yoshua171

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

felt himself almost falling, and like the last time a sudden and unexplainable terror seized him. If he had been moving he might have froze, but instead it was more like his mind stuttered. Like a missed heartbeat, an interrupted thought, or as if he’d missed a final step when descending stairs, only to find that there wasn’t actually a step to miss at all.

However, it was a fleeting thing, existing only long enough to leave a disturbing unanchored impression on his mind before he came back into his awareness and his body. His eyes opened (had he ever closed them?) and he once more beheld the Hunters’ Dream. Cloudy this time, but what struck him was not the changes in the sky or the imposing figure of the Moonbound Hunter—let alone the porcelain doll that stood beside him—but instead the almost uncanny beauty of the stranger who stood somewhat nearer. A woman.

Farren’s lips parted slightly and while he’d tried to steel himself against any shocking revelations, violent reactions, or unpleasant awkwardness that the meeting of a kidnapper and their victim might have entailed he found himself entirely unprepared for this.

She seemed younger somehow, more lively and…well, certainly not the plain waifish woman he’d stolen away in the night in a past life.

Then again…a young woman pregnant with child living hard…in poverty, starving, barely scraping by…that could age a person. Maybe she’d never been as old as he’d thought. The idea sickened him, made his guilt heavier, a guilt that she didn’t even seem to realize he had.

Maybe he’d worried for nothing? She’d been unconscious for much of the…trip back to the drop off point. They’d never exchanged words or names. Had she even really gotten a good look at him? Farren wet his suddenly dry lips, his throat dry. He tried to swallow, but there was no liquid to speak of. For the first time since waking he really wished he had something to drink other than blood.

“A pleasure…” Farren choked out before roughly clearing his throat, his eyes still fixed on Gerlinde’s face—her eyes specifically. It was her, even if she looked like someone else entirely…he remembered the brief panic in those eyes before the ethers had knocked her out. ‘Gods I need a drink…’ he thought to himself, pursing his lips. “…that’s Torquil and, uh…I’m Farren,” he managed even as he very deliberately kept his eyes on her face. If she truly didn’t remember him, Farren might just come off as a man dumbstruck by her beauty, or the boldness of her garb, which—all told—was rather scandalous (especially for the time period).

Some tiny, quiet, old part of him…a fragment of the self he’d largely left behind, whispered rather unpleasant things about the woman. ‘From starving peasant to Courtesan Huntress, aye?’ that internal voice seemed to joke. Farren ripped his eyes from her features and then abruptly headed to the Messenger Pool to distract himself. He didn’t really care that he didn’t have echoes…nor did he really care what new trinkets the little helpers had for them…he just needed his mind to be anywhere else.

However, as he started to make his way over, it happened, the clouds swirled and darkened and the sheer suddenness of it drew his eyes upwards. Then the rain pattered down, its faintly warm droplets getting in his eyes and creating tiny splashes across his grizzled features. He shifted his gaze down and shielded his eyes from the rather sudden downpour…or was it more of a misting? Didn’t matter. He unconsciously licked his lips and tasted…blood? Farren paused mid-step and frowned, licking his lips again. The rain tasted like blood…and—he focused on his peripheral vision and the gentle curtains of falling rain only to notice the faint haze of pinkish-red—no, it was blood.

Well…as disquieting as that was, at least his mouth and throat weren’t painfully dry anymore….

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

brushed himself off, some dirt and a few splinters of wood having gotten on him during the ordeal. Having been…rather preoccupied, he’d not caught Ophelia’s chuckle—which was probably for the best—but as he finished brushing off, Farren holstered his blunderbuss once more in its designated hook at his hip. Silently, he resolved not to climb any rickety fucking ladders while fully armed in the future.

“Sure,” Farren said gruffly as he briefly cast his irritated glare in her direction before glancing away. However, as he was turning his attention he found himself grimacing at the sight of the rust-spotted knife again. Immediately he found himself pulled in another direction: The Black Workshop.

“Actually, I’d rather check the Black Workshop first,” he said, some of his irritation starting to wane at the thought. “Could probably use some more vials and bullets, and I’m rather curious about this experimental weapon that Moira mentioned.” Not that he had room to carry anything else. If he decided to take it along, the Messengers would have to divest him of something…or perhaps store it for him.

"Why don't you go do that while I meet with Gerlinde, then we can rendezvous in the Dream and go from there? So long as we don't go anywhere near the Gold, the little ones will come--we shouldn't split up in the future if we don't have the little ones to help us, though, I think..."

Farren nodded in agreement, his eyes shifting once more to peer into the fog as if he might see the lantern hidden therein. For a moment he considered following her to the dream and simply using the Headstone to get to the workshop, but on second thought he decided against it. From what he could remember, it was perhaps only an hour from where they now stood and it would give him a chance to stretch his proverbial wings. As much as he disliked the idea of meaninglessly endangering himself, going this way could mean gathering valuable experience–and perhaps blood echoes–that might serve all of them well. Besides…while he didn’t exactly fancy dying, even that fate would only send him back to the Dream, well…that and leave him with lifelong trauma, he supposed.

That thought almost had him change his mind, but he shook it off. If they were to discover the reason that the Dream had accepted them, then he would have to get used to taking more risks…whether he liked the prospect or not. “Well, since you’ll be safely in the embrace of the Dream…perhaps you’d share some of your vials,” Farren commented plainly, “I can always grab us more from the Workshop…or acquire some with echoes when we reconvene,” he added as further explanation, not wanting her to think that he asked with no intention of returning the favor at one point or another.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

realized–far too damned late–that this had been ill-conceived. Sending easily their heaviest up a rickety wooden ladder, still fully armed, without a second thought. Of course, that thought was crowded out by brief instinctual panic, followed swiftly by his brow lowering as he swore through gritted teeth and–rather than jump immediately, dismount, or leap up to try and catch the lip of the roof at the cost of dropping his loaded gun, Farren rode the ladder’s fall. While it continued to splinter and break beneath him, Farren used his sharpened senses and reflexes to gauge the moment before it would fully splinter and break into multiple pieces rather than one fractured ladder.

The moment before it did so, Farren pushed off, up and forward, angling his feet a bit ahead of him in the air as he moved. The jump offset some of his downwards momentum, and given that he was even closer to the ground before doing it, he managed to land on his feet with only a slightly unpleasant shock traveling up the bones of his legs as he struck ground. His knee came down due to the angular momentum and so he found himself on one knee, knife and blunderbuss still in hand, but pressed to the earth each with their own dull noises. For a moment, Farren didn’t breathe, but he didn’t stand still either, instead he moved immediately, standing, twisting, and stepping back before the ladder finished its descent to the ground, crumpling in a long string of twisted wooden debris.

As he glared at the remnants of the ladder, Farren spat on the ground, “You want atop that roof? Do it yourself,” he half growled, though really he was more irritated with himself than her. Well…himself and whoever had put together the poorly built construction, not to mention the numerous people who hadn’t kept it properly maintained.

What a bloody mess….

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

glanced the offered knife and just barely managed to suppress all but the faintest twitch of a frown in his brow. However, he managed to give the man his thanks, nodding in respect as he walked over and gently took the knife. Farren would glance it over, nod to himself a bit, and then glance down at his belt. He was quickly running out of places to stow things and given what the workers had given him he’d definitely need to fix the thing up. So, rather than do much of anything with the knife, he just kept it in his right hand—blade-tip pointed towards the floor—and walked back to the ladder.

By then Ophelia was finishing up her conversation with Gregory, and he was glad for it…he wanted to get moving, especially given what the man had said at the tail end of things.

“‘Preciate the knife. I’ll bring the ladder back,” Farren offered, giving the men a final nod of acknowledgement, “Stay safe.”

Then—picking up the ladder—Farren followed Ophelia out, not bothering to close the door. He figured Torquil or Ophelia would do so since he was carrying the damned unwieldy thing.

“Got somewhere in mind?” Farren asked, turning his eyes on Ophelia. At the same time he was reviewing what they’d found out so far. He rather wished Moira hadn’t gone off on her own so soon, as this new information was…it felt important, if unsettling to think on.

What particularly bothered him was the fact that Gregory had said that this…’Crowmother’ had spoken like a human might. While he’d heard the rare story of beasts that retained some semblance of speech, it wasn’t at all common. He couldn’t remember much…and it was all hearsay as far as he knew, but he had no real reason to doubt the man so he had to take his words more or less at face value.

That and the fact that there seemed to be a hunter associated with the thing. On the one hand…it was good that this part of the city seemed safe enough for its people. In a way, the Crowmother was making their job somewhat easier, but on the other hand…it felt wrong somehow. There might not have been anything to that feeling, but things like this…well, things in Yharnam were often not what they appeared.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

shifted his gaze from the worker, taking in the various tools being used in the large workshop as well as what seemed to be getting done therein. The man’s response elicited little reaction from him, only a grunt in fact. What he’d found more interesting was the name that the fellow had used in a way far too casual–Crowmother.

As he’d thought, the locals were entirely aware of whatever had utterly thrashed the beasts back in the plaza. Farren silently flexed and relaxed his jaw a few times, teeth pressing together and apart for a moment (mouth still closed) before he caught mention of the ladder they could use. Farren’s gaze found it swiftly and rather than wait–knowing he’d easily be able to hear the conversation even from the far end of the factory, Farren headed towards the thing.

As he walked, he took in the various materials, garb, machines, work stations, and other miscellaneous objects and properties of the workspace therein. He didn’t necessarily need to know what was there, but nonetheless Farren had always had some interest in such things so they caught his attention almost despite himself. A moment later his long, purposeful strides brought him to the ladder, which he regarded for a moment before glancing about, then grabbing it. Carefully, he maneuvered it down under his arm without having the long thing strike anyone or anything around him. He carried it under his left arm, hand on the bottom of it, fingers in a wide grip. He was surprised at how light it was despite its size, something he instinctively knew was more due to the changes in his own body than any property of the object itself.

As he got partway back to the others, Farren paused and gently set down the ladder, before turning to one of the nearby workers.

“Hate to bother, but any chance one of you have a spare knife? Just something sturdy and functional,” Farren clarified after asking, his piercing azure eyes fixed on the closest worker. He didn’t intend to appear intimidating, or unsettling, but Farren’s eyes had always been rather striking and after the ministration they’d become even moreso. Further…the fact that he was armed to the gills did him no favors in coming off as non-threatening even at the best of times. Still, the way he asked was markedly casual, relaxed even, though his senses remained attuned to his surroundings in a way they simply couldn’t for a normal human–something that would likely come off as an at least slightly unnerving degree of intensity.

Nonetheless, there he remained, waiting for a reply.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

took two steps into the building and then blinked, then frowned, then sighed. He didn’t even tense when the civilian started their approach, aggravation clear in their posture and with a weapon in hand. It was a strange thing to realize in that moment that a normal human just…wasn’t a threat, not on their own at least–or barring specific circumstances. Firearms could certainly pose a significant danger, but melee armaments? Not really. So it was that Farren’s frown swiftly shifted into a more neutral expression, and then it actually became slightly amused as the man changed his affect entirely.

Well that was new.

Farren realized that since they’d only dealt with assailants and hunters since their awakening that he’d had no idea how regular people would respond to their presence. He just…hadn’t thought about it really, but if he had, well…the man was right, he could have just paused, listened a moment and knocked. The realization was a quiet one and Farren might have even apologized for the sudden intrusion–and for almost certainly breaking the lock on their door–but Ophelia took charge before he could say anything at all.

Rather than interrupt or protest, he simply let her, she was probably the more approachable of the two anyways. With her occupying the man’s attention, Farren sheathed first the Blade of Mercy, then Bulwark, at his hip. If these folks suddenly became a threat the only thing he’d really need were his bare hands anyways. As for an incursion of beasts…well, they’d likely hear or smell any such thing coming before they were upon them. He wasn’t worried.

That wasn’t to say that he dropped his guard, just that he didn’t feel it immediately necessary for him to remain armed. While he was fine with letting Ophelia lead the interaction, he did add his own query once she had said her piece.

“Ah…and what’s with the crow skulls?” he said, his voice a deep contrast to hers, gruff and serious, and while not unfriendly, certainly far less affable than hers was.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

turned as he felt Moira’s gaze, watching her give him and Torquil a discerning once over before she spoke up. Something in his expression shifted subtly at the mention of ‘Seven’, and then once more as she referred to a new trick weapon of some sort. There was clear interest in his gaze and he found himself silently filing that bit of intel away for later use. Of course, unbeknownst to him, a small smile had crept onto his lips in response to her words, as if the idea of testing the weapon particularly appealed to him–enough so that it had cracked his gruff exterior. After a moment, he realized the expression on his face and turned, clearing his throat–the smile vanishing. “I remember Seven,” he commented, “...I’ll have to pay him a visit,” he added idly, that subtle smile touching the edges of his lips–his eyes lighting up slightly–before it faded into his usual intense focus once more.

Once Torquil had given his assent once more–though the man seemed…disturbed, Farren gave Moira one more respectful nod, before he turned and led the way. As they walked, Farren kept his attention outward, remaining utterly silent, even his footfalls surprisingly quiet despite the fog obscuring much of his vision and his frame not being particularly small either. He barely noticed, though some small amount of his attention did go towards remaining quiet–he didn’t want to garner any unwanted attention if they could manage it.

As they neared the factory–though it was not yet in sight due to the fog–Farren broke the silence, “Torquil. I appreciate you sticking with us,” he said, his tone even and serious, though he didn’t look back at the man. He found that it was brave of Torquil to do so, to face the night and all it held despite the fact that it clearly frightened him to do so.

For his own part…Farren didn’t find himself having experienced much fear since waking. It was an odd thing and upon thinking on it…it bothered him quite a bit. After all, while fear could cloud one’s thoughts, it could also clarify things and it was the body and mind’s signal for danger. Instead, it was almost like the old blood had stripped away the emotion and in its place left cold logic and–his blood boiled faintly, distantly–a hot, fierce hunger.

Pulling him from his thoughts, Torquil replied, though it was brief. "Oh... sure," was all Torquil offered in response. He started wondering what the alternative to going with them would be, but quickly decided that would require more thinking than he cared to invest in it.

Farren frowned a bit–wondering if perhaps Torquil hadn’t so much decided to come with them, as much as he was simply following along with little else to do. However, as the factory came into view, he decided he’d dig into that later…if at all.

“Ah, here we are,” Farren said, nodding slightly at the somewhat imposing structure, its footprint wide–likely to accommodate whatever machinery lay within. Taking stock of things, Farren visually checked the windows and entrances once more, then the wider area and the roof. Nothing had changed…except, the crows were gone. His eyes narrowed slightly, but for the moment he let it go.

“Eyes up, stay alert,” Farren murmured, then he approached one of the entrances and tried the handle–locked. Farren sighed, but rather than kick in the door, Farren knelt before the door, deciding to give something a try.

Quickly, he reached into his blood vial pouch, gently tested the durability of one of the needles, then shook his head, discarding the idea. It wasn’t worth risking it breaking, even if it wasn’t likely. So, instead, he unsheathed the joined Blades of Mercy and carefully maneuvered its incredibly narrow, thin point into the look, placing his other hand on the flat and gripping with just his fingers so as not to cut himself on the edge. He let out a slow steadying breath and closed his eyes, feeling around with the blade tip for several moments. Somehow…the act felt familiar and that fact brought mixed feelings…a small smile of pleasure formed even as thoughts of just what sort of person he’d been occurred in unison.

Farren opened his eyes and carefully, he flipped the lock after a few tries, a satisfying click making him smirk a bit. “Wasn’t sure that’d work,” he admitted with a slight chuckle as he withdrew the blade’s tip, though he didn't resheathe it as he stood. Thus, blade in hand, Farren turned the knob and pushed the door open gently, leading the way into the building, eyes darting in every which direction as he did so.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

found himself not liking the prospect of retreat, despite the risks involved with staying, but he said nothing. Not at first. For a time he simply listened, though after taking in Moira’s initial steps to investigate–including her tasting the beast’s blood–Farren turned his attention elsewhere. He slowly scanned around them, though he couldn’t see far past their huddle due to the fog. After a moment–as Ophelia and the others spoke–Farren closed his eyes and focused on the sounds he could hear, and just as relevantly…what he didn’t.

Sadly, not much stood out to him, only the drone of machinery, voltaic or otherwise, the sound of muffled voices, grunts, and bodies moving beyond the safe walls of nearby buildings. The faint shifting of avian forms–feathers and claws both–which certainly originated from the crows they’d seen on almost every nearby structure.

Farren took a deep breath, but smelled only the blood and viscera of the courtyard intermingled with the acrid aromas of the industrial ward. Farren relaxed slightly, but not because he felt safer, rather to save energy. Maintaining too much tension was a tiring thing, so he endeavored not to, difficult as it was with all the strangeness that surrounded them.

Opening his eyes as Moira finished dismissing the concerns of the other new hunters, Farren glanced at Ophelia, then Torquil, before looking back to Moira.

“There was a factory back where we started, seemed…particularly odd, similar feathers nearby, though smaller,” he offered, perhaps giving her somewhere to look, a place to start her investigation since she seemed done with the courtyard already. “I’ll be headed there as well,” he added, half turning, his eyes seeming to pierce through the fog to stare back in the direction they had come. In his mind’s eye, he pulled upon the turns of their trek to the courtyard–or plaza perhaps. It was hard to say precisely what purpose this area held given how much context the fog obscured.

“After that…not sure, but the hunt beckons, and I’d rather like more echoes before we’re forced to face whatever manner of monstrosity did this.”

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

Shared a meaningful glance with Ophelia as another of the hunters called for everyone’s attention. Then, he headed in that direction, understanding that it would be easier to find Moira that way. As they walked he picked up on the fact that the fog was incredibly pervasive—its depth something that was beginning to set him on edge. It didn’t feel…natural. Further, the similarly—seemingly universal—presence of those same crow skull wards on the vast majority of the buildings they walked past was signalling to him that something particularly strange was about in the Industrial Ward.

When Ophelia idly asked if he recognized the rune—if it were perhaps the one he’d acquired at Skinner’s expense—Farren shook his head, deigning not to break the somewhat eerie silence of their short trek.

As they walked, Ophelia might notice as Farren repeatedly glanced to the rooftops where the crows were watching, some in groups, others alone or in pairs. He didn’t like it, for while he knew the creatures were rather intelligent there was something other going on. As if the creatures were watching them…perhaps on the behalf of something else.

Eventually the pattern of the road changed…and then the signs of a struggle appeared. Broken cobblestone…huge gashes torn through the street and the soil that lay beneath, then blood…and the eviscerated remains of not one beast…but at least three. As each came into view, Farren’s expression darkened further.

Not unexpectedly, the massive obsidian hued feathers strewn about almost matched those they’d seen at the factory—though this were far…far larger. He made a mental note to go back and investigate the place, for while the fetishes at its entrances—or wards, if Ophelia was right—appeared nigh ubiquitous here he had a feeling that the place might glean even more details.

At Moira, then Ophelia’s musings, Farren shook his head, “Unless you know of a church giant garbed in the feathers of some giant corvid, I sincerely doubt that ‘someone’ else did this,” Farren said, his tone grave. Beasts hunting beasts? The crow-skull talismans on every door…the ever watchful crows—he could even hear the occasional rasp of their claws echoing inwards to him now—and those feathers…those damned massive feathers. This was something new.

Farren looked to Moira, his azure eyes practically boring into her as he voiced his query, “You seen anything like this before?”

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

was initially frustrated with the low visibility, but soon moved past it as he continued his investigation of their environs. However, he was somewhat surprised when his search turned up details far more quickly than he’d expected. However, as he followed the trail of feathers to the facade of the large building, Farren felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as he laid eyes upon the crow skull fetishes. Hearing the faint scratching of something against the material of the factory’s roof, the azure-eyed hunter trained his gaze further up only to lay his eyes upon the group of crows that watched him with silent interest.

A cold sensation slithered down his spine and he found himself slowly–quietly–drawing Bulwark carefully from the loop at his hip. However, he was no fool and didn’t try to approach one of the points of ingress that would grant access to the factory building’s innards. Instead, he slowly backed away from the factory until the fog mostly obscured its silhouette. Then, still staring in its direction, he waited several heartbeats, before turning and striding in the direction that he’d seen Moira go. He took a slightly circuitous path though, one that would take him past Ophelia, who he gestured to follow him. “Found something. Let’s get the others,” he commented. While what he’d found could be nothing, it could also be the beast they sought, or a den of some other form of monstrosity. Neither were things he had any intention of facing alone.

After all, Farren may have been immortal, but if he didn’t have to die to achieve something, why risk it?