Tuujaimaa

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Deo’Irah

Deo’Irah nodded along with Madara’s words, her crimson gaze meeting the piercing amber of the surgeon’s. When the questions were directed at her she spoke quickly, though with a warm and eager tone. “While you finish up I shall gather my things, and we can be ready to travel together.”

She left shortly after Baroness Vela, Quintin, Yanin, and Jordan had–after having fussed over Lhirin idly while movement quite rapidly ensued following the end of the conversation. She made sure to direct him to leave with her, staying with him just long enough that he could safely navigate the enclosed space without taking his eyes off of whatever had grabbed his attention in that moment. Once outside she began a determined stride off towards her stagecoach, though she was stopped ere long by the sounds of Freagon and Jaelnec’s private conversation. She’d meant to fetch the potion and give it to Jaelnec, perhaps offer him some encouraging words, but it seemed that would not be necessary (and nor, she felt, her place). Her pace immediately slowed, albeit didn’t stop, until she got some of the tone and content of the words being spoken and her curiosity got the better of her. She swivelled quickly until just in earshot of the event, unsubtly eavesdropping with an apprehensive stare.

She did not speak or make any move to intrude upon the event, resolved only to step in if she thought Jaelnec was being mistreated in any way, but the conversation took an unexpectedly earnest and vulnerable tone that turned Irah’s apprehension to admiration. It was difficult to admit when one was wrong when one was possessed of true conviction, this she was no stranger to, but Freagon seemed the particularly miserly type. For him to offer an earnest nugget of such wisdom meant something quite profound, and it made Irah feel a little quiver of regret for being even peripherally present for such a touching moment. Only a quiver, though–she was far too invested in knowing what happened to let sentiment stop her.

As the ceremony begun, Irah quickly turned away and resumed her journey to the stagecoach–that she did not feel entitled to bear direct witness to, and she did have preparations to make. She greeted Armos with a gentle pat, quickly reaching into a saddlebag attached to him and withdrawing a small fruit they’d picked that morning en route to Borstown before offering it to him with an open palm. He took it gently, as he always did, and Irah gave him a few soft strokes on his side as he chewed. That done, she opened the door to the stagecoach and began to rummage within, looking amidst the clutter for the things she’d mentioned. She found each of them in turn, taking only a moment or two thanks to her familiarity, and returned to the front of the Fadewatcher station in time to see Jaelnec as a new person–a squire, now, rather than a page.

“Here is the healing potion that I mentioned, if you want to take it.” Irah offered, holding a tightly corked glass vial tied with a white silken ribbon. The ribbon was tied in an ornately decorative knot, such that it helped seal the cork within the neck of the vial, and Irah looked at it quite intently as it was proffered. She didn’t want to assume Jaelnec would still need it, given recent events, but it would be silly not to at least offer–and after a few seconds she brought her gaze up to stare into Jaelnec’s distinctive eyes with a wide smile on her face. She did not say the word “congratulations”, suddenly somewhat bashful and uncertain if it was her place, but her beaming smile radiated an almost-motherly affection that she hoped would speak for her. The whys of it mattered little, in her mind–it was plain to see that Jaelnec was starved of positive validation. She would be happy to offer him some to accompany the occasion, and to give him someone to show off to–everyone needed that.

She would offer him instructions if he accepted the vial–to use as small an amount as possible and wait, observe, and administer topically–and would keep it in her hands if he did not. That done, she continued apace to return inside to rendezvous with Madara and potentially Nabi. If Madara still had work to do by the time Irah returned she’d immediately step forward and offer to help in whatever ways were needed–and if not, she’d wait patiently for those assembled.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia exited the workshop to find Torquil wandering amongst the headstones, and Farren conversing with the doll. She strolled down the path at a somewhat leisurely pace, perusing the same headstones that Torquil was and coming to a much more profound realisation than he appeared to be capable of doing: these were all locations in Yharnam and its surrounds, as well as the various realms of the Nightmare if the headstones were to be believed--and if she had to guess, they referred to a lantern like the one that they'd used to enter into the Hunter's Dream. The ability to slip into another layer of reality to bridge the distances between locations in the Waking World... it boggled the mind, what awesome power that could enable a person to possess. It also made a lot of sense, in her mind, that the Shopkeeper had succeeded during the fabled Night of the Blood Moon. Immortality and the means to circumvent massive distances were boons few could hope to compete with... and it made sense why Mother Moira had gotten to wield such power and influence. As she scanned her moonlight-coloured eyes over the headstones she took notice of the flowers, and the light haze of mist in the air. She permitted herself to smell the flowers while she was here, and found them curiously moon-scented. It almost smelled less in their presence, compared to the powerful scent from the Shopkeeper (and less powerful scent from Torquil). She found the sensation oddly relaxing, as she basked in the light of the moon above and the shard of cosmic light that remained at her side.

"Does time flow differently in the realms of Nightmare, love?" Ophelia asked the doll, to be met with a response: "It does not, good Hunter. The time you spend here is the same as what passes in the Waking World, and in most of the Nightmare."

She nodded thoughtfully at that, a smile beginning to creep at the edges of her lips. Her left hand idly played with the brim of her hat, and her right stroked rhythmically to and fro along the gleaming blade of the Holy Moonlight Sword. That gave her ideas, a better sense of the scale of the board. Some part of her wondered if it was perhaps a test, then, by the White Church. The message on that chalkboard had been very clear: for the eyes of the First Hunter only. Each of these new revelations struck her mind refracted through the guiding prism of her sword, and she was certain of only one thing: there were layers of intrigue here, entire levels of a bigger picture that she simply did not have enough information to possibly parse. There was some small victory in becoming aware of those layers, however--she knew that she was free to follow her curiosity wherever it might lead. She turned to face the doll and posed another question, her expression having taken on a slight look of wonderment and awe similar to Farren's.

"You mentioned earlier that you could use these... echoes of blood to assist us, mm? I could perhaps do with a little more stamina, and my wasting sickness left me quite weak before the ministration. Could you perhaps help with that too?"

The doll nodded her head. "Very well. Let the echoes become your strength. Let me stand close." She reached to take Ophelia's hand in hers. "Now shut your eyes..."

Immediately, Ophelia felt the vague, ephemeral presence that had been clinging to her since Pallid and his minions had died back in the clinic drain away, its power being siphoned away from her and into the doll... only to feel another kind of power to flow in reverse. Something warm and pleasant radiated from the cool porcelain of the doll-hand she was holding. It felt like it filled her veins, followed the current of her blood and rapidly circulated throughout her body, until the feeling eventually diminished, leaving her feeling as normal.

And yet not. Even just passively standing there, Ophelia would notice her breathing having gotten easier, as if her respiratory system had just been instantaneously improved... which it probably had.

She took in a hearty lungful of air and gave the doll a radiant smile after she exhaled joyfully, offering her another quick curtsy. Her flesh had taken on a lissom rosiness beyond even what the ministration had granted her, and she seemed to hold herself with a greater ease than before. Her movements were already graceful, but now they lacked a certain laboriousness they had previously and she seemed almost to glide as she moved to sidle next to Farren.

"You might want to check those gravestones over there with Torquil, love. Let me know what you think." she opined, before continuing on to the birdbath with the messengers as she moved there next. She perused its selection of items thoughtfully, eagerly craning to read the scrolls bearing descriptions where appropriate, until she settled on the Memory of Stars. She channelled that power in the closest approximation she could to how the doll had done it, manifesting the echoes and pushing them out towards the messengers to bridge the gap between worlds.

Upon retrieving the item Ophelia proceeded to use it immediately, eager to gain the insight therein.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Though some part of Ophelia wished to continue the conversation, she waited for the others to leave so she could get herself properly dressed in gear that'd at least give her a fighting chance against the terrors that awaited in the waking world. She combed through the chest for a couple of moments before pulling out a selection of garments - the red dress and shoes from the female knight's set, the white overcoat of the Choir set, and the hat from the Bone Ash set. She waited a quick moment, catching her breath and composing herself, before undressing. She took a moment while naked to move back over to the tools that were so familiar to her, and she rested her right hand on them gently as she felt tears begin to well up in her eyes. She'd lost one set of parents when she was young--they'd left one day and simply never returned, and she'd had to fend for herself... until she was taken in by the witches, who'd looked after her as though she were a wayward daughter of their own. She'd never let herself grieve the loss of her adopted parents, but touching their brand again broke the floodgates that she'd been damming for many years and she permitted herself a moment of bawling to commemorate and remember them. She whispered her final goodbyes, hoping their spirits had found solace in the embrace of the realms of Nightmare, and wiped her tears dry as she dressed herself in her new garb.

She took the time to craft for herself a little holster for her beloved Moonlight Sword, that she could snap the sword away from in times of emergency, as well as procuring a number of other items before passing them off to the Messengers to carry for her. The Rosmarinus sang to her in forgotten songs, touching the very edges of her mind, and so she handed that off to the little ones--and she also took the Kos Parasite in its bowl, gently placing it down in the awaiting arms of the Messengers. She offered them a curtsy and a thank you for their service before finally picking up the Holy Moonlight Sword and cradling it in her arms. It could not be a parent to her, but she no longer needed a parent--its guidance was more than enough. She let it rest against her clavicle as she had before, her silvery braid once again wrapping around the sword and little motes of guiding moonlight began to flow across her ornate tresses as she stepped back outside into the waiting moonlight to find where the others had gone.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia looked at the proffered tools with a grateful smile, but quickly stroked her free hand down the length of the glistening moonlight blade next to her to return it to its original form - before she gingerly placed it down on a nearby surface in the light of the moon above. She whispered that she would return for it in just a moment before accepting the tools and placing them down nearby. She would have to get herself some new clothes, like the others, and affix all of this gear to her person--but she found herself a little shy at the prospect of stripping down to her unmentionables in the presence of these two men. The Doll she would not mind so much--but the Shopkeeper was just as unwelcome as Farren and Torquil.

"Hrm... a thoughtful gift, dear. I thank you for it... something has crossed my mind, though: it's no coincidence we three can suddenly see the little ones and access this dream, is it? There is a whole building full of nascent Hunters like ourselves; I suspect those that awaken soon shall find themselves here too, hmm... This place might be busier than you've seen in some time! Shopkeeper, what do you think of the Healing Church? You, I suspect, have seen them at their worst, if you lived through the Night of the Blood Moon... the Witches never trusted them an iota. It... do they really have the power to grant people access to this Dream? Is such a thing even possible? It must be, I suppose, but..." Ophelia trailed off, her verbalised thoughts becoming faster and more frantic as the machinery of her mind whirred. It had none of the manic energy that she'd previously exuded, however, merely a calm and contemplative curiosity. After getting a reply, she spoke again:

"Forgive a woman her insecurities, but would you all mind stepping out while I change into more appropriate clothing?"

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

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

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

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

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

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

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

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

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

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

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

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

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

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

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

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

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

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

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

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

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

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

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

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