yoshua171

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

listened, quiet, watching her expression even though–almost paradoxically–seeing and hearing her apparent joy at recounting the experience only made him feel worse. As she went on, Farren’s expression went from serious with a hint of curiosity, to one of increasing concern. Listening to her speak of what must have been one of–if not the most–traumatizing experiences she’d ever had, Farren really came to grips with how thoroughly Gerlinde must have been crushed beneath the weight of that overwhelming strangeness and despair. Coupled with the fact that it must have been unbelievably lonely and frightening as she dealt with essentially constant and rapid changes to her body that she’d have had no real explanation for, well…it was no wonder she seemed so disconnected from herself.

Beside that, the confirmation that she had indeed been pregnant weighed on him and his shoulders dropped slightly beneath the compounding pressure of that knowledge. The whole story was, in fact, so profoundly heartrending that Farren didn’t even have it in him to be disgusted with the scholars. “I wish I had known,” Farren said quietly, sounding subdued as he glanced away, then up at the night sky. It was a pointless thought, perhaps even more pointless to voice it, but the words had come anyway.

“When did you realize that none of it mattered?” he asked, not looking at her as he referenced what she’d said some time ago in the Dream. A part of him wondered what they’d done with her original child and–indeed–the slug-babies thereafter. It was not lost on him either that she’d been left with the last of her…children and that Gerlinde had not said what had come of the infant–if that was even the correct term. Still, he didn’t ask…it was better to have one terrible piece of knowledge at a time, so as not to break….

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Mending
^{The Black Church Workshop - 3 hrs Past Sunset}

A Collab by @Dark Jack, @yoshua171, with a Cameo from @Tuujaimaa

---

Farren ‘awoke’ from his transit between the Dream and the Material world, steadied himself, took in his environs and the fact that nothing of note had changed, before he moved to the door with purpose in his stride. As he reached the sealed threshold, he closed his eyes a moment and then gave a coded knock. After a moment, someone gazed at him through the peek-hole and a moment more passed before the door swung up and he was allowed in.

Nodding to the individual who manned the door, he turned his sights on the path to Seven’s personal workshop. Farren walked to it, knocked once, then twice, before entering as he found it unlocked. Once inside he knelt on one knee and called to the Messengers. As he awaited for them to deliver Fulmen to him, he spoke up “I’ve got some gear that needs maintenance, Fulmen included. Came across a rather…nasty Beast and tried something riskier than I knew it to be,” he said frankly. When the Messengers lifted the handle of Fulmen up to him, he grasped it and heaved the weapon up and fully into the world, hoisting it into both hands, one further up the shaft, before he laid it gently as he could on one of the work stations.

"Already?" Seven asked rhetorically, letting out a sigh as he went over to have a look at the experimental weapon. "What kind of beast was it? How did Fulmen perform?"

Farren winced slightly, but nodded, going back to one knee as he remembered Bulwark. While he awaited the Messengers again—after murmuring as if to himself—he replied. “Darkbeast. Undead skeleton of a massive dog or some bullshit, wreathed in fucking lightning,” Farren said, resisting the urge to spit on the ground. He shook his head, “Thing was resistant to charge…for obvious reasons, so I tried to see if Fulmen might be able to drain some of the Beast’s own power…it was a dumb idea…I’ll take a minute or three to write everything in the log book while I’m here. Hadn’t gotten the chance yet,” he added. The Messengers arrived and he asked after the logbook as well. They handed it to him and he took that in one hand while he held Bulwark in the other. Farren repositioned some things on another table after he set down the logbook to have a hand free, then set the still expanded Bulwark on that table.

"A darkbeast? Extremely rare. That'll certainly be valuable data." Seven leaned in to examine the discharge trigger of the weapon for damage first. "Not dumb at all, I'd not be surprised if Fulmen would charge very, very quickly from hitting a darkbeast. But from the sound of it, that's not the case?"

Farren grunted, moving to lean up against the wall, crossing his arms, before remembering that he’d said he’d write in the logbook. He decided he’d explain the situation first. “Well, it might’ve been…if I hadn’t foolishly opened the mechanism first,” he said, frowning a bit at his own foolishness. He really ought to have tried a normal strike first, at the very least. “Though…using it like I did at least saved me getting hit by something a fair deal worse…” he added, sighing as he reached up and rubbed at his temple. As he recalled the fight he also couldn’t help but get distracting flashes of Ophelia from just a few minutes ago…on her knees sobbing. He hadn’t really, understood why she’d broken down like that, but he realized that it probably hadn’t been him—not exactly. She was made of sturdier stuff than that. He shook his head…he really didn’t want to think about that at the moment.

Seven froze in place, then slowly turned to shoot a look at Farren that made him seem incredibly tired and much older than he actually was. "So... two things. Firstly, Fulmen is designed specifically to not hold a charge when transformed. The whole point of transforming it is to force it to discharge. Secondly: when transformed, it shouldn't be used as a hammer."

Farren held the man’s gaze, even though he found that it made him surprisingly uncomfortable. He realized only as the man spoke—telling him what he’d already figured out—that it was guilt he was feeling. “Yeah…it really should have been common sense. It…it’s not a mistake I’d repeat,” he assured the man, trying not to look away, though his discomfort slowly became apparent as he did so. Perhaps to release the tension, Farren uncharacteristically laughed a bit, looking rueful as he spoke again. “It was a split second decision in the heat of a terrifying, fraught situation. Believe me, I regretted it almost immediately after….”

"I can imagine," Seven sighed and turned back to the weapon, pulling and holding the trigger to force it to switch to and remain in its transformed state so he could examine its internals. "Well now. It looks like it took a hard hit. It's not broken, but it probably wouldn't be able to take much more punishment before something goes wrong."
He released the trigger and turned back to Farren. "It's good that you brought it as soon as you did; I can do some maintenance without needing to make new parts to replace broken ones with, and that should get it back into working order. Should only take a few minutes." His eyes narrowed. "You have coin?"

Farren seemed immediately relieved as Seven gave his diagnosis of the weapon’s current state, he was glad he hadn’t tried to use the weapon any further. However…as Seven mentioned coin, Farren froze. He hadn’t really thought about funds since he’d awoken in the clinic three hours ago. “Ah…shit,” Farren muttered, then he recalled what he’d harvested from the Darkbeast’s undead corpse. He met Seven’s eyes, “I…don’t and I’m not sure where I…used to keep it back before…well, you know. Hmm…I do have some material I gathered from the Darkbeast though…” as he said it Farren knelt once more and called upon them, asking that they retrieve the portion of the Darkbeast’s arm that he’d cleaved off and taken for himself. “I figured it might be useful for future development of Fulmen. The creature’s bones seem to be…remarkably conductive and also undying…so the material—even separated from the body—can sort of repair itself, if slowly.”

Seven grimaced at the sight of the darkbeast's arm. "If you happen to visit Hemwick, do me a favor and throw that thing into the lake. I've read enough about darkbeasts to know that their bits are far from safe to handle." He shook his head and turned back to Fulmen. "Don't worry about payment this time, I'll do this maintenance on Fulmen for free. But for anything else..." He turned and shot a meaningful glance at Farren's Bulwark. "...we're going to need coin. We're not the White Church, we don't have practically infinite resources. We need funds."

Farren nodded, first at the man’s comment about throwing it to Hemwick—something he had no intention of doing—and then once more as he explained that next time he’d be requiring payment for repair of Fulmen or any other implement. “I appreciate it. I’ll figure out funds before I ask for anything further,” Farren said, handing the forearm back to the Messengers. He’d have to figure out a use for it himself, it seemed. He grabbed Bulwark and stowed it away with the Messengers as well. “How much should I expect these sort of repairs to cost?” Farren asked, watching the man work with a discerning, clearly interested eye. Farren wondered if he’d ever mentioned his interest in this sort of thing to Seven—he doubted it…the memories he had implied he’d been a rather closed off sort of person before. Then again, he felt far more comfortable around Seven than he had around basically anyone else since he’d awoken.

"For something minor like this, not much," Seven said while tinkering with Fulmen. "Three coppers would do it. It'd have been a lot worse if I had to replace parts or make major repairs. Depending on what parts end up broken, I may have to ask for gold."

“Ah…” he acknowledge, before he fell silent again, “I always wondered about these sort of things,” he said, trying to remain casual. Some part of him was still that closed off man and wanted to keep the true depth of his interest somewhat concealed from Seven—if he didn’t know already.

"That so?" Seven remarked without looking up from his work.

Farren grunted slightly in confirmation, frowning to himself, “I think perhaps some part of me wanted to eventually do what you do, I suppose. Become a craftsman,” he said and though he’d tried to not let it slip, he sounded somewhat wistful. The idea seemed like a pipe dream now, with the new perspective given by his change in situation and being divorced from the experience and life of his past self.

Seven made a vague, ambiguous noise and gestured over his shoulder at the considerable amount of documents Farren could plainly see lined two entire walls of the room they were in. "Crafting is only a small part of what I do. But that aside, there's no reason you can't be a craftsman. As I understand it, the Old Hunters used to make their own trick weapons. There's no reason you couldn't do that too."

Farren nodded, glancing over the documents briefly before he looked down, seeming thoughtful. “I suppose. I just wonder if I have any of the ability, I guess,” he replied, shrugging slightly, though he doubted the man would see it. Likely Seven knew him—or at least his past self—well enough to hear a hint of uncertainty in his tone. “Certainly don’t know where to even start,” he added, frowning faintly at the thought.

"Making a knife is usually a good place to start."

At this point, a pair of Messengers appeared in front of Farren to show him a scroll:

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.

Message from Ophelia

Once more, Farren knelt even as he was considering Seven’s words. Those thoughts paused however as he read Ophelia’s message—a slower process than it might have been for someone else. He nodded after to himself quietly. He sent something back quickly after a few moments of thought.

It should be a few minutes more for repairs. No coin to fix Bulwark for now, perhaps you could retrieve an intact spare from the chest. I’ll send for you when it’s finished. As for the rest….

Consider it behind us. I was…. Though I cannot entirely remember, the trauma I endured on account of Ego weighs on me. It is not the bastard’s influence, but it can warp my words…my intent. I know now that you meant well…and you gave me more grace than perhaps you had to. I should not have brought your ability into question. For that I apologize.

I hope that we may proceed with greater respect. I for your knowledge and competence, and perhaps you for my agency.

We will walk together.

Farren’s Message

Then he let the Messengers take his message back to the Dream as he rose to his feet, brow slightly creased. Farren retrieved the logbook and slowly–clumsily–so that his words would hopefully be legible. He detailed his brief usage of Fulmen against the Darkbeast, including his mistakes, and indicated that should he encounter such a creature in the future that he would test the weapon’s efficacy to build charge without first exposing the core.

It took him perhaps the space of five or so minutes to complete the task, despite not truly writing more than a paragraph or two along with a rough–but detailed and surprisingly accurate–sketch of what he knew of Fulmen’s design. When he’d finished, he closed the logbook and gave it to the Messengers, who he’d bid wait at the ready rather than retreat entirely.

Finally, after the relative silence, he spoke, “I knife then…” he murmured, mostly to himself, before looking to Seven again. “How much would a set of simple tools be? Something for whittling. A portable whetstone to sharpen a blade of metal…or bone. Perhaps some odds and ends to affix things together. Ah, and some leather, I suppose.” Farren knew he had no coin at the moment, but he was certain his past self had squirreled some away…and he remembered that he could also exchange echoes for coin back in the Dream, though he didn’t much like the idea.

"Depends on where you get it, I suppose," Seven told him with a shrug. "We can probably get you a nice starter set for a gold coin if you want. Of course, if you were to join the Black Healing Church you could use our workshop for free. We'd fix your equipment for free, too. We only charge outsiders."

With that, Seven stepped away from Fulmen and gestured to it. "All right, I've done everything I can at the moment. Resoldered some loose wires, straightened a few bits, tightened a few screws... It's pretty much as good as new. Pretty much."
Farren nodded thoughtfully, “Hmm, I’ll keep it in mind,” he replied, nodding slightly. He didn’t much like the idea of binding himself to a particular faction, if he were being entirely honest. While he’d worked with the church before, he’d been working with both of them…and on the side occasionally for others who could pay sufficiently. The idea of being anything other than a free agent had a sense of finality for him, and tied with that was a sort of restrictive almost-claustrophobia that made him surprisingly uncomfortable. He frowned for a moment before Seven spoke again, gesturing to Fulmen as he did so.

The azure-eyed hunter raised his eyes and looked the weapon over, his frown fading. He smiled slightly and nodded, “I appreciate it, Seven. Anything you or yours need?” He asked, then cracked a small grin as he lifted his eyes to meet the Seven’s. “Other than coin, that is.”

"Need?" Seven repeated, returning to his desk. "What do you mean? The sort of jobs you used to do?"

Farren shrugged slightly, “Any choice materials that we might come across while dealing with the Hunt, that sort of thing,” he said simply in response. “You've done me a favor. I'd like to repay it.”

Seven shrugged. "Blood stone and other unusual materials would always be appreciated, of course, but besides that..." He paused. "One thing we will eventually need is a supply of mercury. Until now we've been buying and trading for it from the White Church, but I've heard they've lost their cinnabar mine to the Fire Dancers. Honestly, no one here cares too much about who we're buying it from; if the White Church get their mine back that's fine, and if we can get a trade agreement with the Fire Dancers that's just as good. But we need mercury."

Farren nodded, his thumb playing at the edge of his lip, but not pulling at it exactly, for a moment, before he nodded again and stepped forward. Farren glanced Fulmen over one more time, then picked it up, letting it rest on his shoulder. After a moment he let it slide backwards while he still held it, until it slid into the sling he'd fashioned for it previously, hanging in place at his back.

Farren outstretched a hand to Seven, “White Church mobilized some time ago to attempt to retake the mine. We might head there at some point soon, but it's hard to say. I'll keep you in mind,” his hand remained outstretched for Seven to shake. “I'll bring coin next time and if I can spare any bloodstone we find, you'll have first pick.”

Seven robotically shook Farren's hand, though his attention had already shifted back to the papers he had been working on. "Good luck."

Farren gave the man's hand a hearty squeeze--though he restrained himself enough not to hurt the man. As he let go of Seven's hand, Farren glanced at the papers the man was reading, trying to catch a few words--though he didn't linger more than a few moments, unless something caught his interest.

It was difficult to decipher much from a brief glance at Seven's papers. It looked like some kind of spreadsheet mostly covered with rows and columns of numbers.

Farren’s gaze slid off the spreadsheet easily, nothing really catching at his curiosity. He turned and left the room, shutting the door behind him as he left. As he found himself back in one of the main rooms of the Workshop he briefly glanced about, noting a series of crates opposite Seven’s office door, arranged against the wall. They weren’t guarded. Farren raised an eyebrow briefly, but shook his head. Surely they needed these supplies and he had other ways of acquiring his own besides. Perhaps one of the others might have investigated further, but Farren wasn’t much in the mood for stealing from the Black Church–if only because in his mind it would be like stealing from Seven.

Thus, Farren continued after a brief pause and headed from the building, finding the courtyard outside essentially unchanged. He knelt down a few feet from the Workshop entrance and sent another message to Ophelia.

I’m finished up here.

Farren’s Message

Once they’d taken their little scroll, Farren handed them his logbook now that he’d made his recent entry and no longer needed it for the moment. They took it into that strange other place and disappeared into the ground–or at least that’s the way it looked. With that done, Farren stood and glanced to the night sky, watching the moon and the stars while he waited.

It was a nice night…or perhaps it would have been, if not for the Hunt.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

watched her expression change, watched her body language shift subtly and he almost sighed even before she spoke, but he refrained. Instead, as she had done for him, he just listened. Just listened as she berated him almost like she had Victor. His expression was an impassive mask, even though he knew that his lack of reaction was likely to frustrate her further.

As she laid into him, Farren realized something about himself then…about how his past must have been: He was used to being disappointed, used to people’s irrational emotions. Simultaneously, he somehow knew that he had not been used to dealing with his own. When she had finally spent her venom and walked away, her footfalls carrying her towards one the headstones, Farren let out a small, quiet sigh. He knew she would hear it, he wasn’t sure whether or not he cared. His hand came up and he rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Farren felt…tired then, not suddenly exactly, not like it had snuck up on him, but more as if he no longer had anything else to distract him from the fatigue.

“What a mess,” he muttered to himself, his words encapsulating their entire argument quite neatly. He glanced to the side as he noticed Torquil exit the cottage. It seemed Gerlinde was watching them as well as their hosts. His expression might be taken as a glare, but even if it were received as such, it wasn’t really.

After a moment he turned away from their two other companions, his gaze briefly glancing off Ophelia. He regarded the Doll and the Moonbound Hunter for a moment, noting the Hunter’s head had cocked faintly to one side. Farren wondered if they had their own implements at either of the Workshops. He ran a hand down his face, then back up…through his hair, appearing exasperated.

This had gotten out of hand, he’d gotten out of hand and she had followed his example…after a fashion. Yet…was there any helping it? An apology now would feel empty and Farren knew he’d be getting none from her. The way she always spoke was as if she were utterly in the right. Internally he cursed to himself ‘Indignant…bullheaded, self righteous, stubborn,’ only to realize that some of those things might be used to describe him.

Farren laughed, a brief sound in the lower register as he chuckled and then shook his head. The smile that accompanied the sound didn’t last long at all, fading before even his laughter had.

“Very well, I’m headed to the Black Church Workshop. If you want to gather supplies or meet Seven, feel free to join me, otherwise I’ll just come back here once I’m done.”

Farren glanced between his allies—Ophelia included—and then moved to the Headstone that held the marker for the Black Church Workshop. He glanced over at Ophelia, his fingers hovering, but not yet activating the power of the gravestone. He didn’t apologize. “I’ve never claimed knowledge beyond my purview and I won’t now, nor is my will anymore untouchable than your own. I respect you and I’d rather not see you or the others plagued by Ego’s influence. I’d rather not have you turned against me either. Deprive me of your counsel and your Runes, that is your choice, certainly. As you say, who is more entitled to the tool than you? But it will only bring all of us greater woe.”

That said, he touched the marker and began to fade, not leaving time for a reply. He wished only for her to consider his words…not to lash out at him again. She deserved more of his patience—he knew—especially after how well she’d handled his…outburst, but at the same time, he’d truly said nothing out of line thereafter, and she’d reacted as if he’d somehow wounded her pride. Still…communication was always flawed, so he gave her that grace, even if she hadn’t given him any by trying to force the Mask Rune upon him.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

heard her whispered words and turned as she was applying the rune, his gaze catching on the projection upon the runebrand. It wasn’t the Heir Rune.

Before it took, Farren’s arm dropped and in the space of a fraction of a second, he was out of her reach. Yet she kept talking, as if nothing strange had happened, as if she hadn’t just attempted to put the Mask Rune on him when he’d requested something else entirely.

Farren breathed, the action manual and far more controlled than before. He was glaring again, but there was no shame or paranoia about him and though he appeared tense once more, the azure-eyed hunter didn’t seem nearly as upset as he’d been during their exchange. Farren opened his mouth to speak, to ask a question, but he closed it again before he did.

He closed his eyes, took a deep pull of air, and then let it out nice and slow, letting go of some of the tension that had reemerged. Farren’s gaze fell on her once more after that, “Ophelia, I’ve grown rather fond of you. You’re capable, intelligent, and knowledgeable. We work well together,” he stated the facts, his tone measured. “...but I don’t much care for treachery, nor your presumptions,” he said, and these words were far sharper, like blades long nursed by a whetstone.

“So, perhaps, on account of that fondness and respect…I will let pass this indiscretion. Just this once,” his eyelid twitched faintly, a sign of masked irritation hidden beneath a veneer of forced calm even as he gave her a slow smile. “Now, the Heir Rune, if you please, Ophelia.” He left the rest unsaid, allowing his words hang for a moment and then, slower than before, he pushed up his sleeve and offered her his arm. This time, he didn’t let his eyes leave her visage.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

stared at her for a long moment after she’d finished, not even acknowledging her offer to rebrand him with the Mask rune. He mulled over her words for a time, considering what she had said. The anger, the frustration, and even the disgust began to wane, the lattermost moreso than the other two. The shame remained, stabbing at him like a thousand pins and needles, poking and prodding at his mind. Farren’s shoulders slumped and finally he managed to release much of the tension he’d been holding. “I hate to say it…but you’re right,” he said.

Farren was trying to be better, he reminded himself, and admitting when he was wrong was part of that. He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closing for a long moment. He shook his head, “No…give me the Heir Rune instead,” he said, he’d clearly come to some decision.

After a moment his hand dropped and he opened his eyes. “The Dream may not have chosen me, but it has accepted me, in its own way. Perhaps these…anomalies are its rebellion, perhaps they are something else, but you’re right. If not us…then whom. The Heir Rune will make it easier for me to navigate the world beyond and while I’d prefer to stick to my strengths, I think perhaps delving somewhat into the Arcane is an inevitability. Besides, the Mask rune may prevent use of any lantern, and that’s an unacceptable flaw.”

Farren pushed up his sleeve so she could use the brand and as she did he glanced towards their hosts. He regarded the two, but otherwise remained silent. Once she had branded him, to which Farren didn’t really react, beyond one muscle in his arm growing tense for a fraction of a second, he spoke up. “Is there anyway either of you might know for us to acquire another brand?” He gestured back at the tool Ophelia held to make it clear to what he was referring.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

began to open his mouth, as if to reply, but the brief silence did not allow it as Ophelia began to laugh and as she began to cackle, it was only that first word that held him back, that and what companionship they’d shared up until that point. A less pragmatic Farren would have lunged for her, a less sentimental one—perhaps more like his past self—might have done so as well, but as things stood, he almost moved. It was like he almost flinched forward, before stopping lest any further movement carry him onto a path that he knew none of them desired. Still, as her voice grew loud and high, her laughter grated on him, calling to mind nights huddled in the corner, arms clutched about his knees as he shook like a leaf as phantasms laughed and clawed at him from every side, unseen, but felt and heard all the more for it. It was a ghost of a memory, not complete nor as potent as it likely would have been before. Still though, it itched at him. His eyelid twitched again, but he didn’t move further, though she’d see even clearer the lines of tension in him, the way his jaw had clenched too tight, the way his eyes had narrowed as he glared at her.

Then, finally, it stopped and it was almost a relief…until she started talking again. Usually, Ophelia’s careful—often gentle—and surely evocative manner of speaking didn’t bother him, but in that moment, already on edge as he was, it was like talons dragging against his nerves. Farren slowly released a breath, through his nose, focusing on the sensation as shame and rage and other things with which he was less familiar coiled and burned in his chest.

Somehow, he hated more that her words made some sense. Who, if not her, would he trust to do this? And how, if not by this means, would they come to understand Ego’s insidious nature, its aims, its intent. Yet he didn’t relax, even as his jaw seemed to, his mind remained a roiling mess. “And what if it does to you, what the Greatsword did to Ludwig? What the Vicar did to me.”

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

felt his brow twitched, followed a moment after by the corner of his eyelid as Ophelia--firmly, and as gently as she could--laid into him. Farren's fists clenched and in so doing, he realized that he'd never sheathed his blade. Farren took a breath, trying to calm himself, but his heart just kept racing, his body remembering what Ego had done to him even if his mind struggled to. Slowly, for he'd noticed the tension in her stance, Farren moved, sheathing the Effigial Blade before raising his hand to the bridge of his nose. He pinched lightly, massaging the spot for a moment as he shook his head, his teeth still tightly pressed together, the muscle in his jaw standing out.
“Even you felt the effects of the bastard without the Mask Rune,” he said, meeting her gaze again. She might see that while he was clearly struggling with himself, that he appeared to be doing his best not to react purely with emotion.

“The false eyes of the lantern...the Vicar's affectation, I doubt they were the only things that eluded you, if only temporarily. Yet...” he trailed off, jaw working, his nose wrinkling slightly before he suppressed the expression of agitation--or was that disgust...or something else entirely. He closed his eyes, taking in a slow audible breath through his nose before continuing, “...arrogantly, you assume you might commune with this...thing and come out unscathed?”

Farren's azure eyes opened, met hers and he found that he had to suppress the urge to spit at her feet, had to suppress a look of profound disgust. It never appeared on his face, but only just. “...but yes, surely I--who has had the most exposure to Ego's attentions--would know nothing of it.”

He smiled then, but it wasn't a pleasant thing to look upon and it never touched his eyes. In that moment, his regard was more a glare. “No, you're right. I'm the irrational one. Surely,” each word was painfully sarcastic.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

brow slightly shifted down, eyes narrowing for a moment before the microexpression was gone almost faster than it had formed. He nodded and rose to his feet, understanding that the man perhaps didn’t want to be touched in that moment, even if it would’ve made it much easier for him to stand up. It was odd though…Torquil seemed…different somehow and the nature of the change became slightly more apparent once Torquil spoke a second time, the sentence more well reasoned…and significantly longer than almost anything he’d heard come out of his companion since they’d met. Sure, it had only been hours, not exactly a huge length of time in which to judge someone, but Farren felt he was…rather canny and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was more observant–vigilant really–than most. Of course, he didn’t exactly consider himself smarter–he was no scholar–but more realistic…practical? That was something he had going for him, so as he processed Torquil’s words a frown creased his brow.

However, the man was up…and then heading for the workshop before Farren could really say anything–not that he entirely knew what he even ought to say. With Gerlinde soon rushing off as well, it left him, Ophelia and their hosts as the only ones remaining outside.

Farren–still frowning–glanced to Ophelia and though he had heard their hosts’ explanation of the phenomena that now both he and Torquil had experienced, giving name to it, Farren found himself far more snagged upon what he’d just witnessed from Torquil’s conduct. The nature of things was important after a fashion, but sometimes the consequences of such were more important…and this seemed like one of those instances. “Ophelia…did you…hear him just now?”

In his gut, Farren knew something fundamental had just changed and while he wasn’t exactly sure what it would mean for them, he did know that it was almost certain to change the dynamic of their little group.

That worried him.

After all, change was an unknown and Farren didn’t much like variables he couldn’t predict. Uncertainty was the enemy.

Of course, worse even than that was perhaps what Ophelia had said, which only then struck him, causing Farren’s features to twist further. He stepped towards Ophelia, nearly crossing the entire distance between them before he caught himself and stopped short. He’d been about to grab at her clothes, but managed to curtail his rather visceral reaction to her words.

Farren swallowed, took a breath, closing his eyes for a prolonged blink before he focused his intense gaze on her once more. “No,” he denied, referring to her desire for communion with ‘Ego.’ The ‘Beast’ in the furnace of his stomach coiled and stirred, the rage that was its fuel flickering, sputtering, burning inside him. “You don’t understand what it is you’re suggesting,” he insisted, and there was something wild in his eyes, a wildness that she might recall seeing bared only when Farren himself had endured Frenzy previously, back at the clinic. Yet though it was present, he appeared to entirely remain in control…though there were stiff lines of tension in every muscle she could see as he held himself back from approaching her further.

“It ruined me, Ophelia,” he said and shame came into his expression, shame and anger and…something else less easy to identify. “...if it is ‘sympathetic’ as the Great Ones are said to be, its sympathy is more dangerous even than a madman’s ire,” and as he said the last, something in Farren shifted faintly…for he knew it was more true even than he’d like to believe.

More true about himself than he was likely to ever admit.

For who had been more filled with ire and woe than he…

…at least when it came to Ego and his insidious Gold.

For Farren the answer was self evident:

No one.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

nodded slightly at Ophelia’s comment regarding the strange bloody phenomena having to do with the apparition. Truthfully though, he had a feeling it wasn’t just the creature’s nature, but something to do with its wicked implement as well. As they watched, Torquil rolled to his back…and some part of Farren relaxed as the man didn’t leap to strike at either of them. He approached, kneeling on one knee beside the man–within arm’s reach, but not so close as to crowd him. The man’s single-word sentence caused a sympathetic smile to touch his lips and crinkle the skin about his eyes. “Apt,” he said simply, “...I’ve felt it too. Can you get one of your vials, or shall I?”

He asked, offering to help, but not wanting to intrude–or use one of his own. If it had been more of an emergency he certainly would have, but Torquil was conscious and able enough to move to some degree, so much of his worry had faded. Still…that was to say nothing for his wariness, which remained–though it was largely concealed. After all, Farren remembered quite vividly how he’d felt after his run-in with what Gerlinde said was called ‘Frenzy.’ He’d nearly attacked Ophelia…and had the woman not been quick to react, he certainly would have. That was part of why he was giving Torquil his space, rather than simply acting to help him and thus invading it.

While he waited, Farren considered Ophelia’s words as she offered Gerlinde the strange gem, as she called it. There was…a glimmer of something in his mind as she spoke of it, but he ultimately had more pressing matters pulling upon his attention, so he hardly noticed.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

took a half step towards Torquil as the wraith shrieked and then practically exploded outwards, the ethereal substance of its body dispersing violently outwards into the air–dagger included. Some small part of him was disappointed at that, having hoped he could perhaps glean some information from the weapon and put it to use for their own purposes. However, that was an afterthought and what truly struck him was his companion falling to his hands and knees, his every breath coming faster than those before. Farren’s eyes widened slightly as he watched Torquil shred the metal of his helm. With the man’s skin exposed, Farren reached to stab the vial into Torquil’s neck, but before he could the man’s skin blackened. Farren–instinctively–quickstepped backwards two whole meters, pocketing the vial as he did, and drawing the unified true Blade of Mercy in his other hand. Ready to dash back in, Farren watched, his eyes wide and intense, brow creased, lips drawn in a thin line, knuckles white as they clutched his blades.

Torquil screamed then, his body began to shudder and shift and warp…so violently that he could see it happening even beneath his armor, the plates vibrating and rattling about in a clamorous rancor of sound. Farren’s eye twitched faintly, but he didn’t wince at the primal sound and in the next moment, Torquil’s body effectively exploded as if it were tearing itself apa–...oddly, Farren suddenly relaxed. Not entirely, after all the situation could change at a moment’s notice, but his eyes lost some of their wild intensity, and his stance became looser. A beat passed and then as Torquil fully collapsed, Farren began to approach, though he kept his Blades free and in hand.

He’d remembered what had happened to him when they’d fought Pallid. It made him shudder slightly, but he was at least fairly certain that what they’d just witnessed had been much the same as he’d endured back then. He didn’t have a name for it, but it certainly looked like he had felt.

“It’s like back in the Clinic...with Pallid’s bell,” Farren muttered, sharing his theory with the others as he stopped, still about a meter from Torquil’s body–he hoped the man was just unconscious, but realistically…well, Ophelia was closer and if he recalled correctly, she had more vials on hand than he did.