If the Shopkeeper heard Farren's words they did not show it, but appeared to be completely focused on Skinner, who in turn kept backing up and trying to maintain distance between himself and his opponents. Rather than allow themselves to be inconvenienced by this, however, the Shopkeeper reacted by raising both arms in front of them, only for another blue flash to mark the appearance of a Bowblade, from which they immediately loosed an arrow.
Not expecting this at all, Skinner caught the arrow center-mass, right in the middle of his chest, which prompted him to let out another roar of frustration. Noting that Farren was still a few meters away, Skinner took this opportunity to quickstep closer and attack the Shopkeeper, who was seemingly using primarily mid-ranged weapons. Claws raised and bared for mauling, Skinner failed to realize that – in the brief instant it had taken him to get close to the Shopkeeper – the Bowblade had vanished and been replaced with a Stake Driver, which the Shopkeeper immediately shoved into Skinner's abdomen and released the spring-loaded mechanism, ripping another large hole in the man and sending him stumbling backward and away.
The Stake Driver disappeared as the Shopkeeper swung their right arm out behind them, only for them to grasp the handle of a Boomhammer that spawned out of another flash, which immediately came down at Skinner in another huge overhead swing. Skinner only barely had time to skitter back a regular step to get out of the way of the physical hammerhead, only for the ensuing fiery explosion to once again send him reeling.

All of this happened in a matter of just a handful of seconds, in the time it would take Farren to catch up. And by the time he even got close, he might notice that Skinner's fur had lost its electric gleam... and that the burns were healing much slower than before.

_Farren

would have been stunned at the sheer speed with which the Moonborn Hunter subdued Skinner if it had not been for what the azure-eyed hunter knew about the now-Shopkeeper’s mysterious, but infamous mythology–so to speak. While not much was stone-solid about the man, one thing that had always been clear–from the rumors, whispers, and speculation he could recall impressions of–was the figure’s exceptionally dangerous nature. The rest was all hearsay.

That said, there was nothing quite like seeing it in person. Nonetheless, Farren continued his approach, tracking where Skinner would land, and adjusting accordingly so that he’d have nearly arrived by the time the man was flat on his back, attempting to recover–his beastly regeneration slowed to a crawl that spoke of exhaustion. For his part, Farren moved into a half slide that should bring him right up beside Skinner’s left side, at which point he raised one foot and pressed it on the man’s chest between the sides of his ribcage slightly below his heart, but above the majority of his lower organs. He pressed with enough strength to brace himself, but not so much as to cause undue pain. In the same motion, he aimed the tip of his sword over the center of the murderer’s chest, the tip poised to pierce him. Meanwhile, his left hand shifted his blunderbuss’ barrel, training it–point blank–at Skinner’s abdomen, the weapon’s flared end nearly touching the man’s bare flesh.

Farren didn’t speak, just locked his eyes on Skinner’s features, keeping his senses stretched out to detect the slightest movement–even as his mind kept subconsciously checking for the telltale sensation of the Lake Rune’s minor precognizance.

Ophelia scarcely had time to blink before the Moonborn Hunter had rocketed off in search of prey--and Ophelia was stunned for a moment by seeing the sheer speed of which they were capable. When she found herself in command of her faculties again she could hear the buildup of something that sounded an awful lot like static, and a quick inhalation through her nose gave her the slightest hint of charge, almost like ozone or the smell of a work of arcane communion about to take place. She pressed herself back against the very rear of the lift, certain to avoid the switch, and not a moment later the fulgurous cascade of energy washed over the area, its cobalt-blue actinic light the only assault that managed to reach her, for the structures and mechanisms of the lift protected her from the rest.

She stepped out after that, eyes looking around for familiarity, and she found Torquil immediately. She rushed over to him, standing by his side, as she watched the Moonborn Hunter and Farren chase up on the whimpering and begging Skinner. Truly, he was a beast even to the end--prompted to fawn, and then when truly backed into a corner having given in to that base savagery she detested so. She gave Torquil a quick visual assessment to see if he was hurt, already counting five vials out from her pack as her eyes did their work. She'd hand them to him hastily and make sure he was okay before turning back to observe the carnage. If they got too far for her to see comfortably she'd follow along, keeping her distance twenty or so feet behind them if it came to that. She also prepared the little vial of quicksilver, ready to anoint the Holy Moonlight Blade and strike out against Skinner if he tried anything untoward.

“Thanks,” Torquil said awkwardly as he accepted the offered blood vials and transferred them to his own satchel, though he was rather distracted by watching the Shopkeeper dominating the Hunter that he and Farren had only barely managed to fend off with their combined efforts. Despite having been hit by Skinner's lightning-waves twice now, Torquil was surprisingly fine; lightly singed, that was all. Any actual damage he had taken had obviously regenerated immediately after taking it, but even his clothes only had faint traces of something that would suggest that he had been subjected to anything dangerous. Blocking with the Loch Shield had absorbed most of the damage he would have taken, which was a pleasant surprise.
This was also the first time Ophelia saw Torquil and Farren outside the Hunter's Dream since obtaining and memorizing the Guidance Rune, and so the first time she had a chance to notice that, even here in the Waking World, each of them had one or two little guidance sprites hovering around them. Much more noticeably, however, the Shopkeeper was surrounded by an entire swarm of them; what looked to be dozens, if not hundreds of little motes of moonlight swirling around their form.

A bit down the street Farren took up his position on top of Skinner, holding him down, threatening him and glared at him wordlessly. Skinner met his gaze with one filled with desperation, but made no attempt at breaking free or attacking.
“Why?!” he whined pathetically. “I've told – NO!”
But before Skinner or Farren could say or do anything else, the Shopkeeper stepped around and past Farren, only to raise their arms over their head. A blue flash announced the summoning of another weapon: a Kirkhammer. And with tremendous force, the massive stone-head of the hammer fell directly onto Skinner's head with a horrible wet noise.
Skinner's body tensed up for a second, a series of random spasms going through his muscles, before going limp. His left arm shrank back down to a normal size and lost its claws, and he shed not only the fur that had grown on him, but surprisingly a lot of his bulk, until his huge, muscular frame came to look thin and emaciated instead. And as the Shopkeeper dismissed their Kirkhammer with another flash of light, Farren could confirm that Skinner's head was now a messy smear on the cobblestone.

Farren has obtained the Hunger Caryll Rune. While branded onto a Hunter's mind, devouring the flesh of a living or recently deceased creature restores regenerative potential, similar to how a blood vial would have. Additionally, after devouring part of a creature you gain a small measure of its power as long as you are near it or its remains. If used in conjunction with a living weapon, this rune allows that weapon to have a second awakening that lasts for 60 seconds, at the cost of permanently erasing the last currently active benefit from an eaten creature.

_Farren

was too stunned to act as the Shopkeeper slammed down his kirkhammer, but he recovered moments after, embracing the reality he’d ended up in with surprising swiftness. “Good fucking riddance,” Farren said, before he spat on the man’s headless corpse. Taking his foot off the man, Farren holstered his blunderbuss and knelt down and picked up the roughshod Beast Claw that Skinner had once wielded. He looked the crude implement over with distaste, but ultimately he gestured towards the ground and after a moment the Messengers rose from the damaged cobblestones and took the weapon away for him as they disappeared to wherever they truly dwelled.

Despite his earlier gesture of disgust, Farren offered a silent prayer while he was on one knee and as he did it was almost like something answered him. It was like experiencing an entire hour, or perhaps a day, in the space of a single instant, without any of the benefit of time to process what occurred. In the next instant he took in a sharp breath–not quite a gasp–and his eyes snapped open as if he’d been roused forcefully from a nightmare. A sense of understanding washed through his mind, but bereft of what context had allowed him to glean it. Farren frowned, for it felt like…a warbling, like a whisper, a vibration in his mind and with it came a sort of…symbol.

Brow still furrowed, he muttered to himself, “...a Rune?” Strange, but he supposed at least this way they had not lost the opportunity to learn it from the man. Farren thought it better that Skinner–or whatever his true name had been–was gone. He’d been a menace for quite some time and the idea of his continued existence had put a sour taste upon his tongue, one that only now he felt fading. Shaking his head slightly, Farren finally pushed to his feet, giving the Moonborn Hunter a nod of respect for his swift action. The man was even more fierce than the rumors said–a rare thing indeed for rumors tended towards exaggeration.

“Any chance that trick of yours is teachable? The one with the flash of light…” the azure-eyed Hunter asked, cracking a small grin, despite the grisly scene at their feet.

Ophelia observed the solitary mote of moonlight about Torquil's person with a gentle interest, quickly remembering to hand him one of the antidotes and explaining its purpose in a perfunctory tone: "If you get ashen blood, this'll alleviate things until you can return to the Dream." With that done she began to snake over towards the grisly scene of Skinner's demise with long and loping steps. She peered over Farren to examine the carnage, and gave the Shopkeeper a graceful curtsy as she turned to look at them.

"We're grateful for your assistance, love. The tales of your might weren't exaggerated--I'm glad we could give you an opportunity to hunt once more. Though... this seemed like perhaps not much of a challenge for you!" She said, looking Farren up and down and surveying the scene around them with some interest. It seemed like much had gone on here in quite a short amount of time, and Farren seemed especially put through the ringer with the rips in his clothes and stains of blood strewn all about the scene. She nodded down at him thoughtfully, before presenting him with the five extra blood vials as well as the antidote.

"Seems we've both been busy, dear. Where's Victor?" She smiled, though it was not a particularly kindly smile like he was used to seeing from her. Her eyes seemed focused on the distance, paths that Victor could've travelled, and making assessments about what might've happened here. She still seemed full of energy, or... perhaps wrath, not yet spent on the object of her distaste.

_Farren

turned his head slightly, eyes shifting to Ophelia as she spoke, asking him her own question. Blue eyes darkened, his eyes narrowing slightly as a flash of irritation crossed his previously neutral–almost hopeful–features. As he took in Ophelia’s smile–and the coldness behind her eyes–Farren shook his head, his gaze shifting to the street the man had fled down. Yet, before replying, Farren seemed to wrestle with the reality of things, for while he may have initially condemned Victor’s actions–and they had certainly put them at a greater disadvantage–looking back at them with the benefit of experience had him reconsidering. So, rather than an outright condemnation, Farren’s reply was more measured than even he would have initially expected, “He made a…tactical retreat, likely intending to notify the First Hunter.”

As he finished the words, he caught a slight shrug from the Shopkeeper, certainly in reply to his earlier question. The reaction elicited a slightly deeper frown from the one he’d already affected, before his features relaxed and he glanced down the central street of the three way intersection. “Bastard threw my swords,” he commented idly, squinting to try and pick out the telltale glint of their distinctive metal. He didn’t much fancy traversing the space on his own, not because he was afraid, but because he wasn’t an idiot. While the noise of battle likely would have alerted any nearby beasts and drawn them in, it wasn’t entirely beyond possibility that some had remained in place preferring to ambush their prey rather than risk involving themselves in the melee. Equally possible was the fact that Skinner’s mere presence–and now that of the Moonborn Hunter–might be enough to sufficiently deter any nearby creatures of the night from assailing them.

Farren sighed, glancing back at the Shopkeeper, “No chance you could just…’summon’ the Blades of Mercy back to you, is there?” He asked, not sounding at all hopeful.

The Shopkeeper cocked their head at Farren's request, then held out their right hand and, with yet another flash of blue light, was suddenly holding the Blades of Mercy. Interestingly, while the blades had been separated into two individual knives when Farren had last used them and when Skinner threw them away, they manifested now in their combined form. They were also completely pristine, without the smallest trace of blood nor the faintest sign of wear on them despite the fierce bout of combat they had just been through.
Walking up slowly and joining everyone else, staring perturbed at the headless, still-smoking corpse that used to be Skinner, Torquil abruptly had a thought. “Oh hey, since he died we get those echo-things, right?”
But quite interestingly, though especially Farren had been extremely close to Skinner when he had been killed, neither he nor Ophelia had felt the sensation they had back at the clinic when Pallid and his minions had been killed. The notion of something invisible and weightless gathering around them from then was conspicuously absent.
Again the Shopkeeper cocked their head, then shook it in... disagreement? Simply to tell them no?

"Mm, it would seem that the Shopkeeper's assistance comes with a price indeed. That's the only thing different as best as I can tell. Ah, well, now we know. Mother Moon gleams all the brighter without cretins such as he to blemish her light, and Dietrich'll be terribly pleased. Oh, he's lovely--a consummate gentleman. Should... should we go after Victor? I'd hate for anything to happen to him. Otherwise, we could retire to the Dream so a proper conversation can be had away from prying eyes... and if so, I've an idea. I'll ask the little ones to send Gerlinde a message, ask her to meet us in the Dream. What I've discovered about the White Healing Church concerns us all, she deserves to know. What do we all think? Try and save Victor from whatever horrors lurk out here, or retire to the Dream?" Ophelia replied, the menace fading from her eyes as she mentioned Dietrich and recalled her time spent earlier. The juxtaposition of scenes like this, bloody and visceral and dangerous, against the clean and organised whiteness of the Healing Church. Against the gentle garden of the Hunter's Dream, where Mother Moon's light shone so abundantly. From bliss to horror and back, with no notion of which was truly which... She could see how such a thing might imperil one's sense of self. Fortunately, she had the glorious light of the cosmos by her side--it would always help her return to clarity and focus, moon-bright thoughts resonating in perfect synchronicity.

She awaited a response from Farren, mostly, as the Shopkeeper and Torquil seemed to be as laconic as they usually were.

_Farren

stared, shocked, then pleasantly surprised as the Moonborn Hunter conjured the Blades–in pristine condition at that–and he smiled and accepted them with another nod. While Farren did not feel as if he had ever been overly sentimental, the small gesture from the Hunter and the various boons he’d already offered them had him rather liking the silent man. “Thank you,” Farren offered in a more open show of thanks, giving the Shopkeeper a brief smile before he redirected his attention to Torquil, and then Ophelia once more. The former appeared to just be listening, whereas Ophelia had confirmed Farren’s growing suspicion. He swore under his breath, then moved on, he’d rather hoped to attain what potency Skinner had gleaned in life, but it seemed that was simply not in the cards.

Farren took in the rest of her words as well, considering what options and intel she had to offer, before he glanced back down the street that Victor had chosen for his retreat. “We may as well follow Victor, see if we can reconvene. Besides, I’d quite like to give him a piece of my mind…or the back of my hand, ” Farren replied, the last words half-muttered. “As for…Greta, perhaps later,” he added, seeming somewhat…dismissive?

Ophelia paid Farren close attention while they were speaking, and something uneasy began to rise within her the more that she observed. The misnaming of Gerlinde couldn't have been an accident, not with her having spoken the name mere seconds before... there was a story there, some snag in the proverbial tapestry. She briefly gave thought to pulling at it, but decided that such things could be revisited later--though she resolved to keep more of an eye on Farren in the interim, just to be safe.

"Well, before we set off I should give you the lay of the land, so to speak... I'm not quite sure what the gold means, not yet, but the markers in the Dream that have it have odd lanterns--like the ones we're used to, in the Dream and Rebirth's Rise both, albeit all of their metal is gold. They also rest upon these queer little golden plinths, decorated with eyes and people striding into the ocean naked. The little ones seem unable to show up anywhere this gold has taken root--I didn't get the message you'd sent me until I returned to the Dream, and I tried to call them to send you a message while I was there to no avail. The leader, Vicar Harold, he..." Ophelia began, gesturing for Torquil to come closer as she began speaking and waiting for him to be comfortably in earshot before she continued. When she began speaking about Harold she paused for a moment to gather herself, shuddering slightly at the memory.

"He's doing something to everyone there, worming his way into their minds. They all look at him with dreamy eyes and call him a 'nice old man', with exactly that phrasing, and they all seem unaware of the compulsion that's seeped its way into them. I had the thoughts too, though my... particular affinity for the arcane, my tutelage under the Witches, and my guiding moonlight seems to have let me really see them for what they are. I doubt the two of you would fare as well, and would fall under the same compulsion: so I'll warn you now, loves, don't go near the Vicar. Don't listen to him, don't approach him, don't even think about him--he's more dangerous than anyone else I've ever seen, I'm convinced of it... Other than our dear Shopkeeper, of course." Ophelia added, relaxing somewhat with the catharsis of verbalising how violated she felt--and grateful she could hopefully ward her companions against it.

_Farren

continued to stare down the long, rather wide, thoroughfare even as Ophelia began to speak. He seemed uncharacteristically distracted, but in truth he was very much listening to her every word. Yet, as he did so…that name seemed to resonate within his skull, each ‘bounce’ of the proverbial vibration like a susurration of clawing birds within his brain. He gritted his teeth.



That damned name.

Farren’s eyelid twitched slightly and his grip on the Blade of Mercy tightened significantly, the material of its grip making a slight–but noticeable–noise. He swallowed, deliberately forced himself to glance in Ophelia’s direction as she spoke, and then briefly closed his eyes as she was nearly finished, nodding slightly as if in recognition.

While he’d heard her, the truth was that he’d closed his eyes to gather his wits rather than his thoughts. Still, by and large he managed to play much of it off, speaking even before he opened his eyes again.

“Well done. Excuse my earlier…reticence at our splitting up, it seems you gleaned valuable intel by going ahead of us,” he offered, opening his eyes as he finished speaking, meeting her gaze with a look that spoke of apology. It was gone the next moment as those bright sapphire eyes turned on Torquil, then focused further on his rather ornate shield. “Useful thing, you’re hardly singed,” he commented, his gaze roving over the glass of the implement. He’d never seen anything like it before–at least that he could remember, which he supposed wasn’t really saying much.



He’d began to relax, but his jaw tightened again, teeth pressing against eachother in his closed mouth with painful pressure, but he forced a smile, then turned to stare down the road again. [color=#1A1A3B]“I’ll just have to keep my distance then, you too, of course–”[/color ]he added the last as he gave Torquil a sidelong glance before returning his piercing gaze to the road, his body partially turning in its direction. He felt…antsy, and moreso than he probably ever had before becoming a hunter, he really wanted to kill something…if only for the distraction.

That thought though…it brought something to mind and he sighed, turning back to Ophelia. “Ah…think I learned one of those Runes when our friend here killed Skinner.”

Torquil mostly just passively listened to Ophelia and Farren talking, as he was wont to do, while devoting as little of his energy as possible to actually understand what was being discussed. The Shopkeeper being able to apparently just spontaneously manifest weapons out of thin air was something he at this point was ready to accept as a matter of fact. His thoughts on it were simply Oh... I guess he can do that.
Unsurprisingly he had no input on their next course of action either. He briefly wondered who “Greta” was and why Farren brought her up out of nowhere, but immediately dismissed the thought and assumed he had just missed or forgotten something they had discussed earlier. It did not even occur to him in the slightest that Greta could be a misnaming of Gerlinde, and thus he never even arrived to have the option to wonder why he did that... which he probably would not have anyway.
The whole business with Vicar Harold was also way over his head. He did feel quite happy when Farren complimented his shield and felt affirmed and much more confident in his choice to have it. He puffed up his chest and smiled broadly in the confines of his helmet.

The only one present that seemed less attentive than Torquil was the Shopkeeper, who spent most of the time the others were talking... well, saying that they were “looking around” felt accurate, though Torquil obviously could not be sure what was happening inside those bandages they had wrapped around their head. The Shopkeeper was turning their head this way and that, tapping their foot and just generally coming off as bored and impatient, only to eventually – just as Torquil had when he had died, or any of them had when interacting with lanterns or the headstone markers – lose opacity and fade away.

Once Farren and Ophelia were done conferring with each other and sharing what they had learned in their brief time apart, their little trio started heading down the street, away from Skinner's disgraced remains now lying not far from his last victims, and headed south. The road they walked down seemed fairly straight and almost like a parallel street to the one they had traversed atop Rebirth's Rise to get to the elevator, only without the view. To their right they had the cliff-face that rose up toward the plateau the blood ministration clinic was on; a wall of naked rock that looked like it had been carved into shape on account of how unnaturally straight and vertical it was. Scaling that wall would have been extremely difficult, and falling from the top would most likely have been very unhealthy, even for a Hunter or a beast.
Having just been to the Upper Cathedral Ward, Ophelia might be able to spot the parallels between it and Rebirth's Rise: both places that had been built high up and deliberately difficult to reach, each with very few points of entry or egress. Yet the Upper Cathedral Ward held the fully staffed command center of the most powerful faction of Yharnam, the workshop for its Hunters and the official head of the new Healing Church... and Rebirth's Rise was an empty street with nothing but sleeping nascent Hunters.
To their left the row of houses continued, each one identical to the last, and most of them still with dark and shuttered windows. As they moved southward, however, they might notice more and more doors and windows with lit censers outside, and more and more windows with light past them. There was no doubt that though Ophelia and Farren both knew that Central Yharnam and most of Yharnam proper was to their west, moving south was already bringing them into more populated areas... and, they might realize, more dangerous areas. The sun had set completely now so that not even the faintest remnant of its light could be seen on the black, starlit sky, but the moon had yet to rise. Night falling was only the first stage of escalation on a Night of the Hunt, marking the time when prey sought refuge and predators began taking to the street. Once the city was bathed in the light of the full moon was when it truly began; when beasts were gripped by lunacy and Hunters would be needed to hold them at bay.

About one kilometer south of the elevator, the cliff-face to their right came to an end, and a road branched off from the one they had been following and headed west, toward Central Yharnam. But before they followed it, Ophelia might notice something remarkable; that up on the stone wall, about fifteen meters over their heads or so, hung a huge swarm of guidance sprites, more than she had seen anywhere else except at the Lumenflower Garden. There did not appear to be anything else there, but nevertheless that particular area seemed to have hundreds of motes of moonlight dancing around like fireflies.

Ophelia caught glimpse of the guidance sprites swarming around... something, something that she couldn't see, and she used her free right hand to point up towards the space above them in the air where they gathered in a swarm. She also spoke Farren's name, just to be safe, though she didn't bother directly informing Torquil. He seemed to be quite content with just tagging along and taking whatever direction was given to him when it was needed, more a follower than anything else, and that suited her just fine--she'd follow her whims for as long as they aligned with Farren's, but that sense of unease pricked at her again from within and returned her from her thoughts to the issue at hand.

"Up there... sprites. A whole swarm of them, too--like... there's something big up there, something of the Nightmare? But I can't see it, only the sprites surrounding it." She mused, keeping her tone above a whisper but below normal speaking volume. She had half a mind to try something, and anoint herself temporarily with the Eye rune once again--perhaps it would reveal some insight to her, now that she knew where to look?

Can you sense what is there, my guiding moonlight? she thought, her right hand returning to give it a tender stroke as she offered her thoughts to it and posed her question. Before anything further could happen, though, Ophelia caught sounds of footsteps approaching from beyond the corner, and her head snapped to attention as her eyes focused and her muscles braced. Something in her posture changed, as though ready to fight, and she rose to her full height and kept herself on guard. Like this, there was almost something regal about her--imposing and bright, but frightfully cold and dispassionate at the same time. It was a curious opposite to her voice, which was always warm and familiar.

_Farren

walked with his two companions, but unlike some who might become lost in thought without much to stimulate their interest, Farren subconsciously took on a strange sort of mien. It was somewhere between relaxed and hypervigilant, eyes scanning dutifully, sometimes fixing on unmentioned details, even as he stretched his other senses as much as he could. At the same time his posture seemed almost relaxed, his eyes less piercing than they had been for awhile, perhaps due to the lack of an immediate threat.

Here and there he caught signs of recent passing, a scuff mark from a bloodied boot, a tiny shred of cloth torn away by something jutting out, scattered pebbles that didn’t match the pattern of everything else. It was odd…like he’d done all this before, and often enough to have honed the skill. It really made him wonder what sort of man he’d been, but at the same time…did it matter?

Wasn’t like he could change the past after all.

As night fell, Farren’s almost casual vigilance became sharper and he straightened subtly as it grew darker. By the time night had fallen in earnest, his back was almost ramrod straight and he’d subtly widened his eyes a bit further than normal, as if to take in more light. After some time for his eyes to adjust though, he found that it wasn’t helping much and he relaxed ever-so-slightly.

Several minutes before anything of note occurred, Farren decided to go through the slightly more lengthy process of unloading his blunderbuss and pistol at which point he stowed the lead bullets back in his pouch. After a moment’s thought, he decided to leave his pistol unloaded, while loading his blunderbuss with quicksilver, before he replaced both at his hip in their respective hooks.

Around the time he was finishing that process, Ophelia raised her arm, and instinctively he followed the motion as she pointed to an empty patch of air. Farren frowned, glowered a bit, then as the noise of approaching footfalls reached them, turned in that direction instead, his hand already on the joined Blades of Mercy.

“Seems that'll have to wait,” Farren muttered, half under his breath as they waited for the potential threat to show itself. However, perhaps unlike Ophelia, Farren's gaze didn't remain fixed on the direction of the sound, but rather shifted slowly around the area in a detailed scan of the area. He didn't much fancy being ambushed.

The sound of footfalls – hurried, human footfalls, boots on stone, and several sets of them – came closer. Torquil had been looking up at where Ophelia had indicated a moment earlier, trying to see what she was pointing out to them, and only noticed the noise of someone approaching when Farren pointed it out. He actually produced a small grunt of annoyance at this; he had been enjoying things being quiet and uneventful for once, just walking without having to actively think about or do anything. Who would have thought that being a Hunter would be so complicated?

Ophelia, Farren and Torquil only had to wait a few seconds to discover the source of the sound, as a group of five figures came running around the corner, turning immediately north and back toward where they had just killed Skinner, only to come to an abrupt stop upon spotting the Paleblood trio. The one at the front of this little unit, leading the charge, would be immediately and easily recognizable to all of them: still torn and bloodied in his White Church Hunter garb, small sword and blunderbuss in hand, was Victor, with an expression that charged rapidly from urgency to fear, and from fear to surprise.
A couple of steps behind him was a figure clad all in black, heavy cloth, with a hood that looked like Farren's over a helmet just like Torquil's. This figure had a saw cleaver hanging on their right hip and a blunderbuss on their left, while both hands were occupied by a spear, the tip of which was preceded by a bulky mass of machinery of some kind. All of them might recognize it from seeing the weapon depicted on one of the statues in the Dream, but Farren in particular might further be able to identify it as an Impaler.
Behind this figure followed the last three of the group, all of whom were dressed in the garb of the Black Church Hunters; who in the male variant and one in the female version. One of the men carried a Beasthunter Saif and a pistol, while the other held a Boom Hammer – something they had very recently witnessed the Shopkeeper using – and a blunderbuss. The female Hunter, meanwhile, wielded a rifle spear.

Ophelia's face went through a similar series of changes to Victor's: first into a smile of joy at having found who they were looking for, then to curiosity at the brigade of people he'd brought with him (though less why and more who), and finally landing on intrigued curiosity at the assembled personages. Something about the one in black near Victor and leading the others immediately struck her as familiar--from that statue in the Dream, with the saw cleaver and blunderbuss to boot. If she didn't know any better, she'd have put her finger on it being Mother Moira--and at that, the cold and judgmental pallour on her face melted into something warmer.

"Ah, Victor, dear! I'm so pleased that you're safe, and that you brought company! Skinner is dead, so if that's what you were frantically rushing back this way for... There's really no need, now. Though... you could go back and check the body, if such is your wont. I... might be being a little presumptuous here, but are you Moira?" Ophelia asked, looking intently at the one cladded fully in black with the distinct and recognisable weapons. She scanned their frame up and down as she spoke, looking for... something, some hint of recognition. If it truly was her...

"Ah, but we should move away from here. There's... something up there, though I can't see it, and standing in its presence makes me very uneasy. Should we move along? I have no doubt you will want to verify my claim of Skinner's death--his corpse should still be where we left it." Ophelia added, her eyes occasionally glancing up towards that big invisible spot surrounded by sprites. Something about it chilled her to the core, the not knowing, and she turned her head back to Victor with a big smile as she awaited Farren's input or a response from the group.

_Farren

was glad not to notice anything else out of place before the footfalls became what was clearly the sound of a small group–perhaps three people–before the figures rounded the bend. Farren’s gaze shifted to catch them and immediately his gaze zigzagged over them at a frenetic pace, taking in arms and armaments alike.

‘Black Church Hunters…ah, and our errant comrade,’ Farren thought in silence, remaining slightly tense, half-coiled and ready to strike if need be. Hunters were not necessarily friends, after all, but then Ophelia spoke and indeed Victor’s reaction eased his suspicions in kind. Farren shifted his stance, not quite so ready to strike anymore–though that could easily change if need be. His expression shifting back to its default almost-frown, Farren seemed to ease back slightly–not changing position but sort of leaning into a more relaxed position.

“Running to or from?” he asked, his piercing eyes locked on Victor, a note of amusement in his voice–though the look on his face spoke of at least some accusation. After all, there had been no guarantee of finding reinforcements for the man to return with to help in an even remotely timely manner. Besides, while Farren had somewhat downplayed Victor’s conduct to Ophelia–who doubtless had not been fooled–Farren remained altogether displeased with the fact that the White Church Hunter had essentially left them to die. To the azure-eyed hunter it mattered little that said death would hardly have been permanent.

Just like Farren and Ophelia, the four black-clad figures' first reaction to abruptly running into someone else – especially someone not wearing immediately recognizable uniforms – was to raise their weapons and prepare to defend themselves. Soon enough Ophelia spoke up, however, and the combination of choosing words over weapons and the tone of her address was enough to defuse what tension there was even before Victor signaled to stand down.
The lead figure among the black-clad ones was, upon closer examination, indeed a woman, though it was challenging to tell through her thick, baggy garb combined with a quite muscular body. Through the visor of her helmet, sharp brown eyes rapidly scanned Ophelia from top to toe, over her clean and intact form, with her gaze lingering on the quite prominent Holy Moonlight Sword. Then her inquisitive focus shifted to Torquil and examined him as well, noting his lightly singed and faintly blood-spattered apparel, only to linger at the Loch Shield on his arm. Finally she looked Farren over, easily spotting how blood-stained and ravaged he was, and her eyes fixed on the Blades of Mercy.
She did all of this in silence while Ophelia was speaking, only for her attention to shift back to her once Ophelia asked if she was Moira. “I am,” she stated, her tone firm and her speech quick and confident.
Upon Ophelia suggesting that they go elsewhere due to something being “up there,” only for the Hunter known as Mother Moira to look up as well. Her expression did not change through any of this, remaining mostly blank but stern, and even as she looked up – and Ophelia might notice that she did not simply look up in a general sense, but looked directly at the place on the wall she could see the guidance sprites – her mien stayed the same.
“Amygdala,” Moira announced. “Mostly harmless. Doesn't understand what we say. Not a concern. This place is fine.” Each sentence was spoken quickly and punctuated harshly.

“Running to,” Victor answered Farren's question, shamefully averting his gaze for a moment before pulling himself together and looking Farren in the eye. “I told you our orders were to retreat if we encountered Skinner and get the First Hunter.” He glanced at Moira beside him. “I just happened to run into the other First Hunter on my way there. Second best thing. Figured that with all of us, we could take on Skinner.”
“But that wasn't necessary,” Moira interjected, her focus shifting back to Farren. “You killed Skinner. Well done.” Her attention shifted to Victor. “You didn't tell me Skinner was fighting Paleblood Hunters.”

"Amygdala, you say? I don't know what they are, but your assurances are enough for me. I've seen the statue of you, Moira, in the Dream--it's really quite an honour, I must say." Ophelia began, looking thoughtful but thoroughly excited. She gave Moira a gentle curtsey and even a bow of her head--though she was enamoured with Dietrich, she felt a certain sort of kinship with Moira. She'd heard plenty of tell about the Black Healing Church's creed in her time amongst friends and strangers, about how they served the needs of Hunters in a way that the White Church never had. She never thought that she'd be a Hunter, never mind a Paleblood Hunter, and never mind the only True Paleblood Hunter in their little trio--if anyone could be said to have an experience that mirrored hers, it would be Moira.

"I know you are busy, out on the Hunt, but... Do you think it would be possible for us to carve out some time to talk? You know what it's like, surely, to be bound the Dream and filled with questions but have little in the way of guidance. The Shopkeeper and Doll are lovely, of course, and my the Shopkeeper is terrifying to behold in battle... but despite how darling they are, they lack a certain... familiarity. Ah! Before I forget, I have a gift for you, dear." Ophelia spoke, first addressing Moira and then switching to Victor at the last moment. She bent down briefly with her right arm outstretched and beckoning to the little ones, willing them to bring forth the runebrand. She took it from them gently, whispered a 'thank you', and pointed the tool towards Victor with a firm grip.

"I have a Rune I'd like to anoint you with, love, if you're willing to accept. Something to keep you safe. It will sting quite terribly, but it can offer you a premonition of danger a little before it strikes. I'd be honoured to brand the rest of you, too, good Hunters--if such is your desire. This... this is going to be a long Night. Every little advantage will help. Do you still have a rune, Moira? I assume the brand was there when you were yet tied to the Dream." Ophelia spoke, softly and kindly. She felt obliged to Victor, even if he had only been following orders--and as best as she could tell, he truly had acted sensibly. She wasn't sure why Farren was so huffy all of a sudden, but he'd been getting more terse and gruff the longer things had gone on. Perhaps this was simply who he was, and he was just now remembering... perhaps it was something else.