Limp Home...

[harth_fray]

He would never underestimate a child ever again, Harth realized. He should have known better -- he should have. Really. He uses that own tactic, seeming young, frail, small, seemingly powerless to catch prey, to deceive others, to ensnare

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[tyrantmaker]

There's the sound of quiet footsteps. It isn't as though he could fool some of the senses in here, but Wesker isn't trying to be really stealthy.

His shades are still on. His hands are fists in his jacket pocket. He met nothing out of place, saw nobody on the way. He's come down from the anger a little. It's still a hard knot in him, and he still is looking for something to tear apart.

However, scheming supersedes mere physical action. He's here primarily to excercise diplomat ability.

Well, that's the plan.

[harth_fray]

"Wesker?"

Harth's voice; strangely nasal, off key. Something is amiss.

"Is that you?"

[tyrantmaker]

"Yes. I was forced to leave." Wesker's head tilts just a little. His hand comes up to the shades, but he leaves them on. "You sound as though you've had a run-in yourself. What happened?"

There's no concern. Simply curiosity.

[harth_fray]

"Don't underestimate the children," Harth says, as he he savors the dark light.

There is a moment's contemplation, before he says, "You taste toy, but you'll do."

And then he's on him, hands and teeth and hunger.