Tuujaimaa

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia's first thoughts were those of victory, and of continuance of duty--and then relief at not feeling the queer sensation in her blood (she didn't know how Farren and Torquil stomached it)--both of which were exceedingly short-lived indeed. Shadow dawned across the peace of the Hunter's Dream as some force conspired to shroud the source of light in this place from them, and all of the colour and vibrancy in their surroundings seemed to drain away.

Then... the song. Whatever it was it keened in lilting, off-key melodies, and Ophelia barely heard more than two notes before she quickstepped immediately towards the little Workshop to stow the chalice away. She tried to summon her thoughts, to work out what had happened, but amidst the unnatural dampening of light and life she found her faculties failing her and sought only to protect their prize before some other horrible creature could invade their sanctum and potentially ruin everything they had worked for. Fear was a woefully insufficient word to describe what she felt in that moment, for it was as though nothing in the world was right or ever would be again. As though the very essence of hope had been extinguished, and all that was left to them was the bitter reality of their ultimately futile efforts... that all things would suffer as a gilded sun dawned and the world fell under the thrall of their greatest enemy. Visions of that awful crab-like device upon Victor's head assaulted Ophelia's mind, as though His tendrils could insert themselves into her very brain and steal her away too... and as she finished her quickstep, she sprinted as quickly as she could make her body move into the Workshop both to stow away her prize and get away from whatever the horrible thing that had invaded their Dream was.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia nodded at Farren's words, but took especial notice of him--of his eyes, his tears, and of a familiar guilt she could see beneath it all. She turned to him after he'd finished speaking, seemingly able to sense the unspoken thing he daren't let pass his lips for fear that might make it true. She walked over to him and pulled him close, holding him, and embracing him tightly and fiercely with her free arm as she buried her head in the nook of his shoulder for a moment in commiseration, in truly shared pain.

"Victor... they trapped him in this Golden armour, took control of his body. I think they tortured him... I think... he probably didn't turn on us, and they stole him away instead. The doll, those corpses... it wasn't your fault. We agreed this, the Moonborn assented in their silence. It was him, all him." she whispered into his ear amidst sniffles and sobs of rage and sadness both. She didn't want him to feel alone in this, knew that it would serve no purpose but the bastard's, and... Farren was a good man. Not before, no, but was she good before either? Were any of them? It didn't matter--he'd chosen them, to stick by them, to share in their trials and tribulations. The world was huge and they had the power to hop across it in mere moments; solitude was an easy thing to come by, if one wanted it.

"We'll get her back. We will. We will." she affirmed before she released him, gingerly took the sack from him with a knowing nod (assuming his assent) and moved to grab Gerlinde before heading to the Vileblood Queen's Chamber.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

The soothing flow of the whispers into her mind helped anchor Ophelia in this otherwise fraught moment, and she looked up at the Shopkeeper grimly once again.

"Prepare for a chalice ritual. If anything will know how to fix her, it will be my blade made whole." Ophelia said flatly, climbing to her feet as she did so, and storming out of the workshop as quickly as she could muster with no heed for whether the Shopkeeper acknowledged her or not. Once outside she turned to Farren, and Torquil nearby, and looked over to find Gerlinde approaching the patches of lingering flame before shouting out.

"The Doll is... dead? Inanimate? We need to get the false Paleblood out, now. Castle Cainhurst. Annalise knows blood well. She will keep it safe. We will get the chalice. We will restore my blade, and maybe it can help us get her back. Now." she spoke, though much like Farren earlier her voice was flat and terse, not to mention hoarse from her screaming... though it was still imbued with an impressive amount of urgency. For all that Ophelia liked to take charge normally, something was different now--they were no longer safe here in their Dream, able to take things at their leisure, and with that safety gone so was an element of Ophelia's geniality. They had lost something truly, truly precious and she would do anything to get it back, no matter the cost, no matter how much she had to trample on any of her fellows' feelings. She was done losing people to the influence of gold, done letting this bastard toy with them and treat people like playthings to steal something that was never his... and her tone very much reflected her new warpath.

It struck Ophelia in that moment that if introducing false Paleblood into the Dream had allowed the usurper to gain more influence over it and disrupt its connection to its owner, Flora, perhaps obtaining more of Flora's blood or essence or something might tip the connection back in its favour.

"Do you know where Flora is?" she asked of the whispers.

"Elsewhere." they replied.

"Somewhere we can get to?"

"It does not know. It does not know where Flora is... just that she is not in this Nightmare... nor any realm you have brought it."

That reply scuppered her idea of attempting to find Flora and introduce more of her essence to the Dream to set it to rights--at least for the moment, until they might get a lead. Perhaps it was time to return to Yahar'gul, and learn the methodology of their ritual. They beckoned a different Great One entirely, one not even of the same type as Flora, but perhaps what they were doing could be repurposed...

"What can you tell me of the false Paleblood?" she whispered again.

"It feels similar to Paleblood... but different. It tries to be Paleblood... but is imperfect... destabilizes the Dream. Not much... only temporarily... but enough to hinder." came the reply.

"Could the ritual at Yahar'gul be used to beckon something else? Flora?"

"The ritual... no. Not Flora. Slumbering Great One. Deep in the Cosmos. Powerful."

Throughout all of this, Ophelia simply stood waiting for the others.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

When Farren came into sight, Ophelia did not really know how to feel. Tense hope and barely held back fury (though not at Farren, of course) clashed in her mind's eye, but when she saw his face and heard an uncharacteristic choking sob... she knew something was very deeply wrong. Whatever else might have been happening, to see one as often aloof and unfazed as Farren like this meant something portentous and disastrous had happened--something she immediately realised was connected to the tremor she'd felt, that they must have been feeling this entire time. The False Paleblood, it must have been. She barely even registered Farren's words, only snapping back to attention at 'Amaris', the pet name he'd given the doll, and she paid no further attention to him as she moved inward to the workshop as he implored her.

Seeing the doll lying there, inanimate, on the floor broke something inside of her. She whimpered and began to cry once more, falling to her knees, mouth agape and eyes wildly looking about. She daren't even touch the doll, uncertain of how any of this had happened and not wishing to somehow make things worse, and then looked up at the mute and sullen Shopkeeper. Then back down. Then up again. It was him, the Lord of Providence had done this to her somehow. He'd taken another of their friends and allies, someone truly and wholly innocent who only ever tried to help. She screamed and let out all of her sorrow and fury and pain, unable to keep it within herself any longer without falling apart, and fell to her knees. She grasped the Holy Moonlight Sword tightly, knuckles turning white, as she calmed herself down enough to try and reach out to it.

Mother Moon... My Guiding Moonlight... Please, tell me, what has happened here? How can we fix it? Please... please..." she thought, burying her face into the gleaming blade and closing her eyes. The position looked something oddly like prayer, though she quickly collapsed from being on her knees and simply sat on the floor, holding the blade just barely aloft, waiting. Hoping beyond hope.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia's pace quickened from simple storming off to a brisk jog to an all-out sprint in very rapid succession, thoughts of vengeance and dismay and guilt eating away at her. Indirectly they'd been the cause of... whatever happened to Victor, and she'd managed to catch a glimpse of him coming to awareness for only a brief second before slipping back beneath his gilded prison. That gave her hope for restoration, at least, but she felt deeply personally responsible for something she truly could not abide--to see others kept under thrall, robbed of themselves. Especially in the service of their enemy. She'd done everything she could to free Dietrich, perhaps acted hastily in hindsight, only for the golden bastard to take another, and it would not stop there.

When her much extended stamina gave out she slipped back into a gentle jog to recover, wiping away blinding hot tears with the sleeve of her right arm, and repeated the process again as her thoughts became ever-increasingly feverish. They eventually returned to the lantern at Oedon Chapel, where she had expected to see Farren. She found it odd that he hadn't waited for them, but supposed it was simply a matter of eagerness that she couldn't fault him for--it had been the plan to return everything to the Dream, though she would've written a message to the Shopkeeper first to ensure everything was ready for their volatile and strange cargo... well, normally she would have. Given what she'd just seen she wasn't sure what she'd have done if they'd had the blood and all been together. She instead just sighed, and longing for some semblance of comfort, withdrew the runebrand and gave herself the Guidance rune once more--it was the only thing she didn't like about the Mask rune, to have such a powerful wall between her and the soothing light of her blessed blade. Once it returned to her in force she felt much better, a subtle undercurrent of terror that had been brewing within her washed away by glittering moonlight.

Returning to the Dream, Ophelia felt something she had never felt before--a keening, warbling tremor through her very blood... and then suddenly she felt a bottle, heavy with fluid, in the crook of her arm. She blinked, and then again, and then despite the comforting presence of the Holy Moonlight Sword a terrible panic came over her--something was horribly wrong. She could see the smouldering corpses of... something in the distance, and a patch of still-lingering flames that suggested cannon fire or a molotov cocktail or something like that, and none of the others could be seen.

"... Farren?! Farren?!" she shouted, her normally lilting and musical voice suddenly shrill and shaky, and she ran up towards the only place she thought they might be if she couldn't see them--towards the little workshop.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia wore a neutral expression until the cleric and Harold returned with someone that, from a distance, seemed completely new. It was only as they got closer and closer that a pit began to form in Ophelia's stomach and her breathing intensified by an order of magnitude. At first she wondered what poor soul was unlucky enough to have endured a gilded transformation, only for it to dawn on her as they got closer precisely who it was, and things changed very rapidly from there. That they had done this to someone who'd only followed their orders and done their best, someone that Ophelia had grown fond of and bestowed a boon upon, made her absolutely furious. She supposed it was obvious, really, that something like this was in their power and purview to do--but that they'd chosen to do it to poor Victor... It did not bode well for Harold, whatever he was, that he had felt emboldened to taunt them like this.

There were many things that Ophelia wished to say to Harold in that moment, all of them fighting one another for the chance to pass her lips first, but she simply swallowed instead and made towards the place from whence they'd come. When a bit of distance was between her (and presumably Gerlinde and Torquil, if they followed her) and the Vicar and she was within distance to have a clear shot at the exit, she stopped and turned her head over her shoulder to face him. Her lip quivered as she held back a barrage of vitriol and she chose her words carefully.

"Whatever happens now, you have brought upon yourself. There is no force upon the face of this world or any other that will forestall the reckoning you have now set in motion. Make your peace, for you will not survive the night." she all but spat, before continuing to storm out of there. Part of her hoped that they would attack--that he'd set not-Victor upon them--if only so that they could be forewarned about what the gold-clad monstrosity could do... but she didn't imagine they'd take kindly to her threat in any case, and both hands rested upon the hilt of her blade. Farren was gone, absconded with their prize, and dying would only spare them some walking--and one could be certain that they'd take out plenty of the assembled chaff here with them. Abandoning all pretense of civility suited Ophelia just fine, she supposed, for she'd been ready to drive her blade through Harold's inhuman chest the moment his master had dared take the Witches' name in vain to manipulate her.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

It struck Ophelia how the cleric had notably not mentioned the part of her retort where she had mentioned that they were doing the Lord Vicar's work, and that he clearly had no intention of ever simply letting them pass. She weighed up their options in that split second: there was every chance that going to get permission from Harold would work out in their favour--they could offer a false report on Crowmother, and perhaps get permission to move about freely too. There was also every chance that it wouldn't, and she would not see them squander one success for a miniscule chance at another. They could forfeit this battle to win the war and let their enemies be none the wiser: this was a war of information and subtlety, not might.

"Asking the Lord Vicar seems a wonderful idea. I trust that he'll set everything right--he's such a nice old man, isn't he?" Ophelia spoke, her eyes sparkling with thoughts unspoken as she looked around. "I'm truthfully very glad that you've such a mind for security--it's a dangerous night, and we all must play our part to see it through. Shall we wait here?" she added, inviting the cleric to go ahead. Once the cleric left and was out of earshot, Ophelia surveyed the people about her and saw that even should she speak as softly as possible there was every chance that they'd hear... and that would scupper their plans of subtlety. She looked over at Farren and gave him a pointed stare as her smile dropped and her eyes very briefly flicked over to the bag--her head was turned such that any onlookers wouldn't be in a position to see it, so she felt safe doing that much, at least, and waited to see if a familiar glint of recognition could be glanced in Farren's eyes.

Farren watched the exchange with what appeared to be bored disinterest and faint annoyance. When the cleric told those about to watch them and left to ask the Vicar, Farren glanced to Ophelia and he knew, before she’d even turned what the best course of action was. It was time to leave. So, lightly nudging her shoulder as he passed her—before her eyes even fully landed on his features—Farren moved with an air of dismissive unflappable swagger. “Tell the Lord Vicar I wish him a fine night,” Farren managed to say, the words coming out dismissive and bored rather than fulled with righteous fury. He’d been in a good mood before this and while their interaction with the cleric was rather annoying, this didn’t sour his mood enough to make it impossible to lie as easily as he breathed.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia's outward appearance changed not a jot in response to the blatant disrespect of this nobody cleric, though internally she began to roil and seethe. The nerve, the unabashed gall, of this random lowlife to call them freaks! She didn't let her smile falter for even a second, and took the opportunity that Gerlinde had afforded them to inhale a steadying breath before she deigned to reply.

"We were made Hunters by the White Church, and we labour at the Lord Vicar's command. At the behest of the First Hunter. We are members of the White Church, my dear, in all of the ways that matter. In fact, it would be good to have a guide--would you mind showing us around the workshop? I, for one, would feel much better knowing that we had such an attentive and eagle-eyed chaperone for this labyrinthine place." Ophelia smiled, trying her best to take advantage of Gerlinde's distraction and reframe the conversation in such a way that their permission was simply implied. It helped that what she said was technically true, in the right light--she would not push back any further, though, and if they encountered further resistance Ophelia would simply comply. It was better that they came out with one prize than none at all, and she did figure that Dietrich would need blood vials--hell, it couldn't hurt to hand some off to Gehrman and Eileen too.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia marvelled at the sights of Oedon Chapel, having passed by the building some small number of times that she could recall but never having really paid the interior much notice: it was a truly magnificent building, and the architecture alone seemed like it could provide a lifetime's worth of study and mystery. She did her very best to push all of that down, though, in favour of sheer practicality.

When they arrived at the White Church, Ophelia was all business--she did her very best to simply look as though she had every right in the world to go where she was going and paid only dim attention to the relative positions of the other assembled Hunters, clerics, and other workers. She felt comfortable leaving the situational awareness to Farren--whatever the state of their relationship (which was entirely repaired in her mind) he'd consistently proven his value in that aspect of dealing with other people in the world, and she trusted him implicitly. Should things go south, she knew she could rely on him to act quickly, intelligently, and decisively. Retrieving the supplies from Dietrich's office went without a hitch, though Ophelia did pay especial attention to the Caryll runes and made a mental note. She'd normally have handed the box off to the little ones, or at least scribed a note to the Shopkeeper, but that was not possible in their current location... so off they went to the Workshop proper.

When they were at last accosted by the cleric, Ophelia turned to him with her most charming smile. "The First Hunter bid us fetch some things for him. He went out to investigate a beast at the Lord Vicar's command and ran into some difficulty--we Paleblood Hunters can traverse the world much more quickly than he can and were in the area, so we offered to fetch them for him. Will that be a problem?" Ophelia retorted, stopping in her tracks to address him. She always cradled her holy blade in such a position that it did not need to be drawn--and though she made no moves to remove it from its resting place she was ready to utilise it if things did escalate towards violence.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

"I'll go and ask Dietrich what he knows about where we might find the things Annalise requested... and I'd like us to go to Old Yharnam, too, send Adelaide to the Crow's Nest. Her tremendous power of healing would surely be a boon, and we owe it to her besides. The sooner we get the chalice and fetch the other half of my blessed blade, the better a position we'll be in. It's about time we had some fun in the labyrinth, isn't it, Gerlinde?" Ophelia spoke as she let go of Torquil's hand and gave him a soft smile as she stood up, then turned her gaze back to Farren.

Gaze locked on her as she spoke, Farren nodded slightly, “Makes sense. Perhaps check with the Crowmother...if only to ensure she won't attack the Lightbe--Adelaide on her approach.”

Farren's fingers drummed against his thigh for a tick and then he spoke again, “Perhaps we ought to take a layer less deep within the Interstice of the Labyrinth...before we venture to acquire the Moonblade's twin.” His words sounded thoughtful, seeming more a suggestion than any sort of decision on her behalf.

"Ah, yes, that's a good point. I shall speak with her too. As for the labyrinth--it and the Interstice are interchangeable terms, dear--we'll see what the Doll has to say. If it seems a bit beyond us, to begin with, then certainly we'll take it easy. We could do with the practice and the echoes both." Ophelia replied.

“Ah,” he said as he filed that bit away for later, he'd found that bit rather confusing, so the clarification helped. He paused a moment, fingers playing across the hilt of the sole remaining Effigial Blade of Mercy. “Indeed, that makes sense enough,” he nodded idly, as if to himself, before meeting her gaze once more with his azure eyes. “We'll remain here then, Torquil and I. Perhaps Gerlinde should accompany you, just in case.” He'd hate for violence to find Ophelia on her lonesome, though he knew she could largely take care of herself...and was immortal besides.

"She's always welcome to, of course, but I can't imagine there'll be any fighting. I'm heading right to the sanctuary and back, after all." Ophelia offered, and moved to the appropriate headstone, ready to leave with or without Gerlinde.

"The Old Labyrinth and the Interstice are not interchangeable, good Hunters," the doll pointed out as soon as there was a lull in the conversation. "The Old Labyrinth exists in the Interstice, but the Interstice is any place where the Waking World and the Nightmare overlap."

"Ah, that makes sense--seems we've both a lesson to learn! Thank you kindly, dear." Ophelia replied, giving the doll a quick curtsey before selecting the 'Crow's Nest' marker.