yoshua171

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

had been continuing his approach when Ophelia unexpectedly stopped in place, suddenly seeming in a silent, thoughtful repose, a complicated expression on her profile. Then, rather surprisingly, she turned and passed him, walking to Victor and offering some words of apology. The words of gratitude came too late, and the apology too soon–Farren reckoned. Perhaps the man might forgive, but not without time to soften the blow…to forget the sting of the cruel insult she had paid him.

Still, while it wasn’t the practical thing, her offering the vials she had apparently acquired for Victor’s sake was at least the right thing. Then Victor’s remark reached his ears and–as he’d turned to watch the exchange–Farren found himself taking a half step back toward the man, before stopping. Jaw squared, teeth grinding one moment, before he was again relaxed in the next, Farren offered some final words of parting. “See that you don’t, I’d share a drink with you on a finer night than this. Four years a hunter…I’m sure you’ve a story to tell,” Farren said, even as Victor began walking away, leaving Ophelia standing there, her eyes downcast.

For his part, Farren walked to her side and place a hand on her shoulder lightly. If she lifted her eyes to meet the piercing azure of his gaze, he’d match her stare for a moment with a strange–meaningful–intensity, then shake his head, before turning to follow Moira once more. He didn’t await Victor’s reply this time and some small part of him regretted giving him the extra vial. Then again…the hunter had given of his own supply to save his life, so it was only fair.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

raised a single brow in response to Victor's outburst, or should he call it a tantrum? He shrugged internally, but what really surprised him was when Ophelia responded with a far colder, far more vicious sort of air. He reassessed her--for while he'd known she was capable of incredible violence, even butchery, he found that to be true of all Hunters. This though? This was something else, a stirring of something in her that he had only seen small glimmers of prior.

Victor, it seemed, had had enough though, she'd pushed too hard and the man's pride had reared back up, stronger than his sense of social cohesion. “Viktor,” Farren said--his voice sharp and clear in the night air, only reaching the more seasoned hunter after he'd taken a few strides from them.

“...there should be a Kastavan at the workshop. Black hair, weathered and broad of shoulder. Goatee. Amber eyes.” Farren was frowning, focusing hard to pull up the recollection of details. He’d only gotten the name at first, but as he’d considered passing on a message, more had started to come to him. “Tell him I’m well and to pass on the message to anyone it might matter to. Ah, and don’t waste that vial,” Farren said, before he extracted one from his pouch and tossed it to Viktor.

Farren wasn’t sure if his family had been estranged or not…if they were even alive–not everyone lived long healthy lives after all–but if they were, if they cared at all, they’d want to know. Besides…for him to seek out blood ministration, he must have been desperate, he just didn’t remember why. Surely he’d have told them, through mail or maybe even a visit…wherever they were.

That done, Farren turned, glancing at Torquil before he nodded his head towards Ophelia and Moira’s group of hunters and then set to catching up with the others. As he sped up slightly, Farren patted the Blade of Mercy, then Bulwark, where he’d slid it into a leather loop that was part of the harness attached to his belt at his right hip, the inner ring of the loop reinforced with thin strips of driven in metal and denser material to resist a blade’s edge. He’d decided to keep it on hand as a backup close-range armament and while he didn’t have a proper sheath for it, this would do just fine.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

listened intently, his initial responses boiling down to a grunt of acknowledgement and a slight nod of respect towards Moira. He only paid Victor a brief moment’s attention to make it clear he’d heard him. The man’s explanation was reasonable enough, and Farren supposed the man would have been throwing away his life by facing Skinner–whereas they had many chances and in a way access to potentially greater resources. When Moira explained away the supposed ‘presence’ that Ophelia had picked up on as an ‘Amygdala,’ Farren’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t otherwise comment. He’d heard the word before, but had no idea what it was, so they’d just have to trust that Moira had a better sense of things then they did.

Silently, perhaps as hawkishly observant as Moira herself–though a bit less stiff–Farren watched as the other hunters were branded in turn, noting Victor’s choice of going second. The man was cautious…not too trusting, but it was a near thing…the line between cowardice and reasonable caution. Victor was toeing it far too often for his liking.

“Take any advantage,” Farren replied as Moira essentially offered to teach them her Rune–the words sounding almost more like a mantra of sorts rather than a normal reply. If she looked to him, he’d hold her gaze unerringly and either way as she mentioned joining them–and asked questions regarding their identities he’d nod. “Indeed we are. Where’re you headed?”

His expression remained stoic and largely unreadable, his speech not clipped in the way Moira’s was, but similarly economical. “Farren, by the by,” he offered as a paltry pleasantry, an introduction of sorts. He’d gladly join their number if they were headed in the right direction–or at least something approximating it, especially since their arrival had saved them precious time and effort tracking Victor.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

was glad not to notice anything else out of place before the footfalls became what was clearly the sound of a small group–perhaps three people–before the figures rounded the bend. Farren’s gaze shifted to catch them and immediately his gaze zigzagged over them at a frenetic pace, taking in arms and armaments alike.

‘Black Church Hunters…ah, and our errant comrade,’ Farren thought in silence, remaining slightly tense, half-coiled and ready to strike if need be. Hunters were not necessarily friends, after all, but then Ophelia spoke and indeed Victor’s reaction eased his suspicions in kind. Farren shifted his stance, not quite so ready to strike anymore–though that could easily change if need be. His expression shifting back to its default almost-frown, Farren seemed to ease back slightly–not changing position but sort of leaning into a more relaxed position.

“Running to or from?” he asked, his piercing eyes locked on Victor, a note of amusement in his voice–though the look on his face spoke of at least some accusation. After all, there had been no guarantee of finding reinforcements for the man to return with to help in an even remotely timely manner. Besides, while Farren had somewhat downplayed Victor’s conduct to Ophelia–who doubtless had not been fooled–Farren remained altogether displeased with the fact that the White Church Hunter had essentially left them to die. To the azure-eyed hunter it mattered little that said death would hardly have been permanent.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

walked with his two companions, but unlike some who might become lost in thought without much to stimulate their interest, Farren subconsciously took on a strange sort of mien. It was somewhere between relaxed and hypervigilant, eyes scanning dutifully, sometimes fixing on unmentioned details, even as he stretched his other senses as much as he could. At the same time his posture seemed almost relaxed, his eyes less piercing than they had been for awhile, perhaps due to the lack of an immediate threat.

Here and there he caught signs of recent passing, a scuff mark from a bloodied boot, a tiny shred of cloth torn away by something jutting out, scattered pebbles that didn’t match the pattern of everything else. It was odd…like he’d done all this before, and often enough to have honed the skill. It really made him wonder what sort of man he’d been, but at the same time…did it matter?

Wasn’t like he could change the past after all.

As night fell, Farren’s almost casual vigilance became sharper and he straightened subtly as it grew darker. By the time night had fallen in earnest, his back was almost ramrod straight and he’d subtly widened his eyes a bit further than normal, as if to take in more light. After some time for his eyes to adjust though, he found that it wasn’t helping much and he relaxed ever-so-slightly.

Several minutes before anything of note occurred, Farren decided to go through the slightly more lengthy process of unloading his blunderbuss and pistol at which point he stowed the lead bullets back in his pouch. After a moment’s thought, he decided to leave his pistol unloaded, while loading his blunderbuss with quicksilver, before he replaced both at his hip in their respective hooks.

Around the time he was finishing that process, Ophelia raised her arm, and instinctively he followed the motion as she pointed to an empty patch of air. Farren frowned, glowered a bit, then as the noise of approaching footfalls reached them, turned in that direction instead, his hand already on the joined Blades of Mercy.

“Seems that'll have to wait,” Farren muttered, half under his breath as they waited for the potential threat to show itself. However, perhaps unlike Ophelia, Farren's gaze didn't remain fixed on the direction of the sound, but rather shifted slowly around the area in a detailed scan of the area. He didn't much fancy being ambushed.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

continued to stare down the long, rather wide, thoroughfare even as Ophelia began to speak. He seemed uncharacteristically distracted, but in truth he was very much listening to her every word. Yet, as he did so…that name seemed to resonate within his skull, each ‘bounce’ of the proverbial vibration like a susurration of clawing birds within his brain. He gritted his teeth.

_^Gerlinde

That damned name.

Farren’s eyelid twitched slightly and his grip on the Blade of Mercy tightened significantly, the material of its grip making a slight–but noticeable–noise. He swallowed, deliberately forced himself to glance in Ophelia’s direction as she spoke, and then briefly closed his eyes as she was nearly finished, nodding slightly as if in recognition.

While he’d heard her, the truth was that he’d closed his eyes to gather his wits rather than his thoughts. Still, by and large he managed to play much of it off, speaking even before he opened his eyes again.

“Well done. Excuse my earlier…reticence at our splitting up, it seems you gleaned valuable intel by going ahead of us,” he offered, opening his eyes as he finished speaking, meeting her gaze with a look that spoke of apology. It was gone the next moment as those bright sapphire eyes turned on Torquil, then focused further on his rather ornate shield. “Useful thing, you’re hardly singed,” he commented, his gaze roving over the glass of the implement. He’d never seen anything like it before–at least that he could remember, which he supposed wasn’t really saying much.

_^Gerlinde

He’d began to relax, but his jaw tightened again, teeth pressing against eachother in his closed mouth with painful pressure, but he forced a smile, then turned to stare down the road again. [color=#1A1A3B]“I’ll just have to keep my distance then, you too, of course–”[/color ]he added the last as he gave Torquil a sidelong glance before returning his piercing gaze to the road, his body partially turning in its direction. He felt…antsy, and moreso than he probably ever had before becoming a hunter, he really wanted to kill something…if only for the distraction.

That thought though…it brought something to mind and he sighed, turning back to Ophelia. “Ah…think I learned one of those Runes when our friend here killed Skinner.”

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

stared, shocked, then pleasantly surprised as the Moonborn Hunter conjured the Blades–in pristine condition at that–and he smiled and accepted them with another nod. While Farren did not feel as if he had ever been overly sentimental, the small gesture from the Hunter and the various boons he’d already offered them had him rather liking the silent man. “Thank you,” Farren offered in a more open show of thanks, giving the Shopkeeper a brief smile before he redirected his attention to Torquil, and then Ophelia once more. The former appeared to just be listening, whereas Ophelia had confirmed Farren’s growing suspicion. He swore under his breath, then moved on, he’d rather hoped to attain what potency Skinner had gleaned in life, but it seemed that was simply not in the cards.

Farren took in the rest of her words as well, considering what options and intel she had to offer, before he glanced back down the street that Victor had chosen for his retreat. “We may as well follow Victor, see if we can reconvene. Besides, I’d quite like to give him a piece of my mind…or the back of my hand, ” Farren replied, the last words half-muttered. “As for…Greta, perhaps later,” he added, seeming somewhat…dismissive?

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

turned his head slightly, eyes shifting to Ophelia as she spoke, asking him her own question. Blue eyes darkened, his eyes narrowing slightly as a flash of irritation crossed his previously neutral–almost hopeful–features. As he took in Ophelia’s smile–and the coldness behind her eyes–Farren shook his head, his gaze shifting to the street the man had fled down. Yet, before replying, Farren seemed to wrestle with the reality of things, for while he may have initially condemned Victor’s actions–and they had certainly put them at a greater disadvantage–looking back at them with the benefit of experience had him reconsidering. So, rather than an outright condemnation, Farren’s reply was more measured than even he would have initially expected, “He made a…tactical retreat, likely intending to notify the First Hunter.”

As he finished the words, he caught a slight shrug from the Shopkeeper, certainly in reply to his earlier question. The reaction elicited a slightly deeper frown from the one he’d already affected, before his features relaxed and he glanced down the central street of the three way intersection. “Bastard threw my swords,” he commented idly, squinting to try and pick out the telltale glint of their distinctive metal. He didn’t much fancy traversing the space on his own, not because he was afraid, but because he wasn’t an idiot. While the noise of battle likely would have alerted any nearby beasts and drawn them in, it wasn’t entirely beyond possibility that some had remained in place preferring to ambush their prey rather than risk involving themselves in the melee. Equally possible was the fact that Skinner’s mere presence–and now that of the Moonborn Hunter–might be enough to sufficiently deter any nearby creatures of the night from assailing them.

Farren sighed, glancing back at the Shopkeeper, “No chance you could just…’summon’ the Blades of Mercy back to you, is there?” He asked, not sounding at all hopeful.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

was too stunned to act as the Shopkeeper slammed down his kirkhammer, but he recovered moments after, embracing the reality he’d ended up in with surprising swiftness. “Good fucking riddance,” Farren said, before he spat on the man’s headless corpse. Taking his foot off the man, Farren holstered his blunderbuss and knelt down and picked up the roughshod Beast Claw that Skinner had once wielded. He looked the crude implement over with distaste, but ultimately he gestured towards the ground and after a moment the Messengers rose from the damaged cobblestones and took the weapon away for him as they disappeared to wherever they truly dwelled.

Despite his earlier gesture of disgust, Farren offered a silent prayer while he was on one knee and as he did it was almost like something answered him. It was like experiencing an entire hour, or perhaps a day, in the space of a single instant, without any of the benefit of time to process what occurred. In the next instant he took in a sharp breath–not quite a gasp–and his eyes snapped open as if he’d been roused forcefully from a nightmare. A sense of understanding washed through his mind, but bereft of what context had allowed him to glean it. Farren frowned, for it felt like…a warbling, like a whisper, a vibration in his mind and with it came a sort of…symbol.

Brow still furrowed, he muttered to himself, “...a Rune?” Strange, but he supposed at least this way they had not lost the opportunity to learn it from the man. Farren thought it better that Skinner–or whatever his true name had been–was gone. He’d been a menace for quite some time and the idea of his continued existence had put a sour taste upon his tongue, one that only now he felt fading. Shaking his head slightly, Farren finally pushed to his feet, giving the Moonborn Hunter a nod of respect for his swift action. The man was even more fierce than the rumors said–a rare thing indeed for rumors tended towards exaggeration.

“Any chance that trick of yours is teachable? The one with the flash of light…” the azure-eyed Hunter asked, cracking a small grin, despite the grisly scene at their feet.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

would have been stunned at the sheer speed with which the Moonborn Hunter subdued Skinner if it had not been for what the azure-eyed hunter knew about the now-Shopkeeper’s mysterious, but infamous mythology–so to speak. While not much was stone-solid about the man, one thing that had always been clear–from the rumors, whispers, and speculation he could recall impressions of–was the figure’s exceptionally dangerous nature. The rest was all hearsay.

That said, there was nothing quite like seeing it in person. Nonetheless, Farren continued his approach, tracking where Skinner would land, and adjusting accordingly so that he’d have nearly arrived by the time the man was flat on his back, attempting to recover–his beastly regeneration slowed to a crawl that spoke of exhaustion. For his part, Farren moved into a half slide that should bring him right up beside Skinner’s left side, at which point he raised one foot and pressed it on the man’s chest between the sides of his ribcage slightly below his heart, but above the majority of his lower organs. He pressed with enough strength to brace himself, but not so much as to cause undue pain. In the same motion, he aimed the tip of his sword over the center of the murderer’s chest, the tip poised to pierce him. Meanwhile, his left hand shifted his blunderbuss’ barrel, training it–point blank–at Skinner’s abdomen, the weapon’s flared end nearly touching the man’s bare flesh.

Farren didn’t speak, just locked his eyes on Skinner’s features, keeping his senses stretched out to detect the slightest movement–even as his mind kept subconsciously checking for the telltale sensation of the Lake Rune’s minor precognizance.