Oswin was quick to kick up his boots on the table, making the neglected, white pellet shudder across it's surface, charity denied by the Keg. His hat sat on the spot besides him, taking up what was left of the sofa. He was using one of the shabby throw blankets from the arm of the seat to wipe down the barrel of his blunderbuss. "Ye could always make good by me, by keeping that mouth shut about it." He wasn't really supposed to be out here, not that it wasn't an issue that would go overlooked as the Ministry fumbled with the array of problems they've had at late. And it wasn't like a lone Keg was going to run off and tattle on him, they wouldn't let this scruffy burncoat through the damned doors. Really the only ire he feared to some extent was Patrick's, that calm voice calling after him and hawkish eyes staring him down to make sure where he was every minute of the day. A loyal one, he was. Oswin considered himself in great debt to the Church as well. "... Could say I get tired of having my own mate stare m'back down like I'm half a beast already. For one night it's nice to be rid of 'im. A good man, though." It was the smallest share of information on offer, vague as it was. Thus was the nature of their attire, their station. Men denied brotherhood. At least when cloaked in grey he had that, however deranged.<br/><br/>He was staring again, quiet, but after tossing the blanket aside like a used rag and laying his blunderbuss across his chest he decided to speak up. "Where does a fancy scamp like this get off running with the damned Kegs anyhow. I've seen yer ilk among the Church. White hair and all class..." Not many either, he noted, and usually in the background, among the higher ranks that caught his eye from the background, that he and the whole room deemed him too lowly to speak with. Not that he'd want to anyway, he chose this garb and would die cloaked in black. The only other time he saw hair like quicksilver was during his young days, battling cursed vileblood knights alongside his peers. It only stood as further proof of their blasphemy, stealing all the Healing Church held dear and slaughtering her young in frenzied feasts.<br/><br/>"Ye seem more at home in white with a holy scarf, like the good doctor. The clean priss, not like those ol' sooty hunters ye run with." Eventually, and surely a blessing to the young man he had his fill of staring for now and let his head fall back against the sofa. He could see the empty loft overhead, likely where whoever lived here slept. The cleric was twitchy, any half blind fool could see that. He strummed fingers across the barrel of the weapon in his lap, the occasional, small kick of his boots against eachother. "Shame to see disease take ye like the rest of'em. I'll spend my fair share of hunts in Old Yharnam and be sure to keep an eye out for a silvery beast, give 'im a quick death."<br/><br/>It was the greatest mercy the Church could offer.<br/><br/>The cleric hoisted himself up to his feet, setting his gun at the clip of his waist and leaving his hat behind to make his quiet circle of the house. He was quiet for once, instead of the usual stomping of boots as he barged his way inside the homes of the sick and healthy alike. But he still rummaged through drawers and cabinets, letting out a hoarse "Ah-hh.." of surprise when he found a tall bottle of booze. Oswin set it on the coffee table before making halfway up the stairs to the loft, flashing the fair Keg a mad grin, "Claim it while ye can lad, might be able to start a fire in the street should the rain let up. Bet yer ache'n for it." He'd take it if the man didn't. Liquor wasn't a common sight across Yharnam anymore, at least not in the Cathedral Ward. Most of his brother clerics took to blood to sate their fancies, but Oswin still remembered the wonderful sting of alcohol down his gullet from his time on the isle.<br/><br/>He didn't know what he was looking for, making a shuffle as he dug through bedside drawers  and a wardrobe half falling apart. Something to sate his curiosity perhaps? Not like the man who lived here was still about anyhow, and if he was it was surely on claws. A poor man's clothes, a smudged picture frame, a small cloth bag of mostly useless coin, but what he didn't expect to find was a round pellet that had rolled to the edge of the loft. A mystery at first to the simple cleric, until he found two more in a torn envelope that someone had carelessly shoved beneath the dresser. It made the old, brown blood stains that ran up the sleeves of the homeowner's shirts make a lot more sense.<br/><br/>Oswin came back down quietly, findings stuffed away in his coat and eyeing the hunter suspiciously. That characteristic, clerical paranoia was on full display. After all, the Church still didn't know how the beast blood was being distributed, and was mighty untrusting of the measly workshop hunters.<br/><br/>"How are ye wounds doing. We can't stay here the whole night, the incense will buy us a couple o'hours if need be." He let his pick rest against a shoulder, moving over to peek out at the street through the boards of the window. Distant screeching and crying were the song of the night, but they weren't in any immediate danger. The stench of stale decay that filled the house kept the beasts well away from here, and closer to where they might find whatever might satiate their endless hunger. "Better get real used to me. Think of it as a temporary partnership. Y'oughta wish morning had never come!" He sneered with as excited a whisper as he could muster. "Whats yer name anyway, fair hunter?"