[h3]Back room, Hunter's Clinic, somewhere in Yharnam[/h3]
Torquil smiled back at Farren awkwardly, still recovering more from having just vomited and less from hearing Ophelia talk about men becoming beasts, but while Torquil's smile seemed genuine and his posture relaxed, his eyes got just a little bit wider as Farren spoke and approached. He looked at Farren and saw his amusement. Heard his words and, though he knew the other was joking, read what was being said as condescending humor.
A flash of something went through Torquil's mind; just a rapid series of images, voices and emotions, scattered and without any discernible connection to each other or his past as a whole.
Torquil sitting alone in a small hut, staring into the fire. Torquil tripping over a root. Torquil guarding his face with his arms while being pelted with pebbles.
“Stupid Torquil.” “Clumsy Torquil.” “Slow Torquil.” “Weird Torquil who lives in the woods by himself.” “Ugly Torquil.” “Torquil, who can't even talk properly.”
Shame. Fear. Remorse. Hope. Joy. Disappointment. Despair. Vindictiveness. Acceptance. Loneliness... such overwhelming, soul-crushing loneliness.
But the thing that came last, rising from somewhere deep and unknown inside of him, so powerful that it burned away all the other scattered fragments of who he used to be, was [I]rage[/I]. A blazing anger flared inside of him for reasons he did not fully understand. And once again, just like in his nightmare before finding himself here, Torquil heard the voice he thought might be his own:
[I]“You are not puny, helpless little Torquil anymore. You are a Hunter now; you are powerful. They will have to respect you now. They will have to [/I]fear[I] you. No one will dare to ridicule you anymore... and if they do...[/I]
Torquil nodded his head in appreciation just before Farren turned away, and once again became very conscious of the gnawing hunger that still haunted him, even stronger now that he had divested the old contents of his stomach. A strange, restless energy sent tremors through his muscles... and a moment later, when his gaze passed over the corpse Ophelia was harvesting again, Torquil no longer felt nauseous or repulsed at the sight. Instead he saw the blood leaking from the corpse, staining skin, clothes and the cot it was lying on, and felt strangely attracted to it. He imagined the metallic taste of it in his mouth, and shivered with delight.
And perhaps most weirdly at all, it did not seem strange to him at all. It felt natural, like it was just what he was supposed to feel.

Barely had Farren started assembling his makeshift holster for his axe before they all heard the muffled sound of a door slamming somewhere beyond the door blocking their path, followed by the voices of several men, their words mostly unintelligible but some sounding angry, and all of it bizarrely accompanied by the gentle, steady sound of a small bell being rhythmically jostled; a sound Ophelia would naturally associate with afflicted church servants.
The voices grew louder and closer – at least five different voices could be identified – and within seconds a loud noise of shattering glass could be heard, followed by the sound of something wooden being smashed and small pieces of metal, like cutlery, clattering on a wooden surface. Every sound in the next room seemed overtly violent and aggressive, and judging by the noise, someone was in the process of destroying anything breakable in there.
“...teach the damn church!” a man growled just before the sound of something particularly big and heavy crashed into the ground.
“...Harold, and his plague-ridden...”
“...some blood somewhere...”

The voices were getting closer to the door as the destruction continued unabated, but throughout it all the ringing of the solitary bell continued calmly, getting steadily closer to the door and the room with the Hunters. When it was almost there they could actually hear footfalls: two sets of them, one somewhat normal-sounding, the other unusually heavy and producing little clicking noises with each step as the feet hit the floor. There was also loud, grunting breathing. The bell fell silent.
The door handle rattled a little, wiggling up and down several times as if someone was trying to open the door.
“Open door,” someone demanded from right on the other side of the door, their voice hoarse and dry, and it sounded as though the speaker had difficulty speaking. The quick, grunting breath did not pause on the words. “Open door.”