In a cataclysm known as the Nightfall, the worlds were almost completely destroyed by a harrowing surge of darkness.
In the shadows of the ensuing chaos a new group has taken shape. Led by an Aegyl named Kalos, the 11th Hour touts an esoteric knowledge of how to combat the darkness and restore the worlds. They might be the worlds’ best chance at survival; but nobody really knows enough about them to confirm or deny their claims.
On the brink of collapse, the universe holds its breath in anticipation. Of restoration? Of destruction? It is up to individuals like yourself to decide.
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The top right corner of the report bears witness to Axel's signature, its page corner charred, and a fancy symbol is ever-so-delicately burnt into the paper to verify its authenticity, as is typical of the Flurry's reports.
Commentary:Casually perused Radiant Garden's Defense System, hoping to run into the Mechanic I met previously. He didn't show. However, a Priest and some girl stopped to hit me up.
He mistook me for Leá at first. Some red flags came up in my mind about this guy. First off, how does he know about Leá anyway? I'm wondering if the Dark Twelve is sticking their noses where they don't belong.
This Priest goes by the name of Paul. He's looking to exact vengeance on Leá for some beef. The Heartless must've rubbed him the wrong way. Anyway, I think we should keep an eye on him. Maybe he'll lead us back around to Leá, and we can gain some more information regarding our secretive Dark Twelve nemeses.
Saïx, pull me aside soon so we can talk about this guy. It would be a shame if he learned too much.
The smell of burning paper was always a pleasant one. It had by now died down, only discernible through the occasional whiff when the air was stirred... like it was when Axel placed the feather pen back into its ink well.
His posture straightened, satisfied with his report, and its impending rabbit trail toward the Priest he'd made sure to detail. A smirk coiled one end of his mouth into a contented curl, and the Nobody gracefully stood up, striding toward the door, his work finished.
He made sure to drop the paper on top of the report organizer bin on the way out, letting it drift into place atop all those that preceded it.
His eyes drifted over his shoulder toward the complacent bin as he left the room. Another string in his web. Trap set.
