Tuujaimaa

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia watched the queer little figures part before her presence with a keen interest, and even made a note to perform a little curtsey and thank them for their obliging service, hushed and half-mumbled under her breath. She peered more closely at the corpse, which she could now clearly recognise as a corpse, and her breath caught in her chest for a moment. This poor soul--dead, and after having received the treatment? Something snagged in her mind, but she could not pierce its obfuscation with the minimum of effort and so she left that thought to rattle around in her skull for later--for now, she bent over and peered down to get a closer look at the face.

The eyelids, and sockets too, all black--it struck her as unusual, as her other-self from across the barrier of fog sneered quizzically in that way typically only the most aged of crones may. She was right, of course: this was highly unusual. Ophelia wondered if perhaps she should go diving in the innards of a freshly-failed Hunter, but... well, when had she ever gotten this opportunity before? When would she again? No, no, it would have to be now--she placed the spear down against the cot while she rushed back over to her own, picking up a pair of leather gloves and putting them on almost-absentmindedly. The snug feel of the leather gripping her hands felt cool and familiar, though new sensations of reach and flexibility she'd never had before also rippled through her newly lissom flesh and she shuddered with exhilaration. She wheeled back around to the corpse she'd turned away from and then proceeded to gently pry open its eyelids--she needed to get a better look at its eyes, after all--to see what could possibly have rendered them as black as the night sky.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia found herself positively brimming with energy--as she felt years of neglect and pain slough off of her like putrescent sludge she could not help but be overcome by the fervour of the raw vitality of the Old Blood. She stood to her full height for the first time ever--joints and ligaments and tendons squelching and crunching beneath the strain of raw life, as well as the need to be used, and she let out a jittery and rapturous laugh as she exhaled. She paused to take in some deep and gulping breaths, turning then to face the source of the sounds of movement she was dimly aware of in the background and finding herself face-to-face with Torquil.

She offered him a too-wide smile back in return, tinged too deeply with the ecstacy of her transformation's afterglow, and her eyes positively sparkled as she gazed into his own mud-brown ones. She reached out a hand awkwardly, flexing her joints and extending them to test her new range of motion, and something about the lankiness of her proportions gave her a mien not unlike that of the little creatures clamouring around them. She blinked a couple of times rapidly, standing to her full height in proper posture and withdrawing her proffered arm, and cleared her throat for a quick moment before speaking:

"Forgive me, dear, I... hah, I haven't ever been able to do this! O, the spark of freedom! Ah... my name is Ophelia, dear, charmed." she spoke, voice soft and musical but almost lurid with a tinge of the mania that seemed to be about her. Though manic, her aura was disarmingly soft and unthreatening--merely an excess of energy, or some other lingering effect of the transfusion... yes, Ophelia could dimly recall it. The memories of her old life seemed so close, behind the most delicate of misty veils, and if only she reached out she could touch them. She snapped herself back to reality before she could pry too deeply, though, hearing the shuffling movements of another rising. Ophelia hadn't really parsed what was going on in the room yet, and she blinked a couple of times in quick succession, brought her hands up to rub her eyes, and peered out across the sea of cots.

One of them had gotten up and said something about equipping himself... ah. He was right, this was a night of the hunt: no longer could she cling to the censer and wait for the worst to pass. She had been given back her body not for her own terms (though that was certainly a pleasant side-effect, to her mind) but to fight. To embrace the spark of that fire within her... and oh, how she ached to--it was a yearning wholly new to her. Some dim reflection of imagery across the mist took on a flash of disdain in Ophelia's mind, but the blood-slick fire was too uproarious for it to even register.

"Yes, you're right..." she began, something in her eyes glazing over as she walked over towards the barrel in long and loping steps. She weaved by the cots and the messengers stumbling around those containing the dead hunters (though she did not look too closely into the cots, nor did she know they were dead) with an instinctive grace that seemed just as unfamiliar to her as the rest of her transformed physical characteristics, her expression shifting to one of surprise as she made her way across the room. "Miraculous..." she whispered to herself, though now certainly in earshot of Farren (and perhaps the others--no doubt a Hunter's senses were keener too, hers certainly felt so). She picked up a spear with one hand, and tested the handle of a simple longsword in the barrel with her other. The grip felt natural enough, and she made a point of lifting it up to test its weight--it was a little heavy for her to wield with one hand and use it, but she could heft this thing around with ease. She made a few idle motions with it, not quite lifting it out of the barrel, acclimatising herself to both the feel of the weight and the movement before putting it back down. She could only carry the one weapon comfortably, anyway, and the spear could double as a walking stick... well, not that she needed one anymore.

"Ophelia." she offered to Farren, giving him a swift nod, before she looked back towards Torquil to see if he'd moved... and then, if nothing else grabbed her immediate attention, she'd begin to move in on one of the cots positively surrounded by the little eyeless creatures she was now keenly aware of, but ignoring for the moment.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia's mind, stumbling and staggering through an inky abyss of violently vascillating proportions, wheeled and whirred as it struggled to understand the flashes of things it saw--awakening sluggishly from a dark and dreaming slumber whose absence had proven to be an answer in its own right. She had dreamt for what felt like so long, and she had felt the kiss of the transfused blood spreading through her even as her consciousness had absconded away to higher planes of thought--the warmth trickling through her meagre frame, replacing sickly frailty with tendrils of vibrancy and vigour. Every tiniest inch of her body was suffused with something so virile and vicious that it could not be contained, almost-atrophied muscle suddenly snapping and tearing rapidly as it wove itself anew, flush and hale, and the stream of Blood flowed through the rest of her pale body and brought the changes along with it there too. It had been the most curious sensation, to feel the changes happening to her body while simultaneously feeling apart from it; but that is when she noticed them.

The messengers, appearing from some haze betwixt; they clamoured and clambered to get at her, their gaunt and pale fingers reaching out like little spears of bone not unlike those of a skeletal corpse, picked clean by scavengers... they had not the glint of bleached or polished bone, though, and their sunken, hollow eye sockets... Ophelia's mind lurched at that. No eyes? The poor things--and yet, they could still see more than she could, in some ways. She went to reach out her hand to them, her spectral and imaginary self obeying the command of her mind but her body not, trapped beneath the leather belts strapping her to the table and disconnected from her mind as they were. She wanted nothing more than to learn about them, to eagerly study every detail of every one, to find out if they perhaps instead had eyes on the inside that she simply could not see... but it was then that she caught a glimpse of it. The sticky, squelching redness of blood--off to the side, dimly, in the half-light. At first it was simply a trick of the light, she thought, but the slow ripples of movement that cascaded across it and came into her view let her know that something was moving... and then she heard a half-howl half-scream that she was not unfamiliar with. The smell of incense came to her, unbidden, and much more strongly than she ever remembered it--clinging to her, as though veiling her in its gossamer smoke--but the source of it was right there, on the floor, ascending from the ripples.

She opened her mouth to scream but nothing happened, eyes wide and bloodshot as she frantically attempted to clamber away from it, and something in the urgency and physicality of it snapped her wandering mind back into alignment with her body--just in time to see the beast lurking before her. It was huge in comparison to her, and its proportions grotesquely lanky. Mangy curls of blood-matted hair concealed an unnerving wriggling or undulating of the skin and muscle beneath, and the gleam of animalistic and base desire glimmered wetly beneath its too-many eyes. An unfurled claw reached out, extending grotesquely past the length one could consider familiar or sane, and as its tip threatened to slowly pierce into Ophelia's braced but motionless arm its touch erupted in a gout of fire. It began at the claw itself, it seemed, and spread both ways very rapidly--and when Ophelia blinked and looked down she could not tell if what she was seeing was indeed a claw or the needle used for the ministration... but she could feel the fire coursing through her veins, hot and thick and so wild, brimming with not just life but thirst! She could scarcely contain it, and as her unmoored consciousness began to scream she realised that she was not sure if what she could hear was her own voice or that of the beast's, and the realisation caused her heart to pound ever-faster, the seething flames in her artieries quickening in turn. The feeling of it was too much, too much--she squeezed her eyes shut with all her might and willed herself awake with a primal backlash unlocked by only the darkest recesses of fear.

She heard the aberrant noises of her bones cracking and reforming before she felt them, her torso arching sharply upwards as her spine elongated, and as she felt her legs slip downwards in their restraints owing to the extra length she kicked out with a force she never could have imagined that she possessed and felt them simply give beneath the force at her command. Now awake, flushed and feverish, she scrabbled rapidly to get up. The rest of the restraints around her other ankle and wrists burst open effortlessly, and a panting and panicked Ophelia sprung up from the cot, wide-eyed, assessing the room around her with perhaps half her wits about her. She began to settle down over the course of a moment or two, her laborious and wheezing breaths slowing into something more calm and regulated, though her mind remained lost to processing her thoughts until some event from outside her innermost self roused her attention.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Name: Ophelia
Race: True Paleblood
Age: 33
Appearance: Ophelia holds the bearing of a dignified and sombre person in the face of tremendous suffering, her features pale and sullen, and aged in ways that someone of her relative youth should not–one would be forgiven for mistaking her for an old woman. Her features lack the healthy vim and vigour of life, wrinkled and frail against a thin and brittle frame. Her face is almost-gaunt, features rendered sharp due to lack of fat, her lips thin, and her eyes not-quite sunken in–though her irises are a shocking hue of sparkling teal, the only notable bit of colour about her entire personage. Her eyes are bright and focused, though a hint of wildness can be detected in their shifting gaze and something about the sclera is not-quite white. Her hair is brittle and grey, though surprisingly long–and tied into an ornate braid that reaches down to her lower back. Though the braid has persisted this long, it is clearly filthy and has not been adequately cared for–and at its most ornate parts, the brittle hairs threaten to break with any significant motion. Her brows are similarly aged, and almost completely white, though still fairly long otherwise healthy. Her figure is thin and modest, not enough such that her bones are visible but she retains very little body fat and her musculature is beginning to deteriorate. Her arms and hands are fairly long, though her hands are neatly manicured and calloused in equal measure–Ophelia has clearly worked with her hands for a long time, and it is one of the few points of dignity and pride about her appearance that remains. Her posture is hunched and short, her spine deeply compressed, and as such she is both fairly short and she does not exude much presence. Her feet lack the cleanliness of her hands; her toenails are long and unkempt, but her feet are otherwise marred by similar calluses that indicate frequent use.

At least… until she wakes up from her blood ministration. The infusion of Old Blood has returned to her her rightful vim and vigour, and features that were once aged have undergone a tremendous rejuvenation (though this is no miracle; she simply looks like her age, rather than thirty years older). Where once her face was gaunt it is now full and round, rosy-red, flush with the essence of life–her lips fuller (though still on the thinner side), glowing with a new health that is positively radiant compared to its prior paleness. Her eyes remain much the same, though Her hair is silver rather than grey, and bristles with new life–covered still with dirt and grease, but lively. She stands much taller, with her hunched form now straightened out and her posture much improved, at an almost-lanky six feet. Where once there was atrophy there is now corded muscle, wiry but brimming with an excess of vitality compared to the dearth it had before.
Height: 6’0” (183cm)
Weight: 135lb (61kg)
Clothes: Ophelia’s clothes are similar to those of typical Yharnamites, more specifically those of Hemwick. Her gloves are an ashen-grey leather, form-fitting, and well-maintained (though with suspicious dark stains, and other less-savoury and more unknowable stains). Ophelia also wears no headgear.

Biography: Ophelia is defined best by two characteristics: curiosity and sympathy. She has ever been the thoughtful sort, mind mired by the many mysteries of the mundane and transmundane worlds. She has always sought understanding, be it of the observable phenomena that present themselves in the world around us, or the inhuman and sticky thoughts of places beyond–for she has sought knowledge above all else, and in reordering the boundaries of her ignorance has she brushed against the limit of feeble human intellect. Inadvertently has she walked the path of Byrgenwerth and its late Provost’s ethos, bereft of their insights but sympathetic in cause and in method. Eyes are what call to her the most, her imperfect lenses into the world (one of the few parts of her biology not to have betrayed her) and a source of tremendous insights into others–so potent her mania for the insight granted by eyes that she studied under the witches of Hemwick to elevate her understanding.

She also feels quite keenly a sympathy with others, eager to understand them and help them achieve the understanding that she has. This manifests most keenly as empathy, though it should not be mistaken with kindness. She is a soft and pleasant sort, often found mumbling to herself about her thoughts, though this veneer of passivity belies the work she has been found doing in the past: tending to corpses, plucking them of their eyeballs, and performing rituals and experiments best left unmentioned. For all of her sense of sympathy, she seems to have no qualms in divesting them of their flesh for her arcane purposes: indeed, they say that even those who have gone mad may serve a grander purpose, for posterity. It is not the eyes of others that are her true purpose, but rather in collecting their power to enhance her own sight: that with the help of many, with their essences melded to hers, she might finally see beyond–and to this end, it is not only eyes, but knowledge. Eyes are but a tool to behold the Truth, and she yearns truly for that grandest and stickiest of insights.

Ophelia’s dreams have always been slick with whispers, where her mind could roam free from the prison of her body–for she was afflicted at birth with Paleblood. Manifesting almost as a wasting sickness, she has been declining since the moment she was brought into the world. She always yearned for the secrets in the Labyrinth discovered by Byrgenwerth, but was never fit enough to even attempt to go there even with the aid of others despite her disciplined training–for she wasted away faster than she could ever gain strength. She gained the skilled dexterity and fluidity of motion associated with it, performing what work her limited energy would allow with accuracy and precision, but her ailing physicality eventually prevented her from even this–and it was the proposition of being bound to a bed before a long and painful death that broke Ophelia’s resolute spirit enough to the point that she would betray the lesson she had abided by all her life: Fear the Old Blood.

The Church’s ministrations were her last resort: for death promised no great insights at all… and for the sake of learning she finally surrendered. The White Healing Church, she knew, would take interest in her Paleblood–and indeed, they were always recruiting Hunters… she could not say that she was not curious about the secrets in their possession. So it is that she now awakes, fresh from the procedure, experiencing what it feels like to walk without fatigue for the very first time… and is curious to find out what, exactly, is to come.

History: Ophelia is a native Yharnamite, born in the outskirts near Hemwick. She has always been a close attendant of corpses, and has worked closely with the witches of Hemwick before the first Night of the Blood Moon. She knows well that eyes can be found inside the right corpses, those touched by knowledge of the eldritch kind. She is familiar even with the runes left by Caryll of Bergenwyrth, understanding them as transliterations of the utterances of the Great Ones–and being quite familiar with the tool used by the Witches, before it was taken by the Hunter on the Night of the Blood Moon. She was not present in Yharnam for the Night of the Blood Moon, for her sickness had progressed quite badly, at that point, and a distant land promised a cure independent of the lure of the Old Blood. She tried everything that she could, before resorting to the Healing Church's offer of blood ministration. When she returned she was no better, and she was bereft of the company of the witches she'd worked with prior, who'd been slain by the Hunter. In the ensuing chaos she made herself small and hidden as possible, carving out her own niche to search for a cure before she would have to resort to the temptation that had been there in Yharnam all along - and when she retreated away from Hemwick and moved into central Yharnam and her mobility was beginning to fail, the proximity to the Church led to her accepting the offer of blood ministration more swiftly than she'd anticipated, the world of Yharnam she'd known before almost just a dream.

Skills: Ophelia is first and foremost a scholar, devoted to insight in its purest forms–her inner eye is wide open, her dreams replete, and her brain intimately prepared to receive the requisite eyes for the thoughts she cannot yet touch. She knows intimately the body, and has been a close companion of death for as long as she remembers–she has performed plenty of vivisections and autopsies both, though only on those already close to death.

Ophelia is skilled in the arts of esoteric and arcane rituals, and has a sympathy with these items that affords her a certain ease in their use, as well as an easy intuition: though this is as much a curse as a blessing, for many of these forces are not benign.

Ophelia is surprisingly nimble with her hands, and now rejuvenated, has a grace and dexterity that is keenly uncommon. She is adept at very delicate and precise work, such as practising medicine and operating fine tools–she has a particular knack for removing the eyes of a corpse perfectly intact.

Possessions: A vial of her Paleblood, before the ministration occurs. Hidden away in her old home in Hemwick (abandoned years ago).

Insights:

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Deo’Irah

Deo’Irah heard the Lady Bor coming before she burst through the door, though the speed of it still came as a shock. She turned from Caleb to their diminutive employer, taking a half-breath to survey her stance and expression, until the adrenaline wore off and there was just a tired woman who’d lost too many people already. The number never stopped getting higher–despite her lissom youthfulness, it was especially easy for Deo’Irah to forget that she was old too (by human standards, at least) and she knew that weariness all-too-well. She smiled a knowing half-smile (the kind that was half-sad, too) and observed the revelation that Feevesha had spoken of Caleb to Lady Bor at some point during her stay–it seemed like Feevesha was a fairly well-liked person, from the limited sample size. Caleb’s devotion to her certainly implied some level of worth, even if much of that attachment was trauma bonding. Sir Yanin offered his thoughts just before Deo’Irah collected her thoughts enough to begin speaking:

"Reckon so. There ought to be no other divines left here but Caleb, and I am reasonably confident in the exact fates of every guest. Requested my squire to ascertain and see to the survivor."

“It appears that Feevesha summoned a number of wraiths to defend herself, and the piaan gave her the strength (and perhaps inclination) to offer up her flesh as Caleb’s vessel… He summoned some ghouls and wraiths, we dispatched them between us, and we have been discussing what happens next with Caleb. Things did not come to blows between us, Reina’s mercy be praised–we…” Irah followed up, pausing to inhale steadily and mentally prepare herself, and find the exact words she wanted to say.

“... given the circumstances, having learned how Caleb and Feevesha came to travel together and what precisely happened in here, we agreed it would be prudent to have Caleb come with us and help us dispatch the bandits, as kindly Feevesha offered to begin with. After that, he wishes to return to realms beyond–a fate one of our martially-inclined comrades will no doubt grant him once the task is completed.” Irah stated, hoping to be a little more brief than she was previously. As she recounted events as she understood them to the Lady Bor she glanced over to Sir Yanin, wondering if he wished to expound in any further detail (or indeed if Lady Bor requested more specific details).

“It’s our intention now to go after Bren, Caleb in tow. They must have taken him for a specific reason, one that couldn’t be accomplished here. You said one of your scouts went after the bandits in the woods–is there any information you think we should be privy to before we depart? Madara and I will also be able to provide medical attention to those yet wounded–some remain in the Fadewatcher Station, though there is more to do for our surgeon than myself… I suppose it is a matter of collecting the facts and assigning tasks to those best suited, now. Lhirin? Sir Yanin?” Irah continued, her tone suddenly shifted from weary to ponderous. She wondered who would speak up, what ideas would be proffered, if now assured of their competence (or, at least, one would hope) Lady Bor offered new information or the like? There was something about Rodoria’s adventurous spirit that went to her head like strong wine whenever she was here–in hindsight, she felt a little sheepish at her monologuing at Caleb. Still, nothing to do for it now, and the point she had wanted to make… well, it had been made. It had to be Caleb’s choice to listen and to let hope win over despair. Freagon… well, that needed a longer chat. It certainly needed tea.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Deo’Irah

As Caleb recounted the story of his imprisonment, his torture, and his fall Deo’Irah’s face was calamitously stern–only her eyes betrayed her shifting emotions, between seething contempt and heart-wrenching compassion. She made a note to remember the name of the perpetrator of these misdeeds, the deigan mage, immediately–he would be delivered the consequences of his actions, at some point. The pain that he had already inflicted would be far harder to heal than to simply continue the cycle of suffering and deliver to him the suffering that he had rightly earned, but it was in the rigour of forbearance that goodness blossomed. What made goodness so much less of an alluring choice was indeed that it required one sacrifice something with no hope of reward–whereas evil… evil was typically very direct about its rewards. It was with that in mind that she chose the path of forbearance, electing not to focus on the vengeance of the past but instead on the building of a new future.

Caleb was not a mundane. So easily the quick children of man forgot the ravages of time, and though a hundred years was well over a typical lifetime to them it was much less monumental to the deigan, whose youthful abundance lasted until snuffed out. It was even less still to a divine, who would simply discorporate from Reniam and return to their native realms. This short-sighted notion of exile with no means of recourse was not one that she could rightfully permit Caleb to indulge himself in. Trapped in a vessel that disgusted him, yes, he would rather simply end it all and sulk–but it would not redress what had been done to him, and as a divine he would not heal from those wounds without closure. Until he knew that Hai’vreh’era could never make anyone suffer like he and Feevesha did he would fester and spoil from within, left eternally to the agony of a spiritual malaise without end. If he did not secure a patron, given that he had fallen… that agony could mutate him in ways that would only lash out at others, and that was not a permissible fate for him or the innocents he’d potentially hurt.

“There are not words to console you, Caleb, for the suffering and abandonment you have been put through. I would speak them if there were, but… I fear it is action alone that will bring you peace. Forever is a long time, and the years will curdle that hatred within you into something that might change you forever, in ways that you might not want–to cut yourself off from anyone who might offer you companionship cannot do you any good. If it isn’t too much to ask… would you put your faith in me? I cannot promise it will be fast… but I will do aught I can to ensure the pain you suffered ends with you, and to ameliorate your pain wherever possible. If I might be so bold… I do not think the Glittering Lord deserves your forgiveness, Caleb. The Gods are a wondrous source of power, of purpose and direction, but the closer they get to the abstract the further away they get from the real. If they are so removed from you that they cannot or will not even come to your aid, are they worthy of your fidelity, of your oath? I know you must not look favourably on this world that took Feevesha from you, but… it also had to be capable of producing her and people like her to begin with. If we live our lives, make our choices, according to the principles she felt strongly enough to sacrifice herself for… it is like the most beautiful part of her is with us still. It cannot replace her warmth and her life… but it can pave the way for new life, and perhaps there will be more people like her if we forge a world worthy of them.” Irah spoke, her tone becoming very soft and affable–there was always a distinct force with which she spoke, an intensity that could be felt behind her words, and here it seemed far less commanding and direct so much as earnestly hopeful. After she finished speaking she inhaled sharply through her nose and composed herself, taking a quick moment to ensure her robes still felt comfortable and straighten them out. She picked herself up after Sir Yanin’s extra round of questioning, nodding at his assertion that she should talk. Her eyes flashed over to Sir Freagon, curious as to what his reaction to her speech might have been, but it was impossible for her to read the man at all. Her thoughts turned immediately then to Jaelnec, and that he would likely be her best bet at getting some information on Freagon–he’d seemed quite smitten earlier, and she could leverage that to get him to open up a little… though she would have to be gentle. She didn’t know Jaelnec very well, but something in his earnestness and lack of confidence roused a protective instinct within her–he represented a lot of the innocence that she sought to protect and appreciate, and she still had much of that earnest goodness flowing through her in that moment… but, through those rose-tinted lenses, she saw a beautiful confluence of her two favourite things: an opportunity to do good, and an opportunity to advance her understanding of a situation and further her goals. Good… well, good did not have to mean impractical, did it?

She looked over at Lhirin, and remarked to herself how similarly she felt about him with this little lens of rosy pink as she did without. She put it aside, though she could not help the corner of her mouth creeping into a little smile for a second. She composed herself, gave everyone a meaningful glance, and settled last on Caleb. With how much energy he’d spent… she wondered if he was even capable of maintaining an illusion on himself at the moment–and given that the Lady Bor had been an adventurer of some renown, if it was worth attempting to deceive her. The cost was not insubstantial if things went awry, and here in Rodoria people were much more ready to listen to a tale of aspiring heroism than anywhere else in the world. They’d come here precisely to sing that very song and listen to what the Lady Bor had to say, so earnest diplomacy did strike her as the avenue most practised as well as most safe–though she wondered to what extent Sir Yanin would ask her obfuscate certain details to maintain peace before Caleb could be smuggled out and events settled. Still… as matron to the people they were trying to save, though an ersatz one, Deo’Irah was confident the penin would truly want what was best for her people above all else and was open-minded enough to have entertained a summoner to begin with.

“Now is the time to choose, then: diplomacy or subterfuge? I suspect we would be best served by diplomacy, though..?” she began directed at Caleb, but trailed off as she shot Sir Yanin an inquisitive glance to see if he had any thoughts or objections they needed to consider. Lhirin and Sir Freagon could be expected to voice their concerns should they arise, so it was simply Sir Yanin and Caleb she focused on–if neither had anything to add that would change their plans, she’d turn around to go outside and meet Lady Bor with the others in tow.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Deo’Irah

Deo’Irah, quite emphatically, trusted Lhirin more than anyone else in the room. She would believe his assertions over practically anything that anyone else said–even to the contrary of the obvious or the easily missed. Deception was at least possible in anyone else, but Lhirin? He would not lie to her, he would not betray her–never. She knew it in her bones, and she would never betray him either. The others… Well, that was far more up in the air–and dealing with a Fallen Thalk? Deception on some level was practically guaranteed, but whether that was half-truths or outright lies she did not know. To her mind it relied quite heavily on the contents of that book, and… well, Lhirin was the only being she trusted in her immediate vicinity who could read Melenian. Irah set about examining his soul magically as soon as her thoughts slowed down enough for her to focus again–eager to observe the effects of the piaan and add them to her mental list of notes… which she’d have Lhirin transcribe himself later. He always enjoyed the particular insights into his soul that her improved senses offered–that was one of the many bonding experiences they’d had that had cemented the unbreakable trust in their relationship. Lhirin, predictably, went right for the book–and Irah raised her own eyebrow, quite impressed with the display of fortitude he’d displayed at not devouring it immediately–that certainly was his ordinary reaction to any sort of writing that might advance his understanding of… well, anything.

She had cause for concern as her examination of his soul revealed something quite peculiar–it was, for a fragment of a second, as though he’d briefly slipped into the Ether… as though he’d entered a slumber deep enough to actively refill his magical energy. It was peculiar because that was quite patently not how any of the piaan he’d imbibed previously had ever worked. She could not rule out that perhaps this batch was different, but much to her envy and chagrin the Melenians truly were peerless alchemists–she doubted very much that the product itself would cause such an anomalous side effect… and if it did, it’d affect the entire batch. Given that he then found himself drawn back to her, and even surreptitiously communicated with her using their sign language… Hm. Something was not as it seemed.

Without hesitation Irah extended her magical senses out to brush against Caleb, deliberately avoiding Freagon (with a sense of forbearance and restraint that Lhirin would likely not notice but find comparably incredible to her own) and attempting to work out what precisely had happened here–and she was intrigued by the information she received: his capacity was dismally low, about half of what she’d expect for a mundane completely untrained in magic. It was increasing steadily, indicating Caleb did indeed still have a connection to the Neverrealm and was syphoning energy from there… or another source, she supposed, though that seemed to add up in her mind. What could Lhirin mean that didn’t add up, then, if not the initial premise they’d accepted without concrete evidence: that Caleb’s full summoning did, indeed, arise from Feevesha’s sacrifice?

Well. That was inconvenient. Caleb’s eyes had met hers the second she’d began examining his soul, and she had to imagine that his eyes had followed hers as she’d looked down at Lhirin’s signs–their secrecy would not work with a divine, she knew that much. Any attempt to communicate was sufficient for them to understand. The situation was precarious, now: sufficient doubt had been introduced to the story, and if Irah said as much she could not be sure that Freagon would not simply slay Caleb where he stood. She did not want him to do that, not unless Caleb’s guilt was undeniable within her mind, and from Caleb’s soul she could sense his confusion at parsing what had been communicated to her. Wordlessly she reached out to Caleb again, hoping that some warning would convince him of at least her earnestness (if she had not already):

“It has never been my intention to deceive you–but there are things I must ask in the open. Please do not think me hostile, Caleb.” she thought, a glimmer of something in her eyes that she could not quite explain.

“... I am no stranger to deception, though I hope you believe me when I say that I do not relish it. There is little point in us not being open and forthcoming at this point: I have reason to… not be certain that events happened as we have thus far surmised they had. We have operated under the assumption that it was indeed Feevesha’s sacrifice that permitted your full summoning–is that true, to the best of your knowledge, Caleb? I know that mundanes have deceived and imprisoned you in the past, and that an understandable amount of doubt must linger in your mind about the intentions of all of us… but I swear to you that I have been nothing but open and honest, and that I attribute to you the same level of personhood as I do anyone else in this room. You might be inclined to believe that all of us are rotten, but you would be wrong–kindness and compassion can blossom within all of us, and I would show you that through both deed and word. What happened, Lhirin? It was like you fell asleep–deeply asleep enough to enter the Ether for a brief moment. We cannot resort to subterfuge if we are to display our earnestness to a Fallen Angel of Deceit. Your energy is terribly low, too, Caleb–barely enough energy to fill half of a mundane’s soul untrained in magic.” she said, well aware that her lengthy monologue would give Caleb plenty of time to respond–and her tone was one of carefully chosen words, curious but not accusatory. She broke eye contact with him as she began speaking, looking over at Freagon and then towards Roct, though her expression was one of genuine worry. It was this that Freagon had apparently missed–why would an Angel, by their own account imprisoned, lonely and forgotten and abused by mundanes, whose friend had ostensibly perished for offering to help, ever believe that someone threatening them so readily was any different? Perhaps he truly had no sense of empathy, or simply did not believe divines to be equivalent to people? Perhaps he was just a misanthrope.

Deo’Irah pitied him, in many ways, to have seen such tremendous suffering as to no longer be able to believe in the potential goodness within people. She knew full well that plenty of people who espoused virtue had not a shred of it within their souls–her mind drifted immediately to the Ascended Deigan and the War of the Feathers–and also that much of the time evil was simply banal, the result of circumstances often beyond an individual’s control. The world was so much more complex than that–and the kind of cynicism that had wormed its way into Caleb and Freagon’s heart was dangerous in the most perilous way of all–dangerous to their very souls… but convincing them to abandon their vigilance close to paranoia was extremely unlikely in a single encounter. To wit, she figured that simply getting Lhirin to share the information he’d received would be the best course of action–keeping Caleb out of the loop could only end poorly. Deceit was a part of his nature, yes, but nature could be overcome–one could always choose to be different; to be better.

If asked, Irah would respond with a truthful account of the situation as she understood it.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Deo’Irah

Deo’Irah offered Caleb a solemn nod at his assertions; she would not stop him if he tried to leave, that much was true–but there were considerations and revelations to be had here yet. Pieces of the puzzle they’d not have been able to intuit–nor able to extract from the tight-lipped Freagon–had been willingly proffered by Caleb… and it would be a waste to not investigate such things already. She sighed internally, also chiding herself a little at how emotional she’d gotten–she could not deny that Freagon’s logic had been sound, that much was true, but she was used to receiving that sort of information from Lhirin (who cooperated with her freely–Freagon was far too reticent and wilful to possibly be of the same use) and factoring those things in more freely. Proceeding from here was going to be very tenuous indeed, especially with Lady Bor and her entourage still waiting outside.

“I will not stop you, no. Though I would urge that you disguise yourself or otherwise make yourself unseen and leave with us–the owner of this house and her entourage are stationed outside, awaiting the results of our efforts. It would be… challenging to explain to her and the assembled townsfolk what precisely has happened here, especially so soon after the bandit attack. They are scared and in a tremendous amount of pain–seeing you as you are would only serve to incite further hurt in these beleaguered people… not that I am suggesting that their apprehension is right, merely that it is real and we must consider it.” Irah began, before turning to Sir Yanin (still fairly close to her) and taking a second or two to think before speaking again. He had proven meticulous with numbers, consistently checked what they thought they knew, and had a keen eye for detail–she had revealed enough to indict herself already, should he wish to take action against her, but he seemed quite eminently sensible. With only the four of them in the room and Lhirin already knowing her secrets… well, she had little to lose at this point. She figured that she might as well be honest.

“A swaigh, or Angel of Fear, is my second. I sense the question hangs in your mind. You might have been suspect of my extraordinary senses earlier, too, but it should be obvious in retrospect that those senses were Kinder’s, the iriao, rather than my own… but you would be correct in assuming that I am also learned in necromancy. More specifically in freeing spirits afflicted by undeath from their torment on this plane, not as some crude profaner of dead flesh. I offer this information knowing full well the danger of doing so, especially after what happened here, but you have proven sensible and keen. I trust that you will appreciate having a better grasp on my capabilities for what is to come, and we will leave it at that.” she spoke, quieting her voice considerably (certainly low enough for none outside the room to risk overhearing)–she intended primarily for Sir Yanin to hear it, though she was certain Freagon would too–and Caleb, most definitely. It was a risk, to be certain, but… if their temporary alliance were to end after the bandits had been apprehended and the healer returned, she and Lhirin could part ways with them and head towards Anaxim Forest as had been their loose idea beforehand, no worse for wear.

She then looked towards Sir Freagon, something in her expression having changed from the cold fury of before, now more akin to the embers of curiosity mixed with apprehension.

“... I should examine your soul now. You know now that my senses are keen enough to discern plenty… but I would rather you offer it freely than perpetuate this escalation of hostilities we have found ourselves in. May we talk before we head off to find the bandits?” she asked, her tone soft and only just verging on reproachful. A tiny part of her thought it might be wise to offer an apology, for things getting as out of hand as they had, but her pride and her anger stopped that thought dead in its tracks. Perhaps after she’d calmed down she’d feel differently, but… the bitter sting in her voice was not fully gone just yet, even as she took more steadying breaths to calm and centre herself in the situation they found themselves in. She shot Lhirin a quick glance and directed him towards the book that he’d been so enamoured with, also curious to learn of its contents. She could not discount that something in the diary, presumably Feevesha’s words, might contradict its account of having been gifted his summoner’s flesh in a moment of desperation. It would be good to confirm that before they proceeded further.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Deo’Irah

Irah’s look of anger melted away into a stunned look of genuine sorrow, her face crestfallen at Caleb’s words. She could not discount in her mind that this was potentially just a trick–Thalks would happily seek to divide and conquer alliances so as to improve their odds if they could help it… but she found herself in a position of trusting Caleb far more than she trusted Freagon, who clearly could have dealt with all of these threats alone and not batted an eye. Who’d been appraising them from the start, as best as she could tell. It did not fill her with confidence in his ability to work with others at all. The others… Sir Yanin especially seemed very competent, as did Madara. Jordan, Jaelnec, and Nabi had not gotten the chance to do much, but Irah could tell in the way that the stranger from afar moved and how she held herself that she was simply beset by inexperience with the type of foes they were dealing with and not wanting to make a terrible situation worse. Freagon alone stuck out as the one who did not fit in with them, and she struggled to clear that seed of doubt from her mind. She began to take careful steps into the room, glancing up at Sir Yanin as she did so in an implicit request for permission, before carefully moving herself around the various objects and stains on the floor. She did not get that far into the room, but got a little closer to Caleb and held her hands up, open-palmed, facing towards him as she spoke.

“The truth is, Caleb, that I am not much of a summoner at all. I know how to summon precisely two angels, and have no means of binding your will beyond diplomacy or persuasion. I seek to work in concert with angels, not to dominate them to my will and loose them against my enemies, as though you are nothing but tools.” Irah spoke far more softly than before, unable to keep the slightest hint of a quiver from her otherwise thus-far composed (well, controlled) voice.

“If anyone wishes to harm you, they will have to kill me. I meant what I said earlier: I would never enslave another soul. When I have rested, I will lend you what magical energy I can–and we can discuss our plans for what happens next.” she added, her voice regaining some of its usual steely composure as she straightened herself up and inhaled sharply, fighting back the barest hint of a tear from the corner of one of her eyes. She did not display the surprise on her face at the information Caleb had provided them with–namely, that the Sartal relic Sir Freagon carried with him had a spirit within it, and something within her squirmed uncomfortably. She was going to have to stick it out with him, then–she could not ignore the whispers of fate that surrounded him, nor the strangeness of his blade’s origins and its newly-revealed inhabitant. She did not relish the idea of spending more time around him, that much was certain, but her mind drifted back to poor Jaelnec. She could not leave him to Freagon’s devices, and wondered to herself if he was mistreating the lad in some way. Either way… nobody should have to travel with such an odious individual alone–she refused steadfastly to abandon Jaelnec to such a miserable fate. She also found herself bristling at the implications of his having concealed something as massive as a spirit inhabiting his Sartal blade–the deception irked her in ways that she could not (or, at least, did not) permit herself to think on too deeply lest she act rashly. Now was a time to mend fractured bonds rather than divide them further, if they were to save the town’s healer with a minimum of fuss.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Deo’Irah

Though Deo’Irah had not seen Lhirinthyl consume the piaan, something about the nature of his actions was… different, when next she observed her companion attempting to barge through Yanin in order to get a better look at what was going on in the room–she knew he’d go right for the book before he even indicated his interest… that alone wasn’t out of the ordinary–Lhirinthyl did not often consider the social consequences of his actions before he took them at the best of times, least of all when the prize of knowledge on offer was so tantalising… but something about his gait was energised and purposeful, whereas before she had noticed it was flagging–and she suspected that if she extended her magical senses out towards him she would confirm that he was suddenly replete with energy. Inconvenient timing, and wholly unnecessary, but she could not fault him for wanting to be prepared in case things went awry… in case this was a deception. It was… well, Irah hated to admit it to herself, but not a terrible course of action in principle. Trampling all over the scene that Sir Yanin was still observing, and potentially misconstruing his intent to Caleb (with whom their truce was only tentative still) was also certainly not out of character–he was very much like that anyway… Irah felt a sigh leave her lips that was not as disapproving as her internal monologue suggested, and she shot him a withering glare to compensate for the fact she was quite enamoured with his conviction and made a quick motion with her head to nudge him back–but Yanin’s gauntlet had already made quite plain his lack of permission to enter.

Caleb’s manner of speech was not unusual to Irah–she communed with angels directly fairly often, though usually not in the flesh… and not with other people. And the other people that she did meet in the presence of Kahr’wai’iel–also a fully summoned divine–spoke the same language that she did, and thus they all heard it as Fermian. There was something a little jarring about hearing a question asked in Rodorian and answered, to her ears, in Fermian–but it made sense in her mind and she was able to brush it off with little consequence. What interested her most was how Caleb answered the questions, the pauses he took, the tone of voice that he spoke in. It was… not easy to tell, with a Thalk’s face and True Words being used, but…

Irah had been so focused and the movement of Freagon’s throw so blindingly fast that she only saw the glint of silver in the air and heard the crash of its force sending Caleb back into the wall as he was hit squarely in the forehead. Her eyes opened wide with shock, at the sheer provocativeness if nothing else, and she whipped around to look at the source of the action as soon as Freagon began speaking and confirmed that he was the one that did it.

“By Rilon’s spite, you’re an arse. What were you thinking?!” Deo’Irah began, echoing Sir Yanin’s chastisement albeit with much more obvious anger. She turned her intense gaze towards him, once again roiling and seething with anger, but after a few seconds she exhaled sharply through her nose and took a measured intake of breath through her mouth.

“Your urge to confirm the presence of illusions is understandable, but your lack of decorum is not. Comport yourself better, and apologise to Caleb immediately.” she added, her voice taking on a note of the frosty fury that it had earlier, albeit to a much lesser degree. She quickly turned to look over at Caleb, her intensity becoming something much closer to concern as she appraised him–he’d healed already, of course, but she was more worried for his mental wellbeing than his physical safety. She knew from experience that Divines did not even need to be able to hear someone speak thanks to the power of True Words–simply intending for them to hear what you had to say was enough. It was something she’d done with Kinder before, working out what had happened to someone who’d been paralysed and had been unable to speak to get an account of events so as to assist with their healing. She did not speak out loud as she directed her thoughts out to Caleb, knowing that the intent of conveying her thoughts and feelings would be sufficient for him to understand:

“I am sorry, Caleb, for him–he… that was uncalled for. Please do not let it impact the progress we’ve made–I would hate for this to end in any more bloodshed, any more loss.” she offered, her lips turning down into a sad smile, reproachful and hopeful–but her eyes remained as intense as ever, and she could not stop herself from stealing angry glances at Freagon for his act of thuggery.