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….

Ophelia looked at Gerlinde with her mouth hanging open just a little--not out of attraction for this elfin and ethereal being (who, despite that, was still perhaps the single most beautiful creature Ophelia had laid eyes upon), but for sheer shock. She almost didn't seem real - and Ophelia instinctively whispered to the Holy Moonlight Sword while Farren got his gruff and awkward interaction out of the way.

"... Is... is she even human? Do her veins sing with Glory too?" she asked it, cradling it to her cheek for a brief moment, before she finally regained enough of her wits and wherewithal to step forward and actually participate in the conversation. She barely even noticed the clouds changing, being so focused on Gerlinde, but as soon as the warm and wet spatters--warm?--fell from the sky and filled the Dream with that hematic and heady scent. She blinked once, looked up, and then blinked again before returning her gaze to Gerlinde. She hopped over to Gerlinde with jubilance in her steps and on her face, and she immediately moved to give Gerlinde a hug if she accepted--though she'd only let it last for a couple of seconds, unless Gerlinde desired more. The full glory of the Holy Moonlight Sword cradled against her chest would be slightly uncomfortable, but she also wondered if letting the blade touch her might give it some more insights into her that could be passed on.

"That's me--my, my, love, look at you! Aren't you just the most splendid thing I've ever seen? Ah, it's so nice to meet you, dear--I think we four are the only ones currently bound to this Dream, and so... we're sort of stuck together, aren't we? I hope we'll come to think of each other as friends and allies, once we know more about each other!" Ophelia beamed in return, giving Gerlinde much of the energy that she projected back.

“She is a Huntress like you, but it did not choose her. It chose you, Wielder, so her glory could never match yours. But she has great affinity for the arcane... and is also shifted across realities. Though you have a connection to the Nightmare, hers is stronger. She appears to exist in the Interstice,” the whispers of the Holy Moonlight Sword replied to Ophelia's expression of wonder. Ophelia would almost certainly have no recognition of the word invoked here as a proper noun, “the Interstice”, though from the context it probably had something to do with realms of the Nightmare.

Torquil, meanwhile, had his own series of reactions to his first encounter with Gerlinde, though he did not interrogate his own feelings enough to think much of them beyond finding them momentarily interesting. His first reaction was probably the most predictable and primal, as the sight of her beautiful visage and provocative garb quite simply aroused him. This was mainly interesting to him because he had barely even been aware of his own sexuality until now, or if he even had one. He had had a vague, instinctive sense that his brain treated Ophelia as a potential mate and not Farren or Victor, but until now it had been a sort of detached conclusion without any kind of drive to pursue anything of the sort. Until this moment he had all but assumed himself to be asexual... but now he realized that he had been mistaken. He felt hormones flooding his body and brain, telling him that part of him was still human, and that he wanted to do something quite human with this woman.
His second reaction was much more surprising and concerning than the first, though: he felt angry. That sense of loneliness that had hung over his forgotten memories like a veil seeped into him once again, and a little voice told him that someone like her would never want to be with a freak like him. That he was going to be alone. The thought angered him, and his ire tainted how he saw Gerlinde. Rather than admire her beauty, he found himself resenting it and how far beyond him it was. Rather than appreciate her revealing clothes – which he fleetingly thought to himself was one swipe of a claw or blade from a malfunction that would leave her even more exposed – he thought them lewd and inappropriate. Harlot, he thought to himself, and he was shocked at just how much venom there was in his inner voice when he thought it.
But even so, it was the third and last reaction that shocked him the most, as the residual sadness that had assailed him upon entering the Dream spread like a haze across these other fleeting thoughts and feelings, and filled him with... shame. Guilt. Self-hatred. Disgust. Looking at Gerlinde's young, impossibly perfect face, Torquil felt an intense sense of remorse weigh him down for reasons he did not understand. He wanted her, but she also terrified him... and he did not even understand why.

Gerlinde herself seemed momentarily distracted from both Farren's awkward greeting and introduction, Ophelia's gawking or Torquil's musing, her attention drawn skyward as the sky was wreathed in dark clouds and it began raining warm blood. She stared up at the changing light and colors with eyes that were wide – almost too wide – with utmost fascination, and her mouth agape with amazement with what she was seeing.
It was only when Ophelia suddenly approached her that Gerlinde's attention returned to the ground, and her eyes fell on Ophelia moving to hug her. For a split-second something like intense fear and disgust flashed across Gerlinde's face, her entire body flinching protectively – pulling away a little, moving her arms in front of the body, her face turning away – as if expecting an attack. But all of this lasted only that long, before the brightness and glee returned to her eyes, her smile grew wider than ever, and she happily embraced the woman she had never met before, Holy Moonlight Sword and all. She seemed quite content to hug for the couple of seconds Ophelia intended, but once they had elapsed and Ophelia made the slightest move to separate, Gerlinde broke the hug as well... in a way that seemed a little hurried and relieved.

“Nice, right? I made it myself,” Gerlinde giggled, taking a step back, throwing her arms wide and doing a quick spin in place to show herself off. “I... Oh, there is so much I want to talk about! So much I want to show you! I've been alone here for a week – or, well, alone besides Dollie and Shoppie – and... No, I'm getting ahead of myself.” Her eyes widened again. “I wondered why the sky was different when I got here tonight, and then it changed again when you got here. You're weird. I like weird! Oh, this is so exciting!”
With a beckoning gesture, Gerlinde turned around and started walking up the stairs. “Let's head inside before we're drenched, though. I know we'll be clean and dry as soon as we leave the Dream, but it's still uncomfortable while we're here.”

_Farren

stared down sightlessly into the empty sockets of the Messengers as they offered up their goods, eagerly displaying the new item they’d apparently proffered. Perhaps some part of him read that message initially, but much of him was distracted trying to sort itself out, his mind awash with old and new impressions alike. The literally bloody rain quickly began to soak through his thick garments, soaking his hair and clothes. This hadn’t been the only time he’d stolen someone away in the night…the only victim. However, from what little his mind could pull from the flashes through his inconvenient and scattered memories, Farren could tell that he at least hadn’t chosen the victims…but that he did seem to avoid women and children, pregnant women especially.

His mind seized on that word amidst the storm…Gerlinde had been pregnant. He remembered the slight feel of her protruding belly against him. Not like fat–certainly not on someone so starved–but the telltale firmness of early pregnancy. He remembered being sick of heart after that job, drunken nights throwing up in alleys…not going back to the place he’d once called home.

Farren gritted his teeth and as he heard the ladies ascending the pathway, Farren pushed up from the pool and turned abruptly on his heel. His eyes were hard, gaze locked firmly on one of the headstones as he practically marched–or perhaps stomped–across the wet earth, then stone of the path, to the grave marker. He noticed the new, yet unnamed lantern, but his mind was barely holding fast against its own storm, so he didn’t bother naming it. He just found the Black Church Workshop and practically jammed his fingers down against the stone. The faint throb of pain–which faded almost instantly–helped to ground him…and then that familiar fading-falling sensation began to overtake him.

The remembered, anchorless terror, briefly touched his almost frenzied mind and something of it lingered…attaching itself silently–insidiously–to the imagery of his ‘reunion’ with Gerlinde.

Then his figure was fading, he was falling–falling asleep–and waking moments later, eyes slowly opening, muscles tense, as he arrived at his chosen destination. The fingers of his right hand were tightly gripping the knife he’d kept in hand throughout. He’d have to get something to hold it…and here they’d certainly have the tools to mend its mistreatment.

On those things his mind fixated, locking on a series of simple, straightforward goals, along with the equally important awareness he kept about himself of any potential danger he may have wound up in by arriving suddenly at the workshop in the way only a Paleblood Hunter could.

Ophelia, for once, paid little attention to Farren and Torquil--she was both comforted and intrigued by the Holy Moonlight Sword's whispers, and she prayed silently to her Mother Moon in gratitude for its unparalleled guidance. She'd have to ask the Shopkeeper what the Interstice was... she could only make guesses, based upon the name, but the revelation that Gerlinde was 'shifted across realities' interested her greatly--as did the waifish Huntress' greater connection to the Nightmare than hers. She made to follow Gerlinde up the stairs immediately, though her eyes narrowed a little and her wide smile shrank into a hard, thin line. There had been no small amount of fear on Gerlinde's face as she approached, the look of someone who had endured more than one was supposed to, and where (unknown to her) Gerlinde's nature seemed to elicit the darkest and most base impulses in the men of their little group it only coaxed forth a sympathetic and curious concern from Ophelia. She looked at this poor creature, the perfection a porcelain mask hiding something riddled with... something. She wasn't sure what was there--but she reckoned that anyone who tried their hardest to look like that sought the protection within others' infatuation, especially if their reaction when one approached was the reaction that Gerlinde'd had.

After having ascended the path to the cottage Ophelia turned around, to survey the condition of her erstwhile companions whose footsteps she didn't sense behind her. Farren was already gone by that point--which surprised Ophelia somewhat, having missed most of his reactions to Gerlinde--though she was mostly unconcerned. He'd send a message if he needed her--and it seemed to have gone well when she'd gone off to gather information the last time and left him and Torquil to their more... combative desires. Neither Farren or Torquil were particularly subtle... nor Gerlinde, it appeared--Ophelia was grateful that at least one of their group thought about these things, and also that it was her. She couldn't deny enjoying the mysteries, and Gerlinde would no doubt present even more of them to her.

Ophelia shrugged and turned around again, continuing to follow Gerlinde into the little workshop and giving the Doll a customary curtsey on the way.

"Would you come and let me know if Farren returns here before we're done, love?" she asked with a soft smile, and moved inside with Gerlinde.

Having interacted with the marker on the headstone, Farren found himself waking up in a place that was much more familiar to him than the Hunter's Dream, though his memories of the place were from a time that had been mostly erased by his metamorphosis into a Hunter. He awakened in a little shaded gravel-strewn yard surrounded by a wall of stone and a gate of iron, beyond which he could see the taller and more gothic structures typical for Central Yharmam.
Opposite of the gate in the yard stood a squat, simple but sturdy building of stone and steel, with what appeared to be a person wrapped in a cloak and armed with a rifle, seated on a chair and guarding the area from its roof. It also had several thin chimneys ending in iron pipes that exuded streamers of smoke. It had no windows and but one single-wide reinforced door for entry, which Farren would know was equipped with enough internal locks, latches and bars to make it beyond what even the most powerful beasts could easily tear through, should they be somehow able to push through the incense filling the air from a handful of censers scattered about the yard. It was nowhere near as grand or impressive as the White Church Workshop up in the Upper Cathedral Ward, which almost looked more like a mansion or a small castle than a workshop, but it was thoroughly secure and functional.
Behind the workshop itself he could see two other, smaller buildings located to the left and right of the area, respectively, which he knew served as barracks – one for men and one for women – for Hunters to live in that had nowhere else to go. Though he could not see it from here, he also knew that there was a third building between the two and directly behind the workshop that served as combined kitchen, dining room and recreational area. Those three areas were generally open to everyone who came here, regardless of their creed or nature, as long as they were not beasts and remained peaceful and respectful. The workshop itself, however, was only for the Black Healing Church and those in its employ.
Predictably the one thing that was different about the area compared to how Farren remembered it was the familiar little crooked post with the pale-blue-glowing lantern he awakened facing, right in the middle of the yard. Aside from the one guard on top of the building the area was also mostly deserted – as was to be expected on a Night of the Hunt, when all the Hunters were out looking for prey – though it was clear that there were still people inside the workshop. He might also notice that there was no mist here and the sky was mostly cloudless, and rays of cold, pale light streamed in from the east. If he looked, he would see the rising full moon just barely starting to crest over the rooftops in that direction.

There was a twitch in the guard as Farren appeared, but whoever it was did not raise their weapon nor do anything that suggested they were alarmed at his spontaneous materialization. Given that the lantern was already lit and he knew that Gerlinde had been bound to the Dream for a week already, it would probably not be difficult to conclude that they had had opportunity to adapt to people showing up out of nowhere like this. He also knew that the Black Healing Church, unlike the white one, generally did not particularly care about allegiances or politics; they were as willing to deal with the white church and civilians as they were with Vilebloods, Followers and Fire Dancers. As long as someone was not a beast and did nothing to earn their hostility, everyone was welcome here.
Having a mission in mind and knowing how to achieve it, Farren would head for the door to the workshop and knock the sequence on it that functioned as a password. A cap slid aside on a tiny peek-hole, too small for even a finger to fit through, and Farren would know to show his face to it.
The latch clacked loudly and the handle turned even more so, the door opened and Farren was allowed to enter the workshop itself, which was not too dissimilar from the smithy they had just visited in the Industrial Ward, except a bit more cramped and with considerably more people. It was very hot in there due to the lack of ventilation while playing host to several very hot fires, but not insufferably so.

Going inside and to the right, Farren would head to that end of the room and select the rightmost out of three separate doors – these mere wood and much less secure than the outer door – and repeat the coded knock.
“Enter,” a man's voice shouted from within, sounding stressed and impatient.
Doing so, Farren would enter something like a small office. The walls to his right and in front of him were both lined with tall archiving cabinets, whereas the wall to his left was filled with a wide variety of craftsman's tools, from simple instruments like hammers and saws to less common ones meant for the delicate work it took to work on mechanical contraptions like guns or trick weapons. In the middle of the room was where these two worlds collided: a table that functioned as part-desk, part-workbench with piles of papers, writing implements and stamps sitting right alongside half-finished contraptions, gears, wires, canisters of gunpowder and more.
It was a mess, and so was the man seated behind the table: a pale, unshaven and disheveled forty-something fellow, with a spindly build, short brown hair and small blue eyes, the left of which looked twice as big as the other due to the monocle sitting in front of it. Seven – whose real name was Septimus, but who those who worked with him, at least, had given the nickname since the name literally meant “seventh” – looked up from the papers he had been handling and seemed surprised by what he saw. He was one of the people from the black church Farren had worked with semi-regularly in his past, and one of the main people responsible for its day-to-day operations. He was also a cleric – one who had received Old Blood that made him something that occupied the space between regular Yharnamites and Hunters – and wore a black church garb. His eyes initially went to Farren's equipment, noting all the trick weapons and guns he had managed to attach to his person, and only then to his face.
“Farren?” he said, the name being spoken as a question. He paused, then sniffed to confirm his suspicions. “You've become a Hunter?”


The doll bowed submissively in response to Ophelia's curtsy, Torquil mumbled something quiet and unintelligible, and everyone including the doll and the Shopkeeper began migrating inside the workshop to get out of the rain. As she entered, Ophelia might notice an irregularity with the wall adorned with unique Hunter weapons: though the spaces for the Holy Moonlight Sword and the Loch Shield were both still vacant, it appeared that tha Blades of Mercy had returned to their place there, right where they had first found them.

“Okay, alright, yeah, so...” Gerlinde began, turning to face Ophelia while idly – and unsuccessfully – trying to brush off the blood that had already fallen on her. She was still smiling widely, but her eyes were darting around all over the place, trying to observe and absorb everything at the same time. “Wait, Farren left? Aw. Well, that's fine, I guess. We'll have plenty of time to get to know each other later. We're all stuck together now, as you say, after all.”

Ophelia did indeed notice the blades of mercy returned to the wall--and thought it passing strange. She idly stooped down to beckon forth the little ones and scrawled a quick message to Farren: "Blades of Mercy in shop. Write back if you need me to hand them off to little ones."

With that done she turned her attention back to the wide-eyed and frantic Gerlinde, whose excitement could apparently be barely contained. Ophelia nodded gently at her assertion that Farren left, and idly leaned against the podium where the runebrand had once lain. Ophelia's gaze was more more focused than Gerlinde's, still gazing up and down her--she'd felt two distinct emanations of cosmic import upon Gerlinde's person and while she'd gathered that the molted snakeskin was one, she was yet uncertain of the other... but she spoke softly and kindly while she observed.

"He's business with one of the workshops, dear. Firstly, though, I just... want to check in, love--the way you looked at me when I approached you... are you okay? Ever since this happened to you I wonder if anyone's just... asked you how you're doing?" Ophelia began, her face the picture of tender and motherly concern--with Gerlinde's exceptional youth, and Ophelia's renewed but not fully rejuvenated features listing towards the older, it could certainly look to an observer like a mother reaching out to their child.

_Farren

took in his surroundings, finding them comfortably familiar. He’d surely done some work here before and that knowledge helped to ground him back in the present, though the image of Gerlinde still lingered in his mind in stark contrast to the waifish woman he’d once stole away in the night. Farren took a deep stilling breath as he re-familiarized himself with the layout of the area, his piercing gaze briefly lighting on the guard, before sliding down to the door as the man made no move to aim in his direction. As he exhaled slowly a second time, Farren straightened his back and strode forth.

After a set of specific knocks, one on the outer door, and another set inside as he navigated to Seven’s workspace, Farren found himself in the familiar room, the heat of the building’s innards somehow more pleasant for him than it likely was for others. The whole experience had an air of deja vu about it, reinforcing his sense that he’d been here many times before. The shout from behind the second door was so familiar that he almost smiled. Yet no concrete memories surfaced, it might have been more frustrating had he not found the slight mystery of their relation somewhat engaging.

What little he could recall had less to do with how well they might have known eachother and more to do with the man’s nature and position. Farren supposed it was just like him to be able to call upon that rather than what he was actually curious about. Of course, there was no time to linger on that thought for as Farren took in Septimus’ appearance the man raised his eyes, a look of recognition shifting over his face as he posed a question at the Azure-eyed hunter.

For some reason, it made Farren chuckle, his voice ringing out briefly, the smile actually reaching his eyes as he held Seven’s gaze.

“Seems so,” he replied, faintly amused…though even Farren wasn’t entirely sure why. Likely, Seven would notice that Farren’s response–while characteristic of the behavior he’d be familiar with–was not entirely what one would consider familiar or friendly. It was more distant than Farren probably had treated him in the past. “Unfortunately…the process seems to have forced me to leave many things behind, much of my memory included,” Farren said, his piercing eyes shifting subtly as he took in Seven’s features.

“Though I can tell I knew you…” Farren added, frowning slightly as he trailed off. He rather wished he could remember, but nothing was forthcoming.

Gerlinde giggled energetically at Ophelia's question. "I'm doing great! Becoming a Hunter like this has been like a dream - no pun intended - and... well, it's amazing! What I can do! Places I can go! Things I can see! It's been the best thing that ever happened to me!"

Ophelia nodded thoughtfully, not letting it escape her notice that Gerlinde was glossing over a chance to be vulnerable but not pressing about it either. "Mmm... We've been Hunters for, what, a handful of hours? I perhaps don't quite have your... level of comfort with all of it, just yet... though I have found myself quite accepting of it. If you're doing alright, dear, then what sort of things have you been up to for a week? How did you find yourself transformed?"

"Oh, now that's a story!" she laughed, the smile never leaving her face for even an instant. "The white church found me in a secret room in Byrgenwerth, where I'd been for gods know how long, and I was... well, you're here, so you must know what the sickness feels like. I was on the verge of death, and nice-old-man Harold had me turned into a Hunter." She paused, looking mildly thoughtful for a second. "I supposed it wasn't actually much of a story, huh?" She giggled. "And since then I've just been exploring!"

"Byrgenwerth... now that's a curious place to be found!" Ophelia smiled, though something in her features darkened at Gerlinde's mention of 'nice-old-man' Harold. She pondered, for the briefest of moments, letting Gerlinde know that he wasn't all that he seemed... but Ophelia couldn't trust her to not be loose-lipped, and it was imperative that he not find out that she was aware of his little tricks.
"And how did you come to arrive at the Interstice?" Ophelia asked next, delivering the line as confidently as she could despite having no knowledge of its meaning herself. She studied Gerlinde's reaction intently, fishing more for that than any real answer.

Gerlinde just stared at Ophelia for a moment. "Interstice? I don't... oh!" She clapped her hands. "You mean my Caryll Rune! I actually wanted to show you what I'd - huh?"
She had taken a step toward the table where the runebrand had once been, only to stop as she noticed it was not there anymore. "Where'd it go?"

"Ah, I can answer that!" Ophelia laughed, leaning down to retrieve the runebrand from the little ones before proffering it to Gerlinde. "It is mine. The Shopkeeper slew my coven, the Witches of Hemwick, and took the runebrand during the Night of the Blood Moon... and I returned to it when I wakened in the Dream a few hours ago. I intend to always have it with the little ones, so I can offer my protections to those allies we gather in the Waking World - though if you send a scroll, I'll always be happy to send it off to you."

Gerlinde hesitated only for a second, her smile diminishing slightly, before she burst into a renewed grin and exclaimed: "So you're a witch! I was here, you know? On the Night of the Blood Moon. Not 'here' as in the Dream, but in Yharnam. In Byrgenwerth. But I was nice and safe in my secret room, so it all worked out in the end."
Taking the runebrand, Gerlinde opened the projection-case and offered for Ophelia to look. "Here, I'll teach you the Caryll Runes I've found so far."

Ophelia did indeed look, and after she was done she returned the favour to Gerlinde for the runes she knew--all except the Guidance rune, which belonged between her and the Holy Moonlight Sword alone.
"The last witch of Hemwick, such as it is! I was sent away, lest the madness take me... and I returned to the ruin of everything I'd known. But that was years ago, now... I'd gone to a distant land, looking for a cure for the sickness that wasn't to do with the Old Blood. Years later I... simply ran out of time, and here we are."

One of the runes Gerlinde tried to teach Ophelia was the Metamorphosis, which she already knew. The others, however, we all new.

Ophelia has obtained the Clawmark Rune, which allows the one who memorizes it to utilize their visceral attack-transformation at will and grow longer, sharper claws when they do so.

Ophelia has obtained the Communion Rune, which enhances the effect of blood vials for someone who has memorized it to also provide a minute-long effect boosting the imbiber's strength and stamina.

Ophelia has obtained the Deep Sea Rune, which fortifies the body of the one who memorizes it against disruptive effects like ashen blood and frenzy, greatly increasing their resistance to it.

Ophelia has obtained the Formless Oedon Rune, which empowers quicksilver bullets for the one who memorizes it, significantly increasing their power when shot from a firearm or fueling an eldritch object.

Ophelia has obtained the Heir Rune, which doubles the amount of blood echoes one who memorizes it obtains from those who die near them.

Ophelia has obtained the Dream Rune, which causes one to exist permanently in the Interstice. It allows one to see and interact with all entities of the Nightmare, for better or for worse.

Interestingly, Ophelia likely recognized the Deep Sea Rune; it was the one she had seen drawn on the corvid skulls back in the Industrial Ward.

"That's so sad," Gerlinde said with almost exaggerated-seeming sympathy, only to instantly switch back to being all smiles again. "You picked the Holy Moonlight Sword! I considered it, but it's too big and heavy for me... especially the old me."

"Quite the bounty of knowledge, love--makes my few seem paltry in comparison! I did... it called to me, and I've always revered Mother Moon. I feel closer than ever to her now, so I'm glad you didn't! This Dream rune... where did you acquire such a thing? At Byrgenwerth, I suppose?"

"Oh no, I didn't learn much of anything at Byrgenwerth, truth be told," she giggled, though for once both her voice and her smile seemed a little subdued. "I learned the Dream Rune from the Wise Master."

"Ah--I saw the headstone! I did find myself very curious--what's the Wise Master like?" Ophelia replied, once again observing the strangeness of how Gerlinde seemed to experience emotions but not acting upon those observations in any way.

"Oh, indescribable!" Gerlinde laughed, an impish quality entering her smile and voice. "I'll have to show you sometime. He's great!"

"Oh, love... You must be careful with the entities of the Nightmare. Agreements with forces from beyond are not to be entered into lightly, nor without appreciation for what precisely they entail." Ophelia spoke, though her last sentence sounded more like someone else's words drilled into her that she was repeating than words of her own. "Have you figured out what your purpose here is, yet? Do you have any insights on that front, Shopkeeper?"

Gerlinde blew a raspberry and waved her hand dismissively. "Purpose-smurfurse. Probably to find some big, nasty thing and kill it."
The doll looked at the Shopkeeper for a moment, then back at Ophelia. "I am sorry, good Hunter, but we cannot tell you what your purposes are. We do not know your purposes; we are here merely to help and guide you on your hunt, not to tell you where it will end."

"Ahh... you don't want it to end, eh? It's funny... I can't imagine another life, now, even after a scant few hours. Even if you never intend to use the option, I think it's a good idea to at least be aware of it--it's better to have it and not need it, than to need it and not have it... but there's no rush. Have you worked out what the golden markers are, yet, dear?"

She shrugged. "Seem to keep the little ones and other beings of the Nightmare away. As long as I have the Dream Rune memorized, I can't go near them either."

Ophelia nodded thoughtfully at that, shifting a little on her feet. "That tracks with what I'd surmised. Can you memorise another rune and no longer be affected? It has a certain feeling of permanency to it, don't you think?"

"Oh yeah, easily! It's only permanent as long as it's memorized. I just memorize a different rune and I can go bother the white church fellows as much as I want."

Ophelia nodded thoughtfully again. "Did the Wise Master want anything, for teaching you these runes?"

Again Gerlinde smiled impishly. "I just had to be respectful, and apologize when I wasn't. I gave him a bit of sausage, but I don't know if he'd have taught me without it."

"... sausage? Is... is he a dog?" Ophelia asked, barking out a little laugh. "Are there any other interesting places you've been able to explore?"

"Close. Sort of. He's a mouse!" Gerlinde giggled. And oh, so many places! Like, can you believe, I found a basin in the Nightmare that can change how you look!"

"Ah--so that's the trick of it! You chose very well, of course, but... that makes a certain amount of sense... Whereabouts?"

"I can show you," Gerlinde offered. "The nearest lantern is the one I called 'Halls of the Old Lords', but it's a walk there and there are some nasty creatures in the area. But the basin can change, like, everything! You can even change whether you're a man or woman! Let me tell you, I did not look this good when I first became a Hunter."

"I'd like to stay in the Dream for now, love, just in case Farren needs anything--but an outing there together when I'm less bound by obligation sounds lovely! I'd be happy to explore with you. I feel like I'm the one asking all of the questions, though--do you have any that you'd like to ask me, dear?" Ophelia returned, breezing past Gerlinde's last comment.

"Of course! I just figured I'd been around for longer, so there'd be more I could tell you than the other way around." Her eyes began shifting all over the place again, as if trying to look at everything, everywhere, all at once. "But since you offered... how did you change the sky here? And how come there's three of you? I didn't even know there could be more than one Hunter here at a time."

Ophelia took a moment to consider that, though she ultimately just shrugged. "That one is as much a mystery to me as it is to you, love. I've visited the Dream... thrice? Come to think of it... it didn't change that second time, when I came in alone--and it has changed when I've entered with Farren and Torquil. Torquil, love, have you noticed any... changes when we enter the Dream? Anything at all." She mused, turning to Torquil to address him with her standard smile.

Torquil sniffed, having just finished idly scratching his nose. "It makes me feel sad," was all he had to say on the subject.

"Oh... well, if there's some way I can cheer you up, do let me know?" Ophelia replied to Torquil, giving him a soft look of pity and desire to help briefly before she turned back to Gerlinde. "There is... some clue that might be relevant, but... if I tell you, would you please keep it just to yourself? Controlling information is like herding cats!"

Gerlinde shrugged. "Sure. You may not believe it, but I haven't told anyone most of what I've told you already; I can keep a secret."

"Your word is good enough for me, love; I believe you. I'm the only one of our little trio bearing true Paleblood--I'm the only one who had the sickness. The others... theirs was induced, by the White Church. That's the only difference between us that I've become privy to, and I've no idea what it means in the greater scheme of things... so it might be related to the capricious nature of the Dream's goings-on, or not."

Suddenly there was a loud bump of something hitting wood, caused by the Shopkeeper abruptly allowing themselves to fall back into the wall they had been standing in front back-first. They slid down and sat on the ground, hanging their head as they did so.
"I'm sorry, good Hunter," the doll said nervously, "but... did you just say that the Healing Church induced Paleblood? How... how could such a thing be? We sense Paleblood in good Farren and good Torquil, but you cannot induce Paleblood. It is impossible."

"Oh, that's what I had wanted to discuss--I'd completely forgotten that I hadn't told you yet! Please accept my humblest apologies," Ophelia began, rushing over towards the Shopkeeper and the Doll. She proceeded to fill them in on everything they'd learned from the Vicar and Dietrich, making sure to repeat details exactly as she'd heard them for veracity's sake.

"An experiment..." Gerlinde muttered quietly in the background, and if Ophelia looked she would find that the woman was not smiling for once, but instead wore a deeply troubled and anxious expression. It seemed that hearing about had shaken her quite a bit.
The Shopkeeper, meanwhile, merely shook their head in a manner that seemed dejected, though it was difficult to say for certain without being able to see their face.
"Paleblood comes from the essence of the Dream," the doll explained nervously. "It is a product of the Nightmare and no mere disease of the Waking World. This is most troubling news, good Hunter... and may go some way to explain the irregularities in the Dream of late. If someone has managed to imitate Paleblood with essence from another realm of the Nightmare, that might make the connection more tenuous and unstable." She sighed. "I beseech you, if you learn anything else about this, please share it with the Shopkeeper or I."

Ophelia nodded along empathetically with the Doll's concerned mannerisms, getting to one knee after she'd finished speaking and looking directly at the Shopkeeper.
"I am but a humble servant of Mother Moon, who hangs brightly in the sky here, as are all true witches. I will stop at nothing to discover the truth of what is happening and report it back to you, by my troth." Ophelia spoke solemnly, holding the Holy Moonlight Sword directly in front of her and resting her forehead gently on its radiant blade as she made her promise.

The Shopkeeper did not raise their head, though they did perform a small nod.
"Thank you, good Hunter," the doll said solemnly, "but do be careful. Not just anyone could do something like this. We have sensed powerful forces moving in Yharnam since the Night of the Blood Moon, but for something like this to have happened must mean that a major event is underway."

Ophelia stood once again to her full height, nodding at both the Shopkeeper and Doll, and then turned around back to Gerlinde. "Witches traditionally take on apprentices, love. Would... you like to be mine? Your natural instincts of curiosity and exploration would serve this task well, I think, and none of us want something bad to happen to the Dream or its denizens... For the end of the Dream would be the end of your freedom. I... I think it has something to do with the queer gold... Though it appears to reject things of the Nightmare, that might only be the barest hint of what it truly is, and what it truly does." Ophelia stated, her voice taking on something of a rambling quality as she let the waves of ideas wash over her--though she kept her eyes on Gerlinde, and her ears on the Shopkeeper and Doll.

Gerlinde still seemed half-dazed and deeply disturbed from the news she had just overheard being delivered to the doll and the Shopkeeper, so it took her a couple of seconds before she even reacted to Ophelia's words at all, and another couple before she could manage a strained smile.
"What an offer," she said, and though she was clearly trying to present the same kind of eccentric enthusiasm she had earlier it was clear that she was still recovering. "A witch's apprentice, huh? I... can't say I even know what witches do."

"Ordinarily, unspeakable rituals in the dead of night! I have something simpler in mind, though: my primary goal is now to work out what, precisely, this 'false paleblood' is and how it might affect the Dream--and we... simply forge onward from there. I think it terribly dangerous for us to be alone, even immortal as we are, and... I want to keep you safe, Gerlinde. I want to keep us all safe. You don't have to say yes now, or at all if you don't want to--I'm just... sentimental. An old bat in spirit, if not in flesh, who needs something or someone to live for." Ophelia laughed in return, though it was that awkward and unsettling kind of laugh that covered up something otherwise quite raw and vulnerable.

Shrugging and looking off to the side at nothing in particular, Gerlinde took a deep breath and seemed to calm herself somewhat. "I'm not sure about the rest, but I wanted us to team up, too, so it works out. I'll help you guys with your stuff, and you help me with mine."

"Then an accord is struck! I can't promise the help of the others, of course, but you can always count on mine." Ophelia began, before making her way over to the wall where the Blades of Mercy lay and taking them from their resting place gingerly. She knelt down to beckon the little ones and passed the blades off, with a quick instruction to please take them to Farren at the Black Workshop.
"I suppose this necessitates that we discuss the White Church further, mm? Have you learned aught from them about their meddlings in the realms of Nightmare? You seemed as surprised as the Shopkeeper and Doll did, so I'm not sure, but we must begin by understanding the boundaries of our ignorance."

"Me too," Torquil awkwardly supplied from his place by the door. Though he was not entirely clear on what he had just agreed to, it just felt natural for him to offer after Ophelia had done so while saying that she could not speak for him and Farren.

Meanwhile Gerlinde pulled out one of several padded wooden chairs shoved into one corner of the room, smoothed her skirt with her hands and sat down. She crossed her arms over her stomach, threw her right leg over the left one and started idly wiggling her right foot as the conversation continued.
"Nothing like that, no," she said, and her smile seemed to gradually become less forced and more natural. "I mean, the gold plinths are at their workshop and nice-old-man Harold's garden, so that may be something, but besides that? I have to admit, I haven't been paying a lot of attention to the people in the factions. Whenever I go there it's always 'help us do this,' or 'can you find this thing,' or 'kill these beasts.' It's boring. I'd much rather spend my time exploring."

"Mmm... it's quite something how different we are, isn't it? The most precious forms of knowledge don't survive outside of a living mind, love, so our predilections must lean towards the living if we wish to acquire it. Most people don't have anything worth knowing rattling around their hollow little skulls, it's true, but they still have eyes--and with enough eyes, one can see anything. If it's exploring the realms of Nightmare that makes you tick, you've my blessing to keep doing so: we'll need to avail ourselves of everything we can. I'll hold the fort with the people of the Waking World, and we can keep each other apprised?" Ophelia offered, her right hand idly drumming a tune onto the wooden apparatus where once the runebrand was kept as she thought.

Gerlinde's foot stopped wiggling, and her smile and eyes both grew what seemed like probably the widest they could possibly be; so wide, in fact, that the expression looked almost painful. "Eyes, huh? That's your thing?"

Ophelia nodded. "Quite; they were the preferred medium of my mentors, and the apple didn't fall far from the tree. With enough eyes, there might be no limit to what we can see... though part of me wonders if that's a mere contrivance, a creation of those terrestrially bound and without access to the worlds we can now slip into freely... I suppose the only way to know is to do some exploring of my own, hmm?"

Gerlinde stared at Ophelia, her expression unchanging as she listened. "The guys at Byrgenwerth were obsessed with eyes, too. Especially their leader, that ancient-looking Willem-guy. Had giant jars full of them. Gone now."
She uncrossed her legs before asking: "Where were you from again? Hemwick, you said?"

"'Fear the Old Blood', that Willem? I suppose you'd have much more knowledge of him than I would... or perhaps not, if you were sequestered away in a little room... It must have been awful, love, I'm sorry you had to endure it. Hemwick, that's right, such as it was. My Hemwick doesn't exist anymore."

"I heard stories. The people of Hemwick weren't very particular about waiting for people to die on their own before taking their eyes, were they?"

"No, not particularly. Anyone who ended up on the carts being moved about the Charnel Lane was going to die either way: be it from filth and disease, from opportune scavengers, from locals eager to curry favour with the Witches... I myself plucked the eyes from a few still-living, though I truly don't believe they had long left. I... wonder if I should pity them?" Ophelia asked, blinking to herself as she considered her past actions as though another person had committed them... but it wasn't another person at all, and she knew that. It was just... her. And she'd do it again.

"Indeed." Gerlinde finally tore her eyes off Ophelia and instead looked into her own lap, still smiling, but with a distant look in her eyes. "Such amazing dedication to the cause. The scholars were the same, willing to do whatever needed to be done in the name of progress. Such incredible things they must have learned... and you, too!" She raised her head to look at Ophelia again. "You must have learned so much from their sacrifices, right? The world has been made a better place because of it, right?"

"A better place? No... I don't think so. It might have become one, with time, but the Night of the Blood Moon cut all of that short. All that knowledge was nothing more than kindling for the madness, in the end... And all that suffering for naught, too. I... I'm lucky just to have survived it, truth be told... to be one of the few left capable of introspection. Do... do you think less of me, knowing what I've done for the sake of a truth that I never even really got to glimpse? It wasn't until I came here, until I beheld Holy Moonlight, that I realised it was all child's play--too visceral, too..." Ophelia sighed, her voice becoming wistful and croak-filled--if one couldn't see her face, they'd be forgiven for thinking it truly was an ancient crone speaking. She'd... never really thought about it before, and the questions laid bare a subtler truth than the one she'd been seeking.

"Less of you? No! No no no no no no!" Gerlinde assured her, leaning forward as she did so, only to let out a shrill, manic laugh. "We must learn, right? That's why people don't matter. Why they can be thrown away. Knowledge is more important. That's why I'm exploring! To learn! I never learned anything at Byrgenwerth, all those years... but now I will! But I don't mind helping you help people, if that's what you want! I'll go with you! We'll learn together!"

"Knowledge... yes, it is important. Perhaps the most important... but it must be tempered with nobility. There is very little I would not sacrifice for knowledge--those assembled here, and Farren; those whose deaths would offer comparatively little gain... but beyond that? I used to have a dream, you know. Of a great city, unbuilt in mortal lands, beneath the tides of Dream... A city of which we are all citizens, but none of us will ever see. Perhaps the greatest city of all must remain unbuilt, for in idea it remains perfect... but perhaps not. I could never work out what it meant." Ophelia replied, cryptically and her own gaze suddenly distant and not all-together there.

She giggled manically. "You sound like Master Willem."

Ophelia giggled in return. "That's quite the compliment! We have a chance, a real chance, to make change. To correct the mistakes of the arrogant past, to usher in a new age of knowledge... A world worthy of Mother Moon's gaze at last. But... there is much to be done before we can get there, love. We must first ourselves become tempered by knowledge and nobility both--for which we will need both to explore, and to help others. If we do it right... they will beg us to deliver unto them a new age of Knowledge. We will all, at last, be worthy."

"Nice-old-man Harold said something similar once," Gerlinde observed, her smile diminishing to somewhat more natural proportions. "Sounds like you have it all figured out; pretty impressive after being a Hunter for just 'a handful of hours'. So what's the plan?"

At that, Ophelia's face dropped noticeably. The comparison to Willem was an honour; to Harold? It made her feel sick, and she let out a shuddering breath as she tried to breathe the disgust she felt out. "No, love, no. I know merely the barest hints of the shape that things should take... We will simply have to reassess whenever we learn more. To that end... A god of some kind used to keep Hemwick safe. I'd present offerings to it, at a shrine of sorts, deep in the Forbidden Woods--I have to go back. Would you like to join us, or do you have somewhere else you'd rather explore? After that... or maybe before, if we have a good lead, I think what we need to do is follow up on this false Paleblood. Oh, and, Gerlinde... you must never be afraid to raise dissent. If you think I am wrong, I would like to know--and if I think you are wrong, I won't hesitate to tell you either. We have to keep each other honest, don't you think?"

"Sure, sure, honesty's probably important," Gerlinde agreed, though her tone was somewhat dismissive. "A god in the Forbidden Woods, you say? Yeah, I'll definitely come along, I'd love to meet another Great One."

"In the name of honesty, then... Do you realise that Harold has manipulated you? Though... I'm not sure if it's him, or the Lumenflowers: the whole 'nice old man' thing... It's a sick compulsion, a violation of your mind--you should know that, if you don't already. Anyone who must force affection upon others is..." Ophelia started but did not finish, letting the bile in her tone express the depths of her distaste.

For a moment Gerlinde just stared at Ophelia, her smile faltering. "Why do you think I call him nice-old-man Harold? Something's tried to manipulate me, definitely, but it hasn't worked."

Ophelia shrugged. "Makes it seem like he was successful, to me, if you call him the thing he wants to be called... but that's good to know. I've tried to warn Torquil and Farren, but... I don't know how much use a warning is, against something that attacks the mind. Forgive me for underestimating you, in that case, love."

"No offense taken," Gerlinde shrugged. "It seems to be working on pretty much everyone else. Guess we're just mad enough to see through it, heh."

"Mad enough to see through it... I suspect we are indeed, love. At least we're in good company now, mm? Though... doing something about it is difficult; Harold is a key part of the stability of Yharnam. Dietrich and I have a good relationship so far, I think... I'll pop over and have a chat with him at some point. Gosh, they never tell you that with power comes an endless slew of tasks, do they? I can see why you ran off to explore the first chance you got!"

Again Gerlinde shrugged. "Harold was the only one trying to push a task on me that actually sounded interesting, though. He said that something big and dangerous was going on in Yahar'gul, 'like the Nightmare was getting closer,' but even once I found the place I couldn't figure out a way to get in. And then the Followers showed up and started killing me every time I went back there, and... yeah, it's a mess."

Ophelia's right eyebrow perked up at the mention of Yahar'gul, and she shot Gerlinde a sly and mischievous grin. "I can help you there, I think, love. Someone I used to know has recently acquired eyes that shine with the light of the cosmos themselves; I suspect they'd all fancy a look at the Holy Moonlight Sword. They fall over themselves in ecstasy for tiny glimpses of starlight; never mind getting a true look at a handsome shard of the most glorious entity in all the Great Dark Beyond... or maybe they'll kill us either way. The thing is, love, to keep us out they will have to get lucky every hour for the rest of their lives. We only need to get lucky once."

"Sure, but getting lucky there is really hard when the place is built like a fortress and you're constantly being harassed by people trying to kill you. And don't count on them inviting you in just because you have the sword; they're not really the 'show me yours and I'll show you mine'-type, they're more 'I like your thing, so I'll kill you and take it'-type. And some of them are really dangerous."

"How rude! Well, one immortal apex predator might not be able to do the trick... but how about four? Can we whittle their numbers down, maybe? Or perhaps we find a weak link; one amongst them must be willing to parley, must want something. I'll speak with Naira; perhaps she is the weak link, or perhaps she knows of them... Though after we go to the forest, of course--and for that, we'll need Farren to return. I wonder why he left so abruptly; he was acting very strangely when he found out I'd written to you."

Gerlinde abruptly straightened at the mention of Naira's name, her eyes going wide. "Naira? Wait, that's who you know?! The leader of the Followers?!"

Ophelia's eyes widened in return. "Why, yes, though this was many years ago--it might be more accurate to say the Witches knew her? Still, we met before in another life--I think she'd remember me. Leader of the Followers, you say? My, she's done well for herself."

"She's probably the most dangerous person in Yharnam right now if you ask me. She has some insanely powerful arcane tools her Followers have found for her... and she knows how to use them. I haven't even managed to get close to her, even with Snakey. Which reminds me..."
Gerlinde stuck out her left arm and showed off the snake molt wrapped around it. "This is my own little arcane tool. Found it in the Forbidden Woods, actually, now that I think about it. If I feed it some quicksilver first, it'll literally gobble up magic and spit it back out again. It's a bit tricky to use, but if I do it right, I can use it to turn magic attacks aimed at me back at my attackers."

"What a good little familiar! Every witch worth her salt needs one, so I'm glad you found yours. Mine is... the Holy Moonlight Sword, which only sounds odd. And they're beckoning the Nightmare closer, you say? It sounds to me like Naira is delving into the mysteries of before the Night of the Blood Moon, and I wonder how equipped she is to handle those things... I think we'll have to keep a close eye on her. Yahar'gul held secrets that my mentors would refuse to speak of, so I shudder to think what she might unleash if given the means." Ophelia replied, reaching out her right hand to gently pat the moulted snakeskin affectionately, like one might to a real pet.

"You do realize it's just a molt, right?" Gerlinde giggled, retracting her arm. "I haven't been able to learn much; the Followers there aren't much for conversation and I haven't been able to make it past the outer walls, so all I have to go by is what nice-old-man Harold told me. Don't know much about anything besides what I've been able to figure out this past week, actually; I'm not from around here."

"Never underestimate the power of intention, nor the recipients of its imbuement. Life may fill a suitable vessel, when the conditions are made right." Ophelia laughed in return. "I suppose in that respect my own knowledge is greater than yours, though... I only really know Hemwick, and a bit of Central Yharnam. I was mostly bound to a chair while I was there these past few years. It seems we've much to do, doesn't it? I apologise in advance for Farren, he can be... gruff. But he knows his Hunts, and he's very perceptive--he'll be a worthy ally, that much I am certain of beyond doubt. As is Torquil, and as are you."

It was at this point that the doll spoke up again: "As you speak of Yahar'gul and the Nightmare, you should know that it was there that the School of Mensis beckoned the Nightmare and summoned the Blood Moon. It would not be strange if their rituals from that night had left a lasting tear between realities. If you go there, good Hunters, please be cautious; it may still be a place of grave dangers."

"I've always known that there are differing... arcane traditions, one might say--but I don't know where they came from, just that my own comes from the School of Mensis. Do you have a better idea, love? If we are to avoid the mistakes of the past, we must know what they were." Ophelia asked the Doll, though it was mostly an exercise in asking the Shopkeeper via proxy.

The doll looked to the Shopkeeper, then back at Ophelia. "Byrgenwerth, the old Healing Church and the School of Mensis were all wiped out on the Night of the Blood Moon, though their decline began long before then. We would encourage patience and caution over all else. Each of them desired evolution in their own way, but they failed to understand that evolution is not instantaneous; trying to make it so was what caused their ruin."

"You consider Byrgenwerth and the School of Mensis to be separate?" Ophelia asked in return to that supposition, pondering what it would mean if they were. Her understanding was that the School of Mensis had taken Byrgenwerth's assertions and experiments to the next level--that they were spiritual successors... but that was, in truth, a half-baked idea built upon a poorly-understood context. She had never spoken with a true scholar of any of those institutions: where her knowledge truly came from she could not say.

"Byrgenwerth were obsessed with insight, and went to great lengths to obtain it by means available in the Waking World," the doll explained. "The School of Mensis sought their insight from the Nightmare, which is not wise... though they were not the first to do so."

"Oh? Who was?" Ophelia replied, tilting her head to the side to rest her cheek upon the Holy Moonlight Sword. Gerlinde, it struck her, seemed to be following in the footsteps of the School of Mensis. She'd already drunk deep of the realms of Nightmare, that much was obvious: what had she invited in upon herself, unknowingly, Ophelia wondered?

"The originators; the first to discover the Old Labyrinth and the vessel of the Old Blood: Willem, Laurence and Gehrman."

"Gehrman? I can't say I'm familiar, though... I think you built a statue of him, out there? And the Old Labyrinth... is that truly where it all began, or just where we rediscovered it? Did any of them have the right ideas at all? Should we be looking to the past to inform the future at all? It would be easier, of course, if the path we must tread was already marked..."

"The Old Labyrinth is where it began for Yharnam, at least," the doll said, nodding her head sadly. "There have been others before and concurrent to it. Loran. Pthumeru. Isz. But we know very little about them besides the fact that none of these places exist anymore."
She sighed. "And Gehrman was the first Hunter. Not only was the First Hunter as the leader of the hunt, but also the literal first one to become a Hunter. When he and the others beckoned the Nightmare, they were more fortunate than the School of Mensis... for while the School called upon unstable and destructive forces, the first time they called the Dream. And the master of the Dream, a Great One they called the Moon Presence, responded."

"Moon Presence..? Mother Moon?" Ophelia asked, eyes wide with wonder. "The Holy Moonlight Sword, this most handsome shard... is it of this Moon Presence?"

"We cannot say for certain," she said, shifting uncomfortably, "but we don't think so. The Moon Presence was slain, but the sword remains and retains its power."

"Slain? By..." Ophelia began, before motioning her head towards the Shopkeeper. She did not wait for the affirmative response. "... Oh my. Moira mentioned something about you, that... made you sound like you weren't a person, I suppose. Not like us, at least. Did you... find your own path, after your long Hunt?"

"That... is a tale I had hoped Hunter Farren would be here for as well. But I suppose circumstances have come to require that you know about the Shopkeeper, and what happened on the Night of the Blood Moon. How much do you already know?"

"Scant little, love. I was sent away some weeks before it occurred, and returned only afterwards. Getting a lucid accounting of events from anyone seems an impossibility, except perhaps yourselves."

The doll sighed. "There is a reason for that, good Hunter, and it is not merely that the people of Yharnam were slain or driven mad."
"Oh, she's going to tell the story again!" Gerlinde giggled gleefully. "Listen up, this is so good!"
"On the eve of the Night of the Blood Moon, a Paleblood Hunter awakened from metamorphosis, not unlike how you, Hunter Torquil and Hunter Farren did on this night. They found their way here, to the Dream, and with the guidance of me and its previous caretaker, Gehrman, they fulfilled their purpose, completed their hunt and ended the Blood Moon. But that is where the story gets complicated, for they did so by slaying a Great One.
You must understand, good Hunter, that the Great Ones are intrinsic to reality, and so reality itself rejected one of them being destroyed. And so reality... broke. Time shattered. While to you and everyone else in the Waking World there was but one Night of the Blood Moon, it actually occurred countless times. Many millions of times, more than you can even imagine. But each one had its own Paleblood Hunter, each one different, with a different past, age and abilities, each one making different choices and having different successes and failures. But every single one always ended up slaying at least that Great One.
But the night did end, of course, upon which all of those Nights of the Blood Moon - all those parallel worlds - collapsed back into one... and as they did, all those different Paleblood Hunters were compressed into a single being." She looked to the Shopkeeper. "The Shopkeeper is not just the Hunter that saved Yharnam from the Blood Moon; they are all the Hunters who saved it. Which makes their nature... complicated. Some of those Hunters were freed from the Hunter's Dream and lived on as mortal Hunters. Some replaced Gehrman and became prisoners of the Dream." She sighed. "And some became Great Ones themselves. The Shopkeeper is all of that, and none of that."

Ophelia nodded along with the story, paying the Doll rapt attention. Once they had finished spinning their tale Ophelia smiled and clapped with her one free hand. "The common theme is that this Moon Presence died, and... if the Great Ones are that which underpin reality... our very nature as Palebloods requires the existence of our Great One, then, does it not? If we have been filled since birth with the very essence of this Dream, may it not be said that we have always been Moon-touched? For Gerlinde and I to exist, you must have always been destined to take on the mantle of Mother Moon--for reality itself could not conceive of her lack, would not allow it. But... what is it you believe, dear? What is it that you want? Is this form of yours, comprised as it is of contradictions, tenable? Is it that very uncertainty that has allowed usurpers to create the false Paleblood? My mind swims with questions, the bedrock of my reality reduced to mud..."

"The Moon Presence was not the one slain in all nights," the doll corrected Ophelia. "Many nights it survived, and remained the master of the Dream. In the version of reality we have now, the Shopkeeper has slain three different Great Ones, and the Moon Presence was merely one of those. And in its absence, the Shopkeeper has become the master of this domain. But even we do not fully understand the current state of things. I am sorry, good Hunter, but that is all we can tell you."

"So... which one always dies? Which one has reality rejected? Which three?"

The doll closed her eyes. "I'm sorry, good Hunter, but we do not even know its name. It was the one beckoned by the School of Mensis, and the one who, perhaps accidentally, caused the Blood Moon."

"... Well, then... I suppose it is where the School of Mensis left off that we must pick up. We cannot allow their folly to be reborn, but we must know what they did--what they called out to, and what answered. Ahh... but my mind isn't ready for such insights, I know it. Do you... know how I might make myself ready? It cannot be forced."

"The insight they sought was not dangerous itself, but the ways they tried to obtain it were." The doll nodded her head solemnly. "We do not know how to do it safely, but as you say, it cannot be forced."

"This Wise Master that Gerlinde visited... do you know aught of them?" Ophelia asked, suddenly, and she also asked the same of the Holy Moonlight Sword. If it truly was the way in which a thing was learned that mattered more than the thing itself, Ophelia knew there could be no easy answers: but she did not lack for rigour, and she firmly believed there was always a path. She hoped it was one that she could survive walking down.

"We do not," the doll reported. "The Shopkeeper never encountered this creature. The Moonlight Sword we only know was lost in a Nightmare along with its former wielder, who the Shopkeeper had to slay to get it. It is a powerful arcane weapon, but has never been more than that to them... though the former wielder did speak as though he could hear the sword talking to him."

"Hm... What, I wonder, is the source of insight? I know my mind is a vessel, and that it contains thoughts, but what is the nature of those thoughts..? If it is not what is contained that is dangerous, but how one contains it, does the danger not lie in the vessel being unprepared for what it is asked to contain? Oh, I hate the idea of asking Harold, but... if he is capable of bringing thoughts unwelcome and unbidden to our minds, he must know something about the nature of thought that we don't. It... I suppose it can't hurt to go back to the Lumenflower Gardens before we head into the woods. Though... The false Paleblood experiment is his. Is it wise of us to bring Farren and Torquil to his doorstep?"

"I am just a humble doll, good Hunter, and though the Shopkeeper was quite competent with the arcane in some of their past lives, they were always a foreigner. They are not versed in the ways of Yharnam." The doll shook her head in resignation. "All I can say is to be careful, and to hold on to your humanity if it is dear to you. It may be wise to consult the vicar, but if he was truly responsible for developing this 'false Paleblood'... we cannot even guess at what else he might be capable of."
"Oh, he's definitely insane," Gerlinde volunteered. "He wanted me to go to Yahar'gul to stop the Followers and save the world, sure, but I get the feeling he's up to something, too. Why else would he be making so many Hunters?"

"Mm, one can see why he'd want to create an army of immortal Hunters. I can see two motives, though: he might have taken the path of the School of Mensis, and is simply delving too deeply into something he is not prepared for... or he might earnestly have designs for the world. I suppose interrogating some of his motives would be prudent--I'll see what I can learn of this false Paleblood and report back. You won't be able to follow with your Dream rune, dear--would you like to change it and come with me, or stay here? Would you like to come with me, Torquil? I wonder if it's a good idea... but on the other hand, if there's something about your false Paleblood I don't want us to be caught unawares by it."

"The Fire Dancers seem to think he's aiming for conquest," Gerlinde told her. "And sure, if you're going I suppose I'll go too. Guess I'll just switch to the Eye Rune for a bit."
"Whatever you think is best," Torquil said with a shrug. "I can go or I can wait here. I'm fine either way."

Ophelia beckoned forth the runebrand to hand it off to Gerlinde, making certain to study her reaction to its phantom pain. She then turned to Torquil, looking pensive. "Hmm... Why not come with, then, love? Harold will want to see you... Try to remember that he isn't a nice old man, though, no matter what happens."

Quite similarly to Victor before her, Gerlinde did not even seem to feel the pain at all when Ophelia pressed the brand to her skin. Her eyes and smile remained wide and unflinching through the process.
Torquil nodded his head firmly and with utmost solemnity. "Okay. He's not a nice old man. Got it."

And just then, Farren reappeared to the Dream right where they always did. As he did so he felt another tremor go through his blood, and suddenly the red sheen that hung over the sky seemed to abate as it took on more natural hues. Though thick, dark clouds remained, the rain falling upon the Dream turned now from blood to water, and from warm to cold.

"Regrettable, but not an uncommon outcome," Seven nodded, showing no signs of any kind of emotional reaction to the news. "You've worked with me in the past as a contractor, though it has been some time since we had our last interaction."

Farren nodded slowly, glancing away for a moment, the slight smile remaining before he directed his attention back to Seven. “Ah, that explains the strange familiarity. How long since we last spoke?” He asked, clearly curious.

Seven shrugged. "A couple of months? I'd have to check the logs to give you an exact time."

Farren drummed his fingertips against the butt of the blunderbuss at his hip for a moment. It wasn't why he'd came, but he did wonder what had been so severe that he'd undergone blood ministration.... Perhaps it was worth looking into? “Would it take terribly long?” He raised a single eyebrow as he asked, his azure eyes searching Seven's.

He made a noise that sounded vaguely like a half-hearted attempt at an extremely brief laugh as he stood up, went to one of the cabinets behind him and started tracing his finger rapidly over the spines of a pile of small notebooks piled in there. "If you have to ask, you really have lost your memory." Within eight seconds, Seven picked a book, which he brought back to his desk, opened and started reading, his eyes flitting rapidly across the pages while he leafed through. All in all the process took maybe fifteen seconds. "Here it is. Farren. 78 days ago. Were to investigate claims of a siderite rock having been found. Claims determined to be false."

Tilting his head at the man's response, Farren quickly realized why the man had seemed amused by the question. Everything was--apparently--meticulously organized, Farren admired that. He decided he liked the man. “Huh. Odd,” Farren said with a measured manner, as he considered the documentation. After a moment he shook his head, his eyes focusing, “Anything...out of the ordinary about the last time we spoke?”

"You'd be better off asking someone else for that," Seven shrugged, snapping the notebook closed. "I don't really do people, and this was a while ago. Although..." He paused. "I think I recall you seeming a bit more on edge than the other times I've seen you. Nervous. Anxious, even."

Farren nodded again, his eyes scanning the room once more. “If only I knew who to ask.” He said it ruefully before pivoting to the reason he'd come in the first place, “That aside, I heard you've got something of a new trick weapon laying around,”

"A new trick weapon? Who told you that?"

Farren met Seven's eyes, “Moira.”

Seven closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. "Did she perchance say which weapon?"

Farren got the impression that perhaps Moira gave information like this a bit more liberally than Seven would prefer. Nonetheless, he replied, “No name, but she did say it was experimental...too dangerous for a normal hunter to wield.” Farren didn't elaborate on why she would have said that to him however. Clearly they'd just been associated through work, so while Farren rather liked the man by first impression, that didn't mean he needed to give him more information than necessary.

"Too dangerous... Ah." He opened his eyes, leaned back in his chair and took off his monocle. "Fulmen. The Thunder Hammer. We only just got it fixed up since the last round of testing, we haven't managed any meaningful adjustments yet... May I ask why Moira thought you were fit to handle a weapon too hazardous for other Hunters?"

His expression became slightly more serious as he responded, “Paleblood.”

Seven stared at him. "I don't know what that means."

Farren blinked once, then laughed at himself. Could that be called hubris? Perhaps he'd just assumed that since he knew...no, he shouldn't have. “I suppose I shouldn't have assumed. Simply put...you kill me, I'll be back here in less than five minutes asking for Fulmen again. It'd be...an exceptionally unpleasant, but ultimately minor, inconvenience for me.”

Seemingly completely unsurprised and unimpressed by Farren's claim of immortality, Seven simply nodded. "Ah. Like that. That makes sense."

He stood back up from his chair. "Fulmen is our attempt at making an improved version of Archibald's Tonitrus. It's a hammer that autonomously generates an electrical charge each time you make a forceful movement with it, like striking something. This charge builds up the more it moves, and dissipates when it doesn't. It also has a mechanism that bares the core of the weapon and discharges all of its energy at once."

He glanced at one of the cabinets. "We have a log of prior tests with it, if you are interested?"

Farren was actually rather glad that Seven took the new information in stride. Equally glad that he hadn't tested out his claim, for while it was true, Farren didn't much fancy dying if it could be avoided. “It sounds...effective. Though, I imagine with so much voltaic energy sparking about it's liable to shock the wielder.”

It was a theory of a sort and when Seven mentioned the logs, Farren nodded, “Probably wise for me to give them a read at least,” he replied.

While going to retrieve the log, Seven offered some assurances: "Of course we were aware of that risk. We have made efforts to isolate the wielder from the weapon. The handle is wrapped in isolating materials, and there is a small guard that serves to further separate its mechanical parts. But there is still risk."

He retrieved another small notebook, walked over and placed it on the table in front of Farren. "Go ahead and read. I will go and retrieve the weapon."

With that Seven left the room, and as if on cue, this was the time a trio of Messengers abruptly emerged from the tabletop, brandishing the Blades of Mercy that Ophelia had sent for him.

He listened to the details and accepted the logbook, nodding as Seven left the room. However, the small sound of the Messengers' appearance drew his eyes down. He smiled and bent down, giving them a quiet thanks before he asked if there was any difference in the information they had on the armament compared to the one on his person.

For the weapon the Messengers had just brought him, the description they offered was the same he had read when he first claimed the weapon. The Blades of Mercy he had been carrying with him, however, now had a somewhat different description, and even a slightly different name.

"Effigial Blade of Mercy
An approximation of the true Blade of Mercy created by the Moonborn Hunter.
Splits into two when activated. They are made from a material not of the Waking World, and their nature defies explanation."

As Farren compared the two armaments his brows rose in surprise. He certainly hadn't expected much from inspecting them...and he hadn't gotten much more information exactly, but the revelation was still surprising nonetheless. Again he thanked the Messengers, then he rose to his feet with the true Blades of Mercy in tow. He set True Blades of Mercy on a worktable beside him before he flipped open the logbook and began to ploddingly make his way through each entry.

He wasn't a faster reader by any metric...especially since he often had to read a sentence more than once to ensure he hadn't flipped any words or letters around. It was a frustrating process, but he felt it was an important thing for him to understand the risks and quirks of this 'Fulmen'.


While Farren was reading, Seven returned with Fulmen in his hands and waited patiently for him to finish.

As Farren read through the test logs, his frustration gradually ebbed away, replaced largely by fascination. He didn't know much about voltaic energies, but the fact that they'd made a weapon that so effectively harnessed them was impressive. More impressive was just how effective it could be and how the growth of its exponential charge didn't immediately cause negative effects for the wielder. Still, in reading through the logs it became very clear why the weapon was experimental and generally unsuited for use by 'normal' hunters. After longer than it would've taken Seven to read--perhaps an extra 4-5 minutes--Farren glanced up and over at the man. His eyes lit upon the weapon immediately, fixating as he tried to take in every detail of the impressive piece of artifice.

Much larger and more cumbersome than the relatively refined Tonitrus, the Fulmen takes the form of a hefty maul with in a weight-class just below that of a Holy Blade, with a shaft measuring 150 centimeters (4' 11”), though only the two-thirds of the shaft qualify as a handle, as the remainder is wrapped in metallic coils that connect to the head of the weapon: a plain-looking, bulky metal cube wherein the mechanical aspects of the weapon are contained. The head itself weighs close to 15 kilograms (33 pounds), rendering it unwieldy for a human, but for most part being somewhat manageable to most Hunters, though torque on swings is still a major concern. The box is visually marked by fissures that run parallel to its edges, basically dividing the cube into eight smaller cubes of equal size centered around the core. The wooden handle is wrapped a thick layer of cloth, and a small, circular wooden guard marks the transition between handle and coiled shaft, with this guard likewise being covered in cloth and additionally treated with beeswax in an attempt to insulate the wielder from the weapon.


Farren's eyes slowly roved over Fulmen's structure, noting each individual piece. He wondered what the internal mechanism--its core--was like, how they'd constructed it exactly. Turning, Farren fully faced Seven, his eyes still locked on the weapon as he spoke almost as if he were enraptured. “Can't remember much from...before, but...I'd always wanted to design weapons like these...” he said, trailing off as he reached out, offering for Seven to hand the weapon over. “Never thought I'd be able to wield one...let alone any I could get my hands on,” he finished, one corner of his lips quirking up slightly. Finally, he raised his eyes, “May I?”

Seven unceremoniously handed Farren the large, intricate hammer. "That's why I fetched it."

Farren chuckled and took it eagerly, not stumbling forward, but certainly feeling the weight of the hammer as it dragged his arms down a few inches before he got a handle on it. “You work on this one yourself?” He asked as he tested its weight a bit, but didn't swing it, just lifting it a bit with both hands and eventually letting it sit against his shoulder.

"Intermittently," Seven told him. "It was a collaborative project. Unfinished in my opinion. Needs more adjustments before it's ready for deployment in the field."

Farren nodded, giving the weapon another appreciative look, “Understandable. If the logs are anything to go by it's quite formidable. Solid work.” That said, Farren knew he couldn't easily carry it on his person...not with his current setup at least. “You give me one of them notebooks and something to write with...I'll record what I can, though I'll warn you, I'm better with a blade or a hammer than I am with a quill 'n' ink.”

Seven nodded his head and went to fetch the supplies from one of the cabinets. "Normally we'd assign an observer or two to field tests like this and they would be the ones to record it, but that isn't really an option with you. Our people can't teleport, after all... they also only get to die once. It's not ideal, but if Moira thought it was a good idea..."
He turned back to Farren and handed him a tiny notebook - small enough to fit in his pocket, containing only what looked like twenty pages or so - , a bottle of ink and a dip pen. "Anything else?"

Farren accepted the notebook, pen, and ink bottle with a small nod. After a moment he frowned slightly and set them on the table beside him next to the Blades of Mercy. “Think I might need...another pouch for these. Aside from that...no, unless you're at all familiar with the Industrial Ward?”

With an overbearing sigh, Seven went over to the door that led back to the main room of the workshop, opened it and shouted: "Do we have an extra pouch somewhere?"

Without waiting for a response he then closed the door and turned back to Farren. "What do you want to know about the Industrial Ward?"

While they waited for someone to hopefully bring a pouch, Farren mulled over Seven's question, responding briefly afterwards. “Headed that way with Moira earlier and came upon...some disturbing signs. Some of the workers we spoke to mentioned 'the Crowmother,' some kind of avian beast that has been protecting the area apparently. Any clue what that's about?”

"Crowmother? Can't say I have." He picked up the old test log for Fulmen and returned it to its place in the cabinet. "Don't have much business in their ward, we just send them money and they send us wares. There are no beasts in the Industrial Ward, so no reason for our people to go there."

“Hmm, no matter. Wonder if there's someone who might know more about the situation thereabouts,” Farren said, his brow creasing slightly. After a moment he levered the Hammer from his shoulder, slowing the speed of its swing as it came down in an arc, before gently resting it against the ground with a dulled thunk.

Quietly, Farren muttered something under his breath, directed at the Messengers, “Hold this for me, little ones.”

A Messenger showed up in response to Farren's request, seemingly examining Fulmen as it towered over its diminutive form. Then another two emerged, then another four, so that seven little Messengers all crowded around the experimental weapon, grasping at it with their little hands... until finally the telltale rippling glow appeared beneath it, and the hammer smoothly descended into whatever place they went when in the Messengers' care.

"Probably the people who live there?" Seven suggested, his tone somewhat impatient and sarcastic. "It's not a place... we..."
His words trailed off as stared blankly at the large marvelous weapon he had just bestowed on Farren that, from his perspective, simply sank into the ground and vanished.

"If you can do that," he asked after taking a moment to absorb what he had just witnessed, "why do you need a pouch?"

Farren glanced at the ground where Fulmen had vanished, now in the diligent hands of the Messengers, before looking back to Seven. “For something large...it makes sense to call upon the Messengers to...hold things for me. Sort of intuitive, carrying too much? Ask them to do it for you. For something smaller...I hadn't considered it honestly. I...only became a Hunter barely two hours ago. You're right though...still, an extra pouch could be helpful.”

That said, Farren picked up the bottle of ink, the dip pen, and the notebook and knelt down to one knee. Setting them aground with a whisper of encouragement to the helpers, Farren glanced at Bulwark at his hip, unslung it from the loop and set it on the floor beside the other implements. Then he pushed back to his feet and picked up the True Blade(s) of Mercy and slipped it into the loop that Bulwark had once occupied. He now had two pairs of unified blades, one at each hip. After all...four blades were better than two, right? He almost chuckled at the absurdity of the thought, though it had a note of seriousness to it as well.

"Right," Seven muttered, not even pretending to understand or agree with Farren's logic, let alone this eldritch power of his. A moment later the coded knock could be heard on the door, Seven declared that the one on the other side might enter, and a man in black church garb entered with a somewhat ratty-looking leather pouch. It was definitely not small, being large enough that you could probably fit an entire human head in there, and it looked like it had already seen its share of adventures, but it was functional as a container.

"Anything else?" Seven asked once the helper had delivered the item and left.

Farren took it, glancing it over for a moment without giving Seven a response. He had the sense that he'd soured any potential camaraderie that might have grown--at least for a time.

Farren's eyes rose away from the bag to meet Seven's gaze. “No. Good tidings and if you go out...safe passage, Septimus,” he said before his right hand went down to the grip of the Effigial Blade as he opened the door and headed outside.

Once he'd navigated through the workshop beyond Septimus' private workspace and found his way back outside, he heard the reinforced door shut behind him. Not glancing back he headed towards the lantern, but as he grew closer to its ghostly light, Farren found himself glancing at the stone wall and its metal gate that enclosed the yard. He came to a stop before the lantern then, his eyes flitting away from it and up to the slowly rising moon.

He pulled in a slow deep breath of the night air, not sure if he were enjoying it for its own sake or steeling himself for what awaited him in the Hunter's Dream.

Gerlinde. Her face came to mind, first the waifish one he remembered, faintly sunken cheeks, plain features, closed eyes. However, he could hold that faint, unanchored memory in his mind's eye for only several moments before the vivid image of her almost too-perfect form asserted itself in his mind. Farren found his jaw tightening then, and his brow creased as his face screwed up into an almost pained expression.

She didn't know him. Perhaps it was the memory loss...same as he had, perhaps she'd never really seen him to begin with. Really it had been...foolish to think she'd remember at all, especially given what little he knew about becoming a Hunter. Still.... The not remembering almost disturbed him more. Had some part of him wanted to be held accountable? To make amends even. He sighed. It didn't matter. He should go back...he'd said he should.

Farren's eyes drifted back down to the lantern, he let out a sigh and then he reached down, ready to return to the Nightmare from which he'd come.

_Farren

would appear largely unchanged to the others as he arrived back in the Dream, though his armaments were slightly different, what with Bulwark gone–now replaced by a second Blade of Mercy. Additionally, he was carrying a rather large bag in one hand–and a knife in the other, though the latter would be familiar to anyone who’d paid attention and hadn’t newly developed another bout of amnesia. Farren for his part felt that familiar sense of falling, then rising, then being awake suddenly while unsure if he’d ever fallen asleep in truth. It was a bizarre thing, but he shook it off, finding that though it had only been a short time that he was acclimating to the experience. What was harder to adjust to though, was the sensation of blood-rain–its warmth and the faint salty-sweetness of its scent–as it was rather suddenly replaced by bone-chillingly cold, though altogether more natural, rain. A shiver, then a full body shudder, traveled through his form, but after he shook himself slightly, he turned and made his way up the stairs of the path towards the small workshop of the Hunter’s Dream. He took a deep breath, bracing himself again, and then strode in as he opened the door. It drifted shut behind him and Farren laid eyes on his two companions and the woman who once had been his…victim? He swallowed hard, but this time his mouth didn’t dry out quite so much, and he managed not to avoid Gerlinde’s gaze.

Oddly…another impulse came over him instead and he found himself wetting his lips…then speaking. “Gerlinde,” he said, making double sure he had her attention, “...I owe you. We’ve…met before. Though you may not remember…and I barely do. I...I stole you away in the night and took you to Byrgenwerth. Doubt you were ever conscious for it, so we never met, but I remember. It was a job...the old me, the man I was. He tried to forget, but we couldn't.”

The old part of him, the same one that had insulted her–internally–for her ’scandalous’ garb–balked and Farren’s hands balled into fists as he resisted the urge to shut his mouth. It wasn’t right. He wasn’t that man anymore and if he just let this fester inside him–even if she didn’t remember–it’d eat away at his sanity more surely than anything else they might come across. Besides…he didn’t like lingering debts, whatever form they took, let alone nasty secrets. “I’d like not to be that sort of man anymore--the sort who buries his mistakes, the type who does things like that. But I’d be a right bastard if I said nothing, and a coward too…and that I can’t abide.”

That said, he fell silent, holding her gaze if she’d let him, in a sense awaiting judgement.

“Oh... Farren's back,” Torquil told the two female Hunters as soon as he appeared, as he had been asked to. But before any of them could do much in the way of going to meet him or welcome him back, Farren climbed to the workshop, locked eyes with Gerlinde, and started confessing his part in the fate that had brought her to Byrgenwerth.
Gerlinde met Farren's gaze with wide, attentive eyes and a big smile on her face, initially just seeming happy that he had come back as soon as he had, and then... just smiling as she listened. She did not blink even once during his confession, but started tilting her head to the right. It was a slow, gradual movement, her head angling further and further off to the side until she went past what one would call cocking her head and kept going until it had turned to nearly a 90 degree angle, all while still smiling and staring.

“That was you?” she asked, her voice slightly breathless and her tone full of wonder. But before Farren or anyone else could offer and answer to the question, she repeated her words as a announcement: “That was you.” There was no passion in the words at all, no anger, fear or sadness; it was just a detached statement of a fact.
Her head returned to an upright angle and she started walking directly toward him, never breaking eye-contact. She still smiled, and still did not blink. “Farren... your name was Farren.”

Farren held her gaze, even as the intensity of her gaze ratcheted up bit-by-bit even as her head shifted almost as if on a lever until it was at an uncanny angle. Someone else might have balked, but Farren only felt the faint quiver of tension in his body. He took a breath, letting it drain away, if she meant to strike him, so be it.
“It was,” he confirmed, his voice firm, his gaze unflinching. He made no response to her stating his name, there was no need, it was self-evident. If only due to his own determination to weather the storm, a certain steeliness came into his gaze in that moment as she approached.

Never wavering, never breaking eye-contact, her smile never so much as twitching, Gerlinde walked up to Farren. This woman who looked so different from the one years ago, in another life; one who had once been a light weight on his shoulder, defenseless and pathetic, was now a Hunter only a handful of centimeters shorter than him, bearing a deadly weapon on her hip. There could be no doubt that with her new nature, she was as beautiful as she was lethal.
She moved in close, raised her arms, wrapped them around Farren's shoulders and pulled him into a tender embrace, pressing her body into his, gently resting her forehead against his chest.
“You must have felt terrible,” she said, with not even a hint of resentment in her voice. “You poor thing. I am so happy I finally met you.” She raised her head to meet his gaze once again. “Farren.”

Ophelia turned to thank Torquil for his observation as he said it, though before much movement could occur between them Farren had already made his way up to them--and had a tense interaction with Gerlinde. Ophelia observed it with keen interest, seeing something of herself in Gerlinde as she forgave Farren the way she'd forgiven the Shopkeeper a few hours earlier... and she cemented in her heart that Gerlinde was a part of their little group. Whatever came, the sweet girl had suffered too much for one so young and Ophelia would not permit anyone or anything to take advantage of her again. And Farren... his earlier actions made more sense to her now, and she knew well that Gerlinde's grace was a sign of acceptance of the way things must be in the absence of any ability to change the past... but the fact that he'd felt compelled to confess his part in what happened to her was irrefutable proof that whoever he was then, he was not that person now. She'd done worse than him, truth be told, and none of them had ever displayed a single doubt about her--she could offer him no less than the understanding and grace she'd been offered. Feeling oddly filled with camaraderie, Ophelia waited for the moment between Gerlinde and Farren to pass before she spoke.

"Whatever happened before, we've got nothing but each other now. Nobody else will understand what we've been through, and what we will soon go through together. You... are all I have left, and I will protect you all however I can. Now, sentiment aside, there have been some developments..." Ophelia began, happy to have some shred of belonging with something that survived the Night of the Blood Moon--and she filled Farren in on all of the developments they'd learned while he'd been absent, letting anyone else who wanted to speak do so.

"So... I think we need to learn as much about this false Paleblood as we can. Whatever it is, if it's a risk to you two or the Dream itself, we need to equip ourselves to mitigate it... and the only person we'll learn a thing from is Harold himself. Gerlinde's been kind enough to share a number of Runes with me, and there's one in particular I'd like to brand you with, Farren. It's the same rune we found on those little trinkets in the Industrial Ward--though I know it now as the Deep Sea Rune. It... insulates you from immaterial forms of harm--like the dreadful frenzy of the Pallid one's bell, or... or Ashen Blood. Harold... he will violate your mind, and I wonder if it might help. You'll find this strange compulsion fill you, that'll tell you he's just a nice old man--but he isn't, and you must remember that. I offer it to you as well, Torquil, if you want it--though... I know how the brand bites; if you don't want to endure the pain, I understand."

_Farren

was prepared for many things, extreme violence among them, perhaps a vicious verbal rebuke. Silent, unforgiving judgement too was something he had prepared for, but in his pessimism–if that’s what it was–he had not prepared for what truly transpired. As she reached out, Farren didn’t react at all, barely even twitched…until her slender arms wrapped about his neck and she pressed close as she embraced him.

He tensed, then tensed further still, his entire body practically going rigid as if every muscle had locked up and unconsciously he dropped the bag he’d been holding in one hand. His mind screamed danger—or…no that wasn’t quite it. Farren frowned, numerous thoughts raging through his mind in the space of an instant. He noticed that shrinking voice in his mind, the one built from old impulses and a largely forgotten identity…it was angry, screaming, terrified. Lashing out. Had he really been so lonely and guarded in his old life that he’d not been close with someone like this? Not shared a casual embrace. Farren swallowed, his throat feeling thick even as he took in a breath, inhaling the strange and distinct scent of a hunter that Gerlinde put off…which was tinged with notes of cinnamon. After another moment, he started to relax, not fully but at least he wasn’t a practically a statue anymore. At the same time his arms came up and he—though awkwardly—managed to return her embrace, if tentatively. Though she’d been remade—first by the old blood, and then in some other way given her changed appearance—his embrace was far more gentle and unsure, as if he almost didn’t know how to hug someone, or as if she was so fragile he might accidentally break her.

An emotion welled in his chest even as she spoke…relief, then gratitude. She shifted, looking up at them with those distinct eyes, the same eyes he remembered from what felt like ages ago.

“I—…” he started, but didn’t know what to even say. After a moment he found some words to string together, “You’re not angry?” He asked, gently extricating himself from her, his larger hands on her shoulders as he held her slightly at arms length, his piercing eyes locked with her gaze.

"I was angry, once," Gerlinde quietly confessed, her voice now tinged with sadness. "For so long I hated you, and I hated everyone at Byrgenwerth. I cried myself to sleep wishing that all kinds of terrible things happened to you. But in time I realized that everything that happened to me... all the horrible things they did to me... they had to have a good reason. You had to have a good reason. And I didn't really matter. My life and wellbeing didn't matter in the face of what they were learning. It was for the greater good. So I... learned to just be happy to be a part of that."

As she spoke, Farren nodded, listening intently, seeking to understand. However, the more he heard the more his gut twisted with anger and disgust, both himself for the circumstances his actions had put her in and towards the larger system that did such things to innocent people. His brow furrowed and his jaw clenched, the muscles at the joint visibly working as he looked at her. She was almost his height, but in her vulnerable state she seemed small somehow, like she was still that girl on the inside, even though she’d done her utmost to change externally and project another image.

“You’re a survivor,” he said frankly, his tone grave and serious, but without the almost universal roughness that it typically held. “…I admire that and I don’t know what you’ve endured because of my choices and the predilections of others, but you didn’t deserve it.”

"No, don't you see?" she interjected, sounding almost happy. "It doesn't matter what I deserved. I didn't matter! No one matters! Everyone just does whatever they need to. Whatever they want."

Farren’s heart missed a beat, he didn’t pull in air for a moment, but slowly did so again rather than suddenly gasping. His jaw worked for a moment, but rather than tensing further he forced himself to relax and give her a faint smile. But his eyes were almost sad for a moment before he took another breath and they crinkled slightly at the edges, matching his expression. “There’s some truth to that,” Farren offered, his voice even gentler than before, “After all, we only matter as much as we decide we ought to,” he added.

Her words had made Farren realize that she was deep in some kind of madness, he thought, probably to try to protect herself from the pain of how things really were. Part of him wanted to try harder to tear it away, to rip off the gauze, to correct the splint so she could heal, but he wasn’t some kind of mind doctor and despite her gesture they weren’t truly close. For now at least. Besides, Yharnam was not a kind place, so perhaps a little madness would serve her well. Nonetheless, he met her eyes again, “Later, if it’s something you can bear…I’d like to hear what you’ve been through, but not now.” He gave her shoulders a squeeze and in so doing felt the strength about her as much as he felt the softness and saw the fragility. Farren raised his eyes and caught a glimpse of Ophelia as she got a bit closer. “By your look, it seems we’ve other business to attend.”

He let go of Gerlinde’s shoulders, though some part of him wanted to give her another squeeze, one of further reassurance perhaps. Farren found that he felt rather protective of the girl, but wasn’t sure what the nature of the feeling was exactly. He pushed it aside for some other time. At the same time, he nodded in agreement with Ophelia’s words before she fully launched into a lengthy explanation of what all they’d discussed in his absence. It took some time, but when she finished he had a lot to think about…or rather a lot to shove into the back of his mind and slowly process as it became convenient.

“Well, that’s…a lot to take in,” he’d reply in an almost grumbled tone, before he shook his head a bit as she bulled on. Apparently, they would be heading to the White Church Workshop next….

Farren chewed lightly at the inside of his cheek—though not hard enough to break or bruise the skin—as he considered what she was saying about the Vicar. He had no memory of the man…and would have rather avoided him, but she was right. Information was essential, and they simply didn’t know nearly enough about the nature of most of their transformations—Ophelia excepted. By the end of her explanation regarding Harold, Farren found himself almost scowling, the idea of anyone or anything else setting him on edge. He shook himself a bit before nodding, “I’ll take the rune, rather not have anyone else rattling around my head,” he said simply. He’d have to explain the small discovery he’d made about the Moonbourn Hunter’s weapons later. Probably wasn’t that important to the others anyways, at least not in the immediate moment.

After Gerlinde and Farren disentagled and Ophelia helped Farren and Torquil replace their Lake Runes with Deep Sea Runes, the party of Hunters proceeded to the Yharnam Headstone to return to the Waking World. Each in turn touched the golden marker labeled “Lumenflower Garden”, and each in turn felt themselves fall asleep and fade away only to awaken and reappear in what was nearly the highest point in Yharnam.
All of them arrived beside the golden plinth with its eldritch ornamentation, crowned by a golden lantern, and found themselves standing before the tall and awesome mosaic window leading to the interior of the Grand Cathedral. Opposite that intimidating window was the garden itself, which looked slightly different than it had before; the field of enormous lumenflowers was bathed in an even brighter radiance than when Ophelia had first seen them, as their buds had progressed further toward blooming, their petals spreading out enough so that you could see more of their interiors and they let out more of the pale light emanating from them.
To Torquil and Farren the flowers seemed large and impressive, but otherwise completely normal. Ophelia would not only once again see them surrounded by enormous swarms of guidance sprites, but would also notice the flowers all in one smooth, simultaneous motion turn their blooms from facing the right relative to them, to “looking” straight at the newly arrived Hunters. Ophelia would be acutely aware of this, while to Torquil and Farren it seemed like the most natural thing in the world, as though the lumenflowers were no different from any other flowers.

“Ophelia, you are back!” they heard a voice call out within just a couple of seconds of them arriving, though only Ophelia had heard it before and recognized it as Vicar Harold's. “And you brought Farren and Torquil! And... Gerlinde? How unexpected.”
And Harold came up toward them from among the lumenflowers in the garden, smiling widely.

Upon laying eyes on Harold for the first time, Farren would experience a sudden and exquisite sense of calm settle over him unlike anything he had ever experienced before. Immediately upon seeing Harold, those lingering hints of madness and paranoia that had been with him since his past life, ever since he touched that golden halberd... all vanished. Not only did he feel safe, as if now protected from a threat that had inexorably hung over him like the Sword of Damocles abated all at once, but it felt warm and comfortable. It felt like he was coming home after a long, long time away, and as though this stranger was a beloved member of his family that he had sorely missed. He was a nice old man. There was no doubt in Farren's mind that this was true.

The anxiety Torquil had felt about Ophelia's warnings of how dangerous Harold was, as well as his intent not to be tricked by whatever strange influence he might have, was instantly swept aside. A broad, dopey smile spread across his face as he found himself implicitly trusting this nice old man.

“Harry-poo!” Gerlinde said in sing-song, eliciting a grimace of annoyance to Ophelia's eyes, though to Torquil and Farren he did not seem to react to the nickname at all.

Ophelia prepared herself mentally before touching the golden marker, summoning forth whatever reserves of wit and wiles she possessed to see the situation they were about to enter into clearly. As she woke she cradled the Holy Moonlight Sword to her face, and felt... safe. She could feel the gentle radiance of her guiding moonlight protecting her, her familiarity with and affinity for the strange forces at work in this place inuring her against the insidiousness of its influence.

She opened her eyes, and at once she asked the Holy Moonlight Sword a question that occurred to her in that moment: these Lumenflowers, the aura here... was it a part of the same greater whole that the Holy Moonlight Sword was? Were they of the same being, the same influence, or... were these flowers merely another pretender to the name of Mother Moon? The answer resonated in her mind like a clarion call: it does not know what presence exists here, only that the presence is of the Nightmare. No other part of it is here.

With that answered, Ophelia's gaze grew just a hair colder--whatever force was at play here, it was not one that she venerated. She would not be tricked into doing the bidding of another Great One, nor another person--from the moment she picked up the Holy Moonlight Sword, the very instant that it chose her and she chose it, she had been ever sworn to her Mother Moon. She gave Harold a warm and cordial smile, the chilliness of her thoughts hidden, and greeted him in much the same manner:

"Ah, love, it's so good to see you again! It seems events overtook us, and we got split away from Victor... but I reckon he'll be safer on his own anyway. Gerlinde here is such a delight--we came across one another on our journeys, and I must say, we're all quite enamoured with her... I think we'll end up spending much time in one another's company as the night grows e'er longer. Still! As we agreed, I thought it best to bring them here--you must wish to observe the results of your work, and I know my companions have questions about their condition... And I have some questions of my own for you besides, dear, though they can wait until after." Ophelia smiled, attempting to never give Harold a reason to be suspicious of her in the first place. She could see it plain upon Torquil's face that whatever mysterious force existed here had bewitched him--and she daren't attempt to read anything so subtle on Farren's face. If they were bewitched and she played along, there should be no reason for suspicion--and it hadn't escaped her notice that Harold seemed... much less pleased for Gerlinde to be here, if his little grimace was any indication. She thought it would be quite manageable to keep Harold's trust in her--though she hoped Gerlinde wouldn't give the game away.