“No!”
There was a crash, followed by the sound of wood splintering.
“No, I don’t accept this! Let me out!”
A gaggle of messengers looked on from the bushes, tiny hands held to their faces in concern. One was wearing a small red brooch, while another mimed attacking it, hunched over and growling like a beast.
“Didn’t you hear me? Why can’t I leave?”
The Doll stood impassive as the hunter upturned another table. This had been their third attempt at taking their own life, and every time they had returned, unharmed, to the dream. Gehrman, the target of their outbursts, sat in silence until their rage subsided and they sank to the floor in pitiable fits of ragged weeping.
“I know you’re upset about those beasts you killed, but…”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“But,” Gehrman ignored the insult, “You did the right thing.”
The hunter sighed heavily and lay back on the floor, staring up at the vaulted ceiling of the workshop.
“I don’t want to do the right thing anymore. I can’t remember my home, my family, the faces of my friends… My name… It’s all gone.”
Messengers crowded to their side but the hunter swatted them away.
“How did you do this, Gehrman? They were people, they had lives…” They looked imploring over to where the old hunter sat.
“I hunted, because if I hadn’t others would have suffered the same fate.”
He grasped the hand rims of his wheelchair and trundled over to where the hunter lay on the floor, sulking. Poking them with the end of his stick he continued, voice quivering with the effort;
“Do you think you are the only one trapped here, in this dreadful hunter’s dream? You were… how should I put it… chosen. Chosen to fulfil a duty. That duty is to hunt. If you want to leave this place, you must halt the source of the spreading scourge of beasts.”
“So what is the source? Tell me, and I will end this.”
Gehrman mumbled something to himself and looked shiftily down at his hands.
“I’m... getting tired, perhaps we can continue this conversation some other time.”
The hunter got up upon their knees, grasping the old man’s hand as it rested on his cane.
“Gehrman. Please.”
“Mmm… Well all right. You are not the first to walk this ill-fated path. There have been many hunters before you, and many will come after you, mark my words. To halt the source… I’m not sure it’s possible. But if you wish to know more about the origin of this damnable scourge, seek a Holy Chalice, as every hunter before you has. A Holy Chalice will reveal the tomb of the gods, where hunters partake in communion.”
“Communion?”
“Mmm, yes. Communion with the ancient blood that flows deep beneath the city, in the forgotten lands of Pthumeru. Yharnam lies atop these ruins, and was even named in honour of a Pthumerian Queen, the last of her lineage. If the old hunter tales are true, one of these Holy Chalices is worshipped in the valley hamlet. Yet Old Yharnam has long since been abandoned, burned to the ground to halt the spread of the plague. Only beasts call it home, now. Though I doubt that should be any problem for you.” He chuckled.
“So how about it? Are you ready to quit your whining, and go hunt some beasts?”
The hunter did not respond. They left the dream in silence, the sound of Gehrman’s laughter ringing in their ears.
---
The sobbing continued unabated, loud enough that the hunter was worried it would start to attract unwanted attention. A small hand protruded beyond the window bars, clutching listlessly at a red-jeweled brooch.
“Mummy… Please, don’t leave me… Oh Papa...”
It took a long time before the crying stopped, and even longer for them to convince the girl it was safe to leave. They walked, hand in hand, towards the central Yharnam clinic, meeting hardly any resistance upon their journey. They did however come across corpses, fresh with pooling blood and criss-crossed with thin streaks from a pair of fast, curved blades. Perhaps someone, somewhere, was watching over them.
The girl was silent as they made their way from alley to alley, stopping to check both sides of intersecting roads for dangers before they crossed. She seemed less friendly, not so eager to talk to them this time. That was to be expected, given her situation, but the hunter wondered if the mask also wasn’t helping. Their tattered and destroyed foreigner’s garb had been replaced by a Yharnam-style hunter’s uniform. It had been waiting for them in the dream, carefully folded and presented by the Doll. The thick leather made for a vast improvement in protection, and the sturdy gloves enveloped the girl’s tiny hand, suitable more for a day’s hard work than to offer comfort and consolation.
When they passed the child over to Iosefka, everything seemed wrong.
“Oh, what’s this? A present? You shouldn’t have.” Something about her seemed different somehow, a touch of confusion and perhaps scorn at the edges of her words. She did not greet the girl, who had started to snivel once more at the sight of the stranger, but instead only ferried her into the surgery before promptly closing the door on the hunter.
“Iosefka?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes. She's safe with me now, I thank you, hunter, for your help.” There was a curt yet melodious cadence to her speech that took her far away from the previous talks they had together, sitting back-to-back against the door. It was only to be expected. They were a hunter, no, a murderer. Killing the residents of the town she loved so much. She was a doctor, sworn to aid and protect. They were not the same. With an aching sadness, the hunter resigned themselves to this most cruel of fates. The blood on their hands had lost them a friendship, but Viola and Gascoigne’s daughter was safe. That was some consolation, at least.
“Did you… Did you know? That they were once human?” They asked, concealing the emotion that threatened to leak out into their words.
“Oh, yes. I don't imagine there are any left who haven't turned by now. Tragic, really, but what's to be done?” She tittered. “Be a saint, will you, and find me some more? Tell anyone who's still human about Iosefka's Clinic. I will take proper care of them.”
Through the cracks in the glass window the hunter could see she now carried a weapon. A wicked looking rifle, one that could easily tear through the door and kill anyone unfortunate enough to be standing behind it. A sudden realisation made them shudder.
She knew. She knew all along and she thinks I will turn, too. The bullets are for me.
They held a gloved hand to their face, wondering if, already, beneath the leather there started to lurk a beastly claw. Then they remembered what she had said previously.
“Doctor, do you have that letter?”
“Hmm, what letter?”
“You said a messenger came with a letter for me.” There was a slight pause before she answered.
“Quite right. I did say that, though I must have misplaced it. Terribly sorry. Visit again, won't you? Then I’ll have it ready.”
It was an odd conversation, to say the least. Even Gilbert didn’t know what to make of it.
“Anyone who works for the Healing Church ends up the same way. Mad, or dead. Looks like the good Doctor has decided on her path.” His rasping voice filtered out through the curtains, weaker than it had been before. The coughing that ravaged his body was stronger, and the hunter had to wait several minutes for the fit to stop.
“Ah, you needn’t concern yourself with me. I’m of little use to anyone now. Except… take this.” A skeletal hand, shaking with the effort, passed a brass canister out the window.
“What is it?” They examined the container and found a nozzle to one side, and a flame-proofed handle. A flamesprayer.
“Victory. Fire. Without fire there is nothing, only… an unformed land, shrouded by fog. I see it in my dreams, in that sick and violent fever. With fire comes disparity; heat and cold, light and dark…” He paused to cough, wet and rattling through his throat. “... life and death. The beasts can’t stand the flame. They cower in the shadows, blinded by the light. But soon even these flames will fade, and even now we are only embers. Soon, we shall join them in the dark. Ah, the sun sets, it’s getting late...”
The hunter listened. It was all they could do, the only gift they had left to give to this short and fleeting friendship.
“This town gave me hope, their strange blood bought me time. There was once many more like me, and like you. Pilgrims, wanderers, all of us sick and desperate for a cure. All of us beasts now. I am fortunate. At least I get to die human.”
For once, Gilbert’s speech came easily. The coughing had stopped, and his words rang true.
“Use it wisely.”
“I will.”
When they left the window Gilbert had been alive, breathing softly in their bed. They wondered whether that would still be the case next time they returned. Any friends they had made in this cursed town were rapidly disappearing, a knowledge which made their heart hurt terribly whenever they thought about it for too long.
---
They barely got a glimpse of the Cathedral Ward proper. They had climbed up into a grand old chapel, seemingly deserted but reeking of the freshly lit incense, the smoke of which poured from a myriad of pots and censers scattered around the chancel. Their footsteps echoed in this once-hallowed place, lending every tread a sense of sacred reverence and slowly resonating worship.
The path to the Cathedral lay outside the front doors, but it was the smaller side exit they took to head down to the valley hamlet. Old Yharnam, as it was known today, was situated far below on the valley floor, almost invisible in the fog. A small Church, once considered large but dwarfed now by the magnificence of the upper city, lay hidden and forgotten at the end of a series of increasingly mazely back alleys. There was nothing remarkable about it except for its history.
“Beneath the sepulchre of Saint Idola the Judge you will find a passage that will take you to Old Yharnam. It was once used by the church, but when the ashen plague struck it was closed off. There is rumour that the afflicted residents of Old Yharnam found the entrance, allowing the plague spread to the city.” Gehrman had said, and told them how to find the lever which revealed the secret path.
The sarcophagus, immaculately carved and heavier than any single person could lift unaided, slid smoothly aside on unseen tracks, followed by the scraping of stone against stone. Deep into the cobweb-strewn halls of long-forgotten dead the hunter travelled before coming out into the dim sunlight at the cliff’s edge. A lengthy trek down several sets of worn, treacherous stairs that overlooked the gorge was the only way down from here.
They were still near the top, and already nearly out of breath, when they noticed a small outcropping shrine on the next flight down, carved neatly into the rock. This was no surprise, given Yharnam’s proclivity for religious architecture, but they had not expected to see a praying figure kneeling before a statue, with what seemed like a cartwheel at his side. Head bowed in supplication, the man did not notice the hunter’s approach until they had already descended the stairs. Well-tended gravestones lined their approach, each one carved with what looked like a robed, bearded man with a wheel symbol covering their chest. The largest statue, the one to which the stranger made their oblations, was wearing a massive cone-shaped helmet.
The man, who was wearing the same white robes as the sculptures, turned and faced the hunter, a genial smile upon his lips and bushy blonde sideburns garnishing either side of his face.
“Ah! Welcome, good hunter. Have you come to pay your respects to the Martyr Logarius?”
“Who is that?” They genuinely had no idea.
“Who?” The man looked aghast for a moment, before composing himself. “The Martyr Logarius, leader of the Executioners, hunter of the last of the Vilebloods?”
The hunter looked blank.
“I’m sorry, I’m not exactly from around these parts.”
“Well then, come, sit! There must be oodles for us to share. I will tell you everything I know. Our prey might differ, but we are hunters, the both of us. Why not cooperate, and discuss the things we've learned?” Nothing seemed to dampen his spirits, and it was hard to say no to such a well-meaning request.
“I am Alfred, protégé of the Martyr Logarius. My Master gave his life in service to the Church, in order to wipe out those damn Vilebloods. Ah, but, you probably do not know what a Vileblood is, either, do you?”
The hunter shook their head.
“Disgusting creatures, filthy monstrosities, the lot of them!” His jovial demeanour faltered for a second, and the hunter got a glimpse of something darker lurking beneath the surface. “Putrid, impure beasts that look as human as you or me, but contain a rotten heart.”
The hunter shivered. They wondered if Alfred knew the true origin of the beasts, that even the most monstrous of them were once human.
“Once, long ago, a scholar of Byrgenwerth stole forbidden blood from the tomb of the gods, betraying the Church and squandering it for their own private gain. Martyr Logarius led his noble Executioners to their lair, Cainhurst Castle, and wiped out all of the Vilebloods save one.” His brow darkened. “The Queen, their pitiable leader. My great master sealed her away with his magic, and remains there still, abandoned. Locked in an unending struggle with that evil wench. It’s a tragedy, truly. With his final seal, the location of the castle has become obscure.” He looked wistfully out over the valley, and the hunter could see just how deeply this man was moved by his faith as his eyes searched the horizon, looking for hidden towers amongst the clouds.
“You hunters hunt beasts, and us Executioners hunt Vilebloods. When I am not here, tending the graves of my fallen comrades, I search for the way back to Cainhurst. By the grace of the Gods, one day, it will reveal itself to me.” He smiled warmly at the hunter. “But, enough about me. Tell me, what great quest brings a Church Hunter like yourself to these parts?”
Stolen novel; please report.
“Church Hunter… To tell you the truth, I’m not sure what that means. I signed a contract with them, but I’ve yet to really meet any clerics beyond…” They thought of Father Norbert standing watch over the bridge, and the beast that met them instead.
“Ahh, you remind me of myself when I started out. The church is thinly spread these days, you’ll meet someone, sooner or later. Don’t you worry about it. The highest stratum of the Healing Church reside above the Grand Cathedral, There’s never been a reason for a lowly hunter like me to go there, but as long as there're still beasts down here there’s no need to bother them, eh?” He laughed, a jolly sound, and clapped the hunter on the back.
“You mentioned the tomb of the gods, and... Byrgenwerth?” They tried to bring it up in conversation as naturally as possible, fishing for further hints towards the location of the tomb of the gods.
“Ah yes, Byrgenwerth. An ancient institution of learning and excellence. The finest scholars in the land all came from Byrgenwerth, as did the higher echelons of the Healing Church. Not anymore, though. The place is forbidden.”
“Forbidden?” They were glad they hadn’t mentioned the chalice to Alfred, it was possible this paladin, so staunch in his duty, did not approve of visiting forbidden places.
“My dear hunter, you really don’t know do you? The scholars of Byrgenweth excavated the ancient catacombs of the gods beneath the town, and brought back a holy medium from deep within the tomb. This holy medium, the source of our wondrous healing blood, led to the establishment of the Healing Church itself. The scholars that remained at Byrgenwerth dabbled in blasphemous blood rituals and did not heed the warnings of the Church, which led to such travesties as the creation of the Vilebloods.” His face once again went from cheerful to grim. “We cannot let such oversights happen again. The way is forbidden.”
“Do we know what this holy medium looked like?”
Alfred shrugged.
“I don’t know myself, but it must have been marvellous. Truly spectacular, a great gift from the Gods. We would have been lost without its miraculous healing powers, the beasts would have overrun us completely!”
The hunter nodded. Iosefka’s blood had come in handy indeed, not to mention their initial ministration which brought their sickness to an end. Alfred clapped his hands to his knees and rose, and for the first time the hunter realised that the cartwheel beside him was not mere decoration. It was banded with iron and coated in several sets of vicious-looking spikes. It was the same wheel design that adorned the gravestones, both a vicious weapon and a proud symbol of their sect. Alfred picked it up with a single hand and turned to face the hunter, the setting sun sending rays of light out behind their head. A halo, fit for a saint.
“It has been lovely to meet you, but I’m afraid I must be off. I am hunting a rather tricky prey indeed. Unless that is... you care to join me? What say you to a bit of jolly cooperation, eh?”
The hunter took the outstretched hand that was offered to them, rising to their feet. Their hands remained clasped in comradely understanding.
“I would be honoured to join you on your hunt, Alfred.”
“That’s the spirit! Then come, the sun is setting and we haven’t much time.”
The remaining stairs were easier with a companion by their side. Some heavy burden inside them had lifted, a loneliness perhaps that slowly seeps into the bones of every person who picked up a blade. A loneliness only sated by the fellowship of another who also lives and dies to the tune of that gnawing, ever-growing pressure to hunt, or be hunted.
When they finally reached the valley floor, the tall wooden gates to Old Yharnam were closed. Locked, bolted, barricaded and plastered shut at the hinges. A note upon the door told them why.
HUNTERS NOT WANTED HERE.
TURN BACK.
“Do you think it really came this way?” The hunter asked.
“Oh yes.” Alfred replied, already hauling broken bits of furniture out of the barricade. “This is it’s home.”
It took then the good part of an hour to clear the door. The hunter was surprised to see that Old Yharnam was very much like New Yharnam, a church-strewn labyrinth of paved alleyways and balustraded bridges. The mist, however, was thick and fast around them, limiting their vision so that only the houses in their immediate vicinity could be seen with any detail. In the sky above they could just about make out the shadowy shape of the great bridge where they had fought the cleric beast. Spires and steeples formed dark silhouettes in the fog, including one giant tower that stood out among the rest. Alfred pointed at it.
“That’s our waypoint. That clocktower stands just to the east of the Church of the Good Chalice.”
The hunter’s ears pricked up.
“The Good Chalice?”
“Aye. If we get separated, head for the clocktower.” Their companion, it seemed, knew nothing about any chalice.
“Stick close.” Alfred said, and the two of them made their way through the deserted streets, weapons readied. The mist swirled and churned unending around them, a sea of grey where every tree became a potential enemy. They could smell it, the acrid taste of bitter ash lingered on their tongue. A billowing curtain made them jump, and for a moment they let themselves feel embarrassment in the presence of the other, more experienced hunter. Alfred was as still as stone, his face impassive, fixed upon their goal. As a true veteran of the hunt he did not jump at curtains.
The first bridge they came to was badly in need of repair. Railings hung from its sides, twisted completely out of shape and speckled with rust, while the flagstones were loose beneath their feet or missing altogether, exposing a drop to an instant death. They hadn’t taken more than a few steps across when a voice boomed out from the fog.
“You there! Hunters. Didn’t you see the warning? Turn back at once.”
“Who’s there? Show yourself!” Alfred called out.
“Do you take me for a fool? I know why you’re here. But this place means nothing to you. Leave! Return to your city! The beasts here are of no harm to those above.” The voice echoed around the town, coming from both everywhere and nowhere at once.
“If there remain beasts in this place it is our duty to cleanse these foul streets!” Alfred bellowed in response.
“Very well. You both seem like capable hunters. Adept, merciless, half-cut with blood.”
There was a pause, and the metallic whirring of some kind of machinery warming up.
“...Which is why I must stop you.”
“Get down!” Alfred grabbed their companion by the shoulder and dropped them both to the floor, moments before a spray of bullets flew over their head, taking chunks out of the masonry and sending shrapnel flying.
“The old bastard’s gone mad. This way!” The two of them crawled on their bellies beneath the hail of gunfire. The angle of trajectory and scatter of the bullets suggested that the shooter was somewhere high, but near. As they hunkered inside an open church porch, the gunfire stopped.
“The fog hinders us all, it seems. Such a fickle friend! Come, let us head through the church.”
The interior was barren, all furniture long since gone, either removed by human hands for makeshift barricades or worn away to nothing with the passage of time. Most of the floorboards were missing, the foundation stones exposed. The hunter remembered what Gehrman had told them about this town, how it has been burnt to the ground to prevent the plague from spreading. A terrible sacrifice for a noble cause. The lack of wood, the ash still hovering in the air, and the melted, twisted iron railings all pointed towards a long-extinguished inferno. It gave the church a sense of stillness, as though the reverence that was felt here had since passed away. The whispered words of sermons unspoken floating in the breeze, prayers unheard. The cavernous nave was dim with misty tendrils, and light was scarce too now the sun was shrouded. They had to feel their way slowly across the floor, boots sending up dust and ash with every step.
A loud crunch beneath their feet made them stop and look down. It was a bone. A distinctly human femur, but small. No bigger than a child’s. The sound echoed around the chamber and the hunter was sure it would be followed by another hail of bullets, but nothing came. From a sconce in the wall they unhooked an old lantern, unused and white with ash. The chamber was still full of oil, but the wick refused to light. Alfred supplied the rags while the hunter split an uncharred board of wood into two long planks. When they lit their makeshift torches and held them up, the two hunters beheld a grisly sight. A mass of blackened, charred skeletons, crammed into the alcove leading to the main entryway. All shapes and sizes were present, from tiny babes clasped in their father’s arms to a skeleton with a golden cleric chain around its neck, outstretched hands clawing helplessly at the pile of bodies in a desperate effort to save it’s own life.
“This was a congregation.” Alfred moved closer and examined some of the remains. The floorboards were still intact in this spot, where the mass of boiling bodies and their bubbling fats had protected the wood from burning.
“No. This was a massacre.” The hunter said in a whisper, barely audible and filled with bitter sadness. Alfred said nothing.
And then he was gone. With a snap, the floorboards had given way beneath him, finally relenting to the weight of the bodies with the addition of one more person.
“Alfred!”
There was a nerve-wracking pause as the dust settled.
“I’m all right, don’t worry about me.” Came a jovial voice echoing from below. Looking down, they could see him lying in an old undercroft, his fall broken by a barrel of rancid communion blood. It oozed out around him, black and viscous and turning his white robes sable.
“Continue on to the tower my friend. I’ll make my way there via the tunnels - all these old churches are connected, oh yes! We’re almost there.”
The hunter watched as Alfred’s torchlight disappeared into the shadows. Brandishing their own torch, and wary of bullets, they inched their way past the hole in the floor and out into the town. Alfred was right, the tower was close. Close enough that they could see a small figure on top, and what looked to be a gatling gun. A gun that moved suddenly to the left, and began shooting at something beneath the bridges. Alfred. His tunnels must have not been as long as he anticipated, or had otherwise collapsed, exposing him to the mad old hunter.
The hunter sprinted towards the tower, zig zagging through the alleys whose floors were a sea of powdery ash and the incinerated gardens where the trees had turned to charcoal, until they turned a corner and came face to face with a beast.
It was unlike any beast they had ever seen before. Small, and humanoid. It looked almost scared. But it gnashed and snarled at them as well as any beast ever had, with it’s disturbingly humanoid teeth. The hunter held their torch higher, and the creature shrank back. Gilbert’s words came to them.
The beasts can’t stand the flame. They cower in the shadows, blinded by the light.
They jabbed the torch in its direction and the beast raised its hands - oh so human hands - and recoiled against the flames. They could see more starting to arrive, a swelling sea of countless eyes glowing within the fog. The hunter held them at bay with the torch, turning this way and that as they slowly but surely advanced closer to the tower. A few of the beasts were bigger. Adults, perhaps, when they were turned. These ones were less scared of the flame, and more cunning. They snatched at the hunter as they passed, getting bolder still as the makeshift torch began to gutter and fade. When they reached the tower staircase, mercifully unbarred, they dropped the torch to the ground and ran inside, slamming the door shut and bolting up the stairs with reckless abandon. Outside, the beasts waited patiently for the flame to extinguish. When the hunter reached the top they expected to find an old madman, perhaps half beast as Gascoigne had been, driven insane by the scourge. What they found instead was Djura.
“So. One of you made it here alive.” Sat upon a parapet with one leg resting against the stone was the man who had given them the warning. His voice, quiet now and personal, betrayed little of his true feelings at seeing the hunter disturb their roost. If he was surprised, or ready to fight, he kept it to himself.
“Will you hear my tale, stranger, or are you going to use that?” The hunter noticed that they were holding their saw cleaver aloft, as though about to strike. They lowered it at the same time as Djura stepped away from the gun, doubt now clouding their mind.
“Tale? What tale?”
“Once, there was a hamlet that stood at the bottom of the valley.” Djura wasted no time in starting. As he talked he began to walk in a slow circle around the tower, his tattered hunter’s uniform fluttering in the breeze. They could see now that his face was tired, worn down through age and ruthless violence. The kind of face that had seen too little of peace.
“It was a tranquil place. Quiet. A boring outpost for a man of action, but the people were a kind sort, unmarked by the mistrust of the city. They worked hard, prayed hard, and welcomed strangers with open arms.”
He looked out over the ruins of the town, blurred with fog and ash. One side of his face had been covered in bandages, though they did not look like they had been changed recently. From the way the skin puckered at the edges the hunter surmised that they did not cover a recent injury, but a scar. The physical burns had long since mended, though the bandage suggested that, deeper, some wounds could never be healed.
“They were fools. The scourge started here, you know. They called it the Ashen Blood. A continuous cough, a shortness of breath. A ragged wheezing into the night, followed by feverish dreams. Parents were desperate to protect their children, who were the first ones to fall sick. The Healing Church brought their blood, their wicked blood, in tiny droplets. They even sweetened it, fit for children!”
He laughed, grimly. There was no joy behind that sound.
“They turned, every last one of them. At first, the Church tried to keep it quiet. The first noble hunters,” He emphasised the word noble in a way which showed he found them in no possible way to live up to the name, “were butchers in the night, ripping children from beds, babes from breast. Killing entire families so word couldn’t spread, until even that was not enough. The Powder Kegs burnt Old Yharnam to the ground, abandoning them to the fire. These beasts that you hunt… that you murder… they are people, did you know that?”
The hunter could only stare ashamed at the floor. They knew.
“One by one they all turned to ash in the wind.”
“I’m… I’m sorry for your loss.” The hunter muttered, unsure of what else they could say to mitigate such pain.
“My loss? No, my dear hunter, you misunderstand.” Djura turned to face them, their face a mask of stone.
“I led the hunters - my hunters, my Powder Kegs - into the village. Oh, how we ruled the streets! Such bombast and glory! We were told it couldn’t be saved, that all hope was lost. What choice did we have? Then my hunters and I, we saw it. The turnings, the children. The looks on their faces when they realised they were betrayed.” Djura’s stony façade was broken now, and he let the tears roll thick across his bandaged face. He reached out and grabbed the hunter by the shoulders, quicker than they could react.
“But the real question is why. Why burn the place down? Why the midnight murders? What did they,” He gestured up at the Cathedral ward above them, “need to hide so badly, that Old Yharnam had to die for it?”
He seemed to realise how hard his grip was and let them go, brushing their coat gently with his fingers.
“Hunter, I beg you. Spare them. They harm no-one here, and I keep an eye on them. Let them live out their days in peace.”
“I... But my companion…”
With a sneer on their face Djura pointed from the tower to a decrepit and towering old church. Ruined and cavernous, it sat squat against a backdrop of rockface and thorny thickets. The biggest building in the town: The Church of the Good Chalice.
“You mean, that companion? The one who has left you, to hunt my church’s blood-starved priestess?”
They could see Alfred in the distance, hurrying to the church with their wheel-like weapon drawn and ready.
“That one is a berserker, a hot-blooded soldier for the cause. Look at him, he does not wait for you. He thirsts for blood and glory.”
“Alfred…”
The hunter made for the exit, but Djura’s hand stopped their flight.
“I should think you still dream, correct? Well, next time you dream, give some thought to the hunt, and its purpose. That is all. I shall not stop you, but think carefully before you make your choice.”
They moved their hand back and the hunter fled down the stairs, their thoughts filled with dreams and nightmares. The streets were mercifully empty as they hurtled down the path to the church. It was as though something had scared the beasts away, and the hunter had a good idea what it could be. As a screech cut through the misty air their suspicions were confirmed, and as they reached the entrance to the church Alfred landed at their feet, his body skidding to a halt across the flagstones with a streak of blood and grime.
“Ah, you… you made it. Good!” He was winded, and struggled to speak. Behind him was another monster much like the cleric beast from the bridge, but with a ripped and ragged droop of hewn skin from its back wrapping around its torso on each side. Someone, possibly a long-gone Powder Keg, or possibly Alfred, had attempted to flay the beast. They had only half succeeded and the creature’s matted pelt flopped against its body, spine exposed and oozing sticky fluid.
Behind it, situated stately upon a long stone altar, was a glint of gold. A chalice, mantled in moth-eaten red silk, once grand and now faded. Right where Gehrman said it would be.
“No time. Spray it!” Wheezed Alfred from the ground, his eyes lit with an inner fire, a lust for the kill. The hunter lit their flamesprayer, knowing that Djura was watching them. They felt his eyes upon their back as they sent bursts of flames towards the beast, driving it back but not causing it any harm. But she was no ordinary woman in life, and thus no ordinary beast. In life, she protected the blessing of this church, and in undead she would do the same. Turning, she wrapped her claws around the hilt of the chalice and lifted it high. She opened her mouth as though to scream, but no sound came out. Instead, she pushed the chalice deep into her gullet, semi-flayed tongue wrapping around it protectively until the last golden glint was swallowed.
With a single bound the creature jumped over their head, over the flames and ran full tilt towards the prone Alfred.
“Alfred!”
The slavering jaws made to close over his head, but with mere milliseconds to spare Alfred lifted his wheel before him, blocking its mouth with wood. Held open, he had a full view of the inside of her gullet, poisonous spittle dripping onto his face. Where it hit his bare skin it began to scald and smoke.
“What are you waiting for? Kill it! Kill it!”
There was no more time. The hunter lit the flamesprayer and doused the beast head to toe in roaring flames. It thrashed and threw itself blindly around the ruined chapel, howling with thin, guttural snarls. It’s flapping pelt began to sag, and steam, as the fats in its body melted. Fire poured from the creatures eye sockets as, one after another, the eyeballs popped from the pressure. The hunter thought they heard the creature moaning, but it was only the blaze inside its body forcing smoke up through its lungs and out through its split-skin spine. It was nothing more than a bellows, blowing hot air instead of breath as whatever life it had was incinerated along with the town it once loved.
“You did it! The foul beast is dead, and what a fine hunt it was!” Alfred clapped them on the back. The two of them felt the heat on their faces from the bestial bonfire, and for a moment all was well. It was a while before either of them felt able to say their hearty goodbyes.
“You know where to find me, friend. I owe you my life. One good turn deserves another, or so they say. I only ask that you keep me in your thoughts, should you happen upon any hint to the whereabouts of Cainhurst Castle.”
“I will keep an eye out for you.” They clasped hands, and the hunter watched as the executioner meandered his way up the stairs, back to the shrine of Martyr Logarius to make his ablutions.
They did not look back towards the town after they collected the chalice from the smoking belly of the beast. They did not see Djura watching them from the clocktower with mist-touched eyes, rheumy with age and disappointment. They knew that if they ever returned here, he would kill them. Perhaps that was for the best. That pitiable creature had been a person. A priestess whose life they would never know, a story forever untold for the likes of them.