---

Farren found himself paying more attention to their surroundings even than was typical for him, for the walk to the ultimately humble Workshop was a strange thing. Enlightening? In a sense. Surreal? Certainly. Most of all though…he felt equally comfortable and uneasy, a dissonance which he had seldom known in his life, if at all–a fractured memory certainly did not help in ascertaining such.

On the one hand, it was oddly heartening to see so many people in good cheer, and on what he’d come to know as a harrowing time. On the other…. The sight of reveling was in direct contrast to the cowering and wariness that he could recall from his life before–and in regards to the latter, his current one as well. It made his blood itch–his altered arms too, though for their part that may have been simple disharmony with the rest of his form.

“Such a strange thing…” the azure-eyed hunter murmured to himself as they walked. It wasn’t a long way, but time felt…uniquely stretched somehow, like it was rewinding on itself even as events progressed forward, resulting in a strange almost-stasis. Look at the events and nothing appeared amiss, but look at the grander picture–the movement of the moon and stars (or lack thereof) and the sky itself betrayed the truth. Farren shook his head slightly and turned his mind to their destination. After a brief time–if any time at all was passing–they arrived. It was a small affair, practically a shack, especially in comparison to the Workshops he remembered from their age. He glanced about the place, taking in the fine weapons of this age long past. When he approached one of the trick-glaives, a Pthumerian attendant glanced his way, speaking up when Farren reached out for one of the weapons.

The attendant - unnaturally tall like most Pthumerians and clad in silver armor - smiled politely at Farren. He spoke in Pthumerian, but the voice in their heads translated: "The blessing blades caught your eye? Fine weapons, a specialty of the Divine City, and cheap, too. Just ten gold coins and one can be yours."

Farren tilted his head, nodding once gruffly as he crossed his arms, “Fine blades, I can tell,” he offered, knowing the voice would translate, “...this the whole lot, then?” He inquired, gesturing with one hand in a vague motion that was meant to encompass the weapons visible to them.

The attendant frowned. "This is awkward... I thought foreigners would be assigned translators if they didn't speak Pthumerian." Instead of answering Farren's question the attendant just shook his head and made a dismissive gesture for Farren and the others to leave.

Farren tilted his head a fraction, frowning before he glanced in Ophelia’s general direction as subtly as he could. He sighed and held up a finger to the man in a gesture to signify he wait a moment. Then, slowly, he pulled one of his Hunter’s Pistols from its place on the hook at his side. Farren unloaded its Quicksilver and placed the bullet back into the tube before he offered it to the attendant as he gestured towards the glaive with his other hand.

“Ophelia. I heard the blade translate him, but…did it translate for me?”

"Ah, yes, it won't translate to anybody that I haven't revealed myself to." Ophelia replied with a small smile. "Would you like me to reveal myself?"

“Ah, yeah. Maybe leave the building and talk as you come in though. No need to startle them unduly,” Farren replied.

"No need to startle them at all, dear. I can just take one of the glaives for you if you want, or I can go ahead and reveal myself." Ophelia offered as she began to move away from the entrance.

Gerlinde smiled charmingly at the attendant, but spoke to Ophelia: "If you're stealing stuff already, grab me one of those beautiful falchions, too."

A phrase, whispered, echoed in his mind, as if it were being blown in by a far away wind: 'Take every advantage.' Farren didn't have coin. He could certainly trade away from what he had, but even if they accepted such, he might have to give something he didn't feel was worth it. Further, even if he'd had coin, he had no idea of the value of what he might obtain that way. “Do it, but let us leave first. You can hand the weapons off, then come back,” he didn't offer up why he wanted her to come back. He'd already spoken enough and it felt like it was unwise to just be speaking plans out loud...even if they couldn't understand him, nor hear Ophelia.

That said, he glanced at the weapons again, grimaced, glared at the man, shoved his weapon back onto its hook, spun on his heel, and left the place. Farren didn't walk far, just a street over, to ensure they were properly out of sight of the place. Once there, he waited.

Ophelia moved to action while Farren was still contemplating and fiddling with his weapons, ignoring his instruction to wait--at least so she could get into position behind the attendant where the weapons were kept. She ignored the disassembled one and waited for Farren to leave, picked up three of the completed weapons, then casually walked out a few seconds after holding their prizes together in her free hand. She wondered for a brief moment if she should return her blade to its standard arcane form, missing the comfortable weight of the Holy Moonlight Sword pressed against her, and not wanting to suffer another nasty shock by touching the blade... but without the ability to acquire more quicksilver easily, she thought better of it... and found herself quickly catching up with the others.

"I didn't want to leave you out, love..." she spoke as she handed one of them off to Torquil, and then the others to Gerlinde and Farren.

Torquil received his Blessing Blade eyes that were wide in surprise, handling the weapon hesitantly and carefully as though he was afraid he might break it. Gerlinde's smile diminished for but a split-second when she saw Ophelia emerging from the workshop with three glaives and none of the long, slender falchions she had wanted, but she swiftly caught herself and grinned widely as she accepted the Blessing Blade offered to her.”

"Thank you, Filly," handling the relatively heavy weapon a little awkwardly. "I appreciate that."

Ophelia did catch Gerlinde's smile diminish for a split second and she frowned momentarily in response. "Is it not what you wanted? Oh! You meant just the blade, then, I see... would you like me to go back and get one? I feel rather silly, it's obvious in hindsight..."

"I admit, I did mean the long, slender sword that looks like the one we saw that warrior wielding in the Old Labyrinth," Gerlinde confessed with a giggle. "I've met several of them, but theirs have always been ancient and worn, and I could never manage to get them to use fire-powers like they can. But maybe a pristine one works better!"

"Ah, yes! I'll tell you what--you three should move on before anyone comes looking. Most people won't think twice and will assume you've paid for these if you hurry along now--but sticking around for them to come looking seems foolish. I'll go grab the extra blade and meet up with you... any idea where you want to go so I can head there after?"

Farren, for his part, seemed rather pleased as he accepted the weapon. Though he was listening to their conversation, he immediately took to looking over the craftsmanship of the glaive. “Lingering does seem unwise,” Farren said absently, tearing his gaze from the weapon before he activated its mechanism and split it into its two parts. He pushed the large haft into a section of the sling on his back, then hung the sword-half on one of the hooks at his left hip.

“If you're going back...perhaps ask that blade of yours if it senses anything else hiding in that little workshop. Ah...and if you would grab another of the blades, the ones Gerlinde fancies.” He cast Gerlinde a small grin, before his face grew serious again and he cast his eyes out far afield, down the length of the street. “I say we simply move down the road a few blocks then meet up and consider next steps.”

He wet his lips, “The palace seems...a good destination, but without another implement to inscribe runes, only Ophelia's equipped to slip past their defenses.” Farren shook his head, “Either way...let's get to moving.”

Ophelia nodded at the request with her usual smile, easy and unforced, though unfocused. "I must assume that the palace has protections against arcane illusions, so I wouldn't count on my ability to slip by unhindered there... but that can wait. A few blocks over seems fine--I'm sure my blade can guide me to you. Now, quick-quick, time's of the essence!" she spoke quickly, hurrying them along with a flippant shooing motion with her free hand as she turned and went back the way she came. "Blast the lack of the little ones..." she muttered to herself as she went to retrace her steps and check what was going on with the lone attendant, if the Blessing Blades had been noticed as missing, and if the guard was alert.

Returning to the workshop, Ophelia would in fact be met by the armored attendant hurrying out of the area and toward the street where she had just left the other Hunters. He walked with quick, determined strides and carried a Blessing Blade of his own... though even now he did not appear to notice her.

Farren–and presumably the others–had of course already made their way along the street. Since they couldn't truly blend into the crowd, he made a point of turning down another street rather than staying in easy view if they were followed.

With only a quick flash of a look around Ophelia found nothing like a coin box that she might be able to pilfer quickly and instead focused on taking her prize--picking up the pair of falchions as directed--and then immediately made her way to follow the guard that had gone to follow her companions. Hopefully on such an auspicious night he would not give particular chase, though she doubted their luck. One with so little to do was more likely to be dogged in their pursuit, to her mind.

By the time Ophelia had retrieved the falchions and went to leave, she would already find the workshop attendant sullenly returning from the street. His fists were clenched and he wore a scowl, making it clear that he was far from at peace with what had happened, but also did not appear to be willing to scour the entire city to find the thieves... especially if that meant leaving the workshop unattended.

Ophelia almost felt bad for the attendant, but only almost, as she skulked by unseen once again with more ill-gotten goods. She thought no more of him and his woes as she made for the street she knew her companions and went about following where they had gone, dreamily taking in the assorted sights and smells and sounds of a bustling city at celebration as she did--and asking her blade if it could sense where they had gone when she reached their last known location to avoid dallying unnecessarily.

"You last saw them here," the voice reported in Ophelia's head. "None of them have presences that are distinct enough to locate through arcane senses, especially not in this city and at this time."

Ophelia chuckled to herself at the thought, finding a certain amusement in their lack of uniqueness from a certain perspective, before continuing her search manually. She looked for any little signs that might betray their passage in the more mundane sense--a whiff of that particular moon-scent, a footprint or hurried smearing of dirt, or the like.

Finding the rest of the party was not particularly difficult, just a little time and effort. From them arriving at the workshop to the point where Ophelia had joined back up with the three other Hunters, about fifteen minutes had passed, meaning they had now been in ancient Pthumeru for 45 minutes.

Ophelia handed the new arms off to her companions happily, though she did find herself eager to get things moving.

"We had better head to the palace, then, hadn't we? I do find myself quite eager to hear this lesser vicar speak, too, but with our currently uncertain relationship to time perhaps it's an indulgence we simply can't afford. Though... by my reckoning, it'd take us more time to find Tempus and return than there is left for the ritual to finish, so it probably matters little. The Moonborn Hunter will be eager for the fight, if nothing else--if we're lucky, perhaps they'll take care of everything for us?" Ophelia mused as she caught up, once again aware of the irony of rambling while talking about wasted time but once again powerless to do anything about it.

Farren simply nodded and then they were on their way, heading for the Palace.

And so the four Hunters began to truly venture into ancient Yharnam, traveling past the relatively lightly populated outskirts and into the denser regions, heading east toward the heart of the city: the palace. The three of them that could be noticed – since everyone they met were bidden by the empowered Truth Rune to ignore Ophelia – each drew stares from the crowd for different reasons. With Farren, attention was divided between the remarkable arsenal of weapons he was carrying with him, and his inhuman arms. With Gerlinde there seemed to be some outrage with her choice of attire, and though some seemed appreciative of the display, many also seemed amused with the obvious difficulty she had with carrying her threaded cane, Blessing Blade and new falchion all at the same time. Torquil, unusually, was the one who attracted the most positive attention. With his new body his size was almost comparable to that of true Pthumerians, and he was ruggedly handsome in a way that was refreshingly different from the otherworldly beauty innate to them. It also helped that he was carrying a suitable set of armaments – an axe on his hip, a glaive in his right hand and a shield in his left – that gave off the (rather inaccurate) impression that he was the only out of the three of them that knew what he was doing.
But for as many glances that were thrown at them, no one seemed to object to their presence. The streets were filled with Pthumerians and regular humans alike, clad in garb from different lands near and far. Travelers were here from across great Pthumeru and beyond to celebrate the impending birth of their new prince. Thus the Hunters, despite how distinctive they were, soon barely stood out as the crowds grew thicker and more diverse.
Soon they entered streets where the air was filled with music from countless instruments and the sound of innumerable voices. People chatting casually; people peddling their goods from storefronts or stalls; people laughing and gasping at performing artists of all kinds; people singing and slurring drunkenly as they partook in alcohol or blood. Under the full moon the city was vibrant with life, with everything brimming with movement, noise and color.

The densely populated streets only made traversing ancient Yharnam all the slower, which meant that traveling any distance was a time-consuming affair... and the distances to travel in a city this immense were not small. Every now and then they would be able to catch glimpses of the spires of the palace past the looming structures that lined every street, which told them that even fifteen minutes later that they had only gotten about one third of the way there.

But at that time, something happened.

They all felt it; a strange, brief pulse of some kind like a single resonant tone too deep to hear, but powerful enough to make all of their hearts skip a beat and their bones ache. Irrespective of their interpretation of that phenomenon, all of them felt as though their blood turned to ice, and they were all gripped by a fierce, primal sense of dread even before the voice spoke in their minds.
“The queen's protection just vanished,” it told them.
Someone nearby screamed in agony. Then multiple someones. And soon, the streets of ancient Yharnam filled with the cries of countless thousands of souls as the moon above seemed to grow bigger, come closer... and turned blood red.
It all happened in but a handful of seconds, and before anyone had any chance to understand what was happening, the violence began. Everywhere they looked, the people who had been celebrating happily moments earlier were now brutally murdering each other with whatever they had available... even their hands and teeth if necessary.

And they, having traveled among the crowd, found themselves completely enveloped in the surge of murder.

Can you tell whose influence is making everyone act like this? A particular Great One, or a particular relic?

"This is the work of no single Great One or artifact," the voice told Ophelia. "This is the effect of the Nightmare itself spilling into the Waking World. The Old Blood itself is running amok now that the queen's leash has been cut."

... and the Old Blood running amok is what awakens Cael. Is... is there any point in us going to the palace now? Any hope of reversing what has been done to Queen Yharnam? Or must we simply find Tempus and escape?

The cold, sick dread was something he hadn’t realized had been missing. In the present day it had been a constant, frigid tension somewhere in his body or perhaps the back of his mind. So when the so-called tether, the leash as it were, of Queen Yharnam’s Will vanished and the sensation flooded in…well, it was strangely almost a comfort. It made sense why there had been a subtle unease ever since they’d been swept through time. It wasn’t just being displaced…it was the lack of that quiet looming presence of the nightmare.

Notably, the first two things Farren did upon feeling it were thus:

He turned to Gerlinde, reached out, and snagged the new Glaive that Ophelia had mistakenly given her. She was overburdened, clearly not used to carrying so many implements. Farren on the other hand could more than handle the load. He barely felt it at all. Secondly, Farren separated the glaive from its haft, slid the haft into the sling on his back with the other stored weapons, and then drew the second curved blade in his other hand and swept forth.

By then, the chaos had begun. Farren’s eyes glowed with an increased intensity, wide to take in as much as he could, even as he focused on clearing a path. “Keep moving. Cut towards our left!” Farren didn’t just try to carve his way forward through the clamor of the crowd’s murderous frenzy, he angled towards the left, wanting to take the shortest path to a building. Either they could take stairs up to a higher floor or to a roof…or they’d have to climb, perhaps. No ladders for him this time, though….

While Farren, Gerlinde and Torquil started hacking and slashing their way through the frenzied crowd - which prompted Torquil to discover, with a mix of wonder and horror, how his Blessing Blade propelled by his newly attained levels of strength seemed capable of scything through dozens of people at once, entirely bisecting humans and Pthumerians almost effortlessly - chaos continued to build. What had initially been screams were now joined by roars of rage and bloodlust, and while gunshots started to resound through the streets they also started hearing howling. And indeed, just a bit further up the street they were on they would be able to spot a Pthumerian abruptly convulse, their body twisting and breaking before instantly reconfiguring into a new shape, all while their skin cracked and shed to give way to fur, claws and horns, transforming into something... beastly.
Up above the night's sky seemed to suddenly be rent by fissures of swirling purplish light, from which emerged a familiar sight: Amygdala. The huge many-eyed creature perched atop a nearby rooftop... and further away, across the city, they saw many other such tears in reality, and many more instances of Amygdala arriving.

"Queen Yharnam is most likely dead," the voice hesitantly reported to Ophelia. "There is no reversing what has begun. The Great Ones are already here."

Ophelia surveyed the carnage around them with an intense yet somehow detached curiosity--while the others had to contend with the masses of maddened flesh and the threat of nascent beasts, she alone was safeguarded by the awesome power of the weapon she wielded. She shivered in response to the confirmation of the Queen's likely death, shaking her head at the way history unfolded. It had been naive, she supposed, to imagine that they'd have ever been able to change it--even knowing what they knew, even with the power they'd attained. While the others kept the convulsing throng of flesh at bay, she scoured the environment for any pockets of people who might have retained their sense of sanity and for anything that might be worth taking back with them as they fought their way out. There was something she could do to make their path easier, she knew, and was eager to try out some of the new invocations that her recent strength had granted her access to--but she had questions before she did.

Then we shall have to fight our way out. I only hope Lord Riccas has kept his senses; I don't fancy being on the receiving end of that gun. Now, I have a question: the incantation 'Null Cogito'... how long does it last? Am I able to choose to exclude someone from its effects if I wish?

"It lasts for as long as its light keeps shining on the affected, and its light dies after ten seconds. And there are no exceptions: all who are touched by its radiance will be bound by its spell."

The Mask rune some of my companions bear should protect them, shouldn't it?

"Mask protects against eldritch influences. Null cogito is an eldritch influence, so most likely, yes."

Excellent. Now... let's get out of here. Please let me know if you do happen to be able to sense where Tempus is at any point. Ophelia replied, glad to have clarified. Ten seconds wasn't too long, but Torquil and Gerlinde were tremendously dangerous. Rather than join in the indiscriminate carnage, Ophelia fetched a blood vial into her free hand and focused on supporting her companions as they might need it--she would deliver opportunistic backstabs to those who might otherwise be able to land a hit on her friends and kept vigilant for any danger in case they required the healing a blood vial could provide: safeguarding their lives was tremendously important, given they did not know if death here would return them to the Dream in the present.

"Let's get back to the Godswood as quickly as we can. I'll skulk about and support you all, and look for any paths we can take..." she spoke wordlessly to the three, and got to work.

While violence continued to escalate below, Amygdala above swept its bulbous head from side to side, watching the havoc. Then its many eyes abruptly flared with an inner glow, and suddenly - with blinding speed - a thin, straight thread of light sprang from its eyes and connected to the street, only to rapidly sweep across the area, through the crowd and directly toward the Hunters.

As Farren cut away at the human wall that was their primary deterrent he felt and heard the arrival of numerous massive bodies as the Amygdala manifested into the world and took up watch. He managed to, for several brief moments interspersed between the bloodshed, cast his gaze up and around to ascertain the nature of the disturbance. Seeing the presence of so many Amygdala all at once was not particularly heartening. Worse still was when a flash of light descended in a harsh beam, burning across the ground in their direction. Farren cursed, the damn thing was either targeting them…or going for maximum casualties.

Gritting his teeth, Farren cried out as he shoved another civilian back before cleanly slicing their skull from their shoulders with a fierce slash. “Eyes up!”

For his part, Farren shifted his angle slightly, keeping the burning white thread in his peripheral vision while he fended off the chaos around them, trying to make his way towards the edge of the street. He was ready for when it grew near enough that he’d have to evade.

Ophelia, too, noticed the line early owing to her relative lack of pressure and called out a similar wordless warning: "Beam, careful!" as she traced the pattern it was making, intuited an area that did not seem to be where the beam was heading, and quickstepped what little she could amid the carnage to get out of the area of effect she could see blossoming behind the thin trail of light and following its path.

Once that was over and everyone either dodged or was hit, Ophelia began making her way more hurriedly, unable to really do more than a light jog owing to the throng of people. She tried to make her way ahead of the others such that she wasn't getting in the way of the wide sweeping attacks they were doing while scouting out a path ahead and keeping an eye out for more interference from above.

Mother Moon guide and preserve us... she thought to herself, offering a silent prayer. Perhaps now the Great Ones were here there might be some positive interference too.

But in the end it was hopeless for anyone but Ophelia. The beam of light carved a jagged path through the crowd, cutting those it hit directly like a blade and, at about a second's delay, causing trailing eruptions of fiery shockwaves that wiped out dozens more. For all that Farren and Gerlinde might try to fight their way through the mass of bodies to make room for evasive action and get out of the way of the ray, it was impossible. They were surrounded by hundreds of ravenous madmen that kept surging toward them in wave after suicidal wave. Any room they freed up by killing people was immediately filled by yet more people. There was no room to safely dodge the beam, and trying to dodge regardless would doubtlessly leave them at the mercy of the mob.
Torquil was only slightly better off due to him having the Loch Shield, which he raised to block as the destructive light swept toward him... but even then he felt his flesh scorch instantly, and had just enough time to lament the damage he had taken from the direct hit before the secondary explosion tore apart the street under his feet.

The world was falling apart, with death rushing at them from all directions... and then they found themselves surrounded by a swirl of purplish light that consumed the world. The air crackled, and the screams, shouts, howls, gunshots and explosions faded to be replaced by the rumble of an earthquake and the roar of a storm.
And then the light faded, and all of them - completely unharmed - were surrounded by trees. Though it may take them a moment to realize, they were back in the forest on the very spot where they had first arrived. The place where the shrine to the Great Serpent would one day be, but clearly was not yet.

And they still had the Blessing Blades and falchions.

Ophelia could only grimace and watch on in horror at the destructive display of Amygdala cutting through her companions, it dawning on her in that moment that getting out of the city--a full fifteen minutes away, at least--was going to be impossible. It was only going to get worse, and worse, and worse--more instances of Amygdala, other Great Ones, more and more ferocious beasts... they were doomed. She might stand a chance, however infinitesimally small, on her own... but she couldn't just leave them even if that were true. Before the panic had a chance to dawn upon her more fully and the vistas of awfulness overtake her mind's eye, there was once again another flash of purple light and she was immediately grateful for Tempus' intervention, intentional or not, whatever happened.

Part of her hoped it might take them back to the present, but they appeared to be back in the Godswood--it took a few confused glances around them for her to realise it was precisely where they'd first arrived.

"... well, thank you for the rescue..." she muttered aloud, before sucking in a lungful of clarifying air and setting her mind to task. They had to get out of here, and that meant finding Tempus. This place wouldn't be called the Godswood for no reason, surely? Others like them who'd visited in the past had disappeared here never to return--so either they'd been slain, or they'd found the place Tempus had made its home in this time.

"There must be another place of worship in this time. I haven't the foggiest where, but scouring the woods seems like the best bet. Torquil, love, would you climb up another tree and see if you can get a decent look around? Ah, but watch out and try not to stick your head above the canopy without due cause: if Lord Riccas is frenzied and still stationed at the gate, I bet he'll start shooting at you."

"Champion, you should know..." the voice interjected in Ophelia's head. "There is no longer a Blood Moon; the queen's protection has been restored. In fact, the situation feels exactly like when you first arrived here. It seems likely that you have been returned not only to the place where you first arrived, but the time you arrived, too."

"The Cosmic Sword of Truth has been made whole," the voice reminded her. "Now its only desire is for its wielder to unlock its full potential so that it may serve its purpose."

Farren blinked as the strange light surrounded them and in an instant they were returned to the spot upon which they'd initially arrived. He remained ready for conflict for a handful of moments, the curved blades raised, prepared to be used at the slightest sign of threat.

No such threat arrived. Gradually, Farren began to relax, but never fully. To him, the absence of that quiet dread was now a loud yawning void in the back of his mind. He slid the blades into hooks at each hip. “I would rather not make ourselves more vulnerable by splitting up.”

Farren chewed at the inside of his cheek lightly as he considered what they ought to do. “Torquil...would it bother you terribly to carry some of my armaments? Perhaps we spread them between the two of us.”

He glanced in the man's direction, his own expression serious, but thoughtful. “If we're to make an attempt for the Palace once more...the best route is likely across the rooftops. As I am though...I may be too heavy to climb, let alone make the leap between buildings, where necessary.”

"Mm, splitting up is rarely a good idea, I suppose, you're right about that... pray forgive my eagerness. I'm quite comfortable revealing myself to Riccas again, perhaps we might ask him if there's a more direct route to the palace that avoids the crowds? If we could acquire some of Divine Queen Yharnam's blood it would be a tremendous boon in our time. Or we could go to the church to hear the vicar and ask them questions? They might have some knowledge that would aid us, or failing that, something useful we can pilfer? If we can simply keep doing this the order matters little to me, and having a consensus among the group feels like the best way forward." Ophelia responded, taking a little more time to actually think the situation through.

Torquil looked down at the hoop on his right thigh where his axe hang, then to his right hand that held his Blessing Blade, and finally his left hand that carried his Loch Shield. Then he looked back at Farren. "Uh... I'll help you carry stuff, but I think I'm out of room."

Farren smiled, “Now that is a problem I am equipped to solve,” he meant it quite literally, in fact, for first he removed a few of the spare hooks at his own belt, along with their fastenings. Then he set down the blessing blades, retrieved their hafts from his back sling and set those down as well, alongside the two blunderbusses he had. With those on the ground, Farren circled Torquil once, taking in the setup for the man's gear, then returned to his organized pile of things.

He grabbed a pair of the belt hooks and went over to Torquil, “These fasten to the belt. Should I, or would you prefer to affix them?” Farren asked, tone serious and non-judgmental. It was just a matter of what Torquil preferred and what was most efficient. Either way, once the man decided, Farren would either assist, or leave him to get them in place. Once that was done, Farren would return with the belt loops he'd initially used for some of the hooks that Torquil now had.

They were fastened as loosely as possible, revealing that they could be worn around the body diagonally from shoulder to hip as well as at the waist depending on how they were fastened. “These about the body,” Farren instructed, gesturing with one hand by drawing a line from hip to shoulder and then pointing behind him. Then he handed them to Torquil.

When that was done as well, Farren took in Torquil's armaments again, and his own and made a rough estimate of weight distribution. The Azure-eyed Hunter nodded once and then moved to his Blunderbusses and handed them off to Torquil. “Should fit on the hooks.” When those were in place, Farren provided Torquil with one Piercing Rifle and his Beastflayer. “Back straps,” he instructed, moving around behind Torquil to assist in getting them into position. They would be difficult for Torquil to draw, but they'd be secure.

Finally, Farren nodded and gave Torquil a companionable thump on the back before coming about and rearranging his own armaments. The Two pairs of Mercy remained in place. Farren retained his pistols and his newly acquired Blessing Blades. he hung the Blade halves on the hooks that his blunderbusses had occupied, reorienting them to serve the new purpose, while the hafts remained side by side in the sling at his back, the Piercing Rifle near them. Bulwark also remained.

Farren glanced to Ophelia, “A brief inquiry to Riccas regarding a path to the Palace, I think, then a straight shot to the Vicar. We won't likely have time to reach the palace. That is, of course...if the Blood Moon arrives around the same time it did previously.”

"If there's a more direct path to the Palace then I think we should take that, otherwise I agree. Ah, and it might be a bit awkward for you to take the Blessing Blades in. The falchions could have come from elsewhere, but the Blessing Blades are only available here. Might be awkward to explain them coming in from the outside, mm? Perhaps we should leave them here, to see if they remain?"

Farren gave her a long, unamused look, as if she’d asked him to cut off his arm and leave it behind. On a practical level, he understood her to a certain degree. At the same time, the weapons might end up useful in an unexpected manner. Simultaneously, though Farren wouldn’t admit it, but to part with any of his veritable armory of weapons would be like leaving behind a part of himself. “No. Might need ‘em. If an explanation is necessary, then we’ve come once before. They don’t need to know it was due to a time loop, or whatever this is.” There was a definite note of finality to his words.

While Torquil took a moment to get used to the weight that had been placed on him, Gerlinde - who had seemingly been lost in thought since they got sent here and the Blood Moon ended - suddenly seemed to shake her head and come to her senses. "The vicar... was at the palace too, I think? The one at the cathedral was what they called the 'sub-vicar', whatever that is."
"It is worth noting that not everything translates perfectly from Pthumerian to English, or vice versa," the voice interjected in all of their heads. "'Vicar' and 'sub-vicar' are not accurate translations of the titles Riccas told you, but they are semantic approximations. You know the title 'vicar' to mean the head of the religious order; that is also what the Pthumerian title meant. The 'sub-vicar' is second-in-command, ranking highest in the order besides the vicar."

"... well, alright." Ophelia replied flatly to Farren, face expressionless, before she looked away for a moment. After a few seconds of thought Ophelia looked up at the moon and spoke again. "I don't mind what we do while we assess whether a route exists to the palace in the time we've got... but if there is a route, I think it's reasonable to expect us all to ensure we have the most time possible, yes? As for the differences between the vicar and their second in command... I'm not sure it matters too much; either they'll have something useful for us, or not."

So the four Hunters retraced their steps from their first foray into ancient Pthumeru, finding their way back to the gate through which they had first entered ancient Yharnam. Just like the first time they saw the same two guards standing there, with everything down to their exact positions and stances nearly identical to how they had first seen them, and once again they would be able to spot the sitting figure - who they now knew to be Riccas - sitting on top of the gatehouse.

"What is this?" the voice translated as the guard on the left spoke in Pthumerian, resembling the first time they had encountered them down to the exact intonation. He seemed puzzled by their approach, but did not brandish his weapon. "Foreigners? In the Godswood? How did they get there?"

"They smell like Hunters," the other remarked, sounding much less interested. "And they carry Blessing Blades. One of them is even an experiment. Must be from one of the other cities."

"Whatever," The first guard sighed just as he had the first time, then straightened and raised his voice to address them: "Strangers! Do you speak Pthumerian? If not, just say something so we know which kind of translator we need."

Ophelia once more revealed herself, though a little more quickly than before, with a quick "Hello! Sorry to startle you; I'm shrouded by Nightmare until I reveal myself."

This time she did not immediately offer up that they had a means of translation, eager to see precisely who they would bring out as a translator, though she did wordlessly speak the word "Riccas." into Lord Riccas' mind such that he could come down and join the conversation. There was no sense in keeping hidden from him, after all.

Just like on their first trip there the guards jolted backwards and spun to face Ophelia.

"Where... shrouded by the Nightmare? What?"

"There's a voice in my head," the other remarked. "And look at that sword! They must be returning from Isz with artifacts... but how did a bunch of foreigners get in there, let alone claim something like that?"

"We were brought here by Tempus--ah, and might you fetch a translator for my companions?" Ophelia replied, feigning a little of the surprise she felt last time. She supposed she should put on a little bit of a show, at least.

The guards just stared at Ophelia, seemingly struggling to keep up with the rapid and seemingly random changes in subject.

"... The voice in your head belongs to my sword, which is translating for us. We're Hunters from the future who were sent back here by Tempus, the Great Serpent. If you'd prefer, you could send for a translator from our time rather than have the voice of my sword in your minds." Ophelia spoke, this time more slowly and deliberately. She was already tired of explaining herself again--now that she felt somewhat grounded in what was happening, this was simply a waste of time to her mind. Time that would be better spent elsewhere.

Of course no matter how frustrating it would feel to Ophelia to go through all of that explaining again it was still the first time hearing it from the guards perspective.
They looked at each other uncomfortably. "Well... it wouldn't be the first time Tempus did something like this," the falchion-wielder admitted. "Though it has been years since last time."

"Why would we need to bother a translator, though?" the glaive-wielder asked with a frown. "You already have a translator."

"Most people from my time would be uncomfortable with a talking sword in their minds; if you're not, then there's no need." Ophelia replied, shrugging her shoulders. "It seems there's some sort of festival on. Might we be permitted to attend?" she followed up, sighing internally as she committed herself to going through this rigamarole again--and again in the future, no doubt.

"Most people from our time would probably be uncomfortable with being displaced through time, but you seem surprisingly fine with it," the glaive-wielder countered.

"Uncomfortable or not, if the arcane can save us having a man following you around then hearing voices in our heads is fine," the other added. "And this is not just any festival, Hunter Shrouded in Nightmare. This is the greatest festival in the history of Pthumeru: a celebration of the Divine Queen giving birth."

"Ah, they might not care," the first guard interjected. "Yes, everyone is welcome in Yharnam tonight. You may enter as you wish."

"Well, we did entreat the Great Serpent--getting sent back in time was always a possibility! Ah, how auspicious of Tempus to send us back to so grand an occasion! Say, I'm certain the streets will be absolutely packed with people clamouring to see the new Prince or Princess. Might you know of a more direct path to the palace that could save us some time in getting there, perhaps?"

"A more direct path?" the glaive-wielder repeated confusedly. "The most direct path would be through the main street. I'm not sure how much more direct it can be..."

"Don't be dense," the voice translated Riccas' words as he climbed down the ladder on the inside of the gatehouse, just as he had their first time through. "She obviously means a faster path where they don't have to push through tens of thousands of people."
The guards both straightened, bowed and greeted him with "Lord Riccas," just as before.

Riccas reached the bottom of the ladder and stepped out to face them, looking just as they remembered. "If you want to avoid the crowds, your best bet would probably be going through the sewers. Or... I wouldn't recommend this for just anyone, but you're all Hunters, so maybe you could manage. If you're feeling brave, you could try going across the rooftops."

Ophelia chuckled at Riccas' gentle admonishment of the guard, glad to not have to deal with it herself. "Ah, wonderful! The rooftops are tempting, though dangerous... hm. Is there a particular entrance to the sewers you might recommend?" Ophelia asked, giving Riccas a quick curtsey and a genuine smile as he revealed himself. She had much more time for him than the guards, and was relieved that her past faux pas might as well have not happened... though she did have to stop her mind from wandering and tried her best to remain present in the conversation for the time being.

Riccas looked from one guard to the other. "Well? Is there? This is your city, not mine."
"Uh... there should be a manhole in almost every alley," the falchion-wielder reported with a vague gesture. "I wouldn't recommend it, though. It's anything but direct; the sewers might as well be a maze, and it’s... nasty down there."

"Perhaps as a last resort, yes... I think taking our chances with the rooftops seems the best bet--thank you for your time and advice. Ah, Lord Riccas, one last thing: your sister, Arrayah, is she here? My sword has whispered to me of her, and I'd quite like to meet her. I'm certain that she would relish the opportunity too, even if she doesn't know it yet." Ophelia asked, wrinkling her nose at their description of the sewers before setting her expression back to something more open and friendly.

"I... wait, you not only know of Arrayah, but that she is my sister?" Riccas shook his head incredulously. "I don't know how your sword knows all of that, but my sister is the Black Blade of Yharnam, and as such she rarely strays far from the Divine Queen's side. Especially tonight, I'd expect her to be at the palace."

Ophelia smiled at that and gave Riccas a nod. "Then perhaps our paths will cross. Thank you for your help." She said as she offered him another smile, curtseyed, and turned her attention to the guards for one last time (well, for that loop).

"Where do you reckon is the closest ladder to the rooftops? Might our best chance be this one here?"

Riccas cocked his head for a moment, then gestured with his left hand at the ladder he had just used to descend here from the roof of the gatehouse.

"Shall we?" Ophelia turned and spoke to her companions, gesturing for them to begin the ascent up the ladder. She shot Farren in particular something of an apologetic look, given his history with ladders, though this one was of sturdier construction than the last one they'd tried to use. Once the others had successfully navigated the ladder, Ophelia would join them--but she figured it best to let the more physically intelligent among them gauge the distances between rooftops and other such details before they all committed to this particular course of action.

"You've got me curious now," the voice translated Riccas' words. "You're the first ones to come through this gate all day and I've been bored out of my mind, so I'll tag along. I want to see why four Hunters from the future are in such a hurry to get to the palace."

"It's quite simple, really." Ophelia said in response, before quickly communing with her sword and asking it to only translate the next bit for Riccas.

"In our time, this is the night Pthumeru falls. Divine Queen Yharnam is all that stands between us and the Nightmare, and something happens to banish her protection. We'd like to know what happens, exactly, and help if we can." Ophelia said, figuring that his response would be similar to what had happened the last time--open to their claims, but dismissive of the reality. It made sense to be, from his perspective--but she did not feel like he deserved their dishonesty even if this version of him mattered very little in the grand scheme of things.

While the guards took a moment to look at each other confusedly as to why Ophelia was no longer being translated for them, Riccas cocked his head. "All the more reason for me to go as well."

Though he kept much of his attention on the conversation, for there was little else to occupy him, Farren ultimately remained silent and eventually stopped even shifting his gaze between speakers. Instead, he'd opted to stare past the threshold of the gate and into the city, occasionally glancing at the position of the moon.

“Ophelia,” he said, his deeper voice cutting through the silence after Riccas' reply, “...time.” Farren figured she'd understand, for though they could try once more, they ultimately did not have all that long before things fell into chaos and violence once more, which would inevitably result in their having to start all over again.

In fact, given that things had reached a conclusion, Farren beckoned to Gerlinde and Torquil and then headed for the ladder. [i]'Here's hoping this one's more durable than the last...' with that prior mishap in mind, Farren gestured for Gerlinde and the others to go before him and Torquil. “Torquil and I will go up last...just in case.”

"Yes, yes," Ophelia responded to Farren with a quick nod, and simultaneously asked her sword to translate for the guards again. "We'd be honoured, Lord Riccas. Let's go." she finished, and seeing as nobody else was making the effort to climb up the ladder first she began doing so.

While Ophelia started climbing the ladder, Gerlinde took the moment to act on an idea she had had pretty much since Ophelia had recommended that they leave behind their Blessing Blades. It was not the Blessing Blades themselves that had caught her attention - she had virtually no interest in those unwieldy things - but rather the concept of seeing if something they left behind remained. She also thought that the Blessing Blades would be a bad candidate for such an experiment since they were already from the past and would be more likely to be reset along with it... but what about something from their own time?
So while she waited for there to be room on the ladder, Gerlinde quickly got a throwing knife out of her pouch and casually flicked it away from the gate and back into the woods where it embedded into the trunk of a tree. This way she could see if things they left behind survived to the next loop, and if it did not it was no big loss. What use was a throwing knife to her anyway?

A moment later Gerlinde was on her way up the ladder - much to Torquil's wide-eyed appreciation - and soon enough all five Hunters were on the roof of the gatehouse.
"Lead the way," the voice claimed that Riccas offered.

Taking their time to pick out the safest routes across the rooftops was far from the swiftest way of getting across the city, but even so it was significantly faster than going through the streets on ground level. The Hunters still had to leap the distance from the gatehouse to the nearest roof - crossing a gap that was more than three meters wide - but with Riccas' help they all managed without incident. Riccas himself proved not only as athletic as one would expect of a Hunter, but earned his bird-themed garb by proving quite acrobatic as well, moving quickly, easily and gracefully. Farren managed the gap about as well as Riccas, taking advantage of his significant strength and skill as well as the fact that he was no longer as heavily burdened by equipment.
Torquil, quite surprisingly, handled the jump almost too easily. Empowered by the doll's harnessing of the echoes he had earned in the Old Labyrinth and his new bigger body, he had the raw strength to cross the gap effortlessly... and almost all the way across the next rooftop and into the street beyond. He was not as graceful as Riccas and Farren, but in terms of brute power he was clearly far beyond either.
The ones lagging behind was, perhaps unsurprisingly, Ophelia and Gerlinde. Though Gerlinde was somewhat more acrobatic than Ophelia she had even less physical strength to propel herself with, and they both only managed to cross the gap with the help of the male Hunters; something that suggested that it might be wise to not be too reckless while traversing city like this.

The safest route meant having to take several detours along the trip, traveling alongside the streets and across adjacent rooftops until they found either the end of a street, a walkway across or some other sort of reasonably secure means of crossing. And it did take some time; even before they began heading toward the palace they had spent about fifteen minutes talking among themselves, moving to the gate and talking to Riccas and the guards. They would doubtlessly feel the minutes continue ticking away even as they watched the palace - their view mostly unobstructed from the rooftops - getting closer and closer.
Eventually they did manage to arrive at the outer rim of the wide city square, beyond which were magnificent gardens and, past them, the palace itself. It was so close, yet still so far, separated from them by what appeared to be tens of thousands of people - Pthumerian and human alike - loudly celebrating the event.

They would also most likely be quite aware that at this point, they were very close to having been in ancient Yharnam for another hour.

Though the trek was long and difficult, and she the weakest link, the near-hour of travelling across Ancient Pthumeru had given Ophelia plenty of time to think. By the time they were nearing the gardens and had precious little time left, she realised they simply would not make it in time and decided to be as prudent as possible in making the next attempt have as great a chance of success as possible--and that mostly revolved around being careful to memorise the route they'd taken and taking as little time with Lord Riccas at the start.

"Let's stop here--I'm afraid we've run out of time. Lord Riccas... this is going to be difficult to hear, but... this isn't the first time we've been here. We exist in a closed loop of time--when the Divine Queen falls in the immediate future, we will be sent back and have another hour with which to try and get here. You will have no memory of what has happened here, and we will have to convince you to join us anew, precious time we can ill-afford to waste. Is there something you can tell us that will convince you to trust us without question, even when you have no memory of us ever having interacted? Or something you can give us that we will keep and can show you the next time around?"

Riccas cocked his head as he looked at Ophelia. "As much as I appreciate the distraction of this little jaunt," the voice translated, "that is a bit much to expect me to believe. Something to convince me to trust you? No offense, but I don't even trust you now, certainly not enough to tell you something private about myself."

Ophelia only shrugged while she looked up at the sky, waiting for the moon to draw near and transform once more. "Pity. Still, there's always next time. I hope Queen Ihyll's blessing stops you from going mad when the Blood Moon comes--I'd hate to be on the receiving end of those weapons."

“I rather doubt it,” Farren added gruffly, “We've come from a world bathed in nightmare, be it in one shape or another. Besides...I reckon this event is as much the source of Arrayah's...future state as the Profane Blade.” Farren had been thinking it over on the way. It was beginning to seem like their goal was impossible...unless, perhaps...if Torquil carried Ophelia. Even then, they'd have to waste almost no time at the gate. Even then, he wasn't certain they could make it.

Farren wet his lips, glancing up at the moon, and then at their now less distant target: the Palace. Perhaps...it would be better to head for the Cathedral that had been mentioned in the prior cycle. He frowned. “We may want to descend...before the Amygdala wrest their way into the realm.” He began casting his gaze about, looking for a decent way they could climb down.

About at that time Riccas' head suddenly jolted upright, just as the four Hunters from the relative future felt the same dreadful pulse in their very bones as they had before... only this time much more intensely. All of them would feel their skin crawl and their muscles reflexively tightening, along with the resurfacing of dark thoughts and terrible memories... and, in Farren's case, specks of gold in his vision. All of them were familiar enough with the sensation by now to recognize the early symptoms of frenzy, but luckily the effect quickly faded rather than building to a destructive eruption.
Above their heads the moon descended and turned crimson once more, and below the tens of thousands of people in the streets set about murdering each other with wild abandon.

"Gods help us," the voice translated Riccas' breathless words as across the street, nearer the gardens, a group of five or six people were all eviscerated at once by a large pitch-black spear shooting out of the ground below them.

But that was not all. While they saw Amygdala arrive en masse once more, perching on many rooftops all around them, this time they also saw something else. Another two figures - both large, but neither as large as Amygdala - descended from the sky and toward the palace. One was an ominous visage clad in black hooded robes, with an obviously much too long neck and eight arms. It descended on ragged black, feathery wings and would have been difficult to see against the night's sky if not for how the light of the Blood Moon shimmered in the jewelry draped across its form.
And opposite of it across the palace descended a pale, long-limbed figure clad in numerous tentacles, its entire being seemingly writhing and twisting in the red light.

"Venara and Seraph," the voice informed them, sounding faintly reverent.

Ophelia felt the awful sensation more powerfully this time, like every cell in her body was vibrating in a thousand different positions at once, each fighting for supremacy. An ageless and nameless dread threatened to devour her from the inside and she recalled vividly and unpleasantly the Winter Lantern that had infested their beautiful Dream--but as quickly as it all overcame her it was gone. She was glad to see that Riccas had not succumbed, at least, and turned to him with the grimace of terror still writ upon her face.

"If we're to prevent this, you must trust us. What would you have me tell your past self, knowing this?" she spoke hurriedly, hoping to get an answer before an assault from the gods that had just descended before them came as she was certain it would. Even in the midst of the horror, however, she could not help but admire them--Venara and Seraph. There was no opportunity to see them in the future, for they had both been slain, and this precious moment of knowledge was like a rare jewel in her mind. Perhaps, even, a source of insight--and Ophelia always sought more insight, no matter the cost nor the consequence.

But Riccas - much more concerned with what he could do for the Yharnam in front of him than some other version of himself in another Yharnam that he would never see - appeared to ignore Ophelia and instead took aim with his rifle at the riot below. But rather than shooting he ended up just rapidly moving his weapon as he switched targets, constantly uncertain as to who he was supposed to help and who he was meant to stop.
Over in the gardens past the street dozens of figures clad in black - figures that appeared to don the exact same uniform as the servants they had witnessed around Queen Annalise several times - emerged from the palace. They rushed out toward the crowds brandishing slender falchions and short, heavy maces, with several of them appearing to invoke arcane powers to conjure fire to throw at anywhere that the fighting spilled onto the palace grounds.
In the distance they might just be able to make out a figure - to far away to tell any details - wielding what was quite distinctively the Profane Abyssal Blade in its awakened form. This person, who they could only presume to be Arrayah in human form, was cutting a swathe through the humans and Pthumerians around her, handling the eldritch weapon with startling speed and efficiency.

The winged eight-armed figure continued its descent onto the palace where it seemed to phase through the roof and disappear, but the other creature seemed to halt and pause in mid air. Its tentacles wiggled restlessly as the Hunters felt its attention fall on them, and they would all sense the suffocating awareness of a mind turning to them that was more ancient and powerful than anything they could possibly comprehend.

Then it started moving again, floating weightlessly through the air in their direction.

Untouched by the chaos, Ophelia's mind was free to churn at the spectacle unfolding before them as she surveyed what was happening below. She found it quite interesting to see the same servants they knew from Castle Cainhurst here, though it only served to add a note of confirmation to the truth of Queen Annalise's royal descent in her mind--something that was already without question. She was keen to see what Arrayah could do, and pondered briefly if thanks to the power of Deception they both wore they might communicate with one another even across the vast distance between them--but thought better of it... and then Venara turned its attention to them, and Ophelia found herself utterly transfixed.

It would kill them, she was quite sure of that... but Ophelia found that she did not mind the idea, putting her faith in the power of Tempus to simply return them to the start of their little loop once more. It had happened when Amygdala had killed the others the last time, so she had little reason to believe it wouldn't again... and she wondered what it must be like, to fall at the hands of one of the gods. They were supposed to be sympathetic to humans, weren't they? Had Venara's sympathy run out? Could she possibly comprehend what such a being might think of them? Her mind simply raced with questions, and she let whatever was going to happen to her happen.

But the levitating Great One before them did not show any hint of hostility, only... curiosity? Even as it hovered closer and closer to them - closing from fifty to forty meters, then to thirty, floating ever closer - they still only sensed it noticing them without betraying any intent of harm. As it got closer, they would all also get a strange, abstract sense of familiarity with its presence... like an intimately familiar song performed through an unfamiliar instrument, or with a different tempo.

Farren visibly winced, his mind recoiling briefly at the sudden onset of that dreadful pulsating awareness of the ineffable entering the world. Somehow, for reasons he could not begin to fathom, it was more intense than the last time. That did not bode well. However, almost as soon as it had come, it faded–a good thing, for it had felt much like the frenzy he'd experienced before...in the Dream.

When the Amygdala arrived, he cast his eyes upwards to witness their descent, only for his azure eyes to catch on faint movement higher still. He frowned, then his eyes widened as the voice supplied him the names, which helped him focus on each of their otherworldly visages.

“They're...beautiful,” he found himself murmuring in surprise. Even the Great Serpent had been much the same. At the time he'd been far too on edge to appreciate it, but recalling its shape, Farren realized now–as he witnessed Seraph and Venara from afar–that there was a certain logic to them. Not one he understood, but...one that tickled at the edges of his awareness. Then again...perhaps it was the lingering Gold, the Frenzy, which had briefly assaulted his mind. Perhaps this was madness. His gaze shifted to Ophelia, witnessing her rapt fascination and total fixation on the figures. His jaw tightened.

Venara began her descent...towards them. The feeling of familiarity, curiosity, and intense observation continued to grow, but Farren turned to Riccas. “Riccas!” He shouted, “...I know it is your duty, but you cannot help them. Nor can you kill them all. Tell me, what would make you believe us...that we had been here before? Perhaps a unique belonging...of which there is only one?”

If Riccas did not react even to that, Farren would reach out and shake him by the shoulder, seemingly heedless of the fact the man was armed. Truthfully, he was very much ready, his other arm amply prepared to lash out if the hunter should turn his weapon upon him.

Hearing Farren's plea - or perhaps more accurately, hearing the voice's translation of Farren's plea - Riccas lowered his rifle for just a second to let out a shout that the voice translated to "Shut up!"

Then Riccas promptly raised his rifle again, aimed down its barrel... not at the crowd below, but at the levitating Great One approaching them. Realizing that Riccas was going to aim at something above roof-level, which to his knowledge meant the actual target, one of the incarnations of Amygdala or one of them, Farren spurred into action and quickstepped to interrupt. Riccas was incredibly fast and clearly skilled in the way he handled his gun, handling it with amazing accuracy and efficiency even for a Hunter... but in his moment of desperation, Farren was even faster, and within a fraction of a second of the shot being fired, Farren managed to knock the barrel off target.

Just from the sound of the rifle alone it would be obvious to all of them, but especially Farren, that the elaborate design of this firearm was not just for show. The gunshot was loud and sharp, the burst of fire from its muzzle long and bright, and the bullet moved with such speed that not even their enhanced Hunter-eyes could trace its trajectory through the air.

And somehow, even though Farren knew he had gotten there in time and that Riccas' aim had been intercepted... they all still saw a spurt of blood from the Great One's head, suggesting that the bullet had somehow defied the laws of physics to still find its target.
Then its head produced its own flash of blindingly bright light. Even though none of them had been hit by anything but this ephemeral light, they would all likely recognize the familiar feeling of their regenerative potential having been instantly depleted.

Until the loud ring of the gunshot hit her ears, Ophelia remained completely enraptured by Venara's presence. Something about the Great One felt... familiar, familial even, in a way that she could not explain nor describe. Visions of a half-remembered lullaby sung to her in childhood from a mother she'd never truly gotten to know resonated throughout her mind and filled her heart, and as the gunshot went off she turned to face Riccas so filled with betrayal and heartbreak that she immediately fell to her knees and burst into desperate tears.

"I-I'm sorry, I..." she spoke weakly through quivering lips barely able to enunciate the sounds she wanted to make, begging the presence before them to forgive her. Her mind reeled--she'd had no part in this, wanted none of it, if she could just make Venara understand that she hadn't wanted this maybe it would be okay? But she did not feel okay at all--and if it was possible for a person to die of a broken heart, she might very well have died on the spot.

Farren stumbled as the light hit and he felt something in him drain away to essentially nothing. “Crazy bastard,” he swore, trying to grab the gun to get it out of Riccas' grasp. “Are you suicidal!?” he snapped at the man. Farren didn't want to truly get violent, but if he had to in order to disarm him, he absolutely would.

“Ophelia...try...projecting a sense of...apology to it. Contrition...or...or something,” he called back to her, before turning his attention fully back on Riccas.

Riccas was trying to move away from Farren even before he reached out to grab his rifle, and only redoubled his efforts to get away when he met resistance. His fervor to get away was so great that he failed to maintain awareness of his footing, and the next instant Riccas' right foot went past the edge of the roof, and the man himself followed. He maintained a desperate grip on his rifle, however; if Farren held on to it he would have to hold up Riccas as well... assuming he could withstand the pull toward the street.

Farren held on to the rifle as Riccas fell, and through sharp reflexes and generous application of strength actually managed the impressive feat of not only maintaining his grip on the weapon even with the weight of an entire other person dangling from it, but managed to do so without being dragged off the edge of the roof himself. Riccas clutched the rifle with both hands from below, looking up helplessly as he tried to pull himself back to safety...

Meanwhile the tentacled Great One kept hovering in place for a moment longer, seemingly just observing all of them, before it abruptly turned away.
But a split-second after it had turned there was a loud noise as a large window in the main building of the palace burst into a shower of glass shards, and the black Great One emerged from the opening. It seemed to be clutching something tiny to its chest with all eight of its arms, and its head - if one could call it that; at closer inspection one would realize that beneath the hood and jewelry there appeared to be no head or neck - turned up as though to look at the other Great One.

There were no sounds nor movement from either Great One for a moment, but all of them would get the sudden sense of grave impending danger. Though they intuitively had no way of perceiving it, they still did: an intangible feeling of extreme hostility was growing between these two gods.

Farren gritted his teeth, forced to lean back far to equalize the weight with some leverage, his feet positioned right near the edge. He started to begin pulling the man up...when he got an idea. A darkly pragmatic one. Farren wet his lips, met Riccas' gaze and for a moment just stared, seriously considering whether or not he ought to shake the man off the rifle. Not out of greed for the weapon, though he'd be lying if he said he didn't want it, but because what greater sign of trust might they gain...than a Hunter's own weapon? All it would require...was the weapon in hand...and a pretty little lie.

However, before he took that action, a memory surfaced, one from earlier that very night. He had resolved to himself...to be better. Not merely be pragmatic. Not simply to survive as he had in his prior life...but to rise above mere desire or ease...and do right by others when and where he could. This situation? Likely...it would be of little consequence in the grand scheme of things, but it would be another sin atop many. One to marr the very resolution he had made so recently. Farren grit his teeth, then–almost annoyed with himself–began attempting to haul Riccas back up. “Torquil...a hand,” Farren managed, his voice strained.

Torquil immediately shuffled closer, having been watching the entire scene - everything between Riccas and them, and with the Great Ones wordlessly expressing their rivalry just several dozen meters away - and being eager to be useful. He was not certain what Farren wanted him to do, though; while Torquil would want to pull Riccas back up, he also realized that it was not out of the realm of possibility that Farren meant for him to get Riccas to let go somehow. So for the time being Torquil just approached and awaited further instructions.
From below, Riccas heard Farren's very brief words and saw the second large man approach carrying a fearsome glaive in his hands... and assumed the worst. For a second Riccas' eyes flared with a dim azure light before he relinquished his grip on the rifle and allowed himself to plummet to the street below. He fell what appeared to be around eight meters; not enough to kill a Hunter, but surely enough to injure him quite badly. And given that he had also just been touched by the light of the Great One that had just depleted their regenerative potential, it meant that he could not heal the damage from the fall and now found himself crippled and surrounded by a murderous crowd.

But on the bright side Farren got himself a new rifle.

Across the way the pale, tentacled Great One abruptly accelerated toward the eight-armed one. The black-clad creature clutched its cargo closer to its chest and presented its right wing and shoulder, receiving a vicious slash from the other's clawed hand. The pale one struck again with its other hand, and again the black one merely weathered the blow while desperately trying to shield whatever it was carrying.

Ophelia finally found herself room to do anything other than sit and sob when Venara turned its attention away to Seraph, and whatever spellbound obsession had kept her in place waned. She mentally scrambled for a moment to assess the situation, stepping to the side to look at what they were actually fighting over.

Seraph had stormed into the palace, and clutched something tiny to its chest when it left--could it have been the Divine Prince? That was what had happened, surely, that the Divine Queen had finally given birth? She pondered the implications of it as she stared into the distance--the desires of the gods were alien to mortals at the best of times, but two of them after the same thing: a child?

Is that the Divine Prince? What could the gods want with children..? she asked her blade, watching the fight unfold with a similar (albeit less disabling) transfixion as before, though her free hand reflexively migrated to her tube of quicksilver in case she wished to intervene and join Venara in fighting Seraph.

"There is currently no way to be," the voice told Ophelia, "but it seems likely that what Seraph is carrying is indeed the remains of Queen Yharnam's stillborn child."
Venara raised both of its hands, winding up for a heavy blow, when something abruptly burst from the grassy soil of the garden below it, shot up and instantly wrapped around the Great One's left leg. Venara let out an incomprehensible noise that might have been supposed to express surprise, then it was violently pulled down to the ground by the long golden tentacle that had grabbed it.

At the first glimpse of gold, Ophelia's dreamlike passivity dissolved into immense fury, and she immediately sprung into action, loading a quicksilver bullet into her sword and stabbing it into the shadow she cast, looking for any shadow nearby that gave her any vantage point to strike at Ego's tentacle. She bore no direct hostility towards Seraph, particularly, beyond what some strange affinity for Venara compelled her to--but the golden bastard on the other hand... she would gladly die fighting him, over and over, forever if needs be. Anything to disrupt his agenda, to see his machinations fall to ruin, anything to bring him a fraction of the torment he'd foisted on her and her companions. On the Moonborn and the Doll, on Flora, on Divine Queen Yharnam, on everyone and everything his rotten influence touched... and she immediately repeated her offensive action, albeit this time she aimed for Seraph using any of the shadows she could see to strike at its centre mass.

A great bluish blade thrust out of the ground to stab at the golden tentacle, but seemed to do little to no damage even as fingers of lightning seemed to crawl along the metal-like exterior of the appendage. The second blade spawned from Ophelia's Cosmic Sword of Truth proved much more effective against Seraph, however, seemingly piercing through its arms and into its chest, toward where it was trying desperately to protect the thing it was clutching to its chest.

The golden tentacle appeared preoccupied with Venara for the time being, who was now using all of its claws and tentacles wresting furiously with Ego's single one. But Seraph turned its empty hood toward Ophelia.

They all heard a faint, ethereal sound reminiscent of the cries on an infant, like a ghostly echo audible even over the pandemonium that was still playing out in the street. Seraph extricated one of its eight arms from the bundle and revealed a hand holding... what appeared to be a very large scythe-blade. A rather familiar-looking scythe-blade, in fact, not unlike what they had seen in the Hunter's Dream and with Gehrman at the Crow's Nest. Something that looked like half of the Burial Blade.

Seraph thrust its blade at Ophelia, and bizarrely, even though the black figure was nearly a hundred meters away, the blade just kept coming closer and closer at blinding speed. It would be more obvious to Farren who could see it from an angle, but Seraph's arm seemed to stretch obscenely to reach and stab Ophelia.

Ophelia tracked the incoming weapon as best as she could with her Hunter's instincts, waiting as long as possible to enact her dodge to minimise the window of reactivity, and promptly quickstepped half the usual distance to her right, towards Farren and Torquil, trying to avoid the attack outright. While quickstepping she replaced her quicksilver tube and grabbed a blood vial, her combat instincts telling her that she had none of that regenerative potential coursing through her now her blood was flowing and her mind was not overcome.

Can you tell what Ego is weak to after we hit him? she asked her blade, eager to gain as much useful information for their inevitable confrontation in the present as possible.

Farren glanced at Torquil, “Help…me pull him up,” he said, voice more strained than before. However, before Torquil could assist, Riccas apparently made a very different sort of judgement call...and let go of the rifle. Farren blinked, frowned, momentarily debated going down to help him, then discarded that foolish notion and pulled the rifle back up with a sigh and faced their adversary. A True Great One–Seraph, apparently–was simultaneously far too close and far too far away to attack through his preferred means.

Instead, even as Ophelia took her preferred course of action, Farren levered up Riccas' rifle, loaded it with his own Quicksilver and aimed for the centermass of the far off winged Great One. Deliberately, he did not adjust for bullet fall off or the faint wind of that Ancient Night of the Hunt in which they'd been deposited. He fired, fully expecting to miss. Question was...by how much? The answer would let him adjust accordingly...should he be provided the opportunity.

"Weak to? Nothing, but it is somewhat less resistant to raw arcane force," the voice answered Ophelia's question while she injected herself with her blood vial. She felt the familiar sting of the needle, but the expected sense of bliss and rejuvination was absent, and she would find that she still felt as though her regenerative potential was utterly depleted. "But that tentacle is not truly Ego anymore than the sword in your hands is you; it is just a weapon acting on its master's behalf."

Meanwhile Farren shot Riccas' rifle aimed center mass of the black Great One and would likely be taken aback by how much greater the recoil on it was than any of his other firearms. The crack of gunfire echoed throughout the city, the flash of the muzzle was bright enough to leave a momentary shadow on his retina, and the quicksilver bullet seemed to pretty much vanish. Across the street, still perched in the window it had been exiting, the winged creature - who was still clutching its chest with seven of its eight arms, while the eighth retracted from having extended to obscenely to reach for Ophelia - jolted in place as though impacted by something.

Again the ghostly cries of an infant resounded, seemingly rebounding from every surface, while the Great One huddled backward and turning around for a moment, as though trying to use its own body to shield its cargo.

"This feeling..." the voice muttered, this time in all of their heads, but before it could elaborate on its feeling something rather more urgent occurred. From what looked like some distant part of the city somewhere off to the northwest, everything - both the city beneath and the clouds above - were suddenly cast in an ominous orange light not from the Blood Moon, but from a colossal burning sphere that appeared to trail fire behind it for hundreds of meters. It traced an arc through the air, flying rapidly across the heavens... and directly towards the Hunters.

"Blood vial didn't work," Ophelia spoke hurriedly, to warn her companions, and horror dawned upon her face as a new sun came into being and hurtled towards them. She quickly observed their surroundings to see if there was somewhere they could go, some place that might offer them respite from the fiery inferno that would soon engulf them, but it all seemed rather impossible. Even if they managed to scrabble to another rooftop, would that be enough? She felt so weak--as though any amount of damage she might sustain would be enough to kill her--and without the healing provided by the blood vial...

What about it? Ophelia asked her sword as she looked to Farren for guidance in what to do. She was of the mind that she could do nothing but accept their imminent deaths--but if Farren had some idea of what to do, she would listen and try to follow suit.

Though the fireball had risen from a distant part of the city - a part of the city which, if they looked that way, appeared to be already engulfed in flames - and traveled in a long arc, it also moved extremely fast. They only had maybe a couple of handfuls of seconds before impact.

"The Great Beast," the voice said grimly. "Phagus the Devourer has awakened."
Below, the black figures that had emerged to clear the palace garden of rioters calmly walked back inside. The pale Great One continued wrestling the golden tentacle.
They were on a roof, with no cover in sight; nothing to protect them from the roaring firestorm approaching.

Without a word and without hesitation, Gerlinde ran to the edge of the roof and jumped off.

“Shit.” Farren cursed as the fiery Great One seared through the heavens towards them. At first he considered attempting to force a reset, but truthfully...beyond the time, they didn't know precisely what caused them. It was entirely possible that inflicting lethal harm could throw them from the loop entirely, with potentially catastrophic results.

At the same time, thoughts of a Great One's terrible influence affecting them had beset him. It set alight a fierce desire to do something, to act.

The two facets, the potential decisions on that branching path to take forward, paralyzed him. So, if only due to the crippling indecision, he remained rooted to the spot, undecided, with time quickly dwindling, closing the space between them and the impending cataclysm that they'd been told Phagus represented.

But as fate would have it, the miniature sun hurtling through the air in their direction never reached them. Just several seconds after Gerlinde had jumped off the edge of the building, the deafening noise of people and beasts fighting and killing each other below disappeared, and all four of them were right back where they had first arrived in ancient Pthumeru once again.

As the world shifted back to the beginning of their loop again with the roar of an earthquake and cry of a storm, Ophelia found herself oddly desensitised to the whole ordeal. It was remarkable how little it took to become used to a certain kind of immortality in the waking world, and then another in this... whatever it was.

"Hrm. This time, do we want to head to the cathedral or try our luck with the rooftops again? I, for one, think a little break from clambering across the city might be nice... and reaching the palace seems like something of a final goal, doesn't it? It might be better to explore other avenues thoroughly before we return to that particular goal." She spoke languidly, making her way slowly towards the now somewhat familiar path towards the entrance into the city as she spoke and assuming the others would follow suit.

"Sure," Gerlinde agreed, slowly following along while ponderously raising her left hand to her chest. "That might give us the chance to see what set that part of the city on fire... assuming it wasn't just a giant living ball of fire."

She then proceeded to very nearly give Torquil an aneurism by thoughtfully rubbing her middle- and ring-finger up and down her cleavage. "I hurt my leg when I hit the ground, and it didn't heal. Then a Pthumerian ran me through with a spear... right here. I was dying, and now I'm fine. So it seems we're fully restored when we get sent back here."

Farren took a moment, but adjusted surprisingly quickly. Now that it had happened again it wasn't so surprising–or disorienting–as it had been the very first time. “Exploring another avenue...sure. Might as well.” It wasn't as if they were making much progress on their current track as of yet. He was already following Ophelia by the time he'd replied.

Glancing at Gerlinde, Farren noted the action and then looked back ahead, along their path, “Good to know. Unpleasant though, I'm sure.”

"Might want to keep the rifle out of sight, mm?" Ophelia prompted Farren, nodding towards it before they exited the wood.

Farren raised a brow at her, “And you propose I do that...how exactly?” His tone was flat. He shook his head, “I cannot give it to the Messengers since they do not heed our call here. I had thought to perhaps say that he gave it to me in a prior cycle.”

Farren paused a moment, glancing at the moon, “Certainly we can come up with a convincing lie that furthers our aims, mm?” By 'we' he very much meant her.

"It's not that I mind spinning a yarn, just that it'll take time. If you want I can hold on to it and not reveal myself, but... that will mean they'll have to go and fetch a translator. The problem isn't the means we use, just how long it'll take. Perhaps we just walk through--they said the gates are open, after all, hm? It might be worth seeing if they'll stop us."

Gerlinde smiled and chirped: "We could just kill them."

"We could." Ophelia conceded.

“Likely more trouble than it's worth though,” Farren added. He sighed, “I'd hand it off or hide it if I could, but that's simply not an option. Besides...not sure anything not on us is transported back through the loop and this seems...useful. So I'd rather not leave it behind.”

"Let's check that tree, Gerlinde, eh?" Ophelia replied in response to Farren, having seen her fling a throwing knife or something similar at it last time--presumably as a test for just that.

"Otherwise... if you hand it to me and just walk through, I can hand it back to you once we're in the city proper and none will be the wiser. I say we just try and gain entry without a chat, and if they stop us... they die. They're not really people, at this point, just... shades animated by Tempus' power. Even a short skirmish will be faster than trying to talk our way in, won't it?" she added with a gentle shrug.

Gerlinde cocked her head while staring at Ophelia. "I mean... yes? Before we applied the Mask Rune Arrayah wiped all four of us out in seconds, effortlessly, because she had the Deception Rune. And while Arrayah might have been more powerful than you, you have the New Fancy Eldritch Sword of Power, and they're just a couple of Pthumerians. Even assuming Quilly can't just split one of them from scalp to groin in one hit anyway, the three of us shouldn't have any trouble holding down one while you execute them both."

Ophelia smiled politely at Gerlinde's explanation, and let out an awkward almost-chuckle at the end. "It's not that I doubted our ability to slaughter them, love, just... it's so easy to let go of the idea of consequences, isn't it? Convince yourself it doesn't matter... I just don't want that to happen to me for the Waking World, that's all, and a little mental discipline goes a long way. But the more I ramble the more time we waste, so... are we agreed, Farren? If so, let's go."

Meanwhile, her mind continued to churn, and she directed its flow towards her sword instead. Phagus, the Devourer... are they a problem in the present time, too? Now that we know they were a part of Pthumeru's Blood Moon, do we have to worry about them in our time?

"The Great Beast is awake in your time too, yes, but not in the Waking World," the voice informed Ophelia. "He dwells in the Old Labyrinth, where he used to serve as the foremost guardian of its deepest reaches. He has moved much closer to the Waking World, however; now he dwells near one of the physical doors to the Interstice."

Ophelia found the thought of that very disconcerting. As if Obcasus wasn't enough to deal with--well, the worshippers obsessed with them--one who would presumably devour their entire world given the chance being so close... She shuddered briefly.

Do you know which door? And... if the chalices seal away sections of the labyrinth and we can perform rituals to break those seals... can we also perform rituals to reinstate them?

"The Ritual Chalices work to allow those with the power to traverse the boundaries between the Waking World and the Nightmare to move swiftly to particular areas of the Old Labyrinth," the voice explained. "The physical doors to the Old Labyrinth are a different mechanism altogether, and allow one to cross over simply by crossing the threshold. The only way to seal it would be to physically destroy it. But yes, the location of the door beyond which the Great Beast dwells can be determined when you get back to your own world."

So the four Hunters retraced their steps from their first and second forays into ancient Pthumeru, finding their way back to the gate through which they had previously entered ancient Yharnam. Just like the other times they saw the same two guards standing there, with everything down to their exact positions and stances nearly identical to how they had first seen them, and once again they would be able to spot the sitting figure - who they now knew to be Riccas - sitting on top of the gatehouse.

"What is this?" the voice translated as the guard on the left spoke in Pthumerian, resembling the first time they had encountered them down to the exact intonation. He seemed puzzled by their approach, but did not brandish his weapon. "Foreigners? In the Godswood? How did they get there?"

"They smell like Hunters," the other remarked, sounding much less interested. "And they carry Blessing Blades. One of them is even an experiment. Must be from one of the other cities."

"Whatever," The first guard sighed just as he had the first time, then straightened and raised his voice to address them: "Strangers! Do you speak Pthumerian? If not, just say something so we know which kind of translator we need."

The Hunters, however, simply continued on, ignoring the guards and heading straight for the gate, stopping only just long enough to check and discover that the tree Gerlinde had thrown her knife at was undamaged and her knife was nowhere to be seen. Then they moved to pass the guards without so much as acknowledging their attempts at communicating.

"Wait... hey! Hey, don't just... They're ignoring us?" the voice translated the glaive-wielder, who seemed rather outraged.

"Seems like it," the other probably said, sounding slightly dejected. "Should we stop them?"

"All are welcome in Yharnam tonight," the first one shrugged. "Those were the orders. Just let them go."

It was an odd feeling, ignoring the guards, but strangely, not an unfamiliar one. Heeding the general directions they'd received previously, Farren–alongside the others–headed for the Cathedral where the so-called 'sub-vicar' was speaking. Over the course of their walk, he kept a keen eye out for both threats and anything of interest, though he doubted he'd find either until the Blood Moon blossomed. Similarly, Farren kept his ears open, suddenly wishing he understood the language, if only so he could perhaps glean something of value from the chatter of the crowd. But alas, it was not so.

While the others went ahead and started attempting to identify a likely route toward the cathedral, Ophelia allowed herself fall behind and decided to specifically keep an eye on how Riccas reacted to their passing. She only had to wait several seconds after they had passed beyond the city gates before she saw the glimmering crow-mask of the ancient Hunter peeking over the edge of the gatehouse. He did not appear to make any move to follow the others... nor did he seem to be looking at them at all. Though she could naturally not see his eyes behind the mask and from this distance, the beak of his mask was pointed directly at Ophelia.

She supposed it made sense that if in all the time Arrayah had wielded her half of their completed sword she had come up with some contrivance by which her loved ones could contravene it and distributed it to them. If he saw her she reckoned that meant she saw the lumbering copy of her rifle that she lugged around, and he'd be quick to investigate. She wordlessly spoke to Farren: "I think Riccas can see me, his mask's pointed in my direction..." and turned to face Riccas. She didn't quite offer him a wave yet, but rather waited to let him make the first move.

Farren glanced back, grunted his acknowledgement and continued walking, making sure not to pull too far from Ophelia in the process.

Shortly after Ophelia had looked up at him and managed an approximation of meeting Riccas' eyes, the Hunter abruptly and swiftly moved to the ladder they had previously used to get to the roof. Rather than climbing down he merely grabbed the sides of it with his hands, practically swung himself down and onto it and clasped his feet to the sides as well before allowing himself to slide down toward the ground as quickly as possible. He practically leaped from the ladder when he was about two meters from the ground, landed on his feet and immediately turned to face her.

"You... do you speak Pthumerian?" the voice translated, and Riccas' tone communicated extreme wariness. The azure eyes narrowed behind the mask, and the rifle he was holding - identical to the one Ophelia was carrying - had been lowered and consigned to his left hand while his right hand had gone to the small mace on his hip.

"Yes, Riccas, I do. I'm holding a firearm that appears to be an exact duplicate of yours because it was yours until very recently--we're stuck in a little time loop, see, thanks to Tempus." Ophelia replied, no longer caring enough to be gentle or indirect. The quickest way out was through, now.

Riccas' eyes widened briefly when she first started speaking, but quickly seemed to gather himself. His posture did not change with her explanation. "Is that so?" He paused for a second. "And how did you get the rifle from this other me?"

"We were fighting three great ones. Venara did something to us, drained our vitality somehow, and... you didn't make it. Shortly after, neither did we. We were off to try and get a word in with the lesser vicar if you wanted to join us?" Ophelia replied, condensing the truth into something more palatable without any hesitation or uncertainty.

Again Riccas' eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, 'we were fighting three Great Ones'? Did we go to Isz?"

"No, the Divine Prince is stillborn and the Divine Queen's protection vanishes. They all descended upon us, here. If you make your way across the rooftops now you might get to the palace in time. We... are going to explore some other avenues. Okay, Farren, take this bloody thing off of me--gods, I don't know how you lug things like this about..."Ophelia responded, eager indeed to return to her former mobility and apparently get on her way.

Riccas stared at her, his expression impossible to read through his mask. "Right. The prince born to the immortal Divine Queen Yharnam and the Great One Oedon is stillborn, and for some reason that removes the protection of the Divine Queen, which for some reason means that we end up fighting three Great Ones. That makes sense." Perhaps needless to say, his tone of voice made it rather clear that he harbored quite significant doubts as to the truthfulness of what she had just told him. "Considering that the guards apparently didn't notice you walking right past them with my rifle, I think it would make more sense for me to continue keeping an eye on you."

"If you like," Ophelia said sweetly and curtly, more concerned about going about her business than about what Riccas might be doing. "You still know the city better than us, I think, what's the fastest way to the cathedral?" she added as a quick afterthought, enjoying the unburdened mobility she had rather come to take for granted over the past... however long it'd been. Time was rather a nebulous concept to them at the moment.

Riccas eyes shifted briefly upward, glancing toward the rooftops above, before looking back at Ophelia. Then he nodded his head down the street heading west. "I will guide you. That way first. All of you stay in front of me, and I will follow and tell you where to go."

‘How kind of him, Farren thought with a distinct note of sarcasm as he watched the exchange. “Something special about the gun, or are you just possessive?” Farren asked, already heading in the direction he’d gestured.

Riccas turned his head swifly to stare at Farren instead, a flash of faint azure light behind his mask. "Why would I -" the voice claimed he began, his tone sharp and tinged with anger, only for him to cut himself off and heave a deep sigh. A second later he started speaking again, his tone now one of resignation. "That rifle is one of my most precious belongings, nearly as dear to me as my own life. My wife made it for me, but even among her works it is a masterpiece with unrivaled bullet velocity and accuracy."

"Must've been quite the shock to see me walk in with it then, eh? In a different timeline you suggested Farren might be one of your ancestors in our time. Perhaps you can think of it as a legacy bequeathed?" Ophelia opined idly while awaiting and following any of Riccas' directions to get to the cathedral.
“I see. Too bad there’s no time to meet her. A craftswoman like that…I’d love a chat with that sort,” Farren said in reply, seeming to genuinely understand why the man held the weapon so dear, even if it was not the one from his instance.

Riccas merely looked from Ophelia to Farren, then pointed with his rifle. "That way."

Thus the four Hunters of the Dream found themselves guided by the stern voice of Riccas on their way toward the ancient Great Cathedral of Yharnam. True to his word Riccas told them where to go and directed always directed them along the fastest route to get to their destination, but he always did so from the rear, making absolutely sure that none of the four ever managed to maneuver behind him. His right hand also never strayed far from the small mace on his hip, even as the rifle in his left hand remained lowered into a passive position... though Farren, carrying his own copy of the weapon, might realize that was due to necessity rather than as a show of trust. Unlike the weapons typically wielded by Hunters, Riccas' rifle was quite clearly not made to be used with one hand. It likely could be used that way, but chances were that its length and heft would mean that it would be even less accurate than inferior firearms. It was shaped much more like a traditional rifle, with a stock meant to be braced against the shoulder and a barrel meant for you to look down its sights. As a general-use gun it was a masterpiece, but for use in frantic battle of the kind Hunters partook it would likely fall short of many much more common and easily wieldable weapons.
The streets were much less populated in the direction of the cathedral than when they had gone toward the palace, but even so they were still slowed a bit by the crowds celebrating the occasion even here. And as the crowd grew denser closer to the cathedral itself, the festivities also grew less chaotic and disruptive as a somber atmosphere settled over the celebrants.

With about fifteen minutes left before they expected the arrival of the Blood Moon, the Hunters arrived beneath the looming majesty of the cathedral to find hundreds of figures simply standing around the structure, hands clasped and heads bowed in silent prayer. None of them had ever imagined such a large crowd being so quiet.

All five of them continued across the plaza filled with praying figures and approached the great double doors - looking to be nearly eight meters tall and more like the gates of a fortress than the doors to a place of worship - which were left open, and from beyond which they started hearing a woman's voice amidst the stillness. She spoke in Pthumerian, but as soon as they were close enough to make out her words, the voice faithfully started translating.
"...the sacred blood of Isz in their veins, carrying the blessings of formless Oedon and granting us the vitality of the gods! So many blessings have we received, o faithful, for the gods are sympathetic in spirit and wish nothing more than to bless you to the best of their ability."
Inside the cathedral was packed full with people, filling the space almost completely standing shoulder to shoulder, all of them with their backs turned to the doors the Hunters entered through. The people here all faced and listened rapturously to the white-haired woman in white flowing robes in the far end of the cathedral, perched atop a marble podium from which she could look out and see the face of everyone there and let them all see her.
"Look to the person next to you, and know that their health and strength, which serves as the heartbeat of the City of Gods, are themselves gifts granted by the Great Ones. As is your own, for you all received the sacrament and became children of the gods. Remember the queens of past decades and centuries, and recall how each carried greater and greater blessings as we gained the favor of our benefactors. And look to the pinnacle of it all, our immortal Divine Queen! She herself is a miracle of the gods, but from her divine womb will we tonight receive the greatest blessing of all: the Divine Prince, the child of Oedon himself. Rejoice, for tonight the Great Ones shall finally walk among us!"

Ophelia took in the sights of the cathedral eagerly as they approached, scrawling new memories of this strange land-that-was and filing them away. Rare indeed was the opportunity to see history as it had happened, rather than relying on inferences from what remained, and knowledge of this society far more embroiled in the Eldritch Truth than hers could only serve her current goals. She muttered to herself near-constantly as she looked around, and as they finally entered the building proper she listened rapt to the sermon that was being delivered. It was an odd thing, to hear someone so confident and also so wrong--at least in respect to what would happen--and this dissonance was what caused Ophelia to begin to direct her focus elsewhere.

The place was packed, more so than perhaps anywhere she'd ever seen, and there did not seem to be a comfortable or easy means of ingress to reach the sub-vicar at the top... though interrupting a sermon to ask questions seemed rather impossible at first glance. She surveyed the crowd a little more intently to see if she perhaps had a narrow path to follow... but the throng of people inside seemed dense and impassable. She wondered if this was something of a dead end, at least in terms of answers. Perhaps the Cathedral held an artefact or something of significance they could pilfer, at least, so she began looking for any such items of that description too.

It would not take much looking around to determine that while it was borderline impossible to tell if there was anything of note on ground level behind the dense crowd or on the white-haired, tall and handsome Pthumerian sub-vicar's raised podium, much of the enormous cathedral was raised high enough to be visible over the heads of everyone there. There was not much in terms of things worth pilfering, with the only objects visible even remotely pilferable would be currently unlit sconces and tall candelabra.

The reason they were unlit was presumably that the room was naturally lit by the bountiful light from the full moon flowing through the imposing, colorful and exquisite mosaic windows that took up much of the upper part of the walls. Quite interestingly, each of these windows - except the one above the entrance, currently directly above the Hunters' heads - seemed to be directly above a large, unique and quite recognizable stone idol.

To their left and closest to them was a stylized depiction of a scaled down Amygdala, above which the mosaic window depicted a rich tapestry of glittering stars on a darkened sky.
Next to it stood a huddled hooded form sprouting great feathered wings, above which was a field of flowers among which vaguely female forms appeared to be running, dancing and frolicking, with each woman being accompanied by a smaller, equally frivolous-looking form that could be interpreted to be children. Though the statue obviously differed in many aspects like the number and shape of limbs and its general physics-defying true form, it would not be too hard to identify it as an idol of Seraph.

Closest to their right was a depiction of a large serpent coiled around an hourglass - something that, especially to them in their current predicament, was an overt reference to Tempus - though it looked like a regular snake rather than its true appearance. The window above it showed what appeared to be a vast ocean with a great tornado glimmering above it, and a second inverted "tornado" extending below the water, with differences in shape making it clear that it was not just a mirror-image.

Next to Tempus stood the one figure none of them would recognize: some manner of misshapen figure that seemed only vaguely humanoid in that it had arms, but in place of a face there was just a mass of tentacles. Its mosaic window depicted a matronly woman smiling while swaddling an infant and holding it to her bosom.

And finally, at the head of the space and towering behind the sub-vicar, stood a majestic and overtly humanoid, likely male figure with arms wide, palms upturned and head tilted back as if gazing at the heavens. He looked as though he wore impressive robes and a crown on his head. Aside from the crown, however, his head was overtly featureless, with a complete lack of eyes, ears, nose or mouth. The mosaic above showed a golden throne below an equally golden sun.

Finally, though they could not currently see the mosaic window immediately above them, they had seen it from the outside and knew that it depicted a strange combination of multicolored symbols on an otherwise red-tinged background. At the bottom were three vertical lines rising toward three dots, with the two outermost lines being crossed and the middle line being topped by an upward-curving horizontal line, which in combination with the three dots made it look vaguely like a smiling face, or two people standing behind a third with his arms spread to greet the sky. Immediately above that was another mostly vertical symbol of what appeared to be four or five wildly intersecting lines, which in combination made an image that might look like a bug of some kind... or maybe a stylized eye at a 90 degree angle?

Farren, glancing around for a way through, noted the statues with some mild interested, recognizing a few, but not every one of them. One, in particular, caught his gaze…his eyes narrowed. ‘The Golden Bastard…’ he thought, eyes darkening slightly, jaw tightening. He wanted to smash it.

Farren held back though and instead–after seeing how rough the press of the crowd was–began to try and muscle his way through. It’d draw attention…but then, maybe drawing attention was good in this case. It might clear a path.

Just a moment after Farren had started trying to force his way through the crowd - an endeavor he would quickly realize would only be feasible by pulling away members of the congregation and essentially digging his way through - the sub-vicar raised her head as though to continue speaking, only for the words to die on her tongue as she donned an expression of outrage. Her black Pthumerian eyes stared at Farren, then shifted to Torquil, before finally settling on Riccas.
"Lord Riccas!" the voice translated her exclamation, prompting in the crowd between them to stir, turn and look at them quizzically. "What is the meaning of this? The outlanders might plead ignorance to excuse their barbarism, but you should know better than to bring weapons into the House of the Gods!" Again she glanced at Farren and Torquil, covered in weapons as they were. "Who are these people? Explain yourself!"

Riccas lowered his head apologetically. "Forgive me, Lady Ea. I bear arms only so that I may interfere if these Hunters prove themselves to be enemies. They claim to be here by the will of the Great Serpent." He gestured with his rifle to the statue of Tempus. His eyes flicked to the identical copy of his own rifle in Farren's possession. "The evidence of this is strong. I think they wish an audience with you."

"Truly?" Ea shook her head in disbelief. "Very well, I will heed the word of the Gilded Crow. Make a path! I will see these strangers."

At the sub-vicar's command the congregation moved as though by one will, shifting fluidly in the space of the cathedral. Some of them had to exit through the double doors, but soon the crowd had parted and the way had been cleared for them to approach a short set of stairs ahead to the top of the podium.

Unseen and undetected, Ophelia took the time to observe everything while they entered and Farren made a scene--especially the stained glass windows and their symbols with the associated gods. A couple of them were obvious to her, and some more obscure, but she felt she could place all of them with things she'd seen in modern Yharnam and in their explorations as Hunters. She, like Farren, had a particular distaste for the window depicting the Golden Bastard... and even legitimately considered smashing it knowing none could stop her or even be aware that she would have done it. She thought better of disrespecting a hallowed place of worship and potentially drawing the ire of the congregants, however. When Lady Ea--her name, apparently--beckoned them forth, Ophelia availed herself of the path and walked down it briskly, aware of how little time they had left.

Once she'd traversed the length of the cathedral she took another look around to see if there was anything worth taking, and presumably finding nothing, would finally reveal herself to Lady Ea with a spoken greeting:

"Greetings, Lady Ea. Forgive my transgression for bringing a weapon into this place, but without my blessed blade we would not be able to converse. I am Ophelia, and my companions and I are from the distant future... we seek answers, and hope you are able to provide them."

As it turned out, Ophelia would find that there was indeed much more of interest to see from the vantage of the podium. Though they had not been visible past the crowd, from here she would be easily able to spot what appeared to be eight opulent, golden containers along the back wall, with four on each side. She would not be able to tell what was inside them without opening to look, but by their design it was clear that these were religious reliquaries.

And between them, removed from the back wall only by three meters or so, was what one might assume at a glance was a very spacious but short altar, raised just half a meter off the floor and measuring five by five meters, adorned with religious iconography and made of stone. But at a second look, with even a modicum of attention to its design, one might realize that this was in fact an enormous trap door.
"A door to the Interstice," the voice informed her. "Likely where the Great Beast emerged from during the last Blood Moon."

Ophelia perused the reliquaries with interest, curious as to whether they might contain arcane relics or something similar--and she communed with her sword as she pondered them: I wonder if these reliquaries contain any arcane implements... can you sense any objects of power within them?

Immediately thereafter she caught sight of the trapdoor, and listened to what her blade had to say, and nodded sagely to herself. It was likely not relevant, exactly, to their time the past... but she made a mental note to try and remember the location, and work out where it might be located in their time. Such an entrance in their time would be worth noting.

Simply examining the reliquaries yielded little information as to their contents, as each of them appeared to be solid metal without viewports of any kind to observe their contents. Aside from what one might assume to be purely decorative patterns, they were covered in esoteric symbols, several of which Ophelia would recognize as what would in modern times come to be known as Caryll Runes. Each one also had a plaque with writing at their base, though she would need to examine them more closely to try to read it... and, even if she did, the inscriptions were almost certainly in Pthumerian.
Riccas kept a close eye on her, seemingly wary of her interest in the sacred relics of the cathedral.

"It is difficult to tell with most of them, as the reliquaries themselves have arcane properties that partially mask their contents," the voice replied to her question. "But the two closer to the middle contain objects too powerful to fully mask. As does the second one to the left."

Trying to map out where they currently were in this time and what place that would equate to in modern Yharnam was more than a little tricky, but they did have several landmarks to go by, most notably the mountains and the island that one one day house Castle Cainhurst. As best as Ophelia could tell, this place would be located somewhere in the neighborhood of the Cathedral Ward, Hemwick or Yahar-gul. Anything more specific than that would require a more concerted effort.

Her interest sufficiently piqued, Ophelia went to examine the reliquaries in closer detail--starting with the the second one to the left. She approached it and gave it a once-over, quickly checking to see whether it had an obvious mechanism of opening, and would check with her free hand if there did not seem to be an obvious opening. She was mindful of Lord Riccas being able to see her, and hoped she could be quick enough to avoid his notice. It would be terribly inconvenient to have to kill him or otherwise prevent his interference.

The mechanism for opening the reliquaries, Ophelia would quickly find, was disappointingly mundane. The top of each container functioned as a lid, but would not budge to attempts at moving them. They all also appeared to have keyholes.
Riccas, still keeping a close eye on her, tracked her with his rifle from his hip, but refrained from shooting just yet. He just kept watching, finger on the trigger.
"They have eldritch protection from attempts to break into them without the key," the voice informed Ophelia during her examination. "But with your attunement to the arcane channeled into the Cosmic Sword of Truth, you could probably force your way in regardless. Their wards would not be able to resist your current power."

Ophelia turned to look at Lord Riccas with a slight smile and spoke wordlessly into his mind: "Please don't do anything rash; this is only a loop, and our time is running out. I would hate for things to escalate to violence in this place."

She then spoke wordlessly to her companions: "I'm going to take the items in these reliquaries; they have a trace of the arcane. If Riccas tries anything, be a dear and stop him, would you?"

And with that, she set about attempting to force her way in to the reliquary.

There was a slight twitch of Riccas' head when Ophelia spoke into his mind. When she went and started using the Cosmic Sword of Truth to force her way into one of the reliquaries, there was the very briefest flash of orange from the muzzle of his rifle - they never even got to hear the sound - and the four Hunters found themselves back in the forest, back where they started.

Ophelia sighed to herself as they awakened once again at the beginning. It was remarkable how someone could be so helpful in one timeline and so frustrating in another--but now, at least, they could make their own way to the cathedral and she could go about her skulduggery without an audience.

"Seems the Gilded Crow took umbrage to my pilfering. Blast the lack of the little ones again--it'd be so much easier with them here... We'll have to do something for them back in our time, show them how grateful we are for their help..." Ophelia spoke out loud, not to anybody in particular, as she began to head towards the now-familiar gate once more.

"It is strange," the voice hesitantly mused in Ophelia's head as she started walking. "You have now been far east to the palace, up to the northwest in the cathedral, and here, south-south of this time's Yharnam... but the presence of the Great Serpent has never gotten meaningfully stronger or weaker. Even with how far you have gone, it has not gotten any closer nor farther. As though it is everywhere."

It certainly bodes ill for when we tire of this looping of time... Our closest lead is what the guards out front said--that people went into the woods and never returned. Some of them must have found something, hmm?

There was not even an instant for Farren to react. Just...one moment they were in the cathedral, Riccas aiming his rifle and the next they were in the forest. Farren didn't immediately follow Ophelia, a frown fixing itself on his face as he stared at the packed earth of the forest floor. “Gerlinde,” he began, glancing her way, “You left something behind...two loops ago now, I believe. Was it there this last loop?”

"It was not," Gerlinde said, smiling as she stared with wide eyes at the falchion Ophelia had stolen for her two loops ago.

Farren nodded, “Mmm...so things seem only to persist if we bring them with us, then.” He was suddenly glad that he'd refused to leave any of his armaments behind. There was no telling if things they'd brought into this strange space wound upon itself in time would remain when they 'reset'.

He began to pace, no longer caring about the time they had left. At worst, they would return to this spot, once more with the same duration to spend...or something similar, at least.“We're missing something,” he said frankly. Problem was, he was at a loss as to what.

Furthermore, there was no telling if time was passing normally beyond this space where they had found themselves, which was...a worrying prospect indeed. “We potentially have arms we did not when we began...so long as they will come with us when we...find out way free of this. We know things we did not before Tempus whisked us here.”

Farren drew his utility knife and fell into a crouch, gouging the blade lightly into the dirt. He wasn't drawing anything, just fidgeting. “If only Queen Yharnam's blood could return with us...” he mused, “...perhaps then...it might be used against such forces, potent as it is.” Of course...they could not seem to even reach the damned palace, let alone enter it and make their way to the Queen in labor. “I wonder...if Tempus is aware of our location no matter where we tread...” he trailed off, the dagger growing still in the dirt.

“...could the Serpent deposit us closer...” thing was, even if it could, how would they bid it to do so?

"Now that we know our way to the cathedral, let's make our way there by ourselves, mm? Those reliquaries contain items of arcane power... they certainly seem worth taking and keeping a copy of. And perhaps Lady Ea will know something of the Sealing Mask we need... it must have already existed in this time, so the key must exist in this time. If we're lucky, it'll be here." Ophelia opined, before turning to address Farren.

"Communicating something that specific to Tempus sounds... impossible, if I'm honest, love. I know rushing about like this isn't ideal, but... I think we lack other options."

Farren grunted once in reply, pushed to his feet, brushed off and nodded in the direction of the gate, beginning on the track she’d initially been sending them on. “It may be…that the way out lies somewhere in the forest,” he offered as they took to walking side-by-side towards the edge of the forest and the gate beyond. Beyond that, he could not help but wonder what Tempus had intended to provide them by sending them to this time. If indeed they were truly in the past…and not just in a Dream while the world they knew was quickly hurtling towards annihilation.

Torquil quietly shuffled along, following Ophelia and Farren's lead as he always did, whereas Gerlinde hesitated a moment longer, still examining her new falchion with exaggerated interest. An enigmatic smile played on her lips before she raised the sword and, holding it by the spine of the blade, aimed its sharp, curved point directly at her left emerald eye. She showed her teeth in a fiendish grin, then suddenly thrust the weapon into her own skull.
Abruptly all of them were back in their places where they had begun, and Gerlinde looked at the others with a triumphant smile, her impossibly beautiful face notably unmaimed. "Nothing we do here matters," she told them with a manic giggle. "Nothing anyone does here matters. If one of us dies, everyone just go back to their places and we're the only ones who remember. We can do whatever we want."

"Not quite true, love, one thing does matter: whatever we take stays with us. But yes, I agree, I think we should loot everything we can get our hands on--if that is what you were getting at!" Ophelia replied with a giggle, after she reoriented herself from the process of being hurled back to where they began.

Farren blinked several times, then glanced Gerlinde's way. He pursed his lips for a brief moment, wet them, then shook his head and despite himself let forth a small chuckle. “Well...guess that'll make this attempt more time efficient,” he said with a dry amusement to his tone before he started at a leisurely jog towards the city.

"Hail, Lord Riccas. Would you like to come and join us?" Ophelia spoke wordlessly into Riccas' mind as his gaze settled on Farren, having been watching him as best as she was able from her limited vantage point.

Having just watched the four Hunters stride in from the untamed wilderness beyond the walls of Yharnam, with one carrying an arcane sword from eldritch realms, two carrying enough weapons to arm a small army and one carrying what appeared to be a perfect replica of his own rifle, Riccas jumped in surprise when a sourceless voice abruptly spoke in his head. With quick, nervous motions, Riccas raised his rifle and aimed at the Hunters.

"No need for violence, my dear. My blessed blade is translating for us, a powerful relic found in the depths of Isz. Like the one your sister wields." Ophelia added, smiling gently up at him. "The same effect that shrouds her from sight protects me, too. That is why you can see me and the guards cannot."

Riccas hesitated for several seconds, simply looking at them down the barrel of his gun, before eventually lowering his weapon and moving to the ladder. As he had before he slid down it quickly and approached them in a run, his rifle lowered but his right hand hovering by the small mace on his hip.

Ophelia, completely and wildly unbothered by his approach, only gave him a friendly wave as he drew closer. "I'm going to try and expedite this a little, alright? We were brought here by Tempus. We are in a time loop, where this hour endlessly repeats, and everything resets back to as it was a few moments ago. The sole exception to this appears to be whatever we bring with us--hence how we have a copy of your unique masterwork rifle, and blessing blades, and even a lovely falchion. We're going to head to the Cathedral to speak with Lady Ea about a Sealing Mask and its key. You can join us and get away from the drudgery of your vigil, if you like. Any questions?"

For a moment Riccas just stared at Ophelia, his expression unreadable past his mask. "Many," the voice translated his reply before he paused again. "I am not even sure where to start... if Tempus brought you here, w- stay back!"

Riccas took a step back defensively while Gerlinde walked toward him, smiling at him with all the charm she could muster, which was quite a bit. "Don't worry, Ricky," she told him happily, "I'll explain everything."

Ophelia simply let Gerlinde take the lead with a nod and a smile, and beckoned for the others to keep walking, turning around in the process as she continued apace. "Let's walk and talk, yes?" she spoke, in a way that suggested it was not really a question so much as a statement of intent as she proceeded on. Gerlinde deserved to have some fun with him, if that was what she wanted.

Though he remained wary of all of them and stayed out of what he perceived as reach of her weapons - as he did not realize that the threaded cane in Gerlinde's hand could transform to reach much further - Riccas nevertheless followed the Hunters and seemed to listen as Gerlinde spoke. She, meanwhile, walked with him without the slightest hint of caution or renitence; there was not the faintest trace of defensiveness in the way she carried herself, nor did she seem at all concerned that any of her actions might be interpreted as threatening, gesticulating carelessly with her weapons while she spoke and often looking away from Riccas, sometimes even making a point of turning her back to him altogether. Somewhat subtly, though perhaps noticeable to the Hunters who had traveled her for several hours by now, she also adjusted her gait to put a little more sway in her hips than usual.

So she told him of how they came from a potential future Yharnam, though she neglected to mention that their Yharnam was effectively a different city altogether merely erected in the same place. She told him that in their time someone were conducting a profane ritual to summon Obcasus the World Breaker - whom Riccas reported having never heard of - , that the ritual was nearing completion and thus they had sought out Tempus in the hopes of somehow gaining more time to find a solution. Tempus had obviously sent them here and put them in a loop that returned them to their place and time of arrival each time one of them was mortally wounded. She also told him that at a certain time, specifying approximately how long it would be, an eldritch influence would drive the people of Yharnam insane and cause them to start attacking everyone and everything. She left out the part about the Great Ones descending, the queen dying and Yharnam falling, and kept the details vague to imply that they did not know the cause yet.

While reserved and obviously skeptical at first, Gerlinde's targeted and selective tale, along with her gleeful and carefree attitude, gradually seemed to make Riccas lower his guard. By the time they arrived before the cathedral - this time with about twenty-five minutes to spare before the Blood Moon - his right hand no longer seemed ready to seize his mace, and his eyes had started wandering as if lost in thought.
"But why do you need a Sealing Mask, then?" the voice translated Riccas' question. "Sealing Masks are powerful from what I understand, but surely they would be worthless against a Great One?"

"We don't need the mask," Gerlinde half-lied happily. "In our Yharnam, the queen has been usurped and she has been imprisoned in a mask. We haven't been able to find the key to it yet, but we're hoping that we can find it here and use it to free her so that she might protect Yharnam again." She omitted the fact that it was a different queen, and the insinuation that his immortal Divine Queen had been subjected to such humiliation immediately made Riccas' eyes widen in shock. She also did not mention that freeing the Vileblood Queen was a pursuit that was mostly unrelated to stopping the summoning of Obcasus; with what they knew of the Divine Queen's powers, she trusted that Riccas might assume that her power alone might be enough to end the ritual.

Riccas nodded his head grimly, his stride becoming more resolute as he accompanied them toward the great double doors of the cathedral.

As they approached the cathedral entrance the Hunters would once more overhear the sub-vicar addressing her congregation, which the voice soon started translating for them: "...distant ancestors, and from their impossible kingdom amidst the Land of the Gods arose the Divine King! Though our people left those ancestral lands, we all carry forth their blessings, the sacred gift of Oedon, who granted us holy communion! We -"

"Forgive the interruption, Lady Ea," the voice cut off the translation of the sermon to instead translate for Riccas, "and forgive bringing weapons here, but we must speak with you on a matter of some urgency."

The Pthumerian woman's black eyes widened in surprise. "Lord Riccas? I..." Her gaze swept across the Hunters, once more lingering on Farren and Torquil, but this time her reaction seemed to be concern rather than outrage. "Make way! Let them approach!"
And as before, Ea's command immediately made the crowd filling the cathedral migrate in such a way that a free path was formed, allowing the Hunters to reach the innermost part of the cathedral.

Ophelia headed along the path formed by the newly parted crowd, eager to make her way up. Once they were all there she would reveal her presence to Lady Ea by offering a friendly wave and a wordlessly communicated "hello" to her.

As soon as Ophelia made contact with her, Ea's head instantly snapped in her direction, her piercing black gaze fixed on her. But though she seemed surprised, she reacted far from as strongly as many others had. She cocked her head. "Just like Lady Arrayah," the voice translated her mumbled words. Then she glanced at the others, her mien settling into a disapproving frown when she scanned Gerlinde up and down. Then she turned to Riccas.
"What is it that calls for such urgency?"

"These Hunters claim to be agents of Tempus," Riccas quickly explained, "and I believe them. They knew that I was Arrayah's brother, and that one carries a perfect replica of the Veilpiercer." He gestured to indicate Farren.
"By the gods," the sub-vicar breathed. She turned to the impressive statue that represented the Great Serpent, clasped her hands and bowed low for the idol. She turned away from Riccas and looked back and forth across the Hunters again. "Of course. How can I be of assistance to you in Tempus' quest?"

"More than you know, Lady Ea. Exactly like Lady Arrayah." Ophelia replied in turn, a little taken off balance by the lack of theatrics but quickly understanding that this familiarity would serve them well in turn, and that this was someone she could have a conversation with. "Do you know of her heart's greatest desire? To find the sister-blade of her Profane Abyssal Sword?" she spoke with a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, knowing it would be better to elucidate on how Tempus had brought them there, but unable to resist showing off a little. Gerlinde was rubbing off on her, she supposed.

Ea blinked several times with her expression betraying no recognition of what Ophelia was talking about. She looked at Riccas, who also shrugged and shook his head, before turning back to Ophelia. "My apologies, I do not know what you are talking about. A sister-blade to Arrayah's weapon? Is that why Tempus brought you here, to find such a blade?"

"No; but once it is united with its sister-blade, it becomes this. A gift from the gods in the time of ancient Isz, I believe. Tempus brought us back here because in our time, the queen is afflicted by a Sealing Mask--and only she can forestall a great disaster. It's my guess that Tempus might think the mask existed in this time, and thus that its key existed in this time too... it has been lost in our time otherwise, we fear, perhaps swallowed into the Interstice. I see it still existed in your time." Ophelia spoke and pointed the tip of her sword towards the trapdoor to indicate her last point. She tried to remember what Gerlinde had told Riccas and build from the narrative of half-truths she'd already created, to at least present a consistent story.

The sub-vicar frowned confusedly and glanced at Riccas again.

"I am sorry, I'm not sure I understand," she said hesitantly. "Swallowed by Isz? Is that a phenomenon that occurs in your time?"

"Ah. Our knowledge is imperfect, and perhaps I am explaining it poorly. The labyrinth. In our time, much of Pthumeru was swallowed by the labyrinth... only the capital and a few extant cities remain, and not all of them. Not like this." Ophelia attempted to clarify.

A little behind Ophelia, Gerlinde turned away and quietly hung her head, fighting back the urge to heave an audible sigh.

"Pthumeru is swallowed by Isz in your time?!" Ea and Riccas looked at each other, eyes wide in shock. "That is horrible! Is that why you are here, to try save... but no, you said you are here for the key to a mask in your own time..." The sub-vicar shook her head confusedly. "Tell us more, agent of Tempus! What do you mean, 'swallowed by Isz'? Do you know how it happens? Actually, we should make haste to the palace; this sounds like a matter that the vicar and the Divine Queen definitely need to be aware of!"

Ophelia internally grimaced as she realised she'd complicated the situation, but did her best to carry on and try to get back on track. "No... perhaps it isn't that? The gods are sympathetic, but so much greater than we are--communicating specific ideas with them is beyond our abilities. One of the gods betrayed Pthumeru, in our time, the Lord of Providence. We know him as the Gilded Trickster... and he's at the palace to witness the birth of the Divine Prince, isn't he? By the gods... perhaps tonight is the night it happened. The Blood Moon, when Pthumeru is swallowed. When the Queen's protection fades and the Old Blood runs amok..." Ophelia continued, letting the imaginary horror dawn upon her as she mimicked going through working such a thing out in the moment.

Ea and Riccas simply stared at Ophelia for several seconds, seemingly dumbstruck by what she was saying. Riccas, who had already been told by Gerlinde that the "pulse" that would drive everyone mad was only some 10-15 minutes away, stood with sagging shoulders, almost certainly trying his hardest to think of something that could be done in that amount of time.

"Wait... the Lord of Providence?" Ea then suddenly exclaimed, reflexively taking a step back. She turned to the great crowned statue at the back of the cathedral, which was currently looming over all of them majestically, and offered it a submissive bow. When she turned back to Ophelia, her face was contorted in anger. "You dare accuse Divine King Ego of such a thing? It was the Golden One who founded our royal line! The patron Great One of Pthumeru!"

But Riccas seized the sub-vicar by the shoulder and shook his head. "We can worry about blasphemy and rivalries between the gods later, Lady Ea. The harlot told me that a disaster will strike in... by now it must be 10 minutes or so. If what the heretic is saying is true, we must do what we can to protect as many of our people and as much of our city as possible."

"But we don't even know what we are protecting them from," Ea mumbled nervously, slowly turning on the spot and letting her eyes scan over the statues and mosaic windows representing the Great Ones worshipped at the cathedral. Only when she was facing toward the back of the cathedral again did she abruptly stop. "Wait... She said that the land will be swallowed by Isz. But what if we were in Isz already?"

Riccas eyes widened under his mask. "That might save us from the pulse of madness, too." He ran to the enormous stone trapdoor to the Old Labyrinth. "Call the congregation, Lady Ea; it is going to take all of our strength to get this thing open."

"You've fought what lies in the depths of Isz, who must once have been citizens of that place. They were not protected by being a step closer to the realm of Nightmare, nor shall you be... if Phagus doesn't devour you first. This is where the Great Beast broke free... take your congregation and run. We will stay behind to try and deal with whatever comes from here... but quickly, I implore you, if you do know anything of the Sealing Mask and its key please share it." Ophelia responded, figuring she might as well try to disabuse them of their notion of staying before things had to turn to violence... and perhaps get something else out of it. She'd ruined their other chances, after all, why not just go for it?

While Ea ignored her and went to instruct the hundreds of people crowding the lower part of the cathedral help open the door to the Old Labyrinth, Riccas turned to Ophelia. His expression remained extremely difficult to read due to the only visible part being the eyes, but those eyes were narrowed and his tone, when he spoke after a brief hesitation, was firm and impatient.

"You claim that you have lived through these events before, and I believe you," he told her, "and I don't know what you have seen us try already, but if what you said just a moment ago is true and Yharnam - no, perhaps all of Pthumeru - stands to be struck by cataclysm, running isn't going to save anyone." His eyes hardened. "And yes, I have fought the denizens of Isz before, as is the purpose of every Hunter, and I can assure you that the creatures that dwell there have never been citizens of anywhere. It is a perilous realm, but surely danger is better than certain doom?"

The sub-vicar, having finished delivering her instructions and having set the flow of citizens in motion to help open the stone trap door, turned back to the party as well. "It is as Lord Riccas says. I do not know this 'Phagus' you speak of, but if a Great One rises to meet us, it shall be our honor to receive their judgment." She sighed and rolled her eyes. "As for your own interest, we couldn't help you even if we wanted to. The Sealing Masks are the purview of the queen, and they and their keys are at the palace. Tonight of all times, I'd say your best bet is to ask the vicar, who attends the Divine Queen during her labors."

Farren, having approached more closely as the conversation progressed, stepped forward, “Should our efforts in this instance fail...what would the swiftest path to the palace be? Perhaps if we cannot save you this time...we can in the next. If the Queen and Vicar can be informed, maybe–even in labor–there is something she might do.”

Truthfully, he doubted it, but he found the narrative helpful, moreso than their prior efforts had been, though those had informed this attempt.

"Tonight, with the streets as full as they are?" Riccas shook his head grimly. "Across the rooftops."

He nodded, having thought as much, “...and there is no other means to communicate with those at the palace or clear a path?”

Riccas narrowed his left eye. "The people out there are revelers, not faithful adherents like this congregation. They are unlikely to hear anyone shouting orders at them, let alone obey. But..." Heaving a sigh, Riccas reached into a pouch on his hip and pulled out what appeared to be a golden medallion with a design none of them were familiar with. "You will most likely need this to get past the shadows; I can only imagine how vigilant they must be tonight."

Farren bowed his head briefly in a respectful nod of thanks then accepted the medallion, “Much appreciated. By 'shadows' I presume you mean...those who guard the palace or royal family?” He figured that it paid to be thorough with what information they gleaned.
Riccas cocked his head. "What manner of future do you come from where people aren't familiar with the Shadows of Yharnam?" He shook his head incredulously. "They are agents of the Great Ones that serve and guard the Divine Queen. You will recognize them as black, hooded figures... and believe me, though they may appear human, they are not. And they listen only to the rightful ruler of Pthumeru."

"I can sense arcane power in those reliquaries... Is there anything there that could help us, Lady Ea? Holy relics might have some ability to forestall the madness?" Ophelia asked, pointing out the reliquaries she could sense with the tip of her blade.

There was another flash of indignant rage in the sub-vicar's face at Ophelia's question, but this time she immediately seemed to catch herself and calm back down. "To the best of my knowledge, there is nothing in any of the reliquaries that can help any of us, though it should be mentioned that I have never seen their contents. They, and the relics inside, are almost as old as Pthumeru itself, and only the vicar has the key."

"... I notice there's a Great One you don't appear to venerate in your time. Her name is Flora, of the Moon. Is she known to you, or..?" Ophelia then asked, figuring that she might as well sate her curiosity while waiting for the Queen's death.

Ea shook her head no. "I do not know any Flora, but it is well-known that many Great Ones remain in deep slumber, dreaming our world into the shape it has and creating the Nightmare. But we do know that there is already a Great One who dwells in the Moon; Venara, the Moon Presence."

"Hmm... how troubling, that even something so constant as the gods can change between our times. Have the gods ever visited you physically, in the Waking World? Do you possess the capacity to traverse the realms of Nightmare without venturing through the Interstice?" Ophelia mused to herself, then posed another question. It seemed like it could be an area in which they had something of an advantage over the Pthumerians... after all, why would the Gilded Trickster clamour for their Dream so otherwise?

Ea turned away to watch several dozen of her flock, mostly Pthumerians but with a few regular humans mixed in, start the work of wresting the door to Isz open. "The Great Ones have not appeared in my time, but had they never, where would the inspiration for these come from?"

She gestured to the five idols of the cathedral, which, while not fully accurate to what the Hunters knew of each, did bear enough of a likeness to be recognizable. The differences between the real Great Ones and their idols could easily be explained by creative license to make their appearance less disturbing to behold.

"And yes, we do. Anyone can experience the Nightmare with the proper rituals."

“A shame that we have so little time. The knowledge of these...rituals has been spread far or lost in our time,” Farren commented, more an idle observation than a proper contribution. His eyes were watching the congregation muscle at the door. There was a slight edge to his stance now, a shifting of weight. He'd been crossing his arms for several minutes, but now his inhuman limbs were at his sides. Yet they did not appear at all relaxed as despite the fact that his manipulation of them had grown more smooth, his fingers kept twitching. Not twitching like the fingers of a man, but like the legs of an insect, almost like hydraulic pressure firing in error, driving movement, rather than muscular contractions. He wished he had something to keep more exacting track of time...so it wasn't guesswork as to how much longer they had.

"What a strange time you must be from," Ea echoed the sentiment Riccas had spoken a few minutes ago. She had to raise her voice over the loud groan of stone against stone as the left half of the double trap door raised nearer and nearer a ninety degree angle. "A world where people don't know about the shadows, where Hunters boldly utter heresy against the Divine King, and where the ways to the Nightmare are forgotten."
With a deafening crash the door reached ninety degrees, passed them, and promptly fell the rest of the way back onto the floor, leaving the door to the Old Labyrinth halfway open.
"Now everyone head inside," the voice translated the sub-vicar's instructions to the congregation, who hesitantly crowded around the stone staircase and prepared to venture into the depths. She looked to Riccas, who nodded, finally slipped the mace out of its hoop on his hip and went down the stairs ahead of everyone else. "The Gilded Crow will keep you safe."

With their chaperones descending into the depths of nightmare, Ophelia waited for twenty, thirty seconds to ensure they were truly out of sight before she hurried towards the sealed reliquaries to begin the process of forcing them open... She would begin with whichever box felt like it contained the strongest arcane presence, and continue on like that.

But as Ea remained beside them, guiding her flock to and down the stairs leading into the Old Labyrinth, Ophelia's moment never came. No more than a dozen civilians had made it past the trap doors and into the Interstice when the Hunters felt a familiar, but somewhat weaker, pulse go through them, and they would likely all realize that they had run out of time.
The congregation, hundreds of people lined up to flee through the passage to another world, started crying out in agony, but the reaction seemed immediately distinct from what they had seen others do elsewhere in the city at this time. Only a small minority of people - maybe one in ten at most - seemed driven mad and started attacking their fellows, whereas the vast majority began convulsing painfully and rapidly mutating. Within seconds the air filled with the sound of snapping bones, rending flesh and ripping cloth as limbs elongated, bodies grew larger, and every single one of the afflicted sprouted coarse fur, claws and fangs.
The sub-vicar's reaction to the pulse was just as instant as everyone else's, but also unique. Rather than attacking anyone, showing signs of mutation or - like Riccas - seeming mostly unaffected, Ea promptly dropped to her knees, clasped her hands, lowered her head and closed her eyes as she began chanting a prayer.

"Remain weary of the frailty of men," the voice translated, "their wills are weak, minds young..."

Seeing what was happening around her, Ophelia immediately went to the relics she had been waiting for her chance to pillage. This time without getting instantly shot in the head she ran to the first of the three reliquaries that the voice had told her contained things powerful enough for their aura to be sensed even through the protective enchantment of the reliquaries themselves. It was along the left wall closest to the corner and further removed from the two others that had given off similarly intense presences.
She struck the reliquary with the Cosmic Sword of Truth, and felt herself pushed back by a fierce arcane shockwave as a flash of bright light filled the area, accompanied by a sound like a clap of thunder. A glance would be enough to discern that the reliquary was badly damaged but not broken, so she - with prompting from the voice if necessary - delivered another blow which finally shattered the lid of the golden container.
Inside, looking obscenely small in the large space it had been left in, sitting on a large red cushion that covered the entire bottom of the reliquary, she would find what at a glance appeared to be about twenty centimeters of golden string.

"Were it not for fear, death would go unlamented. Seek the Old Blood. Let us pray, let us wish... to partake in communion..." the voice kept translating Ea's prayer while the interior of the cathedral filled with bestial snarls and whimpers from Pthumerians and humans turning into beasts.

Ophelia followed the voice's urgings without delay, and upon cracking open the container her initial reaction was simply one of disgust: gold. So one of his relics. She asked her blade if it could sense what it did, and if her picking it up might have any dangerous effects... but she quickly moved on to the next reliquary of significance, eager to break into them all.

"There's some sort of Golden String in there. Would you stand ready to grab it in case something happens?" she spoke wordlessly to whichever of her companions still had the Mask rune.

"That is not string," the voice remarked as Ophelia hurried on to the next reliquary while Gerlinde went to retrieve the contents of the first one. "Though it is only effigial due to being from this realm, that is a third of the umbilical cord of a newborn Great One."
Again Ophelia struck the second reliquary, and again the wards on it caused her to recoil, but failed to fully resist the sheer power channeled through her arcane blade. Another hit shattered the lid, revealing its interior... with what was likely a disturbingly familiar contents to Ophelia. It held a golden greatsword that looked extremely similar to the sword they had seen in Victor's possession last they saw him.

Meanwhile the other half of the trapdoor to the Old Labyrinth suddenly shifted open, much faster and more easily than dozens of members of the congregation had managed, and crashed loudly to the floor besides the opening. A large form began to emerge from below while the sub-vicar kept praying obliviously:

"Let us partake in communion... and feast upon the Old Blood. Our thirst for blood satiates us, soothes our fears. Seek out the Old Blood."

"That's no string... it's a third umbilical cord of a newborn Great One..." Ophelia conveyed as the voice revealed to her, suddenly awestruck, though her ecstasy quickly gave way to concern and terror in equal and greater measure. Her face dropped and her gut tied itself into a knot, and she almost flinched in shock at the suddenness of the shift--Victor... yet another knife of hatred forged within her for the Golden One. She had to consciously take a steadying breath in to quell the rising rage within her, made even harder by the sensation of the strange pulse that despite her now-familiarity felt no less primal and overwhelming than the first time... and she spoke wordlessly to Torquil. "Quick, love, grab this one for me." before moving on to the final one.

The sound of some horror from the Interstice entering through the door caused another adrenal rush within her, and she even quickstepped to her next destination and struck the reliquary to carry the momentum of the movement. There was no time to waste--though it likely could not perceive her (though that was always uncertain with Nightmare-touched creatures), she knew that if it damaged any of them they'd lose their chance and things would begin again... and she did not want to repeat this part of the loop again.

"It is too late," the voice told Ophelia even as she staggered back from striking the reliquary. "It is here..."
Out of the now fully open trapdoor emerged a huge creature with slow, calm and predatory - yet oddly dignified - movements. The first thing to ascend out of the darkness was the head, itself nearly the size of a grown man, with a bestial muzzle filled with long, sharp, uneven teeth. It had many dimly glowing red eyes where one would expect two, and across the top of its head and down its long, sleek neck stood black tangled fur that seemed to defy gravity with the way it hovered off the body. The body of the creature was unlike any beast any of them had ever seen before aside from the most fundamental aspects, like it having four legs with clawed paws and a tail. Its body-structure did not match any animal of Earth, but seemed like a bizarre mix of many different ones, with elements of canine, feline, ursine and even equine traits in how it stood and walked.

The Great Beast turned its many-eyed head and looked at Ophelia. Then it turned from her and to Torquil, who had just picked up the golden sword.

"The Great Beast," the voice announced.

"Beware the frailty of men. Their wills are weak, minds young," Ea kept praying, even as the bestial Great One strode right past her, its head held high and proud. It was nearly three meters tall at the shoulders and perhaps ten meters from tip of snout to tip of tail. "The foul beasts will dangle the nectar and lure the meek into the depths."

To be regarded by any measure by a creature such as Phagus was to, in an immediate and irreversible instant, understand that all of the platitudes and possibilities of Nightmare and realms beyond were dwarfed and consumed by a single fundamental truth: we are food. There is the devourer and the devoured, and nothing else. The struggle of the Old Blood, of the heat and the frenzy and the hunt... she had only barely tasted it, but this creature? This creature was that struggle. Her blood sang with the need to fight, though her limbs trembled in anticipation of fleeing uncontrollably... and then it turned its gaze away, and she breathed for what felt like the first time, and she had control of herself again. Control enough to strike again at the reliquary if it needed it, but not enough to stop her hands from trembling and her knuckles whitening as her entire body tensed for a moment of imminent and truly unfathomable danger.

Farren, for his part, had drawn his True Blade of Mercy and split it in twain. However, he didn’t strike at any of the afflicted unless they showed him clear aggression. Bizarrely, they had yet to do so, thus freeing him from everything except a high degree of wary tension up until the very moment that a most terrible thing heaved the door into the Interstice up and out upon its hinges as if it weighed almost nothing.

His gaze snapped to the trap door and slowly grew more and more wide as it rose from the darkness of the nightmare and into their world, insofar as any world could belong to them when such beings existed.

Ophelia’s blade, as it had been, spoke its name into his mind and though it was not turning its attention to him, only that soundless declaration allowed him to breathe once more. It was both magnificent and terrible in equal measure…in a way most similar to how great predators were, but…more. Seeing it at once made his blood sing, desiring more blood, while driving from his mind all thoughts to fight the being. It was as if striking it were somehow…an insult. Not how committing violence against a fellow man could be, nor in the way that killing an innocent beast could be. It was more like the fervor and violence he could bring to bear was insufficient, and in its inadequacy it would only insult the Great Beast.

The prey instinct in him–and the Great Beast’s sheer presence–seemed to magnetically demand all of his attention. Some quietly mad part of him wondered what supping upon its blood would be like…but he barely even noticed the thought, so brief did it exist. This was all to say that Farren was quite unable to move…or even to take his eyes off the creature.

An unfathomably deep, indescribably menacing noise emerged from the Great Beast when Ophelia raised the Cosmic Sword of Truth to strike at the third reliquary. All of the Hunters knew instinctually to conceptualize it as the growl of a predator that represented a dire existential threat, even if it sounded nothing like the growl - nor any other kind of noise - any of them had ever heard a creature produce before. They more felt than heard it, like a tremor in their very bones, a rattle in their teeth, a quiver in their organs... and the black fur rising off the back of Phagus the Devourer slowly turned dark red at the tips, and the temperature in the cathedral got noticeably higher. Ophelia would doubtlessly notice that even more intense heat was wafting off the reliquary in front of her, to the point where it was plainly visible as a haze in the air.

Phagus registered what Ophelia interpreted as displeasure with her chosen course of action and irrespective of what her caprice wanted her body simply refused to comply with the action, and she stepped back as if dissociating from the scenario. Even though her cold and cosmic logic told her that it did not matter, that she might as well just do it, she was just meat, and it seemed that her fight or flight response had chosen freeze instead.

The Great Beast never changed it stride, but just kept a calm and measured pace as it stalked toward Torquil, who was rooted in place, petrified by fear. Behind Phagus the hundreds of people in the cathedral completed their mutations, having become all manner of lupine perversions of who they had once been, though several stood out among them; creatures that, though fully bestial, still stood on two legs and appeared to retain some semblance of intelligence. these beasts were all tall and lanky compared to their more primitive fellows, and had heads adorned with what seemed like the horns of a ram.
The few survivors in the crowd that had not transformed were promptly obliterated by the bestial horde, after which they all surged toward and out the door, into the city beyond.
"Remain wary... of the frailty of men..." Ea prayed, her body now trembling and her voice becoming more strained. "Their wills... are weak..."

And then, with the sound of snapping bones and spraying blood, the sub-vicar ceased to be. In her place was a huge white-furred beast, its head crowned with antlers. But even something as terrible as what she had become was still nothing next to the primal terror instilled by the Phagus.

The fearsome visage from the depths of the Old Labyrinth stopped just a couple of meters from Torquil. It sniffed audibly, then cocked its head as though intrigued or confused. It sniffed again. And finally it let out a snort - all of them noticed the temperature in the cathedral increasing by another several degrees in an instant - , turned around and calmly walked toward the exit, with what had once been Ea moving to follow.

Did it... understand their unreal nature, and not consider them a worthy meal? That was the only explanation Ophelia's mind could remotely begin to fathom as it seemed to leave them alone, and she felt the tense trembling in her fingers wane ever-so-slightly as death itself stalked away with a transformed Ea in tow--though in truth Ophelia had not realised she'd changed yet, still frozen in the grip of the most primal fear she'd ever known.

There were a handful of frozen moments where Farren feared–actually frozen in place by terror–that he would have to act in defense of one of his comrades…against the Great Beast. However, by the grace of whatever force might have watched over them–be it a distant moonborne presence…or the temporal coils of Tempus’ awareness–Phagus did not attack, and neither did any who had been transformed by its presence. Not even the sub-vicar after her monstrous transformation.

They all just…ran for the exit and disappeared beyond, with Ea filing along in a lumbering gait after the regal Beast. It left them utterly alone in the cathedral. Just Gerlinde, Ophelia, Torquil, Riccas and him.

Farren forced himself to breathe.

It wasn’t easy. His chest felt constricted and tight, and every muscle–and the strange pneumatic systems of his arms–were wound with incredible tension, simultaneously attempting to prime for action, yet frozen by the sheer primal terror that the Great Beast had invoked. Still, after a moment he managed a shaky, shallow inhale,

“Phagus…” he said, his voice quiet and shakier than any of them had ever heard it. His eyes remained dilated and he suddenly realized he was sweating.

He felt utterly unmoored. Like taking any action was pointless, or worse, utterly dire to doom them. Farren looked to Ophelia, “Do we…leave the reliquaries?” He almost sounded hopeful.

There were a handful of frozen moments where Farren feared–actually frozen in place by terror–that he would have to act in defense of one of his comrades…against the Great Beast. However, by the grace of whatever force might have watched over them–be it a distant moonborne presence…or the temporal coils of Tempus’ awareness–Phagus did not attack, and neither did any who had been transformed by its presence. Not even the sub-vicar after her monstrous transformation.

They all just… ran for the exit and disappeared beyond, with Ea filing along in a lumbering gait after the regal Beast. It left them utterly alone in the cathedral. Just Gerlinde, Ophelia, Torquil, Riccas and him.

Farren forced himself to breathe.

It wasn’t easy. His chest felt constricted and tight, and every muscle–and the strange pneumatic systems of his arms–were wound with incredible tension, simultaneously attempting to prime for action, yet frozen by the sheer primal terror that the Great Beast had invoked. Still, after a moment he managed a shaky, shallow inhale, “Phagus…” he said, his voice quiet and shakier than any of them had ever heard it. His eyes remained dilated and he suddenly realized he was sweating.

While Farren, Ophelia and Torquil had all been frozen in place, petrified by the sheer sense of awe and dread that surrounded the Great Beast, Gerlinde had started meandering about carelessly pretty much as soon as Phagus had turned away. While the procession of monsters left through the main doors of the cathedral, the Huntress happily pranced her way over to peek through the trapdoor to the Old Labyrinth.

"Yeah, I got the golden umbilical cord," she said without looking at Ophelia, her gaze fixed at the gloom meeting her down those stairs. "What do you think is down there? I spent a lot of time in the Old Labyrinth, and whatever's down there definitely feels like it."

"Isz, I think, based on what the people of this time have been saying... the deepest, most ancient parts. Maybe even the Lord of Ascension, his master? Beasts made in the image of Phagus..." she began, and shuddered as she mentioned the all-devouring one. She was still unsettled enough that even the mention seemed enough to stop her from rambling on like she normally did.

"This may be a good time for another clarification on the inaccuracies of translating between English and Pthumerian," the voice chimed in at this point. "The Pthumerian language does not contain a term with the same meaning as your 'Old Labyrinth' or 'Interstice'. To them, anything belonging to that realm is referred to as 'Isz', thus that is also what they have heard when your words have been translated to them."

Hm. An interesting point. What do you think is down there? Ophelia noted, pondering the possibilities in light of the clarification. It could be much... but she was only guessing, stumbling with hints and poorly interpreted omens at her behest... and her blade, which seemed much more informed than she was. She was, of course, inclined to take it at its word.

"What is down there does feel like the Interstice," the voice agreed with Gerlinde. "It seems rather unlikely that Tempus is capable of recreating the Interstice, so this may actually be a true doorway into the real Isz. In which case you may be able to use it to escape this realm of the Nightmare."

Ophelia cocked her head and pursed her lips in surprise, though it was (for once) a welcome one. "If that's right... that's good to know. I wonder if that way we might even be able to keep any of these... what was it, effigial items we have? If we can take them to the Dream, they can be real enough?" she wondered, nodding to herself as she appraised the open gateway. The more she focused on something else the sooner the trembling in her fingers and gnawing dread in her stomach would dissipate.

Gerlinde tore her eyes from the stairway into darkness to look at Ophelia. "Effigial? What do you mean?"

Ophelia attempted to respond to Gerlinde's question, but found no answer forthcoming. What did effigial mean? She knew the word "effigy" meant a likeness of something--a copy wrought from the arcane? From a Great One? She decided to ask her blade about the word it had used, figuring that was the most sensible course of action.

Did I use it right? Effigial? What exactly does it mean? Perhaps let everyone know?

"In this instance, it being 'effigial' means that it is an approximation created by the Nightmare," the voice dutifully explained, projecting itself into the minds of all the Hunters present. "Though most things created by the Nightmare are as real as anything from the Waking World, there are exceptions. For the Moonborn Hunter, the hasty, careless copies they create become effigial because they have not had time to properly settle and become 'real'... and for the umbilical cord you have just found, it is effigial because it is a relic so powerful that even after all the cycles this Nightmare has gone through, it still has not managed to settle and become real." It paused as though thinking. "In practice, effigial entities are almost equivalent to their real counterparts, but cannot persist outside the Nightmare. If they lose their connection to the Nightmare, they disappear."

"How interesting..." Ophelia mumbled to herself, quite pleased with the explanation. What power does the umbilical cord of a Great One possess? Is there something we should perhaps do with it while we're in this loop? she asked, eager to make use of this relic before it ceased to be.

"Umbilical cords like this one are a direct and unbreakable connection to a Great One," the voice explained, switching back to addressing only Ophelia. "If you consume it, that connection will pass to you."

Can you tell which Great One this is connected to? I have my suspicions given its colour... Ophelia replied, turning to look at Gerlinde with a small grin forming on her face. She didn't say anything yet, waiting for the voice to respond, but for a moment something profound distracted her from the lingering terror still vibrating in her body--and even as she waited, her left hand holding the Cosmic Sword of Truth trembled beneath her notice.

"That cannot be predicted easily," the voice mused hesitantly. "It may be the newborn Great One; it may be the one who facilitated their ascension... or it may be the Great Serpent, since it created this Nightmare and this effigy."

"Umbilical cords like this," Ophelia began, addressing Gerlinde, and relayed what the voice had told her. "Consuming it will grant you an unbreakable connection to a Great One... though I'm not sure which. It could be the Lord of Providence, given its colour, or the one who birthed them. Or even Tempus, given that it is responsible for the Nightmare-loop we're in. If you wish to never return to the Waking World fully... this is what you need, I think." she finished, and the grin grew wider.

Gerlinde cocked her head. "What kind of connection?"

"I didn't ask, actually," Ophelia replied, though she simply asked her sword to talk to her as well and answer her questions rather than acting as a messenger.

"Apologies, that knowledge is not available," the voice intoned once it had received the instruction from its wielder. "It is a connection, but what that entails is uncertain. But they are called 'third umbilical cords' because it takes three to tether yourself permanently to the Nightmare. The Champion is right to conclude that umbilical cords such as this are the means by which one can detach oneself from the Waking World."

"Oh." Gerlinde looked down at the shriveled pierce of golden tissue in her hand. Without her expression changing from her usual smile, she pocketed the umbilical cord. "Neat."

"Does that mean that if we repeated the loop three times, we might be able to get enough? Or do they have to be different, perhaps? Or... can it be three different thirds from different Great Ones, or three thirds from the same Great One?" Ophelia asked aloud, so Gerlinde could hear too.

“Doubt it. Life’s never so convenient as that,” Farren commented, otherwise having just listened to the exchange and worked through the explanations that Ophelia and her sword had provided. “All that aside…do you think it wise to crack the remaining Reliquaries…given the Great Beast’s reaction?”

He was reiterating his earlier question as Ophelia, it seemed, had gotten lost on a tangent. Farren had largely grown used to this tendency of hers and so only found it the faintest bit annoying, rather than something more severe. As he waited the fingers of his left hand twitched near the handle of one of his blades. Truthfully, the Azure Eyed Hunter was still somewhat reckoning with the fact that Phagus’ mere presence had been so potent that it had deprived him even of the will to fight. A worrying reality for certain. One he hoped never to encounter again, not that he had much faith in such a timeline.

"I, uh..." Ophelia began, turning her head to look at the reliquary. "... I don't know that I can bring myself to. Just thinking about it..." Ophelia replied, and shuddered visibly. She was very glad indeed that the Moonborn Hunter was so eager to fight such creatures. The idea of fighting Great Ones did not inherently alarm her--the Gilded Trickster, for one, she was exceedingly eager to fight and utterly destroy. But those Great Ones that were of the cthonic powers of the deep labyrinth, or those like Venara that inspired an odd sense of awe and reverence in her... those she felt much more uncomfortable fighting.

"Let's leave it to the Moonborn if we can... or just hope Phagus never comes to the Waking World. Even with Eileen, Gehrman, Dietrich, and the Moonborn... I balk at it terribly; the idea of risking our mortal friends' lives to fight something so..." Ophelia did not finish the sentence, unable to find a descriptor suitable for the dreadful and majestic creature.

Though it had apparently taken the voice a little while of pondering to reach its conclusion, it finally offered its insight regarding the third umbilical cord: "Though you would most likely indeed be able to obtain more umbilical cords by coming back here in successive cycles, it is highly unlikely that it would yield the desired effect. The Nightmare of this Night of the Blood Moon has likely existed since it happened in the Waking World, and even after all this time it had only managed to manifest an effigial umbilical cord. This makes it quite likely that umbilical cords in the next many cycles would manifest as powerless, and you would have to remain here for centuries until another usable relic formed.
But it can be three different thirds from different Great Ones, yes. Third umbilical cords tether you to the greater Nightmare, not the Nightmare of a specific Great One."

From the outside of the cathedral, both through the great double doors and the magnificent mosaic windows above, the moonlight that had already turned red with the coming of the Blood Moon had begun to flicker and take on a bright orange tint. The smell of smoke drifted through the air, and in the distance they could still hear the sound of the calamity being visited upon ancient Yharnam: of a city being burned to the ground, and its people - those who retained some semblance of humanity, at least - now facing the hunger of the predators born of the Old Blood.

Ophelia nodded along as the voice instructed her, and smiled at Gerlinde. "So that means that we need two more in the Waking World or realms of Nightmare... if only one of us can ascend, it should be you. There's still something left for me in the Waking World, but you... if it is the fate of Dreamers to one day awaken, this will not last forever. As long as we need, or... as long as it needs us. I won't claim to understand it all--but I think it crucially important we recovered this. I doubt we have much time left in this loop now... next time, let's stay far away from here. I think we have to really try and get to the palace--and with the amulet Riccas gave us we have a chance." Ophelia spoke thoughtfully, her right hand's fingers drumming rhythmically against her outer thigh.

Farren nodded, “Mmm, the key seems less to be a matter of time and more…well, taking a path where we can avoid threatsm” he noted. Though he could be wrong…it did seem as if they were given longer when they weren’t forcibly reset. Shame he didn’t have a pocket watch to keep more exact track of such things. “I suppose we could…attempt to wait it out here until the reset.”

Gerlinde's eyes and smile grew a little wider at Ophelia's words, then she turned her attention back to the door to the Old Labyrinth. "If the palace is the goal, I'd same time is definitely important," she remarked while staring into the darkness, all while the fiery glow from outside continued to brighten and the smell of smoke grew thicker. "We didn't get to see last time, but I have a sneaking suspicion that doing anything constructive is going to be very difficult once that giant fireball hits."

"Yes, rather." Ophelia concurred, turning to look up through the red light filtering through the beautiful stained glass windows. "It'll all be about how adroitly we can traverse the rooftops. Some practice will make us better at it, and knowing the fastest route too."

Cocking her head curious, Gerlinde wondered: "If the voice is right and this is a door into the actual Old Labyrinth, what happened to Riccas and all the people who went down there? Can they use it to leave, too? Can they get to the Waking World through it? Can we create an army of Riccas by repeatedly sending him through the door? Was the Phagus we just saw the real one?" She giggled. "And most importantly of all: why would a Hunter use such a dainty little mace? I've been so curious about it, but he refuses to use it!"

She turned to look at Ophelia and Farren, her eyes wide and manic. "What are we doing? Are we done here? Should we go back and try to get to the palace?"

"... Hm. I don't know, to all of those questions. If Riccas and Arrayah normally fought together, it makes sense he'd only have a little something to protect himself from whatever managed to get up close? With how powerful that rifle is, he strikes me as a marksman more than a close up fighter. And... I think we're just waiting for the next loop. Of course, we can always trigger it ourselves..."

“Recovering,” Farren said frankly. He rolled his shoulders a bit and once more suppressed the urge to touch his face, one eyelid twitching slightly in annoyance. “If we’re not risking a venture into the Labyrinth…and we don’t want to leave the Cathedral, then…I suppose we ought to get on with it then.” Though those were the words he’d chosen, there remained a harrowed somberness in his manner. He stretched to try and stand straighter, but there was still a slight slouch and a slowly growing inward tilt to his shoulders that spoke of fear. All of it was a lingering echo, a memory, of Phagus’ presence.

For a couple of seconds Gerlinde just looked at her three companions - among whom Torquil was still awkwardly clutching the golden zweihander to his chest, unsure what he was meant to do with it - before letting out a sigh. "Then get on with it we shall," she announced, raised her falchion and, this time without hesitation, stabbed herself in the eye.

The purplish swirls erased the world yet again, and receded to reveal that they had returned to the forest outside of ancient Yharnam.

Though it was disorienting, Ophelia had experienced the loop enough times by now to be a little less thrown by the sensations of it--and only stumbled a little when they reappeared at their usual spot.

"Right. We know they're all Gold-worshippers in there now, so let's get our story straight to avoid me mucking it up again. We've been sent back because the Divine Queen is imperilled in the future, and we need a key to a sealing mask... that should explain the holy relic Torquil is wielding. Mother Moon above, I wish we had access to the little ones... As for the umbilical cord... I think there's no way around it: we have to use it now. There's no way they'll give us a normal reception with it, is there?" Ophelia began, her mind whirring into action. Something about the reset made the terror that had settled into her body feel... dim and distant, like a peal of barely heard thunder. For that she was grateful.

Gerlinde shrugged and gestured toward the pouch she had stored the umbilical cord in. "Do you think they can tell? Unlike the sword, this thing is tiny and easy to hide."

"Not visually, but they have shown themselves to be quite astute... let's try it and see what happens. Would be good to know if they can, I suppose, and it's not like there'll be any lasting consequence." Ophelia conceded with a smile and a nod, then turned towards the now-familiar path.

"Shall we?"

And so the Hunters went once more to the Godswood gate of ancient Yharnam, where they once again encountered a rather suspicious Riccas. Ophelia took the lead this time and, unlike Gerlinde before her who skillfully avoided lying and merely phrased the truth in a deliberately deceptive way, just straight up lied to the Gilded Crow. He had no way of knowing that, of course, and agreed to accompany them across the rooftops of Yharnam toward the palace of Divine Queen.

Whereas the first time around they had specifically taken the safest route in traversing the city, this time they threw caution to the wind and aimed for the shortest one, daring any leap so long as it seemed remotely possible to accomplish.

The first stretch of the crossing went remarkably well, all things considered. Farren in particular moved like a creature of legend, zipping from rooftop to rooftop almost as easily as if he had just been running. Ophelia and Torquil did well enough for a while, with Torquil even doing well enough to catch and help Gerlinde when she struggled to make a jump here and there. Rather unexpectedly Riccas was actually the one who struggled the most out of all of them, and several times Farren had to save him from falling off a ledge.

And then, finally, disaster struck. While Riccas was stumbling around on one rooftop and Gerlinde trying to pull herself up to another, Ophelia slipped and started to topple from a slanted roof. Seeing this, Torquil - realizing that Farren was busy darting back and forth to keep the struggling Riccas and Gerlinde safe - ran and jumped to Ophelia's rescue... so hard, in fact, that he jumped straight over her, past her, across the entire roof she was on and across the next street, where he finally hit the top of a wall. The wall turned out to be topped with barbed wire, as it turned out, which Torquil got tangled in and dropped the golden sword and the Loch Shield into the street below.

Things seemed to be going fairly well for Ophelia, much to her surprise... until they didn't. On a fairly ordinary roof she probably should not have had any trouble jumping smoothly from (at least given her recent performance), she made an error of judgement and stumbled over herself as she was about to jump. For a second or two she teetered precariously, enough for Torquil to try to help, but as he leapt over her she finally lost her footing and fell face-first into the gap between the buildings. Bollocks, she thought to herself as she fell... though it would not be long before she quite painfully impacted the ground, and most likely woke up anew at the beginning of the loop.

While Torquil sailed across the night's sky above, Ophelia continued to lose her footing and finally fell from the roof and into the street below. There - as in most streets of Yharnam on this night - waited a dense crowd of people, made to be oblivious of her by the Truth Rune, who did nothing to shield themselves from what descended upon them.

Luckily for those people, her weight was distributed among multiple recipients, preventing her from injuring them too badly on impact. Much less luckily for them the impact made it difficult to keep the long Cosmic Sword of Truth in a harmless position, resulting in several of the celebrants physically recoiling as they were electrified by the bolt-attuned blade.
Ophelia herself was, however, mostly unharmed.

As Ophelia's fall was broken by the dense crowd of people she made it to the ground mostly unscathed, and kept a white-knuckled grip on her weapon that prevented her from dropping it. Numerous people were shocked by contact with the blade and she felt the need to apologise to them profusely bubble up inside her, but she suppressed it in favour of scanning the environment to see if there was an easy way back up to the rooftops from where she was currently. If she didn't find anything suitable, she would make her way through the crowd to try and get to the next street over to where Torquil was to see if he needed any help and to combine their efforts on the ground if not.

Having seen both struggle, Farren had abandoned the front of the pack and swiftly moved back to help Gerlinde and Riccas up. Once they were both stable and in place, he drew his blunderbuss and ran to the edge of the roof that bracketed the gap into which Ophelia had fallen. Staring down, he shifted his gaze about, rapidly taking stock of the situation she'd found herself within.

Up until now, the Hunters had been mostly used to fighting against monstrosities empowered by the most fearsome aspects of the Old Blood; Hunters, beasts and kin, suffused with the blood echoes of much prey. Against abominations like darkbeasts or Arrayah the Profane, their powers as Hunters seemed woefully insufficient at times and clearly inferior to that of their enemies.
Even so the companions had hunted during this night, they had slaughtered prey both strong and numerous, and the doll had helped them channel the blood echoes into strength. They caught a whiff of this during their first cycle in ancient Yharnam, when the Blood Moon first descended upon it; how effortlessly their blades scythed down the maddened celebrants in the street, how easily their bones gave way to force, how quickly the civilians' vitality was extinguished. A reminder that they were no longer wholly human, and though there were things far more fearsome than them still, they were incomparable to what they had been before metamorphosis.

When Ophelia touched some of the people she fell on top of, they would be reminded of this once again. Ophelia's now considerable arcane affinity was channeled through the exquisite conduit that was the bolt-attuned Cosmic Sword of Truth, and even at accidental contact, this was too much for civilian Pthumerians and humans to endure. Men and women collapsed instantly, their flesh scorched and steam rising from their bodies. It was less as though they had been lightly touched by a blade, and more as though they had been struck by actual lightning.

Unsurprisingly, panic broke out immediately among those close enough to realize what had happened, and that panic quickly spread. Civilians started screaming, pushing, pulling and trying their hardest to get away to somewhere, though for most part they had no idea what they were running from. People were trampled by the frantic crowd, children were crying, booths were being toppled... it was utter chaos.

And yet through it all, not one person save the few she had landed on and not reduced to charred husks so much as glanced at Ophelia, and none of them touched her in their frenzied flight. In fact she would find that she, as she spotted an arrangement of crates and a drainage pipe that might allow her to get back to the rooftops, that the crowd effortlessly parted as she moved, still seemingly without noticing her. Even in the dense, terrified crowd, she found that she could move unobstructed.

As Ophelia studied the ruin visited upon these shades of people merely by having touched her blade, she was indeed reminded of the terrifying power she now held. Even this society thoroughly aware of and empowered by the Eldritch Truth, leagues ahead of anything in the modern-day Yharnam she knew, she had ascended to the point of not only being able to cause death by the merest touch... but to the point that she was almost wholly undetectable while doing so, at least to those without some capacity to defeat arcane influences. When the little ones had described the Truth rune as terrifying, she had internally scoffed at the idea, dismissing it as a choice of verbiage intended for drama... but now that she was among what were effectively regular people again, she realised just how true that descriptor was.

She had been apart from the masses all her life, but now she found herself above them in such a profound way that it was hard to relate to them at all... and as she quickly jogged towards the crates and drainage pipe that might hold her weight given the quality of Pthumerian construction, unhindered by the crowd that moved out of her way without even realising it, she considered again what she'd said earlier to Gerlinde. If any place in the Waking World was to remain to her... it could not be among people like this. The thought lingered in her mind as she sized up the drain-pipe, and quickly did something she should have before: she fed the requisite quicksilver bullets into her blade, held it aloft, and spoke the words: "Evoke Archtruth."

Perhaps now it would not instantly smite anyone who so much as touched it... and she stowed the blade at her hip, ascended the crates, grabbed the drainpipe with both hands, and attempted to climb up.
Relieved that Ophelia had not been swarmed and the lot of them reset, Farren repositioned and offered her an arm up once she was in reach, bracing himself firmly with his feet and one hand before reaching down.

Indeed, as Ophelia had surmised it seemed that ancient Pthumeru, the remains of which still existed centuries later in their own time, was built to last. Much more so than certain ladders of modern Yharnam, at least, because both wooden crates and metal pipes held her admittedly modest weight without issue, and though it took a little time she managed to ascend to a roof. It was the wrong roof for her to be able to see where Torquil had ended up, regrettably, but she could get there to find him in a minute or so, even without necessitating death-defying acrobatics.

Ophelia managed a rather breathless "Thanks, love." to Farren as he helped her up and quickly went to see what had happened to Torquil. She expected him to have much more difficulty with the crowds below, given his lack of the power of Deception, and figured he'd need some assistance to get up in anything approaching a timely manner. "Let's go help Torquil." she added quickly to Farren and the others.

Farren nodded, glanced back at the others and then followed in Ophelia's stead, helping her in whatever way necessary to bridge the gap so they could go investigate what had become of their...musclebound ally.

As Riccas and Gerlinde caught up to Ophelia and Farren, the four of them crested over a gable roof to find what had become of Torquil. They found the man simply hanging from the top of a stone wall, about three meters tall, with his arms, neck and several of the armaments strapped to his body tangled in barbed wire. The Old Hunter's garb that Torquil had cleverly replaced his old silver-plated armor with was torn and caked with blood where the barbs had shredded his skin, only for the skin to regenerate and shred all over again. He hung quite limply and motionlessly, his back to them, and simply... was.

Immediately below Torquil, however, chaos reigned. Though one might initially assume that the panic from Ophelia accidentally electrocuting several civilians had spread to this street with how the pedestrians were fleeing and screaming in terror, it would not take more than a cursory glance to determine a different truth. Because almost directly below where Torquil hung, they would witness a scene that would be intimately familiar to Farren, as it had in all likelihood haunted his nightmares for some time now.

About a dozen bodies lay still and sundered on the cobblestone, their bodies carved apart savagely and the ground soaked in crimson. And amidst all of it stood a man - just some random Pthumerian civilian in peasant's clothes - holding the golden sword in both hands, staring at its bloodstained blade with black eyes that were wide and bulging with obsessive fascination.

Ophelia felt an immediate twang of pity for Torquil's situation--and that he seemed to have something of a knack for getting into this sort of predicament. "We're here, love, don't fret--we'll get you out of that wire." she spoke wordlessly to him, before she turned her attention to what had happened below. Of course the gilded sword had a horrible compulsion attached to it. She expected nothing less of the Lord of Providence's vile methods and viler goals, at that point. She resolved to put the civilian out of their misery cleanly, feeding a quicksilver bullet into her blade and finding a pair of nearby shadows to use what was quickly becoming her bread-and-butter move: she stabbed the tip of her blade into one, and out came a projected blade of arcane energy aimed right through the citizen's skull so they would perish instantly and (relatively) painlessly.

"... travelling down there to fetch it will take too long, I fear, given our limited time..." was the only comment she made aloud, looking at Lord Riccas in particular. In her eyes shone an unspoken comment: he could go down and retrieve it if he wanted to.

Ophelia then attempted to make her way over to the rooftop that Torquil was on so she could help get him out of the tangle of barbed wire somehow.

Riccas seemed rather perturbed by what he was seeing - both the carnage wrought by the person or persons who had gotten their hands on the golden sword and Ophelia's swift execution of him - and showed absolutely no sign of wanting to retrieve the sword. Why would he? To the best of his knowledge it was just a large, probably quite heavy ceremonial sword made of gold, which was a famously terrible metal for weapons. He was, however, rather concerned that several civilians were still lingering, almost not even noticing everyone else fleeing in a panic, while staring at the golden sword as it fell to the street anew.
Gerlinde, on the other hand, stared at it quite fixedly and hungrily, and stayed back only because people near the sword seemed to have an unhealthy and murderous desire to claim it.

Reaching Torquil was not going to be a simple matter, though. There was no roof for Ophelia to make her way to, as what Torquil was stuck on was a perimeter wall around an extravagant mansion. It was just a stone wall topped with barbed wire to keep intruders out. The only way to reach Torquil would be from the street.

"... seems I was hasty in my judgement. We'll have to get down there to help Torquil..." Ophelia muttered, loud enough for the others to hear, though she posed a wordless question to Gerlinde and Farren: Shall we just reset this loop and try again? I fear we'll have to leave Torquil behind to make it in time otherwise...

Gerlinde flashed Ophelia a grin. "If we're doing that anyway, I'm grabbing the sword," she declared and promptly jumped off the roof, aiming for the nearest civilian to land basically with her feet on their shoulders, planting them face-first into the ground to break her fall.

Recalling that Gerlinde had the Mask rune, Ophelia felt much less concerned about the moment of greed she saw glinting and gleaming in Gerlinde's eyes and the pearly whites of her teeth. Ophelia flashed a convivial grin back and nodded, and waited patiently for Gerlinde to grab it. She turned to Farren to wait for his approval before she did anything, with a small but expectant smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

It wasn't the violence exactly that caused Farren to take a step back from the roof's edge, but the context and familiarity of it.

A wriggling, ugly thing shuddered in his mind, buried deep, but not deep enough that he could ignore it in that moment. 'The beginning...' the thought struck him as a recollection arose in his mind's eye.

Fragmented.

A massive Golden Polearm too large for any man, or even collection of men, to move. Sized perhaps for a Church Giant...or something larger still. It had shone regardless of the illumination of the environs. Like it somehow were pulling light from another realm entirely...or at least that's how it looked in his memories.

He remembered being sent for it, vaguely...sent to see if he could retrieve it. Along with a squad of other men, all hardy and strong of back, if less clever. It had gone entirely wrong.

Farren didn't remember the event in its entirety...only that prolonged proximity...or contact with the weapon had caused...horrible, frightful bloodshed. Frenzied violence in men who had been otherwise hale and whole before. Some steady. Some had even been gentle giants, large and intimidating, but wouldn't hurt a fly. Farren had gotten on well enough with a few...shared drinks with at least one.

They'd all died. No...they'd been torn apart. By each other. He'd had to fight one off, but only briefly before they'd found other...prey, and then fallen as well. Well...been cut down, more like. Tools that had been brought to try and retrieve the massive Golden halberd had instead been used to bash and maim and strangle. Farren didn't even recall how he hadn't been struck down...just that he'd been unsettled and in shock. Just that he had not understood why it was happening.

After all, Farren had touched it too. They'd all been told the same things, so it wasn't as if he'd known more and that knowledge had prepared him. No...it was just as if...the others had been...well, far more profoundly affected than him.

At the time, he'd not known. Not know why. Now he did...it was his lineage. His Azure eyes the sole evidence of his natural resistance against foreign influences, a capacity to not be warped by eldritch truth in the way so many were. In the way those men had been.

In the way these civilians were. Indeed, if Gerlinde had not possessed the Mask Rune...he might have tried to stop her. Instead, he stood frozen, staring at the sword with a new terrified respect.

“...a reminder,” he murmured, though only Riccas and Ophelia would be near enough to hear, “...none of us should touch that blade...or anything else of Gold. Unless we have the Mask rune. It's just...not worth the risk otherwise.”

The fear was not in his voice, but it shone in his eyes. He wet his lips, then shook himself, fighting the fear as he came out of the moment of remembrance.

“But...yes, a reset, I think.”
Gerlinde, meanwhile, happily skipped her way toward the blood-drenched ground on top of which lay this new golden weapon, swinging her arms playfully and humming a tune as she went. A seemingly spellbound civilian looked like he might reach the sword before she did, but then she abruptly turned into a blur of movement as she quickstepped past him, only to emerge from the quickstep already performing an extravagant flourish with her Pthumerian falchion, expertly delivering three rapid slashes to the poor man: one across the abdomen to disembowel him, one across the side of his left thigh to immobilize him, and one across his face to blind him, all in the blink of an eye.

The man collapsed on the spot, crying out in dread and agony. With those wounds it would take him a long time to die; with blood healing he might even survive. Gerlinde grinned and took her last dancing step over and, switching the falchion to her left hand, used her right hand to snatch the greatsword from the ground.

The instant Gerlinde's fingers made contact with the hilt of the sword, Ophelia finally saw something that had been conspicuously absent this entire time they had been trapped in ancient Yharnam: guidance sprites. As the impossibly beautiful woman picked up the golden sword, the Truth Rune showed Ophelia the weapon surrounded by a swarm of brilliant motes of moonlight.

Ophelia initially watched the scene with dispassionate detachment, only growing interested once the brilliant moon-motes twinkled and danced for her for what felt like the first time in an eternity. She watched them fascinatedly, though not obsessively, but then a thought began to dawn upon her: Why? Of all things, why Gerlinde, why the sword? she queried, posing it to the voice that came from her sword as naturally as breathing.

"This has been a very atypical realm of the Nightmare since the moment you got here," the voice quickly replied. "For whatever reason nothing here has summoned the guidance sprites, even though everything here should be swarming with them. All of this world is the Nightmare, and each of the Great Ones you have seen should have been surrounded by millions of them. Somehow, for some reason, Tempus has managed to make its realm closely mimic the Waking World... but right now, that golden sword must be summoning a piece of a different, purer Nightmare. The sword is most likely an arcane conduit like your own sword and requires a certain level of eldritch attunement to activate. Torquil and the civilians lacked this power; Gerlinde does not. But this does begin to explain why it radiates such arcane power."

Ophelia found herself nodding to the explanation that nobody else could hear, looking around the place that they'd inhabited a couple of times over by that point. It was in truly exceptional detail, like the Waking World in practically every other way... and perhaps that was the trick of it. The Realms of Nightmare are literally the dreams of the gods, aren't they? Tempus... he's said to be one that eats time, so perhaps he's been stuck digesting this memory all this time? Perhaps it's the effigial items that still haven't settled. If Gerlinde is acting as a conduit... what power is she channelling, through that blade? The Lord of Providence? Could the moon-motes be showing me a foreign influence into this Nightmare, something reaching out from a purer place using the sword as its conduit? Ophelia thought and communed, momentarily losing track of Torquil and the fact that she could reset them whenever. She wasn't sure she wanted to bring the combination of Gerlinde and the sword along to another reset, given her most recent thought, and held on long enough for the voice to reply.

"It's possible, but unlikely," the voice reasoned. "Had it been projecting this other Nightmare to influence this one, you would be seeing the guidance sprites scattering in all directions, but they are entirely focused on the sword. It is an unknown phenomenon, but a likely explanation could be that the golden sword was effigial until now, but that the effigy empowered by Gerlinde summoned an essence to make itself 'real'."

It's drawing from the greater Nightmare and becoming anchored to that, then? Ceasing to be reliant upon Tempus to Dream it into being? Curious--we might want to find a way to try and do that to the third-umbilical cord, then? Or else travel into the very depths of the Interstice and get out that way. Ophelia responded, still too enraptured by the phenomenon to trigger the reset herself.

"Not exactly. Entities spawned by the Nightmare are only ever approximations of the thing they imitate, defining their nature by the currents of thoughts and memories flowing from all beings. It was never anchored to this realm - unlike the umbilical cord, the sword was not effigial - but it was still a derivative of the original."

The voice paused thoughtfully while Gerlinde examined the golden sword where she had retrieved it, apparently in no hurry to inflict harm upon herself to end the cycle. "The nature of that sword - or rather, the nature of its original counterpart - appears to be as a piece of a Nightmare, a true relic of a Great One. It was only an approximation of that concept until Gerlinde supplied it with the power to fully realize its nature."

Gerlinde is a potent and capricious conduit: exactly the kind of thing all sorts of Nightmare-somethings might want to latch onto, hmm? It's a good job we have the Mask rune... The Pthumerians must've been masters of this phenomenon, mm? I doubt any of us could make that process happen again by force--but they created things like the Sealing Masks. I wonder if it was their art, or an ability native to Great Ones that they appropriated... or if there's even a difference, when one is deep enough into the Eldritch Truth. Ophelia responded, glad to have a patient and extremely knowledgeable teacher that indulged her.

Ophelia found herself nodding to the explanation that nobody else could hear, looking around the place that they'd inhabited a couple of times over by that point. It was in truly exceptional detail, like the Waking World in practically every other way... and perhaps that was the trick of it. The Realms of Nightmare are literally the dreams of the gods, aren't they? Tempus... he's said to be one that eats time, so perhaps he's been stuck digesting this memory all this time? Perhaps it's the effigial items that still haven't settled. If Gerlinde is acting as a conduit... what power is she channelling, through that blade? The Lord of Providence? Could the moon-motes be showing me a foreign influence into this Nightmare, something reaching out from a purer place using the sword as its conduit? Ophelia thought and communed, momentarily losing track of Torquil and the fact that she could reset them whenever. She wasn't sure she wanted to bring the combination of Gerlinde and the sword along to another reset, given her most recent thought, and held on long enough for the voice to reply.

"It's possible, but unlikely," the voice reasoned. "Had it been projecting this other Nightmare to influence this one, you would be seeing the guidance sprites scattering in all directions, but they are entirely focused on the sword. It is an unknown phenomenon, but a likely explanation could be that the golden sword was effigial until now, but that the effigy empowered by Gerlinde summoned an essence to make itself 'real'."

It's drawing from the greater Nightmare and becoming anchored to that, then? Ceasing to be reliant upon Tempus to Dream it into being? Curious--we might want to find a way to try and do that to the third-umbilical cord, then? Or else travel into the very depths of the Interstice and get out that way. Ophelia responded, still too enraptured by the phenomenon to trigger the reset herself.

"Not exactly. Entities spawned by the Nightmare are only ever approximations of the thing they imitate, defining their nature by the currents of thoughts and memories flowing from all beings. It was never anchored to this realm - unlike the umbilical cord, the sword was not effigial - but it was still a derivative of the original."

The voice paused thoughtfully while Gerlinde examined the golden sword where she had retrieved it, apparently in no hurry to inflict harm upon herself to end the cycle. "The nature of that sword - or rather, the nature of its original counterpart - appears to be as a piece of a Nightmare, a true relic of a Great One. It was only an approximation of that concept until Gerlinde supplied it with the power to fully realize its nature."

Gerlinde is a potent and capricious conduit: exactly the kind of thing all sorts of Nightmare-somethings might want to latch onto, hmm? It's a good job we have the Mask rune... The Pthumerians must've been masters of this phenomenon, mm? I doubt any of us could make that process happen again by force--but they created things like the Sealing Masks. I wonder if it was their art, or an ability native to Great Ones that they appropriated... or if there's even a difference, when one is deep enough into the Eldritch Truth. Ophelia responded, glad to have a patient and extremely knowledgeable teacher that indulged her.

"As are you," the voice pointed out dispassionately. "That is why the swords accepted you as well. The nature of this golden sword seems quite similar to that of the weapons you acquired. You saw for yourself what the Profane Abyssal Blade did to Arrayah, and the memory of how quickly obsession took root for the Holy Moonlight Sword when Ludwig obtained it. If any of these civilians got their hands on the Cosmic Sword of Truth, the result would likely be the same as with this golden sword.

But the ancient Pthumerians did indeed have masters of many arts, which lead them to being the flourishing empire they became. They were masters of the arcane and the Nightmare, yes, but also of mechanics and clockwork. While the rest of the world struggled with the basics of such concepts, Pthumeru crafted trick weapons and elevators, and gates that opened themselves with the pull of a lever. Unlike modern Pthumeru, ancient Pthumerians were patient. Or..." The voice paused. "Most of them were, at least."

I can scarcely imagine what would happen if another got their hands on you... even Gerlinde... my, my. It is for the best that I became your champion, the others... I think it would go to their heads like strong blood. It does to me, rather, sometimes... but I would not choose anything else; if my wayward sister has a blade of her own, good... but I do not trust anything wrought of Gold. What can you tell me about this nascent creation, now it's more like its original counterpart? Ophelia asked, suddenly feeling a need to be quite thorough about this: if Gerlinde had awakened a blade even somewhat like hers that was potentially wonderful news... and also potentially quite bad, if the voice were not as helpful and obliging. She worried about its motive, if it had one, and how the Mask rune could protect against compulsions but not against the whispered poison that the Gilded Trickster was so proficient at.

"You can't see it, but your sword just became positively shrouded in moon-motes. It seems you're a powerful enough conduit of the Nightmare to have allowed the sword to... become more like the thing it is a copy of. Is it speaking to you?" Ophelia asked Gerlinde wordlessly, tone more curious than concerned.

"Not much can be told at the moment," the voice reported while Ophelia addressed Gerlinde, "only what can be observed. The little ones would be able to tell you more from their exploration of the Nightmare."

"It's not speaking, no," Gerlinde called back, dodging a Pthumerian lunging at her without taking her eyes off the bloodstained golden blade, "but I get this feeling... like something is telling me how to use it, only without telling me."

"Excuse me," the voice translated as Riccas spoke up behind Ophelia, "but do we have time for this? I was under the impression that your quest was an urgent one?"

"Oh, yes, I forget: you cannot see the Nightmare. A great relic of the Lord of Providence has just been renewed! We haven't the time to linger, though, you're right." Ophelia replied aloud to Riccas, though she turned back to Gerlinde immediately thereafter.

"My blades always had a voice... even without the requisite rune. I think we could give you the Sun rune if we wanted to empower the weapon, but I don't think you should touch it without the Mask rune. I don't trust anything gold, and without the little ones to advise us... best to just keep hold of it for now. Do you want to reset, or should I?" Ophelia continued to converse with Gerlinde wordlessly, hoping that Riccas' previously shown zealotry would offer them a little reprieve.

Gerlinde shot Ophelia a brief, ambiguous glance, before raising the Pthumerian falchion she still wielded in her left hand, its tip aimed at her head. They just had time to hear Riccas cry out in alarm before the female Hunter plunged the blade into her skull yet again, and the purplish swirls arrived to wipe away the world and send them back to the beginning of the cycle.

Interestingly, though it was very subtle to the point where one might easily miss it due to how swift the transition was, the purplish swirls did not appear to be omnidirectional this time. Rather they seemed to arrive from in front of them, from the direction of the street, to wash over them like a wave. And then they were back in the forest, with Gerlinde resuming her examination of the golden sword and Torquil despondently hanging his head and staring at his feet.

As used to it as one could be by this point, Farren got his bearings almost immediately and then began heading in the direction of the gate, “We made good progress till the end there. Given that we know the path and its pitfalls better, this run will hopefully go more smoothly.”

Ophelia did much the same and nodded curtly. "Let's be a little more careful this time, mm?" she said while she walked next to Torquil and gave him a gentle smile.

"It could've happened to anyone, love, you just got quite unlucky with that one. Thank you for trying to help." she said, unsure if that was why he looked so down, but figuring it best to at least swing and miss if that wasn't the why of it.

Torquil looked up at Ophelia for a moment, revealing that his expression seemed more one of sadness and loss than of shame, then back down at the Blessing Blade-glaive, which was the only item he had been carrying in his hands he had been able to keep hold of. He also cast a brief glance at Gerlinde and the golden sword, but quickly returned his attention to his hands.

"I lost my shield," he told her mournfully. "And now it's gone."

Ophelia gave Torquil's shoulder a squeeze with her free hand and looked at him hopefully. "Perhaps, but... perhaps not. The Shopkeeper can manifest arms--like my pistol--and they're... real enough. Items can sometimes even go from being like that to truly real! When we get back to the Dream let's see if the Shopkeeper can't manifest you another shield, mm?"

Torquil just nodded his head, heaved a sigh, and made to follow the others on yet another trip through ancient Yharnam.

The journey across Yharnam got off on a weird note pretty much right from the start, as Gerlinde let out a surprised squeal even before they had gotten to the city gates. While staring with deep fascination at the golden sword, she had idly let her left hand run over the flat of the blade - a gentle caress not unlike the one Ophelia had once used to transform the Holy Moonlight Sword when she first obtained it - only for a faint crackling sound to fill the air. As her palm continued running along the length of the weapon, a fuller that had been subtle until then began to emit orange light as the air around the sword became a haze from the intense heat radiating off it. She reflexives flicked the sword away from her left hand, the flesh of which had already been partially burned, and the glow vanished in a shower of embers as the sword turned inert once more.

Ophelia's eyes glimmered with curiosity and joy as she observed Gerlinde's exploration of the sword with interest--and when she saw the haze building and the sparks beginning to fly, she recalled what the little ones had said about the Sun Rune--that Golden weapons could be ignited with a cleansing fire.

"Ah, it has its own tricks... I regret that we can't use the Sun rune with it--but the influence of gold is too much for any of us to bear... remember what a quivering wreck it's capable of reducing even Farren to--and he's a resilient lad. Be careful, love, but... not so careful you don't have any fun." Ophelia spoke wordlessly to Gerlinde, and if her blade had anything to add about Gerlinde's she would offer that too.

The voice appeared to have said its piece on the golden sword already, though, and so the Hunters ventured on toward their destination. Once more they encountered Riccas, once more Ophelia lied to him, and once more they set out across the rooftops as they endeavored to reach the palace to the east.
Made wise by their experience from their first time along this same route, they all handled the trip better this time than before... except Gerlinde, it seemed, as she appeared both burdened by the weight of her additional weapon and distracted by the revelation of its eldritch nature. But even with her requiring constant help and guidance they still made good time, right up until they reached about the same point where their journey had come to an abrupt end in the previous loop.

There Ophelia experienced an unlikely divine inspiration of the scale of the one that had guided Farren's miraculous eye-shot at Arrayah back in the Old Labyrinth. Though Ophelia was woefully lacking in the strength and skill required to traverse rooftops, the sheer intensity of her focus on avoiding the failure of their last time here led to her falling into something of a trance in which her connection with the Cosmic Sword of Truth deepened to otherwise impossible levels. Suddenly Ophelia not only saw guidance sprites flowing off her own blade in a way they never had before, showing her the optimal path forward at all times, but she almost felt as though she could physically feel those little motes of moonlight. It felt as though they pushed her to propel her forward, to help her keep her steady and to help her almost hover through the air.

Soon - truly soon, with nearly half an hour to spare this time - they arrived before the plaza surrounding the great, majestic palace of Yharnam. All that remained was to get past the crowds, get through the gardens and enter the structure itself.

Though things were going smoothly enough, Farren kept a close–exceptionally wary–eye on Gerlinde throughout. The searing light of the Golden Blade had unsettled him and though the Mask rune seemed to effectively protect her from the fell influence of the Golden Bastard, Farren still didn’t trust the weapon one bit. There was a reason he hadn’t even offered to carry it. Still, his own unwillingness to handle the armament didn’t mean that he trusted it any more in the hands of one of his companions, no matter how capable they had proven themselves.

Nonetheless, to their good fortune, the loop progressed smoothly and they made excellent time. [color=#007FF]“Well…how ought we clear a path?”[/color] Farren asked, glancing between the others, then back at the crowd between them and their destination.

Ophelia's trancelike state was one of ecstatic communion, as though the very hand of Mother Moon herself was reaching down and guiding her onwards. She knew that the Cosmic Sword of Truth was not of Flora, or of Venara, the two Great Ones she knew to be associated with the moon, so it could not be the goddess in truth, but Ophelia's worship of the moon had always been too abstract for a singular figurehead. Simply the idea of all the things she valued about moonlight--its gentle guidance, its sheltering deception, and truths revealed--personified and realised in the palm of her hand... it felt right. She was unsure if the heightened connection could last beneath the weight of her perception, fragile as it was, and as they at last arrived before their destination she was faced with a new decision... what to do now.

"The crowds pose no threat to me," she offered to the group, aloud, "and I can wend my way through in no time at all... or I can clear a path with you, but we'll all have less time."

But to her fellow dreamers she wordlessly continued: "... if you hand me the medallion I can scope the place out, and we can have more of a plan for the next time we're here... or we can all go in together with less time but pick up more information and be safer. If it were up to me I'd just go on alone, but I concede there are plenty of advantages to sticking together."

"We do either or, and not both?" Gerlinde giggled, looking out over the teeming mass of celebrants menacingly with the hefty golden sword in her right hand and her Pthumerian falchion in the other. The way she stood there with her mismatched blades somehow invoked the memory they had all seen of Dietrich wielding his transformed Shining Wing. "You can go and we can catch up. You clear the way inside, and we... clear the way there."

"Just let me think for a moment," Riccas urged them, looking out over the crowd as well. "If I can just get my sister's attention, she can help us get through... I just need to find her..."

Ophelia gave Riccas a little nod and duly waited for him to gather his wits a little. Almost subconsciously she asked her blade if it could provide any assistance: Do you have any way to contact Arrayah?

"Not from this distance and this many obstacles," the voice quickly answered. "If you got closer or made visual contact then perhaps."

"I can potentially reach out to her if I get closer." Ophelia offered, though in a tone that suggested she was presenting an option rather than picking one, waiting patiently for him to come to whatever conclusion he would.

"As can I," the voice translated for Riccas, who was still scanning the crowd, "but it would be a lot easier to get closer if I knew where to look. All I know is that she ought to be by the palace tonight."

"I'd imagine her to be inside, by the Divine Queen's side, rather than skulking about out here. The shadows are enough protection they don't need to waste one of their most powerful Hunters playing guard dog, surely?"

"Guard dog? Is that how they use Hunters in your time?" Riccas shook his head in what they could only assume to be disbelief, though it was difficult to discern without being able to see his face.
"It should be noted that this may be another thing lost in translation," the voice continued even though Riccas was not speaking anymore, which seemed to suggest that it was no longer translating. "The Pthumerian term for 'Hunter' has different connotations than the English one. Their title has meaning more akin to the English 'knight' or 'hero'. In ancient Pthumeru, Hunters seem to have been much more highly respected than in your Yharnam... which is probably also why Riccas and Arrayah are the only Hunters you have seen here."

Ophelia nodded to herself at her blade's explanation and paused a moment, thoughtfully.

"Such a task is far beneath a Hunter, hence my incredulity that it would be the case for your sister..." Ophelia replied, before turning her gaze to the crowd once more.

"Let's just get started trying to find her; the more we tarry here the less time we have." She said, though continued to Farren:

"Hand me the medallion, would you, love?"

Farren offered a characteristic grunt, fished it out and handed it over to Ophelia.

As soon as Farren produced the golden medallion he had received from a previous cycle's Riccas, even if he only exposed it to the world beyond his person for the instant it would take to transfer it into Ophelia's permission, something changed. None of the others would be quite aware of it, but Farren would immediately feel just the faintest, feather-light touch of the now-familiar sense of eldritch influence.

"Finally," the meek whisper of a faintly familiar voice - not the voice Ophelia's blade conjured, but that of a new disembodied speaker - spoke into the back of his mind. "I have looked forward to meeting you. Please enter and find me inside."

The part of what happened that would be quite noticeable to Ophelia and the others was that the crowd between themselves and the palace, over the course of about twenty seconds, parted to create a perfectly straight clear path from directly below the roof they were standing on and to the nearest entrance to the palace. The movement of the celebrants did not appear deliberate like when the worshippers at the cathedral had done the same at the behest of the sub-vicar, nor was it immediate. None of the people down there even seemed aware that they were doing it; it was as though hundreds, if not thousands, of people just happened to coincidentally shift their positions a little this way or that, and the entire mass of people incidentally migrated in a way that created a split down its middle.

Farren froze, then his free hand went to the hilt of one of the Blades of Mercy at his hip, but there was nothing in sight to strike. He wet his lips, azure eyes narrowing further as he saw the change in the crowd, “There's a voice...” he said, glancing around briefly before he sighed. “...it spoke in my head when I drew out the medallion...” he gritted his teeth, not liking that yet another influence had access to his mind.

“We should go...while the path is open,” he said and then, with only a moment's hesitation–despite his misgivings–he looked to make his way down to the street.

Ophelia cocked her head to the side at Farren's revelation, eyes narrowing very slightly in suspicion of whose voice she suspected might have come from a golden item, but in the absence of knowing what it said decided to reserve judgement. When she saw the crowd begin to part she couldn't help but crack a smile... and she took the medallion from Farren anyway, to be safe. He had even more of an aversion to gold than she did, so she figured he would be grateful to be rid of it... and she wanted to see if the voice would attempt to speak to her, too.

"Well, it looks like we won't have to worry about the crowd... quite an invitation, isn't it?" she spoke as she, too, began to descend and make her way towards the opening in the crowd. Here in the relative safety of Tempus' embrace... if it was the Golden Bastard calling them forth, she was ready with both words and force.

And so the Hunters finally ventured forth toward the fantastical, miraculous structure that was the royal palace of Yharnam, every bit as glittering and magnificent up close as it had been from afar, but somehow even more imposing. It seemed obscenely tall without even counting the towers stabbing at the sky, and they could only guess at how many floors and chambers it had inside. The garden outside was beautiful and well-kept as well, full of all manner of trees, bushes and flowers arranged in neat and deliberate rows and patterns. The air filled with pleasant floral scents, and as the Hunters entered through the door, the constant noise of the festival outside started to grow distant as it was muffled by the thick stone walls of the place.

Finding their way through the palace, though one would intuitively expect it to be a daunting task, turned out to be shockingly simple. They entered a hallway to find one door wide open and all others closed, and any attempt at opening one of the closed doors would reveal that they were also locked. From hallway to hallway, up several flights of stairs and down more hallways they went, always with but one path forward... until they finally reached a room with a floor clad with a thick carpet, the walls covered in colorful wallpapers and tapestries, with bookshelves bulging with tomes and documents.

And in the center of that room they found a tall Pthumerian man in a white garb much like the one Ea had worn, standing there expectantly with a pleasant smile on his face. He had short hair and a trimmed beard, all gray, and though he had the size, the pale skin and the black eyes of a Pthumerian, his face would be strikingly familiar to them. This man looked like a Pthumerian version of Vicar Harold.

"Welcome!" the voice translated the man's words, and though he spoke Pthumerian, they would notice that his voice sounded like Harold's, too. "It took you long enough, eh? I have been expecting you."

Ophelia moved through the palace in something of a dreamlike trance, eagerly taking in every detail. The splendour of the place was absolutely dazzling, brilliant beyond anything she could even conceive of in their time, and she did not even attempt to open the locked doors they encountered along the way. When they arrived at their destination to find what appeared to be Vicar Harold, albeit as a Pthumerian, Ophelia let out a musical, ringing laugh.

"This I did not expect! Though, in hindsight, perhaps it should've been obvious. Hello, dear Harold. Sweet Harry-poo." Ophelia spoke wordlessly to the man, striding forward confidently and eagerly, a wide toothy grin plastered on her face and cosmic-tinted eyes positively glimmering with curiosity.

Is this the same Vicar Harold, I wonder? In this Dream he is yet to meet us--I wonder if he might recall details from our time, or if he too is just another shade? What can you tell me about him? she communed with her blade, eager to receive its guidance.

"Ah, of course, English... Harold? Harry-poo?" the Pthumerian that looked like Vicar Harold said with a look of surprise, only to let out a chuckle. "Of course, I see... Yes, I suppose I would be Harold to you."

"It is difficult to determine -", the voice began, only for Harold to frown and wave his hand dismissively.

"It's not that hard," he sighed. "Yes and no; I am both the Harold you seem to have met already and I am not. I am a past version of him that has been stuck in the Nightmare of Tempus for... well, what meaning has time here, really?" Again he chuckled.

"The Harold we met in the Waking World," Ophelia began, switching to speaking aloud for the benefit of the others, "has not been very gracious to us... but you are not him, not exactly, and I'm a forgiving sort... but if you interrupt my communion again, that might no longer be the case." Ophelia replied with a smile, though her left hand clenched around the hilt of her sword and her gaze grew a fraction more intense and chilly as she surveyed the vicar.

"What is your name in this time, then?" she asked, still remaining fairly convivial, and the hint of coldness did not leave her eyes for the moment.

Harold-not-Harold offered a polite bow to Ophelia. "I meant no disrespect, I merely thought it would be more useful for you to hear it from the horse's mouth, as they say... and it seemed as though the thing speaking through your sword did not have anything too useful to report." He straightened and swept his gaze over his visitors. "Though it is quite surprising to hear that your Harold has not been 'gracious' to you. I would love to hear more about that."
When Ophelia asked his name, Harold-not-Harold cocked his head and looked at Riccas. "I'm surprised you hadn't asked your guide about that. I am the Herald, at your service."

Ophelia nodded her head as the Herald bowed, seemingly happy to let whatever umbrage she had felt subside. "Perhaps if we have the time we can speak about it, hmm? The Herald... though, I am a little confused. The Herald of the Lord of Providence, yes? He himself is a Herald, isn't he, of Cael? Can a Herald have a Herald?" Ophelia asked, seemingly legitimately quite interested. The workings of the gods of this time and times before it were beyond her understanding--and even if it was laced with some small amount of venom towards the Lord of Providence and the religion he'd constructed around himself, the far greater part of her truly desired to understand. Of course, such a biased source could not be trusted entirely, but even to know the lies they told was better than nothing.

The Herald shrugged with an apologetic smile. "You asked for my name so I gave you the closest thing I have. I am the Herald. Anything more than that... well, it is clear that you have some enmity for the current Herald, so it would be rather discourteous of me to tell you all his secrets, would it not?"

"I suppose." Ophelia replied, returning the Herald's shrug. "It's nice to meet you, 'the Herald'. Did you want something from us, meeting us here like this?"

Ending up slightly behind Ophelia by the time they arrived where they'd been heading. As Ophelia advanced when the voice rang out, Farren came up short, for now...even with the unfamiliar pthumerian language, he truly recognized its owner.

Farren's pupils dilated in an instinctual fear response, he slid one foot back even as the hand on the Blades of Mercy tightened about the grip. His jaw flexed and he raised his chin, eyes wide with an almost manic degree of focus directed at the old man.

He looked ready to draw his blade...and perhaps a pistol just for good measure.

“Certainly nothing good,” Farren muttered darkly, the tension in his stance just as clear in his tone.

The Herald turned his head to look at Farren, and his mien appeared to speak of concern. "I must say that now more than ever, I am very curious as to what has occurred between you and Harold... and the Golden One, for that matter." He lowered his head and shook it sadly. Then he turned and looked at Torquil. "I don't specifically want anything from you, but I want to end this Nightmare."

"Yes, I would imagine so... to that I am sympathetic, Herald, and... gods, I can't believe I'm saying this, but I will help you if I can." Ophelia replied, her expression softening a little. How long this shade had endured the endless repetition of the greatest disaster the world had ever known... no matter if they were an enemy, Ophelia could not help but pity such a wretched existence. She would want to be freed of such a thing herself, and to deny someone else such a release would be truly cruel--and while she might have been vengeful, and cruel to beasts in particular, she could not muster that cruelty for a thinking being.

The Herald offered Ophelia a soft smile. "That will require making Tempus end it, which requires finding it first, which is normally no easy task. Believe me, I have spent literally innumerable cycles looking for ways to end the Nightmare, or even just for me to escape it... I have witnessed the fall of Pthumeru so many times, I struggle to remember a life that wasn't this day being repeated endlessly... and yet I haven't been able to do it. But now I think we can."

"Lord Herald?" the voice translated for Riccas, who seemed quite perturbed by what he was hearing. "What do you mean? What... I don't understand..."

"And I won't bother explaining it to you again," the Herald told the Gilded Crow regretfully. "I have done so countless times already, but you forget every time."

"I have a theory that we might be able to take effigial items through the entrance to the Interstice in the Cathedral and have them maintain enough of a form to persist outside of this nightmare... I do not know if it will work at all, but if the theory is sound perhaps the same could apply to shades like yourself?" Ophelia replied thoughtfully, simply ignoring Riccas. If they had more time... perhaps she might have attempted to mollify him, but they simply did not.

"I tried that already, many times," the Herald replied with an apologetic shrug. "I managed to sneak past the Great Beast as it emerged, but as soon as I cross the threshold I find myself back here, at the start of a new cycle. Besides, that would only allow me to escape; I would not be content to leave all the others caught in this place to their fate. They are all prisoners to it, too, even if they lack the insight to be aware of time cycling. No, we need to end the Nightmare itself and release everyone in it from the torment of this terrible memory."

Ophelia nodded as the Herald refuted her idea, shifting her weight between her feet rhythmically every couple of seconds. "I suppose given how long it's been, nothing I could come up with would be something you haven't tried. How... are you able to keep your memory between the loops? You're the only shade we've seen capable of doing so."

"Through sheer quantity of insight," he told her, tapping the side of his head with a finger. "And I am not the only one, there are just quite few. All the Great Ones here also remember, but their minds work differently..." He shot a sidelong glance at Riccas, but quickly refocused on Ophelia. "And a few people in the city also remember to varying extents, though they have all been driven quite mad."

"That makes sense, yes." she nodded, bringing her free hand up to her face and rhythmically tapping her lips with a single finger for a few seconds before returning her hand to her side. "What about Arrayah?"

Riccas immediately perked up at the mention of his sister, and the Herald heaved a sigh. "I was trying to avoid upsetting Riccas, but yes, Arrayah is one of the ones who remembers a little. Enough that she has completely lost her mind."

"What?!" Riccas exclaimed, drawing the small mace from its place on his hip. "Where is Arrayah? If she's in trouble, I -"

"To be fair, she was unstable even before this day," the Herald told them, ignoring Riccas' outburst. "During the true events this memory is based on, this is the night that Arrayah lost her sanity, and she has relived that night as many times as I have."

Ophelia looked to Riccas and then back to the Herald sheepishly, only realising what she'd done after the fact. "Poor thing... you all deserve better than this. Though... let me be frank: I am not going to attach a condition to my help, exactly, but we came here with a very specific purpose in mind and cannot leave until it is done. To cut a very long story short: an immortal is performing a ritual to waken Obcasus, a Great One that will utterly destroy the Waking World if it is roused. There is a Sealing Mask we intend to use to contain this immortal, but we require its key--and that is something we were hoping to either find here, or find a clue as to its location in the Waking World. If you can provide us with a solution, we will be able to end this Nightmare sooner."

Smiling pleasantly, the Herald nodded his head. "I had -"
"STOP IGNORING ME!" the voice translated Riccas' furious howl as he raised his mace over his head. As he did the mace-head looked like it just came loose and fell off, only for it to come to a sudden halt about half a meter below where it had perched before, attached to its handle with a thin metallic wire. He started swinging the mace that had now transformed into a flail, spinning the head quickly over their heads... and with each revolution, the wire seemed to get longer and the head started emitting orange light. "You will explain everything!"

The Herald sighed, rolled his eyes and looked at Ophelia meaningfully.

Ophelia looked at Riccas, eyes suddenly growing wide, and she instinctively quickstepped away from him to ensure she wouldn't be hit and the loop reset.

"Alright, Riccas, I'm sorry--we are in the Nightmare of Tempus. In the Waking World, Pthumeru fell thousands of years ago... and this Nightmare has been looping that fall over and over ever since then. Whenever the loop resets, you forget. Do you understand so far?" Ophelia spoke hurriedly, suddenly feeling keenly aware of how bad she was in crisis situations... but she had to try.

The frantic, desperate eyes behind Riccas' beaked mask kept growing wider as his flail grow longer and its head glowed more and more brightly. He did not appear particularly mollified by Ophelia's explanation; if anything, he seemed further infuriated by it.

Before Ophelia had even finished speaking, and long before Riccas had had any chance to act on the information presented to him, Gerlinde moved. Moving with cat-like fluidity she slipped up right behind Riccas, a playful smile on her lips, and swiftly moved both hands around his sides as if intending to hug him from behind. What she did was far from a hug, though; her left hand up, her Pthumerian falchion held horizontally in front of Riccas, while her right went low, grasping the golden sword by the blade to maneuver it in spite of its length, while aiming its tip from below into Riccas right side. The next instant her left hand slit Riccas' throat, and her right drove the golden sword diagonally up and inward through the side of Riccas' abdomen; something Farren in particular would be familiar with as an attack designed specifically to get to someone's heart and lungs without having to go through the ribcage.

Riccas gurgled and staggered, only to swing his flail one last time in spite of his grievous wounds. The head of the flail darted across the room like a missile, struck the Herald cleanly on the side of the head, and exploded in a massive burst of flame.

Ophelia watched Gerlinde's manoeuvre with fascination and relief--and was eternally grateful for her sister-in-blood's quick thinking and intense proclivity for violence. It was not always useful, but when it was necessary it was tremendously useful indeed. Ophelia panicked as she saw the mace's head fly towards the Herald and then explode, and as the flames subsided she quickstepped over to him and withdrew a blood vial in the same motion, ready to use it on him if the attack had not seriously wounded him... and then realised that he was likely not a Hunter, and that it would not work if he did not have the Old Blood himself... but still, she remained at his side and ready to help him if it seemed like he needed it and would benefit from it.

About at the same time as Ophelia got to him, and about at the time Riccas fell on his knees, raising his rifle as his wounds regenerated, the Herald emerged from the inferno and collapsed where he had stood. His shoulders were blackened from heat, and his head was missing altogether, blown apart by Riccas' weapon.

Before Riccas could do anything with his firearm, Gerlinde struck again, raising both of her weapons, their blades facing down, only to thrust down and into either side of Riccas' clavicle.

And as both the rifle and the flail dropped to the floor, they all got the familiar feeling of foreign knowledge sneaking its way into their heads.
Ophelia, Farren, Gerlinde and Torquil have obtained the Star Rune. While under the effect of this rune, any projectile aimed by its bearer will attempt to curve its trajectory to home in on the intended target. Though it still requires line of sight at the moment the projectile is let loose, it makes it very unlikely to miss even moving targets.

Finding the Herald's head completely missing, Ophelia sighed to herself. Another loop it was, then, to resolve things with him... and though she was disappointed with his death, some part of her did relish seeing some version of Harold suffer a well-deserved comeuppance... but even that was small and fleeting, for this Herald was not truly him, and did not deserve what had happened (to the best of her knowledge).

"Fantastic work, love, you're an absolute marvel." Ophelia said to Gerlinde with a wide grin, completely earnestly. "This gives us the opportunity to go and find the queen, I suppose, doesn't it?" Ophelia followed up, quickly getting herself together and looking for an exit that might take them to the throne room.

... I wonder how he was able to disrupt us like that. she communed with her sword as she did so, eager to see if it had any insights to share now that the Herald was no longer disrupting that connection.

"Or we could just continue our business now," the Herald's voice suggested, though it now came from behind them, outside the door they had entered through shortly before. And sure enough, a moment later a Herald that appeared to be a perfect copy of the first one stepped through the doorway.

"Ah! I suppose I should have expected as much." Ophelia laughed, a look of shock passing over her before quickly being replaced with a smile. "Good--it's rather a pain to get to this point... so, you were saying?"

An obstinate, hateful part of the azure-eyed hunter desired nothing more than to keep this shade of the Vicar trapped in the Nightmare, indefinitely. However...before even he could ponder that further, Riccas apparently lost the last shred of his patience.

'Naturally,' he thought in silence, shifting his stance to keep Riccas in his field of view. Ophelia tried to mollify him with the truth, but served only to further incense Riccas. Farren began to draw one of his Hunter's Pistols, but Gerlinde acted faster. Much faster.

In a blur of skillful movement she slit the man's throat and slipped the piercing gold of the Golden Blade into the hunter's unsuspecting body. However, as one might expect, Riccas did not die immediately, but his final acts came too fast for Farren to do anything but watch.

A sick, dark satisfaction rolled through him as the exploding flail head eviscerated the Herald's head. Farren smiled with grim pleasure as the corpse stumbled from the blast and fell, scorched, to the ground.

However, his pleasure was short lived as two things happened in concert. Rationale took hold first as the unfortunate reality dawned, the Herald was not truly dead...and the surely fatal wound only prevented further conversation, necessitating another grueling trek back to this location. Then, a fraction of a second after, the Herald's voice rang out, from a short distance behind them. Farren pivoted on his heel and drew his pistol, entirely reflexive, but no attack came, except for the confounding sight of the Golden Bastard's puppet.

'Not a mark on him,' Farren mouthed, the words unvoiced. He swore under his breath, half from frustration and aborted satisfaction and half from a conflicted amusement riddled relief. “Flighty bastard, aren't you?”

Farren holstered his pistol. “You said you believed this Nightmare can be ended now. Why? What inkling have you gained on account of our presence?” His tone was gruff and his eyes slightly narrowed in suspicion as he addressed the mockery of a man.

“Further, is access to the Queen possible? The boon of her blood, I imagine, would be exceptionally useful in the waking world.”

"It is not, no... not unless you are willing to spend numerous cycles trying to get there, anyway," the Herald replied to Farren's inquiry about reaching Queen Yharnam. He walked past the Hunters and over to where he had been standing earlier, glancing uncomfortably at his own smoldering, headless corpse, which was still there, filling the room with the unpleasant smell of burnt hair and flesh. Then he turned back and looked at them again.

"That medallion of yours was enough to convince the Shadows to let you into the palace, but it certainly won't be enough to let you get near her during labor. They are fiercely protective of her; not even I am allowed there."

He sighed. "But a lot of questions have been raised, and a lot of answers have yet to be given. Telling you why I think we can end the Nightmare will likely have to be at the end of this conversation since there is a small chance that a certain someone might catch on to what I want to do, so that will have to wait. The key..." He turned his attention back to Ophelia. "You only need the key as the Sealing Mask is already on something and you need to remove it. Who is wearing the mask?"

Farren glanced at Ophelia meaningfully, wetting his lips. Was it truly wise to tell this 'Herald' anything of the current state of affairs in the Waking World? Would telling him the truth here mean he'd be less likely to aid them? Farren didn't know.

He didn't like it, but it also seemed that this version of Harold had a great deal of insight. It was possible that the shade might divine the lie as a matter of course. Yet...if he knew their minds so well, why even ask? He gritted his teeth, suddenly having the intense desire to cut or shoot something. Such things seemed so much...easier...so much more enticing.

Farren's gaze flicked to Gerlinde. To the blood on her blades, to the suddenness of her violence. He gave her a nod, understanding perhaps a fraction of her seemingly constant desire for chaos and carnage. To move with the flow of destructive violence and the thrill of the hunt was most certainly an easier path, one of less resistance. Worryingly easy. Farren took a deep breath and let it out slowly, forcing his fingers to relax with a strangely pneumatic hss.

“Why do you want this nightmare over so badly? Beyond the obvious frustration and potential madness of so many loops. Beyond your so-called compassion for the Nightmare's occupants.” A question for a question. Perhaps his open wariness and suspicion might remind Ophelia that simply giving this being information could later exact a terrible consequence.

The Herald shot Farren a look of bewilderment. "That, mostly... that seems like an extremely good reason to me." He shrugged. "But if that is not enough for you, it would also end the torment of those in the Waking World suffering from it. Nightmares like this one that have firm roots in true events tend to echo across worlds and haunt the living. For instance, though he is likely not aware himself, I am certain that your Harold is tortured by me reliving the fall of Pthumeru infinitely. And yes, to you that may be an argument against ending the Nightmare owing to your apparent dislike of me and the Golden One - which you still haven't explained - but you have made it through Yharnam several times by now. You have seen how densely the streets are populated. You have seen the Great Ones coming when Mergo does not survive his birth. All of them represent someone else in the Waking World suffering from this Nightmare, too."

“...and this serves your Master how?” Farren replied, unsatisfied and undeterred. He crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at the man.

"Serves... what?" The Herald shook his head in disbelief. "The Golden One? It doesn't, besides the fact that he also has an echo trapped here and that he doesn't want us, let alone many thousands of innocents, to suffer eternally!"

Farren's jaw clenched and his suspicion remained clear, but he did not push it further. Clearly this would lead nowhere. His gaze slid to Ophelia briefly, then he turned his back on the Herald, casting his gaze the way they had come. 'Play at kindness then. No one is innocent. Not really. Except perhaps the children.'

And there would be countless children in the city. His shoulders sank slightly, “Fine. Let's say I believe you. The Vicar we encountered cared little regarding 'Mercy' or 'Justice.' Perhaps you are different, untouched by whatever your… true self endured from the time of Pthumeru unto the present day. Should we end this Nightmare… and free you in the process. Whatever we have told you...likely will go to him. Seeing that he is...not our ally, why–pray tell–should we divulge the details of our quest to you?”

He didn't turn around to catch the man's expression, he didn't care to see the Herald's loathsome face, nor to recall the horrid violation the memories said face drew up within his consciousness.

The Herald's eyes widened in shock. "By the gods," he murmured breathlessly, "what happened in the Waking World? What did Harold and the Golden One do to make you hate them like this?" He shook his head incredulously. "Of course time may have shaped Harold to be different, just as this Nightmare may have changed me, but... I'm sorry, but I struggle to imagine any version of me or my Lord being as callous as you seem to think they are."

Farren's eyes hardened, but he said nothing further, the image of Victor's altered...ensorcelled form bubbling up from the tar of his hatred for the Vicar. He looked away after a moment, too beset by emotion and harried by a quiet impotent rage to speak further.

Ophelia watched with interest as Farren's discontent boiled over and spilled forth. She did not begrudge him his outburst in the slightest, after what they'd suffered... after what he'd suffered specifically. The Herald's exasperation and incredulity fascinated her, too, as she truly believed that he was sincere in his empathy for these people... and for their faith in the Golden One. Trapped here in this moment, they did not ever get a chance to experience the profound betrayal the Golden One had inflicted upon them all.

"... Your lord intends to betray us all, I fear. He already betrayed everyone in this Nightmare, because it is he who kills the Divine Queen. She is the one holding back the Blood Moon even now, as I'm sure you've gathered over the centuries. You see, there are tiers of Great One. Your master is what is known as a "kin" Great One--and he is the herald of the true Great One known as Cael, the Lord of Ascension. The Golden One awakens his master, who reclaims the rampant Old Blood, and all of this suffers the same fate as Isz... which he no doubt betrayed as its last king to become a Kin Great One." Ophelia explained, trying to find a mix between honesty and pragmatism. She did not want to give everything away, but... even if it haunted them in the Waking World, she could not bear the thought of all of these people suffering this Nightmare any longer.

"Firstly, you don't need to explain the Golden One to me, of all people," the Herald told Ophelia. His tone did not suggest that he felt insulted or irritated at her presumption of him not knowing, only concern. "And secondly, but more importantly... no, before that, where did you even hear this? Is that how what happened here is remembered? Gods help me..." He shook his head, accidentally looked at his own corpse again and idly shuffled a sideways step away from it.

"There is an element of truth to what you said, but the details are all wrong. Yes, the Golden One is a Kin Great One; yes, Queen Yharnam is the one that holds back the Nightmare and tames the blessing... and yes, I suppose my Lord is technically the one that has 'killed' the queen. But the Golden One is quite content with his place in the world, and desires only to fulfill the role given to him by Cael: to guide mortals on their path toward ascension. He killed the queen only by virtue of me - and by extension my Lord - guiding her on her pursuit of conceiving a Divine Heir, having the child of a Great One. We wanted to help her, and my Lord only calls Cael after it becomes clear that Queen Yharnam's death has left Pthumeru's blessing entirely out of control."

Ophelia listened to the Herald's reply with rapt attention, voracious for any more knowledge on what truly happened here. Even if she felt an inclination towards mistrusting him, she could not fathom any reason that he would actively lie to them when they had already promised their unconditional aid... but there were many things simply beyond her ken.

"Ours is a benighted time, Herald, and so little survives. We..." she began, but immediately felt a pang of uncertainty as to whether or not she should reveal their nature as Dreamers--and the existence of the Dream that his lord was trying to usurp from them... she sighed audibly before conceding that it was important enough she could not skirt around it.

"Ugh, I don't know how much it is safe to reveal to you... and we emphatically cannot trust your Waking World counterpart for a great many reasons. But I suppose our choices are rather limited... first, let me ask this: what do you know of Venara?"

"Venara, also known as the Moon Presence, is the Great Champion," the Herald readily divulged. "Until this night it hadn't interacted with the Waking World much at all, it just travels the Nightmare looking for strong opponents to fight. That is also what brings it here in a few minutes: because a number of other Great Ones are drawn to the city, Venara will come to challenge them."

Ophelia nodded, very interested in this particular bit of knowledge, giving herself a few extra seconds to mull things over after he finished speaking. "In our time she is dead. She died during our most recent Blood Moon, where time itself fractured as thousands of concurrent realities... smashed together, I suppose, is the only way I can describe it... but she left a legacy behind, a Dream. Some mortals are born with something we call 'Paleblood', and if they become Hunters they awaken to this Dream and become anchored to it, such that when they die in the Waking World they simply return to the Dream. Populating this Dream are... little helpers, I suppose I would call them. They traverse the various realms of Nightmare and find scraps of information--and are eager to help the Dreamers... much of our knowledge comes from them. I am one such Dreamer." Ophelia followed up, pausing a moment for the Herald to react before she divulged anything further--though she could not help but feel her stomach lurch. She was crossing a threshold it was impossible to return from, and still did not know if what she was doing was right.

"Is that so? Fascinating." The Herald stared at Ophelia intently, then cocked his head. "The blood in you feels like it belongs to Flora, though, not Venara."

"You're right; if I'm honest, that's something of a gap in our knowledge. We are putting pieces together as best as we can, but... I lack your tremendous insight. Even with the assistance of whatever it is that speaks through my blade. What... do you know of Flora? Was she around at this time? I had always assumed that she was Venara's successor."

"Flora is around now, and she has been around for aeons," the Herald chuckled, "though like Venara, people of this era aren't too familiar with her. She is the Great Dreamer, and she also travels the Nightmare, but she does so looking for stray thoughts, feelings and memories, not challenges."

Ophelia visibly relaxed at the Herald's explanation, seemingly comforted by what she was hearing, before her expression darkened. "I am glad to be her child. The Golden One is trying to usurp this Dream, and so has made us his enemies. He has invaded our thoughts, tried to turn our memories of our loved ones against us, harmed and dominated our friends and allies... thrown us into the realms of Nightmare as pawns to be consumed. I suppose we do not know any of the true motivations behind what he does and have made assumptions as best as we could based on the information we have--but I fear he was never the gentle patriarch he had made himself out to be. I fear for what he wants for our world, Herald, and for us... but we haven't the time to explore all of that. The Sealing Mask--it is currently on the queen. Not Yharnam, another who has survived to our time."

This made the Herald frown. "Usurp this Dream? That doesn't make sense, why would he do that when he already has his own realm of the Nightmare?" He shook his head. "I suppose that explains why all of you except Riccas and you -" He pointed at Farren. "- are warded so that I couldn't even project my voice to you outside. I can only imagine that they had a good reason for it. We do have the ability to exert influence, but I can't imagine us using that power maliciously. Even if we did try to manipulate you, I'm sure we had good reason..." His eyes widened. "You are here to stop Obcasus, you said. I know of the Worldbreaker and what kind of a threat it poses. Surely Harold and the current Golden One would be rather desperate to stop its awakening, too?"

Ophelia shrugged at the Herald's first few sentences. "I suspect the Golden One's realm of Nightmare cannot be used to make effectively immortal Hunters, like Flora's Dream... but I truly couldn't speak to his motivations: only what we've seen and what he's said. Yes, the Harold of our time sent us to stop Obcasus--but this is where our goals diverge, it seems... but we cannot defeat the immortal heading this ritual, as she simply... reforms when slain, and the ritual proceeds anew. The Sealing Mask is the only thing I can think of to stop her, even if it means freeing the current occupant."

"Motivation seems important to me, but if you say so. Saving the Waking World and everyone in it seems like a pretty good reason to go get desperate," the Herald shrugged. He turned to his right and walked five steps over to a small round, wooden table, which had a small wooden case sitting on top of it. He quickly flipped its lid open - it had a keyhole, but was apparently already unlocked - then walked back to his initial position again. "The keys to our Sealing Masks are in there, just pick the right one... or take all of them, I suppose. I don't mind."

"You're right: motivation is important... and there is so much we don't know. My sword offers me protection from eldritch influences: I will ask it to allow you to communicate with me--that way, we should at least be able to communicate when the loop resets. I would earnestly welcome the chance to understand the Golden One's motivations more." Ophelia said, curtseying to the Herald and nodding her head in thanks as he revealed the keys they sought. She walked over to give the inside of the container a look and would attempt to identify which of the keys was right--if she could not do so by sight alone, she would ask her blade, and if that still didn't produce an answer she would take them all.

"I want to make the right decisions. To avoid the mistakes of the past that led us all to this dark time, to truly understand what is at stake... to that end, I will try to be open. I pray Mother Moon grants me the guidance to deliver me unto the truth, and to avoid deception that would steer me awry." Ophelia sighed, suddenly looking rather weary. It occurred to her that she hadn't slept in what felt as long as she could remember, though the weariness was less physical than that, and she awaited the Herald's reply with one (or several) key(s).

"The protection cannot simply be removed at will, Champion, and it is technically not from your sword," the voice replied to the mention of having it allow the Herald to communicate with her telepathically. "The protection is from the Truth Rune, just as it is from the Mask Rune for Gerlinde and Torquil. You would have to replace the rune to remove the protection."

"So you've found a way to place words of the Great Ones in your minds at will?" the Herald breathed with great interest. "Fascinating."

As Ophelia arrived at the case, she would find that it contained a set of three keys, each elaborate, decorative and distinct in its own way. Even without further guidance she would get a pretty good idea which one out of the three was the best aesthetic match for Queen Annalise's mask, but even so the voice still chimed in: "It is the one on the left."

Ah; I thought that since the power of the basin in the Halls of the Old Lords could be allowed through, perhaps something similar could occur here too... Ophelia thought, though her eye twitched a little at the idea of the Herald being able to intrude on her thoughts so readily and through so many layers of protection.

"They are called Caryll Runes, named for the person who... well, "discovered" is the wrong word I suppose. Harnessed them." she spoke as she picked up the correct key. She then thought better of leaving the other two keys on the proverbial table and took those as well.

"So: finding Tempus. I can't imagine we have long left in this loop, so perhaps the rest of our time should be dedicated to that."

Again the Herald shot a quick sidelong glance at Torquil, only to immediately refocus on Ophelia. "That discussion won't take long, it can wait," he claimed. "But if you have nothing more to discuss, I do have one thing. You... with gray hair at too young an age... sadly your eyes have changed, so I can't confirm their color..." He cocked his head. "Would you happen to be called Ophelia?"

With a nod of his head, the Herald turned away and walked over to one of the nearby bookshelves. "It was many, many cycles ago now, but I met your parents. They were from the Waking World and got trapped here, too, and came here in search of a way out. They were quite desperate to get back to you. I don't know what happened to them; the last thing I knew of was that they went in search of the Great Serpent and then disappeared. They may have succeeded and returned to the Waking World... or they may not. Regardless, they left something with me in case they failed."

The Herald turned around, withdrawing an object from among the books that - as soon as it was revealed, but not before - seemed to conjure a number of orbiting guidance sprites: a silver pendant of some kind. "They told me to give it to you if you ever had the misfortune of ending up here, and made me promise to do everything in my power to help you get out."

Ophelia stumbled a little at the Herald's reply, having to catch herself on the table as she sucked in a deep breath. Growing up without her parents, she had always wondered what had happened to them--she had been young enough and their family isolated enough that she hadn't been introduced to the concept of death. It had only been years later that she had realised that was most likely what'd happened to them: but to hear that they'd ended up here of all places...

"I... heh, I don't know what to say... They never returned to the Waking World, to the best of my knowledge. I haven't seen them since I was a girl, gods, it must be more than twenty years now..." she barely managed to speak, trying (and failing) not to cry. She stashed the key away safely before she accepted the pendant with a trembling hand, inspecting it both out of desperate curiosity and so she did not have to look at anybody else while she wept.

"Thank you, Herald. I had always wondered..." she began, but found herself unable to finish whatever the thought might have been.

"Don't mention it, I'm just keeping a promise," he told her nonchalantly, taking a respectful step backward and away from her to give her some space. "I'm sorry I couldn't help them."
Now that she had gotten a closer look at it, Ophelia would likely notice that the silver pendant was actually a small locket, with its exterior decorated with tiny scrolling that invoked the aesthetic style of Cainhurst. She might even have some vague recollection of having seen her father wearing such a necklace once upon a time.

Meanwhile Gerlinde, having lost interest in what was happening, squatted over Riccas' corpse, grabbed his flail and started searching his pockets.

Though it was difficult with only one hand, Ophelia fiddled with the locket enough to find its opening mechanism and triggered it, curious as to what might be inside. Dim recollections of the silvery glint of it on her father's chest amid dim candlelight flickered in her mind, and she could almost hear the lilting melody of one of her mother's lullabies in her mind. Some wary part of her wondered if it was some trick, like she might have expected of the modern-day Harold, but it was quickly drowned out by waves of old, settled grief and still-roiling curiosity.
Inside the locket, which opened without issue, Ophelia found that it contained a small photograph - one that looked almost brand new and not at all how one would expect something like this to look after having had a couple of decades to fade - of her parents, one arm around each other, smiling at her. On the inside of the cover, meanwhile, she found that someone had used a sharp tool of some kind to scratch the silver... leaving behind a Hunter's Mark.

A warm smile crept across her face as she looked at the photo of her parents, glad to have some visual record of them after all this time. She'd almost forgotten what they'd looked like, it had been so long--and as she daubed her eyes with her sleeve she caught the light glinting from the engraved mark and studied that. She thought it a deeply curious thing to leave behind in a memento, especially for a life that it seemed her parents had wanted to leave behind. She couldn't help but wonder whether it or the photo had come first, and that if it had been left for her, if it was meant to convey some sort of message that was not immediately obvious.

"Now, with that out of the way..." The Herald licked his lips nervously. "I hope it can't understand what I'm saying, but the reason I think we have a chance to end the Nightmare is that the Great Serpent is here. In the room. Right now." He nodded in Torquil's direction. "Somewhere on that strapping fellow's person."

Ophelia finished fiddling with the memento and hastily slipped the chain of the locket around her neck, tucking the pendant beneath the clothing there. "I suppose if I were going to pick a person to find shelter on, there are few better than Torquil here... while we're here in the palace, I do have another quick question: the Divine Queen's bloodblade--might we find that nearby? I've only just thought of it," Ophelia replied, daubing her eyes and cheeks a final time with her sleeve as she sniffled a little and composed herself properly.

"You might, technically," the Herald confirmed hesitantly, "but not practically. The queen has the Bloodblade with her at all times, and since the Shadows won't let anyone near her..." He shrugged.

"It was worth a shot, at least." Ophelia nodded, content with the answer. Another trip to the Interstice it was, then, after all of the other things on their ever-growing checklist. "... Did my father tell you about Queen Annalise? I'm sorry for the sudden burst of questions, but if this is our last chance..."

"He did not, no. Your parents were rather too preoccupied with trying to discover a means of escaping the Nightmare to engage in much idle chatter, especially considering how much more they had to struggle to survive consecutive civilization-ending Blood Moons." The Herald seemed to ponder for a moment. "I did observe that your father was a distant relative to Queen Yharnam, but he brushed the comment aside claiming that it didn't matter. But..." His eyes widened. "If your queen is imprisoned in a Sealing Mask... are people forcefully tapping her blood? Is that how you have the Blessing?"

"He left that life behind, I gather, I suppose it makes sense he would be reticent. Not forcefully, no, willingly--she offered us the sacrament of her blood freely. I accepted it because... well, I have a familial connection. I think it was only Gerlinde and I that partook, though... Farren here has some remnant of Queen Ihyll's gift, we gather, from his eyes. Perhaps a distant relation of Riccas?"

The Herald blinked confusedly. "I sense a faint hint of the royal blood on you, yes, but that's not what I meant. Like Riccas, all four of you bear the Blessing that gives you superhuman abilities. Your parents had a less potent version of the Blessing, and you also bear the blood of Great Ones, but you all have the Blessing of the royal blood. Surely that would come from your queen?"

"Ah--yes, sorry. We... don't call it the Blessing in our time. We call it being made a Hunter. I'm... afraid I don't know the provenance of that blood. There is a force called the Healing Church that offers blood ministrations, able to cure otherwise incurable diseases with the Old Blood... and render people Hunters. The modern-day Harold leads the Healing Church, though only since our own Blood Moon happened... a few years ago. They've been around since I was a girl, and were still getting blood then, I gather. I... never stopped to wonder where from until now." Ophelia replied, suddenly extremely interested in this line of questioning.

"Hunter? Old Blood?" The Herald just stood there staring blankly into space for a moment before abruptly and briskly nodding his head. "Now I understand, thank you, whatever you are. So what you call 'Hunters' in your time I would call 'Champions' here, like Riccas and Arrayah. And your 'Old Blood' is what I call the 'Blessing'. Your parents weren't Hunters, but they had a weaker variant of the Old Blood. It's curious that you don't know where it comes from; in this time, everyone knew that the Old Blood came from the royal family."

"... I know that scholars ventured deep into the Interstice and "discovered" the Old Blood... most of Pthumeru suffers the fate of Isz, and is subsumed into what we call the Old Labyrinth... so they must have found a member of the royal family down there, and must be tapping their blood, then?"

The Herald shrugged. "It's possible, though they could also just have discovered the source that bestowed the Old Blood on the royal family in the first place."

"I wonder what that is... Cael? Oedon? It seems like it must be a Great One, or... their corpse. Fascinating... and terrifying. The Eldritch Truth beckons us like moths to a flame, doesn't it..?" Ophelia replied, losing herself for a few seconds in contemplation before she snapped back to attention. "... do you know what lumenflowers are?"

The Herald cocked his head. "I do not. Why?"

"The modern-day Harold grows them in the cathedral. He invited me to view them with him when they bloom under the full moon. I... will think of you when I go to look at them, that's all. Thank you for everything, Herald. You have given me much to think about, and... I will re-evaluate my feelings on the version of you that survived to our time. If there is anything of you left in him, perhaps our fractured relationship might heal. Unless anyone else has any questions, I think I'm ready."

Farren eyed Torquil, who despite the revelation, had remained silent. They'd need to investigate that soon, he gathered, but before then....

His gaze shifted to the Herald, “The source of the Old Blood...your... 'Blessing' as you call it. Do you know it?”

The Herald shook his head regretfully. "That was before my Lord's time; he was the Last King of Isz, not the first one, so the royal family had already carried the Old Blood for generations by the time the Golden One ascended."

Farren nodded his understanding, accepting the answer. Either the Herald lied to conceal that ancient, endlessly valuable secret, or he told the truth and they remained where they had started. “That leaves me with only one question then. Torquil and I imbibed the Old Blood...but what we were given was in some way...tampered with. Impure.”

He grit his teeth slightly, still not entirely convinced that the Herald was truly any different from his present day counterpart. Still...the man had been forthright with them, eminently helpful, and had not sought to control them...even though he and Torquil had no real protection against his influence. Only these facts and the potentially dire consequences that could result from their repeated entrance into the Hunter's Dream pushed him to continue.

“When he or I enter the Hunter's Dream–the Nightmare wherein Venara once dwelled–it disturbs the place in some way. Sometimes...the blood writhes and changes us,” Farren raised one of his mutated arms to serve as an example, “Other times the Dream's weather simply changes...or we suddenly find a random item on our person that was not there before.”

He shifted where he stood, frowning as his eyes cast downwards in thought, “It seems...that it may even summon Wraiths or Kin to prey upon us.” Farren lifted his gaze after a moment and with severity in his now intensely glowing eyes, finally asked his question. “Might you know why? Or...better still, have you any inkling that might purify us of such a malady without the consequence of death or separation from Venara's Dream?”

"Oh, you mean you don't know?" The Herald sounded and looked quite surprised at this revelation. He pointed to Ophelia and Gerlinde. "You two have the blood of Flora in you, but you two," he indicated Farren and Torquil, "bear the blood of the Golden One. You were favored by different gods, and given that my Lord's goals and his allegiance to the Lord of Ascension, I can imagine why his blessing would cause chaotic changes as those you describe. The Old Blood itself is already a fount of change; an incredible force of untapped potential. The Golden One's blood would likely enable you to tap into that potential much more... and make the innate power of change of the Old Blood that much more... active. He is - or at least was, since by the sound of it your relationship has rather soured - most likely trying to guide you toward ascension."

"That's the thing... we never had a relationship. Not one that we knew about... the Healing Church recruits Hunters--those who are sick, like me, as Flora's Paleblood manifests as a wasting disease (or did in my case, at least)... or those who are desperate. Modern-day Yharnam is beset by the same plague of beasts that took Isz and Pthumeru, so recruiting Hunters is necessary. Vicar Harold gave them the blood of the Golden One--'false Paleblood', he called it--and... some forty others, I think it was? Only Farren and Torquil survived. The entire thing was rooted in deception and manipulation... hence why our relationship soured. The Harold of the modern day... he uses some sort of arcane influence to make people think he's a kindly old man. I was immune to it from the get-go, but the others..." Ophelia explained, ending in a shudder. She did not remember those times fondly, and was struck by an odd sort of sorrow. If Harold had been like the Herald... things would have been very different.

Farren stared, caught flatfooted by the information, and even took a half step back. After a moment his frown became a scowl, “Favored? I…” he laughed, but there was no joy in it, only bitter humor.

“I submitted to blood healing to escape such an influence…if my fragmented memories hold true. Yet he only gave me more…and held my mind in a state of artificial, unwanted reverie, tainting my own choices with the eldritch influence of the so-called Lord of Providence.” It was a miracle that he hadn’t called Ego ‘the Golden Bastard’ right to his Herald’s face.

Farren forced himself to breathe, closing his eyes, reining in his rage. He had to remind himself that it was not this man, not really, who had done this to him. “If I could keep myself…my wits…my freedom, I might embrace such an ascension, if only to carry out what must be done. But I cannot.”

The Herald nodded his head slowly. "Influence... like I just exerted on the people outside?" He gestured back out the door they had entered through, symbolically indicating the crowd that had parted to allow them to enter. "I - or we, if you want to consider us separate people - have that power, yes. I understand how that can be upsetting, of course... but what did he make you do?"

"I wasn't subject to his influence, so I fear I've no right to speak on the matter as if I was... but I think it is the principle. That he sought to rob us of agency and use us as pawns, instead of... just asking for our help. You asked for our help and we gave it freely, but to be denied the chance to make our own choices... what truly soured our relationship is that he exerted this control over a friend of ours. A Hunter who'd helped us when we awakened after the ministration... Harold put this gilded spider-like thing on his head and took him from himself... and that I find utterly unforgiveable. That, and we freed a rather powerful Hunter from his influence, one that I gather must have been key to his plans." Ophelia replied, her expression darkening to a scowl as she remembered what had happened to Victor... though none of it was aimed at the Herald, and she quickly reverted to her usual small smile.

Ophelia's words made the Herald frown. "I would say that I am probably something of an authority on my own powers, and I know that it would be very difficult for me to force most people to do anything that they did not want to do one at a time, let alone en masse. But the device you speak of... I know of it: it is called the Brightcrown. No one has been able to wear it because human - or Hunter, for that matter - biology simply can't withstand the sheer enormity of its power, but that could indeed enforce obedience if someone actually managed to survive wearing it."

He sighed. "And obviously I am not going to make excuses for your Harold; he might be me, but he is also different from me, so I can't know his mind with certainty. But you say that there was a Blood Moon a few years ago, after which he became the leader of your Healing Church... and that now the Worldbreaker is being awakened, threatening all of existence. And you 'freed' a 'rather powerful Hunter from his influence' that you think 'must have been key to his plans'..." The Herald shook his head grimly. "I'm sorry, I know you think his actions are unforgivable, but it sounds like someone desperately trying to stave off the apocalypse to me."

“And pray tell…when have desperation and wisdom been bedfellows?” Farren replied darkly, entirely unsympathetic.

"In my experience desperation and wisdom are not mutually exclusive," the Herald claimed with a shrug. "But once again I am not making excuses. The Brightcrown is a horrid creation of my Lord that I would never use if I had other options..." He shook his head sadly.

Ophelia's expression darkened again at the explanation of the Brightcrown. "I think it says something about your lord that he created such a device at all... but I digress," she sighed, and let Farren speak while she thought.

“At least you have the decency not to defend it.” Farren said blandly. He raised his hand and was about to rub at the bridge of his nose, before he recalled the talons and stopped. He grumbled, then sighed, “Do you know what will happen to you once this Nightmare collapses?”

Once again the Herald shrugged. "I am a figment of the Nightmare; if it ceases to exist, so will I most likely... though my memory will live on in the greater Nightmare, and the Golden One is attentive to the flows of it. If he wills it, I will be remade in the Waking World. If not... then I have served my purpose."

"I truly do hope we meet you in the Waking World, Herald... but for now, I am glad we can release you and all the innocents here from this prison." Ophelia said, her brow still furrowed from thinking about the Brightcrown and a sad smile gently tugging at the corners of her mouth. So many had met their ends at the dreamers' hands this night--it was nice for that to finally not involve killing someone, and for it to be welcome.

“If...somehow, your memories are conveyed to Harold in the waking world,” Farren began, wetting his lips, “Perhaps he will receive the message. We only desire the option to choose. Treat with us honestly...and perhaps we do not have to be enemies.” There was great tension in him as he said it, but it sounded honest enough. It was an olive branch extended from the party most affronted by Vicar's perceived crimes. Who knows if it would even reach its desired destination, but nonetheless it was worth the attempt.

With those words said, he glanced to Torquil, “Check your person, Torquil. See if Tempus hides in plain sight upon your visage.”

While the Herald merely responded with a nod of his head, Farren and Ophelia would find that Torquil had already been spending the time since learning that Tempus was on him searching every pocket and pouch he had. At the time of Farren addressing him he would find Torquil having taken off his coat and shaking it in the air to see if anything loose came out.

On the ground next to him was a pile of his own weapons and those Farren had distributed to him, his bag of blood vials and the as of yet unopened quicksilver canister.

For her contribution, Ophelia communed with her sword: Do you detect Tempus anywhere on Torquil? She gave him a quick appraising look up and down to see if there was anything obvious, focusing on his back as an area he could not observe himself.

"The presence of Tempus has not gotten any stronger or weaker since you got here," the voice replied immediately. "It is still not possible to determine direction nor distance... though this does explain why the presence never got meaningfully closer or farther away."
"It's not on him anymore. It's in that pile," the Herald declared, pointing to the pile of Torquil's discarded belongings.

Farren wet his lips, narrowing his eyes for a moment as he glanced at the pile. “Check for anything you don’t recall having picked up. Perhaps it has changed its form or cast some…glamour over itself,” Farren offered, crossing his arms.

Ophelia nodded at the Herald's direction, and waited for Torquil to look through.

"Or inside containers?" she added to Farren's guidance.

Torquil took the time to put his coat back on before going to rummage through the gear he had tossed on the ground.

"The power of the Great Serpent in particular manifests its aspect of the Nightmare very narrowly in my experience," the Herald chimed in as he slowly backed away to the far end of the room. "It has power over time rather than being just a general shapeshifter; it can become older and younger... which in essence can allow it to grow and shrink. It has most likely shrunk to a tiny hatchling to hide inside something."

"As much as I wouldn't like to be immersed in quicksilver, Great Ones likely have no such compunctions: that's where I'd check... or your blood vial holster." Ophelia smiled, indicating the items with a nod of her head out of habit more than out of belief it was necessary.

Torquil dutifully went straight for the quicksilver canister. "I don't have any quicksilver," he pointed out, taking a moment to even figure out how to open the lid since he had never actually had cause to use it before.
He got the lid open and looked down the opening... then nervously held it out in a fully extended arm, turned it upside down and shook it until a tiny little blue snake-like creature emerged and dropped to the floor.

"Ah, there you are," Ophelia confirmed with a smile and gave Torquil's shoulder a gentle squeeze with her free hand. "Good job, love."

Ophelia then got to her knees and looked down at Tempus, taking in a deep breath to steady herself as she tried once again to communicate their desires to a being so much greater than they were, who operated on fundamentally different levels of reality. She imagined the pain, the fear, the grief, the loss--all the torment the shades here had been exposed to here for so very long... and how she wished fervently for it to be over. She focused on feelings of gratitude for the Great One, who had given them this wonderful opportunity and preserved this fragment of existence... and she focused very specifically on the loss she knew Torquil felt for his shield. She envisioned it so clearly in her mind's eye, how happy and grateful he would be if he could only get it back--a rather last ditch effort to get it back, but one she could not forgive herself for if she did not at least try.

The little baby Great Serpent raised what one could only assume to be its head toward Ophelia, spent a moment just writhing pathetically on the floor... and then purplish swirls started dancing around it, spreading rapidly until it surrounded them and consumed the world.

The next moment they were all back in the forest. But there was still no shrine, no rocks, the trees were all wrong... they were quite clearly still in ancient Pthumeru rather than returned to the Waking World.

"No!" Torquil howled desperately, looking around frantically. "Where... all the stuff!" And indeed, it appeared that all of his own weapons, and all of the weapons he had been carrying for Farren, which had been tossed on the ground, as well as his satchel of blood vials, were all gone.

"Fuck!" Ophelia swore as she realised what had happened, stomping her feet into the ground out of sheer frustration. "I'm so sorry, I... I don't know what happened! I don't understand..." she sighed defeatedly, sinking to her knees as her frustration began to lose its fire and slip into sorrow.

Farren blinked once...twice...and then sighed. He ran through his mental accounting mof what he'd handed to Torquil and then he shrugged slightly, “Well...the bad news is it's likely irretrievable. The good news is that it's all replaceable as soon as we can access the Hunter's Dream once more.” Still, despite that he walked over and–carefully not to knick him with his talons–patted Torquil's shoulder.

His hand fell away and he looked over at Ophelia, “What was it you...tried to ask of Tempus?”

"To end this Nightmare. Release these figments from their suffering... to give Torquil his shield back. But... it's just feelings. Imprecise, messy feelings... Maybe I should have waited for the Herald to instruct us further, but... I thought I knew what to do..." Ophelia sighed, looking up into the sky plaintively.

"It is uncertain how much or how little of the emotions you tried to project toward it Tempus received," the voice remarked in Ophelia's head, "but it is also unlikely that is how it communicates. When you first encountered Tempus and were sent here, you seemed to have greater success with body language and emotional noises than any other means.
Even so, something has changed. For the first time the distance to Tempus has changed, and there is a direction to it; it is west of here, which likely puts it outside Yharnam proper. The entire Nightmare also feels... distinctly different than before." It paused. "There is an arcane force just north of here that has not been there in the other cycles. It is not far."

Ophelia's eyes lit up as the voice told her what it could observe, and she sighed with relief. Perhaps all was not lost, then--perhaps she had done something right.

"My blade remarks that, for the first time, the distance between us and Tempus has changed. There's a change in the Nightmare... and a new arcane force to the North, one that hasn't been here in previous cycles. Let's go and see what." Ophelia commented to the others, slowly getting up to her feet.

Farren nodded after a moment, “Hmm...well, may as well follow the leads we have,” he replied.

And so, with Torquil shuffling along uncomfortably bereft of his weapons and Gerlinde playing happily with the flail she had looted off Riccas' corpse, the Hunters ventured north. Very quickly they discovered that the voice's directions had been accurate; they barely had to walk fifty meters before they discovered something on the Godswood that had not been there any of the prior times they had passed the area. They were quite certain of that; it was difficult not to notice.

What they found was a plain wooden door, in a plain wooden frame, on... nothing. The door just stood there in the middle of the forest, looking completely out of place. It had a doorknob but no keyhole.

"That is it," the voice reported, most likely superfluously. "This feeling... there is no mistaking it: the Waking World is on the other side of that doorway, completely static at the moment. It is promising; it could mean that time is not currently progressing there, and has not the entire time you have been in this Nightmare. This is most likely a way back."

Ophelia dutifully conveyed the voice's words to the others and brought her right hand up to her face to cradle her chin as she thought. She then fished out the golden amulet and presented it to Farren for him to take.

"The Herald should be able to speak to you through this, like last time... though maybe not from this distance? Why don't you let him know what we've found?"

While she waited for Farren to take the amulet, she also communed with her sword: Can you send a message to the Herald? The Truth rune might prevent him from reaching out, but perhaps not the other way?

"Apologies, but that is not possible," the voice told her. "Neither means of communication will work over such distances. Also, the medallion does not appear to be connected to the power of the Herald nor the Golden One, and was likely not the means by which the Herald spoke to Farren earlier."

Hearing the response, Ophelia withdrew her hand and the amulet with a little sigh. "It appears that won't work; we'll have to get closer to the palace again... I suppose a trip into the city could do us some good: why don't we go and get some weapons for Torquil and then head to the palace? Us having a way out of the Nightmare is excellent... but I won't leave until we can end it for everyone else, too. They deserve that much. Especially given that time does not appear to be passing on the other side."

Farren frowned slightly, but as he saw the set of her shoulders he nodded, “Very well. Gerlinde, if you'd do the honors...reset us and let's see if we can get back to the Palace.”

Gerlinde cocked her head, a mysterious smile on her lips. She hesitated for a second while just staring at Farren, then she asked: "Didn't we just reset? Do we really need to do it again?"

"You should also be aware that Tempus is not with you anymore; it has moved further away," the voice said, this time addressing all of the Hunters. "As such there is no guarantee that you have the same protection you did before."

"I don't think we're in as much of a rush, now, eh? We got what we came for, we just need to check in with the Herald and... see if this was enough." Ophelia commented, beginning to meander towards the entrance to the city.

Farren paused, “Ah...best not to risk it then. Perhaps...seeking out Tempus again would be wise as a first order of business, then?” He glanced at Ophelia as she began to walk away. “I'd hate to be trapped in the city when the blood moon comes with no assurance of survival,” he added.

"Quite... but without Tempus' protection, I think we'd just... return to the Dream, no?" Ophelia replied, stopping and turning her head over her shoulder to address Farren. "All we're really doing is... checking in with the Herald, after all."

This change in the Nightmare... can you tell what it is? I... don't want to leave and have the Nightmare persist, and break my promise. she asked her sword, though she did not expect it to know--if it did, surely it would have told her when it observed the change.

"It seems the change may primarily be an increased attunement with the Waking World to create the doorway there," the voice offered its insight. "It does not seem unstable in the least; if anything, it feels stronger and more resilient than before, so it is highly doubtful that it will cease when you leave.

Another thing you should probably be aware of is that currently the connection between this Nightmare and the Waking World is rather... bespoke," the voice continued. "The doorway exists, but it is tenuous enough that time can pass here without passing there. Opening the door will likely make the connection much more concrete, and there is a high likelihood that the disconnect between the two passages of time will lessen substantially. But it will likely also remove your current limitations and restore your connection to the Dream."

Once again, Ophelia repeated the gist of the information for the others. "We simply haven't the time to spare in the Waking World to open the door yet... and with our protection uncertain, who knows? If any of you don't wish to risk it, you're welcome to stay here, but... I made a promise to the Herald that I intend to keep. I will go alone if I have to."

Right about then it was Farren's turn to hear a voice in his head, though once again it was likely close to the last one he would have wanted to hear. "Ah, there you are," the voice that could belong to the Herald just as easily as Harold said. Another second passed, and suddenly the Herald seemed to suddenly just step out from behind a tree about twenty meters away as if he had been hiding there all along. "Sorry it took so long, I didn't actually know where your cycle started so I had to look."

"Ah! How convenient. We normally start a little south of here--but my sword noticed this door, and... well. It leads back to the Waking World. Unfortunately, it seems to have had the side effect of strengthening this Nightmare more than helping to dissipate it... I'm sorry, I'm not sure what to do to convince Tempus to end it. That's what I tried before the last reset, but... this happened." Ophelia replied with a wide, bright smile. She had been a little startled, of course, but was earnestly glad to see the Herald--which was itself a complicated feeling she would have to examine later.

The Herald nodded his head as he approached them, though his black Pthumerian eyes were on the door. "That is how I am able to move more freely now. The Nightmare has grown stronger, and I am part of it, so I am less limited now than before. It's rather convenient."
He stopped when he was still around fifteen meters from the door and reluctantly turned from it to look at Ophelia. "Convincing Tempus was never an option; the only Great One that even has the capacity to be convinced of anything is the Golden One. No, the only way to end a Nightmare is to wake the dreamer. To end this, you'd have to defeat the Great Serpent."

Ophelia's smile diminished as the Herald explained, eventually ending with her mouth set into a grim line. "... Ah. I... feel rather conflicted about that. In our time, several Great Ones have died--truly died, and I would not want that for Tempus. Tempus was something of a guardian deity to me and my mentors, and I would not want for them to die permanently. I am given to understand that such a permanent death is only possible under very specific circumstances, though, so as long as they would not die permanently..." Ophelia mused, tilting her head slightly to the right as her brows furrowed in thought. She was sure the Herald would provide sufficient information to assuage her anxieties, and awaited his reply patiently.
The Herald actually laughed at this. "Believe me when I say that it is not so simple to destroy the god of time. Even among the Great Ones, the Great Serpent is the embodiment of eternity. Even if you did somehow kill it, it would reemerge from a forgotten past or a distant future."

"Ah, good. Even better: we know someone who lives to hunt Great Ones. Venara's successor, I suppose, which makes sense given what you told us about them. Do we have to fight them in the Nightmare, here, or in the Waking World?"

"Here, I am afraid," the Herald said after a couple of seconds to ponder the question. "As I said, the Great Serpent can easily arrive from a past or future; if you killed it outside here and the one you fight is from the future, it may be eons before it affects the Nightmare. If you fight it here, the effect is guaranteed to be immediate."

"That's fine. Perhaps we'll get some blood echoes for our trouble, hmm? We normally don't if we summon this friend of ours. Ah--I made rather a foolish misstep in entreating Tempus before Torquil had time to gather the rest of his belongings... he'll need to be properly equipped before we try to fight Tempus. Should we head into the city, or is that something you could help with?" Ophelia admitted sheepishly, shooting Torquil a quick apologetic glance.

Arching an eyebrow, the Herald glanced at Gerlinde and Farren - both of whom were still abundantly armed - and said: "Do you really need more weapons?"

"Yes." Ophelia replied simply. "We fight a horrifying bestiary of creatures, and weapons of the quality in this time are vanishingly rare to come by in our time. Every weapon is another advantage, and our situation demands we take all of them we can get."

Farren, for his part had had to stop himself from dragon his claws down his face. It took him the time that they’d been speaking to calm his breathing and return to a state closer to ‘in control’. He cleared his throat, not to get attention, but as part of shaking himself out of the fear/rage suffused fervor that having his mind intruded upon tended to cause.

He glanced between them and then looked to Torquil as he considered what gear he could offer. AFter a brief moment he drew one of his blessing blades off his person along with the haft at his back. “Blessing Blade is the closest I have to something you’d likely wield.” He said, offering Torquil the weapon for a moment before something occurred to him. He spun the weapon and then stabbed it blade first into the dirt. Farren knelt and murmured in that particular way of his, quietly attempting to call upon the Messengers. After all, the nature of the Nightmare had changed, so perhaps their summons might reach the little helpers.

After Torquil had gratefully accepted the Blessing Blade and had awkwardly combined its blade and haft into a glaive again, Farren would sadly find that the Messengers still did not respond.
"There is a faint response from the little ones," the voice told Farren and the others, "but from the other side of the door. If it was opened, you would likely be able to summon them freely."
"Little ones?" the Herald repeated curiously. "Are they the 'friend' you mentioned? Or... it's not this successor to Venara you mentioned, is it?"

"No, the little ones are tied to the Dream. They seem to help all Paleblood Hunters who wind up there--items can be stored with them, and they traverse the realms of Nightmare to provide useful information on things we show them. It has been rather frustrating to not have access to them here--we've a couple of useful things stashed away with them... but if we open the door, time will start passing in the Waking World again. That isn't exactly a luxury we can afford at the moment." Ophelia explained, her expression having returned to its usual smile.

The Herald slowly nodded his head, his mien growing serious. "So... who is this friend of yours, then? And how do you 'summon' them?"

"We know them as the Moonborn... or the Shopkeeper. They seem to have a number of different aspects. They gave us a bell that we can ring to summon them."

"'Moonborn'..." the Herald repeated, his brow lowering into a frown. "So it is the successor to the Moon Presence? A Great One?"

"Yes," Ophelia confirmed with a nod, "that's right. The present day is... a very strange time, I am beginning to understand."

"You have a bell that can summon a Great One..." The Herald shook his head incredulously. "Just what kind of unfathomable danger is it you need the Sealing Mask to stop when you have Great One at your beck and call?"

"An immortal, as I said. Whenever she's slain she simply... reforms. If it were as simple as just killing her it would be quite easy. And so long as she reforms, she continues her profane ritual."

"Reforms?" The Herald seemed surprised at the process being described like that. "That is... unusual for a human. Even the most powerful among the royal family simply don't die, but will take a long time to regenerate even if provided with the copious amounts of blood to do so." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Something like that can't be accomplished for free. There are certainly limitations; I'd guess that you would quickly weaken and destroy this enemy if you simply killed her repeatedly."

Ophelia considered the Herald's words pensively, pursing her lips as she pondered his proposition. "That is good to know... I suppose it's something we could try, but... having the Sealing Mask as an option as well helps. I suppose even getting the Sealing Mask on her would be difficult: she has the Eyes of Obcasus, and any who meet her gaze are... devoured. Utterly destroyed. If not for our own immortality, we'd already have fallen victim to it."

The Herald blinked. "You were consumed by the Eyes of Obcasus and survived?"

"Indeed. Not an experience I'd recommend. We simply reawaken in the Dream whenever we would die."
Farren shuddered as he recalled the experience, a hollow harrowed look lingering in his azure eyes for a brief time before he came entirely back to himself. “To...return to the topic of Tempus...while we fight it, how are we to stop it from expelling us from the nightmare...freezing us in time...or simply relocating us as it did during the loops?”

At Farren's question the Herald actually broke into a smile. "Ah, that's where I can be of assistance. I can -"

But the Herald's explanation of what he could do was abruptly cut off by a strange bird-like whistle as something relatively small darted through the air between them all in a blur, only to halt abruptly mid-air right in front of him. It appeared to be an elaborately decorated shortsword of some kind, with its most eye-catching feature being a handle that glittered as though strewn with a multitude of tiny diamonds. The sword just hovered there for a heartbeat, just wobbling slightly from side to side, before suddenly bursting into motion again, spinning around in a flash and darting back into the forest again at the speed of a bullet.

And while everyone was still trying to process that strange occurrence, the Herald fell to his knees, only for the jolt of his knees hitting the ground to cause enough of a tremor to make his head topple and drop to the ground, his neck completely severed.

Ophelia's reaction to the strange events unfurling before them was a flinch, immediately followed by her raising her sword into a combat ready stance and looking about the direction the attack had come from.

Can you tell what that was? Where it came from? she communed with her sword, all of her Hunter's instincts coming alive in the face of a threat with their uncertain protection.

Farren reacted quickly, snatching at the sword, but he wasn't fast enough, and it slid away before he could get any proper grip. He clenched his teeth...then the Herald fell to his knees...and his head fell to the earthen floor of the forest. He cursed, his eyes following the direction that the blade had moved as it vanished back into the forest. Farren gestured where it'd gone, catching Ophelia's eye as he did so. “Is that the same direction that your sword sensed Tempus?” He asked, his other hand on the grip of his Effigial Blade of Mercy.

The sword did indeed appear to have come from the west, which was the direction the voice had told Ophelia Tempus was in now.

Meanwhile the voice seemed uncharacteristically slow to respond to Ophelia's question, only to eventually tell her, its words oddly stilted: "It was... potential. Came from west. Not far. More potential. Waiting. Wants you to leave."

Ophelia repeated what her sword had said to Farren wordlessly, just in case it was some unforeseen human element, though her sword's sluggish reply gave her the impression that it was, in fact, the chronophage themselves. "Yes, west. I would guess... it was Tempus." she added, and waited for a few seconds to see if the Herald would simply respawn like he had before.

Farren nodded, “Well...we have no easy way to reset...and I imagine that the Serpent will block the Herald's return...or cut him off again if he tries to help us with our...chosen course.” Farren deliberately avoided mentioning 'killing' the Serpent, as it was clear enough that Tempus had grown wise to their intentions and, thus, had taken measures against them successfully carrying out their goal.

“We could try to reach him the mundane way again, but there's no telling if Tempus will complicate that path...and even should we make it...we'd have to fight our way out the city once the Blood Moon rises once more.” Farren flexed his taloned fingers, frustrated as for not the first time since they'd been transported to this nightmare he wished they had the means to change their runes. Perhaps with the Sun rune...the Herald might have at least contacted him, even if from afar....

"Well, we could change our runes. We would simply have to open the door... and that is what Tempus wants of us, I gather. To leave... If we open the door and restore our connection to the Dream, we will be assured of our immortality, gain access to the little ones, and more. But... time will start passing, and we only have a handful of hours at the most before Nayra completes her ritual. I think it best we at least attempt to fight Tempus without opening the door." Ophelia replied, brow furrowed. She leant against a nearby tree and slumped down its rough bark, eventually sitting on the floor, as she thought.

“Agreed,” he said simply in reply. He didn't want to risk opening the door until they truly had to.

"I vote we leave and come back later," Gerlinde declared, walking over to the beheaded corpse of the Herald to idly nudge it with the tip of her boot. "I don't like the idea of fighting anything while we aren't even certain we're immortal, let alone a Great One."
Slowly, once again speaking as though struggling to get the words out, the voice projected into all of their minds: "Yes... leave. You cannot win. Not against this. Let the Nightmare be. The memory cannot help you. Freezing you in time? Relocating you? Your fears betray your lack of insight. Those are parlor tricks. You face..." There was a brief pause, only for the next word the voice spoke to actually be many words at once, all spoken simultaneously so that they overlapped, but with one iteration booming louder than all the others: "Miracles/Disasters/Hope/Dread/Power/Weakness/Known/Unknown/Enemy/Friend/POTENTIAL."

Ophelia turned her gaze to Gerlinde as she spoke, clearly considering the wisdom of what she was saying--if they died permanently here Nayra's ritual would happen and the Waking World would be no more--but when the sluggish voice of her sword spoke to them in such a terrifying manner, a look of true dread crept over her features. A sickening lurch of cowardice took root in the innermost depths of her heart, like the presence of Phagus had evoked within her, and she immediately stood up and went to stand in front of the door. She did not reach out for it yet, waiting to observe the others' reactions and form a consensus, but her agreement with Gerlinde was obvious from her absolutely terrified body language and suddenly blank expression.
Farren's eyes widened slightly as the voice began to speak again, words dragged out and laggardly. A shiver of cold dread ran down his spine and then the final word...or words bombarded his mind all at once. He staggered back one, then two steps, eyes widening further in stunned, disturbed shock. [i]'It's...like it's possessed...or...' Farren glanced around, making sure nothing was nearby, that a threat was not imminent. Then he watched as Ophelia walked over to the door, making her stance clear.

“I...no, Gerlinde is right, that's...probably wise.” His voice was slightly shaky at the edges and he clearly looked disturbed. “I...hate to think of it...but, if this restores our access to the Dream, then...perhaps I can communicate with the Herald if...if I inscribe the Sun Rune on my mind. I...will just have to trust that the rest of you can restrain me if...if I become compromised as a result.”

"You don't have to tell me twice," Gerlinde exclaimed through her manic grin, covering the distance between herself and the door in a quickstep, seizing the doorknob and turning it.
Immediately, as soon as the doorknob was turned, the forest floor at the Hunter's feet seemed to abruptly become alive as many dozens upon dozens of Messengers eagerly burst from the ground, filling the air with their desperate moans as they reached their little immaterial hands out toward them. Several of them frantically raised a lantern out of the ground between them and gestured for the Hunters to make use of it.

"Yes. Leave," the voice growled viciously. "Let us have our Nightmare. You can never win. You cannot overcome potential."

Ophelia's fear melted away at the sight of the little ones, secure in the knowledge that they were once more tethered to the Dream, and her face then contorted into a scowl of righteous anger at the voice's provocation.

"Potential... is only what may be. You will remain potential forever, and this Nightmare will end. Mark my words. If you can hear me, Herald, we'll be back. I will free you from this Nightmare. I promise." she spoke into the air, well aware that the voice from her sword was simply being commandeered by something else--and she went to the lantern, ready to depart back to the Dream. She gave the others a look of steely resolve, a curt nod, and waited for them all to be ready.

Farren too felt a strange sense of relief at the sight of their bizarre little helpers, but more importantly...at the sight of the lantern. He went to it as well, “Brace, we know not what the Sun's influence in my and Torquil's blood will cause upon our return.” Then he moved to use the lantern once the others were also near at hand.