#thoughts on peace in Yharnam

[kayuripax]

Gilbert keeps track of the Hunter. They're an odd duck. Talkative, but not quite, eager for companionship and solace. He can understand that. Yharnam hates its outsiders. They have to stay together, keep each other going. Maybe that is why he lies to them when the hours grow dim. When his legs creak and splinter in his skin, and his muscles tremble, when hair turns to fur, he leans against the window and hides it. Lies with the silver tongue hid mother always lauded, lies with the words his father always said would make him a fine clergyman if he put his mind to it.

"Ah, you needn't concern yourself with me." Rattling coughs escape his throat even as his chest twists and barrels.

"I'm afraid I'm of little help now... But before I..." He nearly slips.

"Take this." The flamesprayer he traded from a former Powder Keg who wanted nothing to do with the hunt anymore. He needed to make sure the lovely Hunter could remain safe. Outsider for outsider.

"I made no use of it, but perhaps you..." He grows wistful after he closes the small window lattice.

"What inflicted me was incurable, but this town gave me hope... their strange blood bought me time. I was most fortunate." He coughs again. His teeth are warping. Only one more lie. One more lie, so they would not mourn him should they need to slaughter what he becomes.

"Unharmed by the plague of beasts, I can even die human." The blood he coughs up feels like a punishment for the lie. There is no absolution waiting for him. No absolution for outsiders. As he hears the good Hunter move away hesitantly, he rests his head against his pillow, eyes dropping shut. Outsiders for the outsiders. He would not tell them. He could not. Let them think they could avenge him when they find the beast he becomes. Let them find some closure. There is no cure for him. And he made his peace with that. As his growing claws dig into the mattress, his thoughts grow dim. He speaks to the good Hunter once, twice more. His mouth feels Ashen, tastes like the coppery lie he told so many hours ago. He hopes they get out. His eyes fall shut with a shuddering breath.

"Farewell, my friend. Live well."

Outside, the moon bleeds.

[ohbutwheresyourheart]

latest installment in fragments from the google docs: what if dmc characters in bloodborne?

this is one I really do want to finish, mostly for the opportunity to, by the end, put Vergil, V, Urizen, and Nelo Angelo all in the same story and make it (mostly) make sense because of Bloodborne being so fast and loose with what is real

Many years ago, long before Nero was born, Yharnam was ravaged by demons with no hope of recourse. The city screamed, and suffered, until it could only moan like a downed beast with its entrails spilled across the ground, waiting for death to slip in and close its eyes for good. The inhabitants wept behind barred doors day and night, praying that the gods would deliver them from their ordeal.

And, just as all hope seemed lost, the gods were merciful.

His name was Sparda, but he was known ever after more by his titles than his name; the Legendary Dark Knight; the Holy Blade; the First Hunter. A brave and valiant man, stronger - by the grace of the gods - than even the mightiest demons. He fought back the horde, secured Yharnam’s freedom from demonic oppression, and taught his hand-picked acolytes how to follow in his footsteps. Thus was born the Church and its Hunters.

At some point - nobody could quite pinpoint when - Sparda vanished from Yharnam, leaving his honourable warriors to keep the peace and protect the innocent in his wake.

Nero himself never set foot in the charred remnants of Old Yharnam. No Yharnamite with their wits about them would dream of it. The old hamlet is still rife with demons, though nowadays they know better than to stray from the blackened ruins they have clawed back as their own.

He’s heard stories, though, from those few gnarled hunters still enduring from that night. It takes work to get them to even speak of Old Yharnam; most veer away from the subject like fleeing hares, muttering only a few words about flames and charred flesh. The stories he does manage to tease out speak in hushed tones of Lugwig.

A hunter beyond compare; a saint, almost, in his own right; a power uncontested and a rallying point for his compatriots. Until that fateful night when Old Yharnam burned like so much dry tinder. The night when his family perished; though by demons or by the Church’s flames, opinions differ. What is known is that Ludwig quit the city that night and was never seen again, not pausing even to sift through the ashes for those belonging to his wife and twin sons.

One hunter, bolder - or just drunker - than all the rest ventures that it’s for the best, though they are all the poorer for the loss of Ludwig’s strength and skill… for say it was the flames that did for them, would that not make Ludwig an enemy of the Church?

There is not a man or woman in Yharnam who does not dream of fighting side-by-side with Ludwig, and who would not wake in the night in a sweat of terror at the thought of fighting against him.

But, back to reality: this was decades ago. Ludwig, unless he were some preternatural creature (and the rumours do not necessarily preclude that possibility), is long since dust himself.

The demons, though - the demons are always there, waiting for the slightest crack in their defences to rise up and overwhelm them.

----

Early evening: the sun begins to dip below the domes and spires, and hunters across the city ready themselves to set out.

Nero is still young but he started early; he’s seen enough hunts to be past the stomach-clenching fear of the fresh blood. Officially, the Church only inducts hunters upwards of eighteen, but the nights have been fierce in Yharnam these past years and there is nobody taking a register of who stays in and who goes out once the sun goes down. Not that he was thrown to the wolves (or allowed to throw himself); Credo was his watchdog until he found his feet.

Nowadays they rarely cross paths, especially during a hunt. Credo joined the Executioners two years ago, elevated to a sphere above mere hunters of demons. Still, the blood of brotherhood runs deep, and Credo does not forget his foster brother. Nor does Nero begrudge Credo his promotion. It helps that he is happy enough where he is; Logarius’s band brings prestige at the cost of endless hours in the chapel and a fervour of purpose that seems on occasion to be bringing new lines and a worrying pallor to Credo’s face.

Credo is here tonight, actually; stopping by to see Kyrie and reassure her they’ll both be home by morning. She’s tough, their Kyrie, but Nero knows when she’s setting her shoulders to emulate the wives of the senior Church hunters who have resigned themselves to incense-filled nights of prayer.

Nero suspects Kyrie will be sending a prayer or ten up to St Eva tonight. It is Burning Eve, after all - and what a night for a hunt - but, even without the added impetus, pious and correct Kyrie has nevertheless always had a soft spot for this particular unofficial saint.

“We’ll be fine,” Nero assures her as he hitches Red Queen over his shoulder and into the holster across his back. “It’s June, the night won’t even be that long.”

Of course, they both know that the hunt lasts as long as it lasts; it starts at dusk by tradition, but the demons won’t recoil at first light like storybook monsters. They have an agreement of such jaunty send-offs, however, to ease the worry of parting. Nero worries less than Kyrie does. As a church songbird she’ll be in the Grand Cathedral all night singing masses to strengthen the hunters and beg mercy (strictly in the afterlife) for the hunted. Surrounded by incense and no small numbers of Church soldiers, in the same building as Sanctus himself, she’ll be one of the safest people in the city.

All the same, he holds her close and breathes her in before he goes. Kyrie hums contentedly against his neck, her fingers twining into the collar of his jacket.

“Come home safe,” she whispers. “I’ll be waiting.”

“There won’t be anything out there to trouble us tonight,” Credo assures her.

As always, he looks torn between indulgence and awkwardness as Nero and Kyrie’s closeness. Nero was raised in their household, and he suspects Credo has never been quite sure whether to denounce their attachment or go down on his knees that Kyrie’s choice settled on a man he inherently approved of. He compromises by, as usual, speaking slightly to the side of them.

Kyrie lets out a huff and pulls him into a hug as well. “Of course not. My brave and valiant hunters.”

Credo smiles and pushes back Kyrie’s bangs to kiss her forehead. “Be safe. Stay in the cathedral, and close to His Holiness.”

Outside, the vespers' bells toll. The three of them tense. It is time to say goodbye.

“We must go.” Credo straightens his robes. It’s an unconscious gesture he’s picked up since his elevation, as if the heavily embroidered white garments of the Executioners - or the responsibilities they entail - sit too weightily on him for comfort.

His gaze flicks across to Nero, who can feel Credo checking off his equipment. It used to annoy him, but Nero recognises the concern for what it is now. Trying to be helpful, he tugs aside his jacket so Credo can see the gun at one hip and the prepared molotov cocktails tied to the other, and then spins a slow circle to show off the sword strapped to his back, but Credo only frowns.

“Noisy,” he remarks, nodding to the bottles. “And aren’t you worried they’ll shatter?”

“Nah, the glass is tempered.” Nero flicks the side of one bottle to demonstrate; his nail reverberates off the glass with a dull ring. “And since when have I been quiet? You know I think subtlety is overrated.”

Credo rolls his eyes; Kyrie tries to suppress a laugh but ends up snorting. Nero winks at them both. He likes to leave Kyrie laughing.

“You have blood?” By contrast, Credo is serious still; the frown lines between his eyes are becoming a permanent fixture. His hand skims over his own belt, where two dozen gleaming vials sit in their padded pockets. “I can spare some--”

Nero shakes his head. “No need, I’ve got plenty.”

Which he does, plus Nico always keeps supplies for him - though she pretends she doesn’t - and Credo will be facing stronger, wilier prey than Nero will tonight. He’ll need all his blood for himself.

“Come on, we need to get going,” he adds as the bells toll again. So many churches, so many bells, that when they ring it is a cacophony, but at least you always know what time it is in Yharnam. On nights like these, the bells can be the only thing to give a hunter hope that morning is slowly but surely clawing its way towards them.

Just so long as the demons don’t claw their way towards you first.

They pause only long enough for Kyrie to fasten her cloak and then leave the house, joining the stream of people hurrying to get to their final destination before night falls. Church folk like Kyrie and some particularly ardent - or desperate - worshippers are heading for the Grand Cathedral to join Sanctus’s prayers, while the hunters are more diverse in their paths. Old friends and new comrades greet each other, exchanging plans for the night; some will rove in bands, while the best marksmen will set up shop in one of the city’s countless high towers to pick off the demons from a distance.

Credo and Kyrie exchange quick, tense pleasantries with various acquaintances, but their eyes and words skim past Nero. An orphan and a whore-spawn, he is noted as a good hunter but that doesn’t quite make up for his origins. In the tightly-regimented, virtue-driven society of Yharnam, it is your blood that seals your fate - and Nero’s has never quite measured up to standard. If Kyrie and Credo’s parents hadn’t taken him in, he doesn’t know where he’d be now. Dead, most likely; pressed into hunting but without a guiding presence to keep him alive.

The three of them stick together down the main boulevard the house sits on, but part ways at the first crossroads. Kyrie goes north to the cathedral; Credo is due to meet with his fellow Vileblood Hunters; Nero… Nero, as usual, has his own plans.

“Be safe!” Kyrie calls out over her shoulder as she is swept away up the street. She raises a hand, pale and bright as a star in the failing light, and Nero raises his own in answer - then she’s gone, and Credo as well.

And where do Nero’s footsteps take him, on such a treacherous night? He exchanges barely a nod with the comrades he spots; for the most part, he keeps his head down, his cap of wizened feathers low over his eyes, and his bandanna pulled up over his nose and mouth. No search for compatriots… not here, at least. Few hunters can keep up with him, and the few times he’s attempted collaboration has ended in either frustration at best or disaster at worst.

That does not mean, however, that Nero is without friends and allies in Yharnam. Even now, he walks against the flow of people before ducking down a series of back-alleys and side-streets. His path takes him by a fountain near one of the city’s numerous stately bridges, then through a smaller square, down an alley, past a heavy wrought-iron gate and into the confines of Agnus’s clinic.

He’s not there for Agnus, who discomfits him at best, but for his daughter. Nicoletta is a comparatively new addition, still a novelty to insular Yharnam, and had caused a scandal on her arrival by diving headfirst into company with the heretical Powder Kegs. An inventor to rival (Nero would wager outshine) her father, she spent three months in the lofty confines of the Church workshop before turning her back on her esteemed colleagues for, as she put it, much more fun.

The Church’s loss is Nero’s gain. For the price of demonic viscera and whatever coin Nero can scrape together, Nico conjures wonders that tantalise and delight him, with his love for chaos, and - most importantly - kill demons with extreme prejudice.

Speaking of which… Nico apparently has something new up her sleeve. Nero has obeyed orders and kept clear for the past two days but Nico swore up and down that her latest creation would be ready for tonight’s hunt. While Nero doesn’t technically need any new toys… well, he’d be a fool - not to mention thanklessly incurious - to say no.

Noise burbles forth from the makeshift workshop Nico has set up in a disused room of her father’s clinic, which Nero takes as a good sign. With wisdom born out of a series of near-misses, he knocks on the door and steps to the side out of the path of any projectiles, whether intentional or otherwise.

A moment later, the door swings open and reveals Nico, grease-covered and grinning.

“About time you showed up!” she scolds him. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten where I live!”

Nero raises his eyebrows. “Weren’t you the one who told me to leave you alone to work on your new masterpiece?”

“Well--!” Nico fumbles for a moment before finding her balance on the reliable footing of brazening out her point. “You’re still late! Look at the time! Now get in here before a demon eats you.”

The Church workshop is a place Nero has set foot in only a handful of times; most of his equipment at the start came second-hand from Credo, or from what Credo and Kyrie’s father had left behind. Still, those few visits were burned into his mind: the gleaming rows of weapons, the cacophony of voices, the whirl of vestments-turned-armour, rank indicated by colour and cut.

Nico’s workshop is… not that. Poky and cluttered with seemingly no system to the storage, though Nico admittedly always does seem to know where to find what she is looking for. Nero also suspects that the chaos is at least partly intentional to better hide the materials she acquires on the black market from other hunters (Nico, having spurned the Church workshop, is now persona non grata to many merchants in the city) or simply steals from her father.Indeed, the only thing that takes Nero back to the high, hallowed rooms of the Church workshop is the smell: gunpowder, leather, oil, and incense. Tonight, it is the gunpowder that he smells most strongly. Nico takes the Powder Keg motto to heart - if a weapon ain’t got kick, what’s the point?

[fantomette22]

One shot : A Small Hair Ornament

[…] “I have something for you…” 

She titled her head in anticipation as he extends his right arm in front of him, his palm towards her. She reaches out to the invitation, putting her own hand above his, the back of it resting against his palm. He holds it softly.

He finally takes out his other hand from his pocket, holding tightly the famous object. Attempting not to shiver he puts it gently in her palm. It was a small golden ornament, a hair ornament. The metal feels warm in her hand.

After a moment he lets go of her hands as she observes it intensely, without a word. At first glance it looks quite ordinary, it was certainly not some highly precious jewellery, yet it harboured quite a few detailed floral motifs. It was made with great care and with a particular attention. 

“This is a gift, for you. I wish it will bring you comfort and peace. That, when you’ll look at your reflection you won’t think ill of yourself anymore. That you will see yourself how I… how everyone sees you. As the most incredible and kind-hearted lady that you are.”

The gold ornament would indeed stand greatly against her pale hair, they had almost all turned grey by now. Even if she tried to hide it, her light blonde hair changing into a complete white and colourless mane weight on her mind. She was unsure what to think of it or feel, but she sure noticed how others looked at her strangely.

Still looking at the accessory she asked him a question. “Did you… make this yourself ?” 

That present meant a lot to him, he wanted to keep it for a special occasion but himself was not feeling particularly well in those troubled times. He didn’t intend on telling her obliviously, it wasn’t the time to worried her even more. Besides, he wasn’t sure how everything would evolve in Yharnam. In these conditions it would be better simply give it to her as a mere gift. If that could soothe her pain, it would be more than enough. It’s all that mattered.

“Yes… I made it. I know it’s not much, but you always said you wanted one, right ? I intended to offer you this in other circumstances, but you weren’t feeling well these times, so I thought-” 

He stops abruptly, was she… crying ? “I deeply apologize you can just throw it away if want, you don’t have to accept it ! It was fool of me, I’m sorry-”

“No, it’s perfect ! I’m��truly happy and very touch… It’s the best gift I could ever receive. Thank you dearly Gehrman !” She was holding the ornament close to her smiling and removing her silvery tears. Even if it was only for a short time, the simple small ornament was enough to lift all her worries at this very moment.

He returned the smile. “You’re more than welcome, Maria.”

A small, very ordinary hair ornament.

Although it has been lost for quite some time, one can still see signs of the care with which this tasteful ornament was once kept.

Its color would stand most brilliantly against a head of greyish hair.

[lumenflowered]

...While in theory I would love to rest here for longer, in practice I have noticed that I tend to grow very restless very quickly if I do not keep myself busy with something, and I am out of black thread.

So. A visit to the nearest Pokémart is in order.

...Unfortunately, the nearest Pokémart is all the way in Cherrygrove. It is going to be very strange to walk down the same route I originally woke up upon now that so much time has passed.

In the grand scheme of things... it has only been two months. Exactly two months, I believe, since I first fell here very early in the morning. Since...

Well, it is rather embarrassing to admit this now. The first person I encountered in Johto was not Ethan nor his mother, but a boy slightly older (I believe) than Ethan.

Red hair. Rumpled clothes. Silver.

He did not give me his name then. He also quite literally ran into me, promptly insulted me for not looking where I was going, and when I took issue with that interpretation of events, he challenged me to a battle on the spot and sent out his then-Totodile.

I, ah... did not then realize that what he meant was a Pokémon battle. Nor did I have a Pokémon of my own at that time.

(In retrospect, kicking me in the shins when our paths crossed next was more reasonable of a response than I initially thought.)

...I hope Silver is doing well, wherever he might be at the moment. I have not spoken with him since the incident at the Radio Tower; I believe he left Goldenrod City at least a few days before me, if not immediately after we put an end to the takeover. I might have seen him in Blackthorn City the day that I arrived, but it is rather likely that he defeated Clair before I did.

I suppose he must not have had any trouble convincing her to actually give him the badge.

Ethan is doing very well, too; he has a total of six badges, but instead of going on to Mahogany Town he returned home. I am honestly not certain if he intents to win the seventh and eighth badges at all or not, but he seems happy to be home, and it is nice to see him again.

It is nice to see his mother again, as well. Reina is... a very nice woman. Perhaps, if I had known her in Yharnam...

...Well. It is for the best that I didn't. I would not wish Yharnam on anyone from this world. Johto is peaceful, its inhabitants kind, and I do not belong here any more than someone from this world would belong in Yharnam.

Belong, perhaps, I do not... but perhaps that is a good thing. It allowed me to stand against Team Rocket when no one else dared to. To put an end to their schemes, once and for all.

Perhaps Reina would be willing to... no, never mind that.

I have some purchases to make.

[mrslittletall]

How do you think Laurence got his start in Bergynwerth? Did he come from a poor, middle class, or wealthy background? How did he meet his harem (gehrman, Bardor, mico, Ludwig)? Does he view them as pawns or does he respect them? What does he think of maria? Of kos? I love laurence please tell me all ur thoughts abt him

Ooooh, fun! I have a lot of headcanons about this! Okay, so I headcanon that Laurence was the son of two doctors. They weren't nobles, but they had a small clinic and came along. Unfortunately, one day they tried to save a patient with a deadly and contagious illness and ended up catching the same illness and eventually succumbed from it. That left Laurence orphaned at age 11. It was then when he went to Byrgenwerth, because Master Willem agreed to take him in should something happen to his parents (they were graduates). My Byrgenwerth works a bit differently, the kids can start their educations there around 12 years old and most stay for scholarship. It was where Laurence met Gehrman and Micolash and Maria. Gehrman was two years older than Laurence and the son of the groundskeeper. He was home schooled instead of attending the school and helped his dad with work. Gehrman's mother died when he was six, so he could relate to Laurence' grief about his parents. When Laurence first met Micolash, they got into a big fight. And then had to go to detention together. They came out as friends and nobody really knows what happened in there. They also were rivals since then, always competing for the top space at their current grade. Maria was coming to Byrgenwerth a few years after Laurence and because she was very aloof and Laurence was like "Oh, I should take care of this girl." because he sudddenly had big brother instincts, he went to talk to her and got told to fuck off. They kinda became friends after this... Maria was hanging out a lot with the gang, even allowed in the labyrinths even though she was not eighteen yet. I actually don't know how Laurence met Brador. I have the feeling he once just was there and offered his services to Laurence once he became the vicar. I doubt that Laurence was putting "searching for an assassin" in the newspaper ^^' Ludwig... I am one of the few people who don't have him at Byrgenwerth. He met Laurence actually when they were children, but they went seperate ways. Later, Ludwig became one of the independent hunters under Gehrman and each time Laurence saw him when he visited Gehrman, he felt something, but didn't know what... After Gehrman vanished and the blood moon rised, it was Ludwig who stepped up to get as much people out of Old Yharnam before Laurence decided to burn the place down. Laurence was so impressed that he promoted him to captain of the newly formed church hunters and since then they worked closely together and love bloomed... Laurence clearly respects his friends, but he can be quite an asshole (and doesn't admit to it), so that eventually, his relationship with almost all of his friends did get bad. Especially with Maria, who openly called him out on things the seemed to deny. It led to a clusterfuck of stuff that happened that I don't want to elaborate on now, it's too early in the morning. Kos... it is a great one that Laurence respected and would pray too, but he also went and harvested her corpse for blood, firmly believing that humanity deserved it. I actually think that the blood of Kos was the main blood supply of the church for a while until they found Ebrietas which willingly gave her blood to them. I just... love that the church canonically has a great one in their basement and it is totally peaceful, like she is expecting no harm from humans.

[joycrispy]

there is a toffle named Salome. excuse me

[kallowrites]

Just some nice fluff because the Doll deserves some peaceful, platonic relationships and I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise.

|| Bloodborne -- (female) OC & The Doll || 692 words || SFW ||

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“I… I wish to rest. I know the night will not end, but I… I’m tired. I wish to rest.”

“You may rest upon me if you would like, good hunter. Though it may be a dreamless sleep, it is still rest for the body. You will need it.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

With some apprehension that was quickly overcome by a wave of immense lethargy, the Hunter slowly shifted her position sitting on the stone next to the Doll in favour of resting the side of her head in her lap. The dress was much softer than she’d expected, yet embodied how comfortable and cozy it looked… Made with such care. A vague memory crept into her mind, of elaborate dresses and gown, lavishly embroidered corsets and tightly-bound shoes. And yet… the Doll embodied none of this, but felt familiar all the same.

Fingers ghosted over her hair that was exposed after she’d removed her hat, a gentle knocking as the wooden joints shifted together. The Hunter had never been touched in such a way before… not even by her own mother. The Doll constantly pondered if the love she felt for the Hunter was real, but this certainly felt real. The love and warmth radiated off of her, and when it wasn’t with words it was expressed in full within her actions. Her eyes fluttered shut as she drew in a deep breath as she cherished this feeling. If the night was everlasting… She hoped this moment was an eternity.

Had the feeling of safe comfort not been as overwhelming to her mind and senses, the Hunter knew for a fact she would have wept right about now. It had been so, so long since she had last been held in any regard… But this felt almost as if she was being cradled in the Doll’s lap. She curled her knees up towards her chest and let her head sink further into the flouncy, heavy layers of the dress, being able to feel the unnaturally solid legs underneath despite it all. It didn’t bother her though. The Doll didn’t need to be flesh and blood like herself in order to mean anything to her. Too many times, those who shared that trait wanted nothing more but to spite her, and reject her existence. 

The Beasts wanted her dead. Blood-drunk Hunters, as well. Even back home where she’d travelled from, she had been shunned - She was a foreigner there, and she was a foreigner here. Very little changed, in that single aspect.

Except… 

The Doll leaned over ever slightly, just enough that the fringe of her shawl draped around her like curtains. The Hunter caught herself reaching out to tug one of the edges closer to herself, seeking its odd warmth. Maybe it was simply her own body heat causing it, but it was far from unwelcomed. She met the Doll’s eyes after humming contentedly, and she was spoken to in a near-whisper, “Rest, good hunter. The waking world will still be as it was, when you awaken. Do not worry.”

Somehow, despite not even knowing it herself, the Doll’s words relieved her exact anxiety that was lurking in her heart. The urge to stay busy. The urge to remain useful.

But no, she still was useful. She had a purpose now - a goal to work towards. Good to do. It was more than she ever could have asked for, and despite the nightmares and the evil that threatened to destroy Yharnam… She found herself grateful for it, for had it not been happening, she may have never known this feeling.

Sweet, sweet peace as her thoughts finally slipped her mind, to leave her in an ephemeral state of emptiness… Aside from what she swore was humming resonating within her weary mind.

[creative-type]

Whumptober 8: Screams from Across the Hall

She had meant to give them comfort. Sitting at the bedside of those seeking blood ministration, Maria would read prayers aloud. Most were too sick to open their eyes, let hold the small book left by Church officials, and the silken covers of the four poster beds weren’t enough to hide their malformed frames. The beast-stricken moaned and gasped, unable to get the air to scream, while the heavy scent of incense was never able to hide the pungent stench of old blood.

They thanked her for it. Thanked her for damning them, her words soothing their tortured souls more than the treatments of the Healing Church officials. Like a drop of dew to a man dying of thirst, she was their respite. Their salvation. Their hope.

And when they were deemed ill enough to be transferred away from the public eye, it was Maria who accompanied them. They were afraid, they said, of what would happen to them. They’d trusted the Church with their health, their futures, and only gotten sicker. The pain was unbearable, they whispered in broken voices clotted with blood.

Fear not, Maria told them. The Church would not send you to the laboratory if they did not think they could help.

She was told by high ranking members of the Church to stay away, but she ignored them. Her fellow hunters thought she was insane for chasing after peasants when there were beasts to be hunted. Even Gherman told her that no good would come of it, but each time she was told no her aristocratic pride bade her go. The powers of the world would not go to such lengths to hide the truth if there were not secrets worth finding. And so, Maria followed.

Comfortable beds and wards bathed with candlelight were traded for hard cots and harsh electric light. Maria continued her visits, but soon the prayers were left forgotten, her voice indistinguishable from the tortured, inhuman cries of the victims of the Church’s latest experiments.

Help us, they cried, begged, clasping their hands around hers. Their grasp was moist and slick, almost waterlogged under her touch. It took everything she had for Maria not to jerk away in instinctual disgust. The smell was atrocious, dead fish left bloated in the sun mixed with the antiseptic used to wipe down dissection tables.

Those sorry souls were the most human thing left in that laboratory. Once eager to stay up to date on the latest developments of the Choir as they sought to gain true insight, Maria could hardly stand to watch as they shifted their focus from those voluntary seeking treatment to orphans kidnapped off the streets of Yharnam.

I don’t want eyes on the inside, one said. Please don’t make me go back.

Hush, it will be all right, Maria lied. She watched over the children as they were mutated against their will, telling herself it was for some greater good. That providing them small kindnesses would somehow erase the tortures they experienced at the hands of those sworn to protect and heal.

So long as she could hear them scream, Maria held out hope, but the day came when she walked down silent halls, her footsteps echoing down empty corridors. Maria could taste the death in the air, and hardened as she was, her stomach churned.

Another failed experiment, she was told. We had to put them down. Don’t worry yourself, Lady. It was a mercy.

Except Maria knew there was no mercy in death. How often had she died during those endless hunts, with the peace of the Dream slipping farther away each time?

In the empty silence Maria finally felt the weight of her sin and was crushed by it. She’d lied and been lied to in equal measure, and she could hear every falsehood ringing damningly in her ears. She remembered each platitude she’d murmured in her honeyed tone, the pitiable failures at her feet lapping up every one, unaware that she spoke with a forked tongue. It was too much. The walls of the laboratory came crashing down around her, and for the first time in her life, Maria fled.

Like a fish hooked on a line, she was reeled back with the promise of secrets, and when she returned the cells had been filled once more. The screams across the hall pierced her heart with a greater ferocity than a beast’s frenzied yell.

Nothing had changed. They were alive yet dead, just like she was alive despite her spirit dying long ago. She should have known that nothing good could come from a corpse. She’d thrown away her blade and still managed to lose her soul. There was no more hope for her now, no more false platitudes. Only the Nightmare remained, and with the screams of the damned echoing in her ears, Maria succumbed herself willingly to it.

[mangledskull]

TO ABSOLUTELY NO ONE’S REQUEST BESIDES MY OWN!!!!!!

Yapping below cut, also ‘You Kindred Spirit’ spoilers!!! good lord I’ve drawn him a lot

Lore

-Galaphras is one of the last surviving Vilebloods. He had witnessed the Cainhurst massacre, and as a result, resents the Healing Church and the Executioners. He is extremely loyal to his bloodline, so he spends his years planning vengeance on the head of the church.

-He decided to enroll into the Hunter’s Workshop in Byrgenwerth so he could be able to infiltrate the Church. However, he is…a little bit over his head. He has 0 combat skills and has never killed anyone in his life. He is very much unlike his cousin in this regard.

-There, he had met Micolash, a meek scholar who has yet to make a name for himself. Within the few encounters they had, Micolash began to grow on him a bit. They would then become friends-and eventually-lovers.

-Gal then slowly forgot his original mission, now just wanting to be with Micolash and find peace with the horrors he witnessed. After graduation, they would work together to help build Micolash’s dream of having his own university, which would then become Mensis. He would gladly take on the role of Assistant Dean.

-Just when he was at his happiest, the Fishing Hamlet incident happened. This caused Micolash to grow unhealthily obsessed with Kos and the Cosmos above, something which greatly concerned Galaphras. Not only that, but he would then eventually have to face the loss of his kin.

-The breaking point was when Micolash introduced the Mensis Cage to him, which caused him to want to leave Yharnam. As much as he wanted to take Micolash out of the city with him, he knew that he couldn’t pry him away from his devotion to study (if you love something let it go-mindset).

-DECADES LATER, he gets a summon from Cainhurst out of the blue. Begrudgingly, he returns to Yharnam, which kicks off the events in the game.

Little fun facts

-He loves bugs, but has a massive soft spot for moths and butterflies

-He loves moths so much in fact that he made his last name alias to “Lymantria”

-His love language is gift giving! He will usually pay attention to his target’s activities and hobbies and finds something that they will adore.

-He was an entirely different character a few years ago. He was a sort of demigod/alien priest from my oc story (which he’s still in).

-On my first playthrough of Bloodborne, I decided to play as him out of all the other ocs I had. Hilarity ensues.

-When I first fought Micolash, I thought it would be funny to draw them kissing as a joke. It stopped being a joke soon after because the ship genuinely grew on me. Now here we are

Who wanna hear me yap about Galaphras (my bloodborne oc who is in love with Micolash)

[crimsonlocks]

An in-depth look at your muse.

tagged by: @schattenmagier​ tagging: I am late, so whoever sees this, do this I am feeling Laurence the most, so I am going to fill this out for Laurence. —    basics.

▸     is your muse tall/short/average? Laurence is 5′7′’ or 170 cm. He is on the smaller side for a cis male.

▸     are they okay with their height? He dislikes his height. He thinks he’s too small. Especially because people in Yharnam are usually HUGE and he feels utterly tiny compared to them. He wished he could be taller. 

▸     what’s their hair like? It’s shoulder lenght and from an auburn colour which is more red than brown. He hates being called a redhead though, don’t call him that. His hair is curly and he usually wears it loose, with the tips just falling on his shoulders.

▸     do they spend a lot of time on their hair/grooming? He will wash his hair regularly and brush it after he slept, but that’s it. He also will make sure that it gets cut when it is even slightly too long, the moment he can feel his hair on his back, he wants a cut. Micolash normally cuts Laurence’ hair for him.

▸     does your muse care about their appearance/what others think? He has too, because he is the Vicar of the Healing Church and has a social presence and he can’t come to a party looking like a Hobo. He makes sure that he looks dashing before leaving the house. He even will make sure to look good when he goes out in normal church robes and not in the vicar robes. He actually doesn’t care too much what others think, but he wants their money for the church, so he tries to appear as presentable as possible to them.

—    preferences.

▸   indoors or outdoors? Laurence spends a lot of time indoors, working mostly, but he also likes the outdoors. He will go for a walk often or swim in summer. He also will often be seen next to Ludwig and his horse Midnight.

▸    rain or sunshine? Sunshine. Laurence hates getting wet.

▸    forest or beach? Both. Laurence was next to a lake shore for a large part of his youth and often likes to go to the Yharnam harbour during his walks. But there was also a forest around his boarding school and even in his adult life he will be found taking walks in the forest near the Cathedral Ward, the forest that leads to Hemwick. Though, in his later years he wasn’t too fond of it anymore. He claimed there were shadows in the woods...

▸    precious metals or gems? Meteorites. But if he has to choose, gems. Blood gems in particular. Anything is better when it is made out of blood of an outer god.

▸   flowers or perfumes? Flowers. Especially lumenflowers.

▸   personality or appearance? For a relationship? If it is a one-night-stand, then appearance mostly. For a serious relationship, personality comes into factor.

▸   being alone or being in a crowd? Being in a crowd. Laurence can be a social butterfly and wants to talk to people. Though, if he dislikes the people around him, he wants to be alone.

▸    order or anarchy? His anarchy is the order.

▸    painful truths or white lies? White lies. You can’t control a city when you tell them the truth. Though, he genuinely thought the old blood was totally safe. He was in deep denial about it and shut off every critic for far too long. 

▸   science or magic? Magic is science! Look, there’s the augur in his pocket. Totally not magic. It’s arcane. Science. They proved it. Oh and eldritch gods are real by the way. And healing blood, not magic, science. His church is science! There is a research hall!

▸   peace or conflict? Peace, but will totally go into a conflict if he has to. Happened with Cainhurst. 

���    night or day? Night. You can’t look at the stars when it’s bright.

▸   dusk or dawn? Dusk. It’s nice to see the sunset and wait for the stars and moon to appear.

▸    warmth or cold? He prefers the warmth. Laurence downright HATES the cold. He will even keep his church coat on when it is very hot.

▸   many acquaintances or a few close friends? Both kinda. It can be very useful to have many acquaintances, but he also cherishes his few close friends.

▸    reading or playing a game? Reading. Laurence reads a LOT of books.

—    questionnaire.

▸     what are some of your muse’s bad habits? Not listening to people even if they are right. Stubborn. Addict for blood, alcohol and sedatives. Is annoying on purpose. Has anxiety but overacts and ignores it instead of dealing with it. God complex. Hates being proved wrong. Terrible with his feelings. Did I already mention that he’s annoying on purpose?

▸     has your muse lost anyone close to them? how has it affected them? Yes, a lot of people actually. First were his parents who died when he was 11 years old from a sickness. Laurence, sickly himself, got taken in by Byrgenwerth and was an orphan. Then, in his adult years, he willingly broke contact with Master Willem and the friends who stayed in Byrgenwerth. Maria commited suicide, Gehrman lost himself in grief and then fucked off to the Hunter’s Dream and Micolash fucked off with the School of Mensis and started a war with the choir. All this stressed Laurence a lot, but he barely allowed himself to grief. He fell into deep depression shortly before the scourge broke out in him.

▸     what are some fond memories your muse has? All the memories of Byrgenwerth. Before the blood, when everything was still peaceful and he didn’t have to care. Sometimes he wishes he had never picked up that accursed blood, but then he can’t believe that he once thought that. The blood is still helping people, right?! It did so much good, it’s the future. It’s not... it’s not the reason that everything goes to shit... it is.. not...

▸     is it easy for your muse to kill? Well, while Laurence can easily tell someone to kill, he actually never did it on his own. Never got his hands dirty... he would struggle a lot to kill, even a beast. It is something else to simply say “Kill” and to do it yourself. Beast Laurence has no qualms about killing whatsoever.

▸     what’s it like when your muse breaks down? When he breaks down, it will be because his denial caught up to him and then it gets dangerous because he still is the head of one of the most influential institutions in Yharnam and his word can change a lot. He can easily forbid people to do certain things and get everything like he wants. Though, if he breaks down, he tends to get stupider and therefore will make mistakes. It’s a good opportunity to overrule him.

▸    is your muse capable of trusting someone with their life? Yes, but it takes time of course. He trusted Gehrman and Ludwig with his life and... no one else. Not even his other close friends, there was too much of a mistrust to trust them to not betray him. If another muse would want his full trust, they would have to work hard for it.

▸     what’s your muse like when they’re in love? Dreamy. Very dreamy. Will yearn a lot. Will try to deny it. He really does that too often, huh? He will probably search out the person of his desires and try to spend time with them, still confused about why he even does that. Will make mistakes that he otherwise never would have made. Can go non-verbal when his crush speaks to him. Will sit in his office and wonder what is happening to him.

[a-bottomless-curse]

// a heart for brom? mayhaps?

@of-forossa

💔 -> non-existent.

💗 -> very low.

💗💗 -> a little.

💗💗💗 -> hopeful.

💗💗💗💗 -> high.

💗💗💗💗💗 -> maximum.

VISUAL ATTRACTIVENESS: 💗💗💗💗💗

( purely aesthetic appreciation of looks. )

"Brom caught my eye when we were young for many reasons, and now that we are older, I have more words at my disposal to know why. He is, and has always been sturdy, in bearing and figure especially. Though it is his eyes that I know set my heart alight most often, and his smile, seldom though it is with the state of Yharnam, gives me peace. He is a handsome man, one who's very being in my mind radiates warmth and certainty."

FRIENDSHIP LEVEL: 💗💗💗-💗💗💗💗

( how close a friend they consider them. )

"It is odd to describe the meeting of an old friend when you have both changed so much. He was my best friend when we were younger, and I am sure the boxes of letters, both those I received from him over the years and those I wrote to him but could never send after I was sent away can certainly prove the steadfastness strength of our friendship. But...I know I am not entire who I once was, and neither is he. And yet, there have been times, even in the darkest hours of the hunt, whether through one of us bringing to light an old memory, or through conversation to keep the madness at bay, I see the same flicker of him still. I know that there is work to be done to truly become like the friends we once were, and yet, I still think of him as one of my closest friends."

SEXUAL DESIRE: 💗💗💗💗💗

( wanting to have sex with them. )

"Having met and rekindled our relationship once again, I know that Brom's warmth lingers around me even when we part before the dawn after the Hunt ends. I know that when I fall asleep on the nights in which we have fought together it is in a solace that comes from that same warmth. I also know that I would be lying, much more than I ever would care to do so, if I said that I did not indulge in imagining what it would be like to share a bed with him. There is a reason that I indulge in teasing him as well. So, yes, I do wish, and dream at times, of what it would be like for him to pin me down and have his way with me, for Brom to show off that impressive strength of his while we stay warm amongst the ever constant cold. Perhaps he would shun me if he knew how much I wished we could be laid bare and vulnerable to each other, and yet I will not deny that I wish for it, often, and intensely even as times."

ROMANTIC INTENT: 💗💗💗💗💗

( hoping for a romantic relationship. )

"Brom's letters have been a constant source of warmth for me for all the long years that we were apart. They were, for many years, my only source of comfort and solace as, whenever I read his words, I could imagine myself so easily sitting beside him under our tree. I could scarcely believe it, even though I had had my suspicions, when he revealed the picture I drew for him to me, and yet my heart had leapt at the knowledge that we had found each other again. I have seldom thought or even entertained the knowledge that loved him them, when I was young and scared and foolish, but so very much in love with him. I gave into the despair that I would never see him again. But know that I know that despair was foolish, I wonder often over what could have been, had I been able to stay, and what could be now that we are reunited. I wish...I wish I were brave enough to tell him in no uncertain words how I feel for him. How I treasure his smile, his laugh, and all that he is. How I always will, but how I wish I could so beside him every dawn, every twilight, through the blood and madness, and through the hope that there will come a day when we will no longer have to pursue acts of slaughter to have even just a moments peace to ourselves. I do not know how much truth or tease there were to his words when we spoke in front of the chapel and he spoke of marriage for bedding me, but...I am devoted to him in ways that may be difficult to discern to most. If he were to ask it of me, I would indeed wed him, though if I must, I will be content to be his friend and companion until our last deaths part us."

[eldritch-horror-rp-blog]

“Really? No one?” Drakken said,l with humor, surprised. “How could that be possible? Surely you’ve had many others who’ve thought the same.”

Gently he ran his gloved fingers through the long hair tenderly, seeing the fragile smile. All the Hunter wanted was to make Luite feel comfortable and at peace. And peace indeed was a thing hard come by here in Yharnam.

@theblueflowerman

"Tell me when" for Luite? @theblueflowerman

“Luite, I fell in love with you when I first laid eyes on you. Your light captivated me from the beginning, and still does so even now.”

[headcanontheshitoutofsoulsborne]

Bloodborne Chain Game

The first chain has been completed! The original prompt has been the following:

Eileen or Djura's thoughts and feelings after they have decided to leave the Hunter's Dream. Please look at the completed art and fics under the cut and be sure to check the writers/artists out:

@thefatladysang​ The moon rises, silvery light dancing upon the field blanketed in white flowers below. Its surface is cracked and pierced by the bare branches of the great tree as it reaches futilely towards the night sky. A soft breeze whispers through the field, sighing between the hundreds of graves that line the hazy edges of the pasture. From elsewhere in the dream, a gate creaks open and a woman in a feathered coat and beaked mask strides through, boots clicking on the cobblestones. She halts at the base of the great tree and looks upwards at the man in the chair. He wheels around, faces her, and a warm smile splits his aged face. 

  “Welcome, Eileen.” If the woman smiles beneath her mask, she doesn’t show it. Her voice is hard and clear as she answers. 

  “The little doll told me you were waiting for me, Gehrman.” Her voice, normally clear and tuneful, is turned harsh by some kind of agitation. The man in the chair nods and doesn’t drop his grin.  

  “You’ve been dreaming for quite a while my dear. Your strength and skills have become quite sharp and I’ve yet to see another Hunter of your caliber.” He replies as serenely as though the two were discussing the weather. Eileen moves closer to him, remains stoic and silent beneath her mask. Gehrman pauses and tilts his head. The smile drops from his face, but there is no admonishment in his gaze, no judgement, only curiosity. “Yet you seem almost reluctant to hunt the beasts themselves…” Eileen stops her stride, now level with Gehrman’s chair. She towers over him and briefly, she wonders why she feels so unnerved by little more than an elderly man confined to a wheelchair. She shrugs, tries to make it look nonchalant and uncaring. 

  “What does it matter? You’ve others who can pick them off.” 

  “But what drew you to hunt the others down in the first place, Eileen?” Even though Gehrman’s voice is still as gentle as a parent scolding a child, Eileen finds her jaw clenching slightly. It’s not due to shame or embarrassment of any form. She does not regret the actions she took back then. She’s positive she made the right choice. 

  “Beasts are beasts.” She replies in a clipped tone. “Once the plague gets to them, they’re little more than animals acting on nothing other than instinct. The Hunters though...” For a moment, Eileen remembers finding corpses of men, women and even children. Always they’d been torn apart yet Eileen could tell which ones fell to claws and teeth and which ones fell to blades. She remembers the baying and howling echoing through the streets of Yharnam, mixing with the high, mad laughter until the sounds blended into a single cacophony. She remembers a time when the feeling of teeth and claws tearing into her with animalistic fury was distinct from the feeling of a saw or axe ripping her apart and she remembers when that dissimilarity grew smaller and smaller until she could no longer tell them apart. Oh yes. Eileen remembers it all and she has to clasp her arms to keep her hands from shaking. She’s seen the beasts that threaten to overrun Yharnam. She’s also seen the slower, quieter beasts; the ones that hid and gnawed the hearts of men: waiting, watching, biding their time until the tiniest spark, the slightest provocation, set them loose to ravage the world and all those with the misfortune to cross their path. She’s seen it, bore witness to it, and the question still eats away at her, even when she squares her shoulders and answers Gehrman’s quizzical stare. 

  “When the Hunters go mad, whose responsibility is it to see them dealt with?”  She expects admonishment, or perhaps a cold, displeased silence. Instead, the smile returns to Gehrman’s face, somehow wider and more brilliant than it had been before as though she’d said exactly what he wanted to hear. He shifts the blanket slightly and draws a short blade from beneath the folds. In all honesty, Eileen’s not certain what she should make of this new weapon. For one, the blade of the sword is thin, twisting, and it almost looks as though it had been forged as two separate pieces of metal that had then been stuck together. For another, it’s small, practically tiny next to the other weapons she’s seen at the workshop so far. There’s no trace of serration on the blades, or anything that would suggest a lengthening mechanism in sight. Such a thing would be ineffective against the beasts; no way it could tear through the hides or muscles of the creatures. Against the soft flesh of a human being however… 

  “I suppose such a burden would fall to you.” And with that, Gerhman extends his arm, offering the small, lethal looking blade. “This dream is meant for those who hunt the beasts, not other Hunters. For you, the night is nearing its end. And now, I will show you mercy.” Eileen pauses at this, fingers extended, about to take the blade from Gerhman’s hands. 

  “Mercy?” He brings his hands and the weapon back into his lap as his smile takes on a melancholic, almost rueful color. 

  “You will awake beneath the morning sun, freed from this terrible Hunter’s Dream.” He answers. “Free to flee Yharnam and seek out a peaceful existence elsewhere, if you so desire. Or, perhaps, you would prefer to pursue beasts truly befitting the Hunter of Hunters.” He tilts his head yet again, keeps his hands in his lap and awaits her answer. “Do you accept?” The blade in Gehrman’s lap glints in the bright light of the moon as though echoing his question. She wants to accept. She can’t see why she *shouldn’t* accept such an offer. *freed from this terrible dream,* he’d said. Freed from the dream. 

  If she was free from the dream, then… 

  If she could no longer dream, then… 

  “If I no longer dream, I won’t be able to return here should I perish, will I.” It’s only for a moment, but Gehrman falters slightly, as though he hadn’t expected her to catch on to that. When he opens his mouth, close to a minute later, Eileen nearly expects a lie or a half truth. Instead, he replies with frank honesty.  “No. You will not return.” He leans forward, eyes piercing her. “But you will forget. The horror remains, burned into your memory, but even that fades. Should you flee Yharnam, you will come to regard the events of the night as little more than a bad dream after a time.” Little more than a bad dream. That almost sounded like the worst outcome to Eileen. If she forgot, if she could no longer dream, what would become of her mission? Her ideals? If she was to hunt the other Hunters, why would she want to leave the city? 

  “And should I remain in Yharnam?” Her own words give her pause; if she remained in Yharnam, not in the Dream, but in the city itself. Across from her, Gehrman answers.  “Then the dream and the horror will forever haunt your memories until the end of your days.” He leans back slightly and the moonlight catches on the blades once again, throwing silver sharply into Eileen's eyes. “The decision is yours alone, I will not begrudge you either way.” For a moment, his words tumble over her ears and she almost asks what would become of her if she refuses, if she desires to remain in the dream. However, something stays her tongue. Perhaps it's little more than disinterest in the answer. Perhaps it's because she's come to know Gehrman in the long night of the Hunt and she knows that this is his request disguised as a choice. For a moment, the two of them seem almost the same to Eileen; both offerers and dispatchers of a swift, merciful death. And with a small chill trickling down her spine, Eileen realizes what Gehrman intends to do to her if she refuses his mercy. 

  It matters not. She's already made her decision. 

  Eileen steps forward and reaches out to grasp the handle of the short blade in her hand. Gehrman makes no move to stop her. She turns and kneels, but does not bow her head. She is not ashamed, grief or regret does not weigh on her heart. From somewhere behind her, Eileen hears the sound of creaking wood, footsteps over the hard ground, and the metallic ringing of another, longer blade being drawn. Her gaze remains ahead, even as the scythe looms in the corner of her vision, even when Gehrman draws it back slowly, carefully, she grips the handle of her weapon and remains steady. 

  “Good luck, my keen Hunter.” 

  The scythe descends and the last thing Eileen sees of the dream is the immense moon hung high in the east above the field of white flowers. 

  ~~~~~~~~~~~

  Light flickers across Eileen's closed eyelids as a strange warmth envelops her limbs. She sits up, blinks the fog away from her eyes, and has to pause for a moment before realizing what she sees. It hadn't been moonlight earlier, it had been the sun. She can't quite recall the last time she'd seen it. Slowly, as though moving to greet an old friend, Eileen stands and is startled when a metallic clang sounds from the ground beside her. She looks down, sees the glare of sunlight glinting off the small sword that had fallen out of her lap when she stood. In the distance, the bells of Yharnam peal as the sun climbs higher in the sky after what felt like a long night and Eileen bends and clasps the grip of the little sword. 

  "What curious dreams…"  @dragonbasket​

@palepious​ As the sun descended on the sky, disappearing behind the tall towers of churches and snow covered tops of mountains as if wanting to averd it’s gaze from the slaughter to come and hiding away until it was over. The city was painted in bloody reds, as if it was already covered in blood and flames, really made one want to hide away, cover one's eyes and ears and pray for the nightmare to end. If Eileen had been someone else, she probably would have done the same, but alas nights like these were the time when she really came to life, her gruesome duty becoming ever so important. Who would her prey be tonight? Which one of her former comrades and friends would she have to cut down today for public good? Whatever that meant at this point, after all Yharnam was as decrepit as a city could ever become. To be honest she wouldn’t be surprised at this point if her former rival and then partner  would appear out of the blue to say hello and possibly bury a few bullets in her. Yet creeping through the narrow and dirty streets was as natural to Eileen as breathing at this point, having spent so long chasing after prey in the dark, one learns the city’s layout pretty fast. The few Yharnamites that crossed her way were smart enough to scurry away after seeing her, prolonging their pitiful life for a little. Those poor sods could hardly be called humans at this point, with arms as hairy as a dogs and limbs that looked like crooked sticks that a child had glued the fallen hairs of the family dog to it… and that beautiful image paired with the smell of unwashed armpits and vomit. Just lovely. Eileen decided to walk her usual round for nights like these, stalking the streets of central Yharnam and slowly but surely closing in on the secret pathway into Cathedral ward. She could just use the great bridge, but it was too much open space and was probably inhabited by some large beast, which if possible she would very much like to avoid.  Like death incarnate she swept through the alleys, vigilant and on the look for her prey - though it seemed like tonight might be calmer than she had anticipated aside from diseased and crazed Yharnamites she encountered barely anything that was worth her notice. Of course, she cut the unfortunate beasts down that decided that the raven clad woman would be it’s dinner. But she couldn’t help but think that it was too quiet for a night of the hunt. Of course the villagers screamed their curses at the church and burned some mutt like creature that hadn’t scurried away fast enough. But the telltale sounds of the hunt that she was used to were missing. Where were the heavy footsteps? The eardrum ripping sound of guns being fired at a rapid pace, blades ripping away at flesh and the pained screams of beasts. Were there no other hunters aside from her tonight? Nonsense, it must have been because the sun hadn’t even set yet. Yes, that must be why. Soon enough she would hear Gascoignes roaring and the squelching of a poor beast that made acquaintance with the business end of his axe or gun. She hummed along to the faint melody of a melody box that played faintly from a distance while making her way to the spot she usually stayed at until the night unfolded completely and her prey came undone truly for her to reap. The dogs threw themself against the rusty bars of their cages, barking and yapping at her to no avail. One day these mangy and sick mutts might break out and maul an unfortunate soul, Eileen thought to herself while skipping over  some barrels disguising the entrance to the overlook of the main hall of the sewer hall.  Almost  completely turned Yharnamites growled up at her, but made no attempt to get to her. Which in the end was better for both parties, they could live until another hunter showed up and she didn’t have to bother. The smell of incense filled her nostrils after lighting the small lantern she had stored on the balcony like space between looming the houses, overlooking the canal that led to Cathedral Ward. The sun painted the sky such a beautiful red, she mused to herself, too bad not a sane unsoiled soul could admire the artwork that the sky had become at this hour. Well Eileen could but that was beside the point. A screech, that was in no way human, came from the great bridge and Eileen once again was glad she used this route. Yet some poor soul would have to take care of that beast, but alas once the moon would rise the hunters shouldn’t be far. Steps closing in on her tipped the huntress out of her musings, with the weight of the sound she expected to see Henryk, but alas it was a hunter she had never seen before. The clothes were terribly inappropriate for a night like this and clearly looked like those of an outsider. Which matched the confused look of horror on the hunters face, oh yes this poor soul had no idea what was going on and probably had questions running out of their ears. But they had come this far so they were a hunter, maybe even one sent by the moon… the thought made Eileen smile in pity under her mask. “Oh, a hunter, are ya? And an outsider?…” @maskofconfusion​

@lordmarble​​ Ever since the Good Hunter awoke to the nightmare here in Yharnam, they’ve had chills crawling up their spine, like writhing centipedes, injecting their terrorizing venom through goosebumps and making their blood run ice cold.  It’s not the hunt. They’ve been handed a weapon, a firearm, and a cheat for death itself. No reason to be afraid of a beast, not with the bloodletting teeth of their Saw Cleaver, and especially not with the dream they’re tethered to. But something is wrong. Something is watching them, and every time they look over their shoulder, nothing but shadows. A few beasts have snuck up on them before, but this… this is different. Sinister, even. Everything the Good Hunter has encountered so far had murderous intent, so why is this so…?  Pulling their foreign garb’s hood further over their face, masking the overwhelming stench of blood radiating around them, the Good Hunter makes their way towards the aqueduct, as Gilbert said to reach the Cathedral Ward. But an out of place window catches their eye, hidden behind boxes and barrels, and their curiosity lures them to rotting rafters that they have to tread lightly on. Below them, they can see beasts and giant rats lurking about, and so the Good Hunter chooses to only look ahead of themselves. The wood creaks with every step, groaning with age. They let out a huge sigh of relief when they reach a deck jutting out of the stone walls. They spot an entryway off to the side and hastily make their way there.  A balcony is now within sight, and there stands a person; dressed entirely in a black Crowfeather garb that reaches to the ground. A white, beaked mask rests on their face, devoid of expression. The Good Hunter hesitates, reaching for their Saw Cleaver and waiting for this person to react. Neither of them make a move.  The masked hunter turns their head towards the Good Hunter. They freeze up, that sinister crawling feeling from before comes back full swing, striking through their body in cold waves. Their heart pounds in their chest as they find themselves choked by their own adrenaline. They hold their hand over their chest, steadying their breath.  The masked hunter speaks, her voice smooth, leveled, and foreign in accent, “Oh? A hunter, are you? And an outsider?” The Good Hunter jolts. They nod swiftly as they ease up a bit. For the most part, it seems that this feather-clad person means no harm… But why hasn’t that dreadful feeling lifted from the Good Hunter’s consciousness?  The feather-clad hunter shakes her head, her arms crossed curtly. “What a mess you’ve been caught up in…”  The Good Hunter catches a glint beneath the hunter’s garb. A shine of metal like no other. The Good Hunter stiffens, and then…  “And tonight, of all nights.”  They whip their head around, eyes wide with shock. All they see is a flash of black and white, and just barely they fall beneath the swing of a blood-soaked blade. Another flash of black rushes before them, and the clang of metal rings throughout the air, like a foreboding bell chimed by Death itself. The Crowfeather hunter has locked blades with this new hunter. A helmet covers his entire face and a silver ponytail flows out from behind. Like the Crowfeather hunter, he too wears the same garb, its softness contrasted by the sharp, angled armor covering his legs and arms.  As quickly as the monochrome hunters reacted to each other, they stepped back and rushed at each other in the blink of an eye. The Good Hunter scrambles for the barrels strewn about and hides behind one of them. They peek out from behind the flimsy barrels, and not a peep escapes their throat. “How many times do I have to tell you, Bloody Crow,” The Crowfeather hunter says with a level voice, “you were only to hunt those who have gone mad!” She jumps aside, narrowly avoiding a gunshot from the new hunter.  The hunter apparently named Bloody Crow laughs aloud, laced with malice. It sends more shivers down the Good Hunter’s spine. They’re so shaken in their boots that they overlook the ridiculous implication that his mother really named him Bloody Crow. The Bloody Crow slashes his blade and nicks his opponent’s mask, “Ha! Can you blame me for going after such easy prey, Eileen?!”  The Good Hunter’s stomach twists in shame. They want to scream and say otherwise, but each strike makes them flinch.  Eileen dashes around the Bloody Crow and stabs him in the back, but not before he retaliates by firing his pistol as he turns around. The bullet pierces her thigh and she stumbles backwards towards the entryway.  She has no choice but to back up further to the rotting rafters as the Bloody Crow rushes her with a swift chop, feathers go flying as they’re cut free from Eileen’s garb. They float down to the sewers below and become indistinguishable from the muck. The Bloody Crow pulls the trigger and fires at Eileen’s feet. It blasts splinters into the air and causes the wood to snap beneath her weight. Just before the rafters collapse into the sewers below, Eileen leaps for one of the many chained corpses randomly hanging from the ceiling, and uses her momentum to swing onto a platform sticking out of the wall. The Bloody Crow is quick to react and fires away steps ahead of Eileen. This time, the bullet goes straight through her shin… and she falls. Eileen stabs her Blade of Mercy into the wood and hangs on for dear life. She struggles to climb back up, and the moment she gets her hand back on the platform, she hisses in pain as the Bloody Crow crushes her fingers with his heel.  “Why are you doing this?” Eileen growls between her teeth, “I practically raised you. I taught you everything you know! All I ask is one thing from you and you can’t even do that!”  The Bloody Crow kneels down. “Raised me? Everything I know? Wrong, and wrong again. Stop putting yourself on your foolish, imaginary pedestal of self importance!” Grinding his boot into her hand, he grumbles, “You only found me on the streets after I escaped the Executioners, as an adult, mind you. And you didn’t teach me how to use my blood arts either.”  “You would have died out there if I didn’t take you in. And who taught you how to tread without a sound when you couldn’t sneak up on a beast!? Who taught you how to throw a goddamn knife with your trembling hands!?” Then Eileen’s gets low, venomous. “There’s a reason why your sorry arse ran away from your people who needed you most. You. Were. Weak.” Angered at her words, the Bloody Crow stands up and crushes his foot down with the force of a raging bull. He listens to the sound of her phalanges snapping and her scream ripping through her throat with glee. He stays silent to take in the noise for a moment, and then speaks low, almost dangerously calm. “I may have been weak before, but look at me now, thanks to you. And I am grateful for that, Eileen. Truly. But I don’t owe you shit.” “You don’t owe me shit?!” Eileen shouts and kicks her leg in an attempt to swing back up. “You would be dead if it weren’t for me, and now you betray me because you can’t hold back your damned bloodlust?! How dare you claim that you’re not weak anymore, when you only go after the weak yourself!” The Bloody Crow scoffs. “It’s fun to see the fear bubbling over in my prey. Besides. I never wanted to follow your path as some mindless slave, bound to only killing ‘mad’ hunters. You should have stuck to that foolish oath and killed me the moment you laid eyes on me. And look at what you’ve done because you felt sorry for a monster like me, now you’re dangling above some filthy sewers where you belong, like the pathetic piece of shit you are—!!!” A Saw Cleaver comes striking down at him from behind, bringing him crumbling to his knees. The Bloody Crow’s foot slid off Eileen’s hand, slick from the blood seeping from her gauntlet.  The Good Hunter, through that killer instinct that was once locked away in their blood, thrusts their fist into the Bloody Crow’s back in one smooth motion. He gasps, “W-What…!?”  A spray of crimson goes flying along with the Bloody Crow as the Good Hunter yanks their arm out of his chest. He’s thrown into the sewers many meters below by the sheer force of that visceral attack. A massive splash follows, and the malformed beasts below turn their heads in curiosity.  Breathing heavily, shakily, the Good Hunter looks down at Eileen, offering her a hand. She gratefully accepts and is hoisted up with uneasy arms.  “...That wasn’t necessary of you, but you have my thanks,” She says between heavy exhales, “We barely made it with our lives. You’re not bad at all…” The Good Hunter looks down at where the Bloody Crow fell. He’s gone, a trail of bloody footprints climbing up the sides of the aqueduct. She looks down as well and shakes her head. “I genuinely don’t think you’ll be able to take him on as you are right now, so forget about it. He’s more vicious than any beast you’ll ever fight. I would know.” The Good Hunter’s shoulders slump in defeat. They then point to Eileen’s hand and leg. She sighs, “Oh, these? Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I’ve had worse than a broken hand and a bullet in me.” Concern flashes in the Good Hunter’s eyes, then confusion as Eileen chuckles. “I’ll just take some blood for now, but I appreciate your compassion. That is not something I see in Yharnam anymore. But be careful, kind acts don’t always end well…”  After hearing that heated argument between her and the Bloody Crow, they certainly believe that statement. The Good Hunter merely shrugs in response, though. They turn to drop down safely to the aqueduct, but Eileen speaks again. “Before you go, I must warn you not to go near the tomb below Oedon Chapel. Father Gascoigne, an old hunter, has gone mad with the beastly scourge. And he’s. My. Mark.”  Something glints in the Good Hunter’s eyes. Brimming with a newfound confidence, they hop on down and make their way to Oedon tomb. Eileen reflexively reaches up to pinch the ridge of her brow in annoyance, but she forgets that she’s wearing a mask. She also forgets that her left hand has been shattered like porcelain. “Argh…” She clutches it tenderly before reaching into her pockets for a blood vial.  Eileen limps back to the dock where she was loitering about earlier. She couldn’t let her pride crumble in front of that new hunter, even if they kindly offered her help. She slumps against the barrels, sighs, and tends to her stinging wounds. Taking off her mask for a breath of fresh air, she clears her mind and muses to herself. That hunter, although they were trembling in their boots, saved her and went on to where her next target is. And, they went alone, knowing that the monster she nurtured isn’t too far away. She worries for their safety, but that confidence the hunter walked away with puts her mind at ease. Perhaps they will survive this terrible nightmare, or perhaps they won’t.  Either way, Eileen has a feeling this is not the last time they will see the new hunter. 

[mrslittletall]

Oh, sorry about that last ask, honestly forgot about fandom asdhyhyd um, same number, but bloodborne and the orphan of kos? weird choice i know

Title: Mindless Fandom: Bloodborne Characters: Lady Maria of the Astral Clocktower, Orphan of Kos Word Count: 2.270 AO3-Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30595280

Summary: After her death, Lady Maria is stuck in a nightmare. After she finds out, that the Hamlet is behind the place she has awoken in, she goes investigating.

(Author's note:

14: Mindless

It is incredibly difficult to come up with something for a boss that exists only as some kind of concept in a nightmare, so I decided to go with an outsider POV for this. So, this might have turned more into a Lady Maria character study, so sorry if that wasn't what you were looking for, anon. It was just the only way I could think about how to make this prompt work.)

Maria had died, but she hadn't found peace.

She had awoken again, in the very clocktower in which she had taken her own life. Around her, the research hall, housing all the patients, the... the experiments. Maria had always refused to call them like this, she always had treated them as humans, regardless of how much the church was dehumanizing them.

Maria had tried to get out of the Research Hall. She needed to see where she was. She was sure that she had died, but the Research Hall looked like an exact copy of what she remembered. She made it through a prison block, one of the Healing Church and once she stepped outside, she knew that she indeed had died.

What laid in front of her, was a nightmarish version of Yharnam, mostly of Cathedral Ward. A fake light shone down on it, a pale, lifeless light and as she wandered through it, hunters and beasts were locked in an eternal battle. This place truly was a nightmare... a nightmare for hunters, and Maria had been a hunter herself.

True, she had quit the job, cast her weapon away and turned to comfort the patients in the Research Hall, but when she looked down at her hip, she could see the very same Rakuyo she had cast away and she was clothed in her garb, right up to the feathered hat.

Maria returned to the clocktower and sat down, waiting. She was dead and wasn't getting hungry or thirsty or tired. Most of the time she did just... think. Think about how her death had affected the ones she left behind. Gehrman, Micolash, Laurence... Adeline, the blood saint in the Research Hall she had taken a liking too. She was here as well, at least a version of her that her mind must have been fabricated. Maria felt that the Research Hall was her own personal hell, like the hunters outside were locked into an endless cycle of the hunt.

Maria could hear it. The sounds behind the big clock. The rushing of waves. The dripping of water. She could smell it, the faint smell of salt and the much more prominent smell of rotten fish.

She knew that behind the door there would lay something that scared her even more than the Research Hall... but one day she couldn't bear it anymore. She needed to know.

So Maria got up from her chair, in which she must have sat for days. Or weeks. Or months. Or years. Time wasn't a concept in this place, so she didn't know, only that it had been a long time.

She faced the structure behind her and held up an item known as the celestial dial, knowing that it would open the way. After the hole had fully opened, Maria took a deep breath, even though she didn't need to breathe anymore and stepped through it.

There was a small cave, but once she traversed it, Maria saw her true nightmare right in front of her eyes.

The Fishing Hamlet...

It felt like ages had passed since she had been sent here alongside Gehrman. Because of their combat prowess they had been chosen to take care of any attacks, so that the scholars could work unhindered. Maria hadn't questioned it back then. She had trusted Master Willem's word, that they were doing the right thing, that the villagers of the Hamlet were in the wrong for keeping the treasure of the stranded Great One for themselves.

That it had been Byrgenwerth and not the Healing Church, made the whole thing even worse. The Healing Church hadn't even existed back then. Laurence had been in the middle of his blood research, having been excluded from the trip, because Master Willem had been against it. Of course the sneaky bastard still had found a way to follow them and harvest the blood of the Great One while everyone else had been distracted. Still, Maria had acted under the order of Byrgenwerth. She had done atrocious things in the name of knowledge... atrocious things she wanted to absolve while serving the Church, only to realize that she had gone from serving one monster to serve another monster. Still, she could have believed it far more if the Healing Church had been the one to attack the Hamlet.

In a sense, the Healing Church started in Byrgenwerth, so she shouldn't be too surprised.

Maria continued walking, the shallow water washing around her boot, cold water dousing her feet. There was a figure limping forward, mumbling something about Byrgenwerth, but when she stayed to listen, she quickly realized that they didn't notice her, forever caught in their ramblings.

Approaching the village, Maria's hands encompassed her Rakuyo. She couldn't preclude the possibility that the nightmare had conjured the villagers, the one Willem had let cut open to search for eyes in their brain, to attack anyone approaching their sanctuary.

For some reason, nobody disturbed her. She could cross the village without fail. Sometimes she heard sounds, the splashing of water, the shuffling of feet, the creaking of wood... along with the prominent smell of fish, that had dried on land for a little too long, but nobody ever stood in her way.

Maria stopped when she came upon a certain well. She knew this well. That had been the well she had tossed her Rakuyo in. Once again, her grip around her Rakuyo tightened. She knew that her gear wasn't real, and was a fabrication of the dream, but she asked herself if she still would find a Rakuyo in there... her Rakuyo...

Maria had to wrest herself free from her thoughts. This wasn't why she had come here. She had another goal.

So, she continued walking, each step filling her boots with more water, until her feet were freezing and her whole body shivered, even though she knew that she wasn't alive anymore. Her body still made her believe that she was alive...

Maria stepped out of the cave, approaching the corpse on the shore. Kos, the Great One they had come here for. The Great One which Laurence had harvested the blood from. The Great One which Willem had cut open to take a piece of her unborn child...

All Great Ones lose their children and long for a surrogate. The thought was predominant in Maria's head. Did they really lose their children or did humans take them? A question that she would never get an answer too...

She didn't even know why she had come here. To make up for her crimes? To get answers? That was something she could never make up for. Maybe she had simply come to apologize.

So, Maria kneeled down in front of Kos and folded her hands in prayer, when something stirred inside the dead body.

Maria was on her feet immediately, her Rakuyo on the ready, her eyes fixated on Kos' stomach.

Something... crawled out of Kos, no... it looked... looked like she gave birth. But that couldn't be. She knew that the child had been dead. She had been a part of killing it. Maria gasped as the creature was completely “born” and slowly got up. That wasn't... that surely didn't look like a child. It was large, with grey skin, managed to step up on two feet and... actually still was connected to the placenta of its mother.

It looked like the most nightmarish thing she had seen and she was currently stuck in a nightmare.

Still, the way it stood there, the way it seemed to wail, that was nothing but a lost, confused and scared child.

Maria lowered her Rakuyo and took a step closer.

“Hey.”, she said. “I am not here to-”

Before she could even finish her sentence the child approached her with a blood-curdling scream. Maria gasped in shock and surprise and stepped out of the way, to not be crushed by this giant placenta, that the creature used like a mace.

“I am not here to fight!”, she screamed, trying to drown out their screams. “I want to talk!”

She didn't have any luck. The creature continued to attack her and with Maria refusing to fight back, she quickly became overwhelmed and felt how her body got crushed under the “club” of the creature.

When she awoke, she was back in the Astral Clocktower. She let out a deep sigh, of course she wouldn't be able to escape this nightmare by dying in it. She was forced to come back again and again, just like the hunters and the beasts.

She very well remembered what had happened. The creature... the child... They had attacked her. Did they think she was responsible for the death of their mother? While Maria wasn't responsible for Kos' death, the Great One had been dead when they found her, she was responsible for the death of the child.

The child couldn't know that. It got born, saw a dead mother and attacked the first person they thought responsible. In their sense, they were an orphan and upset about it. There were so many things Maria didn't know about the Great Ones, but she was sure that they wouldn't differ in wanting to have the comfort of their parents.

Maria decided to meet the orphan another time and see if she could help. They didn't want to listen to her. They probably weren't aware of them being in a nightmare and Maria just wanted to help.

So she went to the shore another time. The Orphan of Kos, Maria had decided to call them like that, was still there. As soon as she approached them, they were back at attacking her.

“Stop it!”, Maria screamed. “I know you have every right to hate me, but it won't do anything good! We are both stuck in a nightmare!”

Again, Maria was struck down and woke up at the Astral Clocktower. Again, Maria went back to meet the Orphan of Kos.

This time she fought back. If the Orphan didn't want to listen, she would make it listen and if that meant to beat some sense into it, so that it would finally stop attacking her.

Maria had to learn the hard way that the Orphan only got stronger the more it got cornered. She still felt the aftershock of its electric attack when she woke up in her chair again.

Their encounters continued like that. Maria knew that she would be able to just strike the Orphan down if she would get all out, but she despised using her blood powers and she didn't want to strike them down, she wanted to talk. She only fought because the Orphan didn't want to listen.

So they fought each time they met and slowly, Maria mentioned to gain the upper hand, finally having figured out how to best avoid the Orphan's attacks and striking their weak points to make them yield. During this time, she actually cherished not being able to die anymore, that surely gave her infinite tries. Being dead had its merits after all.

Finally, Maria managed to overpower the Orphan, her sword at their throat and her foot on their chest, as they trashed and flailed beneath her.

“Finally.”, Maria said. “Will you finally listen? I only wanted to talk. About all this here. The nightmare around us. The fact that it seems to be a cruel warp of the reality I tried to escape. That the Fishing Hamlet is here. Why you stayed in your mother's belly for so many years. I just want to try and help.” Or did she? Had she really come here just to help? Wasn't she here to find some answers about her suffering...?

There wasn't an answer, just more thrashing and flailing. Maria had to give her best to not be knocked off. “I just want some answers!”, she suddenly cried out, tears welling up in her eyes. Who had decided for her that she should keep living in this nightmare? Who had cursed her for all eternity? Why did she have to relive the things she wanted to forget over and over again.

“Tell me! You are the source of this nightmare, are you not?!”

Maria startled at the sound of her own voice. That wasn't like her. She had always been kind and compassionate, not furious, holding a sword at the throat of what was classified as a toddler.

Wiping the tears out of her eyes, she took a deep breath and looked the Orphan in the eyes... and that is when she noticed it.

“You don't even have a mind...”, she said. “You weren't even allowed to be born. This, all of this, it's just a manifestation of my own guilt and shame.”

Maria removed her Rakuyo from the Orphan's throat and the next thing she knew was that she was back in the Astral Clocktower.

With a sigh, she sat down on the sole chair there, picking up a photograph to look at. “We should have never come to the Hamlet.”, she murmured. “If we had just left Kos alone, nothing of this would have ever happened.”

Maria put the photograph to the side and sank down into her chair. There was no escape out of this nightmare, but she knew what her task in it was. Whoever would make it into it from the waking world, she would step up and prevent them from going further. She would keep the secret of the Hamlet, even in her own death.

Because a corpse should be well left alone. (Author's note: I am not super satisfied with this one, but I hope you enjoy it regardless. Like I said, it was a difficult prompt with a difficult character. Sadly we don't have much lore about Kos and the Orphan of Kos and the Fishing Hamlet is one of the biggest lore messes in the whole world of Bloodborne.)

[executionersghost-archive]

For @yellowfingcr

Evening had turned into the dark blue of twilight. She had been a little late in starting out for the night, yet she was determined to find a few ounces of peace before the night’s hunt. Even if she couldn’t spend as long as she would have liked in her newfound place to haunt.

The greenhouse must’ve been well-kept once upon a time, but like most things in Yharnam, it too was falling into a state of wildness. The plants outgrew their space, many glass panels were long-since broken, and whatever stagnant water that remained in the ponds and fountains was murky and green. It was, however, blissfully quiet. A strange place of still.

Claire picked her way through the overgrowth to her usual clearing by a fountain. The colorful petals of the surrounding flowerbeds were muted in the current dark, but soon the moon would bring back a little of their splendor. She sank down before them, endeavoring to reminisce in some old thoughts, but a sound brought her back to the present. It would seem she wasn’t alone this time. Whipping around, she remained on one knee, placing a hand on her gun while her other tipped up the wide brim of her hat as she searched the gloom.

“Is someone there? Be you human or beast?” She asked, uncertain. Beasts never answered with words, of course.

[vinodiriso]

secrets, insight and discovery (simon + ema!)

@bcwblade || ask meme (not accepting!)

EMA. 柔

“And so... the blood of Yarunamu would be able to heal any wounds? Restore one to life?”

Ema was upset to hear Simon talking about such unsettling arguments. In her head, where the otherworldly meant balance and restoration, having something as impure as blood being the answer to eternal life disturbed her. 

Her dark eyes were lifted on Simon’s tanned countenance. She was visibly shaken, yet not by him, but by his experience. She tentatively held one of his hand in hers, covering it with her own and bringing it closer to her face. She gently rubbed her thumb on the back of his hand, lost in her thoughts.

Who had been beastly enough to gain such insight? Who was the first to experiment on the blood and discover its healing properties?

One might have argued that Dragon’s Blood was the same kind of devious instrument to escape fate, but Ema wouldn’t have agreed. The Dragon’s Blood was a gift of the ancient to a superior bloodline, and immortality could only be granted by those wise individuals to whom deserved it, such as Master Ookami. As per Simon’s own confession, the blood of Yharnam had been used indiscriminately to aid everyone in their purpose to cheat death.

Not even for a second Ema stopped to caress his hand. The torment in his soul was clear to her, and even though she had known him for enough time, she didn’t dare ask why he flinched every time he heard a screech, a howl, what enchanted him so much of their quiet lifestyle, what made him in rapture with her voice when she was speaking softly.

“According to our tradition, we don’t touch those who deal with blood. Eta, we call them. Blood is filth to us, it angers the spirits, makes them enraged with us. But I dare any spirit to be in rage with you, master Saimon. Deep within you there is a kind soul, I can see it, enshrouded in darkness. Whatever plagues your soul cannot touch you here, I promise. Forget the ancient blood, forget what brought you so much misery... and focus on the present life you live. Nothing can bring you more peace but to know that your past will stay in the past, if you let it.”