#that doesn't particularly denote the actual length of the rest of it but still GEEZ

[craniumculverin]

Crude Fortuity (part 1)

Stepping away from Alfred’s dramatics for a moment to share how he and Percy originally met - long before he happened across the doctor’s office in Yharnam.  Since I know not everyone cares for it - contains a fair amount of (my own) OCs.

This fic ended up being way longer than I intended, and a lot harder to organize than I could’ve ever thought. Cus of this it’ll be posted in parts as they’re finished, likely taking less priority over continuing with the actual storyline.

Weathered boots dig through heavy snow, crunching loudly as they find the uneven terrain below. A few snowflakes drift through the air, swirling around the towering trees that engulf the rocky base and foothills of the peaks above. It's hard to say how long the two men have been at it thanks to the cloud cover that's rolled in since the start of their trek, diffused sunlight making for a lack of shadows. Likely far too long and with too little to show for it.

The man in the lead finishes clambering up the roots of one of the ancient trees, grown into an absurd facsimile of enormous stairs over the years. “Everything about this place is absurd,” he thinks, breath puffing past chapped lips and whiskers as he continues unabated. A series of grunts float up to him as the other, slighter man makes it over the treacherous roots, followed by a curse on seeing how far ahead his partner already is. As he tries to catch up in the other's path through the snow he awkwardly goes to his knees, not for the first time this hike. He grunts as the line connected to his belt tugs him forward to faceplant him into a deep drift. Spluttering, he comes up whining. “Aaalf hold up, will you?! We’re not all giants, c’mon now!”

Alfred chuckles as he finds stable footing and turns to watch his friend catch up, taking the moment to shift his pack and a mass of ropes and cables to ease the ache in his shoulders. He huffs at the lack of relief and grimaces. Shaking globs of melting snow from his blazing curls as he nears, the shorter man reaches up to give his arm a good-natured punch. “Damn your legs and damn your stride! Gonna be the death o' me one these days, you are!”

The blond scoffs through a grin, folding his arms. “Oh shut it, Lorcan. You’d rather suffer this job with me than anyone else on offer, that’s a fact we both know. I’d still be down in camp if not for you!”

“I do not, you just carry more than anyone else is all! That’s why I asked for you t'come, that and you plow the way better - speaking of! On you go! Get!”

The Irishman waves both hands in the direction they’d been trudging, giving his friend an expectant, comical pout. Alfred can’t help but laugh as he turns to continue forward, his steamy breath partly blinding him. Where the little man’s boundless energy comes from was a sometimes aggravating mystery, but he’s grateful for it nevertheless. It makes for a good distraction from this terrible job, if nothing else.

The rope tied around his middle stays slack as he goes this time, his partner keeping up well enough. Lorcan has to raise his voice over the crunching of snow and rocks their progress causes, his breathing labored as he tries to stay close behind. “And don’t give out… about staying at camp! The Cap’n d’be having you… do some chore or another… and you know it!”

Alfred opens his mouth to make some retort only for his footing to vanish in a slide of mud. He nearly bites his tongue as he catches himself against a nearby trunk before his head collides with it, surprise coming out as a loud curse. Silence falls between them as he halts to assess their current route. The tree they were heading for was in sight, but a tall cliff face stood between them and it, the ground around it at a severe slant and covered in a layer of melting snow atop mud and moss. The large boulders strewn about and huge tower of weathered rock near the cliff were too risky to approach from below with those icicles dripping from them… But the way they’d been going looks to be nothing but gnarled roots amidst the still-snowy rocks, the gaps in-between likely consisting of deeper mud. No doubt one or both of them would slip and fall in that mess, or worse, twist an ankle. They’d have to venture near those boulders, at least until they found a way up and around the cliff.

There’s the soft brush of fabric on fabric as Lorcan steps close to look up as well. After a moment he leans in even more and stands as tall as he can to be closer to Alfred's ear, voice conspiratorial. “D’you think those icicles would kill a man instantly, or just knock him out t'be taken by the cold?”

“… Depends which you’re talking. The bigger ones? Probably cave your head in and kill you real quick. But those smaller ones, way up top there?” The blond points to the highest overhang on a jut of the rock tower, keeping his own voice low. “I have to wonder if those wouldn’t be like taking a bullet, aimed straight down. Would only kill you if you’re lucky.”

“Huh…” Lorcan’s freckled features hang slack as he looks on, squinting hard, brows knit together.

They exchange a look, silence heavy between them, before bursting out in laughter. Still chuckling and without another word, they go about gathering stones of throwing size before finding somewhere steady to stand nearer to their targets.

Taking turns, they try knocking down as much of the hanging ice as possible, clapping one another on the back when the other manages to succeed. They keep their voices down, having been told repeatedly the dangers of echoes reaching higher up where the snow stays year round. It’d also be bad if anyone in camp heard - if word got to Cap’n they were playing games whilst on the job, he’d threaten to give them a lashing. Of course he never follows through but still, neither of them enjoy sitting through his lectures.

After they've cleared out the worst of the icicles, Alfred pushes on for a gap between two of the boulders. Shattered bits of ice skitter across the slick rocks and roots, but there’s not much mud, and whatever snow had been here had melted with the earlier sun. The two make it to the top of the cliff face soon after, stopping to catch their breath before making a final push. The land levels out to something manageable directly beyond the cliff, and with the smaller saplings and underbrush to cling to they reach their destination quickly.

They drop their loads of equipment against the base of the ancient trunk with groans of relief. As Lorcan flops down to lean against the massive tree, Alfred walks to a jut of a smaller cliff's edge and pulls out his sheathed knife. Glancing to the sky with a frown, he looks back down the mountain from whence they came. The frown disappears at what he sees. “Cap’n was right, that salty bastard! Look, you can see clear to the western end of camp from here! We’re not even up the tree yet and there’s hardly anything to clear away for a line!”

“Course Cap’n was right, when isn’t he?” Lorcan whines, keeping his eyes closed despite the breathtaking view. “You think this means I don’t have to climb clear t'the top? I hate evergreens, damn sap and needles stick t’everything…”

“You know we gotta top it Lorcan. Can’t be a proper spar tree with any extra bits still on,” Alfred says while unsheathing his blade. He keeps it sharper than his razor and highly polished, the second part why he has it out - if the sun would only show itself again. “I can’t signal them like this… and we forgot the damn whistle.”

“Eh, don’t bother yet. Never said when t’signal, just t’signal. And Cap’n should’ve thought t’check we had a whistle, Lord knows the old git checks everything else thrice over… I still have t’check t’see it’s sound enough t'handle the load - let’s figure out signals after we’re sure t’is our tailspar."

With that the smaller man bounds to his feet. From his pack he pulls out a carpenter’s ax and starts walking the trunk’s perimeter, looking for immediate signs of weakness. Alfred sighs and sheathes his knife. There were no breaks to this job, not really. The periodic thunking of the ax’s hammer grows faint as he goes about getting their spurs and ropes ready. By the time Lorcan comes around the other side, Alfred has his own spurs on and harness ready to be secured.

“No conks far as I'm seeing, can’t hear any sign o' rot. Ah thanks,” he takes the proffered spurs, sitting on a mossy rock to get them on over his boots. Once done Lorcan doesn’t get up, a thoughtful frown on his face. He looks straight up to the highest heights of the tree before dropping his gaze back down to his partner, whose attentions had been on the distant camp until now. “Want t’eat before heading up? We'll be up there a while.”

“I certainly don’t see why not!” Alfred has a hard time hiding the relief in his voice as he also looks up through the crisscross of limbs. Actually getting to sit after the hard trek here, and before their long climb - that’s all he wants right now.

All he wants right now is to escape these people. Last Percy checked it had only been a scant two hours since their previous stop, so by now it must be close to two and a half. It may as well be six with how fed up he is with this incessant chatter.

He would check his pocket watch yet again if it weren’t for his currently feigning a sound nap - it was all the desperate doctor could think of to achieve some semblance of solitude in the cramped carriage. At least with his pretending to doze the elderly woman across from him couldn’t try roping him into any more conversations, and is keeping her bickering somewhat quieter. The ill-tempered lawyer at the other end of his seat is no longer arguing with her old husband, instead grumbling under his breath as he glares out at the passing trees and hills. The mother with two children sat beside him has stopped trying to silence her infant son’s babbling, however. She’d of course tried, at first, before growing so weary she'd started nodding off herself. Her daughter directly next to him would probably be a nice enough child, if not for her incessant nosiness and overly-personal questions. Why children find his white hair so fascinating is beyond him.

It’s not that he’s been taken by surprise by this joyless ride - Percy had been told the journey from shore to capitol was an arduous one. It's just that he’d been tipped off about seeking out a particular coachman if he wanted to reach Yharnam faster, and so figured his own journey wouldn't be as unpleasant as the usual.

Finding the man was a miracle in and of itself what with having to search the chaotic bustle of a port town that was never meant to actually be used as a port - not so miraculous was finding he’d been but one of many to receive said "tip." If not for his papers from the so-called Healing Church, he’d have been quickly left behind to find another way through the countryside. Instead the coachman took one look at the seal stamped in crimson and asked after his luggage with a markedly kinder, even respectful tone.

“Though I detest having to work under a group that’s considered a cult,” Percy thinks to himself, “they have made my time easier since entering the country. Iosefka was right in that regard.”

A patch of rougher terrain causes the rim of his lenses to connect with the window he's leant against, the rapid series of clicks hardly audible over a string of complaints from the older couple and lawyer. Figuring he's been mercifully forgotten for the time-being, he turns just enough to ensure it won't happen again. "One would think a country with such amazing feats of architecture would bother maintaining its infrastructure, but even the streets of the last village were in ill-repair, and it was one of the bigger we've been through! Even though New Pthumeria is still recovering after that catastrophic war, it's been long enough to sort out financing such things… So why does it appear the government hasn't done anything to-"

An unnatural lurch suddenly rocks the coach, causing the doctor’s head to loudly knock into the glass of the window. The horses make a panicked racket, accompanied by a burst of protest and crying from within the cabin. With all the noise Percy decides his façade must come to a premature end; he adjusts himself as if he’d just been startled awake, retrieving the book from his lap and straightening his spectacles as he observes the others.

The old man is trying to calm his irate wife, the lawyer threatening the driver with litigation - he opts to apply his focus to the small family. Clutching her crying infant, the mother’s face is fear-stricken as she tries to comfort him, while her daughter had apparently nodded off since he’d closed his eyes, as she's somehow still asleep between them. Looking past them and the lawyer to the opposite window, Percy notes they’ve come to a complete stop in the middle of the road, the horses' nervous stomping occasionally jostling the carriage. He leans forward to get a better view of the rocky hills they’d been traversing since midday. “Have we struck something in the road and taken damage? That’s the worst we’ve had this entire ride, I wonder if this ‘short cut’ is really worth it…”

Another hard lurch hits the carriage, this time accompanied by a shout from the coachman. The outburst of noise from both passengers and horses starts anew - then turns to sheer terror as the motion swells into a fierce, consistent shaking.

Percy grabs hold of the carriage's door handle and braces a foot against the base of the opposite seat. Sudden movement catches his eye beside him and he casts an arm out across the mother and children as they start to tumble to the floor. His frown deepens as the girl wakes only to start wailing with her brother, little hands clutching his coat sleeve with white-knuckle intensity. He does his best not to glare at the uselessly shrieking old woman, or smack the surprisingly shrill lawyer in the face with his book. Glancing toward the deathly silent husband, he decides the old man should be checked for signs of a cardiac event once the tremors stop.

With a slow inhale Percy closes his eyes and tries to maintain some semblance of calm. “Since when has this part of the world suffered from earthquakes?”

The sound of chopping wood turns to white noise after a while, granting Alfred a strange sort of peace when he’s at it. Sure, he was far enough from the ground to die on impact should he fall, and yes, the cold was starting to bite into his extremities - but there was peace in the near-mindless act, similar to the cleaning and sharpening of the blades with which he worked.

The rope attaching he and Lorcan together scrapes along the bark as his partner moves further away, making him pause so as not to accidentally hit it. He huffs loudly and frowns as he watches it slink upwards.

They were meant to stick to roughly the same level, cutting off branches as they head for the top, Alfred always on the side of the prevailing winds. That way neither of them would get hit by falling debris cut by the other, and his greater weight would cancel the other’s should a gust find them. Lorcan however was impatient and foolhardy as ever; in order to move past uncut limbs he’d plant himself on one, dig his spurs in, and like a madman detach himself from the ropes and cables securing him to the trunk. Then he’d shimmy them above the limb, reattach, and keep going. It drove Alfred crazy, and he said as much every time, not that his companion ever listened. He just rolls his eyes and waves him off.

“If any rot or weakness is found all that chopping work’s for nothing, and I don’t work for nothing!”

“You’re a bloody logger Lorcan! Think before you talk - we don’t! Earn! Shit!” Alfred’s last few words are emphasized with brutal strikes from his ax, finally detaching a particularly thick limb. They both watch as it topples to the ground below, the larger man puffing from exertion.

He looks up only to meet Lorcan's gaze, his ruddy face worriedly blank before it instantly breaks into a wide grin. “You feeling better now?”

“Hah! Yeah… hah,” he huffs, replacing the ax into the loop of leather at his belt. It aches to stretch his hands after they’d been clenched for so long. “These trees… are something else. Haven’t ever… cut anything this hard before… And the sap!”

The Irishman grunts as he continues his work, head tilted. “Looks like blood, don’t it? Ghastly - lot o' the plants in New Pthumeria are supposed t’be strange. No wonder the locals are so queer. You hear about the flowers that glow at night?”

Alfred casts him a glare from around the trunk. “Don’t be like that, they’ve had nothing but hell in recent years… And yeah, I saw dried ones once. Enormous! I don’t think they were glowing though.”

“And when the hell’d you see those then?”

“During the war! Some of the Olds on pilgrimage we came across had them, almost looked like staves… I think they’re like a, a symbol of sorts, in their religion. That’s likely why you don’t see them everyw-” Lorcan’s head swings into view from the other side, face comically contorted in faux anger, causing Alfred to pause. Then he laughs. “I’m not going on about religion again, for Christ’s sake! I’m just saying-”

“Yeah, yeah - but you would’ve! You always do if your not stopped! Going on and on about your history and theohl- theh- lel- lology!”

“It’s interesting! Y'know, if it weren’t for getting the boot out of seminary way back, I'd have dedicated my whole life to that sort of stuff! I wouldn’t even be out here! In the snow, and the cold - and with you!”

The other chuckles at the mock disgust as he readies to shimmy past another limb. “And how, pray tell, did a saint like you get kicked out of priestdom?”

Alfred grunts as he takes up his ax to start in on another limb. As nice as the silence of their work was, keeping up a good humored ribbing was enjoyable too, so long as they could keep it going for a while - and from getting out of hand. "I'd say it was my asking too many questions they didn't like - they said I was 'profanely lacking in forbearance and temperance'. What bullshit that was - I've plenty of patience! I was the only boy there what didn't ever fall asleep during sermons! Not once! And I never hit anyone while I was there, 'least not 'til they told me I was kicked out… Or maybe, I don't know…" He starts chopping, gruffly speaking between swings. “ Maybe… it’s got something… to do with… how much… I enjoy… taking… limbs off of things!”

With a bark of laughter he watches as the branch plummets down to join the others with a resounding crack. Once he quiets down to catch his breath he decides not to look up to Lorcan - the utter silence from him is really uncomfortable for some reason.

Alfred decides he's tired of talking. “Alright! No more gabbing - you can’t go rot-finding and I can’t go limb-cutting as well when we do!”

“…Fine by me, let’s get thi-”

An intense sense of unbalance suddenly causes them both to tightly cling to the trunk. Much of the snow still laying on the limbs above comes plummeting down, causing Alfred to yell and cover his head. Furious, he swears Lorcan had done it on purpose for telling him to shut up, but on looking up to yell he sees the redhead is covered as well. Shaking needles and damp snow from his curls and shoulders, the Irishman wildly looks around. “What was that?! You feel that too?”

“Yeah,” Alfred says more to himself as he takes in their surroundings as well. The trees around them are also missing their snowy coverings, and a good deal of bird cries are growing distant. “…I don’t know, but it wasn’t just this one tree! Let’s get this done and get down, being up here can’t be better than down there!”

“Right!”

Watching for a moment to make sure the little man is properly reattached before continuing, Alfred hears something strange as he goes to start chopping again. Almost like a cavalry charge from a distance. Looking to the horizon in confusion, the noise grows louder as the smaller branches on his chosen limb begin to tremble. There's a sharp intake of breath from above right when Alfred realizes the tree is vibrating.

“It’s an earthquake! Hold on t’something!”

With no sizable enough branches nearby Alfred hugs the trunk, gritting his teeth as rough bark grates into his face - not a second later the tree starts shaking in earnest. A low, wavering groan comes from all around as they begin to shudder and sway violently. A few of the smaller, less-anchored trees begin to tilt and fall around them, creaking and cracking as they crash to the forest floor. Limbs snap as they’re torn off, some finding their tree on the way down. Both men are nearly dislodged at a particularly brutal impact that rains more needles and the remaining snow down from above. As quickly as the tremors had come they stop, the unnatural noise dissipating into an eerie silence.

All Alfred hears is the cry of more birds, the settling of trees, and the pounding of his own racing heart. Breathing fast as he slowly lessens his full-body death grip, his eyes go to the line leading up to where his companion had been. He waits, for a sound, or movement… The outspoken little guy was always the first to start hollering when things went to shit. Alfred swallows hard as he tries to see around the trunk after a few minutes of staring at the unmoving rope. “Lorcan…?”

No response.

“Lorcan!”

“…Aaalf…”

The blond heaves a sigh of relief. “Lorcan! Are you alright? Did you get hit by anything?”

The redhead’s voice is weak, barely audible. “…Alf… Alfred, I- …I’ve pissed m’self…”

Alfred is utterly silent for a moment before he's overtaken by frantic laughter.

Lorcan has to bite back what sounds like a sob to furiously shout down at him.“Fuck you Alf, t’is not funny! That was the scariest thing since- oh fuck off you!” When his face comes into view he's glaring through tears, face reddened not just from the cold.

With tears in his own eyes Alfred manages to quell his laughing fit enough to speak. “Ah ha-I’m not, not laughing at you pissing yourself! Lorcan I thought you’d-! Ah damn, just- Bloody hell that was… was something else…”

“Aye…” Lorcan’s anger abruptly dissipates, leaving him spent. He leans out of view to judge the damage, twisting around to look behind him where another tree had managed to snap a ways up its trunk. Alfred goes to brush his head and shoulders free of needles,  amazed neither of them had been hurt. Rubbing a hand through his short beard he finds a patch smeared with dark sap and picks a chunk of bark from it with a disgusted groan. Grimacing at the prospect of having to wash it out, he’s surprised to see actual blood when he pulls his hand away. Another dab finds the source, roughened skin on the cheek he’d had pressed to the trunk. “Wonderful! Likely got bits of bark in my face to go with the blood-sap in my hair! Lovely! A few more years of this work and I’ll be a bloody tree myself at this rate. Cap’n damn well better buy me a drink for this, I swear…”

“Alf, what is that?”

“What? What’s what?” Looking up Alfred sees Lorcan with his head tilted oddly, squinting at the distant slopes hidden beyond the clouds. Maneuvering for a better view, he tries to see anything besides more rocks and trees. “I don’t see anything.”

“Not see, hear! D’you hear that? Like a, like a rumble? Not like before…”

Now that it’s mentioned there is a faint sound. Alfred hadn’t noticed it at first, but there is definitely a strange rumbling coming from higher up… A hint of movement catches his eye just below the clouds, about the same time he realizes the rumbling is getting louder. He goes numb from the inside out.

“Oh Christ! Lorcan, it’s an avalanche!”

"T’is not! Don’t you even kid about tha- Oh fuck all that’s fast! What d’we do?! We’ve nowhere t- ”

“Brace yourself! Hold on!”

He has to shout to be heard over the now deafening roar. The whisper of movement Alfred had seen has become a billowing wall, already devouring the outer edge of the forest. Trees are forced to unnatural angles before disappearing entirely, some simply being ripped up and taken along.

Alfred can barely hear Lorcan’s screams as the mass of white engulfs them. Their tree lurches toward the slopes before furiously whipping in the opposite direction. Debris and ice batter Alfred from every angle as he hunches as much as possible against the trunk. Gravity seems to pull at him more from the side than below, his upper half awkwardly twisting around the trunk as his lower half stays put, anchored by his spurs. Grinding and crunching joins the tumult of the avalanche, not surrounding them as before but coming from somewhere nearby. Alfred lets out a startled shout as he’s suddenly jerked over and upward. Now almost properly upright, the world feels eerily still outside the relatively gentle swaying of their tree. Seconds pass, maybe minutes as Alfred shakes, too terrified to move. The pounding in his ears is maddening as he blindly tries to comprehend what’s happening through the cover of dust-like snow that now hangs in the air.

The roar of the avalanche is quickly lessening, but the cracking and crumbling from below grows ever louder, more consistent. A cry escapes Alfred as his perch jerks downward, a deep groan resonating through the massive trunk. There’s deep thudding, popping as the tree begins to erratically tilt lower. The groan escalates into a shriek of shredding fibers as the descent quickens. Roots snap and wood splinters as rock and ground give out. A scream tears through the air from somewhere above. Alfred is numb save for a distant sense of fear.

They plunge down through the white haze, the sounds of splitting wood and shattering rock the last he hears before the world goes dark.

As glad as he’d been when they started moving again, Percy was well and truly at his wits’ end. He needs out of this carriage, desperately.

Once the tremors had ceased he saw an opportunity before him and took it, venturing out under the guise of checking on the driver. The man was already down and calming the agitated horses, and only knew as much as anyone else - there'd been an earthquake, a bad one at that. What new information he could share with Percy was that such events weren't a rarity in New Pthumeria. Due to the vast, ancient networks of labyrinthian passages and carved-out rooms that run deep underground, an earthquake or two was to be expected, especially with the more recent exploration efforts funded by the Church. However this one appeared to be of natural origin, and possibly closer to the surface than typically occurs.

It was all well and good to get a better understanding of his new home-to-be, but this knowledge ended up being of no help for his ensuing headache. Others had come out and started demanding answers, which in turn became a prominent focus of their revitalized need to talk. 

The fact the doctor had been the first to venture out had the old woman and even the mother in some bizarre sense of awe, as though getting out of a coach was a heroic deed. A deed they deemed worthy of incessantly bringing up. Again and again. Even the grump of an attorney, who had been the second person out to survey the damage, wouldn’t shut up about the earthquake. He went into fervent detail of what charges could be pressed or what sorts of damages could be caused, on and on. None of them would shut up, be it amazement, complaints, more bickering, superstition - whatever.

And they wouldn’t let Percy sit silently by. No no, they all but demanded he be a part of the never-ending conversation.

“Damn social conventions and damn terrible infrastructure! I’d just walk the rest of the way if it weren’t for these roads being so treacherous!” A muscle below his eye begins to twitch as he refrains from heaving a sigh during a particularly dull account from the old man about a previous earthquake. The old man who, unfortunately, did not have a cardiac event, and has already told this story, twice. At the start of his now third telling, the little girl next to Percy had shared such a weary, side-eyed glance with him he felt he may have assumed her young age incorrectly. At least she could get away with falling asleep again… Perhaps if he gets the driver to stop he could join him at the front; certainly there had to be room for at least two up there…

Just as he considers calling out, there’s a muffled yell, and then another. Soon the coachman shouts back only for a chorus of dampened, vaguely aggressive-sounding voices to respond. Try as he might Percy can’t make out much through the windows, all the chatter having fogged them over long ago. When the coach begins to slow to a stop the doctor finally lets out the tremendous sigh he’d been holding in for the past hour.

It could be innocent enough, or it could be highwaymen about to rob them - it may even be something entirely unique to traveling in New Pthumeria. But whatever is happening now, it’s giving Percy a chance to away from these people, and he was not about to miss it.

As soon as they’ve come to a full stop he gently loosens the sleeping girl's hand from his arm and loudly clears his throat to cut off the boisterous griping of his fellow passengers. He gives his most genial smile once he has their attention. “I think I’ll take a step out and see what’s the matter - if the driver needs any more assistance and the like. Excuse me.” With that he swiftly opens the door before any of them can argue. A blast of chilled air invades the cozy space, eliciting another bout of spirited protests as he steps down onto the muddy road. The door is swiftly pulled shut behind him as he takes in his surroundings.

If Percy were to guess, they were at the edge of some sort of large makeshift camp, erected in a man-made clearing along one side of the road. Of all of its components a ramshackle building is closest, roughly hewn logs making up most of it with a heavy canvas draped and tied over for a roof. Not too far from one of its entrances is a fire pit with a large pot hung above the center, seemingly made of a large, burned-out stump. Wooden tables and benches are set up past the little cabin, and beyond that lay a number of canvas wall tents, the sort meant for long-term use. Here and there are neat piles of equipment, most of which were obviously meant to fell the massive trees towering above them. “A logging camp then. How quaint.”

Or it would be, if not for the constant shouting and air of panic permeating the place. Percy walks around the carriage to question the driver, only to find his seat vacant. The horses snort as he walks by to begin his search for the missing man, only to immediately discover the reason for their sudden stop.

A good ways ahead, the road has completely disappeared under a massive amount of snow, mud, and debris. Enormous, shredded portions of trees and sizable boulders are partially submerged in the blockage, likely torn away from the higher slopes as the apparent landslide made its way down. Percy knits his brows together and frowns as he follows the path of slanting and broken trees up the hill. This wasn’t going to be another delay like the earthquake that triggered this disaster - oh no. This was well and truly a dead end. They were going to have to turn back for the last stop. Percy closes his eyes at the realization and tries to keep a slow, steadying breath from being exhaled as a string of curses.

Were this journey a sentient being, he’s now certain it holds some grudge against him.

The sky is a blur of white, brown, and grey, vast spires of it trying to reach the ground. Alfred tries to look down but his head won’t move. So he closes his eyes and tries to remember. It’s very hard so he gives up.

His head hurts. A lot. Like every other part of him but worse. His chest too, every time he breathes in. His arms are in the air funny and want to stay that way. One of his feet is stuck, the other one heavy as it pulls his hip at an odd angle.  His fingers are full of pins. The more he weakly turns his head the more he realizes how blurry his vision is. One of his eyes won’t open right. Squinting, he sees a broken, snow-dusted tree hanging in the white of the sky, rocks floating in the air near it.

Alfred squints harder. Trees don’t stay up, they fall down - he makes them fall down, he would know. Forcing his arms to his waist is harder than it should be, but he finds bark and something else, something that swings out of his grasp at first. Rope, it was a rope. He hangs onto it because it’s important, even as he scrambles to adjust himself. He’d been upside-down for some reason. Probably why his head hurt so bad.

Now that the sky is the ground again everything makes more sense. Alfred clumsily kicks his leg at the trunk to get the spur in. His free hand finds the taut rope and cable keeping him attached. Why was he still attached? The tree’s already been cut down. It was horizontal at least. Mostly.

His head hurts even more once he manages to pull himself into a more upright position, finally getting the spur back in. His harness cuts into him oddly with how he's forced the tethers to twist. Waiting only makes the pain different, not go away, so Alfred stops waiting. He sticks and unsticks his spurs to shimmy his way up to the top. It’s really hard. He’s never climbed a tree this way before. Once there he lays back and gasps for breath - getting up here hurt his chest a lot. It hurts to breath and his head was hurting even worse. Everything is spinning without spinning. The side of his face is numb and hurts at the same time.

He tugs at the rope he’d been clutching because it’s important to check it from time to time. As he pulls it in he runs out, finds an end that’s frayed and splitting. When he pulls the other way he just tugs at where it’s attached to his belt. Alfred feels panic well up, so much so that he starts crying. He's not sure why, but it feels right. He lays there and cries until he forgets why.

Wiping his cheek free of tears turns his palm red. Now he's not sad, just really confused. The same hand runs over his face and into his hair, which is sticking up in a strange way. The whole thing comes back red. Alfred frowns.

Then there's sobbing, faint but sort of close. High-pitched and breathy with hitching moans mingled in. He jolts upright with fear and elation and dread, starts working his way down the sloping trunk toward the desperate sounds. The ground suddenly drops farther away than before, making him pause for a second as he tries to see what’s down there. Snow and mud and a lot of shredded, broken trees and rocks, but no Lorcan.

“Lorr-keh!” That’s what was important! His friend Lorcan, who’s crying again! He must be drunk, it’s the only time he ever cries like such a baby. Alfred wants to know what’s wrong, if he has to fight someone again for messing with the little guy. He wants to find him. “Lorceh whe’re you?!”

The sobs cease for a moment, about the same time Alfred’s tethers catch on something that keeps him from going any further. It didn’t matter, he’s at the end of the tree. It looks to have snapped on whatever is keeping it up so high, a huge gap of massive splinters sticking up every which way between the two halves. The half Alfred wasn’t on is at a very different angle, the top of the tree resting on the ground far below. Hanging from the shreds of wood on his side are the same sort of rope and cable keeping him attached, one end lightly swaying. Alfred feels the panic coming back. “Lorc’n, answeh me!”

“Alf… h-here!”

Alfred looks down, sees the tree he was on had crushed one of its limbs between it and a really tall rock. Between the remains of the limb and rock he can make out a shock of fiery curls. “'M' comin’!”

The tethers keeping him attached to the trunk are undone on one end and tied to the stump of the stripped limb that had stopped him before. Alfred grabs the loose rope and cable from the splinters before easing himself over the curved side. He's hanging close to a smaller smashed trunk leaning against the rock tower, too far below Lorcan to see him. With a few kicks he gets swaying enough to scramble for footing on the rock beside it. Dizziness hits him hard and his chest fills with fire, but he holds. Huffing, puffing, and grunting from pain, he scales the jagged rock up. Bits of the destroyed limb are tossed out of the way or pushed aside once he reaches the top. Alfred’s face spreads into a tired, lopsided smile upon reaching his friend. It lessens the longer he looks.

There’s a lot of blood. It makes a long trail down the rock from beneath the giant tree, dripping down the bark in rivulets. Alfred hears his name as a hoarse whisper, but he’s too busy craning to see more. He can see the smaller man’s upper half, and his hips and a leg, but only the top of the other leg. Lorcan’s trousers are drenched deep crimson where it disappears under the giant tree. Alfred’s brow furrows. There wasn’t any space between the rock and the tree for a leg. Where’d his leg go? “Lorcah, where’d’ur leg goh?”

A sob is the only response he gets. Alfred isn’t sure what to do now. He needs to know what to do so they can get down. Why were they up here anyway? He considers asking but Lorcan screams when he tries to move.

Alfred is scared. His friend’s leg was gone and he was really hurt and couldn’t move. Pale fingers turn bright red as they scramble at bloody bark and rock as Lorcan starts breathing faster and faster. And now he’s wheezing, eyes bulging out and pleading as he stares at Alfred. The look makes Alfred want to cry again, even harder. But it reminds him of something.

Other men with the same tears and look in their eyes. Laying in grass and on stretchers, wearing uniforms a lot like his. Screaming and crying and groaning and staring like he could do anything other than get them here. Then other men hovering over them with cold, hard knives, pliers, saws. And as he watched the staring stopped and eventually the crying and screaming stopped too. One way or another.

A bloodied hand fumbles to the loop of leather on his belt. It finds cold, hard metal, worn wood. Alfred looks at all the different lengths and strengths of line he’s got on hand. Then he looks down and focuses as hard as he can to gauge the distance to the ground. He looks back to the injured man who’s still wheezing and crying.

Alfred watches him for a while. Then gives as reassuring a smile as he can, and pulls out his ax.

The foreman, or at least the loudest, most directive man in the camp, is how Percy finally finds the missing coachman.

Past the tents and hidden from the road by yet to be cleared trees, a smaller clearing had fallen victim to the path of the joint avalanche and landslide, much like the road. However here and there among the snow and debris were bits of canvas and roping, bent saws and men. It was likely where the troop had started their work in earnest and where many of them were when the disaster struck. Even as Percy nears the source of the angry outburst he’d heard earlier, there’s efforts to dig out those still trapped and to salvage lost equipment. He waits for a chance to enter the heated conversation from a short distance, watching the scene play out.

Their coachman, despite being a head taller, practically cowers as he’s yelled at by a stout, older Irishman. A dark mass of muttonchops streaked with grey cover his ruddy cheeks, a cap on his head and walking cane in his grasp. Upon further inspection, however, Percy notes the cane isn’t held, but hooked over an ungloved hand that appears to be carved from wood.

“I don’t give a rat’s arse about your itinerary! Road s’not my problem neither, not whilst I’ve men buried under! You want digging out, dig out yourself!”

“Sir, I haven’t the man power needed to clear the way, not at all! Ah… S-surely you know of the Healing Church? I work directly for the Church, and I’m sure upon learning of your assistance in-”

“I don’t give a damn about that fucking cult! My men’s lives and livelihoods are at risk here! ‘Less this Church comes running with shovels in hand, the lot o’them can shove off!”

With that the contractor turns away, back to directing the closest men where next to dig. The driver remains as he was, mouth opening and closing as he tries to find anything he might say that could help his cause. He must realize the futility of continuing as he quickly turns in the direction of the carriage, almost walking right into the nearby doctor. “Ah! Oh you…! D-Doctor, I’m so sorry for the inconvenience, I-”

“INCONVENIENCE?!” The foreman whorls back around, positively fuming as he limp-marches closer. “We’ve men dead here you bloody blighter! Inconvenience my left-!” The men he’d been ordering grab hold of his jacket before the Irishman could come any closer, voices a clamor of gibberish as they try to calm their boss. The coachman stumbles backward at the explosive reaction, his face a mask of mortal fear.

Percy lays a hand on his arm to steady the man as much as to get his attention. “The other passengers should be informed of these new circumstances, don’t you think? Only right they know what’s happened.”

“Ah right, r-right yes…” The driver looks back to the carriage before giving the retreating foreman and his men a final glance. As he trudges his way back to the disgruntled travelers, Percy remains behind to consider his options. Casting his own glance to the lively Irishman now a ways away, his thoughts are interrupted by a blast of incensed outrage from the coach, horses whinnying in response. The physician sighs.

That’s that then.

Percy picks his way through mud and piles of debris to where the man in charge has stationed himself anew to sling orders. Even before he’s within reasonable earshot a hand is thrown up to stop him. After finishing with a few men, the foreman turns to give the doctor a withering glare as he inspects him. “If you think you can d’any better than that blowhard coachman, you can’t. Get outta m'face, now.”

“I’d like to offer you my services, actually.”

The foreman wasn’t at all prepared for that. His bushy brows furrow before flying up to be hidden by his cap as he turns to fully face the newcomer. “Is'at so? And what the hell could I use the likes o' you for, then?”

“My name is Dr. Percival Hewlett, a physician. If you’ve uncovered dead men then you’ll uncover injured men, if you haven’t already. I believe I can assist in keeping them from joining the former.”

“And what are you wanting?”

Percy knits his brows together. “Beg pardon?”

“No one does anything for free and I haven’t any way t’promise you’ll be payed for your services. If it’s money you want, I’ve none t’spare.”

“Ah,” for a moment Percy thought the man was going to start haggling right then and there. “Well, let’s just say you’ll be doing me a favor. All I request is accommodations, sustenance, and assistance when needed for my work.”

“…That’s it? No payment?”

“I won’t say ‘no’ should that somehow become a possibility, but it isn’t a requirement. I simply request to stay until the road is cleared to Yharnam and I can be picked up by another passing coach.”

The contractor’s suspicion is almost palpable through the look he’s giving. “…Why?”

“Hm? I’m a doctor, you’ve injured men. Certainly tha-”

“Bullshit. Why d’you give two shits about the lot o' us? Going back t’wherever you came from before showing up here is the wisest choice for you! So why?”

“…Sir,” he has to pause as the twitch near his eye comes back. Percy inhales slowly and exhales through a plastered-on smile. “I’ve been in that carriage - with the same incessantly argumentative, garrulous, prying people - a total of nearly nine hours now. As I said, you’d be doing me a favor to let me stay.”

At least now the man looks contemplative and no longer ready to chase him off. The smile on Percy’s face started cracking as soon as he put it there, but he doesn’t care. He’s at his wits’ end - not the best introduction for a physician, but true nevertheless - and he was determined to extricate himself from his maddening ordeal. The stout foreman’s eyes pass between Percy and the coach beyond, the ruckus cast up by its passengers still loud enough to be heard from where they stand. The hand of flesh and bone strokes one of his muttonchops as he eyes the doctor more thoroughly. “… It could be months before the road is cleared enough for travel, and there's no promise of how fast word’ll spread when it is cleared. Besides, we’ve already a doctor-type on site.”

“I readily accept the likely possibility of remaining stranded here for some time, and will continue to assist where I can once your men have recovered. I’m certain the doctor you’ve on hand would be grateful for the help and more than, than willing to- to-”

A commotion is spreading among the men nearest to the camp's far edge, causing a great deal of distraction. As their screams become more fervent some begin frantically waving in their direction, while others go running up the hill. By now the greying Irishman has turned to see what has the doctor’s attention. Neither can see the source of the men’s agitation or make sense of their jumbled voices. Percy thinks he can make out a name - Ralph? Fred? - when he finally spots the cause of their sudden frenzy.

A man is stumbling out of the forest with something large slung over his shoulders, a vibrant trail of blood in his wake through the snow.

Less than a second passes before Percy turns toward the carriage to shout, “Coachman, I need my chest! Now!”

The foreman turns back to him, eyes wide. “You're hired, call me Cap’n! Good God we thought they-! Sweet merciful-! Mick and Toby, hey!” He waves at the men working nearest to the carriage, who bolt upright on hearing their names. “Help the driver get that luggage over here, and be gentle with it!”

“To the tables - both the chest and the injured!”

“Right! Bring it over there, to the benches! Hoy listen up! Bring ‘em over there, the lot o' ya! Hey-!”

The Captain’s bellowing falls to the wayside as Percy hones in on readying for possible surgery. First and foremost he centers on creating as suitable a workstation as possible as he hurries to the large tables. His jacket is thrown onto one of the benches and his sleeves rolled up as he looks for the cleanest surface, the chill in the air forgotten. A tall balding man wearing a raggedy apron peers out from the cabin, looking past him as the Captain gives him his orders. The older man meets Percy’s eye with a nod as he wipes his hands. “What do you need Doctor?”

“Get as much water boiling as you can. Find all the sheets and linens in camp, tear them into strips and boil them. And if you’ve a relatively clean apron you won’t be needing back, that would be marvelous,” the physician calmly calls back, glancing up to cast a smile his way.

The cook looks unnerved by the doctor's out of place demeanor but spares no time starting his tasks, rushing to the firepit to add more wood. As soon as Percy starts clearing off a table another man appears beside him, immediately stepping in to help. He’s young, pale as the melting snow, and utterly terrified in his recently bloodied clothes. Percy considers him as they move a few benches together. “You’re the resident doctor, I presume?”

“A-ah, I’m- yes…,” he stammers in an unfamiliar accent. The boy quickly glances over his shoulder toward the Captain, desperately looking back to Percy when he sees the man’s back is turned. “I’m not though! Not yet! I’m still just a student!”

Percy had guessed as much. “Can you handle watching a surgery?”

“Yes sir, I-”

“Can you follow directions under duress?”

“Yes sir, just- I’m better fit for- to do less intensive procedures, sir!”

“So long as you keep up with what I say you’ll do fine. Now, help me get this table wiped down. Once my medicine chest is brought over have them set it on these two benches, here. Open it and familiarize yourself with the contents and how it’s laid out - you’ll be handing me things as I ask for them.”

“Yes sir!”

All too quickly a large group of men become visible between the tents, the bloodied man propped between them. He’s hardly able to walk as they struggle to keep him moving, but one of the burlier men quickly breaks away to run towards them. Whatever the injured man had been carrying is nestled in his arms, one of his shirt sleeves rapidly staining red - another person. It was another person, this one in far worse a state.

As the distance closes and the full extent of the newcomer's injuries become apparent, a deep frown fixes itself on Percy’s face.

“How could an avalanche cause this?”