yoshua171

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren’s

gaze briefly dipped to his hand where that strange blue flame had briefly burned, warmthless and with barely a tingling sensation. The sensory memory distracted him only briefly before he looked back to the White Church Hunter, taking in his blunderbuss and the half of his weapon that he had in hand. He was familiar with the armament–as familiar as he was with most Hunter’s weapons. He hadn’t seen them all, but he’d seen quite a few in the Workshops when they were up for maintenance or even the occasional modification. A small part of him itched for the weapon, but he suppressed it and nodded in reply to the man–it appeared that Farren had been right to speak to him…and shut the door so the others couldn’t see him. Rolling his neck, Farren almost fully turned his back to the man. “Newly minted,” Farren replied to the stranger’s comment. Farren stood at a slight angle so he still had the stranger in his peripheral vision on his left side–opposite where he held his saber in reversed grip. “Sounds like a plan. M’name’s Farren’s by the by; companions are Ophelia and Torquil,” he offered, then he broke into a light jog, expecting the man to follow as he headed back towards the Clinic’s door.

As he moved, Farren took in the surroundings a second time, acknowledging the layout and committing it to memory. The fact that they were on a plateau bloomed once more in his mind, making him frown…wondering precisely where they were relative to the rest of Yharnam. Beyond that…the stranger had been bloodied…but it was hard to say if it was his blood and his Hunter’s resilience–or perhaps a blood vial–were the reason he wasn’t faltering…or if it wasn’t the man’s blood at all.

It would have to wait till later.

All that in mind, Farren positioned himself to the side of the door that would be clearly visible when he opened it. He silently withdrew his second sword, holding it in a normal grip as he tilted his body so his right side faced the doorway, hiding his other arm…and the weapon that he held in line with his leg, tip downturned. Once the other Hunter had taken position opposite him–where he’d be hidden by the shadow of the door when it opened–the azure-eyed hunter nodded to the stranger. Preparations made, he waited for someone to come out, hoping it wouldn’t be Ophelia or Torquil who exited first. He strained his ears, somewhat familiar with both of their gaits now…he might even be able to discern who it was before they walked out.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

glanced about the room, swiftly taking in as many details as he could in that instant. The oddly focused and deliberate positioning of the messengers, the strange lamp that had gone utterly untouched despite its fragile appearance. The size of the room…and then beyond the door the figure who was rapidly approaching. White hunter’s garb that he couldn’t see the details off from the man’s current distance. His eyes narrowed, then widened as impressions of memories hit him. The garb was familiar, not like an old friend or a knife you used every day…but like someone or something you’d heard tell of a lot…seen around frequently enough that it was common for you, if not an every day or even every week occurrence.

He realized—with the man’s pace—he only had moments to do something before a fight most certainly broke out between the figure and those that were still behind him in the room of cots. Farren moved further into the room and while he’d mostly been ignoring the messengers he noticed the one by the lantern start to mime a snapping motion. The azure-eyed hunter frowned, but decided to follow its lead, his curiosity uncharacteristically getting the better of him. He snapped as he grew near the lantern. Watched for a reaction for a mere instant, and then he tread past it in a wide-stepped stride. A mere moment or three had past as he exited the building and then shut the door behind him before he let the patient over his shoulder down onto the ground…somewhere out of the way. Then, swiftly, Farren broke into a light jog towards the figure. He kept his blade against the back of his arm, knowing the Hunter would surely see that he was armed, but he didn’t attack. He stopped before crossing the full distance, getting only close enough that the man’s enhanced senses were likely to catch his slightly raised voice.

“The Harrow, inside. Taking sleeping patients. A pale man, a Beast, citizens on the hunt, and…something else. Two comrades, a tall lanky woman…wide man with an axe, quiet. We played along. Can you help?” Though there were quite a few words, they were almost clipped, spoken quickly, but clearly as well. Farren let the tension in his body show, but he also did his best to keep his stance open, his eyes on the Hunter, and his senses stretched wide and far.

With them not being properly armed as Hunters tended to be…and their also being new to this…condition, Farren hadn’t wanted to fight inside. Three against two beings of unknown strength, plus the hapless citizens hadn’t seemed like great odds especially in such enclosed space. He saw the Hunter as a chance for reinforcements…perhaps an ambush even. Hopefully he’d not misjudged the figure by using his garb as a touch point.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

was glad that his back was turned when the ground began to grow further into the room of cots. Certainly he saw the glowing of Pallid’s cane and the sickly shadow bound into that fell light, but something in him…it knew better than to turn around. Instead he just let his wicked smile grow slightly, as if to match the black-eyed figure’s and trudged past the bastard. All the while, his instincts screamed for him to look, his senses straining to find out what might be happening behind him, but when no ruckus came from it…just the sound of moving bodies, Farren just kept up his steady pace past Pallid and out of that room. His jaw remained tightly closed, teeth barely kept from grinding. First…first they’d get outside…then he could act.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

paused, just adjacent to Pallid as he explained what he wanted of them before they departed. Farren’s smile grew slightly as he feigned an almost sickly glee—almost as if mirroring Pallid’s smile—he’d taken to calling the man that in his head. It was easier than ‘Bugeyes’ or something similar. Internally though, Farren’s mind whirred through several thoughts almost simultaneously as his morality and practicality simultaneously came to the fore. For some reason he had no issue divorcing the thoughts and emotions in his mind from the tells of his face and body…huh, perhaps he’d been something of an actor in his past life—so to speak.

Foremost in his thoughts were considerations of how abhorrent it would be to deliver all these helpless, unconscious men and women—potential Hunters all—into the clutches of the Harrow. The thought disgusted him on a fundamental level and some part of him recoiled, though none of it shown on his face as he nodded to Pallid, turned on his heel and walked towards the nearest cot. At the same time, he flashed Ophelia a look that spoke volumes.

It was a scowl, the wicked smile melting off his face like candle wax on metal in a furnace. There was a strange sort of quiet rage in his eyes even as he took up a body and then plastered the smile back on his features. Something about the disconnect between his actions and his expression in that brief moment communicated one thing: “Play along.”

Turning back towards Pallid, Farren started towards him, moving noticeably slower with the man over his shoulder. Notably, he’d lifted the unconscious hunter with his left arm, leaving him still armed in his right. The reality was that Farren was playing up how heavy the bulky man was. The reality was that the man was startlingly light. He had an inkling that he’d already been strong before his transformation…but now…it was less like carrying the deadweight of a person, and more like…carrying an awkwardly shaped, but barely full sack of potatoes.

Discarding that thought, Farren considered their current environment…that was why he’d tried to signal to Ophelia to play along. Fighting inside was one thing. Fighting amongst numerous unconscious people in a room crowded by cots…with suboptimal weapons while they were also outnumbered? It seemed…less than wise.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

saw the pallid man’s reactions, his annoyance…his reticence and he just barely kept from visibly gritting his teeth. His knuckles were white on his curved sword, but he forced himself to relax slightly, his bright—almost unearthly blue—eyes bored into the pale man’s black orbs for a moment…and then Farren smiled slightly.

His body seemed to relax, his fingers loosening on his weapon, he even switched his grip and shifted the weapon first down and to the side so it was no longer pointed in such a way that might appear threatening. An instant later he put the blade into a reversed grip so it almost ran upwards along the back of his arm. At the same time his shoulders relaxed, his once narrowed eyes lightening. “Ah, fair enough then. This place en’t likely to stay safe anyhow, best we leave before any undesirables are drawn to all those smashed vials,” Farren said, his tone easy, lacking any hint or suspicion he’d been showing previously.

“I won’t trouble you any further. This clearly isn’t your native tongue. Had to test ya though…Nights of the Hunt are fraught with deceivers and brigands and beasts after all.” Then Farren stepped past the pallid man so that he wasn’t braced on either side by the beastial yharnamite and the almost-skeletal stranger. He headed for the room just outside the one they’d been in up until that point.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

kept his expression deliberately blank, though there was a subtle twitching of one eye that he couldn’t quite control…as if he’d been about to narrow his eyes further. Having taken in the gaunt figure’s words for what they were…he found his memories kindled by the sparks of the disturbing stranger’s words. As if coming back up for air, to reaffirm their life, the name ‘Corval,’ caused images and words and thoughts to arise within his mind.

As if heard from afar…overheard in fact, from the conversation of what he felt were his betters, though not better than him, necessarily, words drifted into his mind unbidden.

“Damned troublemakers, the lot of ‘em,” said one man. Farren felt his head shift…as if to listen better and at the same time caught the faint rustling of cloth as another man responded. “Mm? Ya mean Corval and his men?” The fellow said, his voice rough like sandpaper on skin…like gargled gravel–too much drink or smoke he thought.

“Mmm, the very same. ‘The Harrow’ they’re calling themselves, you know. Pretentious gits. As if anyone finds their actions harrowing,” the man sucked his teeth, swearing under his breath and Farren heard the two begin to walk out of earshot, their words trailing off…too quiet for him to hear.

Back in the present, Farren blinked, shaking his head slightly, before he found his hands relaxing slightly. At least this Corval was a known quantity after a fashion. The bad news was that he wasn’t exactly…good news, as it were. He’d snooped about, he remembered vaguely, looking into the group somewhat…if only to be aware of what he might have to deal with if ever he came upon them. They’d never come up…not in his old life–that’s what he sensed–but the information was useful now so there was that.

“What’s this…Corval want with hunters?” Farren asked, playing dumb, wishing he had a way to communicate to the other two without giving himself away. He let the hilt of his sheathed sabre go, but his grip on the one in his right hand remained tight and his stance remained ready–though he pretended to relax, if only slightly.

Farren trained his gaze between the figure of the large Beastman and the pallid man, trying to see if he could glimpse any of the men they’d heard in the room beyond…maybe get a rough count. At the same time he focused his hearing, trying to see if he could pick out individual gaits…identify the number of potential enemies in the other room that way if he could.

After all, he wasn’t sure if it was wise to allow themselves to be caught in the sway of an organization’s power…at least one aside from the church–not that he entirely trusted them either.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

absently noted Ophelia and Torquil’s brief exchange as the man complied and erased the chalk scrawlings. Farren had managed to read them in the pause between Ophelia’s firm suggestion and Torquil actually wiping the writing. He supposed it made sense why Ophelia might not want anyone else to see the script. He didn’t have long to ponder on that however, for the door soon burst into splinters beneath the beastly assault from beyond the threshold. In the next moments a mostly transmogrified yharnamite lumbered into the room, quickly followed by a black almost bug-eyed figure with ghostly pale skin. A flicker of recognition flitted through his mind at the sight of both, letting him know he’d seen similar before…though he wasn’t really sure precisely when or where.

Yet, the features of the pale-skinned man seemed…twisted somehow…less human, more something else. Gaunt? Skeletal? Like some fell wight had sucked the vigor from a man even as the scourge had twisted his shape. Farren’s grip on his single drawn blade tightened, his eyes narrowing, pulse pounding, blood hot in his veins.

Then the pale figure spoke, his smile wide and deeply wrong in far too many ways to count. Farren’s stance shifted subtly, one foot sliding out in back in a half circle so he was a quarter turned from them, his empty hand leading, his sword hand somewhat behind the leading line of his body, held out to the side. Where before he’d simply been wary, that unnerving smile and the words that fell from the figure’s lips had put him entirely on guard. His azure eyes piercing into the figure’s obsidian gaze, Farren spoke up.

“Kindly…” he gritted out, before he continued, the rest of his sentence tense, but less forced, “…rephrase. Surely you mean to say ‘recruit,’ or perhaps… ‘ally with,’” he finished, offering them an olive branch, as it were. Something in him felt…personally affronted by the man’s words and his gut told him that he has a past with being used…perhaps even controlled somehow. The idea made his blood burn like magma beneath his skin, scalding away his patience. His knuckles were white around the handle of his curved blade and though he hadn’t clenched his other hand, the fingers were teasing up towards the grip of his second saber.

Between his words, his manner, and his stance it was clear that he felt the man better offer some explanations before Farren decided to take matters into his own hands.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

listened to the exchange…to the sounds beyond the door. His eyes narrowed slightly, he almost relaxed, but as the voice spoke and something bestial began to beat upon–and claw at–the gateway he found his grip tightening upon his weapon. The way it breathed, the thudded movements…its growls. It sounded like a beast and as its hand punched through the door Farren found that he was baring his teeth.

Some part of him wished to lurch into action, to dart forth, draw his second blade, and use the two to lop off its foul, hairy arm. Farren found himself suppressing a growl that had been building in his throat, and as he did so, he felt tension build in his head…and in his chest.

The newborn hunter gritted his teeth hard enough that it was very nearly painful, then he forced himself to relax. “I don’t much like this,” Farren said aloud–if quietly. He salivated, had to wipe his mouth on his sleeve and swallow hard. His whole body felt tense and though he tried to force himself to relax, it hardly worked at all.

He swallowed again and schooled his breathing…a technique drifting into his mind…one for remaining calm, he thought, but it felt less like his own mind and more like that of his past self stepping in to help him. He needed answers…but his body craved something else.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

finished his preparations, slipping the axe into its new holster at his back once it was on. As he heard the rattling of the door and the repeated request, Farren found his eyes narrowing. Then the loud sharp sound of the butt of her spear hitting the ground forced his gaze over to her. Farren winced slightly at the volume and sharpness of the noise, but he understood her intent—at least somewhat—as he watched her travel to the door and slam a fist against it in reply. He couldn’t help but smirk as he heard the choice words she gave the likely church forces on the other side of the door. As an unveiled threat rolled from Ophelia’s lips, Farren found himself smirking, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. He realized that one of his hands—his left—had wrapped tightly around the grip of his curved blade. His mouth was watering slightly and though he wouldn’t realize it right away, his eyes were slightly manic.

Farren gritted his teeth as he stared at the paltry barrier of wood between them and the interlopers. Some shred of empathy in him said he ought to try and protect the remaining potential hunters in the room from those outside. Another part of him said that was foolish, idiotic even…if they couldn’t defend themselves then fuck ‘em…that voice felt more familiar, more deeply ingrained. His past self perhaps? However…there were two louder voices, one sang in his mind, its voice somewhere between true music and a bestial howling. It was the loudest amongst the two voices, it sang for carnage…that was what was making his skin itch.

“Be ready,” the blue-eyed hunter said, his voice low and filled with a subtle danger that almost sounded like a growl. Slowly, he drew one of his two swords, flipping it from reverse to normal grip.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

winced ever-so-slightly at the distant shriek that reached him, a sound that the others had surely heard as well. He pondered at what it might be, brief flashes touched his mind, speaking of knowledge that he’d perhaps lost…but it all felt faint and murky–vague even. Like he hadn’t known much about whatever the memories had entailed. The feeling faded and his mind was soon occupied by other matters as the agitated sound of men’s voices reached him through the door…gradually approaching. Farren pulled away from the door, but before he could say anything further, this ‘Ophelia’ spoke and said something altogether strange. ‘Men turned to beasts?’

Farren’s eyes narrowed and then a loud stumbling clatter and thud echoed behind him. Before he’d even thought about it, Farren turned on his heel, one of his blades already drawn–as if by reflex. He stared across the distance, seeing that Torquil had backed–stumbled, startled maybe–straight into one of the many cots and toppled it quite soundly to the ground. He frowned, his fingers tight on the handle of the curved blade, the axe in his other hand gripped just as tightly…then he relaxed slightly. A small smile tugged at the edge of his lips and amusement entered his gaze. Farren navigated back towards the other two. Something in him spoke of whisperings, of experience, if not outright knowledge or understanding. What Ophelia said made a perverse sort of sense to him. Why else keep the knowledge about Beasts so tightly leashed? How else might they understand how to create Hunters?

Farren spoke as he laid a hand on Torquil's shoulder, “Steady there, can’t be caught all flat footed by knowledge of all things, no matter how shocking.” He gave the man a small smile, his bright blue eyes amused.

After a moment, Farren's hand fell away and he glanced to Ophelia–who to him seemed to be the more steady-minded of the two, if this had been anything to go by. “Voices beyond the door, several men…getting closer,” he said, expression more series, his smile gone. Then he turned to stripping the shirts from some of the corpses in the room, gathering thread, and rigging up a sort of sling holster. It took him only a few minutes and he was surprised at how steady his hand was at it. He’d only wanted to give it a try to see if he could give himself somewhere better to hang the axe…he had not at all expected that he’d be good at this sort of thing. Odd…he couldn’t remember even a shred of why he had the skills either. Ah well…it was useful to know at least.