She knew hunters, and knew them well: they carried themselves with an air of austerity, of a duty, slick with blood as it was, that served them well——and the populace of Yharnam as a whole. Their stride was calculated and their clasp of hunter tools unabashed, readied at a moment’s notice; she saw no such thing here. The cleric woman canted her head quizzically.
A new hunter, then. One who perhaps did not so much take up beast-hunting as she did find the duty thrust upon her.
Sister Fleurette set her ministration tools down on the altar again, and turned to face her. She lowered her hood for good measure, hair pale as snow spilling around her face. Her innocence was no mask, her curiosity no veil behind which to hide; she tended to many a hunter in her time, nursed their injuries and performed their transfusions with a gentle hand. If this hunter sought the same, then she would receive it so.
❝My Healing Church brethren are few and far between now, mon ami.
But you are welcome to take shelter here if that is what you wish. I’ve
plenty of incense to ward off the beasts.❞
The cleric woman stood at the altar still, as if the gesture might assure that she would not harm. She understood, truly, she did; those with their wits about them ‘pon the eve of the Hunt were hard to find, reluctant to trust——but she had no ill will towards the other.
❝I thought you might have been my brother; apparently not.❞
the lack of hostile response is--disconcerting, if not unwelcome. the little scholar has grown used to the violence; the halls of byrgenwerth are nothing but stagnant but the howling still echoes through shuttered windows and barricaded doors and this is not the first time she has driven herself through the streets. one more futile venture, an attempt at training ended unceremoniously with her cowering somewhere neatly out of the way.
not that she's cowering, now--to her credit parley is managing to stand tall (as tall as she can), fingers wrapped around the handle of her cane in a white-knuckle grip. there is nothing imposing about the look of her, but--at the very least, she hopes, it makes her look a little less like prey.
"...a pity, about your fellows," she responds after a moment, wary. it sounds sincere enough. "i had hoped--there would be others to speak with."
(dance around the subject. dismiss the little cleric in front of you as nothing more than another church lackey. no one so unguarded would be able to lead you to the choir.)
and after a beat she sighs, lowers the cane and fits it back together with a gesture and a soft click. "i've seen no other on my way here. is your brother--missing?" her voice is even, but the hesitation says enough--dead, like as not, torn to pieces by something with too many claws or a blood-drunk gleam in their eye.
she has never seen it happen, herself. but she has seen the aftermath, blood on stone and the stink of rot hanging heavy over the city, and it is not too hard to imagine.
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