Tuujaimaa

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia nodded thoughtfully at the sudden revelation, though her expression did not seem saddened or dismayed. Instead she simply seemed serene, as calm and placid as a perfectly still lake. She gave the shopkeeper and the doll a little upnod, beckoning the former to stand, and sighed wistfully before she spoke again.

"... You've nothing to apologise for, dear. That night, the Night of the Blood Moon... if you are indeed the one who spared all Yharnam a grisly fate, it was a worthwhile trade. They... they would want to know that life and death continued apace, that all their insight and knowledge went towards protecting Hemwick. Bound also to this Dream as I am, I suppose that is my legacy now. Rise, Good Hunter, and know that no offence is taken." Ophelia mused, a wan smile creeping across her face as she recounted memories of her studies and sojourns into the deep and dark woods. She had another guide, now, and Farren and Torquil to take on as her own pupils. She knew that the witches would be proud of her, in their own way, for continuing their work--something, thanks to the ministration, she was now able to do... and, being almost immortal, what better guardian could Hemwick ask for?

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia observed the glut of Guidance sprites with a small grin, following them about their sojourns throughout seemingly every surface here in the Hunter's Dream. She could see in her periphery how the long and flowing braid of her silver hair had somehow wound its way around the incandescent blade of the Holy Moonlight Sword, and the sprites danced playfully in the nooks and crannies therein. She could feel the gentle resonance in her mind, a keening whine that soothed her inflamed thoughts and smothered the fire in her blood with purest radiance--and she let out a tense exhalation as she felt that infernal and incessant heat finally dissipate.

"It'll help avoid a repeat of the events that brought you here last time, my sweetness, let's say that much. I'm sorry, it will burn something fierce--but it's easier to experience it than to be told." she smiled to Torquil, though she moved toward Farren first--he seemed to better understand what the process entailed, and she thought it might offer Torquil some small comfort to see what was going to happen firsthand before accepting it upon himself.

Ophelia turned to the Shopkeeper as she was readying the brand, having been interrupted from actually applying the rune by the doll's question--though she seemed quite serene all of a sudden, and nodded with a look of pleasant surprise upon her face.

"Oh, yes! Well observed. This... I don't know if it can be the same, but... I swear, it's exactly the same brand that my mentors used to use. The Witches... ah, I miss them. They were peculiar, and quite certainly mad, but... they were gentle and sympathetic to me, at least. My guides, for a time, but they are gone now... and I have a new guide instead. Quite keen, aren't you, mm?" Ophelia replied, a look of fond reverie written upon her face as she remembered a distant life that felt so infinitely far away from where she was now. She awaited the reply wordlessly, instead focusing upon the peculiar instrument she'd used to brand herself with and focusing on it very intently--and then turning to Farren, metal brand extended towards him. She made a quick motion with the brand towards his hand, hoping he would understand what to do after having observed her use of it on herself moments prior.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

A gleam overtook Ophelia's eyes as the motes of light showed to her by the Holy Moonlight Sword were reflected in her pupils, and the whisper poured knowledge directly into the luscious boughs of her mind as she became familiar with a new Rune--something she'd not learned for the longest time, not since that fateful night of the Blood Moon. It promised the glimmers and glimpses of higher understanding offered to creatures native to the worlds beyond ours--to the heirs and heritors of the Nightmare--distilled down into a form that she could understand, a single syllable or thought of their means of communication that her base and unworthy form could comprehend. She turned to the brand at Farren's reply, looking over her shoulder at him as she picked up its familiar heft and prepared herself to receive of its kiss and have the glimmers of Guidance reside in her mind.

So-branded, she answered Farren's question cryptically: "Runes are... well, love, they're hard to explain. Imagine if I could say the word "fight", sear it onto your mind's eye, and have you become suddenly imbued with the knowledge of martial technique. The runes are that, but... with concepts passed down to us from higher beings. I know only a scant few myself, though if we encounter more out there I'll be certain to learn them--there's the "Lake" rune, which hones one's inner eye through the sounds of water, an augur to the eldritch Truth... it gives one impressions of danger just before they are about to happen, reading the reflections of the world. There's the "Eye" rune, ahh... it opens one's inner eyes, lets them see more of the Truth. I bore it myself, long ago. I... well, I think you'd both benefit from the power of the Lake, hmm? Don't worry, dearies... the pain is temporary."

Something about her demeanour was much more natural here than it ever had been in the waking world, as though more free and uninhibited in the world of dreams. They might think it manic, or simply insane, or not even notice at all--but it was obvious that Ophelia spoke with a familiarity and sincerity that might open their minds to just how much more in tune with the secret ways of the world she was than they. If they, like her, shuddered in exuberance at the brightness of the lambent Moonlight (though they could see little of its true glory like she could), the brightness might illuminate within them an equally dark fear or revulsion: that the price of such insight was curiosity, and her curiosity might lead them places they would prefer not explore. Fear of the unknown was, after all, the oldest fear known to mankind--their cursed inheritance, such as it was.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia tried to gasp in awe at the wondrous slice of the cosmos filling her vision, but found her body unable or unwilling to move in the presence of such unfathomable energies. It communicated not through simple and base words, but through thought and image and feeling--and in the glints of the starlight filling her mind's eye Ophelia could see a pattern stretching back longer than time had existed. In the spaces between their brilliance, the lightless void that gave meaning to the world of sidereal splendour, she saw the infinite maw of entropy and decay, of the certainties of ending... and in the light, she saw the infinite glimmers of potential. Of new life, born into this mundane world of blood and bile and flesh, and chosen to ascend to a realm of purest starlight. This dream was but a mere egg, or cocoon, like the magnificent blade of gleaming incandescence that now surrounded her weapon. There was no sight in the waking world that had ever compared to this, to the unparalleled majesty of the night sky and the moon's slick whispers. Ophelia was immediately and irreversibly transformed, her mundane awareness touching a relic of genuine power for the first time--at least, the first time since she had become a Hunter--and her mind unfurling to the true nature of the universe.

The others could not see it... but perhaps that was for the best. Her blood coursed with silver and starlight, while theirs was born of filth--the awareness was so vast and so penetrating that she could not even make sense of it, and she instead simply let the transformative knowledge wash over her while keeping as much of herself intact as she could. She found its excoriating brilliance to never be too much to bear, however, only enough to sear itself into her very essence and become an immutable part of her.

"What could stand against such brilliance and live..? What darkness awaits us that the Holy Moonlight Sword has chosen another..?" Ophelia asked incredulously, the words leaving her lips as the deafening envelope of revelatory silence peeled away and she was once again returned to the Dream. She took a moment to collect herself, breathing in shakily through her nose as she fought back tears of profound joy, and simultaneously a crippling and gnawing fear of coming to understand just how small she really was was born within her, its shadow the consequence of her soul's illumination. She paid it no mind for now, weak and cowed as it was, and turned to face Farren and Torquil.

"Ah, you look much better now! That axe is much more suited to you isn't it, love? And you, Farren, my! I see the little ones will have their hands full... You look prepared for anything; by the Moon above we'll need it... Ah, perhaps you'd like a rune? As luck would have it, the very tool I used to use is sitting right here! I'm certain I could use it to grant us the powers offered by the runes... I wonder, my guiding moonlight, is there anything you think I should see?" she spoke, turning to the gleaming blade in her hands as she addressed it with her final question, her voice lowering to a whisper and her head tilting slightly to the side as she listened closely for its whispers in her mind.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Within the caverns of Ophelia's mind the eldritch whispers settled, diffusing into abstract streams of thought not unlike a dream within a dream. She felt herself immersed in the soothing radiance of gentle moonlight through the little structure's windows, wood of the floor contrasting against the argent glow reflecting from the keen polish of the blade in her hand. Almost absentmindedly she brought her left hand away from the hilt to the blade to gently caress along it, feeling the thrum of invisible power radiating from it. She lost all focus on anything but the source of the moonlight above them as her mind resonated with the unseen whispers, letting the subtle guidance it promised fill her very being. Something about it called to her, and something about the place they were in had a resonance she could not understand but could detect.

"I am ready, Mother Moon..." she whispered, an almost-silent prayer leaving her lips. The silence that followed grew louder and louder in her mind, all for the nuances and subtleties of the blade's mysterious urgings to permeate her very essence. She felt nearly compelled to do as it bade, so strong was its longing for purpose and for use--and it held an echo of something principled and chivalrous, she felt, though she knew not where that notion came from nor what it could possibly mean. She was not quite sure if she had not simply imagined this whole thing, so familiar was the rune-brand and so queer the moon... but she could feel the thrum of this thing in her hands, the shivering ache of its desire to be wielded again; of the lack that it had endured for so long. It could not be anything but real, and Ophelia wanted nothing more in that moment than to oblige it.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia listened to the doll's explanation keenly, eyes sharp and still. Though she continued to look up at the moon in the sky, her periphery gave her all the information she needed--there was hardly a dearth of places for her to look at the moon in the sky. She nodded along, slack-jawed with appreciation for the majesty of the place and how vividly rich and detailed this place was. It felt surreal, though she knew with a certainty she could not articulate that it was just as real as the world they had fallen asleep in. She could imagine Victor's shock--and also his stoicism if he'd known all along--at how they must have... vanished, like Torquil's corpse had. That was what the doll had said; she seemed quite earnest and pleasant, though some of that seemed to be down to the fact that she was as expressive as the person interacting with her... and there was this itch in her mind, this tingle just beyond where she could touch with her traditional senses, that intermittently came and went before the doll spoke. This shopkeeper used it as... a doll? A plaything? A translator? It was curious that she should empathise so with the thing, wondering what agency it had, just as she had with the little messengers so eagerly clamouring for her touch and her attention. She breathed in a calming breath, letting the queer scent of the moonlit air rush through her and soothe the fevered ache in her mind, and focused on simply being present and open... and letting her fevered musings melt into distant thoughts, until the smell of it was all her senses could detect.

She'd gotten whiffs of hunters before--and she supposed she smelled like that now--but this Shopkeeper was the most like a Hunter she'd ever smelled, as though all the scents were mere imitations of this original. It sat like a gentle buzz in her nostrils, full of character but quite unlike anything else she'd smelled, until she realised that Farren had begun to ascend the stairs up towards the house that the doll had pointed out. Ophelia smiled and excused herself from the little cluster of people, gracefully weaving her way around them to meet Farren up at the top of the hill toward his destination. She stepped inside alongside him, taking in the unfamiliar sights with similar awe to earlier. Her eyes firstly and immediately were drawn to one particular item in the room: the Rune Workshop Tool. She drifted towards it as though pulled by some invisible force, her fingers gently caressing the cold metal handle of the brand with a familiar reverence. Flashes of a distant time came to her, holding this exact tool under the tutelage of the Witches of Hemwick in a life that felt like she'd left it behind. She wondered how it had come to be here, in this place--how much of the Yharnam she'd known before that fateful night had disappeared without a trace? How much of it had sought refuge in places like this? It was something she was quite certain the little Messengers could help her with... she would have to spend some time with them when they were not expected back in the waking world.

A glint of moonlight shot through the window, illuminating a rather unimpressive sword (with a blade far too narrow for the ponderous hilt), that Ophelia's eyes were instinctively drawn to. She wandered over to it as though in a trance and felt her hand reaching out to take it, whispers of arcane power softly radiating from its presence. They were... plaintive, almost, she felt--beseeching, and something in her earnest nature could not help but answer its perceived call. She attempted to heft it off its stand with a single hand but found her strength somewhat lacking, stumbling slightly before adding a second hand to support the surprising heft. She looked it up and down more closely, felt its weight and its balance, attuned herself to its subtler and more esoteric qualities.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia laughed musically at Torquil's clear and natural voice, her eyes sparkling with relief that he'd found solace from his problems. It was going to be easier for them all--and Torquil had felt bad about it, besides. She nodded at Farren's insightful question, giving him a knowing nod of her head, and turned to the figure in the wheelchair and offered them the same curtsy she'd given to the doll before she spoke again after hearing whatever reply was offered, if any.

"Thank you, for all you have done for us. I... will pose my questions to the little ones. I always knew I liked them, even though they've no eyes. They... just want to help. It seems a nice sentiment, so thank you as well, dearies." Ophelia mused, offering a third and final curtsy to the messengers with a giggle that had just a touch of mania to its timbre. She proceeded to show a number of items to the messengers, reading the scrolls in reply with a burning curiosity, and nodding thoughtfully or musing to herself aloud about the implications of what she'd learned--which was almost exclusively to do with eyes. Torquil and Farren would surely have noticed a theme at this point, though Ophelia seemed to pay no mind to it--as though it were completely normal and natural. There was a certain certainty and serenity to her movements, and her silvery hair glittered incandescently in the moonlight's bountiful rays--something altogether witchy, if one knew the signs of what to look for.

"... so we cannot die, then? We will simply return as though waking from a dream... ah, it's just like the stories of Moira, isn't it? She was said to fight as though she could not die--and she's the most Hunter a Hunter can be. She must have graced these halls in her day, hmm, to win the kinds of victories she had? How many people have travelled through here, I wonder, and to what end? To what end are we here? The Church..." Ophelia spoke, as though feverishly possessed by the thoughts spilling out of her. Whatever that bell had done to her mind had her swimming in visions, thoughts beyond thoughts cascading to her as though dancing on the rays of the moon... but she could feel it abating as she let her thoughts unspool, and the cool air of the dream caress her skin.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia's first reaction was unbridled joy--she returned Torquil's smile eagerly and ran to him, quickly embracing him in a hug for a few seconds before stepping back. Her smile was wide and bright, and her voice was almost singsong with the relief of seeing him hale and whole.

"I'm so glad you're alright, dear... I wanted to thank you. You didn't know you'd end up here and still you took the hit for us... You're a good soul, Torquil. If I can repay your kindness, please let me know." She spoke giddily, before turning her attention up towards the recently-shifted sky. Whereas before it was all vermillion and gold, the rich colours of sunset like at the clinic, all of a sudden there was a bright full moon out... and a moon unlike she'd seen before. It was almost ponderously large, unnaturally so, and something about its silver sheen transfixed Ophelia's gaze as she stared at it in wonder. It was beautiful--more beautiful than any moon she'd seen before--and... compelling, in a way she could not articulate even in thought. She'd done plenty of work by moonlight, danced beneath it in the dark of the woods, committed what some might call heinous or unnatural acts beneath its sombre glow... but never like this. She barely paid any attention to the doll at all, so transfixed by it she was, until maybe thirty seconds had passed since the doll spoke and Ophelia tore her eyes away and addressed the doll.

She started with a simple curtsey, like her parents had taught her, and introduced herself: "I'm Ophelia; a pleasure to make your acquaintance. If you've never seen the sky change like this, it is a sign of a great portent. If this is a Dream, whose Dream is it? The moon's? The sun's? Yours? Ours? I have so many questions..." she began, before exhaling a shuddering breath and trying to calm herself down with rhythmic breathing. She could feel her clothes, she realised, and not the oil and grime and viscera that had coated them before--and she moved to fumble about the pocket where she'd stashed the pallid man's bell, and would get it out if it remained there.

"What is this, for instance? It had the power to summon creatures, to... to induce visions, or something--it nearly killed Farren, brought a Mad One into being, mended the wounds of the near-slain and empowered them to fight anew." she spoke before she could even stop herself, face turning a little red with embarrassment as she realised how impolite it was to bombard her hosts with questions as a guest. She turned to look at the second figure in the wheelchair, taking in the details of their form--and waiting for them to speak in answer.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia reflexively pulled away from Farren's strike, his sudden bout of madness oddly unclear to the otherwise distracted Ophelia. She would normally go straight for the eyes, of course, but it hadn't even occurred to her to check Farren out until she caught the glimpse of movement in her periphery. With a Hunter's agility she stepped back from her crouching position as she'd administered the vial of blood offered to her by Victor into a standing and guarded one, though it was immediately clear to her from the expression now writ upon Farren's face and the trembling he could not hide in his limbs that he had seen something harrowing. She could feel the vibrations of the bell rattling in her skull still, diminishing but present, though they had not gotten the opportunity to reach a crescendo. She looked down at the little thing clasped in her hand, unfurling her fingers so as to examine it more closely and carefully. Her head snapped around to the sound of the Beastman's pathetic whimpering and scampering, and she quickly looked down for her spear and picked it up with her free hand, immediately leaving Farren and Victor alone to chase down her escaping quarry.

She cared not for the exertion, nor the burn in her lungs or the sting of sweat and blood in her eyes - she was going to hunt that raggedy beastman down and slaughter him like the cancerous hound that he was. He had been complicit in the events that had led to Torquil not making it, after all, and she would not leave him unrevenged. She sprinted after the beastman with a ferocity and determination that had begun to dim after its peak with Pallid, but was quickly reigniting again as the lingering scent and taste and feel of blood on her hands made her take leave of her more rational senses and give in to the thrill of truly concluding the hunt... but unlike the fires of madness, all-scorching, the fires of sorrow and regret and guilt and shame would likely die down once the beastman was dead. She could rest, process what had happened... maybe take a nap by the light of that queer lamp, and its comforting radiance.

But for now she had work to do: work she'd done so many times before, her eager and practiced hands ready to return to something they truly knew. She caught up to the beastman exceedingly quickly, and with as much precision as she could muster she lanced him right through the abdomen. She could feel through the vibrations of the spear, her wired and heightened senses, and the frailty of the withered beastman's form that several of his organs were punctured, though she had missed his heart so he did not die immediately. She grabbed him by the shoulders and wrenched him off his back onto the floor, pushing the haft and the rest of the spear through his wound, as she perched over his head.

"I warned you, dear. I told you that if you had any signs of the scourge, I'd have to kill you... but you insisted. I'll be taking your eyes now, sweetness--and your pallid friend's too. Torquil's gone because of you... so don't imagine for a moment that this will be quick. Every rabid howl, every peal of agony, will avenge him... so I want you to scream, you wretched thing. Let him hear you, wherever he is." Ophelia half-whispered and half-spat, before using one hand to keep the beastman's eyelids open as she plucked her prizes from his skull with her bare fingers. She made sure to make it as painful as she could without damaging the eyes, seething and trembling all the while. When her grisly work was done, she walked slowly back towards the clinic, stopping off at the little glass jar she'd discreetly deposited earlier and adding her new prizes to them.

The few minutes Farren needed to recover would likely have been over by the time she returned - she scanned the room for Victor and Farren both as she approached, bell stashed away in her garb, jar of eyes in one hand, and spear in the other.

"Torquil... he... vanished? Disappeared into thin air as the Mad One mashed him to paste..." she mumbled, looking a little more haggard than before now that the rush of anger and vitality had left her.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia watched the carnage unfolding around Farren's being with equal parts curiosity and revulsion, keen eyes searching for information while also distracted by the rapturous writhing she could feel in her mind. It was difficult to focus, each train of thought immediately disjointed by another peal from the bell--but Victor held his position and Farren dashed forward to do what none of them could and slay the pallid man. It was almost artistic, the way that Farren collapsed in a stream of viscera and gore--his own, she assumed, and certainly a new and novel way for someone to die that she had not seen before--and it took her a moment to collect herself. The Mad One animated by the ringing of the bell crumbled into nothingness as the borrowed power of its once-benefactor dissipated, and the others lost their supernatural glow and seemed to diminish in presence before she rushed over to Farren. Her right hand was still slick with blood, and she scooped a little off of Farren's clothing and brought her hand up to his mouth for the blood to begin its work in regenerating her fallen comrade. Something within her seethed and burned with urgency--she'd lost Torquil, but she was not going to lose another if she could help it. The first thing she did was execute the pallid man with impunity, forcing her spear through his undefended chest right through his rotten heart.

Panting, rapid breaths fell from her chest in heaving and gasping gulps as her body tried to acclimatise once again to the strangely dull and cold sense of normalcy that had existed before the sounds of the bell had made their way into her mind--and with Farren and the pallid one taken care of, Ophelia immediately went to snatch the bell from pallid's corpse to examine it in more detail. Hells, if she could wring the same power from it they would be in a much better position than they were previously. Even if not... it would act as proof of the arcane, of what they'd endured and who knew about it. What were the chances that something so secretive and taboo was simply stumbled upon by these... creatures? There was some hidden thread of meaning behind it all, some agenda that she could not quite grasp, and she turned to Victor with a somewhat plaintive look after her little reverie. She shot a glance over to the door to see the beastman still standing there, and her right hand twitched as it instinctively reached for the haft of the spear stuck out from the pallid one's now-corpse. If it made a move she'd respond in kind, but she began to speak to Victor first. She'd let him chase it down if necessary, or initiate combat--she was more concerned with making sure Farren was okay too.

"... Thank you for the help. Did the Church send you, or..?" Ophelia began, clutching the bell in her hands until they turned white from the exertion. Her stare was... a little wild, though mostly focused, as she alternated between looking up at Victor and down at Farren, trying to piece together pieces of a narrative in her mind. She brought her free hand up idly to move a strand of grease and blood-matted silver hair away from her face, dropping the spear as she did, and tried to regulate her breathing as best as she could. A lot had happened, but they had the chance to uncover the mystery now... well, more of a chance than they did before.