yoshua171

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

never felt his blade connect with flesh, never got the satisfaction of seeing the moment that pallid man’s arcane devilry failed him. He saw a glimmer of fear in the man’s eyes, but that glimmer became two golden pinpricks in his vision and Pallid’s visage warped into an aureate silhouette, a figure made of gleaming light, with white-gold eyes that were somehow even more intense, but not in luminescence. Instead, it was like those orbs were darker…like golden pits…abyssal depths of light that pulled at his awareness.

Then the light flashed, exploded, and it was like every iota of blood, bone and sinew had ignited with a fiery hue bereft of warmth and filled only with the searing white-gold-crimson of blood, flame and sunlight intertwined. Swept up in the tearing, searing torment of frenzy and caught off guard by the sudden betrayal of his own body and mind at once, Farren somehow experienced both a deepset dread and a yet more terrifying maddened rapturous ecstasy.

In reality…his body tore asunder, warping and twisting and vibrating with frenzied chaotic transformative power beyond its capacity to manage or restrain. Muscles snapped, skin shredded, blood fountained forth. His azure eyes remained too-wide, his eyelids shredded and gone throughout the explosion of uncontrolled metamorphosis. Yet, they were unseeing and any looking might see a frenzied gold flickering at the edges of his sclera, then he was falling.

For Farren it was a descent towards a crimson-black abyss dark with blood, but as he descended, falling through the ether of the beyond, sparking bolts of aurelian incandescence throbbed and pulsed within the expanse…his eyes widened and it was as if there were a thousand figures on every side of him all of the sudden. Yet, when he tried to wheel his head to look, he couldn’t as if he were paralyzed as he plummeted, unable to look at anything in his periphery. His eyes darted and shuddered, but whenever the cone of his vision might light upon any of the figures, they were gone. The hairs on the back of his neck sparked with a voltaic power, standing on end as a prickle traveled with a feverish violence down his spine. There was a sense of stunned shock as he struck the abyssal gilded depths, a shock of cold then heat, then cold that recalled to his mind a deep inescapable sickness. Then a sense of watching eyes, of movement beyond his sight, but not his mind’s awareness.

He clawed at the thick strangely viscous waters, but it wasn’t water…it was blood, congealing, hardening around him, breaking up as he tried to flail and swim to its surface. He was choking, someone was choking him from behind, from inside his own body. His nerves were on fire, his brain was a blaze of fulmination, and then—....

Farren, already crumpled upon the ground, suddenly took in a wild gasping breath only two-three-five heartbeats past when something had lanced into his leg. The vial and needle were pushed from his flesh as he suddenly healed, his blooddrenched clothes ragged and barely covering him properly after the violence the frenzy had wrought upon his body.

However, though its source was gone, its influence had not entirely faded. Farren lashed out, his body shifting instinctively into an almost bestial fourlegged crouch in an instant as his hand swiped through the air. First at nothing, then at the gold-lined silhouette just beside him who he’d not yet registered was Ophelia.

A half-beat after recognition entered his azure eyes and he fell sideways and backwards, landing on his backside. He pushed away from her, a surge of paranoia and unfamiliarity shivering through him. Then Farren clutched his arms about himself–his body felt wrong somehow and every nerve was alight with nervous frenetic energy. “Sorry…” he murmured, and his voice was uncharacteristically weak–quiet and thin even as he regained his wits, if not his composure.

Slowly, the paranoia began to calm and recede. Slowly, he set his jaw and his muscles started to relax with the thick languid movements of gravity-pulled molasses. Slowly, Farren came back to himself over the course of several minutes.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

gritted his teeth at the incessant, maddening ringing of the bell. Each jangling of the monstrous instrument made it feel as if hundreds of figures, each a silhouette clad in aureate hues, stood at the very periphery of his vision. If he twisted his head or shifted his eyes they would recede or vanish or flash in a streak across his vision. A low sound rumbled in his throat, half growl and half a pained moan, but Victor—despite the sound—acted. At least…he thought it was probably victor….

Really, all Farren perception was the twisted figure of what might once have been a man swing a misshapen hunk of crudely shaped metal—more a bludgeon than a greatsword or any proper weapon. Yet, the distinct thunderous SLAM and THUD of the implement against the ground…and the faint sparking where-longsword-joined-greatsword caught at his vision and tore at the torrid heat of his delusions.

The sparks seemed almost to ignite the golden light that had crept even further into his vision, the vibration of the massive blade’s crash against the ground sent ripples throughout and disrupted the sound of the bell. If only for a moment, his mind cleared and Farren recalled that he was moving.

His body—having acted entirely on hunter’s instinct—had continued its forward path and as the haze cleared ever-so-slightly the azure eyed hunter saw the opening…and dashed again. His muscles burning, teeth gritted so hard his jaw hurt with hot regeneration—teeth almost cracking—Farren nearly closed the entirety of the distance between himself and that Pallid whore.

Somehow, with the ringing of the bell, the black-eyed sallow pale-skinned skeleton of a man had become even more daunting to look upon. There was a white-gold-red sheen cast across his visage, refracting from his eyes. Part of Farren recoiled, but his fingers coiled instead, gripping the handles of his curved blades so tightly that he felt the material strain. He swung, and that first attempt at a strike was wild and unrestrained, his muscles twisting and bulging and nearly snapping as he unconsciously tried to replicate the sheer force of Torquil’s swing some time ago. Wild as it was, the slash could land anywhere between Pallid’s neck and mid-abdomen a foot or half above his right hip. That was, of course…if the man didn’t block.

Even so, there would always be his other blade.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

felt the give of the creature’s body and a trickle of disgust, satisfaction, and shock shot through his veins. His lips parted slightly and then as Deadeyes fell onto its back and he began to turn back towards it–intent on delivering a more grievous blow–the frenetic ringing of Pallid’s bell reached him. Flits of gold, like streaks of liquid metallic lightning, rushed about the edges of his awareness and a deep…profound sense of paranoia and discomfort welled from some unobserved part of his psyche. That paranoia, it wasn’t like fear, it was far more consuming than that–blotting out almost everything except the bloodlust that had been trying to gain hold since he’d seen the beastman. Idly, a part of his mind decided that he’d call them Gris–but he didn’t even have time to really register that fact before the nearly all-consuming paranoia was shattered…much like his ankle as Deadeye’s cane slammed into it. The impact forced his other leg to rise…barely causing the cane to miss, but in an instant Farren was toppling towards the ground. A shot of intense, crackling, piercing, cutting pain, a wash of fear…and then an injection of unbelievably intense adrenaline–all coupled with a sudden rage–slammed through his entire body.

Time seemed to slow as his brain caught up with what it had been unable to properly process moments before, for part of him was registering that in that instant he needed every bit of his awareness focused on one singular goal. Survival. Murder. His hands had tightened into two white-knuckled vices around the handles of his curved blades, but as adrenaline, survival, rage, and the bloodlust of a Hunter surged in him, somehow that grip relaxed subtly. His blood rushed, surging just as his emotions had, he felt spurts in his broken ankle, then a searing hot heat–both pleasant and painful at once. As he was falling–body half canted at a slight diagonal–Farren’s left fist and right leg shot down and connected with the ground as the cane continued its sweep on the other side of Farren’s right ankle.

The edges of his vision went a fierce, blinding gold color where normally they might dim…fade, redden, or blacken. He didn’t notice how strange that was; wasn’t likely to remember it later. Then, his body braced with two limbs–only fractions of a second having passed–Farren’s ankle was nearly healed, but his foot wasn’t in the right position. Mindless with a primal violent need for retaliation, Farren slammed his still fractured ankle down on the ground, bending his foot in a way that broke it again. Breath hissed from his bared teeth…and then he thrust himself forward with the power of both legs, lifting the knuckles of his left hand from the ground as he did so.

A second finally passed, his perception started to ‘speed up’, back to something more normal, but the tunnel vision of his rage and bloodlust didn’t fade at all. In an instant–the distance between him and the ash-fleshed beast that was Deadeyes already small–Farren was atop the creature. Both blades slammed down into its neck and then parted in either direction, draggin furrows into the ground beneath and severing its head from its body at the same time. However, almost as soon as it was severed, the red light flared faintly and a new head sprouted from the mishappen stump of its neck. Farren snarled then and pushed off the creature’s face.

As it likely tried to react, Farren’s ankle healed and he used his other foot to pivot mid-stride, angling towards the door. Then he dashed and though he distantly felt the strain in his muscles, he pushed forward into a short sprint, the dash having taken him out of Deadeye’s reach and a bit past the doorframe. He shifted to the right, the blade in his left hand switching grips as he flipped it into a more standard hold. Even without dashing, Farren was faster than a normal man…and quickly would come upon the villagers as they pummeled and struck their weapons at Victor. As he passed by them, he’d lash out with his blade, aiming to sever tendons in their forearms as he continued forth. Though his mind felt…strange and his vision was still somewhat tunneled by the alien golden light at its edges, Farren kept the villagers on his left in view as well as the gunmen ahead and of course Pallid himself.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

returned to a scene that—as he spoke his plan—rapidly invalidated what he’d just briefly gone to do. His azure eyes darkened slightly as his eyelids lowered. It was as if things were happening in slow motion for an instant as he heard the chiming of the bell, the laughter of Pallid…and then saw the beastman rise.

Farren started moving before he’d even realized what he was doing, the blood burning in his veins all of the sudden. Then Ophelia dodged…and Torquil redirected his efforts, resulting in grievous harm, but not where any of them wanted it. “Damn,” Farren cursed under his breath, the quiet words lost in the din. Even fast as he was moving, events were playing out rapidly before him and it felt like his earlier actions had put them on the back foot.

He should have known better…or…should he have? Farren frowned slightly, but he didn’t have time to unpack that feeling, so he shoved it down as he came up on Deadeyes with his blades still drawn. Sprinting towards the exchange, Farren’s gaze flitted to the side, through the Clinic door where Victor had just passed the threshold. So much had happened so quickly, but he decided to prioritize Torquil, who barely seemed to be hanging on to consciousness after the strike from Deadeyes.

Farren’s azure eyes narrowed, he gripped his blades tightly, and then he called upon the instinct that he let him move so quickly earlier. He dashed forth, covering space more quickly than his sprint had allowed moment-to-moment. This put him right in front of Deadeyes, and as he exited the motion, he swung the first of his blades in a sweeping slash across the creature’s chest from below the armpit all the way diagonally down to near the hip. He carried his momentum forward, having slashed with his right arm from left-to-right. He kept moving forward, slipping past Deadeyes as he did so. His other blade was in a reversed grip…and as he passed the creature’s side he let it drag through the pre-established wound where it ended at the creature’s hip, attempting to gouge it open further as he shifted back into a sprint past the monstrosity. He kept the thing in his vision as much as possible throughout, ready to change tact and react if need be.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

nodded briefly in response to Victor’s reaction, “There’s a pale wraith of a man inside…he summoned the thing somehow,” Farren said, not bothering to mention the bell toll they’d all heard when it was occurring. Didn’t seem important enough to waste time explaining at that moment. Out of the sightlines of those inside due to his prior maneuvering, the azure eyed hunter suddenly turned and jogged around to the side of the building, calling back the rough measurements of the entrance room that the front door led into. Based on the speed the bullet had traveled to strike him…what he’d seen earlier when he’d been inside, and what he’d seen when looking inwards through the door, he estimated roughly where the gunmen…civilians, and Pallid would be positioned. With one of his sabers he carved an X into the wood and then he jogged back to the corner and peered around it. The Deadeyed thing was slow…at least for now, so he wasn’t terribly worried about the others handling it. “Victor…Torquil, break us a path on the X,” Farren said, and then he stood beside Victor’s current position, facing Deadeyes with blades in hand. He was glad Ophelia had managed to kill the beastman…it was one of their more dangerous foes, so it improved their chances quite significantly, he figured. “I think Ophelia and I can hold Deadeyes, here. Even if we don’t enter through the path you two carve open…it’ll divide the attention of those inside,” he explained, not so loud that it would be easily heard by those inside, but loud enough for the enhanced senses of his fellow hunters to easily pick up, near to him as they were.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Lhirinthyl & Tedwyn

---

Guided towards the door as he had been, and distracted though he may have seemed, Lhirin caught the exchange with Tedwyn, his brazenness, but knew nothing more of the man. As he ‘read’ the journal, the deigan mage heard the man’s footsteps approaching as he headed for the door, felt the faint current of air shifting as he neared. Lhirin’s right hand paused, his finger pressed lightly against a marking on the page even as his left hand shot out and caught Tedwyn’s shoulder. If the man turned to look, Lhirin intense silver eyes would be boring into his own. He might feel judged, but if he did…it was not because Lhirin had any particularly judgemental expression on his features, but rather due to his own failings–that and the sheer suddenness and intensity of his actions and gaze.

“Wait,” Lhirin said simply, his eyes boring into the man even as he invisibly cast his magical senses through Tedwyn, taking stock of the human’s soul. The man was, all told, rather normal…nothing off or particularly unique about his soul–clearly an untrained human as far as magic went, still…though Irah’s words had certainly been venomous there was something about how upset Tedwyn seemed that stood out to him. That…and the fact that no one had even bothered to ask the man if he had any useful skills. His perception delved deeper…honing in on Tedwyn until Lhirin has basically blacked out his other senses almost completely. Only Irah’s guiding hand on his physical body kept him truly grounded. He couldn’t detect Tedwyn’s affinity, but that was nothing new…it just meant that he didn’t have anything particularly unique–most likely.

Lhirin’s energy withdrew and he took a steadying breath, noticing that he was fidgeting slightly with Tedwyn’s shirt at the shoulder, rubbing the fabric between two fingers. He immediately stopped…and likely it wouldn’t have much effect on the man beyond thinking the already clearly strange deigan…was perhaps stranger than he’d thought. Not that Lhirin even considered that…or cared either way. “You answered the baronesses’ call. What skills did you bring with you?” The deigan asked, entirely out of a sense of almost dogmatic pragmatism–however…his words might be misunderstood as a chance for Tedwyn to redeem himself.

"Err..." Tedwyn mumbled, looking nervously from Lhirin to everyone else in the room, then back to Lhirin. He pointed a finger at the machete on his hip. "I can cut things?"

Lhirin’s gaze drifted down to the machete, his silver irises roving over the weapon, searching for any unique markings. Indeed, for anything significant to mark it as something other than an utterly mundane armament. It was slightly worn, looked ill cared for, but well used—though likely not as a weapon if Tedwyn’s conduct was anything to go by. Lhirin nodded slightly and his eyes darted back up to meet Tedwyn’s. He remained silent for just two moments too long, and then his hand fell away. “Mmm, nothing else of note?” he asked, but unlike someone else who might have seemed disappointed, hopeful, or derisive…Lhirin’s affect was utterly flat. Not just unreadable, but devoid of even the slightest hint of emotion, beyond perhaps the faintest flicker of curiosity.

"Uh..." Again Tedwyn's eyes shifted around the room. "I killed a snake once? I guess I can cook a little?"

“Scholarly pursuits?” Lhirin said, not even reacting to what the man had just said.

Tedwyn shrugged. "I can read and write, if that's what you mean."

Lhirin’s brows lowered faintly in an expression that was almost what someone else might consider relaxed. For Lhirin, it was about the closest he tended to get to a deadpan. Lhirin shook his head slightly, then his gaze began to drift away, his eyes slipping shut. He didn’t quite sag in disappointment, but any of that tension and intensity he’d been holding slipped away in the same breath as his gaze. “Ah. Apologies. Carry on.” He replied, sounding less and less engaged—more detached—with each word before his eyes were fully closed. His hand began to run over the journal’s page again, fingers grazing over the scratch marks with gentle, but firm pressure. A small part of his mind considered that they could use Tedwyn as bait…or a distraction. However, it seemed…ill advised and for once, Lhirin actually considered that suggesting as much would likely upset the man further. So he said nothing and ceded once more to Irah’s guidance.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

had been ready to flare into movement for another strike, when Torquil’s heavy blow saw the beastman sag slightly beneath its weight. Yet…in that moment that strike was nothing compared to the swift blur that was Ophelia, which transitioned in a blinding instant into a spray of blood and viscera. Yet, Farren didn’t have more than another moment to observe the regeneration followed by their first adversary’s body sagging as their body began to fail them. AFter all, the sharp, loud BANG coupled with the distinctive odor of gunpowder, suddenly invaded his senses. Farren didn’t even turn his head, he just moved the instant the sound hit his awareness. He wasn’t fast enough though–hadn’t paid enough attention, even as a hunter–to avoid a bullet entirely. His body shifted though, at an angle instead of perpendicular to the doorway as he’d been. Still, the bullet struck him and he winced as it passed through the right side of his body below the joint of his shoulder, and directly through the meat near his armpit, before exiting out the back. Fortunately…though it stung something fierce–burned…jerking his arm back from the force of the projectile–Farren clenched his hand into a stronger grip around his saber and found that while there wasn’t quite so much strength in that arm when he moved it…that he’d at least still be able to use it.

Continuing his movement he took several long backward strides, his gaze peering past the ruined doorframe. His azure eyes widened as he caught his first glimpse of the Mad One, not that he knew what the cursed thing was called. A shiver went through him as something about it reeked of wrongness. His eyes shivered slightly…as if stung by the emptiness of the creature’s dead-eyed gaze. Farren hissed belatedly from the pain of the bullet wound, clenching his teeth as he shifted his right arm a bit to be in a slightly better position to act. He cursed under his breath, backing up until he was roughly beside Ophelia. This put him out of the sightline of the riflemen in the clinic, but allowed him to easily keep an eye on Ophelia, Victor, the weakening beastman, and the approaching creature, which he decided to think of as Deadeyes.

Farren’s gaze shifted subtly taking in the construction of the creature…the positioning of his allies, the fact that Victor seemed to have survived–he’d figured he would. Victor was a hunter, after all. He noted the opportunistic nature of the Yharnamites within the clinic…the tendency of Pallid to send beasts to fight them, rather than do so himself. Farren narrowed his eyes. “Pallid might still be able to call more a these things,” he commented in warning. It meant that unless the Yharnamites and Pallid exited the clinic…they had to go to him, flee–thus abandoning the sleeping would-be hunters, or find another avenue of attack that didn’t immediately have them play into Pallid’s hands. That third thought had him considering how thick the clinic’s walls were…and what they were made out of. That in mind, Farren’s gaze shifted to where the beastman’s shoulder had rammed through the door frame, revealing the innards of the clinic’s outer walls.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Lhirinthyl

---

Lhirin took in the various additions and modifications to his secondary proposal for a plan. He nodded quietly to himself, eyes wide as ever as he glanced around for a bit before falling still in thought–almost unnaturally still in fact. After a moment he shifted and nodded again. “Though few plans survive contact with unknown elements, this is a good place for us to start,” he commented, almost seeming to say it more to himself than the others–though he had certainly intended to say it aloud. After that, the deigan man gently–almost tenderly–moved the melenian journal he’d retrieved earlier up so that he could slowly leaf through its pages. As he’d expected–and seen earlier–he couldn’t read it visually. He ran a delicate finger over one page, again noting the scratch marks he had previously. Nodding slightly, Lhirin turned from the table after noting the positioning that had been denoted, and walked back to stand beside Irah.

As he stood there, he gently bumped her shoulder with her own, gave her a pointed look and then opened to the first page of the journal and began to slowly trace his fingers over the page. Even when they moved out, Lhirin would continue to do the same as he ‘read’ the journal while expecting Irah to somewhat guide and correct him or draw his attention if needed.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Lhirinthyl

---

Lhirin’s gaze not so much shifted, but snapped over to Freagon as he spoke. While someone else might have taken his manner is mildly—or outright—condescending, Lhirin just listened with his usual intensity. As he did so, he realized that he actually found the so-called Knight of the Will rather refreshing. Most people always seemed so…overcomplicated with their veiled meanings, speaking between the lines or through their teeth. Freagon was to the point and if not entirely upfront exactly, he kept his emotions to himself and spoke only on the facts as he saw them. Lhirin gave the Knight a nod of respect as he called out the flaws in his plan, rather than reacting with annoyance, he almost appeared grateful.

As he finished and others spoke up, Lhirinthyl’s gaze darted between speakers, taking in their suggestions. “Do you suggest we split into two groups?” Lhirin asked, his gaze fixing upon Freagon for a moment, before he pondered aloud, “…If we’re splitting up, one group that is immune to the swaigh…and one that isn’t is likely the ideal strategy. The group with the swaigh ought to have it positioned to incapacitate the maximum amount of the opposition,” Lhirin said before falling silent again.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

heard the noises, the whimper, the growl, the roar and in response–just before the beastman began its charge–he instinctively jumped back. He was surprised at his own speed, but even that speed was only sufficient to let him just barely evade as the door slammed into the wall where he would have been standing an instant before. It almost grazed the trailing edge of him, but he didn’t let that rattle him. Jaw clenched, Farren saw as the beast raised its weapon, and he jumped into action. He dashed, following his instincts, back towards the beast, moving into a sort of charge that ended with him slashing low with one blade, trying to cut across the tendons at the back of the beastman’s warped legs. At the same time, he heard more than saw, Victor falling to the ground after the dangerous blow from the creature.

“Watch door!” Farren called out, his words intended for Ophelia and Torquil, because he was not in a position to attack the beastman and watch the entrance that was somewhat behind and to his right.