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

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 [i]furious[/i]. 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.