Dark Jack

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Outside the Hunter's Clinic, in the outskirts of Yharnam

By the time Ophelia had finished her grizzly attack against the beast-man and was moving to help Victor, she would find that the White Church Hunter was already in the process of getting back up. Though he had taken a blow that would likely have partially crushed a normal human's skull at best and partway carved through the head at worst, and though he was still bloody from the injury, the wound itself had already all but completely healed. He gulped the mouthful of his own blood that had spilled from his wounded cheek, spat out a scattering of fragmented teeth, and bared his teeth in a grimace of pain and frustration. Rather notably, despite him having just spat out some of his teeth, he did not appear to be missing any.

The beast-man did not fare as well as his victim did, however. Farren would witness the wound he had just inflicted on the creature's leg practically just vanish before his eyes, so quickly did it regenerate; Torquil would see the gouge he had inflicted mend itself as soon as the axe-head was dislodged, causing its limp left arm to twitch and come back to life. But both of them would also likely realize that though the hole left in the beast-man's abdomen from Ophelia's attack was regenerating rapidly at first, the healing soon slowed, gradually grinding to a halt as its regenerative potential had reached its limit.
“Help...” the beast whined weakly, its voice somewhere between human speech and the whimper of a beaten dog. The cleaver fell from its right hand and clattered noisily to the ground as it sat in place, too weak to stand back up, but still alive.

And meanwhile, long, clawed, inky-black fingers snaked their way around the inside of the broken doorframe, grasping it loosely, as the Mad One – its movements sluggish and lethargic, its eyes still dark and lifeless – awkwardly ducked its way through the doorway.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Freagon, Irah, Lhirin, Yanin, Jaelnec, Nabi, Jordan and Madara – Fadewatcher station, Borstown

“The area is quite overgrown with weeds and wild wheat and barley, yeah,” Quintin confirmed. “So long as you stay low and stick to cover, someone probably could sneak through there.”

Later, after Yanin had finished laying out his plan, Freagon offered a single, firm nod of his head. “This can work. I have no objections.”
Behind him, over by the wall of the station he had retreated to, Jaelnec felt his heart sink twice; once when he realized that Yanin had not mentioned him at all during explaining the plan, and a second time when Freagon agreed to the plan without volunteering Jaelnec for it. Again, just like at the manor – just like every situation in all the time he had traveled with Freagon – he was being left out. He was going to miss his chance to prove that he was useful again. With situations where so many people were involved he had hoped... but by now it was clear that his hope had been in vain. He was just a page, after all, and pages did not fight.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Outside the Hunter's Clinic, in the outskirts of Yharnam

The sheer brutality of witnessing the ferocious beast-man emerge from the clinic like that was immediately compounded by the shock of seeing its cleaver – a relatively plain and unassuming implement, more of a tool than a weapon – rammed right into the stranger's face. Torquil's eyes widened in horror, time almost seeming to come to a stop as his vision homed to the droplets of blood sprayed through the air from the wound, and then widened further as he realized that Victor had actually been knocked off his feet and flung through the air a couple of meters by the impact.
He's dead, Torquil thought. He had a horrid, sinking feeling in his stomach and felt the compulsion to turn and run. To find somewhere dark and secret to hide. Farren and Ophelia wanted to save the sleepers, so they would stay and fight; they would delay the monsters long enough for him to get away. He was good at running and hiding. He was good at surviving.
But then he blinked, watching the droplets of blood – which were still in the air, so little time had passed – splash on the ground, and he felt something clench inside him. Something hard, tough, strong. He did not care about the stranger, nor did he care about the sleepers, but in the few minutes they had known each other, Farren and Ophelia had been nice to him. If he ran, they would be even more alone. They would probably die, and he would never get to hear the voice of the girl past the trees again, or see the big man smile at him anymore.

Taking a step forward, toward the beast-man, Torquil swiftly raised his axe above his head and brought it back down again in a chopping motion. Though he did not understand the concepts of rotational forces or fulcrums or anything like that, he naturally adjusted his grip during the swing toward the bottom of the handle to maximize acceleration and power of the strike, like someone trying very hard to cleave a particularly resilient piece of firewood. He felt his muscles swell and burn, his skin practically spraying sweat with the unnatural levels of exertion he was putting forward, and anyone looking at him would be able to plainly see his flimsy linen shirt first tighten, strain and then rip entirely as the muscles in his arms, shoulders, back and chest swelled with inhuman strength.
Because Torquil was clumsy, slow, a bit of a coward and not too bright, but by Oedon, at least he was strong.
The desperate man barely even noticed Farren dart in with inhuman speed and cut the back of the beast-man's leg, but its effect was definitely felt as the axe slammed down with a loud noise, embedding the entire head of the axe into the creature's left clavicle. The force of the blow combined with the cutting of his leg caused it to drop to one knee, its left arm dropping and hanging nervelessly by its side, and letting out a pained snarl as it did.

Only then did Farren's words – “Watch door!” – register in Torquil's mind. With his axe still firmly lodged in the beast-man's flesh, he turned his attention from the danger right in front of him to the door behind it, and was once again met by the sight of several of the huntsmen lined up against the far wall in there, with two of them aiming down the barrels of their rifles.
Two loud bangs sounded in rapid succession as puffs of fire and smoke exploded out of the muzzles of the guns. Torquil felt an impact on the right side of his torso, on the lower part of his ribs. The other bullet was aimed at Farren, at about shoulder-level.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Freagon, Irah, Lhirin, Yanin, Jaelnec, Nabi, Jordan and Madara – Fadewatcher station, Borstown

Vela's eyes widened in surprise when Jordan took the mention of the tree and its gruesome adornments as a cue to apologize for having briefly left her uncertain as to the fate of half their group.
“It's quite all right, no need to apologize,” she told him with the most grandmotherly smile she could muster, though given what they had just talked about the smile was understandably strained. “I'm just glad you're all okay. On a day like today, we've gotta appreciate small mercies like that.”

Later, when Yanin offered his own strategic insights on how they could handle the situation, Quintin scratched his cheek and stared at the map for a second, then pointed to the shape on it annotated “tool shed”. “There's a small shed here,” he informed them. “Fairly central and removed from the other buildings, and with sight-lines to two of the three entrances. There's a door, so he could even just close that and be concealed.”
He then moved his finger to point at the northern wall of the farmstead, to the right of where he had marked and annotated the door. “There was... less of a window and more of a shuttered peek-hole right about here. Looked to be barely big enough to get your hand through.”
Caleb looked from Yanin to the map, then back to Yanin. “As you witnessed yourselves in the bedroom, I am quite able to maintain invisibility as long as I do not move, yes.”

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Freagon, Irah, Lhirin, Yanin, Jaelnec, Nabi, Jordan and Madara – Fadewatcher station, Borstown – Collab

Jaelnec looked from Irah to Nabi with a sheepish smile. “Thanks... I think?”
Without turning around to look at his page, Freagon said: “We need to talk after we're done here and before we leave, boy. Outside.” There was something in his master's voice that Jaelnec struggled to identify, perhaps because he had likely never heard it before. Was it his imagination, or did Freagon sound... apprehensive?

Lhirin shook his head ever-so-slightly, indicating that Irah hadn’t really missed much. After all there’d been no traces of magic use at Bren’s house and they’d already gone over that they didn’t think the mercenaries had any such practitioners. Besides…the assailants had already been gone for a time when he and Irah had arrived, so even if there had been traces, they were likely long gone. Frowning slightly, Lhirin began quietly clicking his teeth together as he worked his jaw, almost as if chewing, lips still closed as his intense gaze bored into the floor. There was an air of intense focus on his features…as if he were running calculations of some kind in his head.
After another beat, Lhirin began to speak—quickly, enough so that it would be difficult to immediately process the first few words that left his lips, such that anyone listening would be playing catch up as he spoke. “Patrols to the west the most consistent, but also the furthest from where Bren and any injured are likely to be located. Outnumbered by a fair deal, but no sign of any mages among their number so far. No mercy necessary.” Lhirin’s eyes rose, regarding the map in a way that indicated not his referencing it, but something else. His delicate hand practically whipped up as he stepped closer to the table and pressed a single digit to the thick black line representing the tree line to the south, just beneath where the Farmstead was.
“Here is the fastest point of ingress to imply confidence in our ability to dominate their forces. It also puts us on a straight path to the farmstead, where Bren, perhaps their leader, perhaps any wounded are likely to be situated.” Where someone else may have paused there, Lhirin gestured towards Freagon, Yanin, and Nabi. “Leading a charge towards the farmstead, or towards any patrols or enemies already equipped with crossbows or arrows is likely best left to our most accomplished physical fighters, such as you three. Irah is running low on energy, I suggest she stay back in the tree line and provide support as necessary or able. Miss Lady Bor can take up a position near her in the treeline, if she wishes to utilize her crossbow from the tree cover.”
Lhirin’s gaze shifted to Caleb, his eyes almost burning with an intense silver flame, “If there are reinforcements in the barn, I think you’d be best suited to handle them. Merely emitting your energy is a deterrent, your body is potent enough, I figure, and any magics or additional summons you can bring to bear could utterly stun, disable or harry anyone who exits.” At that point, Lhirin fell silent, his eyes darting over to Quintin, before looking away just as fast. The man seemed competent…based on his being employed by the baroness, what of his skills and past Lhirin knew—as little as that was—but he wouldn’t presume where he’d be best utilized since he didn’t have enough information. He also figured that Sir Yanin and Freagon would be best suited to decide how their subordinates were positioned. Notably though…he’d said absolutely nothing about what he’d be doing. It was hard to tell if that was deliberate or not.

Freagon stared at Lhirin as he spoke, his expression as unreadable as ever. Only when the deigan finished did he raise his left hand, initially closed in a fist, only to extend his index-finger. “That is the fastest point of ingress, but also one with direct line of sight to the central yard, where any guards are likely to be. We'd be spotted taking out the patrol.” He extended his middle-finger. “While we're fighting the guys outside, the guys inside are free to kill the healer.” He extended his thumb. “You're assuming the healer and the wounded are in the farmstead. It all falls apart if they're in the barn.” His ring-finger. “Even if you're right, we'd be fighting at a choke point in the doorway once we're ready to enter. And while we're doing that, they'll definitely kill the healer.” And finally, he extended his pinky. “There are two exits to the barn. I doubt the thalk could handle both.”
“I will also remind you,” Caleb interjected, “that the instant I move I have no magic, and will have to siphon new divine energy all over again. I will lose control of anything I have summoned, any magic I was sustaining will be dismissed, and it will be a while before I could permeate the area with divine energy or use magic again. And while I am probably stronger than your average human, I am no fighter. I doubt I would even delay them much.”

“Simply assaulting them has many avenues for failure. Madara's medicines have some potential, but many of them appear to be topical--and that renders their use lesser... Besides, I'd prefer not to use up our surgeon's stock. I am perfectly capable of brewing a poison with fairly common ingredients, and failing that it should be easy to find something in the forest on our way there, if we wish to take that route. With Freagon being immune to the Swaigh's aura, he and I could walk in and incapacitate everyone before they have much of a chance to react. Our primary advantage is, I think, the element of surprise: we should keep that as intact as possible. Does anyone have a better idea than incapacitating enemies with Weriz and letting Freagon work, or administering poison to everyone? Even if Bren dies, so long as he holds on, I should be able to revive him with Kinder's aid--but we should avoid giving them the chance. Martial confrontation with a band of mercenaries who have much more cohesion than we do seems... Inefficient, as Lhirin would say.” Irah opined, looking mostly at Sir Freagon. All in all, she had to concede that he seemed to have the best grasp on most aspects of the situation, and his immunity was quite the boon.

Freagon crossed his arms and stared at the map. “There's no scale on this. How far is the far sides of the farmstead and barn from each other?”
Quintin chewed his tongue for a moment. “50-60 meters.”
Nodding his head, Freagon concluded: “So even if we got the swaigh perfectly centered on there, it still wouldn't get everyone in range. And that's assuming none of the bandits are immune. It can still take out a big chunk of them, but Angels of Fear aren't exactly subtle either. Anyone left standing will know something is up.”

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Freagon, Irah, Lhirin, Yanin, Jaelnec, Nabi, Jordan and Madara – Fadewatcher station, Borstown – Collab

“Their moods?” Quintin repeated, then paused. “They were nervous at first, of course, but as they calmed down after the raid... I supposed some of them seemed unhappy, but most of them seemed pretty jovial, all things considered.” He winced. “Every now and then the patrols would stop in the central yard to look at their decorations there. I even heard several of them laughing. I didn't risk getting close enough to hear much of what they said, but I think I overheard one of them talking about 'going home'.”

“It certainly sounds like the services of a healer are required to enable them to return home, then... But I wonder: what could be so pressing that they couldn't simply ask? If this was an abduction and they mean to keep Bren with them long term, why wasn't his equipment taken too? The cupboards were looted, his stock taken, but... I suppose the equipment is delicate and bulky, unsuited to a hurried extraction. Perhaps there's something I'm missing, but their motivations don't currently make much sense to me.” Irah spoke, brow furrowed in thought. She looked over at the others (Lhirin and Yanin in particular) with an unspoken invitation to opine.

“It's strange that they think they have a 'home' to return to in the first place,” Quintin pointed out. “Outlaws usually survive by always being on the move, keeping things light and staying ahead of the law.”

“They seem more like a mercenary company than just a group of bandits--too well equipped, too many of them working together cohesively for too long.”

Quintin nodded his head in agreement. “I was thinking the same thing.”

“Mmn…mercenaries or perhaps defectors of some military force,” Lhirin commented idly, rolling the information around in his mind. His words came off as…distant, distracted almost, but he was clearly paying close enough attention to have heard everything and made a potential inference. “Quintin. Their gear. Was it standardized? All similar? Well cared for, from what you could see.”
Lhirin’s silver eyes rose from where he’d been gazing down and to the side at the spellbook he was still holding. As always, his eyes were slightly too wide as they met Quintin’s, faintly manic in his way—though the scout would not be familiar enough with him to know that this was Lhirin’s norm. Aside that, there was something faintly twitchy about the deigan mage, the fingers of his free hand drummed along the crystal hilt of his sheathed blade, his foot occasionally tapping at the floor. Nervous energy…or perhaps it was the drug he’d imbibed earlier, it was hard to tell exactly with Lhirin. All in all, it just made him come off a bit…off-kilter, eccentric, noticeably strange.

“Uh...” Quintin muttered, visibly a little unsettled by Lhirin's demeanor, but disciplined enough to not let it faze him too much before responding: “Not standardized, but definitely well-cared for. I didn't see any signs of a uniform among them.”

Noticing Quintin's discomfort from the corner of her eye, Irah offered him a gentle smile. “Lhirinthyl took some piaan earlier in the heat of combat--please forgive his demeanour. He is quite lucid, though, I assure you.”

“Hmm…a mercenary company does seem the most likely then,” Lhirin said, before pausing for a long moment. For some reason it seemed to take him much longer to process the fact that Quintin might be having some kind of reaction to him. The deigan’s eyes shifted from Irah to Quintin, then back…then back again, then he looked away. He stopped looking in Quintin’s direction after that. “Small actions, fidgeting…offsets the distracting qualities of the drug,” Lhirin explained, his voice somewhat more subdued than before. He’d taken extra time, but between Irah stepping in—something that typically happened when he’d made a social misstep of some kind—and Quintin’s reaction, he’d managed to deduce that he’d made the man uncomfortable. “Apologies,” he half-muttered.

"It could be worse," Caleb commented grimly from the back of the crowd. He did not elaborate on what he meant.

“It also bears mentioning that there is another weapon I have at my disposal: I can summon an Angel of Fear. I know that Lhirin and I are both immune to its aura--is anyone else? This could offer us some tactical advantage, depending on which of us can operate freely within its aura.” Irah looked instinctively over to Freagon, figuring that if any of the assembled would be immune it would be him. She shot a glance to Vela Bor as well, given that she had famously been part of an adventuring group it was likely she'd faced one before too.

Freagon made a single, resolute nod of affirmation. “I'm immune.”
“I'm not,” Vela admitted, shooting a nervous glance at Irah. “Never had the pleasure of runnin' into one o' those.”

“Who they are...” Jordan muttered, briefly closing his eyes. “That would mostly only matter if we expect them to be the kind of people who maybe could be talked down, or if we want to track them all down, afterwards... People who have homes to go back to might be more willing to surrender. Maybe." There was a short pause. "I did wonder earlier if it wasn't something as simple as needing a healer - but wouldn't they just walk in like normal people, then?”
“Not if they expect to be shot or arrested on sight,” Sir Yanin replied, almost instantly.
“I guess.”
“Does Bren have a reputation of any kind - as a particularly proficient healer or otherwise? It might be as simple as this place being comparatively little defended and easy to scout out without raising suspicion at this time in particular - I'd expect more than those mere coincidences if whoever ordered the service wasn't at least somewhat regional, however.” A metal-clad finger absently tapped the table. Unlike Quintin, the human knight didn't appear to even notice Lhirinthyl's perhaps-unusual demeanor. “The dead didn't have much pattern to them, either - all physical fighters, though. Quintin, did you spot anyone you have a reason to believe was magically inclined?”

Turning to Yanin, Vela responded to the question he had asked: “Not especially, no. The only reputation he has is to give freebies now and then, when people need healin' but can't afford payin' for it. He's just a nice guy, that's all.”
To Yanin asking about signs of mages among the bandits, Quintin replied: “Nothing obvious, no. Everyone I saw just looked like armed thugs.”

Answering Deo'Irah's last question was easy, though all things considered, a bit unfortunate. “I haven't fought one, no.”

Nabi had remained silent, thinking and observing the group until this moment, but an idea flashed across her mind. She figured she would speak up now, before the conversation moved onto another topic and leave her idea in the dust.
“I have heard talk of something called the... Crusader Guild? Might these brigands belong to them, perhaps? They were told to me to be little more than jumped-up armed criminals extorting and ransacking local villages and expecting them to be grateful for their assistance.”

“They are usually not shy of identifying themselves, via tabards or speech,” Yanin noted. There didn't appear to be many non-humans in Borstown, Lady Bor's would-be adventurer visitors left aside. “And I'd expect their main target to be the Baroness. If it's their orchestration and not not one of those at the farm had an appearance of a Guildsman, it'd likely be a trap. Perhaps too specific one if they didn't know Quintin was there and opt to let him leave.”
What would be the odds of the Guild hiring outside help and not one of their representatives - of which one would presumably be present to oversee the mission - making an appearance in half a dozen hours?

Vela's expression darkened when Nabi brought up the Crusader's Guild... and though he was standing behind Freagon, half-hidden behind the knight, so did Jaelnec's. When Yanin commented on the possibility, Vela told them: “I've clashed with the Guild before, they'd have reason to mess with me. But the rest of the town? I don't know... and as Sir Yanin said, they usually wear red tabards with a big ol' drake on 'em. But I agree with the squire-boy: who they are doesn't matter right now, we'll have time to figure that out later. Right now I just want Bren home safely.”
Freagon turned to glance at Irah. “Unless you want to try to talk with these guys, too?"

Irah's brow furrowed. “I would prefer no more lives be lost... but they have ruined lives today with their careless indifference. They have foresworn mercy, and thus invited any malice that comes their way. If we can work out their motivations, there is something to be said for trying to speak with them and get Bren back safely. My worry is that an incursion of any kind will cause them to execute Bren--and I no longer have Kinder with me to have access to divine healing. I would certainly not be able to summon both angels, Greater in the hierarchy as they are.”

“About that,” Caleb interjected, “I never apologized for sending your friend away. I am sorry, Deo'irah. But I would offer that, if you show me their names and give me fifteen minutes or so each, I can summon these angels of yours for you.”

“Thank you, Caleb--I bear you no ill will for it, given the circumstances. Kinder is the name of the Iriao, and Weriz the name of the Swaigh--I have the spells I use to summon them in a notebook, would that be sufficient for you to bring them here? Having access to both would greatly improve our options. Still--coming back from death is not a pleasant experience, I'm given to understand. If we can avoid harm coming to Bren I think we would all agree that that's ideal, but perfect cannot become the enemy of good.”

“The spells would contain their names, so they should suffice, yes,” Caleb nodded appreciatively.

Nabi took out a pipe and packed it with some tobacco, before lighting it with a flame from the tip of her finger and taking several long breaths, puffing smoke off to the side. She snickered at Freagon's remark. “Considering the last time diplomacy was used instead of the clashing of swords everything seemed to go well enough, perhaps not quite the snide quip you intend it to be. Though point made.”
She took another long puff. “If we are to liberate our man, speed and overwhelming violence is the key. Something needs to be done to catch them off guard, disorient them - perhaps blind them or stun them all so that we may move through their numbers easily enough. Sadly I fear my own magic will be of... limited... utility in this regard. I can surround them in darkness, but whether any of you folk can see in said darkness is not something I know.”

Freagon shrugged. “We can talk, but I'd recommend a show of force first. It's better to bargain from a position of power than one of desperation.”

“Indeed,” Lhirin commented idly in reply to both Irah and Freagon, one hand running patterns over the exposed crystal of his runeblade. Silently, he considered Quinton’s accounting of the various arms and armor of the supposed mercenaries. Much of them did not bother him overmuch…the only weapons that struck him as rather problematic were the bows and crossbows. Those would need to be targeted first, he figured. His eyes narrowed slightly as he focused on the potentialities. Then Lhirin’s gaze shifted over to the table again, looking over the drawn map. He noticed something about the patrol pattern in that moment.
“Their patrols seem less focused on the western wall of the barn…” he commented, sounding thoughtful.

“... considering what they went through to get Bren, I would argue that they are the desperate ones. They lost some of their own members, too, after all.”

Lhirin winced slightly at Irah’s words. “Desperate is bad. Cornered animals are often at their most dangerous.”

Even presumably knowing nearly as much about the Crusaders' Guild as he did, Lady Bor seemed to still give them some kind of benefit of doubt? Sir Yanin genuinely doubted inflicting damage upon the town would matter that much to the organization at all, if it benefited their overall goals.
“I dare not contemplate how far the Crusader's Guild is willing to stretch the concept of acceptable collateral – especially since they frequently deem sympathizers nearly as bad as nonhumans themselves.”
“I did wonder if we could deal with Bren and the Bandits separately, somehow,” Jordan offered. “I mean, if we knew precisely where he was and there were just a few guarding him –” he glanced at Caleb – “mask what is going on under an illusion for long enough that we could take out a handful of guards and carry him out or something? That probably would be a couple of minutes or something. But I guess this might be significantly more difficult since I doubt Caleb can tell which human he is even without them being likely to sense him in turn. Or, can you, somehow, without the bandits realizing?”

“If I had met him, maybe,” Caleb said with a shake of his head. “But trying to remotely target, or avoid targeting, someone when my only familiarity with him is his name is beyond me.”

Oddly hesitant and seemingly reluctant, Quintin heaved a sigh, closed his eyes and winced once again. “I should probably tell you about their decorations. In the yard here,” he pointed to the area of the map just north of the farmstead and east of the barn, “is a big tree with five bodies hung by the neck. Fresh bodies, no more than a day or two old at most. I got as close as I dared to get a better look. Two are penin, a man and a woman, and the other three look human.” He paused, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “One of them is a child.”

Nabi clenched her fists involuntarily, and let loose a stream of colourful language in Erashyir as Quintin finished his last comment. Child murderers...

Lhirin seemed to freeze in place, his train of thought similarly interrupted. His silver eyes slowly swiveled towards Irah and he took a step closer to her, lightly placing a hand on her shoulder. He squeezed lightly and swallowed.

Irah's eyes narrowed, and her upper lip curled in a barely restrained snarl. “... well, then.” Irah brought her hand up to Lhirin's placed on her shoulder and squeezed it in return.
“... Anyone complicit in the harming of a child is beyond words. You said that... some of them laughed?” Irah continued, her voice just as cold as it had been in the more terse moments with Caleb earlier.

Quintin nodded his head affirmatively. “At the tree.”

“... A display of force seems appropriate, then. In fact, I think meeting a Swaigh is something they all very much deserve--it should be easy enough to administer justice with them trapped in the depths of their minds.”

Caleb loomed over everyone gathered around the table. “Given enough time, I could summon even more angels and bind them as wraiths, like I did at the manor. If I am to control them rather than let them run loose, however, I think I can only manage four or five at a time. And if I move, I lose control.”

“Though... perhaps the subtle blade is the most appropriate. I could brew an exquisite poison, and we could slip that into their victuals--did you see anything about their food situation, Quintin? I... am trying very hard not to let anger cloud my judgement, but to harm a child...” Irah began, closing her eyes for a moment and inhaling shakily through her nose.

“They did more than harm. They hanged the poor thing.” Nabi spat with unconcealed venom in every word. Unlike Irah, she seemed entirely happy to allow anger to “cloud” her judgement. There were some things that one just did not do, no matter the situation.

Quintin shook his head grimly. “I didn't see any food or water. I'm guessing they're keeping it inside. And even if we found it, wouldn't we risk poisoning Bren, too?”

Looking at Lhirin, Quintin remarked: “There weren't less patrols on the west side, they were just more consistent in their pathing there.”
Freagon, who had taken the news of the tree and its gruesome ornamentation with his usual stone-faced calm, nodded his head once. Someone particularly observant might spot the faintest tremor in his jaw and the fact that he was subtly rubbing his right thumb on the index finger as the only indication of what his internal reaction to the atrocity might be. “It's still useful,” he noted, referring to the patrol path. “Consistent means predictable. We can ambush a patrol there more easily.”
“Maybe,” Quintin said, “but their patrols are short; if one went missing, they'd notice in a few minutes.”

Jaelnec, whose eyes had widened at the news of the tree and who had gone even paler than usual, actually had step away for a second and go face the wall behind him. At first his breath quickened for a couple of seconds, and it might have seemed as though he was about to hyperventilate, but then it immediately slowed back down and turned to slow, deep breaths as his fists clenched at his sides.

“Fewer.” Nabi murmured beneath her breath. She watched as the young black-eyed one - Jaelnec, she reminded herself - seemed to take the news of the corpse tree with significant difficulty, and quietly walked over next to him, offering him her pipe. “If you need to calm yourself. I understand your disgust.”
Her voice remained quiet, so not to disturb the other members of the group still discussing the strategy of how to deal with these thugs. If only they hadn't taken a damned hostage... But then that was perhaps exactly why they took one, though perhaps they just needed a healer for now and planned to add him to the corpse tree after they'd finished with his talents... Nabi's heart sank at the very thought of it. They'd already murdered a child and japed about it, these were vile black-hearted scum who would be more than happy to use someone for their needs and then kill them afterwards so they couldn't talk. In truth, Nabi could also see the cold logic behind such actions too - anyone the bandits had taken hostage might be privy to secrets or plans they had accidentally spoken about in earshot of the hostage, and the risk would be too great to allow them to live.

“I believe Caleb should be able to telepathically reach out to Bren and warn him not to consume the poison, if that is what we wish to do. With Kinder's aid and a healing potion, as well as Madara's considerable surgical skills, we can ensure he emerges hale and whole. Of course, brewing a poison will take time that we may not have--there is also every chance that we could pick something up that would do the job as we travel. The forest should be full of quite viciously poisonous mushrooms at this time of year; I could easily identify and gather some to be placed into their foodstuffs. Sir Yanin, Lady Bor, do you have any strategies we should consider? We should not overthink things, but nor should we underthink them either.” Irah offered, eyes glinting crimson in the dim firelight as she imagined all of the various ways they could dispose of an entire camp of mercenaries.
“It would be preferable to not harm Bren, of course, but even should he perish he can still be brought back so long as he holds on. I... think it worth the risk to incapacitate everyone else without risking further harm to our own. If attacking them is a more viable option I am perfectly open to that, but... I think that our ambush should take out a considerable number of enemies. I am not fussy how that happens, nor who dies--my vows prevent me from taking a life directly, but that is all. I can stand by and allow you to kill them with a clear conscience.”

“While I could use telepathy,” Caleb mused, “it is subject to the same limitations as other magic. I would need to have met him, or at least have a stronger connection to him than just knowing his name.”
“We could, but we don't know how to use you guys,” Vela shrugged. “I know what me and my guys're good at, but you all bring more to the table.” She put a hand on her chest. “I'm not as strong or nimble as in my prime, but I'd wager I've still got some vim left in me. I'm probably best used climbin' a tree and snipin' people with my crossbow.”
“I can do whatever is needed of me,” Quintin offered. “I used to be a bounty hunter, so while I'm not exactly an adventurer, I know how to adapt. These wouldn't be the first bandits I've dealt with, but they are the first with a hostage.” He paused, glancing at the baroness, who returned his look knowingly. “At least not one I cared about.”

Jordan, who was usually quite talkative, had grown entirely quiet, and seemed to have shrunk a little as he seemed to just numbly stare at his hands with crossed fingers in front of himself.

“Hanging isn't an efficient way to kill.” Those looking closely at him might notice he had closed his eyes, though Sir Yanin's tone remained unchanged. “Whether it was them or someone prior, it was for show. Not anyone you recognized as local, I take it?”

“It was not,” Quintin confirmed. “By their garb I'd say they're migrating villagers that happened by on the road. Either that or Borstown isn't the first place these bandits have kidnapped people from.”

“They are all humans, correct? I don't have any poisons in the true sense of the world, and most substances that would be incidentally harmful if used woefully incorrectly would be too slow or too imprecise - unless you wished to render them dizzy and not much more -, but I do have these.” She held up the two vials, tapping one with a fingernail. “This one, I would ordinarily use to numb pain and paralyze – useful, if you want to avoid undue suffering and also make sure there is no accidental twitch or movement that could disrupt your work. Would also be quite terrible indeed if you somehow managed to breathe it in, such as if it were vaporized - though, I would heavily implore you to keep in mind that there is also no true antidote, so the only way to survive that particular happenstance would be to figure out how to live without being able to breathe yourself for an hour or two.”
She tapped the other vial. The first one had been a clear liquid, almost like slightly languid water, but this one was dark yellow and discernibly oily.
“And then there is this. You mix a couple drops of it into a salve and you apply it to your skin if your joints are giving you trouble. Takes away the pain and swelling, and warms them up. You don't want to get it on your face or anywhere with particularly sensitive skin, nor your mouth, or your eyes. It doesn't technically harm you - but it would hurt for some half a dozen minutes. A lot. The pure stuff will feel approximately like being set on fire, for far longer than that, and even through thick skin after a minute. Very distracting.”
She paused for a second.
“Was anything left behind in Bren's lodgings? Myself or Deo'Irah could surely figure out if anything remaining was useful to our cause.”

“You're welcome to check,” Vela replied to Madara's inquiry about Bren's home. “We haven't touched what was left 'sides stuff we knew what was and how to use it. He didn't exactly label his stuff, though.”

Jaelnec turned to look at Nabi, then at the pipe she was offering, then her again, all with an expression of surprise that rapidly turned to embarrassment. “Thanks, but I'm all right, I think... sorry, I didn't mean to distract anyone.” He sighed. “It just brought up some... bad memories, I think.”

“Lhirin and I checked out Bren's house when we arrived. Much of the equipment remains, but all of his stock was taken and the cupboards rifled through. I am not certain there's anything there we could actually use... rifling through it in more detail might give us a little more information, but... I doubt there is a lot of use to be found there.” Irah replied to Madara, turning her head to look up at Lhirin with an expression he'd know as “fill in anything I missed”. She turned then to Jaelnec and offered him a wan smile. “You should not apologise for being shaken by such awful news. It is proof of your good heart.” she spoke softly, eyes a little dewy but mostly still seething with unspoken rage.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Outside the Hunter's Clinic, in the outskirts of Yharnam

Torquil dutifully followed Ophelia as she went, taking a good, firm two-handed grip on his axe as he went, and was very surprised – and much less adept at deception than his companion – to see a strange, bloodstained and heavily armed man outside the door. He did his best to follow Ophelia's example and act nonchalant about it. Once Ophelia turned around to shrug back at the gang inside the clinic Torquil hesitantly turned as well, only to start to nervously look everywhere but at the stranger in a way that was far from subtle.
A moment later the beast-man reached the door, managing just barely to peek its head out before Farren kicked the door closed, resulting in the heavy wooden object being slung forcefully into the creature's face. While the force of the kick would likely have sent a human-sized opponent tumbling, the sheer mass of the beast-man was enough that it only caused it to stagger for a second; the door even failed to close fully and remained ajar, its considerable momentum completely absorbed and stopped by the beast's snout. As it were, the almost-closed door only served to obstruct vision for the moment, but the Hunters could still easily hear the beast-man whimper in pain.

“Shit-rats!” Victor swore viciously, clearly taken aback by the sight of what had just peeked out and almost looked at him. Immediately reevaluating his approach after having seen some of what they were up against, he quickly hung his blunderbuss from his belt again, then reached his right sword-wielding hand over his right shoulder. With practiced motion, he maneuvered his small sword so that its edge was parallel with the open edge of the blade-scabbard back there, only to swiftly move the small sword inside, eliciting an audible “click” as the two interlocked. His now-free left hand went to join the right, grasping the hilt with both hands, as he hoisted the now much larger and heavier weapon onto his shoulder.

From inside the clinic, slightly muffled by the door and partially drowned out by the whimpers of the beast-man, the Hunters would be able to pick out the hoarse man's voice: “Stupid. Very hurt.”
Realistically, kicking the door into its face bought the Hunters about five seconds during which the beast-man's whimpers first turned into a growl and then exploded into a furious roar. An impact hit the door from the inside – much heavier than when Farren had kicked it – and sent it swinging back the opposite way, toward Farren, with tremendous force.
Through the now reopened door, Torquil and Ophelia would be met by the sight of the beast-man with blood dripping from its chin and matting its beard-like fur from the nose down. Its teeth were bared, its mouth frothing with rage and its eyes – pupils frayed with the scourge of beasts – filled with hate.

It rushed out the door so fast that it did not even make the effort to turn sideways to fit through it, instead hitting both shoulders against the door frame... only for the frame to immediately splinter and break while barely even slowing the creature down. It stepped outside, but ignored Farren, Ophelia and Victor. Instead it instantly turned to its right and, before Victor could get his massive sword off his shoulder, swung its cleaver mightily at his head, hitting him just below the left cheekbone and, with a spray of blood, sent him sprawling onto his back.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Freagon, Irah, Lhirin, Yanin, Jaelnec, Nabi, Jordan and Madara – Borstown

Indeed, there was not much more to do in this guest bedroom, and just moments later it would seem that there was little more to do in the manor as a whole, as Jaelnec arrived to convey that the surviving guest had been secured and that everyone were convening at the Fadewatcher station. They stayed in the manor only long enough for Caleb to alter his garb to be less eye-catching while also concealing his nature – to fit the company he found himself in, he opted to don a bulky suit of dusty brigandine armor, a full helmet, heavy boots and gauntlets, and even conjured a bearded axe to hang from his belt – before setting off. Caleb also explained, though the facts would be evident once he started moving, that altering his outfit like this was technically not “magic” for him, almost effortless and would require nothing of him to maintain. To avoid misunderstandings, the thalk also revealed to them that though it now looked as though he was wearing heavy armor and a weapon, everything he had formed this way was just for show and actually no more durable or protective than the flimsy cloth of his robe.

Outside, the group found the baroness' manor staff waiting for them, including the recently returned scout, Quintin. Though he had seemed stiff and reserved when Jordan, Nabi and Jaelnec had spoken to him, Quintin seemed to immediately relax and even smile a little as soon as Vela Bor stepped out of the door. There were introductions as appropriate, with the new arrival once more introducing himself simply as “Quintin,” and then quickly made their way to the Fadewatcher station. Whether because Jordan mentioned him or for some other reason, Tedwyn tagged along, too, albeit somewhat hesitantly.

Once there, Quintin – after receiving the paper and writing utensils with an expression of wonder, handling them with excessive care and remarking that he had planned to just draw in the dirt with a stick – quickly cleared a table at the back of the station and went to work drawing a map of what he had seen. As soon as everyone had assembled around him – with the baroness standing on a stool beside him to see what was going on – he started reporting what he had seen.
“As I already told some of you, the bandits are staying in an abandoned farm past the forest north of here. It took me about an hour to get back here on foot, and will likely take as long to get there from here. We will have to go on foot, too; the direct path there is too densely wooded for horses, so they would only slow us down.”
Vela nodded her head, tapping one bone-clad finger on the tabletop thoughtfully. “Could we go around the forest to the west or along the road to the east?”
“We could, but it would be a major detour. It would likely take longer to go around the forest on horseback than to go through it on foot.”
Quintin leaned over the table again and tapped on the rough annotated map he had drawn. “I counted at least twenty-six bandits moving around the area, but obviously I couldn't get a good look inside the buildings. Most activity I saw was centered around here –” He pointed to the shape annotated as “barn”. “– and here.” He pointed to the smaller shape annotated “farmstead”. “I saw some of them bringing out horses from the barn to graze in the dilapidated fields to the north, but aside from bringing the horses out and back in through the main doors, people mostly used this side entrance.” He pointed. “I think the majority of the bandits are staying in the barn, with maybe a handful or so in the farmstead. I haven't seen the ones wounded in the attack around, so I'm guessing they are either being cared for by Bren – our healer – or dead and discarded somewhere.”
He sighed. “I got there too late to know for sure which building Bren is in, and they didn't move him anywhere that I could see. Patrols came through about five times an hour, two or three men in each, not following any identifiable routes, but generally moving along these paths.” He quickly traced several lines across the map to give a rough idea of their patrol patterns.
Leaning back from the table again, Quintin crossed his arms and frowned. “They are rather well-equipped for bandits, too. Almost all of them are wearing gambesons, chainmail or both, and their equipment looked appropriately maintained. I saw spears, halberds, axes, swords... and at least three crossbows and a handful of war bows. They seemed pretty cautious and alert at first, but by the time I saw my chance to get out of there they had calmed down some, so they might not be fully on guard anymore.”

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Hunter's Clinic, in the outskirts of Yharnam

The hoarse man and his mismatched entourage seemed content to simply stand by the door to the back room and wait as Torquil dutifully followed Ophelia's instructions to put down the sleeper and the corpse he was carrying. Glancing back at them as they approached the door, Torquil also noted that everyone back there had rearmed themselves now that they were relieved of their burdens, and the two huntsmen armed with rifles both took aim at the door as Ophelia went to open it.

Outside the door, the White Church Hunter responded to Farren's introductions by simply uttering the name “Victor,” before assuming position on what would be the left side relative to the outside – right side from the inside – and waited. There was an impatient and somewhat nervous energy about him, Farren might notice, and though he aimed his blunderbuss head-height at the door and held his silver small sword at the ready, he kept glancing up toward the lip of the roof above. He also stood with his knees slightly bent, leaning away from the wall of the clinic a little, as if prepared to dart away at a moment's notice.
Even so Victor seemed to steady himself as the sounds of people approaching the door reached him and Farren, and he adjusted the grip on his blunderbuss so that his index- and middle-fingers were not wrapped directly around the grip, but grasped the trigger. Only once Farren started silently mouthing that the ones approaching were not enemies did he take is fingers off the trigger again and relax his stance slightly, baring his teeth in a grimace of frustration.

Ophelia and Torquil found Farren and the White Church Hunter waiting on either side of the door as they exited the building, and would have their first view of the area outside the clinic, too. Victor impatiently waved them forward with his sword, away from the door, to hopefully give the impression to the people inside that the coast was clear.
Then, suddenly, Victor broke into a wide, evil grin as his gaze shifted from Ophelia to Farren. He nodded his head wordlessly as he lowered his blunderbuss and hang it from his belt, only to retrieve a small box of matches instead. Somewhat awkwardly and hurriedly, since he was still holding the sword his his right hand, Victor got out a match, struck it and made sure it burned with a relatively healthy, robust flame, and unceremoniously threw it into the censer next to him, where it landed in the beast-repelling incense within.

So just as the heavy footfalls now familiar to the Hunters as those of the beast-man could be heard approaching the doorway, Victor put away his matches again and grabbed his blunderbuss anew. And very, very slowly, a faint wisps of smoke started to leak from the censer.
And just a couple of second after, the beast-man started poking his inhuman head out to see what was going on...

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Hunter's Clinic, in the outskirts of Yharnam

Needless to say, Torquil was quite surprised and disturbed by the sight of the large, monstrous inky-black figure that climbed out of the glowing spot in the floor, seemingly called by the unnatural timbre of the hoarse man's bell. It was more than just its clearly supernatural nature, size and strength, too; everything about it just screamed “wrong” to him, from the way it moved to the weirdly blank expression on its inhuman face. It seemed less like what one would traditionally term a creature and more like a puppet, dispassionately following the unspoken commands of its master.
Somewhere in the far reaches of his memory, Torquil thought he had a vague recollection of seeing creatures like the Mad One before, though only from afar. The image of them he had in his mind also featured them with brightly glowing white eyes and them being much more animated and, for the lack of a better term, alive. He had no idea what to think of the creature, let alone whatever eldritch means the hoarse man had used to... summon it? Create it? Reveal it? Either way he was clueless on the mechanics of what had just happened, so as usual he was happy to leave the pondering of such matters to Ophelia and Farren.

Torquil followed Ophelia from the back room into the reception, and felt unexpectedly relieved to see that there were still Messengers in here. More than anything, though, he felt his gaze drawn to the pale, ghostly light of the lantern. He felt a strange compulsion to approach it and stare at it, the very sight of that gentle radiance setting his mind at ease and made him feel oddly comfortable, like being wrapped in a nice, snug blanket. The lantern, bizarrely, felt like home.
If Ophelia looked at the lantern for any length of time she would get a similar feeling from it, but for now her attention was more focused on the two Messengers holding a rolled-up scroll between them. As she approached, the little creatures eagerly raised the scroll and unrolled it, showing her the writing of a verse – handwritten in exquisite calligraphy – inside:

“Glance calmly upon the lantern's pale gleam,
and find safe haven within the Hunter's Dream.”

Behind Ophelia and Torquil the rest of their entourage started making their way back into the reception, one by one passing through the door with their freshly acquired load of sleeping men and women. First came the beast man, carrying a total of six sleepers; two on each shoulder and one under each powerful, sinewy arm. Then came the Mad One, hauling three sleepers under each arm. Then came the huntsmen, each of which was awkwardly carrying just one sleeper each, and all of whom made sure to go stand in the corner of the room furthest away from the beast-man and Mad One. And finally came the hoarse man, the only one out of all of them to not carry anyone.
Quite notably, none of the others seemed to so much as glance at the Messengers or the lantern. Despite the fact that there was now a new and very obvious light-source in the middle of the room, not a single one of them even seemed to notice.
But at least one of them noticed something else. Immediately after leaving the back room of the clinic, the hoarse man's black eyes went straight to the closed front door, and his eyes instantly narrowed suspiciously. He scanned the reception, his expression rapidly settling into a sneer.

“Drop Hunters,” he commanded. He pointed at the front door. “Door closed. Open before. Male Hunter missing.”
While the Mad One immediately obeyed, simply letting go of its cargo and letting the sleepers flop onto the floor where it stood, and the beast-man and huntsmen hesitantly put down their hauls, too, Torquil would turned to Ophelia with an uncertain expression. Should he obey the hoarse man, or did she and Farren have a plan?
“Hunters,” the hoarse man hissed, looking straight at Torquil and Ophelia. “Open door. Go outside.”