“Can't say that I have,” Moira responded to Farren's question, walking off to examine some of the gashes carved into the ground. She laid her Impaler on the ground next to her while reaching her hands into the crevice – for the clawmark was wide and deep enough that both of her hands could comfortably fit in there – before picking up her weapon again and walking over to the enormous feather. “I agree, though: the one who did this was not human. Whether it is beast or something else...”
She crouched by the feather to examine a small puddle of blood. Again she set down her oversized spear, only to this time take off one of her gloves as well to dip the tip of her index-finger in the blood. She spent a moment rubbing her index-finger against her thumb, feeling the texture of the blood between them, before raising it to her face and sniffing deeply... only to raise her visor and lick her bloodstained fingertip.
“Definitely a beast,” she finally asserted, lowering her visor and retrieving her weapon before standing back up. “Big. Bigger than this one.” She gestured to the dead cleric beast. “Probably the biggest beast I've encountered. Too big. Too many unknowns.”
She turned to her Black Church Hunters. “We're aborting the hunt. We need more information. Probably more Hunters, too. Maybe ask Dietrich for help.”

While all of that was going on, a pair of Messengers appeared in front of Ophelia and held up a scroll for her:

Hi Ophelia!
That's amazing! Of course I'll definitely want to meet you as soon as possible! I'll finish up what I'm doing and head straight for the Hunter's Dream! This is so exciting!
With love,
Gerlinde

Ophelia swallowed at the revelations Farren and Moira provided, sinking deep into thought for a moment. Beasts were savage things, whose entire world had been swallowed to a pinprick of feral instinct--something smart enough to do this, to have this level of sapience... Did such a thing even deserve to be called a beast? Was it capable of choosing reason over violence? If it was, and it still chose violence... was it still a beast, even then? The questions gnawed at her, but were batted away by a vast and deep well of... hatred? Fear? Something dark and foreboding, some relic of her past that she just could not quite connect to any solid memory... something that she'd buried herself, or that the ministration had taken from her? Whatever it was, it lashed out with that same malice as had been directed at Victor earlier and the cognitive realisation of it finally hitting her over the emotional understanding broke her brief reverie.

"Would you like me to pass the message on to Dietrich, dear? It's a simple matter for us to hop through the Dream, after all, and it could save you some time. Whatever it was, it being unknown is the worst option. If we know, we can plan--and if we can plan, we can kill it." She offered, smiling sweetly though with a hint of melancholy in her slightly wavering voice and a subtle sigh that could be mistaken for a sudden exhalation.

Then the Messengers returned with a scroll, and Ophelia read it eagerly. The tone and contents intrigued her, the first look into the character of this Gerlinde--she seemed... almost childlike, Ophelia thought, and clearly lonely. She'd met many such souls in Central Yharnam after the Night of the Blood Moon--what few Yharnamites remained had lost most of their connections and their livelihoods, most of the people they'd ever known were simply gone. The foreigners who'd come in, the people like Farren and Moira, had been so new to it all then and making sense of a landscape that had just suffered a cataclysmic change... It was a beacon for those with nothing more to lose, and everything to build. If they could find succour in one another, a life less lonely and with some purpose to strive for... That would be something, wouldn't it?

"I don't suppose you can see the little ones anymore, Moira? A reliable way to communicate would be nice... Is there maybe an intermediary at the Black Workshop that we could use, if you're not there? I remember that name being on one of the big headstones--or if there's another location you know of that would work? If you're inclined at all, of course, love."

Moira looked to Ophelia. “No reason to call on Dietrich yet. Still don't know what we're dealing with. Might be overkill. Might not be enough.” She turned back to her Hunters. “You head back. Go hunt something else. I'll stay a while and survey the area. See if I can learn more.”
All three Black Church Hunters looked at each other for a moment before Liam took a step forward. “We can help, Mother Moira.”
But Moira shook her head. “I'm not hunting, I'm scouting. Not going to fight. One person can hide better than several.”
She turned back to Ophelia. “I don't see the little ones anymore, no. I see other things, but not them. If you need me, your best bet is at our workshop. But I'm not like Dietrich. I'm not a logistics officer, and I'm definitely not a politician. I'm a Hunter. Also technically a priest, but that's not worth much around here. I'm most useful when I'm out hunting. I'll resupply at the workshop.”

_Farren

found himself not liking the prospect of retreat, despite the risks involved with staying, but he said nothing. Not at first. For a time he simply listened, though after taking in Moira’s initial steps to investigate–including her tasting the beast’s blood–Farren turned his attention elsewhere. He slowly scanned around them, though he couldn’t see far past their huddle due to the fog. After a moment–as Ophelia and the others spoke–Farren closed his eyes and focused on the sounds he could hear, and just as relevantly…what he didn’t.

Sadly, not much stood out to him, only the drone of machinery, voltaic or otherwise, the sound of muffled voices, grunts, and bodies moving beyond the safe walls of nearby buildings. The faint shifting of avian forms–feathers and claws both–which certainly originated from the crows they’d seen on almost every nearby structure.

Farren took a deep breath, but smelled only the blood and viscera of the courtyard intermingled with the acrid aromas of the industrial ward. Farren relaxed slightly, but not because he felt safer, rather to save energy. Maintaining too much tension was a tiring thing, so he endeavored not to, difficult as it was with all the strangeness that surrounded them.

Opening his eyes as Moira finished dismissing the concerns of the other new hunters, Farren glanced at Ophelia, then Torquil, before looking back to Moira.

“There was a factory back where we started, seemed…particularly odd, similar feathers nearby, though smaller,” he offered, perhaps giving her somewhere to look, a place to start her investigation since she seemed done with the courtyard already. “I’ll be headed there as well,” he added, half turning, his eyes seeming to pierce through the fog to stare back in the direction they had come. In his mind’s eye, he pulled upon the turns of their trek to the courtyard–or plaza perhaps. It was hard to say precisely what purpose this area held given how much context the fog obscured.

“After that…not sure, but the hunt beckons, and I’d rather like more echoes before we’re forced to face whatever manner of monstrosity did this.”

"Then we'll leave correspondence and such there, love. Feel free to drop us notes if there are things you want to pass on, we'll do the same. I'll leave word with someone when we've investigated these Fire Dancers... or Old Yharnam... or the Harrow. We have much to be doing. I'm inclined to return to the Dream--I've questions for the Shopkeeper. Do you think you'd be better tracking alone, love, or do you want my presence? I think you'd be stealthier alone, but my knowledge of the arcane might come in useful."

Oddly, despite how much he'd seemed to dislike splitting up before, Farren initially just shrugged in response, as if it didn't really matter. However, after a slight frown, which faded just as fast, he spoke up in reply as well, “Your expertise could be helpful,” he conceded, “Unless the other business cannot wait.”

While listening to them speaking, Moira once again made a visual inspection of the three of them, paying special attention to Farren and Torquil.

"If you do eventually go to the workshop, ask for Seven," she told them after their exchange. "He has an experimental trick weapon that might be of use to you. That's too dangerous for regular Hunters to wield."

Ophelia shook her head very slightly at Farren's last statement, stepping forward towards him and ready to go with.

"I sent a note to Gerlinde, asking her to meet me in the Dream. She replied and will meet me there soon, but I did tell her that we were on a Hunt, and might be a little while. She seems quite sweet from the message she sent back, bless her. I'd like us to expand the boundaries of our ignorance--you do this Hunting stuff remarkably well, I think... and I've got an eye for the Arcane. We'll need everyone's unique insights and gifts to really understand what's going on here, and what awaits us. Are you coming, love?" Ophelia finished, grinning just a little with a warm expression that was only marred by the haunted glint to her eyes. The latter bit of speech saw her direct her gaze to Torquil, and she awaited his reply with a soft and patient smile--though her eyes remained somewhat distant and dreamlike, betraying her mind's real focus elsewhere.

“I guess so,” Torquil said, somewhat surprised at suddenly being consulted on anything, despite the thing he was asked being something as personal as simply whether he was coming or not, which only he could answer. He was mostly just uncomfortable with everything at the moment; uncomfortable with how things had worked out with Victor; uncomfortable with the smell here; uncomfortable with the crows watching them; uncomfortable with people working nearby even though a huge fight had obviously just happened; and, needless to say, very uncomfortable with the giant beast that had reportedly been killed by an even bigger beast.
Part of Torquil thought that he had maybe seen some of the worst Yharnam had to offer when the Mad One killed him, but now, looking at the corpse of the cleric beast and hearing what Moira had to say, he just wondered how much worse it would get. Even the beast that was already dead and was no longer a threat looked huge and insanely dangerous, to the point where Torquil would not even have known where to start fighting it. Chopping at its knees with his axe while trying to avoid getting pummeled to mush? Having seen it for himself, he definitely understood why Victor had been so opposed to fighting one. It looked terrifying.

With that out of the way, their little seven-man group started splitting up. Moira began stalking through the mist further southward, while her Black Church Hunters started heading back north to leave the Industrial Ward. Farren, Ophelia and Torquil headed back to the factory where Farren had discovered the scattered crow feathers.

_Farren

turned as he felt Moira’s gaze, watching her give him and Torquil a discerning once over before she spoke up. Something in his expression shifted subtly at the mention of ‘Seven’, and then once more as she referred to a new trick weapon of some sort. There was clear interest in his gaze and he found himself silently filing that bit of intel away for later use. Of course, unbeknownst to him, a small smile had crept onto his lips in response to her words, as if the idea of testing the weapon particularly appealed to him–enough so that it had cracked his gruff exterior. After a moment, he realized the expression on his face and turned, clearing his throat–the smile vanishing. “I remember Seven,” he commented, “...I’ll have to pay him a visit,” he added idly, that subtle smile touching the edges of his lips–his eyes lighting up slightly–before it faded into his usual intense focus once more.

Once Torquil had given his assent once more–though the man seemed…disturbed, Farren gave Moira one more respectful nod, before he turned and led the way. As they walked, Farren kept his attention outward, remaining utterly silent, even his footfalls surprisingly quiet despite the fog obscuring much of his vision and his frame not being particularly small either. He barely noticed, though some small amount of his attention did go towards remaining quiet–he didn’t want to garner any unwanted attention if they could manage it.

As they neared the factory–though it was not yet in sight due to the fog–Farren broke the silence, “Torquil. I appreciate you sticking with us,” he said, his tone even and serious, though he didn’t look back at the man. He found that it was brave of Torquil to do so, to face the night and all it held despite the fact that it clearly frightened him to do so.

For his own part…Farren didn’t find himself having experienced much fear since waking. It was an odd thing and upon thinking on it…it bothered him quite a bit. After all, while fear could cloud one’s thoughts, it could also clarify things and it was the body and mind’s signal for danger. Instead, it was almost like the old blood had stripped away the emotion and in its place left cold logic and–his blood boiled faintly, distantly–a hot, fierce hunger.

Pulling him from his thoughts, Torquil replied, though it was brief. "Oh... sure," was all Torquil offered in response. He started wondering what the alternative to going with them would be, but quickly decided that would require more thinking than he cared to invest in it.

Farren frowned a bit–wondering if perhaps Torquil hadn’t so much decided to come with them, as much as he was simply following along with little else to do. However, as the factory came into view, he decided he’d dig into that later…if at all.

“Ah, here we are,” Farren said, nodding slightly at the somewhat imposing structure, its footprint wide–likely to accommodate whatever machinery lay within. Taking stock of things, Farren visually checked the windows and entrances once more, then the wider area and the roof. Nothing had changed…except, the crows were gone. His eyes narrowed slightly, but for the moment he let it go.

“Eyes up, stay alert,” Farren murmured, then he approached one of the entrances and tried the handle–locked. Farren sighed, but rather than kick in the door, Farren knelt before the door, deciding to give something a try.

Quickly, he reached into his blood vial pouch, gently tested the durability of one of the needles, then shook his head, discarding the idea. It wasn’t worth risking it breaking, even if it wasn’t likely. So, instead, he unsheathed the joined Blades of Mercy and carefully maneuvered its incredibly narrow, thin point into the look, placing his other hand on the flat and gripping with just his fingers so as not to cut himself on the edge. He let out a slow steadying breath and closed his eyes, feeling around with the blade tip for several moments. Somehow…the act felt familiar and that fact brought mixed feelings…a small smile of pleasure formed even as thoughts of just what sort of person he’d been occurred in unison.

Farren opened his eyes and carefully, he flipped the lock after a few tries, a satisfying click making him smirk a bit. “Wasn’t sure that’d work,” he admitted with a slight chuckle as he withdrew the blade’s tip, though he didn't resheathe it as he stood. Thus, blade in hand, Farren turned the knob and pushed the door open gently, leading the way into the building, eyes darting in every which direction as he did so.

Saying that Farren's attempt at picking the lock “worked” was probably a potential subject of debate. While he did indeed succeed in manipulating the tumblers of the simple mechanism on the door, the tip of his Blades of Mercy – a weapon that occupied an awkward middle-ground between dagger and short sword – was no lockpick. The lock was indeed opened, but it was also likely damaged sufficiently in the process that it would be incapable of being locked again. By technicality Farren did pick the lock, but he also broke it.

As the door opened and Farren entered, weapon in hand and alert for threats, he found the interior of the building lit not only by several lanterns, but by the dull glow of a lit furnace. Four men were working in the room various tools of the trade, one tending to the furnace, two sharing an anvil and banging a small glowing metal blank into shape, and one was sitting in the back at a workbench, though at this angle his body covered whatever he was working on. It took a couple of seconds before one of the men at the anvil – a balding fellow in his late fifties by the looks of it – looked up from his work and noticed the invasion, and immediately stepped away from his work to approach them.
Initially he walked toward Farren with a firm, steady stride and a firm grip on his blacksmith's hammer, but then his eyes narrowed as they found the Blades of Mercy, then the Bulwark and the Beastflayer and finally the pistol. His nostrils flared once as he sniffed intensely, only for his weathered features to turn pale at the realization of who – or rather, what – had just entered the building.
“Bloody shit,” he said, the aggression draining from his voice and posture alike. “Ah, eh, g'evenin', master Hunter. Fancy seein' one o' ya 'round here. How'd you...” He glanced at the door. “You could've just knocked, you know?”

Ophelia offered a final friendly wave to the disassembling group, focusing primarily on the novice Hunters Moira had brought with her, and padded alongside Farren beneath the as-yet undrawn canvas of night. They returned swiftly to their earlier haunt and Farren began fiddling around with his blades as some sort of ersatz lockpick. Ophelia raised an eyebrow at this, wondering why he didn't simply knock given the clamouring of folks clearly audible inside, but she supposed that Farren--based on his attitude--was not someone who ever mingled with the common folk like this.

After he gained ingress the disgruntled inhabitants of the building met his aggression in kind, before recalculating and offering a more humble greeting. Ophelia responded to that in turn, unclipping the jar of eyes from her belt and kneeling down to hand it off to the little ones for safe keeping, and then following inside the building.

"We're sorry for the intrusion, love, we're just tracking those beasts that went at it earlier. I don't suppose any of you heard anything, did you?" Ophelia offered, letting her natural Yharnam accent become just a little broader and more common--there were few true Yharnamites left, it was true, but they'd been an insular bunch at the best of times before recent history. She figured perhaps letting the touch of it she still possessed take on a little extra vigour would endear them to her... their fear would probably prevent them taking it too badly.

_Farren

took two steps into the building and then blinked, then frowned, then sighed. He didn’t even tense when the civilian started their approach, aggravation clear in their posture and with a weapon in hand. It was a strange thing to realize in that moment that a normal human just…wasn’t a threat, not on their own at least–or barring specific circumstances. Firearms could certainly pose a significant danger, but melee armaments? Not really. So it was that Farren’s frown swiftly shifted into a more neutral expression, and then it actually became slightly amused as the man changed his affect entirely.

Well that was new.

Farren realized that since they’d only dealt with assailants and hunters since their awakening that he’d had no idea how regular people would respond to their presence. He just…hadn’t thought about it really, but if he had, well…the man was right, he could have just paused, listened a moment and knocked. The realization was a quiet one and Farren might have even apologized for the sudden intrusion–and for almost certainly breaking the lock on their door–but Ophelia took charge before he could say anything at all.

Rather than interrupt or protest, he simply let her, she was probably the more approachable of the two anyways. With her occupying the man’s attention, Farren sheathed first the Blade of Mercy, then Bulwark, at his hip. If these folks suddenly became a threat the only thing he’d really need were his bare hands anyways. As for an incursion of beasts…well, they’d likely hear or smell any such thing coming before they were upon them. He wasn’t worried.

That wasn’t to say that he dropped his guard, just that he didn’t feel it immediately necessary for him to remain armed. While he was fine with letting Ophelia lead the interaction, he did add his own query once she had said her piece.

“Ah…and what’s with the crow skulls?” he said, his voice a deep contrast to hers, gruff and serious, and while not unfriendly, certainly far less affable than hers was.

The old blacksmith reflexively took a step back when Ophelia entered the building, in part intimidated by the realization that his workshop had been visited by not one, but multiple Hunters, and in part because she was carrying a huge glowing sword. As impressive as something like that was even to other Hunters, it was something from the realms of impossibility in the eyes of regular civilians such as this one.
The three other workers kept working, though they clearly slowed down quite a bit and tried their best to overhear the conversation.
“Right, right,” he muttered, his tone almost apologetic and clearly submissive. “Aye, we heard plenty. Obv'isly everyone heard tha' big ol' beastie howlin' like a randy tomcat earlier, but we heard even more, we did! Damn thing came 'round here and went stompin' 'round our roof! T'was so loud, we thought t'was gonna break and come tumblin' in here. Had us holdin' our breath, it did. Even killed a few o' the crows, stupid mutt. Pissed Crowmother right off.”
He turned to Farren. “The talismans keep monsters away. Crowmother taught us to make 'em.”

Ophelia nodded along with the man's story, paying him rapt attention. She didn't turn to look at Farren when he interjected his own question, though she did wince almost imperceptibly at his gravelly tone. The gears turned in her mind, though, before she remembered just what a gift this sort of thing could be: with people, it was all about context--the Night seemed bad, a Hunter visiting seemed worse, and nearly getting assailed by a Beast felt worse still... but that could all be quite neatly juxtaposed by the positives: faith in the wards renewed, the sense of safety stronger after a brush with danger, and her soft affability compared to Farren's harsh questioning. She remembered the way Moira had looked at her, at her little collection of eyes, and she saw with perfect clarity that the little touches of madness within her had been understood and registered--that she had the potential to be dangerous. If that was the case for arguably the most powerful Hunter in the city, what little this common man could read of her would likely scream danger--but next to Farren, in context, she looked like the better option.

Ophelia ran her free right hand down the length of the Holy Moonlight Sword, tenderly whisking away its full glory to be revealed in front of eyes more worthy, and returned her right hand to her side. She gave the blacksmith a gentle smile and looked up at the roof to quickly assess what real damage there was--but also to get them some more information about the lesser beast. It wasn't quite as juicy as the larger one--presumably the Crowmother--but Ophelia didn't like to leave any stone unturned. The simplest clues could lead to the greatest revelations.

"You've all been very brave, tonight, dears. I wonder, if it isn't too much trouble, is there a way up to the roof that we might use...?" Ophelia began, pausing at the end slightly,"... ah, I never asked your name! How rude of me, love, I'm Ophelia--might I know yours?"

Upon receipt of the name--or not, as it were--Ophelia continued:

"We'd like to make sure everything is safe for you up there. I'd also like to inquire about this Crowmother, if you've got a spare moment and the inclination to tell me about her? I noticed the wards outside; I'm full glad they work, dear." Ophelia continued, her tone and body language both shifting to something projecting concern rather than anything actively threatening--she wanted these folks to feel like they could trust her, that she was not a threat to them... but she did not do anything about Farren, letting him make his own statement.

Looking up intending to visually inspect the inside of the roof, Ophelia instead found herself looking at a ceiling that was much too low for that, suggesting that the workshop might have a second floor or an attic of some description. Regardless of why it was, it meant that she would not be able to spot any damage to the roof from where she was.
“Ain't nothin' brave 'bout it,” the blacksmith chuckled, absentmindedly scratching his cheek with his left hand and leaving large smears of soot. “We's gotta work 'round here to earn our keep. 'sides, beasts don't usually come 'round here... nor do Hunters.”
“Oh, uh, pleasure,” he replied awkwardly when Ophelia introduced herself, apparently struggling to think of a proper and polite way to respond. “I's Gregory. Pleasure.”
“Gettin' to the roof... well, we's got a ladder lyin' 'round ya can use. Don't know why the city-folk treat ladders like they has to be stuck in place-like. Should be long 'nough to get up there.” He pointed toward the back of the room, where a somewhat flimsy-looking but serviceable ladder was lying up against the far wall. “Might be a bit dirty, though. Hope ya don't mind.”

“Crowmother...” He mused, speaking the word slowly and thoughtfully, as if trying to formulate how to tell them about it. “She came 'round here maybe seven-eight years ago? We's all scared out of our minds at first, of course; she's huge, she is, as tall as ten men, and ugly as sin. We thought she was just another man-eatin' beast, but she talks and acts like a person... mostly at least.” He shrugged. “As long as we don't cross her or her babes she's gentle as a lamb, I swears, and she keeps the other beasts away. Even the big one stompin' on our roof was no match for her! She's real clever, too, she is. Without her, we'd all been eaten by beasts a hundred times over.”

_Farren

shifted his gaze from the worker, taking in the various tools being used in the large workshop as well as what seemed to be getting done therein. The man’s response elicited little reaction from him, only a grunt in fact. What he’d found more interesting was the name that the fellow had used in a way far too casual–Crowmother.

As he’d thought, the locals were entirely aware of whatever had utterly thrashed the beasts back in the plaza. Farren silently flexed and relaxed his jaw a few times, teeth pressing together and apart for a moment (mouth still closed) before he caught mention of the ladder they could use. Farren’s gaze found it swiftly and rather than wait–knowing he’d easily be able to hear the conversation even from the far end of the factory, Farren headed towards the thing.

As he walked, he took in the various materials, garb, machines, work stations, and other miscellaneous objects and properties of the workspace therein. He didn’t necessarily need to know what was there, but nonetheless Farren had always had some interest in such things so they caught his attention almost despite himself. A moment later his long, purposeful strides brought him to the ladder, which he regarded for a moment before glancing about, then grabbing it. Carefully, he maneuvered it down under his arm without having the long thing strike anyone or anything around him. He carried it under his left arm, hand on the bottom of it, fingers in a wide grip. He was surprised at how light it was despite its size, something he instinctively knew was more due to the changes in his own body than any property of the object itself.

As he got partway back to the others, Farren paused and gently set down the ladder, before turning to one of the nearby workers.

“Hate to bother, but any chance one of you have a spare knife? Just something sturdy and functional,” Farren clarified after asking, his piercing azure eyes fixed on the closest worker. He didn’t intend to appear intimidating, or unsettling, but Farren’s eyes had always been rather striking and after the ministration they’d become even moreso. Further…the fact that he was armed to the gills did him no favors in coming off as non-threatening even at the best of times. Still, the way he asked was markedly casual, relaxed even, though his senses remained attuned to his surroundings in a way they simply couldn’t for a normal human–something that would likely come off as an at least slightly unnerving degree of intensity.

Nonetheless, there he remained, waiting for a reply.

"A little dirt never hurt anyone, love, don't you worry about that." Ophelia smiled in return, before peering over at Farren as he unceremoniously made his way over to the far side of the factory to fetch their quarry.

Ophelia listened to the man's talking about the Crowmother eagerly, nodding along approvingly as he spoke of how gentle she was with them and how she offered them her protection. She'd lived most of her life beneath the protection of something similar, she supposed, though the Witches had always referred to it as a God of some kind, or... was it Great One? She truly did not know, the memory fuzzy and cloudy--but she did remember the sensations, the unseen intimations of Yharnam's forbidden woods, and the particular mix of vulnerability and pride as she strode towards a shrine with offerings in hand.

"She seems a benevolent sort, looking after her flock. Does she demand any offerings of you, love?" she asked, head tilting very gently to the right as she kept one eye on Farren and his situation and another on Gregory. Her mind's eye almost drifted back to the carved skulls of corvids outside--partly curious as to why such a being as this enigmatic Crowmother would hate for her children to be harmed, but approve of their skulls being used to fashion wards. Such things had power, that she did not deny, but there was a loose thread here that she intended to tug 'til the whole warp and weft became known to her.

“Spare? Uh...” Gregory turned and looked to the man at the workbench toward the back of the room, a spindly fellow who looked to be even older than Gregory himself, possibly in his seventies. “Jayden, you have a knife you's not usin'?”
The even older worker named Jayden rummaged around his table for a bit before eventually producing a small carpenter's knife that looked thoroughly neglected and worn, its edge dull and its blade dotted with red spots of rust.

While that was going on, Gregory remained focused on Ophelia's questions. “Offerings? I don't think so, miss Ophelia. She hunts her own food, she does, and she doesn't take anythin' from here. She mostly just wants to be left alone at the mountain. Her and the Crow Hunter.”

"Mm, you've done very well for yourselves, love. I'm glad. It's a bit of a queer request, but... would you mind teaching me how to make those little talismans? I'd like to offer the Crowmother the proper respect: if she's protecting you, she's a darling in my books."

"I guess. 'Tis pretty simple, you just takes the skull of a crow and paint that li'l squiggly on its forehead, and then you hang it where you don't want monsters to get in."

"That simple? What a boon! Well, love, I'd hate to take up too much of your time when you have work to be doing. By way of apology for the lock and how frightfully rude we were upon entering, might you all accept a blood vial to share between you as suitable recompense?"

"Oh, uh, no thanks," he chuckled awkwardly. "We's all human here. Blood's no use to us."

"Ah, my apologies, love. In that case... I feel that we owe you a boon in kind, at least: is there a service we could perhaps do for you?"

"Just leave soon, I think," Gregory shrugged. "Crowmother don't like strange Hunters here. She's scared o' ya."

Ophelia curtseyed in response and nodded gracefully. As she ascended from the curtsey she brought her right hand up along the length of the Holy Moonlight Sword once more, beckoning forth its gentle radiance, and promptly made her way towards the exit, gaze expectantly trained upon Farren as she awaited him. A thoroughly useful line of questioning, she reckoned, that had given them much information about the context in which this Crowmother existed. She found herself somewhat torn: would she have permitted Moira to slaughter that which she had once revered as holy, had offered its protection to her and her kin in return for friendly gifts? She thought not, as much as she felt that well of roiling rancour lash out inside her at the thought of sparing any mercy to any beast. Something about her expression shifted into seeming unsettled, and she rested her head against the Holy Moonlight Sword gently and let its guidance cleave the doubt and confusion from her.

_Farren

glanced the offered knife and just barely managed to suppress all but the faintest twitch of a frown in his brow. However, he managed to give the man his thanks, nodding in respect as he walked over and gently took the knife. Farren would glance it over, nod to himself a bit, and then glance down at his belt. He was quickly running out of places to stow things and given what the workers had given him he’d definitely need to fix the thing up. So, rather than do much of anything with the knife, he just kept it in his right hand—blade-tip pointed towards the floor—and walked back to the ladder.

By then Ophelia was finishing up her conversation with Gregory, and he was glad for it…he wanted to get moving, especially given what the man had said at the tail end of things.

“‘Preciate the knife. I’ll bring the ladder back,” Farren offered, giving the men a final nod of acknowledgement, “Stay safe.”

Then—picking up the ladder—Farren followed Ophelia out, not bothering to close the door. He figured Torquil or Ophelia would do so since he was carrying the damned unwieldy thing.

“Got somewhere in mind?” Farren asked, turning his eyes on Ophelia. At the same time he was reviewing what they’d found out so far. He rather wished Moira hadn’t gone off on her own so soon, as this new information was…it felt important, if unsettling to think on.

What particularly bothered him was the fact that Gregory had said that this…’Crowmother’ had spoken like a human might. While he’d heard the rare story of beasts that retained some semblance of speech, it wasn’t at all common. He couldn’t remember much…and it was all hearsay as far as he knew, but he had no real reason to doubt the man so he had to take his words more or less at face value.

That and the fact that there seemed to be a hunter associated with the thing. On the one hand…it was good that this part of the city seemed safe enough for its people. In a way, the Crowmother was making their job somewhat easier, but on the other hand…it felt wrong somehow. There might not have been anything to that feeling, but things like this…well, things in Yharnam were often not what they appeared.

As they went back outside, Ophelia indicated a place for Farren to put the ladder with no crows – which was simple enough, given that there were no crows in sight at the moment – and the time finally came for them to undertake the arduous quest of checking the roof of this random little workshop. The accomplished slayers of beasts, vanquishers of brutal serial killer-Hunters and fledging explorers of the eldritch secrets of the world bravely prepared to ascend to new heights and check the shingles above.
With the old, flimsy ladder in place, the clever decision was made to send the bold, cunning Farren, carrying his entire arsenal of weapons on his person, to investigate. Farren, who weighed over 100 kg and was the heaviest of the three Hunters just by his own weight, and further weighed down by his abundant Hunter gear, as opposed to Ophelia with her comparatively puny 60 kg frame, single sword and a pistol. He ascended the rungs of the ladder with his new rusty old carpenter's knife in hand, only for paranoia to seize him halfway up, prompting him to draw his blunderbuss and aim toward the lip of the roof.
He climbed, but only got about two-thirds of the way up – a little over two meters – before the wood suddenly groaned loudly under him, screaming for mercy from the burden placed on its feeble limbs. There was barely time to react, and the Lake Rune did not warn him as he suffered no impact... yet, at least. But despite the best, valorous efforts of the creaky wooden ladder, the load was simply too much. With a loud crack the left stringer of the ladder snapped a couple of rungs below where Farren had gotten to, causing the right stringer to start bending and splintering as the entire structure began collapsing to the right and in toward the building.

_Farren

realized–far too damned late–that this had been ill-conceived. Sending easily their heaviest up a rickety wooden ladder, still fully armed, without a second thought. Of course, that thought was crowded out by brief instinctual panic, followed swiftly by his brow lowering as he swore through gritted teeth and–rather than jump immediately, dismount, or leap up to try and catch the lip of the roof at the cost of dropping his loaded gun, Farren rode the ladder’s fall. While it continued to splinter and break beneath him, Farren used his sharpened senses and reflexes to gauge the moment before it would fully splinter and break into multiple pieces rather than one fractured ladder.

The moment before it did so, Farren pushed off, up and forward, angling his feet a bit ahead of him in the air as he moved. The jump offset some of his downwards momentum, and given that he was even closer to the ground before doing it, he managed to land on his feet with only a slightly unpleasant shock traveling up the bones of his legs as he struck ground. His knee came down due to the angular momentum and so he found himself on one knee, knife and blunderbuss still in hand, but pressed to the earth each with their own dull noises. For a moment, Farren didn’t breathe, but he didn’t stand still either, instead he moved immediately, standing, twisting, and stepping back before the ladder finished its descent to the ground, crumpling in a long string of twisted wooden debris.

As he glared at the remnants of the ladder, Farren spat on the ground, “You want atop that roof? Do it yourself,” he half growled, though really he was more irritated with himself than her. Well…himself and whoever had put together the poorly built construction, not to mention the numerous people who hadn’t kept it properly maintained.

What a bloody mess….