[h3]Ancient Yharnam, ancient Pthumeru[/h3]

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.

"[I]This may be a good time for another clarification on the inaccuracies of translating between English and Pthumerian,[/I]" the voice chimed in at this point. "[I]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.[/I]"

[i]Hm. An interesting point. What do you think is down there?[/i] 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.

"[I]What is down there does feel like the Interstice,[/I]" the voice agreed with Gerlinde. "[I]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.[/I]"

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 [i]did[/i] 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.

[i]Did I use it right? Effigial? What exactly does it mean? Perhaps let everyone know?[/i]

"[I]In this instance, it being 'effigial' means that it is an approximation created by the Nightmare,[/I]" the voice dutifully explained, projecting itself into the minds of all the Hunters present. "[I]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.[/I]" It paused as though thinking. "[I]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.[/I]"

"How interesting..." Ophelia mumbled to herself, quite pleased with the explanation. [i]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?[/i] she asked, eager to make use of this relic before it ceased to be.

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

[i]Can you tell which Great One this is connected to? I have my suspicions given its colour...[/i] 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.

"[I]That cannot be predicted easily,[/I]" the voice mused hesitantly. "[I]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.[/I]"

"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.

"[I]Apologies, that knowledge is not available,"[/I] the voice intoned once it had received the instruction from its wielder. "[I]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.[/I]"

"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.

[color=#007FFF][b]“Doubt it. Life’s never so convenient as that,”[/b][/color] Farren commented, otherwise having just listened to the exchange and worked through the explanations that Ophelia and her sword had provided. [color=#007FFF][b]“All that aside…do you think it wise to crack the remaining Reliquaries…given the Great Beast’s reaction?”[/b][/color]

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: "[I]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.[/I]"

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, [color=#007FFF][b]“Mmm, the key seems less to be a matter of time and more…well, taking a path where we can avoid threatsm”[/b][/color] 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. [color=#007FFF][b]“I suppose we could…attempt to wait it out here until the reset.”[/b][/color]

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..."

[color=#007FFF][b]“Recovering,”[/b][/color] 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. [color=#007FFF][b]“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.”[/b][/color] 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. [i]Bollocks,[/i] 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 [I]somewhere[/I], 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 [i]course[/i] 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: [i]he[/i] 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: [i]Shall we just reset this loop and try again? I fear we'll have to leave Torquil behind to make it in time otherwise...[/i]

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. [i]'The beginning...'[/i] 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.

[color=#007FFF][b]“...a reminder,”[/b][/color] he murmured, though only Riccas and Ophelia would be near enough to hear, [color=#007FFF][b]“...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.”[/b][/color]

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. 

[color=#007FFF][b]“But...yes, a reset, I think.”[/b][/color]
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: [i]Why? Of all things, why Gerlinde, why the sword?[/i] she queried, posing it to the voice that came from her sword as naturally as breathing.

"[I]This has been a very atypical realm of the Nightmare since the moment you got here,[/I]" the voice quickly replied. "[I]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.[/I]"

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. [i]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?[/i] 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.

"[I]It's possible, but unlikely,[/I]" the voice reasoned. "[I]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'.[/I]"

[i]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.[/i] Ophelia responded, still too enraptured by the phenomenon to trigger the reset herself.

"[I]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.[/I]"

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. "[I]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.[/I]"

[i]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.[/i] 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. [i]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?[/i] 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.

"[I]It's possible, but unlikely,[/I]" the voice reasoned. "[I]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'.[/I]"

[i]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.[/i] Ophelia responded, still too enraptured by the phenomenon to trigger the reset herself.

"[I]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.[/I]"

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. "[I]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.[/I]"

[i]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.[/i] Ophelia responded, glad to have a patient and extremely knowledgeable teacher that indulged her.

"[I]As are you,[/I]" the voice pointed out dispassionately. "[I]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...[/I]" The voice paused. "[I]Most of them were, at least.[/I]"

[i]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?[/i] 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.

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

"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."

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

"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 [i]could[/i] 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, [color=#007FFF][b]“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.”[/b][/color]

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][b]“Well…how ought we clear a path?”[/b][/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 [i]right[/i]. 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."

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

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: [i]Do you have any way to contact Arrayah?[/i]

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

"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.

"[I]As can I,[/I]" the voice translated for Riccas, who was still scanning the crowd, "[I]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]"

"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?"

"[I]Guard dog? Is that how they use Hunters in your time?[/I]" 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.
"[I]It should be noted that this may be another thing lost in translation,[/I]" the voice continued even though Riccas was not speaking anymore, which seemed to suggest that it was no longer translating. "[I]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.[/I]"

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.

"[I]Finally,[/I]" 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]I have looked forward to meeting you. Please enter and find me inside.[/I]"

The part of what happened that [I]would[/I] 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, [color=#007FFF][b]“There's a voice...”[/b][/color] he said, glancing around briefly before he sighed. [color=#007FFF][b]“...it spoke in my head when I drew out the medallion...”[/b][/color] he gritted his teeth, not liking that yet another influence had access to his mind.

[color=#007FFF][b]“We should go...while the path is open,”[/b][/color] 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.

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

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. 

[i]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?[/i] 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."

"[I]It is difficult to determine -[/I]", 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.

[color=#007FFF][b]“Certainly nothing good,”[/b][/color] 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 [I]you[/I], 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."

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

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

"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."

"[I]What?![/I]" Riccas exclaimed, drawing the small mace from its place on his hip. "[I]Where is Arrayah? If she's in trouble, I -[/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 -"
"[I]STOP IGNORING ME![/I]" 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. "[I]You will explain everything![/I]"

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.
[color=Silver]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.[/color]

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]... I wonder how he was able to disrupt us like that.[/i] 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.

[i]'Naturally,'[/i] 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.

[i]'Not a mark on him,'[/i] Farren mouthed, the words unvoiced. He swore under his breath, half from frustration and aborted satisfaction and half from a conflicted amusement riddled relief. [color=#007FFF][b]“Flighty bastard, aren't you?”[/b][/color]

Farren holstered his pistol. [color=#007FFF][b]“You said you believed this Nightmare can be ended now. Why? What inkling have you gained on account of our presence?”[/b][/color] His tone was gruff and his eyes slightly narrowed in suspicion as he addressed the mockery of a man.

[color=#007FFF][b]“Further, is access to the Queen possible? The boon of her blood, I imagine, would be exceptionally useful in the waking world.”[/b][/color]