#misplacedgore 2021

[misplacedgamer]

Goretober Day 1-Plague

Fandom: Bloodborne

Part 1 of 31

Read on AO3 here

"This town is cursed...Whatever can be gained from this place, it will do more harm than good."

-Gilbert

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It started slowly, as plagues often did.

It hadn’t been surprising when the illness began to crop up in Yharnam. The city being so renowned for healing meant that all manner of the sick had migrated inside, and sickness cannot help but spread. Gates had been installed throughout the city to help quarantine illnesses, but even still it was not uncommon for whole wards of the city to be closed off. Despite it all Yharnam endured-no sickness would make it crumble. The Healing Church-the pillar on which the city stood-doled out a seemingly endless supply of curative blood to keep the population healthy and satiated.

So when this new illness started, everyone assumed it would go the same way. The coughing and fever were expected, nothing to be worried over. Even the blood the patients expelled like saliva was not an uncommon sight, given the severity of illness the city had seen in the past. It would soon pass, just like every other plague that threatened to take root in Yharnam. Their blood had never failed them before, and it wouldn’t fail them now.

But whatever blood the patients secreted seemed to shine with an unknown oil, and any doctors that touched it suffered from some kind of poisonous effect. As the days went on, the patients’ minds seemed to deteriorate as well, reverting to a crazed, almost predatory state. And no matter how much blood the Church’s blood saints administered, the patients’ conditions refused to improve.

What’s worse, the infection seemed to thrive on the blood; with every vial consumed they grew more rabid, more beastial. The population was growing uneasy, refusing to believe that Yharnam was facing a sickness the Church could not cure. There was little else to do but isolate the victims with their doctors, continue treatment, and hope for the best.

They were not ready for the plague to get even worse.

The infected, bodies twisted into malformed beasts, could no longer be contained. They slaughtered their doctors, their caretakers, and any other patients unfortunate enough to be locked in the same rooms with them. Yharnam was set upon by these creatures, and the disease along with them. Countrymen were forced to take up arms against their fellow man, their friends, even their families, but it still wasn’t enough. With no other options left, the citizens turned to their Church, who designed a plan to save their precious city.

All the infected were lured to one corner of the city, and the ward was set ablaze. Old Yharnam was burnt to the ground, a small sacrifice if it meant their city could keep standing. If the disease couldn’t be purged through blood, it would be purged with fire.

The citizens leftover began to dose themselves on the blood of the Healing Church, hoping to prevent the sickness from once again taking root. The Church itself were all too happy to oblige, doling out blood like communion wine. As the people kept drinking, the hunters kept hunting, seeking out any dregs of plague that managed to escape Old Yharnam.

When the infection took hold again, the people retreated even further into their bloodlust. The Church sent casks of blood into the city as the citizens tried desperately to stave off infection, blood flowing into their mouths as the blood of beasts ran in the streets. They gained an almost manic look in their eyes as they drank, almost matching the bestial frenzy outside.

Nothing could touch them, not even this plague. They had their blood and their Church. Yharnam would not fall.

[misplacedgamer]

Goretober Day 2-Puppet

Fandom: Dark Souls III

Part 2 of 31

Read on AO3 here

"When Aldrich ruminated on the fading of the fire, it inspired visions of a coming age of the deep sea. He knew the path would be arduous, but he had no fear. He would devour the gods himself."

-Soul of Aldrich

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High above the kingdom of Lothric, secluded in the ancient halls of the old Gods, Aldrich the Devourer took in the end of the world.

He knew it would come to this. Long before he became a Lord of Cinder, he had dreamt of the oncoming darkness. It did not matter how many laid down their lives in service of the primordial First Flame; all fires were destined to go out eventually, and all of their sacrifices, including his own martyrdom, would be for nothing.

His only consolation now was that, in its own desperation to continue burning, the Flame had deemed it necessary to resurrect him. While he had once despaired in the loss of witnessing the glorious oncoming Deep, now he was given a second chance, and he would not waste it by playing the part the world has bestowed on him. No, this time he would take his rightful place as a Lord of this Age of the Deep. In order to accomplish this, his holiest of missions, he would need immeasurable power. And he knew just what to do: he would devour the Gods themselves.

Aldrich loved to take his time with his victims. The arcane power of the many souls that animated his seeping, maggot-ridden flesh had blessed him with another gift: he could slow his victim’s deaths, sustaining them on his life essence as he devoured them like a snake. He relished in their screams of agony, their shudders of pain. If he focused, he was even able to tap into their emotions, taking in their suffering like a fine wine.

He did not realize how much more exquisite a God would taste. The anguish, finely aged over the countless years, was the sweetest thing he’d consumed in ages.

As he devoured his prey, the youngest son of the great Lord Gwyn, he dreamed of all the Dark Sun had seen. If Aldrich had any pity in his heart, he would have felt for the Dark Sun Gwyndolin, a silent shadow in his father’s grand plan. A God born not with the affinity of the sun, as the rest of his family, but bathed in the light of the moon, frail and malformed in contrast to the rest of his siblings.

He saw the dissolvement of his family: his elder brother, lost even to history due to his great sin; his father, so devoted to his bygone Age of Fire that he made himself a part of the cycle, only a hollowed shell left behind; the rest of his family, fleeing the holy city of Anor Londo as the Fire continued to fade, even after their patriarch’s sacrifice, leaving only Gwyndolin behind.

But it seemed that Gwyn had seen fit to make the youngest of his brood a cog in the machine of his endless Age of Fire. Even as the power faded from Anor Londo, Gwyndolin had played his part. Tempting in countless Undead with the promise of Gwynevere’s favor, of everlasting glory if they were able to reignite the First Flame, the Dark Sun dutifully followed his Lord father’s final orders. A regiment of talented warriors were at his beck and call, ready to dole out divine vengeance to anyone that discovered the truth: that humanity were mere kindling to keep the line of Gwyn in power.

For this, Aldrich would gladly prolong his suffering, keeping Gwyndolin alive as long as possible. He had been cruelly robbed of his beautiful Deep, thrown into the First Flame without a care to keep the world turning. Now that he had refused to do it a second time, he knew more Cursed Undead would come. It seemed only fitting that the great Gwyndolin would now serve as the obstacle in their way, protecting him from the accursed Fire.

Gwyn had made the world his puppet; it served him right that his line should return the favor.