Dark Jack

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Freagon, Irah, Lhirin, and Yanin – Upstairs Guest Bedroom, Bor Manor, Borstown

“The 'bell-ringer' is called Cole and the 'scout' is Quintin, but yes, that's who I meant,” Vela Bor replied to Yanin's comment regarding the people she wanted to bring to save the healer. “Don't get me wrong, I really don't like bringin' folk who're already hurt, but we're severely outnumbered. I'd be happy to let Cole stay and recover safely here, but everyone else's gonna be in more danger for each sword-arm we leave behind.”
“We don't need them,” Freagon declared from his place by the bed, and though his implied arrogance was likely expected by some of them, his justification might not be: “I vote to leave the wounded. Let's get through this without any more dead townsfolk.”
“We'll discuss that when everyone's together,” Vela sighed. “We've options, and none of 'em's good.”

When Yanin addressed Caleb about the possibility of him wearing clothes on top of his robe, the angel chuckled. “Do you want me to wear something else?”
Barely had the words left his lipless mouth before the robe shrouding his body seemed to spontaneously liquefy, becoming an amorphous semi-corporeal blob rapidly shifting in shape and color. A second later the blob solidified again, only for Caleb to now be wearing a resized replica of Yanin's own clothes and armor.
“But I am not sure any clothes will disguise me adequately,” he then mused, the hint of humor from before having already left his voice. “But if you give me two, or maybe three hours at most, I could have enough energy to teleport wherever you want me to. I can even bring the rest of you, if you want... though I would have to warn you that you would be exposed to some quite powerful divine magic. Taint may be an issue.”
“If he's with me, the townsfolk will understand,” Vela interjected firmly. “No point in fussin' over that.”

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Jordan and Nabi – Outside Bor Manor, Borstown

Though he did not outwardly react to the question, a small frown did briefly touch Quintin's face when he turned to look at Nabi as his eyes swiftly scanned her up and down.
“Going alone would be a bad idea,” he told her bluntly. “I mean no offense to you, Miss, nor do I doubt your skills, but I doubt you'd be able to learn anything I haven't already from watching them for nearly five hours.” He licked his lips. “As for observations on patrols, there were on average five patrols an hour, consisting of two or three hostiles. There were some vague patterns to their movements, though nothing that suggested planned and assigned routes. I'll draw a map and share as much of what I learned as I can once we've gathered everyone that needs to know.”

In response to Jordan's comment about the baroness being likely to return soon, Quintin nodded his head. “I expect the same, Squire Forthey, but I already left the Lady once expecting her to be safe only to return and find that her home had become a battlefield. You will have to forgive me for not taking it on faith that she'll be safe if I left her a second time so soon.”

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Going outside the Hunter's Clinic, in the outskirts of Yharnam

Snapping his fingers at the lantern, mundane though the action might have seemed, would immediately and starkly bear results that would strike Farren as far out of the ordinary. The snap of his fingers was accompanied by a muffled sound like the someone striking a large bell, producing a low-pitched quiet tone as his hand was wrapped in pale-blue fire for just an instant. He felt no heat from the flames, but did feel a palpable tremor go through his body, as if every cell in his skin and muscles was vibrating in response to what he had just done.
Simultaneous to the flame sprouting around Farren's hand, a matching dim pale-blue light flared to life inside the lantern, bathing a small area around the post in ephemeral light. At the foot of the lantern-post the first Messenger was quickly joined by another two, and all three of them seemed to be quietly celebrating the lighting of the lantern.

Heading outside, Farren would get his first good look at where they actually were. The clinic they had awoken in – a squat, wide and plain building without windows and only the one door – sat at the end of a long cobbled path. To the left, which the setting sun would tell him was west, stood a long line of obviously newly erected and almost identical residential buildings, with the end of one dwelling sharing a wall with the start of the next, and with the row seemingly continuing as far as the road itself. Even though these residential buildings had windows there was no light in any of them, giving the impression that this part of the city was mostly unpopulated at the moment.
To his right, to the east, he would discover that what had looked like a road from the inside was actually a plateau, with the ground itself ending just a meter or so from the easternmost end of the clinic at a ledge with a metal handrail. Past it he would be able to see the landscape stretching out in the distance, with the city of Yharnam giving way to the mountains and forests of the east, where the rest of the outside world lay still and silent in the final rays of the sun. It would be difficult to discern just how high the plateau was without going to the edge and looking down, but he would be able to tell that they were quite high above what lay beyond the ledge.
As he closed the door and deposited his unconscious cargo, Farren would most likely also notice a rather conspicuous presence immediately outside the door and to the right: a large brass censer, fully stocked with unlit incense.

Moving ahead to meet the newcomer, Farren would find that the White Church Hunter slowed their gait as he approached and assumed a more wary stance. As he got closer, Farren would be able to tell that the Hunter was male; a large, powerfully built man that looked to stand a little taller than Farren himself, with long chestnut facial hair that was arranged into 15 cm braids – one braid for either side of his mustache and one for his chin – and was indeed wearing the garb of the White Church. Quite noticeably, the whites, blacks and grays of the garb was rather disturbed by a sizable red stain on his chest and stomach, which looked a lot as though he had been stabbed in the chest and bled quite heavily. There were also bloodstains on his right shoulder and his left thigh, where the cloth had also been torn. Despite all of this, the Hunter did not move as if impaired at all.
Having spent time at the Black Church Workshop, Farren would likely not have much trouble identifying the Hunter's equipment. The hefty firearm in his left hand was a blunderbuss, and while the silver small sword in his right hand could technically belong to one of several trick weapons, the enormous blade-scabbard on the man's back made it clear that it was part of a Holy Blade.

“Just my luck,” the Hunter grumbled under his breath, grimacing as he walked closer, though he kept a cautious distance of a couple of meters, still hesitant to get too near Farren. He sniffed deeply and loudly a couple of times in Farren's direction. Farren, too, might be able to catch the easily recognizable scent of a Hunter off the newcomer. “You are a Hunter. Rats... fine, I guess I have to help. To the door; we'll hit them as they exit.”

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Jordan, Nabi, Madara and Jaelnec – Outside Bor Manor, Borstown

Quintin simply watched and listened, his head turning to face the one speaking at any given time, but otherwise kept his expression stern and neutral. The two housekeepers – Wade and Kylie – started to draw back a little as official business was clearly coming to take priority over their celebration of their missing housemate's safe return. The other armed guard held position and listened like the newcomer, but did so with a much more perturbed and slightly nervous expression.
“I have no issue with reconvening at the station,” Quintin said firmly. “As far as I know there should still be a couple of able-bodied Watchers left. We can bring them for the pursuit, too. But I'd like to wait for Vela. You go ahead, Cole and I will be along shortly with everyone else.”

Despite himself, Jaelnec could not help but be a little impressed by Quintin. There was something about his demeanor, from his persistently neutral expression to his stance and the way he spoke, along with the way he wore his equipment, that told him that this guy was not just your average hired muscle. Judging by the fact that he had successfully followed the bandits, scouted their hideout and returned unscathed, it seemed like whoever Quintin was, he was probably fairly competent. He also noted that he was the only one he had heard refer to the baroness by her first name.
By contrast, Jaelnec could not help but to feel dejected and useless all over again when he, rather than going with the others to the Fadewatcher station, was asked to just... go back inside and get the others. A job that felt a lot like busywork. Still, it was undeniably something that needed to be done, and it was not as though there was anything else worthwhile for him to do at the moment.
“Right,” he said, turning and heading back inside. “I'll do that.”

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Hunter's Clinic, somewhere in Yharnam

The hoarse man shot a critical look at Farren as he walked by, displeased with him only carrying one sleeper, but did not say or do anything to voice his displeasure nor stop Farren from leaving.
Stepping through the doorway, Farren would finally get a good look at the room beyond what marked the limit of their world since their awakening. What served as the reception area of the clinic was quite a bit smaller than the back room, though still quite large for a clinic like this; still thirty meters long, with the doorway sitting right in the middle, but only ten meters wide. On the opposite wall, just ten meters from Farren, was a second open door past which he could see a cobbled street partially lit by the orange-tinted light of a setting sun from the left, though also partially cast in shadow.
In the distance down the path outside the door, probably still a good hundred meters away or more, a lone figure was approaching in a steady jog. It would be difficult to discern details from this distance, but it would seem as though the figure was clad mostly in white, with a gleaming silver implement in its right hand and some kind of elongated firearm in its left.

Aside from this first glimpse at a world outside the clinic, the reception was a mess. To Farren's right were several desks, tables chairs that had been overturned, stomped and torn apart, with papers scattered everywhere, inkwells shattered and their contents staining everything. To his left were a couple of heavy glass-and-wood cabinets that had been knocked over, scattering shards of glass and conspicuous puddles of red liquid over the floor.
Much more noticeably and surprising, especially given the otherwise complete destruction of the room, was an unusual sight right in the center of the room, a mere five meters directly in front of Farren: a thin, makeshift wooden post spouting directly out of the floor. It was not straight, but was weirdly segmented so that the first part of the post leaned off to the side, before a second part – attached to the first with string – leaned strongly in the opposite direction, so that its tip ended right above its base. And from the tip of this top segment hang a simple glass lantern, dark and lifeless, but remarkably untouched by the destruction that had been visited upon everything else.

Quite noticeably, there were also several Messengers in the room. One sat right at the base of the strange lantern-post, eagerly trying to beckon Farren toward it.
Much closer to him, just a meter or so inside the room and to his right, sat another two Messengers with what appeared to be a rolled up piece of parchment between them, held forward as if presented to him.
Off to his left, among the debris of broken cabinets, another two Messengers sat within a couple of meters from each other. One, the closer of the two, was pointing at what seemed like a slightly bigger pile of shards among the destruction. The other sat right up against the leftmost wall, on the floor where the cabinets would probably have been standing before they were knocked over. It was waving one hand in the air as if to attract attention to itself, while pointing at the floor with the other.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Back room, Hunter's Clinic, somewhere in Yharnam

There was a lot of talking, with especially Farren and Ophelia saying things that felt a bit weird to Torquil – things that did not seem to fully make sense in context – and while he could intuit that they were communicating some hidden meaning between them, that meaning eluded him. Social skills, he felt, was not something he had learned much of in his old life... or if he had, they had not survived his becoming a Hunter.
The scary, hoarse man spoke a bit cryptically just from his sheer lack of proficiency in their language, but even so Torquil had no trouble figuring out that he was saying some pretty shady things. Though he was not obviously a beast like his hulking bodyguard, Torquil still felt an instinctive resentment toward him. Actually, it was more than that; there was a part of Torquil that wanted to hurt this hoarse man. To hit him with his axe, as hard as he could. To kill him. Him and the beast-man both stirred something dark and violent inside of him.
Torquil could somewhat understand what the others were trying to do at first, trying to avoid a fight with these people, but his confusion reached a whole new level when the hoarse man demanded that they help carry the others in the room – the defenseless, hapless to-be Hunters who still slept – rather than just having to go with them. And Farren and Ophelia somehow still complied, even as the beast-man started hoisting sleepers onto his shoulder. To Torquil, this was definitely a step across a line that he did not want to cross, and he immediately started wondering if he had misjudged these new acquaintances of his. Maybe they were not nice at all? Maybe they were actually scary, like the hoarse man and the beast-man? If they were, what was he supposed to do? Or was there something he did not understand?

Mercifully Ophelia, at least, seemed to recognize Torquil's puzzlement and remarked – correctly – that he needed some direction. He heard her tone, saw her smile and immediately felt better, reassured that despite how things seemed, she was still nice. And as she got closer he saw her mouthing words to him, voicelessly communicating a vague outline of a plan...
And Torquil felt his heart sink, his eyes locked on her lips shaping those soundless words. But his mind filled with the image of a woman with a face similar to Ophelia's, with a body that seemed wizened and frail, speaking to someone else. He saw her through the trees, hidden amid the grasses, branches and leaves of the forest. He tried to guess what she was saying, what her voice sounded like. Felt fear and regret at the very idea of getting closer, as he scampered back into the wilderness, back to his familiar solitude.
Just like that, Torquil realized that he had seen Ophelia before. Back where the scary witches lived. Near his home.
He did not know what this information meant or how to react to these memories suddenly being reawakened, but apparently some part of him felt that his trust in her had been immediately and firmly affirmed. She was not just nice, she was familiar. He went to follow her without hesitation, eager to do as she had instructed, hoisting the now-one-eyed corpse over his shoulder before swiftly moving to grab another one to throw over his other shoulder, all while barely even having the presence of mind to recognize how effortlessly he could carry the weight of two grown men.
So this is her voice, he mused, weirdly enthralled by the thought. He smiled.

On the opposite side of the room, past where the beast-man had just hoisted a second man on top of the first on his right shoulder, soon followed by another for his left as well, bringing him up to a total load of four sleepers, the huntsmen entered. As the sounds they had heard before had suggested there were five of them, all of which seemed fully human; even their eyes, one might notice, seemed devoid of any signs of the scourge. They also all seemed to quite conspicuously try to keep as much distance to the hoarse man and the beast-man as they could, giving both of them wide berths and casting them nervous glances... though they did the same with Farren.
Even so all of them moved to obey the hoarse man's orders and awkwardly started trying to figure out comfortable ways to transport the sleeping figures in the room. Two were armed with long, hefty rifles, one with a cavalry saber, one with a pitchfork and one with a hatchet.

And while everyone else went to work trying to move the 39 still-sleeping and still-living – and one one-eyed corpse – in the room, the hoarse man remained by the door. He raised his left hand above his head, extending his long, thin fingers holding the church servant's bell... and shook it once, back and forth.
Ding-ding
The sound was not at all what one would expect, and a complete mismatch from what they had heard both from such bells encountered in the past and by this very bell earlier, when it had been jostled as the hoarse man walked. This sound was much louder, of a much higher pitch, much cleaner and seemed to resonate and echo unnaturally throughout the room. A subtle, ominous red glow started emanating from the cane in his right hand. Though no one else seemed to notice or react to it, Ophelia, Farren and Torquil would all see all of the Messengers in the room abruptly sinking into the floor at the sound.
Ding-ding
The bell rang again just a second later, and the glow around the cane grew brighter as tiny flecks of black started raising off it, like bits of ash carried on the heat of a flame. In front of him, in a vacant spot past where Farren was retrieving his sleeper, toward that end of the room, a matching red glow started shining from the floor.
Ding-ding
A third ring, and the glow around the cane died out, while the glow from the floor grew and brightened, and black flecks starting lifting off it, too. Then, with a weird sucking sound, a hand – large, even bigger than the beast-man's, with skin as black and oily as tar, long fingers and nasty claws – emerged from the floor itself, only to grab onto it as one would a ledge above oneself. Half a second later a second hand followed the first, this one holding a cane that seemed identical to the one wielded by the hoarse man except as wet and black as the skin of its wielder. And with the leverage on the ground, the full creature pulled itself from the glow, straight out of the floor, and emerged to tower over everyone's heads as the glow at its feet faded.

Ophelia in particular would immediately recognize what she was looking at, as she had seen her old teachers summon similar creatures before: a Mad One. A terrible black visage dripping with black ooze that seemed to rapidly fade from existence briefly after hitting the ground, the creature simply stood there with vacant expression. Ophelia, even without her particular penchant for eyes, would almost certainly notice that while the Mad Ones she had seen in Hemwick had all had brightly glowing white eyes, the eyes of this one were dark and dull.
The hoarse man pointed at the sleepers with his cane, and the Mad One – despite facing away from him – immediately stepped forward and set to work picking up more bodies.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Back room, Hunter's Clinic, somewhere in Yharnam

“Wait,” the hoarse man unexpectedly interrupted Farren as he went to leave, looking from him to Ophelia, and Ophelia to Torquil – who looked extremely lost and confused – before saying: “Hunters strong. Help take Hunters.”
In an effort to explain what he meant, he pointed toward the rows of cots filling the room with still-sleeping men and women, nearly all of which were still mid-transformation to becoming Hunters themselves. As if to demonstrate, the beast-man simply reached over with his free hand, grabbed a sleeper by the collar and unceremoniously threw him over his shoulder to carry him like a bag of potatoes.
The hoarse man looked out the door toward the room with the vandal huntsmen. “Come!” he called to them, which immediately caused the sounds of vandalism to still. “Help! Take Hunters.” He smiled. “All Hunters.”

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Back room, Hunter's Clinic, somewhere in Yharnam

Again the hoarse man seemed to grow more annoyed at Farren's question, and again he grumbled something in a foreign language.
“Corval talk to –” he began, only to end the already broken sentence with another word none of them understood.
The beast-man, baring his teeth in an impatient scowl, supplied in a deep, menacing growl that was barely interpretable as human-like speech: “Soulkeeper.”
“Yes. Corval talk to Soulkeeper,” the hoarse man corrected himself. “Corval say Soulkeeper want Hunters. No know. No ask.”

Beyond the doorway there was a particularly loud crash of something particularly heavy crashing into the floor, causing a deafening noise of numerous glass vessels being shattered. Several of the men out there laughed, though at least one of them sounded somewhat angry and distressed.
“No! Those were blood vials! The good stuff!”
Prompting more laughing followed by the sound of more furniture being knocked over. Through the now-open doorway, Farren would be able to see two figures passing from left to right: two men that looked entirely human, with neither the elongated limbs nor deteriorating eyes to suggest the onset of beasthood, dressed like common Yharnamites. One carried what appeared to be an old cavalry saber, while the other went by with a long break-action rifle on his shoulder. For all intents and purposes, these men looked no different than your average huntsmen out fulfilling their civic duties on a night of the hunt.
It was difficult to be certain as to the exact numbers in the next room without visually confirming them, but they were not exactly trying to remain undetected either. He could hear at least five distinctly different voices, and the noise of their vandalism suggested no more than half a dozen.

The hoarse man sneered. “No more talk. Bad here. Hunters come, no hurt. Hunters no come, very hurt.”

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Back room, Hunter's Clinic, somewhere in Yharnam

The second Torquil saw the beast-man appear in the doorway past the sorry remnants of what had filled it previously, he had felt his heartbeat quicken, his vision crystallize and the sounds of the world fade into the background. All the white noise that he had always heard, but never been particularly conscious of – the faint sound of the wind, the breathing of the many bodies around him, even his own pulse in his ears – faded away, and left the sounds he focused on loud and distinct. The beast-man's heavy footfalls as he crossed the threshold into their room, his heavy breathing and angry snarls, the clicking of his claws... the rustle of the hoarse man's clothes, his much softer steps and the subtle jostling of the bell he carried... all these sounds stood out clear and sharp in Torquil's mind. Even from across the room, nearly twenty meters away, he could see them clearly enough to count the hairs on the beast-man's face.
His biceps, thighs and calves bulged – much more so than they would have for a human – and strained against his clothes, and he felt his ruined jaw creak and grind painfully as he chewed on the air. He clutched his axe tightly, started to take a step forward that would have quickly turned into a mad dash before planting his axe-blade in the beast-man's neck, had he not been halted by Farren's voice.
With wild, almost feral eyes Torquil looked to his fellow Hunter, frustrated, impatient and incredulous at the situation he found himself in. Then Ophelia spoke, too, and Torquil's gaze moved to her, his expression now bewildered and lost. He was a Hunter, was he not? And this was clearly a beast. He was supposed to hunt beasts, right? To find them, chase them down and slaughter his prey. His every instinct told him to fight, so why were the others talking?
But of course he stopped himself and let the others lead. Things were probably more complicated than he gave them credit for, and Ophelia and Farren were probably smarter than him. It was better to let them do the thinking... and absolutely better to let them do the talking.

The hoarse man looked from Farren to Ophelia, his smile faltering and a hint of annoyance coming over his face. Again he muttered something in a language none of them knew, but which he seemed much more fluent in than the common tongue, before heaving a sigh of frustration.
“Corval say go here, take Hunters. I go, bring help. Take Hunters.” He shrugged. “No good talk. Talk here strange. Take Hunters Corval. Corval talk.”

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Back room, Hunter's Clinic, somewhere in Yharnam

Though Torquil's attention had been transfixed on the sight of the sturdy door separating the three Hunters from the unknown characters outside, the movement of Ophelia turning toward him was enough to attract his gaze just long enough for him to catch her gesturing at him. He stared at her hand waving through the air, her spear pointing and her lips forming voiceless words, and blinked several times rapidly before turning to the blackboards behind him.
He stared at the boards even as he awkwardly stepped over the still-sleeping figure he had knocked to the floor just moments ago to get there, trying to read the words on there but giving up before he got very far. It turned out that he read very slowly; though the writing was in all capital letters and highly legible, for some reason his brain really struggled to make sense of it, with him having to sound out words in his head in some cases. He got the sense that he could technically read, and that given time he would understand the several words on the blackboard, but for some reason the letters kept getting jumbled in his head. Add to that the fact that he had no idea what “Paleblood” even referred to, and the writing might as well have been gibberish to him.
Thus he did not actually know why Ophelia wanted him to erase the text there, but he was not about to question her judgment. She seemed to understand something he did not, so he was just going to trust that she knew better. It was much easier to let others do the thinking and decision-making, after all. He did not even think to look for an implement near the blackboard for erasing, nor was he aware that such things were even used; to him it was just chalk on a large surface. Even as he heard the door behind him getting smashed and torn apart, he simply switched his axe to his left hand, pressed his right forearm to the blackboard and started rubbing left and right in big, sweeping motions, using his sleeve to rub away the writing. It did not get rid of all the chalk and mostly just smudged it, but after a few seconds like this the writing was rendered mostly illegible, at least.

Over at the door the large, clawed hand finished its work unimpeded, tearing a large hole through the wood and destroying a large portion of it. One more loud blow was all it took to shatter the sorry remains of it, leaving only bits of splintered wood dangling pointlessly from the hinges, allowing the creature on the other side to enter.
The creature that entered through the doorway – sideways and in a light crouch to fit through it – was tall, broad and lanky. It had features that suggested it had once been a man, walking on two legs and wearing the drab clothes of a Yharnam citizen, even though these clothes were all obviously much too small for it, wielding a meat cleaver in its right hand. Even so this man was clearly thoroughly claimed by the scourge of beasts; aside from his size, the beast-man was also covered in coarse brown fur, his joints had started to restructure and become more bestial in nature, his fingers and bare feet – which now more closely resembled wolf-like paws – had grown murderous claws, just as his mouth was forced into a permanent scowl by the growth of over-sized fangs above and below.
He growled hungrily as he scanned the room with his beast-shrouded eyes, but even as he did so, a second figure soon followed behind it.

Clad in a dusty brown hooded monk's robe and carrying a cane in his right hand and a bell in the other – both, Ophelia in particular would recognize, items that would normally be found in the possession of a church servant – this man, if one could call it that, had sickly gray, almost white skin and was unnaturally gaunt. He had bony limbs and a face so sunken that it seemed to stick directly to the skull, almost like an undead. He looked almost like a mummified corpse more than a man. His eyes, which Ophelia was so interested in, were somewhat reminiscent of those of church servants and church giants; black orbs without iris or sclera, though whereas the eyes of church servants were typically large and bulging, these were smaller and sat deep within their sockets.
Though he was obviously quite different, Ophelia had seen vaguely similar traits once before, in the witches she had once served.
“No fight, no hurt,” this man – confirming his identity as the hoarse man – reminded, showing blackened teeth in an unnerving smile. “Take Hunters.”