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headcanontheshitoutofsoulsborne · 6 months

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Bloodborne Chain 5

We are still on the chain game and we made another Bloodborne Chain. This is already the fifth one. We actually got ten people to participate, so we have five fics and five pieces of art! I hope you guys enjoy! Original prompt: The doll's hands get broken and Hunter fixes them. @scribble-writes-science-fantasy (can't tag, but that is their blog)

The Lady and the Hunter

A Short Story

Based on the 2015 video game Bloodborne, by FromSoftware

Prologue

The Doll quietly turned over the crystal in her hands. It was of a pure white coloration, with small circular engravings, which looked like open eyes. Both ends tapered off into a jagged point.

“Darling Hunter, might I ask where you acquired this?” The Doll looked down at the Hunter, sitting quietly on a stone bench. Siofrin, servant of the Doll, and member of the Choir, beamed at their miss’ question, adjusting their spectacles knowingly.

“Would you like the short version, or the long one, m’lady?” Siofrin pulled out a small leather-bound journal, no doubt brimming with an account of their most recent expedition outside of Yharnam. Now that the Hunts had seemingly ended, and the Beast Scourge no longer affected the city as a whole, trade and travel had reopened slightly to other parts of the world.

Smiling, the Doll placed the intricate prism back in Siofrin’s gloved hands. “Whichever one you prefer, dear.”

The Doll wrapped her hands around Siofrin’s head as the Hunter quietly lay in the tall grass, reading from their journal. Siofrin gave the prism back to the Doll, who held it loosely.

Elster was renowned for its manipulation of prisms and light, said to have constructed powerful weapons that could bisect beasts in two with lasers of moonlight. The prism had been gifted to Siofrin when they had ventured there on a whim, desiring to go outside of Yharnam, and to somewhere closer to home.

A scholar by the name of Dahlia had given the Hunter the prism, and gone into a lengthy discussion about its usage as a channeling device to speak with the Great Ones, with no fear of madness.

Dahlia had expressed some suspicion at Siofrin, due to being part of a rival academic group, but had bid them a cordial farewell as night slowly fell.

The prism suddenly emanated a piercing wail, and the Doll’s hands violently snapped backwards.

She did not scream, but merely fell to the ground in shock. Her slender hands were now torn asunder, wooden panels blasted off, revealing intricate gears and springs inside, with transparent tubes of a blue fluid now shattered and leaking.

There was a pain on Siofrin’s left cheek, a jagged patch of burning flesh, the pain of which Siofrin failed to register.

The Doll stared at Siofrin. “My hands…”

Siofrin took a few steps back, unsure of what to do. “Miss! I- What.. must I do?!” They stood, frozen, staring at the Doll’s blank expression.

“Darling.. The parts to fix my hands will not be found in the physical world. I was created from an eldritch blessing, by a Great One. You may not be able to mend my hands at all.”

Siofrin stammered in shock, picking up the still-warm crystal. The small eye carvings glowed with a blue light.

“I’ll go to Elster. Their Great One made this crystal. If I can get back inside their Academy, I can commune with it.”

The Doll mournfully looked at Siofrin. “Good Hunter.. The price to your sanity may be too great when communicating with such entities. Are you certain?”

Siofrin nodded.

“Then, go. May you find what you seek, in the waking world.”

A shimmering circle of light opened around the Hunter’s feet, and darkness overtook Siofrin’s vision. Why? Why do they insist on endangering their frail form for my well-being?

Chapter One: The Hunt, in Elster

Elster was a city of walls, and light. Three concentric, circular walls, brimming with defenses. The first two walls had weaponry that prickled outwards, harpoons and cannons, as well as the occasional gatling gun, all augmented by prism-lasers, massive spikes of clear crystal with iron bands that swiveled them around to fire beams of searing flame.

The third and final wall had defenses that could swivel inwards. This was the wall that was manned on the night of the Hunt, and it was to terminate any who showed signs of beasthood with extreme prejudice.

Rather than fight with heavy melee weapons like Yharnam, Elster opted instead for ranged weapons, volleys of repeating rifles, cannons, machine guns, and prisms, all with silver bullets to kill any beast, no matter how large. This ensured no blood would be spilled, and thus, the infection would not spread.

The first wall loomed ahead, a thing of dark gray stone, with large white crystals floating on the parapets, their sharpened edges facing outwards and downwards to the wide cobbled road below. Dusk was approaching as the sun fell into the sea, creating a flowing, ethereal explosion of pink and orange hues.

Siofrin noticed men in white grasping jagged objects high on the ramparts, sitting in swiveling turrets bristling with guns. They stared down wordlessly, but the dozens of weapons constantly swiveled to follow Siofrin.

A guard, armored in a shimmering suit of plate armor adorned with smaller crystalline clumps, stood in the center of the gate, beckoning Siofrin to come closer. Only her eyes were visible, for she wore a white mask and pointed metal helm. In her hands was a large rifle with a sparking, squarish protrusion where a magazine of musket balls would normally be, and a pointed metal spike tapering off at the end of the barrel.

The guard’s muffled voice commanded Siofrin to halt. “What do you require, stranger? This is the night of the Hunt. A common one like you should not be outside the walls.”

Quietly, Siofrin whispered to the guard. “Communion with Ygralith.” Siofrin then revealed the badge of the Hunters in their other hand.

There was a rustle of hasty whispering. The guard reappeared, her mask down to reveal a slight, pale face. She spoke hastily, with a conspiratorial hint. “They told us one of you Hunters would come. We have no issue with your kind, but if you’ve got any ties to the Choir, the Academy will butcher you. That’s all I can offer you.”

Stepping aside, the guard gestured to let Siofrin enter. “I don’t know much of what you Hunters want, but if you can survive Yharnam, Elster should be a cakewalk. You’d want to seek out the Academy of Xanthas. Be warned, though. We don’t have governance over the Academy’s grounds anymore.”

Siofrin nodded, thanking the guard. The two other walls were much the same, spaced widely. By the time Siofrin had made it past the checkpoints, dusk overtook Elster, and for the first time in years, the moon glowed with a malevolent bloody light.

One final guard, who introduced herself as Adeline, spoke cautiously to Siofrin. “The Great One hasn’t spoken to any of the Xanthas scholars in a long time, and with the blood moon they’ve undoubtedly locked up the place even more. We welcome all who wish to ascend in our city, but I hope you’re aware of what that entails.”

Siofrin was acutely aware that the badge of the Choir was tucked away in their pockets. Before them, the pale red moon shone brightly. The cobbled streets of Elster were wide and straight, and the architecture, ornate and gothic like Yharnam, was adorned with dozens of glowing white crystals. In the far distance, Siofrin could see a stately building, adorned with a tall lighthouse that glowed with a steady white light.

Rows and rows of roving men walked near, some nodding in respect at Siofrin’s Tonitrus, the experimental mace’s silvered ball head sparking with the same electricity on the guards’ rifles, while others whispered to their comrades, shifting their gazes whenever Siofrin noticed the stares.

A bell rang in the far distance, and every soldier began to sprint to the sources of the piercing howls and sounds of snapping bone and splintering flesh.

Let the Hunt begin.

Chapter Two: Road to the Academy

Siofrin sprinted, keeping careful watch on how the infantrymen of Elster conducted their war against the plague of beasts. As the first group approached a looming Scourge Beast, they formed into a tight formation, tossing flaming bombs to drench the wolf-like monster in flame, before firing rapid bursts of electricity that burned away flesh and bone, turning the intimidating foe into a charred skeleton.

A man in the early stages of transformation, with a backwards-bent rib cage charged at a group of armored Elster soldiers, and they responded in kind, holding out shards of crystal which grew into translucent shields of light, the beast crashing onto the wall of force before another group surrounded it from behind, plunging spears into it from a distance before activating gun barrels built into each pole, blasting the creature’s head wide open, gore and tainted blood splattering harmlessly on the shields of light, never touching the soldiers themselves.

As the soldiers backed away, a terrible scream emanated from far off, past the huge iron gate that sealed the Academy Ward from the rest of the city. Distant windows glowed brightly with a scarlet light, and screams began to slide, like a flowing river of blood, as house after house was breached.

A young woman with blonde hair pulled into a bun swore. “It’s never been this bad before! That bloody moon must be making these things stronger!” The human-sized beast which the soldiers had previously felled rose up from the dead behind them, and Siofrin lept into action, blasting the monstrosity back with a pistol shot, and then caving in what remained of its flailing body with the sparking Tonitrus, burning flesh and bone.

It did not rise again.

The woman thanked Siofrin, nodding with approval-and, the slightest hint of apprehension- at the newcomer’s rapid speed and dexterity. The party continued on, with mutterings from additional soldiers that the Xanthas Scholars must have summoned something bad, given the howls and shrieks coming from behind the massive gate.

As the group approached the massive, intricate gate, Siofrin was shocked to discover a group of huddled scholars, dressed in ornate blue robes and holding ramshackle weapons sparking with electricity, wafting embers of fire, plumes of toxins, and other things. The closest one to the gate, a man with long, silvery hair and sharp red eyes, implored the soldiers to open the gate.

He spoke with a quavering shudder, bloodshot eyes darting back and forth in a plea. “Please, you’ve got to! The others-they summoned something horrid! They’re using the entire Academy Ward as a testing ground! Let us out!”

The scholar shrieked in terrible fervor, and the Elster guards nervously agreed, watching the thin robed forms flit away through the gate to some form of sanctuary. Weapons were checked, and Siofrin was given the offer of a peculiar shock-pistol, which they gladly accepted, still keeping the Tonitrus close at hand.

The moon glowed with a malevolent scarlet light as the howling of beasts grew to a terrible crescendo, and the ancient gate creaked open, revealing the massive doorway of the Academy.

Chapter Three: Nightmare of Xanthas

At the entrance to the Great Hall of Xanthas, a large sigil had been daubed on the wooden doors entering the main hall. The wet, scarlet substance glowed unnaturally, and had been deftly applied with microscopic sigils inside a great circle.

A white-robed soldier, holding a book and a crystal dagger in her hands, approached the ritual circle, plunging her dagger in the thick wood, and softly whispering as she held out the large, aged tome.

The red substance flew into the dagger, tainting the white stone scarlet. The mage quickly pulled the dagger from the door and placed it back into her sheath, and the other soldiers pushed open the two massive doors, grunting with exertion.

Inside, the Hall was dark, with red light streaming through the ornate stained windows. Tables and chairs had been placed to block entry- or, prevent something from exiting.

Silence reigned supreme for a few seconds.

A thousand red eyes flashed in the inky blackness, making noises that sounded human, but vaguely, terribly wrong, wails and groans and growls echoing through the massive chamber.

They wore the ripped, torn uniforms of the Academy, shambling forth with the legs of birds and beasts, the gaping eyes of deep-sea creatures and the muscular, predatory claws of hounds, the flesh on their faces stretched unnaturally to accommodate their new, terrible transformations.

Siofrin blasted a thing that had once been a woman, her eyes and mouth sprouting with writhing tentacles, blood trickling from ruptured orifices. The electrocution staggered and shocked the thing, its digitigrade legs collapsing. Siofrin smashed the thing’s semblance of a head in with a disgusted blow.

The Elster infantry set up a firing line, and slowly marched and shot their way through the long hall, filled with twisted aberrations. A man, letting out a terrible groan as he staggered into view, chest cavity surgically removed and replaced with a thing of twisting roots that jerkily puppeteered his flailing body, wailing in terror as he made futile attempts to regain control of his broken body.

Siofrin put the student out of his misery, incinerating the monstrosity with a jolt of vibrant electricity.

A soldier drew Siofrin’s attention to a doorway at the side of the hall. “The storage basements are inside here, Hunter. It’s the fastest way to reach Ygdalith’s chambers. We’re going to scout out the rest of the Academy, and halt the ritual the scholars planned.” She stared at Siofrin, eyes wide with fear. “It’s never gotten this bad before. Please, end this.”

Siofrin nodded. “I’ll try.”

The heavy door to the basement opened, and the Hunter’s lanky form was quickly swallowed by the darkness.

They quickly activated the Tonitrus, filling the stairwell with flickering blue light. The ornate wooden stairs turned slowly to chipped, mossy stone, until the entire tunnel smelled of salt, and damp seawater, with the walls, stairs, and roof being of a white marbled stone that softly pulsed with light.

Different caverns and small rooms were seen as Siofrin walked down the stairs, with some doors locked with iron chains. Whispers and muffled thumps sounded from dozens of black onyx caskets in niches lining the walls.

There was a humming that grew in frequency as Siofrin approached the bottom of the stairs. A pool of inky black water prevented ingress, and it appeared that the stairs themselves fell off into the void of the sea.

A whisper flowed into Siofrin’s mind, an urgent, deep sound that flowed into all of the crevices of Siofrin’s being. It was like a million voices, all speaking at once, each voice cold and harsh, with pointed, sharp inflections.

ENTER.

Siofrin stepped into the inky darkness, feeling the cold water flow over their form. They held their breath nervously, but soon exhaled, a rush of fear coming over them. The dark water was lit with small pinpricks of flickering light, and the stairway finally ended, halting at a simple wooden door, with a rusted iron knocker.

Siofrin lifted the knocker, and it fell with a heavy, echoing thud against the ancient, mottled wood. Silence reigned for a moment, until the door opened inwards, revealing a chamber.

Chapter Four: The Radiant Crystal

Seeing a wall of absolute darkness before them, Siofrin lifted a gloved hand, seeing it go through the seemingly impenetrable barrier. The voice spoke yet again, goading Siofrin on.

LOWER YOUR WEAPONS. YOU WILL NOT NEED THEM.

Despite all thoughts to the contrary, Siofrin felt their hand slacken, dropping the Tonitrus, which disappeared into the swirling darkness.

Once again, the Hunter walked into the gulf of darkness, and as they walked through the ink, pinpricks like multicolored stars appeared in the pitch black, filling the infinitely wide space with shifting hues that Siofrin was certain were not meant for human eyes.

A massive crystal stood, silent in the void of space. It was white, with marbled layers, and studded with twitching eyes that rolled silently to lay upon Siofrin. The sharpened points of the crystal each had a steady beam of blue, sparking energy piercing the darkness, stretching both upwards and downwards into forever.

The Great One spoke, its voice sounding like a form of judgment, a final speech before the end of the universe, the end to which it was the executioner.

WHAT DO YOU REQUIRE?

Siofrin spoke then, feeling so very small, and very.. immaterial, as if their very form was fraying at the edges, flesh, blood, bone, muscle all being eaten at and reformed by the grasping darkness beyond all rational graspings of the word time.

“My Lady… her hands. Only you can fix them, as she dwells in a place outside of time, a place of dreams.”

The great crystal rumbled once more, in response. YOU SPEAK OF THE DREAM. WE UNDERSTAND. WHAT WE GIVE, YOU MUST RETURN. TIE YOUR SOUL TO XANTHAS, SO WE MAY GRANT THE POWER TO FIX THE CARETAKER OF THE DREAM.

Siofrin remembered a quiet night, in which the Doll had simply and calmly spoke to them as they lay, tired and broken in her arms. The price may be too great, darling.

No. No price is too great for her. I must do this.

Siofrin stepped forwards, into the beam of light. A million voices roared as the violently sparking energy enveloped the Hunter’s frail form, spectral images of radiant hues appearing before them as flesh was removed, and replaced. There was a brief feeling of pain, which dissipated just as quickly.

A vast voice whispered silent instructions in Siofrin’s mind, a perpetual, constant presence. ASCEND THE HUNT. FINISH THE CELESTIAL WAR.

Violent images flooded into the <FRAGILE MIND>

Images of the <GREAT ONES>

THE BETRAYER, <ODEON>

THE ETERNAL CURSE, SO WE MAY BE FOREVER CHILDLESS

THE SINGULAR TIE TO HUMANITY

THE TIE THAT BRINGS EVERLASTING SORROW

NO MATTER WHAT WE DO, HUMANITY SUFFERS

HUNTER. END. THE. CYCLE.

The light filled Siofrin’s vision, and all fell silent.

-X-

Siofrin awoke on the cool cobblestones of the Dream. They slowly pushed themselves up, staring at their hands. They were smooth, with jointed seams, made of a plain white material that quietly rang as it touched the stone.

Just like my miss’s hands.

The Doll was sitting on a small bench, her form utterly changed. Pale, living flesh had replaced the wood and metal. She stared at Siofrin with sorrow in her eyes, and her voice was very thin. “Oh, my darling. I am sorry.”

She slowly wrapped her warm hands around Siofrin, and wrenched off the Hunter’s cap, revealing the raven-black, long hair underneath, holding the Hunter’s head in her lap.

Siofrin spoke, their voice quieter than before. “M’lady.. Do you enjoy your new hands?”

The Doll felt her face wet with soft tears. “Yes, darling. Thank you.”

Outside, in the furthest reaches of time and space, waits something immeasurably ancient. Something cold, and dark, and filled with something akin to conspiracy.

It sees the Hunter, marked with the Sigil of Rebellion.

It sees its brothers and sisters, willful traitors all in its enigmatic, alien mind.

The cycle must not be broken. The power gained from Humanity’s torment is immeasurable. And yet.. This Hunter, who sacrificed a portion of their own humanity out of an emotion as meaningless as love…

…The Watcher in the Dark sees this mortal, a frail flame against the inky dark.

It will see it snuffed out. In time.

The End… For Now

@yharnam-everchase

@sputnstuff

EXT – HUNTER’S DREAM NIGHT TIME

The Doll stares serenely at the flora of the Hunter’s Dream as peace and quiet takes over the area and not a single peep, not even from Gherman who sleeps near the large tree, is heard from anywhere. But the serene silence doesn’t last longer as a large beastly roar is heard from the tombstones. The doll stands up and heads over to check who just arrived and she sees a human wearing a leather outfit with a cape, but their face is one of a human with large fangs and large and unkept hair, looking more like they’re turning into a feral beast. Their right hand is carrying a claw-like weapon and the left is a proper beast-like claw. A growling expression covers their face as drool comes out of the seemingly angry beast-like hunter. The Doll cautiously approaches the Hunter calmly.

DOLL: Welcome home, Good Hunter.

The Beast-like Hunter stares at the Doll and calms themself down, if slightly, at her sight. They approach her carefully and start to smell her like a beast would. The Doll attempts to pet their head but quickly withdraws her hand when they look at her hand.

DOLL: You look different, What happened to you?

A question that is unfortunately left unanswered as the Hunter is seemingly unable to answer due to their now beastly appearance. They do however, grab the Doll’s hand, smelling it for a bit. The Doll, despite the emotionless expression, seems to sound weirded out by the beast’s behaviour.

DOLL: So you wish for me to channel the echoes into you?

The Beast-like Hunter looks at the Doll, it seems like they understood what she said as they kneel down while holding her hand with their beastly hands. The Doll is still unsure about the state of her hunter.

DOLL: Very well, then close your eyes and…

The Doll pauses, is it really a good idea to give this hunter the strength of the echoes? They seem long lost. Should she get Gherman and have him take their life? But so far, the Hunter has yet to so anything that warrant the need to get old hunter. She sighs and covers the beast’s hand with both of her own.

DOLL: Very well, let the echoes become your strength. Let me stand close, now shut your eyes.

The Beast-like Hunter does what they’re told and a bright shine emanates from the Doll’s hands as the echoes are channelled onto them. As the shine dissipates, the Hunter’s grip tightens around the Doll’s hands.

DOLL: Good Hunter, you can let me go, I have finished…

She is interrupted by the sound of many things breaking, namely her fingers. The Beast-like Hunter’s grip was too tight to her, so much so they didn’t knew their own strength and it ended up shattering their beloved Doll’s hands. The grip is released, and the Doll stares at the damage done and at a hunter who looks like they realised that they’d messed up.

DOLL: This is… unfortunate.

The Beast-like Hunter starts to whimper sadly, like a dog who realised its mistake. The Doll pays no mind to the damage and pats their head with the broken hand.

DOLL: I don’t know what you have received in your hunts, but it seems like you need more time to control your new found strength.

The Beast-like Hunter lets the Doll pet them, still looking sad that they hurt someone, but the Doll’s willingness to forgive them seems to have eased their regrets.

DOLL: At the very least you seem to have realised your mistake. Many hunters have come and gone from the Dream and used me as they’d see fit. You are still among the ones that were kind to me. I know that because your sad eyes are honest.

The Beast-like Hunter looks at the Doll’s eyes, getting back up and caressing her hair, still looking regretful of their actions.

DOLL: I will be alright. Please don’t worry about me and carry on your hunt.

The Beast-like Hunter looks dawn for a few seconds, reflecting for a few seconds before suddenly hugging the Doll. But this hug felt more controlled, at the very least they’re managing their strength better as the Doll isn’t on the verge of shattering. She however, remains emotionless about the hug, not even hugging back.

DOLL: I appreciate the gesture Good Hunter, but now you need to return to your duties. And I shall await your return for when you need echoes to be channelled.

But the Beast-like Hunter refuses to release the hug.

DOLL: If you’re apologising then know that you are forgiven. Now go on, the night doesn’t last long.

But the Beast-like Hunter refuses to release the hug.

DOLL: Please… Release me this instant.

The Beast-like Hunter finally releases the hold and lets out a soft growl as their beastly left hand caresses the Doll’s face.

DOLL: I will be fine my Good Hunter.

But the Beast-like Hunter still feels regretful about its excessive use of its newfound strength. The Doll raises her broken hand and caresses them back.

DOLL: Please don’t cry for me, I will be fine.

The Beast-like Hunter’s eyes look at the floor, however, the Doll has their head turn back to her.

DOLL: Sadness doesn’t fit you, Good Hunter.

They nod as their hand touch the Doll’s, gently this time. The Doll seems unperturbed by that action, despite the state her hand was left in. The Beast-like Hunter, lowers the Doll’s hand from their face, finally ready to return to their hunt, as their face gets a more determined look.

DOLL: Do come back.

The Beast-like Hunter grins before kneeling onto a gravestone and disappearing from the Dream. The Doll stares for a few seconds before returning to the flower garden of the dream, looking over at the peaceful flora, where silence sets back in for another while. The Doll then smiles as she looks at the moon.

DOLL: O flora, of the moon, of the dream. O little ones, O fleeting will of the ancients. Let the hunter be safe, let them find comfort.

@theschneckenhouse

@fateoftheundead

***

THEN

“Does your mouth water, do you thirst? Do your eyes weep tears? I am but curious. You seem a marvel.”

He wasn’t sure why he had even asked these things, seeming silly in retrospect. There was something compelling about her, though…

There were a series of muted clicks as the doll touched her porcelain mask with wooden fingers. There was a wet click as she put a finger in her mouth and tapped on her ivory teeth. She withdrew the finger.

“There is little I can tell about my eyes that you cannot already see, good hunter. What is it you desire?”

***

NOW

Quite a bit, thought the hunter, who was a creature of long-suppressed appetites. In another life he was seemingly as meek and quiet as any other good citizen. It was only after coming to Yharnam and saying YES to the demon, to the darkness, did he finally give himself permission to indulge those appetites, to wear them on his sleeve, so to speak.

A faint motion of the hunter turning his head was followed by them standing gracefully from his crouched position on the flagstones. As he rose a puff of dust filled the air, but it was the reddish-brown of that which makes the roses grow and a man’s life shrink.

The hunter shrugged out of his filthy coat, letting it fall to the ground, where it was swiftly followed by an equally filthy cap, mask, bandana, and waistcoat. Then his weapons. He stretched with an audible cracking, which sounded more appropriate for an elder. It is not the age of the wagon, thought the hunter, but the distance of its travels.

He walked to the workshop door and opened it, expecting a half-hearted greeting from the resident kook, his legs paralyzed from dotage and injury. The old man was always muttering about how he had once been a knight or assassin while clearly full of shit. Luckily, he wasn’t there, perhaps on one of his wheelchair strolls, pushed by the Doll. It was her that the hunter was most pleased to see, and was lucky to have the chance to clean up first.

Dressed now in a natty suit he had liberated from a scrivener cowering in a corner with total madness, the hunter finished freshening up at a cool basin. He wiped his wet hands on the back of the suit before leaving the workshop.

There, rolling up the hill came the Doll, as he had imagined, pushing the caretaker in his wheelchair.

“Welcome home, good hunter.”

The hunter forced himself to remember what smiling was, then performed it warmly. The Doll responded in kind.

“It is my pleasure to be home.”

“... hib hib, we flushed that beast out thicket. Peppered it. Pepper, you hear?” The old man had become distressed and his words lost all sense.

“Good hunter, I will return to you after a moment,” said the Doll. The hunter nodded, ignoring the pleading eyes of the old caretaker.

***

THEN

The caretaker had a name, in fact, but the hunter rarely took occasion to say it. When he had first become a hunter of beasts in service of the workshop, the hunter had been pleased to discover the old man’s modest library among the tables of gewgaws and piles of wood and metal weapons. The hunter had picked a book at random and opened it at the very beginning. It had been titled Lord William’s Light Dragoon Tactics, but that was not what the hunter had wondered about. There, on the bookplate was a stylized beehive, and beneath it: Gregoire du Fonsac. Aremorican, the hunter had speculated.

***

NOW

After a few minutes the Doll emerged from the workshop’s door, pulling it closed behind her, and seemed to glide down the walk to the hunter. She curtsied and then clasped her hands together.

The hunter could stand it no longer. He fell on his knees at the Doll’s feet and buried his head into the front of her dress, the bodice slightly warm. The hunter began to weep.

Cold fingertips rubbed the top of the hunter’s head and before long the hunter was able to release the Doll’s dress and bring himself back to standing in front of her. The hunter reached over and took the Doll’s hand, bending forward to apply a brief touch of mouth to a spot just below a lacy cuff. The Doll beamed, as much as she could within the limitations of her face’s making.

“I had despaired of your return, good hunter. Should you ever leave us forever I do not know that I could bear it.”

The hunter smiled enough for both of them. “I could never do that. What, should I walk off into the sunrise, to never be seen again? I’d sooner have a leg lopped off.”

“Come with me, good hunter. I gave Gregory a paregoric and he sleeps. Shall we…”

“Sleep? I must admit that I too am exhausted. The night has been long, and I see no end in sight.”

“Then let me make you kaldi tea and brandy, and we can spend a sweet hour before you are called back again.”

The hunter followed the Doll back into the workshop where she firmly sat him down in a stout armchair by the fire. Its comfort was exquisite despite the company- du Fronsac sat across from him, mercifully asleep. The hunter contented himself with staring into the flames while the Doll made a pleasantly domestic racket in the other room. The flames… he stirred in the hunter a strange feeling.

The hunter noticed momentarily how close the old man was to the fire. “Du Fronsac!” His hiss did nothing to wake the caretaker, and neither did a sharp kick at the chair. The snoring continued.

Such a dangerous thing, fire, partially tamed by man, made useful in any number of ways. Still, not perfectly tame, as one might understand by example of the cow who kicked a lantern over in a manger. Then, man had turned fire back towards danger intentionally, attested to by the auto-da-fe, the Salonik fire that sunk entire navies in antiquity, or… The hunter had a momentary memory of the burning hair of beasts, the fatback smell of those who were almost beast. He chased it away with a glug of brandy as the Doll returned with a mug of the kaldi tea.

She stood by the hunter, rubbing the back of his neck in a strange but soothing lemniscate pattern. Her ministrations and the kaldi tea alike were comforting but eventually he felt invigorated.

“I must go, for now. Here… I forgot this. It is for you.” This was a little ritual of theirs, where he’d pretend to have forgotten a gift for the Doll. He handed over a tiny cloisonne snuffbox he had found in a deserted Yharnam manor. Her face was never prone to strong emotion but the faint smile there now was as valuable as any trinket. As she wondered over the box he stripped down to his small clothes.

“Good hunter… such a gift. So beautiful. I am but a plain doll, unworthy but to serve you.”

“You are more than worthy. You are more than a doll, to me.” He turned to go, for if he lingered any longer he would not leave. “Move du Fronsac away from the fire- I think he is smoldering.”

Once outside the hunter retrieved the pile of hunting garb he’d left. Holding his nose, he slipped into them, hefted his weapons, and left then to go to work.

***

THEN

The hunter had not always been a hunter, of course. He’d been born in Flammenturm, had become an engineer at the royal college, and like so many others had contracted an ailment and gone to Yharnam to seek succor and fortune. He’d had no trouble with the latter, falling into a rough crowd who needed a keen mind and hands to perform some skullduggery- disarming traps, cracking safes, and the like. The former had been a little more difficult.

He had taken a job at a seminary as an engineer and factotum, which would give him privileged access to any potential cure. That took time away from his criminal brothers, but then something happened to shake up everything.

The plague of illness had become a plague of beasts. The hunt began.

All hands had been called on deck and anyone with any particular skill set, or aptitude for violence was conscripted. He had both. The young man- now the hunter- had drunk from a chalice, sworn an oath, and sent to some dreamlike crack in the wall of reality. That was where he had met the Doll.

***

NOW

The hunter set foot on the threshold of the workshop’s open door, passing the old man in his chair, asleep but restless. He was unsure of the caretaker’s role, the more he thought about it. He seemed useless, but perhaps the hunter too had seemed useless once. The hunter forgot all about it when he had taken a stride into the workshop. The Doll was waiting for him, her hands pursed neatly.

“Good hunter, there is a fire in your eyes.”

He had a fire in his brain, and after the slaying of some ghoulish giants earlier, he’d had an inspiring thought. The thoughts of a madman, perhaps.

“You once told me that du Fronsac is the caretaker of this place. If he is the caretaker, then let him fulfill his office. He should be able to do his duty without us.” His throat seized with emotion. “Come away with me.”

“With you? Where should we go?” The Doll’s face was inscrutable but it bore no trace of the slight smile he’d come to love. “I am but a doll. Man made me, and I know only to serve. Many hunters have come, and many have gone.” She gestured towards the outside.

There was a graveyard in that direction. Though it was a tiny plot, the hunter had tried counting headstones but was unable to ever finish.

“I am but a hunter, it is true. I was not always so, and with good fortune I shall not be forever. I would never be able to without you. You are more a woman than any I have ever known.”

“I do love you, my hunter. But is that not how I was made to feel?” There was pity in her voice, or something very like it. “I will always be here for you, to embolden your spirit.”

The hunter sighed, and stared at her face. It bore that familiar smile, as if he had never disturbed her with his request. He reached into his waistcoat and retrieved something, then handed it to the Doll.

“I almost forgot. I found this for you.” He pressed it into her hands and she held it up to look at it. A small hair ornament, unadorned with filigrees or stones, but beautiful in its simplicity. He thought it might go well with the Doll’s fair hair. The Doll gasped, and the hunter moved closer, taking the ornament and placing it gently on her head. She sighed deeply and with his face close to hers, he saw a single teardrop fall onto the lace at her breast, where it continued to glitter.

“What… I… Good hunter, I do not know this feeling.” Her breath had quickened. “I feel as if I am someone else. I wonder at what she feels. Is this desire? Is this joy?”

“You bear a resemblance to one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. A striking resemblance. But she is a pale imitation of you, my Doll. You are you.”

The Doll clutched her hands to her chest as if in pain. “The woman… she yearns. I yearn. Good hunter…”

The hunter reached out to grab her hips and lifted her into the air, pulling her close. Her layered skirts crept up enough for her to wrap her legs around him as if she was trying not to fall.

“I have you, dear one. I have you.” She held him close, pushing her porcelain face into his shoulder. “Should you wish…” She nodded, and he carried her into the bedroom.

***

THEN

The hunter was sometimes stuck in the workshop as he recuperated from some mortal wound or the other. During the times he was alone he pillaged du Fronsac’s library, both for a mental diversion and to solve the mystery of the old man’s presence there in the strange dream. There were books of natural philosophy, tactics and strategy, and occult topics such as witch-cults and Pthumerian atavisms. So the caretaker had been a soldier, an explorer, an inquisitor? The hunter had amused himself by letting his imagination exercise itself upon the mystery.

One thing about du Fronsac was definite: he was a libertine.

There was an entire shelf of books on every salacious topic one could think of. A volume of a collected dramaturgy about some lusty maid of distant Aragon. The works of the infamous Barone du Salo. More fascinating, the old man was not just a collector- he had even authored a series of pamphlets on the arts of seduction.

In the back of one of these books- some sort of ribald journal- the hunter found a set of technical diagrams that disturbed him more and more as he realized their purpose. On top of whatever else he was, the caretaker was clearly a talented amateur artisan. The diagrams iterated more and more, refining the operation and appearance of their subject. Seeking a perfect form and perfected utility? Du Fronsac was clearly suffering from some kind of mania.

The hunter replaced the diagrams where he had found them, struggling not to ball them up in his fist and throw them on the fire. He had looked outside then, where the caretaker was babbling inaudibly. A brief thought crossed the hunter’s mind, of grabbing a Carthian khopesh from the workshop’s wall of arms, walking over to du Fronsac and putting him out of his misery.

He thought of the Doll and tucked the murderous intent away in his mind, where it would continue to seethe for a long time.

***

NOW

The hunter awoke in his bed, from a deep and peaceful sleep. He was warm and peaceful and exhausted. The night had rendered him happier and more relaxed than he had been since he’d left Flammenturm. Perhaps happier than he had ever been.

Recalling more of last night’s events as he continued to awake, the hunter smiled. The Doll had moaned the name of the moon, called out to Oedon, and panted some soft yet desperate sounds into his neck.

He felt as sessile as a postprandial glutton, though he had pursued a different vice in the night. The hunter sat up after a moment of reverie and put his hand on the Doll’s shoulder, hoping to stir her into wakefulness. His motion turned her towards him, where she settled limply onto her back.

The Doll was dead.

The hunter’s mind was now empty. It seemed to bring on a curious fugue where the previous moment of terror drifted as if covered by a fleece. He could think of nothing for some indeterminate time, before he stopped his listless pacing and sat again on the bed, looking at the lifeless form that had been his Doll.

Not knowing what else to do, the hunter examined the body with his engineer’s eye.

Her feet were wooden, as were her hands. It was delicate craftsmanship for parts with such demanding and continuous operation. The hunter lifted one leg by the ankle- where the porcelain terminated at a joint, there was a telltale abrasion, where the parts had rubbed before being tipped with resilin gaskets. That was an improvement that had occurred in one of the technical diagrams.

The hunter stretched the doll’s arms out, revealing the same condition at every joint. He examined her chest, impressed with the craftsmanship in a clinical way that would have been impossible during their assignation last night. The curves of her body were delicate, in comparison to the lewd caricatures of some of du Fronsac’s books. They had been created with a mathematical hand, and the diagrams suggested that the old man’s hand had improved steadily.

He inspected the rest of the Doll dispassionately. More curves and joints, a staggering amount of detail- hip joints, a navel, and the rest- she even had a womb. The diagrams had made that clear, but du Fronsac’s journal mercifully revealed that he had never taken advantage as he would have pleased.

The hunter tucked the Doll’s arms across her chest and covered her with the blanket. He rose, still unclothed, grabbing the first weapon he saw on the wall, and strode outside.

“Ahh, dearest Raul, they’re all dead. Dead, dead… ohh, the misfortune.” The old man rasped out more of his nonsense. The hunter cut du Fronsac’s throat, almost severing his head. Dropping the blade, he shuddered in place, losing himself to madness, to a mania, to a derangement… He stood there, quivering and muttering, until he heard a faint footstep behind him. The hunter turned drunkenly.

There was the Doll, with the blanket wrapped around her shoulders and otherwise how he had left her.

“Ahh, good hunter. I must have drifted off. What is it you desire?”

***

THEN

The hunter sometimes thought very deeply about who he was. His appetites- for violence or otherwise, and suppressed or unleashed. As a youth he’d heard the coarsest of opinions on love. Whether from Heidean mercenaries, or university proctors, or landed gentry- the opinion on what a man was and how he should seize his fortune and his desires was monolithic. They spoke of cash and rare tomes and tracts of land, while in the same breath they spoke of their women as if chattel. While the hunter might have affected this attitude to get along, he had never believed in such things.

Every bit of these experiences, his life, whether in expertise or ignominy, feast or famine… they built up a foundation of the tower he called his identity. Was it a solid foundation? Could it topple?

It was only in moments where the hunt had lulled and he gazed out over Yharnam that he could entertain such bizarre self-reflection. He would have felt a fool otherwise.

But what kind of man chooses this city and its hunt and its dreams?

A fool.

***

NOW

The hunter was indeed a fool.

In shock, he’d pushed the wheelchair and its silent occupant as far into the neighboring field of flowers as he could, before returning to the workshop. He’d thought to grab a spade and bury the old man but before he could, the Doll- now clothed in her usual attire- handed him such an implement without any show of distress, smiling faintly.

The hunter returned to the field and dug as deep a grave as he could, before dumping du Fronsac’s corpse into it and unceremoniously covering it over with earth.

Walking back to the workshop, he had to wonder- what now? He sensed that perhaps the foundation of the dream itself might be held up as if the old man was some tenuous pillar. That pillar was gone and the hunter truly could not imagine what would happen next.

The doll curtsied as he approached. She did not give any sign that the events of the night had happened at all, and was as friendly and sweet-natured as ever. The hunter did not know what to do. He felt lost- as if he had woken up in a strange and distant country, or as if he had returned to a home that no longer resembled the one he had left.

He really was a fool, to think the things he had thought, to believe that his wants and his deeds were unique. Would he be able to finish du Fronsac’s work, make it become his own and perfect the Doll? What would that look like? Countless hunters had passed through this place. He was no different, and would lie beneath one of those countless tombstones before long. In the moment, however, he could think only one thing to ameliorate the crushing weight of his failure.

The hunter knelt before the Doll.

“I forgot, I have something for you.” He held it up to her, as if in supplication. She looked at the tiny glittering jewel that had once been a single tear of what might have been a tear of joy. The doll pushed his hand down and cradled his head, pulling him tight against the bodice of her dress, before stroking his hair. He wept uncontrollably, his body wracked with sobs.

“Fret not, good hunter. All hunters will find their worth in the waking world.” She looked down at him with the faintest smile and spoke with a pleasant whisper.

“My good hunter. My sweet Gehrman.”

@bornetoblood

@palepious

As the moon hung low and blood-red over the city, the good hunter understood what old Djura had said. Indeed, it were people they had hunted. Just as they were being hunted now. Perhaps deservedly so. Their own ragged gasps for breath almost drowned out the distant ringing of a small silver bell coming closer and ever closer.

The song had started subconsciously. A subtle melody at the back of their mind, ever beckoning and so, so sweet. Perhaps they had listened a little too keenly one or two times. Perhaps they had indulged, the blood had smelled so tempting. In the moonlight, it didn't even look like blood.

And once they had leaped, they dove right in and just let themselves sink to the bottom.

If sin had a flavor, surely it would have been that tangent and irony taste that enveloped their very being and soothed every ache in their body. Before they knew it, their glove had been licked clean. Yet their desire was nowhere near sated. A part of them had known that they had crossed the line, that there was no turning back now. That this was wrong. Still, the rest of them didn't care. It craved more.

Eileen had found them like that. Hunched over their preys' cadaver, mask pooling on their neck while they gorged themselves on the beast's blood. She had said something then, probably something about the hunter having lost their way or not being better than a beast now. Though they couldn’t hear her. It was all just muffled noise, drowned out by the song calling them to act. To attack.

The two hunters exchanged blows only briefly. One of them all bloodthirsty rage and careless violence while the other practically danced around them. Striking only when her target left itself open. Which it did more often than not. Quickly the good hunter's rage blew over into fear, they knew that they could not win this. If they kept this up, Eileen would scatter their guts over the cobblestone and then continue hunting them down again and again until they did not dream any longer.

So they ran. Not unlike some beasts that realized they were overpowered, they barreled down the alley. Pushing and pulling things into their executioners way, anything to get away from her and her cold blades. She called after them. Probably telling them that there was no escape, that she would find them anyway. But they couldn’t tell anymore. It was all just noise.

But now here they were, hopelessly holding onto the filthy bricks of a run-down house's wall in an attempt to remain upright. Saliva dripped out of their open mouth and pooled with the hunter's blood at their feet. The surrounding air was pungent with the scent of their own blood, dripping steadily out of the many cuts Eileen had graced them with in their short exchange. In their haze, the hunter didn’t even feel the miserable state their body was in. There was only the song spurring them to continue on. To run, to feast.

The hunters' breath came in pathetic wheezes as they straightened and attempted to continue running. They had remained long enough, and Eileen was gaining on them. Their attempt was short-lived, as only three steps away from the wall their leg gave out under them, and they fell face first onto the jagged cobblestone. Their cleaver clattered out of their hand and out of reach.

“Look at that. Can’t even hold onto your own things anymore.” The huntress in the black crow's garb almost casually strolled around the street corner. “Come on now, it’s over. Lay back. No need to fight anymore.”

On instinct, the hunter rolled around and tried grasping at their cleaver. Though that plan was exceptionally short-lived as something sharp and cold pierced through their lower back, accompanied by the flutter of feathers and cloth.

“I said lay back. It’s over.”

Finally giving in, the hunter rolled back onto their back, hands splayed out beside their head. Wordlessly, they started up at the faceless crow mask above them. The song was growing ever louder, but in this final moment of clarity, the hunter resisted. If only that were laying still and accepting their fate.

“Pity. I had hopes in you” In a flash of silver the blade went down, effortlessly tearing through the hunter's garb, skin, and flesh. They spasmed shortly, gave a final bloody death rattle, then stilled.

Eileen wordlessly pulled her blade out of their dimly glowing body, wiped the blood on their garb, and watched as the hunter's body fell apart into small silver glowing particles. As it was usual with hunters of the dream. They would return. Whether they would be cured of the madness or still soiled by it, she did not know. But she would not tempt fate to find out.

The hunter's dream looked the same as ever. Clear gray sky illuminated by a false full moon, the little hut crowning the hill in the center with the doll standing at the foot of the stairs leading up to it. Cobblestone dug into their cheek and hands, the way it always did whenever they awoke again. Really, it was all the way it usually was. But it didn't feel like that.

Before, the dream had spread a calming veil over the Aftershock of death. Made it harder to remember the pain and stifle the fear of heading out again.

But not this time. No, the hunter felt each cut and bruise as if it still lingered on their body. Their heart was still beating with agitation as adrenaline pumped through their body.

In a haze, they got to their feet and aimlessly stumbled around the dream.

The soothing melody that had played in their mind on and on whenever they were in the dream was missing. In its place was the same siren song that had called them to devour their prey. To hunt more.

It was quieter now than it had been in Yharnam, they could almost think clearly. But no matter how much they tried distracting themselves by going through their usual dream motions on autopilot, it was still there. They could hear Gehrmans heartbeat from where he sat in the garden. Could smell the blood rushing through his veins. How easy it would be to ambush and overwhelm him. To just rip him apart and devour every piece of him.

A cold hand laid itself on their shoulder, holding onto them as the hunter flinched away from the unsuspected touch. “Forgive me, good hunter. You seemed to be unwell. Is everything alright?” The doll tilted her head to the side as she spoke, imitating genuine concern. The hunter just shook their head, then nodded vigorously, speaking was harder than it was supposed to.

“I’m well. The night has been too long, and I got lost in thought. Worry not.” The doll nodded slowly, closing her eyes as she did. As she moved, something shifted within her. Some sort of liquid flowing from one part to another. How had the hunter not noticed it before? That the doll was alive, that she had blood pumping through her porcelain body? No, this wasn’t blood, but it beckoned just as sweetly.

From the movement on her face, the hunter reckoned that she was speaking to them again. Only for her voice to be drowned out by the now ever swelling melody coming from within her. Her insides, her blood begging to be revealed to the air. To be devoured by the hunter. Hard shell and everything.

“Doll? I’m sorry to interrupt you, but-” She smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes, it never did.

“Don’t apologize, what is the matter, good hunter?”

They shifted, anxiety and eagerness to pounce crashing against each other in their chest. This was wrong. When had the doll done anything to deserve this? They needed to leave, leave the dream, and seek out Eileen. She would cure, set them right. Again and again, until the dream would not bring them back again.

Then again, the doll wasn’t alive. She wouldn’t mind. She would delight in the joy she was bringing them. That was what she always said, wasn’t it?

“I would like to channel some blood echos. I had some left over in clots from before I was sent back…” As always, she smiled, took their right hand in hers as she got to her knees. As she knelt, the sound of the flowing liquid burned in the hunter's ears once again.

And it was oh too much.

She didn’t even have time to retract her hands when the hunter pulled the trigger of their gun. Without resistance, the bullet shattered her cheek and cracked open the back of her head.

The hunter watched with horror as they cracked the poor doll open with their cleaver and splatter the milky iridescent liquid inside of her across the cobblestone. Distantly, they heard Gehrman call out. Ask what was going on, if everything was alright. They wanted to scream that it wasn’t. That they had lost control of themselves, succumbed to the beastly scourge. That he should end them somehow. Sever them from the dream.

But they couldn’t. They could only watch as their own body began licking whatever had been inside the doll off the cobblestone. All control over themselves was lost, and only a primal thirst burned them from inside out. Had Gascoigne felt like this as well in the end? Locked out of himself and unable to control himself anymore?

A Dozen of shrapnel pieces dug into their side and hurled them over the cobblestone. “My. A pity. I didn’t think you could go bad even in here.” Perhaps he had heard them scream. Somehow. Gehrman was standing over them. Standing. On a peg leg. A giant scythe leaning on his shoulder.

“No matter. A rotten hunter is no better than no hunter at all. Rest now. Bow your head and accept the end. You’ve done enough.”

They snarled where they wanted to thank him. Where they wanted to kneel down and offer themselves, end this nightmare, the hunter got to their feet to launch themselves at him. Not that it mattered. Gehrman was so much faster than they anticipated, and his blade so much colder.

It took less than a minute for their body to lie next to the shattered form of the doll. Equally, broken. Slowly but surely, their form turned translucent, then fell apart into dust. Yes. He must have heard their cries for help. Perhaps he would hear their gratitude as well.

“Good riddance. Just look what they did to you…” Gehrman awkwardly knelt down and picked up a piece that had formerly made up the doll's face. He paid no mind to the hunters' corpse behind him. The moon presence would surely find another fitting candidate to throw into this dream to fill their place soon enough. “Ah, it will take a bit to put you back together again. But don’t you worry, dear, I will fix you right back up.”

@aliennotperson

@mrslittletall (me, the mun)

As expected, the hunter was using the doll as the tool that she was.

Gehrman had been in the dream for so long that it was no problem for him to hide his presence. The hunter had no clue that he was watching them whenever they came back to the dream. He had only shown himself to them once, at the beginning and since then he had been in hiding.

(Though there was the possibility that the hunter was seeing him while he slept, but Gehrman had never woken up with them at his side.)

Currently the hunter was using the doll as intended, by channeling the collected blood echoes to gain further strength. For any outsider, it would look adorable, with the hunter on their knees and taking the doll's hand while she did her part. Gehrman knew the truth. It was just a soulless task being executed by a soulless thing. A thing that only could move because a Great One had brought it to “life”.

Why was it then that the hunter looked at the doll with such an adoring look? Didn't they get that the doll was not able to feel? She sometimes claimed to be able to love the hunters that visited the dream, but Gehrman knew better. All her feelings were just mimicked, she wasn't truly alive. She was just a doll.

The sooner the hunter realised that, the better.

Unable to look at the scene any longer, Gehrman wheeled his wheelchair away. It made memories stir inside of him... memories that he rather would be left forgotten.

The memories still came to haunt him though. In his dreams. Gehrman was not able to stave off the need to sleep forever... and it had even become worse with his old age. Eventually, he would fall asleep and then he would dream...

It had been perfect at first. The start of the Healing Church. It was just him, Laurence, Micolash and Maria. He considered all of them dear friends but Maria he had fallen in love with... and eventually, she had reciprocated his feelings, if only just for a little while...

During this time Gehrman had been truly and completely happy. He left the inner workings of the church to Laurence and the science to both Laurence and Micolash while he and Maria went into the tombs to find more of the holy medium as well as them fighting the beasts that escaped from them, all in the shadow of the night so that nobody would know of how dangerous Yharnam was during their hunts...

It could have been like this forever... until everything slowly was falling apart. Humans were turning into beasts... and there was no other way than to slay them, because there was no cure, regardless of how much Laurence researched. They had to recruit more and more Hunters all while they had to fight against both the beastly scourge and the danger of becoming drunk on the blood... the holy medium that brought Yharnam prosperity started to feel like a curse, but Gehrman knew he had to rely on it or he would stand no chance against any beast.

He had slain countless beasts, so many of them, and never thought about the fact that they once had been human... but Maria...

She eventually couldn't stomach it anymore and that was what Gehrman saw in his dream. It had been the first of many arguments which eventually ended in their relationship breaking apart like a mirror... He had not been willing to listen to her, convinced they were doing the right thing while Maria tried to convince him that this was all wrong.

It was too late now... far too late... All he could do was watch his younger self shouting at Maria, watching as the scene broke apart into shards and as it did, his younger self turned into the Hunter and Maria turned into the doll, and they looked so shocked when it happened... when eventually they had to realize the doll would not be able to...

Gehrman awoke from his dream, feeling tears on his cheeks. So they hadn't all dried off... he was surprised he still had tears to shed, after waiting for... for a very long time. He still held out hope that Laurence would come to free him eventually... just what was taking him so long...

His thoughts were interrupted by a voice, the voice of the doll... why did she have to sound so much like Maria. She was not Maria and never would be. The doll that Gehrman had built in his grief... she just wore her face, but that was all that she had from Maria, the rest was... just a tool to be used, a tool created by the will of the Great One.

Gehrman was about to vanish so as not to have to see the Hunter's tender look at the doll while she channelled their blood echoes, but the words of the doll stopped him.

“Tell me hunter, could this be joy?”

Gehrman's eyes widened when he saw what enticed the doll to say this word. A small hair ornament. It had been ages since he had last seen it... it had been him that crafted it. It was supposed to be a gift to Maria, as an apology after their biggest fight... but before he had been able to give it to her, she had been found dead, slain by her own hand. Gehrman had never managed the doll with it, so he had thrown it away... only to find its way to the doll anyway.

She was not Maria. She clearly was not and never would be, but... there was something happening with the doll that he didn't understand. As he didn't understand why the Hunter tried so hard to win her favour... she would always be of service to any Hunter who came to the dream. And still...

Still the Hunter insisted on being nice to her, to give her gifts, talking to her, keeping her company. They did more than just use her as a tool... and maybe, if they really wanted to, they could stay here with her forever...

Gehrman was lost in his thoughts for a long while before he came to a decision. He couldn't do it. He could not doom the Hunter to his fate. Eventually, his relationship with the doll would break apart once they realized she was not able to feel love in the same way a human did.

He made his way to the flower field. He uttered one single thing to the doll, the only thing he said to her nowadays.

“Tell them to meet me by the flower fields.”

It was there where Gehrman would free them from the dream. They should not take his place. They shouldn't feel the same heartbreak as him. And if they would pick a fight with him, he would show them that he wasn't retired yet.

And thus, Gehrman waited for the Hunter to arrive.

@shadowsheik14

#bloodborne #bloodborne chain 5 #the good hunter #the plain doll #fanfiction #fanart #gehrman the first hunter

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