The vicar, smiling kindly through it all, cocked his head curiously when Ophelia spoke of seeing the touch of the Nightmare upon the lumenflowers, and his eyes moved to glance briefly at the Holy Moonlight Sword when she invoked the name “Mother Moon”. He did not comment on either thing, but it seemed as though he took note of each mention when they occurred.
But once the subject turned to the others who had undergone metamorphosis along with her, Harold's expression turned serious and attentive, with furrows and creases spreading across his face as he adopted a mien that told of undivided focus. Beyond paying close attention to her words, however, he did not outwardly react to any of what she said until she had finished speaking. Even her showing him the jar of eyes did not so much as make him flinch.

Heaving a heavy sigh, Harold turned from Ophelia and looked out over the garden, crossing his arms and slowly tapping his right index-finger on his left elbow in thought. “All creatures have the potential to become beasts,” he told her grimly after a moment's silence. “Even Hunters, though it is rare, and entirely unheard of among Paleblood Hunters. And for someone to become a beast while becoming Hunters...” He shook his head. “What a failure this has been. How many did these beasts kill? You say that some will not awaken, so I suppose some must still be sleeping; did you and these 'few' others slay the beasts? What kind of beasts did they become? Did they awaken after you or before?”

Ophelia, as before, continued to file away the little things that she noticed about the vicar--his eyes told her stories about what he recognised, as did his posture and his expression. The feeling of unease that she'd started experiencing on the walk over with Dietrich had only grown in the intervening time, and the tightening of an unseen knot in her stomach warned her to be very careful indeed about what she said. It was very important indeed that she arouse no suspicion--for the cost of giving information away to the vicar was very low indeed, and the reward for leaving without tipping her hand was great. She'd already told Dietrich all of the relevant details anyway, so they'd get back to Harold either way--letting it come from her lips willingly would likely mean something.

"Thankfully, none were killed by the beasts--a Hunter by the name of Victor showed up, as I told Dietrich, and helped us fight off those who assaulted us. That said... they asked us to help move the bodies so they could abduct them. They seemed to have no interest in killing the sleeping ones, just in taking them... and there was a strange, Pallid man who said something about a "Soulkeeper" wanting them. We killed him and his pet beastman, of course... but it was like they knew what to expect there. I... I'm sorry to say it, Vicar Harold, but I can't help but wonder if there isn't someone in your church whose loyalties do not lie with you. It could be a coincidence, of course... but what are the chances of that?" Ophelia replied, pointing to various other eyes in her little jar when she spoke about people they'd slaughtered.

This time Harold's expression told much more of his reaction to Ophelia's words than with her initial report, as he looked obviously more and more confused as her tale progressed. “I... Abduct... Soulkeeper... What?!” Seemingly completely bewildered, the vicar turned to his First Hunter, who was already stepping forward with a small bow of his head.
“Excuse me, but I think I can dispel some of the confusion,” Dietrich interjected. “When Miss Ophelia said some were 'taken by the scourge' earlier, she meant that they had died and were showing signs of the scourge. The nascent Hunters did not turn into beasts and attack the sleepers. The ones she speak of that attacked them were intruders from the outside.”
“Oooh!” Harold actually let out a small, incredulous laugh. “Yes, I see now, that makes more sense.” Then his expression turned serious again. “Still, these are truly dire news, though I am glad to hear that the survivors were not lost to the clutches of the Harrow. Who can say what foul things those people could have done to their helpless victims. And these others who awoke with you, are they...”
“She already said that they are bound to the Dream,” Dietrich offered, “though they opted to come here on foot.”
The vicar nodded his head slowly with a thoughtful mien. “I see, I see... a partial success, then, at least. Now...” He turned back to Ophelia. “You did well to come here as soon as you did. Is there anything the Healing Church can offer to aid you and the others? You seem quite well-equipped already –” He gestured to the Holy Moonlight Sword. “– but if you need anything else, I shall muster all that I can to help.”

Ophelia's face fell for a moment at Harold's incredulous confusion, and she opened her mouth to begin speaking to try and understand what had happened but was beaten to it by Dietrich, who offered an explanation that reconciled events into a more understandable flow. She let out a similar laugh to Harold's not long after he did, and then turned to Dietrich and offered him a grateful smile and a curtsey.

"Ah, thank you, dear--I'm afraid I haven't been the clearest. It's been..." Ophelia began, letting out a shuddering breath, "... a very challenging hour. Yes, darling Dietrich is quite right." A sheepish but mirthful laugh left her as a look of relief came over her face, and she turned back to Harold. She smiled warmly at his mention that she'd done well, and she raised her left eyebrow slightly as he offered to avail her of supplies. The tiniest flash of defensiveness came over her as he gestured at the Holy Moonlight Sword, though it was dismissed immediately and replaced with gratitude at the offer of assistance.

"Something so important simply couldn't wait, as time is of the essence. Night will soon be upon us, after all... Though... that does make me wonder: did you not have someone stationed there to be with us when we were to awaken? We didn't see any representatives of the church there--other than Victor, of course, but he came after. As for supplies... Victor is running low on blood vials, and I would like to replenish his stock--he'll need it for the journey back, and I would feel dreadful if I left him without after he was so instrumental in turning the tide of the fight. If you could provide them I'd be ever so grateful. You know, I was almost planning to return to them without having spoken to you! Oh, I'm so glad that I did--you're such a nice old man, and you've been so generous with your time and knowledge. If we can spare the time later, I'd simply love to discuss the lumenflowers with you."

Harold slowly nodded his head in thought at Ophelia's question of whether there had been anyone assigned to watch over the clinic, but rather than offer an answer he simply turned wordlessly to Dietrich and looked at him expectantly.
“There were supposed to be people there, yes,” Dietrich reported, and for the first time a note of anger sneaked its way into his voice. “Two blood ministers and four helpers were supposed to be there, but I suppose the cowards must have panicked and run off when the first bells tolled. They're probably cowering in a shelter somewhere right now... and from the sound of it –” He glanced at Ophelia for confirmation. “– they didn't even light the censer at the door before running.”
“I see, I see...” Harold nodded his head again, more firmly this time. “See to it that they are reprimanded in the morning.”
“It shall be done.”
Nodding his head resolutely, Harold continued: “With that out of the way, you heard her; make sure she gets a batch of blood vials to take with her.”
But Dietrich winced at this. “Ah, yes, of course... but Victor is –”
“No buts!” The vicar waved an admonishing finger at his First Hunter. “They need blood vials, so they get blood vials! A full bag of Hunter-grade ones; that should be plenty to get back here for another resupply.”
Dietrich sighed. “Yes, Lord Vicar.”

Ophelia confirmed Dietrich's suspicions with a gentle nod--and though her mind was immediately drawn back to the idea that there were perhaps malicious agents of other factions embedded within the church she did not mention it again. She gave Harold a warm smile and a curtsey as a goodbye, alongside a profuse offering of thanks, and turned around as if to go the way they came, though she turned her head towards Dietrich again and awaited his customary offering of his arm. She waited until they were comfortably out of sight and earshot before she spoke what was on her mind to the First Hunter.

"I sense there are things I don't know about Victor, dear? I would like to hear your concerns, if you have them--I know that overindulgence is another base desire it is very hard for we Hunters to suppress..." Ophelia asked, her face creasing a little in concern. "I don't mean to instigate any conflict or tension between you and vicar Harold--and if my ignorance has touched a nerve, I hope you'll let me correct it."

"Not at all." Dietrich hesitated, biting his lip, before saying: "As you say, Victor has a tendency of overindulgence. As far as I understand he had something of a habit with spirits before coming to Yharnam, and after he became a Hunter he has taken a similar liking to blood. That is no surprise, of course; consuming blood is rather euphoric to even the most virtuous Hunter, but Victor has shown a lack of restraint. That is why I sent him out so early, before we started bringing out supplies for the Night of the Hunt, and with Stefan, who is a disciplined and dependable man. That is all."

"Ah, I see--I'm grateful for your telling me, love. Well... I think it sounds wise for me to only give him the one and replenish it only when necessary, if he is in mortal danger. I'm glad you have such concern for the Hunters who serve under you--he should be very grateful to have someone as honourable and thoughtful as you to look out for his best interests." Ophelia replied, her inflection gentle and warm. She squeezed Dietrich's arm with her hand lightly and turned her head to smile at him for just a moment before returning to facing forwards.

Dietrich laughed heartily. "Oh please, mercy! You'll inflate my ego even more than it already is! But truly, what is the purpose of the First Hunter if not to look after his Hunters?"

For some reason, Ophelia would abruptly feel as though someone was watching her very intently, though looking around she would find no one paying her any special attention. The feeling lasted for just several seconds, then dissipated as spontaneously as it had begun.

Ophelia shuddered at the feeling, and whispered "Mother Moon above..." to herself. She looked very quickly for an obvious source of eyes but found herself unable to find one, and her lips settled into a thin line. She was entirely unsure of what that had been, and she could see none of the guidance sprites that would indicate something touched by the realms of Nightmare.

"How uncomfortable... do you ever feel like you're being watched here, Dietrich? I just had the most uncanny sense of it..." Ophelia asked, her expression suddenly quite worried. She nervously chewed at her lip for a second before rapidly shaking her head and exhaling through her nose sharply.

Dietrich's eyes widened. "You, too? I felt it just now as well, but I don't think I've experienced something quite like that before. Quite unpleasant."

Ophelia's expression of worry only intensified. "That means it wasn't just nothing... Do be careful, dear. I was raised to always trust my intuition with these things; it's never failed me yet."

She continued to look around nervously for a second, and cradled her head against the tip of the Holy Moonlight Sword next to her. Am I safe here? Is there something here even your glorious light cannot reveal? she thought to herself, letting her mind wander somewhat as Dietrich led them both back towards the entrance of the workshop. She would stay with him for the entire duration of their journey--a mental map of what the interior of the workshop looked like could not possibly be a bad thing to have.

The trip back down the stairs and back to the busy main hall of the workshop was short enough that their conversation took up pretty much the entire duration. Dietrich was back to smiling and carrying himself with the elegance and confidence that was typical of him, but someone paying close attention might notice that his gaze flickered more than before, as if looking for something.
“If you would please lend me your vial-bag and wait here a moment, I will go fill it for you,” he told her, indicating a door furthest back and to the right below the stairs. Ophelia gave it to him, and he – assuring that he would be right back – left to get what she needed.

“Something here watches and listens... even to its whispers...” the ephemeral voice of the Holy Moonlight Sword conveyed into Ophelia's mind, seemingly sensing her worry. “Something very powerful resides here... Something ancient touched the Huntress' mind... It could not stop it... It is not enough...”

A few seconds later Dietrich came back and, true to his word, returned a bag that was now much fuller and heavier than before; opening it and looking inside would reveal that every single one of the twenty padded slots inside it was now occupied by a pristine blood vial. The cap of every vial was marked by the same symbol she had seen on the banner in Dietrich's office.
“There you go,” he told her with a smile. “I do hope you and your companions make it back here safely. Even setting aside my personal feelings on the matter, I do have some matters I could use some help with, and I know the same is true for the vicar.”

_Farren

regarded Victor as he leaned on the lever, explaining what had brought him to his conclusion. After a moment’s consideration, he nodded, followed by a small rumble of agreement in his throat after Victor had explained the function of the elevator. The explanation was plausible, likely even, and given that the man was marked a White Church hunter by his garb it made sense that he’d be able to put the pieces together. Still, something in him writhed subtly, faintly, a quiet paranoia that was hard to quell with simple logic.

Rather than focus on it, Farren stepped forward and joined Victor in the cage, sure not to step on the center plate. He didn’t beckon Torquil, figuring the man would follow. “Admittedly, the…Pthumerian, as you called him, mentioned ‘Soulkeeper,’ so I’d figured they’d be affiliated with that sort.” Farren replied once Torquil had joined them and the elevator had begun its uncanny descent. Farren kept Victor right in his periphery, close enough to his more precise central cone of vision that he could read his expressions…without it being obvious that he was focused on the man.

“Well, that settles it,” Victor nodded approvingly. “Soulkeeper is the Harrow's boss, so it's definitely them.”
Torquil awkwardly shuffled onto the elevator as the last of them, making excessively sure to inch along the outer frame of the cage to stay as far away from the button in the middle as possible. At that point there was no reason to avoid the button, of course, so Victor just sighed, leaned over and stomped one foot on the plate, prompting the sounds of chains and machinery to start back up again and they began to descend.
“Stefan is waiting at the bottom,” the White Church Hunter told the others while they waited. “The top was more defensible, of course, but we got lucky and found a giant sleeping down here. So if something happened, Stefan could just wake... up the... giant...”

Victor's voice gradually faltered as he looked out the folding doors of the elevator – the ones on the opposite side from where they had entered – at the streets of the city coming up toward them. He sounded surprised and frightened, and as they reached the end of their descent it became clear why.
The cobbled street they found themselves in, with the elevator taking up a spot right in a T-intersection, bore the marks of a battlefield. Blood was spattered everywhere, numerous cobblestones were cracked, crushed or cleaved through in gashes, some of which were huge and clearly left by an enormous weapon while others seemed to be left by claws. Scattered around the area were a number of bodies, each with its own assortment of terrible wounds that could have, and likely had, caused their deaths.
Three of them would seem familiar to Farren, not just because their appearance bore a passing resemblance to Pallid with their large bodies, pale skin and black eyes, but because they were recognizably church servants. One of the servants in particular looked like he had been thoroughly maimed in horrid ways, with his limbs looking as though they had been clawed, twisted and stretched far beyond what was healthy, suggesting that the creature had been viciously tortured. The two other church servants each had a cane lying on the ground near them, but there was no weapon near the maimed one; either he had been unarmed, or something had happened to his weapon.
A short distance from where the servants were found, an even larger form lay inanimate across the street. The church giant's arms and legs were sprawled out to the sides as it lay face-down in an immense puddle of blood, with an axe too large for any ordinary human to lift, let alone wield, sat lodged into the cobblestone next to it.
And another several meters away still, further past the dead giant, they were just barely able to make out the form of a still form of a human-sized and -shaped figure, wearing what looked like a bloodstained White Church Hunter garb.

Ophelia took the proffered bag back, smiling widely upon first feeling its renewed heft in her hands. She moved to return it to whence she'd gotten it from, and with that done she tilted her head to the side for a half-second before speaking.

"Thank you, dear--though... I must admit, I was only really thinking of my social obligations when I mentioned the blood vials. It occurs to me that... I don't really know very much about being a Hunter. Is there anything else that you think we should have, as a group? I... I don't wish for us to be caught unawares on a night of the hunt. Ah--and might you have a map of Yharnam that I could use? In the Hunter's Dream, you see, there are a number of locations that we can travel to--that's how I was able to make it here to the workshop so quickly. I've lived in Yharnam all my life, but... mostly Hemwick, so there are plenty of places that I find myself completely unaware of. Having a map to draw out where precisely we can go... that sounds very useful indeed; I'd be happy to provide you with a copy too, my dear. I'd be delighted to offer you my assistance, and knowing the breadth of our ability to travel would be helpful in making sure we can go where we are most needed, mm?" Ophelia asked, the worry persistently still upon her features joined by the faintest of reddish tinges in her cheeks as she remembered that she had obligations beyond just politeness.

"Truth be told, love... I'd briefly forgotten that I'm a Hunter now. Some direction from the First Hunter is, I hope, not too much to ask." she added hastily, looking into Dietrich's eyes as she spoke. There was no doubt in her mind, given the perceptiveness and shrewdness he'd displayed already, that it was quite obvious she found herself rather enamoured with him. The ministration and her newly acquired vigour conspired together to awaken things in her that the Paleblood had simply never permitted her to feel before--and she felt an odd moment of kinship suddenly with those Hunters who'd sheepishly fled from Dietrich and her earlier. She realised at that moment that she very much did not like being here, at the White Church's workshop... something about this entire place was frightfully queer, and not in the usual ways that were familiar to her. She was not used to not knowing, and she was beginning to realise just how vast the depths of her dislike for that state of being were.

“Of course, of course,” Dietrich nodded his head, crossed his arms and looked off to the side at nothing in particular, seemingly lost in thought. “What Hunters need is pretty simple, I can do that no problem. The map is more of a challenge; Yharnam has changed a lot and very quickly in the past five years, both with rebuilding and expanding... I'll see what I can do. Lend me your quicksilver canister and I'll fill that, for starters.”
The First Hunter received the container and once more ventured behind the closed door in the corner, leaving Ophelia to the din and activity of people preparing for the Night of the Hunt. He was gone for longer this time, giving her more of an opportunity to observe her surroundings if she so desired. Hunters kept showing up, getting their weapons and leaving again, and possibly for the first time, Ophelia would begin to realize just how many Hunters there were in Yharnam. Even though she was just standing there for a couple of minutes she witnessed nearly a full dozen Hunters coming and going, and none of those were the five she had first encountered when she arrived at the workshop. The Hunters also kept shooting suspicious glances at her skirt, being the most visible part of her dress past her robe, but now none of them seemed inclined to actually confront her about it.
She might also notice several of the civilians across the room, predominantly women, stealing glances at her and whispering among themselves, some with knowing smiles, others with frowns of disapproval or envious sighs. It would probably not be too hard to guess that the First Hunter did not usually provide this degree of personal attention to his other subjects.

Returning after about five minutes, Dietrich emerged into the hall carrying a small armful of supplies. Though his expression was initially neutral, serious and thoughtful, it brightened into a smile as soon as he laid eyes on her, and he approached her eagerly and with a spring in his step to deliver what he had scrounged.
“First of all, the quicksilver canister,” he said, handing the named object back to her, which was now filled with gray liquid. “Just beware that what's in it is only mercury until you add a few drops of your blood; only then does it become quicksilver. I notice you don't have a gun, so I might suggest you pick one up from that table over there, otherwise the bullets aren't going to be much help.” He nodded his head toward the table Ophelia had observed earlier that was bulging with pistols and blunderbusses, though the selection here was obviously far inferior to what she had seen in the Hunter's Dream.
“Here's a hand lantern,” he continued. “It has a little hook right here, see, that's handy for hanging it on your belt. In case you need to go somewhere dark. And since you are a Paleblood Hunter, here's a couple of doses of antidote, too, in case you contract ashen blood. They won't cure the disease, but they'll treat the symptoms until you return to the Dream... at least that's how Moira explained it.
And, of course, your map.” He handed her a large rolled-up piece of paper. “It's not quite up to date, I'm afraid; this is from about four years ago and doesn't have the newer expansions, but the parts it does show should be somewhat accurate. Sorry, but I'm afraid it's the best I can offer at the moment.”

_Farren

had considered complimenting Victor–even in his muddled mood–for his deduction with very few leads, in regards to the Harrow…but the man had bulled on, intent on explaining why his companion had chosen to stay at the base of Rebirth’s Rise. However, Farren wasn’t looking at the White Church Hunter as he spoke, his gaze instead peered ahead of their descent, far below to the three street intersection. So while Victor spoke almost proudly–even rather joyfully–of the choice, Farren’s expression shifted from mildly interested and difficult to read…to distinctly grim and annoyed. By the time they were closer and more details had made themselves clear–and Victor had noticed the catastrophe that came into focus before them–Farren was already taking the Blade of Mercy from his hip. White knuckled fingers dug into its finely crafted grip even as Victor’s voice trailed off and the elevator came to a rest in the square housing.

Driven by a series of mechanisms that Farren vaguely recalled having studied at some point in the past, the cage’s doors automatically shifted open, the metal parting to allow them ingress into the disastrous scene.

For some reason, Farren found himself feeling particularly rankled by the scene before him–and it wasn’t the gore.

“You know Victor, I never told you, but I fucking hate being right,” Farren gritted out, voice low in his throat, quieter so as not to rouse attention. With a swift, sinuous motion, Farren stepped from the elevator’s cage, his eyes peeled for details as he took in the grisly scene. “Wits about you,” he rasped, perhaps for Victor, perhaps for Torquil. Maybe both. In that moment, he didn’t trust Victor’s instincts as far as he could throw ‘em–and one couldn’t rightly hurl a blood-damned fucking concept.

This sort of situation was precisely why he’d wished Ophelia’s little investigatory trip could have waited. Some part of him knew that knowledge was power, and it’d likely put them in a better position to maneuver themselves so long as she successfully rejoined them, but in that moment he barely cared.

Farren kept his freehand at his belt, in case he needed to draw one of his loaded firearms.

Torquil was the first to follow Farren out of the elevator, his shield raised defensively to cover his body, neck and the lower part of his face and his axe awkwardly raised to the side, ready to strike. Victor took another couple of seconds to start moving, his eyes fixed on the immobile White Church Hunter in the distance.
“But... we had a bloody giant...” he muttered, shifting the ornate case he was still carrying from his left hand and up into his left armpit to free up his hand and retrieve the blunderbuss from his belt. “The servants were already dead when we got here, but the giant was just sleeping. What kind of monster can fight a giant and a Hunter?”
The street itself was almost disturbingly deserted and quiet, with the only movements being bits of cloth or wooden shutters on the windows of residences lazily moving in the wind. Unlike the houses above, there were a couple of houses down here with lit censers outside their doors and windows and with light inside, though even those seemed to have fallen deathly silent on this as of yet moonless night.

Without another word, Victor started moving – albeit slowly and cautiously, sword and gun at the ready and his eyes on his surroundings – past the dead giant and toward the fallen Hunter.

Ophelia waited patiently while Dietrich vanished into the supply room, idly observing the goings-on of the workshop while she waited. She was quite deeply unused to being watched and observed--she'd always faded into the background once she moved back into Yharnam, bound to a wheelchair (more for exhaustion than lack of mobility), and there were plenty of people like that in Yharnam. Few were perceptive or keen enough, and she never made herself seem important enough, for her to ever be in the proverbial spotlight. Now, though... she could feel the hot, keen gazes of many of the civilians in here--and though it lacked the coldness and vastness of the feeling she and Dietrich had shared earlier, that experience had left her shaken enough that she found herself self-conscious. She looked down at her skirt and wondered--that was what people seemed to be looking at when they gazed at her critically or venomously. She couldn't even say why she'd picked it up from the chest of clothes they'd found in the Hunter's Dream--it just seemed... vaguely familiar to her, somehow. Comfortable and comforting. She felt a vague sense of attachment and warmth to it, and could very vaguely recall glimpses of similar outfits from her childhood.

Perhaps it was that that had caused her to be labelled a "Vileblood" by those Hunters earlier? She still didn't really understand what it meant, truth be told--they'd been so isolated from such things in Hemwick, and especially in the company of the Witches. They had few visitors without purpose--most simply came to deliver corpses, or take them away, or to avail themselves of the various services that the Witches provided. None of that particularly involved Ophelia, feeble as she was then--she was left to more delicate work that she could still perform, and to study of the arcane. Parts of her time with the Witches seemed to slip through her fingers like sand--like a bank of fog had settled over what were once crystal clear memories. She wondered if she'd get them back with time, or if they were simply lost--but before she could muse further, enough time had passed that Dietrich had returned.

Ophelia's expression immediately brightened upon seeing him--as his did her--and she gratefully accepted the items he'd returned with while nodding along to his instructions. As she took the lantern she smiled brightly, immediately recognising the value of such a thing, and hastily clipped it to her belt. She attempted to beckon the Messengers to take some of the items on her behalf out of habit before remembering that they were unable to appear here for some reason, and offered Dietrich a sheepish grin as she explained.

"Ah, normally the little ones--helpful creatures tied to the realms of Nightmare--can hold items for us. Terribly convenient; though they don't appear here for some reason, like earlier in your office... Ah, well. Thank you, love. I'll leave the guns here for your Hunters--it seems the Dream is quite capable of arming us and I can pick up a weapon there," she began, nodding her head at the Holy Moonlight Sword cradled against her chest, "and I wouldn't want to deprive someone here who might need one. Not that that seems likely, given how many there are... but then again, there are also a lot of Hunters now, aren't there? Moira... I suppose I really need to go and speak with her, at some point. Tales of her prowess are common--not as common as tales of yours, of course, but enough that I've heard quite a bit about her. Some of it might even be true!" Ophelia spoke, chortling at the end as she spoke of Moira.

"I'll get a copy of this map back to you marked with the lanterns, too, dear. Knowing where we can easily reach will help you plan out how best to utilise us, hmm? It may take me some time, though, if I have to update the map... When I return with the others, I'll at least give you a couple of locations around Yharnam. I... I really would like to stay more in your company, but I fear I should get back to the others before they make too much headway without me and step into something grizzly... Actually, one last thing, the Hunters that greeted me at the entrance called me a 'Vileblood'--and it was enough to prompt them to almost attack me, as you so gallantly saved them from! What... what does it actually mean? I can't say I'm really familiar with the term--and I noticed they were looking at my skirt? There was a chest of clothes in the Hunter's Dream, I just picked some out that seemed comfortable... I hope I haven't committed some terrible faux pas."

Dietrich listened attentively as Ophelia spoke and offered a few comments when appropriate, the first one of which followed her mention of the Messengers: “Yes, Moira also told me about those, and Gerlinde also complained that they would not come here. I'm afraid I can't tell you why, because I have no idea. All that Nightmare-stuff is a bit beyond me, I'm afraid.”
The next time he spoke was when she mentioned Moira and the tales of her prowess. “Indeed, I have witnessed Moira fight in person, and she's quite formidable indeed. I have nothing but respect for her... though it pains me that she not only spurned our Healing Church, but ended up forming her own and causing a schism among the Hunters of Yharnam. I can only pray that our goals remain aligned. I would hate to have to kill her.” There was no mirth in those last words, only grim resolve.

And finally, of course, he had to answer her question regarding the Vilebloods and her garb. “Ah, don't worry about it too much, the dress you wear under your robe just happens to bear a striking resemblance to that traditionally worn by female Knights of Cainhurst, which the old Healing Church dubbed 'Vilebloods'. I can't speak on whether their blood is vile or not – that doesn't interest me – but those who now call themselves Vilebloods are sworn enemies of the Healing Church. Knights dressed similarly to you, only without the robe, have attacked and killed many of our Hunters over the years. I can't blame them for getting up in arms when seeing something like that, especially when that someone is carrying some manner of glowing, eldritch artifact.
Speaking of which...” Dietrich's eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as he took half a step closer before whispering conspiratorially: “Is that actually Ludwig's Holy Moonlight Sword?”

Ophelia sighed in relief at Dietrich's explanation of the Vilebloods--though something about the name Cainhurst struck a chord of familiarity with her--and let some of the tension that she'd been holding in her shoulders and back release. She noticed the glint of enthusiasm in Dietrich's eyes, almost mischievous and entirely curious, and she was amazed that it was only the second most beautiful thing she'd seen today. The Holy Moonlight Sword, of course, took the spot of first place--and Ophelia stroked it ever so tenderly with her now-free hand after stashing her received items away.

"Oh, yes, you are well-versed indeed, love. Though... it is Ludwig's no longer, for he is gone. It sang to me when I first saw it, in the Dream, and as soon as I picked it up... it chose me. A gift from Mother Moon, I am certain. It whispers guidance to me--even about you, dear. I... I would not normally share its whispers with anyone, but... I will tell you what it said about you, if you like?" Ophelia whispered in return, leaning in herself such that they were but a head apart. Something about the quality of her whispered voice was almost oceanic, like waves lapping against an unseen shore, and something else about it was laced with silver--bright and gleaming.

Her eyes seemed almost to reflect the vivid flecks and speckles of glistening light within the Holy Moonlight Sword, and this close to one another Dietrich would undoubtedly be able to tell that her eyes were precisely the same colour as the blade. It was the only thing she looked at with more joy and excitement than he himself.

“Ah no, of course not, I did not mean to imply otherwise,” Dietrich immediately assured her when Ophelia pointed out that the sword no longer belonged to Ludwig. “He was a hero of legend, to be sure, but one who is no longer around to lay claim to this magnificent blade.
And the sword speaks to you, you say?” Though many would likely have reacted to anyone claiming an inanimate object was communicating with them with anything ranging from skepticism to worry, this admission only seemed to further fuel the flames of the First Hunter's fascination. “Why, I would have to be mad to turn down the wisdom of an artifact that belonged to my predecessor! Did you know that I based the design of my Shining Wing on its legend?” He gestured over his shoulder at the silver greatsword on his back. “With some utilitarian liberties taken, of course.”

"Fret not, love, you've caused no offence--I only meant to imply that the title is outdated now, nothing more... I was referring to the sword itself, and you its legacy. Perhaps together we can preserve what remains of the chivalry of old, mm? When I asked to see your arms, it was because I could sense something of the Nightmare about you and thought perhaps you might be branded, or marked--but the Holy Moonlight Sword whispered to me the truth. That the Nightmare is not on you, but in you. In your blood. Very faintly, it says... and it says much the same about me, albeit stronger. The Paleblood, I expect. It's... it's very comforting, to know that I am not alone. Ah, but how I wish I could show you..." Ophelia smiled, tilting her head ever so slightly so she could keep both Dietrich and the Holy Moonlight Sword within her gaze at the same time.

Then, suddenly, Ophelia's eyes widened and the corners of her mouth crept up to reveal a smile that could only be found in one who had just had an idea.

"Ah, but I think there is something that I could do for you to repay your grace and kindness! It... it should be possible, yes. You recall that I mentioned Caryll runes earlier, I'm sure--but I did not get the sense that you know what they are, not really. They... they are transliterations of the wisdom of the cosmos and those that rule in the realms of Nightmare. Branded into the mind with a particular tool--one I have access to and know how to use--they grant great power. I know only a scant couple of runes, alas, but the two that I am thinking of could be quite the boon to you in different ways: I know one that can help you see the eldritch Truth, and one that can give a premonition of danger before it is about to strike--surely a boon to any Hunter on a Night of the Hunt! The little ones will not show up here, so I am afraid that I could not do it now, but when you embark on the Hunt tonight... I would be honoured to join you and repay your kindness." Ophelia offered, keeping that short distance between them to be certain that none would overhear.

"Ah, I thought there something familiar about the shape of your blade! It's a magnificent piece of craftsmanship, and almost as resplendent to look upon as its owner. I would love to see you both in action--it must be quite the awe-inspiring sight. I can show you what the Holy Moonlight Sword is capable of, too." Ophelia smiled, giggling a little towards the end.

“So it was the sword that told you that? How remarkable,” was Dietrich's response to Ophelia conveying what the Holy Moonlight Sword had told her about him. He thoughtfully tapped his index-finger on his chin, looking intently into her eyes. “I wish I knew what it meant, but perhaps I am not meant to know. We can only try our best to play with the cards the gods have dealt us. Or perhaps, if the vicar's experiments bear fruit someday, I might experience the Dream and its secrets one day as well.”

Regarding the rest of what she had to say about runes, meeting him when he joined the hunt and about demonstrating how formidable each of their swords were, Dietrich's smile faltered slightly. “That may be difficult. It is the paradox of being the most powerful Hunter of the Healing Church: I am the one who could slay the most beasts the safest, but I am the one who is held in reserve and has to stay here until called. My duty is to oversee my Hunters, but otherwise I am only to join the hunt if we encounter something too dangerous for the others to handle. But if we do chance upon each other – perhaps after this night has passed, in more peaceful times – I would be honored and grateful.”

"Perhaps, perhaps. Though... I do not think this is an ordinary night, love. I find myself conflicted: such a situation would be terrible, yes, but I find myself wanting it to happen regardless. I will have a think; perhaps I can bring my tools here... Though it would have to be our little secret, I'm afraid. They... they are exceedingly precious to me, and I could not bear for something to happen to them. Ah, but look, the others are getting restless. While you were gone I got quite the number of looks--the other women appear to be jealous of all of the attention you've lavished upon me! I will go, now, and return to my comrades--thank you again for everything, dear, and I will hopefully see you again very soon." Ophelia replied, ruminant and a little... perhaps sad, perhaps disappointed.

"Unless there's anything else?" She asked, finally taking a step back to remain at a more socially acceptable distance from the First Hunter. If there was nothing else, she would stride through the workshop (occasionally returning a knowing look to those women who glanced at her enviously) and out towards the lantern that she'd first arrived by. The gold made her uneasy, but she did not have to touch it to gaze into the lantern's gleaming glow and find herself once more being overtaken by the throes of slumber.