yoshua171

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

grimaced at Victor’s explanation, grateful for his having narrowed the possibilities down, but not at all pleased that the assailant had been a Hunter. “Shame about Stefan,” he said, his tone grim as he glanced back at the corpse as Victor rifled through its belongings. He understood that mentality, made sense to take of the dead, even if some thought it wrong. The dead couldn’t use tools or clothes or other such things, so there was no need for them to keep them. Better that they were put to some use.

Farren cast his gaze to the rooftops, trying to see if he could catch sight of anything out of place–even recently disturbed grout or shingles or other material could be helpful details. Once his scan there was done, he’d redirect his attention to the path of viscera and teeth that led to Stefan’s body. The man hadn’t just been torn apart, he’d clearly been struck by something either massive or unbelievably dense…and with incredible force at that. Farren’s gaze would follow that trail from Stefan’s body forth, trying to track where it may have started. That could indicate something. All the while he kept his ears peeled and his awareness stretched to its limits. Farren walked backwards, treading back to the giant’s body, and crouched slightly, keeping his eyes on their surroundings as he let his knuckles brush against its pale flesh. He was wondering if it was still warm.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

took in Victor’s explanation and suddenly a terrible possibility entered his mind, one that had the potential to be far worse than facing some unknown beast. Farren glanced at one of the bodies–finding similar marks to what the Church Hunter had–and his mind brought to bear a solitary image. A pair of almost cobbled together weapons consisting of two jagged, unnaturally long talons that had likely been torn from some massive beast. All wrapped together crudely with cloth, though perhaps they’d been horns or antlers of some sort, Farren considered–not that it mattered in the moment. The real issue was what that might mean, “Beast Claws…” he muttered grimly, glancing Victor’s way for the briefest moment to meet his eyes before he swept his gaze back around them.

The question was, if it were a Hunter–or if it once had been one–where was it?

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

heard Victor’s words and couldn’t help but think the man naive, for while Farren was new as a hunter, something about the White Church’s assumption just struck him as utterly foolish. Nights like these were inherently dangerous, often fatal, for those caught ought beneath the fell light of the moon. Farren had a sense that he’d once seen true horrors on such nights, or perhaps on some assignment earlier on. He had a flash of memory from when starvation had been a real concern, earlier during his time in the city, seeing something truly…monstrous.

Beastmen and such were one thing, those recently having succumbed to the scourge even moreso, but something that could do this sort of damage that a civilian might survive an encounter with was…well, something else entirely. Yet, he had the sense that he had encountered such things before, had a feeling that such encounters were part of why he had such a pragmatic outlook even after the amnesia that his metamorphosis had caused. That intuition, he supposed he had to call it, had Farren questioning Victor’s competence: after all, he couldn’t truly know if the man was simply naive, inexperienced, or gods forbid, incompetent.

“Never seen anything like this?” Farren asked, his voice relatively quiet, but not so faint that Torquil or Victor would fail to hear him. As he spoke, Farren kept his eyes wide–his stance similar–as he moved forwards, leading at a measured, cautious pace. One eye twitching slightly as he stepped around a spatter of blood and pebbles, Farren’s left hand closed around one of the pistols at his belt, and he drew it, not taking his eyes off his surroundings for even a moment as he did so.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

had considered complimenting Victor–even in his muddled mood–for his deduction with very few leads, in regards to the Harrow…but the man had bulled on, intent on explaining why his companion had chosen to stay at the base of Rebirth’s Rise. However, Farren wasn’t looking at the White Church Hunter as he spoke, his gaze instead peered ahead of their descent, far below to the three street intersection. So while Victor spoke almost proudly–even rather joyfully–of the choice, Farren’s expression shifted from mildly interested and difficult to read…to distinctly grim and annoyed. By the time they were closer and more details had made themselves clear–and Victor had noticed the catastrophe that came into focus before them–Farren was already taking the Blade of Mercy from his hip. White knuckled fingers dug into its finely crafted grip even as Victor’s voice trailed off and the elevator came to a rest in the square housing.

Driven by a series of mechanisms that Farren vaguely recalled having studied at some point in the past, the cage’s doors automatically shifted open, the metal parting to allow them ingress into the disastrous scene.

For some reason, Farren found himself feeling particularly rankled by the scene before him–and it wasn’t the gore.

“You know Victor, I never told you, but I fucking hate being right,” Farren gritted out, voice low in his throat, quieter so as not to rouse attention. With a swift, sinuous motion, Farren stepped from the elevator’s cage, his eyes peeled for details as he took in the grisly scene. “Wits about you,” he rasped, perhaps for Victor, perhaps for Torquil. Maybe both. In that moment, he didn’t trust Victor’s instincts as far as he could throw ‘em–and one couldn’t rightly hurl a blood-damned fucking concept.

This sort of situation was precisely why he’d wished Ophelia’s little investigatory trip could have waited. Some part of him knew that knowledge was power, and it’d likely put them in a better position to maneuver themselves so long as she successfully rejoined them, but in that moment he barely cared.

Farren kept his freehand at his belt, in case he needed to draw one of his loaded firearms.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

regarded Victor as he leaned on the lever, explaining what had brought him to his conclusion. After a moment’s consideration, he nodded, followed by a small rumble of agreement in his throat after Victor had explained the function of the elevator. The explanation was plausible, likely even, and given that the man was marked a White Church hunter by his garb it made sense that he’d be able to put the pieces together. Still, something in him writhed subtly, faintly, a quiet paranoia that was hard to quell with simple logic.

Rather than focus on it, Farren stepped forward and joined Victor in the cage, sure not to step on the center plate. He didn’t beckon Torquil, figuring the man would follow. “Admittedly, the…Pthumerian, as you called him, mentioned ‘Soulkeeper,’ so I’d figured they’d be affiliated with that sort.” Farren replied once Torquil had joined them and the elevator had begun its uncanny descent. Farren kept Victor right in his periphery, close enough to his more precise central cone of vision that he could read his expressions…without it being obvious that he was focused on the man.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

followed, along with Torquil, taking in what Victor said as he did so, first at the door outside the clinic, and then again once they’d arrived at the elevator. In the intervening minutes he’d taken in their environs, his eyes peeled for any sign of a trap or ambush. None came, and nothing else of great significance stood out to him. No conspicuously lit lanterns past closed windows or beneath fastened doors, no scents of living, breathing beasts. If there had been any, likely Victor would have had to dispatch them to get to them. However, as he considered that, he had to wonder…why had Victor been headed this way. He had not seemed to be aware of the various latent hunters in the Clinic when they’d spoken of them, nor had he reacted with any sense of familiarity with the fact of Pallid and his ilk being present at the Clinic when he’d hailed the man. Odd.

As they came upon the elevator, Farren took in the remnants of Victor and his yet unseen companion’s fight. Stefan, apparently. Farren grunted slightly in response to Victor’s initial words, but as the man finished pulling the lever to call the lift, continuing his story, Farren’s eyes narrowed fractionally. Almost immediately he schooled his expression, asking a follow up question, “The Harrow? How do you figure?”

He tilted his head slightly in question, keeping the suspicion entirely out of his voice and expression. They’d never mentioned the Harrow to Victor, and it was odd that he was here to begin with…so how did he know the beastman–and the others–had been affiliated with them?

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

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

Farren’s Message

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.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

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.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

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.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

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.