It took Ophelia by surprise when both the first thud against the door happened and the bestial noise that preceded it, and her mind scrambled to work out what could possibly have created such a sound... but she knew, deep down, that it was a beast. That which she was supposed to hunt--there was no mistaking it, especially not as a Yharnamite. The voice that had spoken to them was... reasonable, she wanted to say, but that wasn't quite the right word. It seemed like they would be best served by avoiding combat, for now--at least until they could assess their opponents, and work out what precisely it was they'd need to do to secure their victory should things come to blows. Ophelia knew that the eyes had it, of course: they always did. Once she'd gotten a look into their eyes she'd know what to do, she was certain of it.

Another thud, and the door's protestations increased in volume--seemingly in tandem with the exhortations of the beast seeking to shatter it. She turned around, looking over at Torquil with a somewhat urgent but not worried expression--and even from this distance away, she could see just enough of his dull and mud-brown eyes to know that he was in a similar situation to her: waging an internal war against the fire and the frenzy that roiled within, ready to pounce and rip and tear. She locked eyes with him and pointed to the chalkboard next to him, then made a sideways rubbing motion with her free hand as she pointed the spear towards one of the cleaning implements.

"Rub it out, dear?" she mouthed, making sure she was slower and more exaggerated in the movements of her mouth to help Torquil understand. Tell No One--that was what it said... and these roustabouts had malign intentions towards the church. This secret of theirs, it was one of two things that united them--that and their newfound status as Hunters. They would do well to keep it from the prying eyes of blood-drunk Yharnamites, especially those with misgivings about their... employers? Handlers? She was not certain what to call the members of the Healing Church, nor what her relationship with them was really supposed to be--but that mattered increasingly little as she heard the wood finally splinter and wheeled around to look. She took a step back to give herself plenty of space, and held the spear like a staff or walking stick as she expectantly awaited the barrier between them to finally vanish. She looked upon the claws of the revealed beast with equal parts vindication and curiosity, eager to understand what was happening here. The feelings of bloodlust had not diminished in the slightest, but were instead shelved: coiled like a snake in waiting, ready to pounce at the first sign of danger.

Though Torquil's attention had been transfixed on the sight of the sturdy door separating the three Hunters from the unknown characters outside, the movement of Ophelia turning toward him was enough to attract his gaze just long enough for him to catch her gesturing at him. He stared at her hand waving through the air, her spear pointing and her lips forming voiceless words, and blinked several times rapidly before turning to the blackboards behind him.
He stared at the boards even as he awkwardly stepped over the still-sleeping figure he had knocked to the floor just moments ago to get there, trying to read the words on there but giving up before he got very far. It turned out that he read very slowly; though the writing was in all capital letters and highly legible, for some reason his brain really struggled to make sense of it, with him having to sound out words in his head in some cases. He got the sense that he could technically read, and that given time he would understand the several words on the blackboard, but for some reason the letters kept getting jumbled in his head. Add to that the fact that he had no idea what “Paleblood” even referred to, and the writing might as well have been gibberish to him.
Thus he did not actually know why Ophelia wanted him to erase the text there, but he was not about to question her judgment. She seemed to understand something he did not, so he was just going to trust that she knew better. It was much easier to let others do the thinking and decision-making, after all. He did not even think to look for an implement near the blackboard for erasing, nor was he aware that such things were even used; to him it was just chalk on a large surface. Even as he heard the door behind him getting smashed and torn apart, he simply switched his axe to his left hand, pressed his right forearm to the blackboard and started rubbing left and right in big, sweeping motions, using his sleeve to rub away the writing. It did not get rid of all the chalk and mostly just smudged it, but after a few seconds like this the writing was rendered mostly illegible, at least.

Over at the door the large, clawed hand finished its work unimpeded, tearing a large hole through the wood and destroying a large portion of it. One more loud blow was all it took to shatter the sorry remains of it, leaving only bits of splintered wood dangling pointlessly from the hinges, allowing the creature on the other side to enter.
The creature that entered through the doorway – sideways and in a light crouch to fit through it – was tall, broad and lanky. It had features that suggested it had once been a man, walking on two legs and wearing the drab clothes of a Yharnam citizen, even though these clothes were all obviously much too small for it, wielding a meat cleaver in its right hand. Even so this man was clearly thoroughly claimed by the scourge of beasts; aside from his size, the beast-man was also covered in coarse brown fur, his joints had started to restructure and become more bestial in nature, his fingers and bare feet – which now more closely resembled wolf-like paws – had grown murderous claws, just as his mouth was forced into a permanent scowl by the growth of over-sized fangs above and below.
He growled hungrily as he scanned the room with his beast-shrouded eyes, but even as he did so, a second figure soon followed behind it.

Clad in a dusty brown hooded monk's robe and carrying a cane in his right hand and a bell in the other – both, Ophelia in particular would recognize, items that would normally be found in the possession of a church servant – this man, if one could call it that, had sickly gray, almost white skin and was unnaturally gaunt. He had bony limbs and a face so sunken that it seemed to stick directly to the skull, almost like an undead. He looked almost like a mummified corpse more than a man. His eyes, which Ophelia was so interested in, were somewhat reminiscent of those of church servants and church giants; black orbs without iris or sclera, though whereas the eyes of church servants were typically large and bulging, these were smaller and sat deep within their sockets.
Though he was obviously quite different, Ophelia had seen vaguely similar traits once before, in the witches she had once served.
“No fight, no hurt,” this man – confirming his identity as the hoarse man – reminded, showing blackened teeth in an unnerving smile. “Take Hunters.”

_Farren

absently noted Ophelia and Torquil’s brief exchange as the man complied and erased the chalk scrawlings. Farren had managed to read them in the pause between Ophelia’s firm suggestion and Torquil actually wiping the writing. He supposed it made sense why Ophelia might not want anyone else to see the script. He didn’t have long to ponder on that however, for the door soon burst into splinters beneath the beastly assault from beyond the threshold. In the next moments a mostly transmogrified yharnamite lumbered into the room, quickly followed by a black almost bug-eyed figure with ghostly pale skin. A flicker of recognition flitted through his mind at the sight of both, letting him know he’d seen similar before…though he wasn’t really sure precisely when or where.

Yet, the features of the pale-skinned man seemed…twisted somehow…less human, more something else. Gaunt? Skeletal? Like some fell wight had sucked the vigor from a man even as the scourge had twisted his shape. Farren’s grip on his single drawn blade tightened, his eyes narrowing, pulse pounding, blood hot in his veins.

Then the pale figure spoke, his smile wide and deeply wrong in far too many ways to count. Farren’s stance shifted subtly, one foot sliding out in back in a half circle so he was a quarter turned from them, his empty hand leading, his sword hand somewhat behind the leading line of his body, held out to the side. Where before he’d simply been wary, that unnerving smile and the words that fell from the figure’s lips had put him entirely on guard. His azure eyes piercing into the figure’s obsidian gaze, Farren spoke up.

“Kindly…” he gritted out, before he continued, the rest of his sentence tense, but less forced, “…rephrase. Surely you mean to say ‘recruit,’ or perhaps… ‘ally with,’” he finished, offering them an olive branch, as it were. Something in him felt…personally affronted by the man’s words and his gut told him that he has a past with being used…perhaps even controlled somehow. The idea made his blood burn like magma beneath his skin, scalding away his patience. His knuckles were white around the handle of his curved blade and though he hadn’t clenched his other hand, the fingers were teasing up towards the grip of his second saber.

Between his words, his manner, and his stance it was clear that he felt the man better offer some explanations before Farren decided to take matters into his own hands.

As Ophelia gazed into the oddly pale man's eyes and found some spark of recognition, her other-self tutted and muttered to herself with equal parts curiosity and suspicion. There was something there, something familiar, that she'd seen before in the witches from whom she'd learned. Her apprenticeship had cultivated her inner sight greatly, exposed her to secrets and insights she'd never have imagined otherwise--and she'd learned full well the benefits that working with the dead brought. This man... he might as well have been dead, for all the vigour in his features--and his eyes... the limitless pools of black shimmered with unknown vistas, promises of knowledge beyond the ken of the terrestrial world. They also, however, had a certain gleam or luster about them that reminded Ophelia of the rippling movements of blood--one that her other-self shuddered at, and that she took a queer interest in.

The situation was interesting indeed: many paths diverged from this point. If they simply slaughtered the beast-thing, would the others come to heel? Would the bell-wielding one divulge anything of their motivations, their reasoning? Was this simply a test, concocted by the Healing Church? What would happen if they acquiesced to the request? Ophelia's mind spun with possibilities, the speed and vehemence of the thoughts enough to almost make her dizzy--but Farren's voice snapped her back to the situation at hand, and his tone provoked a certain sympathy within her. The tone the bell-holding man took was... Well, rude. Unbecoming. Ophelia found it deeply lacking in the appropriate respect, just as Farren appeared to, but her pride was among the quietest of the voices speaking in her mind at that moment. Curiosity took the forefront, the promise of answers beyond the obvious path. The writing on the wall... it was a set of instructions; not for them, clearly, but for some sort of Handler. Someone who was quite obviously not here--whether that was the fault of the bell-wielder and the beast... it seemed unlikely. Perhaps allies of theirs? Perhaps enemies? There was not even guaranteed to be a connection at all: but Ophelia knew this - the Church found their kind extremely valuable. Ophelia was quite certain they'd invest a considerable number of resources in retaining their new acquisitions: perhaps even the First Hunter himself? That was who the writing had directed its readers to, after all.

So... why not play along? She was quite certain it was terribly dangerous, but... now that the beast was here, it was dangerous either way. Even if they acquiesced only long enough to get out into the streets, that would afford them a considerable advantage in terms of terrain: it would give them options. They were Hunters now, they... Ophelia had heard stories and snatched scared glances at the grisly work they could do. She'd heard their tirelessly dogged footsteps, heard stories of their prowess and stamina... Even if she did tire while running, that'd give them plenty more time to think.

"You make a fair point, dear... I will come with you, if you wish, but... why do you need Hunters? Your eyes... You've seen things, haven't you, love? I'd... well, forgive my forwardness, but I'd just love to know what's going on here." Ophelia asked, her eyes wrinkled and smile wide. There was something of a manic gleam to her, to be certain, but it was a wiliness she knew the witches had always respected: perhaps it'd charm this man just enough to give her more to cling to.

The second Torquil saw the beast-man appear in the doorway past the sorry remnants of what had filled it previously, he had felt his heartbeat quicken, his vision crystallize and the sounds of the world fade into the background. All the white noise that he had always heard, but never been particularly conscious of – the faint sound of the wind, the breathing of the many bodies around him, even his own pulse in his ears – faded away, and left the sounds he focused on loud and distinct. The beast-man's heavy footfalls as he crossed the threshold into their room, his heavy breathing and angry snarls, the clicking of his claws... the rustle of the hoarse man's clothes, his much softer steps and the subtle jostling of the bell he carried... all these sounds stood out clear and sharp in Torquil's mind. Even from across the room, nearly twenty meters away, he could see them clearly enough to count the hairs on the beast-man's face.
His biceps, thighs and calves bulged – much more so than they would have for a human – and strained against his clothes, and he felt his ruined jaw creak and grind painfully as he chewed on the air. He clutched his axe tightly, started to take a step forward that would have quickly turned into a mad dash before planting his axe-blade in the beast-man's neck, had he not been halted by Farren's voice.
With wild, almost feral eyes Torquil looked to his fellow Hunter, frustrated, impatient and incredulous at the situation he found himself in. Then Ophelia spoke, too, and Torquil's gaze moved to her, his expression now bewildered and lost. He was a Hunter, was he not? And this was clearly a beast. He was supposed to hunt beasts, right? To find them, chase them down and slaughter his prey. His every instinct told him to fight, so why were the others talking?
But of course he stopped himself and let the others lead. Things were probably more complicated than he gave them credit for, and Ophelia and Farren were probably smarter than him. It was better to let them do the thinking... and absolutely better to let them do the talking.

The hoarse man looked from Farren to Ophelia, his smile faltering and a hint of annoyance coming over his face. Again he muttered something in a language none of them knew, but which he seemed much more fluent in than the common tongue, before heaving a sigh of frustration.
“Corval say go here, take Hunters. I go, bring help. Take Hunters.” He shrugged. “No good talk. Talk here strange. Take Hunters Corval. Corval talk.”

_Farren

kept his expression deliberately blank, though there was a subtle twitching of one eye that he couldn’t quite control…as if he’d been about to narrow his eyes further. Having taken in the gaunt figure’s words for what they were…he found his memories kindled by the sparks of the disturbing stranger’s words. As if coming back up for air, to reaffirm their life, the name ‘Corval,’ caused images and words and thoughts to arise within his mind.

As if heard from afar…overheard in fact, from the conversation of what he felt were his betters, though not better than him, necessarily, words drifted into his mind unbidden.

“Damned troublemakers, the lot of ‘em,” said one man. Farren felt his head shift…as if to listen better and at the same time caught the faint rustling of cloth as another man responded. “Mm? Ya mean Corval and his men?” The fellow said, his voice rough like sandpaper on skin…like gargled gravel–too much drink or smoke he thought.

“Mmm, the very same. ‘The Harrow’ they’re calling themselves, you know. Pretentious gits. As if anyone finds their actions harrowing,” the man sucked his teeth, swearing under his breath and Farren heard the two begin to walk out of earshot, their words trailing off…too quiet for him to hear.

Back in the present, Farren blinked, shaking his head slightly, before he found his hands relaxing slightly. At least this Corval was a known quantity after a fashion. The bad news was that he wasn’t exactly…good news, as it were. He’d snooped about, he remembered vaguely, looking into the group somewhat…if only to be aware of what he might have to deal with if ever he came upon them. They’d never come up…not in his old life–that’s what he sensed–but the information was useful now so there was that.

“What’s this…Corval want with hunters?” Farren asked, playing dumb, wishing he had a way to communicate to the other two without giving himself away. He let the hilt of his sheathed sabre go, but his grip on the one in his right hand remained tight and his stance remained ready–though he pretended to relax, if only slightly.

Farren trained his gaze between the figure of the large Beastman and the pallid man, trying to see if he could glimpse any of the men they’d heard in the room beyond…maybe get a rough count. At the same time he focused his hearing, trying to see if he could pick out individual gaits…identify the number of potential enemies in the other room that way if he could.

After all, he wasn’t sure if it was wise to allow themselves to be caught in the sway of an organization’s power…at least one aside from the church–not that he entirely trusted them either.

Again the hoarse man seemed to grow more annoyed at Farren's question, and again he grumbled something in a foreign language.
“Corval talk to –” he began, only to end the already broken sentence with another word none of them understood.
The beast-man, baring his teeth in an impatient scowl, supplied in a deep, menacing growl that was barely interpretable as human-like speech: “Soulkeeper.”
“Yes. Corval talk to Soulkeeper,” the hoarse man corrected himself. “Corval say Soulkeeper want Hunters. No know. No ask.”

Beyond the doorway there was a particularly loud crash of something particularly heavy crashing into the floor, causing a deafening noise of numerous glass vessels being shattered. Several of the men out there laughed, though at least one of them sounded somewhat angry and distressed.
“No! Those were blood vials! The good stuff!”
Prompting more laughing followed by the sound of more furniture being knocked over. Through the now-open doorway, Farren would be able to see two figures passing from left to right: two men that looked entirely human, with neither the elongated limbs nor deteriorating eyes to suggest the onset of beasthood, dressed like common Yharnamites. One carried what appeared to be an old cavalry saber, while the other went by with a long break-action rifle on his shoulder. For all intents and purposes, these men looked no different than your average huntsmen out fulfilling their civic duties on a night of the hunt.
It was difficult to be certain as to the exact numbers in the next room without visually confirming them, but they were not exactly trying to remain undetected either. He could hear at least five distinctly different voices, and the noise of their vandalism suggested no more than half a dozen.

The hoarse man sneered. “No more talk. Bad here. Hunters come, no hurt. Hunters no come, very hurt.”

Something in Ophelia's expression turned at the pallid man's... repugnance? Condescension? She wasn't quite certain what it was, but it had provoked quite the proverbial snarl from the shockingly blue-eyed Farren--and now it threatened to do the same to her. She could feel her other-self's more lucid influence slipping away and the bile in her belly rising up with indignation, and what little lucidity she had left had a choice to make: withdraw and let the fire within reign, or make a push for rationality and reason. It all hinged on what their intentions were: she remembered... very little of this so-called Harrow, beyond that their idea of help was to become or emulate beasts, of all things--as though ailing Loran and fallen Isz's examples weren't enough to know how the scourge of beasts inevitably ended. She hadn't the time to delve deeper into her memories, and she could not reason away the open hostility they'd showed...

Ophelia swallowed the rising heat and took a deep breath in to cool her inflamed mind--she couldn't trust the others to think, to consider the implications that hovered beyond ordinary sight. Torquil... he seemed simple; dim, but gentle and sweet. Something in his dopey smile and the haunted depths of his eyes told her that many might have been unkind to him... and with that axe in his hand, there was something of the woods about him. She pitied the poor soul, and would try her best to keep him--all of them, really--safe this night. To that end... they were going to be safest if they could get outside; they could make the decision to fight or acquiesce then.

"... Farren, be a dear and help me outside? We... don't want to be hurt, now, do we?" Ophelia asked, her tone whimsical but her eyes, locked on to Farren's as she spoke, gave off an eager flash. She hoped that he'd... well, a part of her hoped he'd pick the fight anyway, and another part hoped they could get outside and assess the situation a little better before they got themselves into trouble.

Still... Ophelia liked their odds; even newly turned as they were, she was confident in their ability to overcome these foes if it turned to that--when it turned to that, most likely. She did not see things remaining peaceful for very long after they got outside, if they did.

_Farren

saw the pallid man’s reactions, his annoyance…his reticence and he just barely kept from visibly gritting his teeth. His knuckles were white on his curved sword, but he forced himself to relax slightly, his bright—almost unearthly blue—eyes bored into the pale man’s black orbs for a moment…and then Farren smiled slightly.

His body seemed to relax, his fingers loosening on his weapon, he even switched his grip and shifted the weapon first down and to the side so it was no longer pointed in such a way that might appear threatening. An instant later he put the blade into a reversed grip so it almost ran upwards along the back of his arm. At the same time his shoulders relaxed, his once narrowed eyes lightening. “Ah, fair enough then. This place en’t likely to stay safe anyhow, best we leave before any undesirables are drawn to all those smashed vials,” Farren said, his tone easy, lacking any hint or suspicion he’d been showing previously.

“I won’t trouble you any further. This clearly isn’t your native tongue. Had to test ya though…Nights of the Hunt are fraught with deceivers and brigands and beasts after all.” Then Farren stepped past the pallid man so that he wasn’t braced on either side by the beastial yharnamite and the almost-skeletal stranger. He headed for the room just outside the one they’d been in up until that point.

“Wait,” the hoarse man unexpectedly interrupted Farren as he went to leave, looking from him to Ophelia, and Ophelia to Torquil – who looked extremely lost and confused – before saying: “Hunters strong. Help take Hunters.”
In an effort to explain what he meant, he pointed toward the rows of cots filling the room with still-sleeping men and women, nearly all of which were still mid-transformation to becoming Hunters themselves. As if to demonstrate, the beast-man simply reached over with his free hand, grabbed a sleeper by the collar and unceremoniously threw him over his shoulder to carry him like a bag of potatoes.
The hoarse man looked out the door toward the room with the vandal huntsmen. “Come!” he called to them, which immediately caused the sounds of vandalism to still. “Help! Take Hunters.” He smiled. “All Hunters.”

_Farren

paused, just adjacent to Pallid as he explained what he wanted of them before they departed. Farren’s smile grew slightly as he feigned an almost sickly glee—almost as if mirroring Pallid’s smile—he’d taken to calling the man that in his head. It was easier than ‘Bugeyes’ or something similar. Internally though, Farren’s mind whirred through several thoughts almost simultaneously as his morality and practicality simultaneously came to the fore. For some reason he had no issue divorcing the thoughts and emotions in his mind from the tells of his face and body…huh, perhaps he’d been something of an actor in his past life—so to speak.

Foremost in his thoughts were considerations of how abhorrent it would be to deliver all these helpless, unconscious men and women—potential Hunters all—into the clutches of the Harrow. The thought disgusted him on a fundamental level and some part of him recoiled, though none of it shown on his face as he nodded to Pallid, turned on his heel and walked towards the nearest cot. At the same time, he flashed Ophelia a look that spoke volumes.

It was a scowl, the wicked smile melting off his face like candle wax on metal in a furnace. There was a strange sort of quiet rage in his eyes even as he took up a body and then plastered the smile back on his features. Something about the disconnect between his actions and his expression in that brief moment communicated one thing: “Play along.”

Turning back towards Pallid, Farren started towards him, moving noticeably slower with the man over his shoulder. Notably, he’d lifted the unconscious hunter with his left arm, leaving him still armed in his right. The reality was that Farren was playing up how heavy the bulky man was. The reality was that the man was startlingly light. He had an inkling that he’d already been strong before his transformation…but now…it was less like carrying the deadweight of a person, and more like…carrying an awkwardly shaped, but barely full sack of potatoes.

Discarding that thought, Farren considered their current environment…that was why he’d tried to signal to Ophelia to play along. Fighting inside was one thing. Fighting amongst numerous unconscious people in a room crowded by cots…with suboptimal weapons while they were also outnumbered? It seemed…less than wise.

At the pallid man's request, Ophelia couldn't quite stop herself from balking before she shifted her expression back to one of curious apprehension--she turned to look at the cots of her sleeping compatriots, these people who could have been her if she hadn't woken up when she did... would she forgive those who'd awoken if they'd let this Soulkeeper do... what? Embrace their beasthood, like the poor soul who'd died--whose eye rested even now in a glass jar near Ophelia and the cot. She felt a violent and sickening impulse sweep her in a rush of heat, and she caught Farren's gesture and expression just at the apex of that moment. There was a moment of synchronicity between them, and Ophelia used it to turn back to Torquil--who seemed confused, rather than filled with conviction like she and Farren. Ophelia turned around again and spoke out to the pallid man:

"Torquil here needs a little direction, let me explain to him--he's much stronger than I am, I fear I'd crumple beneath the weight of the sleeping fellows..." she said to the pallid man, her tone soft and kindly. She turned on her heel and walked over to Torquil with a bright smile on her face, facing toward him and interposed between the him and the others such to block their vision of him--unnaturally tall as she was, it was not a difficult thing to obscure Torquil's face--though his wider frame would definitely still be visible past her. Ophelia's mind spun for a moment--the beast-thing must also have a beast's hearing, so she would be limited in what she could communicate verbally. She reached out and gave Torquil's shoulder a reassuring squeeze while she looked at him and mouthed as clearly as she could: "Play along. Let Farren attack first." as she did so, and then she began speaking normally:

"We're going to help take the Hunters outside, okay, dear? Why don't you come and grab this one near me and help me with it, then you can grab another?" and began to lope off towards her original position with the cot once more, aiming to collect both the corpse and the eyeball--though with the cover of sudden movement, she hoped she'd be able to do so relatively sneakily. She could stash it and come back for it later, or attempt to smuggle it out on her person... She resolved to take it with her and deposit it outside somewhere out of the way, and hope something so innocuous would go unnoticed by these thugs. She waited for Torquil's compliance or disobedience as appropriate, looking at him expectantly if he had followed to take this corpse in particular. She couldn't help but think that any of these other people could have been sweet Torquil, and it only stoked the coals of rage within her more as she considered the very real threat of violence already delivered to them. They were going to regret this, even if it was the last thing she did.

There was a lot of talking, with especially Farren and Ophelia saying things that felt a bit weird to Torquil – things that did not seem to fully make sense in context – and while he could intuit that they were communicating some hidden meaning between them, that meaning eluded him. Social skills, he felt, was not something he had learned much of in his old life... or if he had, they had not survived his becoming a Hunter.
The scary, hoarse man spoke a bit cryptically just from his sheer lack of proficiency in their language, but even so Torquil had no trouble figuring out that he was saying some pretty shady things. Though he was not obviously a beast like his hulking bodyguard, Torquil still felt an instinctive resentment toward him. Actually, it was more than that; there was a part of Torquil that wanted to hurt this hoarse man. To hit him with his axe, as hard as he could. To kill him. Him and the beast-man both stirred something dark and violent inside of him.
Torquil could somewhat understand what the others were trying to do at first, trying to avoid a fight with these people, but his confusion reached a whole new level when the hoarse man demanded that they help carry the others in the room – the defenseless, hapless to-be Hunters who still slept – rather than just having to go with them. And Farren and Ophelia somehow still complied, even as the beast-man started hoisting sleepers onto his shoulder. To Torquil, this was definitely a step across a line that he did not want to cross, and he immediately started wondering if he had misjudged these new acquaintances of his. Maybe they were not nice at all? Maybe they were actually scary, like the hoarse man and the beast-man? If they were, what was he supposed to do? Or was there something he did not understand?

Mercifully Ophelia, at least, seemed to recognize Torquil's puzzlement and remarked – correctly – that he needed some direction. He heard her tone, saw her smile and immediately felt better, reassured that despite how things seemed, she was still nice. And as she got closer he saw her mouthing words to him, voicelessly communicating a vague outline of a plan...
And Torquil felt his heart sink, his eyes locked on her lips shaping those soundless words. But his mind filled with the image of a woman with a face similar to Ophelia's, with a body that seemed wizened and frail, speaking to someone else. He saw her through the trees, hidden amid the grasses, branches and leaves of the forest. He tried to guess what she was saying, what her voice sounded like. Felt fear and regret at the very idea of getting closer, as he scampered back into the wilderness, back to his familiar solitude.
Just like that, Torquil realized that he had seen Ophelia before. Back where the scary witches lived. Near his home.
He did not know what this information meant or how to react to these memories suddenly being reawakened, but apparently some part of him felt that his trust in her had been immediately and firmly affirmed. She was not just nice, she was familiar. He went to follow her without hesitation, eager to do as she had instructed, hoisting the now-one-eyed corpse over his shoulder before swiftly moving to grab another one to throw over his other shoulder, all while barely even having the presence of mind to recognize how effortlessly he could carry the weight of two grown men.
So this is her voice, he mused, weirdly enthralled by the thought. He smiled.

On the opposite side of the room, past where the beast-man had just hoisted a second man on top of the first on his right shoulder, soon followed by another for his left as well, bringing him up to a total load of four sleepers, the huntsmen entered. As the sounds they had heard before had suggested there were five of them, all of which seemed fully human; even their eyes, one might notice, seemed devoid of any signs of the scourge. They also all seemed to quite conspicuously try to keep as much distance to the hoarse man and the beast-man as they could, giving both of them wide berths and casting them nervous glances... though they did the same with Farren.
Even so all of them moved to obey the hoarse man's orders and awkwardly started trying to figure out comfortable ways to transport the sleeping figures in the room. Two were armed with long, hefty rifles, one with a cavalry saber, one with a pitchfork and one with a hatchet.

And while everyone else went to work trying to move the 39 still-sleeping and still-living – and one one-eyed corpse – in the room, the hoarse man remained by the door. He raised his left hand above his head, extending his long, thin fingers holding the church servant's bell... and shook it once, back and forth.
Ding-ding
The sound was not at all what one would expect, and a complete mismatch from what they had heard both from such bells encountered in the past and by this very bell earlier, when it had been jostled as the hoarse man walked. This sound was much louder, of a much higher pitch, much cleaner and seemed to resonate and echo unnaturally throughout the room. A subtle, ominous red glow started emanating from the cane in his right hand. Though no one else seemed to notice or react to it, Ophelia, Farren and Torquil would all see all of the Messengers in the room abruptly sinking into the floor at the sound.
Ding-ding
The bell rang again just a second later, and the glow around the cane grew brighter as tiny flecks of black started raising off it, like bits of ash carried on the heat of a flame. In front of him, in a vacant spot past where Farren was retrieving his sleeper, toward that end of the room, a matching red glow started shining from the floor.
Ding-ding
A third ring, and the glow around the cane died out, while the glow from the floor grew and brightened, and black flecks starting lifting off it, too. Then, with a weird sucking sound, a hand – large, even bigger than the beast-man's, with skin as black and oily as tar, long fingers and nasty claws – emerged from the floor itself, only to grab onto it as one would a ledge above oneself. Half a second later a second hand followed the first, this one holding a cane that seemed identical to the one wielded by the hoarse man except as wet and black as the skin of its wielder. And with the leverage on the ground, the full creature pulled itself from the glow, straight out of the floor, and emerged to tower over everyone's heads as the glow at its feet faded.

Ophelia in particular would immediately recognize what she was looking at, as she had seen her old teachers summon similar creatures before: a Mad One. A terrible black visage dripping with black ooze that seemed to rapidly fade from existence briefly after hitting the ground, the creature simply stood there with vacant expression. Ophelia, even without her particular penchant for eyes, would almost certainly notice that while the Mad Ones she had seen in Hemwick had all had brightly glowing white eyes, the eyes of this one were dark and dull.
The hoarse man pointed at the sleepers with his cane, and the Mad One – despite facing away from him – immediately stepped forward and set to work picking up more bodies.

_Farren

was glad that his back was turned when the ground began to grow further into the room of cots. Certainly he saw the glowing of Pallid’s cane and the sickly shadow bound into that fell light, but something in him…it knew better than to turn around. Instead he just let his wicked smile grow slightly, as if to match the black-eyed figure’s and trudged past the bastard. All the while, his instincts screamed for him to look, his senses straining to find out what might be happening behind him, but when no ruckus came from it…just the sound of moving bodies, Farren just kept up his steady pace past Pallid and out of that room. His jaw remained tightly closed, teeth barely kept from grinding. First…first they’d get outside…then he could act.

The hoarse man shot a critical look at Farren as he walked by, displeased with him only carrying one sleeper, but did not say or do anything to voice his displeasure nor stop Farren from leaving.
Stepping through the doorway, Farren would finally get a good look at the room beyond what marked the limit of their world since their awakening. What served as the reception area of the clinic was quite a bit smaller than the back room, though still quite large for a clinic like this; still thirty meters long, with the doorway sitting right in the middle, but only ten meters wide. On the opposite wall, just ten meters from Farren, was a second open door past which he could see a cobbled street partially lit by the orange-tinted light of a setting sun from the left, though also partially cast in shadow.
In the distance down the path outside the door, probably still a good hundred meters away or more, a lone figure was approaching in a steady jog. It would be difficult to discern details from this distance, but it would seem as though the figure was clad mostly in white, with a gleaming silver implement in its right hand and some kind of elongated firearm in its left.

Aside from this first glimpse at a world outside the clinic, the reception was a mess. To Farren's right were several desks, tables chairs that had been overturned, stomped and torn apart, with papers scattered everywhere, inkwells shattered and their contents staining everything. To his left were a couple of heavy glass-and-wood cabinets that had been knocked over, scattering shards of glass and conspicuous puddles of red liquid over the floor.
Much more noticeably and surprising, especially given the otherwise complete destruction of the room, was an unusual sight right in the center of the room, a mere five meters directly in front of Farren: a thin, makeshift wooden post spouting directly out of the floor. It was not straight, but was weirdly segmented so that the first part of the post leaned off to the side, before a second part – attached to the first with string – leaned strongly in the opposite direction, so that its tip ended right above its base. And from the tip of this top segment hang a simple glass lantern, dark and lifeless, but remarkably untouched by the destruction that had been visited upon everything else.

Quite noticeably, there were also several Messengers in the room. One sat right at the base of the strange lantern-post, eagerly trying to beckon Farren toward it.
Much closer to him, just a meter or so inside the room and to his right, sat another two Messengers with what appeared to be a rolled up piece of parchment between them, held forward as if presented to him.
Off to his left, among the debris of broken cabinets, another two Messengers sat within a couple of meters from each other. One, the closer of the two, was pointing at what seemed like a slightly bigger pile of shards among the destruction. The other sat right up against the leftmost wall, on the floor where the cabinets would probably have been standing before they were knocked over. It was waving one hand in the air as if to attract attention to itself, while pointing at the floor with the other.

_Farren

glanced about the room, swiftly taking in as many details as he could in that instant. The oddly focused and deliberate positioning of the messengers, the strange lamp that had gone utterly untouched despite its fragile appearance. The size of the room…and then beyond the door the figure who was rapidly approaching. White hunter’s garb that he couldn’t see the details off from the man’s current distance. His eyes narrowed, then widened as impressions of memories hit him. The garb was familiar, not like an old friend or a knife you used every day…but like someone or something you’d heard tell of a lot…seen around frequently enough that it was common for you, if not an every day or even every week occurrence.

He realized—with the man’s pace—he only had moments to do something before a fight most certainly broke out between the figure and those that were still behind him in the room of cots. Farren moved further into the room and while he’d mostly been ignoring the messengers he noticed the one by the lantern start to mime a snapping motion. The azure-eyed hunter frowned, but decided to follow its lead, his curiosity uncharacteristically getting the better of him. He snapped as he grew near the lantern. Watched for a reaction for a mere instant, and then he tread past it in a wide-stepped stride. A mere moment or three had past as he exited the building and then shut the door behind him before he let the patient over his shoulder down onto the ground…somewhere out of the way. Then, swiftly, Farren broke into a light jog towards the figure. He kept his blade against the back of his arm, knowing the Hunter would surely see that he was armed, but he didn’t attack. He stopped before crossing the full distance, getting only close enough that the man’s enhanced senses were likely to catch his slightly raised voice.

“The Harrow, inside. Taking sleeping patients. A pale man, a Beast, citizens on the hunt, and…something else. Two comrades, a tall lanky woman…wide man with an axe, quiet. We played along. Can you help?” Though there were quite a few words, they were almost clipped, spoken quickly, but clearly as well. Farren let the tension in his body show, but he also did his best to keep his stance open, his eyes on the Hunter, and his senses stretched wide and far.

With them not being properly armed as Hunters tended to be…and their also being new to this…condition, Farren hadn’t wanted to fight inside. Three against two beings of unknown strength, plus the hapless citizens hadn’t seemed like great odds especially in such enclosed space. He saw the Hunter as a chance for reinforcements…perhaps an ambush even. Hopefully he’d not misjudged the figure by using his garb as a touch point.

Snapping his fingers at the lantern, mundane though the action might have seemed, would immediately and starkly bear results that would strike Farren as far out of the ordinary. The snap of his fingers was accompanied by a muffled sound like the someone striking a large bell, producing a low-pitched quiet tone as his hand was wrapped in pale-blue fire for just an instant. He felt no heat from the flames, but did feel a palpable tremor go through his body, as if every cell in his skin and muscles was vibrating in response to what he had just done.
Simultaneous to the flame sprouting around Farren's hand, a matching dim pale-blue light flared to life inside the lantern, bathing a small area around the post in ephemeral light. At the foot of the lantern-post the first Messenger was quickly joined by another two, and all three of them seemed to be quietly celebrating the lighting of the lantern.

Heading outside, Farren would get his first good look at where they actually were. The clinic they had awoken in – a squat, wide and plain building without windows and only the one door – sat at the end of a long cobbled path. To the left, which the setting sun would tell him was west, stood a long line of obviously newly erected and almost identical residential buildings, with the end of one dwelling sharing a wall with the start of the next, and with the row seemingly continuing as far as the road itself. Even though these residential buildings had windows there was no light in any of them, giving the impression that this part of the city was mostly unpopulated at the moment.
To his right, to the east, he would discover that what had looked like a road from the inside was actually a plateau, with the ground itself ending just a meter or so from the easternmost end of the clinic at a ledge with a metal handrail. Past it he would be able to see the landscape stretching out in the distance, with the city of Yharnam giving way to the mountains and forests of the east, where the rest of the outside world lay still and silent in the final rays of the sun. It would be difficult to discern just how high the plateau was without going to the edge and looking down, but he would be able to tell that they were quite high above what lay beyond the ledge.
As he closed the door and deposited his unconscious cargo, Farren would most likely also notice a rather conspicuous presence immediately outside the door and to the right: a large brass censer, fully stocked with unlit incense.

Moving ahead to meet the newcomer, Farren would find that the White Church Hunter slowed their gait as he approached and assumed a more wary stance. As he got closer, Farren would be able to tell that the Hunter was male; a large, powerfully built man that looked to stand a little taller than Farren himself, with long chestnut facial hair that was arranged into 15 cm braids – one braid for either side of his mustache and one for his chin – and was indeed wearing the garb of the White Church. Quite noticeably, the whites, blacks and grays of the garb was rather disturbed by a sizable red stain on his chest and stomach, which looked a lot as though he had been stabbed in the chest and bled quite heavily. There were also bloodstains on his right shoulder and his left thigh, where the cloth had also been torn. Despite all of this, the Hunter did not move as if impaired at all.
Having spent time at the Black Church Workshop, Farren would likely not have much trouble identifying the Hunter's equipment. The hefty firearm in his left hand was a blunderbuss, and while the silver small sword in his right hand could technically belong to one of several trick weapons, the enormous blade-scabbard on the man's back made it clear that it was part of a Holy Blade.

“Just my luck,” the Hunter grumbled under his breath, grimacing as he walked closer, though he kept a cautious distance of a couple of meters, still hesitant to get too near Farren. He sniffed deeply and loudly a couple of times in Farren's direction. Farren, too, might be able to catch the easily recognizable scent of a Hunter off the newcomer. “You are a Hunter. Rats... fine, I guess I have to help. To the door; we'll hit them as they exit.”

_Farren’s

gaze briefly dipped to his hand where that strange blue flame had briefly burned, warmthless and with barely a tingling sensation. The sensory memory distracted him only briefly before he looked back to the White Church Hunter, taking in his blunderbuss and the half of his weapon that he had in hand. He was familiar with the armament–as familiar as he was with most Hunter’s weapons. He hadn’t seen them all, but he’d seen quite a few in the Workshops when they were up for maintenance or even the occasional modification. A small part of him itched for the weapon, but he suppressed it and nodded in reply to the man–it appeared that Farren had been right to speak to him…and shut the door so the others couldn’t see him. Rolling his neck, Farren almost fully turned his back to the man. “Newly minted,” Farren replied to the stranger’s comment. Farren stood at a slight angle so he still had the stranger in his peripheral vision on his left side–opposite where he held his saber in reversed grip. “Sounds like a plan. M’name’s Farren’s by the by; companions are Ophelia and Torquil,” he offered, then he broke into a light jog, expecting the man to follow as he headed back towards the Clinic’s door.

As he moved, Farren took in the surroundings a second time, acknowledging the layout and committing it to memory. The fact that they were on a plateau bloomed once more in his mind, making him frown…wondering precisely where they were relative to the rest of Yharnam. Beyond that…the stranger had been bloodied…but it was hard to say if it was his blood and his Hunter’s resilience–or perhaps a blood vial–were the reason he wasn’t faltering…or if it wasn’t the man’s blood at all.

It would have to wait till later.

All that in mind, Farren positioned himself to the side of the door that would be clearly visible when he opened it. He silently withdrew his second sword, holding it in a normal grip as he tilted his body so his right side faced the doorway, hiding his other arm…and the weapon that he held in line with his leg, tip downturned. Once the other Hunter had taken position opposite him–where he’d be hidden by the shadow of the door when it opened–the azure-eyed hunter nodded to the stranger. Preparations made, he waited for someone to come out, hoping it wouldn’t be Ophelia or Torquil who exited first. He strained his ears, somewhat familiar with both of their gaits now…he might even be able to discern who it was before they walked out.

Torquil's unease fading to ease only widened Ophelia's smile, and she gave Torquil's shoulder another reassuring squeeze as he moved to grab the bodies--she felt the connection between them in his gaze, something about the way he looked at her shifting to... recognition, if she didn't know better. She certainly didn't remember Torquil: but that was a question for later, as the pallid man had expectations of them and pieces needed to be moved into place for their plan to work. Ophelia was about to turn on her heel to follow after Torquil when she heard the first ring of the bell. The sound was... almost familiar, but not quite. It was certainly different than it had been before, something about the act of using it seeming to imbue it with a depth and resonance it hadn't had while simply jostling around in his clothes... And then there was another, and this time Ophelia noticed movement in her periphery as she looked over the cots--the Messengers sank away into the floor from whence they came, as though the sound was... painful? Wrong? Ophelia couldn't tell--but they didn't like it one bit. Then another, and her eyes were immediately diverted towards the red glow and the otherworldly passenger that climbed out of it.

Her eyes widened at the sight of the Mad One--and then she audibly gasped as she saw its face. Its eyes... normally they'd be white, glowing like little stars--but this one... This one had dark, sunken pits instead of eyes, much like the pallid man. Something in Ophelia's stomach turned at the sight, and she sucked in a steadying breath as she hurried over to the body with Torquil and enacted her earlier plan. Keep this dead Hunter far away from these... she hesistated to even call them people. The beastman certainly wasn't, and the pallid one... Ophelia had her doubts about that too.

Stepping into the next room, Ophelia saw Farren moving for the lantern--exactly what she'd have done. There were other Messengers, though, aiming to get her attention--and Ophelia went straight for the one pointing toward the scroll, knowing that all the blood and gold in the world paled before the value of information.

Needless to say, Torquil was quite surprised and disturbed by the sight of the large, monstrous inky-black figure that climbed out of the glowing spot in the floor, seemingly called by the unnatural timbre of the hoarse man's bell. It was more than just its clearly supernatural nature, size and strength, too; everything about it just screamed “wrong” to him, from the way it moved to the weirdly blank expression on its inhuman face. It seemed less like what one would traditionally term a creature and more like a puppet, dispassionately following the unspoken commands of its master.
Somewhere in the far reaches of his memory, Torquil thought he had a vague recollection of seeing creatures like the Mad One before, though only from afar. The image of them he had in his mind also featured them with brightly glowing white eyes and them being much more animated and, for the lack of a better term, alive. He had no idea what to think of the creature, let alone whatever eldritch means the hoarse man had used to... summon it? Create it? Reveal it? Either way he was clueless on the mechanics of what had just happened, so as usual he was happy to leave the pondering of such matters to Ophelia and Farren.

Torquil followed Ophelia from the back room into the reception, and felt unexpectedly relieved to see that there were still Messengers in here. More than anything, though, he felt his gaze drawn to the pale, ghostly light of the lantern. He felt a strange compulsion to approach it and stare at it, the very sight of that gentle radiance setting his mind at ease and made him feel oddly comfortable, like being wrapped in a nice, snug blanket. The lantern, bizarrely, felt like home.
If Ophelia looked at the lantern for any length of time she would get a similar feeling from it, but for now her attention was more focused on the two Messengers holding a rolled-up scroll between them. As she approached, the little creatures eagerly raised the scroll and unrolled it, showing her the writing of a verse – handwritten in exquisite calligraphy – inside:

“Glance calmly upon the lantern's pale gleam,
and find safe haven within the Hunter's Dream.”

Behind Ophelia and Torquil the rest of their entourage started making their way back into the reception, one by one passing through the door with their freshly acquired load of sleeping men and women. First came the beast man, carrying a total of six sleepers; two on each shoulder and one under each powerful, sinewy arm. Then came the Mad One, hauling three sleepers under each arm. Then came the huntsmen, each of which was awkwardly carrying just one sleeper each, and all of whom made sure to go stand in the corner of the room furthest away from the beast-man and Mad One. And finally came the hoarse man, the only one out of all of them to not carry anyone.
Quite notably, none of the others seemed to so much as glance at the Messengers or the lantern. Despite the fact that there was now a new and very obvious light-source in the middle of the room, not a single one of them even seemed to notice.
But at least one of them noticed something else. Immediately after leaving the back room of the clinic, the hoarse man's black eyes went straight to the closed front door, and his eyes instantly narrowed suspiciously. He scanned the reception, his expression rapidly settling into a sneer.

“Drop Hunters,” he commanded. He pointed at the front door. “Door closed. Open before. Male Hunter missing.”
While the Mad One immediately obeyed, simply letting go of its cargo and letting the sleepers flop onto the floor where it stood, and the beast-man and huntsmen hesitantly put down their hauls, too, Torquil would turned to Ophelia with an uncertain expression. Should he obey the hoarse man, or did she and Farren have a plan?
“Hunters,” the hoarse man hissed, looking straight at Torquil and Ophelia. “Open door. Go outside.”