_Farren

shivered faintly, glad for Ophelia’s presence of mind–and the small hand she’d laid on his shoulder–as he stared up into the intelligent eyes of the uncanny beast. He barely heard Ophelia’s words, truthfully, but the Crowmother’s reply provided sufficient context for him to intuit what he hadn’t processed. He swallowed and took another long, deep, stilling breath, letting his surprisingly frayed nerves ease the tension in his body. The shaking in his limbs, though gradually, began to subside. Farren wet his lips and swallowed, his gaze darting down only when he saw movement at the doorway.

As a figure emerged–presumably the Crow Hunter–Farren oddly felt himself relax further, some of his tension easing. It almost seemed that the Crowmother deferred to the Huntress, despite what one might think. His mind began to work again, no longer quite so frozen by the awesome and terrifying presence of the ghastly Crow-beast that remained perched above them. He could feel its baleful attention on him and he kept it firmly within his awareness, close to the cone of his more focused vision, but still in his peripheral sight in case it made any sudden, violent movements.

For her part, the Crow Hunter levied at them a question for which he realized he had no real answer. Thus, Farren glanced to Ophelia rather than reply. This seemed within her purview, rather than his own. So, for now at least, until he had his bearings, Farren would follow her lead.

Ophelia turned to Moira at the Crow Hunter's words, expectantly looking at her as though she would have something to say. Laconic though Moira was, it seemed to Ophelia that the introductions should be served by her. If Moira had no inclination to do so Ophelia would make them herself, but she let her gaze linger on Moira for a long couple of seconds first.

Noticing Farren looking at Ophelia and Ophelia looking at her, Torquil staring fixedly at Crowmother as if scared to look away and Gerlinde being busy looking at everything but the Crow Hunter, with none of them seeming particularly inclined to speak first, Moira readily took the word. “Several reasons,” she told her, “but most of those are my own. The others are here mostly because I led them here. I thought they needed to meet you two.”
“Oh?” the Crow Hunter slowly walked toward them, navigating the dirt pathways between the gardens. “And what could a pack of hardy Hunters need from an old woman and a giant beast?”
“I didn't expect Crowmother to talk,” Moira corrected. “I meant you and the other Hunter living here.”
The Crow Hunter stopped walking instantly. “You're a sneaky one, aint ya? Not only did ya know where we were to lead everyone here, but ya must realize people aren't supposed to know there's two people here, let alone two Hunters. So...” With swift, fluid motion the Crow Hunter drew the shortsword at her side, which appeared to be a quite ordinary double-edged blade... only for her to grab the handle with both hands and, in a manipulation that would be very familiar to Farren, seemed to twist the weapon apart, splitting it into two single-edged shortswords, one in each hand. “...are we gonna have a problem?”
“I'd presume not,” Moira retorted, sounding completely calm and not at all intimidated. “These four are all Paleblood Hunters. I used to be one, too.”
Again the Crow Hunter stopped, having now crossed most of the way toward them. She turned her head, and though they could not see her face past her mask, it was probably safe to assume by the way she was facing that she was glancing at the little patch of flowers from the Dream. She looked back to them. “Four of them... who all still dream?”

---

Ophelia smiled gently at the exchange between Moira and the Crow Hunter, her face changing to an expression of intrigued surprise at the reveal of the second Hunter for a moment before shifting back. Ophelia jumped in only at the last moment, utterly unperturbed by the idea of the confrontation the Crow Hunter was imagining, but clearly enlivened and animated upon their sudden change of attitude when their nature was revealed.

"I thought you'd have been able to smell it! That's right; Gerlinde and I, Ophelia, were born with Paleblood, and Farren and Torquil here... acquired it. The last little member of our merry band oversaw the experiment that created them. You've even a little lantern here, see?" Ophelia spoke, pointing over at the unlit lantern. "I wonder, does the rune let you see the lamps? Moira, Dietrich? I had never considered if it was an illusion that hides them from waking view. Ah, but I digress--I think that we have some information you should know, and vice versa it seems. Mother Moon has called out for aid again, and I fear that without the wisdom of the past this Night will end like that fateful one years ago."

The Azure-eyed hunter flicked his gaze from Ophelia, to Moira…and then between her and the Old Crow. His eyes widened fractionally as the old hunter drew steel before twisting the blade apart into a pair of short blades. However, Farren’s gaze narrowed a moment after, one hand finding purchase on the hilt of the Blade of Mercy at his hip, while the other rose over his shoulder and behind him to grasp at the Beastflayer.

He eyed the feathered pair—Old Crow and Crowmother both—for a long moment even as Moira clarified their peaceful intentions, with Ophelia adding her own spin. “Rather parley than drench your garden crimson,” Farren said, his tone level despite the fear that simmered beneath the surface, not touching his voice at all. He made no move to draw or strike, but his stance was ready and as both Torquil and Ophelia knew…Farren was fast despite the numerous armaments on his person.

"They don't," Moira told Ophelia in response to her question as to their ability to see the lanterns. "If there's a lantern, we can't see it."
"Suppose it's no surprise the little ones put one there," the Crow Hunter mused, though this time she did not turn from them. "But... these two 'acquired' Paleblood from an experiment? Hm. That is concerning." Her voice sounded oddly tense, and an attentive eye might notice her blades trembling.
She turned to Dietrich. "Sorry, but... she said you're Dietrich? As in Dietrich of the Shining Wing?"
"That I am, Miss Crow Hunter! In the flesh!" Dietrich confirmed with his most charming smile, made somewhat less endearing by his grimy state. "Please excuse my current condition; I'm afraid I had a bit of a disagreement with the creature that apparently goes by the name of 'Crowmother'."
The Crow Hunter cocked her head. "Ya fought Crowmother and still live?"
Dietrich laughed. "Barely! She is certainly the most perilous opponent I have ever faced. Well fought!"
Up above, Crowmother warbled again. "You fight well, Hunter. Are strong. Stronger than any other I know. First time I have been forced to flee. Wounded me gravely."
"Hey Gramps!" the Crow Hunter suddenly shouted, half-turning back to the cabin. "There's some folk here that want to chat with ya!" She turned back to the group. "So... Ophelia, Gerlinde, Farren, Torquil, Moira and Dietrich." She nodded her head. "Alright... y'all can come closer so Gramps doesn't have to walk as far. Name's Eileen."

Taking everything in, Farren—once the Old Crow, Eileen, had turned away—let his posture relax, his hand coming away from the Beastflayer. The knuckles of his other hand relaxed, but the base of his palm remained resting against the Blade of Mercy as he again glanced up at the Crowmother, then back down. Likely at the same time as the others, Farren walked fully past the trees and towards the cozy sanctuary it seemed the Old Crow and this ‘Gramps’ had made for themselves. Ending up slightly ahead of the others, Farren would snap in the direction of the lantern when he came somewhat near it, lighting it for later use. Thereafter he’d walk along with the others, not yet sure what to say regarding the recent developments. Though, one question did come to mind. “How long have you lived out here?” He wondered aloud.

"Five years," Eileen told him. "Since the Night of the Blood Moon."

“Mnn, survivors then,” Farren remarked, an added note of respect in his words.

Ophelia followed when beckoned, and was about to make a slight detour towards the lantern and snap at it to awaken its gentle glow, but Farren had gotten to it before her, and he returned to the group to meet the other illustrious resident of this hidden haven.

"You've a lovely little nook here, Eileen. Peaceful, serene... I'm almost sorry we have to disturb it." She spoke in passing as she returned, admiring the little patches of vegetation and giving a friendly wave to the cow.

Eileen shrugged. "It's a Night of the Hunt, it's bound to disturb things a tad even here. Sometimes a Hunter comes creeping, often hoping to shirk their duties. Sometimes beasts come 'round looking for prey and territory. Sometimes, like tonight, we get both. Usually Crowmother handles things before they get here, though... ah, there he is."
As the group had by now crossed most of the space toward the cabin - lighting the lantern with a quick snap of their fingers along the way - they heard the approaching second Hunter of the clearing before they saw him: one light, soft step, followed by a louder thud of wood against wood, alternating between the two. All over the clearing the Messengers seemed to grow excited, as every single one of them stopped what they had been doing to instead turn toward the cabin and start making their way toward it.
Then the figure appeared in the doorway: an old and gray man in clothes that looked almost as old and worn as its wearer, clean-shaven but with skin deeply furrowed by time, with shoulder-length white hair under a a wide-brimmed top hat. He wore a ragged cloak over a long cloak, and a shoe only on his left foot... because he had no right foot. In its place he had a peg leg.
There was a fair chance that any of the Paleblood Hunters would recognize this man at sight, even before Eileen had a chance to introduce him: "This here's Gehrman, the First Hunter. He was the original caretaker of the Dream, so I'm sure he has some insights to share."

"My my, it's just like the statues... It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, dear." Ophelia started, giving Gehrman her usual curtsey. She took a few seconds after returning to her normal posture to think before she spoke again.

"It's... been an eventful couple of hours. Would it be helpful if we simply started from the beginning? Do you want to talk first? I fear that once I start talking it's going to be a nightmare to get me to stop, so..."

Gehrman swept his gaze over the assembled Hunters, seeming curious but not overly invested in them. "I don't have any sort of speech prepared for Hunters that find their way here, if that's what you're wondering... in fact I usually let Eileen do the talking. You're the first ones to ask for me since I retired here. So tell me, what can an old Hunter do for you?"

Ophelia, glad to explain, launched into the story of the last handful of hours, with Farren pitching in on occasion as the tale stretched long.

Gehrman listened attentively as the party regaled him with every relevant event of the night so far, with the only time he really moved being to sit down after Eileen had gone inside to fetch a chair for him. Even Crowmother seemed to just sit patiently and listen. They told him of waking up in Rebirth's Rise, of what they had read on the blackboard there and how Pallid and his goons had tried to kidnap them. They told him of their first interactions with Victor, their first arrival in the Hunter's Dream and meeting the doll and the Shopkeeper. They recounted how Ophelia had first met Dietrich and Vicar Harold, while Farren and Torquil rejoined Victor and ended up fighting Skinner, and how it had ultimately been the Shopkeeper that slaughtered the mad Hunter. They told him of how they had met Moira and ventured into the Industrial Ward for the first time, found the remains of Crowmother's clash with a cleric beast and learned what they could with a quick inquiry, though they likely left out Farren's ladder-related mishap. They told him of their only meeting with Vicar Harold where they all had been present, and how it had affected especially Farren. How Farren had discovered the Sun Rune by searching his lost memory, and - making sure never to utter the word "Ego" - how they had learned of the involvement of the Golden One. They told him of their trip to Yahar'gul, how they had discovered the secret entrance to the Unseen Village, and their encounter with the lightbeast and the darkbeast, culminating in them obtaining the Mask Rune. Finally they explained how they had gone in search of Dietrich to save him from the clutches of Vicar Harold and how their search had led them back to the Industrial Ward, where they had met Moira again and ultimately been brought here, to Gehrman and Eileen.

Ophelia had been quite truthful; it had been an eventful couple of hours, and recounting it all took time. It was midnight by then, and the full moon was at its apex.

Having now heard their tale, Gehrman let out a sigh and turned to Eileen. "You know, back in my day things used to be so simple. You're a Hunter, so you get a weapon and go kill beasts. Why have things gotten so complicated nowadays?"

"Because people never finish what they start, and it all keeps rolling down. We're just the latest in a long line--the Scourge seems the destiny of all who partake of the Old Blood. Well, except those of us claimed by another first. If we want to finish it, we have to understand it. All of it." Ophelia replied thoughtfully, before looking at the others to see if they had anything to add.

Gehrman shook his head. "The things Laurence, Willem, Micolash and I began when we first retrieved the Old Blood wasn't meant to be finished. It was evolution, and a conduit that let us finally reach some of the gods. We thought we understood so much more back then, but only because we didn't understand how much was simply beyond us." He sighed. "But none of that matters. The others from back then are all long dead and their memory scattered among the Nightmare. You are the ones bound to the Dream now. So you tell me: what do you want to do about all of this? What are your plans?"

"How can we plan when so much of the picture is missing? We don't know what this golden god even wants, what rules it plays by, and whether or not we can even kill it. It wants something from Farren and me, though we're not quite sure what and why. I fear we can make no truly effective plans without all of this information and more." Ophelia replied, though again she looked around to see if any of her companions would have something to add.

Gehrman slowly nodded his head, rubbing his chin in thought. "That is usually how it is with the Great Ones; we never really know what they want or why they want it. I have never heard of this Golden One before, but it already sounds highly unusual in that it is able to communicate with you. The Great Ones usually can't convey things in a way we mortals can comprehend, but I suppose there are always exceptions." He gestured upwards to where Crowmother sat, her giant, freakish head peeking down at them among the rocks.

"I suppose those who ascended from humanity retain some instincts, hm? There are golden Caryll Runes too, though we've only found the one--and they reveal information about the great one. Note that I haven't mentioned the name, by the by: mentioning the name lets them manifest and scan you. We don't know what exactly the scanning does or what protects against it, but this is ultimately a war of information and we have to keep our cards close to the chest." Ophelia replied again, beginning to feel a little sheepish about her constantly responding. She looked up at Crowmother and thought about Gehrman's allusion, nodding to herself in agreement.

"Retain some instincts?" Gehrman shook his head. "I personally witnessed a scholar called Rom become a kin Great One, and there was barely anything left of who she used to be after her ascension. Their minds work very differently than those of humans and beasts... at least as a general rule. But first you mentioned not knowing how to kill the Golden One, and now you call it a war on information. I take it that you do actually have a plan then? To defeat it?"

"Curious... Perhaps we don't even have the capacity to understand the gulf between mere mortal and Great One. I don't suppose you'd tell us how this Rom did it? Not that I'd intend to repeat her experiment--if I ascended I think I'd like to retain most of myself--but understanding the rules of ascension is crucial. Until I know what it wants, I can't say I'm comfortable killing a Great One--not when that's what got us here in the first place."

"I wasn't personally involved in that, unfortunately; that was Laurence and Willem's project. But... what do you mean, killing a Great One was what got us here?"

"Our understanding of the Golden One is that it was the deaths of the Great Ones during the Night of the Blood Moon that caused them to awaken from the Old Labyrinth. The Lord Vicar mentioned some names, though I'm hesitant to speak them aloud... I can if you like, though."

"Is that so?" Gehrman said slowly. "I wonder why it woke from that but not when Kos died. Hm. Telling me their names probably won't help, but I assume it would be safe. People invoke Oedon's name all the time, and I often talked with the doll about Flora."

As Ophelia rehashed the events of the last few hours--it truly boggled the mind how so much could happen in so little time--Farren took that time to close his eyes and think on those very same events. Something about it all felt...strange somehow, like they were magnets drawing these events to them. As if their very connection with--perhaps the Dream--caused the players of this grand game to gravitate towards them.

As this became more apparent to him, Farren's brow slowly began to furrow. By the time Gehrman spoke of Kos and Oedon there were deep creases between his brows. “Did it ever seem as if...events always spooled out from your actions with greater potency than those around you?” Farren asked, opening his azure eyes to regard the two aged hunters.

Gehrman let out a single bark of laughter. "I am probably the wrong one to ask, my boy. Sure, we recovered the Old Blood and pretty much made Yharnam what it is today, but I never really got to be a Paleblood Hunter like the rest of you. After the Moon Presence put me in the Dream, I couldn't leave... and it took nearly two centuries before the Moonborn released me from it."
"Events are always happening, especially in Yharnam," Eileen joined in. "I'd wager it's less that we're more impactful just by existing, and more that we're stronger and don't need to fear death. People hate and desire us, and we have the power to do what we want."

“Hadn't considered with that lens,” Farren said thoughtfully, the furrows in his brow easing somewhat. “As for a plan, I agree with Ophelia, it's a hard thing...making decisions with what feels like a paltry store of knowledge.” He shook his head, “Though...if I'd the means and no other choice...I'd surely kill the Golden Bastard,” he added, eyes narrowing as the ghost of wrathful hate briefly crossed his features before he relaxed again, the expression fading away. “...but to do so without understanding some meaningful degree of that actions consequences is...it would be wrong. There's no telling what harm such a thing might do.”

Gehrman slowly nodded his head at Farren's words. "The Moonborn is the only one I know of that has managed to kill Great Ones... and they killed three of them. Sadly I was stuck in the Dream for two of those kills, and when they killed the Moon Presence I had already been released, so I never saw if they did anything special. But... I don't think they did. I don't remember them preparing anything like that."

Farren raised a single brow as he listened to the First of the Hunters, nodding slowly. They’d known that the Moonborn Hunter was a godslayer, but hearing it laid out that way helped accentuate that enormity of things. “They’re quite the Hunter…I’ll have to ask if there was a trick to it,” Farren said thoughtfully, his gaze briefly drifting over one of the nearby Messengers. It occurred to him that he didn’t truly have to wait. Thus, Farren took a few steps away, approaching the nearest group of Messengers. He knelt down while everyone else carried on, murmuring softly to the little helpers. They provided—after a moment—a scroll for him to inscribe a message. As always, Farren scrawled with his fingertip, not able to actually touch the scroll.



When he was done, Farren murmured thanks to the little creatures, and a few withdrew into the earth of the garden, vanishing to deliver his missive. Farren sat on the path. Facing the others, Farren listened, not having anything further to say for the moment.

"I've been keeping them updated on our adventures as we've gone--they said they're going to find a way to kill this Great One too. While I don't support using it at the moment, I do wholeheartedly support researching it--if we end up needing to use it, I'd rather not be caught without it. If, indeed, there is a particular trick to it. I've been thinking about something else, too... Harold said that they collected the blood of a number of Palebloods in their experiments, starting with Djura... and eventually ending up at the Moonborn Hunter. It's their blood that made Farren and Torquil's experiment work, and... odd things happen when they enter the Dream sometimes. In the beginning it was just weather changes, but I noticed that it only happened when we went as a group and not when I travelled alone--and some other queer things have happened too. This strange ghost, a... bloodwraith, I think it was called, with a peculiar knife appeared and seemed tethered to Torquil. It attacked him and inflicted him with Frenzy, though we banished it not long after. The Holy Moonlight Sword whispered to me that it must have been him who beckoned the wraith there, or his blood, at least. I've not exactly had much time to research the Dream, but that seems very unusual indeed, doesn't it?" Ophelia spoke, intending at first to only provide a brief update but as usual words simply kept spilling out of her mouth until her train of thought arrived at its destination.

"Very," Gehrman confirmed somberly. "I've never seen anything like that happen. It sounds like whatever the vicar has cooked up is still just a bad imitation."

Meanwhile a pair of Messengers arrived with a scroll for Farren:

Hit them until they stop bleeding.

Farren couldn’t help but let out a quiet chuckle at the words upon the Shopkeep’s message, shaking his head. “No particular trick, it seems,” he said, glancing to Ophelia as he relayed the message from the Moonborn Hunter.

"It seems we need answers about the Nightmare itself, and that knowledge of our little Dream is only part of the picture... Do you know much of Communion and Chalices? Where we might find more of them, for instance--the Holy Moonlight Sword has whispered to me that it has a twin, you see, and that through chalices we Palebloods might manifest directly in a specific part of the labyrinth rather than going the long route. This chalice I know lies at Cainhurst Castle, but I wonder if you know aught of any others?" Ophelia began, looking at Dietrich as she mentioned the Holy Moonlight Sword having a twin with an eager twinkle in her eyes. She quickly turned her attention back to the two Elder Hunters, but couldn't help but permit herself that quick indulgence.

"I know about them, certainly," Gehrman confirmed with a nod of his head, "but I'm afraid I already told the Moonborn of the one chalice I knew the location of. I'm sure they already have quite the collection of chalices in the Dream... but I also suspect that you'd be much better served getting the chalice your sword told you of. Unless you think you will discover something useful exploring random pockets of the infinite dungeons?"

"Does the term "Isz" mean anything to you? Golden Boy was once a King of Isz, according to the little ones. I have the impression it's something to do with the labyrinth, but... I can't come to any specifics. Mother Moon above, I don't know what we're supposed to do with all of this. I feel obliged to make the best decision for the world as a whole, but that seems a distant ideal in the face of how little we know... My idea was to get as many people together who knew as much as possible and come up with a plan. I've not the foggiest where to start." Ophelia replied, her gaze attentively looking at the gleaming blade of the Holy Moonlight Sword.

"You're in luck, because I'm probably one of just several people alive today that know of Isz," Gehrman informed her. "Like Loran and Pthumeru, Isz was a land that used the Old Blood to achieve power and prosperity, only to eventually fall and disappear... and like Loran and Pthumeru, part of the Old Labyrinth has taken on aspects of it. In fact Isz is the oldest group we have learned of to use blood ministration, and theirs is the deepest part of the labyrinth we have explored. Regrettably I don't know of any kings of Isz, but I can only guess that the Golden One would have slumbered there until awoken."
He sighed. "We never know the full extent of how our actions will affect the world, but... ah, sadly most of the great scholars of Yharnam died during the Night of the Blood Moon. But if you intend to work against the Golden One and his Healing Church, I might recommend that you seek out others that oppose the church. Cainhurst in particular is an ancient house; not only could they be a powerful ally, they may also have more information."
"The Vilebloods," Dietrich scoffed. "We should eradicate those foul wretches sooner than ally with them."
"Are you sure about that, First Hunter?" Gehrman asked, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Even when one of your own companions is a Vileblood?"

Ophelia nodded along with Gehrman's explanation eagerly, until the last comments about the party having a Vileblood. She looked around, confused for a moment, and then turned back to Gehrman.

"... who?"

Gehrman sniffed the air for a moment, paying close attention to the smell. "I'm quite familiar with their scent since my... my old apprentice was of Cainhurst." Gehrman's face fell a little and his gaze grew distant, as if the thought was both nostalgic and painful to him.
"There's a quite overpowering smell of Vileblood from your pack," he said, pointing to Farren, "and a much fainter yet unmistakable smell from you." He indicated Ophelia. "Your lineage is definitely of Cainhurst."

Ophelia looked earnestly surprised, first at the indication of Farren's pack and then again at her--though understandably more at the latter than the former. "Lineage... Gosh, you know, I picked this out," she began, indicating down to the piece of Cainhurst attire she was wearing, "it was because it felt... familiar, somehow. I think I remember something like it in a portrait, or... Papa. Is that why he..?" She began, strainedly searching her memories for something that simply would not come to her. She remembered much, but childhood... it seemed the ministration had taken most of that from her. What little she remembered was... snippets of sound, like her mother singing, or portraits illuminated by firelight, or a particular scent. Her gaze fell back down and she looked at nowhere and nothing in particular for a moment, filled with an unspoken melancholy and warmth in equal measure--perhaps not dissimilar to Gehrman's own.

"Also," Eileen interjected, seemingly looking at Dietrich, "in case that was not already ya plan, I think ya should stay here for now, Dietrich. Let the others deal with Cainhurst if that's what they're gonna do. I have some stuff I wanna talk to you about."
Dietrich frowned. "What do you mean?"
"We should talk in private," Eileen insisted. "I think we've a lot to talk about."

“My pack?” Farren asked, more than slightly confused before he realized it must have been regarding the pack for extra supplies that he’d acquired. Still, why would it smell so strongly of the vilebloods?

The rest, well…Farren didn’t have any particular opinion on them. No real memory of them either and from what little he could recall from the night he had come to understand that the nobles of cainhurst were rather reviled, hence the name ‘vileblood’. Unlike Dietrich whose response had been immediate and exceptionally opinionated, Farren just frowned, a thoughtful look more than one of frustration or confusion. He shook his head slightly. “Strange times…” he muttered to himself, shaking his head slightly.

"What did you mean about something in Farren's pack, Gehrman? Ah, before I forget, I think it would be a good idea to give you both the Mask rune too? Being protected from eldritch influence seems very important, given what we know now. Seeing through illusions is a pleasant side effect." Ophelia asked, looking over Gehrman and Eileen both--with some amount of... not skepticism, but slightly more intense scrutiny about what business she had with Dietrich that was private. She had seemed to recognise him earlier, and for someone as secluded as she that didn't mean nothing. Ophelia felt like a good bit of gossip about something relatively mundane would be quite the treat, in the face of the cosmically proportioned struggle they were now embroiled in.

"I mean just that," Gehrman shrugged, turning his gaze to Farren. "Something in your pack has a pungent smell of decay, beasthood and Vileblood. I don't know what it is, I can't see it, but that's what it smells like."
"Very well," he added when Ophelia suggested giving them the Mask Rune, and both of the elderly Hunters cooperated to receive the rune.
"What about her?" Eileen asked, pointing up at the looming form of Crowmother above them.

"Ah, yes--I have my doubts about whether the pain the brand inflicts will be enough to sear the rune onto Crowmother's mind... But should you wish it, I will happily apply the rune." Ophelia replied, first directed at Eileen and then at Crowmother, to whom she performed another curtsey.

"It'll be fine," Eileen assured her before looking up and raising her voice: "Hey Crowmother! These people have a Caryll Rune they wanna give ya! Let them have a poke at ya!"
The creature above them let out a warbling noise, then slowly slinked halfway over and halfway through the jutting rocks over the cabin. Each time one of its hands or feet hit a surface as it crawled through made a loud thud and sent out tremors that all of them could feel in the ground under their feet. With one hand still latched onto the rocks above and her feet firmly planted on the vertical side of the cliff, Crowmother let herself hang - dangling like some nightmarish parody of the Sword of Damocles - and lowered one hand down to them. She stretched her index-finger out toward Ophelia, offering it for branding.

Ophelia looked up, and though her mind was absent of fear she still gulped as she looked up at the imposing presence. From this vantage point she found Dietrich's victory--for leaving alive was indeed a victory--even more impressive.

"A thing to note, however, is that the impermeability goes both ways. The mask will isolate you from influence, but isolate others from your influence too--at least, as I understand it. I can easily replace the rune with another if aught feels off, in either case." Ophelia spoke, suddenly cautious, but obliging. Once the Crowmother had made her decision, Ophelia would carry out her part.

Crowmother warbled once more before forcing herself to speak: "I doubt it will affect any 'influence' I have. I also know how Caryll Runes work. I used to be a Hunter, too."
Once she had received the brand, the colossal beast nimbly pulled herself back up onto the rocks and settled back in.

"Is that so? Are you like the Moonborn Hunter, then, ascended? Or... ascending? Sweet Adelaide, too... How many people became beasts on the Night of the Blood Moon? At least three, to restore things to balance? Is restoration even possible, after what happened, or is it a new world that must be made? I fear I may be letting the perfect be the enemy of the good..." Ophelia asked Crowmother, her interest suddenly sparked again. There was something different about her rambling this time, too, as she seemed to settle out of her prior vacillation and some decision seemed to be made in her mind, unspoken but plain on her face.

Another warble emanated from the beast. "Not ascended. Scourge-ridden. I was just a regular Hunter." Yet another warble. "I was already like this during the blood moon. Stayed out of Yharnam. Still felt it."

"Yet you still retain your mind, and have done for five years. Have you ever known a victim of the scourge last that long before becoming a creature of pure instinct?" Ophelia replied, posing the question to most everyone. She was no particular expert on beasts and their intricacies--the best she'd ever done is deliver offerings that a greater being might protect them.

Farren watched warily as the Crowmother descended, and then went back to its perch, having to focus so as not to tighten his grip on the hilt he’d been casually holding at his side. Tapping the pommel momentarily, Farren let it go and then slung the pack off his person and stepped closer to Gehrman. “Could you identify the item? The one with this…scent of vileblood, as you put it,” Farren asked, regarding the man with his usual intensity.

"I don't have my mind," Crowmother told Ophelia, shaking her misshapen head. "Thinking is different. Speaking is... hard. Words. Sentences." She paused and warbled. "I knew one with more of his mind. Could speak well. Could even assume human form. But he went to hunt during the blood moon. Got killed."
Meanwhile Gehrman nodded his head at Farren. "I probably could, yeah, though I'm surprised you don't smell it yourself. It is quite pungent."

Farren frowned and began to fish around inside the bag, bringing things closer to the opening as he took in a deep pull of the various scents. “Suppose I just…hadn’t know what to look for…so to speak,” he muttered as he tried to locate the item that had the pungent scent that Gehrman had pointed out.

As soon as it was retrieved from Farren's pack, Gehrman pointed to the vial of darkbeast blood. "That."

Farren blinked as he glanced between the vial and Gehrman. His brow creased slightly, “Truly?” He shook his head, knowing the answer, “Odd…this was tilted as Darkbeast blood,” Farren offered, seeming a bit confused.

Gehrman shrugged. "It certainly smells beastly and decayed, as I said, so an undead beast fits. But I promise you, the thing that blood came from was a Vileblood before the scourge took them."

“Huh…” Farren uttered as he stared at the vial.

"Is that... how all darkbeasts work?" Ophelia asked.

"I'll admit that I have very little experience with darkbeasts; they are very rare, so the only place I ever saw them was in the Old Labyrinth," Gehrman told them. "But no, none of the other darkbeasts I have encountered had the smell of Vileblood on them."

"I'll admit that I have very little experience with darkbeasts; they are very rare, so the only place I ever saw them was in the Old Labyrinth," Gehrman told them. "But no, none of the other darkbeasts I have encountered had the smell of Vileblood on them."

In that moment…a thought occurred to Farren and after he’d stowed the vial once more and donned the pack, he knelt and called upon the Messengers, murmuring something quietly. A moment later they rose from the ground and left behind the portion of the Darkbeast’s limb that Farren had removed. Farren took a deep breath—despite the distinct scent of decay, trying to identify if the smell was at all similar to that of the vial.

"You got that from the bath in the Dream, didn't you, Farren? Could we perhaps ask the little ones where they acquired it?" Ophelia asked as Farren got the arm out, nodding at his initative.

As he nodded, Farren noted that the darkbeast's arm did indeed smell quite similar to the vial of darkbeast blood. He lifted his gaze to Gehrman, “You’ve a keener nose for vileblood than I,” Farren commented idly as he glanced up from the limb and to Gehrman—remaining on one knee. “Would you say the blood is from the same body as this arm?”

Gehrman sniffed loudly. "Smells like it. Yes, that arm has the scent of Vileblood, too."

“Interesting,” Farren mused, thanking the Messengers and allowing them to take the arm back into whatever place they went. He pushed back to his feet, looking thoughtful as he slowly began to pace.

"So Yahar'gul's defences were a former Vileblood-turned beast and Saint Adelaide? Mother Moon above, perhaps Harold's pointing us there wasn't a trap per se--perhaps what's going on there really is just... bad, for everyone and everything. Well... it seems the world's our proverbial oyster, doesn't it, dears? Though... something is niggling at me. Why are they called 'Vilebloods'?"

Gehrman shook his head grimly. "That term only started being used after I got stuck in the Dream. When I was still a Hunter of Yharnam, the knights and nobles of Cainhurst were deeply respected and had a great deal of authority, even over the Healing Church. Even my apprentice was called 'lady'. All I know is what I've been told by Paleblood Hunters passing through the Dream, but apparently they received a forbidden kind of Old Blood from a Byrgenwerth traitor that turned them into fiendish, corrupt creatures. So they are 'Vilebloods' because they received vile blood, or so the story goes."

As Gehrman finished his explanation Farren’s eyes narrowed as he looked up, ceasing his pacing, “A convenient story,” he said, suspicion in his tone, though it wasn’t directed at anyone present. “…it stinks of conspiracy, perhaps hearsay and lies even—spread by the Old Healing Church for their own interests, I’d guess.”

"Hah, it's like an old wives' tale got written into history. History is, after all, simply the record written by the winners. I'm more interested in what individuals have to say... Well, we were going to Cainhurst either way. If I'm one of these Vilebloods by birth, as you say, perhaps there's something for me there. With Papa gone it's not like I could ask about it, so..." Ophelia replied, smirking somewhat at Farren's immediate dismissal. A healthy scrutiny of the Healing Church was always warranted, it seems, but lies rarely bloomed without a tiny seed of truth.

"So is that what we're doing next?" Gerlinde asked through a mouthful of strawberries she had stolen while they had been talking. "Going to Castle Cainhurst?"

"Seems like it. Dietrich being able to keep a low profile here seems a good idea. Off to Castle Cainhurst then? I suppose some means to contact us might be useful, but... I doubt either of you can see the little ones anymore." Ophelia knelt down to one of the various Messengers strewn about the place and spoke again. "Might you let us know if they need our attention, loves?"

The Messengers just looked at Ophelia, moaning wordlessly and flailing pointlessly.
"The little ones don't have that kind of wisdom, I'm afraid," Gehrman chuckled, "and you are right that Eileen and I can no longer see nor hear them. That being said, we have Crowmother and the Hunter who fought her and lived, as well as three former Paleblood Hunters... and though I am an old one-legged man, I was once hailed as the most powerful Hunter of Yharnam." He made a broad gesture encompassing the entire clearing. "I dare say that the sheer strength assembled here will keep not only us safe, but makes this a perfect haven for you to send anyone else you want to find shelter until the night's end. In fact..."
He looked to Eileen, who nodded her head in agreement and looked up at Crowmother. "What do ya say? Wanna lend a talon?"
Crowmother warbled in a way that almost resembled laughter. "Why not? Maybe that can ease my moon-madness a little."
With that, Eileen reached into a pack at her side and produced a small brass bell, which she held out for one of the party to take. "Ring this and Crowmother will hear, and she will carry all of us to come to your aid as quickly as possible."

"That's very generous of you, dear, thank you--I sent Adelaide to Old Yharnam, figuring that she could find a little corner and not be bothered. We'll have to go back and send her here after we're done at Cainhurst--I couldn't bear for anything more to happen to her, and she has a tremendous power of healing. She'd be very useful, I'm certain, and grateful besides. I feel we owe her for this Mask rune tremendously, after all... Alright, well--it's dangerous for Farren and Torquil to enter the Dream too much unnecessarily, so I think I'll try and pop back whenever we have a moment to check in. If you have a think about anything you'd like us to do, Dietrich, please let me know--we could relay messages or give orders or fetch things for you. Mind... before we visit Cainhurst, how bad is the situation with the Fire Dancers? If that's urgent and needed to keep the Hunters keeping lesser beasts off of the streets, perhaps that's work taking care of first. I remember it mentioned that the Healing Church is running out of quicksilver." Ophelia mentioned, stretching herself as she prepared to actually get moving again. She barely had to, of course, but it was still quite a novel thing to her--and she found herself thankful for the simple joys of being able to move freely.

"I don't know," Dietrich sighed, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Truth be told I'm still working on wrapping my mind around all of this, Miss Ophelia... this past hour has sort of turned my world upside down. But speaking as if I was still the First Hunter, as if nothing had changed, we should have enough supplies make it through a Night of the Hunt with just minor rationing. Assuming nothing unusually dangerous shows up..." He winced. "...our Hunters should be able to deal with it with minimal casualties."

Ophelia nodded. "Just surrender to the maelstrom, dear. It's much easier than trying to work out what's going on--this is the way things are for now, until something else happens. Have a little think and we'll be back before you know it, love. Right! Off we go." Ophelia smiled, offering Dietrich a sympathetic look. After she was done she turned to the others, gave them a querying look to see if they were ready, and headed towards where the lantern was.

"Just for the record, before you go," Dietrich said with a slight smile, "I want to... to thank you, I suppose. I admit that it's hard for me to see the positives at the moment, but with everything that is going on I can only imagine what could have happened if I had stayed in the thrall of... whatever the vicar is. So thank you, Miss Ophelia."
Dietrich wiped his still rather bloodstained hand as well as possible, then stretched it out and offered a handshake. Quite unusually, Ophelia would find that as he did so, the faint, random Guidance sprites that had occasionally been springing into brief existence around the First Hunter abruptly starting appearing more quickly, glowing more brightly and remaining for longer, until a whole swarm of motes of moonlight seemed to be swarming Dietrich's offered hand.

Ophelia smiled and took his hand, shaking it as she spoke. "I meant what I said, my dear, a light as brilliant as yours should never be occluded. And... the reason I'm getting this chalice from Cainhurst is that the Holy Moonlight Sword has a twin, somewhere in the Labyrinth. I don't know what'll happen to the twin, if it's a second blade or if it'll just empower my blade--but if there is a second, I'd like you to have it. I don't mean you should replace your weapon, of course, but I know how inspired you are. Maybe an age of light where all of this is over isn't as far away as we thought, mm?" Ophelia spoke, waiting for after whatever happened with the handshake to be done before she spoke about the sword at length.

Dietrich's smile widened at Ophelia's words. "Let's hope so."
As Ophelia took Dietrich's hand, she witnessed the swarm of Guidance sprites all simultaneously swirl and dart over to her hand, up her arm and toward her head. Just as when the lightbeast had touched its glowing finger to her forehead, Ophelia was assailed by the sensation of incomprehensible eldritch knowledge flowing into her... only for her human mind to simplify it to the form of a Caryll Rune.

Ophelia has obtained the Hunter Rune, which enables its wearer to recover from exertion in half the time they would normally.

Ophelia, upon receipt of the rune, immediately knelt to one of the many little ones and asked them for their information on it. While doing so she looked up at Dietrich and spoke. "Heh, seems you've managed to give me another rune. This one is the Hunter rune, and..." Ophelia began, trailing off as she looked at the scroll and cast a furtive glance towards Eileen. She'd wager this had something to do with their upcoming private chat.

"I... really?" Dietrich said, seeming genuinely surprised and confused. "Strange... I don't know any Caryll Runes besides the one you showed me?"
Eileen slowly nodded her head, but did not say anything.

The Messengers arrived and showed Ophelia the information she had requested:

Hunter Rune
This red-smudged rune means "Hunter", and has been adopted by those who have taken the Hunter of Hunters oath.
These watchmen admonish those who have become addled with blood.
Be they men or beasts, anyone who has threatened the pledgers of the "Hunter" oath surely has an issue with blood.
An oath made by a Hunter is truly a powerful thing indeed, and lingers in blood even when it is passed on to someone else.

Ophelia rose to her feet, smiled softly, and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "All will be explained, dear, just not by me. I'll see you soon."

She gave Dietrich and Gehrman a final curtsey, waved her goodbye to Crowmother, and gave Moira a look over.

"See you all soon. Mother Moon keep you." Ophelia spoke with a single nod before she intended to leave--assuming the others did too.

Farren nodded respectfully to those assembled, still seeming somewhat lost in thought as he turned to follow Ophelia, heading for the lantern.

With that the party used the lantern in the garden to return to the Hunter's Dream through the process they were all quite familiar with by now, and were met by the usual scenery and welcomed by the doll and the Shopkeeper. Nothing obvious even seemed to happen on account of Farren and Torquil arriving in the Dream this time, though both of them did feel weirdly sluggish, as if their minds and bodies responded just a little bit slower and with less precision than they had recently. But aside from that they did not have much business in the Dream this time... though it did occur to Ophelia that she could still feel the blood echoes she had saved clinging to her, and that there was still one memory left with the birdbath Messengers to buy.
Thus Ophelia called everyone over to the birdbath once more and, channeling her last blood echoes into allowing the little ones to materialize the skull, absorbed its insight and shared it with the rest of the party.

After viewing the memory Ophelia staggered back a little, the sudden changing of perspectives a little disorienting at the best of times. She smiled as she came to, though, for it was at least a reasonably pleasant memory--an awful Hunt, to be certain, but to see Dietrich fight... She felt like she was only beginning to understand the depths of his ability, and still remained fairly awed. She wondered what it would be like to watch him fight with a Holy Moonlight Sword of his own, how beautiful the dancing of the moonmotes would be as his blade acted as conductor and usher of the deceased both.

"My, he's exceptional... it makes sense, I suppose, given that he's Eileen's son, or grandson. That's what those little sprites around him were, echoes of a vow so strong it can be passed down in blood. Blood... a truly holy medium, isn't it? It makes me wonder... Cainhurst, Vilebloods, their... our blood must carry an influence too--an influence the old Healing Church needed to wipe out. I wonder..." Ophelia began, before quickly jogging over to the Shopkeeper and the Doll.

"Hello, loves, I've a little question: your prior Hunter-selves must've done no shortage of labyrinth crawling, no? Is there aught you can tell us of Isz? Also--we've worked out what causes the tentacles to spawn: saying the Golden One's name. And I suppose we should inform you about the little sanctuary..." Ophelia began, stating that she had one question to ask and coming out with more than that--as was her wont. She proceeded to inform the Shopkeeper of all that'd happened there and awaited a reply to her initial question.

_Farren

felt an odd sluggishness as he ‘woke’ into the Hunter’s Dream, like everything was slower than it ought to have been. It didn’t fade, but as he focused on other things the impression of it grew less distinct. Farren shook his head to try and dispel the odd feeling, but eventually he just moved on. He gathered with the others and the Memory resolved, his sense of self fading as he slipped into it almost like a dream within the Dream.

As the events unfolded, he was swept up in them, feeling the fear of the assembled hunters, the rush of the strange rookie, the hunger of the beast. It was thrilling and there was a certain intensity that enraptured him, caught him and held him in its sway until finally he rocked back into his own body and—much like Ophelia—he had to catch himself after the Memory faded.

Farren blinked, widening his stance rather than stumbling, shaking his head a bit to help ground himself in his own body once more. There was a thoughtful expression on his features in the aftermath, and a hunger in his eyes. An intensity, though it was bereft of the joy and noble bearing that the young Dietrich had carried.

Farren smiled slightly as he heard Ophelia’s words, “Exceptional indeed…” he agreed, even as his mind surged with inspiration.

Seeing Dietrich fight, witnessing him utterly dominate the ferocious beast with a silent, seemingly effortless grace…it had filled Farren with intermingled admiration and desire. Admiration for the man who had been the First Hunter of their time and desire for the strength that he held.

Thus the hunger, a hunger for the echoes that could feed that aspiration, that could push him towards those heights.

“Seize every advantage,” Farren muttered to himself before his attention shifted, noting Ophelia having rushed over to their hosts.

As the vision ended Torquil took a step away as well, only to immediately fall into a thoughtful silence that was outwardly no different than his usual taciturn demeanor. His mind wandered to some of the first thoughts he recalled having after awakening as a Hunter, back in the backroom of Rebirth's Rise when he had perused those barrels of weapons. How he had first considered a sword or a spear because he enjoyed the idea of himself as a knight, a symbol of heroism and an object of admiration. How he had later picked his previous garb because it had been the one that resembled the proverbial “shining armor” most out of the options, on top of the protection he had assumed it offered. And now here he was, clad in dark cloth and wearing a mask and hat that mostly hid his face, with an axe on his hip and an oversized hammer in his hands, likely the farthest he could ever come from that initial aspiration of his.
In contrast, the Dietrich he had witnessed in the memory had been everything Torquil had ever wanted to be: handsome, confident, competent, regal, elegant, powerful... Everyone loved Dietrich, and Dietrich appeared quite comfortable in his love for himself, once again contrasting Torquil's irrational self-hatred. And even Torquil, as much as he envied and resented Dietrich for all that he had, even Torquil could not help but admire the First Hunter. Which only made it worse.
Why? he thought grimly, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath of the fresh, cool and faintly floral air of the Hunter's Dream. And right there waiting for him were those brown eyes staring at him, accompanied by that feeling of disgust. It's not fair. Why does he get to be the hero? Why does he get everything, and I get nothing? No, less than nothing; it's not just that I don't love myself, I hate myself, I find myself disgusting, and I don't even know why. Are the gods truly this cruel? Would they deny me everything I want while showing me someone else who has it? If this is what they are... if this is what the world is... He clenched his jaw. No, I have Ophelia and Farren... and Gerlinde, I suppose. I am not alone. They like me, even if they don't admire me the way they do Dietrich. Ophelia is so concerned about the gods and the world, even though life has been cruel to her as well, so there must be some good there. Something worth protecting. There is hope. There must be. And even if there isn't... we will make it. We will be hope. Yes, that sounds nice. I will be a shining symbol. I can still be a hero. They will show me the way.

“He's something all right,” was the sum total of Gerlinde's reaction to the memory. She did not sound particularly impressed; if anything, she sounded a little bored.

Once Ophelia addressed their hosts in the Dream, the Shopkeeper seemed to listen with the same inscrutability as usual, whereas the doll mostly just seemed surprised, her glassy eyes wide open and her hands clasped over her stomach. They waited patiently for Ophelia to finish her report before responding.
“Congratulations on another fruitful expedition, good Hunters,” the doll said with bow. “It is good to hear that Eileen is safe and sound, and though it is very surprising to hear that Gehrman is alive it is still welcome news. The Shopkeeper holds no resentment for him; if anything, they are grateful for the guidance he offered.”
She glanced at the Shopkeeper for a second before turning back to Ophelia. “As for Isz, they do indeed know it mostly as a part of the Old Labyrinth. The Great Isz Chalice – which we have here in the Dream now – was the first to be retrieved from the dungeon, was what allowed Byrgenwerth to reach and have audience with the kin Great One Ebrietas, and which eventually gave rise to the Healing Church.” She paused a second as if listening. “We know little of it besides what the Shopkeeper observed while delving into it, but the Old Labyrinth bearing the aspect of Isz appears to be deeper into the Interstice than any other part of it; further from the Waking World and closer to the Nightmare. It is there most of the slumbering deep Great Ones rest, and most creatures that dwell there are their kin. It is a desperately dangerous place, good Hunter. You should be well-prepared if you intend to venture into those depths.”

"Yes, you're right, it seems delving directly into Isz would be a fool's errand. I think we'll have to build some experience with the labyrinth first. Gehrman said something I found terribly interesting, too, that Rom was once a scholar who ascended and became something... lesser than they were before, it seems. Whereas you seem to have changed in rather a more positive manner--why is that? Is there something you did that caused your ascension? Some knowledge, or artefact, or..? If we pseudo-immortals can take the place of the gods, perhaps the world can yet be put to rights. It seems killing Great Ones has consequences beyond what could've been imagined. Ah, it also turns out I'm one of these 'Vilebloods' by birth--so we'll be heading to Cainhurst imminently. Could you prepare whatever chalices yet remain here while we're gone, please, loves?" Ophelia replied, her eyes glistening as her mind worked behind them.

She looked over her shoulder at the others intermittently while she spoke too, in the natural pauses and lulls of her speech. She noticed a particular slump in Torquil's posture, and though his headwear and the distance between them conspired to hide the look on his face she was quite sure it was the same melancholy that had gripped him ever since the wraith had manifested here. She wished that she could help him through whatever battle was going on in his mind, but knew that he was responsible for his own salvation--or destruction, as it were. He would get to decide for himself. She hoped he'd let her help, that there was something she could do to help. The poor lad... They needed to go back to the forest anyway, as had been planned earlier. Maybe they could find wherever it was he used to live, perhaps some clues yet remained there.

The Shopkeeper nodded at Ophelia's words, and the doll answered: “We can do that, good Hunter. But your questions... For one, Rom only became what some refer to as a kin Great One – one that possesses some properties of Great Ones, but do not truly number among the gods; a sort of demigod, you could call them – whereas the constituents of the Shopkeeper that ascended did so as a true Great One. By this very nature, the Shopkeeper is an existence beyond the likes of Rom or Ebrietas. But saying that Rom became 'lesser' is inaccurate, good Hunter. Her mind may have shifted so that thought on a mortal level became more difficult and sluggish, but it did just that: shifted. The Great Ones minds even more so than their power is of another world. To you, most Great Ones appear simple, perhaps even stupid or downright vacuous, but only because you cannot comprehend them, just as you cannot comprehend their speech.”
She glanced at the Shopkeeper before continuing: “The reason the Shopkeeper retains much of their human self is due to their nature as an amalgamate of many Hunters, only some of which ascended. The one you see here is the Moonborn Hunter, not the Moonborn Great One. Many parts of them are much less human.”
Pausing, the doll frowned. “As for how the Shopkeeper ascended... simply put, they had to become the surrogate child of the Great Ones. Under the blood moon several children were created at the behest of Oedon, all of which expired at birth or during the night. The Shopkeeper consumed their umbilical cords to become such a surrogate, and then killed the Great One whose realm of the Nightmare they were already bound to: this one.”

A short distance away, Gerlinde froze, then slowly turned to fix a wide-eyed stare at the doll. Though she was still smiling, there was something strained about the expression and an even deeper tinge of madness to the expression than usual. “So... children of the Great Ones are the secret to ascension?”
The doll hesitantly nodded her head. “You could put it that way, good Hunter.”
“And Rom was a scholar of Byrgenwerth who ascended?”
“Yes, good Hunter.”
Gerlinde let out a manic giggle. “Ah. I suppose that explains why they had me give birth to all those creatures.”

Ophelia nodded along with the dispensed wisdom, occasionally frowning or furrowing her brows or even smiling--but when Gerlinde asked her question Ophelia turned to face her for a moment and gave her an appraising look.

"Yes, that makes sense... A King of Isz must've had a queen, and children, no? If the golden one did have children, then not only can we slay it but perhaps we can inherit its realm. Or, indeed, perhaps there are other Great Ones whose children might be used. If we are to ascend, it will not be as some half-measure. Our aureate foe retains even the ability to speak directly to us, albeit via a medium--and, indeed, was once mortal. We must seek the path he trod, understand how he became what he is, and dismantle him and his rotten influence--but it is clear to me now that his place must be taken if he is to die. The Vicar gave me names earlier: Seraph and Vanara among them, I believe... Do we know aught of their realms? Are they vacant, or gone? Can new realms be made? If this place is merely the dream of a Great One... perhaps those who have gone have pockets of the Nightmare they dreamed into being? Or... Forgive me if this sounds impertinent, but, are you happy here, love? Your state of being is quite unusual, and if there's aught I can do to help I'd consider it a fair trade for the wealth of knowledge you've bestowed upon us already and will continue to do so." Ophelia asked, though she turned her gaze quickly to the headstones and then to Farren and Torquil.

"Would you two name the little sanctuary, loves?"

Torquil simply turned to Farren and asked: “Isn't just 'sanctuary' fine?”

“The Shopkeeper's emotions and reasoning is difficult to describe in human terms,” the doll began answering Ophelia's questions. “They intend to remain here as they are, good Hunter, but their mind no longer works in ways where 'happiness' applies. They want to hunt and aid Paleblood Hunters, so in that respect you have already helped.
As for the rest, I am afraid that we don't know. All of the Shopkeeper's ascendant selves destroyed at least two Great Ones before ascending, and many of them three. Only the death of one Great One caused ascension, not the others. We also do not know those names you mentioned, good Hunter,” she admitted apologetically, “but I suppose neither of us knew the true names of most Great Ones. The one the Shopkeeper slew we knew as the Orphan of Kos, Mergo's Wetnurse and the Moon Presence. The realms of the Orphan and the Wetnurse we assume to be gone or assimilated into other Nightmares, and the realm of the Moon Presence... well.” She made a vague gesture at the ground at their feet.
“Neither of us know enough of how it works to tell you if new realms can be made either,” the doll added hesitantly. “But we can only assume that if realms can merge or disappear, they can also split or be created. But we have no clues as to how this could be done.”

"An orphan would stand to inherit Kos' realm, I suppose. And a wet nurse... I suppose they don't seem the sort to have one either. Only Flora... who is not my Mother Moon, it seems. Thank you, dears, I'll look forward to examining the chalices upon our return. Shall we?" Ophelia replied, giving them both a curtsey and a smile before turning to walk towards the others--presumably at the Headstones.

As she walked she reached her mind out to the Holy Moonlight Sword once more, knowing that it had information seemingly no other beings they'd so far encountered had--and as she remembered the blinding nebula that had been revealed to her upon claiming it as her own she thought that a realm of such surpassing beauty would not be a bad thing at all. O Mother Moon, do you have a realm of your own here in the Nightmare? Might we ascend together, to usher in an Age of Light? Guide me towards the right path, and let us bring Glory to this world.

“Ah, I do know Flora,” the doll interjected as Ophelia started to leave, smiling in recognition of the name. “Flora is a different Great One, but a Great One nonetheless. You know them too, Ophelia and Gerlinde; Flora is the Paleblood that binds you to the Dream. The little ones are their messengers.”

Meanwhile the whispers of the Holy Moonlight Sword also replied: “It does not know. It does not remember. It is not whole. If you find its other half, perhaps it will remember. Perhaps it can help. Perhaps.”

_Farren

listened from a small distance away, not having moved from near the Messengers’ Fountain where they’d drawn in the essence of Dietrich’s Memory…or at least a Memory of Dietrich. He did his best to parse the words of Ophelia and the Doll, filing information away for later use, best he could. Still, the sluggishness remained and he had a sense that only Echoes would suffice to banish it.

That aside, Farren nodded as Ophelia bid he and Torquil to name the most recent marker that coincided with the lantern in Eileen’s garden. While Torquil suggested Sanctuary be its name, Farren thought that was just…too indistinct. What if somewhere more fitting of that title appeared? Thus, as Farren stepped up to the tombstone holding the marker, he decided on a name of similar sentiment, but contained within different words entirely. His finger lightly grazed the unnamed marking, and it transformed in response to his intentions–as the others had before it.

“Sanctuary is what it is, but…I think ‘Crow’s Nest,’ is more apt,” Farren said, as the twisting of stone ceased, the name resolving upon the gravehead.

He took a step back, glancing to Ophelia as she began to approach the tombstones. He hadn’t noticed the slump of Torquil’s shoulders–his thoughts elsewhere–so he made no comment there. “Then, to Cainhurst, I surmise,” Farren said, glancing at the stone that held names tied to lanterns that led to said place.

As for Gerlinde and her brief exchange with the Doll…he made no comment either–though he’d surely heard. He hoped that the knowledge of what had happened to those born of her womb would not twist her further.

Though given the tendency of the world they tread within, Farren rather doubted that would be the case. After all, shit rolled downhill.

“Lead the way then, heiress,” Farren said, a faint note of amusement coloring his tone as he gave Ophelia a wry grin.

So with the marker named and their questions asked, the party touched the marker on the Unseen headstone labeled “Vileblood Queen's Chamber” and, through the same process they had undergone many times already, found themselves falling asleep to leave the Dream.
An instant later they reawakened in a place that would be new and unknown to all but Gerlinde, who had been the one to light the lantern in the first place. As befitted the label it had been given, they found themselves in a grand, majestic throneroom, which without competition would be the most excessively lavish and thoroughly aristocratic place they had ever seen. The lantern they awakened at had been raised in the middle of a thick, soft and precious carpet under their feet and great banners at their sides woven in red and gold. Round, evenly spaced-out columns stood on either side spread out along the length of the chamber. Everywhere they looked were intricate and masterfully carved architecture, from the extravagant arches under the ceiling to the golden decorations on the columns. The room was lit by what seemed like hundreds of candles, many seated in golden candle holders but most just stood there, held firm to the ground by the melted wax at their base, casting the floor of the room in nigh-omnidirectional light while the tall ceiling above them remained shrouded in darkness.
Behind them, toward where they could see the double doors leading into the room at a distance, and to their sides, they also found that the room was positively crowded... but not by people. Evoking memories of the dreadful scene they had witnessed when they had entered Yahar'gul, the chamber was filled with dozens upon dozens of statues, though these were clearly of a nature much different than those from the Unseen Village. Whereas those figures had been hideously deformed and posed as if in agony and terror, these were much more traditional pieces of art. Regal men and women carved by a master's hand, clad in simple garbs but wearing crowns of laurels, carrying staffs and scepters, though many of them – mostly the women – were also nude, and most of their features were almost eerily beautiful. In among the rest, there were also several statues featuring women wearing crowns holding small children.
But doubtlessly, the thing that would grab their attention the most was what was in front of them, at the head of the chamber on a slightly elevated platform beneath a tall, beautiful stained glass window, bathed in multicolored moonlight. There stood two thrones, their frames – elaborately and ornately made – either gilded or cast from pure gold, with padding in rich crimson. The left throne was conspicuously vacant, but the one to the right was occupied by a woman in a simple gown, her form unhealthily thin and feeble, the skin on her exposed arms and neck pale. Long hair that looked like it might have once been blonde now fell lifelessly onto her shoulders, spilling messily onto her chest, from a head they could not see. Though they felt could feel the woman's attention upon them, it was clear that she could not see, as her head was encased in an elaborate metal mask.

“Oh? What is this?” the woman drawled upon her throne, raising her head curiously. “Who stand afore Us, in the heart of Cainhurst? Thy arrival was not announced.”

Ophelia looked around the new and unfamiliar surroundings with curiosity and awe, uncertain she'd ever seen such grandeur in her life. Even the more resplendent things she'd seen very recently--like the White Healing Church--paled in comparison to the finery and luxury of this strange place. There was a tinge of something beneath it, however, as there always was in Yharnam. Something that Ophelia could feel but not identify, no matter how hard she looked. She barely had the time to take it in before she was drawn to the two thrones and their single inhabitant, bathed in moonlight filtered through the stained glass above, and she began to approach--though only took a few steps before she began to speak.

"I am Ophelia, your Majesty," she began, quite unsure of how to refer to this being but doing her best to be as reverent as the surrounds felt like were deserved, "and I have come to seek audience with you. I have recently discovered my lineage is of Cainhurst, and also seek a chalice that I have been told resides here. Please forgive my impertinence, for I do not know how to address one such as yourself properly, nor to whom I have the privilege of speaking save that you are Queen of Cainhurst and the so-called Vilebloods." Ophelia spoke, offering a curtsey as she did, though she felt as clumsy as a newborn lamb before such a being in such a regal setting. She hoped that revelations of her lineage might buy her some grace, or knowledge as esoteric as a chalice might earn her curiosity and attention. She instinctively turned to Gerlinde, realising that she must've been the one to light the lantern here, with an unspoken question on her lips--though she almost immediately turned back to the Queen, as in her mind it would be rude to not pay proper attention.

A dry chuckle escaped the masked woman, which sounded almost as though it threatened to turn into a cough. “Thou know much, it would seem, yet thou'rt audaciously ignorant of basic etiquette. I shall bestow the grace of forgiving thy transgressions, and tell that if thou'st to speak before thy Queen, thou will kneel.”
But while the Vileblood Queen seemed momentarily content to lounge in her throne slumping weakly in place, there was but a brief pause after her speech before her head abruptly perked up. From within the mask they heard her sniff several times, each sniff louder, more intense and more urgent than the last, until she gripped the armrests at her sides and – with what seemed like significant effort – pushed herself into a straighter and more attentive sitting position.
“Thou has the smell of Our family, yes,” she hissed, “but that is not all. Why dost thou bear the scent of Paarl? Dost thou know where he resides?”

Upon receiving the queen's admonition--and grace--Ophelia nodded and knelt dutifully before the sovereign and her throne. She did not look up as she continued to speak, though there was a hint of curiosity about her face at the revelation of this 'Paarl' being mentioned. Ophelia immediately knew what had happened and found herself somewhat shocked that this conversation had not already happened 5 years prior... though with how rare darkbeasts were purported to be perhaps it made sense why not.

"Paarl, O Sovereign, was transformed into what has been called a 'Darkbeast', according to my sources of knowledge. We were attacked by such a beast and left with no choice but to defend ourselves and kill it. It had been chained by the denizens of Yahar'gul and used as a guardian of that place." Ophelia recounted truthfully, typically not a liar at the best of times, never mind in the strange situation she now found herself. She hoped such an answer would not displease the sovereign, though judging by what the Messengers had revealed if this Queen was indeed his mother (or some other relation) it would perhaps be difficult news. Still, Ophelia was of the mind that meaningful relationships could not be built upon an unstable foundation of lies. This was no exception.

The queen seemed to listen attentively to Ophelia's recounting of what they had learned, a faint air of impatience about her that was palpable despite the mask hiding her face. As soon as Ophelia's last word had faltered into silence and it was clear that she had finished speaking, the queen promptly raised her right hand and snapped her fingers.
No sooner had she lowered her right hand back to her armrest before movement stirred within the shaded parts behind the columns and banners in the room, and a figure appeared to simply materialize from the darkness itself. It was a tall, lean person of some kind, though their garb made it impossible to discern anything about their identity or nature beyond that. It was clad in a black monk's robe with its bottom dragging along the floor hiding the feet, the excessively long sleeves hiding the hands and the hood drawn up over its head to hide that, too. Even the face inside the hood was inexplicably indiscernible despite the multitude of lightsources in the room, suggesting that there was something less than natural about the shadow therein.

As was proper and without being prompted to do so, the summoned character kneeled before their queen.
“Tell Geir to assemble a platoon of knights and head to Yahar'gul,” the queen commanded without even pretending to look at the servant. “My son was seen there. Ensure he is retrieved, even if we have to raze the Unseen Village to the ground.”
The black figure bowed their head in silent acknowledgment, then stood without a word, stepped back into the gloom from which it had emerged, and disappeared.
“Thou who art ignorant, do not fear; Paarl is of royal blood, and has been killed before. Our line is hard to kill. I knew he had fallen to beasthood, but this is the first time I have possessed both knowledge of his location and the forces to retrieve him.” She coughed, her breathing heavy and strained, but remained tense and alert. “Thou hast earned this audience, forgotten kin of Cainhurst. These news are of great value to us. Thou may speak freely.”

_Farren

awoke to a sight of opulence beyond even what he’d imagined those such as royalty would possess. Faint flashes from his youth were pulled from the depths of his mind, but not true memories precisely, more like flights of fancy partaken whilst in play amidst his peers. Some of those ideas had been true, others not so. Palaces writ entirely of gold or carved from the bones of great beings seemed to be outside the realm of reality, but still…he’d never seen so many candles in one place, nor so much gold all at once. The thrones themselves–if they were truly solid gold–must be worth more than the backwater he’d grown up in–though he remembered it only faintly, and said memories were scarce of a name.

Further, it seemed they were–indeed as one might expect from the Lantern’s bestowed name–in the presence of the Queen of the ‘Vilebloods’. Likely–if the other throne’s absence of an occupant was anything to go by–she was the sole monarch, bereft of a King or Consort or whatever other such term people such as these used to refer to their spouses.

Farren frowned and the expression remained. He listened as Ophelia and this…Queen went back and forth, his Azure-eyes watching the monarch. Her withered form, her masked visage and the finery which her frail frame barely occupied. Perhaps this was the effect of Vileblood, as the church had called it in their efforts to paint a rival power as false and ugly things.

To the Azure-eyed hunter, they were much the same. Masters presiding over others with Power borrowed, acquired through deceit, inherited, or otherwise obtained through methods of ill repute. Even if such were not the case…Power corrupted. This Farren knew and so his arms crossed and–for once–he did not have a hand near or upon a weapon. For, while he might have been born of the lower class–the peasantry, these folk would likely call it–he understood that to do such a thing in a Queen’s presence was at best unwise.

This idea was further confirmed to be true when a servant–a man in monk’s robes, moving like a ghost…stepping from shadows (perhaps literally), and clad in a subtle obscuring darkness–appeared as if from thin air in response to the monarch’s call. Farren’s fingers twitched, but he kept his arms crossed and his spine straight. As he listened to the Queen’s command, his eyelid twitched as he recalled the arm that he’d entrusted to the Messengers.

As if hearing his thoughts, Ophelia spoke and Farren felt his mood sour.

"My companion, Farren, took a piece of the remains--should we present it to you now?" Ophelia continued, pondering this order to invade Yahar'gul as she did.

"We had intentions to go back to Yahar'gul and finish what we started. If it would please Your Majesty, we would be happy to spearhead the incursion?"

Sighing internally, but daring not to let such an utterance reach the Queen, Farren spoke, his rough, low voice a somewhat rumbly echo in the cavernous room–seeming small, an impression that the man found he didn’t much like either.

“Indeed…your eminence. I’ve the right arm of the–” his speech halted for a half-instant as he made a mental correction, “...prince. Held in a tender embrace beyond.”

Though it could not be detected in his tone, Farren was annoyed and he’d clenched one half of his jaw, the teeth pressed together in a silent grind. He could have used that arm, but now he’d likely be forced to give it up to appease the so called Vileblood Queen. Farren might have sneered if he’d felt it would go unpunished, but he was no fool, so instead he remained silent and awaited the Queen’s decision.