Tuujaimaa

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Deo’Irah

Jaelnec was in shock, that much Irah was certain of. The widened eyes, the racing pulse, the white-knuckled grip on his weapon… flinching at her touch was not something she had expected, but it gave her a good measure of what had happened. Healers were often thought to mend only physical wounds, but Irah knew well that the worst wounds were those of the mind, and felt it her duty to treat those too–though the treatment was often little more than talking and time, generating a sense of safety that allowed people to confront their thoughts and feelings and move through them. Jaelnec would need time before he could talk, for the toll of taking a life was heavy indeed: even if those people were awful bigots, they were still people, and slaying them should not ever be easy on a person’s soul. She did not interrupt him at all as she fled, only turning to Jordan with a look of concern he’d almost certainly seen on his mother’s face before.

“Sweet Jaelnec… please stay by his side and keep him busy, Jordan, if Sirs Yanin and Freagon will allow it? He needs a camaraderie we cannot provide, until his mind settles. When we return to Borstown I will draw a hot bath for you; you’ve earned some rest… but for now the work is not over. The calm of succour is a harder draught to brew than battle’s heady high.” She spoke softly, with a sad smile playing at the edges of her lips and eyes full of compassion. She gave him a brief nod before looking towards the construct that held Kinder’s essence.

“Thank you, my friend. Would you take a look at the prisoners and assess who might need immediate attention? They are awful people, but… perhaps they deserve better than this. Perhaps with their compliance we may yet save more. Could you ask Caleb to rejoin us?” Irah thought, projecting out her desire to communicate with Kinder and knowing that that would be enough. It was strange, to her, to use words with her dear friend–their communion was normally one of the soul, intimate and wordless, with exchanges of thought and feeling on a level that words could only clumsily approximate. Communicating wordlessly was not quite the same, but… it was the best Irah could do, the closest she could feel to normalcy.

She then proceeded to hurry back to the main group, able to hear Vela’s words in the distance enough to have picked up the gist of the conversation if not the specifics.

“As you see fit, Lady Bor. If they know better than to raid villages ‘willy-nilly’, as you say, then there is some higher purpose at work in conjunction with the opportunism that comes naturally to bandits. Bren will elucidate us more when he wakes. As for work… Lhirin and I would not leave you to defend yourselves against the coming onslaught–this battle may be won, but the war yet looms. Denied their prize they will come back, and we will have to be ready.” Irah replied, her tone soft and determined. They could discuss the specifics back at the Manor and engage in idle chatter there–for now, little more needed to be said. The walk back through the forest would offer them ample opportunity to reflect on what had happened, and with clearer minds they could articulate themselves better. Irah had a brief moment of wondering whether she should offer her services as a necromancer to Lady Bor–getting the slain to dig their own graves was all they deserved, and it would do the living folk of Borstown good to not have to face the corpses of those who had stolen the lives of their loved ones… not to mention the fact that digging graves was difficult and laborious work, work that required food to fuel. She supposed they might well have extra food, with fewer mouths to feed, but that would be of no comfort to those who’d lost family members. Irah resolved to donate her earnings from the task to those grieving and lost if they needed it, though Vela seemed generous and compassionate enough that she would not see any of them suffer fiscally and she would not want to undermine that generosity with a reckless and unneeded gesture… nor was she in the habit of giving coin away unless it was in the service of saving lives.

She walked over to Lhirin’s side as she mused, turning her thoughts to what would happen with Caleb now that the task ahead of them was done. What he’d said to her earlier had struck her–about guile and its nature, and ultimately how silly of her it had been to try and use guile on a being whose very nature was deceit–and one despairing at the loss of his only friend, at that. She had meant everything she said, of course, but there was no way for him to know that–and even if there was, there was no way for him to trust that knowledge in the state he was in. This was certainly a mess they’d gotten themselves into… Rodoria had not been nearly this contentious the last time she was here. Perhaps that was why fate had steered her here, and saddled her with Sir Freagon as her only lead… her mind was cast back to her meeting with Mitai, and how he’d described fate. The future was shaped by their choices, and she would have to be careful to bring the future she desired into being–but for now, she had no better lead than the surly and laconic knight. Fate, it seemed, did have something of a sense of humour.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Deo’Irah

“Bren was wounded during the struggle, as their leader had faced a Swaigh before. Lhirinthyl had… a lapse of judgement, and extricating him from the leader’s grip was messy. I stabilised him immediately and he is in no physical danger, though Madara having a look at him is wise–her skilled hands will ensure his proper convalescence. He was subjected to the aura, however, so answers will not be forthcoming. I see little point in cleaning up here–if a contingent of the Crusader’s Guild comes this close to Borstown, they will attack it regardless of provocation, if this group is anything to go by. Perhaps when Bren has awoken he will give us the information we need to assess our next steps… though I believe I understand why they were after Bren: someone in their upper echelons must have the Withering.” Irah replied to Vela, her tone lacking the normal hint of irritation it had when she used Lhirin’s full name. He had erred, yes, but it was mostly under the influence of the piaan–and he had used it for a noble purpose, even if Irah thought the decision to use it was foolish. She, too, had made foolish decisions for the sake of heroism today in accumulating as much taint as she had. It had worked out in the end, as they were alive and their objectives had been accomplished, so she was willing to give them both a pass.

After she was finished speaking Irah looked to the north to see Jaelnec leaning against the barn, weapons slipped from his grasp and a hand over his mouth. She left the main gathering of people without so much as a word, quickly hurrying over to his side, though upon getting closer she could see that he was physically uninjured. She proceeded to stand in front of him and gently moved to take his free right hand with her left if he seemed amenable to it. She didn’t speak, wanting to give him the space to process whatever was going on in his mind, though she would move to embrace him if he seemed like he needed it. She could not help but think of Jehla, her mother, and how she could make even the most forlorn of souls find a moment of peace with but the slightest touch and the right whispered words. She had not her mother’s gift for consolation, only for manipulation, and tried her best to evoke as much of that warmth and kindness as she could with her body language without the sharpness that came so easily to her.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Deo’Irah

Irah saw fit to leave Lhirin to his own devices at that point: he could look after himself… and Sir Yanin was interrogating an uncooperative bandit in the distance. Irah could not really join them without exposing them all to Weriz’ magic, and those who escaped the prison of the worst their mind could conjure were rarely chatty afterwards–it would not suffice as a means of enticement. With that there seemed to be little else for them to need Weriz for, and Irah knew that the sooner she stopped accumulating taint the better, so she politely asked her friend to depart and thanked them for their service ere moving to close the distance between them.

“What did they do to deserve being hanged?” Irah asked as she came within speaking distance, looking down at the bandit with curious eyes and an exceptionally neutral expression.

As soon as the bandit's gaze turned to Irah his expression darkened with a whole new kind of hatred. "They killed the world."

Irah looked around briefly, surveying the world that very much still existed, and returned her gaze to his.

“The world seems to be still standing, so perhaps you mean a specific section of it? Did people like them destroy your home and force you into this life of vagrancy?”

He spat at the ground in front of Irah's feet. "Creatures like you and them will bring the destruction of every home. You've killed everyone with your damned plague!"

“Ah,” Irah began, sighing softly, something in her eyes changing from curious to… understanding. Not accepting, nor justifying, but at least understanding the measure of these people a little more than before. “I could tell you that the Withering ravages everyone, heedless of race or creed, but then you would ask me where it did come from if not non-humans… and I would not have an answer to give you, because we do not know. I could appeal to your sense of reason, and question why non-humans would unleash something that would wipe them out too… but reason did not lead you to the conclusion you’ve come to, and it cannot deliver you from it.” Irah continued, looking him up and down piteously. She did not address him again, instead turning to Lady Bor.

“Hatred has taken him, and he will not provide answers even under duress… he died when he lost his world. What haunts us here is merely a shell, filled with vengeance. Judge him as you see fit.”

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia watched as their gambit failed--expectedly, she supposed, for she too would do anything to keep her blessed blade close and the depths of desperation offered a profound well of strength. A well she supposed she would have to tap into soon, for Arrayah showed no signs of slowing down or even being defeated by the incredible force they'd levied against her so far. When she finally arose and slithered off frantically Ophelia caught sight of a seemingly-renewed Gerlinde from underneath Arrayah's form and made a note to check in on her, but turned her attention to Torquil in the moment, having witnessed his strike be interrupted by Farren.

"Fulmen will break if used while hot, love. Needs to cool; switch to your axe 'til then." she spoke, giving him an earnest smile. He really had impressed her in this fight, not only with his outrageous strength and skilful wielding of Fulmen, but how he appeared to be thinking more and more for himself. How much he'd grown, why... she was full to the brim with pride, like getting to watch a once-sickly flower bloom, or a dim sky become illuminated by the first hints of the waxing crescent moon. She gave Gerlinde another look for a couple of seconds before assessing that she was fine and must have sorted herself out, and then turned to Farren.

"This is it. Protect me at all costs, kill me if you have to. She cannot claim my half," she spoke hurriedly, about to continue, before the Holy Moonlight Sword's whispers made themselves known and translated Arrayah's rambling. At first she assumed only for herself, but the dawn of recognition on the others' faces would no doubt reveal to her that her blade was speaking to them, too... even through the shielding power of the Mask rune. The forces they toyed with... they were far greater than Ophelia had ever envisioned, and they were now well and truly embroiled in it. The power waiting for her... the knowledge... she needed it more than she'd ever needed anything before. To reunite serenity with wrath and truth with lies, to complete the aching void within her and restore balance to the benighted world.

"Mother Moon preserve us, and shroud us in her light..." Ophelia spoke as she witnessed the transformation, and though it was starkly different to her own blade something about it felt familiar, and awoke in her a yearning whose vastness was such that she could not tell where the Holy Moonlight Sword's quivering feelings began and she ended--they were simply one now, committed to the task at hand. She treasured the whispers of the incantation needed to unite the blades and steeled herself. She put the blood vial away to grip her blade with two hands in contrast to Arrayah's three, and readied herself. She tapped into whatever reserves of focus she had that had yet gone unused, and coiled her muscles like a spring waiting to be unleashed at a moment's notice. She readied herself to take evasive action and for the others to rally to her, every sense she had trained on Arrayah. She'd learned a little of Arrayah's bestial instincts by observing, but this version of her seemed... something else. She was not sure what to expect, but that this form was even stronger and faster than what had come before. She knew that she would have to react even sooner than she ever had, for even quickstepping was not enough to outpace Arrayah--she had to act before the strike had even begun to have a hope of dodging it, and dodging was all she could do against her profane foe.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Time seemed to slow as Torquil approached Arrayah to unleash his attack - and Ophelia watched it all with a rapturous intensity, eager to see exactly what unleashing Fulmen with its current charge would do. She could feel the anticipation building within her as he moved and as he activated the mechanism, only for a brief moment of trepidation to overcome her as nothing happened for the first instant. She saw the actinic glow begin to build immediately thereafter and her spirits rose once more, reminded of what Paarl had done to the Moonborn, only this wasn't quite that powerful. Still--to capture even the barest fraction of that incredible power in a tool that they could wield reminded her that the relics and fragments of otherworldly beings they sought after with such voraciousness and avarice were not the only path to power, and that the hands of man could perhaps one day approach that power without fundamentally altering themselves as so many had done to channel the power of the cosmos.

When the explosion happened Ophelia was staring directly at it, shocked and awed, and surely some of her untapped regenerative potential went to ameliorating that damage--as well as the damage to her ears that the thunderclap would no doubt do. She was so focused that the sensations seemed distant, any blindness to do with the intensity of the light rather than any damage looking at it might have done, and as she regained use of her faculties her mind sprang back into action like a coiled spring unleashed.

"Farren, disarm her!" She shouted as loudly as she could, hoping it would reach him in the very brief window of time they had to take advantage of this moment of potential. Winning was not killing Arrayah, but liberating the blade she wielded--if they had a chance to do so now, for Ophelia to take possession and bend the presence within to her will, well... she would take it. The Moonborn Hunter, this aspect of them at least, would no doubt seek to take advantage of the opening and do a tremendous amount of damage. That, combined with what Fulmen and Torquil had done, had Ophelia imagining that Arrayah might well be forced to transform the Profane Abyssal Blade... and if she were disarmed of it, that would be a very good thing for them indeed. It probably wouldn't work, that much she knew, but she would regret not at least trying. As she spoke she quickstepped laterally towards Farren's position at maximum distance, which would hopefully allow her to rush in and grab the blade if they did manage to wrest it from their foe, but also put her in a more advantageous position to assist with whatever happened next if not.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Deo’Irah

Freagon did his usual thing: he went silent for a couple of beats, probably assessed the situation again visually (though this was persistently difficult to confirm, owing to the fact he was a nightwalker), and moved on from whatever was said. She thought she sensed an unspoken question on the air, though she decided only to allude to it briefly.

“Hostage situations are… Decisive action is usually best taken, as the consequences tend to be easier to deal with.” Irah began, taking a short breath to choose her words carefully before continuing. ”You surely remember your time being affected by a Swaigh, Sir Freagon, I should think that punishment enough for these craven child-murderers… though if you wish to kill them, I cannot stop you. I simply think that if they overcome the trial before them, they might yet learn the value of the mercy they denied others… and if not, they die as they lived. Cowards.” Irah explained, offering both an explanation for her callousness and her perspective at large. She truly did take particular umbrage with those who killed children–she knew it was somewhat different among the short-lived races, owing to a certain factor of mortality, but imagined the pain of losing a child cut no less deep regardless. To kill an innocent and blameless child… it was an act of cruelty and disregard for life so perverse that even a lifetime of penance and atonement would likely never make up for it. To bring Rilon’s gifts of suffering to such people was a charge she took rather solemnly–indeed, that was why she had formed her relationship with Weriz in the first place. It was why she called him “Justice”, in her tongue, something Freagon had no doubt noticed too. He’d seemed judgemental of her decision to judge others for their sins and mete out appropriate punishment… which she supposed she understood.

Irah gave Lhirin’s shoulder another squeeze to get his attention, and nodded towards the open entrance. He’d know the look in her eyes well enough that she thought it better he survey the interior too, to see if there was anything he picked up that others might not–it happened more often than one might think. Lhirin always took the most peculiar observations from situations, though later he usually ended up cascading through a chain of logic she hadn’t considered and came to a useful conclusion she would never have been able to herself. She always enjoyed when that happened.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia could see plainly the confusion on Torquil's face, the racing of thoughts behind his frantic and searching eyes. It was almost unusual, given how he'd been so eager to simply follow without considering... but given the face he now wore, and the experiences they'd had, it would be a miracle to come out unchanged. She supposed this was evolution, the kind that the School of Mensis' teachings--and thus the whispers of her mentors--had impressed upon her were the next step for humanity. Ophelia didn't know how much she believed that, that this was or should be the destiny of all, but Torquil's growth was something she found very pleasing. She wanted what was best for him, truly, and he was now getting to the point of earnestly being able to make that decision for himself.

"Just discharge Fulmen, dear. We need to know what happens." She said hurriedly while he prepared and then injected himself with a blood vial. She could sense that he was eager, that the Old Blood ran hot within him and needed release--the kind that was only achieved through the visceral acts of violence only Hunters ever truly experienced. Looking at the Shopkeeper, she wondered how much of that feeling they must have glutted themselves on in their many lives to have suffered such an awful blow and still been able to retaliate with such determination and fury... in fact, it struck her in that moment that she was perhaps the only not not utterly consumed by bloodlust at that moment in time. She wondered what sort of Hunter she'd been if the Holy Moonlight Sword hadn't chosen her, how different their lives and experiences would have been if she'd only had the fire in her blood to guide her rather than all the lights of the Cosmos.

She watched Torquil rocket off towards Arrayah with great speed and circled around herself to get a better vantage point and be able to observe Arrayah more closely. To the best of her knowledge she was still the only one whom one of Arrayah's eyes was not focused on - which struck her as odd, given how desperately the Profane Abyssal Blade must have called out for the beast to wrest Ophelia's blade and make them whole. She remembered well the intensity with which her serene blade called for it--and had to figure that the Profane blade's call was even harder to resist. She made a note to try and discern how much of the tactics at hand were Arrayah's and how much the blade whispering to her--a difficult proposition, given her lack of ability to read minds, but she would try her best to intuit as much as she could.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia observed the goings-on with keen interest, noting that her passivity had caused Arrayah's eyes to not glow and focus on her or Gerlinde (who had kneeled down to do something with the little ones--handing off her modified cane). She wondered if either of them began to attack Arrayah, would it cause the eyes to focus on them too? Could the focus be removed somehow? She had many and more questions about how a thing like Arrayah might make decisions, but also how her blessed blade's counterpart did too. Mad as she was, and deeply obsessed, she would no doubt listen to the whispers and follow them... but her blade was full of wrath. Perhaps it was telling her who to strike down? Perhaps that was the glow and the focus at work.

Ophelia judged Torquil the more wounded of the two, and began sprinting towards him as he was picked up (and thus simply towards Arrayah) before veering off in the direction he was to be thrown as soon as she could intuit it. She had a blood vial at the ready and would use it on him if he seemed injured upon arrival. She also wanted to see if any other eyes might focus upon her once she presented as participating in the fight again, or if the focused eyes happened to catch sight of her blade.

"Fulmen hit the ground, so add one to your count." she whispered to him, too, making sure he factored that in. Fulmen did not care about what it hit to build charge, only that it did--and what it had done to the ground made Ophelia quite sure that letting it get to ten charges would be catastrophically bad. Not quite Paarl-bad, she supposed, but even his most minor electric shocks were things she could still feel sing in her nerves. She did not want to experience anything more potent.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Deo’Irah

So it was that the three men had made their respective choices, and as Freagon went to finish off the bandit Irah concentrated on what had happened to Bren: unfortunate, but always a possibility. Fortunately, they had a means of immediate and efficacious healing on hand and the true deigan healer sprung immediately into action even as Bren was still being stabbed in the neck by the jerky motions of the knife. She withdrew the divine healing potion from within her robe and moved shockingly quickly–understanding well the urgency–and moved towards the now-prone body of Bren as he hit the floor. By this time she’d already uncorked the bottle and assessed the damage quickly.

His throat hadn’t quite been torn open, exactly, but one would be forgiven for believing so–jerky and jagged cuts left openings for dark arterial blood to flow forth as though from a fountain, and Irah administered two droplets of the potion, reckoning it would be enough to close the wound and ensure he was in no danger of actually perishing. He’d still feel the effects of the blood loss, of course, but that was better remedied by an alchemical healing potion: knowing nothing about his resistance to the taint, she did not want to risk him accumulating any more than he already had… and promptly moved away as soon as she was done ensuring that he would live.

“Messier than I’d have liked, but… effective. Feel free to kill them immediately next time.” Irah spoke, her tone utterly unbothered and practical. She had seen much, much worse than this and was eminently practical when it came to saving lives. She supposed how preachy she’d been until this point could’ve given Freagon plenty of doubt, but hopefully this display of efficiency would teach Freagon that while Irah would do nearly anything to stave off death, she had no qualms with suffering or injury. Those things could be remedied: death could not. Hurting Bren was a perfectly logical and reasonable thing to do in her mind, given that a healer was on hand to remedy whatever mistakes were made.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia observed the battle proceeding apace, having picked up by now that it was indeed specifically the Arcane that Arrayah seemed to have a resistance to. She was mostly useless--even if she just used her blade as a physical weapon, it would be like hitting a giant with a butter knife. None of the other weapons she'd stowed with the little ones--the Rosmarinus and Kos Parasite--seemed like they would do anything either, primarily being of the Arcane variety as they were. Farren had definitely picked up on it too, having handed the Shopkeeper a physical weapon rather than one of their own effigial weapons which seemed to be fundamentally Arcane too (based on how little damage it did to Arrayah compared to the Beastflayer). The blood gem Gerlinde had worked into her weapon rendered it much less effective too--and even the flames from her Horn of the Old Lords seemed to be infused with that energy.

Torquil was doing very well, though, she could tell: taking good opportunistic hits when he could, building charge within Fulmen. 5 hits so far. 10 was the absolute maximum--she reckoned he should probably unleash it around 8. Maybe 9... get some real testing in. Ophelia was not under the impression that Arrayah was truly injured yet, more... surprised by the ferocity of the assault, given how easily she must slaughter most of her prey. How easily she slaughtered them all the last time they were here. The distance gave Ophelia some reprieve from the smell, too, and while she stared and pondered intently she only retched once or twice as a particularly pungent waft of sickening aroma flowed over her.

"Four more hits, Torquil, I'll tell you when to discharge! She seems resistant to the Arcane specifically!" She called out, beginning to circle around Arrayah while keeping her distance relatively the same (or perhaps increasing how far away from their foe she was a little) to give herself plenty of berth to avoid Arrayah's attacks. She was frighteningly quick, based on the two real attacks they'd seen so far, and distance really was the best chance of actually avoiding anything. The next time they were here she'd need a physical weapon--and preferably one that had some decent range to it. Perhaps Farren and the Shopkeeper could advise her of something when they returned to the Dream. She withdrew a blood vial and kept it in her hand, ready to dash in and administer it to one of her allies if they should need it. She could at least watch out for them that way.