yoshua171

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

entered the building and as he did something about it struck him as–at first–faintly familiar. There was something about the shape of the place, the contours of it, and its contents that truly screamed ‘Workshop’ to him. However, what truly called out to him wasn’t visual. Farren closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled deeply–it was the smell of the place. As he took in that aroma, Farren oddly felt…at home. It was a strange thing, the sweet, pungent lingering scent of hunters, of the oils and greases used to maintain weapons and other tools of the trade. It smelled faintly of stone dust from grinders, the sawdust from recently cut wood, sweat…iron, salt and a plethora of other less apparent notes.

Farren found himself smiling in that moment as his eyes opened once more and he once more took things in. This time he actually paid close attention to the various weapons, tools, and facilities provided to them in the Hunter’s Dream. There were some familiar implements that he felt he’d seen before, that he got brief flashes of being dropped off, picked up…that he’d felt in his hands before—if only as he made sure they were in the best possible shape.

As he took it all in, he marveled at the fact that they had so much available to choose from, but particularly what drew his attention was a single, warped curved blade that hung in a special place on the wall beside a number of other weapons. Farren began to drift towards it as he took in the room, but after a moment he narrowed his eyes slightly and stopped himself. Shaking himself slightly, Farren turned away from the wall of singular weapons and went to one of the chests instead.

As he looked through the various weapons therein, his eyes widened slightly due to the sheer quantity of choices. He took a step back and closed his eyes again and tried to really focus on what he wanted. After a few moments he opened his eyes and fished out a few weapons. Gently he laid them on the ground in front of him and then he stood there for a moment, looking them over. After a moment he put a number of weapons back into the chest, leaving him a much smaller potential arsenal.

Farren smiled and then crouched down and tapped two of the weapons. Somehow he knew their names, Bulwark…Kirkhammer. “Messengers…could you hold onto these for me?” He said, feeling a bit awkward talking to thin air, but then the little figures began to emerge. Farren nodded a bit, stood, and began to take off the makeshift weapons and holders he’d fashioned at the clinic. He laid the sabers and the axe on the ground in the same area as the two weapons he’d asked the Messengers to take, “These too,” he added, figuring that there was no real reason to dispose of them. That done, Farren moved around, grabbing what he felt he’d need to affix the various implements to his person. However, before he moved further, he shifted the positioning of his chosen weapons so they wouldn’t get in either Torquil or Ophelia’s way.

Then he checked the second chest and found a series of garments. He’d seen hunters wearing them before, but he wasn’t strictly certain what the differences were…aside from style and general convenience of each depending on how one intended to arm oneself or move about. Nonetheless, he picked out a few and—after a few moment’s consideration—Farren decided on one. Naturally, he didn’t change right that moment, but simply put the clothes aside along with the dual harness he’d picked out, and the belt-loop hooks that he’d decided he’d be hanging his firearms from.

Once he was satisfied with his choices, he noted Ophelia and Torquil’s presence and positions. Ever-so-briefly he considered if going somewhere else to change was necessary, then he decided against it. He didn’t much fancy being bare as the day he was born beneath the giant pale eye of that moon.

So, he grabbed his chosen garb, starting with the cloak, and affixed that. He turned his back to Ophelia so it concealed him—more for her than for him—and began to shed the rest of his clothes. He started at the bottom, then pulled on the various pieces that composed the Crowfeather’s set, those raven-colored garments. Once his pants were secured, he removed the cloak, folded it back up and set it aside and began donning the rest, though he took a similarly dark-colored hood and donned that along with the coverings for his torso and arms. When that was done he affixed the belt hooks at his left hip, then strapped the dual harness onto his back. All that finished, Farren stepped back over to his chosen armaments—those that the Messengers hadn’t taken at least—and began to affix them to his person. First were the Beastflayer and the Piercing Rifle, both which went into the harness at his back, both with their pointy ends poking out behind his left hip. The butt of the rifle was roughly at his shoulder blade, while the last bit of the glaive’s shaft poked up above his shoulder just enough that he could reach back and grasp it with two hands if they wished.

That done, Farren plucked the other two firearms (Hunter’s Pistol and Blunderbuss respectively) from the floor and hooked them securely into place at his left hip—the mechanism being basically identical to what he’d seen Victor do for his blunderbuss. Yet…his right hip felt empty and he found himself frowning a bit and glancing back at the wall of special armaments he’d first been drawn to.

He didn’t know what that strangely enticing warped blade was…but now that he felt properly equipped otherwise, he decided to investigate.

Farren glanced at the feathered cloak, offered it to a Messenger that emerged when he whispered under his breath, and then strode across the room. He made a beeline for the warped blade, his strides covered the distance quickly. He stopped smoothly before it and almost reverently reached out and took it from its perch upon the wall. Farren’s azure gaze swept over the implement and his brow furrowed. After a moment he placed both hands on the distinct sections of the grip and then in a single swift motion he jerked his hands apart. The blade split in two and Farren couldn’t help but grin the expression filled with a glee that was half boyish delight and half a new predatory amusement likely derived from the pale blood that now flowed through his veins.

This time, unlike the other weapons, nothing came to him as he held the blades. After a moment he glanced at the floor and angled the tip of one the blades so it nearly touched the wood, beckoning the messengers to help in deciphering the mystery of the strange paired trick weapon.

The withered, eyeless helpers rose from the floor swiftly, eagerly holding aloft a scroll as high as they could. Farren squinted a bit, the words shifting around in his vision...or perhaps his mind? It took him a bit longer, but eventually managed to unravel the text of the scroll.

Blade of Mercy

A special trick weapon passed down among hunters of hunters. One of the oldest weapons of the workshop.
Splits into two when activated. The weapon's warped blades are forged with siderite, a rare mineral of the heavens. Most effective swift attacks, such as after a quickstep.

Messenger Scroll "The Blade of Mercy"

“Blade of Mercy, huh?” Farren commented with a chuckle before giving the Messengers a grateful nod. turning his attention back to the blades, Farren--with a bit of fiddling--managed to fit them back together with a satisfying snap. Promptly he carried it back over to another area and found a scabbard that would suit its form. Affixing that, Farren then sheathed the unified blades at his right hip, finally satisfied and too caught up in arming himself to notice the strange air that had come to almost possess Ophelia.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

listened intently, and though he was slightly disappointed that the so-called Shopkeeper wasn’t actually a merchant OR a craftsman of any kind he did find the explanation illuminating. Still, as the Doll explained, answering in the man’s stead, Farren felt a smile tug at the corners of his lips and an excitement bubble in his veins. That was strange, why was he so excited actually? A frown flickered across his features, but his brief confusion was swiftly washed away as the Doll explained that she too could offer them something for the echoes in their blood.

“You…can enhance the potency of our humors?!” Farren exclaimed, his eyes growing wide as he turned to the doll. That was incredible, he’d never known that such a thing could even be possible.

Yet, that wasn’t what called to him, as evidenced by his eyes quickly shifting back to the building on the hill. Before he could even think of how rude it might be, Farren found himself moving. He’d passed the pair and was halfway up the stairs before he realized that perhaps he ought to say something. He paused, “Ah…sorry, I…I simply must see the workshop,” he called back over his shoulder before he came to the door and did what was needed to make his way inside. If the Doll explained, then surely he could hear it from Ophelia later. The woman would surely bec far more curious than he about such things.

Besides, he vaguely recalled having heard rumors about this place. Whisperings mostly, some were surely tall tales, they’d said the place had been eaten by the city, swallowed by time or some such nonsense. Still, he realized he’d always been rather pulled in by such places…he’d liked the new workshops, worked there once—from what little he could glean of his memories. It felt…right that he would come to use one again and even if his interest had not existed, this was the most practical option. They needed proper weapons…and Farren was itching to see what options might present themselves.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

listened to the doll’s explanation as Ophelia asked questions of the Messengers. He nodded idly as she finished, his brow slightly furrowed. Something about her words unsettled him…that the so-called ‘gods’ used the layers of this, ah, nightmare as their demesnes. That was a rather disturbing though and it had his azure gaze drifting back up to the looming pale eye of the moon. He stared for only a moment this time though, before directing his attention away, some part of him recoiling at the thought that this Dream too might house some Great Old Being, waiting in the wings…watching. Farren swallowed and as the doll spoke again his attention was piqued as she mentioned that the wheelchair bound man was a shopkeeper.

He didn’t care much for the history of this place, but what wares might be sold in a place such as this, what wares might one sell…to the benefit of hunters.

Farren stepped forward, closing a few feet’s distance between himself and the quiet, almost sullen man. “If I may…are you a merchant or a craftsman, sir?” Farren asked, his eyes slightly wide as he regarded the man with an eager, curious air.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

watched closely, the silver-sheened moon ever-present in his periphery…looming above him like a great celestial eye, the light of its gaze enveloping everything. He swallowed slightly, his mien only lightening slightly as Torquil spoke in a voice that was clear and easily intelligible. He couldn’t help but smile at that. He wondered how the wheelchair bound man had done it of course and that thought had him opening his mouth—only for the explanation about items, Messengers…and a so-called ‘Nightmare’ to give him pause. Farren raised an eyebrow, “The Nightmare?” He asked, wondering what that was referring to, as it sounded like something specific.

That said, he was curious what the fountain overflowing with the little messenger men was about. Bizarre as they were, t hey did seem rather helpful at least.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

thought that he’d turned towards the lantern, he’d thought he had taken several steps towards it before his vision was consumed by a strange pale light. Then it was as if he was falling, there was a gap in his memory, and then he’d blinked into a state of total wakefulness. Quite literally in fact as he stood blinking, his eyes adjusting to the light of… “...what the hell?”]

Farren laid eyes on the strange place and though he’d expected to be surprised, it still struck him how unbelievable it was that he’d somehow been transported to what appeared to be another realm entirely. He started to observe and take in the three figures before him, but only had long enough to recognize Torquil’s broad frame before the sky shifted with a rapidity that made him crouch as if the heavens were set to fall upon them. As he stared up at the sky with narrowed eyes, Farren realized that someone had spoken to them. Yet, he didn’t dare take his eyes off the pale eye of the full moon’s luminescence. He registered the porcelain woman’s words and wet his lips nervously, still not truly looking at her as he spoke. “Can’t say…I’ve ever seen anything quite like that either,”] he commented, trying to sound slightly amused, but instead his words came out with the distinct sound of disquiet that he was feeling.

Farren’s eyes darted to Ophelia, then back at the moon above them and though he slowly straightened back to his full height after a few moments the unsettled expression on his face remained.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

stared after Ophelia for a time, even as Victor spoke. He was glad she’d gotten out of the way in time, but as Victor continued speaking, the azure-eyed hunter finally started paying attention. Farren scowled and glanced towards the White Church Hunter in his ruined garments. “Do you remember before?” He asked, his voice weaker and more subdued than it had been when first they’d met.

"I do," Victor declared with a nod of his head. "I guess you don't?"

Farren's gaze shifted away, staring into space, his eyes seeming distant and searching, his scowl softening into a frown as if he were focusing. After a moment he shook his head, "...only incomplete flashes. Enough to know I was probably...running from something," Farren replied. He gritted his teeth a moment, feeling the grind and restoration in that moment. His muscles stared to relax a bit as he uncurled from himself, his arms unfurling from around him. He ran a hand through his dark thick hair.

Victor shrugged. "Plenty of things to run from in Yharnam."

"Mmn..." Farren murmured in reply, a brief shuddering shake overtaking him before he forced himself back onto his feet in several careful motions. He swayed for a moment, then seemed to grow steadier as he found his equilibrium. He glanced at Victor a moment, then away as he noticed Ophelia heading back from outside. "Be grateful you remember," he said, then bent down and retrieved his sabers... "...for at least you'll know what you're fleeing from."

Then Ophelia passed through the door, rejoining them. Farren gave her a small nod before she began talking. He winced at her choice of phrasing, then frowned as he registered everything she’d expressed. Victor reacted before him though, leaving Farren with little to say. So instead he simply raised an eyebrow in question, hoping she perhaps had more explanation than that–though he doubted it.

Either way, it was a shame…he’d rather liked Torquil and there’d be no body to bury.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

never felt his blade connect with flesh, never got the satisfaction of seeing the moment that pallid man’s arcane devilry failed him. He saw a glimmer of fear in the man’s eyes, but that glimmer became two golden pinpricks in his vision and Pallid’s visage warped into an aureate silhouette, a figure made of gleaming light, with white-gold eyes that were somehow even more intense, but not in luminescence. Instead, it was like those orbs were darker…like golden pits…abyssal depths of light that pulled at his awareness.

Then the light flashed, exploded, and it was like every iota of blood, bone and sinew had ignited with a fiery hue bereft of warmth and filled only with the searing white-gold-crimson of blood, flame and sunlight intertwined. Swept up in the tearing, searing torment of frenzy and caught off guard by the sudden betrayal of his own body and mind at once, Farren somehow experienced both a deepset dread and a yet more terrifying maddened rapturous ecstasy.

In reality…his body tore asunder, warping and twisting and vibrating with frenzied chaotic transformative power beyond its capacity to manage or restrain. Muscles snapped, skin shredded, blood fountained forth. His azure eyes remained too-wide, his eyelids shredded and gone throughout the explosion of uncontrolled metamorphosis. Yet, they were unseeing and any looking might see a frenzied gold flickering at the edges of his sclera, then he was falling.

For Farren it was a descent towards a crimson-black abyss dark with blood, but as he descended, falling through the ether of the beyond, sparking bolts of aurelian incandescence throbbed and pulsed within the expanse…his eyes widened and it was as if there were a thousand figures on every side of him all of the sudden. Yet, when he tried to wheel his head to look, he couldn’t as if he were paralyzed as he plummeted, unable to look at anything in his periphery. His eyes darted and shuddered, but whenever the cone of his vision might light upon any of the figures, they were gone. The hairs on the back of his neck sparked with a voltaic power, standing on end as a prickle traveled with a feverish violence down his spine. There was a sense of stunned shock as he struck the abyssal gilded depths, a shock of cold then heat, then cold that recalled to his mind a deep inescapable sickness. Then a sense of watching eyes, of movement beyond his sight, but not his mind’s awareness.

He clawed at the thick strangely viscous waters, but it wasn’t water…it was blood, congealing, hardening around him, breaking up as he tried to flail and swim to its surface. He was choking, someone was choking him from behind, from inside his own body. His nerves were on fire, his brain was a blaze of fulmination, and then—....

Farren, already crumpled upon the ground, suddenly took in a wild gasping breath only two-three-five heartbeats past when something had lanced into his leg. The vial and needle were pushed from his flesh as he suddenly healed, his blooddrenched clothes ragged and barely covering him properly after the violence the frenzy had wrought upon his body.

However, though its source was gone, its influence had not entirely faded. Farren lashed out, his body shifting instinctively into an almost bestial fourlegged crouch in an instant as his hand swiped through the air. First at nothing, then at the gold-lined silhouette just beside him who he’d not yet registered was Ophelia.

A half-beat after recognition entered his azure eyes and he fell sideways and backwards, landing on his backside. He pushed away from her, a surge of paranoia and unfamiliarity shivering through him. Then Farren clutched his arms about himself–his body felt wrong somehow and every nerve was alight with nervous frenetic energy. “Sorry…” he murmured, and his voice was uncharacteristically weak–quiet and thin even as he regained his wits, if not his composure.

Slowly, the paranoia began to calm and recede. Slowly, he set his jaw and his muscles started to relax with the thick languid movements of gravity-pulled molasses. Slowly, Farren came back to himself over the course of several minutes.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

gritted his teeth at the incessant, maddening ringing of the bell. Each jangling of the monstrous instrument made it feel as if hundreds of figures, each a silhouette clad in aureate hues, stood at the very periphery of his vision. If he twisted his head or shifted his eyes they would recede or vanish or flash in a streak across his vision. A low sound rumbled in his throat, half growl and half a pained moan, but Victor—despite the sound—acted. At least…he thought it was probably victor….

Really, all Farren perception was the twisted figure of what might once have been a man swing a misshapen hunk of crudely shaped metal—more a bludgeon than a greatsword or any proper weapon. Yet, the distinct thunderous SLAM and THUD of the implement against the ground…and the faint sparking where-longsword-joined-greatsword caught at his vision and tore at the torrid heat of his delusions.

The sparks seemed almost to ignite the golden light that had crept even further into his vision, the vibration of the massive blade’s crash against the ground sent ripples throughout and disrupted the sound of the bell. If only for a moment, his mind cleared and Farren recalled that he was moving.

His body—having acted entirely on hunter’s instinct—had continued its forward path and as the haze cleared ever-so-slightly the azure eyed hunter saw the opening…and dashed again. His muscles burning, teeth gritted so hard his jaw hurt with hot regeneration—teeth almost cracking—Farren nearly closed the entirety of the distance between himself and that Pallid whore.

Somehow, with the ringing of the bell, the black-eyed sallow pale-skinned skeleton of a man had become even more daunting to look upon. There was a white-gold-red sheen cast across his visage, refracting from his eyes. Part of Farren recoiled, but his fingers coiled instead, gripping the handles of his curved blades so tightly that he felt the material strain. He swung, and that first attempt at a strike was wild and unrestrained, his muscles twisting and bulging and nearly snapping as he unconsciously tried to replicate the sheer force of Torquil’s swing some time ago. Wild as it was, the slash could land anywhere between Pallid’s neck and mid-abdomen a foot or half above his right hip. That was, of course…if the man didn’t block.

Even so, there would always be his other blade.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

felt the give of the creature’s body and a trickle of disgust, satisfaction, and shock shot through his veins. His lips parted slightly and then as Deadeyes fell onto its back and he began to turn back towards it–intent on delivering a more grievous blow–the frenetic ringing of Pallid’s bell reached him. Flits of gold, like streaks of liquid metallic lightning, rushed about the edges of his awareness and a deep…profound sense of paranoia and discomfort welled from some unobserved part of his psyche. That paranoia, it wasn’t like fear, it was far more consuming than that–blotting out almost everything except the bloodlust that had been trying to gain hold since he’d seen the beastman. Idly, a part of his mind decided that he’d call them Gris–but he didn’t even have time to really register that fact before the nearly all-consuming paranoia was shattered…much like his ankle as Deadeye’s cane slammed into it. The impact forced his other leg to rise…barely causing the cane to miss, but in an instant Farren was toppling towards the ground. A shot of intense, crackling, piercing, cutting pain, a wash of fear…and then an injection of unbelievably intense adrenaline–all coupled with a sudden rage–slammed through his entire body.

Time seemed to slow as his brain caught up with what it had been unable to properly process moments before, for part of him was registering that in that instant he needed every bit of his awareness focused on one singular goal. Survival. Murder. His hands had tightened into two white-knuckled vices around the handles of his curved blades, but as adrenaline, survival, rage, and the bloodlust of a Hunter surged in him, somehow that grip relaxed subtly. His blood rushed, surging just as his emotions had, he felt spurts in his broken ankle, then a searing hot heat–both pleasant and painful at once. As he was falling–body half canted at a slight diagonal–Farren’s left fist and right leg shot down and connected with the ground as the cane continued its sweep on the other side of Farren’s right ankle.

The edges of his vision went a fierce, blinding gold color where normally they might dim…fade, redden, or blacken. He didn’t notice how strange that was; wasn’t likely to remember it later. Then, his body braced with two limbs–only fractions of a second having passed–Farren’s ankle was nearly healed, but his foot wasn’t in the right position. Mindless with a primal violent need for retaliation, Farren slammed his still fractured ankle down on the ground, bending his foot in a way that broke it again. Breath hissed from his bared teeth…and then he thrust himself forward with the power of both legs, lifting the knuckles of his left hand from the ground as he did so.

A second finally passed, his perception started to ‘speed up’, back to something more normal, but the tunnel vision of his rage and bloodlust didn’t fade at all. In an instant–the distance between him and the ash-fleshed beast that was Deadeyes already small–Farren was atop the creature. Both blades slammed down into its neck and then parted in either direction, draggin furrows into the ground beneath and severing its head from its body at the same time. However, almost as soon as it was severed, the red light flared faintly and a new head sprouted from the mishappen stump of its neck. Farren snarled then and pushed off the creature’s face.

As it likely tried to react, Farren’s ankle healed and he used his other foot to pivot mid-stride, angling towards the door. Then he dashed and though he distantly felt the strain in his muscles, he pushed forward into a short sprint, the dash having taken him out of Deadeye’s reach and a bit past the doorframe. He shifted to the right, the blade in his left hand switching grips as he flipped it into a more standard hold. Even without dashing, Farren was faster than a normal man…and quickly would come upon the villagers as they pummeled and struck their weapons at Victor. As he passed by them, he’d lash out with his blade, aiming to sever tendons in their forearms as he continued forth. Though his mind felt…strange and his vision was still somewhat tunneled by the alien golden light at its edges, Farren kept the villagers on his left in view as well as the gunmen ahead and of course Pallid himself.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

returned to a scene that—as he spoke his plan—rapidly invalidated what he’d just briefly gone to do. His azure eyes darkened slightly as his eyelids lowered. It was as if things were happening in slow motion for an instant as he heard the chiming of the bell, the laughter of Pallid…and then saw the beastman rise.

Farren started moving before he’d even realized what he was doing, the blood burning in his veins all of the sudden. Then Ophelia dodged…and Torquil redirected his efforts, resulting in grievous harm, but not where any of them wanted it. “Damn,” Farren cursed under his breath, the quiet words lost in the din. Even fast as he was moving, events were playing out rapidly before him and it felt like his earlier actions had put them on the back foot.

He should have known better…or…should he have? Farren frowned slightly, but he didn’t have time to unpack that feeling, so he shoved it down as he came up on Deadeyes with his blades still drawn. Sprinting towards the exchange, Farren’s gaze flitted to the side, through the Clinic door where Victor had just passed the threshold. So much had happened so quickly, but he decided to prioritize Torquil, who barely seemed to be hanging on to consciousness after the strike from Deadeyes.

Farren’s azure eyes narrowed, he gripped his blades tightly, and then he called upon the instinct that he let him move so quickly earlier. He dashed forth, covering space more quickly than his sprint had allowed moment-to-moment. This put him right in front of Deadeyes, and as he exited the motion, he swung the first of his blades in a sweeping slash across the creature’s chest from below the armpit all the way diagonally down to near the hip. He carried his momentum forward, having slashed with his right arm from left-to-right. He kept moving forward, slipping past Deadeyes as he did so. His other blade was in a reversed grip…and as he passed the creature’s side he let it drag through the pre-established wound where it ended at the creature’s hip, attempting to gouge it open further as he shifted back into a sprint past the monstrosity. He kept the thing in his vision as much as possible throughout, ready to change tact and react if need be.