yoshua171

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

watched her expression change, watched her body language shift subtly and he almost sighed even before she spoke, but he refrained. Instead, as she had done for him, he just listened. Just listened as she berated him almost like she had Victor. His expression was an impassive mask, even though he knew that his lack of reaction was likely to frustrate her further.

As she laid into him, Farren realized something about himself then…about how his past must have been: He was used to being disappointed, used to people’s irrational emotions. Simultaneously, he somehow knew that he had not been used to dealing with his own. When she had finally spent her venom and walked away, her footfalls carrying her towards one the headstones, Farren let out a small, quiet sigh. He knew she would hear it, he wasn’t sure whether or not he cared. His hand came up and he rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Farren felt…tired then, not suddenly exactly, not like it had snuck up on him, but more as if he no longer had anything else to distract him from the fatigue.

“What a mess,” he muttered to himself, his words encapsulating their entire argument quite neatly. He glanced to the side as he noticed Torquil exit the cottage. It seemed Gerlinde was watching them as well as their hosts. His expression might be taken as a glare, but even if it were received as such, it wasn’t really.

After a moment he turned away from their two other companions, his gaze briefly glancing off Ophelia. He regarded the Doll and the Moonbound Hunter for a moment, noting the Hunter’s head had cocked faintly to one side. Farren wondered if they had their own implements at either of the Workshops. He ran a hand down his face, then back up…through his hair, appearing exasperated.

This had gotten out of hand, he’d gotten out of hand and she had followed his example…after a fashion. Yet…was there any helping it? An apology now would feel empty and Farren knew he’d be getting none from her. The way she always spoke was as if she were utterly in the right. Internally he cursed to himself ‘Indignant…bullheaded, self righteous, stubborn,’ only to realize that some of those things might be used to describe him.

Farren laughed, a brief sound in the lower register as he chuckled and then shook his head. The smile that accompanied the sound didn’t last long at all, fading before even his laughter had.

“Very well, I’m headed to the Black Church Workshop. If you want to gather supplies or meet Seven, feel free to join me, otherwise I’ll just come back here once I’m done.”

Farren glanced between his allies—Ophelia included—and then moved to the Headstone that held the marker for the Black Church Workshop. He glanced over at Ophelia, his fingers hovering, but not yet activating the power of the gravestone. He didn’t apologize. “I’ve never claimed knowledge beyond my purview and I won’t now, nor is my will anymore untouchable than your own. I respect you and I’d rather not see you or the others plagued by Ego’s influence. I’d rather not have you turned against me either. Deprive me of your counsel and your Runes, that is your choice, certainly. As you say, who is more entitled to the tool than you? But it will only bring all of us greater woe.”

That said, he touched the marker and began to fade, not leaving time for a reply. He wished only for her to consider his words…not to lash out at him again. She deserved more of his patience—he knew—especially after how well she’d handled his…outburst, but at the same time, he’d truly said nothing out of line thereafter, and she’d reacted as if he’d somehow wounded her pride. Still…communication was always flawed, so he gave her that grace, even if she hadn’t given him any by trying to force the Mask Rune upon him.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

heard her whispered words and turned as she was applying the rune, his gaze catching on the projection upon the runebrand. It wasn’t the Heir Rune.

Before it took, Farren’s arm dropped and in the space of a fraction of a second, he was out of her reach. Yet she kept talking, as if nothing strange had happened, as if she hadn’t just attempted to put the Mask Rune on him when he’d requested something else entirely.

Farren breathed, the action manual and far more controlled than before. He was glaring again, but there was no shame or paranoia about him and though he appeared tense once more, the azure-eyed hunter didn’t seem nearly as upset as he’d been during their exchange. Farren opened his mouth to speak, to ask a question, but he closed it again before he did.

He closed his eyes, took a deep pull of air, and then let it out nice and slow, letting go of some of the tension that had reemerged. Farren’s gaze fell on her once more after that, “Ophelia, I’ve grown rather fond of you. You’re capable, intelligent, and knowledgeable. We work well together,” he stated the facts, his tone measured. “...but I don’t much care for treachery, nor your presumptions,” he said, and these words were far sharper, like blades long nursed by a whetstone.

“So, perhaps, on account of that fondness and respect…I will let pass this indiscretion. Just this once,” his eyelid twitched faintly, a sign of masked irritation hidden beneath a veneer of forced calm even as he gave her a slow smile. “Now, the Heir Rune, if you please, Ophelia.” He left the rest unsaid, allowing his words hang for a moment and then, slower than before, he pushed up his sleeve and offered her his arm. This time, he didn’t let his eyes leave her visage.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

stared at her for a long moment after she’d finished, not even acknowledging her offer to rebrand him with the Mask rune. He mulled over her words for a time, considering what she had said. The anger, the frustration, and even the disgust began to wane, the lattermost moreso than the other two. The shame remained, stabbing at him like a thousand pins and needles, poking and prodding at his mind. Farren’s shoulders slumped and finally he managed to release much of the tension he’d been holding. “I hate to say it…but you’re right,” he said.

Farren was trying to be better, he reminded himself, and admitting when he was wrong was part of that. He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closing for a long moment. He shook his head, “No…give me the Heir Rune instead,” he said, he’d clearly come to some decision.

After a moment his hand dropped and he opened his eyes. “The Dream may not have chosen me, but it has accepted me, in its own way. Perhaps these…anomalies are its rebellion, perhaps they are something else, but you’re right. If not us…then whom. The Heir Rune will make it easier for me to navigate the world beyond and while I’d prefer to stick to my strengths, I think perhaps delving somewhat into the Arcane is an inevitability. Besides, the Mask rune may prevent use of any lantern, and that’s an unacceptable flaw.”

Farren pushed up his sleeve so she could use the brand and as she did he glanced towards their hosts. He regarded the two, but otherwise remained silent. Once she had branded him, to which Farren didn’t really react, beyond one muscle in his arm growing tense for a fraction of a second, he spoke up. “Is there anyway either of you might know for us to acquire another brand?” He gestured back at the tool Ophelia held to make it clear to what he was referring.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

began to open his mouth, as if to reply, but the brief silence did not allow it as Ophelia began to laugh and as she began to cackle, it was only that first word that held him back, that and what companionship they’d shared up until that point. A less pragmatic Farren would have lunged for her, a less sentimental one—perhaps more like his past self—might have done so as well, but as things stood, he almost moved. It was like he almost flinched forward, before stopping lest any further movement carry him onto a path that he knew none of them desired. Still, as her voice grew loud and high, her laughter grated on him, calling to mind nights huddled in the corner, arms clutched about his knees as he shook like a leaf as phantasms laughed and clawed at him from every side, unseen, but felt and heard all the more for it. It was a ghost of a memory, not complete nor as potent as it likely would have been before. Still though, it itched at him. His eyelid twitched again, but he didn’t move further, though she’d see even clearer the lines of tension in him, the way his jaw had clenched too tight, the way his eyes had narrowed as he glared at her.

Then, finally, it stopped and it was almost a relief…until she started talking again. Usually, Ophelia’s careful—often gentle—and surely evocative manner of speaking didn’t bother him, but in that moment, already on edge as he was, it was like talons dragging against his nerves. Farren slowly released a breath, through his nose, focusing on the sensation as shame and rage and other things with which he was less familiar coiled and burned in his chest.

Somehow, he hated more that her words made some sense. Who, if not her, would he trust to do this? And how, if not by this means, would they come to understand Ego’s insidious nature, its aims, its intent. Yet he didn’t relax, even as his jaw seemed to, his mind remained a roiling mess. “And what if it does to you, what the Greatsword did to Ludwig? What the Vicar did to me.”

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

felt his brow twitched, followed a moment after by the corner of his eyelid as Ophelia--firmly, and as gently as she could--laid into him. Farren's fists clenched and in so doing, he realized that he'd never sheathed his blade. Farren took a breath, trying to calm himself, but his heart just kept racing, his body remembering what Ego had done to him even if his mind struggled to. Slowly, for he'd noticed the tension in her stance, Farren moved, sheathing the Effigial Blade before raising his hand to the bridge of his nose. He pinched lightly, massaging the spot for a moment as he shook his head, his teeth still tightly pressed together, the muscle in his jaw standing out.
“Even you felt the effects of the bastard without the Mask Rune,” he said, meeting her gaze again. She might see that while he was clearly struggling with himself, that he appeared to be doing his best not to react purely with emotion.

“The false eyes of the lantern...the Vicar's affectation, I doubt they were the only things that eluded you, if only temporarily. Yet...” he trailed off, jaw working, his nose wrinkling slightly before he suppressed the expression of agitation--or was that disgust...or something else entirely. He closed his eyes, taking in a slow audible breath through his nose before continuing, “...arrogantly, you assume you might commune with this...thing and come out unscathed?”

Farren's azure eyes opened, met hers and he found that he had to suppress the urge to spit at her feet, had to suppress a look of profound disgust. It never appeared on his face, but only just. “...but yes, surely I--who has had the most exposure to Ego's attentions--would know nothing of it.”

He smiled then, but it wasn't a pleasant thing to look upon and it never touched his eyes. In that moment, his regard was more a glare. “No, you're right. I'm the irrational one. Surely,” each word was painfully sarcastic.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

brow slightly shifted down, eyes narrowing for a moment before the microexpression was gone almost faster than it had formed. He nodded and rose to his feet, understanding that the man perhaps didn’t want to be touched in that moment, even if it would’ve made it much easier for him to stand up. It was odd though…Torquil seemed…different somehow and the nature of the change became slightly more apparent once Torquil spoke a second time, the sentence more well reasoned…and significantly longer than almost anything he’d heard come out of his companion since they’d met. Sure, it had only been hours, not exactly a huge length of time in which to judge someone, but Farren felt he was…rather canny and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was more observant–vigilant really–than most. Of course, he didn’t exactly consider himself smarter–he was no scholar–but more realistic…practical? That was something he had going for him, so as he processed Torquil’s words a frown creased his brow.

However, the man was up…and then heading for the workshop before Farren could really say anything–not that he entirely knew what he even ought to say. With Gerlinde soon rushing off as well, it left him, Ophelia and their hosts as the only ones remaining outside.

Farren–still frowning–glanced to Ophelia and though he had heard their hosts’ explanation of the phenomena that now both he and Torquil had experienced, giving name to it, Farren found himself far more snagged upon what he’d just witnessed from Torquil’s conduct. The nature of things was important after a fashion, but sometimes the consequences of such were more important…and this seemed like one of those instances. “Ophelia…did you…hear him just now?”

In his gut, Farren knew something fundamental had just changed and while he wasn’t exactly sure what it would mean for them, he did know that it was almost certain to change the dynamic of their little group.

That worried him.

After all, change was an unknown and Farren didn’t much like variables he couldn’t predict. Uncertainty was the enemy.

Of course, worse even than that was perhaps what Ophelia had said, which only then struck him, causing Farren’s features to twist further. He stepped towards Ophelia, nearly crossing the entire distance between them before he caught himself and stopped short. He’d been about to grab at her clothes, but managed to curtail his rather visceral reaction to her words.

Farren swallowed, took a breath, closing his eyes for a prolonged blink before he focused his intense gaze on her once more. “No,” he denied, referring to her desire for communion with ‘Ego.’ The ‘Beast’ in the furnace of his stomach coiled and stirred, the rage that was its fuel flickering, sputtering, burning inside him. “You don’t understand what it is you’re suggesting,” he insisted, and there was something wild in his eyes, a wildness that she might recall seeing bared only when Farren himself had endured Frenzy previously, back at the clinic. Yet though it was present, he appeared to entirely remain in control…though there were stiff lines of tension in every muscle she could see as he held himself back from approaching her further.

“It ruined me, Ophelia,” he said and shame came into his expression, shame and anger and…something else less easy to identify. “...if it is ‘sympathetic’ as the Great Ones are said to be, its sympathy is more dangerous even than a madman’s ire,” and as he said the last, something in Farren shifted faintly…for he knew it was more true even than he’d like to believe.

More true about himself than he was likely to ever admit.

For who had been more filled with ire and woe than he…

…at least when it came to Ego and his insidious Gold.

For Farren the answer was self evident:

No one.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

nodded slightly at Ophelia’s comment regarding the strange bloody phenomena having to do with the apparition. Truthfully though, he had a feeling it wasn’t just the creature’s nature, but something to do with its wicked implement as well. As they watched, Torquil rolled to his back…and some part of Farren relaxed as the man didn’t leap to strike at either of them. He approached, kneeling on one knee beside the man–within arm’s reach, but not so close as to crowd him. The man’s single-word sentence caused a sympathetic smile to touch his lips and crinkle the skin about his eyes. “Apt,” he said simply, “...I’ve felt it too. Can you get one of your vials, or shall I?”

He asked, offering to help, but not wanting to intrude–or use one of his own. If it had been more of an emergency he certainly would have, but Torquil was conscious and able enough to move to some degree, so much of his worry had faded. Still…that was to say nothing for his wariness, which remained–though it was largely concealed. After all, Farren remembered quite vividly how he’d felt after his run-in with what Gerlinde said was called ‘Frenzy.’ He’d nearly attacked Ophelia…and had the woman not been quick to react, he certainly would have. That was part of why he was giving Torquil his space, rather than simply acting to help him and thus invading it.

While he waited, Farren considered Ophelia’s words as she offered Gerlinde the strange gem, as she called it. There was…a glimmer of something in his mind as she spoke of it, but he ultimately had more pressing matters pulling upon his attention, so he hardly noticed.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

took a half step towards Torquil as the wraith shrieked and then practically exploded outwards, the ethereal substance of its body dispersing violently outwards into the air–dagger included. Some small part of him was disappointed at that, having hoped he could perhaps glean some information from the weapon and put it to use for their own purposes. However, that was an afterthought and what truly struck him was his companion falling to his hands and knees, his every breath coming faster than those before. Farren’s eyes widened slightly as he watched Torquil shred the metal of his helm. With the man’s skin exposed, Farren reached to stab the vial into Torquil’s neck, but before he could the man’s skin blackened. Farren–instinctively–quickstepped backwards two whole meters, pocketing the vial as he did, and drawing the unified true Blade of Mercy in his other hand. Ready to dash back in, Farren watched, his eyes wide and intense, brow creased, lips drawn in a thin line, knuckles white as they clutched his blades.

Torquil screamed then, his body began to shudder and shift and warp…so violently that he could see it happening even beneath his armor, the plates vibrating and rattling about in a clamorous rancor of sound. Farren’s eye twitched faintly, but he didn’t wince at the primal sound and in the next moment, Torquil’s body effectively exploded as if it were tearing itself apa–...oddly, Farren suddenly relaxed. Not entirely, after all the situation could change at a moment’s notice, but his eyes lost some of their wild intensity, and his stance became looser. A beat passed and then as Torquil fully collapsed, Farren began to approach, though he kept his Blades free and in hand.

He’d remembered what had happened to him when they’d fought Pallid. It made him shudder slightly, but he was at least fairly certain that what they’d just witnessed had been much the same as he’d endured back then. He didn’t have a name for it, but it certainly looked like he had felt.

“It’s like back in the Clinic...with Pallid’s bell,” Farren muttered, sharing his theory with the others as he stopped, still about a meter from Torquil’s body–he hoped the man was just unconscious, but realistically…well, Ophelia was closer and if he recalled correctly, she had more vials on hand than he did.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

watched Torquil with a concerned sort of wariness, however, as the man struggled to form a coherent explanation or response of any kind, Farren’s eyes narrowed. The man seemed only to manage a few words at a time and still seemed to struggle despite the fact that his wound had healed already. Farren shifted stance, so he was at a slight diagonal, his right shoulder leading, blade in hand.

Then, as Torquil seemed like he might be able to actually manage a sentence, the wraith burst forth into being and–too fast for them to stop it–drew its wickedly serrated silver dagger across his companion’s throat. Farren’s eyes narrowed, his foot slid back, and he started to move. For once, however, Ophelia was faster, darting in and bringing her blade of moonlight down in a swift cleaving strike. So, instead, Farren’s off-hand reached into his pouch and withdrew a blood vial.

He’d taken in that Ophelia’s arcane implement seemed far more suited to the task of striking at the wraith, so he held back, giving her room to work. His brows were pulled together in a frustrated sort of concern, his lips pressed thin as he watched, taking everything in. There weren’t many places he could inject the blood vial into Torquil, but if it became necessary, he’d do so. For the moment though, he remained where he was. His hearing clued him in to the positions of the others and the rapid approach of both Amaris and the Moonbound Hunter, but he didn’t spare any of them a glance.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

caught himself, his second foot coming down and shifting sideways to brace himself for another strike. However, it proved unnecessary for almost as soon as Ophelia’s own downwards slash concluded, the wraith seemed to fade and vanish. Though he didn’t miss the strange trail of ghostly material that had linked it to Torquil, he still had no real idea what the hell that could have been. That was at least through the haze of adrenaline that had spiked through his body…and his cluelessness only lasted until Ophelia spoke. It was that anything in particular she said stirred his memory or brought an idea to his mind, but rather that her talking signaled to some part of him that the danger had likely waned–if not entirely vanished.

His mind began to work again as his focus shifted. He shifted stance, standing up fully rather than remaining braced for another strike, and he turned to look over at Torquil. He didn’t inquire after his health or wellbeing, as Ophelia had, but there was a look of concern that creased his brows. “Torquil…what did you feel as we entered the Dream…before the wraith’s blade,” he asked, a sick suspicion cradled in his mind–not for Torquil specifically–but instead for their shared nature.