Tuujaimaa

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

"I wish I was convinced." Ophelia replied sullenly, otherwise not adding very much to the discussion at all. They were both right, after a fashion, but their collective power and agency was very highly conditional--they had the power to make whatever moves on the proverbial board that they liked. They just couldn't see all of the board, nor intuit where their enemies would move their pieces--and thus it wasn't their power that bottlenecked them: it was assessing the strategy of where everyone else could move, and what everyone else wanted. Farren's rebellious streak was motivating, certainly, but more than that it was dangerous. Defiance... he didn't even know what he was defying. He'd felt the warping touch of Ego and thought himself learned in what that mysterious being wanted, but they knew virtually nothing of Ego's desires or abilities or plans. They had only a cryptic message and vague impressions, little tidbits given to them by the little ones--and while any information was better than none Ophelia knew they were still acting in the dark.

"What we are hasn't changed--we think, we feel, we judge, we act. Our means of action have expanded, but the other bits..." she began, but trailed off to imply the negative rather than stating it outright. She joined Gerlinde in gazing up at the moon and sighed wistfully, at least finding comfort in the light of Mother Moon and the gentle embrace of the Holy Moonlight Sword.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

"Could've been me. Just chance that Byrgenwerth found her first." Ophelia replied, lacking her usual animated musicality and instead being just... flat, dejected. She didn't break her gaze with the road, didn't adjust her pace, just... kept on as she'd kept on. For all the content that the words conveyed, she seemed strangely listless and unaffected by the whole thing as though dissociating from it... but to watch her walk and muse to herself it was clear to see that she was still herself and in control of her faculties. This was perhaps the first time any of them had seen her like this, though spells of depression had been increasingly common in the past few years as her body betrayed her and her circle of close friends grew ever smaller. She turned to gaze upon Farren and spared him only a blank look and a very wan smile indeed before she focused on the road ahead once more.

She'd snap out of it soon enough, she knew, as she always had. All things passed in the fullness of time... or when the demands of their new and dangerous world demanded it, she supposed. For this mercifully calm stretch of their journey there were no such burdens placed on her yet... though a part of her did remain tense and vigilant, and it was likely that part that Farren was observing in her. He was much the same, after all. She supposed that she didn't really begrudge him his past actions, not in the way that he might expect... he had his world, and it had shrunk to the point he'd done things that were desperate. That seemed to be the thread that connected everyone in Yharnam, those born here and those who came from afar--desperation clung to them all, sanguinary desires in a less-than-sanguine people soaking everything crimson ever since that damnable Blood Moon. She supposed they, the architects of that happening, were to blame more than anyone else--and that if any of them still lived, they had paid their prices... except Ego. Ego was their price to pay now, and she did think of Farren in a softer light when she considered that.

"But it wasn't you that made the choice, not really. They'd have found another if not you, stopped at nothing to get what they wanted. We're all just poppets, aren't we?"

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia listened to the back and forth and was suddenly overcome by an epiphany of her own as she considered all of the perspectives at play: it was truly only the luck of Byrgenwerth not being aware of her Paleblood or otherwise dissuaded by some hazy remnant of a distant past that it had been Gerlinde and not her. It could've been her, and Farren wouldn't have batted an eyelid then like he hadn't for her--or if he had, he'd given her over to the scholars there anyway. Condemned her, indirectly, to this madness... and thus equally willing to have done it to her. It almost scared her, though she wasn't scared of him--at least, not who he'd appeared to have become after his transformation. Gerlinde was truly and utterly mad, and Ophelia had begun to doubt whether she might have their best interests at heart. Well, that wasn't true, Ophelia could tell that Gerlinde was at least somewhat in it for herself and her novelty... but she wondered what their price was in Gerlinde's mind, and how readily she might offer them up as sacrifice if the opportunity arose.

It was an awful mess. The only one who seemed not to have a terribly complex past was Torquil, and even that was an assumption on their end. His silence left them to fill in their own blanks about who he was, and he seemed to be just as content to leave that portion of himself undelved as he was to follow along and do what everyone else was doing. Fellowship seemed a rather dark and distant prospect with their bonds apparently fraying at the edges, and Ophelia felt a sickening disinclination to do anything to stop it in that moment. She tried to look for the good, but... it had mostly been a mad scramble. Ophelia supposed that things were worth clinging on to in the long run - they would never be far from one another while linked to the Dream and contactable by the little ones, always a scrawled word and a nap away. But not now. For now, she stewed in her thoughts and nursed her fragile psyche as she jogged lightly--this was the first chance she'd ever gotten to try vigorous exercise for picking at the weft and weave of her mind.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

It was with an eerie stillness that Ophelia had gone about her business in the Dream before returning to the Waking World, her face mostly blank and expressionless as she went into the shop and retrieved another Bulward for Farren, as he'd asked. She immediately handed it off to the little ones, returned outside, and conferred with everyone just enough for them to agree on their plan and execute it. Ophelia didn't hand Bulwark off straight away, though, just giving Farren a slight smile and a nod as greeting as they went on their way. During the walk she mostly seemed to focus on navigating and getting lost in her thoughts--about how, when it came to it, the only things she really had left of either of the two lives she'd lived was knowledge and now the runebrand... and how when things had gotten tense and those two things had felt called into question she'd crumbled almost immediately. With how much they'd done and how much they'd learned it was easy to forget that they'd woken up transformed scarcely three hours ago--and she let some darkly prideful self-flagellating feelings go after examining them for what they were. She was permitted, she thought, to have those moments of personal crisis given the circumstances. There was no alternative: the fraying fabric of the life she'd had before the treatment was gone, and this was all she had now. She would have to forge herself a new identity to reconcile the parts of her that still ached with grief and loss, to find who she wanted to be and what she wanted to put herself to... to find whatever purpose had drawn her into the Dream in the first place, she supposed.

Farren's sudden line of inquiry broke her from her reverie, and she paid close attention to it. It all seemed rather ghastly, though Gerlinde was cheerful enough when recounting it that Ophelia reckoned that her suffering had been buried very deeply indeed to permit her such levity. The seeming lack of empathy did weigh on Ophelia's mind heavily, but it paled before the welcoming embrace of conviviality that only two practicioners of the arcane could have... and it was useful to have someone blindly attacking things with no regard for their safety, it turned out. The thing that intrigued her the most was why Farren had asked, though, and she waited diligently for his response to begin to piece it together in her mind before she opined verbally.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Deo’Irah

Irah nodded along to Sir Yanin and Caleb’s words, and was going to correct Yanin before Caleb beat her to it–and then again at Freagon’s words she nodded along. Once Kinder had been summoned into the makeshift body they’d made, Irah waited for them to finally face her and gave the iriao a small and sincere smile before speaking.

“Welcome back, Kinder. I’m sorry for earlier–we’re all on the same side now, though, trying to save the townsfolk. If you could go with the others, please make sure they’re all hale and whole.”” she near-whispered, before waiting for Caleb to summon Weriz into her. The way the Thalk summoned the angels was indeed very curious to her, though she still felt too duly chastised from earlier to attempt to read his soul and ponder over how the energy was manipulated.

Conversation with Weriz was much easier, and much safer, as the others could not speak with them… and Irah knew it best that they not get the opportunity to ask the swaigh too many questions. Not only would it likely unsettle them, it was too intimate to reveal to what were essentially still strangers. Her other secrets… those she could bear coming to light, because they were merely facts that were attached to her by association. Speaking with Weriz… well, there would be tales there of fates worse than death that need not come out of the shadows. All of her communication with the swaigh would be mental, and that brought her a certain sort of comfort.

“Welcome back to Reniam, Weriz. Of course, you’re right, but I only ever summon you when I’m doing something scary… though I’m not usually the one being scared. Oh, I know you act coyly, but there is much fear for us to sow here in the hearts of the deserving. Let us revel in their sweet agony together, my friend.”

For her part, Deo’Irah had very little indeed to actively do. She would simply try and keep pace with Lhirin and Freagon while they mowed down the unsuspecting and soon-to-be helpless bandits, knowing that barring perhaps literal divine intervention there was virtually no possibility of any of them suffering so much as a scratch. She and Lhirin had waded into combat many times before this and knew what to do to best protect one another, and though she longed to join in with her elementalism and show off too she truly hadn’t the energy to spare for vanity’s sake. It was enough for her to know that her angels would come in useful, enough to watch the faces of these deplorable people freeze in a grimace of terror and be trapped within the worst parts of themselves while their very essence dripped out onto the fields. The Wanderer would be busy here today indeed. Some part of her truly did regret that they had to die, knowing there was a better path where they instead devoted their lives to undoing the harm they’d done… but this was their choice, and not hers. She merely acted as the hand of fate, the consequences that followed their actions.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia let out a final shaky breath and gave a small smile to Torquil--who she recognised mostly by process of elimination--and sniffled loudly as she collected herself enough to be able to actually speak.

"Ah... I'm sorry," she began, pausing for a few seconds to try and find the right words. "He didn't deserve that, and... Gosh, why do I just push people away whenever they strike a nerve? He just... reminded me that they're really gone. Again. Two sets of parents lost... and it seems like I can't even keep friends close either. Why do we push people away when all we really want is to be close and to be loved? Ah, but here I am babbling away--I... I don't want Farren to come back, to change the Dream again, in case something happens. I..." she continued, the words spilling out nervously and frantically like a child being scolded and coming clean before trailing off to a reflective quietness.

She knelt down to beckon the little ones and once again had them retrieve a scroll for her, which she quickly wrote on with her outstretched finger and bade them send the message therein to Farren:

I'm sorry. Can we just... put this behind us? We mean to join you at the Workshop and travel down to the Industrial Ward, let us know when you're ready. We can walk separately if you feel like space is a good idea.

"Well, I've written him; let's see what he says."

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

With her wrath spent and only an aching void of loss and sadness left within her, Ophelia didn't even really hear or register any of Farren's words as hot and bitter tears cascaded down her face. Whatever she'd felt about Farren's outburst fell away beneath the sorrow, her world consumed by the torrent of feelings, and she merely slumped to the ground in front of the headstone openly weeping. It was true that she felt deeply and gravely insulted by Farren--for one who supposedly valued the sanctity of his own mind and the ability to make his own choices, it was an outrageous hypocrisy to prevent her from making her own choices with what to do with her mind... and she was incapable at that moment of looking at the situation logically to realise that those feelings were not, in fact, emblematic of reality.

As she heaved and sobbed and sniffled, gently cradling her blade, she turned her head up to look at the light of the full moon in the sky only to find that it was not there at all, only the dying rays of golden sun. It did nothing to allay her tears or slow her racing heartbeat, and there in that moment she felt closer than ever to being truly alone like she so desperately feared might happen to her after the Witches were gone. It took her a few moments to gather enough of her wits to even stand, and she did so with all the grace of a newborn foal--uncharacteristically stumbling over herself and taking a few attempts. She dried the tears from her face with her sleeve and finally turned back around to face everyone--having virtually no awareness of what had happened over the past few moments she was not sure who it was she'd turn around to see.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia only looked at Farren dumbfounded, as though profoundly struck, the only thing missing from her shocked and appalled expression an open mouth which was instead replaced by deeply pursed lips. Her knuckles began to grow white at how tightly she was holding the brand, and rather than move to visualise another rune and brand Farren with what he'd asked, she stowed it away on her person and met his gaze.

"My presumptions?" She started, still utterly incredulous, before her tone shifted to that same mocking and sarcastic one that Farren had used earlier with a hint of the teariness and woe that she now hadn't the mental space or energy to fend off. "No, of course, you're right. You are master of the universe and can ordain all its secrets yourself, can't you? Farren the Witch, with all his long years of study and rigour, has a mind of steel that nothing can breach. You seek the power of this brand, Farren, of the knowledge I've been generous enough and courteous enough to share with you? Fine. Go and find your own in Yahar'gul, go and learn your own runes. This one belongs to me, by right! By right not only as daughter of Witches, by right not only as true Paleblood, by right as the chosen of Mother Moon above! May you walk in the golden light of the Sun along your merry path and may it burn you as badly as it's already blinded you!" Ophelia retorted, utterly seething with a mixture of indignant rage, of soul-crushing sorrow, of wounded pride... and above it all, an inalienable sense of righteousness. She turned away from him in a mad huff, heading over towards the path with its many headstones and facing the one labelled 'Unseen'. She didn't make any moves to use it, but simply faced it and breathed shakily and fought back the tears of anger that were gathering in the corners of her eyes.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia found Farren's request odd--the Heir rune would certainly not make it easier for him to navigate the Nightmare, except in a terribly roundabout way in which he shifted his focus dramatically and suddenly to the Arcane. She didn't let the confusion show on her face, though, instead just smiling warmly and retrieving the brand to apply a rune to Farren--though as he held out his arm for her to brand him, it was not the Heir rune that she envisioned and began to apply but the Mask rune. This entire outburst reeked of the gilded paranoia and mind-shattering influence of Ego, and she needed him sharp and alert and himself while they planned--not some babbling, bumbling wretch whose fear blinded them to the Light.

"You need the Mask rune." Ophelia spoke, whisper-soft, and turned then to the Doll. "Yahar'gul, then... or Byrgenwerth, perhaps. Runesmith Caryll belonged to Byrgenwerth, but it was the initiates of the School of Mensis from which the Witches learned their most perverse and powerful secrets--though those secrets were always softened and tempered. Until..." Ophelia began, trailing off as she suddenly found herself on the verge of tears. The emotional charge of the exchange hadn't resolved, not really, and being made to think of her missing mentors... She took a shaky breath in through her nose and steeled herself.

"Let's go to the Black Workshop. I've Dietrich to find and you've Fulmen to hand over. Though I suppose it'll be a little while before Torquil's done doffing his armour and Gerlinde's done applying the gem to her weapon..." she said, suddenly shifting the topic over to their next course of action.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

"Then we never stood a chance anyway, Farren, don't you see? The Dream... it calls to us for a purpose, and shelters us until its objective has been accomplished. If this is what we are meant to do, we must face it at some point. There's much in the Waking World to occupy us yet, of course, but Ego's influence grows as we go about. We can't trust Harold, of course, but perhaps a conversation with him while we bear the Mask rune might reveal something? Perhaps he'll reveal nothing to us while he knows we have a tool in our arsenal to combat Ego's influence? There are so many possibilities, love, but none of them mean a damn thing if we don't know where we're going and what we're doing. We can delay, if that'd make you feel better, but... ah, surely you must miss the presence of the Mask rune? Would you like me to reapply it?" Ophelia replied, straining to keep herself focused between the twin lures of indignance and compassion. She understood Farren's apprehension completely, but so many had wandered the paths of Nightmare without purpose and gotten lost. How many versions of the Shopkeeper had it taken to get to where we were today? How many others had been beckoned here in ages long since gone?