The sun rose, the villagers awoke and Darkrai slithered down the hill, filled with more confused emotions than he could name.
The anomaly in Espurr's dream hadn't been the end of his troubles, and — quite frankly — he had been given no reason to assume that it would be: the Nightmare Weaver had suffered another nightmare right after it, of course, but this one particularly odd, in what seemed to be a running theme of unusualness.
There was a precursor scenario, but he did not remember it. All he had were vague recollections of being distressed in a... very familiar way. Its beginning was perhaps far more orthodox, simply put, but then that feeling of discomfort faded in the middle of the night... no, it did not fade, that was the wrong word to use. It was truly ripped away from him.
Its departure was accompanied by the sensation of drowning, which would then linger until the morning. Drowning, yes, he felt as if he was submerged throughout his sleep — mayhaps because his cavern was more humid than usual... which it was not, he had checked right after the fact — and there was continuous, frantic splashing, echoing on and on and on...
There was also a harrowing caw... almost definitely a leftover from that Honchkrow, which he had left to... drown, in that ooze...
Right, that was it. Leaving the Honchkrow behind felt wrong, he had fallen asleep with this sentiment in mind... it felt wrong, but he did not know why, he ought not care so much care for an illusion within his dream... yet... abandoning the avian felt wrong.
Darkrai had combined dream realms on accident and on purpose before, but Honchkrow could not sleep — he was an insomniac — so there was little chance that he had fallen victim to a nightmare, which would then have been fused into Espurr's, unless he had been knocked unconscious... and there was no reason for that to have happened, no.
That would be all the time he would have to reflect upon it, however, as, now, he found himself at the entrance of the village again — well, the 'entrance', they had likely not intended for anyone to be passing in and out of the gaps between the stalls of the marketplace so often — something which would seemingly not fail to spike his anxiety every morning.
The wraith clenched his fists, cleared his mind, and penetrated into the insides of Haven, only to be confronted with... greetings.
"Good morning, relieved to see you awake," Kricketune took the moment between tunes to exclaim, Oricorio, likewise, between her dances, Pumpkaboo did the same, waving with her appendage as he passed the Murkrow's shop, and Arbok hurriedly repeated it before slithering into an alleyway.
The tone was awkward every time, yes, and justifiably so, he would dare add: one had to consider that the relief mentioned was meant to be due to the recipient not having been torn from the world of the living during his sleep by the Nightmare Weaver and he was, well, the Nightmare Weaver.
That being said, once the slight bemusement over the usage of the phrase had fully faded, and Darkrai was again on his way towards Leavanny's abode, it would not cease to warm his heart, to make him sparkle with joy, with every repetition of it in his mind. 'Good morning, relieved to see you awake!' There he was now, receiving the same morning greeting as anyone else would, the one they would mechanically repeat to those they considered dear to them, their friends.
What was it that they wished each other before sleep? 'I have faith that you will awaken'? Something along those lines. They had many such phrases, and usually those they were directed towards would be numb to those words by now, but not him. Darkrai was seized by them so thoroughly that he could not stop himself from colliding with Ursaring.
The bear spun around, ready to snarl, but stopped himself immediately, and instead frowned at the Moonshadow.
"Good morning... Ursaring, relieved to see that you are... that you remain— that you are awake," Darkrai stumbled through his words, levitating backwards as he did so, to put a prudent distance between himself and the potential foe. All the while, he was desperately searching for something to look at, instead of being forced to lock eyes with the ursid: Ariados, behind him, had now set aside the pile of wooden planks he had been carrying to also gape at the Nightmare Weaver, whose gaze quickly veered away from this second stare.
Behind even Ariados, however, was something of note: the small stadium, made even smaller now, half of its structure fissured and twisted, made unusable, the next quarter reduced to rubble and scattered, uneven timber, and the last one as not even that, having been thoroughly dismantled and then cleaned up.
Ursaring followed the phantom's line of sight, and then turned back, once he saw that it was simply the arena he was fixated upon. "Yeah, I've been awaken for a bit now. The usual for you?" The bear asked further, frustratingly stumping Darkrai with just two words! And the utter lack of care from his part for who — or what! — it was he was talking to made it all the more befuddling!
"What is that you mean... by that, exactly?"
"I'm asking you whether you're going to Leavanny's," the response managed to both be relaxed and stern at once. The tone most similar to that of those overconfident, feral dragons he would sometimes have the misfortune to meet, when on the quest to find a new lair for himself in some recluse cavern. "In which case, don't bother, half the place was ripped apart—"
"Pardon—?"
"Don't interrupt."
"E—Excuse my impoliteness," Darkrai bowed.
"Yeah, sure," he gestured his head at Ariados, signalling to the spider to return to work, before continuing his talk with the Nightmare Weaver. "As I was saying, Espurr did the usual last night — and at about thrice the severity than usual — but no one got hurt because Leavanny was still awake and not at the Shelter, so don't worry about that, blah blah blah. Basically: nothing happened, there's just half a Shelter now, so I have more stuff to fix, and was told to tell you this so you don't panic too much. Get to the library, Leavanny will meet you there, and stop bothering me. Got it?"
"I..." this demeanour of his was thoroughly off-putting, best to make haste and leave, and then reflect upon it, free of its presence! "Thank you for... the information, Ursaring, do have a pleasant rest of the day," Darkrai gestured goodbye as he retracted his legs and hurriedly rose into the air.
"Yeah, yeah, have fun arranging books by colour, or whatever, while I exhaust myself carrying around tons of wood," were the bear's last words, right before he returned to picking up the remains of the amphitheater. Scarcely comprehensible to the Moonshadow, as was Ursaring in general.
Was Ursaring simply... that way, with anyone and everyone? With their demon, even? Was he devoid of fear altogether? Or was this some form of convoluted strategy to ensure his own survival? Or simply a courageous facade, meant to intimidate the Nightmare Weaver into thinking twice, if he were potentially malevolent?
Granted, there was no reason to fear Darkrai... no, there were reasons to fear his presence, but not to fear him ever inflicting voluntary harm upon them... no, still not, there were legitimate reasons to fear his presence, and to be prudent of his intentions, but he would not harm them willingly. Perhaps Ursaring had better sensed that than anyone else. Than even Darkrai, if he were them, and not himself! Because the wraith was certain that he would be a thousandfold more cautious of himself than they were currently being.
Perhaps Ursaring was simply self-assured in being right before anyone else... because he was right, Darkrai was no threat, of course... wait, no, he was not a voluntary threat, no.
Once again, the Moonshadow was snapped out of his thoughts, though this time not by a collision with someone, but by the exclamations of a certain someone: "Darkrai! Good morning!" Leavanny cried and waved, apparently having rehearsed her salute well enough beforehand to not accidentally err towards the same conundrum over its meaning that the others hadn't managed to avoid.
Behind her, as well, was a scene of note, though not of a derelict, circular stadium, but rather one that was quite rectangular: the library of Haven, a building composed of a towering, three-story, main body, and then a long, lower one, stretching along the Town Square, donning the signature, slanted, blue roofs of the village all throughout.
Once he had approached sufficiently, however, and that his gaze fell back onto Leavanny, onto the bags beneath her eyes, and onto her wilting crown and antennas, Darkrai was struck with immediate worry, as well as a swelling guilt.
"You seem tired, I... hope that you did not experience any nightmares," Darkrai was unsure how to go about comforting her in this situation, except by doing what she would usually do, and gently placing his hand upon her arm. "My influence does not reach Haven when I am in my woods, but I do realise that it is me who is... indirectly causing most stress and anxiety within it, all the same."
"Dear, don't worry about it," she reached forwards, her leaf-hand expanding to wrap itself around his forearm instead. He did not protest, her touch was pleasant. He was not the one in need of easement, he had thought, but... he did feel his nerves calm, and a tension whose presence he hadn't even been aware of begin to fade. This was pleasant, yes. "I just... didn't get much rest this night, what with Espurr having an outburst at midnight, but, again, don't you worry about it. It happens sometimes, and no one got hurt."
"I am aware, Ursaring alerted me to this, and... it is highly likely that she had that outburst following a talk between her and me in dream, during which I lost a degree of control over the... imagery, and... well... well, it spooked her," the explanation — granted a very mediocre one — perplexed her, so he decided to tread on. "May I know where my friend is now?"
"Oh, Espurr... isn't here right now, dear," Leavanny responded. "She was pretty bummed out because of, well... you know, so she decided to go down to the fields with Scyther and Morgrem for the day—"
"Of course, I had assumed so, could I go and meet with her there, then?" He asked, assuming the answer to be an obvious 'yes'.
"No," no? "Well, not ideally: we both agreed to have you visit by Lampent and Mothim's for the day. They have a few questions they believe you hold the answer to, on the subject of the village's history. Espurr insisted that you talk with them without her being there... and that you would enjoy it quite a bit!"
"Oh..." he wanted to meet with his friend! "Very well... if she truly did insist upon it."
"Can you promise that it is docile?" Was Lampent's scattered question. 'Scattered' because he had been locked in a struggle with Mothim, who was sticking to his face, seemingly wishing to impose herself between her 'boo', as she called him, and who else but Darkrai.
'It', still? He was still and 'it' to some of them? 'Docile'? Of course he was docile, but he was not some feral! Discomfort had been swelling within him since they had gotten there, mounting with every, little detail about their demeanor around him he would notice. This would he hard to bear. Without Espurr, this would be hard to bear indeed.
"Oh! Oh... ahh," it was made all the worse by Leavanny stumbling over her words and then turning to him for a response. He was not the most adept at these situations either, but it was not hard to say 'yes' in this situation! The answer was obviously 'yes'!
"There is nothing to fear, no," Darkrai replied for her... and she was meant to respond for him, admittedly. "I... simply wish to aid you with whatever it is that was arranged... to the best of my abilities," a sentence he added onto there, which could potentially help him escape any situation too unappetising.
"Welp, I do have to go now!" Leavanny declared, throwing a glance at Lampent and Mothim as she inched back towards the doorway.
"Oh?" Darkrai did not know whether to feel betrayed, because she was leaving him all on his own, or puzzled, because she was not leaving him all on his own, but rather with two Pokemon who had little reason to be comfortable with this arrangement.
"Ursaring needs my help stitching up broken stuff at the stadium and back at home. We can't have Ariados doing all the work, can we?" She didn't even entertain any idea of him being a danger to them. He appreciated the trust, but... it did not feel deserved, not yet, at least... and it was a betrayal all the same! "Do have a good time, dear!" The door was delicately closed before the wraith could add anything.
Darkrai moved closer towards the duo he had been left with — because what else was he meant to do in this situation? — causing Mothim to let go of Lampent, and instead assume what was clearly a battle-ready stance in the air, right next to him, with eyes narrowed and wings folded towards the Moonshadow.
"Alrighty, then, let us get to work," Lampent — now finally free — increased the distance between himself and Darkrai, and then rubbed together his appendages, producing multiple, small balls of flame — Will-O-Wisps — once his arms opened again.
The troupe of shining, blue orbs rose into the air and began their dance through the dimly lit library's main room, spiraling around the wooden supports and between the gaps in the railing, before some halted their motion in front of specific tomes and scrolls in the shelves of the first floor, while others ascended to the second or third levels of the building to do the same.
Once Mothim had noted their locations with her eyes and antennas, the orbs dissipated, and she flew up into the heart of the tower instead, darting the designated objects with a series of String Shots. She then pulled the whole back towards her, assembling it as a pile, finely wrapped in silk, which she had enough difficulty holding that it prompted Darkrai to come to her aid, only for him to be denied the opportunity with a hiss and retreat from the insect's part.
"Thank you, honey!" Lampent at least flew up to take the heavy load from her, summoning another Will-O-Wisp soon after, and sending it gliding down the length of the establishment this time, into the darkness of the nearest section. "And that's the last one I need, please do get it so we can get this all started with."
"Will do, boo!" Mothim shot another, distrusting look at Darkrai, and off she flew again, following after the brightness that was now scaling up the shelves at the end of row.
"We oughtn't even be using these moves, in normal circumstances, but, in the depths of the library, we have our own laws," Lampent giggled at his minor infraction.
"I would not be gloating about such a thing."
"Ah... well, please, do not alert Gallade to this," the specter's snickering abruptly stopped and his eyes widened. "But, well... anyhow, I very much did want for us to meet much sooner than we did, however... she took a good bit of convincing, she would bounce between being grateful and being overly cautious — for my sake, of course, she is so loving! — and that made gaining her approval even more complicated than if she were unflinchingly against it at the start, I would say."
Darkrai did not know how to respond to the initial issue, nor the change of topic, so the silence left Lampent to veer his gaze back at the moth. "Is there any progress up there, honey?" He called.
"Yes, yes! I'm searching for it, I'm searching for it, boo!" She responded, even though she would glance back at them every other second, far too nervous for her lover's sake to even concentrate on the task at hand.
"Bah!" Lampent sighed. "Let me get this sorted, then!"
Within a split second, the purple light at the corner of his eye vanished, and then reappeared at the forefront of his sights, up there where the insect had been but a mere moment ago. Ally Switch, would be the wraith's first guess... and he now found himself isolated with Mothim besides him, as Lampent began to rummage through the shelves instead.
Her eyes locked onto his, and she began to stare at him in an unnerving — and unnerved! — manner. "You know... I'm very happy that you helped Lampent..." after a long, silent stare, her voice quivered, it was barely noticeable, but it quivered. "But I will cripple you with Poison Powder if... if you now betray our trust and try and lay a finger on him."
"You are welcome, Miss Mothim," when there was neither Espurr nor Leavanny to guide him around this sinuous conversation, he would simply go through, full speed ahead. "I am very happy to be able to help any one of you, whenever and however."
What was he even doing? There Gallade was, sprinting into action, fighting the Nightmare Weaver, having the courage to challenge it to duels, having to confront it daily now! Meanwhile he was off cowering in a field at that same time, at the same frequency!
...
The nightmare where he had torn Gallade to shreds was unbearable to even think about... it felt so real to him... so, so real. He had told himself that he would avoid having to experience that again at any cost, he would avoid Darkrai altogether, at any cost, until he left... but, in doing so... in doing so he had left Gallade behind, abandoned him to deal with Darkrai all on his own, Gallade to take care of everyone else all on his own, Gallade to take the risk of actually being harmed all on his own...
He had been facilitating the very thing that had tormented him! His hiding was endangering Gallade!
...
He had been turned into such a coward.
He had been broken. One nightmare — accidental, even, if Darkrai was to be believed — was all it had taken to turn him into a little Sobble...
What was he even doing?
What was he even doing, come to think of it?
The brief self-reflection allowed Scyther to snap out of his torment, noticing that the entire pile of hay he had been holding onto had been all but entirely scattered along the ground, with his loosening grip as he boiled being to blame. He sighed, and began to pick it back up, his clawed hands not the most appropriately shaped for doing so.
"You aren't well," Morgrem commented, abandoning the plant he was attempting to make sprout with his powers, to instead crawl over to the bug. "What's up? Sit down and rest up in the shade if ya' aren't well. The heat can make ya' faint!"
"Is he unwell?" Mawile — who was a short distance further in the field, collecting forage in her jaw — had her attention piqued in turn.
"Nah, I'm fine..." he thought about it for a second, looking down to the yellow fodder. He couldn't help but feel both enraged and guilty from the sight of it. "But I will take a short break, continue on without me, I'll be right back," Scyther flew into the air and onwards to the tree up the field, mumbling to himself 'can't even do this right' all the while.
Up the slight incline and below the one tree, underneath its shade, was first sat Espurr, frustrated with herself and lost in her thoughts, and now Scyther, frustrated with himself and lost in his thoughts.
"Still feeling bad about it?" He dared to ask the furball smaller than his foot sat beside him, after a brief moment of silence, of hearing her rub tears off of her eyes.
"Uh-huh..." she curled up her legs with her paws. "I could've hurt someone again... I really wish I didn't have these powers, I can't even go to bed in the Shelter without causing issues... I could've passed the day with Darkrai, otherwise..."
"Say, what did happen in your nightmare to get you so frightened?" Uncaring for most things at this point, Scyther dared to ask. "You said that the Moonshadow could mostly keep it in check otherwise, yeah?"
"Mr. Scyther, we aren't supposed to hold conversations about your nightmares, do you not remember?" She murmured.
"Who cares? Genuinely, who cares about micromanaging our safety at this point, when we have him skulking about, anyway?"
"He isn't unsafe to be around!" All of a sudden, some dynamism returned to Espurr. "And if you truly want to know, in my nightmare I got sucked into this place where there were a lot of glowing crystals, and there was a Drifloon who took me by the leg and then also a Chatot screaming at me, and then a sludge started to appear and it wanted to eat everything... and then Darkrai saved me, because of course he did! And then I woke up! So please be a tad nicer to him, alright?" She sat back down and pouted after her long diatribe.
"That's great," Scyther responded, taking in a deep breath. "Well, in mine... I... I bit down into Gallade's shoulder, I could hear his plate being crushed under the pressure of my jaw... I could feel it, it felt... real, disgusting. He started to cry out, but couldn't attack me back, he tried to flail out of my grasp, but only tore into his shoulder more... and then I started to claw into his neck... over and over, over and over, until he was mangled and bloodied from head to stomach... even in the, the nightmare I knew that I didn't want to do that — I didn't! — but I just couldn't stop myself... I felt enraged, I was watching myself carve into the chief, like I had no control over my body! I was being laughed at as I did it, by Darkrai!"
Espurr crawled closer to him, hugging his leg.
"I felt awful after the first time Gallade was knocked out... when we didn't understand how to bloody Life Orb worked, I felt like I had almost killed him! And I guess... he latched on that... and made me do it in a much more gruesome way..."
"I'm so sorry that happened, Mr. Scyther," she moved from his leg to latching onto his abdomen. "But you have to understand that Darkrai did not wish to make you see that on purpose, and he does not even want to hurt Gallade, they're almost friends now!"
Scyther grimaced.
"Please, do give him a chance. There genuinely is nothing to be afraid of when it comes to Gallade's safety, nor is there any reason for you to be quite so worried, and to stay so far away all the time! This will all pass much better if you talk to Darkrai at least once..."
...
There were many reasons for him to not stay away so far. Darkrai was either not at all dangerous, and he was being a coward, or Darkrai was more of a danger than any could imagine... and he was still a cowar—
A distressed Morgrem suddenly burst out of the tall grass, latching onto his carapace and shaking him. "Mr. Scyther, you have got to come see this!"
"Please, do write down your signature!" Lampent asked of him, while Mothim was the one to swiftly pick up a piece of paper and a quill from the very top of the bookshelves with a U-turn, returning and presenting it to the wraith just as quickly.
He stared at the paper: old, torn on the sides, turning yellow. He stared at the feather: black ink dripping from it... a fading, brown colour, Hoothoot had worked there, once... he stared back at the paper and then did nothing but stare.
"Is something the matter?" The ghost asked, reluctantly drawing closer to insect.
"Well, something is indeed the matter, yes," Darkrai responded, him veering towards Lampent making the phantom recoil away. "I do not know how to go about writing this within—"
"Ah! Of course!" Before Lampent had even finished his exclamation, Mothim somehow already knew to move and snatch the quill away from the Moonshadow with a String Shot, coming back with now an entire container of ink. "Why would you be literate, anyhow? There was never any reason for you to have developed the faculty to read!"
Within their script! Darkrai hadn't bothered to learn their script in particular! He could write, just not in theirs! His family had their own, even—!
"A finger print of yours will suffice, then!" Lampent said, Mothim drew the bowl closer.
The Nightmare Weaver looked at it with disdain, curling back his fingers, away from the nasty thing. "I would rather not."
"Ink is a viscous substance, but one which can be used to—"
"Lampent, please, I do know what ink is," he snapped, regretting it as soon as he did so, and mellowing his tone. "I... simply do not wish to mire my claws within it."
The specter turned to the bug, which had placed itself between them, following the short outburst from Darkrai. "What are we to do then?"
Good grief, was this truly so important?
...
Right... of course that it was! This was him jotting down his name onto a list of the inhabitants of Haven, legitimising himself as Havenish, leaving his first positive mark onto the village's history, heralding the start of a new era! This was a monumental day! And there would be no chance of him ruining the moment...
...
The pattern of an ink-dampened claw being his first mark on paper qualified as 'ruining the moment'.
"Lampent, may I... have the quill and paper back, please?" The wraith's claws reached towards both, startling Lampent, who would rather toss both to him. "I ought to have made clear that I can, in fact, write, simply... not in your script."
"Oh, uhm, that's fine!" The lamp responded, with Mothim to his side, trying to calm him down. "It's more of a signature than anything."
Darkrai delicately took the small feather, and wrote down his name onto the page, in the Unown script he knew all too well.
"It is quite peculiar," Lampent remarked, after having approached it closer for examination, with Mothim soon after arriving by his side. "Look at this, honey, the variety in shapes for these letters is delightful!"
"They should've better lined up the concentric circles in the middle, so it's just one line of them, though," she chimed in.
"Perhaps, however I believe that would have simply made it all more confusing, but I digress," he turned back to Darkrai. "Could you give us any more details around this script? What is its name? When was it made? For what purpose?"
"Well... I do not have... an answer to offer for any of those inquiries," a deception from his part, though not quite a lie, either. The Unown script did not have a name, so he could not give one as a response. It was born with his father, in a sense, so he could not tell any date. The Original One's grand plan was mired in enigma, so he could not clearly talk of any one purpose. Now, though, he would lie, but just a tad. "I simply... well, learned it along my travels, long ago now."
"Rather disappointing, but at least we were able to sort this slight issue out— oh! One more thing!" The lamp slowly flew up towards him. "May I acquire a sample of the material composing your collar?" Its appendage came to hover closer to his face, before he had even been given time to answer.
"No?" Darkrai reflexively raised his claw to push the specter's tendril away, but Lampent bolted backwards before he could do so.
"Also rather disappointing..." the phantom sighed. "Anyhow, let us get to the heart of the matter now. You ought to know that I never believed you to be an evil entity, per se."
"Oh? Truly?"
"Indeed!" Oh? "I was one of the first to put forth the hypothesis that you were a disease!" Oh...
The massive pustule would contract and swell, contract and swell, each motion provoking a crackling of purple electricity within it, just bellow its surface, like a beating heart, stricken by some necrotising illness. Around itself it exuded a warping energy which would vanish as soon as it strayed too far from the core, like the gaseous distortions on the contours of a flame.
Still, it was not a material... thing, they all intuitively seemed to grasp, but a door to a gaping abyss, it was a portal to a void, a deep hole to nowhere, the size of a house, and perhaps bigger still, with its lower half burrowing into the field.
"Keep back from it!" Scyther cried to the overeager bunch from the other side of the pulsing, dark orb, having already taken to zooming from one end of it to the other, analysing the anomaly. "No clue what it is," he mumbled to himself.
"How's about you try and get rid of it?" Morgrem demanded. "We can ask Lampent what it is later!"
The bug considered the proposition while circling the half-sphere one more time, before halting in the air and zooming backwards a few meters. "Take a few steps back, I'm going to try and Defog it!"
The flapping of his wings intensified tenfold, the buzzing became louder, a gust shot towards the blackness, but it did not budge, nor deform at all.
"Stay away, still! I'm going to try and pop it instead!" Scyther reiterated his instructions, heaving a claw into the air and dragging it forwards to summon an onslaught of acute, compressed air... which was simply swallowed by the blot, without even leaving a mark on its surface.
...
There was no mark from the attack, no, but their joint silence — right after they gazed back into the black abyss — signalled that they had all well seen the apparent motion within it instead: someone, a black silhouette was cruising on its inner periphery.
Someone was stuck inside there!
Without a second thought, Mawile strode forwards, with hands extended towards its surface.
"Don't touch it!" Scyther's shriek made her freeze and cringe. "Don't put your hand into that thing, are you mad?"
"Oh! Perhaps I could attempt and get whoever's in there out using my psychic powers?" Espurr proposed, hovering up to the bug's height, much to its anxiety. "I would not be touching it at all!"
"Wait, no—!" He refused before he even had a clear reason to, but, likewise, Espurr had beaten him to it, and was already in the process of utilising her energy before he had even refused.
She flew up, closed her eyes, extended her arms, raised her ears, letting flow a magenta glow, and... Espurr squealed, she shut her psychic organ soon after, descending back to the ground with her paws clutching her head.
"Are you alright?" Morgrem pulled on his hair, while Mawile ran over and caught the plummeting kitten in her appendage, slightly folding it to create a comfortable seat for her friend.
"Owie, it... zapped my head quite hard!" Espurr meowled, with Mawile soon taking her into her arms instead. "But I'm quite alright," she shook her head, still lightly rubbing her ears.
"Hmm, maybe Morgrem could slide his long hair inside, and whoever's in there can latch on!" Mawile's newest idea made Morgrem pale and Scyther gasp.
"Stop with these awful ideas!" The insect protested, imposing himself with outstretched arms between them and the tumour.
"Yeah, I'd... I'd rather not," the goblin responded.
"Fine, then," Mawile pouted, letting Espurr regain the air, and suddenly taking several steps towards the anomaly, before Scyther landed to block her way. "Get away, I'm going to see if I can try and catch the Pokemon in there with my jaw," it snapped as a demonstration.
"Piss off! None of you are trying anything!" The mantis' attention turned back to the frantic silhouette within the orb, forcing him to consider that... maybe they should be trying something by this point. Maybe he should be trying something by this point. "Alright, actually, here's the game plan! Morgrem, run off and—"
"And alert Gallade, got it!" The fairy had already bolted into the tall grass, towards the village.
"Alrighty then..." Scyther looked to Mawile and Espurr. "Mawile, I want a Misty Terrain up, just in case this stuff's poisonous or something."
"Wait, what do you intend on doing?" A worried Espurr asked.
"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," he flew back over to the black orb, just as Mawile began to release a glimmering smoke from her maw, coating the area in the pink, yellow, and green mana of Misty Terrain. "I'm going to try and thrust myself into whoever's in there, if I'm fast enough I'll hopefully be able to get to the other side with minimal damage and resistance, understood?"
No less worried, Espurr relented and levitated over to the rear of the anomaly, just as Scyther took a step back — concentrating to manifest a rise in speed through his Agility — and then used Laser Focus, locking onto the target, a barely visible perturbation of pitch black in the heart of the already dim growth.
One Quick Attack would be enough to knock whoever was in there out, this would be a one second adventure, in and out, too fast for him to even get hurt, burned, poisoned, whatever that thing could do!
One, last, deep breath and Scyther shot forwards, diving into the obscurity, without coming back out the other end.
"For a long while, I entertained the idea that the creature in the woods and the plagues brought upon our village were quasi-unrelated!" Lampent continued, making Darkrai return to a less enthused, but still curious, 'oh?' "With the common appearances of the former within the latter only being due to correlation — meaning that It-Which-Lurks-Outside was manifested in those nightmares only because of it being a frequent object of fear beforehand — rather than it, you causing them."
"I do not wish to offend... but it seems as though you lost yourself in theorising, when the causation was very much evident."
"Indeed I did, Mr. the Nightmare Weaver, indeed I did... though, I did always have my doubts about it. You see..."
A strand of fire was born from the flame at his core, melting through the glass of the phantom's body, and emerging as a Will-O-Wisp, which Lampent soon sent flying near the top of a shelf, down the darkness of the row. Mothim gave chase, summoning a Safeguard — a gentle, glimmering orb of white energy — upon arrival to dissipate the blaze, and then picked out the book directly in front of which the spark had stopped, returning to them with it in hand.
"... there was always this one folk tale, this one folk tale which would put a dent in my pondering, no matter how hard I tried to dismiss it..."
The lamp continued, making the old tome hover before him, his spectral might making the pages turn by themselves, until they fell on the depiction of a monster recognisable, though with a form wholly alien to that of any inhabitant of Haven:
So many layers of black ink had been applied that it had become but one, confused blot of liquid at its core, threatening to tear a hole through the middle of the paper.
From its heart sprouted droves upon droves of tendrils — encircling it, like a cyclone — while four, clawed hands reached for the corners of the page.
A serpentine tongue — just an outline of one that was, surely representing its white colour — slithered out from the gaping, red-fanged maw crowning the column of black. It was detailed in some parts, hastily drawn in others — simple, zigzagging lines — as if the artist had at multiple points become far too anxious simply thinking about it to dedicate his wholehearted attention to every inch of the craft.
Their cursed, vertical script did not allow him to read the paragraphs all around it — sometimes interrupted by the quartet of arms extending into the paragraphs — but he noticed those letters less perfect, less standardised, than in any of the other texts Lampent had previously passed before him. The mark of a trembling hand, no doubt.
All in all, an appearance closer to that of Giratina, than himself, frankly.
"... that of the monster approaching someone — a Morgrem — not in dream, but at the edge of the woods."
Darkrai tensed up, the reminder physically hurt him.
"Could you elucidate what happened there? I am very interested in this interaction."
"Ah..." suddenly, again, he was lost. This was what he had been brought there for, yet... well... it was best to start at the beginning— no, before the beginning, best to start before the beginning. "This was... among my first interactions with your folk, so do forgive if my recollection is... hazy," he began, with the duo already having found something to scribble.
"More than excused, this is likely to be far better than any records we currently have," Lampent tittered.
"My very first interaction, however, was limited to... watching, watching as the inhabitants went about their days," there was no reason for him to use the more negative word, 'spying'. "The very first were all insomniacs, such as Gourgeist and Murkrow, unaffected by my ability, and, so, they found a home for themselves, in this peculiarly abandoned area, into which no ferals seemed willing to tread."
"Gourgeist and Murkrow only, or is there a more complete list?" Mothim asked for precision.
"Gourgeist, Murkrow, Ariados, Noctowl... I do remember being saddened by the lack of a Drowzee," it was all Pokemon with Insomnia, except for Drowzee and Banette, he remembered having observed. He would also keep himself from mentioning that last one, however, as they were unlikely to know what those were, and talking about Banette and Shuppet it would end up as an entirely tangential rock-of-Binacle, which was best to avoid.
"Eventually, life begot life, and more Pokemon — those without Insomnia, yet still adventurers bold enough to be scouring the wilds on their own, so not immediately horrified by the blight which would sometimes strike the sleeping — moved into the settlement around the bivouac."
"Is this when it gained its name... Haven, I mean?"
"Not yet, no. After this, life begot more life... and then those Impidimp — and adjacent fae, creatures of the woods — were the ones to be begotten, attracted to the rising anxiety of the settlement, as those initial, fearless nomads who settled here were replaced by their far less stoic progeny, they crawled out of the forests and began to cause... issues."
"Oh! Yes, I have much experience with the Impidimp and adjacent. Morgrem's a polite boy... the rest, were less so. We do not see many of his kind crawl out of the woods anymore," Lampent unwittingly afflicted him with another strike to the heart. "A shame, really, the Impidimp were fairly cruel, but I'd say a third of all Haven — not in a physical sense, of course — were built thanks to one Grimmsnarl or another."
Darkrai's claws clenched until they were burrowing into his skin.
No, Impidimp no longer did crawl out of the woods, their spirits had faded from Haven as well. They could not longer be born... well, that they were never born was the entire issue: all were male, they did not reproduce, instead they died, and their bodies decayed, and their mana returned to the woods, turning it into a pool of energy from which would rise new Impidimp and new Morgrem and, sometimes, even a new Grimmsnarl.
But that pond of life had long since stopped coalescing beneath Haven, him being there had driven it away, him being there had killed the soul of the land. Anyone could sense it, the Blightwoods was sinister, there was no such energy coursing through the veins of the Blightwoods, the only weald deep enough to host it, the darkness of his presence had rotted its souls away, had turned the ground sterile and the trees there into living cadavers.
He attempted to give it the respect it deserved, this woodland he had killed, but which still served him as a home, but that would not prevent Morgrem from being the last of his kind to be born in Haven, and the last of the Dark-types of Haven — those whose mind had been sealed from Psychic-types, and in turn had become a place for their nightmares to fester unopposed, far from the reach of Gothita and any Dream Eater — to fade, with the exception of the crows and himself, immune to his deathly presence.
Impidimp, Morgrem, Grimmsnarl, Pangoro, Pawniard, Bisharp... so many more... his heart ached. Haven would soon forget all about those kinds.
...
It was best to say what he had to say about them, then, with Lampent and his little jar of ink, and Mothim and her little scroll, standing at the ready to record their memory.
"The... village was not as... not as united then as it is now, and the spread of the plague — my nightmares — only served to exacerbate those tensions: the relationship between the core of the village and then not just the Impidimp, and Morgrem, but also certain others, such as the sleep-immune Murkrow, grew. The former blamed the nightmares as another sordid curse from the latter and... the latter — especially the Murkrow — did not always deny it, but utilised the terror they inspired... well, you can guess how and for what end."
"Quite interesting," Lampent and Mothim shared a wide-eyed glance. "I do have the remnants of an account from but a few decades ago, decrying the Murkrow as 'bringers of misfortune' and of there being an expression from even longer before that — 'getting home before the Murkrow fly' — as an ominous warning. It is really only with the current Honchkrow that the hatchet between the murder and the village wardens was truly buried, I would dare say."
Honchkrow's change of heart, his willingness to go forward with his pet project of 'going clean' as he dubbed it, even when it entailed the complete abandonment of his flock, had always remained odd to Darkrai, even if thoroughly welcomed. Still, Honchkrow remained scum, though to a lesser degree than before, so he knew not what to think of that at all.
"Do continue," the specter had been left with nothing to do but leer at what had already been written for a moment too long.
"Yes, pardon me," Darkrai bowed before going on. "As I said, this lead to a... regrettable tension," best to avoid talking about the numerous, violent incidents too into detail. "One which... I truly wanted to solve."
"So did you somehow solve it?" Mothim, apparently enthralled by the story now, stuck to his hand to ask.
"That none of this extends to the current day ought to be evidence enough of that," he responded, and she nodded along. "Though, please, I do not appreciate being interrupted, my thoughts scatter easily."
"I'm sorry, Darkrai!" She responded.
"It is quite alright," he replied, beginning to feel somewhat bad within the instant, though deciding to go ahead anyhow. His thoughts really would scatter that fast. "I pondered the question for quite a while, and was forced to... recognise one, obvious conclusion: that I needed to make it clear that it was me inflicting the village with those nightmares. I could have come to all of them in sleep and... warned them to quit their... warring, but that would entail far too great a risk of someone not waking. Therefore, I devised a new, more... acute plan."
"Oh! Get another note! He's going to explain the plan!" Lampent shook the equally excited-seeming Mothim into action, making her go grab a new sheet of paper.
"Alright, well..." would he be making a mistake in proceeding? In explaining to them how exactly he managed to do it? Would it not re-enforce the image of him as conniving puppetmaster?
...
He shot them another glance: they did not seem all too bothered by the idea that he had a plan to begin with, only seeming excited by the prospect of understanding it... he was in too deep, now, he had once again acted without prudence... but that was a lesson for the future, he could not turn back.
"What I understood then... was that it was of the utmost importance to minimise the amount of Pokemon who would be exposed to my direct message... and also that I would need to avoid approaching them in their nightmares... or the village at all."
This was before even Gothitelle — initially Gothita — had ever arrived there, they had barely any protections against the blight in place, they did not sleep at regular times, they did not have warning systems, they did not always have elixirs to interrupt sleep on hand.
"The peripheral areas of the forest were the dominion of the fae, and their attention was bound to be attracted by any other Pokemon treading into there. This meant that I would need only lure a Pokemon from the village proper, and would inevitably get either an Impidimp or a Morgrem crawl after them, one Pokemon from both sides of this dispute. Otherwise, the attention of the Murkrow was not hard to acquire, but they would not be trusted, if they alone began to talk of a monster in the weald."
Darkrai turned back to them — to see if they understood it all well — and both responded with a nod. He did enjoy this, getting to gloat about the intricacies of his schemes. He used to do it far more often, once upon a time. 'Emissary of the Original One' was not a role for the inactive or uncreative. He missed it. He missed Him.
"The shine of an orb from a haphazardly fired off Confuse Ray did not fail to attract the attention of the murder. The flocking of the birds did not fail to attract the attention of a Linoone, eager to race them to whatever it was they were after. The running Linoone did not fail to attract the attention of a Morgrem, eager to make the Pokemon regret venturing so far from the village."
Mothim even took the ink from Lampent, in order to draw a little schema, with three arrows and some circles.
"They all met at the same point, nothing there but themselves, immediately on the verge of a fight, and then two, clawed hands rose from their shadows, one grabbing the Morgrem, while the Linoone managed to retreat, but remained within the vicinity. I gave them my alias, the 'Nightmare Weaver', my only correct alias," more threatening than his name, and if they were to know the latter, they might be able to track down mentions of him... somewhere... it would only complicate matters more! "And explained that it was I who caused the nightmares, an explanation which I then accompanied with a barrage of... creative threats, towards those who would dare enter the woods again."
He took a deep breath.
"It did work. They returned to their mutual tribes, with so much fear in their eyes that none could pretend not to trust them, the Murkrow flock corroborated what they had both seen, and a shadow creature parading through the streets that night — a Double Team illusion of myself — thereafter sealed the affair. An alliance between the village and the various, feral Pokemon skulking around it was formed, and it was with this concord for security against me that Haven — along with its very name, as well — was born... and that, my dear Lampent, was the full truth of how I relegated myself to the status of a local cryptid."
"But why not just... explain yourself?"
It was Mothim's turn to skewer him with but a single sentence, it seemed.
Because he was a coward, whose cowardice had lead to generations of Pokemon living in twofold terror. "I... wanted the encounter to fade from popular memory, before making an attempt at integration. I regret it now, what it caused for so long between me and you fine folk. My true words and the veracity of that dialogue ever happening faded into a legend, but the fear of the Nightmare Weaver never came to be questioned."
Once the first raid into his forest had taken place... and those then perished, there would be no turning back for him. Would it have ended in any other way, had that encounter not happened, however? Unlikely, that was the way these things had always ended for him
"I do hope this continues!" The ghost exclaimed, and gleefully giggling alongside Mothim, at each other. "This is so exciting!"
"I know, right?" She responded, equally enthused.
"Pardon?"
"Oh, this is simply exactly what we had hoped would happen!" The phantom turned back to him. "It has been a long-standing dream of ours, to see so many of the mysteries of the village put to rest by a reliable source! To set a clear record!"
...
Well, even if he would not end up offering them exactly the sort of help he had initially envisioned... it was still quite something to have them giggling and quivering with joy for him. Espurr had been proven right, this was a good idea, he was in good company.
...
He was a 'reliable source'?
He was absolutely in good company. Absolutely in good compan—
There was an odd tapping on the door of the establishment, and its source seemed to double every second.
Mothim covered both handles with a String Shot, pulling on them to reveal the horde of Murkrow just outside. "Lampent! Mothim! Come quick! Come quick! Darkrai, too! Come quick! Come quick!"
He woke up, his head in his hands, pressed against the ground, with a loud, burbling sound resonating through his surroundings, making... whatever surface it was he was laying on tremble and vibrate in tandem. Scyther clutched his forehead — he had hit something, the ground, probably, and it was throbbing with pain — and heaved himself up, only to be made to recoil into his protective position once again by scattered, blinding sources of light all around him.
The insect blinked a few times, and then looked back at them, with a claw partially shielding his sights: he was in a cavern, a dark cavern, a dark, twisting cavern, a cave, maybe even, he couldn't differentiate. Its walls were made of a warped crystal, itself inundated and bleeding from every end with a thick, black substance, whose thousandfold reflection in the myriad mirrors was what made the tunnels go dim.
The apparent lights were... piles of gems encrusting the ceiling. It was those few gems which hadn't been gnawed through by the magma, at least, as, even while he was marvelling at them, some parts of the roof would crack, creating another waterfall of the viscous substance, which would first coat, and then dissolve anything along its path.
And Scyther's eyes followed that path, until he ended up face to face with the darkness below him: he was standing on a ledge, he found out, a circular shelf — the only thing keeping him from falling being the very narrow pillar of crystal his platform was an outgrowth of — underneath which was a flowing ocean of the tar, bubbling and rippling in the darkness, interrupted only by the sparse supports which joined the ceiling such as his, and by spikes shooting upwards from its depths.
Scyther, even though he could fly, was incapable of keeping himself from a slight retreat, back to the safety of the beam rising behind him.
From there, he gave the whole another gaze: a vast, translucent monolith, it was, of columns and stalagmites and stalactites, all kept from plunging into the... waters below by fine strands of crystal which were rotting from the inside, crackling and shattering into shrapnel and new portals for the liquid to seep out of.
Off-setting the otherwise smooth flow of the torrential sludge, though, was a shape. It wasn't a bunching up of bubbles on the surface, like elsewhere, but obviously a silhouette, moving counter to the current down there, one that his gut told him he couldn't ignore.
He took in a deep breath and forced himself to rise into the air — he didn't know why he felt like he would suddenly forget how to fly and fall into the abyss — taking off into the direction of what he soon distinguished to be... Honchkrow?
Scyther landed on the closest platform, firmly implanting his claws into the stone. From there, he could see Honchkrow, failing on the surface of the liquid just a few meters away, half-submerged by it, with none of his feathers left untouched, desperately trying to... knock a Chatot out of the air?
There was a Drifloon swirling around him, as well?
He had no clue what was going on at all, but he had failed enough times already, Honchkrow needed help getting out of there!
Scyther jumped into the air and then dove towards the avian.
His leg got a hold of the struggling bird.
The lava pounced upon him.
He was drowning.
An explosion of white light.
Again, Scyther got up, head panting with hurt... again, before... it all went away. He felt well. He was no longer pained. He was at ease. He was...
He was back in town... but not quite... or... he... he didn't know what he meant, or why something felt so... off, for him. He didn't know, so he began to walk: Espurr was there, flying through the air, Mawile, calm, at ease... sleeping... Trevenant... tending to the plants, Illumise parading through the streets, Gothitelle levitating from one alleyway and into another...
There was something wrong... no, he still couldn't pinpoint what it was.
"Honchkrow, does seeming feel off for you?" Scyther asked the now very well groomed —as if nothing had happened — bird.
It responded with a stupefied grimace. "Too much to name! Why am I a Honchkrow!?" It examined its wings and hat, before suddenly falling silent again.
"What do you mea—" Scyther's expression went blank, and his confusion was superseded by a sudden anxiety, a deep dread, one getting worse and worse by the second, clawing at his throat.
He began to walk backwards, gaping at the horizon visible through the gaps in the houses. There was a darkness rising from it, slowly drowning out the light. Honchkrow could see it, sense it, as well. The others could see it, sense it, they began to retreat, and then run for cover. The sun dimmed, twilight sheathed the village, then it became dusk, then it became night within the span of a few seconds.
Finally, the excess pressure he could feel mounting in there — in that increasingly enclosed, claustrophobic world they were stuck in — was too much, and the sky caved in on itself, shattering all throughout and letting pour in the vile liquid, crushing or burning through the settlement.
Scyther was paralysed. The torrent crept forwards, towards them both, dissolving and devouring the reality around itself as it advanced, seeming more and more like a deep void, rather than lake, the nearer it came.
Then, it came to an abrupt halt, as if something had tugged back on it.
The puddle of liquid stretching towards them began to convulse, shooting into the air faster and harder for an interminable few seconds... and then it froze, suspended in its wild movements, looming over the insect like an abstract, winding statue, and began to dry up under Scyther and Honchkrow's petrified gazes. The last of the black water soon dripped off of it, and the construct regained motion: the Nightmare Weaver reached its long, grim arms towards them both.
"Here we are," its voice echoed through the silenced village, Scyther and Honchkrow only able to whimper in response. "I have finally found you... both..." once its cyan eye landed on them, on the bird, it widened, as if confused, but it only made the wraith detach itself from the magma faster, approach faster.
Honchkrow flew away.
Scyther wanted to fly away. Every part of his being was telling him to run, terror rising as the Moonshadow hovered closer with its skeletal claws extending towards him.
No.
There was no turning back now.
Scizor needed to protect his village.
Scizor would be the one to protect his village, now.
Unthinking, he rushed forward, striking the monster with a Bullet Punch, sending it on the retreat with a grunt.
It clutched its torso, reeling in pain... it stopped... it stared back at him, as if it had just realised something... Scizor's bravado evaporated... the monster uttered... some terrifying, garbled noise.
He attempted to compose himself and lunge forward again, trying to strike it before it could do the same to him, but his claws were crushed, his armour began to cave inwards, deviating his trajectory, making him fall to the ground, asphyxiating him.
Defeated, pained, tortured, he could only wallow and watch as the Nightmare Weaver neared with its arm reaching towards his head again. For a second time, the clasp of the Moonshadow's clawed hand made everything go dark.
Darkrai crashed out of the anomaly, which he could already hear receding into nothingness behind him as soon as he left, ripping with it some of the surrounding dirt and grass
He was confused... and tired, barely able to stand up, his only motivation being how humiliating it was to be languishing on the dirt, in front of the entire village's worth of Pokemon, all awaiting to see whether he had saved the one... well, now two, lost Pokemon.
Darkrai handed the Honchkrow in hand over to... someone, he was too motion sick to care for who, and then released the dazed Scyther — his transformation into a Scizor had well been an illusion, as the wraith had first guessed — from his grip, only to receive a laceration across the arm in return. The Moonshadow was fast to clench his wound and glare at his assailant, whose gaping, terror-filled eyes indicated that he had instantly come to regret his panicked decision.
"After my arrival here, I'd wager that we're soon to run out of bandages," Darkrai examined the cut, signalling to Scyther that there was no retaliation to fear.
"You did that all so fast!" Espurr made her way through the crowd to stick to his side, earning an immediate head pat. "So well done," she purred.
"'So well done'!?" Cried the... Murkrow? He had extracted a Murkrow from there? Was it not Honchkrow? "He attacked me! He's the one who destroyed my cavern!"
"Your cavern?"
"You're the Murkrow I sent after Drifblim and Chatot, are you not?" Gallade imposed himself.
What?
"I was going to go get it! But... but!" The poor avian had trouble breathing correctly. "This... the..." its sights veered over to where the orb would have been. "It... it appeared, on top of me! It threw me into a cavern with... agh..."
"Calm down, you'll explain to us later," Leavanny caressed the bird.
"Did you make... that thing?" Mawile ran over to Darkrai with awe-filled eyes. "It was... very impressive."
Darkrai, at first, remained highly confused by this whole ordeal, and then terrified, once he realised where it was going. With a slight shift of the gaze his fear was immediately given reason: their stares were, foremost, accusatory.
"I could not do this," he preempted, directing his glare at Gallade. "When have I ever come close to being able to do anything like this?"
"You... have told us multiple times now that you're always holding back," Gallade replied, his tone utterly indecisive, not yet truly an accusation, from him at least. "That you're always keeping back..."
"Do not dare turn this around on me!" He growled. "I... I had no way to do this, I had no reason to do this..."
"That as well, we can't be certain of," Gothitelle was the one to reply. "We don't know much at all for certain about you, and I would dare say that's finally come back to bite us."