yoshua171

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

would have been stunned at the sheer speed with which the Moonborn Hunter subdued Skinner if it had not been for what the azure-eyed hunter knew about the now-Shopkeeper’s mysterious, but infamous mythology–so to speak. While not much was stone-solid about the man, one thing that had always been clear–from the rumors, whispers, and speculation he could recall impressions of–was the figure’s exceptionally dangerous nature. The rest was all hearsay.

That said, there was nothing quite like seeing it in person. Nonetheless, Farren continued his approach, tracking where Skinner would land, and adjusting accordingly so that he’d have nearly arrived by the time the man was flat on his back, attempting to recover–his beastly regeneration slowed to a crawl that spoke of exhaustion. For his part, Farren moved into a half slide that should bring him right up beside Skinner’s left side, at which point he raised one foot and pressed it on the man’s chest between the sides of his ribcage slightly below his heart, but above the majority of his lower organs. He pressed with enough strength to brace himself, but not so much as to cause undue pain. In the same motion, he aimed the tip of his sword over the center of the murderer’s chest, the tip poised to pierce him. Meanwhile, his left hand shifted his blunderbuss’ barrel, training it–point blank–at Skinner’s abdomen, the weapon’s flared end nearly touching the man’s bare flesh.

Farren didn’t speak, just locked his eyes on Skinner’s features, keeping his senses stretched out to detect the slightest movement–even as his mind kept subconsciously checking for the telltale sensation of the Lake Rune’s minor precognizance.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

would have sighed, but again there was no time, so ended up sharply exhaling as he surged into motion the very moment that Skinner began his reaping arc. This time, wise to the nature of the attack–and not the central target of it, Farren erupted into a quickstep, his rifle already fully reloaded. Moving almost perpendicular to where he predicted the natural boundary of the attack would be–based on having experienced it once already–Farren managed to just barely escape the clutching, sparking, tendrils of voltaic energy as they cascaded forth from Skinner’s motion. At about the same time, Farren bore witness to the Shopkeeper’s devastating potency, the rapidly extending beast-cutter practically flaying the air in a viscous whipping motion before it rendered cobble back into its a baser state.

Though Farren’s eyes widened at the stunning sight, he didn’t stop moving, if negotiations were over, so be it. “Leave ‘im alive!” Farren barked as he broke into a dead sprint in a curving arc to circle around Skinner’s left side to come in behind and to the man’s left. As he ran, Farren flipped his rifle over his shoulder and into its harness in one smooth motion before he let that same left arm drop down and grasp his already lead-loaded blunderbuss, bringing it to bear before he began to fully close the distance between himself and Skinner.

Night of the Hunt - Paleblood

_Farren

couldn’t help but grin at Skinner’s reaction as he allowed himself to openly enjoy the murderer’s frustration. However, it didn’t last long and was soon replaced by the clarion call of an unfamiliar bell–though one with a similar timbre to the one Pallid had once wielded. That single sound had Skinner freezing in place, but for Farren, it just made his amusement deepen. Ophelia had nearly arrived, and as if to accentuate that fact, he heard the mechanical shifting of gears followed immediately by the steady noise of the shifting chain and its many links. As Skinner’s confidence–and even irritation–vanished, Farren tilted his head slightly, his grin becoming a more lopsided smirk. This guy was afraid of the Pthumerian of all people? Certainly, Pallid had been able to conjure all sorts of nightmarish things, but he had ultimately fallen rather easily, all considered. Though, Farren supposed that had he been alone he could not have done it. Then again…Skinner seemed far stronger than him–for now at least.

At the same time, Farren found himself slightly galled, as realistically the conflict had more or less concluded…unless….

A brief flash of paranoia shot through him, what if somehow Pallid–like them–had resurrected and it indeed was him descending that elevator. Farren’s eye twitched and he had the brief, sharp vision of turning as he drew a pistol and shot the chainlinks apart, causing the cage of the lift to plummet with its occupants trapped within.

Farren’s eyelid twitched a second, then third time, and he finished taking a breath. The intrusive imagery, the sound, the grinding of the link, the flash of gunfire and black powder, and the sickening crunch of bone and flesh as the elevator struck ground–warping with a terrible screech–all fled his mind almost as soon as they had entered it. Only an instant had passed, but he found that Skinner had dashed back and away from him. Having taken on a defensive posture, clear terror in his aspect, Farren took a step towards him and, as his leading right foot planted on the ground, he used his heel to skillfully kick the Piercing Rifle upwards and in a forward curving arc behind him. Farren snatched the rifle by reaching back over his shoulder in a flash, then brought it back down by his hip as he spoke, taking another step closer–continuing his very slow approach.

“What, Pallid?” Farren chuckled easily, almost mockingly, “Yeah, decided to leave him alive, for a price,” he lied, the words leaving his lips with ease that surprised him–as if they were actually true. Huh.

No time to dig into that now.

“So, a Caryll Rune. That all? The strength of your blood still strikes me as more alluring,” he added, almost surprised that those words were actually honest. As he spoke, Farren gripped the the Piercing Rifle at his left side with his middle, ring, and little fingers while he used his thumb and pointer to retrieve a lead bullet from the pouch at his hip and then insert it into the rifle.

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.