[color=#1A1A3B][b][u][h1][sub][sub][sub]Farren[/sub][/sub][/sub][/h1][/u][/b][/color]                  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 [i]literally[/i] 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.