Dark Jack

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

The Black Church Workshop, northeastern Central Yharnam – Farren

Having interacted with the marker on the headstone, Farren found himself waking up in a place that was much more familiar to him than the Hunter's Dream, though his memories of the place were from a time that had been mostly erased by his metamorphosis into a Hunter. He awakened in a little shaded gravel-strewn yard surrounded by a wall of stone and a gate of iron, beyond which he could see the taller and more gothic structures typical for Central Yharmam.
Opposite of the gate in the yard stood a squat, simple but sturdy building of stone and steel, with what appeared to be a person wrapped in a cloak and armed with a rifle, seated on a chair and guarding the area from its roof. It also had several thin chimneys ending in iron pipes that exuded streamers of smoke. It had no windows and but one single-wide reinforced door for entry, which Farren would know was equipped with enough internal locks, latches and bars to make it beyond what even the most powerful beasts could easily tear through, should they be somehow able to push through the incense filling the air from a handful of censers scattered about the yard. It was nowhere near as grand or impressive as the White Church Workshop up in the Upper Cathedral Ward, which almost looked more like a mansion or a small castle than a workshop, but it was thoroughly secure and functional.
Behind the workshop itself he could see two other, smaller buildings located to the left and right of the area, respectively, which he knew served as barracks – one for men and one for women – for Hunters to live in that had nowhere else to go. Though he could not see it from here, he also knew that there was a third building between the two and directly behind the workshop that served as combined kitchen, dining room and recreational area. Those three areas were generally open to everyone who came here, regardless of their creed or nature, as long as they were not beasts and remained peaceful and respectful. The workshop itself, however, was only for the Black Healing Church and those in its employ.
Predictably the one thing that was different about the area compared to how Farren remembered it was the familiar little crooked post with the pale-blue-glowing lantern he awakened facing, right in the middle of the yard. Aside from the one guard on top of the building the area was also mostly deserted – as was to be expected on a Night of the Hunt, when all the Hunters were out looking for prey – though it was clear that there were still people inside the workshop. He might also notice that there was no mist here and the sky was mostly cloudless, and rays of cold, pale light streamed in from the east. If he looked, he would see the rising full moon just barely starting to crest over the rooftops in that direction.

There was a twitch in the guard as Farren appeared, but whoever it was did not raise their weapon nor do anything that suggested they were alarmed at his spontaneous materialization. Given that the lantern was already lit and he knew that Gerlinde had been bound to the Dream for a week already, it would probably not be difficult to conclude that they had had opportunity to adapt to people showing up out of nowhere like this. He also knew that the Black Healing Church, unlike the white one, generally did not particularly care about allegiances or politics; they were as willing to deal with the white church and civilians as they were with Vilebloods, Followers and Fire Dancers. As long as someone was not a beast and did nothing to earn their hostility, everyone was welcome here.
Having a mission in mind and knowing how to achieve it, Farren would head for the door to the workshop and knock the sequence on it that functioned as a password. A cap slid aside on a tiny peek-hole, too small for even a finger to fit through, and Farren would know to show his face to it.
The latch clacked loudly and the handle turned even more so, the door opened and Farren was allowed to enter the workshop itself, which was not too dissimilar from the smithy they had just visited in the Industrial Ward, except a bit more cramped and with considerably more people. It was very hot in there due to the lack of ventilation while playing host to several very hot fires, but not insufferably so.

Going inside and to the right, Farren would head to that end of the room and select the rightmost out of three separate doors – these mere wood and much less secure than the outer door – and repeat the coded knock.
“Enter,” a man's voice shouted from within, sounding stressed and impatient.
Doing so, Farren would enter something like a small office. The walls to his right and in front of him were both lined with tall archiving cabinets, whereas the wall to his left was filled with a wide variety of craftsman's tools, from simple instruments like hammers and saws to less common ones meant for the delicate work it took to work on mechanical contraptions like guns or trick weapons. In the middle of the room was where these two worlds collided: a table that functioned as part-desk, part-workbench with piles of papers, writing implements and stamps sitting right alongside half-finished contraptions, gears, wires, canisters of gunpowder and more.
It was a mess, and so was the man seated behind the table: a pale, unshaven and disheveled forty-something fellow, with a spindly build, short brown hair and small blue eyes, the left of which looked twice as big as the other due to the monocle sitting in front of it. Seven – whose real name was Septimus, but who those who worked with him, at least, had given the nickname since the name literally meant “seventh” – looked up from the papers he had been handling and seemed surprised by what he saw. He was one of the people from the black church Farren had worked with semi-regularly in his past, and one of the main people responsible for its day-to-day operations. He was also a cleric – one who had received Old Blood that made him something that occupied the space between regular Yharnamites and Hunters – and wore a black church garb. His eyes initially went to Farren's equipment, noting all the trick weapons and guns he had managed to attach to his person, and only then to his face.
“Farren?” he said, the name being spoken as a question. He paused, then sniffed to confirm his suspicions. “You've become a Hunter?”

The Hunter's Dream – Ophelia, Gerlinde and Torquil

The doll bowed submissively in response to Ophelia's curtsy, Torquil mumbled something quiet and unintelligible, and everyone including the doll and the Shopkeeper began migrating inside the workshop to get out of the rain. As she entered, Ophelia might notice an irregularity with the wall adorned with unique Hunter weapons: though the spaces for the Holy Moonlight Sword and the Loch Shield were both still vacant, it appeared that tha Blades of Mercy had returned to their place there, right where they had first found them.

“Okay, alright, yeah, so...” Gerlinde began, turning to face Ophelia while idly – and unsuccessfully – trying to brush off the blood that had already fallen on her. She was still smiling widely, but her eyes were darting around all over the place, trying to observe and absorb everything at the same time. “Wait, Farren left? Aw. Well, that's fine, I guess. We'll have plenty of time to get to know each other later. We're all stuck together now, as you say, after all.”

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

The Hunter's Dream

“She is a Huntress like you, but it did not choose her. It chose you, Wielder, so her glory could never match yours. But she has great affinity for the arcane... and is also shifted across realities. Though you have a connection to the Nightmare, hers is stronger. She appears to exist in the Interstice,” the whispers of the Holy Moonlight Sword replied to Ophelia's expression of wonder. Ophelia would almost certainly have no recognition of the word invoked here as a proper noun, “the Interstice”, though from the context it probably had something to do with realms of the Nightmare.

Torquil, meanwhile, had his own series of reactions to his first encounter with Gerlinde, though he did not interrogate his own feelings enough to think much of them beyond finding them momentarily interesting. His first reaction was probably the most predictable and primal, as the sight of her beautiful visage and provocative garb quite simply aroused him. This was mainly interesting to him because he had barely even been aware of his own sexuality until now, or if he even had one. He had had a vague, instinctive sense that his brain treated Ophelia as a potential mate and not Farren or Victor, but until now it had been a sort of detached conclusion without any kind of drive to pursue anything of the sort. Until this moment he had all but assumed himself to be asexual... but now he realized that he had been mistaken. He felt hormones flooding his body and brain, telling him that part of him was still human, and that he wanted to do something quite human with this woman.
His second reaction was much more surprising and concerning than the first, though: he felt angry. That sense of loneliness that had hung over his forgotten memories like a veil seeped into him once again, and a little voice told him that someone like her would never want to be with a freak like him. That he was going to be alone. The thought angered him, and his ire tainted how he saw Gerlinde. Rather than admire her beauty, he found himself resenting it and how far beyond him it was. Rather than appreciate her revealing clothes – which he fleetingly thought to himself was one swipe of a claw or blade from a malfunction that would leave her even more exposed – he thought them lewd and inappropriate. Harlot, he thought to himself, and he was shocked at just how much venom there was in his inner voice when he thought it.
But even so, it was the third and last reaction that shocked him the most, as the residual sadness that had assailed him upon entering the Dream spread like a haze across these other fleeting thoughts and feelings, and filled him with... shame. Guilt. Self-hatred. Disgust. Looking at Gerlinde's young, impossibly perfect face, Torquil felt an intense sense of remorse weigh him down for reasons he did not understand. He wanted her, but she also terrified him... and he did not even understand why.

Gerlinde herself seemed momentarily distracted from both Farren's awkward greeting and introduction, Ophelia's gawking or Torquil's musing, her attention drawn skyward as the sky was wreathed in dark clouds and it began raining warm blood. She stared up at the changing light and colors with eyes that were wide – almost too wide – with utmost fascination, and her mouth agape with amazement with what she was seeing.
It was only when Ophelia suddenly approached her that Gerlinde's attention returned to the ground, and her eyes fell on Ophelia moving to hug her. For a split-second something like intense fear and disgust flashed across Gerlinde's face, her entire body flinching protectively – pulling away a little, moving her arms in front of the body, her face turning away – as if expecting an attack. But all of this lasted only that long, before the brightness and glee returned to her eyes, her smile grew wider than ever, and she happily embraced the woman she had never met before, Holy Moonlight Sword and all. She seemed quite content to hug for the couple of seconds Ophelia intended, but once they had elapsed and Ophelia made the slightest move to separate, Gerlinde broke the hug as well... in a way that seemed a little hurried and relieved.

“Nice, right? I made it myself,” Gerlinde giggled, taking a step back, throwing her arms wide and doing a quick spin in place to show herself off. “I... Oh, there is so much I want to talk about! So much I want to show you! I've been alone here for a week – or, well, alone besides Dollie and Shoppie – and... No, I'm getting ahead of myself.” Her eyes widened again. “I wondered why the sky was different when I got here tonight, and then it changed again when you got here. You're weird. I like weird! Oh, this is so exciting!”
With a beckoning gesture, Gerlinde turned around and started walking up the stairs. “Let's head inside before we're drenched, though. I know we'll be clean and dry as soon as we leave the Dream, but it's still uncomfortable while we're here.”

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

The Hunter's Dream

With their discussion out of the way and their business in this part of the Waking World done for the time being, Ophelia, Farren and Torquil ventured back to their newly discovered and lit lantern to return to the Hunter's Dream. The process was quite familiar now, as they all walked up and looked into the pale blue light of the Gatekeepers' little marker, felt themselves fall asleep and instantly found themselves reawakening in the Dream.
As he had the first time, Farren would feel a brief and sourceless tremor go through his blood as he transitioned to the Dream, but he felt no other effects from it. It was also the same for Torquil as when he had first died and been sent to the Dream; he felt a tremor go through his blood, and for no reason in particular started feeling really sad. It was a weird feeling, for an emotion to assert itself like that anchored to no particular thought or experience, which also made it pass quickly, easily and, like most things that happened to the simple Hunter, without provoking much thought.

The three of them found themselves appearing side by side in the usual spot on the path leading up to the old workshop, right next to the four headstones. The birdbath overflowing with Messengers was close to them as well, with several Messengers there gesturing wildly to the Hunters to get their attention, eagerly pointing down into the water. It seemed that they might have new items for sale.
Off to the right of the stair leading up to the workshop stood the Shopkeeper and the doll, passively watching what happened in this domain of the Nightmare as they were wont to do. This was the Hunters' realm, after all; their purpose was only to offer aid, advice and information when requested. Here, at least, they existed only to serve.

But also on the path next to the headstones, just a few steps ahead of the three others, was yet another person; a woman. A woman who, it would very immediately obvious to Farren, did not look even remotely the same as the woman he had kidnapped all those years ago. Whereas the woman back then had been quite short, around 20 cm shorter than himself, this woman was actually as tall as he was. And where the the waif he had carried so easily on his shoulder had weighed only around than 50 kg and been somewhat emaciated, with barely any feminine curves to her, this woman was quite curvaceous. Surprisingly so, actually; though she was obviously slim, with a narrow waist and slender legs and arms, she was quite well-endowed. She was also very, very obviously much too young to be the same Gerlinde; whereas the woman from back then would have been in her early thirties by now, this one looked like she was barely twenty years old.
And it was not just her age either; where the one back then had looked quite plain, if somewhat haggard and pale, this one seemed almost impossibly beautiful. Her jawline, cheekbones and nose were sculpted and feminine, her lips had a bit of natural pout to them without looking fat or swollen, her eyebrows looked thin without looking artificial from plucking. Her skin was perfect; slightly tanned and almost glowing with health, with not so much as a single blemish or a hair out of place.
Yet despite the fact that everything about her was decidedly not the woman from back then, Farren would doubtlessly notice that something... was. Her loose, silken raven-black hair that flowed over her shoulders and all the way down to the middle of her back. And her sapphire-blue eyes with a distinctive green ring around the iris, slanted just slightly inward. Those eyes, despite all the evidence to the contrary, were absolutely hers.

Her attire seemed like it had most likely been chosen to accentuate her exquisite features and draw attention to her and her divine beauty. She wore a pair of tan laced boots that went almost to her knees and hugged her calves tightly, and a skirt that appeared to be a version of the woman's variant of the Black Church garb, modified so that it was asymmetrical; on the left side it had been shortened to end just above her knee, but on the right side it went even higher, up two-thirds of her thigh, leaving nearly her entire left leg and its flawless, hairless naked skin bare. And rather than the coats and cloaks other Hunters seemed to favor, the woman wore only a simple black vest on her torso, which not only naturally left her arms bare, but also had some buttons strategically left open; one or two at the bottom to reveal just a bit of the skin of her belly, and several at the top... though the top buttons may have been left open out of necessity rather than choice, as even party unbuttoned, the top strained against the bounty within. Regardless of why it was as it was, it resulted in a very pronounced and noticeable cleavage.
She also had the usual Hunter accouterments, of course; a belt with the tube for quicksilver bullets and the satchel for blood vials, along with a holster on her right hip with a Hunter's pistol, and a hoop on her left hip held a threaded cane. But more unusually, her left arm appeared to be wrapped in a very long pale-green snake molt, with the head of the molt resting on the back of her left hand.

“Ah!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands and beaming a wide, bright smile that showed off her teeth, which were predictably perfect and white. “I didn't know there were more of you!” She looked at Ophelia. “You must be Ophelia, then? Hi! Nice to meet you all! I'm Gerlinde!”

While she spoke, a churning, dark mass of clouds seemed to spontaneously spring into being over their heads, only for them to rapidly start spiraling outward, covering the huge, gleaming moon and casting the Dream in shadow. Then, within seconds, the doubtlessly familiar sound of beginning and rapidly building rain hit them, and soon they were all showered in... weirdly warm rain. Weirdly warm, red rain that filled the air with the smell of blood.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Industrial Ward, Southeastern Yharnam

As they went back outside, Ophelia indicated a place for Farren to put the ladder with no crows – which was simple enough, given that there were no crows in sight at the moment – and the time finally came for them to undertake the arduous quest of checking the roof of this random little workshop. The accomplished slayers of beasts, vanquishers of brutal serial killer-Hunters and fledging explorers of the eldritch secrets of the world bravely prepared to ascend to new heights and check the shingles above.
With the old, flimsy ladder in place, the clever decision was made to send the bold, cunning Farren, carrying his entire arsenal of weapons on his person, to investigate. Farren, who weighed over 100 kg and was the heaviest of the three Hunters just by his own weight, and further weighed down by his abundant Hunter gear, as opposed to Ophelia with her comparatively puny 60 kg frame, single sword and a pistol. He ascended the rungs of the ladder with his new rusty old carpenter's knife in hand, only for paranoia to seize him halfway up, prompting him to draw his blunderbuss and aim toward the lip of the roof.
He climbed, but only got about two-thirds of the way up – a little over two meters – before the wood suddenly groaned loudly under him, screaming for mercy from the burden placed on its feeble limbs. There was barely time to react, and the Lake Rune did not warn him as he suffered no impact... yet, at least. But despite the best, valorous efforts of the creaky wooden ladder, the load was simply too much. With a loud crack the left stringer of the ladder snapped a couple of rungs below where Farren had gotten to, causing the right stringer to start bending and splintering as the entire structure began collapsing to the right and in toward the building.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Industrial Ward, Southeastern Yharnam

“Spare? Uh...” Gregory turned and looked to the man at the workbench toward the back of the room, a spindly fellow who looked to be even older than Gregory himself, possibly in his seventies. “Jayden, you have a knife you's not usin'?”
The even older worker named Jayden rummaged around his table for a bit before eventually producing a small carpenter's knife that looked thoroughly neglected and worn, its edge dull and its blade dotted with red spots of rust.

While that was going on, Gregory remained focused on Ophelia's questions. “Offerings? I don't think so, miss Ophelia. She hunts her own food, she does, and she doesn't take anythin' from here. She mostly just wants to be left alone at the mountain. Her and the Crow Hunter.”

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Industrial Ward, Southeastern Yharnam

Looking up intending to visually inspect the inside of the roof, Ophelia instead found herself looking at a ceiling that was much too low for that, suggesting that the workshop might have a second floor or an attic of some description. Regardless of why it was, it meant that she would not be able to spot any damage to the roof from where she was.
“Ain't nothin' brave 'bout it,” the blacksmith chuckled, absentmindedly scratching his cheek with his left hand and leaving large smears of soot. “We's gotta work 'round here to earn our keep. 'sides, beasts don't usually come 'round here... nor do Hunters.”
“Oh, uh, pleasure,” he replied awkwardly when Ophelia introduced herself, apparently struggling to think of a proper and polite way to respond. “I's Gregory. Pleasure.”
“Gettin' to the roof... well, we's got a ladder lyin' 'round ya can use. Don't know why the city-folk treat ladders like they has to be stuck in place-like. Should be long 'nough to get up there.” He pointed toward the back of the room, where a somewhat flimsy-looking but serviceable ladder was lying up against the far wall. “Might be a bit dirty, though. Hope ya don't mind.”

“Crowmother...” He mused, speaking the word slowly and thoughtfully, as if trying to formulate how to tell them about it. “She came 'round here maybe seven-eight years ago? We's all scared out of our minds at first, of course; she's huge, she is, as tall as ten men, and ugly as sin. We thought she was just another man-eatin' beast, but she talks and acts like a person... mostly at least.” He shrugged. “As long as we don't cross her or her babes she's gentle as a lamb, I swears, and she keeps the other beasts away. Even the big one stompin' on our roof was no match for her! She's real clever, too, she is. Without her, we'd all been eaten by beasts a hundred times over.”

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Industrial Ward, Southeastern Yharnam

The old blacksmith reflexively took a step back when Ophelia entered the building, in part intimidated by the realization that his workshop had been visited by not one, but multiple Hunters, and in part because she was carrying a huge glowing sword. As impressive as something like that was even to other Hunters, it was something from the realms of impossibility in the eyes of regular civilians such as this one.
The three other workers kept working, though they clearly slowed down quite a bit and tried their best to overhear the conversation.
“Right, right,” he muttered, his tone almost apologetic and clearly submissive. “Aye, we heard plenty. Obv'isly everyone heard tha' big ol' beastie howlin' like a randy tomcat earlier, but we heard even more, we did! Damn thing came 'round here and went stompin' 'round our roof! T'was so loud, we thought t'was gonna break and come tumblin' in here. Had us holdin' our breath, it did. Even killed a few o' the crows, stupid mutt. Pissed Crowmother right off.”
He turned to Farren. “The talismans keep monsters away. Crowmother taught us to make 'em.”

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Industrial Ward, Southeastern Yharnam

Saying that Farren's attempt at picking the lock “worked” was probably a potential subject of debate. While he did indeed succeed in manipulating the tumblers of the simple mechanism on the door, the tip of his Blades of Mercy – a weapon that occupied an awkward middle-ground between dagger and short sword – was no lockpick. The lock was indeed opened, but it was also likely damaged sufficiently in the process that it would be incapable of being locked again. By technicality Farren did pick the lock, but he also broke it.

As the door opened and Farren entered, weapon in hand and alert for threats, he found the interior of the building lit not only by several lanterns, but by the dull glow of a lit furnace. Four men were working in the room various tools of the trade, one tending to the furnace, two sharing an anvil and banging a small glowing metal blank into shape, and one was sitting in the back at a workbench, though at this angle his body covered whatever he was working on. It took a couple of seconds before one of the men at the anvil – a balding fellow in his late fifties by the looks of it – looked up from his work and noticed the invasion, and immediately stepped away from his work to approach them.
Initially he walked toward Farren with a firm, steady stride and a firm grip on his blacksmith's hammer, but then his eyes narrowed as they found the Blades of Mercy, then the Bulwark and the Beastflayer and finally the pistol. His nostrils flared once as he sniffed intensely, only for his weathered features to turn pale at the realization of who – or rather, what – had just entered the building.
“Bloody shit,” he said, the aggression draining from his voice and posture alike. “Ah, eh, g'evenin', master Hunter. Fancy seein' one o' ya 'round here. How'd you...” He glanced at the door. “You could've just knocked, you know?”

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Industrial Ward, Southeastern Yharnam

“I guess so,” Torquil said, somewhat surprised at suddenly being consulted on anything, despite the thing he was asked being something as personal as simply whether he was coming or not, which only he could answer. He was mostly just uncomfortable with everything at the moment; uncomfortable with how things had worked out with Victor; uncomfortable with the smell here; uncomfortable with the crows watching them; uncomfortable with people working nearby even though a huge fight had obviously just happened; and, needless to say, very uncomfortable with the giant beast that had reportedly been killed by an even bigger beast.
Part of Torquil thought that he had maybe seen some of the worst Yharnam had to offer when the Mad One killed him, but now, looking at the corpse of the cleric beast and hearing what Moira had to say, he just wondered how much worse it would get. Even the beast that was already dead and was no longer a threat looked huge and insanely dangerous, to the point where Torquil would not even have known where to start fighting it. Chopping at its knees with his axe while trying to avoid getting pummeled to mush? Having seen it for himself, he definitely understood why Victor had been so opposed to fighting one. It looked terrifying.

With that out of the way, their little seven-man group started splitting up. Moira began stalking through the mist further southward, while her Black Church Hunters started heading back north to leave the Industrial Ward. Farren, Ophelia and Torquil headed back to the factory where Farren had discovered the scattered crow feathers.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Industrial Ward, Southeastern Yharnam

Moira looked to Ophelia. “No reason to call on Dietrich yet. Still don't know what we're dealing with. Might be overkill. Might not be enough.” She turned back to her Hunters. “You head back. Go hunt something else. I'll stay a while and survey the area. See if I can learn more.”
All three Black Church Hunters looked at each other for a moment before Liam took a step forward. “We can help, Mother Moira.”
But Moira shook her head. “I'm not hunting, I'm scouting. Not going to fight. One person can hide better than several.”
She turned back to Ophelia. “I don't see the little ones anymore, no. I see other things, but not them. If you need me, your best bet is at our workshop. But I'm not like Dietrich. I'm not a logistics officer, and I'm definitely not a politician. I'm a Hunter. Also technically a priest, but that's not worth much around here. I'm most useful when I'm out hunting. I'll resupply at the workshop.”