barely even seemed to notice the significance of Ophelia speaking with Gerlinde, in fact…it was almost as if he didn’t notice them speaking at all. Instead, he found himself embraced in a gentle sort of wonder at the garden around them, and their host as well. His gaze would drift between flowers, the only sign that some part of him might have been aware of the danger inherent to having one’s mind co-opted the fact that three of his fingertips kept lightly drifting over the faintly weathered grip of the True Blade of Mercy where it remained sheathed at his hip. As Ophelia focused on Harold and she began to build to her question, he found his attention being drawn between her and Harold. The nice old man seemed to listen so graciously despite the prying nature of her words. Farren almost found her inquiry rude, even though he too was exceptionally curious regarding the nature of his own metamorphosis.
Almost guiltily, Farren spoke, his words coming a beat after Ophelia’s, though adding far less to the conversation than hers had.
“Admittedly, I’d wondered that myself…” he said, beginning to trail off before a small part of his mind pushed him just far enough to say something else, to actually ask something of Vicar Harold. “Honestly…I don’t think I know much of Paleblood itself, let alone this…false sort. Perhaps you could enlighten us?” Where normally, the final phrase–his actual question–would likely have come off as if he felt he deserved the answer, maybe have even been delivered in a somewhat abrasive manner, in that moment it came off more as an earnest plea. In fact, Farren almost felt…embarrassed to ask so much of the man who ostensibly had served a vital role in healing him of whatever horrid affliction he must have been ensnared by prior to the blood ministration.
After all, how could a nice man like Harold have anything but noble intentions for the people of Yharnam?
was very briefly surprised and almost…overtaken with the beauty that spread out around them in the form of the radiance of the Lumenflower Garden. His eyes widened faintly at the sight, but his attention was seamlessly devoured as a voice found them. It felt familiar somehow, comforting, and a dreamy sense of calm beyond anything he had ever felt settled over him, so deep and encompassing that he reckoned it had seeped into not just his mind or body, but his soul itself. The lines of his face softened, the seriousness that so pervasively hovered about his visage, etched into every angle of his aspect, eased noticeably and all the tension in his muscles practically disappeared. He stood a bit taller, yet simultaneously seemed less imposing. Though his azure eyes remained striking and the sense that he was distinctly aware of everything around him largely remained, the piercing quality to his gaze faded and all but vanished.
Farren, as if magnetically drawn like the needle of a compass to true north, swiveled about, first his eyes, then his head, then his body, all to attend the vicar. Farren’s altogether pleasant, but previously subtle if uncharacteristic, smile grew, and his eyes crinkled slightly in pleasure…as if he were seeing a cherished grandfather again after many months or years of missing them. The calm he’d felt intensified, becoming more like serenity as even the deep, insidious influence of a Golden Radiance in his mind faded and disappeared entirely. He’d never felt so good again and he reckoned that even the man he’d been before had never been so relaxed and carefree.
It was nice…and the Vicar, Harold it must have been, was most certainly a nice old man. Gerlinde’s greeting to the man, Farren found, was more out of place than anything about Vicar Harold, as if she were perhaps being rather rude to the pleasant codger. Yet, that was a bit odd and his brow furrowed ever-so-slightly at that thought. Almost like something was off kilter in a world where everything should be right as rain. However, he found himself quickly moving on from that notion–though a tiny, almost silent awareness at the very back of his mind questioned, ‘had that thought been him…or something else?’
“Ah. It’s a pleasure to meet you Vicar Harold, I’ve heard the nicest things about you, but they hardly compare to the real thing,” he said, far more frank than he ever would have normally been–not that he noticed.
As Ophelia spoke, Farren found himself pleased with how she was conducting herself…her manner seemed far more natural, respectful and pleasant, than Gerlinde’s greeting had. When she was done, he decided he agreed, “Ophelia’s right, I was rather curious if you might share some insight on the matter of our transformation, which I should thank you for. It’s been very…nice being a hunter. Invigorating.” There was an enthusiasm about his manner that had been absent in the entirety of the time that his companions had known him–indeed one that had never been present in his past self either. Perhaps the only time one might have seen even a fraction of that energy might have been in the throes of mortal peril…or when he’d been discussing weaponry.
Needless to say, while Farren was none the wiser in that moment…something was decidedly off.
was prepared for many things, extreme violence among them, perhaps a vicious verbal rebuke. Silent, unforgiving judgement too was something he had prepared for, but in his pessimism–if that’s what it was–he had not prepared for what truly transpired. As she reached out, Farren didn’t react at all, barely even twitched…until her slender arms wrapped about his neck and she pressed close as she embraced him.
He tensed, then tensed further still, his entire body practically going rigid as if every muscle had locked up and unconsciously he dropped the bag he’d been holding in one hand. His mind screamed danger—or…no that wasn’t quite it. Farren frowned, numerous thoughts raging through his mind in the space of an instant. He noticed that shrinking voice in his mind, the one built from old impulses and a largely forgotten identity…it was angry, screaming, terrified. Lashing out. Had he really been so lonely and guarded in his old life that he’d not been close with someone like this? Not shared a casual embrace. Farren swallowed, his throat feeling thick even as he took in a breath, inhaling the strange and distinct scent of a hunter that Gerlinde put off…which was tinged with notes of cinnamon. After another moment, he started to relax, not fully but at least he wasn’t a practically a statue anymore. At the same time his arms came up and he—though awkwardly—managed to return her embrace, if tentatively. Though she’d been remade—first by the old blood, and then in some other way given her changed appearance—his embrace was far more gentle and unsure, as if he almost didn’t know how to hug someone, or as if she was so fragile he might accidentally break her.
An emotion welled in his chest even as she spoke…relief, then gratitude. She shifted, looking up at them with those distinct eyes, the same eyes he remembered from what felt like ages ago.
“I—…” he started, but didn’t know what to even say. After a moment he found some words to string together, “You’re not angry?” He asked, gently extricating himself from her, his larger hands on her shoulders as he held her slightly at arms length, his piercing eyes locked with her gaze.
"I was angry, once," Gerlinde quietly confessed, her voice now tinged with sadness. "For so long I hated you, and I hated everyone at Byrgenwerth. I cried myself to sleep wishing that all kinds of terrible things happened to you. But in time I realized that everything that happened to me... all the horrible things they did to me... they had to have a good reason. You had to have a good reason. And I didn't really matter. My life and wellbeing didn't matter in the face of what they were learning. It was for the greater good. So I... learned to just be happy to be a part of that."
As she spoke, Farren nodded, listening intently, seeking to understand. However, the more he heard the more his gut twisted with anger and disgust, both himself for the circumstances his actions had put her in and towards the larger system that did such things to innocent people. His brow furrowed and his jaw clenched, the muscles at the joint visibly working as he looked at her. She was almost his height, but in her vulnerable state she seemed small somehow, like she was still that girl on the inside, even though she’d done her utmost to change externally and project another image.
“You’re a survivor,” he said frankly, his tone grave and serious, but without the almost universal roughness that it typically held. “…I admire that and I don’t know what you’ve endured because of my choices and the predilections of others, but you didn’t deserve it.”
"No, don't you see?" she interjected, sounding almost happy. "It doesn't matter what I deserved. I didn't matter! No one matters! Everyone just does whatever they need to. Whatever they want."
Farren’s heart missed a beat, he didn’t pull in air for a moment, but slowly did so again rather than suddenly gasping. His jaw worked for a moment, but rather than tensing further he forced himself to relax and give her a faint smile. But his eyes were almost sad for a moment before he took another breath and they crinkled slightly at the edges, matching his expression. “There’s some truth to that,” Farren offered, his voice even gentler than before, “After all, we only matter as much as we decide we ought to,” he added.
Her words had made Farren realize that she was deep in some kind of madness, he thought, probably to try to protect herself from the pain of how things really were. Part of him wanted to try harder to tear it away, to rip off the gauze, to correct the splint so she could heal, but he wasn’t some kind of mind doctor and despite her gesture they weren’t truly close. For now at least. Besides, Yharnam was not a kind place, so perhaps a little madness would serve her well. Nonetheless, he met her eyes again, “Later, if it’s something you can bear…I’d like to hear what you’ve been through, but not now.” He gave her shoulders a squeeze and in so doing felt the strength about her as much as he felt the softness and saw the fragility. Farren raised his eyes and caught a glimpse of Ophelia as she got a bit closer. “By your look, it seems we’ve other business to attend.”
He let go of Gerlinde’s shoulders, though some part of him wanted to give her another squeeze, one of further reassurance perhaps. Farren found that he felt rather protective of the girl, but wasn’t sure what the nature of the feeling was exactly. He pushed it aside for some other time. At the same time, he nodded in agreement with Ophelia’s words before she fully launched into a lengthy explanation of what all they’d discussed in his absence. It took some time, but when she finished he had a lot to think about…or rather a lot to shove into the back of his mind and slowly process as it became convenient.
“Well, that’s…a lot to take in,” he’d reply in an almost grumbled tone, before he shook his head a bit as she bulled on. Apparently, they would be heading to the White Church Workshop next….
Farren chewed lightly at the inside of his cheek—though not hard enough to break or bruise the skin—as he considered what she was saying about the Vicar. He had no memory of the man…and would have rather avoided him, but she was right. Information was essential, and they simply didn’t know nearly enough about the nature of most of their transformations—Ophelia excepted. By the end of her explanation regarding Harold, Farren found himself almost scowling, the idea of anyone or anything else setting him on edge. He shook himself a bit before nodding, “I’ll take the rune, rather not have anyone else rattling around my head,” he said simply. He’d have to explain the small discovery he’d made about the Moonbourn Hunter’s weapons later. Probably wasn’t that important to the others anyways, at least not in the immediate moment.
would appear largely unchanged to the others as he arrived back in the Dream, though his armaments were slightly different, what with Bulwark gone–now replaced by a second Blade of Mercy. Additionally, he was carrying a rather large bag in one hand–and a knife in the other, though the latter would be familiar to anyone who’d paid attention and hadn’t newly developed another bout of amnesia. Farren for his part felt that familiar sense of falling, then rising, then being awake suddenly while unsure if he’d ever fallen asleep in truth. It was a bizarre thing, but he shook it off, finding that though it had only been a short time that he was acclimating to the experience. What was harder to adjust to though, was the sensation of blood-rain–its warmth and the faint salty-sweetness of its scent–as it was rather suddenly replaced by bone-chillingly cold, though altogether more natural, rain. A shiver, then a full body shudder, traveled through his form, but after he shook himself slightly, he turned and made his way up the stairs of the path towards the small workshop of the Hunter’s Dream. He took a deep breath, bracing himself again, and then strode in as he opened the door. It drifted shut behind him and Farren laid eyes on his two companions and the woman who once had been his…victim? He swallowed hard, but this time his mouth didn’t dry out quite so much, and he managed not to avoid Gerlinde’s gaze.
Oddly…another impulse came over him instead and he found himself wetting his lips…then speaking. “Gerlinde,” he said, making double sure he had her attention, “...I owe you. We’ve…met before. Though you may not remember…and I barely do. I...I stole you away in the night and took you to Byrgenwerth. Doubt you were ever conscious for it, so we never met, but I remember. It was a job...the old me, the man I was. He tried to forget, but we couldn't.”
The old part of him, the same one that had insulted her–internally–for her ’scandalous’ garb–balked and Farren’s hands balled into fists as he resisted the urge to shut his mouth. It wasn’t right. He wasn’t that man anymore and if he just let this fester inside him–even if she didn’t remember–it’d eat away at his sanity more surely than anything else they might come across. Besides…he didn’t like lingering debts, whatever form they took, let alone nasty secrets. “I’d like not to be that sort of man anymore--the sort who buries his mistakes, the type who does things like that. But I’d be a right bastard if I said nothing, and a coward too…and that I can’t abide.”
That said, he fell silent, holding her gaze if she’d let him, in a sense awaiting judgement.
"Regrettable, but not an uncommon outcome," Seven nodded, showing no signs of any kind of emotional reaction to the news. "You've worked with me in the past as a contractor, though it has been some time since we had our last interaction."
Farren nodded slowly, glancing away for a moment, the slight smile remaining before he directed his attention back to Seven. “Ah, that explains the strange familiarity. How long since we last spoke?” He asked, clearly curious.
Seven shrugged. "A couple of months? I'd have to check the logs to give you an exact time."
Farren drummed his fingertips against the butt of the blunderbuss at his hip for a moment. It wasn't why he'd came, but he did wonder what had been so severe that he'd undergone blood ministration.... Perhaps it was worth looking into? “Would it take terribly long?” He raised a single eyebrow as he asked, his azure eyes searching Seven's.
He made a noise that sounded vaguely like a half-hearted attempt at an extremely brief laugh as he stood up, went to one of the cabinets behind him and started tracing his finger rapidly over the spines of a pile of small notebooks piled in there. "If you have to ask, you really have lost your memory." Within eight seconds, Seven picked a book, which he brought back to his desk, opened and started reading, his eyes flitting rapidly across the pages while he leafed through. All in all the process took maybe fifteen seconds. "Here it is. Farren. 78 days ago. Were to investigate claims of a siderite rock having been found. Claims determined to be false."
Tilting his head at the man's response, Farren quickly realized why the man had seemed amused by the question. Everything was--apparently--meticulously organized, Farren admired that. He decided he liked the man. “Huh. Odd,” Farren said with a measured manner, as he considered the documentation. After a moment he shook his head, his eyes focusing, “Anything...out of the ordinary about the last time we spoke?”
"You'd be better off asking someone else for that," Seven shrugged, snapping the notebook closed. "I don't really do people, and this was a while ago. Although..." He paused. "I think I recall you seeming a bit more on edge than the other times I've seen you. Nervous. Anxious, even."
Farren nodded again, his eyes scanning the room once more. “If only I knew who to ask.” He said it ruefully before pivoting to the reason he'd come in the first place, “That aside, I heard you've got something of a new trick weapon laying around,”
"A new trick weapon? Who told you that?"
Farren met Seven's eyes, “Moira.”
Seven closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. "Did she perchance say which weapon?"
Farren got the impression that perhaps Moira gave information like this a bit more liberally than Seven would prefer. Nonetheless, he replied, “No name, but she did say it was experimental...too dangerous for a normal hunter to wield.” Farren didn't elaborate on why she would have said that to him however. Clearly they'd just been associated through work, so while Farren rather liked the man by first impression, that didn't mean he needed to give him more information than necessary.
"Too dangerous... Ah." He opened his eyes, leaned back in his chair and took off his monocle. "Fulmen. The Thunder Hammer. We only just got it fixed up since the last round of testing, we haven't managed any meaningful adjustments yet... May I ask why Moira thought you were fit to handle a weapon too hazardous for other Hunters?"
His expression became slightly more serious as he responded, “Paleblood.”
Seven stared at him. "I don't know what that means."
Farren blinked once, then laughed at himself. Could that be called hubris? Perhaps he'd just assumed that since he knew...no, he shouldn't have. “I suppose I shouldn't have assumed. Simply put...you kill me, I'll be back here in less than five minutes asking for Fulmen again. It'd be...an exceptionally unpleasant, but ultimately minor, inconvenience for me.”
Seemingly completely unsurprised and unimpressed by Farren's claim of immortality, Seven simply nodded. "Ah. Like that. That makes sense."
He stood back up from his chair. "Fulmen is our attempt at making an improved version of Archibald's Tonitrus. It's a hammer that autonomously generates an electrical charge each time you make a forceful movement with it, like striking something. This charge builds up the more it moves, and dissipates when it doesn't. It also has a mechanism that bares the core of the weapon and discharges all of its energy at once."
He glanced at one of the cabinets. "We have a log of prior tests with it, if you are interested?"
Farren was actually rather glad that Seven took the new information in stride. Equally glad that he hadn't tested out his claim, for while it was true, Farren didn't much fancy dying if it could be avoided. “It sounds...effective. Though, I imagine with so much voltaic energy sparking about it's liable to shock the wielder.”
It was a theory of a sort and when Seven mentioned the logs, Farren nodded, “Probably wise for me to give them a read at least,” he replied.
While going to retrieve the log, Seven offered some assurances: "Of course we were aware of that risk. We have made efforts to isolate the wielder from the weapon. The handle is wrapped in isolating materials, and there is a small guard that serves to further separate its mechanical parts. But there is still risk."
He retrieved another small notebook, walked over and placed it on the table in front of Farren. "Go ahead and read. I will go and retrieve the weapon."
With that Seven left the room, and as if on cue, this was the time a trio of Messengers abruptly emerged from the tabletop, brandishing the Blades of Mercy that Ophelia had sent for him.
He listened to the details and accepted the logbook, nodding as Seven left the room. However, the small sound of the Messengers' appearance drew his eyes down. He smiled and bent down, giving them a quiet thanks before he asked if there was any difference in the information they had on the armament compared to the one on his person.
For the weapon the Messengers had just brought him, the description they offered was the same he had read when he first claimed the weapon. The Blades of Mercy he had been carrying with him, however, now had a somewhat different description, and even a slightly different name.
"Effigial Blade of Mercy An approximation of the true Blade of Mercy created by the Moonborn Hunter. Splits into two when activated. They are made from a material not of the Waking World, and their nature defies explanation."
As Farren compared the two armaments his brows rose in surprise. He certainly hadn't expected much from inspecting them...and he hadn't gotten much more information exactly, but the revelation was still surprising nonetheless. Again he thanked the Messengers, then he rose to his feet with the true Blades of Mercy in tow. He set True Blades of Mercy on a worktable beside him before he flipped open the logbook and began to ploddingly make his way through each entry.
He wasn't a faster reader by any metric...especially since he often had to read a sentence more than once to ensure he hadn't flipped any words or letters around. It was a frustrating process, but he felt it was an important thing for him to understand the risks and quirks of this 'Fulmen'.
The first few swings with the weapon seemed to build a relatively negligible charge, though the lack of effect may owe more to the toughness of the subject than the efficiency of the weapon. The third swing marked the first time hits on the subject produced visible electrical sparks. Triggering discharge produced small visible burst of lightning, visibly searing the fur of the subject near the area of impact. Subject seemed bothered but undeterred.
First three swings repeated the pattern from first observation. At the fifth swing the head began to continuously scintillate in a manner similar to that of a charged Tonitrus, possibly denoting a similar level of charge. Hits caused the subject to visibly flinch. Triggering discharge resulted in an electric burst magnitudes greater than the first one, throwing sparks up to half a meter (20 inches) from the head. Subject was physically repelled and appeared stunned for several seconds, possibly owing to parts of its musculature being temporarily paralyzed. Flesh appeared visibly burnt near the area of impact. An additional two blows left the subject incapacitated after which it expired in a matter of seconds.
Subject 2 proved somewhat more resistant to the first three hits with the weapon than subject 1, likely owing to its larger physical bulk and protective fatty tissue. Blows did not seem significantly more effective than those of a mundane blunt instrument. Fourth blow made the subject shy away in intense pain, and the fifth blow incapacitated the subject entirely. On request, the wielder triggered discharge into the subject's head. Resulting blast of comparable magnitude to that observed in test 2. Subject's hair was lit on fire and third degree burns were inflicted to the targeted area. Subject twitched briefly upon being hit by the discharge, but then ceased all signs of life and was confirmed to have expired.
The first five swings reproduced the results from prior tests on subject 3, confirming the results as reproducible. Sixth and seventh blow intensified the scintillation of the head significantly, and the seventh blow seemed to momentarily daze the subject, the combination of blunt force trauma and electrical shock possibly causing cognitive difficulty. The wielder reported feeling a faint vibration in the handle of the weapon after the seventh hit. Triggering discharge produced a sound almost reminiscent of a muffled clap of thunder as well as a bright flash of blinding light that made estimating the range of the effect difficult. The subject appeared to expire instantly, though its remains continued exhibiting random muscle-spasms for approximately ten seconds after death. Subject was propelled several meters away by the discharge, and area of impact was charred almost to the bone.
Weapon taken in use against high-threat target, with additional Hunters as support. First six blows seemed almost entirely ineffective, though earlier tests suggest this has more to do with the resilience of the subject than with the weapon. Seventh and eighth hit caused a reaction in the subject, triggering mild spasms in muscles near the area of impact. Ninth hit caused the subject to start ignoring all other Hunters and focus on the wielder. Tenth hit seemed to momentarily stun the subject, and left a burn-mark on impact. Eleventh hit was predictably even more effective than the previous one, but unexpectedly caused the scintillation to increase to the point where sparks successfully overcame the the countermeasures for the protection of the wielder, occasionally electrifying them. Twelfth hit caused the subject to cry out in pain and, remarkably, seem to start retreating from the wielder. Wielder was at this time being almost continuously electrified by the weapon, making combat obviously challenging. The weapon was observed to produce an audible continuous hum in addition to the sound of jumping sparks and appeared to be visibly vibrating. At this point the wielder ignored requests to hit the subject again, opting instead to trigger the weapon to discharge once the subject was in range. All crew present, observer and Hunters alike, were temporarily deafened by the resulting boom, and bloodstains found on Hunters indicate that anyone within a dozen meters needed to regrow their eardrums. A scorch-mark measuring about three meters (9' 10”) in diameter was found at the location of the discharge. The wielder was badly burned and charred, with both hands appearing to have been effectively disintegrated, and only barely survived the ordeal. The weapon was severely damaged upon recovery and required extensive repairs before further use. Subject appeared to have been slain instantly, nearly all flesh having been stripped from its torso while the rest of its remains were charred almost beyond recognition.
Conclusion: The Fulmen unexpectedly appears to build up charge exponentially rather than linearly. The first several swings receive negligible benefit from its electrical accumulation, whereas subsequent swings become significantly more damaging, eventually building the charge to unstable levels. It is highly inadvisable to perform more than ten successive hits with the Fulmen without discharging the weapon. If more than ten hits are made, discharge should not be triggered; the charge should instead be allowed to dissipate naturally, preferably somewhere it does not endanger anyone else.
While Farren was reading, Seven returned with Fulmen in his hands and waited patiently for him to finish.
As Farren read through the test logs, his frustration gradually ebbed away, replaced largely by fascination. He didn't know much about voltaic energies, but the fact that they'd made a weapon that so effectively harnessed them was impressive. More impressive was just how effective it could be and how the growth of its exponential charge didn't immediately cause negative effects for the wielder. Still, in reading through the logs it became very clear why the weapon was experimental and generally unsuited for use by 'normal' hunters. After longer than it would've taken Seven to read--perhaps an extra 4-5 minutes--Farren glanced up and over at the man. His eyes lit upon the weapon immediately, fixating as he tried to take in every detail of the impressive piece of artifice.
Much larger and more cumbersome than the relatively refined Tonitrus, the Fulmen takes the form of a hefty maul with in a weight-class just below that of a Holy Blade, with a shaft measuring 150 centimeters (4' 11”), though only the two-thirds of the shaft qualify as a handle, as the remainder is wrapped in metallic coils that connect to the head of the weapon: a plain-looking, bulky metal cube wherein the mechanical aspects of the weapon are contained. The head itself weighs close to 15 kilograms (33 pounds), rendering it unwieldy for a human, but for most part being somewhat manageable to most Hunters, though torque on swings is still a major concern. The box is visually marked by fissures that run parallel to its edges, basically dividing the cube into eight smaller cubes of equal size centered around the core. The wooden handle is wrapped a thick layer of cloth, and a small, circular wooden guard marks the transition between handle and coiled shaft, with this guard likewise being covered in cloth and additionally treated with beeswax in an attempt to insulate the wielder from the weapon.
Farren's eyes slowly roved over Fulmen's structure, noting each individual piece. He wondered what the internal mechanism--its core--was like, how they'd constructed it exactly. Turning, Farren fully faced Seven, his eyes still locked on the weapon as he spoke almost as if he were enraptured. “Can't remember much from...before, but...I'd always wanted to design weapons like these...” he said, trailing off as he reached out, offering for Seven to hand the weapon over. “Never thought I'd be able to wield one...let alone any I could get my hands on,” he finished, one corner of his lips quirking up slightly. Finally, he raised his eyes, “May I?”
Seven unceremoniously handed Farren the large, intricate hammer. "That's why I fetched it."
Farren chuckled and took it eagerly, not stumbling forward, but certainly feeling the weight of the hammer as it dragged his arms down a few inches before he got a handle on it. “You work on this one yourself?” He asked as he tested its weight a bit, but didn't swing it, just lifting it a bit with both hands and eventually letting it sit against his shoulder.
"Intermittently," Seven told him. "It was a collaborative project. Unfinished in my opinion. Needs more adjustments before it's ready for deployment in the field."
Farren nodded, giving the weapon another appreciative look, “Understandable. If the logs are anything to go by it's quite formidable. Solid work.” That said, Farren knew he couldn't easily carry it on his person...not with his current setup at least. “You give me one of them notebooks and something to write with...I'll record what I can, though I'll warn you, I'm better with a blade or a hammer than I am with a quill 'n' ink.”
Seven nodded his head and went to fetch the supplies from one of the cabinets. "Normally we'd assign an observer or two to field tests like this and they would be the ones to record it, but that isn't really an option with you. Our people can't teleport, after all... they also only get to die once. It's not ideal, but if Moira thought it was a good idea..." He turned back to Farren and handed him a tiny notebook - small enough to fit in his pocket, containing only what looked like twenty pages or so - , a bottle of ink and a dip pen. "Anything else?"
Farren accepted the notebook, pen, and ink bottle with a small nod. After a moment he frowned slightly and set them on the table beside him next to the Blades of Mercy. “Think I might need...another pouch for these. Aside from that...no, unless you're at all familiar with the Industrial Ward?”
With an overbearing sigh, Seven went over to the door that led back to the main room of the workshop, opened it and shouted: "Do we have an extra pouch somewhere?"
Without waiting for a response he then closed the door and turned back to Farren. "What do you want to know about the Industrial Ward?"
While they waited for someone to hopefully bring a pouch, Farren mulled over Seven's question, responding briefly afterwards. “Headed that way with Moira earlier and came upon...some disturbing signs. Some of the workers we spoke to mentioned 'the Crowmother,' some kind of avian beast that has been protecting the area apparently. Any clue what that's about?”
"Crowmother? Can't say I have." He picked up the old test log for Fulmen and returned it to its place in the cabinet. "Don't have much business in their ward, we just send them money and they send us wares. There are no beasts in the Industrial Ward, so no reason for our people to go there."
“Hmm, no matter. Wonder if there's someone who might know more about the situation thereabouts,” Farren said, his brow creasing slightly. After a moment he levered the Hammer from his shoulder, slowing the speed of its swing as it came down in an arc, before gently resting it against the ground with a dulled thunk.
Quietly, Farren muttered something under his breath, directed at the Messengers, “Hold this for me, little ones.”
A Messenger showed up in response to Farren's request, seemingly examining Fulmen as it towered over its diminutive form. Then another two emerged, then another four, so that seven little Messengers all crowded around the experimental weapon, grasping at it with their little hands... until finally the telltale rippling glow appeared beneath it, and the hammer smoothly descended into whatever place they went when in the Messengers' care.
"Probably the people who live there?" Seven suggested, his tone somewhat impatient and sarcastic. "It's not a place... we..." His words trailed off as stared blankly at the large marvelous weapon he had just bestowed on Farren that, from his perspective, simply sank into the ground and vanished.
"If you can do that," he asked after taking a moment to absorb what he had just witnessed, "why do you need a pouch?"
Farren glanced at the ground where Fulmen had vanished, now in the diligent hands of the Messengers, before looking back to Seven. “For something large...it makes sense to call upon the Messengers to...hold things for me. Sort of intuitive, carrying too much? Ask them to do it for you. For something smaller...I hadn't considered it honestly. I...only became a Hunter barely two hours ago. You're right though...still, an extra pouch could be helpful.”
That said, Farren picked up the bottle of ink, the dip pen, and the notebook and knelt down to one knee. Setting them aground with a whisper of encouragement to the helpers, Farren glanced at Bulwark at his hip, unslung it from the loop and set it on the floor beside the other implements. Then he pushed back to his feet and picked up the True Blade(s) of Mercy and slipped it into the loop that Bulwark had once occupied. He now had two pairs of unified blades, one at each hip. After all...four blades were better than two, right? He almost chuckled at the absurdity of the thought, though it had a note of seriousness to it as well.
"Right," Seven muttered, not even pretending to understand or agree with Farren's logic, let alone this eldritch power of his. A moment later the coded knock could be heard on the door, Seven declared that the one on the other side might enter, and a man in black church garb entered with a somewhat ratty-looking leather pouch. It was definitely not small, being large enough that you could probably fit an entire human head in there, and it looked like it had already seen its share of adventures, but it was functional as a container.
"Anything else?" Seven asked once the helper had delivered the item and left.
Farren took it, glancing it over for a moment without giving Seven a response. He had the sense that he'd soured any potential camaraderie that might have grown--at least for a time.
Farren's eyes rose away from the bag to meet Seven's gaze. “No. Good tidings and if you go out...safe passage, Septimus,” he said before his right hand went down to the grip of the Effigial Blade as he opened the door and headed outside.
Once he'd navigated through the workshop beyond Septimus' private workspace and found his way back outside, he heard the reinforced door shut behind him. Not glancing back he headed towards the lantern, but as he grew closer to its ghostly light, Farren found himself glancing at the stone wall and its metal gate that enclosed the yard. He came to a stop before the lantern then, his eyes flitting away from it and up to the slowly rising moon.
He pulled in a slow deep breath of the night air, not sure if he were enjoying it for its own sake or steeling himself for what awaited him in the Hunter's Dream.
Gerlinde. Her face came to mind, first the waifish one he remembered, faintly sunken cheeks, plain features, closed eyes. However, he could hold that faint, unanchored memory in his mind's eye for only several moments before the vivid image of her almost too-perfect form asserted itself in his mind. Farren found his jaw tightening then, and his brow creased as his face screwed up into an almost pained expression.
She didn't know him. Perhaps it was the memory loss...same as he had, perhaps she'd never really seen him to begin with. Really it had been...foolish to think she'd remember at all, especially given what little he knew about becoming a Hunter. Still.... The not remembering almost disturbed him more. Had some part of him wanted to be held accountable? To make amends even. He sighed. It didn't matter. He should go back...he'd said he should.
Farren's eyes drifted back down to the lantern, he let out a sigh and then he reached down, ready to return to the Nightmare from which he'd come.
took in his surroundings, finding them comfortably familiar. He’d surely done some work here before and that knowledge helped to ground him back in the present, though the image of Gerlinde still lingered in his mind in stark contrast to the waifish woman he’d once stole away in the night. Farren took a deep stilling breath as he re-familiarized himself with the layout of the area, his piercing gaze briefly lighting on the guard, before sliding down to the door as the man made no move to aim in his direction. As he exhaled slowly a second time, Farren straightened his back and strode forth.
After a set of specific knocks, one on the outer door, and another set inside as he navigated to Seven’s workspace, Farren found himself in the familiar room, the heat of the building’s innards somehow more pleasant for him than it likely was for others. The whole experience had an air of deja vu about it, reinforcing his sense that he’d been here many times before. The shout from behind the second door was so familiar that he almost smiled. Yet no concrete memories surfaced, it might have been more frustrating had he not found the slight mystery of their relation somewhat engaging.
What little he could recall had less to do with how well they might have known eachother and more to do with the man’s nature and position. Farren supposed it was just like him to be able to call upon that rather than what he was actually curious about. Of course, there was no time to linger on that thought for as Farren took in Septimus’ appearance the man raised his eyes, a look of recognition shifting over his face as he posed a question at the Azure-eyed hunter.
For some reason, it made Farren chuckle, his voice ringing out briefly, the smile actually reaching his eyes as he held Seven’s gaze.
“Seems so,” he replied, faintly amused…though even Farren wasn’t entirely sure why. Likely, Seven would notice that Farren’s response–while characteristic of the behavior he’d be familiar with–was not entirely what one would consider familiar or friendly. It was more distant than Farren probably had treated him in the past. “Unfortunately…the process seems to have forced me to leave many things behind, much of my memory included,” Farren said, his piercing eyes shifting subtly as he took in Seven’s features.
“Though I can tell I knew you…” Farren added, frowning slightly as he trailed off. He rather wished he could remember, but nothing was forthcoming.
stared down sightlessly into the empty sockets of the Messengers as they offered up their goods, eagerly displaying the new item they’d apparently proffered. Perhaps some part of him read that message initially, but much of him was distracted trying to sort itself out, his mind awash with old and new impressions alike. The literally bloody rain quickly began to soak through his thick garments, soaking his hair and clothes. This hadn’t been the only time he’d stolen someone away in the night…the only victim. However, from what little his mind could pull from the flashes through his inconvenient and scattered memories, Farren could tell that he at least hadn’t chosen the victims…but that he did seem to avoid women and children, pregnant women especially.
His mind seized on that word amidst the storm…Gerlinde had been pregnant. He remembered the slight feel of her protruding belly against him. Not like fat–certainly not on someone so starved–but the telltale firmness of early pregnancy. He remembered being sick of heart after that job, drunken nights throwing up in alleys…not going back to the place he’d once called home.
Farren gritted his teeth and as he heard the ladies ascending the pathway, Farren pushed up from the pool and turned abruptly on his heel. His eyes were hard, gaze locked firmly on one of the headstones as he practically marched–or perhaps stomped–across the wet earth, then stone of the path, to the grave marker. He noticed the new, yet unnamed lantern, but his mind was barely holding fast against its own storm, so he didn’t bother naming it. He just found the Black Church Workshop and practically jammed his fingers down against the stone. The faint throb of pain–which faded almost instantly–helped to ground him…and then that familiar fading-falling sensation began to overtake him.
The remembered, anchorless terror, briefly touched his almost frenzied mind and something of it lingered…attaching itself silently–insidiously–to the imagery of his ‘reunion’ with Gerlinde.
Then his figure was fading, he was falling–falling asleep–and waking moments later, eyes slowly opening, muscles tense, as he arrived at his chosen destination. The fingers of his right hand were tightly gripping the knife he’d kept in hand throughout. He’d have to get something to hold it…and here they’d certainly have the tools to mend its mistreatment.
On those things his mind fixated, locking on a series of simple, straightforward goals, along with the equally important awareness he kept about himself of any potential danger he may have wound up in by arriving suddenly at the workshop in the way only a Paleblood Hunter could.
felt himself almost falling, and like the last time a sudden and unexplainable terror seized him. If he had been moving he might have froze, but instead it was more like his mind stuttered. Like a missed heartbeat, an interrupted thought, or as if he’d missed a final step when descending stairs, only to find that there wasn’t actually a step to miss at all.
However, it was a fleeting thing, existing only long enough to leave a disturbing unanchored impression on his mind before he came back into his awareness and his body. His eyes opened (had he ever closed them?) and he once more beheld the Hunters’ Dream. Cloudy this time, but what struck him was not the changes in the sky or the imposing figure of the Moonbound Hunter—let alone the porcelain doll that stood beside him—but instead the almost uncanny beauty of the stranger who stood somewhat nearer. A woman.
Farren’s lips parted slightly and while he’d tried to steel himself against any shocking revelations, violent reactions, or unpleasant awkwardness that the meeting of a kidnapper and their victim might have entailed he found himself entirely unprepared for this.
She seemed younger somehow, more lively and…well, certainly not the plain waifish woman he’d stolen away in the night in a past life.
Then again…a young woman pregnant with child living hard…in poverty, starving, barely scraping by…that could age a person. Maybe she’d never been as old as he’d thought. The idea sickened him, made his guilt heavier, a guilt that she didn’t even seem to realize he had.
Maybe he’d worried for nothing? She’d been unconscious for much of the…trip back to the drop off point. They’d never exchanged words or names. Had she even really gotten a good look at him? Farren wet his suddenly dry lips, his throat dry. He tried to swallow, but there was no liquid to speak of. For the first time since waking he really wished he had something to drink other than blood.
“A pleasure…” Farren choked out before roughly clearing his throat, his eyes still fixed on Gerlinde’s face—her eyes specifically. It was her, even if she looked like someone else entirely…he remembered the brief panic in those eyes before the ethers had knocked her out. ‘Gods I need a drink…’ he thought to himself, pursing his lips. “…that’s Torquil and, uh…I’m Farren,” he managed even as he very deliberately kept his eyes on her face. If she truly didn’t remember him, Farren might just come off as a man dumbstruck by her beauty, or the boldness of her garb, which—all told—was rather scandalous (especially for the time period).
Some tiny, quiet, old part of him…a fragment of the self he’d largely left behind, whispered rather unpleasant things about the woman. ‘From starving peasant to Courtesan Huntress, aye?’ that internal voice seemed to joke. Farren ripped his eyes from her features and then abruptly headed to the Messenger Pool to distract himself. He didn’t really care that he didn’t have echoes…nor did he really care what new trinkets the little helpers had for them…he just needed his mind to be anywhere else.
However, as he started to make his way over, it happened, the clouds swirled and darkened and the sheer suddenness of it drew his eyes upwards. Then the rain pattered down, its faintly warm droplets getting in his eyes and creating tiny splashes across his grizzled features. He shifted his gaze down and shielded his eyes from the rather sudden downpour…or was it more of a misting? Didn’t matter. He unconsciously licked his lips and tasted…blood? Farren paused mid-step and frowned, licking his lips again. The rain tasted like blood…and—he focused on his peripheral vision and the gentle curtains of falling rain only to notice the faint haze of pinkish-red—no, it was blood.
Well…as disquieting as that was, at least his mouth and throat weren’t painfully dry anymore….
brushed himself off, some dirt and a few splinters of wood having gotten on him during the ordeal. Having been…rather preoccupied, he’d not caught Ophelia’s chuckle—which was probably for the best—but as he finished brushing off, Farren holstered his blunderbuss once more in its designated hook at his hip. Silently, he resolved not to climb any rickety fucking ladders while fully armed in the future.
“Sure,” Farren said gruffly as he briefly cast his irritated glare in her direction before glancing away. However, as he was turning his attention he found himself grimacing at the sight of the rust-spotted knife again. Immediately he found himself pulled in another direction: The Black Workshop.
“Actually, I’d rather check the Black Workshop first,” he said, some of his irritation starting to wane at the thought. “Could probably use some more vials and bullets, and I’m rather curious about this experimental weapon that Moira mentioned.” Not that he had room to carry anything else. If he decided to take it along, the Messengers would have to divest him of something…or perhaps store it for him.
"Why don't you go do that while I meet with Gerlinde, then we can rendezvous in the Dream and go from there? So long as we don't go anywhere near the Gold, the little ones will come--we shouldn't split up in the future if we don't have the little ones to help us, though, I think..."
Farren nodded in agreement, his eyes shifting once more to peer into the fog as if he might see the lantern hidden therein. For a moment he considered following her to the dream and simply using the Headstone to get to the workshop, but on second thought he decided against it. From what he could remember, it was perhaps only an hour from where they now stood and it would give him a chance to stretch his proverbial wings. As much as he disliked the idea of meaninglessly endangering himself, going this way could mean gathering valuable experience–and perhaps blood echoes–that might serve all of them well. Besides…while he didn’t exactly fancy dying, even that fate would only send him back to the Dream, well…that and leave him with lifelong trauma, he supposed.
That thought almost had him change his mind, but he shook it off. If they were to discover the reason that the Dream had accepted them, then he would have to get used to taking more risks…whether he liked the prospect or not. “Well, since you’ll be safely in the embrace of the Dream…perhaps you’d share some of your vials,” Farren commented plainly, “I can always grab us more from the Workshop…or acquire some with echoes when we reconvene,” he added as further explanation, not wanting her to think that he asked with no intention of returning the favor at one point or another.
realized–far too damned late–that this had been ill-conceived. Sending easily their heaviest up a rickety wooden ladder, still fully armed, without a second thought. Of course, that thought was crowded out by brief instinctual panic, followed swiftly by his brow lowering as he swore through gritted teeth and–rather than jump immediately, dismount, or leap up to try and catch the lip of the roof at the cost of dropping his loaded gun, Farren rode the ladder’s fall. While it continued to splinter and break beneath him, Farren used his sharpened senses and reflexes to gauge the moment before it would fully splinter and break into multiple pieces rather than one fractured ladder.
The moment before it did so, Farren pushed off, up and forward, angling his feet a bit ahead of him in the air as he moved. The jump offset some of his downwards momentum, and given that he was even closer to the ground before doing it, he managed to land on his feet with only a slightly unpleasant shock traveling up the bones of his legs as he struck ground. His knee came down due to the angular momentum and so he found himself on one knee, knife and blunderbuss still in hand, but pressed to the earth each with their own dull noises. For a moment, Farren didn’t breathe, but he didn’t stand still either, instead he moved immediately, standing, twisting, and stepping back before the ladder finished its descent to the ground, crumpling in a long string of twisted wooden debris.
As he glared at the remnants of the ladder, Farren spat on the ground, “You want atop that roof? Do it yourself,” he half growled, though really he was more irritated with himself than her. Well…himself and whoever had put together the poorly built construction, not to mention the numerous people who hadn’t kept it properly maintained.
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