#and of the remaining two endings this one frees gehrman and gives the doll a host of the dream more likely to treat her kindly | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

headcanontheshitoutofsoulsborne · 3 years

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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.

#bloodborne #soulsborne chain game #bloodborne chain

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