#my bloodborne journal

[bloodborne-on-pc]

It's Tuesday lads! Time for another Bloodborne Progress Report!

So, first I ran around the Cathedral Ward for a bit, directed Arianna and that really grumpy guy to the Chapel, where they are now safe. Grumpy warned me about some blind beggar guy, though I can't help but wonder if his suspicions are actually well-founded; he doesn't even trust me and I helped him. I also met Alfred again, and he told me a bit about the Vilebloods and Master Logarius. I then finally found the big password door again and gave the password to the guy behind the door. Though there was naught but a corpse behind it. Very lovely.

I took a brief jaunt into the Forbidden Woods, and lit the lantern, then went back to the Healing Church Workshop to explore a bit more, didn't find anything new. Still can't open the door, so I'll just have to find the key I guess.

I also decided to try a new weapon. As much as I love the Saw Spear, half the fun is trying new weapons and seeing their gimmicks. I went with the Rifle Spear, since my Skill is a bit higher than Strength. I'm still trying to get used to it but I think it has a lot of potential. It's charged two-handed attack is very nice for nabbing far-away enemies. Also I managed to get a visceral with its transformation attack once, which was really awesome.

I spent the rest of the session exploring the Forbidden Woods. I didn't meet the boss though; the furthest I got was the tower with the guy whose head explodes into snakes. Actually I took a step outside it and fought another one of those guys, realized I had a ton of Echoes I didn't want to risk losing, and warped out.

Sooo since the semester is starting, it'll probably be a long time before I get a chance to play Bloodborne again, meaning you won't be seeing these posts for a while. So, this is farewell for now, fellow hunters. *Conviction gesture*

[majitek]

So I've been going back to my old sketches...

[femboty2k]

my article on Bloodborne PSX got published :3 thanks so much to @b0tster for letting me interview her for it!

[heartfelt-messenger-studios]

So last year I got really into bullet journaling! I made a set of rules with myself that: I would hand draw everything, I can use stickers and washi tape as accents tho, and that I would not share anything about it until it was over. I also made it themed. The journal itself was an undertale themed one so I made it video game themed! 

[bacon-sandwich-of-dionysus]

I have had my first encounter with a Bloodborne boss.

The Cleric Beast made me almost shit out my spine.

My dad was having the time of his life watching me scream, then cackle nervously, only to scream once more as the Cleric Beast's fist came crashing down.

I was just rolling around on the bridge and trying to bite its ankles.

Absolutely terrifying.

[a-bottomless-curse]

The surface was calm. Even the occasional ripple was not out of place, nor did it signal to anything happening below.

Down in the depths, the light was so pale and far away, it was as distant as a star in the night sky.

Down.

...............Down.

............................Drowning in the deep.

Eyes burned in the water as she thrashed. The soft satin weighed down and tangled with her legs as she kicked, trying to find anything in the water that would serve as a sort of purchase. A she tried to ignore the voice that called for her to sink further, to see what else was lurking in the depths of the frigid water.

The dark infected her vision as air escaped. The bubbles popped before the reached the surface, a silent scream escaping into the water without causing any ripples to be seen by those above.

With bated breath, the first destruction of the waters surface calm was when her pale hand broke through to grab hold of a rock. Pulling herself through the water, she pushed herself to standing. Almost as if from myth, drenched so thoroughly that she felt the chill of deep water in her bones.

She breathed through burning lungs, golden hair swirling around her as the wind whipped up. Thin rivulets of red dripped over her arms and legs, leaving pink stains on pale skin as it turned her pale blue dress lilac.

The sounds of panic and shouting above falling on deaf ears.

-

The free fall, the sense of flying with the imminent knowledge that a crash would follow, did not frighten her as much as she had thought it would. Perhaps it helped that she wholly believed, perhaps too strongly, that fear was born of the unknown, and that by doing, she removed the things she did not know, and thus removed the fear of an action of a possibility from herself, simply by doing.

And she did not close her eyes. Golden hair whipped through the air, but she kept her eyes on the water.

"If you are to fall, and you believe there is even a chance you might survive such a fall, then you must not look away from where you are to land. It is similar to diving you see. You must look at where you are going to fall, that way you can know how to act, or react, to land as safely as you can."

The words of her grandfather echoed in her mind as she kept her eyes on the water, waiting for the opportune time to flip herself around.

Breaking the surface of the water with her feet nearly made her forget to inhale a breath, the pain sending pins and needles through through her legs and partially up her spine. Yet, inhale she did, moment before she slipped under the surface, sinking farther than she thought she would, till the surface above her had enough time to calm itself.

-

The classmates behind chatted and laughed amongst themselves as she stood on the cliff, overlooking the drop. Her breathing was still steady, though she found it difficult to try and gauge the height she would be falling, and part of her wondered if she should have said that she would do this after changing her clothes.

"Aw, come on Kayden, don't tell us your too scared to jump? And here I thought you said you'd do it for Morgan. Changed your mind already?"

Hackles nearly raised, she turned with an icy glare, "I'm not afraid, Jebidiah. I simply don't feel the need to constantly talk about it, or any emotion, unlike some people here. I do wonder how you ever manage to get through the day without saying any and every feeling that crosses through your being, since you seem only ever confident when you speak as though you're king of the world. Now hush, and keep hold your end of the bargain, or you won't like what else I have to say."

She didn't wait to hear his response, though she felt quite pleased with herself at his gaping mouth. The darling boy of the school never did know how to react to those who simply could not be bothered with him.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped over the side of the cliff. 'There is nothing to fear, except fear itself.'

[coolbeansmydood]

[autumnalwalker]

The Tale of the Merchant and the Blacksmith's Daughter

Wordcount: 2,682 (Story is below the "Keep Reading" line if you want to skip the introduction of meta context.)

This is a story that appeared in @thearchivistsjournal, split into two parts, the first half on Day 98 and the second half on Day 364 as a sort of "story within a story" that the titular Archivist winds up telling. I liked it well enough and it works well enough as a standalone story that it neither dependent on nor particularly spoils anything in The Archivist's Journal that I figured I'd give it its own post with the whole story all in one place (and with some of the Archivist's parenthetical commentary stripped out).

The original way this story came about was that several years ago a friend of mine invited me to a concert/show that a coworker of ours was involved in. The concert was 95% instrumental and 5% chorus singing in a language I don't speak, but the individual songs had English-translation titles in the program pamphlet and a couple of them had brief introductions about the larger works or stories the individual pieces originated from. The two that stood out in my memory (or maybe it was both the same one, like I said, it's been several years) were one involving a blacksmith and his white-haired daughter and one having something to do with a gift found/given during winter. Anyway, this story is the story I made up in my head to go along with the music as the concert progressed. It wasn't until I decided to include it in The Archivist's Journal a few years later that I ever wrote it down or even told anyone about it. Of course, in that writing down it mutated a bit and more specific details got added until it became the story you see before you (beneath the "Keep Reading" line).

I hope you enjoy.

*******

This story starts in a village, not too unlike this Village, but rather than being surrounded by water it lay nestled in a space between mountains.  There were many other villages in this world, most of them similarly isolated.  The roads between, over, and through the mountains were long, winding, and dangerous; haunted by wild animals, malevolent spirits, and ruthless bandits.  But still, these roads were traveled despite the risks, mostly by merchants; people who brought goods and news from afar to trade for local crafts, foods, drinks, and gossip.

As I said, we begin our tale with one such merchant arriving in one such village in the springtime, when the trees bloomed with pink flowers and hid chirping newborn chicks among their branches.  A time when everyone, their pets, and their livestock are all taking any excuse they can to be out and about in the new-returned warmth and sun after months of cold and dark.  The time when everyone is happy to see a merchant after so long without word from beyond their village, for only fools travel in the winter, but when you are used to a thing it becomes strange to go without it and joyous to regain it.

As our merchant passed by the farms and rode into town on a rickety cart pulled by an aging steed, the locals smiled and called out to the young man they saw, and some even stopped their work to follow him to market.  The first merchant to visit the village this season, and a new one at that.  For this was the merchant’s first journey out on his own, and while these villagers had never seen this fresh-faced beardless young man before, neither had he seen the world beyond his home village until now, so he was excited as they.  And a bit afraid although he tried not to show it.

And so the merchant arrived in the village square and there was a sort of music to it all; the babble of the crowd clamouring for the latest news, the calling out of requests for foreign items, the rattling of the cart, the huffing of the merchant’s steed, the clucking of chickens happy to be forgotten for the moment as they pecked at the ground.  And behind it all, keeping the rhythm united, the steady beat of the blacksmith’s hammer.

It was toward the end of that first day when the merchant first caught sight of the blacksmith’s daughter, a beautiful young woman the merchant’s own age with snow-white hair despite her youth.  So distracted was the merchant by the sight of her that he did not notice the mischievous village children unhooking his cart from his steed, nor their unlocking its wheels, nor the steed wandering off.  So it was then that when he went to lean upon the cart to try to look casual when he realized she was leaving her father’s workshop to approach him that the cart began to roll off on its own.

A spectacle of a chase after the cart ensued, ultimately ending with the merchant making a fool of himself and landing in a pigsty.  Not the best first impression on the blacksmith’s daughter.  Perhaps even worse was the complication cleaning this soiled state presented.  For the merchant had a secret.  The merchant was in fact not a young man but a young woman, and in this world, among these villages, it was not considered proper for a woman to be a merchant.  There were many justifications and excuses for this idea, and regardless of the truth of any of them - or lack thereof - what mattered was that people believed them and if the young merchant’s true nature were to be discovered, her life and business would be that much harder.

And so the young merchant found herself gathering her goods, her cart, and her steed and fleeing before getting the chance to truly talk to the blacksmith’s daughter whom she was so smitten with.  And while beauty alone may not be the best reason for attraction, it’s a common enough one, and besides the merchant felt a certain kinship for the white-haired young woman.  By her apron and arms it appeared that she was training to take her father’s place and - while we know such an idea to be foolishness here - in that place blacksmith was not considered a “proper” occupation for a woman either.

As the spring passed into summer, and summer into autumn the merchant’s thoughts would often drift back to that white-haired maiden, and as she went from one village to the next she couldn’t stop comparing them to that first village she visited nor their inhabitants to the blacksmith’s daughter.  She resolved that come next spring she would talk to her for real, and prayed that she was not with another by that time.

Likewise, the blacksmith’s daughter would often surprise herself when her own thoughts drifted back toward the smiling handsome stranger who somehow managed to laugh and joke even while chasing down his runaway cart or lying in mud.  Such thoughts never lasted long as her father would tell her to get back to work and remind her that with no son nor wife he was counting on her to carry on his skills and legacy.

And as winter came the merchant hunkered down in the city and drew up two routes for the coming year, one for if talking to the blacksmith’s daughter went well, in which case she would loop around to visit the village multiple times, and one for if the conversation went poorly, in which case she would avoid that village in the future.  Such planning was perhaps a bit much, but those who are young and infatuated often do many foolish things when they should know better.

Meanwhile back in the village the blacksmith and his daughter enjoyed an evening together under the stars while the townsfolk carried on their festival that was the one bright spot in that dark and cold season.  Standing on a bridge leading to a pavilion in the center of a pond on the edge of the festival grounds, the father revealed that he was ill, and come this time next year - or if he was lucky the one after - he would be needing to pass all his work on to her.  Which made it all the more important that she find and accept a husband so that she might continue the family line.  True, she might not be able to smith while having a child, but a good husband could provide for her until she could again.  And if it happened sooner rather than later, her father could continue helping as well.

This news soured the blacksmith’s daughter’s night in more ways than one.

Such were the affairs weighing on the minds of the merchant and the blacksmith’s daughter as spring returned, and with it, the merchant to that  village.

This time, there were no mishaps with the cart and steed, and  the two of them were able to talk.  First about business and news of the wider world, but then about themselves.  As luck or fate would have it, the two of them did actually enjoy one another’s company.  The merchant’s tales of travel and easy-going demeanor allowed the blacksmith’s daughter to forget her troubles for a time.  The blacksmith’s daughter and stories of village life were a pleasant reminder of the things the merchant had started to miss and grow homesick for after giving them up for a life on the road.

All too soon the time came when the merchant had to move on.  As promises were being made to see one another next spring, if not sooner, the blacksmith’s daughter mentioned her father’s illness and its impact on her own responsibilities.  As she rode away, on to the next village, the merchant thought about the blacksmith’s plight and the symptoms that were mentioned, and she remembered a skilled doctor she had met on last year’s route.  Letting her steed lead the cart on its own she consulted her map and her planned routes and began to make adjustments.  How soon could she get to that doctor’s village and return to this one?  Could she make enough money to pay the doctor for a cure to bring back before getting there?  Could such a route work out before winter?  And wintering in that village was no good, for if a merchant is to do well the next year it was said they must winter in the city where trade never stops, only slows.

Days she spent, revising her route, calculating profits and expenses, time and food.  By the time she reached the second village on her route, she believed she could do it.  There would be little profit in it and far too much time on the road, but it could be done.  Even if it meant a poor bed and lean food that winter in the city.

And so it came to pass that it was only early autumn, when the flowers were gone and the farmers made their harvests among the falling orange leaves that the merchant and the blacksmith’s daughter met once again.  To save the blacksmith’s pride the merchant charged for the medicine of course, but left out that it was far less than it had cost her to acquire.  When asked why she had gone to such lengths, she said that a merchant’s job was not to make money, but to make sure people have the things they need but cannot get themselves, even the needs they didn’t ask for.  She may not have fully believed it herself at the time, but that explanation marked the birth of what would one day become the policy that made her reputation as a merchant.  At any rate, it sounded better than the city.

Alas, if the merchant were to keep herself and her steed fed and housed through the winter, they could not linger.  And so the merchant and the blacksmith’s daughter parted ways again, hoping that by the spring the medicine would have done its work.

That winter, the merchant in the city chose to go hungrier than was perhaps wise while she searched for a gift to bring the blacksmith’s daughter.  Not a practical one, but a flattering one.  Meanwhile the blacksmith’s daughter thought of the merchant only to curse him as the medicine seemed at first to do nothing, or even make her father worse.  And then when her father joined her outside on the night of the winter festival, surprising her after being bedridden for weeks they both praised the doctor who’d made the medicine and the merchant who delivered it.

And so that next spring, happy to see one another again, their friendship began to bloom in full.

At first, when the merchant returned to the village, she was nervous.  What if the medicine had not worked and the blacksmith’s daughter now resented her?  What if the gift she now brought was rejected?  Was she being too forward?

As it happened, these fears were unwarranted.  The blacksmith was more hale and hearty than he had been in years.  And his daughter, already grateful, was delighted with the simple hair ornament the merchant presented to her; ostensibly as thanks for sending her on such a journey that led her to contacts that would be profitable in future seasons.  It was a small, plain thing, for the merchant could not yet afford more, but its color shone brilliantly against a head of white hair and it was most effective at keeping that hair out of the way when working a forge.

As in the last spring, and in springs to follow, the merchant lingered for longer than was profitable in that little village so that she anddaughter might spend as much time in one another’s presence as the sirmitwork.  There came the when she surpassed her father’s skill and took on most of the blacksmith’s work.  But, leave once again the merchant always did, although always with a promise to return.  And return she always did, with news and tales and goods, traded for coin and horseshoes and a nostalgic taste of a slower life.

And so the seasons turned, and with them the years.  The claim the merchant once made to impress the blacksmith’s daughter about her purpose not being money but to fulfill the needs of those who cannot for themselves became a guiding principle in truth.  And in this way she gained a reputation for being fair and compassionate in balance with being cunning and capable.  And in this way she wove a web of connections and esteem greater in value than the coin of any one great trade.  Of course, there was an ever-increasing amount of coin too.

Meanwhile, the blacksmith’s daughter came into her own as well.  There came the day when she matched her father’s skill and took on an equal share of the smithy’s work.  There came the when she surpassed her father’s skill and took on most of the smithy’s work.  There came the day when - to both their surprise - her father received a commission from outside their village.  She smirked as she cursed the merchant for spreading overwrought tales of the talent of a humble village blacksmith and pushed herself to ever further mastery so that she might live up to those tales.  And then surpass them.

And then give the merchant much playful grief over the whole ordeal when she next returned.

Yet, for all the sweetness of those years, there were still the subtle bitternesses.  The merchant still had to pretend to be a man for her own safety and status.  The blacksmith still got the credit for his daughter’s work while asking her more urgently every year when she would find a husband to continue the family line.  And for all the time the merchant and the blacksmith’s daughter spent with one another, growing ever more mutually smitten, neither had the confidence to admit to the other of being more than close friends.

And when at last the merchant shared her secret with the blacksmith’s daughter, her faint hope that one day the merchant would settle down as her husband and fulfill her father’s wish for grandchildren was dashed.  And yet, the revelation left her more smitten still.

So, turned the seasons and years with their bright joys and quiet sorrows, until one hot summer’s day brought a change.

The merchant had stopped at a pool beneath a waterfall, far off enough from the road that she might water her steed and bathe in private.  It was a pool she had stopped at often enough before and had never encountered another, so - for a short time - she allowed herself to relax the guard she kept up on those dangerous roads.  And so she found herself half-disrobed at the water’s edge when the bandits of that place’s wilds set upon her with the hunger of wild animals and the cunning of men.

Now, the merchant was not unskilled at defending herself - one must be capable of such to travel those roads - and indeed she had done so handily in the past more than once, but on this occasion she was caught unawares and with the bandits between her and her bow and her spear.  And so, after trying and failing to reach her armaments, for all it hurt her pride she shouted for help she did not believe would come.

The bandits laughed at her despair.

The merchant steeled herself for her fate.

The wind picked up, carrying with it a scattering of petals and the scent of flowers.

A glint from the forest.

A blur that seemed to ride the wind.

A whistle of sharp metal.

The first of the bandits fell.

The laughter ceased.

The merchant beheld the beautiful swordsman.

His mocking grin drew the enraged bandits unto him.

His dancing feet spiraled amongst them untouched.

His gleaming sword flowed in and out and across.

The last bandit remaining slipped behind the beautiful swordsman.

The merchant cried out a warning.

The blow that would have torn spine from back tore only skin from shoulder.

A final flash and it was over.

A final flourish and the sword was sheathed.

A final flower on the breeze and the air was still.

The merchant and the beautiful swordsman stared at one another for a long moment with no sound but the nearby waterfall.

And then the moment ended as the swordsman winced and gripped his injured shoulder, making a self-deprecating joke about being too reckless and then thanking the merchant for saving his life.  The merchant thanked him for saving hers and began to bandage him up.

While they recovered they talked, and as they talked they found they had much in common.  Both were wanderers of the roads; her to bring people together and him to keep them safe.  Both thought they were the only ones who knew of this pool.  Both knew of the other by reputation, although the merchant’s secret, now revealed, was news to him.  Both had a similar sense of humor and played off one another well.  Both were beautiful, although on this one point the merchant disagreed for none had ever told her such before.

How could she compare to this man who was more beautiful than any she had ever seen?  Who moved with a dancer’s grace?  Who smelled of iron and flowers in bloom?  Who had saved her life?

He smiled and reminded her that she had saved his as well.  And then he offered to show her how she might compare.

She did not object when he moved to kiss her.

Over the days it took to travel to the next village, the beautiful swordsman convinced the merchant to try - just this once - to present herself as a woman while conducting her business.  It was an out-of-the-way place where her wider reputation would not suffer if things went poorly.  To her surprise, it did not.  It was frightening at first, yes, and there was some initial skepticism, true, but she was known here and her skills had not changed with her appearance.

It felt better than she’d expected.  She had not realized how much hiding herself had worn her down.  She knew it was reckless, but she tried it again in the next village.  And the next.  And before she knew it, the rest of her stops on the year’s circuit.

It did not always go so well of course.  Some fell back on old prejudices despite their past relationship and dealings.  Some felt they had been lied to all these years and resented the fact.  But the greater number accepted her as the same merchant who had always served them so well or even befriended them in the past and continued business as usual.  Some even lauded her cleverness in keeping up the ruse for so long or called her brave or skillful at having succeeded so well at a disadvantage.

Although, of course, the merchant knew that having already built up wealth and reputation made things far easier than if she had risked being herself from the start.  And having a famous swordsman at her side as a personal guard didn’t hurt matters either.

If there was one blemish on that unexpectedly exhilarating year, it was the guilt.  The merchant could not help but feeling that she had betrayed the blacksmith’s daughter.  She told herself that since the two of them had never claimed to ever be anything more than close friends, there was nothing to betray.  But the feeling persisted, and so the merchant revised her route so that she would not pass back to her favorite village until she was on her way to the city for the winter.  Of course, that only made the gnawing feeling worse.

When the blacksmith’s daughter next saw the merchant, riding openly as she had only shown herself to her in private and with a beautiful man at her side, she felt a stabbing pain in her chest that she refused to identify.  A moment looked forward to for months, suddenly turned to a fear she dared not name.

Over the following days the time that had once belonged to just the two of them was now shared by the three of them.  Their favorite private place now had a beautiful intruder.  An intruder who was never anything but gracious, and funny, and kind, and infuriatingly hard to resent.

It hurt how happy her best friend was, and she hated that it hurt.  She knew that she should be happy for the merchant’s happiness.  And so that was the face she showed.  A facade that all was right in the world, when every hour she wished that she had spoken her feelings sooner while chiding herself that to voice those words now would be nothing but hurtful selfishness.

And so the blacksmith’s daughter spent those last days of autumn smiling and those last nights silently weeping.

As the merchant returned to the city for the winter with the beautiful swordsman still at her side, she was happy that the two people in the world she cared for most had gotten along so well.

And so again the seasons turned and the years turned with them.  The merchant grew yet wealthier and more connected, while the blacksmith’s daughter became ever more skilled.  Ministers in the city asked the merchant to handle their affairs.  Warriors from afar journeyed to a once little-known village for blades and armor like no other.  Young traders sought out the merchant and asked to work for her.  She gave advice to all but hired none.  Would-be smiths sought out the elderly blacksmith and his white-haired daughter for apprenticeship.  He would take no apprentice but a non-existent grandchild and she sent all away without a word.

Masks cannot hold forever, and lies to oneself can only be believed for so long.  The merchant’s guilt began to gnaw again.  She began to question her relationship with the beautiful swordsman.  Had she made a mistake?  Had she simply done what was easy, useful, and expected?  He was dear to her, and she enjoyed his presence and his touch, and had done so much for her.  He seemed as near to perfect as a mortal man could be.  He had never been anything but loyal to her.  But if he had deeper depths, he never revealed them to her.  So how could she ever truly open up to him in return? 

And why did every visit to the blacksmith's daughter feel so painful these days when all three of them looked and sounded so happy?

Meanwhile, the blacksmith’s daughter closed herself ever further off.  She spoke to no one except her father.  And the merchant and the beautiful swordsman when they visited.  All commissions would go through her father and she would make creations that each put the last to shame without a question of payment or word to the patron.  Suitors stopped calling after a thrown hammer grazed the last one’s ear.

The beautiful swordsman, while a carefree man, was not an oblivious one.  And he knew what he was well enough, perhaps even better than most know themselves.  He knew his bonds were not as strong as most, no matter how easily he formed them, and he had long since made his peace with that.  He saw himself as a simple man of simple pleasures, and saw no shame in that.

He was not unaware of the merchant's growing melancholy, nor was he blind to the masked pain of the blacksmith’s daughter.  Nor the other buried feelings between the two.  He’d hoped all that would either blow up or fade with time, but he hadn’t anticipated it festering this long.

He liked to think he knew when to end a good thing before it goes bad, but admitted to himself that this time he may have been complacent.

And so, one spring day, he sighed to himself and declared he needed a new sword.

Of course, there was only one smith who would do.

It was raining when they arrived in the merchant’s once-favorite village.  She found it fit her melancholy these days.  A place she’d first seen full of light and color, now dim and drab.  She hated that she now felt dread instead of joy in coming here.  She was surprised when the beautiful swordsman said he wished to speak to the blacksmith’s daughter in private about the commission, but secretly relieved.  It was strange though that they talked all day, and through the night.  

She never did learn exactly what they spoke of.

The blacksmith’s daughter did not know what to make of the long conversation herself at first.  Nor of the commission.  Her voice was sore the next day, she had not spoken at such length for… well, she didn’t know how long it had last been.  The next day she did not pick up a hammer.  She only sat, and thought, and paced, and planned.  And then the next day, she worked.  And the next and next until she quenched the metal in her own blood and tears.  Only once her frenzied work was finished did she pause to rest for a moment on the floor of her workshop.  A pause that became a deep sleep.

She never did learn what the merchant and the beautiful swordsman spoke of during those days.

When the merchant woke the next morning, the rain had stopped and the beautiful swordsman was gone.

When the blacksmith’s daughter woke the next morning, the rain had stopped and the sword she made was gone.

The other item from the commission remained.

When the merchant reached the door of the workshop, she hesitated, unsure if she was doing the right thing.

When the blacksmith’s daughter reached the door of the workshop, she hesitated, unsure if she was doing the right thing.

The knock came at the same time the handle turned.

The two of them stared at one another as if for the first time.  

The blacksmith’s daughter invited the merchant inside to see the second half of the beautiful swordsman’s commission.  As they walked through the maze her workshop had become, she nervously explained that the first part of the commission had been the easy one.  Only a blade finer than any seen before, worthy of its own name and stories.  The second half had been the most difficult piece she’d ever attempted to forge.

“Her own heart’s desire.”

The simple hair ornament was a small, plain thing, but it shone brilliantly against a head of graying hair.

[of-galaxies-and-black-holes]

lies of p lowkey kind of….

[technomancer-01]

Saturday Morning Bloodborne || Martyr Logarius

"Acts of goodness are not always wise, and acts of evil are not always foolish. But regardless. We shall always strive to be good."

A collection of various illustrations I’m going to be putting in my Bloodborne journal. This is the Elden Ring one, lemme know if you have suggestions for the gilding on the front!

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Etsy

[bloodborne-on-pc]

I was SO confident booting up Bloodborne this evening. I was SO. CONFIDENT.

The plan was this: kill Vicar Amelia then check out that weird spot I found last time. None of this happened.

First: I realized there was an area I hadn't really explored before. I figured it might be a fun little diversion, nab a couple extra Echoes - I was pretty low on Blood Vials. While checking the spot out I met Crow Mom again. She warned me to not check out the Tomb of Oedon below the Chapel because a mad Hunter named Henryk was down.

This is when everything went to shit, because I decided it would be a good idea to find the tomb and beat Henryk up.

But I couldn't figure out where the spot she was talking about was. I looked around the Chapel looking for stairs and couldn't find any, just a door that I can't open anyway. Tried talking to the Chapel Dweller - no dice. Then I spent ages wandering around the Cathedral Ward, and got killed a fair few times before giving up.

So, I decided to follow my original plan and take on Amelia. I even had two Numbing Mists, which I figured would at least be worth trying on her to see if it would stop her healing. Maybe that was all I needed to win!

It didn't help.

She killed me. So many times. And now, I have no Numbing Mist. The shop in the Hunter's Dream doesn't sell any. I have to kill her without it.

So, I concluded that I needed to level up some more, but was getting a little tired of the Cathedral Ward. Then I remembered something: during my previous session, I had opened the door to Old Yharnam but decided against actually entering the area. So I thought it could be a nice change of pace.

As SOON as I entered Old Yharnam, some dude started yelling at me to go away and leave the beasts alone, insisting they won't hurt anyone up above. I mean, maybe when the big door was closed - assuming they couldn't get through it - but seeing as how I yoinked it open that doesn't apply anymore. I proceeded to ignore him, started poking around for treasure and killing a few beasts, who were pretty weak. The dude continued to yell at me, I continued to not really care. Then he started to snipe me with a machine gun. Fortunately the stupid bastard's aim is terrible and he didn't hit me once, but I booked it out of there immediately.

I resigned myself to grinding in the Cathedral Ward, but then I noticed something: one of the lamps. Its name was Tomb of Oedon. It was. Right there. The whole time. Incredible. So much time and Blood Echoes wasted for nothing.

Now it wouldn't let me warp there, but I made my way down quickly from the Ward. And so, my confrontation with Henryk, began.

Of course, since this was not my day, he proceeded to wreck my shit. The only reason I didn't die is because Eileen saved my dumb ass.

I got a cool rune thingy though! I have no idea how I'm supposed to use it. Trying from the inventory doesn't work and I can't find a spot in the menu for equipping it either. Or in the workshop in the Dream, for that matter. Which makes me a bit cross because it increases the number of Echoes you get from visceral attacks, which would be very nice for farming before tackling Amelia again. I'll figure it out next time I guess.

[ofstormsandfire]

yharnam archaeology??? 👀👀👀

hi I forgot that the blog I was rbing that from was a blog I followed for bloodborne stuff LMAO

okay so. this is heavily inspired by

Me being an anthropology student (who got into it because Cynthia pokemon is an archaeologist and I adore her, I took one (1) class and then got really invested, the important thing is. Archaeology go brr)

Me taking a very interesting class this semester that focuses on paleopathology, which is as my professor put it "the study of ancient suffering" but realistically is figuring out whatever you can from human remains. Whereas archaeology as a whole is about human culture from material remains, which can be actual bodies but can also be other things like pottery and building foundations.

Me teetering on the brink of being way too into Bloodborne for my own good despite not normally being much of a horror fan or a fan of particularly grimdark things. I Don't Know What's Different About Bloodborne. (it's probably that I'm a lesbian and I like lady maria, sue me)

Anyway. I got to thinking one time after class. That archaeologists would be SO FUCKING CONFUSED BY YHARNAM.

I'm tentatively placing Bloodborne as somewhere in the nineteenth century based on general vibes (according to my dad and his deep passion for weaponry of all kinds, a lot of the things in the game would have been derived later, but tbh if I lived in a place that constantly had to deal with people turning into horrifying beasts I think I'd innovate the hell out of things to get better weaponry so I didn't die too) and this theoretical au would be set in the modern day. so it's been a Hot Minute since the game ended and I think I was considering Yharnam Sunrise as the ending for. Reasons.

There's this group of researchers who end up heading to Yharnam, bankrolled by some rich heir or something who's got more money than sense (he dies or possibly turns into a beast from stupidity very early on) and possibly they're the last in a bunch of groups who went there and died because even hundreds of years after the horrors there are still So Many Ways For It To Go Badly? Undecided on that front, I'm still trying to figure out what (if anything) would actually be preserved.

Highlights of my vague plans:

The team finds Gilbert's journal. They all get really attached to Gilbert because that just kind of tends to happen. Which is unfortunate because they know damn well he probably didn't survive very long after the last page in his diary, but they didn't find a body, so...?

It takes a while for them to realize that the very canine skeletons have human DNA. At which point everyone is just. Very fucking confused. And also are realizing that maybe all those writings about the beast plague weren't actually about rabies (which does not leave a trace on the skeleton, fun fact! I wanted to do my project on rabies but I had to pick a pathology that had an effect on the skeleton. Alas)

There are so many arguments over who that grave behind the Hunter's Workshop belongs to. SO MANY. (I personally think it's very likely that is Maria's, but the team won't have any way of knowing that! If the headstone is unreadable by game times it's not gonna be any more readable centuries later!)

You determine whether something is bone by licking it. Someone finds an Amygdala skull and somehow, through the sort of stupidity that only happens in horror movies before people realize they're in horror movies, someone gets dared to lick it. This results in a very horrified Insight increase and the revelation that the weird fucking thing is made of bone. Also, that Amygdala's ghost is interested in the team now. Oops. This probably will go fine, right...?

What the FUCK are they going to think of all the statues of Great Ones. Probably (reasonably) that they are statues portraying something with great cultural significance to Yharnam, and possibly religious significance. Less reasonable is the fact that Great Ones... actually exist... and that SOMEONE is going to get enough Insight by the end to see those Amygdalas. Possibly the whole team tbh.

There is going to be so much arguing over how the fuck to cite shit. How do you cite some guy who supposedly disappeared centuries ago and is still hanging around in another dimension that you honestly aren't sure how to leave But You'll Worry About That Later, The First Hunter Is A Primary Source!!! How do you cite a ghost. How do you cite hallucinations and visions.

Possibly the Doll sneaks onto the team by pretending to be a survivor of a previous expedition, because tbh I think the Moon Presence can do what it wants and I think it would be VERY interested in these new bitches rocking up to Yharnam after a while. And, y'know, that goes fine until someone finds a picture of her. Or of Lady Maria. (Or until they reach the Abandoned Old Workshop, depending on the situation and if there's another version of said doll there to be found.)

Every. Single. Member. Of the team. Has some connection to Yharnam. Almost none of them know this originally. They will find out. Rip to Rom the Vacuous Spider's great-great-grandniece who discovers the hard way (finding Byrgenwerth's paperwork) why she was the first in her family to graduate uni, just not the first to attend it.

(Notable exception to this rule is the person who is convinced that his great-great-great-probably a few more in there-grandmother is Lady Maria. This gets very funny when the descendant of the player Hunter trips into the Hunter's Nightmare, which still exists due to said player Hunter poking their head in and wisely dipping immediately, and who manages to prevent a bossfight by blurting out "oh shit you're Jerry's great-grandma!")

(There may be lesbianisms involved. And some light necromancy. Idk I like Lady Maria a lot and I got enabled too damn much and I think it would be very funny for the group to return to civilization with an extra person. Or two.)

In summary, I have no plot (yet) apart from archaeology and being way too invested in the game, but I really want to write this someday once I actually finish said game. And also I'm having a grand old time coming up with characters to put through the Horrors. The archaeologist is named Cynthia Parker and. Well. If you remember the superhero identity of a certain character called Peter Parker, you might be able to figure out who she's distantly related to.

Other ideas include: player Hunter descendant, someone very distantly descended from a Cainhurst exile, and Jerry who is 100% certain his great-several-times-great-grandmother is Lady Maria of the Astral Clocktower and is 100% wrong about that. Jerry is the single party member with no actual connection to Yharnam and we love him for it.

Thanks for the ask I'm incredibly flattered that you were intrigued enough to ask about this from my tags given that I followed you for your BB fics :>

[mysticmistral]

“Oh hey, Bloodborne is on sale for ten bucks on the store! I know it’s a hard game but I love the look of it, I’ve always been curious of it’s story-“

I’ve died sixteen times on that road trying to find a way to not alert the big group of enemies at the burning tree, once more than two of them surround you it’s practically over, I haven’t even found the first boss or leveled up what the heck did I buy myself into-

(Might reblog my progress, as a fun little journal.)

[headcanontheshitoutofsoulsborne]

Bloodborne Chain 5

We are still on the chain game and we made another Bloodborne Chain. This is already the fifth one. We actually got ten people to participate, so we have five fics and five pieces of art! I hope you guys enjoy! Original prompt: The doll's hands get broken and Hunter fixes them. @scribble-writes-science-fantasy (can't tag, but that is their blog)

The Lady and the Hunter

A Short Story

Based on the 2015 video game Bloodborne, by FromSoftware

Prologue

The Doll quietly turned over the crystal in her hands. It was of a pure white coloration, with small circular engravings, which looked like open eyes. Both ends tapered off into a jagged point. 

“Darling Hunter, might I ask where you acquired this?” The Doll looked down at the Hunter, sitting quietly on a stone bench. Siofrin, servant of the Doll, and member of the Choir, beamed at their miss’ question, adjusting their spectacles knowingly. 

“Would you like the short version, or the long one, m’lady?” Siofrin pulled out a small leather-bound journal, no doubt brimming with an account of their most recent expedition outside of Yharnam. Now that the Hunts had seemingly ended, and the Beast Scourge no longer affected the city as a whole, trade and travel had reopened slightly to other parts of the world. 

Smiling, the Doll placed the intricate prism back in Siofrin’s gloved hands. “Whichever one you prefer, dear.” 

The Doll wrapped her hands around Siofrin’s head as the Hunter quietly lay in the tall grass, reading from their journal. Siofrin gave the prism back to the Doll, who held it loosely. 

Elster was renowned for its manipulation of prisms and light, said to have constructed powerful weapons that could bisect beasts in two with lasers of moonlight. The prism had been gifted to Siofrin when they had ventured there on a whim, desiring to go outside of Yharnam, and to somewhere closer to home. 

A scholar by the name of Dahlia had given the Hunter the prism, and gone into a lengthy discussion about its usage as a channeling device to speak with the Great Ones, with no fear of madness.

Dahlia had expressed some suspicion at Siofrin, due to being part of a rival academic group, but had bid them a cordial farewell as night slowly fell. 

The prism suddenly emanated a piercing wail, and the Doll’s hands violently snapped backwards. 

She did not scream, but merely fell to the ground in shock. Her slender hands were now torn asunder, wooden panels blasted off, revealing intricate gears and springs inside, with transparent tubes of a blue fluid now shattered and leaking. 

There was a pain on Siofrin’s left cheek, a jagged patch of burning flesh, the pain of which Siofrin failed to register. 

The Doll stared at Siofrin. “My hands…”

Siofrin took a few steps back, unsure of what to do. “Miss! I- What.. must I do?!” They stood, frozen, staring at the Doll’s blank expression. 

“Darling.. The parts to fix my hands will not be found in the physical world. I was created from an eldritch blessing, by a Great One. You may not be able to mend my hands at all.”

Siofrin stammered in shock, picking up the still-warm crystal. The small eye carvings glowed with a blue light. 

“I’ll go to Elster. Their Great One made this crystal. If I can get back inside their Academy, I can commune with it.”

The Doll mournfully looked at Siofrin. “Good Hunter.. The price to your sanity may be too great when communicating with such entities. Are you certain?”

Siofrin nodded. 

“Then, go. May you find what you seek, in the waking world.”

A shimmering circle of light opened around the Hunter’s feet, and darkness overtook Siofrin’s vision. Why? Why do they insist on endangering their frail form for my well-being?

Chapter One: The Hunt, in Elster

Elster was a city of walls, and light. Three concentric, circular walls, brimming with defenses. The first two walls had weaponry that prickled outwards, harpoons and cannons, as well as the occasional gatling gun, all augmented by prism-lasers, massive spikes of clear crystal with iron bands that swiveled them around to fire beams of searing flame.

The third and final wall had defenses that could swivel inwards. This was the wall that was manned on the night of the Hunt, and it was to terminate any who showed signs of beasthood with extreme prejudice. 

Rather than fight with heavy melee weapons like Yharnam, Elster opted instead for ranged weapons, volleys of repeating rifles, cannons, machine guns, and prisms, all with silver bullets to kill any beast, no matter how large. This ensured no blood would be spilled, and thus, the infection would not spread.

The first wall loomed ahead, a thing of dark gray stone, with large white crystals floating on the parapets, their sharpened edges facing outwards and downwards to the wide cobbled road below. Dusk was approaching as the sun fell into the sea, creating a flowing, ethereal explosion of pink and orange hues. 

Siofrin noticed men in white grasping jagged objects high on the ramparts, sitting in swiveling turrets bristling with guns. They stared down wordlessly, but the dozens of weapons constantly swiveled to follow Siofrin.

A guard, armored in a shimmering suit of plate armor adorned with smaller crystalline clumps, stood in the center of the gate, beckoning Siofrin to come closer. Only her eyes were visible, for she wore a white mask and pointed metal helm. In her hands was a large rifle with a sparking, squarish protrusion where a magazine of musket balls would normally be, and a pointed metal spike tapering off at the end of the barrel.

The guard’s muffled voice commanded Siofrin to halt. “What do you require, stranger? This is the night of the Hunt. A common one like you should not be outside the walls.”

Quietly, Siofrin whispered to the guard. “Communion with Ygralith.” Siofrin then revealed the badge of the Hunters in their other hand.

There was a rustle of hasty whispering. The guard reappeared, her mask down to reveal a slight, pale face. She spoke hastily, with a conspiratorial hint. “They told us one of you Hunters would come. We have no issue with your kind, but if you’ve got any ties to the Choir, the Academy will butcher you. That’s all I can offer you.”

Stepping aside, the guard gestured to let Siofrin enter. “I don’t know much of what you Hunters want, but if you can survive Yharnam, Elster should be a cakewalk. You’d want to seek out the Academy of Xanthas. Be warned, though. We don’t have governance over the Academy’s grounds anymore.”

Siofrin nodded, thanking the guard. The two other walls were much the same, spaced widely. By the time Siofrin had made it past the checkpoints, dusk overtook Elster, and for the first time in years, the moon glowed with a malevolent bloody light. 

One final guard, who introduced herself as Adeline, spoke cautiously to Siofrin. “The Great One hasn’t spoken to any of the Xanthas scholars in a long time, and with the blood moon they’ve undoubtedly locked up the place even more. We welcome all who wish to ascend in our city, but I hope you’re aware of what that entails.”

Siofrin was acutely aware that the badge of the Choir was tucked away in their pockets. Before them, the pale red moon shone brightly. The cobbled streets of Elster were wide and straight, and the architecture, ornate and gothic like Yharnam, was adorned with dozens of glowing white crystals. In the far distance, Siofrin could see a stately building, adorned with a tall lighthouse that glowed with a steady white light.

Rows and rows of roving men walked near, some nodding in respect at Siofrin’s Tonitrus, the experimental mace’s silvered ball head sparking with the same electricity on the guards’ rifles, while others whispered to their comrades, shifting their gazes whenever Siofrin noticed the stares.

A bell rang in the far distance, and every soldier began to sprint to the sources of the piercing howls and sounds of snapping bone and splintering flesh.

Let the Hunt begin. 

Chapter Two: Road to the Academy

Siofrin sprinted, keeping careful watch on how the infantrymen of Elster conducted their war against the plague of beasts. As the first group approached a looming Scourge Beast, they formed into a tight formation, tossing flaming bombs to drench the wolf-like monster in flame, before firing rapid bursts of electricity that burned away flesh and bone, turning the intimidating foe into a charred skeleton.

A man in the early stages of transformation, with a backwards-bent rib cage charged at a group of armored Elster soldiers, and they responded in kind, holding out shards of crystal which grew into translucent shields of light, the beast crashing onto the wall of force before another group surrounded it from behind, plunging spears into it from a distance before activating gun barrels built into each pole, blasting the creature’s head wide open, gore and tainted blood splattering harmlessly on the shields of light, never touching the soldiers themselves.

As the soldiers backed away, a terrible scream emanated from far off, past the huge iron gate that sealed the Academy Ward from the rest of the city. Distant windows glowed brightly with a scarlet light, and screams began to slide, like a flowing river of blood, as house after house was breached. 

A young woman with blonde hair pulled into a bun swore. “It’s never been this bad before! That bloody moon must be making these things stronger!” The human-sized beast which the soldiers had previously felled rose up from the dead behind them, and Siofrin lept into action, blasting the monstrosity back with a pistol shot, and then caving in what remained of its flailing body with the sparking Tonitrus, burning flesh and bone. 

It did not rise again.

The woman thanked Siofrin, nodding with approval-and, the slightest hint of apprehension- at the newcomer’s rapid speed and dexterity. The party continued on, with mutterings from additional soldiers that the Xanthas Scholars must have summoned something bad, given the howls and shrieks coming from behind the massive gate.

As the group approached the massive, intricate gate, Siofrin was shocked to discover a group of huddled scholars, dressed in ornate blue robes and holding ramshackle weapons sparking with electricity, wafting embers of fire, plumes of toxins, and other things. The closest one to the gate, a man with long, silvery hair and sharp red eyes, implored the soldiers to open the gate.

He spoke with a quavering shudder, bloodshot eyes darting back and forth in a plea. “Please, you’ve got to! The others-they summoned something horrid! They’re using the entire Academy Ward as a testing ground! Let us out!”

The scholar shrieked in terrible fervor, and the Elster guards nervously agreed, watching the thin robed forms flit away through the gate to some form of sanctuary. Weapons were checked, and Siofrin was given the offer of a peculiar shock-pistol, which they gladly accepted, still keeping the Tonitrus close at hand. 

The moon glowed with a malevolent scarlet light as the howling of beasts grew to a terrible crescendo, and the ancient gate creaked open, revealing the massive doorway of the Academy.

Chapter Three: Nightmare of Xanthas

At the entrance to the Great Hall of Xanthas, a large sigil had been daubed on the wooden doors entering the main hall. The wet, scarlet substance glowed unnaturally, and had been deftly applied with microscopic sigils inside a great circle.

A white-robed soldier, holding a book and a crystal dagger in her hands, approached the ritual circle, plunging her dagger in the thick wood, and softly whispering as she held out the large, aged tome. 

The red substance flew into the dagger, tainting the white stone scarlet. The mage quickly pulled the dagger from the door and placed it back into her sheath, and the other soldiers pushed open the two massive doors, grunting with exertion.

Inside, the Hall was dark, with red light streaming through the ornate stained windows. Tables and chairs had been placed to block entry- or, prevent something from exiting. 

Silence reigned supreme for a few seconds.

A thousand red eyes flashed in the inky blackness, making noises that sounded human, but vaguely, terribly wrong, wails and groans and growls echoing through the massive chamber.

They wore the ripped, torn uniforms of the Academy, shambling forth with the legs of birds and beasts, the gaping eyes of deep-sea creatures and the muscular, predatory claws of hounds, the flesh on their faces stretched unnaturally to accommodate their new, terrible transformations. 

Siofrin blasted a thing that had once been a woman, her eyes and mouth sprouting with writhing tentacles, blood trickling from ruptured orifices. The electrocution staggered and shocked the thing, its digitigrade legs collapsing. Siofrin smashed the thing’s semblance of a head in with a disgusted blow.

The Elster infantry set up a firing line, and slowly marched and shot their way through the long hall, filled with twisted aberrations. A man, letting out a terrible groan as he staggered into view, chest cavity surgically removed and replaced with a thing of twisting roots that jerkily puppeteered his flailing body, wailing in terror as he made futile attempts to regain control of his broken body.

Siofrin put the student out of his misery, incinerating the monstrosity with a jolt of vibrant electricity.

A soldier drew Siofrin’s attention to a doorway at the side of the hall. “The storage basements are inside here, Hunter. It’s the fastest way to reach Ygdalith’s chambers. We’re going to scout out the rest of the Academy, and halt the ritual the scholars planned.” She stared at Siofrin, eyes wide with fear. “It’s never gotten this bad before. Please, end this.”

Siofrin nodded. “I’ll try.”

The heavy door to the basement opened, and the Hunter’s lanky form was quickly swallowed by the darkness. 

They quickly activated the Tonitrus, filling the stairwell with flickering blue light. The ornate wooden stairs turned slowly to chipped, mossy stone, until the entire tunnel smelled of salt, and damp seawater, with the walls, stairs, and roof being of a white marbled stone that softly pulsed with light.

Different caverns and small rooms were seen as Siofrin walked down the stairs, with some doors locked with iron chains. Whispers and muffled thumps sounded from dozens of black onyx caskets in niches lining the walls.

There was a humming that grew in frequency as Siofrin approached the bottom of the stairs. A pool of inky black water prevented ingress, and it appeared that the stairs themselves fell off into the void of the sea.

A whisper flowed into Siofrin’s mind, an urgent, deep sound that flowed into all of the crevices of Siofrin’s being. It was like a million voices, all speaking at once, each voice cold and harsh, with pointed, sharp inflections.

ENTER.

Siofrin stepped into the inky darkness, feeling the cold water flow over their form. They held their breath nervously, but soon exhaled, a rush of fear coming over them. The dark water was lit with small pinpricks of flickering light, and the stairway finally ended, halting at a simple wooden door, with a rusted iron knocker.

Siofrin lifted the knocker, and it fell with a heavy, echoing thud against the ancient, mottled wood. Silence reigned for a moment, until the door opened inwards, revealing a chamber. 

Chapter Four: The Radiant Crystal 

Seeing a wall of absolute darkness before them, Siofrin lifted a gloved hand, seeing it go through the seemingly impenetrable barrier. The voice spoke yet again, goading Siofrin on. 

LOWER YOUR WEAPONS. YOU WILL NOT NEED THEM.

Despite all thoughts to the contrary, Siofrin felt their hand slacken, dropping the Tonitrus, which disappeared into the swirling darkness.

Once again, the Hunter walked into the gulf of darkness, and as they walked through the ink, pinpricks like multicolored stars appeared in the pitch black, filling the infinitely wide space with shifting hues that Siofrin was certain were not meant for human eyes. 

A massive crystal stood, silent in the void of space. It was white, with marbled layers, and studded with twitching eyes that rolled silently to lay upon Siofrin. The sharpened points of the crystal each had a steady beam of blue, sparking energy piercing the darkness, stretching both upwards and downwards into forever.

The Great One spoke, its voice sounding like a form of judgment, a final speech before the end of the universe, the end to which it was the executioner. 

WHAT DO YOU REQUIRE?

Siofrin spoke then, feeling so very small, and very.. immaterial, as if their very form was fraying at the edges, flesh, blood, bone, muscle all being eaten at and reformed by the grasping darkness beyond all rational graspings of the word time.

“My Lady… her hands. Only you can fix them, as she dwells in a place outside of time, a place of dreams.”

The great crystal rumbled once more, in response. YOU SPEAK OF THE DREAM. WE UNDERSTAND. WHAT WE GIVE, YOU MUST RETURN. TIE YOUR SOUL TO XANTHAS, SO WE MAY GRANT THE POWER TO FIX THE CARETAKER OF THE DREAM.

Siofrin remembered a quiet night, in which the Doll had simply and calmly spoke to them as they lay, tired and broken in her arms. The price may be too great, darling.

No. No price is too great for her. I must do this.

Siofrin stepped forwards, into the beam of light. A million voices roared as the violently sparking energy enveloped the Hunter’s frail form, spectral images of radiant hues appearing before them as flesh was removed, and replaced. There was a brief feeling of pain, which dissipated just as quickly.

A vast voice whispered silent instructions in Siofrin’s mind, a perpetual, constant presence. ASCEND THE HUNT. FINISH THE CELESTIAL WAR.

Violent images flooded into the <FRAGILE MIND>

Images of the <GREAT ONES>

THE BETRAYER, <ODEON>

THE ETERNAL CURSE, SO WE MAY BE FOREVER CHILDLESS

THE SINGULAR TIE TO HUMANITY

THE TIE THAT BRINGS EVERLASTING SORROW

NO MATTER WHAT WE DO, HUMANITY SUFFERS

HUNTER. END. THE. CYCLE.

The light filled Siofrin’s vision, and all fell silent. 

-X-

Siofrin awoke on the cool cobblestones of the Dream. They slowly pushed themselves up, staring at their hands. They were smooth, with jointed seams, made of a plain white material that quietly rang as it touched the stone.

Just like my miss’s hands. 

The Doll was sitting on a small bench, her form utterly changed. Pale, living flesh had replaced the wood and metal. She stared at Siofrin with sorrow in her eyes, and her voice was very thin. “Oh, my darling. I am sorry.”

She slowly wrapped her warm hands around Siofrin, and wrenched off the Hunter’s cap, revealing the raven-black, long hair underneath, holding the Hunter’s head in her lap.

Siofrin spoke, their voice quieter than before. “M’lady.. Do you enjoy your new hands?”

The Doll felt her face wet with soft tears. “Yes, darling. Thank you.”

Outside, in the furthest reaches of time and space, waits something immeasurably ancient. Something cold, and dark, and filled with something akin to conspiracy.

It sees the Hunter, marked with the Sigil of Rebellion.

It sees its brothers and sisters, willful traitors all in its enigmatic, alien mind.

The cycle must not be broken. The power gained from Humanity’s torment is immeasurable. And yet.. This Hunter, who sacrificed a portion of their own humanity out of an emotion as meaningless as love… 

…The Watcher in the Dark sees this mortal, a frail flame against the inky dark. 

It will see it snuffed out. In time.

The End… For Now

@yharnam-everchase

@sputnstuff

EXT – HUNTER’S DREAM NIGHT TIME

The Doll stares serenely at the flora of the Hunter’s Dream as peace and quiet takes over the area and not a single peep, not even from Gherman who sleeps near the large tree, is heard from anywhere. But the serene silence doesn’t last longer as a large beastly roar is heard from the tombstones. The doll stands up and heads over to check who just arrived and she sees a human wearing a leather outfit with a cape, but their face is one of a human with large fangs and large and unkept hair, looking more like they’re turning into a feral beast. Their right hand is carrying a claw-like weapon and the left is a proper beast-like claw. A growling expression covers their face as drool comes out of the seemingly angry beast-like hunter. The Doll cautiously approaches the Hunter calmly.

DOLL: Welcome home, Good Hunter.

The Beast-like Hunter stares at the Doll and calms themself down, if slightly, at her sight. They approach her carefully and start to smell her like a beast would. The Doll attempts to pet their head but quickly withdraws her hand when they look at her hand.

DOLL: You look different, What happened to you?

A question that is unfortunately left unanswered as the Hunter is seemingly unable to answer due to their now beastly appearance. They do however, grab the Doll’s hand, smelling it for a bit. The Doll, despite the emotionless expression, seems to sound weirded out by the beast’s behaviour.

DOLL: So you wish for me to channel the echoes into you?

The Beast-like Hunter looks at the Doll, it seems like they understood what she said as they kneel down while holding her hand with their beastly hands. The Doll is still unsure about the state of her hunter.

DOLL: Very well, then close your eyes and…

The Doll pauses, is it really a good idea to give this hunter the strength of the echoes? They seem long lost. Should she get Gherman and have him take their life? But so far, the Hunter has yet to so anything that warrant the need to get old hunter. She sighs and covers the beast’s hand with both of her own.

DOLL: Very well, let the echoes become your strength. Let me stand close, now shut your eyes.

The Beast-like Hunter does what they’re told and a bright shine emanates from the Doll’s hands as the echoes are channelled onto them. As the shine dissipates, the Hunter’s grip tightens around the Doll’s hands.

DOLL: Good Hunter, you can let me go, I have finished…

She is interrupted by the sound of many things breaking, namely her fingers. The Beast-like Hunter’s grip was too tight to her, so much so they didn’t knew their own strength and it ended up shattering their beloved Doll’s hands. The grip is released, and the Doll stares at the damage done and at a hunter who looks like they realised that they’d messed up.

DOLL: This is… unfortunate.

The Beast-like Hunter starts to whimper sadly, like a dog who realised its mistake. The Doll pays no mind to the damage and pats their head with the broken hand.

DOLL: I don’t know what you have received in your hunts, but it seems like you need more time to control your new found strength.

The Beast-like Hunter lets the Doll pet them, still looking sad that they hurt someone, but the Doll’s willingness to forgive them seems to have eased their regrets.

DOLL: At the very least you seem to have realised your mistake. Many hunters have come and gone from the Dream and used me as they’d see fit. You are still among the ones that were kind to me. I know that because your sad eyes are honest.

The Beast-like Hunter looks at the Doll’s eyes, getting back up and caressing her hair, still looking regretful of their actions.

DOLL: I will be alright. Please don’t worry about me and carry on your hunt.

The Beast-like Hunter looks dawn for a few seconds, reflecting for a few seconds before suddenly hugging the Doll. But this hug felt more controlled, at the very least they’re managing their strength better as the Doll isn’t on the verge of shattering. She however, remains emotionless about the hug, not even hugging back.

DOLL: I appreciate the gesture Good Hunter, but now you need to return to your duties. And I shall await your return for when you need echoes to be channelled.

But the Beast-like Hunter refuses to release the hug.

DOLL: If you’re apologising then know that you are forgiven. Now go on, the night doesn’t last long.

But the Beast-like Hunter refuses to release the hug.

DOLL: Please… Release me this instant.

The Beast-like Hunter finally releases the hold and lets out a soft growl as their beastly left hand caresses the Doll’s face.

DOLL: I will be fine my Good Hunter.

But the Beast-like Hunter still feels regretful about its excessive use of its newfound strength. The Doll raises her broken hand and caresses them back.

DOLL: Please don’t cry for me, I will be fine.

The Beast-like Hunter’s eyes look at the floor, however, the Doll has their head turn back to her.

DOLL: Sadness doesn’t fit you, Good Hunter.

They nod as their hand touch the Doll’s, gently this time. The Doll seems unperturbed by that action, despite the state her hand was left in. The Beast-like Hunter, lowers the Doll’s hand from their face, finally ready to return to their hunt, as their face gets a more determined look.

DOLL: Do come back.

The Beast-like Hunter grins before kneeling onto a gravestone and disappearing from the Dream. The Doll stares for a few seconds before returning to the flower garden of the dream, looking over at the peaceful flora, where silence sets back in for another while. The Doll then smiles as she looks at the moon.

DOLL: O flora, of the moon, of the dream. O little ones, O fleeting will of the ancients. Let the hunter be safe, let them find comfort.

@theschneckenhouse

@fateoftheundead

***

THEN

“Does your mouth water, do you thirst? Do your eyes weep tears? I am but curious. You seem a marvel.”

He wasn’t sure why he had even asked these things, seeming silly in retrospect. There was something compelling about her, though…

There were a series of muted clicks as the doll touched her porcelain mask with wooden fingers. There was a wet click as she put a finger in her mouth and tapped on her ivory teeth. She withdrew the finger.

“There is little I can tell about my eyes that you cannot already see, good hunter. What is it you desire?”

***

NOW

Quite a bit, thought the hunter, who was a creature of long-suppressed appetites. In another life he was seemingly as meek and quiet as any other good citizen. It was only after coming to Yharnam and saying YES to the demon, to the darkness, did he finally give himself permission to indulge those appetites, to wear them on his sleeve, so to speak.

A faint motion of the hunter turning his head was followed by them standing gracefully from his crouched position on the flagstones. As he rose a puff of dust filled the air, but it was the reddish-brown of that which makes the roses grow and a man’s life shrink. 

The hunter shrugged out of his filthy coat, letting it fall to the ground, where it was swiftly followed by an equally filthy cap, mask, bandana, and waistcoat. Then his weapons. He stretched with an audible cracking, which sounded more appropriate for an elder. It is not the age of the wagon, thought the hunter, but the distance of its travels.

He walked to the workshop door and opened it, expecting a half-hearted greeting from the resident kook, his legs paralyzed from dotage and injury. The old man was always muttering about how he had once been a knight or assassin while clearly full of shit. Luckily, he wasn’t there, perhaps on one of his wheelchair strolls, pushed by the Doll. It was her that the hunter was most pleased to see, and was lucky to have the chance to clean up first.

Dressed now in a natty suit he had liberated from a scrivener cowering in a corner with total madness, the hunter finished freshening up at a cool basin. He wiped his wet hands on the back of the suit before leaving the workshop.

There, rolling up the hill came the Doll, as he had imagined, pushing the caretaker in his wheelchair.

“Welcome home, good hunter.”

The hunter forced himself to remember what smiling was, then performed it warmly. The Doll responded in kind.

“It is my pleasure to be home.”

“... hib hib, we flushed that beast out thicket. Peppered it. Pepper, you hear?” The old man had become distressed and his words lost all sense. 

“Good hunter, I will return to you after a moment,” said the Doll. The hunter nodded, ignoring the pleading eyes of the old caretaker. 

***

THEN

The caretaker had a name, in fact, but the hunter rarely took occasion to say it. When he had first become a hunter of beasts in service of the workshop, the hunter had been pleased to discover the old man’s modest library among the tables of gewgaws and piles of wood and metal weapons. The hunter had picked a book at random and opened it at the very beginning. It had been titled Lord William’s Light Dragoon Tactics, but that was not what the hunter had wondered about. There, on the bookplate was a stylized beehive, and beneath it: Gregoire du Fonsac. Aremorican, the hunter had speculated.

***

NOW

After a few minutes the Doll emerged from the workshop’s door, pulling it closed behind her, and seemed to glide down the walk to the hunter. She curtsied and then clasped her hands together.

The hunter could stand it no longer. He fell on his knees at the Doll’s feet and buried his head into the front of her dress, the bodice slightly warm. The hunter began to weep.

Cold fingertips rubbed the top of the hunter’s head and before long the hunter was able to release the Doll’s dress and bring himself back to standing in front of her. The hunter reached over and took the Doll’s hand, bending forward to apply a brief touch of mouth to a spot just below a lacy cuff. The Doll beamed, as much as she could within the limitations of her face’s making.

“I had despaired of your return, good hunter. Should you ever leave us forever I do not know that I could bear it.”

The hunter smiled enough for both of them. “I could never do that. What, should I walk off into the sunrise, to never be seen again? I’d sooner have a leg lopped off.”

“Come with me, good hunter. I gave Gregory a paregoric and he sleeps. Shall we…”

“Sleep? I must admit that I too am exhausted. The night has been long, and I see no end in sight.”

“Then let me make you kaldi tea and brandy, and we can spend a sweet hour before you are called back again.”

The hunter followed the Doll back into the workshop where she firmly sat him down in a stout armchair by the fire. Its comfort was exquisite despite the company- du Fronsac sat across from him, mercifully asleep. The hunter contented himself with staring into the flames while the Doll made a pleasantly domestic racket in the other room. The flames… he stirred in the hunter a strange feeling. 

The hunter noticed momentarily how close the old man was to the fire. “Du Fronsac!” His hiss did nothing to wake the caretaker, and neither did a sharp kick at the chair. The snoring continued.

Such a dangerous thing, fire, partially tamed by man, made useful in any number of ways. Still, not perfectly tame, as one might understand by example of the cow who kicked a lantern over in a manger. Then, man had turned fire back towards danger intentionally, attested to by the auto-da-fe, the Salonik fire that sunk entire navies in antiquity, or… The hunter had a momentary memory of the burning hair of beasts, the fatback smell of those who were almost beast. He chased it away with a glug of brandy as the Doll returned with a mug of the kaldi tea. 

She stood by the hunter, rubbing the back of his neck in a strange but soothing lemniscate pattern. Her ministrations and the kaldi tea alike were comforting but eventually he felt invigorated.

“I must go, for now. Here… I forgot this. It is for you.” This was a little ritual of theirs, where he’d pretend to have forgotten a gift for the Doll. He handed over a tiny cloisonne snuffbox he had found in a deserted Yharnam manor. Her face was never prone to strong emotion but the faint smile there now was as valuable as any trinket. As she wondered over the box he stripped down to his small clothes.

“Good hunter… such a gift. So beautiful. I am but a plain doll, unworthy but to serve you.”

“You are more than worthy. You are more than a doll, to me.” He turned to go, for if he lingered any longer he would not leave. “Move du Fronsac away from the fire- I think he is smoldering.”

Once outside the hunter retrieved the pile of hunting garb he’d left. Holding his nose, he slipped into them, hefted his weapons, and left then to go to work.

***

THEN

The hunter had not always been a hunter, of course. He’d been born in Flammenturm, had become an engineer at the royal college, and like so many others had contracted an ailment and gone to Yharnam to seek succor and fortune. He’d had no trouble with the latter, falling into a rough crowd who needed a keen mind and hands to perform some skullduggery- disarming traps, cracking safes, and the like. The former had been a little more difficult.

He had taken a job at a seminary as an engineer and factotum, which would give him privileged access to any potential cure. That took time away from his criminal brothers, but then something happened to shake up everything.

The plague of illness had become a plague of beasts. The hunt began.

All hands had been called on deck and anyone with any particular skill set, or aptitude for violence was conscripted. He had both. The young man- now the hunter- had drunk from a chalice, sworn an oath, and sent to some dreamlike crack in the wall of reality. That was where he had met the Doll.

***

NOW

The hunter set foot on the threshold of the workshop’s open door, passing the old man in his chair, asleep but restless. He was unsure of the caretaker’s role, the more he thought about it. He seemed useless, but perhaps the hunter too had seemed useless once. The hunter forgot all about it when he had taken a stride into the workshop. The Doll was waiting for him, her hands pursed neatly. 

“Good hunter, there is a fire in your eyes.”

He had a fire in his brain, and after the slaying of some ghoulish giants earlier, he’d had an inspiring thought. The thoughts of a madman, perhaps. 

“You once told me that du Fronsac is the caretaker of this place. If he is the caretaker, then let him fulfill his office. He should be able to do his duty without us.” His throat seized with emotion. “Come away with me.”

“With you? Where should we go?” The Doll’s face was inscrutable but it bore no trace of the slight smile he’d come to love. “I am but a doll. Man made me, and I know only to serve. Many hunters have come, and many have gone.” She gestured towards the outside.

There was a graveyard in that direction. Though it was a tiny plot, the hunter had tried counting headstones but was unable to ever finish.

“I am but a hunter, it is true. I was not always so, and with good fortune I shall not be forever. I would never be able to without you. You are more a woman than any I have ever known.”

“I do love you, my hunter. But is that not how I was made to feel?” There was pity in her voice, or something very like it. “I will always be here for you, to embolden your spirit.”

The hunter sighed, and stared at her face. It bore that familiar smile, as if he had never disturbed her with his request. He reached into his waistcoat and retrieved something, then handed it to the Doll.

“I almost forgot. I found this for you.” He pressed it into her hands and she held it up to look at it. A small hair ornament, unadorned with filigrees or stones, but beautiful in its simplicity. He thought it might go well with the Doll’s fair hair. The Doll gasped, and the hunter moved closer, taking the ornament and placing it gently on her head. She sighed deeply and with his face close to hers, he saw a single teardrop fall onto the lace at her breast, where it continued to glitter. 

“What… I… Good hunter, I do not know this feeling.” Her breath had quickened. “I feel as if I am someone else. I wonder at what she feels. Is this desire? Is this joy?”

“You bear a resemblance to one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. A striking resemblance. But she is a pale imitation of you, my Doll. You are you.”

The Doll clutched her hands to her chest as if in pain. “The woman… she yearns. I yearn. Good hunter…” 

The hunter reached out to grab her hips and lifted her into the air, pulling her close. Her layered skirts crept up enough for her to wrap her legs around him as if she was trying not to fall.

“I have you, dear one. I have you.” She held him close, pushing her porcelain face into his shoulder. “Should you wish…” She nodded, and he carried her into the bedroom.

***

THEN

The hunter was sometimes stuck in the workshop as he recuperated from some mortal wound or the other. During the times he was alone he pillaged du Fronsac’s library, both for a mental diversion and to solve the mystery of the old man’s presence there in the strange dream. There were books of natural philosophy, tactics and strategy, and occult topics such as witch-cults and Pthumerian atavisms. So the caretaker had been a soldier, an explorer, an inquisitor? The hunter had amused himself by letting his imagination exercise itself upon the mystery. 

One thing about du Fronsac was definite: he was a libertine.

There was an entire shelf of books on every salacious topic one could think of. A volume of a collected dramaturgy about some lusty maid of distant Aragon. The works of the infamous Barone du Salo. More fascinating, the old man was not just a collector- he had even authored a series of pamphlets on the arts of seduction. 

In the back of one of these books- some sort of ribald journal-  the hunter found a set of technical diagrams that disturbed him more and more as he realized their purpose. On top of whatever else he was, the caretaker was clearly a talented amateur artisan. The diagrams iterated more and more, refining the operation and appearance of their subject. Seeking a perfect form and perfected utility? Du Fronsac was clearly suffering from some kind of mania. 

The hunter replaced the diagrams where he had found them, struggling not to ball them up in his fist and throw them on the fire. He had looked outside then, where the caretaker was babbling inaudibly. A brief thought crossed the hunter’s mind, of grabbing a Carthian khopesh from the workshop’s wall of arms, walking over to du Fronsac and putting him out of his misery. 

He thought of the Doll and tucked the murderous intent away in his mind, where it would continue to seethe for a long time.

***

NOW

The hunter awoke in his bed, from a deep and peaceful sleep. He was warm and peaceful and exhausted. The night had rendered him happier and more relaxed than he had been since he’d left Flammenturm. Perhaps happier than he had ever been.

Recalling more of last night’s events as he continued to awake, the hunter smiled. The Doll had moaned the name of the moon, called out to Oedon, and panted some soft yet desperate sounds into his neck. 

He felt as sessile as a postprandial glutton, though he had pursued a different vice in the night. The hunter sat up after a moment of reverie and put his hand on the Doll’s shoulder, hoping to stir her into wakefulness. His motion turned her towards him, where she settled limply onto her back.

The Doll was dead.

The hunter’s mind was now empty. It seemed to bring on a curious fugue where the previous moment of terror drifted as if covered by a fleece. He could think of nothing for some indeterminate time, before he stopped his listless pacing and sat again on the bed, looking at the lifeless form that had been his Doll.

Not knowing what else to do, the hunter examined the body with his engineer’s eye. 

Her feet were wooden, as were her hands. It was delicate craftsmanship for parts with such demanding and continuous operation. The hunter lifted one leg by the ankle- where the porcelain terminated at a joint, there was a telltale abrasion, where the parts had rubbed before being tipped with resilin gaskets. That was an improvement that had occurred in one of the technical diagrams. 

The hunter stretched the doll’s arms out, revealing the same condition at every joint. He examined her chest, impressed with the craftsmanship in a clinical way that would have been impossible during their assignation last night. The curves of her body were delicate, in comparison to the lewd caricatures of some of du Fronsac’s books. They had been created with a mathematical hand, and the diagrams suggested that the old man’s hand had improved steadily. 

He inspected the rest of the Doll dispassionately. More curves and joints, a staggering amount of detail- hip joints, a navel, and the rest- she even had a womb. The diagrams had made that clear, but du Fronsac’s journal mercifully revealed that he had never taken advantage as he would have pleased.

The hunter tucked the Doll’s arms across her chest and covered her with the blanket. He rose, still unclothed, grabbing the first weapon he saw on the wall, and strode outside. 

“Ahh, dearest Raul, they’re all dead. Dead, dead… ohh, the misfortune.” The old man rasped out more of his nonsense. The hunter cut du Fronsac’s throat, almost severing his head. Dropping the blade, he shuddered in place, losing himself to madness, to a mania, to a derangement… He stood there, quivering and muttering, until he heard a faint footstep behind him. The hunter turned drunkenly.

There was the Doll, with the blanket wrapped around her shoulders and otherwise how he had left her.

“Ahh, good hunter. I must have drifted off. What is it you desire?”

***

THEN

The hunter sometimes thought very deeply about who he was. His appetites- for violence or otherwise, and suppressed or unleashed. As a youth he’d heard the coarsest of opinions on love. Whether from Heidean mercenaries, or university proctors, or landed gentry- the opinion on what a man was and how he should seize his fortune and his desires was monolithic. They spoke of cash and rare tomes and tracts of land, while in the same breath they spoke of their women as if chattel. While the hunter might have affected this attitude to get along, he had never believed in such things. 

Every bit of these experiences, his life, whether in expertise or ignominy, feast or famine… they built up a foundation of the tower he called his identity. Was it a solid foundation? Could it topple?

It was only in moments where the hunt had lulled and he gazed out over Yharnam that he could entertain such bizarre self-reflection. He would have felt a fool otherwise. 

But what kind of man chooses this city and its hunt and its dreams? 

A fool.

***

NOW

The hunter was indeed a fool. 

In shock, he’d pushed the wheelchair and its silent occupant as far into the neighboring field of flowers as he could, before returning to the workshop. He’d thought to grab a spade and bury the old man but before he could, the Doll- now clothed in her usual attire- handed him such an implement without any show of distress, smiling faintly.

The hunter returned to the field and dug as deep a grave as he could, before dumping du Fronsac’s corpse into it and unceremoniously covering it over with earth.

Walking back to the workshop, he had to wonder- what now? He sensed that perhaps the foundation of the dream itself might be held up as if the old man was some tenuous pillar. That pillar was gone and the hunter truly could not imagine what would happen next. 

The doll curtsied as he approached. She did not give any sign that the events of the night had happened at all, and was as friendly and sweet-natured as ever. The hunter did not know what to do. He felt lost- as if he had woken up in a strange and distant country, or as if he had returned to a home that no longer resembled the one he had left.

He really was a fool, to think the things he had thought, to believe that his wants and his deeds were unique. Would he be able to finish du Fronsac’s work, make it become his own and perfect the Doll? What would that look like? Countless hunters had passed through this place. He was no different, and would lie beneath one of those countless tombstones before long. In the moment, however, he could think only one thing to ameliorate the crushing weight of his failure.

The hunter knelt before the Doll.

“I forgot, I have something for you.”  He held it up to her, as if in supplication. She looked at the tiny glittering jewel that had once been a single tear of what might have been a tear of joy.  The doll pushed his hand down and cradled his head, pulling him tight against the bodice of her dress, before stroking his hair. He wept uncontrollably, his body wracked with sobs. 

“Fret not, good hunter. All hunters will find their worth in the waking world.” She looked down at him with the faintest smile and spoke with a pleasant whisper.

“My good hunter. My sweet Gehrman.”

@bornetoblood

@palepious

As the moon hung low and blood-red over the city, the good hunter understood what old Djura had said. Indeed, it were people they had hunted. Just as they were being hunted now. Perhaps deservedly so. Their own ragged gasps for breath almost drowned out the distant ringing of a small silver bell coming closer and ever closer.

The song had started subconsciously. A subtle melody at the back of their mind, ever beckoning and so, so sweet. Perhaps they had listened a little too keenly one or two times. Perhaps they had indulged, the blood had smelled so tempting. In the moonlight, it didn't even look like blood.

And once they had leaped, they dove right in and just let themselves sink to the bottom.

If sin had a flavor, surely it would have been that tangent and irony taste that enveloped their very being and soothed every ache in their body. Before they knew it, their glove had been licked clean. Yet their desire was nowhere near sated. A part of them had known that they had crossed the line, that there was no turning back now. That this was wrong. Still, the rest of them didn't care. It craved more.

Eileen had found them like that. Hunched over their preys' cadaver, mask pooling on their neck while they gorged themselves on the beast's blood. She had said something then, probably something about the hunter having lost their way or not being better than a beast now. Though they couldn’t hear her. It was all just muffled noise, drowned out by the song calling them to act. To attack.

The two hunters exchanged blows only briefly. One of them all bloodthirsty rage and careless violence while the other practically danced around them. Striking only when her target left itself open. Which it did more often than not. Quickly the good hunter's rage blew over into fear, they knew that they could not win this. If they kept this up, Eileen would scatter their guts over the cobblestone and then continue hunting them down again and again until they did not dream any longer.

So they ran. Not unlike some beasts that realized they were overpowered, they barreled down the alley. Pushing and pulling things into their executioners way, anything to get away from her and her cold blades. She called after them. Probably telling them that there was no escape, that she would find them anyway. But they couldn’t tell anymore. It was all just noise.

But now here they were, hopelessly holding onto the filthy bricks of a run-down house's wall in an attempt to remain upright. Saliva dripped out of their open mouth and pooled with the hunter's blood at their feet. The surrounding air was pungent with the scent of their own blood, dripping steadily out of the many cuts Eileen had graced them with in their short exchange. In their haze, the hunter didn’t even feel the miserable state their body was in. There was only the song spurring them to continue on. To run, to feast.

The hunters' breath came in pathetic wheezes as they straightened and attempted to continue running. They had remained long enough, and Eileen was gaining on them. Their attempt was short-lived, as only three steps away from the wall their leg gave out under them, and they fell face first onto the jagged cobblestone. Their cleaver clattered out of their hand and out of reach.

“Look at that. Can’t even hold onto your own things anymore.” The huntress in the black crow's garb almost casually strolled around the street corner. “Come on now, it’s over. Lay back. No need to fight anymore.”

On instinct, the hunter rolled around and tried grasping at their cleaver. Though that plan was exceptionally short-lived as something sharp and cold pierced through their lower back, accompanied by the flutter of feathers and cloth.

“I said lay back. It’s over.”

Finally giving in, the hunter rolled back onto their back, hands splayed out beside their head. Wordlessly, they started up at the faceless crow mask above them. The song was growing ever louder, but in this final moment of clarity, the hunter resisted. If only that were laying still and accepting their fate.

“Pity. I had hopes in you” In a flash of silver the blade went down, effortlessly tearing through the hunter's garb, skin, and flesh. They spasmed shortly, gave a final bloody death rattle, then stilled.

Eileen wordlessly pulled her blade out of their dimly glowing body, wiped the blood on their garb, and watched as the hunter's body fell apart into small silver glowing particles. As it was usual with hunters of the dream. They would return. Whether they would be cured of the madness or still soiled by it, she did not know. But she would not tempt fate to find out.

The hunter's dream looked the same as ever. Clear gray sky illuminated by a false full moon, the little hut crowning the hill in the center with the doll standing at the foot of the stairs leading up to it. Cobblestone dug into their cheek and hands, the way it always did whenever they awoke again. Really, it was all the way it usually was. But it didn't feel like that.

Before, the dream had spread a calming veil over the Aftershock of death. Made it harder to remember the pain and stifle the fear of heading out again.

But not this time. No, the hunter felt each cut and bruise as if it still lingered on their body. Their heart was still beating with agitation as adrenaline pumped through their body.

In a haze, they got to their feet and aimlessly stumbled around the dream.

The soothing melody that had played in their mind on and on whenever they were in the dream was missing. In its place was the same siren song that had called them to devour their prey. To hunt more.

It was quieter now than it had been in Yharnam, they could almost think clearly. But no matter how much they tried distracting themselves by going through their usual dream motions on autopilot, it was still there. They could hear Gehrmans heartbeat from where he sat in the garden. Could smell the blood rushing through his veins. How easy it would be to ambush and overwhelm him. To just rip him apart and devour every piece of him.

A cold hand laid itself on their shoulder, holding onto them as the hunter flinched away from the unsuspected touch. “Forgive me, good hunter. You seemed to be unwell. Is everything alright?” The doll tilted her head to the side as she spoke, imitating genuine concern. The hunter just shook their head, then nodded vigorously, speaking was harder than it was supposed to.

“I’m well. The night has been too long, and I got lost in thought. Worry not.” The doll nodded slowly, closing her eyes as she did. As she moved, something shifted within her. Some sort of liquid flowing from one part to another. How had the hunter not noticed it before? That the doll was alive, that she had blood pumping through her porcelain body? No, this wasn’t blood, but it beckoned just as sweetly.

From the movement on her face, the hunter reckoned that she was speaking to them again. Only for her voice to be drowned out by the now ever swelling melody coming from within her. Her insides, her blood begging to be revealed to the air. To be devoured by the hunter. Hard shell and everything.

“Doll? I’m sorry to interrupt you, but-” She smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes, it never did.

“Don’t apologize, what is the matter, good hunter?”

They shifted, anxiety and eagerness to pounce crashing against each other in their chest. This was wrong. When had the doll done anything to deserve this? They needed to leave, leave the dream, and seek out Eileen. She would cure, set them right. Again and again, until the dream would not bring them back again.

Then again, the doll wasn’t alive. She wouldn’t mind. She would delight in the joy she was bringing them. That was what she always said, wasn’t it?

“I would like to channel some blood echos. I had some left over in clots from before I was sent back…” As always, she smiled, took their right hand in hers as she got to her knees. As she knelt, the sound of the flowing liquid burned in the hunter's ears once again.

And it was oh too much.

She didn’t even have time to retract her hands when the hunter pulled the trigger of their gun. Without resistance, the bullet shattered her cheek and cracked open the back of her head.

The hunter watched with horror as they cracked the poor doll open with their cleaver and splatter the milky iridescent liquid inside of her across the cobblestone. Distantly, they heard Gehrman call out. Ask what was going on, if everything was alright. They wanted to scream that it wasn’t. That they had lost control of themselves, succumbed to the beastly scourge. That he should end them somehow. Sever them from the dream.

But they couldn’t. They could only watch as their own body began licking whatever had been inside the doll off the cobblestone. All control over themselves was lost, and only a primal thirst burned them from inside out. Had Gascoigne felt like this as well in the end? Locked out of himself and unable to control himself anymore?

A Dozen of shrapnel pieces dug into their side and hurled them over the cobblestone. “My. A pity. I didn’t think you could go bad even in here.” Perhaps he had heard them scream. Somehow. Gehrman was standing over them. Standing. On a peg leg. A giant scythe leaning on his shoulder.

“No matter. A rotten hunter is no better than no hunter at all. Rest now. Bow your head and accept the end. You’ve done enough.”

They snarled where they wanted to thank him. Where they wanted to kneel down and offer themselves, end this nightmare, the hunter got to their feet to launch themselves at him. Not that it mattered. Gehrman was so much faster than they anticipated, and his blade so much colder.

It took less than a minute for their body to lie next to the shattered form of the doll. Equally, broken. Slowly but surely, their form turned translucent, then fell apart into dust. Yes. He must have heard their cries for help. Perhaps he would hear their gratitude as well.

“Good riddance. Just look what they did to you…” Gehrman awkwardly knelt down and picked up a piece that had formerly made up the doll's face. He paid no mind to the hunters' corpse behind him. The moon presence would surely find another fitting candidate to throw into this dream to fill their place soon enough. “Ah, it will take a bit to put you back together again. But don’t you worry, dear, I will fix you right back up.”

@aliennotperson

@mrslittletall (me, the mun)

As expected, the hunter was using the doll as the tool that she was.

Gehrman had been in the dream for so long that it was no problem for him to hide his presence. The hunter had no clue that he was watching them whenever they came back to the dream. He had only shown himself to them once, at the beginning and since then he had been in hiding.

(Though there was the possibility that the hunter was seeing him while he slept, but Gehrman had never woken up with them at his side.)

Currently the hunter was using the doll as intended, by channeling the collected blood echoes to gain further strength. For any outsider, it would look adorable, with the hunter on their knees and taking the doll's hand while she did her part. Gehrman knew the truth. It was just a soulless task being executed by a soulless thing. A thing that only could move because a Great One had brought it to “life”.

Why was it then that the hunter looked at the doll with such an adoring look? Didn't they get that the doll was not able to feel? She sometimes claimed to be able to love the hunters that visited the dream, but Gehrman knew better. All her feelings were just mimicked, she wasn't truly alive. She was just a doll.

The sooner the hunter realised that, the better.

Unable to look at the scene any longer, Gehrman wheeled his wheelchair away. It made memories stir inside of him... memories that he rather would be left forgotten.

The memories still came to haunt him though. In his dreams. Gehrman was not able to stave off the need to sleep forever... and it had even become worse with his old age. Eventually, he would fall asleep and then he would dream...

It had been perfect at first. The start of the Healing Church. It was just him, Laurence, Micolash and Maria. He considered all of them dear friends but Maria he had fallen in love with... and eventually, she had reciprocated his feelings, if only just for a little while...

During this time Gehrman had been truly and completely happy. He left the inner workings of the church to Laurence and the science to both Laurence and Micolash while he and Maria went into the tombs to find more of the holy medium as well as them fighting the beasts that escaped from them, all in the shadow of the night so that nobody would know of how dangerous Yharnam was during their hunts...

It could have been like this forever... until everything slowly was falling apart. Humans were turning into beasts... and there was no other way than to slay them, because there was no cure, regardless of how much Laurence researched. They had to recruit more and more Hunters all while they had to fight against both the beastly scourge and the danger of becoming drunk on the blood... the holy medium that brought Yharnam prosperity started to feel like a curse, but Gehrman knew he had to rely on it or he would stand no chance against any beast.

He had slain countless beasts, so many of them, and never thought about the fact that they once had been human... but Maria...

She eventually couldn't stomach it anymore and that was what Gehrman saw in his dream. It had been the first of many arguments which eventually ended in their relationship breaking apart like a mirror... He had not been willing to listen to her, convinced they were doing the right thing while Maria tried to convince him that this was all wrong.

It was too late now... far too late... All he could do was watch his younger self shouting at Maria, watching as the scene broke apart into shards and as it did, his younger self turned into the Hunter and Maria turned into the doll, and they looked so shocked when it happened... when eventually they had to realize the doll would not be able to...

Gehrman awoke from his dream, feeling tears on his cheeks. So they hadn't all dried off... he was surprised he still had tears to shed, after waiting for... for a very long time. He still held out hope that Laurence would come to free him eventually... just what was taking him so long...

His thoughts were interrupted by a voice, the voice of the doll... why did she have to sound so much like Maria. She was not Maria and never would be. The doll that Gehrman had built in his grief... she just wore her face, but that was all that she had from Maria, the rest was... just a tool to be used, a tool created by the will of the Great One.

Gehrman was about to vanish so as not to have to see the Hunter's tender look at the doll while she channelled their blood echoes, but the words of the doll stopped him.

“Tell me hunter, could this be joy?”

Gehrman's eyes widened when he saw what enticed the doll to say this word. A small hair ornament. It had been ages since he had last seen it... it had been him that crafted it. It was supposed to be a gift to Maria, as an apology after their biggest fight... but before he had been able to give it to her, she had been found dead, slain by her own hand. Gehrman had never managed the doll with it, so he had thrown it away... only to find its way to the doll anyway.

She was not Maria. She clearly was not and never would be, but... there was something happening with the doll that he didn't understand. As he didn't understand why the Hunter tried so hard to win her favour... she would always be of service to any Hunter who came to the dream. And still...

Still the Hunter insisted on being nice to her, to give her gifts, talking to her, keeping her company. They did more than just use her as a tool... and maybe, if they really wanted to, they could stay here with her forever...

Gehrman was lost in his thoughts for a long while before he came to a decision. He couldn't do it. He could not doom the Hunter to his fate. Eventually, his relationship with the doll would break apart once they realized she was not able to feel love in the same way a human did.

He made his way to the flower field. He uttered one single thing to the doll, the only thing he said to her nowadays.

“Tell them to meet me by the flower fields.”

It was there where Gehrman would free them from the dream. They should not take his place. They shouldn't feel the same heartbreak as him. And if they would pick a fight with him, he would show them that he wasn't retired yet.

And thus, Gehrman waited for the Hunter to arrive.

@shadowsheik14

[creepysora]

THE YHARNAM MISSIVE - CHAPTER 2: AMUSE-GUEULE

Chapters: 2/8 Fandom: Bloodborne (Video Game) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Chapter 2 is up and go! I hope everyone is ready for the forest trip to go real bad real fast!

Specific triggers for this specific chapter can be found in the tags and in the chapter notes!

Journal of [ ], Parish Constable Captain

October 4th. Sky hangs low with clouds; we might get caught in rain later this day. Thick fog covered the forest this morning, so dense even on the fields at the forest’s edge that I could barely see 3 meters ahead. I suspect that, should I have moved into the forest proper, I soon would have been unable to see even my own hand stretched out in front of me. Men were restless, with some reporting hearing voices from the woods. Those who are not familiar with the wilderness may not be used to its sounds, and Michał and I both suspect that this unfamiliarity might be at play here. Told them to take heart and remember their training, their tasks, and their valor. Dogs appear nervous too, barking and snarling at the trees hidden by fog, growling at shadows. Calming them delayed us, but it is all in the interest of avoiding unnecessary risks. These canines may trust us, but I do not wish to see them act in a moment of panic and attack either us or the horses. We moved into the woods around midday in hopes of waiting out the fog, but it remains as ghostly wisps. Visibility improved, but is not ideal. 

Addendum, evening of October 5th: Heavy rain started soon enough. The canopies protect us from the worst of it. The wet forest ground should be ideal for tracking down the game. Two of the horses have been swaying the further we go, their gait unsteady and their nostrils foamy. Upon inspection, all horseshoes are still attached and in good condition, and we could find no signs of obvious illness or injury. I have sent Constables Vìtek and Lukas back with the horses to have them sheltered at one of the farms for further examination and rest. The men will catch up with us as soon as they are able to, following our tracks. We continue onwards with 3 horses, 78 men, 24 hounds, 8 sight-dogs, and 8 dogues. 

October 8th. The rain has not let up. The canopy offers no shelter to us anymore. The soil is soaked, the underbush is soaked, our boots and uniforms are soaked. Every evening and every morning, the fog is dense and heavy around us. We move through the shrouds slowly. The smell of wet dogs permeates everything, even the food. There have been no signs of the wolves yet. Constables Vìtek and Lukas have not rejoined us. My adjutant has suggested that they may be waiting out the storm. Ground is unexpectedly swampy, and getting harder to move through. Water quality low. We boil what we take, but the wetness is impeding our ability to start fires. If this weather continues, it is only a matter of time until sickness befalls all of us. Constable Andrzej found a dead snake, species unknown. Drawing attached. 

October 8th, addendum. The snake was not dead. Lost Constables Andrzej, Yannis and Gregor to snake nest. Snakes produce venom. 

CONTINUED ON AO3

[subzeroparade]

My turn to add to the parade of Bloodborne asks

So, you've discussed the other Byrgenwerth scholars rather extensively to this point, but how exactly does Micolash factor into the founding of the Healing Church, if at all? I always read the School of Mensis as a sort of proto-Choir that steadily drifted off of the main institution. However, given the hints you have dropped (in Litanies and elsewhere) that Micolash and Laurence were not on the best terms, what exactly do you think happened? And if the School is unrelated to the Church in your opinion, what differences did Micolash have from Willem that forced him to leave?

Okay I had to think about this one for a minute, because I still don’t have a solid hc for how it went down - though I’d like to shape one just cause it would make great narrative material for a fic. I feel like I need to sit down with a School of Mensis lore video or something for a refresher - but for my own personal hc I absolutely maintain that:

Laurence and Micolash were contemporaries at Byrgenwerth, though a few years apart. I also truly think they would have hated each other (for all the pettiest, most inconsequential reasons. When shit went down in my graduate department it wasn’t cause folks fundamentally disagreed on questions of research or methodologies - it was just whining over resources and favouritism. Who was on what panel of what conference; and who was usurping too much of such-and-such prof’s time; and whose travel research got funded for all the wrong reasons etc etc. Unstoppably petty.) I love the idea of Micolash constantly snapping at Laurence’s heels, sabotaging his research and trying to undercut his credibility in the trolliest of ways. Essentially being one of those people who asks a question after a conference paper but it’s not really a question, it’s a seven-minute soliloquy on what they think about the subject. Ironically I think Micolash is that guy, and not Laurence. 

Since you’ve read Litanies you also know that I think the discovery of Kos was a kind of epiphany for Micolash, but I don’t think it’s something he acted on immediately (as a young scholar still tied too tightly to Byrgenwerth). But I like the idea that Micolash would have come, much later, to the Healing Church - only when it garnered enough resources and renown, or once the Choir was established as its own “division”.  (Before that, he’d have stayed at Byrgenwerth and published scathing reviews and salty journal articles criticising the Church’s research, haha). He could’ve come and stuck around long enough to 1) observe the Choir’s work and take anything of value, information or otherwise, and 2) foment resentment and undermine the Church’s goals/methods enough that a group of scholars would willingly align themselves with his ideas and, eventually, break off in a hostile manner from the Church. This could’ve happened over a decade, for example - maybe some of these scholars saw the writing on the wall when the side effects of blood ministration began to show, or with the repeated failures of the Choir to achieve ascension, and they were like, you know what, fuck it - maybe this singularly weird sleep-deprived grimy noodle of a man is right; give me a cage on my head and let's explore the cosmos via drug-induced lucid dreaming. Boom, Mensis becomes its own independent institution and inflames already-hostile relations with the Choir/Church.

This is very nebulous but feel free to slide into my DMs if you want to speculate further. Here’s another sullen eyebrow-toting Byrgenwerth-era Mico for your time.