The Hunter's Clinic, in the outskirts of Yharnam
Ophelia quickstepped to get away, slipping away from the grasping claws of the beast-man that attempted to close around her, past the Mad One that was now looking confusedly at its empty hand, and inside. She darted through quickly, but not quickly enough that beast-man could not follow her with his eyes, prompting him to follow her with loud, heavy strides, eager to not only seize his vengeance, but also sate his hunger. He stomped forth, blazing eyes focused on her through the doorway...
Only for a large, black-skinned hand to reach up from beside him, grasp him by the right shoulder in an iron-grip, its claws digging into his flesh. He looked down and growled in frustrated anger, to find his own glare answered by the insanity shining out of the Mad One's twisted grimace. He clawed the Mad One across the face with his left hand, and the Mad One struck him on the side of his head with its cane. They both healed nigh-instantly, and attacked again, and again, each unable to kill the other, but determined to keep trying to do so regardless.
Inside, Victor remained a bulwark between Ophelia and Farren, and the three huntsmen that were still standing. Rather than keep fighting with the giant form of his weapon, Victor detached the small sword from its blade-scabbard and left the huge, bloodstained blade partially embedded in the floor while he used the small sword to slash at and drive back the huntsmen.
Of the three, one was wielding a pitchfork, one a hatchet and one, standing behind the others somewhat, a rifle, raised and aimed at the Hunter. Another gunshot filled the room as another bullet pierced Victor's flesh; the pitchfork-wielder used his reach-advantage to keep stabbing Victor while staying out of range of his sword; and the hatchet-wielder stayed in close, simply bearing Victor's counterattacks while keeping him in place.
Victor's once-white and pristine garb was now thoroughly torn and soaked in blood, but somehow the man stayed on his feet and kept fighting. There was nothing elegant or honorable about the way he fought; he swung his sword wildly with no thought for technique nor grace, simply lashing out against his enemies, chopping and slashing them, while getting shot, stabbed and cut himself.
And while the beast-man and the Mad One became entangled in each other's blind rage, and Victor bore the assault of the huntsmen, Farren moved on the one he called Pallid. Moved to cut, to slay... and to silence the bell. He rushed forward
– ding –
and found that with each step closer, not only did the terrible visions and feelings of paranoia grow stronger, but the sound of the bell also seemed to grow unnaturally louder. Each chime sent ripples through his body, making every fiber of his being vibrate softly, charged with an energy he did not understand. Another step
– ding –
and the vibration felt even stronger, faster, and the sound grew almost deafeningly loud in his ears, though its actual volume was unchanged. The itch grew worse, all over, as he moved another stride
– ding –
and felt something moving under his skin. The visions consumed him, the touch of that golden relic echoing through his mind and threatening to blind him to the world around him. He felt this forgotten madness spread through not only his mind, but his body as well, like an electric current that was both painful and pleasurable, a sense of strength and vulnerability.
He prepared to swing his blade, putting all his strength into this single attack. The hoarse man kept ringing his bell more and more desperately, fear plainly written upon his face, yet he made no move to dodge nor block; he simply kept ringing his bell. Farren took his final step
– ding –
when a toll of the bell hit him, and he felt everything inside of him clench – muscles, tendons, bones, even his teeth – and then, all at once, shift to a hundred different forms than the one they were meant to have, changing so quickly that it would probably not even be perceivable to the naked eye. With a feeling that was a mix of torment and euphoria, his body seemingly spontaneously self-destructed, his skin cracking and splitting in countless wounds in a cascade in what seemed like an entirely excessive amount of blood.
But even so his blade still swung and struck true, carving into the thin, feeble body of the hoarse man, and the bell fell silent. The bell-ringer fell backward into the wall behind him, clutching the deep, bleeding gash carved into his chest with both hands while his bell and cane alike clattered noisily to the floor.
Before Ophelia's eyes, the red glow in the huntsmen's eyes abruptly extinguished, and vapor-like clouds billowed from their bodies as they all hobbled backward, their expressions turning to confusion and pain, and the weapons fell from fingers too weak to hold them. Behind her, outside, the beast-man's eyes likewise lost their glow and his body produced a similiar column of smoke as it stumbled and fell forward, through the Mad One, whose black form seemed to give way to the pressure, disintegrate and fade back into whatever nightmare it had hailed from.
The price, of course, was Farren's to pay. The damage he had just sustained from the dark magic of the bell plainly pushed him beyond the capacity of his regenerative potential. It was not enough to instantly kill him, but it left him badly injured.