Ophelia felt the creaks and tremors in the timeworn wood of this ancient ladder before she heard the almost-shriek of the wood splitting. The world exploded into a flurry of motion: Farren's reflexes kicked in, and he assessed the situation quickly. He chose to simply ride the falling ladder down, and Ophelia quickly made her way far enough back to get out of the arc of his fall. She looked at him with her usual smile, not a single feature of her expression changed after the little incident.

After Farren's near-fall and angry outburst, a chorus of crows started cawing raucously out in the midst. If you did not know better, it would sound almost as though they were laughing.

Ophelia cracked a slight chuckle at that, and instinctively went to offer Farren a hand up but caught herself before he could lash out at her. She supposed it was quite embarrassing, if one felt the capacity to be embarrassed, and that the sting on his pride would best be ameliorated by a victory of some kind.

"... Well, looks like we're leaving the roof alone. I think we got more than enough information out of our little exchange, though--this path leads on toward the mountains, and to a crow-garbed Hunter. I've... a different plan in mind: see, Moira's going to take her time and pursue this to wherever it leads... why should we hasten that along? Let's investigate a little more of the lay of the land, hmm? I'd quite like to go back to the Woods, via the Dream. I... I remember a path, clear as day, that we would walk to leave offerings to... something like this Crowmother, I suppose, in that they were what kept the beasts away from Hemwick, back in the day. Fancy it?" Ophelia asked, shifting her gaze between Farren and Torquil. She knew Torquil didn't really want to make the decisions, but... she just didn't feel like it was fair to leave him out.

_Farren

brushed himself off, some dirt and a few splinters of wood having gotten on him during the ordeal. Having been…rather preoccupied, he’d not caught Ophelia’s chuckle—which was probably for the best—but as he finished brushing off, Farren holstered his blunderbuss once more in its designated hook at his hip. Silently, he resolved not to climb any rickety fucking ladders while fully armed in the future.

“Sure,” Farren said gruffly as he briefly cast his irritated glare in her direction before glancing away. However, as he was turning his attention he found himself grimacing at the sight of the rust-spotted knife again. Immediately he found himself pulled in another direction: The Black Workshop.

“Actually, I’d rather check the Black Workshop first,” he said, some of his irritation starting to wane at the thought. “Could probably use some more vials and bullets, and I’m rather curious about this experimental weapon that Moira mentioned.” Not that he had room to carry anything else. If he decided to take it along, the Messengers would have to divest him of something…or perhaps store it for him.

"Why don't you go do that while I meet with Gerlinde, then we can rendezvous in the Dream and go from there? So long as we don't go anywhere near the Gold, the little ones will come--we shouldn't split up in the future if we don't have the little ones to help us, though, I think..."

Farren nodded in agreement, his eyes shifting once more to peer into the fog as if he might see the lantern hidden therein. For a moment he considered following her to the dream and simply using the Headstone to get to the workshop, but on second thought he decided against it. From what he could remember, it was perhaps only an hour from where they now stood and it would give him a chance to stretch his proverbial wings. As much as he disliked the idea of meaninglessly endangering himself, going this way could mean gathering valuable experience–and perhaps blood echoes–that might serve all of them well. Besides…while he didn’t exactly fancy dying, even that fate would only send him back to the Dream, well…that and leave him with lifelong trauma, he supposed.

That thought almost had him change his mind, but he shook it off. If they were to discover the reason that the Dream had accepted them, then he would have to get used to taking more risks…whether he liked the prospect or not. “Well, since you’ll be safely in the embrace of the Dream…perhaps you’d share some of your vials,” Farren commented plainly, “I can always grab us more from the Workshop…or acquire some with echoes when we reconvene,” he added as further explanation, not wanting her to think that he asked with no intention of returning the favor at one point or another.

"Walk? To the workshop? Don't be daft, love--I'm just having a little natter with the Shopkeeper and Gerlinde. Why don't you and Torquil hop over to the workshop through the Dream, pick up this experimental weapon, and then go off on your Hunt? Then you can take as much time as you like, and not stray too far from a lantern--remember, when the echoes flow into you, you will only keep them if you return to the Dream through one." Ophelia replied in turn, bemused at Farren's suggestion and voice resonating with the telltale warbling of gentle confusion.

Farren's eyes narrowed slightly and he frowned as she replied, not even mentioning the vials. He sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck in an unconscious gesture of discomfort as he looked away. “...I'd rather not...” he replied, for once seeming rather...cagey.

"... Do you have a particular reason? You're just... normally all about being efficient and practical, and this... why, it's almost sentimental! If you need to take some time for yourself I've no objection there, love, do what you must--but we'll want to be together before we head out into the woods. I'll wait in the Dream after I'm done chatting, just keep me apprised, mm?" Ophelia retorted, walking up to Farren and putting her free right hand on his shoulder with a firm but gentle grip. She let it remain there only for a second or so before awkwardly retreating, her gaze lingering on him for a few seconds before she turned away.

Though he didn't shrug off her touch, Farren almost winced at the contact, as if it was the weight of guilt made manifest as it settled on his shoulders. He swallowed, stiffened and as she withdrew squared his shoulders and seemed to stand a bit taller with a certain deliberateness. Taking a deep breath, Farren closed his eyes and then let out a long sigh. “Gerlinde...we may have some...history,” he said, leaving vague what he meant for a pregnant moment, punctuated by him almost unwillingly meeting Ophelia's gaze. “...if she recognizes me, it could get...ugly. Might sour relations,” he said, grimacing at his own words. Really he knew he was still underselling the reality of things. With the clarity of his current perspective, it was somehow even more clear to him that what he'd done back then had been...deeply wrong. It was much harder to justify, especially with the event existing mostly out of context, without the other memories and experiences of his former life.

Awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other, occasionally shuffling a bit forward, back or sideways just to get the sense that he was moving, Torquil did what he usually did: watched and listened. Only after Farren had admitted to why he was trying to avoid the Hunter's Dream - or rather Gerlinde, as it turned out - did he take a firmer step toward them and spoke up:

"We stick together, right?" he asserted, echoing the compliment Farren had given him earlier. "So we'll figure it out. Right?"

Ophelia nodded along with Torquil's statement, having stopped moving away from the group and turned back.

"Not like we can avoid it forever, is it, love? Whatever will be will be--best to find that out now where we have some control over the circumstances."

Their words washed over him and with even Torquil saying they ought to stick together and figure things out...well, it was hard not to see the logic of it. “Pain now, or pain later...” Farren muttered to himself, seeming to recite the beginning of some old adage. After a moment, his head tilting back as if to regard the skies above, but with his eyes closed, he nodded slightly and then looked to Ophelia briefly. However, rather than speak, he pulled his gaze away and then strode past her in the direction of the lantern.

“Let's get this over with,” he said gruffly, teeth slightly gritted, his guard up once more. She was right. He'd have to face her sometime, and running away would make him no better than Victor running from a fight.

With their discussion out of the way and their business in this part of the Waking World done for the time being, Ophelia, Farren and Torquil ventured back to their newly discovered and lit lantern to return to the Hunter's Dream. The process was quite familiar now, as they all walked up and looked into the pale blue light of the Gatekeepers' little marker, felt themselves fall asleep and instantly found themselves reawakening in the Dream.
As he had the first time, Farren would feel a brief and sourceless tremor go through his blood as he transitioned to the Dream, but he felt no other effects from it. It was also the same for Torquil as when he had first died and been sent to the Dream; he felt a tremor go through his blood, and for no reason in particular started feeling really sad. It was a weird feeling, for an emotion to assert itself like that anchored to no particular thought or experience, which also made it pass quickly, easily and, like most things that happened to the simple Hunter, without provoking much thought.

The three of them found themselves appearing side by side in the usual spot on the path leading up to the old workshop, right next to the four headstones. The birdbath overflowing with Messengers was close to them as well, with several Messengers there gesturing wildly to the Hunters to get their attention, eagerly pointing down into the water. It seemed that they might have new items for sale.
Off to the right of the stair leading up to the workshop stood the Shopkeeper and the doll, passively watching what happened in this domain of the Nightmare as they were wont to do. This was the Hunters' realm, after all; their purpose was only to offer aid, advice and information when requested. Here, at least, they existed only to serve.

But also on the path next to the headstones, just a few steps ahead of the three others, was yet another person; a woman. A woman who, it would very immediately obvious to Farren, did not look even remotely the same as the woman he had kidnapped all those years ago. Whereas the woman back then had been quite short, around 20 cm shorter than himself, this woman was actually as tall as he was. And where the the waif he had carried so easily on his shoulder had weighed only around than 50 kg and been somewhat emaciated, with barely any feminine curves to her, this woman was quite curvaceous. Surprisingly so, actually; though she was obviously slim, with a narrow waist and slender legs and arms, she was quite well-endowed. She was also very, very obviously much too young to be the same Gerlinde; whereas the woman from back then would have been in her early thirties by now, this one looked like she was barely twenty years old.
And it was not just her age either; where the one back then had looked quite plain, if somewhat haggard and pale, this one seemed almost impossibly beautiful. Her jawline, cheekbones and nose were sculpted and feminine, her lips had a bit of natural pout to them without looking fat or swollen, her eyebrows looked thin without looking artificial from plucking. Her skin was perfect; slightly tanned and almost glowing with health, with not so much as a single blemish or a hair out of place.
Yet despite the fact that everything about her was decidedly not the woman from back then, Farren would doubtlessly notice that something... was. Her loose, silken raven-black hair that flowed over her shoulders and all the way down to the middle of her back. And her sapphire-blue eyes with a distinctive green ring around the iris, slanted just slightly inward. Those eyes, despite all the evidence to the contrary, were absolutely hers.

Her attire seemed like it had most likely been chosen to accentuate her exquisite features and draw attention to her and her divine beauty. She wore a pair of tan laced boots that went almost to her knees and hugged her calves tightly, and a skirt that appeared to be a version of the woman's variant of the Black Church garb, modified so that it was asymmetrical; on the left side it had been shortened to end just above her knee, but on the right side it went even higher, up two-thirds of her thigh, leaving nearly her entire left leg and its flawless, hairless naked skin bare. And rather than the coats and cloaks other Hunters seemed to favor, the woman wore only a simple black vest on her torso, which not only naturally left her arms bare, but also had some buttons strategically left open; one or two at the bottom to reveal just a bit of the skin of her belly, and several at the top... though the top buttons may have been left open out of necessity rather than choice, as even party unbuttoned, the top strained against the bounty within. Regardless of why it was as it was, it resulted in a very pronounced and noticeable cleavage.
She also had the usual Hunter accouterments, of course; a belt with the tube for quicksilver bullets and the satchel for blood vials, along with a holster on her right hip with a Hunter's pistol, and a hoop on her left hip held a threaded cane. But more unusually, her left arm appeared to be wrapped in a very long pale-green snake molt, with the head of the molt resting on the back of her left hand.

“Ah!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands and beaming a wide, bright smile that showed off her teeth, which were predictably perfect and white. “I didn't know there were more of you!” She looked at Ophelia. “You must be Ophelia, then? Hi! Nice to meet you all! I'm Gerlinde!”

While she spoke, a churning, dark mass of clouds seemed to spontaneously spring into being over their heads, only for them to rapidly start spiraling outward, covering the huge, gleaming moon and casting the Dream in shadow. Then, within seconds, the doubtlessly familiar sound of beginning and rapidly building rain hit them, and soon they were all showered in... weirdly warm rain. Weirdly warm, red rain that filled the air with the smell of blood.

_Farren

felt himself almost falling, and like the last time a sudden and unexplainable terror seized him. If he had been moving he might have froze, but instead it was more like his mind stuttered. Like a missed heartbeat, an interrupted thought, or as if he’d missed a final step when descending stairs, only to find that there wasn’t actually a step to miss at all.

However, it was a fleeting thing, existing only long enough to leave a disturbing unanchored impression on his mind before he came back into his awareness and his body. His eyes opened (had he ever closed them?) and he once more beheld the Hunters’ Dream. Cloudy this time, but what struck him was not the changes in the sky or the imposing figure of the Moonbound Hunter—let alone the porcelain doll that stood beside him—but instead the almost uncanny beauty of the stranger who stood somewhat nearer. A woman.

Farren’s lips parted slightly and while he’d tried to steel himself against any shocking revelations, violent reactions, or unpleasant awkwardness that the meeting of a kidnapper and their victim might have entailed he found himself entirely unprepared for this.

She seemed younger somehow, more lively and…well, certainly not the plain waifish woman he’d stolen away in the night in a past life.

Then again…a young woman pregnant with child living hard…in poverty, starving, barely scraping by…that could age a person. Maybe she’d never been as old as he’d thought. The idea sickened him, made his guilt heavier, a guilt that she didn’t even seem to realize he had.

Maybe he’d worried for nothing? She’d been unconscious for much of the…trip back to the drop off point. They’d never exchanged words or names. Had she even really gotten a good look at him? Farren wet his suddenly dry lips, his throat dry. He tried to swallow, but there was no liquid to speak of. For the first time since waking he really wished he had something to drink other than blood.

“A pleasure…” Farren choked out before roughly clearing his throat, his eyes still fixed on Gerlinde’s face—her eyes specifically. It was her, even if she looked like someone else entirely…he remembered the brief panic in those eyes before the ethers had knocked her out. ‘Gods I need a drink…’ he thought to himself, pursing his lips. “…that’s Torquil and, uh…I’m Farren,” he managed even as he very deliberately kept his eyes on her face. If she truly didn’t remember him, Farren might just come off as a man dumbstruck by her beauty, or the boldness of her garb, which—all told—was rather scandalous (especially for the time period).

Some tiny, quiet, old part of him…a fragment of the self he’d largely left behind, whispered rather unpleasant things about the woman. ‘From starving peasant to Courtesan Huntress, aye?’ that internal voice seemed to joke. Farren ripped his eyes from her features and then abruptly headed to the Messenger Pool to distract himself. He didn’t really care that he didn’t have echoes…nor did he really care what new trinkets the little helpers had for them…he just needed his mind to be anywhere else.

However, as he started to make his way over, it happened, the clouds swirled and darkened and the sheer suddenness of it drew his eyes upwards. Then the rain pattered down, its faintly warm droplets getting in his eyes and creating tiny splashes across his grizzled features. He shifted his gaze down and shielded his eyes from the rather sudden downpour…or was it more of a misting? Didn’t matter. He unconsciously licked his lips and tasted…blood? Farren paused mid-step and frowned, licking his lips again. The rain tasted like blood…and—he focused on his peripheral vision and the gentle curtains of falling rain only to notice the faint haze of pinkish-red—no, it was blood.

Well…as disquieting as that was, at least his mouth and throat weren’t painfully dry anymore….