saw Victor’s reaction, but as he didn’t make a big deal of it, Farren didn’t either. However, the other hunter began questioning Ophelia’s return and Farren sighed, rubbing at his temples, rethinking his attempt at moving on without explanation–and somewhat rudely at that. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Farren shook his head, “Won’t be an issue. The lantern we used to enter the Hunter’s Dream–as its hosts called it–will give her access to other avenues to join us.”
As he said it, Farren knelt down and silently beckoned the messengers, causing the crawling eyeless helpers to burgeon forth from the floorboards with a scrap of parchment in their tiny clutching fingers. Farren realized he didn’t have anything to write with however, the messengers seemed to respond even to that and as he focused on what he wanted to convey to Ophelia, the spindly digits of the little figures seemed to blur and scratch at the parchment, leaving behind pinkish-white lettering. Farren squinted at the message for a time, deciphering it before nodding in thanks to the little creatures.
“Victor’s blocking the Clinic door on our way out. You’ll need another lantern to rejoin us.” - Farren
The handwriting would be far more precise, clean, and practiced than Farren’s would have actually been, perhaps revealing that the messengers had written it for him. Admittedly he was grateful for that as it’d have taken him longer to write on his own. Pushing back to a standing position from where he’d crouched, the azure-eyed hunter met Victor’s gaze, knowing that his behavior would seem strange. “We were given means to send something like letters to eachother when separated,” Farren said as paltry explanation. “Ophelia will know she’ll have to find a different path to us,” the dreambound hunter added, an air of finality about his words before he glanced at Torquil and jerked his head to indicate the exit. Then he headed that way and–unless given reason to stop–would pass beyond the threshold, his senses once more attuned to the environment for any possible threats. After all, at times like these, the night was dark and full of terrors.
endured the strange, if brief, sensation of falling nearly into unconsciousness before rising once more. He took a single step forward, away from the lantern, looking mildly disoriented for a moment before his eyes focused. He scanned the room, noting the clean up job that Victor had done in their absence. Perhaps he’d simply grown bored. Perhaps it was functional for if they were able to escort a group back to take care of the patients in the other chamber. Once he’d taken things in, Farren stretched briefly, flexing his fingers and rolling his neck before he walked towards Victor and the exit. “Ophelia. She’ll join us later, said she had…other business,” Farren replied, his tone gruff, expression a bit dark, not unreadable but more like he didn’t want to discuss the matter further.
“Kept you waiting…your ally waiting longer. Lead the way?” While it was technically question–posed as Farren glanced at Victor and stopped a few feet ahead of him, thus further away from the door than Victor was–Farren’s inflection made it sound more like a statement–his mild irritation almost making it an order. Almost.
“Or is there something else we should do here…” he added, trailing off, clearly suggesting that there wasn’t jack shit else by the near deadpan on his face and the raspy sarcasm in his tone.
paused, his hand somewhat outstretched already, fingers hovering above where it read 'Rebirth's Rise' upon the gravestone. Catching Ophelia's words, the azure-eyed hunter frowned slightly then lowered his hand and glanced in her direction. He saw about her an air of finality. She'd made her decision. His reply was gruff. “Mmm...very well. Though, when should we attempt to reconvene?”
Farren gestured at their surroundings, indicating that here was likely the best place. “After all...we're unlikely to be near Rebirth's Rise once your business has concluded.”
"Ah, dear, I will get the little ones to send you a message--or vice versa. You can update me as to where you are, and I can simply awaken at a conduit near you. Following the trail of slain beasts should lead me to you in no time at all, shouldn't it?" Ophelia replied, her voice somewhat distracted as her thoughts were clearly elsewhere.
“Ah, I'd forgotten,” Farren said, looking slightly annoyed about the fact. He'd done enough forgetting for a lifetime, he figured. “...too much information in too little a time,” Farren muttered, “...well, stay vigilant. May not die permanently...but no reason being reckless,” he added. Then, with a final glance at their hosts and a respectful nod in their direction, Farren turned back to the gravestone and moved his hand back to its cold surface. He paused a breath and gave Torquil a sidelong glance over his shoulder, “With me, Torquil. Unless you've got other business too.” Farren tried to soften his tone, but his words still came out sounding slightly agitated.
didn’t think anything of Torquil turning away from him after they’d finished speaking briefly–why would he have? The man hadn’t seemed to express any discomfort or a need for further discussion. Farren glanced back at the headstones as his companion spoke to the Doll, inadvertently providing all of them with some further information regarding the so-called ‘conduits’. “Mmm…these gold names, are they accessible to us now or only once we’ve discovered their, ah, ‘conduits’ ourselves?”
Farren had raised his voice enough to be heard over the mid-distance between him and the doll, heard without him turning his head or walking over to her, that was. As he awaited a response, Ophelia chimed in and he listened somewhat absently as he studied the names again, trying to recall where the various locations were. He found that his sense for Yharnam felt…almost constricted. Farren closed his eyes, focusing inwards for a moment. At first he almost clawed at his own mind, as if he were dragging long-nailed fingers through his mental landscape, trying to tear free errant knowledge like some kind of ineffective sieve. At first he got very little, but as he got gentler and sort of…relaxed his mind, Farren found that more flowed into his awareness. He saw the elegant structures of Upper Cathedral Ward, the vaulted ceiling in Byrgenwerth and its often eerie halls and grounds–though he couldn’t quite recall as many details as he felt he ought to. Much more vividly however, he remembered the smell of shit and death, dirt and poverty and desperation that was almost universal in Hemwick and its Charnel lane and of course…the place he’d worked: the Old Healing Church Workshop. That place felt…a bit warmer than was comfortable with tinges of iron and a distinct dusty scent of sawdust intermingled with a sense of lingering sweat. Yet, it felt like home somehow. How odd.
After he was done piecing together what he could recall of Yharnam, Farren’s eyelids fluttered open again just as the Doll said something that caused a wave of nausea, distinct discomfort and deep unease to lance through his mind. He winced–almost recoiling–then clutched at one side of his head, eyes closing as if in pain as a series of flashes interposed themselves upon his awareness. “Agh…that name,” he muttered, mostly to himself, his voice sounding strained for a moment. He took a deep breath and then exhaled it slowly, making it measured, focusing on it. Still the visions…no, memories, struck at him.
Darkness, a waning moon–full in the near-past, but beginning to forget. It smelled of hay and char and old burned wood, a fire no longer lit. Out of place amongst the others scents was that of fresh mountain air.
Farren wanted to shake his head, but didn’t, fearing it would only cause him a terrible headache, or maybe somehow dislodge more memories. It was possible after all, especially when in this new world he’d woke into, he could tread physically into dreams–apparently.
A small figure in ratty clothes, a bed and blankets and various implements newer than the hovel that contained them. No, not just a small figure, a slender one, not properly fed…with curves that spoke of womanhood.
Farren gritted his teeth and practically hissed, giving his head the tiniest of shakes despite his earlier resistance. It didn’t help.
The scent of chloroform…or ethers, he wasn’t sure which. A weight over his shoulder–though one that was far less than it ought to have been. Then a different weight, one of coins and comfort. But later…a burden of a different sort entirely.
Final, the flashes stopped, but it left him with that damned name–Gerlinde–and a lingering sense of once-buried shame. Farren tried to compose himself, but ultimately turned his back to the others and moved to the headstone that contained the one conduit they’d lit themselves: Rebirth’s Rise. Farren shrugged slightly, that was apt enough he supposed.
As he began to reach out, the Doll spoke however, looking at him as she cocked her head. "I don't know. I am sorry, but we have never had more than one Hunter bound to the Dream at the same time, but the marker is on the headstone, and Hunters have always been able to travel through the markers. I..." She paused, looked at the Shopkeeper, then turn back to Farren to correct herself: "We assume that they are accessible to you now."
Farren simply nodded in reply. “Just as well. Nonetheless…we should go, Victor’s waiting,” Farren said, ready to try returning to the waking world. All said, Farren wanted out of this place, especially after that memory. He needed…no it didn’t matter. Anything else would do.
took her cue and walked over to the headstones. Slowly–faster than Torquil would have, but certainly at a more ponderous pace than Ophelia had–the azure-eyed hunter read the various words engraved into the stone. Some were familiar, others not so for they offered no glimmer of recognition. It was clear what they were though: The names of places in or around Yharnam, with few exceptions. A sort of perverse curiosity made him wonder at the nature of the locations that were listed upon the Nightmare Headstone. However, he only entertained that thought for a moment or two before turning his attention back to the present place and time. Briefly, Farren glanced between Torquil and Ophelia, then the Doll and the Blood Moon Hunter. For a moment Farren considered their next course of action before he turned back to Torquil, closing the short bit of distance between where he stood and the man’s position before he patted his shoulder companionably. “Again, glad you’re whole and hale. As for the headstones…seems they’re scribed with locations in and around Yharnam, with some odd exceptions…if you were wondering.”
Farren dropped it then, his hand falling away even as the silence rose in that strange place that they stood. It was simultaneously eerie and comforting and Farren wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but he did know that he wanted out. They’d gotten more even than what they’d come for and he figured it was time for them to return to the…was it the waking world, since this was a Dream of sorts? Farren wasn’t sure, but he shook his head and then glanced Ophelia’s way. “We should get back,” he said, addressing her plainly even as the moon hung overhead…brilliant, bright and beaming. Yet, though he knew it was a beautiful sight, it only filled him with a strange sense of inexplicable–if quiet and subtle–dread. Like being watched.
absorbed as much as he could of what was said, and what was going on, but ultimately he found himself relieved when Ophelia asked for some privacy. As the others took their leave, Farren bowed his head to Ophelia in a brief show of respect, “No shame in it,” he said simply, then he took his leave as well, his mind wandering back to the pool overflowing with Messengers as he departed the building.
Shifting his destination with that in mind, the azure-eyed hunter passed Torquil in the others, his stride purposeful as he walked over to the pool. Idly he reached down to the Messengers…and swiftly found that they reached toward him, showing him what they had to offer. “Hmm…” he murmured with a slow exhale as he considered the various items. He saw some things that perhaps Ophelia would be more interested in, but he left those well alone instead eyeing the Quicksilver bullets and the strange hourglass. Ultimately, he decided to abstain from the serpent’s temptation, perhaps he might obtain it later, but for now he’d rather have a series of other more standard, essential tools.
Feeling out the ethereal research that clung to the veins beneath his flesh, Farren made clear his intent, focusing his mind as he willed the blood echoes to transfer to the little eyeless Messengers that clamoured within the pool. In a moment he felt, then saw, the manifestation of what he’d given them leave to conjure via the power of the echoes that had lay within his blood.
Hand outstretched, Farren watched as the withered helpers deposited items into his hand as they faded into existence–or perhaps were pulled from some other realm? He didn’t know, and did away with the thought a moment later, finding either possibility rather disquieting. Eventually, seven(7) vials of pristine blood had formed and were deposited upon his palm. As they came into being, Farren stowed them away safely. The vials were swiftly followed by quicksilver bullets, for which he proffered the container he’d been given by the Blood Moon Hunter. Rather than quicksilver bullets manifesting individually, the Messengers seemed to graze their clambering little digits repeatedly over the glass. Each point of contact seemed to cause more shimmering metallic liquid to spontaneously fill the interior. When he was satisfied he had enough for at least ten(10) Quicksilver bullets, he stopped and refocused even as he stowed the tube away. Reaching out a final time, Farren received nine(9) Lead bullets from the messengers and then stowed them away. Satisfied, Farren turned away from the pool, still feeling at least a third of those strange writhing echoes shifting about his body, almost–but not quite–in sync with the beat of his heart.
As he looked, he saw that Ophelia had not yet joined them outside. He supposed it hadn’t taken him particularly long, so he headed for the Doll to make good on the remaining power latent within him. He eyed her as he approached, stepping in slightly closer than was perhaps polite, before he met her blank-artificial gaze. Farren wondered, as he looked upon her, how much of a mind she truly had, how much will. However, as with many things before, he cast the thought aside and addressed her, though it felt strange to do so.
“I…need more stamina. Can these…echoes serve that purpose?” His bright eyes watched her, almost shining in concert with the moonlight. Then, he watched as the Doll nodded her head. "Indeed. Let the echoes become your strength. Let me stand close." She reached to take Farren's hand in her own. "Now shut your eyes…” and he did, though only after a brief hesitation and a look of slight discomfort.
Immediately, Farren felt the vague, ephemeral presence that had been clinging to him begin to drain. As the power that the deaths of Pallid and his ilk back in the clinic was siphoned away into the doll...Farren felt strangely bereft. A faint pang of Hunger beat through him in concert with his heart, but the impression was swiftly scattered as an entirely different power flowed in reverse–pouring back into his person. Something warm and pleasant radiated from the cool porcelain of the doll-hand that held his. It felt like it was pressing itself into his very veins, following the current of his blood as it rapidly circulated throughout his body. Eventually, the feeling diminished, leaving him feeling…normal, yet different somehow. Farren took a deep breath, and his lungs felt larger? No, that wasn’t quite right. Stronger perhaps? It was hard to say, strange as the feeling was. It seemed that the very pathways of his blood and the bellows in his chest had spontaneously improved.
Farren opened his eyes and his hand fell from the Doll’s grasp as he glanced down at himself. He didn’t look any diff–no, his skin, it seemed more lively somehow. It was like the vigor within him had brought new color to his complexion, new energy to his frame. He couldn’t help but smile, “Miraculous…” he whispered, a quiet awe in his voice.
After a moment’s quiet, the revelation began to fade, taking that strange new awe with it, and the Azure-eyed hunter gave the Doll a respectful nod. Whether she were truly alive or not, she had done them many services and he appreciated greatly her contributions towards their betterment. “Blessings, miss,” Farren said softly. Delicately, he brought her hand–with his own–to his lips and lightly ghosted a kiss upon the porcelain that served as her skin. The warmth of before was largely gone and he did not linger, letting the Doll’s hand go before he turned and walked towards Torquil.
He hoped they could depart soon, for the Hunger in his blood quietly itched to find more beasts….
[name] - [cost in blood echoes] [description if necessary]): Blood vial – 15
Quicksilver bullet – 5
Lead bullet - 5
10 copper coins - 10
2 silver coins - 15
1 gold coin - 60
Memory of Desperation – 50 Skull of a Hunter who lost their mind hunting beasts. Crush to obtain the insight within. Though monsters can be found lurking everywhere in the city, nowhere is as thoroughly infested as Old Yharnam. Amidst such terrible beasts, even a Hunter may wish for a hero.
Memory of Stars – 50 Skull of a Yharnamite consumed by the wisdom of the Great Ones. Crush to obtain the insight within. Need and greed alike can drive people to do unspeakable things. Even so, there are places so dangerous only a fool would brave them.
Snakescale hourglass – 200 A small hourglass filled with snake scales ground to dust. Break the glass to gain five seconds during which you can act freely, but the rest of the world is frozen. The Great Serpent of the woods is a chronophage, devouring time as it passes. How could a being with such a power be anything less than a god?
saw the confusion in Torquil’s eyes at Ophelia’s initial explanation. Truthfully, he understood that to a degree, all of this was rather arcane…and he could hardly blame anyone for not following. He had a feeling that had he not had the background he did–though mostly forgotten–that he’d struggle far more in understanding almost everything that left Ophelia’s lips. Nodding slightly, Farren outstretched his hand to Ophelia, holding it in place even as her attention was pulled to the Shopkeeper and his Doll. Farren’s head tilted slightly at the display that ensued, but was grateful that Ophelia seemed the forgiving sort. Even if this Shopkeep had willingly submitted, it was better to have someone like them on their side, rather than holding even a hint of lingering resentment. As things concluded he braced himself then felt the sudden hot bite of the brand upon his flesh–despite the fact that at no point had he seen the woman heat it.
Oddly, he noticed, that while typically pain might cloud his mind, this pain brought a sort of clarity with it, and the burn was not so much one in his flesh. It felt like a sear in his head, causing his other hand to snap upwards and clutch at his temples, almost clawing at his own skin before the sensation rapidly began to fade. As it faded though, the clarity became more intense and it felt as if some unseen skein were shifted away from his eyes. Farren blinked and shook his head. By the time he’d began to adjust, the Doll was explaining the offerings the strange Hunter had bequeathed unto them.
Farren gritted his teeth slightly, not in response to any of the man’s boons, but rather on account of the lingering memory of searing pain. “Damn that’s unpleasant,” the azure eyed hunter muttered under his breath, giving Ophelia a nod nonetheless. He reckoned that the Rune would benefit him, maybe even serve the group as well, but gaining it was patently agonizing, if mercifully brief.
Still rubbing his head with the base of one palm, Farren approached the pouches and the offered bell–quickly fastening the former to his right hip before gratefully accepting the latter from the Shopkeep. He gave the man a respectful nod, for while Farren knew little of the Night of the Blood Moon, he knew enough from the mutterings of others that whispered through his mind that it was a significant thing, one worthy of great gratitude and esteem.
“Appreciate the tools and…your hospitality,” Farren managed, though the words felt awkward, sounding a bit gruff, as they slipped from his lips.
listened carefully to Ophelia’s explanation, but despite his diligent attention, he found his understanding falling somewhat short. Nonetheless, though his nature was of a less studious sort, he did understand one essential thing: their utility. “I see,” he replied, a thoughtful half-frown on his visage as he stared at the ground for a moment. Then, it seemed he came to a decision as his eyes flicked up to meet hers once more. “Very well. This Lake rune you spoke of, I will endure the…pain for the boon it provides. It’s only practical that we increase our odds after all,” he said, his hands clenching briefly into fists before they relaxed once more at his sides.
He glanced at the tools required for the application of this…‘rune’, nodded once, then met her eyes again. Farren felt he was no stranger to pain, and even if it marked his flesh…he was a Hunter, it would be a temporary thing, a flesh wound. That aside, though Torquil’s reappearance within this…place after he’d been slain implied they were essentially immortal, Farren nonetheless found that his survival instinct was entirely intact. He would not be rushing recklessly to his death, even if it were a temporary affair, so any advantage he could eke to prevent such a circumstance, he would gladly take so long as the price were not too great.
took a deep breath, and felt himself relax despite the added weight of the gear he’d donned. With his eyes shut for a long moment, he tried to understand why this felt so much more comfortable, so much more…right. Was it just that he was a hunter and now his weapons and garments suited that newfound nature? Farren’s brow furrowed slightly and he shook his head, no that wasn’t quite it. He drew in another slow breath, running a hand over the scabbard at his left hip, and the butt of the pistol that hung at his from the hook on his right. The feel of the materials somehow took him back, eliciting a feeling of comfort, of preparedness that apparently he was used to.
Farren wasn’t sure what business he’d had in the Workshops of Hunters prior, nor did he know what he’d done when away from them, but it must have been…strenuous, even dangerous. Farren’s azure eyes opened once more and he found Torquil had properly equipped himself as well. He gave the man a smile, “Good choices,” he commented, gesturing at the armor…and the axe, “the axe suits you,” he added, then Ophelia addressed him, pulling his attention to her.
Farren found his eyes widening as he laid eyes on the otherworldly blade she cradled in her hands. It was a marvel and he stared at the greatsword with naked awe. It took him a moment to register her words proper as a result, but he soon managed to tear his eyes away from the blade and meet her gaze. “A rune?” he asked, frowning slightly, searching for any familiarity with the concept…and finding none. “...to what end? What purpose do they serve?”
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.
“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.
Member
Megatron
evierose
Fallenreaper
Snowdrops
Taka
Dark Jack
Crimson Flame
Kalas
HeMandaddy