yoshua171

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

narrowed his eyes and swore under his breath, the man was even more wily than he’d assumed. Not only had he managed to either enter another building to emerge from or to use the building with the censer and the lit lantern as a misdirect, but now he’d managed to get Farren to waste resources and even further give away the advantages a first strike could allow.

Some part of him wanted to sheath the Blades of Mercy and instead draw out the Beastflayer and keep the man at a greater distance, but the reality was that doing that would leave him far more vulnerable. After all, if Skinner got past the lengthy weapon it would render it virtually useless and in the moments it would take Farren to shift to one of his other armaments, the beast of a man could strike. As the man eerily whistled, the sound warping as it echoed through the unsettling quiet of the three-way intersection.

“Say you killed us,” Farren called out, pushing into a better stance as he walked up beside Torquil, “...I figure you’d hunt the runner next?”

He kept his tone somewhat light, as if he were detached from the scenario. Internally he was bringing to mind all the details of their environs, including the Piercing Rifle he’d left behind them, laid on the ground. At the same time, the azure-eyed hunter regarded Skinner, taking in his garb and physique swiftly.

Rather than grow tense, Farren took a deep breath and relaxed even as his blood surged like molten violence through his veins, singing for carnage.

Skinner may have killed many–Hunters and beasts both–that did not at all mean that panicking would do them any good. So, unconsciously calling upon the calm that had let him survive so many other perilous situations, Farren kept his wits about him and let his breathing grow deep and even as he braced himself for whatever was next to come.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

clenched his jaw, the muscles tightening painfully as a door opened and an ominous whistling issued forth–clearly originating from a blood-drenched man. However, Farren didn’t wait for the figure to come fully into focus. Instead as his eyes locked onto the opening door, the end of Farren’s rifle twitched to the side, training on the man’s center mass. His trigger finger half-clenched, eye trained down the barrel, and then he fired.

CRACK

The sharp, incredibly loud, report of his rifle was something Farren registered, but he moved rather than waiting for the result of his shot. He dropped the rifle and it was as if everything were in slow motion as adrenaline slammed through his blood, the Piercing Rifle slowly falling through the air. In an instant one hand had come to his belt and drawn the Blade of Mercy.

He wished he could have notified Ophelia, telling her to hurry…or wait–in the unfortunate event that the two of them died and ended up back in the Dream–but there was no time for such things. So instead, Farren simply shifted his grip and with a sharp snap, separated the singular blade into its twin-form, the joined blades separating with a jerk as he kept his bright gaze on their adversary.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

gritted his teeth as nothing seemed to happen, the only sound that drew him out of his focus was that of the Messengers rising from the ground near his feet. The azure-eyed Hunter knelt, keeping his eyes on the dark window and silently noting how no movement on the floor below seemed to occur.

With his left hand, Farren holstered the pistol and placed that same hand on the blunderbuss as he set the rifle down and used the subtle noises of the Messengers to get his hand on their offered scroll. He brought the item in front of him and for a moment lowered his eyes to read it–squinting a bit in focus. After a moment he finished reading it, turned it about and handed it back with a push of intent. Letters practically scrawled themselves onto the parchment’s back as the Messenger’s touched it and in moments he’d sent back a message in response.

“Good. At bottom of the Rise, down the lift. Victor’s companion–dead. Victor fled. Potential ambush by mad hunter. ‘Skinner’. Rejoin with haste. Waiting to continue.”

Farren’s Message

That done, Farren wrapped his fingers back around the piercing rifle and pulled to his feet, eyes already back on the building.

“Ophelia’s back in the Dream,” Farren explained to Torquil, “If Skinner’s in there, they’re laying low. Probably expect to be followed, deal with us in an enclosed space we’re unfamiliar with.”

Farren gritted his teeth and glanced down one of the streets with his peripheral vision, noting that Victor had made quite a bit of headway. “Don’t fancy dying,” Farren commented, “...but rather hate surprises too. Let’s back up…towards the elevator cage, we’ll wait for Ophelia.”

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

didn't bother turning to look at Victor as he heard the man begin to back away. “You ever try to run away from a predator, Victor?” He asked, his tone grim. As he spoke he checked the chamber of his rifle, confirming that it was properly loaded with a silver bullet.

"I have, lots of times. It's really effective when you have somewhere to run to."

Farren chuckled, “Good luck making it all the way back to Cathedral Ward before he tracks you down. That's to say nothing of the obstacles between here and there--beasts included.” As he said the words, Farren aimed down the barrel of the rifle, before he thought better of it and unholstered his pistol again and aimed at the dark top floor window. He kept the rifle in his right hand though, ready to drop the pistol so he could properly aim it.

Victor simply stared at Farren and Torquil incredulously for a second, then turned and ran south without looking back.

For a brief instant, Farren visualized turning and firing the pistol at Victor instead, but after the impulse passed he decided against it.

“Idiot,” Farren muttered, even though he fully understood why the man had run. Still, to steal supplies from his dead comrade’s body–which was practical enough–and then abandon his two newfound comrades at the first sign of true adversity, well…it didn’t really matter if this ‘Skinner’ was as dangerous as Victor said. That in mind, Farren steeled himself…and then fired the pistol into the dark window on the second floor.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

narrowed his eyes as he realized where the trail was leading, and how it grew more diffuse the further it got from the carnage. Yet, he didn’t rise from the giant’s body, instead, he moved in a low crouch and traced his fingertips through some of the blood a few feet from the pale church giant.

Cold, almost as cold as the cobblestones of the street. Still…that discrepancy was significant and even if his body was a far cry from any sort of proper measurement, this much let him surmise that this had happened within the last thirty or so minutes. Farren slowly rose to his full height again.

“Probably went that way,” Farren said quietly, gesturing towards the door that he’d been able to track the blood trail back to. He holstered his pistol, sheathed the blade of Mercy, and then pulled the Piercing Rifle from his back instead.

“This is recent, bodies are still warm, blood’s not fully cooled yet,”Farren added, his tone gruff and more level, “...this is very likely an ambush waiting to be sprung,” he added, training the rifle at the door as he scanned the building, noting the censer and the light inside.

If Skinner had gone that way, then this wasn’t a Hunter turned beast like some of the dead patients back in the Rise’s Clinic, in some ways that was a relief. In others however, it made Skinner far more dangerous, for a Hunter not so far gone to be a Beast was far more dangerous. Still, Farren didn’t like the idea of leaving things as they were even if it meant they could escape without a fight.

After all, it would only mean that this Skinner would likely have their scent, and that would mean that any moment they let their guard down could well be their last. “Victor…Torquil. If this…Skinner is still here, we need to kill ‘em. Otherwise, there’ll be no resting until we’re back at the White Church Workshop.” He didn’t even bother mentioning the fact that if Skinner followed them, they could ambush them when they were tired right after fighting something else…or even in the middle of a melee.

The reality of things was clear to him, if they didn’t become the Hunter now and eliminate the murderous bastard, they were likely to fall prey to them sooner or later when they were less prepared and more vulnerable. With that in mind, Farren glanced at Torquil, recalling how Ophelia had given him orders or guided him to take action previously. “Torquil, can you position yourself slightly to my left between me and that door?” he asked, raising the rifle somewhat.

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.