Dark Jack

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

White Church Workshop, Upper Cathedral Ward, high above western Yharnam – Ophelia

Ophelia's last words managed to draw a rich, hearty laughter out of Dietrich. “Improper? Not at all! Vicar Harold would be delighted to meet with you, and I am sure you would love him as well. He's such a nice old man. But if you want to delay meeting him until your fellows are here, too, I won't stop you... nor am I able to, for that matter.” There was a hint of bitterness to those last words.
“Tell me, though: is there any reason that you could not simply fetch your companions and come back the way you just got here? If all of you can travel here through the Hunter's Dream, then surely there is no need for you to traverse moonlit Yharnam on a Night of the Hunt at all.”

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Reception, Rebirth's Rise, in the eastern outskirts of Yharnam – Farren and Torquil

Though he seemed a little taken aback by Farren's tone, Victor seemed to deem it not worth commenting on. He did want one point elaborated on, however: “What do you mean, 'she'll join us later'? She'll come here?” He gestured vaguely in the area to the right of the lantern, once more making it clear that he had no idea where it even was.
“I planned on knocking over this pile of crap on our way out,” he explained, pointing his sword at the heap of furniture next to the exit, “to block the entrance. But if she's coming, too, and will need to leave after us, I guess I can't do that...” He grimaced. “Damn it, why did that stupid beast have to break the door so bad and make things all complicated?”

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

White Church Workshop, Upper Cathedral Ward, high above western Yharnam – Ophelia

Dietrich raised an eyebrow at Ophelia's mention of the Nightmare being in him rather than on him, and he raised the other eyebrow when she guessed he might have tried the experiments on himself. He seemed quite puzzled yet also mildly intrigued by her theories regarding this strange hint of something supernatural that clung to him, and a small, relieved smile appeared on his face when she confirmed that the others were bound to the Dream as well.
That smile grew strained with another twitch at the corner of his mouth, however, when Ophelia mentioned Gerlinde; a reaction that was surprisingly similar to when she had mentioned Soulkeeper.

“I don't know all the details, as I said,” Dietrich told her, “but I don't think any experiments have been conducted on me, no. Nor have they on you.”
Taking a deep breath, the First Hunter explained: “Paleblood, which makes Hunters able to bind themselves to the Dream and attain immortality, is a disease. The experiment, as I understand it, was to artificially induce that disease in people and then turn them into Hunters. All the others at the clinic where you awoke were part of the experiment; every last one of them. But not you. I recognized your name instantly when you told me; you are the one person out of that crowd to actually have Paleblood. You are the real thing. The others... well, the vicar will want to meet them and see the results for himself. If they are truly bound to the Dream, then at least some good came of this tragedy.”

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

White Church Workshop, Upper Cathedral Ward, high above western Yharnam – Ophelia

“Touched by the Nightmare?” Dietrich laughed, a light and gentle sound, as he started to unroll his sleeves again. “I can't say that I'm aware of anything like that, no, but it does sound intriguing. I certainly hope it's not some manner of curse from the Followers waiting to hinder me in a critical moment.” He spoke the words with a mirthful smile, but his tone made it ambiguous whether he was jesting or actually concerned with what this Nightmarish presence might be.

“Bringing a cadaver here won't be necessary,” he told her, holding up a hand to halt and calm her. “On any other night I would have told you yes, but the bells have already rung once and will soon ring again with the moonrise, and the Night of the Hunt will really get started. The last thing you'd want when the beasts start coming out of their holes is to be carrying around a fresh body. No, the dead can wait for dawn.”
Pulling his gloves back on and taking great care to ensure that there were no creases in his freshly smoothed-out sleeves, the First Hunter bit his lip. “Tell me: your fellows from the clinic... they are not here, and you say they intend to come on foot. Does that mean that you are the only one of you bound to the Hunter's Dream?”

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Freagon, Yanin, Jaelnec and Jordan – Outside the Fadewatcher station, Borstown

“Fifteen years,” Jaelnec said with a nod of his head when Jordan asked, confirming the duration of his pagehood; an excessively long time by most standards, though he obviously would not know if things were different for others in the Knighthood of the Will specifically, of course. The only other person he knew who had ever been a Page of the Will was Freagon himself, and according to the stories he had heard, Freagon had been a page for five years... only to practically skip the rank of squire by undergoing his Test and becoming a knight as soon as he was made one.
Upon Yanin commenting about the bestowal of titles being a public affair, Freagon shrugged. “People already think I'm lying about being a knight. What difference would it make to have more witnesses to a fake knight naming his fake squire?”
When Jordan turned the subject to his past and his origins, Jaelnec's smile faltered somewhat, though he bravely kept trying to hold on to the happiness from before.
“I suppose I was more privileged in a lot of ways, but similar,” he told him, a shadow settling over him as his mirth kept seeming to drain moment by moment as his thoughts turned to the past. “My Mom was a priestess of Laon and my Dad was a wizard, so I did a lot more studying than work when I was a child. Still, we lived in a small village – one with pretty much just nightwalkers – so I worked like you did, too.”
He turned his head to look at his master, though he did not do so obviously and in an effort to redirect of anyone anywhere else, but just because he felt prompted to look at him. “Sir Freagon found me when I was ten. He saved me. I had been out in the woods collecting mushrooms and returned to find the village in flames. It was the Crusader's Guild. They killed everyone. Then Sir Freagon showed up.”
Turning back to Jordan, Jaelnec repeated: “He saved me, and took me with him away from there. I've been with him ever since. I owe him my life.”

As Yanin pointed out that this was not the first time Freagon – and by extention Jaelnec – had worked with others and asked what had changed, there was a slight, barely noticeable hesitation before Freagon replied.
“Time is running out,” he said simply, leaving what that meant up to interpretation.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

White Church Workshop, Upper Cathedral Ward, high above western Yharnam – Ophelia

“My arms?” he repeated, blinking his eyes several times quickly as he tried and failed to identify a reason for the request. “I suppose.”
Stepping behind his desk, Dietrich first pulled off his gloves and then proceeded to roll up first his left sleeve, then his right, all the way up to the shoulder so that both his arms and hands were fully exposed. He held them out for her to examine as she wished. He had nicely defined, but curiously understated muscles that spoke of strength without bulkiness, and his skin was clean, unmarked and faintly suntanned.
There was nothing of particular note about his arms, but she might notice another little guidance sprite appearing and disappearing again, though this time from near his thigh. She would probably be able to tell that the moon-sprites were not coming from any particular part of Dietrich, but just showed up in his vicinity every few seconds.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

White Church Workshop, Upper Cathedral Ward, high above western Yharnam – Ophelia

Though Dietrich seemed entirely unsurprised and unconcerned about Ophelia revealing where she had received blood treatment, which she would probably assume revealed a great deal to him, the First Hunter reacted very strongly when she mentioned the corpses with scourge-ravaged eyes. His eyes widened and his smile, which had endured undaunted until then, vanished in an instant as the man's posture abruptly slouched. He raised both hands to his face and covered his mouth with them, looking deeply disturbed by what he had just heard.
The revelation of the message they had found on the blackboard prompted no reaction in him, though he still seemed troubled; he only collected himself and refocused when Ophelia moved on to mention the clinic coming under attack by Pallid and his minions. There was a small twitch at the corner of his mouth at the mention of Soulkeeper, but otherwise he did not seem to outwardly react to any of the rest she had to say, but rather spent the time recovering from what he had heard.

“I see,” he said, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “I... I'm sorry, of course you would have questions and want answers after all that, though it seems you have figured out some of it already. I am very happy you came to me as soon as you did, Miss Ophelia, though...”
He sighed and shook his head despondently. “I wish these others you speak of had come too, and I will need to have the others at the clinic examined. We need to know what went wrong, why some didn't make it.” He let out a short, mirthless chuckle. “I suppose you must think me responsible for all of this due to this... 'message' you read. I didn't write it, but you are not wrong; I was supposed to oversee this little experiment, and I helped to arrange it. I will answer any of your questions that I can, but if you want to know everything there is to know, you will have to speak with the vicar.”

Paying close attention as she were, Ophelia would notice that the occurrence earlier at the entrance to the workshop had indeed not been a unique one. Every four or five seconds, even standing mostly still as he did now, a faint, weak little guidance sprite would appear somewhere near Dietrich, exist for half a second, then sputter and vanish.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

White Church Workshop, Upper Cathedral Ward, high above western Yharnam – Ophelia

“A message?” he repeated, sounding mildly confused yet unconcerned by the statement. He made a dismissive gesture toward no one in particular, and all around him the Hunters scattered and the civilians and clerics began to hesitantly return and resume their business. Interestingly, as he raised his hand to flick it in in the gesture, Ophelia might spot the briefest, faintest trace of a guidance sprite emerging from his forearm, only to immediately sputter and die. “I'm afraid I don't know what you message you could mean, but we can certainly speak in private.”
Dietrich offered his right arm and, whether Ophelia took it or not, turned to guide her inside and up the stairs. If she were to look around, she would see that the sides of this hall were filled with tables bulging with all manner of supplies. There was an entire table set with plates and bowls of all manner of food, and another that was similarly adorned with bottles, carafes and pots of drink as well as glasses and mugs to drink from. There were several tables with bundles of tough white cloth and shoes, which she might figure could be unfolded and revealed to be White Church Hunter garbs. Another several tables had more Holy Blades, threaded canes and Kirkhammers, and a couple had piles of pistols and blunderbusses.

Once upstairs they turned left and entered a door and entered a small room furnished as a mostly spartan office-space. To the left upon entering were two mostly empty tables occupied only by several errant pieces of paper, a quill and an inkwell, beyond which was a wall that was obviously of different and newer construction than the rest of the building. Directly in front of and facing them was a slightly bigger table with a chair on either side, all of which were rather plain aside from some slight bits of ornamental carving into the edge of the tabletop and on the backs of the chairs. This table obviously served as a desk and bore a surprisingly tall and neat pile of papers, another set of quill and inkwell, a plain brass candle holder and a small, nondescript brown-covered book of some kind.
The most extravagant and decorative thing in the entire room was an elongated wall banner hanging behind the desk. It was made from white cloth with intricate gold and black trimmings, and bore two prominent symbols, one above the other, each stitched in red thread. The upper symbol was one Ophelia knew was often used to represent the Healing Church, though its meaning was unknown to her, whereas the lower symbol – despite being one she had never seen before – somehow immediately managed to convey its meaning to her: “Hunter”. Looking at it made her forehead itch.
“This is my office,” Dietrich explained, closing the door behind them. “If I can't be found in the main room or here it means my presence was required for a hunt, but I am never gone for long. You are welcome to visit anytime you like.” He crossed the room and leaned his back against the wall next to his desk. “It is also as private as it is going to get. What did you want to discuss?”

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

White Church Workshop, Upper Cathedral Ward, high above western Yharnam – Ophelia

“Likely story,” the Kirkhammer-wielder scoffed, tightening the grip on his sword. “That's exactly what I'd say if I was a filthy Vileblood wanting to... wait.” He squinted at her. “That's not you, Gerlinde, is it? If it is, this isn't funny.”
“Victor...” the Hunter next to him mumbled, his face twisting in an effort to remember. “That's the name of that drunk that headed out with Stefan earlier, isn't it? They did say that they got a mission from Dietrich.”
“Stefan? Sending a fresh Hunter to scout ahead?” The Kirkhammer-wielder shook his head grimly. “That doesn't sound right at all. Better kill you just to be safe...”
“That would be terribly inconvenient.”

The eyes of all the Hunters forming the human wall in front of Ophelia widened as the calm, authoritative and pleasant masculine voice emerged from behind them and up the stairs. Three of the five Hunters even took their eyes off her to look in the direction of the speaker, lowering their weapons somewhat in the process.
Within a second or so of his words reaching them, the speaker entered their field of view and started descending the stairs. He moved at a measured pace, his stride confident but unhurried, his posture straight and regal, open and unguarded. He was a young man in his early thirties – younger than most of the people here – clean-shaven, with a head of golden-blonde shoulder-length hair tied in a ponytail. His features were unusually elegant and handsome, further enhanced by him donning a charming smile that revealed perfect, white teeth, making him look like a Prince Charming straight out of a fairy tale. Ophelia would likely take special note of his eyes, the irises of which were such a pale blue that they were almost white with the exception of a dark rim along their edges, making them seem almost fluorescent.
He wore a white variant of a foreign confederate uniform, his head bare, unprotected and fully on display, with a long, white cape trailing over the steps behind him, split in two along the middle and with each half embroidered with the likeness of stylized feathered wings in silver thread. Peeking over his right shoulder and out from his left hip was a unique silver greatsword, as long as the Holy Blades but considerably more narrow, and rather than being adorned with decorative engravings this was plain, smooth and polished to a brilliant sheen, making it gleam in the lanternlight.

As he reached the bottom of the stairs and kept approaching them, the Hunters blocking Ophelia stepped back and parted, setting aside their weapons and offering this new arrival respectful bows.
“Welcome,” the man said before dipping into a deep bow, placing his left hand on his chest and performing a wide, sweeping gesture with his right. “I am Dietrich, the First Hunter. May I have the honor of knowing your name, milady?”

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

White Church Workshop, Upper Cathedral Ward, high above western Yharnam – Ophelia

Even while approaching the doors that obviously served as the main entrance to this immense structure, Ophelia would easily be able to tell that the interior of this place was alive with frantic activity. People ran across the stone-tiled floor this way and that, carrying all manner of supplies – bundles of cloth, armfuls of weapons and nondescript crates with uncertain contents – to whatever destination and purpose they were needed for. Walking up the steps toward the open doorway she would see dozens of figures in civilian clothing moving things around and performing various menial tasks around the place, under the guidance of another dozen or so men and women dressed in the white garbs of clerics in service to the White Church.
And among those, stalking among the masses and hiding in the shadows of the pillars that flanked either side of the huge hall she found through the doors, was yet another group of five. These figures did not partake in nor supervise the labor being performed here, but simply seemed to be watching proceedings with detached boredom and impatience. These figures all wore the garbs of White Church Hunters, and unlike everyone else, appeared to be armed; two of these Hunters were leaning on threaded canes and the last three carried small silver swords, of which two had the familiar blade-scabbard of a Holy Blade on their backs and the last had the head of a Kirkhammer.

Barely had Ophelia moved within several meters of the door to this place – which she would probably be able to deduce was the White Church Workshop – before one of the laborers spotted her and immediately, and quite noisily, dropped the armful of swords he had been carrying.
“Vileblood!” someone cried, and in an instant all the activity in the building seemed to refocus entirely on reacting to her presence. All the civilians and clerics stopped what they were doing and retreated toward the far-end of the hall, with several clerics running up the central stairway that lead to a floor above. The Hunters, meanwhile, moved with speed and purpose to form a semicircle just inside the doorway, brandishing their weapons and making it very clear that they intended to prevent her from entering.
“Not another step, fiend,” the Hunter with the Kirkhammer, a middle-aged man, declared as he pointed at her with his sword. “How did you get here?”