[color=#1A1A3B][b][u][h1][sub][sub][sub]Farren[/sub][/sub][/sub][/h1][/u][/b][/color]		    waited and the minutes felt long, too long, leaving him with the weight of Amaris’ limp inanimate form  where it lay behind him on the floor. He could still see the image of her in his mind’s eye and no matter how much he tried to banish it, it just…wouldn’t go away. Agitation and a gnawing [i]something[/i] deeper inside him grew with each passing moment. Little twitches, first in his eyelid, then his fingers, began to manifest. Faint sensations of touches on his skin–like the light brushes of thin tendrils…or something else (Golden tentacles perhaps) began to bother his mind.

For it was in his head, he knew it was. He bore the Mask Rune. The [i]Bastard[/i] couldn’t touch him, not truly…but the thing that bothered him more–as he became properly aware of what was happening–was that the sensations were all too familiar.

Farren supposed that he wasn’t so sane as he’d thought after all. The thought disturbed him and he retreated into the cold searing press of the fury he was nursing, he let it envelop him…and the paranoia, the gnawing sense of guilty, and the brushing not-grasp began to recede. He swallowed hard and then–not soon enough–he heard Ophelia’s voice, calling out…distressed.

He moved before a thought even went through his head, pushed from the threshold of the workshop and down the stairs so fast that it was nearly a quickstep, that he nearly [i]tripped[/i] despite the awareness and near-mastery of body that the Old Blood had given him. She came into view swiftly, or rather, into focus, for she’d been there already. Her eyes were faintly red–as if she’d been crying–and some small part of him felt as if it must be for Amaris. Of course, that was impossible, there was no way she could have known. His lips parted, but the words died in his throat, choking him. His throat felt thick with emotion, his face screwed up and he felt…tears well?

An angry irrational part of him, a reflection of his baser, less compassionate side harshly criticized him, wondering at how he could feel so strongly for a mere doll. The thought just made him feel [i]more[/i] strongly still and he scowled even as he let a tear fall. He didn’t know if Amaris was truly dead, but even if she were not…he felt responsible–he had done this to her, and that hurt him. She was a pure soul, no matter the nature of her vessel or the origin of her mind…and no one deserved to be snuffed out like this, even if it might not be forever.

He held out hope that if they took the Puppet’s paleblood concoction from the Dream, that she would wake.

It was a thin reedy thing, that hope, but he clutched to it nonetheless.

[color=#1A1A3B][b]“Here, Ophelia,”[/b][/color] Farren finally managed as he tried to speak a second time. The azure-eyed hunter found that his voice sounded as thick and strained as his throat felt. He swallowed again, [color=#1A1A3B][b]“...nevermind the…corpses. Amaris, she…”[/b][/color] his words choked off as he felt something wrack him. Farren staggered, he gritted his teeth and half turned, gesturing back towards the workshop. [color=#1A1A3B][b]“Go,”[/b][/color] he said and though time was likely [i]not[/i] of the essence in this case, that single word sounded urgent. Farren’s eyes remained on the packed earth as he fought back tears, realizing that what he’d felt had been a single, solitary sob.