_Farren

recoiled slightly, but recovered quickly as his second attack failed to have the effect he’d been aiming for. Worse still, the Twisted Messenger finished recovering, not even seeming to notice the strike at all before it healed. With the understanding that strikes from his blades were almost certain to be ineffective, Farren pushed back into a backwards quickstep, trying to put at least a few meters between himself and the grasping creature. Whether it caught him or not, Farren was already clicking his blades together into his right hand before reaching his left down into a pouch to palm a quicksilver bullet. He’d continue with his other hand, sheathing the Effigial Blade as he drew up his pistol and now with two hands worked to swiftly reload it. Even if caught in its grasp, he’d attempt to load, tilt up, and then fire the bullet up on a trajectory that would penetrate between ‘chin’ and neck and travel upwards through its entire skull if it didn’t get lodged within it.

Just an instant before the creature would have wrapped its spindly fingers around him in new, more mundane restraints, Farren quickstepped the standard distance of five meters straight backwards and out of its grasp. Due to its target's disappearance, the forward momentum it already had combined with its attempted grapple caused the monster to stagger to a halt for a second... only to recover and raise a hand toward him as it had at first, conjuring another bolt of arcane energy.
But before it could complete whatever eldritch invocation it was performing, Farren's bullet struck true and immediately sent it reeling backward, interrupting the spell. It spent a moment screeching and chittering while clutching its throat, only to seem to recover... and be immediately engulfed in the blaze of the Shopkeeper's flamesprayer.

_Farren

slid to a stop, pistol still raised, his other hand on the hilt of the Effigial Blade despite the fact that it hadn’t served any true purpose in the conflict. The flames engulfed the second creature, searing away the Twisted thing with a frightening swiftness. Farren reloaded his pistol in a swift series of motions…just in case, his gaze scanning the area for any extant threats that perhaps hadn’t yet revealed themselves.

Nothing presented itself, but Farren kept the firearm in hand, his other hand on the hilt of the Effigial Blade of Mercy as he glanced the Moonborn Hunter’s way and nodded. “My thanks,” the azure-eyed hunter added, “…that would have been…much worse had you not acted so swiftly.”

Farren let out a slow breath, frowning as he considered the implications of what had just occurred. He hoped that when Torquil reentered the Dream that it wouldn’t trigger something similar. Farren wondered if the location of the Container of False Pairblood might have an impact on where in the Dream these occurrences happened.

With that potentiality in mind, Farren glanced to the Moonborn Hunter once more, “Do you need to be near Amaris for her to commune with you?”

Dismissing their weapon in another blue flash, the Shopkeeper turned to Farren, clenched their fist in what seemed like frustration, and pointed urgently toward the workshop.

Farren grunted his assent and began jogging towards the workshop.

Leaving behind the now-smoldering forms of the creatures that had once been Messengers, Farren climbed the stairs toward the workshop with the Shopkeeper following close behind. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air and overpowered the floral scents that usually wafted through the Dream on every gust of its gentle breeze, all while an unnerving quiet settled over this tiny, isolated little piece of the world; this peaceful little Dream within the Nightmare.
Moving to the doorway at the top of the stairs, Farren would doubtlessly immediately realize what the Shopkeeper had meant to call attention to. Right there on the wooden floorboards of the workshop the doll lay on her back, her shiny glass-eyes staring lifelessly into the ceiling and her limbs sprawled out around her like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
The Shopkeeper rushed inside, pushing past Farren if necessary, and hastened to the doll's side where they fell to their knees. One hand reached out and tenderly brushed aside a stray tuft of artificial hair, but contrary to how they had seen her on every past visit, the doll appeared to now be quite inanimate.

^{Featuring @Dark Jack}

_Farren

just stared at the limp, lifeless body of the Doll. It didn’t look like her somehow. Where before there had been a semblance, an aspect at the least, of life therein…of consciousness, despite her artificial frame…now there was nothing. Truly like a puppet with its strings cut. The Shopkeeper did in fact have to shove past his shoulder to fully enter, and the act had his already uncharacteristically loose grip on his pistol utterly fail.

The recently loaded gun clattered to the wooden ground and the sound barely stirred Farren. However, the blow had rocked him to the side slightly, and he only steadied himself by instinct alone—and even then he seemed to stagger. They’d not thought things through… he hadn’t thought it through, in truth. Of course bringing so much of Ego’s False Paleblood into the Dream would have consequences…. Just what ran through his and Torquil’s veins had been enough to cause tremors, shifts in weather…and manifestations of various phenomena—the Bloodwraiths…Torquil’s transformation, the strange shifts in his own capacities.

Farren gritted his teeth. He was better than this, but he’d been in too much of a rush. Too motivated by spite to consider the potential consequences of their intentions.

Yet, traitorously…even as guilt and shame roiled through him…they were swiftly overpowered by a stronger, fiercer, far more violent emotion.

Or rather, it would have been. It had been before.

This time, that familiar rage burned cold in his veins, like he’d been filled with choking ice.

“This only just happened…didn’t it?”

Farren said, his affect completely flat, his expression somehow frighteningly blank. But his eyes burned with a frigid cold and not just metaphorically either. They actually seemed unnaturally luminescent, if the Hunter deigned to look.

The Moonborn Hunter merely nodded and Farren gritted his teeth.

“...I’m Sorry,” he managed, his voice strained

Still without looking up, the Shopkeeper raised a hand and pointed at Farren.

He frowned, not understanding. “...I don't...can you write?” He asked suddenly, remembering the notebook he could retrieve.

The Shopkeeper shook their head, then finally turned away from the inanimate doll and stood up, walked over to and around Farren and pointed at the bag on his back.

'Damn,' Farren thought. Though...he wondered if the Messengers might help. Then again...he didn't fancy interacting with them right then. When the man circled him, Farren's head turned, following the motion, but not turning around. He noted what the Hunter was pointing at and his features darkened.

“Ah, I see. Yes, I'd presume it's related. False Paleblood and proper Old Blood,” Farren noted, turning so the pack was behind him once more. Some small part of him felt like the Moonborn Hunter might attempt to destroy both if he let him. “We didn't...think it would have an effect such as this without already being within a body, I suppose....” He added, frowning, clearly upset as well. There was still a stiff coldness to every motion he made and every word he managed.

The Shopkeeper just stood there for a moment, arms hanging down their sides, seemingly at a loss for what to do. Then they turned from Farren to walk back to and then past the doll, into the corner of the room where the wheelchair they had been sitting in on the party's first arrival in the Dream. They pulled it out of the corner and over to the doll, only to allow themselves to fall and slump into it.

“We'll...find a better place for it, once the others return,” Farren offered, his tone more hollow than he'd like. Farren didn't sit, even though he wanted to. He did slowly remove the pack and set it just outside the door of the workshop, before he leaned against one edge of the threshold...waiting for the others to arrive.

Ophelia's pace quickened from simple storming off to a brisk jog to an all-out sprint in very rapid succession, thoughts of vengeance and dismay and guilt eating away at her. Indirectly they'd been the cause of... whatever happened to Victor, and she'd managed to catch a glimpse of him coming to awareness for only a brief second before slipping back beneath his gilded prison. That gave her hope for restoration, at least, but she felt deeply personally responsible for something she truly could not abide--to see others kept under thrall, robbed of themselves. Especially in the service of their enemy. She'd done everything she could to free Dietrich, perhaps acted hastily in hindsight, only for the golden bastard to take another, and it would not stop there.

When her much extended stamina gave out she slipped back into a gentle jog to recover, wiping away blinding hot tears with the sleeve of her right arm, and repeated the process again as her thoughts became ever-increasingly feverish. They eventually returned to the lantern at Oedon Chapel, where she had expected to see Farren. She found it odd that he hadn't waited for them, but supposed it was simply a matter of eagerness that she couldn't fault him for--it had been the plan to return everything to the Dream, though she would've written a message to the Shopkeeper first to ensure everything was ready for their volatile and strange cargo... well, normally she would have. Given what she'd just seen she wasn't sure what she'd have done if they'd had the blood and all been together. She instead just sighed, and longing for some semblance of comfort, withdrew the runebrand and gave herself the Guidance rune once more--it was the only thing she didn't like about the Mask rune, to have such a powerful wall between her and the soothing light of her blessed blade. Once it returned to her in force she felt much better, a subtle undercurrent of terror that had been brewing within her washed away by glittering moonlight.

Returning to the Dream, Ophelia felt something she had never felt before--a keening, warbling tremor through her very blood... and then suddenly she felt a bottle, heavy with fluid, in the crook of her arm. She blinked, and then again, and then despite the comforting presence of the Holy Moonlight Sword a terrible panic came over her--something was horribly wrong. She could see the smouldering corpses of... something in the distance, and a patch of still-lingering flames that suggested cannon fire or a molotov cocktail or something like that, and none of the others could be seen.

"... Farren?! Farren?!" she shouted, her normally lilting and musical voice suddenly shrill and shaky, and she ran up towards the only place she thought they might be if she couldn't see them--towards the little workshop.

_Farren

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 something 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 Bastard 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 tripped 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 more 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.

“Here, Ophelia,” 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, “...nevermind the…corpses. Amaris, she…” his words choked off as he felt something wrack him. Farren staggered, he gritted his teeth and half turned, gesturing back towards the workshop. “Go,” he said and though time was likely not 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.

When Farren came into sight, Ophelia did not really know how to feel. Tense hope and barely held back fury (though not at Farren, of course) clashed in her mind's eye, but when she saw his face and heard an uncharacteristic choking sob... she knew something was very deeply wrong. Whatever else might have been happening, to see one as often aloof and unfazed as Farren like this meant something portentous and disastrous had happened--something she immediately realised was connected to the tremor she'd felt, that they must have been feeling this entire time. The False Paleblood, it must have been. She barely even registered Farren's words, only snapping back to attention at 'Amaris', the pet name he'd given the doll, and she paid no further attention to him as she moved inward to the workshop as he implored her.

Seeing the doll lying there, inanimate, on the floor broke something inside of her. She whimpered and began to cry once more, falling to her knees, mouth agape and eyes wildly looking about. She daren't even touch the doll, uncertain of how any of this had happened and not wishing to somehow make things worse, and then looked up at the mute and sullen Shopkeeper. Then back down. Then up again. It was him, the Lord of Providence had done this to her somehow. He'd taken another of their friends and allies, someone truly and wholly innocent who only ever tried to help. She screamed and let out all of her sorrow and fury and pain, unable to keep it within herself any longer without falling apart, and fell to her knees. She grasped the Holy Moonlight Sword tightly, knuckles turning white, as she calmed herself down enough to try and reach out to it.

Mother Moon... My Guiding Moonlight... Please, tell me, what has happened here? How can we fix it? Please... please..." she thought, burying her face into the gleaming blade and closing her eyes. The position looked something oddly like prayer, though she quickly collapsed from being on her knees and simply sat on the floor, holding the blade just barely aloft, waiting. Hoping beyond hope.

While Ophelia ran as Farren had directed to discover what had happened to the doll, Gerlinde paused, momentarily looking at her hands with a confused expression, clenching and unclenching her fists experimentally. Before she could come to any useful conclusions, however, she immediately disregarded Farren's instructions and allowed herself to be distracted by the smoldering corpses of what had once been Messengers.
Torquil was rather torn between following Ophelia and staying with Farren as they split up once again. On one hand both seemed quite distressed... and indeed, Torquil himself felt rather uncomfortable after seeing Victor, though he was not sure he completely understood what it meant. Ultimately he decided to stay outside with Farren, lingering awkwardly near him in the hope that he might provide some vague kind of comfort to the man.

Up in the workshop the Shopkeeper did not seem to react to Ophelia's arrival at all, nor did the doll. With the Guidance Rune restored, however, she did hear the whispers once more: “A presence... the influence of a Great One... destabilizes the Dream. Interrupts the connection to Flora. It is unsure if it can be 'fixed'... but removing the influence... may prevent further changes.”

The soothing flow of the whispers into her mind helped anchor Ophelia in this otherwise fraught moment, and she looked up at the Shopkeeper grimly once again.

"Prepare for a chalice ritual. If anything will know how to fix her, it will be my blade made whole." Ophelia said flatly, climbing to her feet as she did so, and storming out of the workshop as quickly as she could muster with no heed for whether the Shopkeeper acknowledged her or not. Once outside she turned to Farren, and Torquil nearby, and looked over to find Gerlinde approaching the patches of lingering flame before shouting out.

"The Doll is... dead? Inanimate? We need to get the false Paleblood out, now. Castle Cainhurst. Annalise knows blood well. She will keep it safe. We will get the chalice. We will restore my blade, and maybe it can help us get her back. Now." she spoke, though much like Farren earlier her voice was flat and terse, not to mention hoarse from her screaming... though it was still imbued with an impressive amount of urgency. For all that Ophelia liked to take charge normally, something was different now--they were no longer safe here in their Dream, able to take things at their leisure, and with that safety gone so was an element of Ophelia's geniality. They had lost something truly, truly precious and she would do anything to get it back, no matter the cost, no matter how much she had to trample on any of her fellows' feelings. She was done losing people to the influence of gold, done letting this bastard toy with them and treat people like playthings to steal something that was never his... and her tone very much reflected her new warpath.

It struck Ophelia in that moment that if introducing false Paleblood into the Dream had allowed the usurper to gain more influence over it and disrupt its connection to its owner, Flora, perhaps obtaining more of Flora's blood or essence or something might tip the connection back in its favour.

"Do you know where Flora is?" she asked of the whispers.

"Elsewhere." they replied.

"Somewhere we can get to?"

"It does not know. It does not know where Flora is... just that she is not in this Nightmare... nor any realm you have brought it."

That reply scuppered her idea of attempting to find Flora and introduce more of her essence to the Dream to set it to rights--at least for the moment, until they might get a lead. Perhaps it was time to return to Yahar'gul, and learn the methodology of their ritual. They beckoned a different Great One entirely, one not even of the same type as Flora, but perhaps what they were doing could be repurposed...

"What can you tell me of the false Paleblood?" she whispered again.

"It feels similar to Paleblood... but different. It tries to be Paleblood... but is imperfect... destabilizes the Dream. Not much... only temporarily... but enough to hinder." came the reply.

"Could the ritual at Yahar'gul be used to beckon something else? Flora?"

"The ritual... no. Not Flora. Slumbering Great One. Deep in the Cosmos. Powerful."

Throughout all of this, Ophelia simply stood waiting for the others.

_Farren

wondered at the distress he saw in her eyes, his chest tight with the knowledge that something else terrible must have happened before they’d even arrived. Farren breathed, wiped his eyes, annoyed at the presence of the tears. He gave Torquil a small nod of acknowledgement, in some ways glad for the silent company, in others wishing he were alone again.

He knew it was best that he wasn’t alone, however. When Ophelia’s harsh, pained scream—a sound of anguish and rage both—echoed out, Farren didn’t turn and run to her. He visibly, almost violently, winced. Like it had hurt him—and not because his hearing was sensitive.

Some time later—both too long and too short—Ophelia stormed from the workshop, he hadn’t turned to look right away, but he could tell by the sound of her steps. When he did turn…well, she looked a bit like a storm too. It was the first time seeing her well and truly angry in a way he understood. Not aggrieved like she’d been when they’d argued some hours ago, but filled with a righteous fury. He understood that feeling, he nodded, somehow buoyed by the fact that they seemed to feel the same way…and the fact that no one was blaming him—even if he was.

“You go, let us stay. I’ll send for you if the lack of the false blood’s presence returns her to us,” Farren said, sounding resolute. “I’ll see if I can help Moonborn with the ritual…and explain to Amaris if she…if she returns to us.” His voice was thick for a moment after he said her name, his usually confident and unshakeable gaze shifting away for a moment, then back. She’d see guilt written in that hesitation, before he steeled himself again.

“And with Torquil and myself not leaving and returning unnecessarily…we’ll avoid stirring the Bastard’s power again,” he added, venom in his utterance of the appellation.

Ophelia nodded at Farren's words, but took especial notice of him--of his eyes, his tears, and of a familiar guilt she could see beneath it all. She turned to him after he'd finished speaking, seemingly able to sense the unspoken thing he daren't let pass his lips for fear that might make it true. She walked over to him and pulled him close, holding him, and embracing him tightly and fiercely with her free arm as she buried her head in the nook of his shoulder for a moment in commiseration, in truly shared pain.

"Victor... they trapped him in this Golden armour, took control of his body. I think they tortured him... I think... he probably didn't turn on us, and they stole him away instead. The doll, those corpses... it wasn't your fault. We agreed this, the Moonborn assented in their silence. It was him, all him." she whispered into his ear amidst sniffles and sobs of rage and sadness both. She didn't want him to feel alone in this, knew that it would serve no purpose but the bastard's, and... Farren was a good man. Not before, no, but was she good before either? Were any of them? It didn't matter--he'd chosen them, to stick by them, to share in their trials and tribulations. The world was huge and they had the power to hop across it in mere moments; solitude was an easy thing to come by, if one wanted it.

"We'll get her back. We will. We will." she affirmed before she released him, gingerly took the sack from him with a knowing nod (assuming his assent) and moved to grab Gerlinde before heading to the Vileblood Queen's Chamber.

_Farren

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 felt 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. “Inhuman bastard…” 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.

“We will,” 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, “So long as the Puppet remains, the White Church might as well be blackguards all. The Black Church is different,” 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, “...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.”

Farren’s chin tilted up, his azure eyes shifting to regard the moon above, “...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,” 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. “I’ll not go on my own though,” 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, “You’ve a better way with words than I…and that ought suffice in place of my rapport.”

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. “Go, we’ll speak of it further when you return,” 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.

After hearing that the doll had become inanimate Gerlinde was once again distracted from examining the dead creatures and went to the workshop instead. Unlike everyone else she seemed entirely unworried about everything that was happening and seemed instead to be greedily absorbing these unusual events with her characteristic broad smile, almost grinning out of sheer excitement. Even so she still responded to Ophelia's intent for the two of them to head out together moved to follow with wide-eyed curiosity.
Torquil was entirely overwhelmed, completely lost as to what was even going on anymore and feeling distressed less so from what had actually happened and more so due to how things just seemed to be happening all of a sudden, and that these things seemed to affect Ophelia and Farren. He idly pushed his cap up a little, just far enough that he could see with his new third eye as well, but otherwise just shuffled awkwardly in place while everyone else milled about with their business.

But with urgent business to take care of, Ophelia and Gerlinde soon went to the Unseen Headstone and touched the label reading “Vileblood Queen's Chamber”.


A moment later they found themselves awakening at the lantern in the throne room they had been in earlier. The place appeared unchanged from their last visit; the only one present besides themselves was still Queen Annalise, slumping quietly in her lonely throne.

---

Urgency took over Ophelia's desire to check in with Gerlinde and Torquil, and getting the false Paleblood out was the most important thing--so she and Gerlinde left and awoke in the same opulent surrounds as before. Ophelia fished the case out of the sack that she'd taken with her and left the cloth by the lantern, quickly surging forward and assuming the reverent and kneeling position that she had on her last visit while presenting the box up towards Annalise.

"Old Blood, as requested, Your Majesty... and something else. I... fear this will require some explanation, if I may?"

The queen started raising her hand and arranging her fingers to snap them, but seemed to pause as Ophelia's report continued. "Thou may, Lady Ophelia. Speak freely."

"The Gilded Trickster's false Paleblood is also within this box. I do not know how much you know of Paleblood and the Hunter's Dream that it is tied to--and I would not wish to disrespect you by explaining to you what you may already know."

"Very little," the queen admitted. "I know it is ancient and of the Nightmare, but little else. Explain, and I shall excuse any repetition of what I already know."

Ophelia nodded. "True Paleblood, like that Gerlinde and I bear, is an innate gift from the Great One Flora. The Hunter's Dream belongs to her, as do the little ones that serve us. This false Paleblood is an imitation crafted by the gilded one, and a means by which he is trying to usurp our Dream and claim it as his own... for immortality like ours. We erred gravely in bringing it to our Dream, where it temporarily disturbed that realm enough for him to influence it somewhat, and we cannot keep it there. You seem to be well acquainted with the lore of blood, Your Majesty, and in a position of safety and security besides; I had hoped that you might perhaps be able to learn something of it, of our mutual enemy, and safeguard it... or destroy it, if there is naught to be learned from it and you deem it wise."

Nodding her head, Queen Annalise finally snapped her fingers, and a black-robed figure once again emerged, only to this time - unprompted - to approach Ophelia, reaching out its hands to receive what she had for them. As it got closer and faced her directly, Ophelia might notice that within its hood, deep in the unnatural darkness in there, there were the faintest hints of Guidance sprites dancing in its depths.

"It shall be safe in Castle Cainhurst," the queen declared. "We will learn what we can."

"Thank you, Your Majesty." Ophelia began, offering the box to the servant as she gazed up into their hood and took notes of the little sprites. "I also bring grave tidings concerning the White Healing Church: Vicar Harold--an inhuman puppet of the Gilded Trickster--has denounced us, as we have freed the First Hunter from his influence, and has declared war upon us and all of Yharnam. Your forces were already embroiled in a war with them, but now others will join the fray too. I mean to contact as many groups as is possible and recruit them in pursuit of our mutual enemy. I also feel obliged to let you know that they seem to have some method of controlling others against their will--a Hunter who aided us when we first awoke has been cocooned in golden armour, with a queer device atop his head, that seemed to render him insensate and obedient... I know not how many of these resources the enemy bears, but that they can do it at all is a tremendous worry. Fortunately, as I understand it, the Mask rune that I may brand into people should protect against it... so I once again offer those services to your forces. For all of your Hunters to be protected from the insidious influence of Gold will surely be a boon in the conflict to come."

The servant received the case and stepped to the side of the room, but then just remained standing there in silence.
"A Hunter," the queen mused, thoughtfully tapping a claw-like fingernail on the armrest of her throne. "Who was this Hunter?"

"His name is Victor," Ophelia began and offered a simple description of his features.

The queen shook her head and interrupted Ophelia: "I do not know this name, and I cannot see with this mask to recognize your description. What was his affiliation? Was he an especially powerful ally?"

"My apologies--he was not a particularly powerful ally, in the grand scheme of things... but he helped us and came to be something of a friend. I did not get the sense he bore the White Church any particular loyalty. He came to Yharnam shortly after the Blood Moon was over, and has survived as a Hunter since then--a sure sign of tenacity, if nothing else, though it was told to me that he had a potential problem with an overindulgence in blood. It hurts me, deeply, to see anyone taken from themselves--especially in service of one so foul. It... it is personal, Your Majesty."

The queen nodded her head slowly. "I understand thy grief, Lady Ophelia. We Vilebloods seek to destroy the Healing Church, as we have ever since their betrayal; if the time comes for us to do battle against them, we may avail ourselves of thy offer of this rune, in spite of its ill-omened name."

Ophelia let a small smile come over her at the queen's words, just for a second, before she exhaled purposefully. "Then I suppose I am a Vileblood after all, for destroying the White Healing Church and its master is now my heart's most fervent wish as well. If it pleases you, I would like to partake of the blood that you offered before--to cement us as allies true, to wield every weapon against the Healing Church. To take every advantage."

Nodding once again, the queen grimly dragged the nail of her right index finger across her left wrist, causing a small amount of blood to immediately flow from the wound. She offered the wrist to Ophelia. "Very well. Drink deep of Our blood. Feel the spreading corruption burn."

Ophelia did as bidden, though she could not disguise the displeasure at the act from her face or voice. Indeed, she did feel it burn deep within her, joining the nestled ember of vengeance in her heart and beginning to pump with its rhythm throughout her form.

As Ophelia drank, Annalise declared: "Now, thou’rt too a Vileblood. Welcome, Lady Ophelia. For the honor of Cainhurst."

Ophelia has obtained the Corruption Rune. When when branded on a Hunter's mind, this rune will allow them to retain a degree of superhuman regeneration even when their regenerative potential has been fully depleted. The rate of this healing is approximately one fifth of a Hunter's normal rate.

"For the honour of Cainhurst." Ophelia repeated, satisfied once more with the feeling of having acquired another rune. She wondered about her familial legacy, about the choices that had been made and that had eventually led her here, and wondered if it had always been her fate--if one ascribed to such a concept.

"Papa... his name was Laertes, I think. Do you perhaps recognise it, Your Majesty? I... know very little of my childhood. My parents went to the woods when I was young and never returned--I don't even remember their faces, though... I need not explain that pain to you, I know." Ophelia continued, perhaps one of the rare instances of uncertainty creeping into her voice that she'd felt that night.

"I know of one who was once called Laertes," the queen confirmed solemnly. "Once upon a time he numbered among my knights, before the Healing Church wiped them all out. He disappeared, and we never knew what happened. I suppose now I do."

"Mother Moon was gracious, to give us both some element of closure. And to bring us together. Now... I do not wish to sound ungrateful, Your Majesty, but may I have the chalice as promised? Something of great value was taken from us in the Dream, and restoring my Holy Moonlight Sword is my only recourse to getting it back. For that, I will need the chalice." Ophelia replied, not hiding the wistful notes from her voice. It wasn't much, but it was something--she'd have to go to the woods to find out more... and she would, she resolved.

The queen turned her sightless head toward the black-clad servant holding the case. "Have we confirmed that this is Hunter Old Blood?"

The servant silently grasped the lid of the case and pulled on it to no avail.

"It would appear that whatever thou brought is not accessible," the queen said, a note of disapproval in her voice. "The case is locked."

"Ah, yes--I... in wake of what happened, I... I had hoped it would be easy to simply dismantle the case, and we had to vacate the Dream urgently once we realised the effects of having brought it there. Still, that is no excuse for my negligence, Your Majesty, and I humbly beseech your forgiveness. Pray return the case to me, and I shall see if there is anything that I can do while here; if not, I shall leave it in your safekeeping and return when I have the key." Ophelia stammered haltingly, as if only just realising what had happened in her haste. She had been so overcome by everything that it simply hadn't occurred to her at all.

The servant obediently returned the case to Ophelia, allowing her to examine it. The metal case, though ornate, was also clearly quite sturdy and equipped with a heft built-in lock that prevented the lid from being opened. There did not seem to be any openings or weaknesses in its construction that could facilitate forcing it open, and the lock - from what familiarity she had with such things - seemed rather complex and durable. She would surmise that while it might be possible to break the case open, the force required to do so could be very likely to damage its contents.

Ophelia examined the box thoroughly, coming to the conclusion that only a very precise and controlled means of extraordinary force could open it without risking its contents--something that she could not risk. She beckoned the messengers from her already-kneeling position and wrote a quick message to Farren:

'Need to unlock case, can't see a way to do so without damaging contents. Have you any talent for lockpicking or know someone who does?'

Shortly thereafter, while waiting for a response, she whispered to the Holy Moonlight Sword: Could I loose your power just enough to breach the lock, without risking the contents inside?

The whispers simply replied: "It is not a precision instrument."

Ophelia permitted herself a slight dry chuckle at the response.

"I've written to my companions in the Dream, Your Majesty, inquiring whether they might have the skills to open this case without risking its contents. If not, I shall return with such a person or the key as soon as possible. I am again deeply sorry for my haste, and shall make amends."

As Farren stood, near Torquil, fidgeting by running his fingers over the grooves and faint textures and patterns 'pon the hilt of his blades, Messengers rose from the grass at his feet. He stiffened a moment, but when they held up a scroll, as if beckoning him, Farren smiled faintly and took a knee. In his usual, slow way, he read the message. As expected, it was from Ophelia.

He made a small sound, like a hum as he considered, closing his eyes a moment. Faint recollections came to him, sensations and textures...cold metal, deft motions. His fingers twitched, his eyes opened. Farren did not send a message in return. He frowned a moment, sighed lightly and glanced to Torquil, “The case was locked, it seems. I'll be back,” he provided, then he went to the headstone and pressed two fingers to the same name that Ophelia had.

His mind shifted towards sleep, Farren felt time skip a step, and then he was waking within the throne room of the Queen's court. “Your majesty,” Farren said respectfully, giving her a sloppy bow--he'd never learned proper etiquette after all--before he rose once more, his still faintly luminescent eyes scanning the room until he saw the robed figure and the case. “Don't have tools of my own...” he said clearly as his azure-eyes fixed upon the case.

“But I may have sufficient skill to wield them, if your highness' court might provide.”

"I fear that the position of locksmith is one that is currently unfilled in Castle Cainhurst," the queen sighed impatiently. "Thou'rt permitted to visit our workshop, but I know not whether our tools can do much against this container."

Ophelia only heard Farren enter, and did not look up in her speech for fear of displeasing the queen further. "Thank you, Your Majesty. We will try. Where is the workshop?"

When the directions were given, she would lead Farren and proceed.

Farren waited, letting his teeth grind a bit, not out of further irritation, but to occupy his thoughts. Once they had a course to take, he'd follow easily.

At a gesture from the Vileblood Queen, the black figure wordlessly gestured for them to follow and walked toward the opposite end of the chamber. As they walked they passed by even more of the awesome yet somewhat archaic art and architecture of Cainhurst Castle. Just outside the throne room itself they passed through a long stairway flanked on both sides by sizeable statues of armored lancers atop equally armored horses, intermingled with more elaborate columns with golden trimmings. Shafts of pale light fell through equidistant windows in the ceiling, giving the entire hallway - which indeed seemed to serve no other purpose than a grand passage leading up to the queen's chamber - an ethereal feel.

The rest of the castle, as they passed through it, was somewhat less ostentatious but no less impressive than what they had been through initially. Following the servant they passed through an immense library with many, many shelves, some of which were many floors high, tightly packed with countless tomes and scrolls. And everywhere, Ophelia would occasionally notice stray little Guidance sprites fluttering about, signifying the presence of the Nightmare... but that was not all. Ophelia and Farren both would find that while the parts of the castle they passed through seemed mostly deserted, they would occasionally catch glimpses of movement or hear a hushed voice or the rustle of cloth, only to look and find nothing there. Once or twice they might notice a faint pale, translucent face with sunken eyes peering at them from a shaded corner, only for it to disperse back into the shadow.

Here, further away from the throne room, Ophelia would get a similar sense from Castle Cainhurst as she had on her visit to Yahar'gul: a sense of tragedy, fear, agony and death... but also hatred, rage and thirst for vengeance. This was Castle Cahinhurst... or at least what the Executioners of the Healing Church had made it.

Eventually they reached a place that was recognizably equipped as a Hunter's workshop, staffed by another two black-robed figures like the one guiding them. Here, Farren would find the tools he needed.

Taking a selection of appropriately useful tools from the workshop, Farren went to work on the lock with Ophelia and Gerlinde supervising, and three identical, anonymous black-robed figures simply lingering silently in their vicinity. Though the tools were not meant for picking locks, they were of high quality and meant for delicate creation and maintenance of complex Hunter armaments, so they worked as well or better for the task.

Even so it was still by far the single most difficult lock Farren, let alone Ophelia and Gerlinde, had ever encountered. After five minutes of fiddling he felt several moving parts inside slip out of his grasp, and he might very well realize that a bad mistake could end up irrevocably damaging the mechanism to the point of rendering the lock permanently closed. After ten minutes his progress got reset again as he felt tumblers slipping. But finally, after fifteen long, tense minutes of extreme focus, Farren was finally rewarded with the feel of the lock relenting to his pressure, allowing itself to move as if the correct key had been inserted, to finally be unlocked with a click.

Finally, Farren relaxed and slowly eased the tools from the lock now that the mechanism had released. When everything was clear–his ear near the case of blood–and he hadn’t heard anything click back into their former positions, Farren pulled away and nodded to Ophelia and the gathered figures, “There...unlocked. Careful that you do not lock it again, it’s a fragile, fraught thing. The wrong turn and it’ll break and be sealed forever,” he said, only slightly exaggerating. They could break it, after all, but that would almost certainly pollute the blood within.

When no one else took the immediate action to open it, Farren wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, set aside his tools, and then moved to reveal the case's contents. Hopefully their efforts had been worth it.

What actually happened:
With the lock disengaged the metal case yielded easily to Farren's fingers, revealing its contents. The interior of the case, it turned out, was covered in a heavy layer of soft, shock-absorbent blue padding on both bottom and lid, designed to trap the items inside between them and prevent them from shifting and potentially breaking.

The first two thirds of the case from the right to well past the middle were filled with tiny corked bottles, each less than half the size of one of the blood vials they were familiar with. There were a total of fifty of these, though all but five of them were already empty; those last five still contained what appeared to be blood.

The leftmost third of the case, meanwhile, was occupied by a single much larger container: what appeared to be a cylinder of copper or bronze, inscribed with numerous Caryll Runes and bearing a small faucet on one side.

Ophelia peered inside eagerly as Farren opened the case, curious to see precisely what the contents were. She was a little disappointed to find only five remaining vials of Old Blood, sure enough, but it was enough to fulfil their end of the bargain with Annalise and obtain the chalice. Perhaps it had also been enough time for the Dream to have recovered. She peered at the canister inscribed with runes, and sought to identify as many as possible: she expected it would bear much the same runes as the case. She was also curious as to whether guidance sprites might be found around or within the canister containing false Paleblood... though she felt no desire to loose any of the foul substance from its container.

"Let's get this back to Annalise. The sooner we've a manner to get the Doll back, the better--without her, we've no ability to transfer our echoes into strength." Ophelia said, directing the last bit at Gerlinde specifically. It was easy to make Gerlinde care, she'd found: it simply required a little rephrasing.

Farren nodded, grunting his assent. He did not affix the top of the case back on for fear it might seal automatically. Hefting the case gingerly, he gestured they go back the way they came. He did pause however, glancing to one of the robed figures, “Might I return when a moment presents itself?” He inquired, wanting to verify he’d have access later on.

Ophelia suddenly had a thought, and went scurrying about the workshop as she gathered up a loose leaf of paper and some errant charcoal, and picked up the container of false Paleblood gingerly. She examined it over, mumbling aloud the names of the runes that she recognised: "Eye... Lake... Deep Sea... This one's Metamorphosis... Heir... and Dream. What are you..?" She spoke as she took the paper and the charcoal and made a rubbing of the runes that she did not recognise so she could examine them more thoroughly later.

"Alright. Let's get this delivered--I want to get back to Torquil. I hope he's doing alright on his own..." Ophelia said, a tinge of regret in her voice at leaving him alone in the Dream like that.

She then returned the false Paleblood to its little recess within the container, picked it up, and headed back with the others the way that they'd come. Something was haunting about the bits of the castle they traversed, where something truly tragic had happened with sufficient intensity of feeling to poison the very air. Old Blood could capture echoes of feeling and desire, that they knew, but the essence of the Nightmare seemed to be able to do a similar thing too--and the place was forever stained by the sins and trespasses committed by the awful Healing Church of Old. It made Ophelia seethe, truth be told, and the faintest pricking of the burning now home within her blood vindicated that feeling many times over.

Once back in the throne room, Ophelia reverently placed her blessed blade on the ground next to her and held the opened box aloft as she addressed the Queen, ready for her servant to take it.

"Unlocked and opened, Your Majesty. Five vials of Hunter Old Blood. We shall keep our eyes peeled for more and deliver that too if we can."

The black figure that had accompanied them to the workshop also followed them back, and when Ophelia offered up the case anew it also took it from her without encouragement. Even so the queen still snapped her fingers before speaking: "Five doses is plenty for now, Lady Ophelia. Thou'st done thy duty, and I shall do mine."

From the hallway they had just entered from arrived a second black figure, identical to the first, only where the first now held the case of Hunter's Old Blood in front of it, this one came bearing a large, very impressive crystal chalice with ornamentations of silver and gold. It held it out for one of them to take.

"This is the chalice thou seek; take it with my blessing. Today, thy deeds have done much to aid the noble cause of the Vilebloods."

Ophelia took the chalice and held it one hand, and picked up her blade with the other. "I am honoured to further our cause, Your Majesty, and only regret my earlier haste. I've one last thing to humbly ask of you ere I leave: your library is expansive indeed, filled with many tomes containing precious knowledge. Might I avail myself of them, should the need arise? I would be happy to read them to you, as well, if such a thing would please you."

Queen Annalise nodded her head in agreement. "I will allow it. The library of Cainhurst holds more history than all the scholars of Byrgenwerth, the Choir and the School of Mensis knew combined. Finding what thou need may prove a truly arduous task, but thou'st permission to browse at thy convenience."

Ophelia nodded her gratitude, and spoke it for the Queen's benefit: "Thank you, Your Majesty. I am certain that we shall speak soon, and am full glad to leave something so perilous as the false Paleblood somewhere so safe."

With that she rose, nodded to the others, and moved towards the familiar lantern to return to the Dream with their prize. One step closer to restoration.

Sighing internally, but not aloud, Farren begrudgingly lowered himself to one knee once Ophelia and the Queen had finished their own exchange. He spoke up then, “If it would not be much trouble, your grace…access to the workshop would be greatly appreciated as well,” he said, the request implied.

"Then it shall be so," she agreed with another nod of her head. "The Vileblood Workshop shall be at thy disposal."

“Gratitude,” Farren said, sounding slightly relieved. He bowed his head briefly, then rose to his feet, ready to depart.

Guild's Fault there's a double post.

Placeholder for a collab or something.

Ophelia, Farren and Gerlinde returned to the Dream, and though Ophelia would likely be relieved to find that she felt no tremors in her blood as she had on her last return, Farren would feel the familiar sense of his false Paleblood reacting... and reacting much more strongly than it ever had before. Torquil and the Shopkeeper were nowhere in sight at the moment, and the scorched remains of the once-Messengers remained where they had left them. The Dream looked like itself, quite peacefully so. But only for a second or two.
Very soon after their arrival they would notice the light slowly dimming as the sky itself – though the time of day did not appear to change, remaining stuck in a perpertual sunset – grew dark. The sun was still there in what they could only presume to be west, but it was as though its brilliance was now hidden behind an almost entirely opaque veil. The gloom within the shadows cast in the Dream turned to near-black, color faded from their surroundings and even the gentle breeze seemed to still.

Then, amidst the grim shade that had enveloped everything, they heard a sound from somewhere in the Dream, a short ways away among the farther headstones: a strange haunting noise somewhere between a hum and a song, produced by a voice that was about as far from human or animal as anything could be. It was like a cross between a lullaby and a dirge conjured from the most grotesque depths of the Nightmare itself, and all of them immediately felt their blood turn to ice in their veins just hearing it as a deeply primal fear gripped them.

Something horrible had appeared in the Dream.

Ophelia's first thoughts were those of victory, and of continuance of duty--and then relief at not feeling the queer sensation in her blood (she didn't know how Farren and Torquil stomached it)--both of which were exceedingly short-lived indeed. Shadow dawned across the peace of the Hunter's Dream as some force conspired to shroud the source of light in this place from them, and all of the colour and vibrancy in their surroundings seemed to drain away.

Then... the song. Whatever it was it keened in lilting, off-key melodies, and Ophelia barely heard more than two notes before she quickstepped immediately towards the little Workshop to stow the chalice away. She tried to summon her thoughts, to work out what had happened, but amidst the unnatural dampening of light and life she found her faculties failing her and sought only to protect their prize before some other horrible creature could invade their sanctum and potentially ruin everything they had worked for. Fear was a woefully insufficient word to describe what she felt in that moment, for it was as though nothing in the world was right or ever would be again. As though the very essence of hope had been extinguished, and all that was left to them was the bitter reality of their ultimately futile efforts... that all things would suffer as a gilded sun dawned and the world fell under the thrall of their greatest enemy. Visions of that awful crab-like device upon Victor's head assaulted Ophelia's mind, as though His tendrils could insert themselves into her very brain and steal her away too... and as she finished her quickstep, she sprinted as quickly as she could make her body move into the Workshop both to stow away her prize and get away from whatever the horrible thing that had invaded their Dream was.

_Farren

felt his blood tremble—familiar, if not the least bit comforting, but almost immediately that familiarity turned not just sour, but rancid. The trembling in his blood seemed to rapidly intensify into a thrumming vibration stronger than anything he’d experienced prior. Yet, nothing was changed as he peered around, a flash of worry and paranoia crossing his typically stoic features.

Then something shifted, the peace he’d hope would remain for more than moments fading in seconds as shadows lengthened, light dimmed, and the world became cast in veiled, desaturated hues as if everything in sight had been clouded. It reminded him of something and Farren’s head tilted…then he cringed as the memory of overhearing miners speak of their trade washed over him along with the smell of alcohol, ethers, and…something else…metallic? Surely not blood, it was a bit different somehow, but not dissimilar exactly.

Farren shook his head, the visions and sensations retreating into the back of his mind, leaving him only with an impression of the words from those men some time before.

Like coal haze cast throughout, absorbing light, warping hues, muddying everything. Choking joy.

Farren shuddered and though he’d held no joy in his heart before—or upon—their return to the Dream, any semblance of calm was indeed smothered, strangled, and replaced by the cloying grasp of tight, heart-vicing fear.

Like a tickling sense of vulnerability—without any laughter, instead tinged with dread—paranoia grazed against the edges of his awareness. Not quite enough to notice while he was in it, but enough that Ophelia would have seen him shrink on himself, slouching slightly. His face screwed up in a look much like a grimace, one eyelid twitching occasionally and though he almost appeared angry, she’d see the telltale jitteriness of paranoia and the deeper well of dread that colored his gaze. That was if she hadn’t fled.

Farren’s azure eyes dulled faintly, the glow they’d maintained dimming as if affected by the veil that something had cast upon the Dream. Farren drew his Pistol and the Effigial Blade, scanning his surroundings again as that haunting melody itched at his skin and pried at his senses.

“I…do not like this,” Farren’s voice, the traitorous thing, actually trembled. Though there was no one to hear it, and it would likely alert whatever now haunted their ruined sanctuary to his presence, he said it anyways. Maybe if whatever it was revealed itself he could kill it.

After all, this all felt…too familiar. Like a nightmare he’d thought he had escaped.

For the first time since meeting her, standing there in the darkened Dream and hearing the tune of an otherworldly singer, Gerlinde's perpetual smile faltered. Though her experiences had rendered her all but literally fearless, even she found it somewhat difficult to sustain her enthusiasm and optimism in the face of what her instincts screamed at her was existential danger.
Rather than bolt like Ophelia or stand her ground and prepare to fight like Farren, Gerlinde instead cautiously lowered herself into a crouch to make herself smaller and crept up closer to the mass of headstones near the birdbath to make herself harder to see. She was not afraid, but for the first time since escaping that room in Byrgenwerth did she feel inclined to actually take her situation seriously. For once she was focused, and she readied the threaded cane that had never left her right hand while retrieving her Horn of the Old Lords with her left hand.

Ophelia running to the workshop would find the doll lying where they had left her, only rearranged into what would be a more comfortable position for an actual human to be in: on her back, her legs straightened and her hands folded on her stomach. Her eyes remained blank and still stared lifelessly into the ceiling and her clothes were a bit ruffled, but otherwise she could almost pass for a person that had simply lied down to sleep.
To the left of her, all the way up against the wall next to the other door out of the workshop, was Torquil. He stood with his back pressed against the wall, arms down his sides, and did not seem to notice Ophelia's arrival at all as he was busy paying attention to something he could see through the doorway, but which was not currently in Ophelia's field of view.

Farren, remaining expectantly where they had awakened, was the first out of him, Ophelia and Gerlinde to see the figure slowly walking along the path on the opposite end of the graveyard of the Dream. The creature somehow looked even more nightmarish than its discordant song sounded, striding calmly among the graves as if it was just taking a casual stroll, ignorant of its own nature as an eldritch horror. At its lower half it appeared to have a somewhat human-like body that even appeared somewhat feminine in shape, clad in a torn and bloodstained dress that looked like it had once been black with nice embroideries. The pair of arms extending from within the sleeves of the dress even had some semblance to human arms, only twisted and misshapen, like it had some sort of terrible growths all over them. But much more telling than those humanoid features was its decidedly inhuman top part, which replaced what would have been the head. A huge, bulging mass of throbbing tissue sat upon the figure's shoulders, taking the form of something that vaguely resembled a grotesquely large and mutated brain... covered in dozens of large, yellowed eyes. Eyes as big as Farren's head, eyes so small he could barely see them and everything in-between, looking everywhere and nowhere all at once, focusing at nothing but seeing everything. And from this hideous thing hung numerous appendages that seemed to be some unnatural cross of tentacles and segmented insect-legs, swinging as it moved but also twitching in a way that suggested they were capable of moving.
It did not seem to notice him yet, and just kept walking. Ponderously following the path. And singing its wicked melody.