Tuujaimaa

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia's mind began to race at the ringing of the bell, the swells and eddies of otherworldly ripples cascading through the air beyond sight--and something about it disturbed that thin veil of mist that had been separating her two distinct selves. All of the inquisitiveness and insight began to billow and swell within her, the crimson flames of blood and violence hissing and crackling and waning in intensity as her mind blossomed, but the insights did not simply stop there. They swelled within her, greater and greater, until she could feel the beginnings of shapes forming within her flesh - shapes, she realised, that were symbols. Transliterations, of the inhuman sounds of the cosmos, reduced down to a form that her mundane flesh could begin to comprehend--etched within the very surface of the seat of her consciousness... and within them, the eyes one needed to comprehend the mysteries. She could see the squiggles, the almost wormlike writhing, of something deeper within her if only she would focus and think.

But the fiery beast-blood within her was not simply done, and she snapped back to reality just in time to feel the searing heat of claws tearing through her flesh and her lifeblood spilling out. Like a gush of lava from within her it burned, but before she had the time to even wince with the pain of it the fire had seared her flesh back together and Ophelia finally got to experience this infamous regeneration she'd witnessed in the others. As she completed her motion she found herself face to face with the sight of Torquil and Farren's assault against the Mad One. Something inside her screamed out to say not to attack it, to go for the pallid man instead, but it was quickly silenced by the terrible reprisal dealt against both. She winced at Farren's injury but openly balked at Torquil's, only for the sounds of the slavering beast behind her to distract her and mandate that she react to it before she met a similar blood-soaked fate as he had... though despite the horror of the sickening crunch of mangled flesh, Ophelia felt oddly calm--it was nothing she'd not seen before, after all. She'd seen what she'd wager was worse than that, out there in the dark of the woods by firelight--but not to someone she'd felt like she'd known, nor someone she felt even a shred of kinship with or sympathy for.

Something within her hardened at the realisation that Torquil was gone, just like that--she felt her tender heart ossify in a moment, and a steely determination narrowed the features on her face. It was the pallid one's fault--they should've gone for him first, she should've told them what to do! Sorrow and anger waged war for control of her emotional state and ended up at a stalemate as survival instinct kicked in, and Ophelia called upon that hidden strength within her to surge forward into the now-open doorway and right up to the opening that Victor had apparently made for someone to capitalise on. Farren's job, it seemed--she did not take the initiative upon landing from her burst of enhanced speed, using it only to deftly manoeuvre around any obstalces in her way, but stayed crouched and poised and looking intently at Farren, as though waiting to follow up on his lead or make an opportunity for him. This much closer to the bell the visions and thoughts in her mind swam, whispers reverberating through the base of her skull and deep into her soul--and it twisted her features into a pale, intense grimace. Depending on Farren's fortitude and the depths of his paranoia, what he perceived her as doing might not be what she intended--but she found herself too stunned to speak, too consumed by the visions and sensations. She could only hope they struck the pallid man down before everything could catch up to them... and that together, the three of them could make it out together. For poor, sweet Torquil, if nothing else.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia very quickly found herself on the proverbial--and literal--back foot, as the Beastman lunged at her with a ferocity reserved only for things that you had already (basically) killed that had gotten the chance for revenge. It did not suit her particularly well; her years of handling death and the deceased were usually with more placid subjects. She much preferred that--maybe she should've taken its eyes while it was down, so it would have to regenerate more. Maybe she could drum up quite the collection in that manner, or hold a record of how many eyes she could pluck from a single beast. Would they fray at the irises in the same way?

But her thoughts of should-haves and could-have-beens was put to the side as her body demanded her attention, and she assessed the situation unfurling before her with as much clarity as she could in the very small amount of time she had. The thing had both claws poised to strike at her, and she could do with getting behind it as much as possible--so she took a low leap into a roll 45 degrees to her right (towards the buildings) just as the beastman was approaching the point of his swing where his momentum would keep him locked into that position. She didn't even try to set up an attack with her evasive manoeuvre, finding her chest beginning to protest with lightly raspy wheezes and sucking breaths. Apparently that quickstepping was energy intensive, and her new form had much more than her old one did, but was still limited--she could at least keep that in mind, now, though.

She intended to then duck and weave as best as possible, depending on how the beastman moved to follow up from his attack. She wondered if simply buying enough time for Victor to get inside the clinic and slay the pallid man, perhaps whatever magic it was might dissipate along with him? She wasn't sure - this was hardly a consistent or precise art, and her knowledge was far from all-encompassing. Still, until the situation developed and Farren--now returned from his little sojourn--got back in the action she was limited in her ability to form tactics--and against beasts, a lack of aggression was rarely helpful.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia's mind became focused and clear upon the first peal of that unnatural sound, something about it felt so... not familiar, but not unfamiliar either. She could not rightly describe the proverbial (and perhaps literal) chord that it struck with her, and she immediately looked around her surroundings to see if there was another pool of glowing light for a Mad One to crawl up out of. Based on her positioning she still had the beastman's corpse in her sights, and she had noted the strange glint of light coming from within it before the second ring sounded. She did not know what was happening, but based on that wheezy, raspy, and most importantly smarmy comment from the pallid man.

"Kill him!" Ophelia urged again, her voice now taking on a slightly more guttural aspect and a resonance that did not match her lithe and kindly features. She pointed her spear down at the beastman and his rapidly regenerating injuries, knowing that her cry would serve as instruction for both groups: for the Yharnamites in the clinic to turn upon the pallid man, and for Victor and Torquil to ready themselves to attack the beastman as it rose up. The healing process was beginning, and as Ophelia blinked in the heat of the moment it was already over--like they'd done nothing at all. Communion with the arcane was never simple, and never without risk--even her beloved mentors had been careful about how much and often they called upon the forces that lurked beyond the thin veneer of reality as most knew it... She made an educated guess to herself that the beastman could be brought back only a limited number of times, but she was even more certain that simply slaying the pallid one would end the whole fight.

Ophelia wanted to make another attack directly on the beastman, to strike at it as it was rising from the ground, but the wide sweep presented by the Mad One meant she would have to take evasive action rather than attack... though if she could do what Farren had, and what she'd sometimes seen Hunters do peeking behind her curtains on nights of the hunt prior, she might be able to do both... but she figured that she likely would not be able to do a great deal until it had been softened up again by more furious blows from Torquil and Victor. She noticed Victor's squeamishness and wondered why she didn't feel the same way--perhaps it was just the burning heat of the transformation, perhaps it was just adrenaline. It didn't really matter--directing this mismatched lot towards victory was what mattered, and so Ophelia called upon that surge of inhuman strength and speed laying within her to dash backwards four or five feet, solidly out of the way of the cane swipe, and inviting the Mad One to chase her down. That would free up the doorway so one of them could get in and butcher the pallid man if the Yharnamites inside didn't listen to her again. The surge of bestial strength was greater than she expected, however, and she ended up seven or eight feet back instead--and she couldn't keep the look of surprise off of her face at the sheer distance she now appeared to be capable of.

She beckoned to it with the spear in her hands, trying to get its attention, though she felt the sting of the heat in her lungs at her exertion and made a note to herself not to try and do that too much--she'd hardly been hale and healthy before the transfusion, unlike Torquil and Farren, and she was certain she could not exert herself as much as they... and it was already clear that her mind was the brightest among them by a significant margin--they were each good at quite different things, it seemed, which was really quite fortuitous. Perhaps oddly so.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia relished in the gory finish of her first kill, letting out a trembling and ecstatic breath as she felt its life force slip away. I tried to warn you, she thought, that if you had the scourge I'd have to kill you.. Her mind turned toward the more pressing danger--the Mad One, reaching down with its awful clawed hands to crush her between its inhuman limbs. She ducked and wove past it, rolling at a 45 degree angle to get beneath it and cross over towards the line of sight of the doorway before she took another long step forward, maybe 2-3 feet, and turned on her heel to be facing the Mad One again, spear braced for whatever movement it might try to make.

"The Beastman is dead! If you kill the Pallid One, dears, you live. If you don't, you die." She shouted out into the clinic, voice triumphant and resonant with the urgings of their victory. She hoped beyond hope that they would see sense and listen to her, more scared of the hunters than the now-solitary gaoler keeping them under duress. Some of them might have followed him willingly, but at least a few looked like they'd been pressed into service. Their weakest link was their lack of trust; and her words the hammer of doubt that would liberate them... or so she hoped. It would be a shame to kill them, though... she could add their eyes to her collection if they did not listen. It was not all bad.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Panting in heaving breaths with the exertion and exhilaration of what she'd just done, Ophelia felt absolutely no need to let the momentum of her attack die down. The fire inside her was not nearly quenched, only stoked by her giving in to the sticky and visceral heat of that primal desire. The beastman's mewling cry for help elicited not even a single jot of pity from her, and she felt an uncanny urge to add the thing's eyes to her collection--she wanted to taunt it, to tell it that she'd warned them she'd have to kill them if they had the scourge and they still tried their luck... but the time for talking was over.

Braced as it was, it was simple enough for Ophelia to call upon the reserves of strength and vigour coursing through her fire-drenched veins and thrust the spear with as much force as she could muster towards the base of the beastman's throat, angled slightly upwards so as to have a shot at wounding the Mad One in the doorway if the beastman somehow managed to evade the attack sufficiently... but she truly was aiming to finish the beastman off, heedless of strategy, so fiercely did the fire inside her burn at that moment. The world narrowed to a pinprick of blood and vengeance, the entirety of her being absolutely dedicated to ending this thing's life that had had the unmitigated gall to come after their sleeping kin and demand they help. It was the pallid man that had really directed these things, of course, but Ophelia's mind was too wrapped up in the heat of the moment to worry about that. The beastman first, the pallid man next. She barely even spared a thought for Victor, Torquil, or Farren in the moment--but if they tried to get her attention, she would make an effort to respond.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Deo’Irah

“There is no corner of my heart I would not turn over to save the lives of the innocent. No secret kept, no resource withheld. In the sight of blessed Reina, let it be known that I would do all this and more to mend their flesh and ease their suffering. Without witness, without hope, without reward. All of this is rather waxing poetic to say something at its heart quite prosaic: I did not have to mention any of this. It would have been much safer for me had I not. Whatever questions you have, whatever judgements about my character that you make, remember how much I have sacrificed already for the sake of these innocent people, and know that I would sacrifice yet more to save them.” Irah said, her mien thoughtful and gaze suddenly distant. When Tedwyn spoke up at the mention of “reward”, her serene bearing regained the fury she had been suppressing earlier and she shot him a glare that could only be described as withering.

“Your reward is the knowledge that your inadequacy and cowardice shall betray you from within for so long as you live. You will get what you contributed: nothing.” she spoke, her tone suddenly venomous and heated. If there was one thing that she truly could not stand, it was a lack of principle: indeed, that was partially what had motivated her to be so forthcoming. Even after having known them for only minutes, really, Deo’Irah could tell that Sirs Yanin and Freagon were truly principled people, with beliefs that might be unknown to her, but whose dedication to those beliefs was evident. Everyone in the room, barring Tedwyn, had come together in a time of crisis to enact the one thing truly required of the strong: to protect the weak. Her heart might otherwise have fluttered with trepidation at the notion of being so unusually forthcoming, but something about these people… she felt among kindred spirits, she supposed. Not unlike another collective of people she was proud to be a part of.

With that delivered, she brushed herself off and gave Lhirin a gentle guiding pat on the arm not tracing over the pages of the journal to direct him while he read. It would not be the first time that she’d had to guide him while he was utterly engrossed by some knowledge promised from a tome–it certainly would not be the last, either. She took a few steps towards the exit before halting, waiting for everything to resolve before she actually visited the stagecoach to gather her things.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Everything had happened rather quickly from that point: Victor having gotten a cleaver directly into his face, Farren's burst of surprising--and inhuman--speed in getting a nick against the digitigrade legs of the beastman, and Torquil's absolutely immense swing down into the beastman's clavicle in return. Several thoughts rushed through her head at once: she should check to see if the good Hunter was okay (and if he needed blood to regenerate), she needed to get out of the way of the door given the gunfire she'd just heard from in there (and she needed to take a look to see where the summoned Mad One was; that thing ambushing them would be quite terribly bad. She'd seen just what they could do when the Witches had needed someone... taking care of), and she--most viscerally of all--needed to take advantage of the moment of weakness provided to them by the combination of attacks against the beastman. The other thoughts became distant and vague, and her right hand twitched as if on its own--and before she could really collate these rapid thoughts her almost-bestial instincts had kicked in and she had already taken two quick steps in succession towards the beastman. She ended up just in front of his kneeling form, with the open door to her left (well, what remained of the frame, at least).

A small fleck of spittle escaped the corner of her mouth as she found herself nearly drooling at the opportunity, and instinctively she plunged her free left hand into the midsection of the beastman just below the ribs. Plunging through the skin and fur was like punching through paper, even corded muscle yielding to the sheer inhuman burst of strength that filled her. Her eyes glittered with an inner fire, and she subconsciously licked her lips as she revelled in the sheer heat of the beastman's innards. She grasped whatever she could find and wrenched it free in a spray of gore, taking a half second to catch her breath before she dashed over to Victor's prone form and inspected him quickly. She knew he'd be able to regenerate, and if he was still alive she'd press her bloody hand to his lips to help the process along if he seemed like he needed it--otherwise, she'd attempt to cover him as best as possible, bracing the spear against the advance of the beastman if he came for them.

"Amazing! You're a natural!" she breathed out quickly to Torquil, hoping that her encouragement would serve as both direction and earnest praise.

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.