[h3]Back room, Hunter's Clinic, somewhere in Yharnam[/h3]
The woman – Ophelia, she said her name was – seemed quite happy and friendly. She also said that she had never been able to do... something? Torquil was not entirely sure what she was referring to when she said “this”, but he assumed that she had had some kind of severe physical disability before receiving the blood treatment. That was the point of the blood, right? That was why it was called the [I]Healing[/I] Church.
That thought made Torquil wonder what had made him become a Hunter. Had he been disabled somehow, too? No, that did not feel right; not aside from his jaw, anyway, and his gut feeling was that he had lived with that for a very long time. An injury, maybe. Or an illness. Or maybe he had just wanted to become a Hunter for the thrill of it, or because his old life had been nothing but misery? He could not remember... but did it matter? Not really.
Although Torquil thought Ophelia seemed nice he still hesitated to offer his own name in return, and decided to save it entirely for later when she turned her attention away from him. It was not that he did not want to tell her, he was just worried what she would think if she heard him speak.

A few beds over a second one – a man this time, much taller and more intimidating than Torquil – smiled at him, too, which made Torquil smile back. These two were so nice! He felt an elation rising within himself that was entirely disproportionate with how minor the gesture had been, energizing him. These two, these kind Hunters, would surely know what to do.

Torquil followed them toward the barrels that appeared stocked with weapons, visually checking the sleeping bodies on the way, the creepy little Messengers that were everywhere and their surroundings in general. Unlike the two others there was no natural grace in the way Torquil moved; he trudged across the room with complete disregard for whether he stepped on – or through, as the case might be – a few Messengers. He even bumped a cot with his hip in passing, which earned a distressed moan from the sleeper resting on it, and though his footfalls were not necessarily what one would consider loud, they were audible.
His gaze swept across the blackboards in the distance, seeing writing there of some kind but could not read it. He saw various apparatus he did not understand the purpose of on the table, but also what appeared to be empty syringes, scalpels, rolls of thread and bandages; all things you would expect to find in a medical clinic. Or so he assumed. The barrels with weapons felt weird next to the rest.
Since the three of them were in somewhat close proximity at this point, and Ophelia had just offered her name again, he finally decided to do the same:
“Torquil,” he said, surprising himself with how clearly the word came out, though in hindsight he realized it should not. His name was mercifully a word that could be spoken without moving his jaw, so happily it did not come out as a garbled mess. His voice was deep and a little hoarse, with noticeable vocal fry even in that single word.

Instead of getting a weapon from the barrels as had been the stated goal of going here, Torquil ended up following Ophelia with his eyes as she went toward one of the cots being swarmed by Messengers. Though the little creatures seemed desperate to be near the patient on that particular cot, they all pulled back somewhat when she approached. They did not scatter – they did not seem afraid of her or try to get away – but seemed to merely do her the courtesy of letting her see the object of their fascination: a man that was white as a ghost, black eyelids and -sockets and sunken cheeks. He was not breathing.