yoshua171

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

winced as Torquil was backhanded, though the man appeared to recover quickly. Glancing over as the Horn of Old Lords was nudged against his arm following his attack, Farren nodded once, whipped the Beastflayer back into its polearm form and then accepted the Horn with one hand and found a place to hook it at his hip.

He didn’t really have much time to consider Gerlinde’s gesture before the distinct sound of the Moonborn Bell rang out. Farren’s gaze whipped to its origin: Ophelia. He grimaced, set his jaw, and reeled back the Beastflayer with both hands and lashed out at the beast again as he watched the Moonborn Hunter carry out his assault.

Much like the other arcane implements they’d attempted, it seemed that the Shopkeeper’s effigial weapons had a drastically reduced effect against their foe.

Farren moved–before the Moonburn Hunter was almost struck, running laterally and backwards as he retracted his weapon into its glaive form again. He was moving towards a spot about halfway between Ophelia’s position and the Moonburn Hunter’s position where the Host of the Hunter’s Dream was attempting his assault with an effigial Whirligig Saw. Farren watched as the hunter withdrew and was nearly struck, quickstepping at the last moment to avoid the blow. Damn if they weren’t fast he didn’t know what was.

The moment Lhirin knew where the Moonborn Hunter’s new position outside of Arrayah’s range was, he quickstepped to cover the remaining distance. Mid-quickstep Farren drew Bulwark with his left hand and as he arrived at the Shopkeeper’s side he offered him the implement. It was one he could do without if the Shopkeeper died and took it with him as part of that process.

Once the Moonborn Hunter hopefully accepted the weapon, Farren sped back into motion, circling around Arrayah so he could approach from a new angle, forcing her to split her attention.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Lhirinthyl

---

‘Going smoothly,’ Lhirin had only just thought…and then the door that the Knight of the Will was opening swung open in a burst of movement, a blade’s point leading, clearly meant for the Knight. It didn’t find its purchase due to Freagon’s impressive reflexes. Some distant part of his mind was gladdened it hadn’t been him, as he was doubtful he’d have been quite so fast as all that. Moving forth with Freagon’s lead of a handful of meters, Lhirin was the next nearest as the large–clearly wounded–bandit burst fully into view, brandishing his large falchion even as he held a dagger to what appeared to be their healer’s throat.

Thoughts blurred through his mind, fast as the potential energy his spell could release the moment he brought its energy to bear.

‘Large, partially armored. No sign of magical deterrents on his person, perhaps more intelligent and experienced than the others. Brigands are often led via strength and cunning. Knife to the throat of the very person they’d come to collect.’ Lhirin’s silver eyes narrowed as things began to grow still, taking the form of a standoff. His eyes, wide as always, to the man would likely look more surprised or caught off guard…rather than manic.

This was of course very far from the truth. The sounds of breathing, of clashing blades, tearing cloth and flesh from the other nearby battle were more than a backdrop, they were a form of cover. Lhirin would have smiled if he thought it wouldn’t give him away.

Since he was stationary and now had to focus on little else, Lhirin decided on his course of action.

Lhirin glanced at Irah, indicating it might be a good time for her gift of gab, even if the bandit couldn’t be convinced to lay down arms or release the healer–as it was his sole piece of real leverage–people were simple. Talking to someone else was distracting, less so for them than it was for him, but enough. Sharpening his focus, honing it as if it were itself a razor thin blade, Lhirin traced two narrow threads of magical energy out from one of his toes, through the fabric of his boots, and along the ground.

It was unpleasant…what with the Angel’s aura everywhere around them, but it was doable. If only because of how quickly the threads moved–as fast as he could think for the most part– they would reach the pair in an instant. At a right angle, behind the wounded bandit’s foot that was furthest back, the leading path of the dual threads of energy thus moved from horizontal to vertical. They kept from touching the man, with one stopping to hover just behind the man’s shoulder and torso. It had run parallel from hip up to shoulder height and then stopped, the line of invisible energy just…hovering in place as it continued to extend. Both threads of energy followed the path of the bandit’s arm, using the blindspots they created. They extended in a way so that they traveled below and behind the man’s arms relative to the position of his head. Each thread of energy eventually reached its destination, the one along his left arm making contact with the dagger itself whereas the right made contact with the blade of the bandit’s falchion.

Maintaining those threads of energy, Lhirin slightly shifted his stance so his sword arm led, but he didn’t make any moves to close the distance. Then with one arm hidden by the silhouette of his body, Lhirin used the hand signals that he and Irah had come up with to indicate he was ready. If the Angel that was with them saw, they’d also know. Perhaps it could relay things through its Fallen kin.

Magic. Strike. Prepared. Throw-off. Disable. Target. Weapons. Wound

His hand grew still then and he focused, connecting the thread of energy to his Runeblade as he redistributed the energy so it no longer contacted any part of his person directly. The silver-eyed Deigan’s meaning would be clear enough to Irah, something to the effect of I am ready to strike with my magic. It will throw off or disable him by targeting his weapons and wound.

Lhirin added a few other signs after the brief pause.

Inform. Allies. Signal. Time. Prepared.

That way she’d try and inform the others if possible and either way would signal when everyone was as ready as they could be. That done, Lhirin maintained his focus as he stared wide-eyed at the wounded bandit and his captive.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Lhirinthyl

---

It wasn’t even a battle, wasn’t even worth his magic by and large, for the swaigh’s aura of terror disabled and disarmed their adversaries before they grew near enough to even remotely become a threat. Perhaps if a more ranged opponent appeared they might need to worry, but so far that just hadn’t occurred. Thus, the deigan mage simply kept pace, his wide eyes flicking from target to target, identifying when his allies were honing in one and when he had the opportunity to do so instead. Of course, while they had yet to encounter a proper threat, that was not to say that Lhirin wasn’t prepared. He had ample energy to call upon–his soul full somewhat past its natural limits on account of the dose of piaan he’d taken previously. As a result, he’d prepared a single exceptionally simple spell.

Electrify.

He hadn’t cast it, just rattled off its very brief chant and provided enough energy to the necessary runes on his blade, using it as a medium that allowed him to skip tracing the necessary sigils as he normally would have. He’d supplied energy sufficient that it would very briefly stun any human-sized target he directed the energy to strike. Long enough either for Freagon to close the distance, for the swaigh’s aura to hit the individual, or long enough for Lhirin to cast a simple spell and direct a deadly or disabling projectile at the target.

At the same time as they advanced–even as he drew his blade across a bandit’s throat, the action almost thoughtlessly casual–Lhirin’s mind rattled through possibilities and took an active count of every bandit they dispatched. It was a countdown to safety on their side of the…encounter.

Lhirin–unless things changed–had no intention of giving this incident the honor of even being considered a conflict. Silently, he hoped things went just as well for their companions, but he didn’t spare a glance in their direction. Not for the moment at least.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

managed–barely–to reach the ground and even to begin a quickstep–before Arrayah’s bulk slammed into him from the side so fast that even if he’d had the proper rune to predict it, it would not have mattered in the least.

He’d been moving quickly already, but struck as hard as he’d been, it utterly canceled his backwards momentum and instead sent him hurtling into the wall with a sickening crunch and splatter. The only blessing was that his head didn’t strike first, of course that also meant that he experienced every micro-second of agony. Of course, on this night of the hunt, pain had become his bedfellow and though it was all-encompassing, Farren acted as his body dragged down to the floor. He couldn’t support his own weight immediately, not after such a blow, but his hand went to his blood vials and then stabbed one into his thigh. That had done enough damage to warrant it, he could quite literally feel it in his bones. Their creaking, the snap and squelch inside his body as they forced themselves back into the right positions and began to mend–just a bit slower than before.

He felt his jaw realign, his teeth regrow or shift back together and seal into their proper alignment, seams he couldn’t see disappearing as the enamel became whole again. He gagged, but didn’t retch–nothing in his stomach beyond bile–and Farren was glad for that at least. “Agh…” the sound of a pained exclamation rasped up his throat once it was no longer collapsed. He wrenched in air, and even that ached, his lungs mostly reformed, but not yet without bruises and damage.

The surge of healing from the vial sped up the process, but the healing hurt in its own frightfully ruinous manner. Muscles rapidly reknitting, bones snapping into place, crackling, their fibers growing into eachother and fusing, Shards of bone that couldn’t be salvaged shoving out through muscle and skin, bloody as they fell beneath and around him. Farren braced a hand on the wall and as his legs, hips, and back mostly aligned, he pushed to his feet with a groan.

The whole process took only a few seconds, but it felt far longer.

“Cursed beast,” he snarled, his voice hoarse and pained as he clutched at his stomach. He slowly moved his head–eyes much faster for they’d already fully mended–and found the beastflayer nearby. He bent down with a wince and snatched it up. By the time he rose he was mostly hale and whole again, and rapidly getting there. He regarded Gerlinde as she’d approached and nodded once. Arrayah seemed…resistant to non-physical damage, but he figured the beastflayer was plenty solid. So he fed the Horn of the Old Lords some quicksilver, and offered up his weapon.

It burst into flames, fortunately not in a way that touched his skin, though he felt the lick of its nearby heat against his skin and through his hunter’s garb.

Farren took in a breath, cocked his arm back, focusing his strength, and then whipped the beast flayer out, releasing it into its whip-blade form. He’d done something he’d seen Torquil manage a number of times now: a strong attack.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

couldn’t help but grin as the massive form of Arrayah slid into a new trajectory and tumbled thunderously away, but that was not to say that he took even a moment to revel in that small victory. Instead, as that trajectory had begun to change, the azure-eyed hunter had already dropped one blunderbuss into its hook, snatched up enough quicksilver for both firearms, and began to reload the other as he swiveled on the spot. His attention half followed the beast’s trajectory, both hands managing the mechanism of the gun as he braced himself, knees bending, and slotted the reloaded blunderbuss into place at his left hip.

Left hand darting from the hooked blunderbuss to the joined Effigial Blades at the same hip, Farren drew it from its place as he reloaded the second blunderbuss with his right hand, moving with dexterous ease. He dashed forth then, having estimated the beast’s end point, his body slashing forwards through the air in a long quickstep–or two–intent upon taking advantage of the staggered monstrosity.

It smelled vile, he tasted bile, swallowed it down, and as he exited his dash, Farren finished reloading his second blunderbuss and thus promptly dropped it into its place ‘pon his right hip, hooked and properly secure. His own fingers latched on the hilt of the True Blades of Mercy and he drew their united form in swift order, arming him with both Effigial and True Blades as he closed the final feet of distance.

He was in no position to perform a more brutal strike, and he’d a sense that his would be less effective besides, so he half climbed, half leapt atop the beast in a clambering run and then began to slash and tear into its grotesque mockery of a form, where humanoid torso met almost insectoid greater body, as if intent to rend the two halves apart.

Farren knew he couldn’t hope to do so, of course, surely Arrayah was still far too hale and whole not to regenerate from his strikes, but every frenzied slash was another chunk of vigor cut from its vessel, and he intended to cut away as much as he could.

Inevitably, when Arrayah began to stir, Farren would slam the joined Effigial Blades into their place at his left hip as his right hand plunged the True Blades of Mercy into the juncture between centipede and humanoid segments, then tear them into two parts at a rough angle, digging them deeper as he did, before leaping down and back from the plague-ridden Champion. As he was in that moment of descent, Farren braced himself for its strike, body ready to act as best as he could without tensing so much that a backhanded swipe or something similar might harm him more due to his own stiffness.

If his feet hit the ground before any such attack, Farren would immediately quickstep back as he drew the Beastflayer from his back and whipped out with it as he activated its mechanism, to extend it into a lashing farewell across Arrayah’s form.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

braced for it, but the strange sensation of moving without a form, and indeed, without a proper awareness of the movement itself–still struck him with a fierceness. When they arrived he didn’t stumble, but one hand went out as he ‘caught his balance’ despite being in a totally stable position. He followed the others, but had an odd realization that…without form or context, apparently a lot of normal experiences just…lost meaning entirely. Movement, chiefly, in this case. Walking down that hall, approaching the vast chamber in which he knew this Arrayah dwelled, he realized that he really only understood he was moving because of the points of feedback from his body and the sense of details shifting as he passed the different signs of wear and tear in the hallway.

How bizarre.

Farren shook himself and focused as they entered the room. Finally he beheld their adversary, but having only heard her described–and having briefly caught her foul odor when she’d beheaded him–Farren honestly wished he’d never seen her.

Her almost centipede, twisted form, misshapen head, and endlessly writhing asymmetrical rows of limbs just unsettled him to his core. Still, he just squared his jaw and moved to draw the Beastflayer from his back. However, Arrayah was faster and as she chose him as her target, Farren’s eyes widened–then narrowed in the next instant.

His hands blurred into two downwards sweeps and rather than draw Beastflayer, Farren snatched two blunderbusses from their hooks, levered them up in a shift of wood and metal, and then unloaded them, one after the other right as she grew near enough to catch their full spray.

With any luck, she’d stagger, much like he’d seen the others do a handful of times to other foes–though those had been far lesser in size and sheer presence.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

frowned at the idea of harming Amaris, the look more like it physically pained him, rather than it merely bothering him. When Ophelia turned the possibility down, Farren relaxed slightly. “Twelve silver bullets, half that loaded. Still eight vials,” he supplied.

Farren hadn’t even glanced at his pouch, or touched it when he’d given the numbers. Clearly he had his supplies memorized as a matter of course. It didn’t even occur to him that it might be strange. Rather than reply to her final question he just nodded once. He bowed his head to the shop keeper and Amaris, then turned and followed Ophelia, ready to return to the Labyrinth.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

nodded once, then again after Gerlinde and Torquil’s replies. He glanced at Amaris as she replied as well, then away, eyes downcast, but not out of any particular emotion as he stowed the hourglass and the vial then rubbed at his beard with one hand thoughtfully.

“I agree with Gerlinde. One more try while we can actually perceive the thing is wise. Test our limits…and its. Then perhaps we follow another of the threads we’d begun to pull.”

He paused then, snapped his fingers once and grinned, “...perhaps we could deprive the White Church of their mine. Assist the Dancers…and broker an agreement between them and the Black Church,” he offered, looking Ophelia’s way. If they followed that path, it would mean a proper alliance with the Black Church and likely an easy supply of quicksilver bullets besides. Atop that boon, they’d likely gain some favor with the Fire Dancers, and given that he’d uncovered Fulmen by happenstance after an interaction with Moira…and then with Seven, Farren wondered if perhaps he’d worked with any other creed of hunters. He had, as far as he understood it, been ‘talent’ for hire. Surely the Healing Churches had been the only faction he’d worked under.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

took in the description of Arrayah, his companion’s responses regarding their approach, and the words of their hosts with his usual regard. Calm and intent upon pulling any nugget of practical knowledge he could from their words.

The physiology of their foe was the most helpful, with a close second being the interpretation and warning from the Moonbound Hunter. Yet…there wasn’t much to say there, so instead, Farren glanced to Torquil for a moment, and then the others, “I…have a plan, but we’ll only get one shot at it,” Farren supplied, digging in one of his pouches and then extracting the Snakescale Hourglass.

“This will give whoever uses it five seconds to act unimpeded, as if the rest of the world had slowed or nearly stopped.”

Farren extracted another item, a vial of warm, roiling blood that seemed somehow distinct from the usual blood vials they used.

“...and this is a vial of Dark Beast’s blood. It greatly increases the imbibers speed, agility, and endurance…as well as allowing them to quickstep without limit. Lasts for about 20 seconds apparently.”

Farren briefly swept his gaze over them, “They’re a bit…costly in terms of echoes, but we could find somewhere to acquire more of such…return, purchase them from the Messengers and then take another swing at Arrayah.”

He let that potentiality hang a moment, then spoke again, “...or we can go back now, we can give these to Torquil and let him wail on the twisted champion the Fulmen.” At the prospect, Farren grinned, “Five seconds isn’t terribly long, but if he’s close when he activates it and he leverages his strength, well…he’ll build charge awful quick, and I reckon a proper discharge of Fulmen as at least liable to deplete a great deal of Arrayah’s reserves.”

Farren looked to Torquil. He’d suggested the man take on the important role because he was the strongest of them. Not the fastest, but the best equipped to wield Fulmen. That, and the man seemed to be…coming into his own, after a fashion and whereas before he might not have trusted him with such a role, now Torquil felt more…thoughtful, observant, and aware.

It bore testing.

“As for the rest of us, you especially, Ophelia, I think it best we not get too close to Arrayah, if we can help it.”

The bitch simply had too many damned limbs, if her description was to be trusted–and he did trust it. It would be far too easy for one of them to get grappled again–especially Ophelia–who would surely be its prime target.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

dry heaved once more from the taste the first wretched retching had left in his mouth, but thereafter he wiped his lips and quickly began to properly recover. “Ugh…” he groaned, taking in Ophelia’s words. If he were honest…Farren had little desire to return, but he understood how it could benefit them…and that if it came down to it, Ophelia would likely have gone alone over and over again until she succeeded. Besides…surely the echoes in this Arayah’s blood would serve them well.

“Brand me then.”

When she was done with that business, Farren took to reloading his various firearms. When he was done and they were once more in place, Farren went to the workshop-cabin atop the hill and then to the chest full of armaments. He sifted through, wondering just how many Hunter’s Pistols remained therein.

However, as he withdrew some, and reached the bottom of the chest…there always seemed to be more. He stopped after ten of each, frowning. Well…he did suppose it was a dream, even though he knew the armaments were real enough. Shrugging slightly, Farren beckoned the Messengers, handed off three unloaded blunderbusses–just in case. It made sense to have spares. Then five Pistols as well.

That done, he glanced at the pair of Hunter’s Pistols, and the pair of blunderbusses that remained, now laid out atop the closed chest. With the Messengers still at hand, he gave them his Piercing Rifle. He loaded the second blunderbuss and slid it into the fastening at his back where the rifle had gone previously. This left him with a total of three blunderbusses and three pistols, Bulwark, the Beastflayer, and his Blade(s) of Mercy, Effigial and Mundane.

First he loaded the remaining firearms, then he affixed a new hook to his right hip and hung the final blunderbuss there–one at each hip. The pair of Pistols he regarded for a moment, then affixed holsters at his belt near his lower back before he slid them in.

Two Hunter’s Pistols, on opposite sides of his spine, holsters at the belt that held his pants and various other accouterments and armaments. One such Pistol at his left hip, holstered. Blades of Mercy at each hip, sheathed–one Effigial, one not. Beastflayer and blunderbuss upon his back, and one Blunderbuss at each of his hips, hanging from hooks. Bulwark too remained, hanging from a loop at his right hip, slightly back from the Blade of Mercy.

It was a lot, but he had a feeling that having the extra firearms–if only for this fight–would let him do more harm to Arrayah’s healing than not. Lodging all that quicksilver in its flesh–even with his weaker bloodtinge–ought to do something.

All that done, Farren rose, weapons either equipped are stowed away with the Helpers, and exited the building returning to his companions.

“I’m ready.”