"Your concern is touching, love, but fear not. We wouldn't head there immediately in any case--there are other things to do first. I simply wanted to know whether we'd have to chase the chalice down in the Waking World! No, first we shall fulfil the most basic of the Queen's requests and obtain the chalice there. Once we've obtained that, you seem to have a good sense of how perilous the corresponding bits of labyrinth are and I would be glad for your guidance. If even that chalice is a little beyond us, we can certainly go through easier ones first and obtain blood echoes to become stronger with... That'd serve us well for our tasks in the Waking World too. I'd like to have the Holy Moonlight Sword back at its full strength before we traipse into the deeper parts of the labyrinth, not only for the benefits in combat but also for its profound wisdom." Ophelia retorted with a gentle smile. Much knowledge had been gleaned from the Old Labyrinth by a great many people over the years, and Ophelia intended for them to join those illustrious ranks--albeit with a much healthier dose of caution than they had exercised. With that done she offered the Doll and the Shopkeeper a curtsey and headed over to Torquil once more and sat beside him.
"Your new eyes are quite beautiful, in their own way, dear. Whatever choice you make, we're with you." She began, before slipping her right hand into his left hand if he'd let her and interlacing their fingers. "I won't ever forget that you sacrificed yourself to save us without knowing that you'd come back, you know? It was a very sweet and noble thing to do, and I'm so very grateful to have you with us. I couldn't ask for better company." She spoke, looking up at the moon with wide eyes. She'd done better for herself than he had, or... at least had been luckier, but from what little she knew of his past she felt a particular kinship with this strange man from the woods. They were both outsiders who'd never really fit in--one could say many things about the Witches of Hemwick, but never that they were typical or ordinary in any sense. She sensed a certain feeling of loss and melancholy from him that she knew well, though she wasn't certain that he'd ever found anything resembling meaningful connection before tonight. He had helped them a great deal, even when he didn't understand what was going on. He'd put his trust in them, in her, and she hoped he knew that she did truly value that connection--she valued it with all of them.
"I'm sorry about you having to give up the arm, Farren. I didn't dare attempt to mislead her, and figured her favour was worth more to us than some piece of a corpse we had no guarantee of being able to use. Still, I feel like I've snatched a prize away from you, and if I can make it up to you somehow I'd be glad to." She called out to Farren after a few seconds, suddenly remembering her earlier convictions amidst the sudden strangeness that had occurred.
gradually forced himself to relax as Ophelia fussed over Torquil, doing her best to assess what the transformation might mean–and indeed its nature. When Gerlinde mentioned the ‘basin’, Farren felt a distinct sense of relief wash over him for while Torquil seemed to be taking this rather well, Farren wasn’t so sure he would if it happened to him without any recourse for regaining his more familiar human form.
Unlike Torquil, he didn’t even consider changing his appearance from what was natural for him.
Not blaming the man for slumping down against one of the gravestones, Farren took a deep breath and shook himself slightly, dispelling some of the shock that the recent strangeness had inflicted upon him. He heard the words of the Doll–be they those sourced from the Moonborn Hunter’s intent or from her own. “That’s just as well,” Farren stated as the Doll said that they’d need additional time to prepare such a chalice. “...Gerlinde aside, we’ve yet to dip our toes within the Labyrinth, best that we don’t go too deep, lest we drown amidst the powers therein.”
For, unlike Ophelia, Farren still did not much fancy the idea of dying. For him, their immortality was a last resort, rather than something he’d prefer to rely upon.
A thought occurred to him then and he turned to Gerlinde and asked, “Gerlinde, have you died whilst holding the essence we absorb from felled foes?”
"Oh yeah, lots of times."
Farren nodded slightly in response, tilting his head, his eyes returning to her after a moment, “What happened to them? The...Echoes, that is.”
"Sometimes I'd get them back just by returning to where I died, but mostly I guess the thing that killed me got them."
“Hmm, and when you killed what held them?”
She shrugged. "I don't know. I got some more? I can't exactly tell if I got my echoes back or it was just the ones earned by killing the thing."
Farren's lips pushed to one side in a slight downturn of annoyance, not really with her, but with the vagueness of the thing itself. “Interesting,” he replied, in spite of not having further details. He supposed he might ask the Moonborn Hunter. “Thank you Gerlinde,” he said, giving her a nod and a pat on the shoulder as he passed her, moving towards their hosts. “Moonborn, Amaris,” he said, address them before he posed his query, “...we’ve seen that Echoes gained from those we’ve slain are deprived from us ‘pon death…and it seems they can be drawn upon by enemies…or simply linger where we fell. From what little I’ve gathered, especially not having died myself, it seems we can retrieve them in some cases. Are there those where we cannot? What might those be?”
“That is a complex and layered question, good Hunter,” the doll told Farren hesitantly. “The echoes are an expression of the dying will of those who fall, empowered and made eternal by the Old Blood in their veins. By their very nature they are bound in blood forever. You produce no such echoes when you fall, of course, for you cannot die... but echoes clinging to you are not part of you. If you are forcibly returned to the Dream without a proper conduit, the connection will fail and those echoes will be left behind. If there is someone nearby to inherit them, they will receive those echoes to feed their power; if there is no one, the echoes will simply linger in the location. That much you seem to have gleaned already, good Hunter. As I said, the echoes are eternal... but they are not immutable, as you have already seen for yourselves. I make them part of you to grant you strength, and through the little ones you can manifest concepts of the Nightmare through the birdbath with them. Similarly, any echoes left behind are unlikely to retain their neutral state for long. Lingering echoes will bind not just to you, but to any creature with the Old Blood that happens to pass by... and any creature that have received your lost echoes might fall to something else, to leave them lingering elsewhere or pass them on to their killer. Even echoes that are not absorbed but left to linger do not remain immaterial for long, but will in an hour's time solidify as coldblood, which can be challenging to find. So, good Hunter,” the doll told him solemnly, “you can technically always retrieve the echoes you lose... but in practice, tracking them down may quickly become impossible.”
listened intently upon Amaris’ words, taking each piece of the puzzle in and stowing it away for future reference. He nodded perhaps halfway through, showing his acknowledgement, and as Amaris finished he looked thoughtful. “I appreciate the thorough explanation,” he said, wetting his lips as he though about the various ways that the Old Blood could move through the world, change…transform, both within a host and outside one. It made sense, “I do believe that was all, Amaris. Thank you,” he added, giving her a respectful nod before he glanced to Ophelia, and then Torquil, “If we’re ready…where to first, or would you rather visit a place or two while we linger in the Dream...?” He said it with the obvious implication that it was best that he and Torquil not exit and re-enter unnecessarily, given what they now knew.
"I'll go and ask Dietrich what he knows about where we might find the things Annalise requested... and I'd like us to go to Old Yharnam, too, send Adelaide to the Crow's Nest. Her tremendous power of healing would surely be a boon, and we owe it to her besides. The sooner we get the chalice and fetch the other half of my blessed blade, the better a position we'll be in. It's about time we had some fun in the labyrinth, isn't it, Gerlinde?" Ophelia spoke as she let go of Torquil's hand and gave him a soft smile as she stood up, then turned her gaze back to Farren.
Gaze locked on her as she spoke, Farren nodded slightly, “Makes sense. Perhaps check with the Crowmother...if only to ensure she won't attack the Lightbe--Adelaide on her approach.”
Farren's fingers drummed against his thigh for a tick and then he spoke again, “Perhaps we ought to take a layer less deep within the Interstice of the Labyrinth...before we venture to acquire the Moonblade's twin.” His words sounded thoughtful, seeming more a suggestion than any sort of decision on her behalf.
"Ah, yes, that's a good point. I shall speak with her too. As for the labyrinth--it and the Interstice are interchangeable terms, dear--we'll see what the Doll has to say. If it seems a bit beyond us, to begin with, then certainly we'll take it easy. We could do with the practice and the echoes both." Ophelia replied.
“Ah,” he said as he filed that bit away for later, he'd found that bit rather confusing, so the clarification helped. He paused a moment, fingers playing across the hilt of the sole remaining Effigial Blade of Mercy. “Indeed, that makes sense enough,” he nodded idly, as if to himself, before meeting her gaze once more with his azure eyes. “We'll remain here then, Torquil and I. Perhaps Gerlinde should accompany you, just in case.” He'd hate for violence to find Ophelia on her lonesome, though he knew she could largely take care of herself...and was immortal besides.
"She's always welcome to, of course, but I can't imagine there'll be any fighting. I'm heading right to the sanctuary and back, after all." Ophelia offered, and moved to the appropriate headstone, ready to leave with or without Gerlinde.
"The Old Labyrinth and the Interstice are not interchangeable, good Hunters," the doll pointed out as soon as there was a lull in the conversation. "The Old Labyrinth exists in the Interstice, but the Interstice is any place where the Waking World and the Nightmare overlap."
"Ah, that makes sense--seems we've both a lesson to learn! Thank you kindly, dear." Ophelia replied, giving the doll a quick curtsey before selecting the 'Crow's Nest' marker.
watched as Ophelia departed, lingering in the Dream with Torquil, as he’d said he would. However, rather than sit as his companion had, Farren ended up pacing, the action oddly precise, in two almost exact parallel lines, as he thought through all they had learned. At some point, he noticed Torquil…experimenting with the changes to his anatomy….
Specifically Torquil had extended his strange new tongue and was wiggling it about experimentally, an act that made Farren shudder faintly. Of course, he wasn’t looking directly at the man, he’d just caught the act in his peripheral vision and so it at least likely would not appear to Torquil—if he noticed at all—that Farren was reacting to him in particular.
Then, a thought struck him, after a minute or so, and Farren knelt down in a swift motion, murmuring as he called upon the Messengers. He quickly scrawled out a note in their offered scroll, and then bid them deliver it to Ophelia.
“Inquire after the False Pale Blood’s location.”
As the Messengers slipped back into their dwelling place on the way to Ophelia, Farren rose, wondering if perhaps Dietrich might know its location.
Arriving in the garden of Crow's Nest, Ophelia would find the place mostly unchanged since their first visit there. Crowmother was no longer perched among the outcropping of rocks above the cabin and was instead back on its spot further up the mountain, reduced to a relatively distant looming shadow keeping a watchful eye on everything around them, with special attention to the direction of Yharnam. Gehrman was nowhere to be seen at the moment, but from where she appeared next to the lantern she would be able to spot Eileen and Dietrich around the side of the cabin. Eileen was standing in her full Crow Hunter garb still, while Dietrich was sitting on a stool several meters from her, leaning over a small brass tub. His hair and face appeared to be clean again, and judging by the fact that he had a bare torso - revealing a lean, muscular and athletic body - it could be surmised that he was in the process of cleaning his coat and shirt.
"Hello, loves." Ophelia called out, offering a friendly wave to the pair as she spoke. She reacquainted herself with the surrounds and began to walk over to them with a soft smile on her face. "I had a few questions that I think you'd be best served to answer, Dietrich, if you don't mind indulging me?"
Looking up and seeing Ophelia, Dietrich promptly offered her a smile, though he also shot Eileen a regretful glance. Abandoning the clothes he had been washing, leaving them to presumably soak, he beckoned her over. He did not seem uncomfortable with his relative nudity at all. "Of course," he told her. "How can I be of service?"
"We've just visited Castle Cainhurst and spoken with Queen Annalise. I know, I know, the Healing Church and the Vilebloods have... tensions, to be diplomatic, but the Queen gave us some tremendously helpful information. It seems she knows of our golden foe, for it was him who toppled the original society present here under the rule of Divine Queen Yharnam. I can go into the history later, though. She gave us a series of quests before she will release the Chalice I need to recover the Holy Moonlight Sword's twin, quests that involve granting her freedom from the bondage placed upon her by the Healing Church. I intend to grant her that freedom and recruit her in our fight, for we need every ally that we can get and she is a sworn enemy of the 'Gilded Trickster', as she calls him. I obviously cannot ask the Vicar for information about where such a means of freeing her might exist within the White Church, so I turn to you." Ophelia asked, rambling on as she usually did with background information before she got to the point. For her part, her gaze did not stray once to anywhere untoward on Dietrich.
"I... okay." Dietrich leaned back on his stool and rubbed his face with both hands, taking a moment to struggle and absorb everything he had just been told. "So the Vileblood Queen is not only alive even though she's supposed to have died five years ago, but you want to set her free."
"Yes. The enemy of our enemy is our ally, love, not our friend. I suspect that we'll need her if we're to prevail. I also don't really know the roots of the vilification of the Vilebloods, exactly, but... given what we know about the awful trespasses committed by the Healing Church, does it not strike you as a blatant power grab?" Ophelia asked in reply, clearly thoughtful on the issue herself. "I go into this with no prejudice, no dogma. Heresy is but a contrivance; perhaps all things can coexist."
"I suppose that is fair," he said with a sigh. "It's just difficult to discard everything I was taught in the Healing Church all at once. But a means of freeing her, you say? How is she imprisoned?"
"She is locked in a queer iron mask, and she referred to it as a 'curse', I believe, placed upon her by the Church. She indicated that the means to free her would likely be kept in the Workshop, the Orphanage of the Choir, or the Grand Cathedral. Of course, we must hope that it is not in the Grand Cathedral for obvious reasons... but I didn't get the sense that she knows precisely what this key is. I can't imagine that you would either, per se, but it would be a closely guarded secret. As First Hunter, I had hoped you would be familiar with such a secret, if not its contents."
He shrugged. "This mask was something the old Healing Church made, and it's not as though they left behind instructions on where they kept all their things. Although..." He winced. "If it's a literal key and someone from the church found it, we would keep it in our key box at the workshop. That's where we have all the old keys we haven't found the matching lock with yet."
"No, indeed not, but my blessed blade grants me sight of things unseen. If there are traces of the Nightmare, I will be able to see them, and I hope that will guide me... Though the box of keys is a good idea, thank you. She also indicated that the tools required to make Hunters could be used--might you know where those are kept? I wouldn't want to cripple the Church's ability to make new Hunters, of course, but taking a couple of doses should suffice for my purposes if you think such a thing would be possible?" Ophelia spoke, her gaze shifting up to look at the moon as she spoke of her blade. It did not return to Dietrich until she finished speaking.
"Of course. Normally there would be a locked case of Hunter's Old Blood in each blood ministration clinic, but since it's a Night of the Hunt they'll all have been moved to the workshop, too."
"That makes sense. Might you give me directions to where specifically it's kept? Ah, and would you like me to fetch anything from your office while I'm there? My hope is that you are still officially the First Hunter, and that we might be able to use that authority to dissuade people from stopping us. I'd hate to have to fight our way out--the people there under the thrall of gold are innocent. Perhaps I can fetch some pen and paper and you could write a little note? I could also take your clothes with me to the Dream and pop back--I believe that should restore them to perfect cleanliness and functionality?"
"Oh, that would be neat," Dietrich said with a chuckle. "I don't think I need anything, but the doses... actually..." His eyes widened and the hint of a fiendish grin spread over his face. "Normally the Hunter Old Blood is kept in a locked room past the regular supply storage, but it just so happens that I received a case earlier. That case should still be in my office."
"Ah, perfect, I think I should be able to slip into and out of your office with a minimum of fuss. In fact... Gerlinde mentioned that she came across a relic in the Nightmare--a basin that allows one to change one's appearance in entirety. I could even assume your form briefly, and none would be the wiser that aught was amiss. Speaking of Gerlinde... the Vicar seems to dislike her intensely, and I got the sense that you and your fellows bear her no love either--why is that? I know she's an odd duck, utterly irreverent, but she... gods, she's had it rough. You must have heard what happened to her... what they did to her at Byrgenwerth. Harrowing." Ophelia replied, a similar grin sneaking onto her face as she spoke--until she spoke of Gerlinde, where her eyes began to shimmer and water just a little.
"I don't know exactly what happened to her, but I've guessed it was horrible. I heard they found her in a room all alone with some sort of half-human larva..." Dietrich shuddered. "But Gerlinde is just... an agent of chaos, to put it bluntly. She doesn't care about what anyone else wants or needs, she lives solely for herself and is willing to entertain herself even at the cost of human lives. Any time she showed up anywhere this past week she has managed to complicate things. We've just learned that she is bad news."
Ophelia sighed ruefully. "You're right, sadly, I fear she has left the Waking World behind... But she is my sister in blood. What happened to her could've been me, had I not the protection of the Witches of Hemwick and the commensurate anonymity they provided. I... don't know that I can leave her behind. I will do my very best to make sure that she behaves." Ophelia spoke, though she was interrupted by the telltale moaning and grasping of the little ones that revealed a scroll for her to read. She bent down to read it and thanked them, then turned again to Dietrich. "Ah, Farren has asked I inquire about the materials you used to make the false Palebloods. It might be a good idea for me to... liberate that from the Church too, have the Moonborn Hunter study it or contain it. Keeping it out of their hands does seem important, and... well, it's proven unpredictable. Torquil, bless his heart, has been... partially transmogrified. Nothing we can't fix, but these sorts of random effects can afflict the false Palebloods whenever they go back to the Dream--hence why I've come alone!"
Dietrich's eyes flicked to Eileen for a second at the mention of Gerlinde being Ophelia's "sister in blood", but if he had anything to say it was cut off by her continuing to speak. "I suppose that makes sense," he said at the end of her speech, though his tone suggested that it was rather far from making sense to him. "As luck would have it, the false Paleblood is in the same case as the Hunter Old Blood in my office... though I don't know if that is our only false Paleblood."
Ophelia noticed the glance and her expression changed to one of thoughtfulness again as she listened to Dietrich's reply. "Ah, how fortuitous. Anything we can get our hands on will help--though I doubt the Vicar will dare awaken any more false Palebloods now. I will be waiting with the Rune, and they will turn against their makers as surely as we have. I caught your little glance, by the by, does my sentiment strike you as odd?"
"Ah, no, it's just..." Dietrich winced. "You discovered you are descended from Cainhurst nobles at the same time I heard, yes?"
"I learned of our mutual Paleblood before I learned of that--but the first I'd ever heard of it was here when Gehrman sniffed it out, yes."
Dietrich nodded. "According to... to Miss Eileen here, it turns out that I am as well. My father was Vileblood."
Ophelia's expression shifted to one of surprise, though of the pleasant sort. "Then we're fellows too, it seems. I still don't know which of my parents was, truth be told. I intended to ask the Queen after we'd freed her. Gosh, we... have a very similar story, don't we? Did you grow up with adoptive parents too?"
"I did," Dietrich admitted. "In a mountain village to the north. I never knew they weren't my birth parents, of course - not until tonight." He sighed. "I was always just... better than everyone else. Stronger, faster and more agile, with endless stamina. I never knew why, and now it turns out that it's because I was never fully human." He glanced at Eileen. "That my father was a Hunter of Cainhurst, and my mother was a Paleblood Hunter... and both of them were Hunters of Hunters, powerful enough to kill others like them that had gone mad." He chuckled. "Tonight has been... enlightening to me, to say the least."
"That feels like something of an understatement. I feel the same way. Ah, but I don't want to intrude further on what must be a tender moment between you two--I'm sure you've much catching up to do. I... this is a selfish request, but... treasure this, please, both of you? My parents, both sets of them, are long gone. It would do my heart good to live vicariously through you." Ophelia smiled, though a single tear formed in both of her eyes and she quickly wiped it away with her sleeve. "Ah, one last thing. I want to teach you a Rune. The Guidance rune, the very wisdom and essence of the Holy Moonlight Sword."
Again Dietrich glanced at Eileen, though the Crow Hunter seemed to avert her gaze. "Perhaps," the once-First Hunter said hesitantly. "Time will have to tell, I'm afraid. Even if Eileen claims she gave birth to me, she is also still a stranger to me. I grew up without her, was raised without her. I already have a mother. For now I am mostly just curious. It is up to her if our relationship will go beyond that." Eileen sighed. "Aye, that's fair. Even if I had good reason and wanted to stay, I still abandoned you." "We will talk," Dietrich declared firmly. "That is the most I can promise. As for this Guidance of yours... will that not remove the protection from the Mask Rune?"
Ophelia smiled and nodded as Dietrich offered his explanation as to how he felt. "I understand. Don't let me foist my feelings onto you--it's just a rare thing, the chance you've been given. That's all. It gladdens me to think you have that chance, no matter what you do with it." Ophelia smiled, taking a sharp breath in to compose herself somewhat. "I don't mean to brand the rune into your mind to take the place of the Mask rune, love. Just as I taught the Mask rune to Moira which gave her knowledge of what it is and can do, I mean to teach you the Guidance rune, that's all. It is no substitute for the real thing, naturally, but it is the closest I can get you for now. Ah, and I would be happy to brand you, Eileen, if you wish. I have many runes at my disposal." Ophelia replied, pulling the runebrand out and going primarily for the projection case.
"Oh. I guess there's no reason to say no, then," Dietrich shrugged, cooperating with Ophelia to learn the Guidance Rune. "Ya already branded me with the Mask Rune," Eileen responded to the offer. "I don't know if it'd be wise to switch that out while yer big bad squid is still around."
"Ah, yes, how silly of me. Consider it an open offer, then, for when our gilded foe kicks the proverbial bucket. Ah--and I'll be sending someone else here soon enough. Her name is Adelaide, a white-furred beast. She's the source of the Mask rune, and we owe her all a great deal. If you could warn Crowmother to let such an individual pass I'd be most grateful. Though I think she cannot speak, she can understand us. She possesses a tremendous power of healing, which will no doubt be useful for anyone else we send here. Let me fetch a paper and pen from the Dream and I'll ask you to write me a little something asking me to fetch supplies from your office, if you think that'd prove a decent enough cover?"
"I can do that," Dietrich agreed hesitantly, "but it's not as though I have a unique signet to mark it with so everyone will know it's authentic. We also don't know if I'm still the First Hunter, or if I've already been discarded then how many people knows about it. But if it has happened, the workshop would definitely be the first place to disseminate the information."
"If it's happened already, conflict is inevitable in either case. Perception is reality, my dear--people have seen us together before, and enough brazen confidence will get you anywhere. A little something to help sell the lie--and if they were never going to accept a lie in either case... we hope for peace but prepare for war." Ophelia retorted with a chuckle.
He shrugged. "If that's your plan, I doubt any scribble I make will help much."
"Is there another option you think will give us the best shot of walking out of there unbloodied? We'll leave with what we came for one way or another--I simply want to preserve as many innocent lives as possible in the process. The lanterns that exist in the Church are a lie, you see--they're really these queer mannequin heads with eyes that follow us. They don't work while we bear the Mask rune, so I believe they allow the golden one a glimpse into our minds to return us to the Dream... which means we have to leave on foot. We can't risk alerting him to the existence of this sanctuary. With all of that in mind... anything we can use, anything at all, to get this done without combat is paramount."
Again Dietrich shrugged apologetically. "If they have already disseminated information, nothing any of us could prepare would get us in peacefully short of relying on the better nature of the people there. And honestly," he added, a tinge of regret in his voice, "few of the White Church Hunters care much about that. And if they haven't gotten word out, they'll let you in with or without something signifying my permission."
"I suppose we leave it up to Mother Moon, then. May she illuminate our path and shroud the eyes of those who'd stand against us... Would you like me to take your clothes, by the by? I admit, I'm curious to see if the Dream will repair them if I'm not wearing them..." Ophelia responded, a hint of resignation in her voice--but also a hint of hope.
"Ah, right. Yes," Dietrich agreed, retrieving the half of his clothes he was not wearing from the tub. They were soaking wet and predictably still far from clean. "I'll just see if Gehrman has a spare pair of trousers I can wear in the meantime..."
Ophelia waited dutifully for Dietrich to change, taking the sodden clothes without any fuss. She gave Eileen a rueful if friendly smile while she waited, and then turned her gaze up to the moon.
Ophelia, being more attuned to and attentive of the moon than most, would most likely notice that the moon was not where it was supposed to be. In fact, the moon seemed to be in the exact same place in the sky she had seen it on her last visit to Crow's Nest: right at its zenith, seemingly fixed in place.
"She should've moved by now... Does the moon always hang at her zenith here, dear?" she asked, not turning her gaze away as she spoke to Eileen.
Eileen turned to look at the moon as well. "Hang at its zenith? Now that ya mention it... it hasn't moved for an hour or two now, has it?" She walked over to the front of the cabin, still looking at the moon. "Yer right, it's still where it was on ya first visit. Weird." She paused, then pointed. "Do ya see something?"
"Just her lack of motion, that's all... Though..." Ophelia began, before reaching her mind out to the soothing resonance of the Holy Moonlight Sword. Mother Moon has not moved from her position... is something the matter with her?
There was a brief pause before the whispers replied: "Not the moon... the stars, the sun... the sky. The very Cosmos. Something has anchored it... Powerful arcane forces are at work... Reaching through the Nightmare... calling... something."
"... well, shit." Ophelia said flatly after a pregnant ten or fifteen seconds.
"The very Cosmos are arrested, just like the Night of the Blood Moon. They beckon a Great One here at Yahar'gul. We have to go and stop them. Ready yourselves for combat--we will almost certainly have to call on you ere long." Ophelia finally said, her face suddenly contorted into a grimace.
"We'll make sure our blades are sharp and firearms are loaded," Eileen confirmed, just as Dietrich emerged from the cabin with his bloodstained trousers and boots in hand, wearing a pair of baggy dark trousers. The whispers commented again: "You have time... the process is slow... but the ritual is underway. A Great One is being called... one that yet slumbers... but who stirs at their summons. A Great One of the Cosmos."
"Ahh, it seems we've a little time, but we will have to go before too long. Let me pop to the Dream and get these clothes sorted for you, love." Ophelia smiled, taking the rest of his clothes and giving them both a nod as she walked over to the lantern to return to the Dream.
Ophelia looked down at the clothes in her hand and felt that they were dry, but upon closer inspection they still bore the tears and rips from his fight with Crowmother. "Ah, well..." she mumbled to herself, before quickly heading over to the headstones to return. "Just came to fix Dietrich's clothes, will be back shortly." She called out to the others before she returned, and upon waking proffered the clothes to Dietrich. "Cleaned and dried, though they might require a touch of haberdashery as the rips weren't fixed."
"That is excellent," Dietrich said with a smile, taking back his clothes. "Just them being clean and dry is a huge help. Thank you once again, Miss Ophelia. And fear not: should the need arise, Shining Wing and I will be at your disposal."
"Happy to help, my brother in blood." Ophelia replied with a laugh and a curtsey. "Ah, it'll be a joy to witness you in the flesh. I've only had the privilege of seeing you fight in a memory that we obtained in the Dream--when you first proved yourself as a Hunter by taking down an awful plague-ridden thing alone." she added, a mischievous grin creeping at the corners of her mouth.
"I'm going to pretend that I understand what you just told me," Dietrich said with a smile. He looked down at himself and his half-naked state and let out a soft chuckle. "Though whatever you witnessed, I certainly hope you saw no more flesh than this."
"I suppose it is the sort of thing that beggars belief, to witness the memories of the dead. It's like we were there, watching it from the perspective of a bystander... Ah, no matter, I prefer to make new memories than to pilfer old ones in any case. Try not to show me up too terribly when we call upon you, mm? I'd say I'm not doing bad for someone who could barely stand eight hours ago, but I've a long way to go before I catch up with you! I've only one last question before I return, for you, Eileen: if it's not terribly insensitive of me to ask, Dietrich's birth father... what was his name?" Ophelia smiled, waving Dietrich's confusion off with a smile before turning to Eileen at the end.
Eileen averted her gaze once more, but still answered: "His name was Lavrentios... though by the end, he was better known as the Bloody Crow of Cainhurst."
Ophelia nodded thoughtfully. "Thank you. I admit, knowing that Dietrich and I are both half-Vileblood and around the same age... My mind had begun to race. But no, heh, that wasn't Papa's name. It was sort of similar, though: Laertes. I... Think. My memories of the time are cloudy at best. Gods, that would've been dramatic, like we're in some sort of thrilling novel!" she laughed, though the joy did not reach her eyes. "Mother Moon watch over you both, and Gehrman too. Please look out for Adelaide, when she comes. She was chained up and abused by the wretches at Yahar'gul, so... a little gentleness will go a long way." Ophelia added as an afterthought, briefly remembering the sight of her imprisonment and wincing. She gave them both a final curtsey, and turned to return to the Dream via the lantern.
"We'll try," Eileen replied as Ophelia went to leave, "just tell her to be a bit subtle 'bout it. Not only to avoid people noticing us living here, but also to not provoke Crowmother. The moon makes her a bit extra bloodthirsty tonight."
"She can become invisible, not to worry, just don't be surprised. Ta-ta for now!" Ophelia replied as she stood near the lantern, waving briefly before she gazed into it and returned to the Dream.
Manifesting in the Dream once more, Ophelia's face this time was one of concern rather than levity as she jogged over to a more central position and began to speak. "They've begun their ritual at Yahar'gul. They beckon a slumbering Great One of the Cosmos here. We've time, Mother Moon has whispered it to me, but we cannot put it off for too long. Only... I can't work out why Harold set us this mission. It could just be that his gilded master doesn't want another repeat of the Blood Moon, but... I don't know, it feels like there's more to it than that? And the question Queen Annalise posed us still gnaws at me: why has he not awoken his master yet? I wonder if he tires of being a herald, and wishes to take his master's place? Or another's?" Ophelia asked, posing the question mostly to the Shopkeeper and Gerlinde. Farren and Torquil were not likely to have an answer, after all, though she by no means excluded them.
Once he’d sent off his message, Farren had moved up the stairs and then sat down on the top stair, his back against one side of the open threshold that led into the cabin on the hill. He took a deep breath and for once he let himself briefly relax. He’d leave things to Ophelia and let his mind just…drift for a bit while they waited. However, as he attempted to just lean his head back against the smooth wood, Farren found that there was just too much nervous energy in him to allow him to be entirely idle. Thus, he swung off his pack beside him and fished in it, drawing forth a small chunk of wood and the wood carving knife he’d acquired. Slowly, carefully, he began to carve at the wood, intent on shaping it into a handle for a new knife. The activity, though not yet mindless, let the rest of him relax as he let the task solely hold his focus. The minutes drifted away and by the time Ophelia returned the second time–the first time he barely even looked up upon hearing her voice–he’d admittedly made very little progress. Still, the wood looked marginally more like a handle than a chunk now. He grunted a bit at his word, running his fingers over it as he listened to his comrade. Farren began to put the tool and wood away as he listened and after a moment, his brow creased in though, he spoke, “I’d think the bastard would want another Great One about…if only to have us slay it, perhaps to create a power vacuum it might fill. Then again, perhaps it doesn’t work that way and he would rather have as few cosmic forces meddling with his schemes as possible.”
The doll and the Shopkeeper approached to join the discussion. "The Shopkeeper had been confused as to why they could not find anything about Ego in the records of Byrgenwerth, but this explains some. They have found mention of this Cael you speak of, though they have not read about it since that was not the focus of their investigation. The Cainhurst records have significantly more information on Ego, though they wrote out of less scholarly interest and with significant bias. Something they have found already is that Ego apparently did not end Pthumeru immediately either last time. So chances are that whatever cause he had to wait back then is also why he is waiting now."
Ophelia flinched and recoiled as though struck at the mention of Ego's true name, even though she knew that it had been safe whenever they'd said the name in the Dream before--though only the first time the doll said it. "Could you... not say the name, dear? I know his tentacles don't spring up here, but... I don't know if that will always be the case. It makes me uneasy. He wants to usurp you, dear Shopkeeper, of that I am growing increasingly certain--I suspect he tires of his role as herald, of his incomplete ascension. His very name is one of pride, of arrogance... Though that does seem somewhat at odds with his wanting the wretches at Yahar'gul to cease their ritual. Perhaps whatever they beckon cannot be usurped, or... perhaps he's simply done more work with you. He got access to your blood, and to the Paleblood of the Dream's prior residents. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he fancies this realm of ours for his own. That would explain why he so desperately sought to create false Palebloods, in my mind?"
“A worthy theory,” Farren commented in brief, pushing to his feet and slinging his pack back on.
"Attire of the Choir, high-ranking members of the Healing Church. Members of the Choir are both the highest-ranking clerics of the Healing Church, and scholars who continue the work that began at Byrgenwerth. The eye covering indicates their debt to the teachings of Master Willem, even though their paths diverged."
The doll lowered her head sadly. "Regardless, the Shopkeeper has not had much luck in terms of learning how to slay a Great One, I am afraid. A death among their kind is extremely rare, and the only one Byrgenwerth have studied was Kos, and she only washed up on shore after her death. The records left by the Choir or the School of Mensis might have more information, but they daren't try to look there while hostile forces rule the Orphanage and Yahar'gul, respectively."
Farren nodded near the end of the doll’s words, stretching briefly before he cracked his neck. “Well then, since both locales may possess valuable knowledge that might assist us against our foe, I believe our next course of action is quite clear, yes?” He glanced to Ophelia then, a small, slightly feral, smile playing on his lips and in the glimmer of his azure eyes.
"It is?" Gerlinde asked, abruptly poking her head out from behind one of the headstones. In the time she had been left alone, she appeared to have added several black ribbons to her hair. "Where are we going?"
"Yahar'gul, it seems. I think we should get there before Cainhurst mobilises and potentially destroys what we're looking for, and the Mask rune seeing through all illusions will render a lot of their defences obsolete if our initial experience is anything to go by. Disrupting this ritual seems sensible, no?" Ophelia opined.
Farren’s smile turned more lopsided and a small one-note laugh lightly rocked his figure, “Indeed.” Then, however, he recalled the feel of that wretched place and his eyelid twitched at one edge, a shiver going through him. His smile waned slightly, but remained nonetheless. “Wretched place though, but worthy of our time I think.” he added. His gaze briefly fell on Ophelia’s blade where she cradled it, as ever, near her person. The glow of moonlight and the subtle flow of something arcane through it. “Better that we attend this first anyways, despite the assurances of your blade. If only for the other boons that doing so might offer.” That said, his eyes flicked back to hers, then to the other two in their little group, managing to suppress a faint twitch as he laid eyes once more on Torquil’s bulbous head.
"Ah, but let me inform you of what Dietrich told me: in his office, there's a crate of both enough Old Blood to fulfil Annalise's request, and the false Paleblood. Recovering it and bringing it here will be good: not only so the Shopkeeper can study it, but to deny them the tools of their wickedness." Ophelia added quickly.
“Ah, yes that does seem prudent. So…the White Church Workshop first. Given the potential danger…ought we all go or had you some witchly scheme to weave?” Farren asked, his good spirits tinging his words with a faint playfulness that was a rare thing for him. For as grave as things could be seen to be, and despite the forces rallied against them…he felt oddly, hopeful? Strange.
Gerlinde's eyes widened in excitement and she pointed to Torquil. "We're going to get the thing that made that happen and bring it here? How fun!"
"Quite possibly..." Ophelia began, smiling at Farren. "It all depends on whether or not they've announced Dietrich's... fall from grace, shall we say? If they have... that's bad. We might well have to fight our way in and out, and it seems cruel to hurt our fellow Hunters who don't know any better. If not... well, it'll be a breeze. With one exception: we can use the headstones to get there, but we'll have to make it to a real lantern and not some golden mannequin. If using them is like saying his name, he'll read our thoughts--and we can't let him know of the existence of the sanctuary."
"That shouldn't be too hard," Gerlinde assured them. "The Oedon Chapel-one isn't all that far from the workshop."
"Perfect," Ophelia nodded at Gerlinde. "Dietrich also told me that they have a box of keys for anything that they haven't been able to work out the purpose of. It's unlikely that the key to Annalise's mask is so simple, but that's the only lead we've got. Shopkeeper, have you any ideas about the key? Ah, and let's all get the Mask rune." Ophelia continued, retrieving the runebrand and letting the little ones reverently hold her sword for a moment while she applied it to herself.
"I suppose that makes sense. Let's do it," Gerlinde agreed. Torquil pulled up his mask and put his cap back on - making sure to pull it down far enough that it hid his third eye, trying his best to conceal his inhuman features - checked the straps on his Loch Shield, retrieved Fulmen and got ready as well. All without uttering a word.
Cathedral Ward, western Yharnam
As the Hunters prepared to venture out from the Dream once again, Farren made some final preparations to make sure he was equipped for whatever might occur. He asked the Shopkeeper for another Effigial Blade of Mercy and, upon receiving one, discarded the half of his old one he had left – allowing it to vanish in a flash of bluish light – and replaced it with a fresh, whole version. Then he called upon the Messengers and gave them his piercing rifle and beast flayer to free up his back, and retrieved the old bag he had gotten from the Black Church Workshop, figuring that if they were going to be retrieving the case of blood and box of keys it was better to have a way to carry them without occupying their hands.
With that out of the way they all assembled at the Yharnam Headstone and touched the Oedon Chapel-marker, and immediately found themselves waking in a surprisingly large and impressive building. The room they found themselves in was immensely tall, taller than any room any of them had ever seen before, with ornately carved walls bearing both imitations of pillars, delicate patterns of flowers and vines among statues of robed figures, some reaching their hands skyward pleadingly while others clasped their hands as if in prayer. Higher up, at the top of the fake columns, sat numerous avian gargoyles watching the room with stone eyes beneath numerous impressive, yet also old and dusty drapes hanging between the walls and from the distant ceiling itself. The dust hanging in the air mingled with smoke that they would immediately recognize as the thick scent of beast repellent incense, catching the light of the full moon falling through the tall windows at the head of the chapel and creating a very visible and eerily beautiful shaft of light amidst the room. They found themselves surrounded by numerous urns, but otherwise... otherwise the chapel seemed quite empty. “This way,” Gerlinde offered, and they all moved to a door just off to the side of where they had awakened, which promptly led them to a short hallway out of the chapel arriving at the foot of an interior elevator. It took them up quite a ways, only for them to emerge in a new empty room that seemed entirely pointless, before leaving through the only exit to find themselves crossing a bridge under the open sky to a tower. “This is the old workshop,” Gerlinde told them as they crossed the threshold and made for the bottom of a set of stairs ascending the tower. Farren might faintly recall the place, as he had also gone here for work in his former life. “Specifically Ludwig's workshop, I think. It was where the Healing Church Hunters called their headquarters until the Night of the Blood Moon.” They climbed several floors until they reached the top, where they found an open door allowing access to the Upper Cathedral Ward. They left through it and found themselves approaching and soon crossing the bridge they were familiar with, which necessitated them walking past the golden lantern they had opted not to use... though they did not currently see it as a lantern, of course, since they were all branded with the Mask Rune, but as a golden mannequin head. As upon their first visit the head sprouted eyes to stare at them as soon as they came within ten meters of it, but that was all that happened. They crossed the bridge and arrived at the doorstep of the enormous structure that had once been the Orphanage.
Here Ophelia took over guiding their group as they went inside, heading directly for the stair and aiming to go to Dietrich's office. The scattered workers, clerics and Hunters in the workshop glanced at them as they passed and shot a displeased look or two at them, but did not stop them; despite the disruption they had caused by essentially stealing the First Hunter of the White Healing Church, it appeared that the party was allowed to pass unmolested. They arrived at Dietrich's office to find the door unlocked and unguarded, and upon entering found what they were looking for: a 30 by 70 by 15 centimeter ornate metal case, engraved with flowing patterns and what they would now recognize as Caryll Runes, specifically the Communion Rune, the Hunter Rune, the Eye Rune... and the Sun Rune. It had a robust lock built into the case itself rather than a padlock, and trying it would reveal that it was quite resistant to attempts at opening it.
Farren stowed the case in his bag, and the party promptly left the office to head back downstairs again and head for the storage area, where Dietrich had told Ophelia they would find the box of keys. “Hey!” a middle-aged man in a cleric's garb called out as they approached the door, calling attention not only from them but from everyone else in the room while running to intercept them. “That area is off limits! Only the White Church is allowed!”
Ophelia marvelled at the sights of Oedon Chapel, having passed by the building some small number of times that she could recall but never having really paid the interior much notice: it was a truly magnificent building, and the architecture alone seemed like it could provide a lifetime's worth of study and mystery. She did her very best to push all of that down, though, in favour of sheer practicality.
When they arrived at the White Church, Ophelia was all business--she did her very best to simply look as though she had every right in the world to go where she was going and paid only dim attention to the relative positions of the other assembled Hunters, clerics, and other workers. She felt comfortable leaving the situational awareness to Farren--whatever the state of their relationship (which was entirely repaired in her mind) he'd consistently proven his value in that aspect of dealing with other people in the world, and she trusted him implicitly. Should things go south, she knew she could rely on him to act quickly, intelligently, and decisively. Retrieving the supplies from Dietrich's office went without a hitch, though Ophelia did pay especial attention to the Caryll runes and made a mental note. She'd normally have handed the box off to the little ones, or at least scribed a note to the Shopkeeper, but that was not possible in their current location... so off they went to the Workshop proper.
When they were at last accosted by the cleric, Ophelia turned to him with her most charming smile. "The First Hunter bid us fetch some things for him. He went out to investigate a beast at the Lord Vicar's command and ran into some difficulty--we Paleblood Hunters can traverse the world much more quickly than he can and were in the area, so we offered to fetch them for him. Will that be a problem?" Ophelia retorted, stopping in her tracks to address him. She always cradled her holy blade in such a position that it did not need to be drawn--and though she made no moves to remove it from its resting place she was ready to utilise it if things did escalate towards violence.
White Church Workshop, Upper Cathedral Ward, high above western Yharnam
The cleric frowned, his eyes shifting momentarily around the room as if to confirm that he was surrounded by Hunters of the White Healing Church that were paying close attention to what was happening. “Yeah, that is a problem. Only White Church members allowed, by order of the Lord Vicar and the First Hunter.” He shook his head in resignation. “Look, lady, just tell me what you need and I'll get it for you. We also have orders to get you freaks whatever you need, after all.”
Torquil, meanwhile, was getting rather fidgety with the scrutiny they were under by the people assembled in the room. He had to stop himself from nervously pulling up his mask and pulling down his cap, at once afraid that they would notice him looking less than human but also aware that him doing something like that would only draw more attention to it and increase chances of discovery. Standing next to him, Gerlinde shot Torquil a sidelong glance, scanned him up and down momentarily and then shot him a fiendish smile and a wink. Moving in a way that managed to seem mostly natural, she deliberately turned so that she stood in profile to most of the people in the room, making sure that her left side with her mostly exposed leg was facing them. Pretending to yawn, she then stretched languidly, raising her arms high above her head while arching her back, exposing more of her midriff and making her chest strain even more against the confines of her vest than usual. After that simple display, no one were paying attention to Torquil anymore as their eyes were instead glued to the unrealistically gorgeous woman showing off her body. Even Torquil was much too transfixed on her to realize the other benefit of the display, and too appreciative of the view he had been offered to be grateful for the diversion.
Ophelia's outward appearance changed not a jot in response to the blatant disrespect of this nobody cleric, though internally she began to roil and seethe. The nerve, the unabashed gall, of this random lowlife to call them freaks! She didn't let her smile falter for even a second, and took the opportunity that Gerlinde had afforded them to inhale a steadying breath before she deigned to reply.
"We were made Hunters by the White Church, and we labour at the Lord Vicar's command. At the behest of the First Hunter. We are members of the White Church, my dear, in all of the ways that matter. In fact, it would be good to have a guide--would you mind showing us around the workshop? I, for one, would feel much better knowing that we had such an attentive and eagle-eyed chaperone for this labyrinthine place." Ophelia smiled, trying her best to take advantage of Gerlinde's distraction and reframe the conversation in such a way that their permission was simply implied. It helped that what she said was technically true, in the right light--she would not push back any further, though, and if they encountered further resistance Ophelia would simply comply. It was better that they came out with one prize than none at all, and she did figure that Dietrich would need blood vials--hell, it couldn't hurt to hand some off to Gehrman and Eileen too.
took in the sights, one by one, taking special note of the path they took and those that he could see from their shifting vantage point as they traveled. He’d never been good with words or numbers–be it reading them or writing them or accomplishing arithmetic…though he had fewer issues with that last task than the others. Needless to say, Farren had a way with his body and a way with place. Finding North was as easy to him as breathing, and fixing locations and paths in his mind was similarly easy. One supposed that his mind compensated for its failings by excelling elsewhere.
Really he’d never given it much thought before–or at least he didn’t remember doing so, which wasn’t saying much–but now on introspection as they headed for the White Church Workshop of the present day, it struck him as relevant. Farren wondered if he had any other talents…or skills that he wasn’t entirely aware of.
When eventually they arrived at their initial destination, he did indeed stow away their prize and while he didn’t wear his tension so easily as Torquil, Farren did have a small reaction to the interjection of the cleric. Initially it seemed to be tension, but Farren shifted it into a display of annoyance, first frowning, then rolling his eyes as the man insisted upon imposing his will on them.
Beyond that, Farren kept himself on high alert, keeping in mind the positions of everyone in the immediate area to the best of his ability. He noticed when almost everyone’s attention shifted to a point behind him–during which point he heard only the shifting of cloth and hair, as well as Gerlinde’s voice as she stretched. Farren didn’t look, though some part of him wanted to.
He didn’t speak up though, just deferred to Ophelia’s superior ability to charm those she encountered. She really did have a remarkable way with people.
White Church Workshop, Upper Cathedral Ward, high above western Yharnam
Though the cleric had been rather distracted by Gerlinde's display as well, his attention quickly returned to Ophelia. “All Hunters are made by the Healing Church, even the Vilebloods,” he pointed out grimly. “By your logic, we'd welcome those bastards in to take our supplies to use against us, too. Rules are rules: only official members of the White Healing Church are allowed in the storage.” His eyes narrowed. “What is it you're after that you absolutely have to retrieve yourselves rather than letting someone else get it for you? If it's that important, I can go ask the Lord Vicar if he wants to grant you access.”
It struck Ophelia how the cleric had notably not mentioned the part of her retort where she had mentioned that they were doing the Lord Vicar's work, and that he clearly had no intention of ever simply letting them pass. She weighed up their options in that split second: there was every chance that going to get permission from Harold would work out in their favour--they could offer a false report on Crowmother, and perhaps get permission to move about freely too. There was also every chance that it wouldn't, and she would not see them squander one success for a miniscule chance at another. They could forfeit this battle to win the war and let their enemies be none the wiser: this was a war of information and subtlety, not might.
"Asking the Lord Vicar seems a wonderful idea. I trust that he'll set everything right--he's such a nice old man, isn't he?" Ophelia spoke, her eyes sparkling with thoughts unspoken as she looked around. "I'm truthfully very glad that you've such a mind for security--it's a dangerous night, and we all must play our part to see it through. Shall we wait here?" she added, inviting the cleric to go ahead. Once the cleric left and was out of earshot, Ophelia surveyed the people about her and saw that even should she speak as softly as possible there was every chance that they'd hear... and that would scupper their plans of subtlety. She looked over at Farren and gave him a pointed stare as her smile dropped and her eyes very briefly flicked over to the bag--her head was turned such that any onlookers wouldn't be in a position to see it, so she felt safe doing that much, at least, and waited to see if a familiar glint of recognition could be glanced in Farren's eyes.
Farren watched the exchange with what appeared to be bored disinterest and faint annoyance. When the cleric told those about to watch them and left to ask the Vicar, Farren glanced to Ophelia and he knew, before she’d even turned what the best course of action was. It was time to leave. So, lightly nudging her shoulder as he passed her—before her eyes even fully landed on his features—Farren moved with an air of dismissive unflappable swagger. “Tell the Lord Vicar I wish him a fine night,” Farren managed to say, the words coming out dismissive and bored rather than fulled with righteous fury. He’d been in a good mood before this and while their interaction with the cleric was rather annoying, this didn’t sour his mood enough to make it impossible to lie as easily as he breathed.
White Church Workshop, Upper Cathedral Ward, high above western Yharnam
With one last suspicious glare – and a quick appreciative glance at Gerlinde – the cleric walked off in the direction of the Lumenflower Garden, leaving the party under the watchful eyes of a dozen civilians and five different White Church Hunters. Though people around the room seemed to somewhat resume what they had been doing, chatting among themselves, refilling supplies from the tables or performing maintenance on Hunter gear, it was also quite clear that people were now paying close attention to them. It was quite clear just from observing everyone that they had crossed a line and teetered on the verge of committing taboo by trying to get into the storage room while not being affiliated with the White Healing Church. Even so, Farren leaving only earned a few glances to check what he was doing. No one did anything to halt his exit, nor did anyone seem particularly concerned with what he was doing. He was permitted to leave without incident, and as soon as he left the building attention refocused on those who remained waiting for the cleric to return.
A couple of minutes passed, with Torquil restlessly fidgeting and Gerlinde calmly humming a cheerful tune for most of the duration, until finally the cleric rounded the corner and returned to the main room. Only, the cleric was not alone. Right behind him followed Vicar Harold himself, fingers steepled in front of him and an impatient frown on his face. And right behind him followed a third, who they might struggle to recognize... but at closer inspection would realize was Victor. Though Victor was still wearing the uniform of a White Church Hunter, he now also wore weird golden plates of armor on top of it on his arms, legs and torso; pieces of armor that did not appear to be strapped onto him, but rather looked as though the metal itself somehow enveloped each part of him in a way that raised questions as to how he put it on and how he could get it off. Strangest of all was that he also wore some manner of ornament on his head that looked like some bizarre mix of a golden crown and a five-legged spider, with legs or tendrils extending from the golden mass on top of his scalp and down along the sides and back of his head. Even his armaments had changed, as the Holy Sword he usually carried on his back had been replaced by a golden zweihander, and the blunderbuss on his hip had been switched with some manner of gilded and ruby-adorned, vaguely firearm-like device. It was not just his garb and weaponry that had changed either. Whereas the Victor they had seen in the past had appeared quite well-groomed – as much as the circumstances allowed, at least – he now seemed rather disheveled. His usually tidy beard and combed hair were tangled messes; his once-neat uniform was crumpled and bore several obvious stains; and his normally hyper-attentive, paranoid eyes looked dull, his expression was blank, and he did not appear to display any kind of recognition of Ophelia or Torquil even as they came into view.
“The sheer audacity,” Vicar Harold sighed, lowering his hands and shaking his head grimly. “Gods help you... I knew Gerlinde was insane, but I never expected the rest of you to come here after what you had done. Is it out of madness or foolishness, I wonder?” His expression hardened. “Get out of here. Now. And I don't recommend coming back.”
Ophelia wore a neutral expression until the cleric and Harold returned with someone that, from a distance, seemed completely new. It was only as they got closer and closer that a pit began to form in Ophelia's stomach and her breathing intensified by an order of magnitude. At first she wondered what poor soul was unlucky enough to have endured a gilded transformation, only for it to dawn on her as they got closer precisely who it was, and things changed very rapidly from there. That they had done this to someone who'd only followed their orders and done their best, someone that Ophelia had grown fond of and bestowed a boon upon, made her absolutely furious. She supposed it was obvious, really, that something like this was in their power and purview to do--but that they'd chosen to do it to poor Victor... It did not bode well for Harold, whatever he was, that he had felt emboldened to taunt them like this.
There were many things that Ophelia wished to say to Harold in that moment, all of them fighting one another for the chance to pass her lips first, but she simply swallowed instead and made towards the place from whence they'd come. When a bit of distance was between her (and presumably Gerlinde and Torquil, if they followed her) and the Vicar and she was within distance to have a clear shot at the exit, she stopped and turned her head over her shoulder to face him. Her lip quivered as she held back a barrage of vitriol and she chose her words carefully.
"Whatever happens now, you have brought upon yourself. There is no force upon the face of this world or any other that will forestall the reckoning you have now set in motion. Make your peace, for you will not survive the night." she all but spat, before continuing to storm out of there. Part of her hoped that they would attack--that he'd set not-Victor upon them--if only so that they could be forewarned about what the gold-clad monstrosity could do... but she didn't imagine they'd take kindly to her threat in any case, and both hands rested upon the hilt of her blade. Farren was gone, absconded with their prize, and dying would only spare them some walking--and one could be certain that they'd take out plenty of the assembled chaff here with them. Abandoning all pretense of civility suited Ophelia just fine, she supposed, for she'd been ready to drive her blade through Harold's inhuman chest the moment his master had dared take the Witches' name in vain to manipulate her.
White Church Workshop, Upper Cathedral Ward, high above western Yharnam
As Ophelia moved to leave with Torquil and Gerlinde in tow, everyone in the White Church Workshop watched, some with expressions of confusion, others with concern and others yet with the first embers of enmity burning in their eyes. Vicar Harold watched them leave with undisguised anger and contempt, whereas Victor merely watched them leave with a blank expression... except one single time, when he winced for a half second and his eyes started shifting around frantically before he resumed his docile demeanor. Ahead of them on the bridge, they could see the golden plinth and the mannequinn head on top of it... only for three of the familiar golden tentacles to abruptly rise from the ground around it. They all wrapped around the little structure, plinth and all, before pulling it with them back into the ground. “Remember this, o righteous Hunters of the Healing Church!” the vicar's voice declared loudly, growing fainter as they retreated back outside and toward the bridge, the tower, the elevator, the chapel and ultimately the Dream. “Those abominations are henceforth your enemies! Don't bother trying to kill them, for their ilk cannot truly die, but from this moment I will not have you lend any resources or aid to them! If they return, throw them out. If they resist, cut them down. We act in the name of the gods, and before the gods, even these false immortals are powerless. Remember this, o Hunters... and come sunrise, I shall grant you immortality just as I did them.”
The Hunter's Dream
Moving on a few minutes ahead of the others, Farren would reach Oedon Chapel first and, once there, urgently moved to interact with the lantern and bring their bounty to safety. Despite initial concerns that the Mask Rune might interfere, it seemed that a regular lantern worked the same process as it had many times already, and he arrived swiftly in the Hunter's Dream.
Upon arrival, Farren would feel feel the familiar tremors in his blood and once again get the same feeling as when the doll channeled strength into him... only that was not all. Not only his blood, but also the ground under his feet seemed to tremble momentarily, rumbling subtly, causing the multitude of flowers adorning the Dream to sway, the gate in the fence between him and the statues of past Paleblood Hunters to clatter, and the boughs of the great tree to to shift and grind audibly against each other. For just an instant, a mere fraction of a second, the sunset sky of the Dream flashed to something else – something bright yellow – before the the shaking ceased. But in the ensuing silence he would easily be able to hear a sound he, nor likely any other Hunter that had ever been through this Dream, had heard before: Messengers screaming. Two Messengers, precisely, just down the path from where he was standing, appeared to suddenly start convulsing and letting out horrible inhuman cries of pure agony as the ground where they were rooted to start glowing with a pale light. And then those two Messengers changed. As the light from below enveloped them the Messengers grew bigger and bigger, growing to the size of actual humans only a little smaller than Farren himself, while their skin turned pale gray and weird tentacles sprouted to conceal what had once been their faces.
They stopped screaming and calmed down. They emerged fully from the ground, stood up on their own two thin, feeble legs, and turned to face Farren. They no longer resembled Messengers... and as one of them raised a pale, long-fingered hand toward him, a bluish bolt of energy seemed to manifest at its fingertips and shoot toward him.
left the others behind, not because he wanted to, but because even if they fell, they would merely return to the Dream. Plus, it seemed prudent that he get his cargo somewhere that the Vicar and his forces could not reach him. After all, even if this was not the Puppet’s sole supply of False Pale Blood, they’d do well to deprive the bastard of any resources they could. As he headed back to Oedon Chapel he found that the trip was an uneventful one—something of a relief in some ways, though the hunger in his blood had began to niggle at the edges of his mind.
He was less aware of it than he had been in the past, so Farren naturally did not attempt to suppress it. With any luck, that predatory instinct would not be left unsated long enough to intermingle with the paranoia that roiled, slithered, and crawled upon itself in a knotted coil deep deep within his mind, beyond his notice.
Eventually he reached the lantern and, mostly to test if normal lanterns not within the hold of the Golden Bastard’s power would respond, he stretched an arm out towards its faint warmth. Moments later he found himself waking in the Hunter’s Dream and—to his brief pleasure—he experienced a thrum of thrilling vivacity course through his body. He felt suddenly lighter somehow, more energetic, yet oddly not more ‘awake,’ though in another sense he’d never felt less fatigued—which was to say that he felt no tiredness at all, quite the opposite really.
However, that tremulous thrill wasn’t something that Farren got to enjoy for more than a few brief, immeasurable instants, for almost as it began, Farren became aware of the uncanny shaking of the Dream. The mild annoyance he’d largely moved past on his way back—which had briefly ceded to the energy of the power imparted to his blood—now returned like a quiet murmur echoing off a far off structure. It was swiftly overshadowed by a tinge of fear, the subtle tendrils of paranoia reaching from somewhere within him to lightly graze over his heart. Then…suspicion.
Farren’s azure eyes narrowed, the almost blinding flash of luminescent yellow light sending a sharper stitch of terror through him. A terror that roused the simpering, jibbering ghost nestled within him. Farren swallowed hard, his jaw tightened and without hesitation, he drew the Effigial Blade of Mercy, splitting it into two hands with a sharp jerk and a twist.
Then he registered the screaming, his eyes swiveling until his gaze came to fitful rest upon the writhing Messengers. His frown deepened, his heartbeat sped, his fear grew and a realization struck him in the same instant that the Messengers began to swell and grow. ‘It was the blood’ he thought, [i]‘…just a little disturbed the Dream, called things…empowered us on occasion…twisted Torquil’s form. This much had twisted the Dream’s occupants themselves, though mercifully few of them.
The power that had touched them here—it seemed—must have been the wretched touch of the Golden Bastard. He recalled them; the Runes he’d noticed adorning the case of False Pale Blood they’d pilfered. The Sun Rune had been among them. Ego’s Rune. So as the Messengers rapidly changed—his weapons already drawn—Farren did two things nearly in the same moment.
He quickstepped—not to retreat, but to attack—working to cross the distance between himself and the Twisted Messengers, and he called out in a roar that was half a call to arms and half a battlecry of sorts.
“Moonborn!”
Both creatures finished their transformation before Farren reached them, and one raised its finger as he watched—almost in slow motion—and some fell power gathered there…then fired. Farren’s left foot shifted trajectory, he began to twist, and then he slammed the foot down in a push to the right, attempting to enter a second quickstep to interrupt the first and circumvent the attack or at least take the hit somewhere less vital. Either way, he’d likely bull forward, quickstepping again if necessary to maintain sufficient speed not just to reach the Twisted Messengers, but to pass behind them in a blur.
In his fervor to close the distance and engage the twisted creatures the Messengers had become, Farren quickstepped forward before fully comprehending the situation and, upon realizing that a ranged attack was being directed at him, attempted to divert. It was at this point that Farren learned a very important limitation of the otherwise immensely powerful quickstep: once initiated, changing direction in any way during it was impossible, and there was a brief half-second delay from the end of one quickstep until he could muster the power to perform another. As such there was nothing Farren could do to stop the arcane bolt from hitting him, only for him to discover that the bolt hitting him did not actually cause injury nor pain. Instead he found that the bluish energy instantly expanded in a flash of light, and he a force like invisible ropes suddenly wrap around his body. This arcane prison not only bound his arms tightly to his torso, preventing him from defending himself in any way, but also seemed to root him in place. No matter how he tried to twist or lean, his torso was immobilized at a specific point in space, to the point where he would remain stuck even if he pulled up his legs and no longer touched the ground.
Letting out horrid celebratory screeches after their first attack had struck true, the two abominations rushed – their movements not those of a humanoid, but rather a bug-like skitter – eagerly toward their defenseless prey. The front-runner of the two, the same one that had shot the arcane bolt at him, grasped toward him greedily with its hand... only for a large object to whistle past Farren's right ear, just several centimeters from his head, past the creature, and impact the ground right behind it and between the two monsters. Upon impacting, this projectile – a metallic ball of some description – instantly detonated in a powerful fiery explosion. Both of the twisted Messengers screeched as they were flung away, sprawling onto the ground on either side of Farren, while Farren – immobilized as he was – merely got to experience the searing heat on his skin and several small pieces of shrapnel embedding into his flesh.
The arcane prison finally relented, releasing Farren and allowing him to move again, while his two assailants moved frantically to get back on their feet. Behind him, up on the stairs to the workshop, the Shopkeeper sprinted down toward him with what appeared to be a cannon strapped to their left arm.
was moving in one moment, and rocked into stillness the next. He struggled, indeed he writhed and contorted and fought, but to no avail, his adversaries swiftly closing in. Farren clenched his teeth, narrowed his eyes, and braced himself for whatever twisted terrors were about to befall him.
Then there was a whistle, a crack, a blooming flower of flame, and then blinding searing heat.
It was different from the crackling sharp flash-burn of lightning that was searing pain, convulsing muscle and then black numbness. This was like a wave of molten heat, melting pain that spread from the surface inwards, but not all at once. Farren let out one agonized emanation before he managed to clench his teeth down so only his lips and face were seared–his eyes shut reflexively before the wave properly hit him.
He heard the noises of the Twisted Messengers, the sound of heavy running strides from the direction of the cabin behind him, the tumble of one, then two bodies against dirt and stone and flora. His prison released him, the constriction suddenly gone, his weight suddenly fully on his own feet again. Farren staggered back one, two, three steps. He was already half healed, then more…but he felt pinpricks of scintillating fire all over. Quicksilver, his mind told him, catching up.
Farren’s eyes snapped open, swiveled to the right, locked on the Messenger there that had begun to recover. Though not a proper Hunter’s tool, Farren drew his dagger in a whip-fast motion, flicking his wrist in a swift surprisingly accurate throw directly at the Messenger’s center mass. The thoroughly sharpened, if otherwise mundane knife, sailed through the air towards its target, but Farren was already acting further, having snapped his blades back into one and drawn his Hunter’s Pistol. He brought it up in a swift draw and fired directly at the same Messenger’s skull.
His body twisted, back to the Messenger he’d struck as he let the pistol find its hook at his belt. Then he quickstepped. This time he moved at a slight acute angle from straight on, intending to arrive behind or to one side of the other recovering Messenger. The angle of his movement was an attempt to not be fired at head on like he had been prior. If he arrived unimpeded, Farren would use the momentum of his movement to turn on his heel–shifting it into centrifugal force–which he’d used to attempt to cleave the Twisted Messenger in half.
The first creature appeared to react quite strongly to Farren shooting it – much as one would expect from being shot in the head – and immediately sprawled back onto the ground. It did not appear to outright die from it, but even with Farren's relatively modest bloodtinge it seemed that it reacted quite strongly to quicksilver, and spent a couple of seconds convulsing while it worked to purify itself and regenerate the damage. But turning his attention to the second entity, assaulting it with his blade, he would find that it did not cut nearly as deeply into it as he expected. Despite its feeble frame its body felt surprisingly dense – more so than any other creature he had struck since becoming a Hunter, to the point of it feeling more durable than even the darkbeast – and what had been intended as a slash to cleave it in twain ended up only producing a shallow cut across its body, which healed instantly.
Undeterred by Farren's attack, the abomination jumped up and attempted to grapple him with both of its hands, trying to dig its long fingers into his shoulders to keep him in place.
The Shopkeeper, meanwhile, approached to the one Farren had momentarily disabled with a shot to the head. They dismissed their cannon in a bluish flash, only for it to be immediately replaced by some manner of contraption made up of metal canisters and tubes. The next second a deluge of flame roared forth from the nuzzle of one of those tubes, eliciting a horrid screech from the creature as it was enveloped in a spray of fire.
