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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
arrived in the Dream, waking as they always did, and though there was a brief flash of strange terror that made him shiver, it was almost immediately replaced with the rush of strength. It was as if Amaris had just helped to empower him with echoes and he gasped slightly, taking a step forward. He glanced at Ophelia and Gerlinde, then began to turn, his eyes going wide as he caught a glimpse of a strange ghastly creature that called to mind some kind of wraith or ghost. He watched as it moved forward and plunged the serrated blade it held into Torquil’s back.
Farren’s blood ran cold—what would happen if they died in the Dream…—and then he moved, drawing the Effigial Blade after only a brief instant had passed—less than a second since Torquil had been stabbed.
He lunged past his companion, thrusting the blade at the Wraith, hoping his weapon could strike it.
noted Torquil’s reaction, but gave him a small understanding smile, though internally he was surprised at the startling increase in his compatriot’s strength. “Sorry to startle you,” Farren said companionably, though he didn’t explain why he’d made the gesture. As they walked, Farren’s azure gaze fell on the hunter’s at the gate, taking in their builds, their weapons, the way they held themselves, and any other details he could manage.
Rather than retain his usual suspicious air, Farren gave them an easy smile, letting Torquil go once they were within quickstep range. However, the hunters relaxed—if not entirely—as they came to recognize Ophelia. It was to their benefit because Farren was reasonably certain that the four of them could easily dismantle the more common hunter…and even if they couldn’t there would be little in the way of consequence for them. Well…beyond the obvious unpleasantness and mental toll that dying painfully would surely bring.
Of course particularly seasoned or well equipped individuals could be the exception, but that didn’t much matter at the moment. With there being no pressing threats or likelihood of violence, Farren simply filed away the three strangers—one woman and two men, the former having her weapon looked over by a cleric, while the latter two were grouped together at a table with food atop it.
‘Resupplying,’ Farren though, the reality coming to him almost unbidden as he took in the scene, noticing Victor last as he glanced upwards. That likely meant that most—if not all—of the White Church’s Hunters were already fully mobilized. That didn’t bode well for their mission.
As he came up beside Ophelia, his gaze still on Victor as he gave the man a nod of acknowledgement, his expression still surprisingly relaxed. He was even smiling and it was convincing enough that it would be almost impossible to tell whether or not it was an act, unless you knew him fairly well.
“Looks like they’ve already mobilized,” he commented casually as he glanced at Ophelia, before his eyes moved once more to Victor even as he—with a manner just as relaxed and amiable—addressed the room. “This everyone?”
felt the transition back into the waking world, though it was barely a footnote at this stage, and as his eyes flicked open, he immediately moved his gaze in a rapid scan of their environs. Though the are around lanterns so far had all been what one might consider ‘safe zones,’ he had no intention of letting his guard down. The world was a dangerous place after all, especially so in Yharnam, and even moreso on Nights of the Hunt–thus it was only wise to be ever-cautious. After all, while he may have been effectively immortal while bound to the Dream, there was no telling how long that might last or when it would no longer be true. For all Farren knew, at any moment, his connection to the Dream–and thus the assurance of his return to life by its power–could be severed and worse still…he might not even notice.
As a result, Farren actually witnessed the golden head through his peripheral vision, rather than looking at it directly. As it came into his field of view, he instinctively started to look in its direction as he made a double-take to ensure he’d seen what he had thought he had. However, before he could lay his focus directly on the head or the fissures that were spreading over its surface, Farren forced his gaze to pass right over it as if he hadn’t noticed at all. Then he forced himself to relax, quietly controlling his breathing despite the flash of fear that had just spiked in his chest, sending a small wash of adrenaline through his veins. Deliberately, Farren kept himself from clenching or gritting his teeth and as Ophelia moved, so too did he, having only taken a few moment’s longer to take in the surroundings. However, as she had also realized, Farren understood that Torquil was likely to react quite visibly to the Golden Watcher that served as the lantern rather than what they’d all grown used to. As such, Farren would step towards him and throw his arm over the man’s shoulders as he started to walk, guiding his attention to the Workshop, hoping the man wouldn’t shy away or resist the guidance. More importantly, Farren hoped that he’d stopped the man either from seeing the head at all…or at least from reacting too obviously.
With their means of egress in sight, Ophelia lead the charge toward the lantern - ignoring the ominous street she had to traverse to get there - stared into its pale gleam, and was returned to the Hunter's Dream. Farren and Torquil quickly followed, while Gerlinde happily and carelessly danced her way from the gateway and toward their means of leaving.
Ophelia arrived first, to find the Hunter's Dream just as they had left it: under a cover of dark clouds, raining heavily and with strong winds blowing through. The doll and the Shopkeeper huddled in the workshop at the top of the hill, looking out of the doorway to see the Paleblood Hunters arriving at the foot of the stair. Then Farren arrived, he felt a tremor go through his blood... and abruptly the rain and wind both stopped, the clouds parted, and the Dream seemed to resume the appearance it had had when they first found it. Torquil followed, but the only thing that seemed to happen at his arrival was the manifestation of something in the pouch on his hip.
While the doll and Shopkeeper hesitantly emerged from their now-needless shelter, the birdbath Messengers beckoned the Hunters, signalling that they had something new for sale.
Ophelia remarked the sudden change of weather in the Hunter's Dream with a pleasant nod, and immediately set towards the Doll and Shopkeeper, planning to meet them both en route.
"Hello, loves. You've nothing to apologise for with the Darkbeast--all's well that ends well! And it enabled us to get Blood Echoes, which I think we'll spend now. Doll, could you be a dear and increase my stamina again like you did before? A couple of times, I think, in fact... say four? I've learned that my frail constitution demands I dance around the battlefield, and I'm sorely in need of the extra endurance to be able to do so!"
"As you wish, good Hunter," the doll said with a bow, then took Ophelia's hand and complied.
As Farren entered he shivered slightly when the Tremor passed through him, but otherwise only briefly regarded the weather with a single raised brow after which he considered heading for the Doll, but elected to check what the Messengers had for them first. When he reached them he spoke up. “What do you have for us, then?” As he asked, Farren tilted his head to the side slightly as he regarded the small figures.
The items available were as follows:
Blood vial – 15
Quicksilver bullet – 5
Lead bullet - 5
10 copper coins - 10
2 silver coins - 15
1 gold coin - 60
Memory of Desperation – 50 Skull of a Hunter who lost their mind hunting beasts. Crush to obtain the insight within. Though monsters can be found lurking everywhere in the city, nowhere is as thoroughly infested as Old Yharnam. Amidst such terrible beasts, even a Hunter may wish for a hero.
Snakescale hourglass – 200 A small hourglass filled with snake scales ground to dust. Break the glass to gain five seconds during which you can act freely, but the rest of the world is frozen. The Great Serpent of the woods is a chronophage, devouring time as it passes. How could a being with such a power be anything less than a god?
Vial of Darkbeast's Blood - 100 A vial filled with the ever-warm blood of a darkbeast. Even corked, this vial has a very strong and distinctive smell. Upon imbibing this blood, one's body briefly becomes able to move with immense speed, agility and endurance. For twenty seconds, the imbiber will be able to quickstep limitlessly. "Oh sweet Paarl, where did you go? Your old mother misses you so..."
Beast blood pellet – 25
Ophelia breathed in deeply as she felt the power and vitality flood her body. Even empowered by the Old Blood and with a little of the strength of echoes she'd been able to feel that fatigue in her bones. Now it had almost entirely abated, it felt like--she felt loose, limber, hale and whole. "Ahh, it is an incredible sensation, to feel frailty leave oneself. An exceptional and thrilling change... Ah! Might I ask you to do it again for me, though this time for my proficiency with the Arcane?"
"Of course," the doll nodded and fulfilled Ophelia's wish, just as Torquil walked up to them. And just as Ophelia felt the number of blood echoes clinging to her diminish once more, leaving but a fraction of what she had arrived in the Dream with, she suddenly felt herself becoming much more attuned to the arcane forces of the world. The Holy Moonlight Sword pulsed softly, and it glow seemed to become subtly brighter.
"I wonder... if you are but a tool to be used, dear, is being used what grants you the most pleasure? Is fulfilment of your purpose your greatest desire? Or... perhaps not desire, no, but... maybe it lies in agency. You have been made to fulfil a function, but if you could choose to be anything would you have chosen this?" Ophelia mused as she pondered the nature of what it was that made people who they were--about what the lines that divided were, the separators between things such as man and beast. She'd come to believe it was in reason and in choice--to understand, and to have agency... and that was something she wondered if the Doll had, too... about who made her, and why.
The doll cocked her head and stared at Ophelia with her shiny eyes of glass. "You have strange questions, good Hunter. Are you not but a tool to be used as well? Does the hunt bring you pleasure? Just as humans created me to fulfill a function, the gods created you. If you had known what fate awaited you, would you still have chosen this?" She let out a sigh and glanced at the Shopkeeper. "I know no other way of being than this, good Hunter, and have never left the Dream, but I think it has been worthwhile. I have felt yearning and joy, and have aided many good Hunters reach their dawn. Good Hunter, worry not; I think I am content."
Ophelia looked around briefly at the doll's reply, briefly glancing over all the beings present there, and then back at the doll. "Yes, love, I think I would. I'm not sure anyone feels in control, not really... and we all have that in common, don't we? Even tools made to be used. Who says the gods don't feel the same too? I think we all yearn for connection, so I seek it out."
She smiled and stepped away slightly then, reorienting herself to talk to the Shopkeeper more readily. "Quite the fight, no? I'm glad Torquil summoned you when he did--your intervention gave us a chance to succeed, and still grow from it besides. You've my gratitude, dear. I've... learned a couple of things. I want to ask you what you know about the Interstice, or... the Old Labyrinth, as it might be better known."
The doll followed her, ready to interpret for the silent Shopkeeper. "Though they explored it extensively during the Night of the Blood Moon, we know surprisingly little of value," she said. "It is a place that overlaps both the Nightmare and the Waking World, where many gods yet sleep, and where all of this has begun time and time again. It is in the Old Labyrinth that the Old Blood was found, and each time it has been, it has given rise to powerful and prosperous realms. It is also where each of these empires eventually fall to when they crumble, as their remnants become new domains of the dungeon. There are a lot of treasures to be found there, which has led to countless Tomb Prospectors being sent into it, and it is a place of great and terrible danger, which led to most of those prospectors being lost." She paused. "Is there anything in particular you want to know?"
"It's come to my attention that traversing the labyrinth need not be as perilous for us as it is ordinary folk: that we might avail ourselves of chalice rituals, and find ourselves in specific parts of the Interstice. It is about those chalices and their rituals I'm curious, loves--did you perform them yourself, in your explorations? Do you know how they work, or have any insight into where new chalices might be acquired? Mother Moon whispered to me that the chalice I seek can be found 'at the throne of this land'. That was whispered to me in Yahar'gul, so I find myself uncertain if it is Yahar'gul that I must search or somewhere else!"
The doll looked to the Shopkeeper, then turned back to Ophelia. "They used such chalices extensively, yes, though most of them were found in the Old Labyrinth itself. Should you find any, we can help you partake in communion. We still have some chalices here, in the Dream, but the one you speak of..." She glanced at the Shopkeeper again. "The only throne we know of is in Castle Cainhurst, where Queen Annalise rules the Vilebloods."
It was about at this time that Gerlinde finally arrived in the Dream as well, looking quite like herself. She was clean once more, and her clothes and hair were restored to perfect condition. She raised her left hand to briefly inspect the head of the snake molt there, smirked, then lowered it and looked around to check what everyone else were doing.
Ophelia nodded thoughtfully, taking a few silent seconds to process the new information. "Mmm... I think I saw a marker for there on one of the headstones... Well, thank you--I'll add to my ever-growing list of places to visit. Is this what you felt like in all of your mortal lives, hurried to and fro by the eddies of unfolding events?" Ophelia replied, giving a nod in thanks rather than her usual curtsey and turning to Torquil.
"My, you'll have some strength to spend. Have you considered how to best spend your echoes, love? I tried to focus on improving what I lacked on our last fight--perhaps the same would be good for you? You're already plenty strong--getting stronger is better, of course, but perhaps a bit of dexterity will help you guide your blows better? Maybe more stamina, for more big and heavy strikes?" Ophelia offered, long past the point now where she might be worried she was overstepping when she offered Torquil her thoughts--it was very clear he didn't like to do much thinking, and Ophelia's ever-whirring mind was happy to compensate. As Gerlinde returned and Ophelia caught notice she waved with her free hand, but stayed with Torquil.
"Oh. Uh..." Torquil looked awkwardly from Ophelia to the doll, suddenly deeply uncertain what to do now that he finally had some of these echoes the others had talked about. He had meant to just ask the doll to make him stronger, and grew confused and conflicted now that Ophelia suggested that might not be the best choice.
As the doll turned to him, seemingly sensing that he was about to speak, Torquil hesitantly asked: "Could you not just... make be better? Like, at everything?"
The doll's eyes widened and she cocked her head, staring at him intently for a moment before telling him: "There are a great multitude of echoes coursing through your blood, good Hunter. If that is your wish, I shall do so."
She held out her hand, and Torquil hesitantly gave it to her.
"Well," Ophelia began, hoping to interrupt Torquil before he committed to this. "You needn't spend your precious echoes quite like that, dear. What use have you for proficiency in the Arcane? I think you should focus more on the physical attributes, love--if you just want to be better at everything there, why not split your echoes between those? Strength, dexterity, constitution, and stamina--those are the things you actually use, mm? Perhaps do them each one at a time, see which ones you like, and then do more? There's no rush." Ophelia offered, suddenly worried that she might have inadvertently pressured Torquil into something. If he'd made up his mind they were his echoes to spend and she respected that--but she did want to make sure the power was spent in a way that would benefit him the most.
"Oh," Torquil mumbled, stopping just before he would have taken the doll's hand. "Uh... sure. Can we do what she said and split them between those things?"
"Of course, good Hunter. Let the echoes become your strength."
He finally took her hand, and his blood echoes were spent.
"It feels magnificent, doesn't it, the infusion of power? How are you feeling now? Why don't you try things out, see if you can feel the difference?" Ophelia asked, smiling softly. She put her free hand on Torquil's shoulder and gave it a gentle rub.
"I assume you're simply going to increase your knowledge of the Arcane like you said earlier, Gerlinde?"
"I said that?" Gerlinde asked without looking at Ophelia, heading to examine what was available from the birdbath Messengers instead of to the doll. "I suppose I did, didn't I? I will, but I can also feel that the echoes of that beast were more powerful than any I've ever had before. Attuning me to the arcane with all of that power might be going too far."
"Well, you've demonstrated little need for constitution... Nor for strength. I suppose that leaves dexterity, endurance, and... bloodtinge, was it? You didn't seem to have much trouble simply attacking restlessly, nor need for extra movement. Oh, is there a new memory?" Ophelia replied in turn, now turning to face that direction so she could look at Gerlinde and Farren both--and the question appeared addressed to both of them.
Farren considered the offerings that the Messengers had brought for them and found himself wondering if they could have–or perhaps could still–harvest the Darkbeast’s still-undying corpse for more of its strange blood. Regardless, Farren decided he’d grab more than just standard supplies–unlike last time, and indicated the Hourglass and Darkbeast’s Blood. After a moment, the Messengers offered up the small hourglass and the vial of strangely warm blood from the dark beast. Farren stowed the vial in his pouch of them, certain he would be able to differentiate it simply due to its ever-warm contents. The Snakescale Hourglass, however, Farren looked over for a moment before putting it in his vial pouch as well, its shape was such that it would be easily identified as something distinct from everything else in the pouch.
By the time Gerlinde had joined them and Ophelia had finished a round of questions with the Shopkeep and the Doll, Farren had of course already extracted his items. With the two women approaching, Farren stepped back from the gathering of pale-fleshed helpers, making room for them. “Indeed, there remains a Memory,” Farren commented, though his gaze looked distant as he considered something.
After a moment he looked to Ophelia, “The Mask Rune, brand me,” he said, and his tone was flat, his gaze steely and serious as he regarded her. Farren would tell the others what he’d acquired from the Messengers before they departed, but for now…he wanted his mind clear and clean of influence before he made any further decisions.
Ophelia simply nodded, and gathered the runebrand to do the deed. She focused upon her newest rune, pondering its solidified meaning in her mind and the circumstances in which she'd acquired it, and it alighted in the projection case as she pressed the instrument to Farren's flesh with an unvarnished curiosity upon her face to witness the difference.
Upon Farren viewing the Mask Rune on the projection case and Ophelia pressing the runebrand to his flesh, Farren would very instantly and overwhelmingly feel its effect. The very second the new Caryll Rune was placed on his mind, Farren would feel a similar relief to what he had felt when he had seen Vicar Harold for the first time, as the irrational paranoia and madness - at least the parts of it that were not natural to him - abruptly fell away.
And as it did, so did the compulsions that remained on him from encountering the vicar. Gone was the forced impression that Harold was just a nice old man; gone was any reservations he might have had about feelings of hostility toward him. And as those compulsions vanished, he also became acutely aware that they had existed in the first place, and that they had been something unnatural forced upon him. For the first time not only since meeting the vicar, but since touching the Golden Halberd months ago, Farren's mind was only his own.
As Ophelia poised to brand him, Farren closed his eyes, brows knitted. This time…the only sign of pain was a slightly sharp exhalation of breath as the brand pressed to his offered arm. As the Rune formed in his mind’s eye the surge of almost euphoric relief as his mind was freed of foreign intrusions, of extant madness not borne of his own life, experiences and trauma fading away into mist…well, it was overwhelming. Farren staggered back one step and he drew in a gasped breath to replace the one he’d expelled.
His eyes shot open, wide and clear-eyed. There was a flash of fear that went over his face, but as nothing else impressed itself onto his mind beyond the Rune Farren’s entire body relaxed. Farren let himself sink down to the ground and sit on the now dry cobbles of the Hunter’s Dream. For a moment he almost wanted to cry, but then as the revelations of exactly how his mind had been tampered with washed through him, that overwhelming relief ignited and almost entirely burned up like so many dry leaves.
Farren let out a rumbled almost-growl that built in his chest, but he took another set of breaths, wiped away moisture from his eyes and met Ophelia’s gaze. “Thank you,” he said, his voice more strained even than he’d expected as he gave her a nod. The corner of one of his eyes twitched faintly from time-to-time. Still as he sat there, knees partially drawn up, arms rested atop them, Farren called to mind the Vicar’s face. It immediately brought a scowl to his features…he could hardly believe he’d thought it was the Garden of all things. “I’m going to find every reaching ray of his and his patron’s influence and rip them out, root, stem, and branch. Then…” Farren met Ophelia’s gaze and his expression darkened further, “Then I’m going to pull out his God’s innards and choke him with them.”
The conviction and channeled rage she’d find in his gaze made those eyes of his look more like coils of hateful crystal, sharp and burning all at once. For his part, Farren focused on that emotion and let it burrow deep in his core. Though it was unlikely to do him any good, Farren gestured for the brand, one hand outstretched, palm open, as he caught Ophelia’s gaze once more.
While everyone's attention was on Farren and what was happening to him, Gerlinde picked something out of the birdbath and stuffed it in her pouch, then went to the doll to empower herself with blood echoes.
Ophelia's expression went from wide-eyed relief to match Farren's own, shrinking slowly into wariness and not-quite-suspicion as he let the truly most base and retributive of urges consume him, greedily clawing them into himself. His eyes met Ophelia's in that near-feral state only to find her customary openness to suddenly be in question.
"... What for?" she asked, leaning down with the runebrand and coaxing forth the Messengers as she did so. She intended to ask them about the Mask rune, wondering if there was something about it that she should know, or if this sudden... beastliness, she supposed, in Farren was in there all along... or if it was all that was left, stripped of everything but the Old Blood.
Mask Rune Caryll Rune that invokes the mask of a plague doctor, allowing its bearer to walk even amidst filth and affliction without doubt or fear. Those who bear this mark on their mind are rendered immune to all eldritch deceit and corruption, shattering attempts at influencing their psyche and allowing their senses to pierce even the most powerful illusions. Poor Saint Adelaide was feared and coveted by all not only for the remarkable potency of her blood, but for her strange connection to the Nightmare that allowed her to see and hear what no one else could. Yet even she was powerless before the darkness unleashed in Yahar'gul on the Night of the Blood Moon.
Farren noticed the shift in his companion’s demeanor. It struck him as different in a dangerous, if subtle, sort of way, so he took a breath and closed his eyes, freeing her from his baleful glare. As he wrestled with the fury in his veins as it coursed alongside the weight of Echoes in his blood, Farren really dug into the why of things. Why was he so furious? Why had it disturbed him so. Surely it ought to disturb anyone to have their mind tampered with, violated, in such a way. Yet…it didn’t seem to bother Ophelia much. Gerlinde seemed…well, gauging her response was difficult, it wasn’t as if she even seemed to see herself as even remotely important, so much like the suffering she’d already endured, what was a little more added onto that?
Farren let out a sigh, “The mind ought to be the one place that nothing can truly touch,” he offered Ophelia. After a few carefully controlled rounds of breathing, Farren opened his eyes and some of that hatred, resentment, and fierce anger had died down, leaving only a simmering heat to his gaze. It was almost concealed by his usual intensity as he met Ophelia’s eyes for a handful of moments before pushing to his feet. “Think what you like, but it’s the one thing I consider sacred,” he didn’t voice any qualifiers even as the briefly passed through his mind.
“That aside…perhaps it’s not something you’re used to, but mundane men and women can be plenty beastly without even a touch of madness or the scourge.” He may not have remembered the specifics, but from both his own actions in the past…and from the impressions he felt from what must have been those around him, it was something he knew to be true. “I’ll not succumb so easily,” he said to finish, glancing over his shoulder back towards her as he passed.
As Farren went to explain, the tension immediately gave way--even the beginnings of him articulating reason were enough to assuage her and her entire body visibly relaxed. "Beasthood cannot claim we Palebloods, love. Forgive me, it... We've just been through a lot. I just... I suppose I wasn't expecting such immense hatred. I understand your violation, and don't begrudge you your retribution... but I feel like I must understand Ego before I may strike a blow at him. Look what chaos killing gods has caused already--are we to doom so many more, like poor Adelaide who even now shelters you? I will not be party to it until we know the why of it, love. But... I am glad you have yourself back. I agree that the mind is deeply sacred, and... I want to support you, and be here for you, but... the severity with which we feel things, what they might compel us to do... Moira's words resonate with me a bit more, now, and she's right. We are really very scary indeed."
Farren’s gaze became distant, his eyes shifting as he seemed to consider her words for a long moment. “You’re right. First…the why of things. Then Ego and its puppet die,” there was no vitriol in those words this time and for some reason he chose to leave her wondering if he might change his mind given good enough reason. Farren admittedly wasn’t sure if he might either. That said, he found himself moving towards the Doll perhaps a minute or so after Gerlinde had done so. He would wait, patiently while she took care of things before he approached beyond a meter or so away.
Having already taken care of her business while Ophelia and Farren talked, Gerlinde readily did a little sideways bounce and hop to move aside and give Farren space, wearing her usual excessively cheerful smile.
"I confess... it's foremost in my mind to go and offer Dietrich the same relief as you've benefited from--though now I wonder if his reaction will be anything like yours... Still, if I were under the influence of something like that, I'd want to be freed--so I will at least offer him freedom. Do you think it's a good idea to try and visit the White Workshop now? I don't want to press too far into Yahar'gul to complete Harold's agenda, but also... do want to get back to it."
Farren gave her a small nod, his expression softening slightly as he glanced her way, before he turned to regard the doll, approaching only to stop within easy arm’s reach. Yet he didn’t speak or offer her his hand as of yet, instead, Farren closed his eyes and took stock of himself. His body, his mind, and the events that had transpired in the last while…how he’d chosen to fight, what he had lacked, where his strengths and weaknesses lay. He even considered those of his allies, and then he addressed the pair before him.
“I’ve echoes to spend,” he said, slowly opening his eyes, his gaze finding the doll’s. “...would delving into the Arcane allow me to call upon weapons as the Moonbound Hunter does? Or perhaps…allow me to retrieve them from the little helpers more swiftly?”
The doll shook her head no. "I am sorry, good Hunter, but I cannot help you achieve such things. The little ones try their best and move as fast as they can, and the Shopkeeper's power..." She glanced at the subject of their conversation. "None of us know how to replicate it. Attunement to the arcane on its own, at least, would not achieve what you want."
Farren frowned, but ultimately it was neither of their faults if they could not ascertain the nature of the Moonbound Hunter's power. “How unfortunate. What might greater capacity for the Arcane endow?” Farren asked, head slightly cocked as he regarded her. The azure-eyed hunter figured that he may as well fully understand the nature of his options before making a decision this time.
"The arcane is power drawn from the Nightmare," the doll hesitantly explained. "On your own you are unlikely to benefit from attunement to it aside from the ability to sense arcane powers around you, but the most practical purpose of it is to convey that power into the tools you wield. It is difficult to explain..." She glanced at Ophelia. "For instance, good Ophelia wields the Holy Moonlight Sword, which is an arcane weapon that is itself of the Nightmare, so it should be no surprise that attunement to the arcane makes her better at drawing more power from it. But the arcane also empowers more natural phenomena, bolstering them. A torch, for instance, will burn more intensely in the hands of someone like that. An explosive will also be more powerful."
At first Farren's frown remained, but as she explained in more detail and gave an example or two, Farren began to nod. He had a sense that his natural ability for such things was likely...not considerable. Nonetheless, he couldn't help but be somewhat intrigued by the prospect of enhancing the so-called Arcane aspects of the world simply through an unseen potency of Will, or whatever else it might derive from. That said...for the moment the fight with the stormbeast had made clear that he was far less strong than he'd perhaps thought. It had been humbling, really. He was grateful for that. “Thank you,” he said gratefully, nodding his head to the doll. However, something occurred to him in that moment and he frowned again, “Do you not have a name to call your own?” He asked, once more regarding the doll, though now with an increased intensity. “Something more than a mere title, perhaps....”
"I do not," the doll told him with an apologetic bow. "I am but a doll; if you wish to call me by a name, you are free to do so."
Farren shook his head, “You've a will of your own, a purpose, a mind. Even if it was granted to you by someone or something else, it is no less your own. You deserve a name,” he replied. His words almost sounded...wise or perhaps considerate. Someone who didn't know him well--which really was everyone present, himself included--might think that he'd become sentimental, but the simple reality was that Farren was being equal parts practical and gracious. His recent experiences, particularly with the Mask Rune, had truly elucidated him as to the importance of one's agency. Even if the Doll was trapped in the Dream--though it seemed more that she was bound to it and equally was content with remaining therein--even if she were just an automaton, to Farren she seemed a person. If one made entirely of porcelain and other typically inanimate material. She could speak and she appeared to reason and for him that was enough. “If you do not wish to choose one for yourself...” Farren said, his features growing thoughtful as he considered what might suit her. His eyes looked over her features, her strange pale eyes and skin...and he regarded the moon far above. “...I think Amaris would suit you well,” Farren finished after a brief time considering the matter, at which point he found himself smiling faintly. The name was familiar somehow...but he didn't know why. No matter.
The doll nodded her head in acceptance and bowed again. "Then I am Amaris, good Hunter."
Ophelia nodded along at the doll's explanation of affinity with the arcane, though she was right--it was difficult to explain. Ophelia found Farren's little name-giving moment quite touching, if perhaps a little presumptuous. Indeed, she knew it might be presumptuous of any of them to apply their particular perspective to one such as the doll, or the Shopkeeper. Reality was governed by unseen rules and desires far greater than anything any of them truly knew--even those who grasped more of it than most would only ever see so much.
"Seems to me you're a man of bold action, dear. You seem to like taking the initiative. I like to work out the why of it and identify key components... We're both strategists, I think, though you've a more physical grasp than I. Perhaps it makes sense for you to increase your stamina, strength, and dexterity fairly equally? That should ensure whatever weapons we come across you can use--and you seem to like having just the right tool for every situation, mm?"
Ophelia turned then to the Shopkeeper, a new spark of curiosity in her eyes.
"Is there somewhere here in the Dream that we could perhaps spar with you?We aren't able to draw you into the Waking World all of the time, for many reasons, but Farren seems enamoured with this ability of yours to shift between your arms and armours rapidly. It might prove an engaging hobby for the both of you, and be helpful besides?" Ophelia asked, before turning her focus back to the doll.
The Shopkeeper turned to Ophelia and just seemed to look at her for a moment - as much as one can seem to be looking at anything when you cannot see their face - and then pointed to the field of flowers under the tree, where the statues of past Paleblood Hunters stood.
Farren bowed his head to Amaris in turn and even offered her a small smile when they both had risen. A moment later, Ophelia chimed in from nearby and he glanced at her out the corner of his eye, head tilted away from her as his gaze shifted thoughtfully towards the sky. He couldn't help but chuckle, her assessment was rather accurate after all. Calling to mind how many echoes it had required previously and weighing what he may have possessed in that moment, Farren finally made his decision, “Empower equally my dexterity of body and mind, along with endurance. Perhaps the faintest bit to my vitality as well,” Farren requested, raising his hand for her to take as he closed his eyes.
"Very well, let the echoes become your strength," the doll told him, then channeled his echoes as requested.
Ophelia nodded approvingly at the interaction before beckoning everyone closer (which mostly meant trying to get and keep Gerlinde's attention) to discuss.
"What do we want to do now, then? I'd say our purpose in getting echoes from Yahar'gul has been a roaring success. Like I said, I'm eager to get the key players out from under the influence of Harold... and there's a conversation I'd like to have with Dietrich. In fact, perhaps filling him in on the Crowmother personally would be wise, no? We could pursue that, or Old Yharnam, or perhaps the thread left behind by the Pallid one? Should we check up on the Hunters at the clinic? I've a mind to go to Castle Cainhurst--Mother Moon whispers to me that the chalice is there, and I'm eager to retrieve it. Think what magnificent arcane treasures and echoes might await us in the Interstice, Gerlinde! We... have a lot of options. I'm inclined to visit Dietrich and then head to Castle Cainhurst myself. What do we think?" Ophelia asked, listing out the considerable barrage of options and offering her own thoughts.
Gerlinde smiled and stared at Ophelia. "Exploring the Old Labyrinth sounds like it could be fun! Let's get the chalice and go there!"
Farren felt the echoes suffuse him in a way entirely different from how their subtle weight had ridden the channels of his blood. For as Amaris focused them, transmuting them directly into the essence of his body, Farren experienced the invigorating sensation of those echoes enhancing every fiber of his muscles, every aspect of his flesh and bones and nerves. Impulses traveled faster between neurons, an experience that while he did not understand, lent him a greater and more rapid sense for the world around him. Before it had felt totally normal, but now his prior perceptions felt...slow somehow. Like there had been some delay between input and his awareness of a given phenomena. That had been reduced now and along with it he felt...full of vim and vigor as if every cell in his body was bursting with new energy. Any sense of exhaustion or fatigue from their prior battle was utterly washed away by the sensation and after a moment he felt renewed. Taking a deep breath, Farren savored the sensation and then--eyes opening--he gave the dol...no, Amaris a smile and a nod. “Much appreciated, Amaris,” Farren said, then he turned to Ophelia, listening once she'd gathered the others upon the steps embedded in the hill.
As she listed their various options, it occurred to Farren that he needed to get Fulmen checked by a proper craftsman. As much as he wished he could fix it--for he'd sensed that his gambit had failed--he knew that for now it was beyond him. Perhaps with time he might gain the skills necessary...but for the moment he would need the assistance of the specialists of a Workshop. Once she had finished, he spoke up, “I also need to visit the Black Workshop to repair Fulmen...and see if perhaps Seven might find a proper use for the forearm of the Stormbeast,” Farren said, half-thinking aloud. Then something occurred to him and he knelt, calling upon the Messengers, murmuring his wishes. He wanted to know what they would say about the creature’s arm, in the same way that they had been able to describe other objects…as well as the Caryll Runes.
The Messengers quickly provided Farren with a scroll:
Arm of a darkbeast The still-living arm of an undead darkbeast. "Oh sweet Paarl, where did you go? Your old mother misses you so..."
"No more splitting up, so we're all going. I think the White workshop takes priority--who knows if Dietrich is still there? I... just want to get it over with. Freeing him from Harold's influence seems to be the least I can do... though I'm certain it would cause some disruption. Is that something we want to bring into being? I... I just think he deserves to be free of it, no matter the consequences. I'm possibly just projecting, but... Ah, I don't know, it's all so much to keep track of." Ophelia replied, looking slightly more stressed and strained than usual by the end of it. She took a quick moment to breathe idly and gaze at the brightness of the Holy Moonlight Sword softly, appreciating the new nuances of brightness she could discover.
Farren frowned slightly at the parchment, but nonetheless gave the Messengers a thankful nod, before he pushed back to his feet. He'd been hoping that they could offer him something more substantial than that, but it seemed things could not be so simple as that.
Farren turned his attention back to Ophelia, “Indeed, Fulmen can wait for now, though I'd at least have it dropped off with the Black Church Hunters, if not repaired, before we head for the Castle,” Farren said, apparently agreeing with her course of action. As much as the mystery and problem of Yahar'gul tugged at his mind--and such things did have a pull--he had no true desire to return to that miserable place. Not for now, at least.
"'Disruption' sounds fun," Gerlinde chimed in with a grin.
"Ah, but let me use the Mask rune myself before we go... Would you like it as well, Gerlinde, seeing as you'll need to change? Say... you don't think that the golden areas are in the Interstice somehow, do you? Could that be why the Dream rune needs to be removed, as you'd already be existing there? Have you tried being in the Old Labyrinth with the Dream rune already?" Ophelia asked, suddenly seeming invigorated from her little moment with her blade. She moved to obtain the runebrand and change her rune while she began to extrapolate towards the end.
Once she'd finished branding herself, she did the same for Gerlinde.
“Seems it’s decided then. However…let’s not use the Lumenflower lantern,” Farren said, unable to entirely suppress a faint shudder, his brow wrinkling for a moment before he schooled his expression.
"Yes, best not. To the Workshop, then, and hoping Dietrich is in. Ah, but let me make some purchases first!" Ophelia added, heading over to the birdbath to inspect the inventory. She purchased 10 quicksilver bullets, leaving herself 50 echoes for the memory later, and refilled her tube while depositing the rest for the little ones to look after. She then went and joined them at the marker to arrive at their new destination, runebrand safely upon her person.
"Ah, one thing before we head back out into the fray," Gerlinde interjected as Ophelia got ready for them to leave. Again she raised her left hand and pointed to the head of the snake molt wrapped around her arm. "Earlier, after I stumbled over to the white-furred beast and attacked it, I managed to get Snakey here to eat some of its light. So if it becomes necessary, it has some healing mojo in it at the moment."
Farren’s brows rose and his head shifted to the side slightly as he glanced at Gerlinde while Ophelia made her purchases. “Well that’s quite the trick,” Farren commented, unable to suppress the beginnings of a lopsided grin.
"She'll look after us again, sweet thing. I hope she's okay. Let's go?" Ophelia added, ready to reach out and touch the appropriate name on the headstone.
Farren for his part gave Gerlinde’s snakeskin garment a final amused glance before he turned to the gravestones, found the newly inscribed location in Yahar’gul and promptly named it.
It simply read ‘Yahar’gul Entrance,’ and while part of him had wanted to name it something slightly more evocative…if only so each time they read it they could prepare themselves for the pervasive misery of the place, ultimately his pragmatism had won out. Besides, it wouldn’t do for them to forget exactly where the lantern would land them, thus the name ought to clearly indicate its locale. Once he was satisfied, Farren turned and reached for the same name that Ophelia was, clearly ready to depart as well.
felt a not-at-all subtle sense of not-so-distant, but altogether foreign, dread and sorrow settle over him like a gossamer thin sheet made from lead. It weighed on his mind and that weight had him nearly dragging his feet, his shoulders sagging subtly in a way that he didn’t even notice even as he peered about, scanning his surroundings. It seemed that Yahar’gul was an even more harrowing and strange place than he’d heard, its seemingly endless central boulevard straddled on both sides by statues of an eerie, disquieting nature.
Farren’s brow creased in a frown, but he continued forth, moving towards the lantern he’d caught sight of even as he glanced back behind him. It was then that he noticed the uncountable stone figures frozen in a scrabbling, maddened fear as they attempted to scale the great walls that enclosed this fell place. A shudder wracked his figure for a moment and Farren shook himself, his eyes narrowing slightly before he deliberately pulled his gaze back to the lantern, which he’d just reached. Taking a calming breath, Farren snapped his fingers in the unlit lantern’s direction, as he’d been shown once by the Messengers, and waited for it to light even as he kept his senses stretched to their limits.
Yet…he heard nothing except the occasional shift of old masonry and woodwork. The place seemed utterly and profoundly abandoned…yet it had been guarded by that terrifying undead creature and concealed by the lightbeast. The question was…why?
Why had someone taken such drastic precautions…and how had the enclosing wall been created, hell when had it been created for that matter. Of course…while those questions were pressing ones he wanted answers for, the thing that truly had him unsettled were the statues themselves. For, with his enhanced eyesight, he could see details that only the most prolific of sculptors would have been capable of including. Even the most warped of the statues, after all, had an eerie realism to them, like flesh and cloth, sweat and tears, hair and sinew and skin had been wrought from stone by some unknown power. In fact…the statues barely felt like statues, in a esoteric sort of way. Logically, Farren wanted to believe that some utterly mad artist had done this, that the sheer quantity and quality of the statues was just the result of perhaps numerous sculptors working tirelessly for weeks–that the beads of sweat and trails of terror-induced tears on some of the cheeks of the statues were just additions of someone utterly and profoundly dedicated to their craft.
But it didn’t feel that way. It didn’t feel that way at all and while it felt…irrational, Farren was coming to understand that the world in which he lived was one profoundly more strange than he would have liked to believe.
So, instead…Farren admitted to himself–if only in the silence of his inner mind–that it was more as if every resident of Yahar’gul had been suddenly and inextricably turned to stone in the midst of attempting to flee in a terrified mob in every possible direction.
The idea–again–made him shudder, but he steadied himself with another deep breath and glanced back towards the threshold from which he’d entered, hoping the others would hurry. For…while he wanted to call out to them, to not be alone in this place, Farren couldn’t quite bring himself to speak. The dread and misery in the air was too thick and choking–and if he were being entirely honest…while he was handling it well, and barely displaying it in his demeanor, he was profoundly frightened. Something about this place just…it had wormed its way past his defenses.
Whatever dwelled in Yahar’gul…after they had extracted everything they could from it…it needed to die. Then, he would only be satisfied if he never had to visit, see, or speak of the place again and perhaps not even then would he feel relief….
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