yoshua171

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

was glad that his back was turned when the ground began to grow further into the room of cots. Certainly he saw the glowing of Pallid’s cane and the sickly shadow bound into that fell light, but something in him…it knew better than to turn around. Instead he just let his wicked smile grow slightly, as if to match the black-eyed figure’s and trudged past the bastard. All the while, his instincts screamed for him to look, his senses straining to find out what might be happening behind him, but when no ruckus came from it…just the sound of moving bodies, Farren just kept up his steady pace past Pallid and out of that room. His jaw remained tightly closed, teeth barely kept from grinding. First…first they’d get outside…then he could act.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

paused, just adjacent to Pallid as he explained what he wanted of them before they departed. Farren’s smile grew slightly as he feigned an almost sickly glee—almost as if mirroring Pallid’s smile—he’d taken to calling the man that in his head. It was easier than ‘Bugeyes’ or something similar. Internally though, Farren’s mind whirred through several thoughts almost simultaneously as his morality and practicality simultaneously came to the fore. For some reason he had no issue divorcing the thoughts and emotions in his mind from the tells of his face and body…huh, perhaps he’d been something of an actor in his past life—so to speak.

Foremost in his thoughts were considerations of how abhorrent it would be to deliver all these helpless, unconscious men and women—potential Hunters all—into the clutches of the Harrow. The thought disgusted him on a fundamental level and some part of him recoiled, though none of it shown on his face as he nodded to Pallid, turned on his heel and walked towards the nearest cot. At the same time, he flashed Ophelia a look that spoke volumes.

It was a scowl, the wicked smile melting off his face like candle wax on metal in a furnace. There was a strange sort of quiet rage in his eyes even as he took up a body and then plastered the smile back on his features. Something about the disconnect between his actions and his expression in that brief moment communicated one thing: “Play along.”

Turning back towards Pallid, Farren started towards him, moving noticeably slower with the man over his shoulder. Notably, he’d lifted the unconscious hunter with his left arm, leaving him still armed in his right. The reality was that Farren was playing up how heavy the bulky man was. The reality was that the man was startlingly light. He had an inkling that he’d already been strong before his transformation…but now…it was less like carrying the deadweight of a person, and more like…carrying an awkwardly shaped, but barely full sack of potatoes.

Discarding that thought, Farren considered their current environment…that was why he’d tried to signal to Ophelia to play along. Fighting inside was one thing. Fighting amongst numerous unconscious people in a room crowded by cots…with suboptimal weapons while they were also outnumbered? It seemed…less than wise.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

saw the pallid man’s reactions, his annoyance…his reticence and he just barely kept from visibly gritting his teeth. His knuckles were white on his curved sword, but he forced himself to relax slightly, his bright—almost unearthly blue—eyes bored into the pale man’s black orbs for a moment…and then Farren smiled slightly.

His body seemed to relax, his fingers loosening on his weapon, he even switched his grip and shifted the weapon first down and to the side so it was no longer pointed in such a way that might appear threatening. An instant later he put the blade into a reversed grip so it almost ran upwards along the back of his arm. At the same time his shoulders relaxed, his once narrowed eyes lightening. “Ah, fair enough then. This place en’t likely to stay safe anyhow, best we leave before any undesirables are drawn to all those smashed vials,” Farren said, his tone easy, lacking any hint or suspicion he’d been showing previously.

“I won’t trouble you any further. This clearly isn’t your native tongue. Had to test ya though…Nights of the Hunt are fraught with deceivers and brigands and beasts after all.” Then Farren stepped past the pallid man so that he wasn’t braced on either side by the beastial yharnamite and the almost-skeletal stranger. He headed for the room just outside the one they’d been in up until that point.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

kept his expression deliberately blank, though there was a subtle twitching of one eye that he couldn’t quite control…as if he’d been about to narrow his eyes further. Having taken in the gaunt figure’s words for what they were…he found his memories kindled by the sparks of the disturbing stranger’s words. As if coming back up for air, to reaffirm their life, the name ‘Corval,’ caused images and words and thoughts to arise within his mind.

As if heard from afar…overheard in fact, from the conversation of what he felt were his betters, though not better than him, necessarily, words drifted into his mind unbidden.

“Damned troublemakers, the lot of ‘em,” said one man. Farren felt his head shift…as if to listen better and at the same time caught the faint rustling of cloth as another man responded. “Mm? Ya mean Corval and his men?” The fellow said, his voice rough like sandpaper on skin…like gargled gravel–too much drink or smoke he thought.

“Mmm, the very same. ‘The Harrow’ they’re calling themselves, you know. Pretentious gits. As if anyone finds their actions harrowing,” the man sucked his teeth, swearing under his breath and Farren heard the two begin to walk out of earshot, their words trailing off…too quiet for him to hear.

Back in the present, Farren blinked, shaking his head slightly, before he found his hands relaxing slightly. At least this Corval was a known quantity after a fashion. The bad news was that he wasn’t exactly…good news, as it were. He’d snooped about, he remembered vaguely, looking into the group somewhat…if only to be aware of what he might have to deal with if ever he came upon them. They’d never come up…not in his old life–that’s what he sensed–but the information was useful now so there was that.

“What’s this…Corval want with hunters?” Farren asked, playing dumb, wishing he had a way to communicate to the other two without giving himself away. He let the hilt of his sheathed sabre go, but his grip on the one in his right hand remained tight and his stance remained ready–though he pretended to relax, if only slightly.

Farren trained his gaze between the figure of the large Beastman and the pallid man, trying to see if he could glimpse any of the men they’d heard in the room beyond…maybe get a rough count. At the same time he focused his hearing, trying to see if he could pick out individual gaits…identify the number of potential enemies in the other room that way if he could.

After all, he wasn’t sure if it was wise to allow themselves to be caught in the sway of an organization’s power…at least one aside from the church–not that he entirely trusted them either.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

absently noted Ophelia and Torquil’s brief exchange as the man complied and erased the chalk scrawlings. Farren had managed to read them in the pause between Ophelia’s firm suggestion and Torquil actually wiping the writing. He supposed it made sense why Ophelia might not want anyone else to see the script. He didn’t have long to ponder on that however, for the door soon burst into splinters beneath the beastly assault from beyond the threshold. In the next moments a mostly transmogrified yharnamite lumbered into the room, quickly followed by a black almost bug-eyed figure with ghostly pale skin. A flicker of recognition flitted through his mind at the sight of both, letting him know he’d seen similar before…though he wasn’t really sure precisely when or where.

Yet, the features of the pale-skinned man seemed…twisted somehow…less human, more something else. Gaunt? Skeletal? Like some fell wight had sucked the vigor from a man even as the scourge had twisted his shape. Farren’s grip on his single drawn blade tightened, his eyes narrowing, pulse pounding, blood hot in his veins.

Then the pale figure spoke, his smile wide and deeply wrong in far too many ways to count. Farren’s stance shifted subtly, one foot sliding out in back in a half circle so he was a quarter turned from them, his empty hand leading, his sword hand somewhat behind the leading line of his body, held out to the side. Where before he’d simply been wary, that unnerving smile and the words that fell from the figure’s lips had put him entirely on guard. His azure eyes piercing into the figure’s obsidian gaze, Farren spoke up.

“Kindly…” he gritted out, before he continued, the rest of his sentence tense, but less forced, “…rephrase. Surely you mean to say ‘recruit,’ or perhaps… ‘ally with,’” he finished, offering them an olive branch, as it were. Something in him felt…personally affronted by the man’s words and his gut told him that he has a past with being used…perhaps even controlled somehow. The idea made his blood burn like magma beneath his skin, scalding away his patience. His knuckles were white around the handle of his curved blade and though he hadn’t clenched his other hand, the fingers were teasing up towards the grip of his second saber.

Between his words, his manner, and his stance it was clear that he felt the man better offer some explanations before Farren decided to take matters into his own hands.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

listened to the exchange…to the sounds beyond the door. His eyes narrowed slightly, he almost relaxed, but as the voice spoke and something bestial began to beat upon–and claw at–the gateway he found his grip tightening upon his weapon. The way it breathed, the thudded movements…its growls. It sounded like a beast and as its hand punched through the door Farren found that he was baring his teeth.

Some part of him wished to lurch into action, to dart forth, draw his second blade, and use the two to lop off its foul, hairy arm. Farren found himself suppressing a growl that had been building in his throat, and as he did so, he felt tension build in his head…and in his chest.

The newborn hunter gritted his teeth hard enough that it was very nearly painful, then he forced himself to relax. “I don’t much like this,” Farren said aloud–if quietly. He salivated, had to wipe his mouth on his sleeve and swallow hard. His whole body felt tense and though he tried to force himself to relax, it hardly worked at all.

He swallowed again and schooled his breathing…a technique drifting into his mind…one for remaining calm, he thought, but it felt less like his own mind and more like that of his past self stepping in to help him. He needed answers…but his body craved something else.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

finished his preparations, slipping the axe into its new holster at his back once it was on. As he heard the rattling of the door and the repeated request, Farren found his eyes narrowing. Then the loud sharp sound of the butt of her spear hitting the ground forced his gaze over to her. Farren winced slightly at the volume and sharpness of the noise, but he understood her intent—at least somewhat—as he watched her travel to the door and slam a fist against it in reply. He couldn’t help but smirk as he heard the choice words she gave the likely church forces on the other side of the door. As an unveiled threat rolled from Ophelia’s lips, Farren found himself smirking, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. He realized that one of his hands—his left—had wrapped tightly around the grip of his curved blade. His mouth was watering slightly and though he wouldn’t realize it right away, his eyes were slightly manic.

Farren gritted his teeth as he stared at the paltry barrier of wood between them and the interlopers. Some shred of empathy in him said he ought to try and protect the remaining potential hunters in the room from those outside. Another part of him said that was foolish, idiotic even…if they couldn’t defend themselves then fuck ‘em…that voice felt more familiar, more deeply ingrained. His past self perhaps? However…there were two louder voices, one sang in his mind, its voice somewhere between true music and a bestial howling. It was the loudest amongst the two voices, it sang for carnage…that was what was making his skin itch.

“Be ready,” the blue-eyed hunter said, his voice low and filled with a subtle danger that almost sounded like a growl. Slowly, he drew one of his two swords, flipping it from reverse to normal grip.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

winced ever-so-slightly at the distant shriek that reached him, a sound that the others had surely heard as well. He pondered at what it might be, brief flashes touched his mind, speaking of knowledge that he’d perhaps lost…but it all felt faint and murky–vague even. Like he hadn’t known much about whatever the memories had entailed. The feeling faded and his mind was soon occupied by other matters as the agitated sound of men’s voices reached him through the door…gradually approaching. Farren pulled away from the door, but before he could say anything further, this ‘Ophelia’ spoke and said something altogether strange. ‘Men turned to beasts?’

Farren’s eyes narrowed and then a loud stumbling clatter and thud echoed behind him. Before he’d even thought about it, Farren turned on his heel, one of his blades already drawn–as if by reflex. He stared across the distance, seeing that Torquil had backed–stumbled, startled maybe–straight into one of the many cots and toppled it quite soundly to the ground. He frowned, his fingers tight on the handle of the curved blade, the axe in his other hand gripped just as tightly…then he relaxed slightly. A small smile tugged at the edge of his lips and amusement entered his gaze. Farren navigated back towards the other two. Something in him spoke of whisperings, of experience, if not outright knowledge or understanding. What Ophelia said made a perverse sort of sense to him. Why else keep the knowledge about Beasts so tightly leashed? How else might they understand how to create Hunters?

Farren spoke as he laid a hand on Torquil's shoulder, “Steady there, can’t be caught all flat footed by knowledge of all things, no matter how shocking.” He gave the man a small smile, his bright blue eyes amused.

After a moment, Farren's hand fell away and he glanced to Ophelia–who to him seemed to be the more steady-minded of the two, if this had been anything to go by. “Voices beyond the door, several men…getting closer,” he said, expression more series, his smile gone. Then he turned to stripping the shirts from some of the corpses in the room, gathering thread, and rigging up a sort of sling holster. It took him only a few minutes and he was surprised at how steady his hand was at it. He’d only wanted to give it a try to see if he could give himself somewhere better to hang the axe…he had not at all expected that he’d be good at this sort of thing. Odd…he couldn’t remember even a shred of why he had the skills either. Ah well…it was useful to know at least.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

stood before the barrels of weapons and the table of ministration instruments, his eyes shifting between the various implements as the other two–mostly the woman–shared words.Idly he noted that the woman had actually listened–responded even–to his suggestion. Drumming his fingers across the surface of the table, Farren took a breath and then–having no idea if they were the right decisions–snatched up a pair of curved blades. Unable to find sheaths for them–there weren’t any in the room, surprisingly–he was surprised and gladdened to find that he was at least equipped to slip them into treated leather loops which were part of harness-belt around his waist. “Huh…” he exhaled, wondering if perhaps he’d wielded such weapons before. He swung one–not towards anything in particular, but in a direction that surely would not strike anything–and didn’t feel anything in particular. The weight of the weapons felt…comfortable, but there was no familiar twinge and he reckoned that perhaps he’d never trained with such a weapon. Farren shrugged and slipped each blade into the sheaths at his waist and then eyed one of the spears. It would likely suit for some range, but…it felt wrong somehow as he took a step closer to the barrel and wrapped his fingers around it. Farren shook his head and let it go. However, he did grab one of the axes, carrying it just below the blade in his left hand so he could easily ensure he didn't accidentally cut anything. He didn’t prefer them–the newborn hunter felt–but an axe was a practical tool with many uses.

Turning away from the barrels and tools, Farren cast his gaze back across the room. He noted the woman–Ophelia, if he’d heard right–digging her delicate fingers into the eye socket of what must have been a corpse. His eyes narrowed fractionally and he tilted his head, wondering whatever could possess someone to–

Curiosity

???

Farren paused, blinked, shifted his eyes to the other figure in the room–Torquil, he’d heard. Still, as he tried to banish that almost intrusive word from his mind, he found himself wondering if it had been his own internal voice, a memory, or something else entirely.

Farren frowned slightly, but the expression faded as he took in Torquil’s appearance from where he stood nearby. Nothing too strange, he supposed. “Farren,” he offered to the room, his bright piercing, intense azure gaze shifting away from his fellow man as he stopped being idle and moved between cots. He gave each nascent, sleeping, Hunter a slight glance, as for the failures…he pitied them. What a shame to go through the trouble of blood ministration, to come all this way, or to take such a risk, and to die as a result. Such a rarity as well, as he understood it. As he passed one or two of said corpses, Farren dragged his fingertips down their eyelids, closing their eyes. It was the least he could do.

Then, Farren turned his gaze to the sole exit. He strode to it, placed a hand on the wood and turned his ear towards it, listening. He’d heard the cry of beasts–near and far–earlier, along with the Toll of the Hunt…the great bell the church rang on such nights. Farren wondered what lay on the other side of that door, but he resolved not to find out alone. He was a Hunter now, certainly, but he had nothing but civilian tools…he frowned. That was odd.

Farren glanced down at his sheathed blades, one corner of his mouth twitching slightly. He felt…disdain for the weapons…but why? Had he been familiar with the tools of the Hunter’s trade? Hmm, something to consider later, he supposed.

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.