yoshua171

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

was glad to be heard, and truthfully as the others spoke–Doll included–he was quietly grateful for the distraction. For beneath his tense, but mostly controlled exterior, his mind was a roiling sea of fear, unease, intense rage, and a tingling writhing something that he’d been largely unaware of until they’d encountered and then departed the Garden. That forced serenity…it had awakened him, after a fashion, to the slippery oil of madness that had sunk deep into the cracks and crevices of his consciousness, hiding from the light.

So when Gerlinde mentioned going to Yahar’gul, if only to investigate and kill Followers, Farren’s eyes shifted to her, growing intense to a point near desperate mania. The fiery rage roiled in his belly and for a few moments drowned out the sense of all else as his blood sang with the hunter’s need for violence. “Let’s go to Yahar’gul first. There are a great many factions and forces aside that are moving without our awareness. We know only the barest outline of the Followers’ true aims and machinations…and the echoes would make any of our other ventures easier by far.” Though his voice was steady, the look in his eye spoke not of a decision derived largely from logic, but rather from raw need.

Farren needed to kill something. Needed the exquisite, all-consuming experience of echoes flowing into his blood as a body was torn or crushed or splintered through the direct enacting of his will. Somehow, he knew it would ground him in the here and now…take him away from the terrible powerlessness he’d felt. His words were just a justification…a rationalization for that need, and he said little else as he waited with barely veiled impatience for their reply.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

shifted slightly in place and raised his gaze, realizing that Ophelia was further away than he’d thought…not far, but up the path and in the now open doorway to the sole building in the Hunter’s Dream. Perhaps she hadn’t heard him, he hadn’t been terribly loud, hadn’t projected…and she was caught up in a frenzy of her own thoughts, it seemed. He understood that much at least.

Teeth still gritted, Farren exhaled sharply, then pulled in another breath as he forced himself to move, walking up the gently ascending steps laid into the hill until he was only a few feet from the two women. It might seem to them that he was giving them more space than was necessary even by social standards, but the reality was that he stood slightly further out because of his own state. He didn’t entirely trust himself just then, even if he wasn’t entirely sure why–though he did have hints. Before he had a chance to reiterate what he’d said a few moments ago, Gerlinde more or less did so, explaining that slaying the Vicar was not a wise option–or at least that it was one with drastic consequences.

Despite her off-kilter and sometimes manic nature, Farren was glad that someone else seemed to be on even remotely the same page as him. However, as Gerlinde mentioned something ‘gold’ having manifested and stretched towards Ophelia during their interaction with the Vicar, Farren found himself instinctually taking a step back.

His mind itched, eyes peered out from angles at the periphery of his vision, and a sinuous tingling went down his back–almost as if something impossibly smooth had run itself down his spine.

Farren’s entire body stiffened, but he took a breath, then two, and relaxed again. Why had that elicited such a reaction? Had he ever seen anything like that before?

“I…don’t like this…wh-whatever this is,” he said lowly, his eyelid twitching slightly more even than before. His chest felt tight, but he kept breathing, even though it felt like his lungs were constricting themselves somehow. Unlike anything they’d encountered since their awakening, it seemed that whatever was going on with the Vicar…or at least near him…truly frightened Farren. He’d felt fear since becoming a hunter, but not anything like this…not anything that he couldn’t tamp down or push through. Somehow, whatever was going on with… ‘the gold’ could just…brush away his defenses like they were so much chaff, leaving him naked and utterly exposed to its touch.

He hated it.

Farren latched onto that hatred, his jaw squaring as he found some measure of his more familiar confidence. “That said…I…I need to know what it is. What this ‘gold’ influence is…and how it can be combated.” Though his voice had a slight tremor when he said the word, it was clear that he was resolute. They needed to know more…and he needed to find a way to shield himself, for all of them to be protected from it…whatever it was.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

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 nice old man. 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.

“Why kill him? He seemed harmless enough…even wise?” 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. “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.” 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….

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

felt his blood tremble, like some unearthly vibration had passed through his entire body from head to toe, however, he barely noticed the sensation as he stumbled into the Dream. The transition, this time, was not a smooth one, where usually he’d have simply awoken in the same (or nearly the same) mental state before the shift into the Nightmare, this time he went from unnaturally relaxed–and nearly blissed out–and into a state of near-shock, abject confusion, and intense disorientation.

The whiplash of his shift from one state to the other was in fact so stark and sudden that Farren did not catch himself after the stumble, and instead fell to one knee…and then promptly vomited. As his senses returned to him, it was like his mind simultaneously ‘closed’ as his guard came up and–in some ways narrowed his perspective–even as his awareness expanded as he once more regained the vigilance that he’d maintained until their arrival in the Lumenflower Garden. Yet, as he thought back, the too-close memory of that place looming large in his mind, Farren recalled only a sense of peace and serenity. Freedom even.

So why did he feel so nauseous? He’d merely met the Vicar…that nice old man and despite Ophelia’s warnings, he didn’t understand why he ought to have been cautious of him. Farren’s brow furrowed, his hair blowing frantically in the brisk wind. The garden had seemed so beautiful, but quickly his associations with it shifted, its strange unearthly light coming to represent whatever was now causing bile to rise in his throat.

Farren swallowed hard, jaw clenching savagely, teeth pressed together, lips slightly pulled back in a grimace. His breathing was ragged and for once, the azure-eyed hunter made no attempt to calm himself down, instead allowing himself to exist in that state of deep unpleasantness.

When he finally spoke, his words came out raspy and rough, as if his throat had been ravaged by days of coughing, “I’m never going back there.”

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

surprisingly didn’t resist her much, having intended to depart anyways. It was better that they were all going, they’d be more effective as a group whichever choice of destination they decided on. It turned out that while she likely did anyways, Ophelia wouldn’t need to pay him that much mind, for on his own he gave the Vicar a respectful half-bow as he had earlier, and then turned to head for the lantern. When he reached it, he’d inevitably reach out to it…not knowing in truth what the Dream would hold for him.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

wondered to himself why Ophelia seemed in such a hurry and, indeed, why she also seemed intent upon staying together. He appreciated the sense of camaraderie though, it was a pleasant, almost touching thing, but as events continued it quickly slipped away from him without further consideration. Still, he supposed that they ought to go soon enough, after all the Vicar had enlightened them of many things that needed doing in the city at large and it didn’t serve anyone for them to be idle.

Farren gave Harold a half bow, dipping his head and shoulders down slightly as he leaned forward, a greater show of deference than he’d given literally anyone up until that point.“I appreciate the invitation, Vicar, though I do think the Hunt is likely to keep us rather busy. Still, perhaps we will make time,” he said, offering a small smile, his eyes bright with a pleasantness that was sickeningly against his nature.

“Speaking of the Hunt, perhaps we ought attend to it and visit the Cathedral later. It’s not as if it’s going anywhere.”

"Why don't you take Torquil back to the Dream, then, love? We'll join you anon to prepare." Ophelia replied.

Farren nodded and glanced to Torquil, then Gerlinde. “Would you prefer to stay with Ophelia and the Vicar or answer the Hunt's call?” A certain eagerness came into his voice at the mention of the Hunt, perhaps it was the simple, primal excitement of a predator...or perhaps it was something else that had no other outlet....

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_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.”

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_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.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_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.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_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.