[color=#1A1A3B][b][u][h1][sub][sub][sub]Farren[/sub][/sub][/sub][/h1][/u][/b][/color]		    gasped in several breaths, the Frenzy continuing to build. Pushing up into a crouch with shaky, jerky movements, Farren tried to ground himself with deep slow breaths. It didn’t work, each breath came in gasping near-hyperventilated pulls. He felt eyes on him, eyes from all angles, so when he had the presence of mind to notice Gerlinde, Farren nearly toppled back, barely catching himself by gripping the edge of the headstone before he fell out of its minimal cover. [color=#1A1A3B][b]“Fuck,”[/b][/color] Farren breathed. He closed his eyes, heard the sharp thud and crack of something large slamming powerfully against wood, the strange noise of Ophelia’s blade, and then all that remained was the continued shrieking of the monstrosity.

Farren forced himself to act, clawing desperately through the haze of frenzied paranoia and dread that viced at his heart and mind, threatening to drag him down into a madness that Farren now thought indeed had once been his ruin.

He reloaded his pistol in a series of swift motions, then, desperate, he murmured for the Messengers, hoping against hope that they might answer his summons and bring forth the Beastflayer.

They didn’t come, not for one second, or after three. Farren huffed out a single, long, sharp breath.

He rose from cover, caught sight of the monstrosity disappearing further into the workshop. The workshop that Ophelia had put the chalice in. Where Amaris’ lifeless form lay, where perhaps Torquil might have been, but clearly not the Moonborn Hunter–he’d have already emerged. Farren lowered his pistol, slamming it into the hook at his side. In the same motion he palmed a blood vial and turned his head to Gerlinde, letting four two breathless words, just loud enough to be heard over the piercing shriek of the creature, [color=#1A1A3B][b]“Circle round.”[/b][/color]There was a desperate terror in his eyes as he said it and a shaky trust that she would act.

Then he was gone.

Farren didn’t care how many it took, he drew upon his body’s reserves, pushing harder than he ever had, forcing himself to bull through the fear before he could properly think, he quickstepped once across the distance to the main door on the narrow side of the building–closer to him–and then turned on his heel as he drew back his right arm blade before surging into a second blurring flurry of motion across the workshop’s length. He’d barely taken in the scene by the time he’d arrived, but his body had acted practically on instinct, lowering his stance, entering a slide, then planting as he slammed to a step and thrust his right blade towards the creature’s disgusting countenance with all the force he could muster, regardless of whether it had engulfed Torquil’s skull or not.

It was a desperate thing, that attack, but not wild or unfocused, though any looking upon him would see that he wasn’t the least bit composed.

Farren knew he simply must act.

Despite regret.

Despite terror or dread or sickening paranoia and spreading distrust.

He had to act.

Just move.

Just strike.

Stab.

Repeat.

He had to.

There were no other choices.

[hider=Note][i]Should Farren get fully frenzied, he’ll stab himself with the vial ASAP.[/i][/hider]