yoshua171

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

understood the wan nature of that smile somewhat warped by Torquil’s alien features, but there was little he could do about it. He simply gave the man a clap on the shoulder and let him go. “Would that we had known…” Farren said after Ophelia had finished speaking, shaking his head.

He noticed a bit of movement at some point during the small reunion, and was relieved to glimpse Gerlinde rather than something terrible. Further, the shift of the Hunter’s Dream back to a more familiar and comfortable state was greatly appreciated. A relief certainly. At Ophelia’s reminder that likely they’d be waiting, Farren moved to one of the headstones and let himself just…slide down with his back against it and sit.

He looked exhausted.

Felt it too.

“Wonder if you can slumber in a Dream,” Farren commented. Though, realistically he knew that this was more a fatigue of the spirit than one of the body. Truly the fight with that twisted thing had taken much out of him. Moreover, even with Ophelia taking some measure of responsibility for what had happened to Torquil, Farren could still not entirely shake the idea that he had brought that False Pale Blood to the Dream and had he not this ordeal might not have been so fraught.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

stood, panting as the blade that had been lodged in the monstrosity’s skull clattered to the ground when it disintegrated into dust and faded. His arms fell to his sides, slack in an instant. Anger roiled, paranoia scratched at him incessantly, but it all began to fade into a terrible numbness. He forced himself to breathe and to focus only on that even as his mind wanted to fixate on the fact that both Torquil and Gerlinde might be truly gone.

Some small part of him, though, figured that they’d have left bodies though. Still…what if they had ended up…somewhere else, reincarnating in some other literally nightmarish place. Having nothing better to do, Farren watched Ophelia begin to function again. However, only distantly, like the events around him were far away. His gaze drifted out the door and so he caught sight of Torquil before she had excited.

A beat. A moment. Relief. Farren slumped, stumbling towards a wall, pressing his shoulder to its surface to steady himself. Then he sank down into a sitting position, legs splayed back on either side of him. A shuddered breath, a choked sound, and then silence.

“Thank the Mother Moon…” he murmured, quietly after Ophelia had moved to exit the workshop. He wasn’t a religious man by far, but he’d feared the worst, dreaded it.

Farren let himself linger there for a long while, or at least…long given all they still must do. After perhaps a minute or so, he pulled himself forward, grabbed his fallen Blade of Mercy and then snapped the two together, before sheathing them at his hip after he’d pushed to his feet.

He moved, almost by rote, leaving the Workshop—trying not to glance at Amaris’ vessel—and approached Torquil. He offered the man his hand, meaning to clasp the Hunter’s own. Firm and solid. Part of him wanted to embrace the man, another part wanted to apologize. Instead he just did his best to hold Torquil’s wide three-eyed gaze. There was clear relief on Farren’s face.

“We’ve got to make you more hardy,” Farren said, trying at a half-serious joke as he finally cracked the smallest of smiles. This was the second time this sort of thing had happened and he was rather frustrated by that fact, but he didn’t let it show. Glancing about, Farren waited for Gerlinde to reappear as well.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

felt his attacks land, saw them pierce, felt them do nothing. His heart sank, an explosion bright as his once glowing eyes–brighter–ripped through the head, but the abomination recovered.

Farren’s entire body erupted, twisted, warped, grew, then–and only due to the blood vial he’d prepared–recovered. Foolishly, he’d unconsciously been suppressing the stabbing rhythm of pain from that monster’s phantasmal quills.

Another struck him, a breath, another. Farren slammed another vial into his leg with one hand, then slotted a quicksilver bullet into his blunderbuss, leaving one of his True Blades of Mercy lodged in the monster’s bulbous head.

Torquil faded and a violent desperate rage took hold. Farren didn’t aim for the head, he slammed the barrel into its much narrower neck and fired even as he held onto the other blade–still lodged in its pulsating flesh through one of its many eyes.

If, for even a moment, the neck was rendered nearly into a gaping hole, Farren would move his sword arm, violently attempting to tear the bulbous core from the rest of its humanoid frame. The blunderbuss he’d shove through whatever hole its spray had formed, trying to prevent it from easily recovering.

Unbeknownst to him, Farren had begun to scream, raging in a wordless sound that despite the lack of language felt as if he were roaring ‘Diiiieee’.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

gasped in several breaths, the Frenzy continuing to build. Pushing up into a crouch with shaky, jerky movements, Farren tried to ground himself with deep slow breaths. It didn’t work, each breath came in gasping near-hyperventilated pulls. He felt eyes on him, eyes from all angles, so when he had the presence of mind to notice Gerlinde, Farren nearly toppled back, barely catching himself by gripping the edge of the headstone before he fell out of its minimal cover. “Fuck,” Farren breathed. He closed his eyes, heard the sharp thud and crack of something large slamming powerfully against wood, the strange noise of Ophelia’s blade, and then all that remained was the continued shrieking of the monstrosity.

Farren forced himself to act, clawing desperately through the haze of frenzied paranoia and dread that viced at his heart and mind, threatening to drag him down into a madness that Farren now thought indeed had once been his ruin.

He reloaded his pistol in a series of swift motions, then, desperate, he murmured for the Messengers, hoping against hope that they might answer his summons and bring forth the Beastflayer.

They didn’t come, not for one second, or after three. Farren huffed out a single, long, sharp breath.

He rose from cover, caught sight of the monstrosity disappearing further into the workshop. The workshop that Ophelia had put the chalice in. Where Amaris’ lifeless form lay, where perhaps Torquil might have been, but clearly not the Moonborn Hunter–he’d have already emerged. Farren lowered his pistol, slamming it into the hook at his side. In the same motion he palmed a blood vial and turned his head to Gerlinde, letting four two breathless words, just loud enough to be heard over the piercing shriek of the creature, “Circle round.”There was a desperate terror in his eyes as he said it and a shaky trust that she would act.

Then he was gone.

Farren didn’t care how many it took, he drew upon his body’s reserves, pushing harder than he ever had, forcing himself to bull through the fear before he could properly think, he quickstepped once across the distance to the main door on the narrow side of the building–closer to him–and then turned on his heel as he drew back his right arm blade before surging into a second blurring flurry of motion across the workshop’s length. He’d barely taken in the scene by the time he’d arrived, but his body had acted practically on instinct, lowering his stance, entering a slide, then planting as he slammed to a step and thrust his right blade towards the creature’s disgusting countenance with all the force he could muster, regardless of whether it had engulfed Torquil’s skull or not.

It was a desperate thing, that attack, but not wild or unfocused, though any looking upon him would see that he wasn’t the least bit composed.

Farren knew he simply must act.

Despite regret.

Despite terror or dread or sickening paranoia and spreading distrust.

He had to act.

Just move.

Just strike.

Stab.

Repeat.

He had to.

There were no other choices.

Note

Should Farren get fully frenzied, he’ll stab himself with the vial ASAP.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

regretted it immediately, regretted finding the courage to act, regretted choosing to fire his pistol–quicksilver bullets or not–and most greatly he regretted ever bringing the case into the Hunter’s Dream.

As the searing, cringing terror of frenzy thrummed through him, Farren realized one thing.

It hadn’t started until the thing’s gaze had fixed upon him. He knew not if it were its eyes or the peeling shriek that it had unleashed, but either way, avoiding one would have to do. Farren lunged towards the nearest cover, a look of frantic terror that was quite unlike him plastered across his face.

Not a graceful motion, not even the swift blur of a quickstep, just a lunging–almost tackling–motion that would probably bring him into a somersaulting roll to get behind anything…anything at all that might obscure the abomination’s ire. If it were the shrieking, of course, it would do nothing and he’d be even further from dealing a killing blow upon it.

Not that he had much hope of that.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

was struck by a chill–bone deep and sinew freezing, making every part of him feel frigid and brittle even as his body shook as if to throw frost from ever corded muscle, soft tissue, and rigid bone within his being. His nerves made him twitch, little jittery motion that went in a way down from his face, which was startlingly the most still as he laid eyes upon that thing. To call it horrid would be a compliment compared to the truth. To call it dreadful not simply an understatement, but a dismissal of how truly abhorrent it was to his every sense.

Farren breathed, but couldn’t stop his jaw from locking, his teeth from gritting so hard that they almost felt as if they’d crack.

‘Gods blood,’ he swore internally, driven speechless, rendered mute.

His mouth and throat were dry as bone.

His eyes were wide, pupils dilated as adrenaline surged through his body, trying to get him to flee. He didn’t.

Farren stood, stock still, like if he moved the thing might notice him, like he was fighting against himself.

A memory, a flash of a golden something, massive and spearing up from the earth, flickered in his mind, followed by skittering pricks of paranoia through his awareness. Farren had almost missed Gerlinde lowering her profile, trying to stay out of sight–actually being serious…for the first time perhaps since they’d met? Reunited? Didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered.

Just this thing and its bloated head, roving unfocused eyes, insectoid protrusions and limply hanging arms. Farren suddenly wished–more than ever before–that he had more firearms and fewer blades. He regretted never having pulled the Beastflayer from the place the Messengers stowed it. Regretted that he couldn’t do it now.

He’d have to speak, make sound, move, draw attention to himself. He’d have to act.

It felt impossible.

Farren took a barely quiet, shuddering breath. Willed himself to take a step forward…to the side…anywhere but back.

He didn’t move.

‘This is who you are,’ something seemed to say. Farren would have violently shaken his head to try to dispel it, but he was scared even to do that.

‘No,’ he insisted.

He took a step. It was quiet, but felt too loud despite that fact. Farren raised his pistol, trained it on the abomination’s bulbous, fleshy, eye-covered head…and fired.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

felt his blood tremble—familiar, if not the least bit comforting, but almost immediately that familiarity turned not just sour, but rancid. The trembling in his blood seemed to rapidly intensify into a thrumming vibration stronger than anything he’d experienced prior. Yet, nothing was changed as he peered around, a flash of worry and paranoia crossing his typically stoic features.

Then something shifted, the peace he’d hope would remain for more than moments fading in seconds as shadows lengthened, light dimmed, and the world became cast in veiled, desaturated hues as if everything in sight had been clouded. It reminded him of something and Farren’s head tilted…then he cringed as the memory of overhearing miners speak of their trade washed over him along with the smell of alcohol, ethers, and…something else…metallic? Surely not blood, it was a bit different somehow, but not dissimilar exactly.

Farren shook his head, the visions and sensations retreating into the back of his mind, leaving him only with an impression of the words from those men some time before.

Like coal haze cast throughout, absorbing light, warping hues, muddying everything. Choking joy.

Farren shuddered and though he’d held no joy in his heart before—or upon—their return to the Dream, any semblance of calm was indeed smothered, strangled, and replaced by the cloying grasp of tight, heart-vicing fear.

Like a tickling sense of vulnerability—without any laughter, instead tinged with dread—paranoia grazed against the edges of his awareness. Not quite enough to notice while he was in it, but enough that Ophelia would have seen him shrink on himself, slouching slightly. His face screwed up in a look much like a grimace, one eyelid twitching occasionally and though he almost appeared angry, she’d see the telltale jitteriness of paranoia and the deeper well of dread that colored his gaze. That was if she hadn’t fled.

Farren’s azure eyes dulled faintly, the glow they’d maintained dimming as if affected by the veil that something had cast upon the Dream. Farren drew his Pistol and the Effigial Blade, scanning his surroundings again as that haunting melody itched at his skin and pried at his senses.

“I…do not like this,” Farren’s voice, the traitorous thing, actually trembled. Though there was no one to hear it, and it would likely alert whatever now haunted their ruined sanctuary to his presence, he said it anyways. Maybe if whatever it was revealed itself he could kill it.

After all, this all felt…too familiar. Like a nightmare he’d thought he had escaped.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Guild's Fault there's a double post.

Placeholder for a collab or something.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

A Case for Blood
^{Castle Cainhurst - Eternal Midnight}

A Collab by @Dark Jack, @yoshua171, and @Tuujaimaa

---

Urgency took over Ophelia's desire to check in with Gerlinde and Torquil, and getting the false Paleblood out was the most important thing--so she and Gerlinde left and awoke in the same opulent surrounds as before. Ophelia fished the case out of the sack that she'd taken with her and left the cloth by the lantern, quickly surging forward and assuming the reverent and kneeling position that she had on her last visit while presenting the box up towards Annalise.

"Old Blood, as requested, Your Majesty... and something else. I... fear this will require some explanation, if I may?"

The queen started raising her hand and arranging her fingers to snap them, but seemed to pause as Ophelia's report continued. "Thou may, Lady Ophelia. Speak freely."

"The Gilded Trickster's false Paleblood is also within this box. I do not know how much you know of Paleblood and the Hunter's Dream that it is tied to--and I would not wish to disrespect you by explaining to you what you may already know."

"Very little," the queen admitted. "I know it is ancient and of the Nightmare, but little else. Explain, and I shall excuse any repetition of what I already know."

Ophelia nodded. "True Paleblood, like that Gerlinde and I bear, is an innate gift from the Great One Flora. The Hunter's Dream belongs to her, as do the little ones that serve us. This false Paleblood is an imitation crafted by the gilded one, and a means by which he is trying to usurp our Dream and claim it as his own... for immortality like ours. We erred gravely in bringing it to our Dream, where it temporarily disturbed that realm enough for him to influence it somewhat, and we cannot keep it there. You seem to be well acquainted with the lore of blood, Your Majesty, and in a position of safety and security besides; I had hoped that you might perhaps be able to learn something of it, of our mutual enemy, and safeguard it... or destroy it, if there is naught to be learned from it and you deem it wise."

Nodding her head, Queen Annalise finally snapped her fingers, and a black-robed figure once again emerged, only to this time - unprompted - to approach Ophelia, reaching out its hands to receive what she had for them. As it got closer and faced her directly, Ophelia might notice that within its hood, deep in the unnatural darkness in there, there were the faintest hints of Guidance sprites dancing in its depths.

"It shall be safe in Castle Cainhurst," the queen declared. "We will learn what we can."

"Thank you, Your Majesty." Ophelia began, offering the box to the servant as she gazed up into their hood and took notes of the little sprites. "I also bring grave tidings concerning the White Healing Church: Vicar Harold--an inhuman puppet of the Gilded Trickster--has denounced us, as we have freed the First Hunter from his influence, and has declared war upon us and all of Yharnam. Your forces were already embroiled in a war with them, but now others will join the fray too. I mean to contact as many groups as is possible and recruit them in pursuit of our mutual enemy. I also feel obliged to let you know that they seem to have some method of controlling others against their will--a Hunter who aided us when we first awoke has been cocooned in golden armour, with a queer device atop his head, that seemed to render him insensate and obedient... I know not how many of these resources the enemy bears, but that they can do it at all is a tremendous worry. Fortunately, as I understand it, the Mask rune that I may brand into people should protect against it... so I once again offer those services to your forces. For all of your Hunters to be protected from the insidious influence of Gold will surely be a boon in the conflict to come."

The servant received the case and stepped to the side of the room, but then just remained standing there in silence.
"A Hunter," the queen mused, thoughtfully tapping a claw-like fingernail on the armrest of her throne. "Who was this Hunter?"

"His name is Victor," Ophelia began and offered a simple description of his features.

The queen shook her head and interrupted Ophelia: "I do not know this name, and I cannot see with this mask to recognize your description. What was his affiliation? Was he an especially powerful ally?"

"My apologies--he was not a particularly powerful ally, in the grand scheme of things... but he helped us and came to be something of a friend. I did not get the sense he bore the White Church any particular loyalty. He came to Yharnam shortly after the Blood Moon was over, and has survived as a Hunter since then--a sure sign of tenacity, if nothing else, though it was told to me that he had a potential problem with an overindulgence in blood. It hurts me, deeply, to see anyone taken from themselves--especially in service of one so foul. It... it is personal, Your Majesty."

The queen nodded her head slowly. "I understand thy grief, Lady Ophelia. We Vilebloods seek to destroy the Healing Church, as we have ever since their betrayal; if the time comes for us to do battle against them, we may avail ourselves of thy offer of this rune, in spite of its ill-omened name."

Ophelia let a small smile come over her at the queen's words, just for a second, before she exhaled purposefully. "Then I suppose I am a Vileblood after all, for destroying the White Healing Church and its master is now my heart's most fervent wish as well. If it pleases you, I would like to partake of the blood that you offered before--to cement us as allies true, to wield every weapon against the Healing Church. To take every advantage."

Nodding once again, the queen grimly dragged the nail of her right index finger across her left wrist, causing a small amount of blood to immediately flow from the wound. She offered the wrist to Ophelia. "Very well. Drink deep of Our blood. Feel the spreading corruption burn."

Ophelia did as bidden, though she could not disguise the displeasure at the act from her face or voice. Indeed, she did feel it burn deep within her, joining the nestled ember of vengeance in her heart and beginning to pump with its rhythm throughout her form.

As Ophelia drank, Annalise declared: "Now, thou’rt too a Vileblood. Welcome, Lady Ophelia. For the honor of Cainhurst."

Ophelia has obtained the Corruption Rune. When when branded on a Hunter's mind, this rune will allow them to retain a degree of superhuman regeneration even when their regenerative potential has been fully depleted. The rate of this healing is approximately one fifth of a Hunter's normal rate.

"For the honour of Cainhurst." Ophelia repeated, satisfied once more with the feeling of having acquired another rune. She wondered about her familial legacy, about the choices that had been made and that had eventually led her here, and wondered if it had always been her fate--if one ascribed to such a concept.

"Papa... his name was Laertes, I think. Do you perhaps recognise it, Your Majesty? I... know very little of my childhood. My parents went to the woods when I was young and never returned--I don't even remember their faces, though... I need not explain that pain to you, I know." Ophelia continued, perhaps one of the rare instances of uncertainty creeping into her voice that she'd felt that night.

"I know of one who was once called Laertes," the queen confirmed solemnly. "Once upon a time he numbered among my knights, before the Healing Church wiped them all out. He disappeared, and we never knew what happened. I suppose now I do."

"Mother Moon was gracious, to give us both some element of closure. And to bring us together. Now... I do not wish to sound ungrateful, Your Majesty, but may I have the chalice as promised? Something of great value was taken from us in the Dream, and restoring my Holy Moonlight Sword is my only recourse to getting it back. For that, I will need the chalice." Ophelia replied, not hiding the wistful notes from her voice. It wasn't much, but it was something--she'd have to go to the woods to find out more... and she would, she resolved.

The queen turned her sightless head toward the black-clad servant holding the case. "Have we confirmed that this is Hunter Old Blood?"

The servant silently grasped the lid of the case and pulled on it to no avail.

"It would appear that whatever thou brought is not accessible," the queen said, a note of disapproval in her voice. "The case is locked."

"Ah, yes--I... in wake of what happened, I... I had hoped it would be easy to simply dismantle the case, and we had to vacate the Dream urgently once we realised the effects of having brought it there. Still, that is no excuse for my negligence, Your Majesty, and I humbly beseech your forgiveness. Pray return the case to me, and I shall see if there is anything that I can do while here; if not, I shall leave it in your safekeeping and return when I have the key." Ophelia stammered haltingly, as if only just realising what had happened in her haste. She had been so overcome by everything that it simply hadn't occurred to her at all.

The servant obediently returned the case to Ophelia, allowing her to examine it. The metal case, though ornate, was also clearly quite sturdy and equipped with a heft built-in lock that prevented the lid from being opened. There did not seem to be any openings or weaknesses in its construction that could facilitate forcing it open, and the lock - from what familiarity she had with such things - seemed rather complex and durable. She would surmise that while it might be possible to break the case open, the force required to do so could be very likely to damage its contents.

Ophelia examined the box thoroughly, coming to the conclusion that only a very precise and controlled means of extraordinary force could open it without risking its contents--something that she could not risk. She beckoned the messengers from her already-kneeling position and wrote a quick message to Farren:

'Need to unlock case, can't see a way to do so without damaging contents. Have you any talent for lockpicking or know someone who does?'

Shortly thereafter, while waiting for a response, she whispered to the Holy Moonlight Sword: Could I loose your power just enough to breach the lock, without risking the contents inside?

The whispers simply replied: "It is not a precision instrument."

Ophelia permitted herself a slight dry chuckle at the response.

"I've written to my companions in the Dream, Your Majesty, inquiring whether they might have the skills to open this case without risking its contents. If not, I shall return with such a person or the key as soon as possible. I am again deeply sorry for my haste, and shall make amends."

As Farren stood, near Torquil, fidgeting by running his fingers over the grooves and faint textures and patterns 'pon the hilt of his blades, Messengers rose from the grass at his feet. He stiffened a moment, but when they held up a scroll, as if beckoning him, Farren smiled faintly and took a knee. In his usual, slow way, he read the message. As expected, it was from Ophelia.

He made a small sound, like a hum as he considered, closing his eyes a moment. Faint recollections came to him, sensations and textures...cold metal, deft motions. His fingers twitched, his eyes opened. Farren did not send a message in return. He frowned a moment, sighed lightly and glanced to Torquil, “The case was locked, it seems. I'll be back,” he provided, then he went to the headstone and pressed two fingers to the same name that Ophelia had.

His mind shifted towards sleep, Farren felt time skip a step, and then he was waking within the throne room of the Queen's court. “Your majesty,” Farren said respectfully, giving her a sloppy bow--he'd never learned proper etiquette after all--before he rose once more, his still faintly luminescent eyes scanning the room until he saw the robed figure and the case. “Don't have tools of my own...” he said clearly as his azure-eyes fixed upon the case.

“But I may have sufficient skill to wield them, if your highness' court might provide.”

"I fear that the position of locksmith is one that is currently unfilled in Castle Cainhurst," the queen sighed impatiently. "Thou'rt permitted to visit our workshop, but I know not whether our tools can do much against this container."

Ophelia only heard Farren enter, and did not look up in her speech for fear of displeasing the queen further. "Thank you, Your Majesty. We will try. Where is the workshop?"

When the directions were given, she would lead Farren and proceed.

Farren waited, letting his teeth grind a bit, not out of further irritation, but to occupy his thoughts. Once they had a course to take, he'd follow easily.

At a gesture from the Vileblood Queen, the black figure wordlessly gestured for them to follow and walked toward the opposite end of the chamber. As they walked they passed by even more of the awesome yet somewhat archaic art and architecture of Cainhurst Castle. Just outside the throne room itself they passed through a long stairway flanked on both sides by sizeable statues of armored lancers atop equally armored horses, intermingled with more elaborate columns with golden trimmings. Shafts of pale light fell through equidistant windows in the ceiling, giving the entire hallway - which indeed seemed to serve no other purpose than a grand passage leading up to the queen's chamber - an ethereal feel.

The rest of the castle, as they passed through it, was somewhat less ostentatious but no less impressive than what they had been through initially. Following the servant they passed through an immense library with many, many shelves, some of which were many floors high, tightly packed with countless tomes and scrolls. And everywhere, Ophelia would occasionally notice stray little Guidance sprites fluttering about, signifying the presence of the Nightmare... but that was not all. Ophelia and Farren both would find that while the parts of the castle they passed through seemed mostly deserted, they would occasionally catch glimpses of movement or hear a hushed voice or the rustle of cloth, only to look and find nothing there. Once or twice they might notice a faint pale, translucent face with sunken eyes peering at them from a shaded corner, only for it to disperse back into the shadow.

Here, further away from the throne room, Ophelia would get a similar sense from Castle Cainhurst as she had on her visit to Yahar'gul: a sense of tragedy, fear, agony and death... but also hatred, rage and thirst for vengeance. This was Castle Cahinhurst... or at least what the Executioners of the Healing Church had made it.

Eventually they reached a place that was recognizably equipped as a Hunter's workshop, staffed by another two black-robed figures like the one guiding them. Here, Farren would find the tools he needed.

Taking a selection of appropriately useful tools from the workshop, Farren went to work on the lock with Ophelia and Gerlinde supervising, and three identical, anonymous black-robed figures simply lingering silently in their vicinity. Though the tools were not meant for picking locks, they were of high quality and meant for delicate creation and maintenance of complex Hunter armaments, so they worked as well or better for the task.

Even so it was still by far the single most difficult lock Farren, let alone Ophelia and Gerlinde, had ever encountered. After five minutes of fiddling he felt several moving parts inside slip out of his grasp, and he might very well realize that a bad mistake could end up irrevocably damaging the mechanism to the point of rendering the lock permanently closed. After ten minutes his progress got reset again as he felt tumblers slipping. But finally, after fifteen long, tense minutes of extreme focus, Farren was finally rewarded with the feel of the lock relenting to his pressure, allowing itself to move as if the correct key had been inserted, to finally be unlocked with a click.

Finally, Farren relaxed and slowly eased the tools from the lock now that the mechanism had released. When everything was clear–his ear near the case of blood–and he hadn’t heard anything click back into their former positions, Farren pulled away and nodded to Ophelia and the gathered figures, “There...unlocked. Careful that you do not lock it again, it’s a fragile, fraught thing. The wrong turn and it’ll break and be sealed forever,” he said, only slightly exaggerating. They could break it, after all, but that would almost certainly pollute the blood within.

When no one else took the immediate action to open it, Farren wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, set aside his tools, and then moved to reveal the case's contents. Hopefully their efforts had been worth it.

What actually happened:
With the lock disengaged the metal case yielded easily to Farren's fingers, revealing its contents. The interior of the case, it turned out, was covered in a heavy layer of soft, shock-absorbent blue padding on both bottom and lid, designed to trap the items inside between them and prevent them from shifting and potentially breaking.

The first two thirds of the case from the right to well past the middle were filled with tiny corked bottles, each less than half the size of one of the blood vials they were familiar with. There were a total of fifty of these, though all but five of them were already empty; those last five still contained what appeared to be blood.

The leftmost third of the case, meanwhile, was occupied by a single much larger container: what appeared to be a cylinder of copper or bronze, inscribed with numerous Caryll Runes and bearing a small faucet on one side.

Ophelia peered inside eagerly as Farren opened the case, curious to see precisely what the contents were. She was a little disappointed to find only five remaining vials of Old Blood, sure enough, but it was enough to fulfil their end of the bargain with Annalise and obtain the chalice. Perhaps it had also been enough time for the Dream to have recovered. She peered at the canister inscribed with runes, and sought to identify as many as possible: she expected it would bear much the same runes as the case. She was also curious as to whether guidance sprites might be found around or within the canister containing false Paleblood... though she felt no desire to loose any of the foul substance from its container.

"Let's get this back to Annalise. The sooner we've a manner to get the Doll back, the better--without her, we've no ability to transfer our echoes into strength." Ophelia said, directing the last bit at Gerlinde specifically. It was easy to make Gerlinde care, she'd found: it simply required a little rephrasing.

Farren nodded, grunting his assent. He did not affix the top of the case back on for fear it might seal automatically. Hefting the case gingerly, he gestured they go back the way they came. He did pause however, glancing to one of the robed figures, “Might I return when a moment presents itself?” He inquired, wanting to verify he’d have access later on.

Ophelia suddenly had a thought, and went scurrying about the workshop as she gathered up a loose leaf of paper and some errant charcoal, and picked up the container of false Paleblood gingerly. She examined it over, mumbling aloud the names of the runes that she recognised: "Eye... Lake... Deep Sea... This one's Metamorphosis... Heir... and Dream. What are you..?" She spoke as she took the paper and the charcoal and made a rubbing of the runes that she did not recognise so she could examine them more thoroughly later.

"Alright. Let's get this delivered--I want to get back to Torquil. I hope he's doing alright on his own..." Ophelia said, a tinge of regret in her voice at leaving him alone in the Dream like that.

She then returned the false Paleblood to its little recess within the container, picked it up, and headed back with the others the way that they'd come. Something was haunting about the bits of the castle they traversed, where something truly tragic had happened with sufficient intensity of feeling to poison the very air. Old Blood could capture echoes of feeling and desire, that they knew, but the essence of the Nightmare seemed to be able to do a similar thing too--and the place was forever stained by the sins and trespasses committed by the awful Healing Church of Old. It made Ophelia seethe, truth be told, and the faintest pricking of the burning now home within her blood vindicated that feeling many times over.

Once back in the throne room, Ophelia reverently placed her blessed blade on the ground next to her and held the opened box aloft as she addressed the Queen, ready for her servant to take it.

"Unlocked and opened, Your Majesty. Five vials of Hunter Old Blood. We shall keep our eyes peeled for more and deliver that too if we can."

The black figure that had accompanied them to the workshop also followed them back, and when Ophelia offered up the case anew it also took it from her without encouragement. Even so the queen still snapped her fingers before speaking: "Five doses is plenty for now, Lady Ophelia. Thou'st done thy duty, and I shall do mine."

From the hallway they had just entered from arrived a second black figure, identical to the first, only where the first now held the case of Hunter's Old Blood in front of it, this one came bearing a large, very impressive crystal chalice with ornamentations of silver and gold. It held it out for one of them to take.

"This is the chalice thou seek; take it with my blessing. Today, thy deeds have done much to aid the noble cause of the Vilebloods."

Ophelia took the chalice and held it one hand, and picked up her blade with the other. "I am honoured to further our cause, Your Majesty, and only regret my earlier haste. I've one last thing to humbly ask of you ere I leave: your library is expansive indeed, filled with many tomes containing precious knowledge. Might I avail myself of them, should the need arise? I would be happy to read them to you, as well, if such a thing would please you."

Queen Annalise nodded her head in agreement. "I will allow it. The library of Cainhurst holds more history than all the scholars of Byrgenwerth, the Choir and the School of Mensis knew combined. Finding what thou need may prove a truly arduous task, but thou'st permission to browse at thy convenience."

Ophelia nodded her gratitude, and spoke it for the Queen's benefit: "Thank you, Your Majesty. I am certain that we shall speak soon, and am full glad to leave something so perilous as the false Paleblood somewhere so safe."

With that she rose, nodded to the others, and moved towards the familiar lantern to return to the Dream with their prize. One step closer to restoration.

Sighing internally, but not aloud, Farren begrudgingly lowered himself to one knee once Ophelia and the Queen had finished their own exchange. He spoke up then, “If it would not be much trouble, your grace…access to the workshop would be greatly appreciated as well,” he said, the request implied.

"Then it shall be so," she agreed with another nod of her head. "The Vileblood Workshop shall be at thy disposal."

“Gratitude,” Farren said, sounding slightly relieved. He bowed his head briefly, then rose to his feet, ready to depart.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

stiffened, surprised by the sudden embrace, but after a moment…he relaxed a little, then further still. He swallowed, hard, his breathing hitched as he felt her crying. Something loosened in his chest and he wrapped an arm around Ophelia in return, half a hug, squeezing tighter than a normal human could have comfortably handled.

Silently, almost stoically, Farren cried…he didn’t let himself sob, but the tears fell and he let them and if his breathing stuttered once or twice, he knew she wouldn’t judge. When she spoke of Victor, Farren’s fingers clawed at the cloth at her back, then he forced himself stiffly to relax the clawing grip. “Inhuman bastard…” he muttered, the heat of his anger back for a moment before he felt it go cold again, but not numb like it had been before. It felt sharper somehow, yet not brittle.

Farren patted her back hard enough to rock her frame a little, then released as she began to pull away. When she met his gaze, Ophelia might find a moment to notice something she’d missed in her hurry before–Farren’s eyes were gleaming faintly, the glow visible even in the low light and it wasn’t merely reflected luminescence.

“We will,” he repeated, gesturing towards the workshop, on the ground by the door was the pack containing the blood they had reappropriated from the White Church. Farren took a shaky, steadying breath, feeling just a bit lighter, his expression revealed his thanks, subtle though it was. He nodded once, then spoke before she’d turned to leave, something had occurred to him, “So long as the Puppet remains, the White Church might as well be blackguards all. The Black Church is different,” Farren said, his gaze intent on hers. He lifted a hand and wiped away the streaks of tears, making a gruff, almost grunting noise–as if almost annoyed he’d cried–then he continued, “...Seven mentioned…any aid we might offer them in procuring proper supplies would be greatly appreciated. Used to work with the man and his ilk.”

Farren’s chin tilted up, his azure eyes shifting to regard the moon above, “...I’ve the sense they’re a good sort. A smaller group though, less to offer…but not nothing. They could be allies, if we’ve enough to offer in exchange,” he left unsaid that they ought be warned of the threat that the White Healing Church was likely soon to become–to them as well, not just to those possessed of the Paleblood–false or true–or decency besides. “I’ll not go on my own though,” he added, glancing back to her, down to her Moonlit blade and the arcane power that flowed like slow waters beneath its almost glassy surface. Idly, he wondered how it had been wrought. He met her gaze again, “You’ve a better way with words than I…and that ought suffice in place of my rapport.”

He waved the thought off and half turned, glancing back towards Torquil…then Gerlinde as well. Farren recalled Eileen…Gehrman and the once and future First Hunter–he decided that’d ensure that the man’s sacrifice of station would not be long if he could help it.

Dietrich was a good man. A great one even, perhaps, the sort that ought to be in charge, leading others who could not find the way themselves. “Go, we’ll speak of it further when you return,” he finished. His gaze remained elsewhere, staring into the distance. He’d spoken more in those moments than he had most times before since they’d awoken.

It meant something.

Farren wasn’t sure what though.

Not yet.