[center][h2][b]Ophelia[/b][/h2][/center]

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 [i]not[/i] 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 [i]extremely[/i] 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 [i]love[/i] 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.