yoshua171

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

The Blood Tide Shifts
^{Castle Cainhurst - Throneroom}

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

---

As they materialised in the now-familiar chambers of inner Castle Cainhurst, Ophelia followed the usual ritual of approaching the Queen's throne and assuming the kneeling position one took when seeking audience with her.

"It is on the topic of your mask that we return, Queen Annalise, though not yet with key in hand. We were successful in navigating the labyrinth that the chalice we sought unlocked, we have slain Arrayah, the Black Blade, and I have become the Champion of Cosmic Truth. I will wield this power to infiltrate the White Church and find the key in question--but I wished to examine the mask first, with your permission, to get a better idea of what it is that I am looking for." Ophelia said, the requisite reverence for the queen's renewed vigour showing through her voice.

The queen's head instantly cocked slightly as soon as Ophelia spoke, but after she simply listened in silence. "Thou utter names and titles that are meaningless to Us, distant kin."
Queen Annalise raised her left hand, and two tall, hooded, black-clad figures seemed to materialize out of the shadows before coming to stand on either side of her, all in total silence.
"If it is thy belief that examining the mask will aid thy quest, then We will allow it," she declared impatiently.

Granted permission, Ophelia immediately set about the task of examining the mask to see if there was indeed a keyhole or any other sort of identifying mark that might give them some clue as to how it might be broken, while simultaneously communing with her blade. Though she wished to be thorough, she also wished to be fast.

"Do you sense anything about this mask, and how it might be unlocked?"

The examination did eventually show a hole, though calling it a "keyhole" would probably be misleading. The hole was tiny and perfectly round, making no room for a key with teeth or anything of the sort; the only thing that would fit there was a plain, thin rod.
"It is very old and powerful," the voice replied to Ophelia's query. "An eldritch device meant to seal the power of whoever wears it, meant only to be removable if its wearer is killed. There is no mechanical lock on it, but powers of the Nightmare are keeping it shut; you will need the correct key to appease its curse."

When finished with the examination Ophelia quickly and respectfully returned to the kneeling position.

"Thank you, Your Majesty. It seems that what we are looking for is some sort of rod imbued with the presence of the Nightmare--this should narrow our search considerably. I shall go now to find it, and return with it in tow." she concluded, standing from her position and beginning to head over to the lantern. With the aid of the Truth rune she would speak to Farren, Torquil, and Gerlinde wordlessly.

"I think it best that I head to the White Church alone--the less presence we have there, the better. I'll keep in touch through the little ones, just send a message if you need me for anything. Obviously I'll only receive the message when I'm out, but it should be fine--I intend to be as quick as possible."

And for good measure, she repeated her query to the Cosmic Sword of Truth about the ritual in Yahar'gul now that they were in the Waking World.

Annalise simply dismissed Ophelia with a wave of her hand.
"The ritual... has progressed far more than it should have," the voice reported, a hint of discomfort in its tone. "Something has caused it to leap closer to completion, and though its rate has slowed down again... the best estimate would be that it will finish in about three hours. Assuming there are no more sudden leaps of progress."
The voice paused for a moment before adding: "They are awakening a Great One and calling it to the Waking World. This Great One..." Now the voice's discomfort had intensified to fear. "They are trying to call Obcasus, a being who has slumbered in the depths of the Cosmos for an eternity. Some call it the Peacebringer, others the Worldbreaker, for the ideal it seeks to visit upon reality is dark and silent oblivion. Champion, Obcasus is not like the other Great Ones you have encountered; if it is fully awakened, it will seek to erase everything around it so that it may resume its slumber."

"We need more time... there is a serpentine Great One, a chronophage, who devours time as it passes--their scales are in the Snakescale Hourglasses... might we entreat them, perhaps?" Ophelia asked in return, freezing in her tracks as a creeping sense of fear began to overtake her. If even her blade, whose gentle light had warded her against all fear, was afraid... she took a shaky breath in to steady herself. The fear would persist, she had no doubt about that... but there was no failing in fear itself. So long as they acted despite their fear, that would be enough--either with assistance from the chronophage, or heading to Yahar'gul themselves to disrupt the ritual. Ophelia preferred the former option quite strongly, hoping that the power they had called upon might still be used for a more benign purpose... but accepting that if it could not, the ritual needed to end.

"The Great Serpent? Perhaps. It has the power, but the question is whether it is willing. It likely serves as a guardian deity in the forest west of Yharnam; it has for centuries."

Farren, for his part, bowed his head respectfully to the Queen, but did not remain as such. He had intended to depart, but lingered to hear Ophelia's conclusion regarding the Fell Mask that yet restricted Annalise. However, once the knowledge had been expressed, he nodded but once and began to turn to leave--intending to head for the Cainhurst workshop. However, when something caused Ophelia to stop dead in her tracks, a faint niggling intuition gnawed within his head, and he too stopped and turned back to his companion.

"Now that we know what we are facing... perhaps that will be enough to sway it. Whatever its price, if it has one, it is likely better than oblivion." Ophelia returned with a swallow, and turned on her heel to face the others.

"There has been a disturbing revelation about the ritual at Yahar'gul. They seek to awaken Obcasus, the Worldbreaker... we must go to the Forbidden Woods to entreat the Great Serpent. Now." Ophelia spoke aloud, voice wavering and trembling for perhaps the first time since waking at Rebirth's Rise. She waited for the others for only a few seconds before continuing to the lantern and returning to the Dream.

Farren took in the fear he saw in the cast of her features and his own expression darkened. After a moment, Ophelia's voice rang out in his mind. Farren stiffened, but relaxed an instant after, only for the news to sink in. His jaw tightened, worked briefly then he grunted but once, sighed, and followed Ophelia back to the lantern--and in turn, the Dream. It seemed they did not have time to dally and he would have to avail himself of Cainhurst's workshop after other business was resolved.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

took in the new room, giving himself some time to recover from the gauntlet that had led them there. Much of the room was just as simultaneously ancient, drab, and strange as the rest of the Labyrinth had been so far, but eventually his gaze fixated not on the chalice Gerlinde had indicated, but on the one apparently filled with molten earth instead.

Tilting his head slightly, Farren bent and gathered a handful of small stones before walking over to the lava-filled basin. Sure enough, even several meters out it started to get exceptionally hot. Just standing somewhat near made his lips begin to dry out and he knew if he drew any closer that it would start to burn.

Still, curious as he was, Farren tossed a stone or three into the basin from where he stood. However, only what one might expect occurred, with the small stones sinking in and beginning to turn molten as well. Farren shrugged and turned from it, moving to stand beside Gerlinde, seemingly having little to no interest in the magical chalice that could apparently change one’s essential appearance.

Perhaps if he’d had some deformity he might have used it, or indeed if he ever ended up in Torquil’s current situation…but he was comfortable as he was, and to change himself notably would only disrupt the sense of self he was still rebuilding ever since he’d awoken.

While Ophelia and Torquil did as they pleased, Farren for once closed his eyes and just let himself…think.

’We should go to Cainhurst…’ it was a simple thing, not borne of any drastic need or massive advantage, but rather a simple desire to properly investigate the facilities of the workshop that the Cainhurst nobility had given him leave to utilize. Perhaps he could repair some of his damaged weapons himself? That aside…he could disassemble some weapons and see how they worked. Properly. For, as he thought about it, his mind supplied the distinct impression that he’d never been allowed to do anything similar in his past life. Perhaps he’d had to reassemble one or two trick weapons, at best, but they had never been any of the more complex sorts, of that much he was certain.

Letting forth a long sigh, Farren wished that there was proper time for him to experiment more thoroughly with such things, as…in truth he wanted to craft something for himself–though he did not yet know precisely what. Without knowing what was truly possible it was difficult to even truly ponder.

Opening his eyes, Farren glanced to Gerlinde, then towards the pool, speaking while they carried on with the changes they desired. “I think…I’d rather like to head for Cainhurst and ascertain what tools exist within their workshop. Though how much time we spend there depends severely upon the state of the Ritual in Yahar’gul. Is there…anywhere else you feel it is prudent we should go?” His question was primarily aimed at Ophelia, for he considered her his equal in leading the course of their ragtag band, but truthfully he would value Gerlinde’s input as well. Particularly since she had been hunting longer than them by a significant margin. As for Torquil…well, if the man did have any aims, he’d certainly wish to hear of them, though he didn’t say as much.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Rest & Revelation | Return & Resignation
^{The Hunter’s Dream}

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

---

Upon spotting the Moonborn Hunter, the Doll, and Gerlinde Ophelia gave a friendly wave with her free right hand and looked around curiously.

"Oh? Where's Torquil?"

All three of them simultaneously pointed through the door and into the workshop.

Heading inside, Ophelia looked for their erstwhile companion and called out softly: "Torquil? Are you there, love?"

Heading inside, Ophelia would not have to look around for long before she spotted... who she had to assume was Torquil. The clothes were the same, and he still carried his axe and Loch Shield, but the mask and hat he had been wearing to conceal his altered head were gone, and the head that had been revealed was a different one than last she had seen it. His skin seemed weirdly oily and bluish, almost as though his head was secreting some manner of slime from, and his mouth was nowhere to be seen, either replaced or hidden by a writhing mass of small tentacles. Where there had previously been three big black eyes were now five even bigger ones, with a second pair pushed out and placed where his temples would normally be. Each of the eyes also appeared segmented into ommatidia like the eyes of an insect might be. The top of his head appeared quite smooth and bald, but now seemed to have some manner of strange bulging growth at the back of the skull that, similar to the tentacles on his face, seemed to be slowly undulating on its own accord.

“Yes,” Ophelia would hear Torquil's distorted voice in her head. “At least I think it is me. I can't speak anymore, but I can feel your thoughts, and I feel like you can hear mine.”

"Yes, dear, quite right--my, my, another transformation? Hm... You know, I was planning to go visit that basin that Gerlinde told us about for myself anyway. If you'd like to come along I'd be thrilled to have you? Though I don't mind you the way you are, either, of course--I know you're still Torquil no matter how you look, love. You seem like you could do with a hug, if you'd like?" Ophelia responded wordlessly, once again using the power of the Truth rune's power. She felt it might be easier for him for her to respond in kind--and thanks to his noble sacrifice they had the power to do so.

Farren frowned, having followed after Ophelia, to at least see what was wrong—not to mention that he needed to go to retrieve some…supplies and replacements—and then he felt the voice, an unwelcome intrusion in his mind.

He froze in place for a moment, a brief, sharp, violent shock of panic writhing through his skull and down his spine. First like ice in his veins, and then rage, before he closed his eyes, breathed carefully, and let it simmer down to slight annoyance.

Farren slipped past Ophelia, glancing Torquil’s way a moment, taking the changes in without much reaction, before he shook his head and went to the weapons chest.

“Discomforting…” Farren muttered as he knelt before the chest, opening it up to sort through things. He grabbed three piercing rifles and six new instances of Bulwark. After a moment of thought, he did grab another Beastflayer as well. All of these he set on the ground, parallel to eachother.

Farren stood and walked just barely out the doorway so he could see the Moonborn, “Did the Bulwark I gave you return to the chest as well?” He asked, his gaze on their host despite knowing that the Moonborn’s companion would almost surely be the one to reply.

"I don't think a hug is a good idea," Torquil's voice droned despondently in their heads. "I can't control these... tentacles... very well. I can't find anything to wear on my head that fits either, so I can't hide how I look anymore. I... wouldn't be against finding a way for me to not be... this."

Over by the doorway, the Shopkeeper first cocked their head at Farren's question, then nodded affirmatively. The doll unexpectedly did not say anything, seemingly preoccupied with staring at Ophelia and Torquil inside the workshop.

"Oh, love, I don't mind any of that... The offer's always there if you want it. And... I wanted to apologise for my error of judgement earlier, with Arrayah. I really thought she'd go for me, only she went for you instead and I was powerless to do anything about it... I feel terrible about you paying for my mistake. I'm very sorry, and if there's anything I can do to make it up to you please let me know. Without you I wouldn't have managed to get this." she replied, nodding towards the Cosmic Sword of Truth. "It's everything I imagined and so much more..." she added, smiling dreamily as she gazed at the blade for a moment and then back to Torquil.

“Mmm,” he hummed, his expression still faintly annoyed, though truthfully it had nothing to do with the Shopkeeper. He shook his head and turned about to return to his array of weapons. He extracted a seventh instance of Bulwark and then unloaded one hunter’s pistol and set the pistol next to the other weapons. Similarly, he grabbed one of the blunderbusses and set it in line with the other weapons. Farren slipped the quicksilver back into the Tube that the Shopkeeper had given each of them. That done, Farren called upon the Messengers and had them take the entire haul…except the seventh Bulwark, which he was still holding in his left hand. Farren again rearranged his gear to hold his assorted equipment properly. He actually ended up with spare gun hooks since he hadn’t given the extras to the Messengers. He left them just in case. It was like having extra pockets…for firearms.

Torquil shrugged at her apology. "I'm getting used to it," he told her. Then he cocked his head, though it was difficult to know what he was looking at with his inhuman features. "Everything looks so strange with these eyes. I see everything... and I see it a hundred times, over and over again. So this sword is what we were there for? It looks fancy."

Looking in from the outside along with the doll and the Shopkeeper, Gerlinde watched with a huge grin.

"That's right--I'll have to show you its powers as we continue our hunt. I bet that's terribly disorienting, isn't it? Come, come, let's go to the Halls of the Old Lords and get you a body that suits who you are, hmm?" she replied to Torquil, reaching out to give his arm a gentle squeeze. "I should thank you as well, both you and Gerlinde," Ophelia added, turning to Farren and returning to actually using words, "Your forethought in getting the snakescale hourglass and the darkbeast blood was magnificent, and how you comported yourself in the battle... my, you were absolutely magnificent. At the end there, Gerlinde, whew... you really came through for us and spared us having to deal with... whatever Arrayah was about to morph into and take to the skies. I owe you all a tremendous debt of gratitude; if there's aught I can do to repay you, please, let me know... ah, and I have some new runes to teach everybody who wants them." Ophelia gushed, taking a moment to address the others before her gaze settled on the Doll looking at her.

"Has the completed blade caught your eye, mm?" Ophelia asked her, curious as to what it was the Doll had noticed and assuming it was the magnificent eldritch weapon she was now carrying.

Gerlinde's eyes widened just a little when Ophelia offered her thanks, though her smile remained unchanged as she nodded her head in acknowledgment.

The doll seemed almost taken aback by being addressed, with her reaction to it being delayed more than a full second after Ophelia had finished speaking. "Ah, my apologies, good Hunter," she said quickly, bowing her head submissively. "It is only... I feel a strange kinship with that sword. I cannot explain it, but somehow it feels as though it and I are similar. I wonder if this is how humans feel about family?"

"Oh, indeed? Hmm... It is my suspicion that what gave my blade awareness is the remnants of a god that it once slew; perhaps what gave you awareness is a part of Flora?" Ophelia remarked, trying to put together the pieces of what she'd learned into something even vaguely cohesive.

"Do you feel this kinship too, I wonder?" she asked of the Cosmic blade, all while smiling gently at the Doll.

"There is a sort of resonance with this doll, yes," the voice in Ophelia's head confirmed. "What an interesting creature. The Holy Moonlight Sword never noticed, but now she seems fascinating."

"The blade gained awareness when it slew a god?" the doll asked, seemingly perplexed by the prospect. She turned to the Shopkeeper and cocked her head. "Are any of your other weapons aware, good Hunter? Any of the ones you have slain Great Ones with?" She waited for a moment in apparent silence before turning back to Ophelia. "They deny anything like that happening, good Hunter. How odd."

Farren emerged from the central structure to join the others, having overheard things from within while he'd gathered spare tools and reorganized his gear. “There must be more than one determining factor then...or you're wrong,” he offered bluntly, his azure eyes shifting over those assembled. He glanced to Gerlinde, his next words a total non sequitur, “Where did you get that grenade?”

"Hm. They also could not hear the gentle whispers of the Holy Moonlight Sword... but my blade does also feel a resonance with you. When it was incomplete it never noticed but now... it finds you fascinating, it says. The little ones showed me a scroll," Ophelia began, relaying exactly what it had said, "and yet my blade has no recollection of such a thing happening since it became aware. So I posit that it only became aware after its purpose was complete and the god slain... but perhaps I am fitting the pieces together wrong, or missing pieces, or both! Though... why don't you go ahead and touch it, love?" she continued, taking the cosmic blade in both hands with palms upturned and presenting it towards the Doll for her to touch if she so desired... though as soon as she touched the blade itself a painful jolt of voltaic energy surged through her and caused her to reflexively remove her hand.

"Ah, better touch the handle, love."

"I bought it from the Black Church Workshop a few days ago," Gerlinde answered Farren's question with a shrug and a smile. "I only bought the one, though; they're pretty expensive."

The doll, meanwhile, stared at the offered hilt of the Cosmic Sword of Truth with wide-eyed reverence. "Truly? I have never laid hands on a weapon before, good Hunter, let alone one as remarkable as this one. But if that is what you desire..."

Reaching out her porcelain fingers, the doll hesitantly gave the handle a feather-light touch... and as soon as she made contact, the glow of the blade seemed to intensify immensely. The doll immediately pulled back her hand, and the luminance of the blade swiftly faded to its usual levels.

"What immense arcane power!" the voice announced elatedly in Ophelia's mind. "It was for but an instant, but a great many of the dormant powers of the sword were awakened when the doll touched it! What a mighty Champion this doll could have been..."

Farren only nodded in reply, filing away the information for later even as he turned his gaze upon Amaris and Ophelia. He tilted his head slightly, “Amaris, why withdraw? What did you feel?”

"Ah, I see, you possess tremendous arcane power! In another life, why, you could have made a terribly mighty Champion indeed... There is a kinship between you, that much is certain. Perhaps we shall discover more in due time? For now, though, let us not tarry any longer - Gerlinde, love, could you guide us to the basin you found in the Halls of the Old Lords that you mentioned?" Ophelia spoke, the smile on her face growing ever-wider at the revelations.

The doll turned to Farren and bowed her head apologetically. "I am sorry, good Hunter, but I did not feel anything... but the way it glowed seemed dangerous. It frightened me. As I said before, I am not used to handling weapons."

Meanwhile Gerlinde turned to Ophelia and nodded her head enthusiastically. "Oh, how exciting! Just give me a moment to get my gear in order and we can head out immediately!"

Farren nodded, her explanation was reasonable enough. Faintly, he remembered when he'd been handed his first weapon. It had been more...nervousness and excitement, rather than fear, so too had there been an awareness that his mistakes might result in grievous injury. Be it to himself or to others did not matter. “Hmm, I understand. Such things...are not for everyone, I suppose.”

He paused a moment, then asked a query of their hosts, “Beyond a foe forcing the Moonborn back here, to the Dream...is there any other way they might be returned?” It seemed prudent to know, given the times they had relied upon the Moonborn...and the simple fact that it had been essentially a necessity to call upon him each time they had encountered a truly harrowing foe.

The Shopkeeper turned to Farren and cocked their head. The doll replied on their behalf: "Why, of course, good Hunter. You have already witnessed the Shopkeeper return to the Dream after a successful hunt multiple times, have you not? Even if they are not defeated, they will return once their prey has been slaughtered."

Farren grunted once, what she said was true, but it did not get at the core of what he'd meant, “And what if the Hunt remains unfinished. Does no other way exist?”

The doll blinked confusedly. "I am sorry, good Hunter... you could ask nicely, but it is doubtful whether the Shopkeeper would listen while in the throes of the hunt. There exists such a thing as a silencing blank that can dismiss other creatures called through the resonance of bells, but the Shopkeeper is not affected by such influences."

"Seems we simply have to be careful when we summon them, mm? I hope you found Arrayah to be a worthy hunt, at least, dear--though I imagine that we share a frustration in how terribly resistant to the arcane she was..." Ophelia spoke and finished the statement with a chuckle as she awaited everyone else getting ready - and then thought back to something her blade had mentioned when they'd entered the Dream and offered it her thoughts.

"Regarding the false Paleblood... yes, that's right--it belongs to the Golden One. Lord of Providence and herald of Cael, the lord of Ascension. I dare not speak his name in this hallowed place, even in my mind, but when we return to the Waking World I will share it with you if it helps. It's caused a number of effects: sometimes physical transmogrifications, like Torquil's strange new head; sometimes items appear on their person; I think Farren mentioned that he sometimes feels stronger or weaker, as though... it's like when we channel blood echoes through the Doll, I think? We left a case of this false Paleblood at Cainhurst Castle, under the protection of Queen Annalise--we can go there to examine it if you might find it helpful? The Golden One seeks to usurp this Dream from Flora--that is why he is our sworn enemy... among other reasons."

“Silencing Blanks...hmmm. Understood,” he frowned, but did not push any further. If there was a way, perhaps it simply was not yet known. Either way...well, Ophelia was ultimately correct. With his line of questioning complete, Farren turned to Gerlinde, clearly ready for her to lead them to their next destination.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

watched as each strike whittled away at Arrayah, not visibly slowing her mutagenic regeneration, but at least causing constant change. Furthermore, every strike seemed to elicit greater wailing in that haunting, shrill, beastial tone Arrayah had taken on. Then, all at once, after a brief scrambling of the borderline unclothed Gerlinde up the twisted monstrosity’s form, Farren caught the glint of three spikes that drew his gaze. Eyes widening, the sight of the tool stirred a brief memory of something he’d seldom seen, but nonetheless knew of. Farren wasn’t quite sure if he’d ever borne witness to the use of one such explosive implement, but some part of him must at least have known its function–or the stories of the terrible wounds they could inflict–for he drew up one arm as the Beastflayer withdrew and shielded his eyes in the moment just before the detonation.

Even with the slight distance, shrapnel tore into him, each its own searing point of sharp heat. The only blessing that he had not been closer, well…that and the fact that his body quickly ‘spat out’ the shrapnel and mended. Still, Farren grimaced, shook himself and then peered past his upraised arm to see what had come of both ally and adversary.

The former, gone; the latter, remained. Yet, it had not been fruitless, for Arrayah appeared stunned and the sight of that stirred something furious, cold, and starving in Farren’s gut.

Like the cold azure of his gently gleaming eyes, a formless flame burned in his belly and without hesitation he locked his glaive back into its static state. With only a single thought in his head–if one could call such a thing a thought at all–Farren quickstepped across the intervening distance between him and Arrayah.

As the space shrunk to nearly nothing, Farren wheeled back his free left hand, and right as he came out of the blurred motion of his quickstep he tore his bulging, briefly clawed hand directly into Arrayah’s chest. The visceral wetness of essential fluids, the unpleasant, discomforting warmth within Arrayah’s chest cavity greeted his awareness. Farren grasped at whatever his warped and shifting limb could find therein and then–with a snarl–he wrenched back his hand from Arrayah’s fallen form.

A spray of blood and gore struck his face, his eyes gleamed more prominently in the dim, and Farren raised the Beastflayer, hiking it up with the momentum of that motion so that he held it just below the still flaming blade of the glaive. Then he drove it down directly towards–and hopefully into–the top of her skull.

“Cursed beast,” he hissed, more to himself than anything.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

bared his teeth as his strike did practically nothing to Arrayah, even as he reminded himself that every successful strike was a blow against her vitality. As a natural follow up to his strike, Farren whipped the extended glaive back towards him and let it lock back into its base state. As the inertia tapered off, Farren slipped one hand from the shaft of his Beastflayer. His left hand darted down to his belt even as he began to just barely hear the sound of something else just beneath the incessant wailing of Arrayah. Recognizing the sound, Farren actually felt one corner of his lips twitch upwards, but he didn’t pause his movement, he grabbed his hunter’s pistol where it’d hung at his hip and he rapidly began to unload the quicksilver bullet therein.

As he did so, Gerlinde slammed into Arrayah, fortunately grounding her and buying them precious moments in the process.

The moment he was able to fully extract the quicksilver bullet, Farren effortlessly dropped the pistol back onto its hook and inserted the quicksilver into the Horn of the Old Lords. At the same time he brought the Beastflayer’s length across his body from where he held it in his right hand, so the glaive’s blade hovered near the Horn.

Almost immediately, flames licked at the tip of Farren’s glaive, then burst alive into a vivid dance of heat and light–all the more startling in the vast darkness of the chamber. Turning his azure eyes upon Arrayah once more, Farren whipped forth the glaive once more, never having fully locked it, thus allowing it to extend back into a mid-range strike to sheer across Arrayah, this time in a mostly vertical lashing strike. It was meant to strike in a manner so as to deliver the most damage he could manage in a single strike. All the while, the entirety of the extendable section of the weapon burned with the imbued fervor of the Old Lords.

All the while, Gerlinde’s manic cackling served as the symphony to which they conducted their bloody dance.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

could not have predicted the precise nature of her retaliation, but he’d had the reasonable assumption that she would indeed strike back. Still in the throes of the Darkbeast blood, Farren didn’t even hesitate, he just quickstepped to the right, in a slight arc, restricting the length of his dash to its minimum, its angle taking him just slightly out of range of her thrashing.

Seeing Ophelia attack, despite the risks, Farren kept up his own assault, bringing the Glaive back around and twisting to activate its mechanism, he released it in another slash, this one in the opposite direction from the first. In his new orientation it was more directed at one of her sides, rather than from the front or behind.

Almost subconsciously, he noted the strange bubbling and writhing of her flesh where he’d first struck…and the fact that she didn’t seem to be properly recovering from the damage they dealt her.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

aborted his strike, eyes growing wide as two events happened in rapid succession. Ophelia’s electrified attack and withdrawal, followed immediately after by Arrayah’s tearing severance from her own lower pseudo-centipedal body.

Farren had to physically force himself to act in direct contrast to the intense disgust that writhed up his spine, and that moment’s hesitation allowed Arrayah her next maneuver: A quickstep.

‘Scourge!’

He acted in the next instant, quickstepping as far as needed, and as fast as he could, to reach Arrayah. Within the blur of that movement, Farren was already swinging in a diagonal slash with the blade of the Beastflayer so that the moment he exited the quickstep he was already midway through his swing upon Arrayah’s back. Farren knew he’d have no real chance to interrupt her attack, but redirecting her focus afterwards could be pivotal in its own right and if he managed that he’d likely quickstep back, constraining it to the shortest possible distance even as he repositioned his glaive to prepare for another attack.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

bore witness to the writhing of Arrayah’s flesh in response to his strike, to her wailing, to the warping growth of her already grotesque visage. Stepping back a foot or two, Farren’s Beastflayer ended up in one hand as the other unholstered his remaining Blunderbuss, raised it and then fired it almost point blank into the writhing mass of Arrayah’s flesh, more curious at the effect rather than the efficacy of the attack.

As swiftly as he could, Farren holstered the weapon once more and twisted in place, winding up to lash out with the Beastflayer again, this time in its extended whip-flail form.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

narrowly avoided a grisly injury, not by virtue of any skill, but by sheer dumb luck. The pulse of force sent him sliding, though not terribly far as he snapped his arm backwards to return the Beastflayer to its unified state. Then, before it had even come together everything was bathed in a black less like obsidian and more like coal or tar. A shiver roiled through him, as if he could feel the cold of that vision into the beyond, and for a brief moment he had the haziest of recollections of a Dream. The dream before he’d woken sweating and confused in a small clinic on a cliffside. Woken into a new life.

Then tiny lights, each like a pinprick in the fabric of the endless vastness, the tractless void, shone through. Somehow both ethereal yet blinding, Farren found himself shielding his eyes a moment before they adjusted, gleaming a fierce blue. As if in resonance with the pale orb that he all-at-once saw in Ophelia’s embrace. He blinked, frowned, confused momentarily. It hit him just before the starlit void collapsed–they had won her the prize they’d come for, if not the battle.

The black snapped inwards upon Ophelia and in the next instant a void tipped blade of starlit metal that glowed at its base like the moon formed within her grasp. It was perhaps one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. The incomprehensible expanse of the cosmos, that brief manifestation, had been ineffable, certainly…but it was too divorced from the world he knew for him to properly appreciate. This was simpler, a weapon, a tool that a man–indeed, a woman as well–could grasp in hand and wield against the world. Its shape was elegant, its blade–he somehow intrinsically knew–preternaturally sharp, and its strange otherworldly nature serving as counterpoint to the devastation he knew its incomplete forms could bring.

Alas, he would have to admire its form later, for now he had only seconds to capitalize on the fact that his own boon had yet to fail him. Farren’s eyes snapped to Arrayah and he moved, entering a full-length dash in the same breath that he spun his glaive once in flourish meant to draw the eye. Watching–and listening intently–for incoming strikes, Farren called upon the Old Blood coursing through his veins and primed his muscles for a heavy strike. He’d go for the connection point the arm clutching Torquil, if he got that far, but he was not a train upon a track, and if he could not close such a distance faster than she could intercept him, then he would adjust.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

heard it before he saw it. The sound of something piercing wind, parting it with fierce violence as it traveled down towards him. Farren didn’t tilt his head upwards to look, he turned it sideways instead–a smaller, faster motion–and caught sight of the descending point of the Profane Blade. His leading foot came down against the stone, heel sliding at a slight angle as he began a pivot, then Farren twisted his body counter-clockwise as he initiated a second quickstep. This put his back facing away from Arrayah as he darted backwards in a blur of motion, stopping after 2.5 meters, having tightened the motion so he didn’t overshoot. Still facing the monstrous wielder of the Profane Abyssal Blade, During the brief quickstep, Farren’s right arm had pulled across his body, the tip of the Beastflayer’s glaive pointing behind him and down, past his left side, the shaft at roughly a 45 degree angle. He pulled in a deep breath as he came to a momentary stop, azure-eyes flashing in the murk, and then reversed the motion, gripping as far down the weapon as he could as he activated the mechanism mid-swing.

The Old Blood surged in his arteries and veins, pumping potency into his muscles, and he unleashed an upwards vertical slash as the weapon extended, whipping the glaive-tip forth to sheer at Arrayah’s hand where her fingers gripped the shaft of the Abyssal Blade. The stroke would travel along roughly the same angle as the descent of the spear, putting it parallel to it. With any luck the heavy strike would weaken Arrayah’s hold on the weapon.