And all hearts were chilled
Who: Master Xehanort and Miles Edgeworth
When: Today, late afternoon, not long before the evening sirens.
Where: Mid-town, not far from Edgeworth's office.
Summary: A chance meeting gives Xehanort the perfect opportunity to convert a skeptic.
Warnings: Cruelty, magic, and evil?
Mr. Edgeworth.
[ Darkness like black stains oozed across the pavement and slid into little cracks, invading the earth as pathogens invaded the body. ]
This late hour is no time to be working. The streets are, as you know, quite dangerous at night.
[ Since the night of his rebirth, Xehanort's dress has changed somewhat. The noticeably old-fashioned style of Terra's - patterned so obviously after the master that he so adored - has been abandoned in favor a set of much more serviceable, matching tunic and leggings. Black, so that he would have blended entirely into the growing background shadows if not for his skin and the white of his hair. Then black gloves, black boots, a fighter's attire.
The secret humor in it all was his own to know. No other's lived in this world that remembered what he had looked like and worn, once upon a time.
He lifted his Keyblade from the ground, leaving a still-bubbling font of darkness sizzling and writhing up out of the broken concrete. ]
I would advise you to go home.
When: Today, late afternoon, not long before the evening sirens.
Where: Mid-town, not far from Edgeworth's office.
Summary: A chance meeting gives Xehanort the perfect opportunity to convert a skeptic.
Warnings: Cruelty, magic, and evil?
Mr. Edgeworth.
[ Darkness like black stains oozed across the pavement and slid into little cracks, invading the earth as pathogens invaded the body. ]
This late hour is no time to be working. The streets are, as you know, quite dangerous at night.
[ Since the night of his rebirth, Xehanort's dress has changed somewhat. The noticeably old-fashioned style of Terra's - patterned so obviously after the master that he so adored - has been abandoned in favor a set of much more serviceable, matching tunic and leggings. Black, so that he would have blended entirely into the growing background shadows if not for his skin and the white of his hair. Then black gloves, black boots, a fighter's attire.
The secret humor in it all was his own to know. No other's lived in this world that remembered what he had looked like and worn, once upon a time.
He lifted his Keyblade from the ground, leaving a still-bubbling font of darkness sizzling and writhing up out of the broken concrete. ]
I would advise you to go home.