yoshua171

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

stared at the half-transmogrified hunter–if you could call a deplorable murderer like him such a thing–his eyes half-narrowed with suspicion, anger, and disgust. Farren may have been thinking more rationally now, but he still was not the least bit pleased with his circumstances. Still, oddly, after a moment, a faint glimmer came into his eyes and he let out a solitary, clipped, laugh, throwing his head back a moment before meeting Skinner’s gaze again. “Bargaining for your life are we? Don’t want to be hounded by your own retinue of immortal hunters with a taste for your blood?”

Farren realized he was smiling, the absurdity of things having somewhat pushed him over from rage into a dark–cruel–bloody sort of humor. It felt familiar for some reason…like an old trusty coat he’d forgotten he liked so much, that he’d forgotten he had. Of course, the irony of his words weren’t lost on him, given that Skinner could quite literally skewer him at any moment. Thing was, both Skinner and him both knew how pointless it would be. Farren would just come back, madder than ever and equipped with more knowledge about Skinner’s particular brand of violence than he had been at the start of their encounter. “Fine. Aside from the strength in your blood, the hell do ya ‘ave to offer?”

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

felt his nose wrinkle as the scent of burning hair and flesh and leathers reached him, but for a moment that was all he could do, aside from tense instinctually. Yet, though the threat of violence remained, Skinner had stopped. Farren let out a slow, hissing breath and turned his head–keeping his eyes on the bastard–as he spat on the ground right beside the man.“You’re a real fucking bastard,” Farren gritted out, every cell in his body thrumming with a mixture of barely contained rage and bloodlust. Yet, as the pain of the electrical attack began to fade into almost pleasant tingles interspersed with static shocks that trailed over the surface of his skin, clothes and hair. Farren winced reactively–not so much in pain, but as a series of smaller muscles twitched in his face outside of his control. He yanked his right arm, but couldn’t pry free of Skinner.

While he hadn’t been rendered immobile and could ostensibly attack with any of the firearms at his waist, he’d effectively disarmed himself, which was made even more apparent as the Piercing Rifle finally clattered against the cobbles just beside his foot–he’d dropped it mere instants before to use the blood vial. Not able to do much without triggering what would surely be an exceptionally immediate and agonizing reprisal, Farren thought things through. If he tried to act, he’d only waste resources at this point…either in the form of time as the man likely killed him–which would surely be an enlightening, if exceptionally wasteful, existentially unpleasant, and certainly painful experience–or in the form of additional blood vials as he tried to heal himself either during further conflict…or after the man had maimed him beyond his capacity to keep fighting. Alternatively, he could do what Skinner had ordered–stop.

Though the blood he’d recently imbibed made it difficult, Farren muscled his way through the haze of fervent violence coursing through his veins, clouding his typically pragmatic mind, and made the latter choice. “Fine. Torquil…stand down.” The first word was–due to the sheer strain and vitriol in it–nearly an expletive, whereas the latter phrase was called out as he quarter turned his head, allowing his voice to travel more easily past his body. All the while he kept his nearly-glowing blue eyes locked on Skinner’s, clearly not trusting him–and for good reason.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

felt his eyes widen, but before he could do anything further than complete the motion to depress the blood vial into his thigh, the voltaic current coursed through him. A twitchy surge of uncontrollable heat, pain, and disorientation washed through his body. For an instant his vision flashed and sparked and bubbled. The pain was far more intense than anyone could really stomach as the current caused his nervous system to fire in random intervals at a huge variety of intensities. That in tangent with the heat had Farren losing a sense of his body in a way he’d basically never experienced before, so much so that even had the Lake Rune triggered, he would not have detected the floaty–subtle–sensation that always seemed to preempt damage.

Discombobulated, disoriented, and on some level deeply displeased, Farren could do nothing as Skinner’s bestial left hand reached out for his right arm. In fact, only as Skinner began to make contact and apply some amount of pressure did Farren react, his vision slowly beginning to clear and his senses start to recover. Somehow, despite it all, Farren had managed to keep hold of the sword in his right hand–in fact his grip was painfully tight on the blade’s hilt and wrapped handle.

Features still twitching randomly, hair standing partially on end from the current that had surged through him, Farren’s azure eyes locked with Skinner’s.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

narrowed his eyes, pushed to his feet and started to approach the man, finding himself surprisingly irritated by the man’s statement. “Never died before, so there’s no telling,” Farren replied, his voice gruff and filled with a dangerous edge as he stalked towards Skinner, Piercing Rifle in one hand, Bulwark in the other.

"Stop. I told you there's no point," Skinner growled, "but take another step and we'll find out if you can die."

Yet, even as the word ‘stop’ reached Farren, he finished his step–seeming as if he were actually going to listen, but the muzzle of the Piercing Rifle was already inconspicuously in position. Its muzzle flashed and the sharp report of gunfire issued as a lead bullet launched from the rifle’s barrel, aimed at Skinner's left knee (Skinner’s POV). This time, Farren didn’t drop the rifle as he launched forward in a dashing quickstep, snarling out two words, “Fuck you!”

Some unheard part of him screamed for him to stop, to avoid unnecessary risks, but his blood was up, surging like molten violence in his veins, and fuck if he wasn’t angrier than he’d ever been before.

Skinner observed Farren fire his rifle and the bullet hitting his leg sullenly. He sighed, and irritably swung his left hand and hurled the Blades of Mercy off in the distance, somewhere down the street. Skinner was no longer smiling; he was no longer having fun.

Farren’s eyes almost followed the Blades, but he snapped them back onto Skinner, noticing the man’s grim aspect–not that he cared if the man was enjoying himself or not. His jaw clenched tighter at the mishandling of the weapons and that additional insult added to his earlier injuries pushed another surge of fury through him. Yet, even as Farren approached he witnessed another, very different sort of shift as Skinner’s beast claw produced another of those strange pulses that spread up his arm and across his body, only this time without prompting any kind of physical transformation. Instead, sparks of lightning began arcing between the bone blades of the weapon, and the fur growing all over Skinner's body as well as the hair on his head stood up and started to exude a subtle bluish glow.

Farren narrowed his eyes at the sight, but he’d already set himself on a path and deviating too much would only disadvantage him further. That said, Farren tightened his grip on the Piercing Rifle and as he was almost in range he thrust it forward. Initially he appeared to be aiming at Skinner’s lower abdomen, but—if Skinner didn’t evade—as he was about to strike, Farren would tilt the weapon diagonally down and to the right so that it would enter just above Skinner’s hip and pierce down and forward as it continued.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

coughed up more than a little blood, the rest swiftly being metabolized or otherwise reabsorbed as he felt a flush of heat roll through his blood. He gritted his teeth, groaning and exclaiming as bones began to snap back into place, knitting back together with a series of horridly sharp, itching, agonizing sensations. Farren snarled out a string of curses as he forced himself into motion only a half or so second after he’d begun healing, thrusting a hand into a pouch and extracting enough bullets for his blunderbuss and pistol. The first he brought in front of him swiftly, cocked it, reloaded in a series of swift motions, then dropped, hand blurring down to his pistol as he pushed to his feet, glanced behind him and then back stepped in a half-leap into the elevator. Farren knew intuitively that there would be no retreating from this, they’d either succeed or they’d die. Thus, as he landed on the elevator’s activation panel, he pushed back forward, ducking out of the cage before it slid shut–the lift already starting to ascend behind him. As his fingers nimbly finished reloading his pistol, Farren took a half step forward–moving swiftly–his body bending down so he could snatch up the blunderbuss as he broke into a dead sprint. He could see Skinner still feasting on the giant’s innards, but that couldn’t last, so he made every second count, transitioning into a slide and snatching up the Piercing Rifle as he did so, the bullet to reload it already in hand even as his mind reached out for the Messengers.

Skinner had both of his short range weapons and Farren had an idea, so as he reloaded the Piercing Rifle, he called upon the image of Bulwark as his slide let him easily transition into a position on one knee. Sliiiide. Clack, the bullet fell into place in the rifle and Farren braced the underside of its barrel on his upraised knee as he reached down with his other hand.

He felt nothing, which surprised him, having expected the sensation of clammy, wrinkled skin–then fingers–asf the Messengers touched him. Instead he only heard the strange telltale noises of their arrival as agonizing instants ticked forward while he stared ahead at Skinner, subtly lining up a shot with one arm. At the same time, as Farren kept his eyes fixed on the bestial madman, the gnarly, disgusting squelching racket of Skinner’s feasting made his bile rise even as his stomach growled. Farren spat to the side, the glob of saliva and mucus slightly pink from lingering blood.

“Not gonna die that easy,” he growled. Then the distinct sensation of leather and metal met his right hand, and he gripped Bulwark’s hilt, muttering his thanks to the Messengers. With any luck, the blood-mad bastard wouldn’t be familiar with the weapon.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

was, for only a handful of instants, half-stunned into inaction. He’d expected the rush, expected the charge and even the sudden motion of the quicksteps. When Skinner didn’t discard the body immediately, Farren knew what was coming next. Yet, what he hadn’t expected was the massive figure’s sheer speed. Further, the transformation, the shifting of flesh and cloth into fur like some twisted sped-up beastly metamorphosis.

Farren’s eyes widened at the sight, but he didn’t falter, didn’t hesitate. Adrenaline hit him all at once as if just catching up with the rapidly procession of events. For a moment it was like everything had slowed to a crawl. He forced himself not to blink despite the urge to, and widened his eyes instead. ‘Not fucking this time,’ he thought and before he had more than an instant to consider, he was already moving. His muscles coiled, twisted, almost felt like they might snap or tear, and then with force that still surprised him, Farren quickstepped.

A surge of motion, a blur that carried him sideways even as he shifted his arms and braced his shoulder for an impact. It came what felt like less than a moment later, his shoulder slamming into the dead body even as he braced his left leg–having approached from Torquil’s right side–and used it to half shift and half arrest his movement. He shoved the body to the side with the force of his dash and followed up with a swing of his left blade, at the very least intent upon intercepting Skinner’s opening strike even as Farren positioned the tip of his other blade so it would aim towards the man’s chest. The blade was angled slightly up from where he held it at his waist level. He hadn’t thrust it forth yet, but it was clear that depending on the bastard’s reaction, another strike could be forthcoming.

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.