yoshua171

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

followed as they made the journey to the haunt of the Crow Hunter, his senses stretched as they traveled. Just when it seemed there’d be nothing of note along the path of their travels, Farren caught sight of the far-off silhouette of something. When Moira revealed what that strange figure was, Farren’s eyes widened fractionally, before his brows lowered and he swallowed. To think Dietrich had fought this thing all on his lonesome and had come out relatively unscathed. It was remarkable, as was the sheer size of the creature as he stared upon it from a distance, like the others. Ophelia seemed to take little notice. He understood, they had a more pressing goal and there wasn’t much to be gleaned from so far away.

Nonetheless, Farren memorized what he could of the creature’s silhouette and then kept it in his peripheral vision as they continued on towards their destination. Though he’d been careful before, Farren did his best to move even more soundlessly from that moment onwards, even if it meant holding some of his armaments more firmly in place by hand. The weapons on his back he strapped tighter to himself. They’d be harder to easily withdraw, but this way they’d not jostle and make noise as much as they might otherwise have done.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

took in the sights and sounds as they made their way towards the industrial ward, refamiliarizing himself with the streets of Yharnam that he could not easily recall. This had the side effect of making him even more acutely aware of the way that other hunters and huntsmen looked at Ophelia as they passed them by. Farren wasn’t certain if it was her garb or the brilliant sapphire luminescence of her blade, but either way it was something he stowed away for later. It wasn’t new information of course, but every morsel mattered, no matter how small or insignificant it seemed in the moment it was witnessed.

As they jogged along, passing beneath the flickering lamplights of the city, Farren could not help but notice as the pale moonlight from above seemed to gradually become a presence all its own. He almost swore he could feel its light, like a caress, against his skin. The azure-eyed hunter tried not to linger on that thought, did his best not to give it purchase in his mind, but unlike Ophelia he could not take its pale gaze as a blessing or a boon. Though he mostly shoved the impression aside, it itched at him and he kept a measure of attention on that fact, lest it become a niggling paranoia as it nested in his brain.

Eventually, their surroundings began to change, gradually at first, then seemingly all at once as the nature of the buildings around them changed altogether. However, none of that was nearly so impactful as the sudden, shrill, painfully loud shriek that all at once assaulted them, filling the once-quiet night air with rage and desperation both.

Farren recoiled, stumbling in his step before catching himself as he brought his hands up to cover his ears as well. A pained look crossed his features, but it quickly solidified into a grim seriousness instead. As the sound faded, he lowered his hands, now following Ophelia’s path. After what they had witnessed with the Lightbeast, Farren entirely agreed with her. Some so-called beasts were not truly beasts at all…just people taken monstrous shape, empowered beyond the bounds of humanity by the potency of the Old Blood.

So, grimly, Farren kept pace with Ophelia as they headed–quite surely–into the jaws of a conflict they could not yet know the shape of. All the while, Farren’s left hand kept a grip on the True Blades of Mercy at his hip, ever ready to spring into action.

To her words, he made no reply, his actions enough to signal his agreement.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

restrained himself, managing not to react as Ophelia reiterated her intent to parlay with Ego. He took a breath and let the tension in his jaw ease and then vanish entirely, deliberately relaxing as much as he could. “I suspect…” he began, taking another deep breath, “…that the bastard likely sees me more as a potential pawn…a vessel for its will than a true player in the game. Though the Mask rune can shield me while inscribed upon my mind, any other time…Ego’s influence—its presence—is like a silken worm in my skull.”

He hated to admit it, to speak of how easily it seemed the Great One could just…reach inside him and compel obeisance, paranoia, or both. “Other times the worm grows teeth and seethes, gnashing at my senses…or it once did. Like whispers just beyond hearing, barely audible…or faint touches that you’re not sure you really felty…figures and phantasms at the edges of one’s vision.”

Farren shuddered, the hazy memories of the times before—nearest to his ministration—making gooseflesh breakout, the hairs on his neck standing on end. He took another breath and shook himself slightly. It barely helped.

“Same thing that the Vicar…or Frenzy can do to me,” he added to finish—though Gerlinde wouldn’t know to what he was referring, in regards to the latter.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

shivered as a wave of goosebumps rose on the back of his neck at the tailend of Gerlinde’s words. He’d just been thinking that seeking out knowledge of Ascension–and perhaps eventually achieving it–could certainly lead to them instituting some truly drastic changes to the world at large…when that sensation utterly interrupted his thoughts. Attention scattered, Farren’s next step was a stumbling one that led almost immediately into a steadying one as he drew his Effigial Blade of Mercy, his gaze darting about as the sensation of being watched pressed against him, making his skin almost itch with its intensity.

Worse, Gerlinde’s words implied that this had been Ego’s attention sweeping over them, which left Farren feeling…violated, one eyelid twitching repeatedly as he breathed through the sensation. After a moment, Farren hesitantly sheathed his weapon and shook himself. He noted Ophelia sending–and then receiving–Messages and moved closer to read them.

The golden words on one of the scrolls made him clench his teeth painfully hard, just to steel himself. He had no desire to return to that place, let alone do so by virtue of Ego’s invitation. When the Shopkeeper’s reply came, Farren nodded silently to himself, but said nothing. He knew there could be…terrible consequences to doing such a thing, but a deep part of him craved to slay the Golden Bastard for what it had done to him…and what it was continuing to do by ensnaring others with its insidious influence. Still, given what they knew of the Shopkeep’s experiences during the Night of the Blood Moon, well…they truly might not end up having a real choice in the matter.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

parted his lips, as if to reply, but he saw it, remembered some of it too, and so his lips pressed together once more and he said nothing. Her next words elicited no verbal response either, just a brief glance and a nod. Action was at least better than inaction. Perhaps times and new knowledge would change things, perhaps not. Either way, Farren had no desire to attempt to convince her further, he could tell it was a battle he would not win. So, pragmatically, he conserved his energy and focused on the path ahead of them. When they inevitably grew near the Industrial Ward, Farren would bid the others wait a moment as he retrieved the Piercing Rifle and Beastflayer from the Messengers. When that was done he’d continue with the others to cross the remaining distance, loading the Rifle with a quicksilver bullet as he did before arranging the weapon into place on his back as he had previously, its like alongside that of the Beastflayer. He decided to load his Blunderbuss with a quicksilver bullet as well, before replacing it at his hip, ensuring he’d be ready for their next encounter.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

was pondering their words when Torquil opened, then closed, the mechanism before speaking and moving to hand Fulmen back. Farren shook his head slightly, “Opening the mechanism only does something after the hammer’s built charge,” he began, clearly intending to explain the weapon. “…to build electrical energy you must first strike something with the hammer.”

Farren paused a moment, considering, “…it’s dangerous though, if you build too much charge before opening the mechanism it becomes…quite destructive.”

"...right," said slowly, concentrating a great deal to try to understand what he was being told. "It builds charge when I hit things, and if I open it while it has charge... something happens that can be destructive. Got it."

Farren nodded, “It’ll release electricity, like the Darkbeast we fought,” he clarified once it seemed that Torquil had a general grasp of the idea. “Just…make sure you count your hits and if you strike 10 or more times, do not open the mechanism.”

"Releases electricity like the darkbeast. If I hit more than ten times, don't open it. I think I understand."

Farren’s gaze was searching as he held Torquil’s eyes for a moment. Then his serious expression passed and he gave Torquil a companionable pat on the back, and a nod, feeling relatively confident in Torquil’s understanding. Still, he’d make a point of keeping track of how many times the man struck something…just in case.

With that taken care of, Farren glanced between Gerlinde and Ophelia, before looking at the pale moon above. “Gods, eh? What a strange world I’ve woken to,” he mused, shaking his head slightly, a strange smile briefly touching his lips before slipping away. “Not sure how to feel about that possibility, but…well, I think you’re both right, after a fashion. We could do nothing, but with the forces we know of so far…leaving things as they are would likely be just as disastrous as a misstep on our part, potentially even moreso.”

He glanced to Ophelia then, still sensing the morose air about her, though the idea of ascension seemed to rouse some of that strange intensity he was more accustomed to. “Even if…we don’t follow that path, we can achieve things few others in the city can, by virtue of always having another chance to try. Surely, at the least, we could investigate the various…players on the board and if nothing else stymie any efforts that would bring the city ruin.”

In truth, Farren felt it was, in a way, their duty. For every other faction seemed fixated on a single goal or ideology, each intent upon something and sure to take drastic measures to achieve such. While they did not have the resources of any of those factions, they also could not die…they could take risks that others likely never would. Though in some ways their unique nature as paleblood hunters—though he and Torquil were of a manufactured sort—did put them at a disadvantage. He had the sense that people would be far more likely to try and use them for their own purposes, and if not that…then distrust them purely due to what humanity they could be considered to have lost along with their mortality.

Ultimately though…one simply had to take account of such things and act with them in mind. So he thought at least….

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

did not allow himself to react to her sullen words, did not let his frustration show. Clearly, whatever haunted her would take time for her to grapple with. “Perhaps that is true,” he said, sounding thoughtful, “...but if anyone is to guide us with such sparse information, if anyone is to steer us to grow our knowledge, it is you, Ophelia.” He glanced at her then, and if she caught his eye she’d see a solemn respect and surety in his gaze that perhaps even if she did not feel so sure in that moment, it might buoy her that someone believed her capable. For his part, it was an honest admission, but so too was it an olive branch to begin repairing what had been damaged in their spat back in the Dream.

Hopefully she would accept it.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

almost missed a step as Ophelia’s response hit him and he blinked, finding his pace again in the moment immediately after–though he was in reality no less shaken. Perhaps it had been her tone, but no…no it was more than that. Farren’s brow knitted with concentration as he cast his gaze to the stone and occasional dirt of the road.

Ophelia was right…it could have been anybody and if it had been someone he’d known…cared for, would he still have done it? The hunter swallowed at that as the fact that he even had to consider the idea at all was telling in a way, even despite the fact that his mind rebelled at the thought. Surely he wouldn’t have…right? He knew that at least now he would not, but he was not the man he had been…though that man lived inside him, not like a spider in a living burrow, but like Farren had been constructed of his former self’s parts. Stitched together poorly, then the pieces joined by the heated frenzy of blood ministration, all melting together, muddying things.

Yet, before he could delve further, Gerlinde began to muse aloud. At first he listened, eyes still cast to ground as he kept pace with the others. As she went on, her words drew his eyes to her, though his frown remained. In a way her words made him feel better, if only barely, but despite them he couldn’t shake the sense that while they may no longer have been on strings, dancing to the will of unseen puppetmasters that still there was something guiding their actions beyond what they knew. “Perhaps not…but we are still in this… game, pieces on someone else’s board…” he hated saying it out loud, hated that it was likely true. It made his stomach turn, his blood boil, but he took a breath and calmed those instinctual reactions. That wasn’t what they needed right now, wasn’t really what he needed–though the bloodlust and rage and paranoia sometimes disabused him of that reality.

Farren straightened, though it was harder to tell with them jogging, and a steely look came into his azure eyes as he locked his gaze ahead of them–though his senses remained stretched to pick up any potential threats. “No, you’re right Gerlinde. It doesn’t matter. The board might not be ours now, but this is not a game, not truly. Ego…and his ilk–enemies, allies, kin–they may see us as pieces to be maneuvered, but we can rebel, we can act against their designs, and I for one certainly intend to.”

There was new vigor in his words and Farren seemed to believe them, a small smile touching his lips and the corners of his eyes. “...we are not what we were, who we were, and we have all lost something in getting where we are now. Yet, the future remains for us to sculpt,” he let those final words hang, falling silent as they jogged through the dark–moonlit streets of Yharnam, and he found that while he might not have fully believed those words when he began, that now he itched to make them fully true. He would bring them forth or he would die trying…then try again.

And again…and again.

Ego had broken him once, but a thing could only be warped or shattered so much.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

heard the words, processed what they meant, and they gave him no solace. While that had not been the point, he’d hoped that maybe for much of it she’d already been mad, but it seemed that the progression had been more subtle than that. It seemed that despite her madness, Gerlinde was entirely aware throughout and the rationalization that she didn’t matter–or at least that she hadn’t–would likely have done little to stymie the fear and pain and confusion as her body was repeatedly used and abused in the interest of twisted experimentation. All for what? The Scholars had all vanished in one way or another, they were likely all dead or worse…so what had it all been for. Who carried on whatever paltry knowledge they might have gleaned? Farren frowned, still staring at the night sky. Farren felt bile rise in his throat as anger bubbled in his gut. He swallowed hard and glanced at Gerlinde with a sigh, for what good would his anger do them now? “For what little it is worth, at least you’re with us now. Perhaps whatever they gained…helped someone, in the end,” he added the second sentence slowly, haltingly, then looked away.

He didn’t really believe it.

Farren knew that though Gerlinde didn’t seem to blame him, didn’t even seem to mind the position in which she’d ended up, that he would likely never feel better about having done what he had. He tried to pull his attention elsewhere, noticing a melancholy that hung about Ophelia and a strange shift in Torquil–though the latter was far more subtle.

“What’s on your mind, Ophelia?” Farren asked, deciding to start there as his long strides let him keep up with the others.

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….