Dark Jack

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

The Hunter's Dream

As the vision ended Torquil took a step away as well, only to immediately fall into a thoughtful silence that was outwardly no different than his usual taciturn demeanor. His mind wandered to some of the first thoughts he recalled having after awakening as a Hunter, back in the backroom of Rebirth's Rise when he had perused those barrels of weapons. How he had first considered a sword or a spear because he enjoyed the idea of himself as a knight, a symbol of heroism and an object of admiration. How he had later picked his previous garb because it had been the one that resembled the proverbial “shining armor” most out of the options, on top of the protection he had assumed it offered. And now here he was, clad in dark cloth and wearing a mask and hat that mostly hid his face, with an axe on his hip and an oversized hammer in his hands, likely the farthest he could ever come from that initial aspiration of his.
In contrast, the Dietrich he had witnessed in the memory had been everything Torquil had ever wanted to be: handsome, confident, competent, regal, elegant, powerful... Everyone loved Dietrich, and Dietrich appeared quite comfortable in his love for himself, once again contrasting Torquil's irrational self-hatred. And even Torquil, as much as he envied and resented Dietrich for all that he had, even Torquil could not help but admire the First Hunter. Which only made it worse.
Why? he thought grimly, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath of the fresh, cool and faintly floral air of the Hunter's Dream. And right there waiting for him were those brown eyes staring at him, accompanied by that feeling of disgust. It's not fair. Why does he get to be the hero? Why does he get everything, and I get nothing? No, less than nothing; it's not just that I don't love myself, I hate myself, I find myself disgusting, and I don't even know why. Are the gods truly this cruel? Would they deny me everything I want while showing me someone else who has it? If this is what they are... if this is what the world is... He clenched his jaw. No, I have Ophelia and Farren... and Gerlinde, I suppose. I am not alone. They like me, even if they don't admire me the way they do Dietrich. Ophelia is so concerned about the gods and the world, even though life has been cruel to her as well, so there must be some good there. Something worth protecting. There is hope. There must be. And even if there isn't... we will make it. We will be hope. Yes, that sounds nice. I will be a shining symbol. I can still be a hero. They will show me the way.

“He's something all right,” was the sum total of Gerlinde's reaction to the memory. She did not sound particularly impressed; if anything, she sounded a little bored.

Once Ophelia addressed their hosts in the Dream, the Shopkeeper seemed to listen with the same inscrutability as usual, whereas the doll mostly just seemed surprised, her glassy eyes wide open and her hands clasped over her stomach. They waited patiently for Ophelia to finish her report before responding.
“Congratulations on another fruitful expedition, good Hunters,” the doll said with bow. “It is good to hear that Eileen is safe and sound, and though it is very surprising to hear that Gehrman is alive it is still welcome news. The Shopkeeper holds no resentment for him; if anything, they are grateful for the guidance he offered.”
She glanced at the Shopkeeper for a second before turning back to Ophelia. “As for Isz, they do indeed know it mostly as a part of the Old Labyrinth. The Great Isz Chalice – which we have here in the Dream now – was the first to be retrieved from the dungeon, was what allowed Byrgenwerth to reach and have audience with the kin Great One Ebrietas, and which eventually gave rise to the Healing Church.” She paused a second as if listening. “We know little of it besides what the Shopkeeper observed while delving into it, but the Old Labyrinth bearing the aspect of Isz appears to be deeper into the Interstice than any other part of it; further from the Waking World and closer to the Nightmare. It is there most of the slumbering deep Great Ones rest, and most creatures that dwell there are their kin. It is a desperately dangerous place, good Hunter. You should be well-prepared if you intend to venture into those depths.”

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

The Hunter's Dream

With that the party used the lantern in the garden to return to the Hunter's Dream through the process they were all quite familiar with by now, and were met by the usual scenery and welcomed by the doll and the Shopkeeper. Nothing obvious even seemed to happen on account of Farren and Torquil arriving in the Dream this time, though both of them did feel weirdly sluggish, as if their minds and bodies responded just a little bit slower and with less precision than they had recently. But aside from that they did not have much business in the Dream this time... though it did occur to Ophelia that she could still feel the blood echoes she had saved clinging to her, and that there was still one memory left with the birdbath Messengers to buy.
Thus Ophelia called everyone over to the birdbath once more and, channeling her last blood echoes into allowing the little ones to materialize the skull, absorbed its insight and shared it with the rest of the party.

Memory of Desperation

Memory of desperation

A different hunt on a different night, in the depths of Old Yharnam...

“Retreat!” a man in a Hunter's garb called out, dragging a fellow in the same uniform with him through the ruined street, surrounded by rubble and lit by the flames of the pyres built at regular intervals where the corpses of dozens of beasts lay sizzling. Other Hunters around those two – some clad in the traditional Hunter's garb, others the uniform of the white church Hunters and a couple even wearing the colors of Executioners – seemed mostly undecided on what to do. Out of the two dozen Hunters gathered in this little cul-de-sac, six seemed to be moving back down the street along with the speaker with varying degrees of urgency. Another ten seemed to just be standing around in the flickering firelight, glancing around uncertainly, while the remaining eight charged forward, into what appeared to have once been a market hall of sorts. They ran past the bodies of five of their colleagues lying on the ground, two still trying to drag themselves to safety while the rest seemed to have grown still.
A horrid wail pierced the night from within before two of the Hunters that had just entered reemerged, flying backwards out of the double doors of the building before crashing to the ground, rolling another couple of meters before coming to a stop, clutching their bleeding chests and coughing. The sounds of combat could be heard as Hunters rushed to their wounded comrades to administer blood.
The shrieks of the beast was accompanied by screams of pain, fear and anger of human voices, the sound of furniture being smashed and footfalls of something very large moving very fast. The clattering of metal against stone, dull thuds of heavy objects hitting wood, one gunshot after another, all while the fiend's cries kept echoing throughout that entire part of the city.

A Hunter in an Executioner's garb stumbled out through the doors, the firelight glistening in the sweat upon his face and the blood soaking his clothes, his left hand covering his mouth in an effort to muffle what appeared to be a continuous coughing fit. The right sleeve of his coat had been ripped off at the shoulder, and an array of deep gashes down his upper arm regenerating at such a slow rate that it seemed he had already reached the limits of his powers of healing.
In a blur of motion a massive form darted from within the building, snatching up the Hunter as it passed before coming to a stop in the middle of the streets, its weakened prey clutched in the long, clawed fingers of its right hand. Its lithe, almost serpentine, long-limbed body was surrounded by a barely visible haze as transparent vapors continuously poured off its skin. Its tail whipping around in rage and anxious anticipation the creature reared its head before snapping its jaws closed around the left side of the Hunter's neck, burying its excessively long fangs deep in his flesh as it drank greedily of his blood. It did not release him until his body had gone limp, upon which it discarded its would-be bane with disinterest, now turning its blood-dripping, rag-clad face in the direction of the fearful Hunters in the street... all of which now turned and started running, desperate to escape this bloodthirsty thing.

A little further down the street, where the Hunter dragging his wounded partner was still slowly making his way away from danger, a single Hunter in the uniform of the church ran the opposite way of everyone else; toward the blood-starved beast rather than away from it.
“Rookie!” the one who had called for retreat shouted after the newcomer, terror plain on his face and in his voice. “Don't! We need more people! Better gear! It's too strong!”
The church Hunter stopped and looked over his shoulder at the speaker, his features mostly obscured by his hood, but a smile upon his face. His choice of weapons was unusual, to say the least; a small silver sword in either hand, the one in the left looking much older and battle-worn than the right, and a single scabbard for a holy blade on his back. He had no firearms, and nothing on him to allow the other small sword to transform.
“I know,” he replied calmly, his voice soft as velvet, his posture straight and proud. “The perfect chance to make a name for oneself, yes?”
“Wait –” the fleeing Hunter called again, but the church Hunter was already gone, sprinting straight ahead toward the rampaging beast at inhuman speeds, both swords at the ready.

Before the blood-starved beast even had a chance to react the Hunter had run all the way past it, dragging his two small swords across its torso as he passed before rushing through and putting some distance between himself and his opponent, holding his breath until he felt certain that he was outside the haze of vapor. The beast immediately turned to face him and, with another frenzied howl, charged.
The Hunter simply held his ground, waiting for the beast to reach him before quickstepping forward and to the beast's side at the last possible instant, slipping just under an outstretched arm that was moving to slash at him with its wicked, plague-infested claws. He stabbed at its abdomen twice in swift succession, once with either small sword, before quickstepping backward in anticipation of an attack that came just half a second later, its claws raking across the street in a shower of sparks as it tried to hit him again. While it was still recovering from its retaliation the Hunter stepped back in again, one sword slicing on the inside of its elbow while the other cut across its bicep just below its shoulder before darting away again, retreating before the Ashen Blood could take him completely.
Its wounds healed almost as fast as they were inflicted. The beast slammed its fists into the ground with an angry roar before bullrushing the Hunter again, only for him to evade its charge with yet another quickstep before closing in again with a swift pirouette, drawing both his swords, one after the other, across the beast's upper thigh.

The fight continued for nearly a minute like this, with the blood-starved beast growing more and more frenzied, causing it to move faster, strike wider and defy its fatigue with ever-growing rage. The Hunter kept avoiding its attacks in a way that seemed effortless, seemingly never losing composure, never even being touched by teeth or claw of his opponent, and never staying close enough to the beast to get infected with the plague permeating the air around it. Every time the beast attacked he moved in close again, getting two or three hits in with his dual swords, drawing blood before backing off to a distance again.
“What is this?” a nearby Hunter muttered incredulously as he watched the battle. More and more Hunters gathered in the shadows, initially intending to band together to slay the beast but soon finding themselves awestruck by the sight of this unassuming Hunter. “How much stamina does that guy have? He must have quickstepped twenty times! How can he keep going?”
“Isn't that one of the rookies?” a female Hunter remarked, equally dumbfounded by what she was seeing. “How is he already that good? I've never seen anything like this...”
The nameless Hunter smiled under his hood, calmly walking backwards to keep just out of range of his enemy as it flailed its arms at him in a desperate flurry, bits of stone and rubble being thrown through the air by its reckless assault.

Suddenly the Hunter raised both arms, placed the tips of both of his small swords on his shoulders and let them slide across and onto his back, leaving himself open as he kept walking at a measured pace to constantly remain just beyond the enraged monster's reach. With surprising ease he snapped the right, newer small sword into the scabbard on his back before slowly stretching his arms again, until just the tip of the naked small sword in his left hand rested on his shoulder, while the full-sized holy blade rested on his right one. His arms first raised high over his head before lowering to the sides, keeping the swords on his shoulders.
The other Hunters looked on, entranced by the sight; not only was this strange Hunter holding a holy blade in one hand, which was impressive in and by itself, but the theatrics of how he did this left a deep impression on everyone who saw it. The placement and movements of the swords on his back and shoulders, their silver edges gleaming in the firelight... It all worked together to make it look like this Hunter was donning a mismatched pair of shining wings.

For the first time the Hunter's posture changed from his straight, proud one to a lower, crouched stance, before he abruptly darted back into the beast's range, deftly weaving through its attacks to get right up against its vulnerable chest. His legs and right arm swelled with inhuman strength as the holy blade slid off his right shoulder, dropping low before being swung in an upward arc right into the beast, hitting it hard enough to actually throw it off its feet and send it sprawling onto its back.
A chorus of gasps resounded from the other Hunters as their champion immediately pursued his quarry, still calm and seemingly fearless, before thrusting his small sword into the creature's neck, piercing all the way through. He dodged out of the way in time to evade an avenging claw-swipe, but left his small sword embedded where it had struck.
Now gripping his holy blade with both hands the Hunter quickly moved back in and started to swing furiously at the beast, landing blow after blow, cutting deep and splashing the street in copious amounts of diseased blood. Seemingly no longer caring about the sickness in the air he simply kept up his barrage of sundering strikes, driving the blood-starved beast back without leaving it even a second to counterattack. The beast managed to claw him a couple of times during this focused offensive, but wherever its hands left tears in the Hunter's clothes, his skin was immediately drenched in beast-blood that mended his wounds while barely impacting his regenerative potential.
Delivering an especially mighty upward swing with the holy blade the man once again knocked the beast to the ground. Before it could get back up he thrust the giant blade into the creature's torso and, while the weakening beast thrashed in agony, seized the small sword he had left in its flesh with his left hand. Pulling both swords from where they were buried he finally retreated, once more wielding a giant blade in his right hand and a small one in his left, and looked at the beast expectantly.

It was clear that the blood-starved beast had been brought to the brink as it struggled to rise from its slumped position, its limbs trembling and hemorrhaging wounds failing to heal. Its throat no longer pierced by the small sword it uttered a whimper before limping in the Hunter's direction, even now still driven by hunger and instinct to attack.
As the creature reached for him with one hand, claws extended, the Hunter simply sidestepped the clumsy attack with a normal stride before driving the old sword in his left hand through its arm and into the ground below, pinning it to the spot. Weak, immobilized and obviously outmatched, the beast could only watch as the Hunter took half a step toward it, pirouetting as he approached, and smashed his holy blade directly into its head, cleaving horizontally through just above the jaw.
The monster quaked for just a second before collapsing on the spot, its lifeless limbs sprawling helplessly on the ground as the last vestiges of strength left it.

“I-impossible...” stuttered a Hunter nearby, dumbfounded by what he had just seen, while the slayer of the beast retrieved his weapons from the corpse. “That thing defeated fifteen Hunters, and that rookie managed to kill it on his own? There's no way...”
“He's only been a Hunter for a few days! How is he already...”
“I've never seen anything like that...”
“Why are you all still standing around?” the victorious Hunter called out merrily and calmly, not even sounding out of breath or in pain despite the powerful opponent he had just vanquished. “There are still plenty of beasts about. Or would you have me slay all of them myself?”
There was a moment of stunned silence, the other Hunters watching as the man returned the blade-scabbard to his back and casually walked away from the site of the battle.
“Don't get cocky, rookie!” one of them shouted angrily, shaking his weapon at him. “One kill doesn't make you better than us!”
“Then I suppose I will have to keep killing, will I not?” The rookie Hunter flashed the angry one a smile of blindingly white teeth as he swept back the hood of his church attire with a flourish, revealing his clean, golden-blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. Putting his left hand to the right side of his chest and throwing his right arm wide he bowed respectfully with mannerisms not of a commoner, soldier or cleric, but those of a nobleman.
“And my name is not 'rookie', friend. It is Dietrich.”

And the memory fades.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Secluded cabin, below the southern mountains, southeast of Yharnam

Ophelia turned to Moira at the Crow Hunter's words, expectantly looking at her as though she would have something to say. Laconic though Moira was, it seemed to Ophelia that the introductions should be served by her. If Moira had no inclination to do so Ophelia would make them herself, but she let her gaze linger on Moira for a long couple of seconds first.

Noticing Farren looking at Ophelia and Ophelia looking at her, Torquil staring fixedly at Crowmother as if scared to look away and Gerlinde being busy looking at everything but the Crow Hunter, with none of them seeming particularly inclined to speak first, Moira readily took the word. “Several reasons,” she told her, “but most of those are my own. The others are here mostly because I led them here. I thought they needed to meet you two.”
“Oh?” the Crow Hunter slowly walked toward them, navigating the dirt pathways between the gardens. “And what could a pack of hardy Hunters need from an old woman and a giant beast?”
“I didn't expect Crowmother to talk,” Moira corrected. “I meant you and the other Hunter living here.”
The Crow Hunter stopped walking instantly. “You're a sneaky one, aint ya? Not only did ya know where we were to lead everyone here, but ya must realize people aren't supposed to know there's two people here, let alone two Hunters. So...” With swift, fluid motion the Crow Hunter drew the shortsword at her side, which appeared to be a quite ordinary double-edged blade... only for her to grab the handle with both hands and, in a manipulation that would be very familiar to Farren, seemed to twist the weapon apart, splitting it into two single-edged shortswords, one in each hand. “...are we gonna have a problem?”
“I'd presume not,” Moira retorted, sounding completely calm and not at all intimidated. “These four are all Paleblood Hunters. I used to be one, too.”
Again the Crow Hunter stopped, having now crossed most of the way toward them. She turned her head, and though they could not see her face past her mask, it was probably safe to assume by the way she was facing that she was glancing at the little patch of flowers from the Dream. She looked back to them. “Four of them... who all still dream?”

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Secluded cabin, below the southern mountains, southeast of Yharnam

Crowmother's attention shifted swiftly to Ophelia when she spoke, and the great beast seemed to listen with rapt attention, its head tilting first one way then the other as it leaned onto its hands. The rocks groaned audibly under its sheer mass as it shifted forward, stretching its neck to get an even just slightly closer look.
A deep, warbling noise emanated from Crowmother's throat, and it seemed to take a moment for it to manage to find the words to speak: “I require no offerings. I am no lord, nor guardian deity. I am a beast. I smell you. Hunters. But different.” It warbled again. “Come! You have visitors!”
“I hear ya, I hear ya,” a woman's voice called from within the cabin. “Should've known something'd happen tonight. Felt it in my bones.”

There was a stirring of motion in the doorway, and a figure emerged with a visage that would be quite familiar to them: a female Hunter with the billowing feathered cloak and the plaguedoctor's mask being the most immediately recognizable elements of the Crowfeather set, though she did in fact wear it all. It was difficult to determine much about the appearance of the woman inside the uniform, but both her voice and the way she moved suggested that she was likely getting on in years, yet she also maintained a certain grace and strength that witnessed of a vitality that defied her age. While her hands were empty, it was clear once she stopped just outside the door and shook off her cape that she carried a shortsword on her left hip and a pistol on her right.
“Well now, hello there,” she called out to them from across the open space, past the little gardens. Several Messengers looked up and toward her curiously. “It's the first time we've gotten this many visitors since we settled here, eh? What madness brought you here on a Night of the Hunt, even with Crowmother keeping watch?”

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Below the southern mountains, southeast of Yharnam

The Hunters moved on in tight formation, darting from cover to cover and keeping as much to the shadows as possible as they crossed a relatively open expanse forward. Moira seemed to be leading them directly toward the spot where the great form of Crowmother loomed, its pale head occasionally sweeping from side to side as if gazing out over the landscape and scanning for threats. Their movements were made up of brief, desperate sprints interspersed with periods of patient sitting in place and waiting for the opportunity to move – when Crowmother looked away or a cloud passed in front of the moon – , which made progress quite slow. It took them nearly twenty minutes to cross just a little over a hundred meters to reach the foot of the mountain, where they finally arrived at what had appeared from a distance to be a simple large cluster of trees. As they reached the treeline, however, they soon discovered that to be something of an illusion.
In truth, what they had reached was a wide semicircle of tightly grouped hardwood trees, just two or three trees thick, beyond which it almost seemed that they stepped into another world entirely. Here in this isolated little space behind the thick trunks and dense canopies of the trees, nestled into a subtle recess into the foot of the mountain, it was actually easy to forget that they were only a matter of hundreds of meters from the city of Yharnam.
It looked almost downright idyllic: a dozen or so small gardens separated by narrow dirt paths, each growing its own kind of vegetable, fruit or berry. A small enclosure with a single cow, sleeping soundly. Another enclosure with a henhouse. And furthest back, past all these little domesticated bits of nature, sat a cozy little log cabin with a single shuttered window and an open door facing them, past which they could see the faint flicker of candlelight. And all of it was bathed in pure, peaceful moonlight... and not a single censer in sight, even on a Night of the Hunt.

What was perhaps particularly interesting to the Paleblood Hunters was one specific circular garden out of all them others, taking up a central place of pride in the clearing that happened to be almost directly between the Hunters and the cabin, was not growing anything of practical worth, but purely aesthetic flowers white flowers. But not just any flowers: the exact same kind they had seen several times before, as they were all over the Hunter's Dream. And standing perfectly in the middle of this little patch of flowers was the equally familiar sight of a post with an unlit lantern.
They would also unavoidably notice that scattered across the area, sitting among crops, flowers and weeds, crowding around the cow and peeking out of the henhouse, were Messengers. Little ones were all over this place just lounging around lazily... yet seemingly being aware enough to notice and watch their group's arrival.

But before any of them had much of a chance to react to this deeply unusual scene in any meaningful way, they would almost certainly be distracted by first a faint thud, then a louder one followed by a crashing boom as something huge bounded down the mountainside and directly toward them, only to suddenly come to a halt in the rocks directly above the cabin. Because here, finally, a mere forty meters or so away, the party got their first good look at Crowmother.
Though the creature staring at them from the rocks was huge – its posture was hunched over, but it looked to like it would be at least eighteen meters tall if it stood up straight – they realized up close that its body and limbs were actually quite long and thin. Rather than the birdlike wings it appeared to have had from a distance, they would realize that it was almost just long arms with enormous wing-like feathers growing from them; they were structured more like the wings of a bat than those of a bird, with bestial fingers adorned with long, murderous claws. These arms and its torso were both clad mostly in black feathers in varying sizes, though among the feathers they would also see fur, which became the dominant growth on its belly and legs. The legs were also disproportionally short for a creature of its size, and looked more like they belonged on a lycanthrope than any kind of avian.
By far the most shocking part of its appearance, however, was definitely its head. The front of its chest, its neck and its entire head lacked fur and feathers alike, being entirely bald, and was wrinkled and scarred. Dark, sunken eyes glared at them from above the monster's maw... for it was a maw, not a beak. Though it had looked like it from a distance and it did have a shape reminiscent of a beak, it had opened to reveal that that protrusion was merely a small adornment on its upper and lower lip, respectively. Its lower jaw looked to be unhinged like a snakes and opened impossibly wide to reveal jaws full of huge teeth like daggers, clearly meant only for killing.
Crowmother glared at them from its perch for a second... then it spoke, its voice harsh and loud, as inhuman vocal organs strained to form human speech:
“You have visitors.”

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Encountering Dietrich collab

Industrial Ward, Southeastern Yharnam

Ophelia's reaction upon seeing Dietrich would normally have been to smile brilliantly; something about him was piercingly effulgent, which coaxed forth a similar light from her--but not this time. Ophelia's face was uncharacteristically contorted into one of horror and concern, the kind one makes when one has assumed the worst and is yet to find out whether their fears have come true. Thanks to her now rather exceptional stamina her breathing was not even laboured, the shock of which failed to make an impact upon her in that moment, and she quickly asked Dietrich her most pressing question:
"Please tell me she's still alive?" she spoke, delivered tremblingly and pleadingly as though she could will it into existence by speaking it. She looked truly on the verge of tears, held back by the most gossamer veil of hope that perhaps she had not inadvertently caused such a thing to pass. It was her fault. She knew the effect Harold would have on the others and still brought them there anyway, still subjected them to Ego and allowed Harold to coax forth information that shouldn't have been his to act upon. The chain of consequence followed from her irresponsibility, and if something irreversible had happened... She did not think she would be able to forgive herself, not for a while.

Dietrich seemed a bit taken aback by the intensity of Ophelia's question, but also seemed too exhausted to react very strongly to it. "Who?"

"The Crowmother, she..." Ophelia replied, blinking twice and taking a measured breath in through her nose. "the situation may have been misrepresented, and..." she began, cutting herself off from waffling more before she got the answer.

Dietrich blinked. "Who's the Crowmother?"

Ophelia looked around. "What did you just fight? There... Harold... Wait, wait, there's something I need to do first. You caught up with Victor at the Workshop before leaving, yes?"

"Caught up? The only time I've spoken with Victor tonight was when he returned from being supposed to fetch you guys."

"Ah, never mind, it's besides the point. I mentioned to you Caryll Runes when we spoke before--and I've discovered one most serendipitously. I'd... like to give it to you, if you'd be willing to receive my boon?"

“Might help with the exhaustion,” Farren offered, lying so seamlessly that it sounded like a casual truth. For his part, Farren’s azure eyes were darted about briefly, then slowed to scan the area more thoroughly. He didn’t stand idle as Ophelia spoke with Dietrich though, instead he began to walked about the area where this battle had taken place, looking for more details. In a way…he was like a hunter or a ranger trying to read what had happened from the signs the conflict had left behind. His hand remained on the hilt of the True Blade of Mercy. All the while he kept everyone’s positions in mind and kept his senses primed for anything of note. This could turn ugly at any moment, especially if Dietrich became suspicious of them or refused to accept the rune.

There was a moment where Dietrich merely narrowed one eye but kept smiling blindingly, then the other eye narrowed, and finally his brow knotted in confusion as his smile somewhat faltered. He had little reason to be distrustful of Ophelia and knew practically nothing of the rest of them, but what had just happened had just been altogether too jarring for him to ignore.
Pausing to use his left hand to scrape as much blood off his face as possible, Dietrich shot a glance at Farren before turning back to Ophelia.
"I'm confused," he declared uncomfortably. "You were so concerned about whether this 'Crowmother' is still alive, but then you suddenly decide that asking about Victor is more urgent, and now you have a Caryll Rune you want to brand me with? I..."
He shook his head and heaved a sigh. "The beast I just fought was the single most dangerous thing I have ever faced, so you'll have to forgive me for being a little wearier than usual. I nearly died several times. But..." His eyes widened slightly and darted to look at one of the giant black feathers on the ground. "Ah. The beast is still alive, yes. It reduced me to the brink of death and then fled." He nodded his head to indicate a southeastern direction.
"Now..." he began with another deep sigh, "tell me about this rune. Why is it that important?"

Looking around, Farren would find that there was not much to learn from the battlefield. Unlike back at the square, where they had seen signs of two massive beasts clashing, all the damage here seemed to be caused by the same creature. The damage was quite spread out, though, with no two scars upon the terrain overlapping nor being too close to each other. In fact, most of the instances of damage seemed to be approximately five meters - just about one Hunter quickstep - from the another, as if the beast had been chasing around someone with a Hunter's agility. There was no body or bodyparts in sight.

Ophelia listened to Dietrich and gave him a weary nod and sigh in return. "A lot has happened. I trust you with the truth. We came across this square earlier after speaking with Moira, and interviewed some of the locals about that grisly scene in the square. We discovered that this beast--the Crowmother--protects the locals and asks only to be left alone, and for her flock to be watched over. We reported back to Vicar Harold and he must have then misunderstood or misrepresented the situation to you--the Crowmother is intelligent enough that we can't call her a beast. Her mind isn't lost to the Scourge, she's just... a person in a different form. She left you alive, praise be to Mother Moon. Harold sent us to Yahar'gul, and we encountered a similar situation there: we fought a darkbeast of horrifying strength, siphoning strength from another not-beast like the Crowmother, an intelligent one. She used to be a Saint for the old Healing Church, I gather, and they'd been torturing her to fuel their defences and project an illusion, as well as heal the darkbeast whenever it took damage. For it to happen once might be a coincidence I could dismiss, but for it to happen to both of us with such immediacy? And you remember that queer sensation we got while walking to the gardens of being watched? I've discovered what that is, too. The rune... will prevent unseen influences, and bolster your mind against intrusion. I gave a different rune to Victor and it ended up saving his life, I mentioned him in hopes that if you had met at the workshop he might have mentioned it so you could be assured of my good intentions. Forgive my doubt in your chivalry, dear, I've had a real shitter of a day. That doesn't even begin to explain everything, but the Rune is important first. Gosh, look at you, let me help..." Ophelia explained, trying her best to condense a lot of events into as short an explanation as she could manage and did her best to help Dietrich clean up, if he accepted.

Dietrich waved her off when she went to help him clean up. "It'll take much more than we can do here to get me presentable, I'm afraid. But you certainly sound as though you've had quite the night already." He scratched his head - his usually brilliantly golden-blonde hair currently dark and matted with blood and grime - and glanced first at Torquil and then at Gerlinde. Then he pointed to Farren. "So if what you're saying is true, he lied?"

"It seems that way to me. You've had a corker yourself, love, though I hope meeting me is as much a highlight as meeting you was for me." Ophelia spoke, though she turned to look at Farren too.

Farren finished his assessment as Ophelia conversed with the First Hunter, internally a bit annoyed that they were wasting precious time. They still didn’t know where Moira was…and now this Crowmother was likely injured. Injured beasts were far more dangerous than those that were hale and whole, because they could act far more erratically…and this was not just any beast, it was an intelligent one. That made it worse, insofar as he was concerned. Still, perhaps he should’ve just kept his mouth shut.
As Dietrich indirectly addressed Gale’s lie, he sighed a bit, standing up from where he’d been examining some of the feathers the Crowmother had dropped or shed during the fight. “It was in the interest of expediency…” he said frankly, frowning slightly, “…but that’s no excuse. My apologies,” Farren said, dipping his head in a gesture of apology and respect.
“I should have better trusted Ophelia’s impressions of you,” he said frankly, trying to be more adaptable. He knew that the man likely wouldn’t fully trust him at all—or at least until he proved he was worthy of it. A shame, but one that was his own fault. “Too much going on tonight…too many places we should be, not enough time to be in all of them.”
Farren shook his head slightly, not shying away from meeting Dietrich’s eyes in the least. He seemed genuinely apologetic, but he’d also seemed to be telling the truth earlier so…that probably didn’t account for much.

"Is that so?" Dietrich looked from Farren to Ophelia, no longer smiling. "And why is it so important and urgent that I receive this rune of yours?"

“There are a great many forces at play in the city and it is hard to know who to trust. The Rune she speaks of helps to ensure that whoever we work with…that their decisions are entirely their own,” Farren replied. There was a gruff, to the point quality to him as he spoke, one that Ophelia and Torquil—and Gerlinde as well by this point were quite familiar with, but that Dietrich was not just yet.

Ophelia found herself truly baffled as to why Farren would lie, equal parts confusion and anger dawning on her face as she found her mind slowing down enough to finally parse what exactly it was that just happened. "I have no idea why Farren lied to you, and such a stupid one at that? You've been acting up since the darkbeast, Farren, and I'm about running out of patience for it. The rune is, like I said, a ward against mental intrusion and influences that would act against you--we've reason to believe that a pernicious influence exists in the Grand Cathedral and has people acting strangely--maybe even Harold? He's definitely something to do with it. I... wanted to give you the rune so that if you had been affected you would know, and that you could act upon it with true agency. Even if nothing has taken root, I'd feel much better knowing that you were effectively immune to it--I wanted to give you the gift of surety it gave us."

Dietrich's eyes narrowed. "So you gave the Lord Vicar this rune already?"

"No, not yet. I have worries about how complicit he is, and... I trust you. I wanted to come to you with it first because I thought we felt like kindred spirits when we spoke earlier. I... I'm scared of whatever's happening there, Dietrich. That sensation like we were being watched, it... it came from something in there, something beyond normal sight. Don't... don't you find it strange that everyone calls Harold a 'nice old man'? It's always that phrase in particular, and it just... it scares me. I realise I'm asking a lot of trust, just... please? I will answer any questions you have as truthfully as I can." Ophelia replied, exasperated and upset and above all else feeling truly scared that the chance to make an ally who they could trust was slipping through their fingers. Ophelia felt very much like she desperately needed allies in the Waking World, not just their little crew of Palebloods, after recent events.

While Ophelia spoke, Dietrich stood from his piece of rubble and moved to stand behind his sword, putting it between himself and the party, and placed both hands on its crossguard. His stance was straight and firm, regal in spite of the state he was in, and his expression hardened.
He stared at Ophelia intently for a couple of seconds, but rather than address the matter at hand he then glanced around him suspiciously. "Why did you come here, to this gods forsaken ward?"

"For you. When Victor said we'd just missed you I feared the worst... I wanted to get to you before any of this happened, to stop an attack on the undeserving Crowmother. It also made sense to try and get you when you weren't at the White Workshop, so we were away from the presence there. As Paleblood Hunters we can interact with little creatures native to the Nightmare who help us with storing items and whatnot," Ophelia began, crouching slightly as she spoke to beckon forth the little ones with the Rosmarinus she'd handed to them for safekeeping. Assuming they came she'd grab the thing and show Dietrich, before handing it back off to them. "they can't manifest at the White Workshop, which is highly irregular - they're supposed to be able to manifest anywhere. The presence there, in the Grand Cathedral, stops them. Something very odd is happening, and meeting you here seemed to be a rare opportunity to talk away from its prying eyes that I couldn't simply pass up. If the rune doesn't do anything I will be happy to remove it or offer you something else that might help you--but I ask that you please trust me enough or indulge me enough to let me apply it, if only for a moment?" Ophelia continued, hoping the little display proved something about her words true in Dietrich's heart.

Dietrich shook his head incredulously. "Are you hearing yourself right now? You came here to stop me from killing what turned out to be the most vile beast I have ever laid eyes on, let alone faced - a beast that attacked me, not the other way around - and to inflict me with a Caryll Rune that you claim will alter my perception of reality. Claiming that it will protect me from some 'pernicious influence' that you even dare claim the Lord Vicar is complicit with, to the point where you would not offer this protection to him?"
His fingers curled around the crossguard of the sword. "I have served Vicar Harold faithfully for years as his First Hunter. He is a nice old man that we can trust... and you claim this is some manner of falsehood that your rune will dispel? How do you or I know whether your rune reveals the truth rather than veil it? Would you yourselves even know if the rune was deceiving you? It is not just you I am required to trust, Miss Ophelia, but also the eldritch powers you would visit upon me... and I find it much more likely that what you behold is the falsehood rather than the truth."
"We could just teach him the rune and lend him the runebrand to do it himself if he wants," Gerlinde offered with a shrug. "When we learn runes we also learn what they do."
Dietrich scoffed. "As if I would believe a word that comes out of your mouth, Gerlinde. If I was to believe one person here was delusional, it would be you."

Though he kept his mouth firmly shut due to the damage he'd clearly already done, Farren's jaw tensed at the man's words. Dietrich wasn't entirely wrong, but the man's words also spoke of a sort of subtle insidious arrogance that often remained entirely unnoticed by those it afflicted. It reeked of self-righteousness and presumption. All based on the so called 'undeniable fact' that the actions one had taken previously ensured that the actions they took henceforth must surely be the right ones.
Standing somewhat away from the others, Farren might be seen pinching at the bridge of his nose, massaging lightly as if he'd began to develop a headache.
Some part of him had the sneaking suspicion that somehow this would end up being 'entirely his fault'....

"She is correct, though, Dietrich. That is how the runes work. Would it put you at ease for me to apply the rune to myself first? For you to learn it so you can judge for yourself what we're saying? If there is a means of proving to you that I am telling the truth, I will gladly do it."

"How do you prove it to me? How do you even prove it to yourself?" Dietrich said sadly. "I'm sorry, but I cannot accept what you have told me without proof... and I am not convinced that the proof you offer would not merely afflict a deception upon me of which you are already victims."

"What if you had testimony from an outsider?" the voice of an unseen speaker abruptly asked, and a dark shadow - black as the night itself - detached itself from the gloom within the smog to the south of them, turning into a figure.
Dietrich's eyes widened as he turned toward the voice, recognizing the it just as the party would. "Mother Moira?!"
"You intuitively know what Caryll Runes do when you learn them," Moira assured him. "And they don't do anything until you memorize them with the runebrand. Learning it is safe."

"Moira! Mother Moon above, what serendipity. You should hear everything we've discovered too--would you like to be taught the rune?" Ophelia asked, equally shocked as Dietrich but significantly more relieved.

"Not serendipity. Inevitability." Moira walked up close enough that they could see her better, making it plainly obvious that she was unhurt, her garb undamaged and that she was still wielding her Impaler. "I was investigating the area. You knew this. Dietrich fought Crowmother. You could hear that fight from the other side of Yharnam. Of course I would come here." She paused. "And yes, teach me the rune. That will also help convince Dietrich."

Ophelia sighed and withdrew the runebrand, quickly configuring it and presenting the projection case to Moira. "The Mask rune," she started and moved over to Moira to teach her.
"Current testing suggests that application of the rune will break whatever influences already exist upon someone and the rune can then be removed. I know you prefer Metamorphosis, so let me know which you'd like to keep. The sigil of the Crowmother is also a Caryll Rune, did you know? The Deep Sea rune, that protects against ailments of the body like Ashen Blood or Frenzy. I wonder if that's why people can live here despite the pollution?" She added, finding herself speaking mostly out of not wanting there to be silence and her general eagerness to share.

Unsurprised by Dietrich's rejection of their proposal, Farren had briefly shuttered his gaze to nurse the growing headache behind his eyes. However, it seemed that prior events--in their way--had conspired to rescue them from their own missteps, a fact that he could not help but find mildly amusing. Of course, that did not keep him from finding Ophelia's 'approach' to be...rather heavy handed. His own contribution, of course, hadn't helped, but ultimately he was glad that things seemed to be moving in a direction other than the one the conversation had swiftly been turning to.
Much more subtly, Farren found his surprise fading quickly as Moira's words affirmed the reasoning that had been forming in his own mind before he'd even cemented them in place. It truly was a relief to see her...and furthermore, a relief that she had not returned to the White Church and been directed to some new goal by the foul Vicar. “It is good to see you well,” Farren said simply by way of greeting to the stalwart huntress. He gave her a respectful nod, then glanced back towards Dietrich, briefly assessing his reaction to the change caused by Moira's arrival.

As always it was difficult to discern much in the way of reaction from Moira due to her helmet visor obscuring her face, but she cooperated with Ophelia and learned the Mask Rune. "I once knew the Deep Sea Rune. Didn't remember that's what it looks like. It's been years. Curious." She turned to look at Dietrich. "I have learned the Mask Rune. They are telling the truth. Let's you see through illusion and resist compulsion. Very useful." She turned back to Ophelia. "More useful than just being more physically capable. Brand me."
Dietrich, meanwhile, simply watched and listened from a distance, though he seemed much less guarded than before.

Ophelia nodded and did so gladly, beckoning Dietrich as she did so to look at the runebrand. "The projection case here is what projects the rune, and the brand sears it into your mind with phantom pain. It does sting, rather, especially the first time--but you're no stranger to pain. This is what the Mask rune looks like," Ophelia spoke as she administered the rune to Moira, hoping to see some of the eagerness and curiosity that she'd witnessed earlier when speaking about her blade.

Dietrich seemed obviously curious, but also reluctant to indulge in that curiosity given their prior conversation. Yet as Ophelia showed Moira the projection case and touched the runebrand to her offered arm - prompting a small twitch of tension at contact - he could not help but come closer and lean in to better observe what was happening.
"Huh," Moira vocalized as the Mask Rune took effect. "Interesting." She turned to Dietrich. "The world looks the same. I don't feel any different. It is safe."
"I..." Dietrich said with a frown, but still hesitated. "I suppose... if you think it's so important..."

"A light as brilliant as yours should never be occluded." Ophelia smiled, feeling the first surge of relief and hope since their little spat in the dream. She dutifully performed the same service, making sure to give him warning of when the brand was about to touch him, and observed him carefully to see the results.

Dietrich received the Mask Rune with a twitch similar to the one Moira had had, and then proceeded to examine his arm for marks. "I, uh..." he began, halted, then finally concluded: "Yeah, Mother Moira was right. I don't feel any different either."

"When Torquil and Farren here met with Vicar Harold they were afflicted with a compulsion to think of him as a nice old man, and upon receiving the rune became aware of that fact and no longer subject to its influence. If you think about Vicar Harold is there something similar there?" Ophelia mused, briefly looking over to Farren, Torquil, and Gerlinde before moving her gaze back to Dietrich and Moira.

"I..." Dietrich stared off into the distance, his brow furrowing. "There was that, yes, but that wasn't all. I specifically had to think about him as a nice old man that I could trust. I... dear gods, I've blindly accepted everything he has ever told me. Oh... oh. Oh no." His pupils gradually shrank as he spoke until they were reduced to tiny black pinpricks amidst the pale blue iris. Finally he turned his head and his eyes focused on Ophelia. "He's not human."

Ophelia nodded grimly. "We thought as much. Now that your minds are your own I'll share everything we've discovered--there is a Great One by the name of Ego, who was roused after..." Ophelia began, before her attention was drawn to something else and she made a connection in her mind.

Right next to the little group, just a few meters away, they experienced a repeat of what had happened earlier in their run, as another golden tentacle suddenly burst out of the ground. It looked like the same tentacle, like before it emerged in a similar manner to how the Messengers did, and like before it shone its cone of golden light over all of them before vanishing as abruptly as it had arrived.
Dietrich's eyes widened in surprise, but true to his rank he showed no signs of fear. Both he had Moira immediately took a step back away from the disembodied appendage and readied their weapons, and both seemed to remain on guard even after it had left.

"I think saying his name might be a bad idea--that's him, the tentacle. That's what the sensation we got of being watched at the gardens was, it turns out. It was Gerlinde who first noticed, really--we're lucky to have her expertise with the Nightmare. Farren's the one with the most experience of his influence, though--do you want the Mask rune, Farren? It seemed to help before." Ophelia offered as explanation, turning to include Farren in the conversation. Whatever tension she'd had about his lie earlier seemed to have evaporated when Dietrich accepted the rune, though she looked very frazzled and tired still.

Relief began to truly take hold as things went well with Moira…and then Dietrich in kind. Farren nodded, finding it oddly satisfying—and ameliorating—as he watched Dietrich realize just how thoroughly the Vicar had wrapped him around his finger. He noted too that Ophelia seemed to actually begin to relax and even regain some of what he considered her usual vigor. It brought a smile to his features as he enjoyed a rare moment’s respite from the nigh constant tensions of the Night of the Hunt since they’d awoken into their new roles. Then both the senior hunters reacted to something, something he realized he couldn’t see. Farren’s smile vanished, his eyes narrowed, and his gaze pivoted to and through the spot they seemed to be directing their attention at.
Nothing.
A shiver ran through Farren and a familiar twitch worried the corner of his left eye. Almost instinctively, Farren bared his teeth, the hand that had been on his weapon just barely finding itself restrained by his better judgement before he drew it in earnest. His mind immediately fixated, thinking back mere moments, realizing immediately that Ophelia had said the dread bastard’s name.
He took a deep, stilling breath, and then released it, his stance easing up as well. “It was the Golden Bastard again…wasn’t it?” He gritted out, the tension that had left his body remaining quite present in his voice. He closed his eyes, Ophelia’s voice rolling over him, along with her offer. For a long handful of seconds, Farren’s brow was furrowed and he didn’t reply. Then, finally, he managed to shake himself from the hold of the aggrieved fury that had come over him.
“It…won’t help. Not with this, but perhaps for a moment it would be wise,” he said in reply, tension still present in his voice, though the words weren’t gritted out as they had been mere moments before. His eyes remained closed as he focused on getting the rushing hunger in his blood to calm itself to something more manageable.

"Whenever you're ready," Ophelia began, preparing the runebrand for Farren and performing the procedure as soon as he was ready. In the interim she turned back to Dietrich and Moira and took some more balancing and grounding breaths herself before she spoke again.
"I hadn't really considered what to do from here. I just... knew it was important to shield you both from its influence and share what we've found out. I fear I just lost us the element of surprise, and almost fumbled the bag besides, so perhaps I can try to give my mind a bit of a rest... Perhaps I'll sit down a bit." Ophelia smiled, letting herself sit and begin to really calm down. The Holy Moonlight Sword's light was always there, always waiting--she had only to let herself partake of it. She tilted her head back to look up at the moon and waited for the others to respond.

Farren indicated his readiness almost immediately, this time feeling almost nothing when she branded him. What little pain there was only served to ground him in the moment and in his body. He let himself remain in that moment for perhaps the whole of thirty seconds before he finally opened his azure eyes once more and nodded to Ophelia in a wordless thanks. “You can stow your weapons for now,” Farren said to Moira and Dietrich, “It’s unlikely to attack us here. Hard to say if it simply can’t…or if it simply chooses not to.”
He glanced to Dietrich, “Again, my apologies for the lie, First Hunter. Perhaps you see now why I tried to rush us to a point after you’d been brought into the protection of the Rune.”

"I can't say that I do," Dietich admitted solemnly. "Unless what you wanted from we was specifically to act against my Healing Church or Vicar Harold, I was entirely capable and willing to do it before. If anything, your 'protection' has exposed me to grave danger by drawing the veil from my eyes. I can't go back to the workshop again; I can't be the First Hunter anymore. My old life has been wiped away in an instant." He shook his head grimly. "Terrible things are going to happen because of this, to all of Yharnam."
"During my reconnaissance," Moira suddenly interjected, "I found something. Something the townsfolk told me about. The Crow Hunter." She looked at Ophelia and Farren in turn. "We should go. All of us. I think you should meet."

"I thought that if we could not operate in truth, we could not operate at all--that only from knowing could we act reasonably and intelligently. I fear I've been as manipulated as any of us, earnest and open as I am. Harold directed me to Yahar'gul, perhaps it was their intention to guide me to this tool. I received a message from them, you see, from the little ones--in Golden ink. It said..." Ophelia began:

Such insight you have obtained already, Ophelia. The Witches of Hemwick would be proud. As am I, of you and Farren both. You have both come so far in very little time. If you want to meet face to face, come to the Grand Cathedral. I will show you my Dream.

Golden Message

"So it wants us... and, well, it was your experiment. Or... Harold's? I don't think that you could have been attributed agency beneath the influence... You were the highest authority I could think of, and... I turned somewhat to the Shopkeeper, but as Moira will attest, they are.. limited in usefulness. Too violent. Yes, sorry Moira, you have a piece of the picture to show us. Gods, I talk too much." Ophelia spoke thoughtfully, managing to catch herself before she got too far into a ramble.

‘Is a life living beneath the inescapable thrall of another truly worth living?’ he didn’t say. Instead he nodded solemnly in reply to Dietrich’s words. He understood the man’s distress after all. In fact, he did not speak until Ophelia had entirely finished, which had given him ample time to think over his next words. First, he looked to Moira, seeming most interested in the new information she’d provided and the potential opportunity it presented. “The Crow Hunter, now that is rather interesting,” he commented, looking thoughtful for a moment before he looked to Dietrich, “My condolences for your loss. Truthfully though, going back still shrouded in the Bastard’s influence would have been a danger to the entire city, not to speak anything of what it might do to you if it discovered you were attempting subterfuge against it right beneath its…nose, if you will. That said…I agree with Moira, the Crow Hunter may have yet more intel for us. The more we know, the better informed our actions can be…the less guess work will be required for us to turn the tide in the city.”

"This is a danger to the entire city, too," Dietrich told Farren sadly. "I may be but one man, one Hunter, but I was the First Hunter, Dietrich of the Shining Wing. I was not only the foremost defender of Yharnam and her people, I was its symbol of peace and nobility." He sighed. "In truth, my loss doesn't trouble me nearly as much as the thought of what will happen to those who looked to me as a leader and an ideal. I was just a man before I came to Yharnam, and I am now just a man again; this is not new to me. I shall continue to do my very best to earn my name and reputation."
"You talk too much," Moira declared dispassionately. "Come. And try not to stand out. Crowmother is still around, and lives not far from the Crow Hunter. If she spots us, she will attack."

“Best we get moving then,” Farren said in response, managing to suppress all but the most subtle signs of laughter at her words. What Dietrich described, well...it was noble, perhaps his role had truly been essential in its way, but as one born of the common folk...there was always someone else ready to take one's place. They could only hope that whoever did so was at least some meaningful fraction as good at heart as Dietrich seemed to be.

Ophelia nodded along with Farren and moved to walk beside Dietrich, offering her free arm for him to take like old times if he wanted. She looked somewhat dimmed from her earlier surge of brightness, but clearly still much relieved for Dietrich's presence and even seeming to have gotten over her complicated feelings towards Farren. She habitually looked around for Gerlinde, too, knowing that chaos often followed the huntress when unattended.

Noticing Ophelia looking at her, Gerlinde sent her a mischievous grin before taking a breath and saying, loudly and clearly: "Ego!"
Once more, after just a second or two's delay, the familiar golden tentacle - which Farren could now actually see for the first time, though Torquil remained blind to it - shot out of the ground. Before it could even begin to sweep its light across them, Gerlinde spoke again: "Ego!"
Rather than its usual scanning cone of light, the tentacle turned its bulbuous tip toward Gerlinde and shone its light on her specifically. And she said: "Ego! Ego! Ego-Ego-Ego-Ego!"
The tentacle kept shining on her for another couple of seconds, then retracted again.

Ophelia raised an eyebrow at Gerlinde's antics, wondering just what she was going for with her little experiment. She half expected some attack, some attempt to sever the tentacle, but Gerlinde seemed happy enough with her results.
"A bold choice, dear, what did you seek to learn? Did you learn it? Would... you like the Mask rune before you try anything like that again?" Ophelia asked, thinking it better to engage with Gerlinde rather than simply try to chide her.

"Why? I can already see it," Gerlinde giggled. "It was half to test if it was actually reacting to the word 'Ego', and half to annoy him. Ego!"
She repeated the name since at this point there was once again a tentacle, reacting to the first mention, and once again its light seemed to focus entirely on her.
"Besides," she mused through her smile as the tentacle slithered back into the ground, "maybe if I say it enough he'll stop caring. 'The boy who cried wolf' and all that."

"What'd be more annoying than summoning the tentacles and letting him get zero read on you whatsoever?" Ophelia countered, a small but sly grin creeping across her face.

Gerlinde seemed to ponder for a second, but very quickly her eyes started to wander along with her attention. "We'll see. For now it sounds like we're going to see something new and interesting again."

The corner of Farren's eye twitched as he beheld the manifestation of Ego's attention rose from the ground. His eyes narrowed, as he wasn't surprised by its reaction or presence, having known now that the Golden Bastard responded whenever its name was uttered. He squared his jaw and kept from otherwise reacting as Gerlinde repeatedly invoked the so-called Great One's attention. Eventually, much to his relief, she stopped, her attention shifting elsewhere. Relaxing, Farren glanced to Moira, ready to follow her lead in the interest of meeting the Crow Hunter.
“Lead on then, we ought not to linger, what with the Crowmother's temperament,” Farren said, reaffirming the need for them to get moving.

Industrial Ward, Southeastern Yharnam

Guided by Moira, the group turned south and began delving into the smog-filled darkness of the Industrial Ward once more. Mercifully remaining unseen was a simple matter for the most part, as the obscuring mist and gloom filling the air did most of the work and all they had to do was avoid making loud noises or literally glowing. The fact that Dietrich had been attacked by Crowmother when he had, Moira pointed out in a hushed voice as they walked along, was likely due to his insistence on being brightly clad in white and silver and arriving on horseback; on foot, their little group could escape notice of the bestial guardian without too much trouble.

Aside from Crowmother herself, whom they saw nothing of for a time, the Industrial Ward was well-known to be free of beasts... and even if beasts had emerged, they would have been unlikely to pose much of a threat. With a band made up of four Paleblood Hunters and the two Hunters that were regarded as the most dangerous in Yharnam, very little in the world could pose much of a threat to them in a fair fight. Right now, they might realize, this little party of theirs might represent the single greatest concentration of power in the city... though with Ego watching, gaining these allies might also have made them a fearsome enemy.
How badly would the kin Great One take the loss of one of his most valuable pawns? How far would he go to exact his revenge? To punish them? To alleviate the threat they posed? The Paleblood Hunters were immortal, so surely all he could do to them would be to slow them down... but Dietrich and Moira were mortal, as were others they had met. Victor, last seen at the White Church Workshop. Seven, busily conducting his business in the Black Church Workshop. The lightbeast, creeping away to hide herself in Old Yharnam. Each of them were surely valuable allies in their own right, but how much did Ego know... and how willing was he to use those allies against them?
And all of that was without considering Vicar Harold's role in all of this, and ignoring the other threats hanging over Yharnam. The Followers in Yahar'gul, supposedly preparing some profane ritual; the Harrow somewhere unknown, who had tried to kidnap them when they had first awoken; the Fire Dancers, who were stifling the resources of the Healing Church and their ability to deal with the surge of beasts that came with the Night of the Hunt. Yharnam was in grave danger, and the Hunters had to ask themselves if it was truly wise to provoke other powerful forces while such abundant dangers still loomed? Especially if they still desired to explore other avenues to potentially learn more of the eldritch and grow their power, like exploring the Nightmare, going to Hemwick to find the shrine to their patron guardian, and seeking out the Cainhurst to gain access to the Old Labyrinth and search for the so-called other half of the Holy Moonlight Sword.
If it was not too late already, how much further could they push before they forced Ego's hand? They had started down a dangerous path, walking blindly toward a perilous abyss that might leave them no choice but to confront the Golden One himself.

After about fifteen minutes of lurking through the murk they would find that structures started getting more sparse, and as Moira had them turn eastward along a dirt path that could hardly be called a road, the smog began to abate as well. Creeping through the shadows cast by buildings, rocks and – for the first time on this night – trees. They had reached the outer limits of Yharnam and found that as they left the artifice of the city behind, they entered the domain of nature that had been all but subdued or erased in there. And before them, in a chain stretching from the west to the east, curving northward as it went, were the southern rocky mountains they had previously seen from a distance, now much closer. They loomed over them, bathed in the pale light of the full moon...
And there, just in the direction they were sneaking under Moira's guidance, they would see something halfway up the nearest mountain, still hundreds of meters away but visible due to its altitude and the moonlight: a figure whose shape looked entirely inhuman. A huddled mostly black shape among the gray rocks with a pale head that appeared to have a beak. It was difficult to tell details at this distance, let alone estimate the distance itself, but for them to be able to see as much as they could from this far away, it had to be huge.
Pausing their behind an outcropping of rock, Moira pointed the figure out for anyone who had not noticed it. “That is Crowmother,” she told them. “As far as I can tell, that is her roost. We have to be very careful from here onward.”

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Industrial Ward, Southeastern Yharnam

With Ophelia taking the lead and Farren, Gerlinde and Torquil following close behind, the party of Hunters sped up their pace and charged along the street into the obscuring, polluted streets of the Industrial Ward. The street was predictably empty just as it had been during their first visit there, and passed the lantern they had already lit there shortly before they reached the square that had been their end of their first excursion into the area without incident. They found this place mostly unchanged, too, with the carcasses of both the lesser scourge beasts and the cleric beast right where they had left them. The only real change, if they even noticed, seemed to be that their eyes had been removed, the cause of which was not at all hard to determine as they could plainly hear the sound of fleeing corvids partaking of the carrion as they approached.
As they passed the square they were met by the only other living creature they had seen since entering the Industrial Ward: a beautiful, graceful pure-white horse, galloping past them to escape northward, its eyes wild with fear. Not only were its hooves clad in horseshoes and its mane long and well-groomed, but the creature was also saddled and bridled and was clearly meant for being ridden.
Farren stopped just long enough to check the horse for anything useful, but would swiftly determine that it had no bags and nothing notable on it besides its saddle and bridle. That being said, it was a quite impressive saddle; pale, bleached leather stitched and decorated with silver, with marked with the two Caryll Runes that Ophelia would remember having seen on the banners in Dietrich's office.

They ran past this abandoned battlefield just as they heard another harrowing shriek, even louder than the first; so loud, in fact, that they would only hear the first couple of seconds of the cry before the sound of it faded... along with that of everything else, replaced by a single high-pitched tone. It only took their enhanced Hunter-bodies a second or so to regenerate their eardrums and restore their hearing, barely impacting their regenerative potential. But the fact that the beast's cries were this loud when they were still this far away would likely be quite alarming, given that it was not hard for most people to determine that sound decreased exponentially in volume over distance. They could only imagine how destructive these cries would be in close vicinity to the source.
They only had to run for about thirty seconds or so further south past the square with the cleric beast before they came upon a part of the street that bore the same marks of a battlefield... only even worse. Huge swathes of cobblestone had been torn up and scattered, enormous clawmarks were carved into the ground and the sides of buildings alike, and one of the structures at the side of the road even appeared to be partially collapsed, as if something colossal and extremely heavy had crashed into it. And all around among the destruction were spatters of blood and massive black feathers.

A little further, and came upon a haggard figure half-sitting on a large piece of rubble and half-leaning on his bloodstained unique, slender two-handed sword, its tip plunged into the ground, his left hand on its crossguard and his right on its pommel. He would be far from regal under all the gore and with how thoroughly his once-impressive garb had been shredded, but even so Ophelia in particular would certainly be able to easily recognize Dietrich of the Shining Wing.
Though he was practically covered in blood from head to toe, the man himself appeared to be unhurt at the moment, likely due to the pair of empty blood vials at his feet.
He looked up as they approached, his movements exhausted but wary, and cracked a smile as soon as he spotted Ophelia's easily recognizable form.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Eastern Central Yharnam - Collab

"Alone? No, love, I was planning to go with Gerlinde. If you'd rather come with instead I don't mind, but... something is going on with you, isn't it? You're... considering things, and something is haunting you. I see it in your eyes. Don't keep it to yourself--that's how it eats at you until nothing is left." Ophelia responded, casting the slightest of sidelong glances towards Farren as she finished before focusing on Torquil again.

Vigilant as ever, Farren caught her glance, but rather than protest or show any sign of irritation, Farren nodded. “She's right,” he said, glancing Torquil's way. “Believe me, suffering that sort of thing alone...it ruins you.” There was a haunted cast to his eyes and a warning in his voice as he said the words. It lasted for a few moments then faded as his attention shifted away. He was glad that Torquil had offered, for while he didn't want to go, he'd not have Ophelia go alone and while Gerlinde was certainly a companion...she wasn't exactly much of a grounding influence.

Torquil shrugged. "There's nothing much to tell, it's just... vague feelings and flashes of stuff I don't remember, and it got worse after that Frenzy-thing. Being all alone in a shack in the woods. Being scared and angry and hateful and disgusted at myself. Little pieces. I don't think the old me liked himself very much."

“And do you?” Farren asked idly, his gaze not even turning as he asked the question.

"We all have a shadow, dear. A version of ourselves that's all the worst parts, all the things we hate about ourselves... Mine is small and stupid and powerless, a lost and sickly orphan with neither wits or love. I love her now, though, because that's all she ever really wanted. The only antidote to hate is love." She added after Farren said his little piece. Hers was a more roundabout way of making it to the point, and perhaps simpler was better when dealing with Torquil, but she couldn't help her lack of brevity--it was just who she was.

Torquil just stared at the two of them while Ophelia spoke, all the while considering Farren's question. Thinking about his feelings. About those brown eyes.
"I don't think I like the old me very much either," he declared dispassionately. "But I like the new me. I'd rather not remember the old me and just keep doing what I've been doing."

"Clearly your old self isn't so easily forgotten, love. Ignoring the problem will only hurt you." Ophelia countered, giving Torquil's shoulder a gentle squeeze and offering him a smile.

Again he shrugged. "Can't forget what I've remembered, can't remember what I've forgotten. Not much I can do except ignore it."

“That sort of things has a way of coming back to bite you in the ass,” Farren said gruffly and though he only remembered fragments of his own past, the way he said it made it clear he spoke from experience.

"I could brew you a mushroom tea to induce visions for you to examine, but... perhaps leaving it for now is the best idea. Did you want to come and see Ego, Gerlinde? I assume so--and would appreciate your discerning eye. I miss things you don't, you miss things I don't. Together we should be able to make the visit count as much as possible so we don't have to go back."

"I would love to go see the golden boy himself," Gerlinde giggled. "That way I can finally skip the middle man and mock the god himself to his face."

"Hah, he's not prepared for you! That's two of us--it's up to you whether you'd rather come with or stay with Farren, Torquil."

"We'll see," Torquil sighed noncommittally. "First I guess we should keep going."

Farren grunted his agreement, clearly ready to get moving once more.

Traversing Eastern Yharnam

And so the party continued their journey southward and eastward, toward the oft-forgotten Industrial Ward in search of the First Hunter of the White Healing Church. They traversed the remainder of Central Yharnam, with its varied homes and storefronts in many shapes and sizes, each unique in its own way and all characterized by Gothic and Victorian architecture. Nearly every shutterless window was lit from the inside with the occasional shadow passing by and the sounds of life and even occasional festivities going on inside, past the safety of metal bars and lit censers. It was a reminder of another world, where the wealthier citizens of Yharnam could rest secure in the knowledge that the Healing Church and its hundreds of Hunters would preserve the city through the Night of the Hunt; a world where this was but another full moon, twenty-eight days after the last one and twenty-eight days before the next one. Where beasts, Hunters, battle and death belonged to a different world far removed from their own.
They jogged by in the sparse glow of lampposts that were being far outshined by the light of the pale full moon that crawled ever-higher into the sky, bathing the city in its luminescence. They passed over a dozen Hunters during their long trek, mostly clad in white but several also clad in black, most of which were patrolling the streets alone or in pairs accompanied by small groups of huntsmen. Though many of them seemed taken aback by the sight of Ophelia in her garb and with her obviously unusual weapon, none of them made any move to stop the travelers. They had other things to do.
For the Hunters and huntsmen that were not currently patrolling were busy building pyres and dragging the bodies of great furred beasts toward them to dispose of their remains. They passed dozens of such pyres, many lit and casting their ominous light onto the streets, and several already burned out; each adorned with the charred remains of at least one scourge beast, and many with more. Some beasts were simply tossed onto the fire to lay in the flames, while others – particularly larger beasts – were hoisted above the fire and tied to wooden crosses, their bloody carcasses filling the air with the smell of roasted flesh and burnt hair. During the entire journey, the party did not encounter a single living beast; for all the faults of the new Healing Church, it appeared that they were brutally effective at keeping the scourge at bay even on a Night of the Hunt.

They traveled onward, first passing into the eastern outskirts of Yharnam near where they had first awakened in Rebirth's Rise, where the individual and aesthetically pleasing style of Central Yharnam gave way to rows upon rows of nigh-identical residences, most of which stood dark and empty. They passed the spot where they had all first encountered Mother Moira, and this time both Ophelia and Farren were capable of seeing for themselves what had been pointed out to them by her: the Amygdala clinging to the cliff-face above them. It was no different than the ones Ophelia had seen entire swarms of in Yahar-gul, but this would be the first time Farren saw one properly. The abominable creature seemed to turn its head to watch them as they passed, but otherwise did nothing to help, hinder or commune with them; it simply sat there, spectating.

They continued south and encountered fewer and fewer Hunters and pyres alike, and eventually reached the smog-filled streets of the Industrial Ward. But soon before they would begin to enter the mist, the relative silence that dominated this part of the city was shattered by a shrill, deafeningly loud and utterly fearsome inhuman shriek from further south. Even at this distance the sound was enough to be physically painful to all of them, prompting Torquil to reflexively cover his ears, and it was quite obviously different from anything any of them had ever heard before; a wail that was much louder than that of the cleric beast they had heard shortly after awakening. A beast letting out all of its rage... and desperation.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Eastern Central Yharnam

"I'll put my faith in the Mask rune and let that be enough. You shouldn't come, dear, not until we have a plan. You seem shaken enough by what that horrid wraith did to you," Ophelia said.

Torquil listened to Ophelia and Farren, and his expression gradually turned to a frown as he weighed their words and tried to reconcile the conflicting sentiments in his heart. On one hand he really detested the idea of them splitting up again, which seemed to keep happening even though they had decided not to do that anymore... but on the other hand, it seemed that Farren was very determined in not wanting anything to do with Ego.
Part of him wanted to claim that he understood how Farren felt, but another part pointed out that he understood Farren's feelings even less than he did so many other things. Torquil had none of the traumas Farren seemed to have; all that haunted him about his past were some vague sourceless emotions, visions of a hovel in the forest and brown eyes. When he had come into contact with Vicar Harold he had barely felt anything at all, and when he donned the Mask Rune the only thing that changed was that he no longer thought of the vicar as a nice old man that he could trust. Unlike especially Farren, but to an extent Ophelia and Gerlinde as well, Torquil suspected that he was the one who feared the vicar and Ego the least. To him they were just powerful entities; anything about the nature of a Great One and the Nightmare and all that stuff went way over his head. God or not, if someone came at him Torquil would just start hitting it until it died... and if it came back like the Paleblood Hunters did, he would kill it again. He would put his hands around their throat and –
A brief wince passed over his face as those brown eyes flashed before his mind's eye again, as clear as if they were physically right in front of him. The rage, hatred and disgust filled his stomach again, so strong it almost made him nauseous.

“I don't like us splitting up,” he said after a brief few seconds of consideration, “and I like the idea of you going alone even less. Farren shouldn't need to go, but at least take Gerlinde or me.” He paused for just a second before adding: “Probably me.”

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Eastern Central Yharnam

“Yeah, I've been rampaging through Yharnam and the Nightmare for a week now and I never got a personal invitation from any god, let alone a golden Lord of Providence,” Gerlinde giggled, making it unclear whether she was truly offended or genuinely found the prospect amusing. “The Grand Cathedral, it says... that's where Harry-poo wanted us to go for 'all the truths' or whatever it was he said, so I guess both the master and minion want us to go there.”

Torquil just stared and listened for a while, frowning and squinting while clutching the firm handle of Fulmen tightly in his hands as he tried to wrap his mind around what was going on. All the talk about ascension and gods made him uncomfortable, and it did not make it any better that there was apparently an actual god talking to them. It felt too big, too complicated... way too much for him, or possibly any of them, to get involved with.
When Gerlinde had finished speaking, he pointed to the message from the Shopkeeper. “Maybe we should wait until we have a way to kill him? Just in case.”