[h3]The Hunter's Dream[/h3]
Torquil was [I]very[/I] confused after everything that had happened. Everyone seemed so uncomfortable, and he did remember Ophelia telling him earlier that he had to remember that Vicar Harold was not a nice old man, which she reiterated again now... but he could not understand why. It had seemed pretty nice at the garden, and the vicar clearly [I]was[/I] a nice old man. The only conclusion he could reach was that Ophelia was wrong on this, and for some reason insistent that her incorrect information was correct.
Still, Torquil awkwardly accepted the hug when offered, and while at first he thought of it as a consolation prize for now having gotten a hug from Gerlinde, he soon found himself growing increasingly uncomfortable with the embrace. Feeling Ophelia's smaller, more fragile body against his larger and sturdier one, being aware of how relatively light she was, combined with her warmth contrasting against the chill rain and wind that now haunted the Dream... again that sense of fear and disgust overcame him. An intense sense of self-hatred. [I]Don't touch her. You don't deserve it. Stay away from them.[/I]
A small shudder went through him as soon as Ophelia separated from him, and a wave of nausea overcame him... and he felt weirdly compelled to hurt himself. He resisted the compulsion, but in that moment Torquil's eyes were drawn toward the precipice of the Dream, the rocky edge beyond which an endless expanse of clouds stretched below as well as above, and he imagined jumping off it. Then he reminded himself that he would probably just reawaken back in the Dream even if he did kill himself, which was sort of a relief. He did not want to die, after all... right?

It would take Ophelia a moment to locate the doll and the Shopkeeper, as they for once were not standing at attention right where they arrived. Instead she found them up in the workshop, looking at them through the door while seeking shelter from the rain and the new gusts of wind.
“Slow down, good Hunter, you are not making sense,” the doll said worriedly, raising her hands to pat the air. “None of what you said explains the false Paleblood, to our knowledge. If it was as simple as that, the Choir would surely have created something similar from their own research... and the Shopkeeper's blood?” She looked to the Shopkeeper, who stood facing her in their usual silence. “It is true that the Shopkeeper was wounded and slain in battle with Hunters of the White Healing Church some days ago, but they are bound by the same rules you are, good Hunters. Surely you noticed this when good Torquil was killed? Upon returning to the Dream, even the blood drawn from their wounds disappears. And even if they did somehow preserve a sample of their blood, Paleblood cannot be replicated like that. It is not that kind of disease.”