[center][h2][b]Ophelia[/b][/h2][/center]

"A little dirt never hurt anyone, love, don't you worry about that." Ophelia smiled in return, before peering over at Farren as he unceremoniously made his way over to the far side of the factory to fetch their quarry.

Ophelia listened to the man's talking about the Crowmother eagerly, nodding along approvingly as he spoke of how gentle she was with them and how she offered them her protection. She'd lived most of her life beneath the protection of something similar, she supposed, though the Witches had always referred to it as a God of some kind, or... was it Great One? She truly did not know, the memory fuzzy and cloudy--but she did remember the sensations, the unseen intimations of Yharnam's forbidden woods, and the particular mix of vulnerability and pride as she strode towards a shrine with offerings in hand.

"She seems a benevolent sort, looking after her flock. Does she demand any offerings of you, love?" she asked, head tilting very gently to the right as she kept one eye on Farren and his situation and another on Gregory. Her mind's eye almost drifted back to the carved skulls of corvids outside--partly curious as to why such a being as this enigmatic Crowmother would hate for her children to be harmed, but approve of their skulls being used to fashion wards. Such things had power, that she did not deny, but there was a loose thread here that she intended to tug 'til the whole warp and weft became known to her.