#also this ofc follows my perception of the hunters and the hamlet

[karekuat]

Call of the Witch

I did a short creative writing piece from the perspective of my Bloodborne OC. If you don't know much about Bloodborne lore it probably won't make much sense, but it follows my character from the Hamlet as he's sealed asleep.

I don't tend to write a lot, and I'm not like super confident in my writing but I'm okay with how it turned out so I figured I'd post it cuz why not

Headsup warning that this ofc involves some of my headcanons/interpretations of the Bloodborne Lore

I slumbered…

I watched them through their nightmares. It was the only place I could open my eyes. See, nightmares tend to mirror the reality, with the fine details only being slightly warped by fear and greed. I understood the world as it had progressed around me, and there was a deep burning inside my heart. 

It seemed sickening to me, that there was a clear double standard nobody living within the wretched city of Yharnam dared to confront. That the monsters they purged every night on the hunt were treated the same as the ones who live in hamlets far away. For them it was a disease, the mistake of filthy intemperance made manifest under the guise of faith, and for us it was a blessing, it brought abundance and life. And yet, in the eyes of the envious, our monsters were the same as theirs. 

Perhaps I am being too inconsiderate. 

Over the years I have watched the hunters evolve over generations, from scholars to priests, and I have only seen the same cycle of abuse as Yharnam matured into the hell it is today. The vilebloods, Kos rest their soul, struggle to keep their kind alive as they hide in the shadows. Their Queen lies eternally imprisoned. Yharnamites both poor and wealthy succumb to the illness, victims of the institution dedicated to their health. There are only a handful of souls who I’ve found carrying within them a sense of justice, who see with eyes unclouded by faith and fortune.

When I watch them, I smell smoke and gunpowder. I feel the fear of slow poison and the warmth of flames. Their monsters are their people. It reminds me of home. 

I called out…

For the first time in what felt like decades, the burning felt bright. I could almost feel my body again. There was a man amongst these smoke-scented hunters who’s mind felt balanced. He was not opposed to violence as a means of justice, not unlike the others, but he carried within him a sense of morality and soulful strength that was… Different.

I called to him. Gentle. He would not hear my voice in the way he’d think his own thoughts, he was not the first person I’d spoken to in this state. Others had perceived me like a song they’d never heard before, or the sound of rain during a clear day. He would not see me, but he would know my presence. I beckoned his thoughts when he was asleep, and I learned of him, of his family and desires. I learned his skill and his craftsmanship. 

While I’m sure he had felt offput the first few times I approached him in his dreams, as time went on it seemed almost as if he enjoyed my company during the resting hours. His mind would open to me every night in a welcoming effort to connect to my presence. I could exist comfortably in both his dreams and nightmares. He wouldn’t fight me. 

I need to wake up…

There was a lurking desperation I felt every time I sensed the moon rise. My existence in the waking world was that of darkness. My body was numb. I could not see nor use my voice. Sometimes, when I tried, I could hear the sound of rain and thunder in the hamlet outside. There was always the presence of two with me, but they were not comforting. They’d been appointed there to make sure I never woke up. 

In the beginning I had tried to beckon them in their dreams, but they’d quickly become aware of my efforts and had their allies develop new substances to keep me out. 

Those who used the substances sparingly did so because their hatred and fear outweighed their guilt. They had nightmares about me breaking loose. Waking from my forced slumber and killing them with their own sins. In their dying moments they’d watch me emerge from where they had kept me sedated: a dark cave blocked off by an intricately carved door, water flooding down into my cell. The cavern path led to the basement of a hamlet house that was boarded up from the inside. The only entrance was through a window on the second floor, and a trap laid in wait for any who dared to seek my prison.

I knew all of this because they knew all of this, and in those nightmares I would venture past the hamlet and return to Yharnam to bring vengeance to those responsible for the death of my people and Our Mother. 

It was the only time I felt peace…