[h3]Reception, the Hunter's Clinic, in the outskirts of Yharnam[/h3]
Though the hoarse man had shown that either he or the items in his possession exhibited impressive arcane powers, Farren's attack had suggested – and Ophelia's now proven – that he was physically next to defenseless. Though he babbled incomprehensibly in his foreign language and tried both to ward against her thrust with his arms and to get away from her, there was nothing he could do to save himself. The spear sank into him with little resistance, prompting only one last, desperate, gurgling gasp as his feeble fingers wrapped around the handle of the spear in a vain effort to undo what had been done. Then he went limp and slumped in place... and unlike his minions, Pallid had no bell-ringer to revive him.
The bell, as she retrieved it, seemed quite mundane. Despite the awesome power it had displayed in the hands of Pallid, it now seemed a quite unremarkable, if bloodstained, specimen of the kind that were typically hung around the necks of church servants. It produced some muffled noises from being jostled as Ophelia moved it, but any eldritch properties seemed either dormant or absent.

Through the door to the outside, Ophelia would see the beast-man awkwardly struggle to get back on his feet, his entire body trembling as he rapidly shed its bulk, shrinking to the size of an ordinary human while retaining only the fur, claws and teeth. [url=https://bloodborne.wiki.fextralife.com/file/Bloodborne/Beast_Patient_Red.png?v=1501176357429]This much more pathetic creature[/url] stared at her for just a moment with an expression of utmost dread, then turned on his heel and hobbled weakly down the road, fleeing into the distance.
Just several meters away the huntsmen had suffered a similar loss of strength, though unlike their more powerful ally, they had the misfortune of being rendered vulnerable within easy reach of a Hunter still in the throes of his own bloodlust. The hatchet-wielder barely had time to reconcile what had happened before Victor was upon him, his left hand rapidly mutating into a clawed, bestial form before plunging into the Yharnamite's guts, which he proceeded to rip out and leave in a stinking pile on the floor while their owner collapsed. The pitchfork-wielder and the rifleman barely had enough time to gather their wits and understand what was happening, witnessing the violent execution of their comrade, before Victor was upon them, too. He swung his small silver sword twice, slit each of of their throats and left them to bleed out.

Only then did he turn to Ophelia and Farren, panting heavily, his clothes torn and bloody, but his eyes sharp and alert. His gaze instantly homed in and locked on Ophelia's eyes, returning her stare with one that was perhaps even wilder than her own, his eyes wide and paranoid, but – as Ophelia would likely notice – unmarked by the scourge of beasts.
“Yeah,” he grunted, and started to approach Ophelia and Farren while rummaging in a bulky, padded pouch on his right hip. He did not elaborate on the topic of who had sent him or why, but produced an item that he held forward in an open hand for Ophelia to take. Even at a glance, Ophelia, and anyone else that had spent any amount of time in Yharnam for that matter, would almost certainly recognize what she was being offered as a blood vial; a dose of the specially potent blood of the Healing Church.
“This works better. He needs help.”