Tuujaimaa

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

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

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

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

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

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

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

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia laughed musically at Torquil's clear and natural voice, her eyes sparkling with relief that he'd found solace from his problems. It was going to be easier for them all--and Torquil had felt bad about it, besides. She nodded at Farren's insightful question, giving him a knowing nod of her head, and turned to the figure in the wheelchair and offered them the same curtsy she'd given to the doll before she spoke again after hearing whatever reply was offered, if any.

"Thank you, for all you have done for us. I... will pose my questions to the little ones. I always knew I liked them, even though they've no eyes. They... just want to help. It seems a nice sentiment, so thank you as well, dearies." Ophelia mused, offering a third and final curtsy to the messengers with a giggle that had just a touch of mania to its timbre. She proceeded to show a number of items to the messengers, reading the scrolls in reply with a burning curiosity, and nodding thoughtfully or musing to herself aloud about the implications of what she'd learned--which was almost exclusively to do with eyes. Torquil and Farren would surely have noticed a theme at this point, though Ophelia seemed to pay no mind to it--as though it were completely normal and natural. There was a certain certainty and serenity to her movements, and her silvery hair glittered incandescently in the moonlight's bountiful rays--something altogether witchy, if one knew the signs of what to look for.

"... so we cannot die, then? We will simply return as though waking from a dream... ah, it's just like the stories of Moira, isn't it? She was said to fight as though she could not die--and she's the most Hunter a Hunter can be. She must have graced these halls in her day, hmm, to win the kinds of victories she had? How many people have travelled through here, I wonder, and to what end? To what end are we here? The Church..." Ophelia spoke, as though feverishly possessed by the thoughts spilling out of her. Whatever that bell had done to her mind had her swimming in visions, thoughts beyond thoughts cascading to her as though dancing on the rays of the moon... but she could feel it abating as she let her thoughts unspool, and the cool air of the dream caress her skin.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia's first reaction was unbridled joy--she returned Torquil's smile eagerly and ran to him, quickly embracing him in a hug for a few seconds before stepping back. Her smile was wide and bright, and her voice was almost singsong with the relief of seeing him hale and whole.

"I'm so glad you're alright, dear... I wanted to thank you. You didn't know you'd end up here and still you took the hit for us... You're a good soul, Torquil. If I can repay your kindness, please let me know." She spoke giddily, before turning her attention up towards the recently-shifted sky. Whereas before it was all vermillion and gold, the rich colours of sunset like at the clinic, all of a sudden there was a bright full moon out... and a moon unlike she'd seen before. It was almost ponderously large, unnaturally so, and something about its silver sheen transfixed Ophelia's gaze as she stared at it in wonder. It was beautiful--more beautiful than any moon she'd seen before--and... compelling, in a way she could not articulate even in thought. She'd done plenty of work by moonlight, danced beneath it in the dark of the woods, committed what some might call heinous or unnatural acts beneath its sombre glow... but never like this. She barely paid any attention to the doll at all, so transfixed by it she was, until maybe thirty seconds had passed since the doll spoke and Ophelia tore her eyes away and addressed the doll.

She started with a simple curtsey, like her parents had taught her, and introduced herself: "I'm Ophelia; a pleasure to make your acquaintance. If you've never seen the sky change like this, it is a sign of a great portent. If this is a Dream, whose Dream is it? The moon's? The sun's? Yours? Ours? I have so many questions..." she began, before exhaling a shuddering breath and trying to calm herself down with rhythmic breathing. She could feel her clothes, she realised, and not the oil and grime and viscera that had coated them before--and she moved to fumble about the pocket where she'd stashed the pallid man's bell, and would get it out if it remained there.

"What is this, for instance? It had the power to summon creatures, to... to induce visions, or something--it nearly killed Farren, brought a Mad One into being, mended the wounds of the near-slain and empowered them to fight anew." she spoke before she could even stop herself, face turning a little red with embarrassment as she realised how impolite it was to bombard her hosts with questions as a guest. She turned to look at the second figure in the wheelchair, taking in the details of their form--and waiting for them to speak in answer.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia reflexively pulled away from Farren's strike, his sudden bout of madness oddly unclear to the otherwise distracted Ophelia. She would normally go straight for the eyes, of course, but it hadn't even occurred to her to check Farren out until she caught the glimpse of movement in her periphery. With a Hunter's agility she stepped back from her crouching position as she'd administered the vial of blood offered to her by Victor into a standing and guarded one, though it was immediately clear to her from the expression now writ upon Farren's face and the trembling he could not hide in his limbs that he had seen something harrowing. She could feel the vibrations of the bell rattling in her skull still, diminishing but present, though they had not gotten the opportunity to reach a crescendo. She looked down at the little thing clasped in her hand, unfurling her fingers so as to examine it more closely and carefully. Her head snapped around to the sound of the Beastman's pathetic whimpering and scampering, and she quickly looked down for her spear and picked it up with her free hand, immediately leaving Farren and Victor alone to chase down her escaping quarry.

She cared not for the exertion, nor the burn in her lungs or the sting of sweat and blood in her eyes - she was going to hunt that raggedy beastman down and slaughter him like the cancerous hound that he was. He had been complicit in the events that had led to Torquil not making it, after all, and she would not leave him unrevenged. She sprinted after the beastman with a ferocity and determination that had begun to dim after its peak with Pallid, but was quickly reigniting again as the lingering scent and taste and feel of blood on her hands made her take leave of her more rational senses and give in to the thrill of truly concluding the hunt... but unlike the fires of madness, all-scorching, the fires of sorrow and regret and guilt and shame would likely die down once the beastman was dead. She could rest, process what had happened... maybe take a nap by the light of that queer lamp, and its comforting radiance.

But for now she had work to do: work she'd done so many times before, her eager and practiced hands ready to return to something they truly knew. She caught up to the beastman exceedingly quickly, and with as much precision as she could muster she lanced him right through the abdomen. She could feel through the vibrations of the spear, her wired and heightened senses, and the frailty of the withered beastman's form that several of his organs were punctured, though she had missed his heart so he did not die immediately. She grabbed him by the shoulders and wrenched him off his back onto the floor, pushing the haft and the rest of the spear through his wound, as she perched over his head.

"I warned you, dear. I told you that if you had any signs of the scourge, I'd have to kill you... but you insisted. I'll be taking your eyes now, sweetness--and your pallid friend's too. Torquil's gone because of you... so don't imagine for a moment that this will be quick. Every rabid howl, every peal of agony, will avenge him... so I want you to scream, you wretched thing. Let him hear you, wherever he is." Ophelia half-whispered and half-spat, before using one hand to keep the beastman's eyelids open as she plucked her prizes from his skull with her bare fingers. She made sure to make it as painful as she could without damaging the eyes, seething and trembling all the while. When her grisly work was done, she walked slowly back towards the clinic, stopping off at the little glass jar she'd discreetly deposited earlier and adding her new prizes to them.

The few minutes Farren needed to recover would likely have been over by the time she returned - she scanned the room for Victor and Farren both as she approached, bell stashed away in her garb, jar of eyes in one hand, and spear in the other.

"Torquil... he... vanished? Disappeared into thin air as the Mad One mashed him to paste..." she mumbled, looking a little more haggard than before now that the rush of anger and vitality had left her.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia watched the carnage unfolding around Farren's being with equal parts curiosity and revulsion, keen eyes searching for information while also distracted by the rapturous writhing she could feel in her mind. It was difficult to focus, each train of thought immediately disjointed by another peal from the bell--but Victor held his position and Farren dashed forward to do what none of them could and slay the pallid man. It was almost artistic, the way that Farren collapsed in a stream of viscera and gore--his own, she assumed, and certainly a new and novel way for someone to die that she had not seen before--and it took her a moment to collect herself. The Mad One animated by the ringing of the bell crumbled into nothingness as the borrowed power of its once-benefactor dissipated, and the others lost their supernatural glow and seemed to diminish in presence before she rushed over to Farren. Her right hand was still slick with blood, and she scooped a little off of Farren's clothing and brought her hand up to his mouth for the blood to begin its work in regenerating her fallen comrade. Something within her seethed and burned with urgency--she'd lost Torquil, but she was not going to lose another if she could help it. The first thing she did was execute the pallid man with impunity, forcing her spear through his undefended chest right through his rotten heart.

Panting, rapid breaths fell from her chest in heaving and gasping gulps as her body tried to acclimatise once again to the strangely dull and cold sense of normalcy that had existed before the sounds of the bell had made their way into her mind--and with Farren and the pallid one taken care of, Ophelia immediately went to snatch the bell from pallid's corpse to examine it in more detail. Hells, if she could wring the same power from it they would be in a much better position than they were previously. Even if not... it would act as proof of the arcane, of what they'd endured and who knew about it. What were the chances that something so secretive and taboo was simply stumbled upon by these... creatures? There was some hidden thread of meaning behind it all, some agenda that she could not quite grasp, and she turned to Victor with a somewhat plaintive look after her little reverie. She shot a glance over to the door to see the beastman still standing there, and her right hand twitched as it instinctively reached for the haft of the spear stuck out from the pallid one's now-corpse. If it made a move she'd respond in kind, but she began to speak to Victor first. She'd let him chase it down if necessary, or initiate combat--she was more concerned with making sure Farren was okay too.

"... Thank you for the help. Did the Church send you, or..?" Ophelia began, clutching the bell in her hands until they turned white from the exertion. Her stare was... a little wild, though mostly focused, as she alternated between looking up at Victor and down at Farren, trying to piece together pieces of a narrative in her mind. She brought her free hand up idly to move a strand of grease and blood-matted silver hair away from her face, dropping the spear as she did, and tried to regulate her breathing as best as she could. A lot had happened, but they had the chance to uncover the mystery now... well, more of a chance than they did before.

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.