all around me darkness gathers - faded is the sun that shone

[shadowygent]

In Cannes, citizens run out into the street to stare at the sky-- and then back into their homes, to turn on televisions or radios or check the news for any mention of an eclipse. For out of all explanations for the fact that night has fallen-- early, swiftly, and utterly-- that of a natural event is by far the least worrying.

There is no hint of

Comments

[jla_extras]

As the Shade's gaze seems to drift off of the old man, his hesitant and faltering voice comes to a halt.

He clears his throat. "You are not listening to me, m'sieur." His eyes narrow and his voice trembles as he speaks. "Ze film contains ze essence of ze abyss itself. Tangible darkness! To stare into it makes a man insane!" He smiles nervously. It's a somewhat sick smile.

"To stare into zat... noir... It opens a man's mind to the true evils of ze world."

[shadowygent]

The Shade glances back, and raises a gloved hand to take off his smoked-glass spectacles-- the action deliberate, methodical.

Behind the shades, which are unnecessary in the supernatural darkness that has descended over Cannes, the Shade's eyes are currently black. Without white, iris, or pupil-- only endless dark. They have been this way since the power of Hades swept over him; at first this bothered him. But like his other initial objections, they have been swallowed up in the delicious rush of power.

"As you can see, monsieur," he murmurs with a thin smile of his own, "I happen to know something of le noir already."

The Shade folds his glasses and slips them into a pocket, laces his hands together atop his silver-topped cane.

"Of course the film contains the 'essence of the abyss'," he continues, this time a touch of impatience in his tone. "Because they stole my blood to make it. Now. You will answer my questions, or I shall introduce you to le abîme in truth."

[jla_extras]

The old man shakily raises his hands to protect his face from the man of darkness before him. So awful, so grotesque a sight is he, that the man can barely allow himself to focus on that figure who is very literally an absence of all light.

"Please! I was just ze producer! I faked my death so zat ze director, Santiago, would not track me down!" He's panting now. He's feeling out of breath and there's a pain in his left arm. "Beneath ze location of ze theatre, where it was shown, zhere is a shrine to foulness, to abhorrence! A shrine to you, m'sieur! It is where Santiago hid the film!!"

[shadowygent]

Irritation crosses the face of the shadowy man at the man's sudden descent into panicked terror. True, he gets his answers, but to have to listen to the shrieking...

A snap of his fingers and a band of pure darkness detaches itself from a corner, wraps itself over the man's mouth-- a sudden and effective gag.

"You're really not very intelligent, are you?" he says, tutting. "In the same breath, you say the shrine to foulness and abhorrence is a shrine to me? Darkness, yes; danger, certainly. But really, foulness?

"I do bathe every day, monsieur.

"...and by the smell of things, you are likely to also need one after our little talk finishes.

"So. Santiago, thank you, and the location of the shrine, most excellent. I am going to release you now, and I would strongly advise you not to start babbling again. It causes migraines in the listeners."

A wave of his hand and the gag disappears. "Is there anything else you feel you need to share with me?"

[soulful_mamzer]

The journey to France had been moderately uneventful. There was a bit of difficulty at customs when someone claimed to have heard a noise from his suitcase but after a routine bag search and the mere discovery of an old coat, Regan was let onto the plane. A few turgid films later and Ragman had arrived in Paris.

And now he steps off of the train into the riviera city of Cannes, where the entire area seems unnaturally dark for this time of afternoon. "Something pretty damn foreboding about all this."

Rory makes his way to the Palais des Festivals after a brief stop off to deposit any luggage he doesn't need. Dressed in his civvies he wanders around the huge area, seeing what he can see. Hoping that Johnny Sorrow and the Riddler haven't found the place before him.

[shadowygent]

If the Riddler or Johnny Sorrow are here, they don't seem to be immediately in evidence. At the Palais itself, the darkness is even thicker-- it might as well be night, and even the electric lights seem to have a hard time penetrating the gloom.

The area is partially deserted-- the citizens seem to have no desire to linger in the streets, especially not at the core of the darkness, unless they've a reason. Security guards huddle in their offices and pray they hear no noises, planning to ignore them if they do.

And a dark figure strolls around the Palais, his cane clicking on the ground and the sound echoing in the empty street. He casts no shadow-- because all around him is shadow, because to cast a shadow requires light, and the light cannot reach him now.

The Shade hasn't yet noticed Ragman. His senses are swimming, awash with the intoxicating hum of Hades' power and the draw to the shrine.

[soulful_mamzer]

It's far too dark in here. It's also noticeable that very few people seem to be walking around. The shadow is almost tangible. No doubt offputting to anyone not in tune with the mystical, and to those who are? Irresistibly intriguing.

It's then that Regan hears a light tapping from down the promenade. The sound is growing closer. He can't see the person making the sound because of the darkness, but there's definitely someone walking in his direction.

Given that it could be one of the members of Brother Blood's cult in this area, and that maniac Johnny Sorrow may have tipped them off to the presence of Ragman, Rory skirts around a deserted café and conceals himself behind some tall plant pots. The flowers appear to be withering as the darkness gets closer.

well that took me longer than I thought

[shadowygent]

It takes a little bit of looking to see through the thick, swirling darkness that radiates from the man at the center of it. But keen eyes can pierce the gloom, even if for a moment it almost seems as though a silhouette is all there is to see, so black is the fabric of the man's coat, his top-hat, his cane.

Oblivious to the presence of his observer, the Shade strolls towards his destination. The closer he gets, the louder Hades whispers of godlike power, worship, the reverence of mortals-- things that have never interested him before, but nothing has been the same since Hades entered his form.

The Shade's pale skin gleams with a fevered sweat when viewed from up close. He moves like a man driven-- no glance at Ragman, no sign that he knows the other man is there at all.

He stops in front of one of the structures-- gestures-- and hands of shadow start to rip at the ground. The powers of a god do not require one to hunt for entrances. One simply makes them.