Tuujaimaa

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia opened the door and peeked her head out, looking ahead towards the view that awaited her--as well as being a clue as to where exactly they were--and then to her left and right. She saw Victor first, and caught a glimpse of someone on the other side of the door that she couldn't see. Farren, she supposed. She walked forward, beckoning Torquil behind her with a gentle motion of her outstretched hand. She got maybe six feet from the door before making a show of looking around and turning back towards the entrance to the clinic, shrugging her shoulders for any to see, as though indicating the coast was clear--and she waited patiently for the beastman to follow, only for Farren and his new ally to spring their trap upon it.

She brandished her spear ready to react to the first movement the beastman made, relatively safe at the furthest point back that she could be--Torquil would be directly between her and the entrance, and the other two were closer still. She'd have plenty of time and reach with a spear to make a decent first move as soon as she assessed how the beastman would react to the ambush. Her first thought was to drive her spear as far as she could into its eye: even if the thing regenerated, which she knew that beasts could do (and Hunters, she tried to keep in mind), temporarily blinding it and hopefully limiting its range of movement in combination with the narrow space it found itself in. Of course, this would depend entirely upon what her companions ended up doing... but she was braced for that manoeuvre in particular, and would adjust on the fly as the situation demanded it.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Deo’Irah

Upon entering the Fadewatcher station once more, Irah’s crimson-red eyes glinted in the firelight as she surveyed the state of the wounded once more. She was drawn first to Madara, who was currently helping one of the men become reunited with his lost digits–and Irah couldn’t help but observe the process with keen interest. She’d seen things like it before, though Deigan hands were surpassingly delicate even by the standards of hands and the swiftness and neatness of the work Madara was doing impressed her. She knew better than to interrupt an artist in the middle of her work, especially something as fiddly as this, and so she placed herself somewhere unobtrusive but with good visual access. She could observe this with keen interest and simultaneously listen to the scout Quintin’s report on what precisely was happening with the bandits–and though she did not vocalise her willingness to assist in favour of listening, she would move to assist Madara if at all requested in whatever ways she deemed helpful.

Irah nodded along as they described the densely wooded nature of the route and that sleeping atop a horse or other beast of burden was not going to be a viable option–she’d expected as much. She observed the drawings Quintin laid out with keen interest, and even keener interest that Sir Yanin (or Jordan, she supposed) would carry such things with him. She’d expected a journal of some kind, something to take notes, but it seemed that the knight was really quite exceedingly prepared. She felt a twinge of admiration cross her face as a wry smile formed on her lips, and then Irah tuned back into the conversation at hand: some 30-odd–better to estimate up to 40–bandits with decently maintained equipment and enough sense to have some order to their operation.

This was certainly not a run of the mill operation–a loose collective of bandits wouldn’t number much past ten without intelligent leadership and a steady stream of profit or other resources. They were bold enough to have attacked a guarded settlement, too, intent on taking the healer specifically. Given the ease with which they’d thrown away the lives of their compatriots, Irah suspected that it was the leader or someone close to them who required the attention of the healer–otherwise such a risk would be the height of foolishness, and their organisation was such that she did not feel comfortable assuming that.

Whatever motivations she could glean from this limited information were… imprecise, at best–and such hazy guesses were a poor foundation for a solid plan. She’d let the others bring up their observations first, though she did direct a question to Quintin:

“Forgive me if this seems… out of place, but could you observe anything about the moods of the patrolling bandits? Alert, of course, but… eager? Dismayed? Did you catch any snippets of conversation? If we discern something about their temperament, it may point us towards the ‘why’ of this situation–and if we know why they’ve done what they’ve done, that will surely point us in a good direction.” Irah asked, her gaze still fixed on Madara and her work but her words sounding no less present for it.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Deo’Irah

Deo’Irah inhaled sharply through her nose as she began a pattern of controlled and practised breathing while she listened to the others, and considered events yet to come. The Baroness Bor suggested bringing those yet able-bodied alongside them, and Sir Yanin and Sir Freagon both indicated their disdain for the idea. Irah agreed with them; their usefulness would be slight, and the risk would be immense. Leaving Borstown without adequate protection–if one could assume it had adequate protection to begin with, given all that happened–was unconscionable, less so for the well-guarded Baroness in her big house with her staff but for all of the people of the village who relied on the grace extended by the Fadewatchers and the Baroness. Too many children had already lost parents and families lost breadwinners–to say nothing of friendships, of loves, of all the things that might was supposed to protect. Irah would not allow more to be taken from these people who had already suffered so much if she could at all help it.

“I doubt it will be that simple, Lhirin. There is likely not a road for us to take the stagecoach, and it would be too conspicuous either way… Sleeping on Arvos will probably not get me the restfulness I would need to replenish my reserves. I agree with Sirs Yanin and Freagon about not bringing the wounded, Baroness–they have suffered enough. They will be liabilities, and I would not have them throw their lives away for their childrens’ sake if nothing else. I am inclined to come along, Sir Yanin, if only so we have at least one extra healer–if Bren is injured, he will need attention. It would be foolish for Lhirin to waste the piaan he consumed, too. Let us rendezvous with the others and have this discussion with everyone caught up to speed, hmm? Lady Bor is right that we have limited options, but… There is a path through this. We will find it together.” Irah stated, though more hurriedly than she had before–and her voice was less impassioned than it had been previously, replaced with something less intense but still fierce in its own gentle way: hope.

Sir Freagon’s justification did not surprise Irah too much–from what little she remembered of the Knights of the Will, they were supposed to be great heroes. Freagon was an arse, yes, but he took his vows very seriously. To have a page like Jaelnec who still wasn’t promoted to squire… Irah suspected the weight of duty was heavy on his heart and mind, and that his age only exacerbated that fact. Cynicism, in her experience, was how the aged and weary protected themselves–for the nature of the world was just as cruel as it was kind, and it had no regard for the values of its inhabitants on any individual basis. The older one got, the more mired in regrets and woes… Vela Bor was a clear example of that. There was a weariness about her that was only found in those who had suffered and lost a tremendous amount–it was the same kind of sullen resignation that Deo’il sometimes got when Irah would ask him about Gazzeralesh as a child.

With that spoken, and a couple of seconds of quiet contemplation, Irah began to move forward, as if to lead them out of the room and rendezvous with the others. She was happy to take the lead if none of them would, and would continue heading downstairs until something or someone stopped her.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

It was then that Ophelia realised that the pallid man, the beastman, and their lackeys--they couldn't see the lantern at all. They couldn't see the messengers. She turned around to look at the lantern, conspicuously lit with a pale-blue flame that seemed deeply out of the ordinary--even to one learned in some measure of esoteric practices like Ophelia. Something about it seemed... soothing, though--a pale gleam, just like the scroll that she'd read said. The... Hunter's Dream? She'd never heard of such a thing, but in the back of her mind across the veil of mist her other-self pressed herself against the boundary that separated them and some of the fog began to dissipate. Ophelia's mind twisted and turned, the hot and red flashes of urgent passion from the blood beginning to cool before the pale lucidity offered by the strange lamp and its guardian messengers.

Ophelia's eyes snapped back to the room, her brief reverie broken, as Torquil shuffled alongside her and shot her a wondering look. She didn't have a plan with Farren, per se, but they'd come to an unspoken agreement that violence most certainly was the answer--and violence they would have. Ophelia just had to work out what Farren had done--and her eyes drifted towards the closed door. Farren must have left and closed it--it'd be hard to hide in this fairly open room... and he'd had that wicked glint in his eyes of someone resourceful who was going to make things work.

"Drop them just there, dear?" Ophelia smiled, pointing about halfway between the door and the rightmost corner on that wall. Out of the way enough for them to get some distance, and to imply they would be filling up that corner and that the others should pick different ones. She wondered if it'd work--but then the pallid one hissed at her, and she snapped to him with a hard stare that she quickly tried to pass off as curiosity. She shrugged her shoulders at his words and nodded before speaking:

"... If you insist, dear. Shall we, Torquil?" she said, her tone flat and even as she turned around to look at Torquil, giving him a wry smile before heading over towards the door. She'd usher him to stand on the other side of the door so he'd be ready to bolt through if necessary, and turned the handle. As it swung open she moved to go through it immediately, not waiting for the pallid one, his pet, or the beast to have a chance to react--if they followed them out, they could turn the fight much more easily with their more advantageous positioning and ability to utilise the open space--fighting a hulking thing like that beastman would have been unpleasant indoors. As she stepped through Ophelia looked for Farren and where he might have gotten to, hoping for some sort of signal to be made obvious.

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.