‘awoke’ once more within the Dream and a strange surge passed through his blood, a feeling that was now familiar. It must have been whatever strangeness was in his manufactured paleblood. Unlike before, where he’d felt strangely foggy of mind, his reactions slower, now it was like…like every muscle in his body briefly sang with new strength.
It had happened once before, and it made him wonder how precisely it was happening at all. Without any echoes…some force was imbuing him with strength…and perhaps taking away from elsewhere at its leisure.
Intent on finding an explanation, Farren considered asking Ophelia, only to notice Torquil’s seeming discomfort. He frowned, his good spirits shifting to a strange unease he couldn’t quite explain. An unease that only intensified when Torquil spoke. It didn’t sound like him at all, it sounded warped and…hollow. Constrained somehow. Farren couldn’t help but take an instinctual step back, his hand finding the hilt of one of his blades by reflex.
It got worse.
So so much worse.
Farren’s eyes widened as Torquil removed his mask and he sucked in a sharp, almost hissing breath. He’d never seen anything remotely like the horror he now beheld…a head of…a fly, a mosquito, or some other foul pest seemed to have…replaced Torquil’s human visage…or, Farren supposed that his head had transformed wholesale.
His throat and mouth were dry all of the sudden and a dawning horror swept through him as an anxiety manifested itself deep in his bones. If this was a result of the Vicar’s actions…this very thing could happen to him too.
And it was horrible enough that it had happened at all, let alone to poor Torquil. “Godsblood,” Farren swore quietly as he stared, unable to look away.
“O-ophelia!”
Farren called out—it was perhaps the only time he’d yelled her name outside of a combat situation, if he’d even done so then. Even as his voice rang out, he forced himself to tear his eyes away, looking to Gerlinde, hoping she wouldn’t take any drastic actions.
had began to turn as Ophelia had originally, well and ready to depart and even as the Queen had urged them to tarry a moment longer, he had ignored her. Thus, half turned, the words washed over him “Thou speak of the Lord of Providence”.
So froze the Azure-eyed Hunter.
He grew still, features hard, as if he were a statue whose grim features promised death.
“Gods help us… we had read about the baneful Gilded Trickster…”
That deathly stillness, like stone briefly embodied within his flesh, fell away, the faint twitching of his fingers occurring momentarily before he turned once more to face the Queen. A smile shimmered in his eyes, his lips barely upturned.
An ally against the Bastard wrought of Gold.
How fortuitous that the Queen’s grace might be matched only by her wisdom. Further, as Ophelia and she exchanged further words, it was more than a relief–a boon for true–that Queen Analise had her own protections against the Golden Bastard.
Further, the tidings that she brought, speaking of something she had once read, surely before the forcing of that horrid mask upon her, only made Farren’s gladness grow.
Ophelia laughed.
Farren smiled, broad and true, teeth bared. A predator’s rictus joined with the smug amusement of a man finally–conclusively–proven right.
As Ophelia’s own laughter tapered away, Farren’s deeper chuckle could be briefly heard. Vanishingly rare, and gone as soon as it had come.
Farren did not kneel, but even as the Queen offered her warnings and advice–and Ophelia replied, then rose and began to turn towards the lantern once more–Farren, still smiling, though perhaps less sinister than before, swept into a bow nearly to the waist. “My thanks, your grace. To know with greater certainty the bent of the Golden Bastard’s mien gladdens me. Indeed, the Church’s ill words of you and yours must indeed be utter tripe, for I see before me only wisdom and temperance veiled beneath thy cage of iron. Assuredly…we shall see to it that you are burdened no longer by your mask.”
Then, though his bow was no truly noble thing, Farren rose, gave her a respectful nod, and waited a beat to ensure that any response of hers was held in his regard, before he turned away.
It was a measure of respect that before that moment he’d merely played at, his prior manner a faint ghost of proper etiquette.
gritted his teeth hard, the corner of his eye twitching, but he made no audible complaint. Instead, he just gave the cloaked figure a tight smell and bent nearly to one knee, hovering in a crouch as he murmured to the Messengers. A moment passed and then the pale eyeless helpers rose bearing the arm of the Darkbeast they had slain. Farren thanked them in his quiet way and took the limb in hand, hefting it with some strain to offer to the robed figure. It took an effort of will not to clutch the faintly crackling limb in all its rotten, withered glory, with clawed fingers, and instead to try at a measure of graciousness. “Had I known, I’d not have rent it from its place,” Farren offered by way of paltry apology. He managed to keep most of the tension from his voice, but a faint note of strain remained nonetheless.
He wished to say more, but thought better of it, his jaw clicking shut with the sound of teeth striking eachother. When the limb was received, Farren notably did not fall to a kneel. Furthermore, when he’d bent to beckon the Messengers, he had not knelt as he usually would, but quite deliberately kept his knees from touching the floor at all.
It was a small thing, most likely, but it was perhaps Farren’s sole small act of rebellion. Swiftly he was finding that he did not much like the idea of being considered beneath others. He wondered why. Perhaps all men felt that way? Yet…Ophelia did not seem to mind kneeling before the Queen. His frown had formed anew, and his eyes were slightly distance, the thoughtfulness of earlier returning–though his ears and nose remained pricked, ready to pick up any sign of threat.
Was it an echo of his former self, he wondered, had that man felt lowly? Certainly Farren thought it had seemed that way. Those memories were of a man who had been forced to bow, to grovel, to scrape up whatever meager resources he could, to claw out a place for himself in society where before none had truly been. A flash of emotion hit him then and Farren nearly staggered, but instead just bent in on himself for a moment, as if someone had punched him in the gut. He grunted softly, barely audible, then straightened again with a grimace.
It had been something deep seated and ugly: Hate….perhaps Resentment. Something pervasive, yet…it would have been more subtle back then, sublimated into other emotions, buried by something else? Drink perhaps. Farren shook his head and focused his gaze once more, casting it about before looking once more to the Queen.
He did not much like that they might sack, raze, and loot Yahar’gul before they’d even had the chance. Liked less that they might destroy valuable knowledge, kill valuable persons that could offer them more alive than they might by rotting somewhere in that horrible place. At the same time…there was a faint relief. He had not truly wished to return there, if he was being honest.
Farren wasn’t a coward, but still, there was an eerie, horrid, unseemliness about that place and even thinking about it now made his skin itch. Perhaps it was better this way….
awoke to a sight of opulence beyond even what he’d imagined those such as royalty would possess. Faint flashes from his youth were pulled from the depths of his mind, but not true memories precisely, more like flights of fancy partaken whilst in play amidst his peers. Some of those ideas had been true, others not so. Palaces writ entirely of gold or carved from the bones of great beings seemed to be outside the realm of reality, but still…he’d never seen so many candles in one place, nor so much gold all at once. The thrones themselves–if they were truly solid gold–must be worth more than the backwater he’d grown up in–though he remembered it only faintly, and said memories were scarce of a name.
Further, it seemed they were–indeed as one might expect from the Lantern’s bestowed name–in the presence of the Queen of the ‘Vilebloods’. Likely–if the other throne’s absence of an occupant was anything to go by–she was the sole monarch, bereft of a King or Consort or whatever other such term people such as these used to refer to their spouses.
Farren frowned and the expression remained. He listened as Ophelia and this…Queen went back and forth, his Azure-eyes watching the monarch. Her withered form, her masked visage and the finery which her frail frame barely occupied. Perhaps this was the effect of Vileblood, as the church had called it in their efforts to paint a rival power as false and ugly things.
To the Azure-eyed hunter, they were much the same. Masters presiding over others with Power borrowed, acquired through deceit, inherited, or otherwise obtained through methods of ill repute. Even if such were not the case…Power corrupted. This Farren knew and so his arms crossed and–for once–he did not have a hand near or upon a weapon. For, while he might have been born of the lower class–the peasantry, these folk would likely call it–he understood that to do such a thing in a Queen’s presence was at best unwise.
This idea was further confirmed to be true when a servant–a man in monk’s robes, moving like a ghost…stepping from shadows (perhaps literally), and clad in a subtle obscuring darkness–appeared as if from thin air in response to the monarch’s call. Farren’s fingers twitched, but he kept his arms crossed and his spine straight. As he listened to the Queen’s command, his eyelid twitched as he recalled the arm that he’d entrusted to the Messengers.
As if hearing his thoughts, Ophelia spoke and Farren felt his mood sour.
"My companion, Farren, took a piece of the remains--should we present it to you now?" Ophelia continued, pondering this order to invade Yahar'gul as she did.
"We had intentions to go back to Yahar'gul and finish what we started. If it would please Your Majesty, we would be happy to spearhead the incursion?"
Sighing internally, but daring not to let such an utterance reach the Queen, Farren spoke, his rough, low voice a somewhat rumbly echo in the cavernous room–seeming small, an impression that the man found he didn’t much like either.
“Indeed…your eminence. I’ve the right arm of the–” his speech halted for a half-instant as he made a mental correction, “...prince. Held in a tender embrace beyond.”
Though it could not be detected in his tone, Farren was annoyed and he’d clenched one half of his jaw, the teeth pressed together in a silent grind. He could have used that arm, but now he’d likely be forced to give it up to appease the so called Vileblood Queen. Farren might have sneered if he’d felt it would go unpunished, but he was no fool, so instead he remained silent and awaited the Queen’s decision.
listened from a small distance away, not having moved from near the Messengers’ Fountain where they’d drawn in the essence of Dietrich’s Memory…or at least a Memory of Dietrich. He did his best to parse the words of Ophelia and the Doll, filing information away for later use, best he could. Still, the sluggishness remained and he had a sense that only Echoes would suffice to banish it.
That aside, Farren nodded as Ophelia bid he and Torquil to name the most recent marker that coincided with the lantern in Eileen’s garden. While Torquil suggested Sanctuary be its name, Farren thought that was just…too indistinct. What if somewhere more fitting of that title appeared? Thus, as Farren stepped up to the tombstone holding the marker, he decided on a name of similar sentiment, but contained within different words entirely. His finger lightly grazed the unnamed marking, and it transformed in response to his intentions–as the others had before it.
“Sanctuary is what it is, but…I think ‘Crow’s Nest,’ is more apt,” Farren said, as the twisting of stone ceased, the name resolving upon the gravehead.
He took a step back, glancing to Ophelia as she began to approach the tombstones. He hadn’t noticed the slump of Torquil’s shoulders–his thoughts elsewhere–so he made no comment there. “Then, to Cainhurst, I surmise,” Farren said, glancing at the stone that held names tied to lanterns that led to said place.
As for Gerlinde and her brief exchange with the Doll…he made no comment either–though he’d surely heard. He hoped that the knowledge of what had happened to those born of her womb would not twist her further.
Though given the tendency of the world they tread within, Farren rather doubted that would be the case. After all, shit rolled downhill.
“Lead the way then, heiress,” Farren said, a faint note of amusement coloring his tone as he gave Ophelia a wry grin.
felt an odd sluggishness as he ‘woke’ into the Hunter’s Dream, like everything was slower than it ought to have been. It didn’t fade, but as he focused on other things the impression of it grew less distinct. Farren shook his head to try and dispel the odd feeling, but eventually he just moved on. He gathered with the others and the Memory resolved, his sense of self fading as he slipped into it almost like a dream within the Dream.
As the events unfolded, he was swept up in them, feeling the fear of the assembled hunters, the rush of the strange rookie, the hunger of the beast. It was thrilling and there was a certain intensity that enraptured him, caught him and held him in its sway until finally he rocked back into his own body and—much like Ophelia—he had to catch himself after the Memory faded.
Farren blinked, widening his stance rather than stumbling, shaking his head a bit to help ground himself in his own body once more. There was a thoughtful expression on his features in the aftermath, and a hunger in his eyes. An intensity, though it was bereft of the joy and noble bearing that the young Dietrich had carried.
Farren smiled slightly as he heard Ophelia’s words, “Exceptional indeed…” he agreed, even as his mind surged with inspiration.
Seeing Dietrich fight, witnessing him utterly dominate the ferocious beast with a silent, seemingly effortless grace…it had filled Farren with intermingled admiration and desire. Admiration for the man who had been the First Hunter of their time and desire for the strength that he held.
Thus the hunger, a hunger for the echoes that could feed that aspiration, that could push him towards those heights.
“Seize every advantage,” Farren muttered to himself before his attention shifted, noting Ophelia having rushed over to their hosts.
Ophelia smiled gently at the exchange between Moira and the Crow Hunter, her face changing to an expression of intrigued surprise at the reveal of the second Hunter for a moment before shifting back. Ophelia jumped in only at the last moment, utterly unperturbed by the idea of the confrontation the Crow Hunter was imagining, but clearly enlivened and animated upon their sudden change of attitude when their nature was revealed.
"I thought you'd have been able to smell it! That's right; Gerlinde and I, Ophelia, were born with Paleblood, and Farren and Torquil here... acquired it. The last little member of our merry band oversaw the experiment that created them. You've even a little lantern here, see?" Ophelia spoke, pointing over at the unlit lantern. "I wonder, does the rune let you see the lamps? Moira, Dietrich? I had never considered if it was an illusion that hides them from waking view. Ah, but I digress--I think that we have some information you should know, and vice versa it seems. Mother Moon has called out for aid again, and I fear that without the wisdom of the past this Night will end like that fateful one years ago."
The Azure-eyed hunter flicked his gaze from Ophelia, to Moira…and then between her and the Old Crow. His eyes widened fractionally as the old hunter drew steel before twisting the blade apart into a pair of short blades. However, Farren’s gaze narrowed a moment after, one hand finding purchase on the hilt of the Blade of Mercy at his hip, while the other rose over his shoulder and behind him to grasp at the Beastflayer.
He eyed the feathered pair—Old Crow and Crowmother both—for a long moment even as Moira clarified their peaceful intentions, with Ophelia adding her own spin. “Rather parley than drench your garden crimson,” Farren said, his tone level despite the fear that simmered beneath the surface, not touching his voice at all. He made no move to draw or strike, but his stance was ready and as both Torquil and Ophelia knew…Farren was fast despite the numerous armaments on his person.
"They don't," Moira told Ophelia in response to her question as to their ability to see the lanterns. "If there's a lantern, we can't see it." "Suppose it's no surprise the little ones put one there," the Crow Hunter mused, though this time she did not turn from them. "But... these two 'acquired' Paleblood from an experiment? Hm. That is concerning." Her voice sounded oddly tense, and an attentive eye might notice her blades trembling. She turned to Dietrich. "Sorry, but... she said you're Dietrich? As in Dietrich of the Shining Wing?" "That I am, Miss Crow Hunter! In the flesh!" Dietrich confirmed with his most charming smile, made somewhat less endearing by his grimy state. "Please excuse my current condition; I'm afraid I had a bit of a disagreement with the creature that apparently goes by the name of 'Crowmother'." The Crow Hunter cocked her head. "Ya fought Crowmother and still live?" Dietrich laughed. "Barely! She is certainly the most perilous opponent I have ever faced. Well fought!" Up above, Crowmother warbled again. "You fight well, Hunter. Are strong. Stronger than any other I know. First time I have been forced to flee. Wounded me gravely." "Hey Gramps!" the Crow Hunter suddenly shouted, half-turning back to the cabin. "There's some folk here that want to chat with ya!" She turned back to the group. "So... Ophelia, Gerlinde, Farren, Torquil, Moira and Dietrich." She nodded her head. "Alright... y'all can come closer so Gramps doesn't have to walk as far. Name's Eileen."
Taking everything in, Farren—once the Old Crow, Eileen, had turned away—let his posture relax, his hand coming away from the Beastflayer. The knuckles of his other hand relaxed, but the base of his palm remained resting against the Blade of Mercy as he again glanced up at the Crowmother, then back down. Likely at the same time as the others, Farren walked fully past the trees and towards the cozy sanctuary it seemed the Old Crow and this ‘Gramps’ had made for themselves. Ending up slightly ahead of the others, Farren would snap in the direction of the lantern when he came somewhat near it, lighting it for later use. Thereafter he’d walk along with the others, not yet sure what to say regarding the recent developments. Though, one question did come to mind. “How long have you lived out here?” He wondered aloud.
"Five years," Eileen told him. "Since the Night of the Blood Moon."
“Mnn, survivors then,” Farren remarked, an added note of respect in his words.
Ophelia followed when beckoned, and was about to make a slight detour towards the lantern and snap at it to awaken its gentle glow, but Farren had gotten to it before her, and he returned to the group to meet the other illustrious resident of this hidden haven.
"You've a lovely little nook here, Eileen. Peaceful, serene... I'm almost sorry we have to disturb it." She spoke in passing as she returned, admiring the little patches of vegetation and giving a friendly wave to the cow.
Eileen shrugged. "It's a Night of the Hunt, it's bound to disturb things a tad even here. Sometimes a Hunter comes creeping, often hoping to shirk their duties. Sometimes beasts come 'round looking for prey and territory. Sometimes, like tonight, we get both. Usually Crowmother handles things before they get here, though... ah, there he is." As the group had by now crossed most of the space toward the cabin - lighting the lantern with a quick snap of their fingers along the way - they heard the approaching second Hunter of the clearing before they saw him: one light, soft step, followed by a louder thud of wood against wood, alternating between the two. All over the clearing the Messengers seemed to grow excited, as every single one of them stopped what they had been doing to instead turn toward the cabin and start making their way toward it. Then the figure appeared in the doorway: an old and gray man in clothes that looked almost as old and worn as its wearer, clean-shaven but with skin deeply furrowed by time, with shoulder-length white hair under a a wide-brimmed top hat. He wore a ragged cloak over a long cloak, and a shoe only on his left foot... because he had no right foot. In its place he had a peg leg. There was a fair chance that any of the Paleblood Hunters would recognize this man at sight, even before Eileen had a chance to introduce him: "This here's Gehrman, the First Hunter. He was the original caretaker of the Dream, so I'm sure he has some insights to share."
"My my, it's just like the statues... It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, dear." Ophelia started, giving Gehrman her usual curtsey. She took a few seconds after returning to her normal posture to think before she spoke again.
"It's... been an eventful couple of hours. Would it be helpful if we simply started from the beginning? Do you want to talk first? I fear that once I start talking it's going to be a nightmare to get me to stop, so..."
Gehrman swept his gaze over the assembled Hunters, seeming curious but not overly invested in them. "I don't have any sort of speech prepared for Hunters that find their way here, if that's what you're wondering... in fact I usually let Eileen do the talking. You're the first ones to ask for me since I retired here. So tell me, what can an old Hunter do for you?"
Ophelia, glad to explain, launched into the story of the last handful of hours, with Farren pitching in on occasion as the tale stretched long.
Gehrman listened attentively as the party regaled him with every relevant event of the night so far, with the only time he really moved being to sit down after Eileen had gone inside to fetch a chair for him. Even Crowmother seemed to just sit patiently and listen. They told him of waking up in Rebirth's Rise, of what they had read on the blackboard there and how Pallid and his goons had tried to kidnap them. They told him of their first interactions with Victor, their first arrival in the Hunter's Dream and meeting the doll and the Shopkeeper. They recounted how Ophelia had first met Dietrich and Vicar Harold, while Farren and Torquil rejoined Victor and ended up fighting Skinner, and how it had ultimately been the Shopkeeper that slaughtered the mad Hunter. They told him of how they had met Moira and ventured into the Industrial Ward for the first time, found the remains of Crowmother's clash with a cleric beast and learned what they could with a quick inquiry, though they likely left out Farren's ladder-related mishap. They told him of their only meeting with Vicar Harold where they all had been present, and how it had affected especially Farren. How Farren had discovered the Sun Rune by searching his lost memory, and - making sure never to utter the word "Ego" - how they had learned of the involvement of the Golden One. They told him of their trip to Yahar'gul, how they had discovered the secret entrance to the Unseen Village, and their encounter with the lightbeast and the darkbeast, culminating in them obtaining the Mask Rune. Finally they explained how they had gone in search of Dietrich to save him from the clutches of Vicar Harold and how their search had led them back to the Industrial Ward, where they had met Moira again and ultimately been brought here, to Gehrman and Eileen.
Ophelia had been quite truthful; it had been an eventful couple of hours, and recounting it all took time. It was midnight by then, and the full moon was at its apex.
Having now heard their tale, Gehrman let out a sigh and turned to Eileen. "You know, back in my day things used to be so simple. You're a Hunter, so you get a weapon and go kill beasts. Why have things gotten so complicated nowadays?"
"Because people never finish what they start, and it all keeps rolling down. We're just the latest in a long line--the Scourge seems the destiny of all who partake of the Old Blood. Well, except those of us claimed by another first. If we want to finish it, we have to understand it. All of it." Ophelia replied thoughtfully, before looking at the others to see if they had anything to add.
Gehrman shook his head. "The things Laurence, Willem, Micolash and I began when we first retrieved the Old Blood wasn't meant to be finished. It was evolution, and a conduit that let us finally reach some of the gods. We thought we understood so much more back then, but only because we didn't understand how much was simply beyond us." He sighed. "But none of that matters. The others from back then are all long dead and their memory scattered among the Nightmare. You are the ones bound to the Dream now. So you tell me: what do you want to do about all of this? What are your plans?"
"How can we plan when so much of the picture is missing? We don't know what this golden god even wants, what rules it plays by, and whether or not we can even kill it. It wants something from Farren and me, though we're not quite sure what and why. I fear we can make no truly effective plans without all of this information and more." Ophelia replied, though again she looked around to see if any of her companions would have something to add.
Gehrman slowly nodded his head, rubbing his chin in thought. "That is usually how it is with the Great Ones; we never really know what they want or why they want it. I have never heard of this Golden One before, but it already sounds highly unusual in that it is able to communicate with you. The Great Ones usually can't convey things in a way we mortals can comprehend, but I suppose there are always exceptions." He gestured upwards to where Crowmother sat, her giant, freakish head peeking down at them among the rocks.
"I suppose those who ascended from humanity retain some instincts, hm? There are golden Caryll Runes too, though we've only found the one--and they reveal information about the great one. Note that I haven't mentioned the name, by the by: mentioning the name lets them manifest and scan you. We don't know what exactly the scanning does or what protects against it, but this is ultimately a war of information and we have to keep our cards close to the chest." Ophelia replied again, beginning to feel a little sheepish about her constantly responding. She looked up at Crowmother and thought about Gehrman's allusion, nodding to herself in agreement.
"Retain some instincts?" Gehrman shook his head. "I personally witnessed a scholar called Rom become a kin Great One, and there was barely anything left of who she used to be after her ascension. Their minds work very differently than those of humans and beasts... at least as a general rule. But first you mentioned not knowing how to kill the Golden One, and now you call it a war on information. I take it that you do actually have a plan then? To defeat it?"
"Curious... Perhaps we don't even have the capacity to understand the gulf between mere mortal and Great One. I don't suppose you'd tell us how this Rom did it? Not that I'd intend to repeat her experiment--if I ascended I think I'd like to retain most of myself--but understanding the rules of ascension is crucial. Until I know what it wants, I can't say I'm comfortable killing a Great One--not when that's what got us here in the first place."
"I wasn't personally involved in that, unfortunately; that was Laurence and Willem's project. But... what do you mean, killing a Great One was what got us here?"
"Our understanding of the Golden One is that it was the deaths of the Great Ones during the Night of the Blood Moon that caused them to awaken from the Old Labyrinth. The Lord Vicar mentioned some names, though I'm hesitant to speak them aloud... I can if you like, though."
"Is that so?" Gehrman said slowly. "I wonder why it woke from that but not when Kos died. Hm. Telling me their names probably won't help, but I assume it would be safe. People invoke Oedon's name all the time, and I often talked with the doll about Flora."
As Ophelia rehashed the events of the last few hours--it truly boggled the mind how so much could happen in so little time--Farren took that time to close his eyes and think on those very same events. Something about it all felt...strange somehow, like they were magnets drawing these events to them. As if their very connection with--perhaps the Dream--caused the players of this grand game to gravitate towards them.
As this became more apparent to him, Farren's brow slowly began to furrow. By the time Gehrman spoke of Kos and Oedon there were deep creases between his brows. “Did it ever seem as if...events always spooled out from your actions with greater potency than those around you?” Farren asked, opening his azure eyes to regard the two aged hunters.
Gehrman let out a single bark of laughter. "I am probably the wrong one to ask, my boy. Sure, we recovered the Old Blood and pretty much made Yharnam what it is today, but I never really got to be a Paleblood Hunter like the rest of you. After the Moon Presence put me in the Dream, I couldn't leave... and it took nearly two centuries before the Moonborn released me from it." "Events are always happening, especially in Yharnam," Eileen joined in. "I'd wager it's less that we're more impactful just by existing, and more that we're stronger and don't need to fear death. People hate and desire us, and we have the power to do what we want."
“Hadn't considered with that lens,” Farren said thoughtfully, the furrows in his brow easing somewhat. “As for a plan, I agree with Ophelia, it's a hard thing...making decisions with what feels like a paltry store of knowledge.” He shook his head, “Though...if I'd the means and no other choice...I'd surely kill the Golden Bastard,” he added, eyes narrowing as the ghost of wrathful hate briefly crossed his features before he relaxed again, the expression fading away. “...but to do so without understanding some meaningful degree of that actions consequences is...it would be wrong. There's no telling what harm such a thing might do.”
Gehrman slowly nodded his head at Farren's words. "The Moonborn is the only one I know of that has managed to kill Great Ones... and they killed three of them. Sadly I was stuck in the Dream for two of those kills, and when they killed the Moon Presence I had already been released, so I never saw if they did anything special. But... I don't think they did. I don't remember them preparing anything like that."
Farren raised a single brow as he listened to the First of the Hunters, nodding slowly. They’d known that the Moonborn Hunter was a godslayer, but hearing it laid out that way helped accentuate that enormity of things. “They’re quite the Hunter…I’ll have to ask if there was a trick to it,” Farren said thoughtfully, his gaze briefly drifting over one of the nearby Messengers. It occurred to him that he didn’t truly have to wait. Thus, Farren took a few steps away, approaching the nearest group of Messengers. He knelt down while everyone else carried on, murmuring softly to the little helpers. They provided—after a moment—a scroll for him to inscribe a message. As always, Farren scrawled with his fingertip, not able to actually touch the scroll.
Was there any particular tool, preparation, or otherwise method that the Moonborn Hunter required in order to slay the Great Ones he encountered on the Night of the Blood Moon?
When he was done, Farren murmured thanks to the little creatures, and a few withdrew into the earth of the garden, vanishing to deliver his missive. Farren sat on the path. Facing the others, Farren listened, not having anything further to say for the moment.
"I've been keeping them updated on our adventures as we've gone--they said they're going to find a way to kill this Great One too. While I don't support using it at the moment, I do wholeheartedly support researching it--if we end up needing to use it, I'd rather not be caught without it. If, indeed, there is a particular trick to it. I've been thinking about something else, too... Harold said that they collected the blood of a number of Palebloods in their experiments, starting with Djura... and eventually ending up at the Moonborn Hunter. It's their blood that made Farren and Torquil's experiment work, and... odd things happen when they enter the Dream sometimes. In the beginning it was just weather changes, but I noticed that it only happened when we went as a group and not when I travelled alone--and some other queer things have happened too. This strange ghost, a... bloodwraith, I think it was called, with a peculiar knife appeared and seemed tethered to Torquil. It attacked him and inflicted him with Frenzy, though we banished it not long after. The Holy Moonlight Sword whispered to me that it must have been him who beckoned the wraith there, or his blood, at least. I've not exactly had much time to research the Dream, but that seems very unusual indeed, doesn't it?" Ophelia spoke, intending at first to only provide a brief update but as usual words simply kept spilling out of her mouth until her train of thought arrived at its destination.
"Very," Gehrman confirmed somberly. "I've never seen anything like that happen. It sounds like whatever the vicar has cooked up is still just a bad imitation."
Meanwhile a pair of Messengers arrived with a scroll for Farren:
Hit them until they stop bleeding.
Farren couldn’t help but let out a quiet chuckle at the words upon the Shopkeep’s message, shaking his head. “No particular trick, it seems,” he said, glancing to Ophelia as he relayed the message from the Moonborn Hunter.
"It seems we need answers about the Nightmare itself, and that knowledge of our little Dream is only part of the picture... Do you know much of Communion and Chalices? Where we might find more of them, for instance--the Holy Moonlight Sword has whispered to me that it has a twin, you see, and that through chalices we Palebloods might manifest directly in a specific part of the labyrinth rather than going the long route. This chalice I know lies at Cainhurst Castle, but I wonder if you know aught of any others?" Ophelia began, looking at Dietrich as she mentioned the Holy Moonlight Sword having a twin with an eager twinkle in her eyes. She quickly turned her attention back to the two Elder Hunters, but couldn't help but permit herself that quick indulgence.
"I know about them, certainly," Gehrman confirmed with a nod of his head, "but I'm afraid I already told the Moonborn of the one chalice I knew the location of. I'm sure they already have quite the collection of chalices in the Dream... but I also suspect that you'd be much better served getting the chalice your sword told you of. Unless you think you will discover something useful exploring random pockets of the infinite dungeons?"
"Does the term "Isz" mean anything to you? Golden Boy was once a King of Isz, according to the little ones. I have the impression it's something to do with the labyrinth, but... I can't come to any specifics. Mother Moon above, I don't know what we're supposed to do with all of this. I feel obliged to make the best decision for the world as a whole, but that seems a distant ideal in the face of how little we know... My idea was to get as many people together who knew as much as possible and come up with a plan. I've not the foggiest where to start." Ophelia replied, her gaze attentively looking at the gleaming blade of the Holy Moonlight Sword.
"You're in luck, because I'm probably one of just several people alive today that know of Isz," Gehrman informed her. "Like Loran and Pthumeru, Isz was a land that used the Old Blood to achieve power and prosperity, only to eventually fall and disappear... and like Loran and Pthumeru, part of the Old Labyrinth has taken on aspects of it. In fact Isz is the oldest group we have learned of to use blood ministration, and theirs is the deepest part of the labyrinth we have explored. Regrettably I don't know of any kings of Isz, but I can only guess that the Golden One would have slumbered there until awoken." He sighed. "We never know the full extent of how our actions will affect the world, but... ah, sadly most of the great scholars of Yharnam died during the Night of the Blood Moon. But if you intend to work against the Golden One and his Healing Church, I might recommend that you seek out others that oppose the church. Cainhurst in particular is an ancient house; not only could they be a powerful ally, they may also have more information." "The Vilebloods," Dietrich scoffed. "We should eradicate those foul wretches sooner than ally with them." "Are you sure about that, First Hunter?" Gehrman asked, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Even when one of your own companions is a Vileblood?"
Ophelia nodded along with Gehrman's explanation eagerly, until the last comments about the party having a Vileblood. She looked around, confused for a moment, and then turned back to Gehrman.
"... who?"
Gehrman sniffed the air for a moment, paying close attention to the smell. "I'm quite familiar with their scent since my... my old apprentice was of Cainhurst." Gehrman's face fell a little and his gaze grew distant, as if the thought was both nostalgic and painful to him. "There's a quite overpowering smell of Vileblood from your pack," he said, pointing to Farren, "and a much fainter yet unmistakable smell from you." He indicated Ophelia. "Your lineage is definitely of Cainhurst."
Ophelia looked earnestly surprised, first at the indication of Farren's pack and then again at her--though understandably more at the latter than the former. "Lineage... Gosh, you know, I picked this out," she began, indicating down to the piece of Cainhurst attire she was wearing, "it was because it felt... familiar, somehow. I think I remember something like it in a portrait, or... Papa. Is that why he..?" She began, strainedly searching her memories for something that simply would not come to her. She remembered much, but childhood... it seemed the ministration had taken most of that from her. What little she remembered was... snippets of sound, like her mother singing, or portraits illuminated by firelight, or a particular scent. Her gaze fell back down and she looked at nowhere and nothing in particular for a moment, filled with an unspoken melancholy and warmth in equal measure--perhaps not dissimilar to Gehrman's own.
"Also," Eileen interjected, seemingly looking at Dietrich, "in case that was not already ya plan, I think ya should stay here for now, Dietrich. Let the others deal with Cainhurst if that's what they're gonna do. I have some stuff I wanna talk to you about." Dietrich frowned. "What do you mean?" "We should talk in private," Eileen insisted. "I think we've a lot to talk about."
“My pack?” Farren asked, more than slightly confused before he realized it must have been regarding the pack for extra supplies that he’d acquired. Still, why would it smell so strongly of the vilebloods?
The rest, well…Farren didn’t have any particular opinion on them. No real memory of them either and from what little he could recall from the night he had come to understand that the nobles of cainhurst were rather reviled, hence the name ‘vileblood’. Unlike Dietrich whose response had been immediate and exceptionally opinionated, Farren just frowned, a thoughtful look more than one of frustration or confusion. He shook his head slightly. “Strange times…” he muttered to himself, shaking his head slightly.
"What did you mean about something in Farren's pack, Gehrman? Ah, before I forget, I think it would be a good idea to give you both the Mask rune too? Being protected from eldritch influence seems very important, given what we know now. Seeing through illusions is a pleasant side effect." Ophelia asked, looking over Gehrman and Eileen both--with some amount of... not skepticism, but slightly more intense scrutiny about what business she had with Dietrich that was private. She had seemed to recognise him earlier, and for someone as secluded as she that didn't mean nothing. Ophelia felt like a good bit of gossip about something relatively mundane would be quite the treat, in the face of the cosmically proportioned struggle they were now embroiled in.
"I mean just that," Gehrman shrugged, turning his gaze to Farren. "Something in your pack has a pungent smell of decay, beasthood and Vileblood. I don't know what it is, I can't see it, but that's what it smells like." "Very well," he added when Ophelia suggested giving them the Mask Rune, and both of the elderly Hunters cooperated to receive the rune. "What about her?" Eileen asked, pointing up at the looming form of Crowmother above them.
"Ah, yes--I have my doubts about whether the pain the brand inflicts will be enough to sear the rune onto Crowmother's mind... But should you wish it, I will happily apply the rune." Ophelia replied, first directed at Eileen and then at Crowmother, to whom she performed another curtsey.
"It'll be fine," Eileen assured her before looking up and raising her voice: "Hey Crowmother! These people have a Caryll Rune they wanna give ya! Let them have a poke at ya!" The creature above them let out a warbling noise, then slowly slinked halfway over and halfway through the jutting rocks over the cabin. Each time one of its hands or feet hit a surface as it crawled through made a loud thud and sent out tremors that all of them could feel in the ground under their feet. With one hand still latched onto the rocks above and her feet firmly planted on the vertical side of the cliff, Crowmother let herself hang - dangling like some nightmarish parody of the Sword of Damocles - and lowered one hand down to them. She stretched her index-finger out toward Ophelia, offering it for branding.
Ophelia looked up, and though her mind was absent of fear she still gulped as she looked up at the imposing presence. From this vantage point she found Dietrich's victory--for leaving alive was indeed a victory--even more impressive.
"A thing to note, however, is that the impermeability goes both ways. The mask will isolate you from influence, but isolate others from your influence too--at least, as I understand it. I can easily replace the rune with another if aught feels off, in either case." Ophelia spoke, suddenly cautious, but obliging. Once the Crowmother had made her decision, Ophelia would carry out her part.
Crowmother warbled once more before forcing herself to speak: "I doubt it will affect any 'influence' I have. I also know how Caryll Runes work. I used to be a Hunter, too." Once she had received the brand, the colossal beast nimbly pulled herself back up onto the rocks and settled back in.
"Is that so? Are you like the Moonborn Hunter, then, ascended? Or... ascending? Sweet Adelaide, too... How many people became beasts on the Night of the Blood Moon? At least three, to restore things to balance? Is restoration even possible, after what happened, or is it a new world that must be made? I fear I may be letting the perfect be the enemy of the good..." Ophelia asked Crowmother, her interest suddenly sparked again. There was something different about her rambling this time, too, as she seemed to settle out of her prior vacillation and some decision seemed to be made in her mind, unspoken but plain on her face.
Another warble emanated from the beast. "Not ascended. Scourge-ridden. I was just a regular Hunter." Yet another warble. "I was already like this during the blood moon. Stayed out of Yharnam. Still felt it."
"Yet you still retain your mind, and have done for five years. Have you ever known a victim of the scourge last that long before becoming a creature of pure instinct?" Ophelia replied, posing the question to most everyone. She was no particular expert on beasts and their intricacies--the best she'd ever done is deliver offerings that a greater being might protect them.
Farren watched warily as the Crowmother descended, and then went back to its perch, having to focus so as not to tighten his grip on the hilt he’d been casually holding at his side. Tapping the pommel momentarily, Farren let it go and then slung the pack off his person and stepped closer to Gehrman. “Could you identify the item? The one with this…scent of vileblood, as you put it,” Farren asked, regarding the man with his usual intensity.
"I don't have my mind," Crowmother told Ophelia, shaking her misshapen head. "Thinking is different. Speaking is... hard. Words. Sentences." She paused and warbled. "I knew one with more of his mind. Could speak well. Could even assume human form. But he went to hunt during the blood moon. Got killed." Meanwhile Gehrman nodded his head at Farren. "I probably could, yeah, though I'm surprised you don't smell it yourself. It is quite pungent."
Farren frowned and began to fish around inside the bag, bringing things closer to the opening as he took in a deep pull of the various scents. “Suppose I just…hadn’t know what to look for…so to speak,” he muttered as he tried to locate the item that had the pungent scent that Gehrman had pointed out.
As soon as it was retrieved from Farren's pack, Gehrman pointed to the vial of darkbeast blood. "That."
Farren blinked as he glanced between the vial and Gehrman. His brow creased slightly, “Truly?” He shook his head, knowing the answer, “Odd…this was tilted as Darkbeast blood,” Farren offered, seeming a bit confused.
Gehrman shrugged. "It certainly smells beastly and decayed, as I said, so an undead beast fits. But I promise you, the thing that blood came from was a Vileblood before the scourge took them."
“Huh…” Farren uttered as he stared at the vial.
"Is that... how all darkbeasts work?" Ophelia asked.
"I'll admit that I have very little experience with darkbeasts; they are very rare, so the only place I ever saw them was in the Old Labyrinth," Gehrman told them. "But no, none of the other darkbeasts I have encountered had the smell of Vileblood on them."
"I'll admit that I have very little experience with darkbeasts; they are very rare, so the only place I ever saw them was in the Old Labyrinth," Gehrman told them. "But no, none of the other darkbeasts I have encountered had the smell of Vileblood on them."
In that moment…a thought occurred to Farren and after he’d stowed the vial once more and donned the pack, he knelt and called upon the Messengers, murmuring something quietly. A moment later they rose from the ground and left behind the portion of the Darkbeast’s limb that Farren had removed. Farren took a deep breath—despite the distinct scent of decay, trying to identify if the smell was at all similar to that of the vial.
"You got that from the bath in the Dream, didn't you, Farren? Could we perhaps ask the little ones where they acquired it?" Ophelia asked as Farren got the arm out, nodding at his initative.
As he nodded, Farren noted that the darkbeast's arm did indeed smell quite similar to the vial of darkbeast blood. He lifted his gaze to Gehrman, “You’ve a keener nose for vileblood than I,” Farren commented idly as he glanced up from the limb and to Gehrman—remaining on one knee. “Would you say the blood is from the same body as this arm?”
Gehrman sniffed loudly. "Smells like it. Yes, that arm has the scent of Vileblood, too."
“Interesting,” Farren mused, thanking the Messengers and allowing them to take the arm back into whatever place they went. He pushed back to his feet, looking thoughtful as he slowly began to pace.
"So Yahar'gul's defences were a former Vileblood-turned beast and Saint Adelaide? Mother Moon above, perhaps Harold's pointing us there wasn't a trap per se--perhaps what's going on there really is just... bad, for everyone and everything. Well... it seems the world's our proverbial oyster, doesn't it, dears? Though... something is niggling at me. Why are they called 'Vilebloods'?"
Gehrman shook his head grimly. "That term only started being used after I got stuck in the Dream. When I was still a Hunter of Yharnam, the knights and nobles of Cainhurst were deeply respected and had a great deal of authority, even over the Healing Church. Even my apprentice was called 'lady'. All I know is what I've been told by Paleblood Hunters passing through the Dream, but apparently they received a forbidden kind of Old Blood from a Byrgenwerth traitor that turned them into fiendish, corrupt creatures. So they are 'Vilebloods' because they received vile blood, or so the story goes."
As Gehrman finished his explanation Farren’s eyes narrowed as he looked up, ceasing his pacing, “A convenient story,” he said, suspicion in his tone, though it wasn’t directed at anyone present. “…it stinks of conspiracy, perhaps hearsay and lies even—spread by the Old Healing Church for their own interests, I’d guess.”
"Hah, it's like an old wives' tale got written into history. History is, after all, simply the record written by the winners. I'm more interested in what individuals have to say... Well, we were going to Cainhurst either way. If I'm one of these Vilebloods by birth, as you say, perhaps there's something for me there. With Papa gone it's not like I could ask about it, so..." Ophelia replied, smirking somewhat at Farren's immediate dismissal. A healthy scrutiny of the Healing Church was always warranted, it seems, but lies rarely bloomed without a tiny seed of truth.
"So is that what we're doing next?" Gerlinde asked through a mouthful of strawberries she had stolen while they had been talking. "Going to Castle Cainhurst?"
"Seems like it. Dietrich being able to keep a low profile here seems a good idea. Off to Castle Cainhurst then? I suppose some means to contact us might be useful, but... I doubt either of you can see the little ones anymore." Ophelia knelt down to one of the various Messengers strewn about the place and spoke again. "Might you let us know if they need our attention, loves?"
The Messengers just looked at Ophelia, moaning wordlessly and flailing pointlessly. "The little ones don't have that kind of wisdom, I'm afraid," Gehrman chuckled, "and you are right that Eileen and I can no longer see nor hear them. That being said, we have Crowmother and the Hunter who fought her and lived, as well as three former Paleblood Hunters... and though I am an old one-legged man, I was once hailed as the most powerful Hunter of Yharnam." He made a broad gesture encompassing the entire clearing. "I dare say that the sheer strength assembled here will keep not only us safe, but makes this a perfect haven for you to send anyone else you want to find shelter until the night's end. In fact..." He looked to Eileen, who nodded her head in agreement and looked up at Crowmother. "What do ya say? Wanna lend a talon?" Crowmother warbled in a way that almost resembled laughter. "Why not? Maybe that can ease my moon-madness a little." With that, Eileen reached into a pack at her side and produced a small brass bell, which she held out for one of the party to take. "Ring this and Crowmother will hear, and she will carry all of us to come to your aid as quickly as possible."
"That's very generous of you, dear, thank you--I sent Adelaide to Old Yharnam, figuring that she could find a little corner and not be bothered. We'll have to go back and send her here after we're done at Cainhurst--I couldn't bear for anything more to happen to her, and she has a tremendous power of healing. She'd be very useful, I'm certain, and grateful besides. I feel we owe her for this Mask rune tremendously, after all... Alright, well--it's dangerous for Farren and Torquil to enter the Dream too much unnecessarily, so I think I'll try and pop back whenever we have a moment to check in. If you have a think about anything you'd like us to do, Dietrich, please let me know--we could relay messages or give orders or fetch things for you. Mind... before we visit Cainhurst, how bad is the situation with the Fire Dancers? If that's urgent and needed to keep the Hunters keeping lesser beasts off of the streets, perhaps that's work taking care of first. I remember it mentioned that the Healing Church is running out of quicksilver." Ophelia mentioned, stretching herself as she prepared to actually get moving again. She barely had to, of course, but it was still quite a novel thing to her--and she found herself thankful for the simple joys of being able to move freely.
"I don't know," Dietrich sighed, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Truth be told I'm still working on wrapping my mind around all of this, Miss Ophelia... this past hour has sort of turned my world upside down. But speaking as if I was still the First Hunter, as if nothing had changed, we should have enough supplies make it through a Night of the Hunt with just minor rationing. Assuming nothing unusually dangerous shows up..." He winced. "...our Hunters should be able to deal with it with minimal casualties."
Ophelia nodded. "Just surrender to the maelstrom, dear. It's much easier than trying to work out what's going on--this is the way things are for now, until something else happens. Have a little think and we'll be back before you know it, love. Right! Off we go." Ophelia smiled, offering Dietrich a sympathetic look. After she was done she turned to the others, gave them a querying look to see if they were ready, and headed towards where the lantern was.
"Just for the record, before you go," Dietrich said with a slight smile, "I want to... to thank you, I suppose. I admit that it's hard for me to see the positives at the moment, but with everything that is going on I can only imagine what could have happened if I had stayed in the thrall of... whatever the vicar is. So thank you, Miss Ophelia." Dietrich wiped his still rather bloodstained hand as well as possible, then stretched it out and offered a handshake. Quite unusually, Ophelia would find that as he did so, the faint, random Guidance sprites that had occasionally been springing into brief existence around the First Hunter abruptly starting appearing more quickly, glowing more brightly and remaining for longer, until a whole swarm of motes of moonlight seemed to be swarming Dietrich's offered hand.
Ophelia smiled and took his hand, shaking it as she spoke. "I meant what I said, my dear, a light as brilliant as yours should never be occluded. And... the reason I'm getting this chalice from Cainhurst is that the Holy Moonlight Sword has a twin, somewhere in the Labyrinth. I don't know what'll happen to the twin, if it's a second blade or if it'll just empower my blade--but if there is a second, I'd like you to have it. I don't mean you should replace your weapon, of course, but I know how inspired you are. Maybe an age of light where all of this is over isn't as far away as we thought, mm?" Ophelia spoke, waiting for after whatever happened with the handshake to be done before she spoke about the sword at length.
Dietrich's smile widened at Ophelia's words. "Let's hope so." As Ophelia took Dietrich's hand, she witnessed the swarm of Guidance sprites all simultaneously swirl and dart over to her hand, up her arm and toward her head. Just as when the lightbeast had touched its glowing finger to her forehead, Ophelia was assailed by the sensation of incomprehensible eldritch knowledge flowing into her... only for her human mind to simplify it to the form of a Caryll Rune.
Ophelia has obtained the Hunter Rune, which enables its wearer to recover from exertion in half the time they would normally.
Ophelia, upon receipt of the rune, immediately knelt to one of the many little ones and asked them for their information on it. While doing so she looked up at Dietrich and spoke. "Heh, seems you've managed to give me another rune. This one is the Hunter rune, and..." Ophelia began, trailing off as she looked at the scroll and cast a furtive glance towards Eileen. She'd wager this had something to do with their upcoming private chat.
"I... really?" Dietrich said, seeming genuinely surprised and confused. "Strange... I don't know any Caryll Runes besides the one you showed me?" Eileen slowly nodded her head, but did not say anything.
The Messengers arrived and showed Ophelia the information she had requested:
Hunter Rune This red-smudged rune means "Hunter", and has been adopted by those who have taken the Hunter of Hunters oath. These watchmen admonish those who have become addled with blood. Be they men or beasts, anyone who has threatened the pledgers of the "Hunter" oath surely has an issue with blood. An oath made by a Hunter is truly a powerful thing indeed, and lingers in blood even when it is passed on to someone else.
Ophelia rose to her feet, smiled softly, and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "All will be explained, dear, just not by me. I'll see you soon."
She gave Dietrich and Gehrman a final curtsey, waved her goodbye to Crowmother, and gave Moira a look over.
"See you all soon. Mother Moon keep you." Ophelia spoke with a single nod before she intended to leave--assuming the others did too.
Farren nodded respectfully to those assembled, still seeming somewhat lost in thought as he turned to follow Ophelia, heading for the lantern.
shivered faintly, glad for Ophelia’s presence of mind–and the small hand she’d laid on his shoulder–as he stared up into the intelligent eyes of the uncanny beast. He barely heard Ophelia’s words, truthfully, but the Crowmother’s reply provided sufficient context for him to intuit what he hadn’t processed. He swallowed and took another long, deep, stilling breath, letting his surprisingly frayed nerves ease the tension in his body. The shaking in his limbs, though gradually, began to subside. Farren wet his lips and swallowed, his gaze darting down only when he saw movement at the doorway.
As a figure emerged–presumably the Crow Hunter–Farren oddly felt himself relax further, some of his tension easing. It almost seemed that the Crowmother deferred to the Huntress, despite what one might think. His mind began to work again, no longer quite so frozen by the awesome and terrifying presence of the ghastly Crow-beast that remained perched above them. He could feel its baleful attention on him and he kept it firmly within his awareness, close to the cone of his more focused vision, but still in his peripheral sight in case it made any sudden, violent movements.
For her part, the Crow Hunter levied at them a question for which he realized he had no real answer. Thus, Farren glanced to Ophelia rather than reply. This seemed within her purview, rather than his own. So, for now at least, until he had his bearings, Farren would follow her lead.
had moved as swiftly and quietly as he could along with the others and ultimately it had paid off as they arrived unscathed without a conflict with the Crowmother. However, it seemed that upon closing that final bit of distance to their destination, they had been spotted. Having braced himself for a fight, Farren’s hand remained gripping the not the Blades of Mercy, but rather the Beastflayer over his shoulder where it remained strapped to his back. He took in every detail of the strange monstrosity, glad he hadn’t reacted with pure instinct when it stopped above them–perched 40 feet forward and upon the outcropping of stone at the crest of the indent at the base of the mountain at which they’d arrived.
Oddly, while the Darkbeast had not frightened him, sometimes about the Crowmother had him sweating, his teeth clenched as he glowered across the distance at it, gaze locked, face a mask of concentration.
Then it spoke.
A fierce, shuddering chill rode up from the base of his spine.
The Lightbeast had communicated with Ophelia, certainly, but its body had clearly been too warped for proper speech. Somehow, this…thing--for it was not a crow writ large as they might have imagined–did not have any such limitation, though its voice had clearly been warped by its transformation. Farren felt his heart beating swiftly in his chest, his blood rushing through his veins not with excitement or bloodlust, but actual fear.
The only things that had disturbed him to such a degree since his awakening at the Clinic had been ‘Frenzy’ and, well…the incident with Vicar Harold.
His breath felt frozen in his throat, like a knot, and his lungs paralyzed like someone had filled them with the frigid waters of a lake in the dead of winter.
Farren forced himself to breathe. Slowly. Deliberately.
Even still, though his fear was evidenced only by a faint tremor in his limbs, Farren’s only true consolation was that the beast had not attacked. He was also glad he wasn’t alone, for in truth, Farren wasn’t sure if he’d have been able to move right then if the creature had struck.
While his gaze didn’t shift from the Crowmother’s uncanny figure where it perched, its pale, barren head outlined eerily by the moonlight, the azure-eyed hunter waited silently, hoping for the imminent–and peaceful–arrival of the Crow Hunter.
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.
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