mute got to his feet and went to pour himself another cup of coffee. He signed to Ignace from the kitchenette, "Then you must be quite happy we have this strange prophecy to deal with. I know that I am all too pleased that, as strange as d'Artagnan's disposition has become, it has led us to do something different. Though I fear we'll be back in familiar territory all too soon. Even this so-called king must do some work among the peasantry."
"Yeah. Which is why I have to go back into the fuckin' sewers and snoop around." He looked to Charles. "Ready for more dark tunnels and raw sewage?"
The bisharp frowned and took a sip of coffee in lieu of a response.
"I'll take that as a yes." He turned back to the accountant and after a pause signed, "We-." He paused and sighed. "I want to get Ana back. I know it's dangerous, in more ways than one too, but this kind of shit was where she thrived. Her and that grumpy banette."
"She's not well, you know better than anyone else."
Another sigh. "I know she's not, but she's just out there, sitting by the sea, burning incense, making tags and selling fucking milk." He heaved himself out of his seat and paced the room, pausing only to look to Ricard and add, "This shit is going to get worse. We're already at human hearts on pillars. Strange ghost shit and prophecies, reaper's cloths and vicious weavile. Singular or plural, we don't know. Bringing her here would put her in danger, but it's what she'd want to do."
"That poor woman's propensity for doing all she can to assist has, as far as you have been willing to divulge, not aided her or her wellbeing, Mortician." Hearing d'Artagnan talk after such an uncharacteristically long silence took Ignace aback. "However," he added, now turning to face Ricard, "The Mortician is not incorrect. Her skills are doubtless of use to us and our aims."
"You could be bringing her to her death," signed Ricard, his face stony, "or perhaps something worse. She could be affected in a way that escapes our comprehension, or even our ability to guess. You have said yourself the woman's mental state is fragile enough as it is; are you willing to bear responsibility for bringing her to the breaking point?"
"It's what Ana would want. I'd want her to do the same if the tables were turned."
"I hardly see the reasoning behind bringing the woman here when it is entirely possible that she will watch her lover fail and fall. Or worse."
Ignace looked at Charles, who gave him a determined nod and an affirmative growl. "I've fucked up before," he signed. He traced the scar that ran down his chest through his shirt. "And she doesn't blame me in the slightest. At least I tried." He paused. "She tried. We tried." He gestured between himself and Charles.
"The idea is about as intelligent as tossing yourself to a pack of mightyena while coated in blood. That is my judgment on the whole idea. But if you are so determined, why ask me, Ignace?"
Ignace strode across the room and put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Because I trust your judgment, why the fuck else?" The accountant gave him a grudging smile, and Ignace returned it. "Not yet then. Once we've got a bit more information though, we're getting Ana. Tags alone will be helpful."
"Perhaps it is time you visit her," interjected d'Artagnan, "And take advantage of the visit to procure some."
Ignace turned to the xatu. "You're being awful helpful today, I almost feel bad for flicking you in the back of the head."
"Make no mistake. You will receive your comeuppance in due time."
"I'm trembling." Ignace raised the volume on the television, his eyes catching on a breaking news report. Subtitles trailed slightly behind the newscaster's mouth:
"...in a sorry state. Police have combed the scene and happened upon evidence that they believe will lead them straight to the pokemon responsible for the death of Cafe Ultimo's owner and his roserade. He is survived by his daughter and his shuckle…"
The story was written evasively, likely to prevent panic and outcry, but the two had become skilled at "seeing through the tauros shit" as Ignace called it.
"Look like you'll need to visit Ultimo again and possibly destroy a freshly replaced heart in addition to poking about the rouge." The deaf-mute paused and rubbed his temples. "All your work undone it seems. Unless someone new has decided to capitalize on bizarre, violent murders."
"They're onto us, bottom line. Or someone, they're at least onto someone. This king and his peasantry. They know someone is fucking with them, and after that episode in the spirit world they probably already guessed that it's us." Ignace's gaze flicked from Ricard to the television and he repeated soundlessly, "Police are well aware of how terrible the situation is but are confident that they have deduced the pokemon responsible and are setting plans in motion to apprehend it."
There was a loud squawk, and the three seated at the table looked at d'Artagnan. "There stand five shadows on the edges of the tapestry." There was a pause and the eyes upon d'Artagnan's chest flashed.
"Another chunk of the prophecy?" signed Ricard.
"The flame moves to the edges of the tapestry and sets the fraying ends alight. The flickering shadow of the Mortician's heart blinks out of the cloth and drags with it two forms, dissimilar, but inextricably linked. Far from here, these three forms are, at the seat of the Mortician's last hope: safety. The edges fray more and the flame dies. Out of the dark, new forms explodes. Man and monster."
The table was silent - the light in the xatu's eyes had yet to die. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the glows in the eyes upon his chest faded and d'Artagnan finished, "We are being hunted."
Vassal and Karan stared each other down, waiting on Peasant in the sewers. They were a few blocks from the apartment where their quarry lived. Two men, a bisharp and a xatu. Men were easy enough - sharp daggers and sharper claws. The xatu would pose little threat to Karan too, for the very elements were stacked against its favor. But the bisharp would be the sticking point. They had to be fast, and make such short work of the other three that their full efforts could be focused on the Sword Blade. With the xatu gone, Peasant would be in his own element, and through the three of them they would wear him down.
But more importantly, they required Peasant to even begin their assault, as only he possessed the ability to comb through the building and search out their targets without any within becoming privy to their presence.
Vassal looked Karan up and down. The weavile stood, reclined against the wall behind her, running a piece of leather between her claws. She'd changed significantly since he'd "procured" her several months old uncertainty and comfort found in simple affections had died, and no doubt been replaced by her bizarre devotion to his king. In a way, it was saddening, and yet he knew his king had always meant for her to fall into his grasp. Privately, he wondered how long he'd continue to call her "whore", but he pushed the thought from his mind. He'd seen the small glimpses of power his king could bring to bear, and he knew that it had not been a mistake to choose to follow him.
He pulled his poignard from its sheath and ran a thumb along the flat of the blade. Some strange feeling in his heart reassured him too. Like a soothing oblivion that promised a new eden, hidden away somewhere deep within its black coils.
"I'm here. What do you want?" It was Peasant, materializing out of the wall near them and looking thoroughly disgruntled.
"You're looking for a deaf-mute with blonde hair, a bisharp, and a xatu - they're likely with a man with short, black hair. One of them is named Charles, likely either the bisharp or xatu."
"Then let's get out of these sewers so you can point the building out so we can get this over with."The gengar's face was twisted into a deep frown and his eyes burned with hate as they flicked between the man and the weavile. "Today?"
"Mind your tongue, Peasant," spat Vassal. "Karan, put it away. It's time we clear the foolish obstacles that stand in our king's way."
She complied, and wound the leather strip back into its original form: a strange, simple leather necklace and tied it around her neck. She nodded to Vassal, who climbed up the nearby manhole access ladder and slid it aside.
"Take your time with your investigation Peasant. We will likely strike at night," called Vassal into the manhole. "And do not get caught."
Terrence grumbled and watched Karan ascend the ladder. "Don't need to tell me twice."
"Feeling inspired yet, Viola?" asked Johannes with a grin. He turned his gaze back to the gardevoir that sat across from him in the cafe. Quiet murmurs were all that broke the otherwise peaceful air that had settled over the entire location, and many of the customers in the cafe bore signs of being residents, not tourists. "Lots of picturesque vistas just about everywhere you step in this city."
She nodded with glee. "I'm rather unhappy that I didn't have the presence of mind to bring some painting supplies along with me," replied tones and placid greens in his head. With a pleading smile she reached across the table and seized both of his hands. "Can we?" she asked, dragging the last word out in his head, shifting it from its usual musical tone to an odd sort of ring.
"Monsieur? Your check." The waiter placed a slip of paper down on the table with a nod. His eyes lingered for a second on the pair's hands. A sparkle. "Are you enjoying Lumiose?"
Johannes nodded at the waiter and made for the check, "Yeah, why do you ask?"
"The tourist capital of the entire world, sir. It is only too easy to spot the tourists," replied the waiter. "Though I am a bit curious as to how you found your way this deep into the decidedly less "touristy" parts of Illumis."
"Johannes here was of the idea that we should see parts of Lumiose that tourists don't typically venture into. This cafe seemed like a lovely place to stop and relax before setting out again." The waiter turned to look to Viola and nodded at the beaming gardevoir.
"I hope you both find your stay enjoyable. Please, at your leisure." He gestured to the check, gave them a small bow and left.
Johannes dropped a sum of money on the check and look up in time to see Viola throw a furtive look around the cafe. She took his hand in hers and whispered in his head, "Let's get out of here."
With a grin, he rolled his eyes in mock annoyance and rose from his seat, and the two parted from the cafe, out onto the quiet streets of East Lumiose. Few passersby were trotting along the winding, sunlit sidewalks and most of the cars on the road were not cabs, but personal vehicles. Every so often a rider atop a pokemon would canter past, but this part of town seemed decidedly lonely to the two.
As they walked down the street, Viola's voice came alive in Johannes's head again. "This way dear." She walked ahead of him, tugging him by the hand along a few intersections, deeper still into the east, until most of the buildings seemed to be residential apartment complexes. She glanced about and, after throwing a grin to Johannes, pulled him into a nearby alley.
In the shade of buildings away from prying and judging eyes, the air was cooler, and the alley twisted and branched out before the two as Viola led them down several random turns and then threw her arms around his neck to kiss him. The two rolled against the wall, upright, for several feet before they broke apart and Johannes, through a somewhat embarrassed grin, remarked, "Feeling awful forward today aren't we?"
Viola buried her face into his chest. "I didn't think I'd miss Sinnoh quite as much as I am finding myself to." She sighed and continued, "So I'll take what I can manage outside of the privacy of a hotel room." She reached down and took his hand in hers and pressed into Johannes, gave him a fond smile and added, "Kalos has otherwise been wonderful Johannes. I'm glad we came here to-"
She stopped and put her hand to her head, a look of minor pain on her face. Her brow scrunched together and she stepped away from Johannes, bringing her other hand up to clutch her head.
Johannes stepped forward and put a hand on her shoulder in concern. "Viola? What's wrong?" He noticed the air had begun to cool and the alley itself seemed to darken.
She stumbled away from Johannes and a grunt of pain formed on her lips. The voice in his head was dissonant, cracking and distorted. "Something is wrong here Johannes. Terribly wrong." She stumbled her way to the T-junction formed by this set of branches in the alley and then fell to a knee. Another groan of pain, and much louder now. "We must leave. Immediately."
His breath was misting out before him now and Johannes felt himself shivering. He helped Viola to her feet and put one of her arms around him and hoisted her up by the waist. "What the hell is going on Viola?"
Silence.
"Viola?"
The gardevoir lifted her head feebly and a weak chime sprang to life in his head, "Whispers of the damned, master."
Her own teasing aside, she called him this only in cases of duress. He felt her legs give out beneath her and with a grunt, he picked her up off her feet and made to leave the alley.
"Not another step dawnsoul."
Johannes turned round and felt his blood run cold. A dusknoir rose out of the ground, its gaze fixed squarely upon him. An arm came up and began to glow purple and the lone dumpster that decorated the alley exploded open. A mangled corpse landed between the two. Johannes's mouth fell agape in horror. It looked as if its chest had exploded, and many parts of its body bore strange black and purple burns. It also was also smoking, trails of blacks and purples rising from it in odd spirals and shapes.
"Mockery made of this form, vessel ripped free and body destroyed. The soul of this old dawn lies away from here, bound by a pretender to the throne - seals of dusk and the heart of an usurper. But a new dawn has appeared, to be consumed by dusk and right this wrong." The maw upon the dusknoir's stomach began to open. "Make your peace."