Tuujaimaa

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Torquil's unease fading to ease only widened Ophelia's smile, and she gave Torquil's shoulder another reassuring squeeze as he moved to grab the bodies--she felt the connection between them in his gaze, something about the way he looked at her shifting to... recognition, if she didn't know better. She certainly didn't remember Torquil: but that was a question for later, as the pallid man had expectations of them and pieces needed to be moved into place for their plan to work. Ophelia was about to turn on her heel to follow after Torquil when she heard the first ring of the bell. The sound was... almost familiar, but not quite. It was certainly different than it had been before, something about the act of using it seeming to imbue it with a depth and resonance it hadn't had while simply jostling around in his clothes... And then there was another, and this time Ophelia noticed movement in her periphery as she looked over the cots--the Messengers sank away into the floor from whence they came, as though the sound was... painful? Wrong? Ophelia couldn't tell--but they didn't like it one bit. Then another, and her eyes were immediately diverted towards the red glow and the otherworldly passenger that climbed out of it.

Her eyes widened at the sight of the Mad One--and then she audibly gasped as she saw its face. Its eyes... normally they'd be white, glowing like little stars--but this one... This one had dark, sunken pits instead of eyes, much like the pallid man. Something in Ophelia's stomach turned at the sight, and she sucked in a steadying breath as she hurried over to the body with Torquil and enacted her earlier plan. Keep this dead Hunter far away from these... she hesistated to even call them people. The beastman certainly wasn't, and the pallid one... Ophelia had her doubts about that too.

Stepping into the next room, Ophelia saw Farren moving for the lantern--exactly what she'd have done. There were other Messengers, though, aiming to get her attention--and Ophelia went straight for the one pointing toward the scroll, knowing that all the blood and gold in the world paled before the value of information.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

At the pallid man's request, Ophelia couldn't quite stop herself from balking before she shifted her expression back to one of curious apprehension--she turned to look at the cots of her sleeping compatriots, these people who could have been her if she hadn't woken up when she did... would she forgive those who'd awoken if they'd let this Soulkeeper do... what? Embrace their beasthood, like the poor soul who'd died--whose eye rested even now in a glass jar near Ophelia and the cot. She felt a violent and sickening impulse sweep her in a rush of heat, and she caught Farren's gesture and expression just at the apex of that moment. There was a moment of synchronicity between them, and Ophelia used it to turn back to Torquil--who seemed confused, rather than filled with conviction like she and Farren. Ophelia turned around again and spoke out to the pallid man:

"Torquil here needs a little direction, let me explain to him--he's much stronger than I am, I fear I'd crumple beneath the weight of the sleeping fellows..." she said to the pallid man, her tone soft and kindly. She turned on her heel and walked over to Torquil with a bright smile on her face, facing toward him and interposed between the him and the others such to block their vision of him--unnaturally tall as she was, it was not a difficult thing to obscure Torquil's face--though his wider frame would definitely still be visible past her. Ophelia's mind spun for a moment--the beast-thing must also have a beast's hearing, so she would be limited in what she could communicate verbally. She reached out and gave Torquil's shoulder a reassuring squeeze while she looked at him and mouthed as clearly as she could: "Play along. Let Farren attack first." as she did so, and then she began speaking normally:

"We're going to help take the Hunters outside, okay, dear? Why don't you come and grab this one near me and help me with it, then you can grab another?" and began to lope off towards her original position with the cot once more, aiming to collect both the corpse and the eyeball--though with the cover of sudden movement, she hoped she'd be able to do so relatively sneakily. She could stash it and come back for it later, or attempt to smuggle it out on her person... She resolved to take it with her and deposit it outside somewhere out of the way, and hope something so innocuous would go unnoticed by these thugs. She waited for Torquil's compliance or disobedience as appropriate, looking at him expectantly if he had followed to take this corpse in particular. She couldn't help but think that any of these other people could have been sweet Torquil, and it only stoked the coals of rage within her more as she considered the very real threat of violence already delivered to them. They were going to regret this, even if it was the last thing she did.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Something in Ophelia's expression turned at the pallid man's... repugnance? Condescension? She wasn't quite certain what it was, but it had provoked quite the proverbial snarl from the shockingly blue-eyed Farren--and now it threatened to do the same to her. She could feel her other-self's more lucid influence slipping away and the bile in her belly rising up with indignation, and what little lucidity she had left had a choice to make: withdraw and let the fire within reign, or make a push for rationality and reason. It all hinged on what their intentions were: she remembered... very little of this so-called Harrow, beyond that their idea of help was to become or emulate beasts, of all things--as though ailing Loran and fallen Isz's examples weren't enough to know how the scourge of beasts inevitably ended. She hadn't the time to delve deeper into her memories, and she could not reason away the open hostility they'd showed...

Ophelia swallowed the rising heat and took a deep breath in to cool her inflamed mind--she couldn't trust the others to think, to consider the implications that hovered beyond ordinary sight. Torquil... he seemed simple; dim, but gentle and sweet. Something in his dopey smile and the haunted depths of his eyes told her that many might have been unkind to him... and with that axe in his hand, there was something of the woods about him. She pitied the poor soul, and would try her best to keep him--all of them, really--safe this night. To that end... they were going to be safest if they could get outside; they could make the decision to fight or acquiesce then.

"... Farren, be a dear and help me outside? We... don't want to be hurt, now, do we?" Ophelia asked, her tone whimsical but her eyes, locked on to Farren's as she spoke, gave off an eager flash. She hoped that he'd... well, a part of her hoped he'd pick the fight anyway, and another part hoped they could get outside and assess the situation a little better before they got themselves into trouble.

Still... Ophelia liked their odds; even newly turned as they were, she was confident in their ability to overcome these foes if it turned to that--when it turned to that, most likely. She did not see things remaining peaceful for very long after they got outside, if they did.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

As Ophelia gazed into the oddly pale man's eyes and found some spark of recognition, her other-self tutted and muttered to herself with equal parts curiosity and suspicion. There was something there, something familiar, that she'd seen before in the witches from whom she'd learned. Her apprenticeship had cultivated her inner sight greatly, exposed her to secrets and insights she'd never have imagined otherwise--and she'd learned full well the benefits that working with the dead brought. This man... he might as well have been dead, for all the vigour in his features--and his eyes... the limitless pools of black shimmered with unknown vistas, promises of knowledge beyond the ken of the terrestrial world. They also, however, had a certain gleam or luster about them that reminded Ophelia of the rippling movements of blood--one that her other-self shuddered at, and that she took a queer interest in.

The situation was interesting indeed: many paths diverged from this point. If they simply slaughtered the beast-thing, would the others come to heel? Would the bell-wielding one divulge anything of their motivations, their reasoning? Was this simply a test, concocted by the Healing Church? What would happen if they acquiesced to the request? Ophelia's mind spun with possibilities, the speed and vehemence of the thoughts enough to almost make her dizzy--but Farren's voice snapped her back to the situation at hand, and his tone provoked a certain sympathy within her. The tone the bell-holding man took was... Well, rude. Unbecoming. Ophelia found it deeply lacking in the appropriate respect, just as Farren appeared to, but her pride was among the quietest of the voices speaking in her mind at that moment. Curiosity took the forefront, the promise of answers beyond the obvious path. The writing on the wall... it was a set of instructions; not for them, clearly, but for some sort of Handler. Someone who was quite obviously not here--whether that was the fault of the bell-wielder and the beast... it seemed unlikely. Perhaps allies of theirs? Perhaps enemies? There was not even guaranteed to be a connection at all: but Ophelia knew this - the Church found their kind extremely valuable. Ophelia was quite certain they'd invest a considerable number of resources in retaining their new acquisitions: perhaps even the First Hunter himself? That was who the writing had directed its readers to, after all.

So... why not play along? She was quite certain it was terribly dangerous, but... now that the beast was here, it was dangerous either way. Even if they acquiesced only long enough to get out into the streets, that would afford them a considerable advantage in terms of terrain: it would give them options. They were Hunters now, they... Ophelia had heard stories and snatched scared glances at the grisly work they could do. She'd heard their tirelessly dogged footsteps, heard stories of their prowess and stamina... Even if she did tire while running, that'd give them plenty more time to think.

"You make a fair point, dear... I will come with you, if you wish, but... why do you need Hunters? Your eyes... You've seen things, haven't you, love? I'd... well, forgive my forwardness, but I'd just love to know what's going on here." Ophelia asked, her eyes wrinkled and smile wide. There was something of a manic gleam to her, to be certain, but it was a wiliness she knew the witches had always respected: perhaps it'd charm this man just enough to give her more to cling to.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

It took Ophelia by surprise when both the first thud against the door happened and the bestial noise that preceded it, and her mind scrambled to work out what could possibly have created such a sound... but she knew, deep down, that it was a beast. That which she was supposed to hunt--there was no mistaking it, especially not as a Yharnamite. The voice that had spoken to them was... reasonable, she wanted to say, but that wasn't quite the right word. It seemed like they would be best served by avoiding combat, for now--at least until they could assess their opponents, and work out what precisely it was they'd need to do to secure their victory should things come to blows. Ophelia knew that the eyes had it, of course: they always did. Once she'd gotten a look into their eyes she'd know what to do, she was certain of it.

Another thud, and the door's protestations increased in volume--seemingly in tandem with the exhortations of the beast seeking to shatter it. She turned around, looking over at Torquil with a somewhat urgent but not worried expression--and even from this distance away, she could see just enough of his dull and mud-brown eyes to know that he was in a similar situation to her: waging an internal war against the fire and the frenzy that roiled within, ready to pounce and rip and tear. She locked eyes with him and pointed to the chalkboard next to him, then made a sideways rubbing motion with her free hand as she pointed the spear towards one of the cleaning implements.

"Rub it out, dear?" she mouthed, making sure she was slower and more exaggerated in the movements of her mouth to help Torquil understand. Tell No One--that was what it said... and these roustabouts had malign intentions towards the church. This secret of theirs, it was one of two things that united them--that and their newfound status as Hunters. They would do well to keep it from the prying eyes of blood-drunk Yharnamites, especially those with misgivings about their... employers? Handlers? She was not certain what to call the members of the Healing Church, nor what her relationship with them was really supposed to be--but that mattered increasingly little as she heard the wood finally splinter and wheeled around to look. She took a step back to give herself plenty of space, and held the spear like a staff or walking stick as she expectantly awaited the barrier between them to finally vanish. She looked upon the claws of the revealed beast with equal parts vindication and curiosity, eager to understand what was happening here. The feelings of bloodlust had not diminished in the slightest, but were instead shelved: coiled like a snake in waiting, ready to pounce at the first sign of danger.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia turned back to look at the other two as she heard them heeding her summons, her breaths deep and ragged. Then... something, she heard the words but couldn't understand what they meant--but something about it rang true to her, like a sense memory that she could not quite access beyond the veil of mist. Her other-self looked back, equally pensive, before shrugging. It didn't matter, she supposed - words she could understand were next. It... wasn't the reaction she expected. Nor the one she'd hoped for--it seemed... She didn't know. She struggled to think, struggled not to leap into action--but she breathed, and let the rhythm steady her mind just enough to regain some of her forfeited wits. The bell; it was the sure sign of someone from the Church... but some of the others around them were very clearly against the Church... and the growling, well. There was nothing for it, she supposed, but to take a look at their eyes. Voices, words, smells--these things could all lie... but the eyes never did, not once. She'd yet to get a proper look at Farren and Torquil's, she remembered, but that would have to wait--she could assume, for now, they were fine. They certainly seemed it.

Ophelia mouthed to the two men behind her: "Ready?" as she moved to unbar the door and open it, spear ready--but as soon as she tried to open it she felt the handle stubbornly resist her attempts. The door was locked, it seemed. She took a step back to be out of its reach, and her spear would be held ready in battle position, pointed directly outward. She knew that things would happen very quickly as soon as they did, and her eyes were very firmly trained forward toward the growling individual who'd bade her open the door. She spoke out to the stranger, her free hand motioning to beckon Torquil and Farren: "Ah, the door's locked... Forgive me, I'll just need to find the key..."

She turned quickly to give the both of them a quick look, indicating with her eyes and free hand that they should help look for a key, or... Well, get the door open however was necessary. Beyond that, every fibre of her body was clenched and ready to pounce--she'd never felt so viscerally alive, so in tune with her body--she'd always relied on her mind, and she could not tell if her other-self felt relieved to be taking the back seat for once, or worried for what would happen to her. The thought of death did not even cross her mind--she was so filled with vigour that she could scarcely even consider what it would mean to lose... and they were Hunters, for pity's sake! To take apart common Yharnamites was like a hot knife cleaving through butter, or the beaks of the shrikes picking apart the corpses strung up on their crosses in her home--and especially these, that seemed violent and out of touch with reality.

Something crossed her other-self's mind too; the notes on the chalkboard. They indicated that the person to inform about the results was the First Hunter, and that this was all very secretive... so was it coincidence that these people had found them here, or something deeper? Ophelia did not like all of the potential answers to those questions, did not like how thinking about them took away from savouring the high of the blood. She couldn't remember the last time she was blood-drunk, not like this--but the thoughts threatened to overtake her and soon she was back in her body again, heart racing as she waited for the grand reveal that would determine what happened here.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia continued her morbid work rapidly and efficiently, quickly locating a suitable glass vessel nearby to store the plucked eyeball within--she looked around, at the little Messengers, at the scrawled text on the chalkboard, at the door. That bell... she turned away from the door back to the chalkboard, focusing for a second on the words before the gentle peal of the bell drew her gaze away again. A church bell... and what sounded like townsfolk. There was a gruffness to their accent, a hoarseness of the throat that sent a gentle shiver down her spine. It made her think back to the nights of the hunt in he past, and in her mind's eye she could almost hear the tearing of flesh and the gurgling of freshly spilled viscera. The corpses the Hunters left behind... they were often mangled in ways she could only describe as visceral, entire holes through the torso and...

"All Paleblood → Hunters NO EXCEPTIONS
TAKE NOTES!
AVOID DANGER – keep safe, no dead
Results → 1st Hunter
TELL NO ONE"

Ophelia took a moment to pause, suddenly panting, as her mind whirred and wheeled in too many directions at once. That damn bell kept ringing, and each of its notes struck her thoughts like a peal of thunder. How could she concentrate like this? How could she parse just what was going on here? She sucked air in through her teeth, inhaled sharply, and slammed her spear into the ground to make a loud enough noise to get everyone's attention. Rather than speak directly to Torquil and Farren she walked up to the closed doors whose handles indicated an attempt to gain ingress, and slammed her fist on the door proper in response to the outside demand.

"Oh, dearie, I don't think that's such a good idea... You see, the door's all that stands between us. If I open it, and you have the scourge..." she began, her voice becoming deeper and more guttural as she spoke. Her hairs begun to stand on end, her senses magnified, and she felt her blood course within her hot and vicious and angry. The fire threatened to sear her very mind from within, if she did not release the pressure, and she felt her hand instinctively prepare the spear for its intended purpose. She swore she could feel the wood groaning and protesting against the fiery strength of her grip, the vibrations rattling through her bones, as the world contracted to this pinprick of heat.

"I'll have to kill you, love. Do you still want me to open the door?" Ophelia asked, her head tilting slightly to the side as a little drool escaped her lips subconsciously. She wanted them to say yes, she realised, to give her the excuse... but that in and of itself was enough of a shock to her that she snorted and began to question it--but the fire within would not be denied for long. She had barely considered what Farren and Torquil would do, and she blinked quickly as she remembered, but it was too late now. They would make their moves, and if all went well...

The Hunters would Hunt.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia observed the eye with utterly rapt fascination, to the point even of ignoring any replies directed at her from the others--she peered ever-closer at the eye within the corpse, studying every detail about it with a hunger and curiosity that felt almost visceral. She noted the deterioration of its pupil and its iris most keenly, for it was a sure sign of the scourge of beasts--and she'd hauled many a corpse with eyes not dissimilar to this one after a night of the hunt, when those too blood-drunk to realise they'd crossed a line got mowed down by some hunter or another. Her other-self across the mist looked pensive, appraising even, as she studied her new self with a Hunter's body. A part of her had always wondered what it was like, producing the corpses rather than clearing them away, but...

Ophelia's attention was snapped back to reality by a bone-chilling howl. It was one that she'd heard a handful of times, for there was a certain almost-familiarity to its timbre, but she could not quite place what it was. Her new instincts, however, responded in kind--her spine straightened, the hairs at the nape of her neck stood up, and something indelible in her focus shifted from the perspective of prey to one of fellow predator. The urge felt hot and sticky within her, and as she peered into the eye of this deceased almost-Hunter she took a sharp intake of breath that cleared some of the heady urges. This was what she was reckoning with, now--and her other-self whispered oft-repeated terms into the back of Ophelia's skull: Fear the Old Blood.

Straightening herself up, Ophelia rose to her uncanny natural height and peered over her surroundings one more time, musing aloud while she did so:

"The eyes... This almost-Hunter here was turning into a beast. The iris and pupil begin to split as the beast grows within; we need to pay attention to things like that now, don't we? It's our job to... to..." she began, before realising that she did not, in fact, have any particular knowledge about what it was they were supposed to be doing. Why they were here specifically, why there wasn't someone from the Church to... arm them? Garb them? Instruct them? What was she hoping from them, really? She picked her spear up, its rigidity comfortable in her long and slender fingers, before looking around the room--she could use it as a walking stick, yes, but something to carry the ungainly thing in would be necessary. There wasn't anything that'd suffice to hand, but she could make do: she quickly jaunted over to a disused medical station, ripping apart cloths and bandages as necessary to create a holster for the spear about her back. It was a quick job, her hands nimble and surprisingly easy to put exactly where in her mind she wanted them to go--and after maybe a moment's work she turned back to the pale corpse and, in a swift and practiced motion, went to pluck out one of its eyes as intact as it would vacate the skull--she was confident she would not burst it, but it might already have been structurally compromised. Even if it reduced itself to just fluid, there was another eye--Ophelia looked around for a glass container of some kind, perhaps a vial or test tube, that she might be able to somewhat preserve the fluid of the eye if it could not be removed whole.

She also went to pick up a needle as she went, intending to procure a sample of this black and viscous blood too; knowledge of the church's activities and proof of things beyond her ken might be valuable bargaining tools... and these two, Torquil and Farren... they seemed nice. She'd have to get a closer look at their eyes before she really decided anything, but... well, that could wait.

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.