_Farren

was very briefly surprised and almost…overtaken with the beauty that spread out around them in the form of the radiance of the Lumenflower Garden. His eyes widened faintly at the sight, but his attention was seamlessly devoured as a voice found them. It felt familiar somehow, comforting, and a dreamy sense of calm beyond anything he had ever felt settled over him, so deep and encompassing that he reckoned it had seeped into not just his mind or body, but his soul itself. The lines of his face softened, the seriousness that so pervasively hovered about his visage, etched into every angle of his aspect, eased noticeably and all the tension in his muscles practically disappeared. He stood a bit taller, yet simultaneously seemed less imposing. Though his azure eyes remained striking and the sense that he was distinctly aware of everything around him largely remained, the piercing quality to his gaze faded and all but vanished.

Farren, as if magnetically drawn like the needle of a compass to true north, swiveled about, first his eyes, then his head, then his body, all to attend the vicar. Farren’s altogether pleasant, but previously subtle if uncharacteristic, smile grew, and his eyes crinkled slightly in pleasure…as if he were seeing a cherished grandfather again after many months or years of missing them. The calm he’d felt intensified, becoming more like serenity as even the deep, insidious influence of a Golden Radiance in his mind faded and disappeared entirely. He’d never felt so good again and he reckoned that even the man he’d been before had never been so relaxed and carefree.

It was nice…and the Vicar, Harold it must have been, was most certainly a nice old man. Gerlinde’s greeting to the man, Farren found, was more out of place than anything about Vicar Harold, as if she were perhaps being rather rude to the pleasant codger. Yet, that was a bit odd and his brow furrowed ever-so-slightly at that thought. Almost like something was off kilter in a world where everything should be right as rain. However, he found himself quickly moving on from that notion–though a tiny, almost silent awareness at the very back of his mind questioned, ‘had that thought been him…or something else?’

“Ah. It’s a pleasure to meet you Vicar Harold, I’ve heard the nicest things about you, but they hardly compare to the real thing,” he said, far more frank than he ever would have normally been–not that he noticed.

As Ophelia spoke, Farren found himself pleased with how she was conducting herself…her manner seemed far more natural, respectful and pleasant, than Gerlinde’s greeting had. When she was done, he decided he agreed, “Ophelia’s right, I was rather curious if you might share some insight on the matter of our transformation, which I should thank you for. It’s been very…nice being a hunter. Invigorating.” There was an enthusiasm about his manner that had been absent in the entirety of the time that his companions had known him–indeed one that had never been present in his past self either. Perhaps the only time one might have seen even a fraction of that energy might have been in the throes of mortal peril…or when he’d been discussing weaponry.

Needless to say, while Farren was none the wiser in that moment…something was decidedly off.

Harold laughed pleasantly at Farren's greeting and expression of gratitude as he walked up to them, a twinkle in his brown eyes as he patted Farren and Torquil on their shoulders, one hand on each.
“My, my, look at you two!” he exclaimed merrily, leaning in and studying first Farren's face closely, then Torquil. “How marvelous! What a couple of specimens we have here! How curious that it was the two of you who woke up out of all of them. I suppose... ah, but I could spend the whole night guessing and never get any close to the real reason. Welcome! And thank you so much for coming to see me, my dear Hunters.”
Gerlinde giggled as she watched Harold studying the two male Hunters. “Say, aren't you just a little tempted to steal a kiss there, Harry?”
Another flash of annoyance passed over Harold's features, though only Ophelia noticed. “Uncouth as ever, I see, Gerlinde. But I welcome your company nonetheless.”
He paused for a second after speaking before Ophelia would notice a flash of confusion and surprise in his eyes, prompting the vicar to lean in and take another close look at Torquil. “Well now, my boy, your jaw got fixed. Does that mean you speak now?”
Blinking confusedly, Torquil then hurriedly and eagerly nodded his head. “Yes, mister lord vicar, sir.”
“That's quite the mouthful,” the old man laughed. “'Harold' will suffice, my boy. How spectacular... and unusual.”

Finally Vicar Harold took a couple of steps back to a more socially acceptable distance, though Torquil and Farren had felt no discomfort with his close proximity. “Questions, you say? I shall do my very best to answer them, then! What is it you want to know?”

Ophelia paid everyone close attentiona after she'd set out her introductions and purpose--gathering as much knowledge as possible. It was regrettable, that the Deep Sea rune hadn't helped, but now they knew that it didn't. There was no small degree of animosity between Gerlinde and Harold either--though Farren and Torquil hadn't seemed to notice. It struck her in that moment how chilling the influence Harold had truly was, for Farren was ever-curious and hyper-vigilant... to be able to dull even such keen senses as his, to have enthralled even Dietrich... it made her stomach turn, and some part of her want to scream and run away. The Holy Moonlight Sword buoyed her, though, as it always would--and through the wondrous effulgence of the cosmos resonating in her mind's eye she found the point of clarity she needed and continued unfazed.

"Gerlinde, dear, Harold's our host! While we're guests in this beautiful garden, perhaps we should comport ourselves with a little touch more decorum?" Ophelia began, walking over to Gerlinde and placing a free hand on her shoulder to spin her about such that they could gaze into one another's eyes without Harold being able to see either of their faces clearly. She shot Gerlinde a very particular look, not of chastisement but of pleading, silently asking her to play along.

"Oh, he's used to it," Gerlinde said with a smile and a shrug. "But fine, if that's what you want I'll be nice for once."

"It means the world to me, love, thank you." Ophelia replied, squeezing her shoulders softly and giving her an earnestly warm smile that she immediately transitioned into a beaming gaze at Harold.

"You see, Harold, we've noticed a little something... amiss with the Hunter's Dream. Whenever one of your experiments heads there, the... weather changes? It seems innocuous, I know, but... I have something of an affinity for the realms of Nightmare, perhaps owing to my true Paleblood, and I can feel... ripples. Distortions... Something. I... I know it'd be uncouth of me, to ask your confidence in such delicate matters so soon, but I feel I must. I know that I can trust you, love, so I ask: what is this false Paleblood?" Ophelia began, stumbling a little over her words as she built up purposefully. She reckoned it was something of a gamble, to be so direct, but between Harold's seeming distaste for Gerlinde and his own ignorance of her own true thoughts... She wondered if she might have altered the odds just enough in her favour to get some true answers. She also wondered if he might ask them to take care of something like he had Gerlinde before he answered their questions... there were many possibilities that could unfold from this moment. She found herself wanting to ask Farren, for he had the kind of piercing insight that could cut through the vast and nebulous cloud of what she could see unfolding--and it repulsed her to her core to think that she'd let him be subjected to this creeping influence that took him away from himself.

_Farren

barely even seemed to notice the significance of Ophelia speaking with Gerlinde, in fact…it was almost as if he didn’t notice them speaking at all. Instead, he found himself embraced in a gentle sort of wonder at the garden around them, and their host as well. His gaze would drift between flowers, the only sign that some part of him might have been aware of the danger inherent to having one’s mind co-opted the fact that three of his fingertips kept lightly drifting over the faintly weathered grip of the True Blade of Mercy where it remained sheathed at his hip. As Ophelia focused on Harold and she began to build to her question, he found his attention being drawn between her and Harold. The nice old man seemed to listen so graciously despite the prying nature of her words. Farren almost found her inquiry rude, even though he too was exceptionally curious regarding the nature of his own metamorphosis.

Almost guiltily, Farren spoke, his words coming a beat after Ophelia’s, though adding far less to the conversation than hers had.

“Admittedly, I’d wondered that myself…” he said, beginning to trail off before a small part of his mind pushed him just far enough to say something else, to actually ask something of Vicar Harold. “Honestly…I don’t think I know much of Paleblood itself, let alone this…false sort. Perhaps you could enlighten us?” Where normally, the final phrase–his actual question–would likely have come off as if he felt he deserved the answer, maybe have even been delivered in a somewhat abrasive manner, in that moment it came off more as an earnest plea. In fact, Farren almost felt…embarrassed to ask so much of the man who ostensibly had served a vital role in healing him of whatever horrid affliction he must have been ensnared by prior to the blood ministration.

After all, how could a nice man like Harold have anything but noble intentions for the people of Yharnam?

Again Harold let out a merry, grandfatherly laugh. “My, my, so respectful this batch of Hunters has turned out to be. Don't worry, you can talk to me and ask me questions; I won't mind. Being vicar is just a responsibility to my charges, and it should never make me unapproachable to them.”

He crossed his arms. “Ah, but yes, these questions... I suppose it would make most sense to start with Farren's question and go over what Paleblood is in the first place? Obviously it is still being researched and much of what we know is difficult to explain in terms a layman would understand, but I will try my best for your sake.
Imagine, if you will, a fishing pole.” As he spoke, he uncrossed his arms and mimed holding such an implement in front of him. “Allegorically that fishing pole is your Hunter's Dream, and humans like yourselves are the fish. Paleblood, then, is like a hook that one might eat but won't cut you until the line begins to go taut. Once it does, however, it will continue to piece deeper into the flesh and tear through it the longer you struggle, unaware of the force above the water trying to pull you to it. Left to your own devices, just swimming along wherever the current takes you and enduring what is happening to you, that hook eventually kills you. By making you Hunters, we essentially gave you the strength to fight the current, slacken the line and even leap from the water to witness what force has snared you.”
He threw his arms wide and smiled. “You see, Paleblood is not truly a disease, it is the Dream trying to call you to it, but we humans are normally too weak to answer the call. Even now you, Ophelia and Gerlinde, still have the metaphorical hook buried in your flesh, and are still attached to that fishing line. Even now you cannot escape the Dream. Only the Dream itself, or whatever force governs who is and is not bound to it, can release you from its grip.”
Lowering his arms, he continued: “False Paleblood, as you call it, is an attempt to devise a way to hook whoever we want. We create a new hook and line and hope it attaches to the fishing rod. In your case, Farren and Torquil, it did. Though the weather changing when you go there... that hardly sounds like a significant downside to attaining immortality, does it?”

Ophelia did her best not to narrow the eyes at the explanation, though she could sense plain in the vicar's speech the bent he was giving his interpretation of facts to suit his own narrative. Ophelia knew she had to be careful in how she responded--and she figured it was best to mostly try and go along with the analogy.

"Mm... the Dream ensnares us for a specific purpose--my concern is the line in this metaphor, dear. Whatever force the Dream ensnares us by, it is of the pond--and I don't think the line and hook you've concocted are. Whatever force is in control of the Dream might not have the ability to manage these extra fishing poles, and the function of the pond might suffer as a result. The realms of Nightmare... you know how dangerous they can be when tampered with, don't you, love? I understand your aim, and the lure of immortal Hunters--don't think me against the idea of your experiments! I simply wish to add my knowledge to its refinement, to a careful and thorough understanding of the forces we tamper with... to avoid another Night of the Blood Moon. We all lost so much with the School of Mensis' overreaching... Yharnam can't endure that kind of loss again, and we must protect it and its people, no? Is that not what we are sworn to, as the stewards of the arcane knowledge of yore?" Ophelia asked in return, her tone thoughtful and melodic but with some undercurrent of serious worry. In many ways, what she was saying was absolutely true--she did not, in principle, have a problem with being able to connect others to the Hunter's Dream. If what Harold had done was hurting her Mother Moon, or her friends, or her birthright... well, that was another story--and it was that story they needed to get to.

_Farren

focused in on Harold’s words, his gaze seeming to regain some of its unerring intensity as he listened closely. As Harold finished, Farren smiled and nodded sagely, “A good analogy,” he said quietly, but a tiny part of his mind asked ‘Was it?’ Farren half-shrugged to himself, surely the Vicar knew more than he did of such things. Then Ophelia was speaking…expanding the analogy, but it felt clumsy, misplaced. She was usually so much better at articulating this sort of thing, but then…he’d only thought that before meeting the Vicar.

However, in the interest of politeness, Farren didn’t make that opinion known, it would be rude to disrespect one of the Vicar’s guests, even if she was his compatriot. Though he did have to admit that as Ophelia wound down, he did agree that if there were risks they ought to know about them. Still, he trusted that Harold had considered such things already, after all, a man such as him would obviously had gained wisdom to match his age.

“I... think the metaphor is getting mixed up a little. Let's speak more plainly, then.” Harold sighed, but smiled softly as he did so. “We haven't forgotten the Night of the Blood Moon, Ophelia, and you can believe me when I tell you we are quite aware of how it happened. We are not trying to beckon a Great One here, dear, nor are we trying to send anything to a Great One, we are only using the method the Great One already picking people to afflict with Paleblood to afflict it on people of our choosing.”
He closed his eyes and turned his back to them, looking out over the luminous field of lumenflowers. “We started development of this plan nearly five years ago, when we managed to recover the remains of a former Paleblood Hunter called Djura. We started experimenting with his blood even back then, and had a boost in our progress when Moira became a Paleblood Hunter as well, and we managed to obtain some of her blood. But the real key to it all was when we obtained the blood of the Moonborn Hunter less than a week ago. With that many powerful samples, we were able to create our false Paleblood.”
Still looking away, Harold crossed his arms once more. “So you see, we're just borrowing the connection real Paleblood Hunters already have. I assure you, it's quite safe.”

Ophelia blinked, and then blinked again in disbelief as she listened to Harold's words. Some primal and animalistic part of her, embolded by the Old Blood, screamed at her to run--to return to the Hunter's Dream as quickly as possible. To tell the Moonborn Hunter of this epiphany, and to... Well, she didn't know what to do. They wouldn't know either, she figured, they being what they were... But all of that was quelled with soft motes of light, and she looked up at the waxing moon beginning to make itself known in the sky of this world. She breathed in slowly and deeply, and steeled her focus.

"The genius of what you've done is matched only by its recklessness, I fear. The Dream... it is a realm of Nightmare, intimately tied to its source--a Great One that is dead. You are not tapping the source of the Dream, love, but those marked by a Great One... and that diluted power, disconnected from the source of the Dream, might put more strain on it than it can bear. There has never been, to the best of my understanding, more than one Hunter tied to it at any given point--and they are all released in the fullness of time, once they have served whatever inscrutable purpose was deemed necessary of them. I... I know that weather changes seem trivial, dear, but they're not. They represent a loss of control over the nature of the Dream by the forces that steward it in its creator's absence. Is this not the next step of your research? To have made the connection, to know it is possible, and to use the knowledge of those who are tied to the Dream to understand the how and the why? Forgive my ardour, I can... simply feel the consequences of these actions in a way you perhaps cannot--and it is my duty to report them to you, love." Ophelia spoke, choosing her words carefully with a great number of pauses and moments of reflection as she spoke. She tried her level best not to sound confrontational, having picked up on Farren's tension, but the situation was taking a toll on her--and she was struggling very much on the knife's edge between getting all of the knowledge she could and her need to not overplay her hand.

_Farren

nodded to himself as Harold stated plainly that it was quite safe. After all, he’d laid it out, they’d done considerable research before the experiment that had yielded him and Torquil. The only thing that contradicted that fact was the almost silent reminder in the back of his mind that of the almost four dozen participants, only three had awoken…and of those three only two had survived the paleblood infusion–himself included.

Still, not even a shred of unease whispered through his conscious mind, the root of that emotion dying almost before it could even begin to reach his subconscious. However, as Ophelia spoke up and openly contradicted Harold, practically saying that he knew nothing–or at best, far less–than he claimed…Farren found himself not merely bothered, but actively vexed. His gaze sharpened–though an uncharacteristic dullness remained in his irises, as if they’d been robbed of their true vibrance. His jaw clenched and the faint smile on his lips flattened, then turned slightly down as his brows creased inwards slightly.

He took a step forward–towards Ophelia–almost as if he were going to interpose himself between the Vicar and her, but he stopped. Farren wasn’t even sure why, but something made him falter before taking a second step. The look of near-disgusted anger on his face shifted to one of first confusion, and then frustration. Farren wet his lips, his gaze flitting from the Vicar to Ophelia before he forced himself to relax. He wouldn’t know it, but it would be far easier than it ought to have been, the insidious force affecting him such that the calm rose back from deeper in his mind as if it were part of him. As if it were natural.

Yet…something was. No, they were safe here. The White Church Workshop had always been a sanctuary, and where was safer than with the Vicar himself? Perhaps the only way they might be in less danger would be with Dietrich as well or with Yharnam many…many miles behind them.

“Surely…the Vicar and his compatriots had already found means to test the blood’s effects prior?” He said, but he sounded…just a bit less sure, the last word angling up in question. It was the most unsure Ophelia would have ever seen him….

It didn’t suit him in the least.

Harold turned first in the neck, then the waist, until he was looking back at the quartet of reality-hopping Hunters, a smile on his lips and a sharp look in his eyes. He studied Ophelia, blinked his eyes and slowly nodded his head.
“There is still much you don't know, dear, about a great many things,” he told her, his tone lightly teasing. “But of course this first batch, including Farren and Torquil – and you were the first – is only one test. We will continue developing it and make it better. If nothing else, having only two successes out of forty-four subjects is unacceptable. And if there are any other quirks with our false Paleblood, like your Dream acting strangely at times, we will fix those as well. We are only getting started, dear. These two are just the beginning. Imagine, in but several years' time, Yharnam could have its very own army of immortal Hunters.”

Ophelia's gaze travelled up towards her Mother Moon, brighter in the sky now but still not at her full glory, and she felt a serenity envelop her that mere words lacked the capacity to describe. It was more like a Caryll Rune than it was their unworthy language, like when the Holy Moonlight Sword had first revealed the Guidance rune to her, like a hundred books condensed into a single instant and allowed to wash over her. She turned to meet Vicar Harold's gaze not with the growing frustration she'd had a moment ago, but with a moon-bright sparkle in her eyes that would no doubt betray her own sharpness--and she smiled just as softly and wisely as he did.

"You're right, love, there is so much that I don't know... and I hope you see my outburst only as the concerns of a devoted witch whose sight yet lacks the clarity and discernment you embody. If you would elevate this humble servant to a higher plane of understanding, I can in turn offer you insights about the Dream that only one truly connected to it by its own means could offer--as well as one who has direct communion with the Moonborn Hunter. I know that together we can reach the greatest understanding, and your vision for a safer Yharnam can be executed." Ophelia spoke, her tone suddenly reproachful and reverent. There was too much that she needed from Harold, too many resources and connections to forfeit, for her to declare war on him and end him utterly here and now--though some part of her yearned for the violence, it too had seen the light. It knew that its time would come, and that clarity was not 'no', it was simply 'not now'--and in that, it contentedly rested beneath the placid lake of Ophelia's mind, biding its time and waiting for the moment to strike. She was no experiment, and sworn wholly to her Mother Moon. Harold would rue this day, and face the pitiless judgment of this lunar witch when and only when Mother Moon desired it so.

“If the safety of Yharnam is your concern, there is plenty out there that I would happily entrust the four of you with resolving,” Harold told Ophelia, finally turning back to them fully. “I don't know how much you have heard from the Moonborn Hunter already, but the Night of the Blood Moon had some rather severe consequences for Yharnam, even beyond just wiping out nearly its entire population. Three Great Ones were killed during that night – Venara, Seraph and the poor Ophan of Kos – , and something like that sends colossal ripples through all layers of reality. It has woken up several Great Ones that were slumbering harmlessly within the Nightmare or the Old Labyrinth, and has made them turn their attention to our fair city. You are right about that, Ophelia: the danger of another Blood Moon is very real, but it will not happen because of our false Paleblood. The Great Ones are already here, and the people of Yharnam are already being guided by their divine wills.”
His eyes turned to the newest member of their group. “Since you have already met Gerlinde you may already have heard, but I will tell you regardless because it is a task of utmost importance to the continued existence of Yharnam, and perhaps even the world as a whole. I need someone to go to Yahar'gul and stop what is happening there. I can feel it even now... someone calling to a Great One. Trying to draw it here, along with its entire Nightmare. I cannot overstate the importance of them not being allowed to complete whatever wretched ritual they are preparing over there.”

_Farren

struggled with himself as the two exchanged words, but was somewhat ameliorated as the Vicar failed to rise to provocation while Ophelia seemed to calm after peering upon the moon above. It was only as Harold finished, that he found something to add, his voice cutting through the brief silence, “...and what of the Industrial Ward and its Crowmother?”

While he understood the gravity of what Harold had just explained to them, he needed some explanation for the colossal corvid that had been protecting that district apparently for quite some time. Its presence was strange, unsettling even, but he didn’t feel those emotions in the moment. Instead, it was more that it felt important and that fact tugged at his mind in the form of curiosity.

Harold's eyes widened slightly in what might have been surprise. "Crowmother? What is that?"

Farren's head shifted at a slight angle and he almost frowned “Surely you're aware of the situation in the Industrial Ward...?” He said, the idea that this wizened nice old man would be unaware of something so bizarre in his own city almost alien to him.

Ophelia listened to Harold's tangent about the safety of Yharnam, internally sighing at the realisation that she would have to participate in this conversation many moments more to get everything that she needed. She wanted to get away from this place, despite how enchanting the Lumenflowers were, and she especially wanted to get Torquil and Farren away--she was about reaching the limit of how much of Farren's nauseating obsequiousness she could stomach, and wanted to spare him the indignity of it besides.

"That is a pressing concern, yes, and we will most certainly investigate... but, imagine this, we are fighting our way through Yahar'gul--no doubt defended by an army of Followers with arcane relics at their disposal--and the results of your experiments... sever our connection to the Dream, or disrupt it somehow for even a moment. The hook slips loose, and we sink beneath the waters never to be seen again... and this is a real possibility, love. I cannot allow us to take on so immensely dangerous a proposition while a threat to our safety lurks in the reaches of my mind... so I will need to be caught up to speed on your experiments and results, dear, and pick your brain besides. Then... we can stop whatever's happening in Yahar'gul. I know, being such a nice old man, that you want what's best for us all--and that you know keeping us in the dark can't possibly be best for everyone." Ophelia spoke, her voice beginning to sound a little weary at the edges. She managed to retain her positive affect, and tried her best to be respectful, but her patience truly was wearing thin--and looking at Gerlinde's no-doubt mischievous countenance out of the corner of her eye wasn't helping. She hoped the Vicar would just acquiesce, but a sinking feeling in her stomach whispered to her that he wouldn't, that this tired charade would continue, and she tried very hard to suppress how that made her feel.

The vicar stared at Ophelia with a blank expression, while Torquil shuffled uncomfortably from one foot to the other and Gerlinde – still smiling widely – casually rested her right hand on the handle of her threaded cane and her left on her blood vial pouch. There was an unmistakable tension in the air, and for several ominous seconds the garden remained in nigh total silence. Even if Farren tried to speak, he would find himself compelled not to... and Ophelia would once again become aware of the feeling that had assailed her while walking with Dietrich earlier that night: the feeling that something unseen was observing her very closely.
Then the silence was broken by the sound of bells tolling – much closer and louder here at the Upper Cathedral Ward – for the second time, announcing that the moon had officially risen to the point where lunacy would start to grip the hearts and minds of beasts throughout Yharnam. The feeling of being observed abated, and a small smile curved the corners of Harold's mouth.

“If you want your answers, look in the Grand Cathedral,” he told her, gesturing toward the enormous building onto the side of which these gardens was built and for which the ward was named. “That is where you will find all the truths you're looking for. But until you do, simply rest easy knowing that unless you do something incredibly stupid, it is not a real possibility.”
He turned back to Farren. “Now, my dear Farren, about what you were saying... What is the situation in the Industrial Ward? Who or what is Crowmother?”

_Farren

waited for Harold’s response, but found Ophelia interjecting upon the brief silence, perhaps meaning to lay out her grievances to the Vicar. He supposed that was reasonable enough and though he found her questioning the man to be presumptuous, he could at least understand how most would simply not be as willing to accept the fact that Vicar Harold gave out only what he knew others could parse. Surely the same was the case here…for if the details of his research were truly relevant to their pursuits, it just made sense that the Vicar would have been forthcoming with the details.

After all, he was a nice old man with no reason to withhold information, especially if that information would actively benefit the people he could have informed. Still, while it seemed the Vicar listened, there was something about his blank serene expression that told Farren he wasn’t bothered. Perhaps not amused by the disrespect, but at least not frustrated with Ophelia’s insistent prying.

As such, Farren relaxed further, only tensing as he caught sight of Gerlinde’s hand coming to rest upon her threaded cane. His dulled azure eyes narrowed slightly and instinctively, his own hand found not one the Blades of Mercy, but rather his pouch of bullets. One thumb and finger began to slip in as the silence pressed in and the tension thickened in the air. While he remained entirely calm–beyond calm in fact, so unbothered that it was actually uncanny–Farren pinched a lead bullet between pointer and thumb and then let his arm go mostly slack, his fingers aligning with his pistol.

His gaze didn’t stay on Gerlinde, no he’d only glanced at her briefly, his eyes grazing over her figure before resting briefly on Torquil, and then Ophelia. Then…his eyes would have almost unfocused–though it would be a bit hard to tell–as he stared at a point equidistant from everyone present, allowing him to see everyone at once with his peripheral vision. However, before anything could happen, the Vicar’s lips subtly curved upwards and then he spoke.

The words were brief, not perfunctory, but reasonable so far as he could tell, and then his attention was captured and redirected as the Vicar addressed him. Farren bowed his head once respectful, and spoke up, “Ah, certainly, but just Farren is fine,” he replied, his tone not reverent, but open, light, and almost absent its usual gruffness. His eyes seemed to focus slightly more, becoming less dull as Harold addressed him directly.

“We’ve not seen it ourselves, so I can’t give you specifics, but we happened upon a brutally slain Cleric Beast in the Industrial Ward. It had been…impaled on a statue in a large courtyard.” Farren frowned slightly, “There were numerous, far-too-large, black feathers…like those of a raven or crow, but longer than I’m tall…all strewn about. Several other beasts as well, all eviscerated.” Recalling the sight almost had his calm wavering, a sense of unease trying to rise, before it was suppressed entirely. His frown faded slightly, “Moira’s investigating the matter…scouting really, but after we split with her, we spoke to some of the residents of the ward. They said the Crowmother had claimed the entire ward some years ago and had been protecting it ever since.”

He shook his head slightly, for while he couldn’t ever feel truly disturbed in the Vicar’s presence–a fact that he was not at all aware of–there was a vague almost-worry that nagged at his mind as he explained what details they’d been able to glean. “They also referenced a Crow Hunter, but we weren’t able to get anything else about that.”

Ophelia felt a sense of panic rising in her, distant and as though preserved in amber, at the realisation that Farren was going to overplay their hand and there was nothing that she could do about it. She reckoned that Harold must rely very much on his ability to manipulate the minds of the people around him, and that his role was one of a puppetmaster--though as she turned to look at the Lumenflowers in passing as her gaze wandered over to Gerlinde, she could not help but feel there was some truth to what Moira had said and that this frail old man was nothing more than an affable front for a more sinister force.

Still--there were rare jewels of knowledge in what he imparted to her: the names of the three Great Ones that perished. In names there was power, and they provided pinpricks of distant starlight for her to aspire to and travel towards. She gave Gerlinde a look, one of a peer recognising a peer in... either contempt or pity for those around them who were not able to resist the influence of Harold--though she did not attempt to incite the girl to violence, just shared a knowing look and offered a rare moment of connection.

"Lovely--such an invitation is quite the honour, dear. I'll wait until we can all visit, though--these secrets pertain most of all to Farren and to Torquil. They need to see it as well. This Crowmother is something we're looking into, of course, but Moira seemed to have most of it handled herself. A Hunter will Hunt, after all, and she's caught a whiff of prey!" Ophelia replied, curtseying to the Vicar slightly more stiffly than she usually did. She kept the act up less for him, knowing that he knew about her resistance to him by now, but for Farren. He seemed... deferent in a way that she had not expected of him, and had felt his presence move towards her in a heated moment earlier--she would keep whatever peace seemed to exist in his addled mind, for she did not for even a second consider leaving him alone in the presence of the Vicar. She would truly sooner slay him and Torquil both to safely return them to the Dream than give Harold even a single instant of unsupervised access to them, vulnerable as they were. Something about the Holy Moonlight Sword seemed to resonate with that feeling, and Ophelia wondered if the feelings of virtue gleaming within her were the same chivalry that the sword's previous chosen had felt. If they had stood under Mother Moon too, and either meted out her justice or served as the agent of her protection. She stood, watching over the situation hawkishly, exhibiting something of the particular mixture of paranoia and vigilance that Farren normally did.

"We don't think it's a particular priority, right now, certainly not compared to this threat at Yahar'gul... but we will keep you updated, of course. I know that it must be difficult to ascertain the truth of what is happening out there from these lofty heights, and that the reports of those of us closer to the ground are what keep you connected to your extant flock." Ophelia added, not trying to steer the conversation away from the Crowmother, per se, but simply wanting to hasten it to its end so they could all proceed together.

“I see most truths quite easily, dear,” Harold told Ophelia with a grandfatherly smile, “which is why it interests me a great deal when a truth manages to elude me. Ah, but if the good Mother Moira is already investigating, I suppose the matter will be well in hand very soon; I almost struggle to name a more reliable Hunter than her.” He shot a glance at Gerlinde at those words, and to Ophelia, his smirk grew momentarily disdainful.
“I'll let Dietrich know next time I see him and see if he can send a few Hunters to help,” Harold continued. “I am very interested in this creature, and I would certainly be interested to learn more about a Hunter in the area I know nothing about. Crow Hunter... I wonder if it could be a Hunter of Hunters? I will have Dietrich handle that, too.”
Finally, the vicar threw his arms wide and laughed merrily. “Ah, but that's quite enough talk about business, isn't it? This is the first visit to my beautiful garden for Farren and Torquil, and their first time meeting me. Please know – all of you, and that means you too, Gerlinde – that you are always welcome here, and that if you need anything you need but ask.” A small frown settled on his brow. “Though I hear that we should probably start rationing quicksilver bullets... ah, not that that should be a problem for you. I am sure the Dream can provide so long as you hunt for it.”

"Far be it from me to direct you how to best use your resources, dear, but I think very little will come of searching for the Crowmother. I do have something to ask of you... though it's relevant to our mutual interest in the arcane, and we wouldn't want to bore dear Farren and Torquil! Why don't we visit the Cathedral, stop for a moment to admire the beauty of the garden, and then send these two back to the Dream so they can begin preparing for our imminent visit to Yahar'gul? There are some revelations best shared in private, and I do hope you'll tell me all about the Lumenflowers!" Ophelia replied, very quickly as though to not leave the others room to suggest anything else first.

Ophelia studied Farren and Torquil quite closesly with occasional side glances and careful use of her periphery, trying to keep tabs on them and their positions. She positioned herself such that she was a little ahead of the others, too, as though about to lead them onward but halting until it seemed there was ample permission to do so.