shareofwoes-blog

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it’s been approximately ten thousand years since I was last here, but like for a starter

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iamdiffercnt

       The eldritch teen was quick to follow the huntress, casting aside all doubt and disbelief and instead putting his faith into her. Something at the back of his mind pushed him into believing that only she was capable of leading him to the end of this nightmare and in doing so, sating his hunger for knowledge, and scratching that curious itch of his.

       Junior put one footstep in front of the other, speaking to the huntress, fully well knowing that she was listening, despite the lack of acknowledgement.  “Call me, uh… Junior. Everyone else does.”  Yet, while he spoke, both of his arms began to change form. Their very shapes distorted, though much more slowly than if one embraced their beasthood, and became a beast. There was no crackling of bone, not a drop of blood. Just the silent twisting, tearing, and growth of black, leathery flesh, to form a large blade of black bone over his left arm, and a leathery beast’s claw over the right. The sleeves of his jacket seemed to bleed into the dark flesh and bone, as if it too were a part of his body.

       Thinking that just about anyone could hear it as well, the teen squinted those radiant green eyes of his, and brought his ghastly clawed hand up to his head, to press the prints of his index finger and thumb over his temples, briefly shielding his bespectacled eyes.  “… That crying. It’s so damned annoying. You hear it too. Right? It sounds like it’s so far away.”

       “Please, someone shove a teat in its mouth…”

DESPITE HERSELF, she tilts her head. Listening for the crying her companion describes. All she hears is the sounds of the city... the howling of the wind between spires like some deep throated beast... and the toll of the BELL. Time is ever moving onward- yet the night never ends.

“There is reason for it to cry.” Though she cannot hear it, she allows that much. To be but a babe in this city of beasts... it stirs a faint pang of sympathy behind her normally impassive demeanour. She hopes, at the very least, it has a protector.

BUT SHE HAS stayed still long enough. She has dallied, and now she resume moving, companion in tow, with no more DELAYS. Conversation is one thing, but listening for phantom cries is a distraction she has not the time for.

After all... Byrgenwerth awaits.

“Down here.” They near the edge of the Cathedral Ward, now. Alfred no longer stands at the tomb in this place, but she knows the way. Down the stairs, through the gate... past the WATCHMAN that was already dead. Into the Forbidden Woods.

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imtrustypatches

Patches could see the hunter’s figure from his little spot, but wasn’t completely sure if she saw him. Though, he would find it ridiculously amusing if she fell for the same trap again. But who was he to stop her from receiving such a gift from the godhead? Eheheheh…

The spider was certainly snickering to himself, rubbing too appendages together as if they were still human hands. He was ready to watch this little ‘show’ unfold.

THE HUNTER HAS had enough of spiders: and those things that resemble them, too- Amygdala is next on her LIST, though potentially it will be pushed down a spot, depending on whether irritation at this nuisance gives way to bloodlust. 

The one advantage of the Nightmare Frontier: SUNLIGHT. Or a close enough facsimile. Whatever its nature, it means the place is well lit. So if the spider can see her, it can also see how she slowly raises her Pistol, the dream-light glinting off the barrel as she levels it at the creature on the cliff.

It might be too far away to hit- but it certainly is not far enough away to miss the threat.

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cagcdbird

              ❛Shrouded by night, but with steady stride. Colored by blood,               but always clear of mind. Proud hunter of the church. Beasts               are a curse, and a curse is a shackle. Only ye are the true               blades of the church.❜

Tears were not uncommon in the fair city of Yharnam. The price its people paid for miracles and their penance for great misdeeds was their very undoing. So it was that a little cleric woman, so subservient in her position before all had f a l l e n  a p a r t, wept for her own personal loss.

Her grief would be short-lived, thought Sister Fleurette——for though a hand blanched with albinism caressed the bloodied face of a corpse laid neatly at the altar, the tremble in her fingers was telltale of the BEAST BLOOD in her veins.

Gaston, her little brother, whose albino corpse now laid at rest, had been much the same. His consumption of the OLD BLOOD had made him a MADMAN who’d screamed in anguish and clawed feverishly at his skull trying to retain what he could of his broken mind. She continued to mumble the mantra her little brother had favoured in his fealty to the HEALING CHURCH.

The cleric woman rubbed vigorously at her tears that were sullied by the bleeding from her eyes. The OLD BLOOD had gifted her sight anew, and in the premonition of beasthood it swore to tear it away.

Her sobs and blood-fevered mantras ceased the very moment she heard footsteps. Sister Fleurette did not move.

              ❝… You should not be here.❞

THAT PRAYER. Not the prayer of the Vicar. And yet, unmistakably a creed of the Healing Church, unfamiliar and enigmatic as the whole organisation is to an OUTSIDER like herself.

She ceases moving forward as she is addressed. Keeping her distance- or rather, standing her ground.

“The door was open.” In a city that has descended into CHAOS, the will of authority means little. Rules mean so little when there is no one left to ENFORCE them. In such a city, simply possessing the key grants the right to open the door it locks. In such a city, killing the guard allows entrance to the doorway he is guarding. 

THE WOMAN BEFORE HER seems so small in the vast space of the Cathedral. It is tempting to move forward, to get a better look at her. But the Hunter knows better. For she remembers the kneeling figure encountered here before, how she murmured, fervently, the same prayer over and over again. It had seemed, almost, that she might have gone the whole night whispering that MANTRA like a talisman... until the Hunter had stepped too close.

And then, prayers had not been enough to save her.

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the-branded-one

“I’ve noticed it. Almost feel sorry for the poor bastards that come after me with their torches and pitchforks. See that down there?” Guts pointed at the street below them with approximately fourteen bodies, all cleaved in half at the torso. “One strike. That’s all it took. One strike.”

THERE’S AN EFFICIENCY in that carnage that she can appreciate. “Impressive.” As far as she is concerned, he’s earned the right to boast. The point where she might have felt a twinge of sympathy for those cut down, or a flicker of REPULSION at the blood that spatters the ground is long past. It’s all so much BACKDROP to her now... and she’s seen the worse horrors that the city contains already. 

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Lonely kin speedpaint

I’m sick, and this is how I feel.

*cough*

[Twitter] srsly don’t follow me

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It’s not over until I can’t fight anymore.

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friend..

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“The moon is close. It will be a long hunt tonight.”

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“Monsters have the ability to show the unspoken or unexpressed. Indeed, that is what the word “monster” derives from - a ‘showing’, 'omen’ or 'miracle’. What we do not care to look at too closely, and what we gloss over in our own behaviour, is expressed by the monster who reflects our shadow.”

— - Caitlin & John Matthews, The Element Encyclopedia of Magical Creatures

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A hunter is a hunter, even in a dream.

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There are some things you cannot control, and I am at least three of them.

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person: [is already attractive]

person: [gets dirty/bloody]

me: holy SHIT

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little secret

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Bring me the spear that pierced the heart of the god.

Let me wield its power, I will bring down our enemies.

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