Tuujaimaa

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

"Mm, you've done very well for yourselves, love. I'm glad. It's a bit of a queer request, but... would you mind teaching me how to make those little talismans? I'd like to offer the Crowmother the proper respect: if she's protecting you, she's a darling in my books."

"I guess. 'Tis pretty simple, you just takes the skull of a crow and paint that li'l squiggly on its forehead, and then you hang it where you don't want monsters to get in."

"That simple? What a boon! Well, love, I'd hate to take up too much of your time when you have work to be doing. By way of apology for the lock and how frightfully rude we were upon entering, might you all accept a blood vial to share between you as suitable recompense?"

"Oh, uh, no thanks," he chuckled awkwardly. "We's all human here. Blood's no use to us."

"Ah, my apologies, love. In that case... I feel that we owe you a boon in kind, at least: is there a service we could perhaps do for you?"

"Just leave soon, I think," Gregory shrugged. "Crowmother don't like strange Hunters here. She's scared o' ya."

Ophelia curtseyed in response and nodded gracefully. As she ascended from the curtsey she brought her right hand up along the length of the Holy Moonlight Sword once more, beckoning forth its gentle radiance, and promptly made her way towards the exit, gaze expectantly trained upon Farren as she awaited him. A thoroughly useful line of questioning, she reckoned, that had given them much information about the context in which this Crowmother existed. She found herself somewhat torn: would she have permitted Moira to slaughter that which she had once revered as holy, had offered its protection to her and her kin in return for friendly gifts? She thought not, as much as she felt that well of roiling rancour lash out inside her at the thought of sparing any mercy to any beast. Something about her expression shifted into seeming unsettled, and she rested her head against the Holy Moonlight Sword gently and let its guidance cleave the doubt and confusion from her.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

"A little dirt never hurt anyone, love, don't you worry about that." Ophelia smiled in return, before peering over at Farren as he unceremoniously made his way over to the far side of the factory to fetch their quarry.

Ophelia listened to the man's talking about the Crowmother eagerly, nodding along approvingly as he spoke of how gentle she was with them and how she offered them her protection. She'd lived most of her life beneath the protection of something similar, she supposed, though the Witches had always referred to it as a God of some kind, or... was it Great One? She truly did not know, the memory fuzzy and cloudy--but she did remember the sensations, the unseen intimations of Yharnam's forbidden woods, and the particular mix of vulnerability and pride as she strode towards a shrine with offerings in hand.

"She seems a benevolent sort, looking after her flock. Does she demand any offerings of you, love?" she asked, head tilting very gently to the right as she kept one eye on Farren and his situation and another on Gregory. Her mind's eye almost drifted back to the carved skulls of corvids outside--partly curious as to why such a being as this enigmatic Crowmother would hate for her children to be harmed, but approve of their skulls being used to fashion wards. Such things had power, that she did not deny, but there was a loose thread here that she intended to tug 'til the whole warp and weft became known to her.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia nodded along with the man's story, paying him rapt attention. She didn't turn to look at Farren when he interjected his own question, though she did wince almost imperceptibly at his gravelly tone. The gears turned in her mind, though, before she remembered just what a gift this sort of thing could be: with people, it was all about context--the Night seemed bad, a Hunter visiting seemed worse, and nearly getting assailed by a Beast felt worse still... but that could all be quite neatly juxtaposed by the positives: faith in the wards renewed, the sense of safety stronger after a brush with danger, and her soft affability compared to Farren's harsh questioning. She remembered the way Moira had looked at her, at her little collection of eyes, and she saw with perfect clarity that the little touches of madness within her had been understood and registered--that she had the potential to be dangerous. If that was the case for arguably the most powerful Hunter in the city, what little this common man could read of her would likely scream danger--but next to Farren, in context, she looked like the better option.

Ophelia ran her free right hand down the length of the Holy Moonlight Sword, tenderly whisking away its full glory to be revealed in front of eyes more worthy, and returned her right hand to her side. She gave the blacksmith a gentle smile and looked up at the roof to quickly assess what real damage there was--but also to get them some more information about the lesser beast. It wasn't quite as juicy as the larger one--presumably the Crowmother--but Ophelia didn't like to leave any stone unturned. The simplest clues could lead to the greatest revelations.

"You've all been very brave, tonight, dears. I wonder, if it isn't too much trouble, is there a way up to the roof that we might use...?" Ophelia began, pausing at the end slightly,"... ah, I never asked your name! How rude of me, love, I'm Ophelia--might I know yours?"

Upon receipt of the name--or not, as it were--Ophelia continued:

"We'd like to make sure everything is safe for you up there. I'd also like to inquire about this Crowmother, if you've got a spare moment and the inclination to tell me about her? I noticed the wards outside; I'm full glad they work, dear." Ophelia continued, her tone and body language both shifting to something projecting concern rather than anything actively threatening--she wanted these folks to feel like they could trust her, that she was not a threat to them... but she did not do anything about Farren, letting him make his own statement.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia offered a final friendly wave to the disassembling group, focusing primarily on the novice Hunters Moira had brought with her, and padded alongside Farren beneath the as-yet undrawn canvas of night. They returned swiftly to their earlier haunt and Farren began fiddling around with his blades as some sort of ersatz lockpick. Ophelia raised an eyebrow at this, wondering why he didn't simply knock given the clamouring of folks clearly audible inside, but she supposed that Farren--based on his attitude--was not someone who ever mingled with the common folk like this.

After he gained ingress the disgruntled inhabitants of the building met his aggression in kind, before recalculating and offering a more humble greeting. Ophelia responded to that in turn, unclipping the jar of eyes from her belt and kneeling down to hand it off to the little ones for safe keeping, and then following inside the building.

"We're sorry for the intrusion, love, we're just tracking those beasts that went at it earlier. I don't suppose any of you heard anything, did you?" Ophelia offered, letting her natural Yharnam accent become just a little broader and more common--there were few true Yharnamites left, it was true, but they'd been an insular bunch at the best of times before recent history. She figured perhaps letting the touch of it she still possessed take on a little extra vigour would endear them to her... their fear would probably prevent them taking it too badly.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

"Then we'll leave correspondence and such there, love. Feel free to drop us notes if there are things you want to pass on, we'll do the same. I'll leave word with someone when we've investigated these Fire Dancers... or Old Yharnam... or the Harrow. We have much to be doing. I'm inclined to return to the Dream--I've questions for the Shopkeeper. Do you think you'd be better tracking alone, love, or do you want my presence? I think you'd be stealthier alone, but my knowledge of the arcane might come in useful."

Oddly, despite how much he'd seemed to dislike splitting up before, Farren initially just shrugged in response, as if it didn't really matter. However, after a slight frown, which faded just as fast, he spoke up in reply as well, “Your expertise could be helpful,” he conceded, “Unless the other business cannot wait.”

While listening to them speaking, Moira once again made a visual inspection of the three of them, paying special attention to Farren and Torquil.

"If you do eventually go to the workshop, ask for Seven," she told them after their exchange. "He has an experimental trick weapon that might be of use to you. That's too dangerous for regular Hunters to wield."

Ophelia shook her head very slightly at Farren's last statement, stepping forward towards him and ready to go with.

"I sent a note to Gerlinde, asking her to meet me in the Dream. She replied and will meet me there soon, but I did tell her that we were on a Hunt, and might be a little while. She seems quite sweet from the message she sent back, bless her. I'd like us to expand the boundaries of our ignorance--you do this Hunting stuff remarkably well, I think... and I've got an eye for the Arcane. We'll need everyone's unique insights and gifts to really understand what's going on here, and what awaits us. Are you coming, love?" Ophelia finished, grinning just a little with a warm expression that was only marred by the haunted glint to her eyes. The latter bit of speech saw her direct her gaze to Torquil, and she awaited his reply with a soft and patient smile--though her eyes remained somewhat distant and dreamlike, betraying her mind's real focus elsewhere.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia swallowed at the revelations Farren and Moira provided, sinking deep into thought for a moment. Beasts were savage things, whose entire world had been swallowed to a pinprick of feral instinct--something smart enough to do this, to have this level of sapience... Did such a thing even deserve to be called a beast? Was it capable of choosing reason over violence? If it was, and it still chose violence... was it still a beast, even then? The questions gnawed at her, but were batted away by a vast and deep well of... hatred? Fear? Something dark and foreboding, some relic of her past that she just could not quite connect to any solid memory... something that she'd buried herself, or that the ministration had taken from her? Whatever it was, it lashed out with that same malice as had been directed at Victor earlier and the cognitive realisation of it finally hitting her over the emotional understanding broke her brief reverie.

"Would you like me to pass the message on to Dietrich, dear? It's a simple matter for us to hop through the Dream, after all, and it could save you some time. Whatever it was, it being unknown is the worst option. If we know, we can plan--and if we can plan, we can kill it." She offered, smiling sweetly though with a hint of melancholy in her slightly wavering voice and a subtle sigh that could be mistaken for a sudden exhalation.

Then the Messengers returned with a scroll, and Ophelia read it eagerly. The tone and contents intrigued her, the first look into the character of this Gerlinde--she seemed... almost childlike, Ophelia thought, and clearly lonely. She'd met many such souls in Central Yharnam after the Night of the Blood Moon--what few Yharnamites remained had lost most of their connections and their livelihoods, most of the people they'd ever known were simply gone. The foreigners who'd come in, the people like Farren and Moira, had been so new to it all then and making sense of a landscape that had just suffered a cataclysmic change... It was a beacon for those with nothing more to lose, and everything to build. If they could find succour in one another, a life less lonely and with some purpose to strive for... That would be something, wouldn't it?

"I don't suppose you can see the little ones anymore, Moira? A reliable way to communicate would be nice... Is there maybe an intermediary at the Black Workshop that we could use, if you're not there? I remember that name being on one of the big headstones--or if there's another location you know of that would work? If you're inclined at all, of course, love."

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

The confounding fog and general sensory assault of the Industrial Zone made fine perceptive work more difficult than Ophelia liked, and it was really only Farren's voice and footsteps that she was able to follow--but she found him quickly enough and moved to check out what he'd found. The skulls of... crows, if she had to guess, though not the mutated kind she'd had the misfortune of coming across in Hemwick. She'd taken enough of them apart to recognise the shape of their skulls, after they'd been brought to the Witches' abode--though she was more used to seeing them bloody and fractured rather than pristinely polished like they were. And engraved onto them, not just here but all across the Industrial Ward it seemed, were runes... though she had no idea what they meant.

"A rune... is it like the one you acquired from Skinner, Farren?" She asked, half musing aloud but with enough inflection to make it clear she was legitimately posing a question.

It certainly didn't look like any of the runes she was familiar with. She knelt down to beckon forth the little ones and fetched the runebrand once more, bringing the projection case up to the Rune to see if she could infer something. When that didn't work she passed the tool back to them and gave them a grateful nod. She cradled her cheek next to the Holy Moonlight Sword, asking if it could offer her any guidance on what the mysterious symbol might be or represent, and its response resonated brightly in her mind:

"It seems to be intended as some manner of ward. Against what it does not know."

"Hmm... folk superstition, copied from something with real power. Folks would do the same in Hemwick all the time." she shrugged, before turning on her heel to follow the new instructions from Liam and head in that direction. She looked up at the crows and gave them a nod, knowing well just how smart the little creatures were--a little respect offered to them would go a long way, though she regretted she did not have any feed to give them to help them understand her subtle supplication.

Ophelia noticed the clawmarks first, and her slight smile shrank into a thin line across her lips as she pondered how big the beast must have been to damage the stone in such a manner, as well as leave gouges that sunk deeply into the soil. They seemed recent enough, though the lack of beastly sounds had her wondering how recent it could be if they were still hunting this thing--or perhaps if someone had already beaten them to the chase. Perhaps the only reason it had come to this place at all was fleeing a superior foe--though she knew that Dietrich was still high up in Cathedral Ward and Moira was here with them. What could frighten such a beast into fleeing eluded her somewhat, given that she knew the location of the two most powerful mortal Hunters she was familiar with.

There was also a concerning smash of stone, but Ophelia left Farren to investigate that: he was far more knowledgeable about the kinds of weapons that might cause such a thing, or the various flavours of beast that might be able... Or at least he'd seemed to be, especially with his last message to Victor. It was clear that he had some connection with the workshops, though he was reticent about those details--or perhaps it simply hadn't really come up. She would never profess to know the inside of such an enigmatic figure's mind, and perhaps after the ministration he didn't either.

She observed the slain creatures ahead with interest, quickly peering over the corpses to try and determine what had killed them specifically. Years of dismembering the corpses hauled to Hemwick had given her something of a keen eye for that sort of thing.

That done, she joined Moira and the others and looked up at the corpse impaled on the statue with equal parts awe and concern.

"Mother Moon above... This isn't the work of another beast, is it? Seems someone's beaten us to our prey, but... I can't fathom who. This is a considerable amount of carnage."

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

"Sentiment, at a guess? Familiar to them before the change took them, perhaps... If I were to turn, I would think I'd go back to Hemwick--luckily that isn't possible!" Ophelia mused in response to Moira's last question, bending down to address the little ones as she did so. Once she finished speaking, she held a hand out gingerly and thought about something that Moira had mentioned earlier--that Gerlinde was both too curious and not prudent enough. She could remember being much the same way when she was first taken in by the Witches, eager to learn every secret under the sun without heed for how dangerous those secrets were and what knowing them could do. Their bodies might have been immortal, but their minds were more vulnerable than most. It was a tradition among witches to take apprentices--as had been done for her--and she figured that seeing as neither Farren or Torquil seemed overly invested in learning the secrets of the worlds beyond the waking one beyond what results they could achieve or obligations they could fulfil... Gerlinde, if she was willing and if she was worthy, could perhaps make a good student. She might be able to steer the mysterious fourth paleblood away from the madness that lurked at every corner, Mother Moon willing.

She extended her finger out and began to trace words over the proferred scroll, watching text suddenly appear on the immaterial canvas before her:

"Dear Gerlinde - I am Ophelia, another Paleblood Hunter recently bound to the Dream that we now share. Your name has come up a number of times during my travels across our city, and I hoped that we might meet to discuss our mutual interest of the Arcane. I am out on a Hunt at the moment, but if you wish to accept my little invitation please do write back and we can rendezvous in the Dream. I look forward to meeting another student of the mysteries of our world.

Mother Moon keep you,

Ophelia"

That done, she rose up to her full height and looked around--waiting for something to happen with the others searching for tracks of the beast. She had the most confidence in Farren and Moira's ability to track, so she kept an eye on the junior Hunters as best as she could and was ready to help if they called for it.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia's senses were assaulted by the toxic airs and fumes of the industrial zone of Yharnam--but as one who spent her formative years at the very heart of Hemwick, she was more than used to the stench of death. The stench of the tanneries was fierce, especially now to her keener Hunter's senses, but a mere wrinkling of her nose was all that escaped her before she quickly became used to it. She spent her time looking around, observing details about this area of her city that she'd never been in before. The way the cobblestones had worn down, the wideness of the path compared to her memories of Hemwick Charnel Lane and dense forest paths and even the labyrinthine clusteredness of Central Yharnam. It took her a second to notice the lamp on its little wooden post, though she immediately pointed it out once she'd seen it.

"Ahh, look there loves. A lantern--how wonderful." She mused, speeding up to a jog and weaving her way dextrously through the four Hunters of Moira's party to meet the lantern. She expected the little ones there, crawling up and over each other to meet her and Torquil and Farren, and extended her free right hand out gently towards the lantern.

"Quite convenient. Let's hope the beast is somewhere around here."

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Ophelia

Ophelia had meant to only spare Torquil and Farren a cursory glance, but something about the way that Torquil looked struck her like a dagger--like a rabbit who'd just realised he'd wandered into a trap. She stopped dead in her tracks, turning her head away from Torquil because she could not bear the shame of looking at him and realising that she was the one who'd made him feel like this with her own anger and pride. She was too proud to back down, she knew that, and she cradled her cheek against the Holy Moonlight Sword. While Farren spoke she let her mind and soul touch it, and she prayed in her heart of hearts to be worthy of its guidance, to let go of that beast within her and return to purity. To know that if she was tested and found wanting, she would earnestly try to be worthy of its blinding grace. There was no mote of pity in her heart for Victor, for she had truly gone out of her way to earnestly protect him as gratitude for what he'd done and what he'd given for them... but then she thought of Torquil's face, the way that his eyes flitted and his expression soured. She sighed softly and her stiffened posture relaxed into a defeated slump of her shoulders, and she knew that she couldn't leave things like this. Not only would it break her heart every time she looked at sweet, simple Torquil... she could not let him down. It made sense to her, in that moment, what Dietrich had said--his overindulgence... the way that he didn't even flinch at the brand... He truly must have lived through a lot, to make it four years as a Hunter. That was no excuse for his rudeness, but her reply to that had been far ruder than he had... and he had just seen his friend dead.

She thought about how scared and angry and sick she'd felt when Torquil had died and she didn't know that he was effectively immortal. How glad she'd been to find him returned hale and whole, what an incredible miracle Mother Moon had provided for them all. She would not get that if Victor died. He'd just be another corpse, another body hauled to her home on a cart that she'd prepare for burial, or for ritual, or for the dogs. She'd be no better than a beast in Torquil's eyes, and unlike almost everyone else in the entire world she was going to be with him for better or for worse. They could go their own separate ways somewhat, certainly, but they would run into one another--and if he looked at her like Victor had, like she had at him, she would not even be able to die from shame. She would have to live with that until... until she became like Moira, she supposed, freed from the Dream. Away from her Mother Moon.

She turned around, and saw Farren tossing a blood vial to Victor. She brought her hand down to her own pouch and felt it, feeling the weight of those extra vials, and she resolved to try and do the right thing.

"Victor... These blood vials are for you. I asked the Vicar to give me some blood vials, so you would have enough for the journey back. Take them, and... I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that, and... you've been very good to us." Ophelia spoke, tone remorseful and shameful, before quickstepping to catch up with him and offer him the five vials in her hand. Her eyes glistened with dew and were cast slightly downward, though she still focused on his person.