yoshua171

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

“It should've been a blank slate...”

Mood Music

He was blind…or what he imagined being blind was like. Black as pitch, not like being in a dark room or even some enclosed chamber that natural light had never touched…but like he was submerged in ink. In that space he had a sense that he wasn’t alone, but he couldn’t tell who, what, or how many were in the space with him…nor how large the space was.

He took in a breath, or tried to, but couldn’t. Couldn’t breathe. Didn’t need to. Didn’t matter. Farren swallowed, hard, peering sightlessly into the cloying black. He swore he could feel it on his skin…but no, that was impossible, the darkness couldn’t touch you…couldn’t touch him especially, not with how many layers he was…. Farren looked down and though some part of him knew he shouldn’t be able to, he could see himself. Just a shirt and trousers and a pair of threadbare boots. His mouth went dry, lips parting, eyes widening–for what little good it did him. Then there was a sense of sickening motion as if he were being pulled back away from his body, away from himself. His vision lurched backwards and he saw himself, his body reeling in the black, but from this perspective…it wasn’t darkness, but something else–though no less dark.

Inverse Radiance, something perverse had engulfed his body, he’d woken up in it, was submerged by it. Yet, somehow…in that inky substance he could feel something else…something moving. Many somethings…all of them with disjointed silhouettes he couldn’t parse. He tried to call out to his motionless body, bidding it to move, but it didn’t–he didn’t.

With a jerk his vision slingshotted back into his body, submerged in something inky black, a liquid void. He fell forward to his knees and as he did…something blazed through him. Crimson and bright, lively and fiery and…and…–painful.

A scream tore from his throat and he clawed at himself as he felt muscles stretching and tearing…blood burning in his veins. “Fucking…aggh,” he swore, clamping down his jaw as if on the pain. Then…he swore he felt something…clawing, cloying, teasing at his skin. He tried to shift, but it hurt too much to look–though he doubted he would see anything. Wait. Farren raised his eyes and as he did he found that the space around him was illuminated. It was as if veins had shot out like crimson lines of light through the inky black around him. The pain was gone, the strange touch forgotten, but something else loomed, bright eyed and covered in a disgusting mixture of matted fur and sickly wrinkled flesh like a massive diseased dog.

Farren tried to push to his feet, but stumbled instead and went from on his hands and knees, to sitting on his ass, his hands behind him catching him from falling onto his back. The creature seemed to sense him, smell him…see him. Drool slathered down from its too-white teeth…it had gore in its gums at the bases and as it clamped down on something, then released it…he swore he saw the pale white of a human skull shatter into fragments and fall from its maw.

Farren tried to scramble back, but the creature began to clamber and bound rapidly through the once darkened pitch. It lunged over the last few feet, but before it could touch him a bolt of bright gold light struck it like a ray from the sun itself. The beast yowled and was thrown back and as it did its body touched one of the pale veins of light that pulsed through the air all around them. Silently, Farren realized that the bloody light was pulsing inwards as if pumping into him.

The sickly creature lit aflame then in a loud screech and a fwoosh as if its body had been doused in oil prior. Perhaps it had. It was intense enough that the force of the heat and light knocked him onto his back, and he barely caught himself on his elbows. He raised one arm to shield his eyes as the light somehow…grew and grew and grew. The red and orange dimmed and as he squinted at the blinding luminescence where once the burning Beast had been all he could see was a massive golden figure. So large it eclipsed the black, moon-touched sky. Confusion and old unreasoning panic, combined with awe and foolish curiosity joined in his chest and brow.

He shielded his eyes as the light grew brighter still, began to burn and seethe–....

_Farren

suddenly found himself staring at a high wooden ceiling, could smell incense burning, acrid blood, and hear the faint moaning of the sick–or so he thought at first. His mouth was dry, his body felt simultaneously filled with incredible vigor and an intense bone-deep, but fading, ache. “Ugh…” he groaned. Something was tight around his chest, his arms, his ankles and even his waist and legs. ‘Why am I tied–...’ the thought was interrupted as a brief flash of men and women in clerical garb explaining something to him came to mind. He couldn’t hear the words, but he saw himself in that vision, that memory and the man he saw looked…unlike him somehow. Like a stranger in his flesh, skittery, fidgety, with wild terrified eyes. Hunched over, pale, bags under his eyes. ‘Do I look like that?’ he wondered, but realized he knew he didn’t…somehow. He recalled another figure…the prick of a long, large needle into his skin. He turned his head and saw the metal stand at the top of which hung a now empty bag of what Farren knew had been blood. That made sense, somehow.

Another flash of memory…a voice this time….

“Yes Farren, it will heal you and in return you will join the Hunt, not as a hired hand, but as a Hunter….”

The rest was garbled, Farren shook his head, then himself, and that action alone had such surprising force that several of his leather bindings simply snapped. The newborn Hunter’s eyes widened slightly, he wet his lips and, experimentally, he tried to push into a sitting position. He moved far faster than he’d intended and with greater force than he ought to possess. The bindings around his chest and waist tore and fell away. He smiled a bit, but then the pale flesh of the Messengers caught his gaze and he found himself…chuckling lightly. They were cute, in a way, in the same way that some ugly things were so unfortunate looking that they circled back in that direction.

Still, something else in him recoiled, shook them off him. A faint memory from his sleep, his dream(?) came back to him, the sense of things touching him, things coming towards him from the pitch black inky dark. Had it just been these harmless, pitiful looking things? Farren shrugged a bit, what did it matter.

Reaching down, the blue-eyed Hunter undid the leather bindings on his legs before he easily pulled free of the ones at his ankles. So…he was to be a Hunter now. He’d say it was an interesting turn of fate, but he wasn’t sure what other turns fate had given him before now. Though…something about the radiant figure in his nightmare…the bolt of golden light that had struck aside that Beast? The haunted look in his own eyes in that memory.

Surely it was nothing. He shook his head. Now sitting on the edge of his cot, legs hanging off it and touching the ground, Farren stood up and glanced around, noting two others who had risen from their cots. Perhaps not a clinic for the ill, but for those who had imbibed of the Paleblood. He supposed that meant him as well now.

As he paid the two figures, he took in the one with silver hair…tall and lithe, shoulders and hips at width with one another told him she was a woman. She seemed…fragile, though hale now perhaps. Perhaps once, as evidenced by her silver tresses, she had been sick and that was what had driven her to the Blood.

‘Driven her?’ What was so wrong with the Blood? ‘Nothing,’ he decided. It didn’t matter, he’d already received the concoction directly in his veins. What use was worrying after the result? None.

Farren shifted his gaze to the other figure in the room, a man. At the sight of his clothes and the obvious muscle on his frame, Farren felt a strange kinship. Didn’t make much sense, since Farren was pretty sure he’d done work for the church before this…though he supposed it could have been manual labor of a sort. He gave the man a small companionable smile through his own thick beard, and then turned his gaze to the tables across the room. A bell tolled, far away, but loud despite that. The sound of roars and howls…some distant, others closer, reached his senses.

Right…the Hunt. His eyes narrowed slightly and then he gave a solitary “hah,” as if the whole thing were a joke. He felt like he’d conquered something far worse, though he had no idea what that could be. It gave him a sense of invincibility…though some dormant part of him that he could not hear seemed to scream and claw at its cage of forgotten memories within Farren’s mind, trying to warn him. He didn’t notice. Instead, Farren strode across the room, finding each footfall to be…surprisingly quiet despite his bulky boots and heavily muscled form. He frowned slightly, then smiled before he stopped before the table of weapons and placed his palms on the table’s surface. As he looked them over, Farren tried to figure out what called to him.

“Ought to equip ourselves,” he said almost idly, sounding…eager–talking more to himself than the others. It surprised him slightly, but he embraced it. Nights like this were what Hunters lived for…and he was a Hunter now so eagerness felt…well, it felt right.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

Farren

Name: Farren
Race: False Paleblood Hunter
Appearance: Farren is a scarred and weathered looking man with piercing blue eyes. He sports wild black hair and an unkempt joined beard and mustache. He’s tall and somewhat broad of shoulder and if he didn’t always look angry, haunted, or dangerously intense he might be considered attractive. Instead, there’s something forbidding about him. He walks with a strong gait that—on occasion—hitches slightly, likely from old wounds that he no longer remembers. Though broad of frame, Farren doesn’t appear a bulky sort, and though he is clearly already strong…he is also stronger than he looks by a mile, especially following the Ministration of False Pale Blood that he received. Farren often smells faintly of rust and sweat, with an actually deliberately applied scent of sandalwood to attempt to overpower the other two.

Height: 6’1
Weight: 230 lbs

Clothes:

Farren wears a scraggly brown cloak with a high collar of loose tattered cloth that covers much of his neck. Beneath this is a washed out gray duster jacket that is the best kept of all his garments. Beneath this jacket is a dusty brown overshirt with buttons that splits at the upper chest into the low collar. Finally, beneath this is a dirty button up shirt that perhaps once was a pale off-white. Farren’s trousers are made of a rough fabric, are baggier than most, and are a similar light brown to his cloak. He wears black well-kept, but dirt and blood splattered boots, which aside from his duster are better taken care of than the rest of his clothes. Beneath his trousers he wears thick long underwear as one might in winter, though this is not visible in the least.

Personality:

Now? Whose to say. They say our Memories make us who we are...so who will he be without them?

Before the Blood Ministration, he was paranoid, fidgety, frightened, and liable to lash out at the slightest provocation.

Before the Golden Halberd, Farren was half sarcastic and half gruff. He was considered slow of wit, but observant; unlearned, but eager to please or be accepted; and of course doggedly persistent. He was a stubborn, inventive man with a keen eye for details and a decent sense for the character of people—not that he cared much for anyone in particular.

History: The False Paleblood made him an Amnesiac, with few memories of his life before Blood Ministration.

What is Remembered: As of now, very little, flashes of childhood. A sense of isolation from his peers and from others. Images and mumblings of orders from what appear to be members of the Church. Ah…and of course, a single glowing golden line shining up through what might be torn fabric or a tear in the world itself for all he knows.

What Was in Truth: Farren was an outsider to Yharnam who came from afar for opportunity. A thief, a thug, a laborer…that was until the Hunter’s Workshop made him their hired hand. Working with them for the money, despite the risk, Farren became an expert at “Acquisitions” for the Workshop and the Church. Sent out on high risk ventures too dangerous to risk valuable assets, and not quite so important as to warrant such, Farren—despite expectations—survived each time. He served in this way for a number of years. They taught him to read and write—if barely—and he picked up some of the tricks and trade of the Workshop’s craft, though mostly in secret. They taught him math, though only so much as they deemed necessary for his work.

Living paycheck to paycheck, so to speak, with no valued skills for another profession and reviled as an outsider…Farren had little choice but to stay. So he did. He stayed and he learned and he got very VERY good at his particular niche. Needed something stolen from a rival? Reappropriated from the Church, a private collector, some ne’er do well none of which necessitated a Hunter? Farren was the man you sent. Had a ruin or some other place touched by the Great Ones in some major way that made it too dangerous for Hunters purely to be within, but bereft of life otherwise? You might send Farren. Through such expeditions, Farren’s lack of knowledge and presumed “lesser” intelligence he seemed to…resist the influence of the Great Ones. Not directly, certainly, but indirectly? Very much so. At least, that’s how it seemed until the Golden Halberd.

It was the Job that ruined him. Others had tried to move it before him, entire teams…but they’d all gone mad before they could shift it even an inch.

While Farren wasn’t immediately affected by whatever fell power had influenced or was held within the object, the massive weapon remained physically rooted in the ground and could not be extracted, let alone moved.

After the operation concluded, Farren found himself…haunted. At first he thought perhaps he was just sick, experiencing shivers and sudden unexplainable cold. However, as time went on and he tried to continue his work…he began to see things, hear things…feel light touches on his skin or brushes against his clothes. With time it grew more severe, clawing at his flesh, full-on visions, voices calling from afar or from above or behind him. Images of a blazing streak falling from the heavens, warped memories of the Halberd and…something else. Something leaking from it, polluting everything it touched.

He grew desperate, paranoid, terrified and eventually the workshop deemed him a liability and handed him over to the Church. Farren, begging for a cure, submitted willingly. He gave any knowledge he could—though to the men of the Church it was mostly indecipherable nonsense by that point. Then, finally, they acquired his dubious consent for Blood Ministration of a particular sort. So it was that he was Administered the False Paleblood… promised it would be a cure.

Thus he forgot and with the forgetting came relief. Though for how long is anyone’s guess.

Capabilities:

Note: Farren likely has both dyscalculia and dyslexia that are undiagnosed due to the time period.

Farren is naturally very strong, has a decent amount of dexterity, and is exceptionally perceptive, if not necessarily booksmart or good at making large leaps of logic to create connections. Though he is no longer aware of this, Farren can pickpocket, pick locks, and has higher than average awareness and control of his body. Farren can read and write, but only barely. His handwriting is abysmally messy and downright illegible unless you’re used to reading it. His consistent exercise due to his prior profession gave him considerable endurance and he has a natural ‘resistance’ to the influence of locales, objects, or entities that have been affected by the Great Ones. However, he has no resistance to speak of and is far weaker to the Great Ones themselves and even minor influence from them is likely to trigger visions, hallucinations, and old memories better left forgotten. Despite his considerable size, Farren is surprisingly good at going unnoticed, getting into places he shouldn’t be, and moving stealthily. Though he doesn’t know it, he has some skill with using knives and short swords of simple make and has a steady hand to match his keen eyes.

Accoutrements:
5 Blood Vials[Pure Church Blood](Pouch).
8 Quicksilver Bullets(Tube).
9 Lead Bullets(Pouch).

• 4 Blood Vials[Pure Church Blood](Pouch).
• 4/5 Quicksilver Bullets(Tube).
• 8/9 Lead Bullets(Pouch).
• Crowfeather Set(Pants/shoes, shirt, arm pieces, no cloak or headpiece).
• Yahar'gul hood (Sans headpiece armor).
• Beastflayer(Back--point down/diagonal left).
• {1/9 Lead Bullets}Piercing Rifle(Back--barrel down/diagonal left).
• {Empty}Hunter's Pistol(Left hip).
• {1/5 Quicksilver Bullets}Blunderbuss(Left hip).
• Blade(s) of Mercy(Right hip sheath)
• Bulwark(Right hip)

Messenger Held:

• Kirkhammer.
• Feathered Cloak(Crowfeather Set).

Blood Echoes: 0.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Lhirinthyl

---

As the angel spoke, Lhirin listened closely--very closely, his eyes extremely wide as he stared at Caleb. The divine's words washed over him and he took them in, tasted them in his mind...sampling them almost like a connoisseur until he was satisfied with his understanding--it only took a second or so...but as he finished, Caleb said one last thing...and this this stuck in his mind

“– has a spirit in it. Destroy me if you want, but please do not trap me like that again.”

Lhirinthyl's eyes narrowed.

“...do not trap me like that again.”

The deigan's gaze flitted to the strange book. In the very center of the only proper pool of blood in the room. The rest, he noted idly, were from being tracked or smeared about…or on occasion dripping. Pawprints, footprints and the like had likely tracked them, a body or piece of worn clothing sending droplets to the floor. His eye twitched and again the angel’s words surged back ,but now only one of them as his mind focused--fixated–on the detail.

“...again.”

“I see,” he replied, his affect so flat that he sounded almost monotone, and certainly disinterested.

He wasn't...not really, but his attention was very far away from things like expressing the proper set of subtle sounds to accurately convey his internal world for other people. His eyes darting away from Caleb and to other details in the room. The way the blood was splattered about, any disarray he could perhaps try a reason for. Almost at the same time, Lhirin considered the various conversations taking place.

Caleb’s strange…emotionality, Freagon’s reticence and general lack of engagement with the others. Irah’s wrath, then sorrow. Yanin’s somewhat detached…morality? “Mmm…” he uttered, an almost-hum of consideration. Other pieces of potentially interesting–if not immediately–relevant information snagged his mind even as he thought through the euphoria of his piaan high.

Raising a single feathery brow, the deigan swiveled his head back towards Freagon as he heard the angel…“Mmmh”--he made a slightly annoyed sound as he corrected himself mentally ‘Caleb’.

“A mundane,” — “It feels... odd. Undead, yet not. Very powerful.”

What a strange impression to have of a soul. Still…perhaps ‘Caleb’ himself was more strange. After all, his earlier impressions of the Angel were…significant. The divine had roughly twice his own soul’s capacity, which is considerable given that ‘Caleb’ was apparently Fallen. However, while he’d detected waning traces of divine energy, which surely would have wiped away or converted any mundane power that might otherwise have lingered, the truly surprising thing was when his senses had grazed over Freagon and his sword. By happenstance, Lhirinthyl’s awareness had touched the sword first, verifying–and adding to–what ‘Caleb’ had said later on. He’d sensed what was most certainly a full soul with all its complexities, housed within the blade. What was more significant though, was the sheer intensity of energy he’d detected though…the soul was not just double his capacity as the Angel’s had been, no it was greater even than that.

Thinking on it brought a frown to his features, but it only lasted a moment before Lhirin’s eyes grew somewhat wide as he detected Freagon’s soul. It was earth affinity and…surprisingly sparse in energy, smaller than that of most of his kind…smaller even than those of them who did not use magic. Perhaps a minor curiosity on its own, but something else caught his attention instead as the nightwalker’s soul was utterly unlike anything he had sensed before.

Most souls were…cohesive. Their flows and patterns changed and shifted…alternated and perhaps wove about in often chaotic patterns, but they had few, if any gaps in their makeup. They were a solid mass of churning energies. Some souls were larger, some smaller, some calmer, some more frenetic. Others still felt controlled, while others were…oddly still. This wasn’t like any of those, not like Irah’s unique soul, not like what Irah had told him of his…certainly not like any non-mage he’d ever seen–not that any mage’s soul he’d detected compared in the least.

No, Freagon’s soul was like…cottage cheese. No…it was like a threadbare cloak that had long ago fallen almost completely apart, before being woven together by shaky, broken, inexperienced hands without the slightest measure of sense to guide them. If a normal soul was like a river, then Freagon’s soul was–Lhirin cut off the thought, the simile dying in his mind before it had had a chance to even be terrible (he knew it would have been).

Before he’d been…focused elsewhere, more distracted by the still somewhat new onset of euphoria from the drug, but now that the tension had died and he only needed to absorb and process with no need to act in the immediate moment, Lhirin found that there was indeed much to consider.

Running his fingers over a feather in his head…then another almost as if he was pruning himself like a bipedal, humanoid bird, the deigan felt his eye twitch as his gaze again drifted to the book.

He took a step into the room, his eyes fixed on the tome. When no one stopped him from moving further, the mage pressed forth–almost in a rush. He knelt before the book where it sat at the center of the room–at the center of the macabre scene. He reached out, hesitated for half a second and then touched the book.

Suddenly, the instant Lhirin's skin touched the bloodstained book, the world flashed before his eyes. For a split-second he was in another place, a darker place where the sunlight flowing through the windows was absent.

He was sitting in a chair at a table, with an open book in front of him; the very same book, he would realize, that he just reached out to pick up. His left hand held the book in place, while his right was carefully pressing the claw at the end of his finger into the page. His hands were slender and feminine, and in red fur.

Past the book, on the other side of the table, sat a large, robed figure with another, much larger leather-bound book in its clawed, red-skinned hands. Green eyes glowed within the shade of its hood. Familiar eyes.

And then he was back in the room with the others, as if nothing had happened. He felt a little faint, as if he had dozed off for an instant, but other than that the memory of that very briefest of glimpses was the only evidence that anything unusual had occurred.

For a moment, Lhirin remained where he was, slightly dazed–though that was fading fast. He had kept his balance despite his crouched position as he was surprisingly stable like that–which was in itself an oddity. Most people would not have been comfortable, let alone stable in the position he was holding. Despite the vision, the memory–he figured–Lhirinthyl, after only a second brief hesitation, scooped the book up and rose to his feet.

Frowning as he very carefully handled the tome, Lhirin walked over to the desk, not seeming to pay ‘Caleb’ any mind at all as he did so. Gingerly, he glanced across the table’s surface, found a place free of blood and then lightly opened the book…face down before he settled it on its blood-dampened pages. Lightly removing his hands from the tome, Lhirin began to weave runes in the air above it, channeling a tiny amount of magical energy as he did so. Once he was satisfied with the construction, he held it with his will and quickly invoked the necessary incantation for Call Water.

His feathered brow creasing, the mage reached out with his will as he controlled the flow of magical energy he was releasing and gently pressed that energy with a feather-light touch through the spine and center of the book’s pages. Slowly, still holding the spell, Lhirin spread his energy out in as thin of layers as he could manage. Finally, he let the spell activate, its effect channeling into the energy he’d prepared even as he concentrated to control its precise function. Kneeling down below the table so he was eye level with where the book’s bloodied pages met the wood of the desk, Lhirin began to quickly draw the liquid out along the paths of the energy he’d laid even as he pulled the strands of energy towards his palm where it was placed–fingers open, its flat aimed towards the edge of the table.

The result allowed him to pull all the moisture from the book’s pages and towards his hand. However, the liquid components of the blood of course did not defy gravity, but instead flowed off the side of the table and to the ground a foot or two in front of him. It only took perhaps four seconds as he carefully regulated his energy use, then he shot up from his crouch and to his feet in a sudden–probably startling movement.

Heedless of anyone’s reactions, Lhirin observed the book for a moment, before he picked it up where it felt most sturdy (at the binding)–after a few prodding, extra light touches. Raising it gently from the desk, the deigan then began to very lightly pat the spine of the book as its pages fluttered downwards, pulled by gravity, to hang from what could barely be called its spine. Light puffs of reddish grit and dust began to gently rain down from between the book’s pages and on its cover. Satisfied that the pages weren’t incredibly brittle…or still soggy and likely to tear, Lhirin lightly jostled them back and forth, gently shaking free more of the detritus. After perhaps thirty seconds of this he was satisfied. Holding the ‘book’ shut, Lhirin turned it right side up so the front faced him.

Exercising what Irah would consider an incredible amount of discipline, Lhirin did not open the book in that moment and begin to devour its contents like a thirsty man in the desert might water. Instead, he clenched his teeth for a long moment, scanning the room with his eyes again. He noted a leather wrapping–slightly bloodstained–by the northern wall of the room. Smiling slightly, seeming pleased, Lhirin made a beeline for the wrapping, gently scooped it from the floor, cast his spell again after a brief consideration, then shook any detritus free of it. He was less careful with the wrapping, but when he was done he checked it for damage, then promptly placed the woven together pages into the leather covering.

He then tucked the book, spine facing down, against his wrist, held in his left hand for the moment. Pausing, Lhirin stretched out his magical senses once more and let them flow over Freagon. After a moment of staring openly at the knight with an incredulous, confused expression, Lhirin shook his head, turned away, and then promptly walked towards Irah. When he reached her, he turned on his heel so he faced back toward the room. From that point, unless he felt drawn by a particular happening or detail, he’d remain firmly at her side. Like a lapdog…or a protector…or a man who was trying very hard not to walk out of the mansion, sit on their wagon, and bury his face in the strange tome.

As he stood there, he considered–silently, not passing the information on just yet–on what he had seen in his little vision-memory. It appeared to have been the dead melenian…and ‘Caleb.’ That was strange…hadn’t the woman died to summon him?

Frowning, Lhirin lightly flicked Irah’s hip to get her attention (he did not find this the least bit rude or improper). He used their sign language to indicate ‘the angel,’ then ‘the melenian.’ He made a series of signs that when combined would roughly mean ‘something doesn’t add up’--though its literal meaning was more like ‘things’ ‘no’ ‘add’. Once he was satisfied that he’d conveyed at least enough that she would be paying closer attention to the divine, Lhirin lowered his hand and widened his eyes as he stared about the room, his gaze bouncing between speakers and taking in every individual action he could.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Lhirinthyl

---

A gauntleted hand came down on his shoulder, his attention snapped over to its origin, arcane words on the tip of his tongue, magic at his fingertips, then he registered words and his reason took hold. Perhaps Irah might notice the implication of his poised fingers at his side and the way his lips parted, tongue almost moving, but most likely it would be impossible to read, especially as briefly as it was present. Nodding in response to sir Yanin's words, the deigan turned his gaze back to the room. Raking his eyes across the scene even as he reached out with his arcane senses to attempt to ascertain if there were any other details that the others may have missed.

While he waited for his mind to process anything from those senses, Lhirinthyl noticed something else entirely...something far more mundane--though its source was divine in nature. With his eyes locking on the once-thalk, 'Caleb,' Lhirin tilted his head, his wide eyes narrowing fractionally. He said nothing for a time, as others were speaking, instead he simply let his mind roil on the waves of euphoria and power that the piaan had provided him. Then three was a flash of silver movement. Lhirin's reaction was immediate, his hands raising slightly, only to lower as he processed what Freagon had done. Shaking his head, Lhirin let out a small set of noises 'tsk tsk,' in response. Even he knew better than to do something so brash and thoughtless. The irony of his thought was lost in him, of course and he was glad to see that the knight's actions did not resolve in further hostilities or the like.

As things calmed slightly, with Yanin and Irah essentially chastising the nightwalker, Lhirin circled back to his earlier thought and spoke up--his silver-eyed gaze falling once more on Caleb.

"Why do you appear so frightened?"

He asked, his heading tilting faintly, his tone curious even as his piercing gaze tried to ascertain the reason through the divine's body language alone.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Lhirinthyl

---

It was, at first, a tense, but swift affair, the opening of the doors into the hall, the shift to the next set as he followed behind the others, eyes wide and almost manic as he scanned their surroundings. Then the Knight of the Will forcefully entered the true unknown and what was perhaps the most dangerous sequence of moments unfolded. Filtering into the space, but staying behind those who led for the most part, the deigan mage continued to scan, hand on the hilt of his runeblade.

The sight of the supposed Archangel made his eyes twitch into a briefly narrowed position, before widening again as he took in every little detail. The 'hostages,' how the coin fell through part of one with no reaction, the flames at the edge of the room, and the jumpy--or perhaps simply angry--response of the divine. As Freagon beckoned Irah to speak, Lhirin noted each of the angel's reactions and let them sift through his mind. He noticed as the images and sensations from the room shifted. No heat from the flames. No smoke either--the smoke was really the first thing he'd noticed. Even if it were divine magic, it was likely to burn or affect the environs to some degree...and it simply wasn't. There were no burn marks, no strange interactions between the flames and the materials of the manse at all, in fact.

Then, as Irah spoke with the divine--even after her brief outburst, during which he downed a vial of piaan--he noticed things calming down. From some distance behind him he heard the other woman call out...the non-combatant. Her words seemed to give them time, buy Irah a moment to calm down, and give the Angel something to chew on.

Lhirin, his movements hidden behind Freagon and Irah's bodies, began the somatic workings of a spell even as he barely whispered words in the arcane language. However, before he'd gotten even a quarter of the way through, he realized things were deescalating. He ceased immediately, not wanting to worsen the situation. It was in that moment where his focus waned that the unpleasant pressure and pain between his eyes caused by the piaan faded and was swiftly followed by a sense of lightness and distance. For Lhirin, quick witted as he was and used to the effects, it gave him several instants to see things clearly even before the others perhaps registered that the Thalk was afraid. Yes, it was a divine, it was dangerous, perhaps moreso due to it being scared, but it was also vulnerable in a way that he'd not have expected.

Typically divines had enough power that worrying about a small group of mundanes--even ones as competent as them--was not something that would necessarily inspire something like fear. This impression was reinforced as more information was exchanged between Irah and the Thalk. It became clear even as a pleasant numbness tingled its way through his body, followed by a burst of euphoria that made him grin for a few moments...grin like a madman. He largely ignored the expression on his face, his mind slightly slowed by the shifting emotions and sensations of the piaan high.

He swallowed as a sense of contentment finally settled throughout him, even as it was joined by a powerful burst of magical energy refilling--and somewhat overfilling--his body and soul. He grit his teeth, clamping down on the power even as it tried to spill beyond his vessel. He didn't let it. Lhirin may not have had the same degree of intense control as Irah or some other Necromancer, but he'd done a great deal of training on controlling his own energies...and further he'd practiced what he could of the Necromancer's art without truly altering the innate impression that his soul gave off. It was not enough to give him the edge that it gave Irah, but it was enough for him to suppress what would have been the intense impression of magical energy as the piaan took full effect. He noticed the slight shift in his senses as well as sounds became sharper, smells and taste more nuanced, while light became brighter and somehow more colorful.

While he could handle many of piaan's admittedly pleasant side-effects, one that he struggled with for a moment was the sense of strength and heady power that came with it. He took a single step forward before the situation had fully deescalated, but he moved no further, catching himself before he could move further or take any foolish actions.

It was, ultimately, both a relief and a disappointment when the illusions fully fell away and revealed the room in truth. The blood splattered almost everywhere was...not unsettling, not even unpleasant, just macabre. Evidence of severe physical trauma and--of course--death. There were, strangely, no bodies and the Fallen Thalk was...oddly diminutive. Not in size, but in posture, its form curled up as small as possible in the corner.

Pushed on by the heady power of piaan and his general lack of social awareness, Lhirin finally moved as the situation became one of tenuous peace--not that he entirely realized it was tenuous at all. Stepping past Irah...and then Freagon, Lhirin moved past the threshold of the room even as he sheathed his runeblade.

Unbothered by the blood, his manner intense, but devoid of threat, Lhirin's silver eyes only briefly acknowledged the fallen divine before flitting to the leatherbound book on the ground. Reaching it, he bent to retrieve it from the ground before a thought stopped him in his tracks.

"Ah," he exhaled, his silver eyes lifting from the book to slide across the room to meet the eyes of the divine without a shred of fear or trepidation. "May I?" Lhirin inquired, his tone inquisitive, his eyes darting back to the book, then to Caleb once more to indicate the subject of his query.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Lhirinthyl

---

Prior words spoken, Lhirin simply observed silently for a time, his wide silver eyes flitting between the members of their ragtag gathering. Some of the information, presented anew, led him to new ideas, particularly that the sobbing they could hear was not the Melenian...but perhaps the divine itself. Among the words that the others communicated, those and Yanin's suggestion of the order of their entry were perhaps the most important.

The only others he deigned consider was the query posed to the mages among them, himself obviously foremost in their gathering. Running over his list of spells silently, Lhirin concluded that he had no specialized means of identifying, nor disrupting, illusion magics. Of course...he could use his own magical energy to disrupt any such spell's energies. However, given that the working would be generated by divine magic and not the energies he was more familiar with, meant that it would be an unsure thing. Further, and more importantly perhaps, to use his energy in that way would be exceptionally inefficient, particularly in the environs that the illusion magic would be sure to reside within. That being a room suffused with divine energy, which--much like the hall--would likely weaken his own magics significantly.

However, these musings were not the essential ones, rather what he said in reply was."Disturbing, and likely, as the Thalk's deception may be, I do not believe these sobs to be an illusion. To create one such thing they would needs extend their energies beyond the confines of this threshold in greater quantities than either myself or Irah have sensed." Fingers tapping at the guard of his runeblade, Lhirin continued "Perhaps it is generating the sound from within, via illusion or sound magics. If so...it could simply be to confound our impressions of the situation we are to enter. A distraction. An additional variable to muddy our impressions and tie up our attention."

Lhirin's eyes narrowed at the thought, then his gaze turned toward the door. "Even if this proves true, we can do naught but press forth and respond as expediently as we are able, with the thought kept in mind."

That said, Lhirin glanced between the others a moment, then concluded his thoughts. "As has been said, now we are simply passing time, and time is our enemy in this instance. Thus, I suggest we press forth and do away with further theory for it only serves to aid our would-be foe, if it is indeed such." His piece said, Lhirin closed his eyes and simply listened, focusing on the energies and resources he yet had at his disposal, rather than further conversation.

It was a more valuable use of his time.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Lhirinthyl

---

A she watched Freagon make his decision, the deigan caught movement from Irah's location and his gaze shifted even as the Knight of the Will gave him his unspoken answer. Reading his companion's lips, Lhirin's mind whirred for an instant before he held up a hand, displaying 5 fingers, then two, in succession, to indicate 52 kgs (114.64 lbs). That done, Lhirin turned his gaze from Irah, caught Freagon's eye for a moment as he neared him, and then pushed forth up the stairway.

As he reached the upper landing, Lhirin would take several steps onto it, providing room for any who came just behind or beside him--such as Freagon or his apprentice, Jaelnec. Widening his eyes, Lhirin peered over the details on the second floor of the hall. He looked over the details of everythin in the room, the windows they'd seen from outside, the chandelier, the spatters of blood and those of his new compatriots who had also ascended--though by the other stairway. At once he focused, reaching his arcane sense outwards and coming upon a dense disturbance of the faint ambient energy of the area. This clearly demarcated where the ambient energy ended and divine energy--and its corruptive touch--began. He withdrew his senses at that point, not willing to risk any direct contact with it. He'd leave that to Irah and her divine.

Moving once more, he headed towards the path into the western area of the manor even as the faint sound of a crying woman reached him. Though her words were quieter than usual, Lhirin caught much of what Irah said in reply to Yanin, if only because he read her lips.

"I don't like this," muttered the mage as he joined the rest of the group before pushing past them alongside Freagon. He paused before he passed any threshold however, ensuring that he would not enter the area suffused with divine energy just yet.

Once there, he lifted a finger to his mouth and lightly chewed at his bent knuckle. It did not feel particularly wise to walk directly into such dense energy without some greater form of protection. Protection that he could not currently afford given the level of his magical reserves. Half turning so he could regard Irah and the others once more, Lhirin gave her a pointed look as he made a series of subtle gestures with one of his hands. The hand remained at his side, making the act rather inconspicuous.

It communicated the status of his reserves and posed a question, should he imbibe given the potential danger they were walking into?

That query posed, Lhirin‘s gaze finally turned to Yanin as he grasped at the memory of the knight’s words. Though he was tactlessly late to replying to the man, Lhirin did so nonetheless, appearing not to even notice that he’d kept the man waiting for a response longer than was proper.

“No,” the deigan began as he regarded the knight, taking in his various arms and armor. “Impossible to precisely prepare when we cannot know what we are to face,” he clarified. Drumming his fingers along the hilt of his runeblade, Lhirin considered the assets at their disposal. His eyes briefly darted to Irah and then back between the other members of their makeshift party. Based on the telltale signs he was picking up on, she was almost worse off than he was in terms of energy. Someone who didn’t know her would not have been able to tell the difference, as she held herself well, but he had traveled with her for quite some time and had learned to tell the difference.

Her spirit was tired. He understood the feeling as he shifted in place, likely appearing listless and almost fidgety to anyone else. The reality was that he was moving subtly in order to somewhat alleviate the terrible feeling of heaviness that came along with magical exhaustion. Bringing a hand up, Lhirin massaged the bridge of his nose before pushing his hand back through his feathers lightly.

“Given my and Irah’s states, I believe having our more physically oriented fighters lead is likely wise. Any information we can offer you can be given just as well from the back as if we were leading.” It wasn’t much, but it was at least something he could offer to the man’s question other than simply shutting it down.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Lhirinthyl

---

Avoiding the prick of the spear, Lhirin found himself stymied by the ghoul's ranged armament. Letting out a sharp breath, Lhirin's wide-eyed stare bored into the divine-possessed corpse, but before he need act further, a trail of water snaked through the air and did the rest of the work for him. As the water closed the circuit and the ghoul reacted, Lhirin cut off the flow of energy even as the water collapsed to the ground and his enemy convulsed and flung itself partially backward.

Taking a deep breath, Lhirin focused his senses--noticing the disappearance of the disruption to his energies as he did so, though he knew there was unlikely any correlation. He felt...heavy and drained. Not good things considering the greater encounter was likely ahead of them--if Irah's words were anything to go by (which they often were).

Lowering his runeblade, Lhirin turned his attention to the Knight of the Will who stood down the staircase, raising a single eyebrow. The man could have easily interjected or even taken out the ghoul in his stead. Why had he held back. In fact, given his speed and the effectiveness of his weapon against the divines, why had he not done more?

Lhirin stared, his gaze lingering too long, with far more intensity than was comfortable or polite. "Inefficient," he said matter-of-factly, his eyes still locked upon the knight. As the others gathered their wits and spoke--mostly to one another rather than at him--Lhirin considered his stores of energy.

His lips twitched downwards slightly, then returned to a more neutral expression. Idly he considered the piaan he had on his person but disregarded it after a moment's consideration. Still, Irah's words about what was allegedly the final divine worried him, if only slightly.

With his senses no longer disrupted Lhirin could tell that all parties of magical note had perhaps expended more than they ought to during this first engagement--himself included. Perhaps he was the truly inefficient one. With Irah's assistance and a measure more seriousness, he could have disabled all--if not the vast majority--of the threats almost entirely without input from the others...and using a fraction of the energy he'd expended in reality.

He shook his head slightly And glanced between the other members of their ragtag group, noting that each of the three silver swords had already been accounted for. Dismissing the idea of asking for one, Lhirin instead glanced down to his own runeblade even as he lifted its sheath to eye level. Scanning briefly he reviewed the various runes inscribed on each of their surfaces. When he was satisfied, Lhirin lowered both implements and turned his attention to the top of the stairs. Thoughts flitted through his mind As he considered, and then discarded the idea of imbibing any of his limited stock of piaan. After all, those were only for emergencies, and this did not yet qualify.

With that decided, Lhirin spoke, his voice projected mostly due to his clear tone and the acoustics of the room. "Freagon," he said, addressing the knight without so much as a glance his way, only then to pause for an awkward moment after which he half turned to regard the man with one silver iris. "Accompany me?" he asked, though his expression was difficult to read, yet clearly bereft of any embarrassment.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Lhirinthyl

---

Gritting his teeth as the ghoul with his last needle lodged within itself treated the implement as an ultimately minor irritant, Lhirin swore under his breath. He began to raise his sword arm even as the clatter of a silver blade--and the wet sound of mushy flesh--reached his ears, but as a flash of movement passed him by, he found that it didn't matter. The Knight of the Will had things well in hand it seemed.

Still, ghouls were startlingly difficult to deal with--as Yanin and Jordan were discovering in very different ways. They had no sense for self preservation and--further--could continue moving even when they ought not to.

With that in mind--and a certain annoyance building behind his eyes--the deigan mage took shot a quick glance across the hall and what remained of their adversaries.

Not much. Four ghouls, one shard-wraith, with the ghouls all being largely disarmed or otherwise significantly hampered by the extensive damage to their vessels. Taking a shaky breath to prepare himself, Lhirin then lunged up the steps with surprising fluidity and though there was a heaviness in his limbs, the Deigan thrust his runeblade into the chest of the distracted ghoul that Freagon had left behind.

As he moved, a rune lit up on the bronze of his runeblade and he announced a single, clearly annunciated word.

"Atonakuv!"

Lightning.

Supplying only a trickle of his energy at first, Lhirin's runeblade would not even attempt to pierce the ghoul's armor. Instead, as the sharp edge of his magical implement met with the ghoul's armor the lot lit up as electrical energy sparked forwards, taking the path of least resistance from the bronze straight into the ghoul's body and armor both. Yet, it wasn't a lot of power, only enough to generate an electrical current.

Nonetheless, magic disrupted the manifestation of divine beings in Reniam. Where Lhirin's iron needle had failed, this was far more likely to succeed as current traveled through conductive metal and the liquids suffusing the mushy flesh of the ghoul, disrupting the divine's control on numerous fronts and near simultaneously at that.

Lhirin's only likely regret would be that he hadn't done this sooner...perhaps he would not have wasted quite so much energy that way.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Lhirinthyl

---

Noting the failed attempts of the vast majority of his needles to incapacitate the foes coming for his allies—and him if they could manage it—Lhirin swore quietly under his breath. Silver eyes flashing from one divine-possessed vessel to the next—both ghoul and wraith alike—Lhirin realized that perhaps he had slightly overextended himself early. Gritting his teeth, the Deigan mage—now feeling the exceptionally unpleasant effects of the second stage of magical exhaustion— swallowed hard, noting the soreness in his throat and the ever-so-faint aching of his lungs. With a shuddered breath he nonetheless focused himself, moving despite the heaviness in his limbs.

He was not nearly done, but he couldn’t waste much more—if any—energy on the current encounter. That considered, Lhirin recalled his needles—excepting those in the table wraith that Freagon was slaying. Almost all of them streaked through the air and placed themselves back in his pouch, all but one. With that remaining needle, Lhirin narrowed his focus, firing it from its position on the ground, over the upstairs banisters, across the room, and into the body of one of the ghouls coming down the eastern (right) stairway. The needle—if it met its mark—would slip upwards from the ground and into the gut of one of the ghouls. Carrying its momentum through the body, the needle would pierce upwards into the body, disappearing entirely into the flesh, before finally coming to a stop with its tip through the spine below the neck, but above the shoulder blades. In its position it would be impossible to get to without the ghoul ripping into their own body to get at it—which would cause far more damage than the needle itself had done.

If successful, Lhirin would release Magnetic Field completely and turn, putting his back to Jordan and Nabi to face the two ghouls on the eastern stairway. Hopefully, one of them would be disabled from the neck down, leaving only one of them for him to dispatch.