yoshua171

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

let only the smallest iotas of tension leave his frame as his message was successfully received by Victor, allowing Torquil and Ophelia to safely exit the clinic. Then he tilted his head as he saw Victor light a match and tossed it into the censer, renewing the incense therein, its smoke wafting up more strongly thereafter. Farren might have chuckled if the situation hadn’t required his silence.

Speaking of silence…the relative quiet found itself broken as the footsteps of the beastman echoed from the clinic’s open door. Farren forced himself not to tense, but he did shift his stance subtly, making sure not to make any additional noise. He peered through the crack in the door to help him ascertain the beastman’s position when he inevitably came into view.

Though he kept much of his attention trained therein, he did detect the footfalls of both Ophelia and Torquil as they passed into the area outside the clinic. A grin, almost like a snarl, began to spread over his features…and then the beastman peered out from the doorway and shifted his head towards Victor. Big mistake.

Farren raised one leg–his other already braced–and kicked the door with all his weight and considerable strength–amplified and native both. The door flew forward in a weighty blur, right in the beast’s blindspot as he turned his head towards Victor. As it moved, Farren prepared to act proper, getting both his feet back beneath him.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

listened as closely as he could to what little he could hear on the other side of the door. He heard voices, likely Pallid by the timbre…then Ophelia perhaps—if the feminine tones were accurate. He’d also detected a pause in movement, causing him to swear internally. It seemed that, despite Pallid’s difficulties with the common tongue of Yharnam, the man was a canny sort.

Then he heard footsteps and his eyes narrowed even as he heard another pair of heavier steps approaching the door. Farren decided to trust his instincts…to trust the version of him that had come before…and the hunter he had become.

Thus, he looked to the other side of the doorframe to the White Church Hunter who stood—blunderbuss at the ready—and shook his head in the negative. He mouthed the words, ‘Not the first two,’ then—so quiet as to almost be silent he spoke one word aloud,
“Ally.” He followed that by raising one hand and indicating ‘two’ with two upraised fingers. Then he fell silent again, waiting in the tense torpor of inaction as they awaited the first two to open the door.

He hoped his very recent memory of the cadence of their footfalls—combined with the difference in distance from the door he’d detected between Pallid and Ophelia—were accurate….

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Lhirinthyl

---

The deigan mage listened to Caleb’s story and the subsequent discussion—as well as taking in Ms. Lady Bor’s arrival. As events played out Lhirin’s gaze intermittently shifted between individuals as he took things in. By and large he was using the ongoing conversations to distract himself from the mysteries that surely lay within the book he held in one of his delicate deigan hands.

When Irah actually addressed him he glanced her way for a moment, then to Sir Yanin as he spoke first. For his part, once the knight had finished, he simply shook his head perfunctorily before bowing his head respectfully to the penin.

“I am ready,” he stated simply, his words slightly rushed with the faintest hint of breathlessness to them. His too-wide eyes narrowed slightly as he focused. “I need no time for recovery. It—I believe—would be prudent that we speak to this…’Quintin,’ debrief…as it were, and then depart post haste if all are prepared.”

Lhirin paused for a moment, his head tilting before he glanced at his companion—Irah. “Perhaps…if the trail to Bren is not a short one, you could rest during transit,” he suggested, trying to think of a solution that allowed them to arrive most expeditiously without not having all of them at their best.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren’s

gaze briefly dipped to his hand where that strange blue flame had briefly burned, warmthless and with barely a tingling sensation. The sensory memory distracted him only briefly before he looked back to the White Church Hunter, taking in his blunderbuss and the half of his weapon that he had in hand. He was familiar with the armament–as familiar as he was with most Hunter’s weapons. He hadn’t seen them all, but he’d seen quite a few in the Workshops when they were up for maintenance or even the occasional modification. A small part of him itched for the weapon, but he suppressed it and nodded in reply to the man–it appeared that Farren had been right to speak to him…and shut the door so the others couldn’t see him. Rolling his neck, Farren almost fully turned his back to the man. “Newly minted,” Farren replied to the stranger’s comment. Farren stood at a slight angle so he still had the stranger in his peripheral vision on his left side–opposite where he held his saber in reversed grip. “Sounds like a plan. M’name’s Farren’s by the by; companions are Ophelia and Torquil,” he offered, then he broke into a light jog, expecting the man to follow as he headed back towards the Clinic’s door.

As he moved, Farren took in the surroundings a second time, acknowledging the layout and committing it to memory. The fact that they were on a plateau bloomed once more in his mind, making him frown…wondering precisely where they were relative to the rest of Yharnam. Beyond that…the stranger had been bloodied…but it was hard to say if it was his blood and his Hunter’s resilience–or perhaps a blood vial–were the reason he wasn’t faltering…or if it wasn’t the man’s blood at all.

It would have to wait till later.

All that in mind, Farren positioned himself to the side of the door that would be clearly visible when he opened it. He silently withdrew his second sword, holding it in a normal grip as he tilted his body so his right side faced the doorway, hiding his other arm…and the weapon that he held in line with his leg, tip downturned. Once the other Hunter had taken position opposite him–where he’d be hidden by the shadow of the door when it opened–the azure-eyed hunter nodded to the stranger. Preparations made, he waited for someone to come out, hoping it wouldn’t be Ophelia or Torquil who exited first. He strained his ears, somewhat familiar with both of their gaits now…he might even be able to discern who it was before they walked out.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

glanced about the room, swiftly taking in as many details as he could in that instant. The oddly focused and deliberate positioning of the messengers, the strange lamp that had gone utterly untouched despite its fragile appearance. The size of the room…and then beyond the door the figure who was rapidly approaching. White hunter’s garb that he couldn’t see the details off from the man’s current distance. His eyes narrowed, then widened as impressions of memories hit him. The garb was familiar, not like an old friend or a knife you used every day…but like someone or something you’d heard tell of a lot…seen around frequently enough that it was common for you, if not an every day or even every week occurrence.

He realized—with the man’s pace—he only had moments to do something before a fight most certainly broke out between the figure and those that were still behind him in the room of cots. Farren moved further into the room and while he’d mostly been ignoring the messengers he noticed the one by the lantern start to mime a snapping motion. The azure-eyed hunter frowned, but decided to follow its lead, his curiosity uncharacteristically getting the better of him. He snapped as he grew near the lantern. Watched for a reaction for a mere instant, and then he tread past it in a wide-stepped stride. A mere moment or three had past as he exited the building and then shut the door behind him before he let the patient over his shoulder down onto the ground…somewhere out of the way. Then, swiftly, Farren broke into a light jog towards the figure. He kept his blade against the back of his arm, knowing the Hunter would surely see that he was armed, but he didn’t attack. He stopped before crossing the full distance, getting only close enough that the man’s enhanced senses were likely to catch his slightly raised voice.

“The Harrow, inside. Taking sleeping patients. A pale man, a Beast, citizens on the hunt, and…something else. Two comrades, a tall lanky woman…wide man with an axe, quiet. We played along. Can you help?” Though there were quite a few words, they were almost clipped, spoken quickly, but clearly as well. Farren let the tension in his body show, but he also did his best to keep his stance open, his eyes on the Hunter, and his senses stretched wide and far.

With them not being properly armed as Hunters tended to be…and their also being new to this…condition, Farren hadn’t wanted to fight inside. Three against two beings of unknown strength, plus the hapless citizens hadn’t seemed like great odds especially in such enclosed space. He saw the Hunter as a chance for reinforcements…perhaps an ambush even. Hopefully he’d not misjudged the figure by using his garb as a touch point.

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.