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[h3]Eastern Yharnam, Hunter's clinic[/h3]
“Ignore the little men. They are of no harm, at least haven’t been so far.”
Torquil stared incredulously at the nightmarish little creatures, eyes wide and terrified, as he contemplated the true depth of the meaning of the words “so far.” No one has been horribly eviscerated by the wolf [I]so far[/I], so it is probably harmless. And these little creatures? Compared to them, even the black-skinned, intestine-throwing creature and the vaguely humanoid beast he had awoken to finding seemed mundane and unalarming. And yet they seemed... familiar? Torquil felt like he had seen these tiny beings before somewhere, and it took him a moment to realize that they had shown up in his dreams, too, just before he had awoken as a Hunter.
Grumbling under his breath he aimed a kick at one of the ghoulish things – hard enough to be dismissive and threatening, without actually intending to harm it – only to find that his foot went straight through the faintly glowing form of the creature without resistance. The little one made a rude gesture at him in turn, but seemed otherwise unaffected and unfazed by his show of hostility.

Stumbling for a moment from the kick, Torquil decided to heed Marcus' advice and just ignore the “little men,” whatever they were, and hurry on to the barrels of weapons before he embarrassed himself even more. He perused the weapons in there for a moment, looking at the spears, axes and swords, and realized just how little he actually knew about weapons. He knew what they were, obviously, and the fundamentals of how one was supposed to use them – generally “the sharp bit goes into what you want to die” – but trying to think about it, he could not conjure any knowledge of tactics or technique at fighting. He could probably strike “soldier” from the list of possible professions he could have had before becoming a Hunter, which was less than encouraging; he figured that preexisting skills at fighting would probably have improved his chances of survival.
Channeling mental images of heavily armored knights and heroes of legend, Torquil's first instinct was to pull a sword from the pile, simply because swords were the most presentable of the three. Frowning at the alien feel of the blade in his hand he allowed himself to get a feel of the weapon, turning and tipping his grasp to feel the balance and weight of it, before tryingly swinging the sword twice through the air and finishing with a thrust.
He threw the sword back into the pile, strangely unsettled by the weapon. Wielding it felt unnatural, somehow, as though some part of him was protesting against the way his body moved while using the sword.
Of the remaining options, there was little doubt that a spear was a more impressive weapon than an axe, but... Torquil found his gaze lingering at the wooden handle of one such axe, and felt oddly drawn toward it. Even just looking at the weapon he already knew how the handle would feel in his hands, knew the heft of it, could imagine himself holding it, swinging it. He hesitantly picked up the axe, grasping it with both hands, and instantly felt that this was a much better fit for him. He swung it a few times, twice horizontally and twice vertically, and realized that his body was already intimately familiar with those motions. Axe it was.

Now adequately armed for whatever awaited beyond the door – or at least armed as well as he could be for the time being – Torquil stepped away from the barrels, carefully avoiding the little inhuman people that seemed to burrow out of the floor at random now, and went to the other Hunter. Not-Marcus, who had not yet introduced himself and had apparently been checking an extremely ill-looking woman.
Not wanting to demonstrate his broken ability to speak more than necessary, he simply waved at the man and gestured at the door, meaning to wordlessly ask whether he intended to leave as well.