[color=#1A1A3B][b][u][h1][sub][sub][sub]Farren[/sub][/sub][/sub][/h1][/u][/b][/color]		    stiffened, surprised by the sudden embrace, but after a moment…he relaxed a little, then further still. He swallowed, hard, his breathing hitched as he [i]felt[/i] her crying. Something loosened in his chest and he wrapped an arm around Ophelia in return, half a hug, squeezing tighter than a normal human could have comfortably handled.

Silently, almost stoically, Farren cried…he didn’t let himself sob, but the tears fell and he let them and if his breathing stuttered once or twice, he knew she wouldn’t judge. When she spoke of Victor, Farren’s fingers clawed at the cloth at her back, then he forced himself stiffly to relax the clawing grip. [color=#1A1A3B][b]“Inhuman bastard…”[/b][/color] he muttered, the heat of his anger back for a moment before he felt it go cold again, but not numb like it had been before. It felt sharper somehow, yet not brittle.

Farren patted her back hard enough to rock her frame a little, then released as she began to pull away. When she met his gaze, Ophelia might find a moment to notice something she’d missed in her hurry before–Farren’s eyes were gleaming faintly, the glow visible even in the low light and it wasn’t merely reflected luminescence.

[color=#1A1A3B][b]“We will,”[/b][/color] he repeated, gesturing towards the workshop, on the ground by the door was the pack containing the blood they had reappropriated from the White Church. Farren took a shaky, steadying breath, feeling just a bit lighter, his expression revealed his thanks, subtle though it was. He nodded once, then spoke before she’d turned to leave, something had occurred to him, [color=#1A1A3B][b]“So long as the Puppet remains, the White Church might as well be blackguards all. The Black Church is different,”[/b][/color] Farren said, his gaze intent on hers. He lifted a hand and wiped away the streaks of tears, making a gruff, almost grunting noise–as if almost annoyed he’d cried–then he continued, [color=#1A1A3B][b]“...Seven mentioned…any aid we might offer them in procuring proper supplies would be greatly appreciated. Used to work with the man and his ilk.”[/b][/color]

Farren’s chin tilted up, his azure eyes shifting to regard the moon above, [color=#1A1A3B][b]“...I’ve the sense they’re a good sort. A smaller group though, less to offer…but not nothing. They could be allies, if we’ve enough to offer in exchange,”[/b][/color] he left unsaid that they ought be warned of the threat that the White Healing Church was likely soon to become–to them as well, not just to those possessed of the Paleblood–false or true–or decency besides. [color=#1A1A3B][b]“I’ll not go on my own though,”[/b][/color] he added, glancing back to her, down to her Moonlit blade and the arcane power that flowed like slow waters beneath its almost glassy surface. Idly, he wondered how it had been wrought. He met her gaze again, [color=#1A1A3B][b]“You’ve a better way with words than I…and that ought suffice in place of my rapport.”[/b][/color]

He waved the thought off and half turned, glancing back towards Torquil…then Gerlinde as well. Farren recalled Eileen…Gehrman and the once and future First Hunter–he decided that’d ensure that the man’s sacrifice of station would not be long if he could help it.

Dietrich was a good man. A great one even, perhaps, the sort that ought to be in charge, leading others who could not find the way themselves. [color=#1A1A3B][b]“Go, we’ll speak of it further when you return,”[/b][/color] he finished. His gaze remained elsewhere, staring into the distance. He’d spoken more in those moments than he had most times before since they’d awoken.

It meant something.

Farren wasn’t sure what though.

Not yet.