[color=#1A1A3B][b][u][h1][sub][sub][sub]Farren[/sub][/sub][/sub][/h1][/u][/b][/color]		    remained in that state for some time, even as part of his mind picked up on Ophelia’s words as she almost frantically organized her thoughts aloud. Some small part of him acknowledged and even accepted her apology, but most of him latched onto it with vicious teeth and wished only to dig deeper. His finger’s clawed at the cobblestone and dirt of the uneven pathway beneath him even as rain soaked him to the bone, the wind chilling him as it did so. Farren fixated on that chill, because in his chest a torrid spark was building, finding kindling in his disgust where it roiled as nausea in his stomach.

He was glad for his position, his face hidden by the angle and the slight shroud of his black hair as it draped down, quickly slicking to his face due to the rain. Farren marveled at the feeling in his body and knew his expression would be something terrible to behold, his eyes feverish with anger, brows deeply furrowed and drawn together, lips slightly pulled back, teeth bared, one eye twitching intermittently as unease and confusion sublimated into rage–an all devouring impulse to destroy…if only to feel anything else.

Yet, Farren did not submit to that emotion, for even bereft of experience, there was some sense in him that that destructive wroth growing in his stomach would only burn him bridges. So, like a skilled smith, he tempered it, forcing his expression into something calmer–though his eyebrow and lid still twitched occasionally. He started to slow his ragged breathing, lengthening each inhale and exhale bit-by-bit.

However, Ophelia’s mention of the Vicar seemed to trigger something in his brain, like a writhing as every other part of him reacted, while at his core he seemed to recite only that Harold was a [color=gray]nice old man.[/color] Farren’s brow twitched again and some similarly deep part of him twisted and turned with a quiet sort of madness that he hadn’t even realized he’d had. Farren swallowed hard, and focused on his breathing…responding after a moment–even though she hadn’t addressed him.

[color=#1A1A3B][b]“Why kill him? He seemed harmless enough…even wise?”[/b][/color] The last word came out as a question, even though internally he’d thought it a statement. He frowned again, less severely this time, then finally he slowly pushed to his feet. While he wasn’t shaking and not a tremor went through even his hands, there was something unsteady about him as he stood. Where before he had always seemed solid and stalwart, now he seemed somehow less sure of himself.

Farren gritted his teeth hard enough to cause himself pain, then slowly relaxed again. [color=#1A1A3B][b]“Besides, killing the Vicar would make the entirety of the Church our enemy…and whatever you’re seeing in him that perhaps I can’t…I doubt killing him would resolve the problem.”[/b][/color] His words were strained, like the idea of killing the Vicar was not just absurd, but almost alien…and certainly uncomfortable. Still, while there was some sense of respect and deference to the man even removed from his presence, Farren seemed far more logical than he’d been in the Garden. Small victories, one supposed….