What little is left of our humanity lurks in all liminal spaces. Somewhere, beyond the boundaries, between the world of the living and the boundless void of the dead there is found the source of our petulant struggle, our fight to find meaning in a senseless cycle of birth and death.
We are born in blood, and we will die in blood. The significance is not lost on us, and those who spend their median time amongst the bloody fringes that this world has to offer are perhaps closer to true understanding than those among us who bar the door, cower under the covers, and wait for the night to pass. Bloodless vermin with fast-beating hearts, flitting through their allotted time as a creature of no consequence.
We are not the same.
We are hunters. Our blood runs thick and slow through our veins, as does our strength. We are afraid, yes, but we do not quake. We stand tall, and stare back, defiant and unashamed at the fate dispensed upon us. Whatever our origins, we are united in our pride and curiosity. Ours is the domain of death, where nothing is stable and all paths lead only to insight, futility, or monstrous ruin.
Or so that was what I believed as I lay there, dying slowly from this horrid, incurable curse. My own fate was to die cowering, suffocated by safety and suffering the craven ministrations of fools. I felt my breaths leave my body in shuddering, rattling gasps that whistle through shattered lungs, each intake more difficult than the last and twice as heavy. With every beat of my ailing heart I curse them, damn them all for their sins.
No. It is not I who can blame these meek and servile foreigners. They cannot be held at fault for their nature, none of us can. They do not know the horrors of the scourge like I do, but soon they will. Oh yes, soon enough. I have brought it to their doorstep, I have walked the beast in amongst the sheep and let it loose. My blood is all I have to share. I was a damned coward to leave, and now I will die here far away from my beautiful city and the protection afforded by the gods.
No matter. My death is not important. I will only die once on this mortal plane, only to wake and die a million times in the dream. My soul, my spirit, will live forever in the cursed nightmare. Oh! To die, what a glorious gift! One forever denied an old hunter like me, if the rumours I hear are true.
My attendant is a curious sort. An enigma amongst the herd. They have tended my wounds since I arrived, brought me freshly seared meat, hot off the bone and thick chunks of steaming bread. I owe them. I owe them a lot more than the curse I see forming in their eyes, the mottled pale skin that betrays their ungodly sickness. The hurried coughs, the furtive wheezing.
That is why, Church forgive me, I told them. I told them everything. I grabbed their collar with what little strength remained in my knotted hands, and pulled them close.
“Seek Paleblood.”
Each word was a struggle to achieve, I drove each syllable out of my rotting maw with willpower alone. I could see their eyes, wide with shock and revulsion. I must have made a sorry sight, this close to the end. The bandages over my knuckles were stained thick with blood and pus, and spittal dribbled down over my chin with the effort.
“Write this down, wretch, lest your memory betray you. There is hope for you not to end up like me. You must go to the city of Yharnam. There, you will find the Blood Minister. Go to him. Seek Paleblood to transcend the hunt.”
The last of my strength gave out, my words barely a whisper, and they wrenched free of my grasp, weak as it was. I chuckled softly - a terrible sound! - at the thought of what awaited them. They fled the room, but not before one final glance back at me. They knew what fate lay ahead of them. When given the choice between an honourable death, and an ignoble one, humans always choose… Heh. Well. Perhaps this one will make a good hunter yet, one who could continue what I could not bring myself to finish.
Maybe now, finally, I can find a dreamless sleep.
---
The sound of sanctuary filled the air as the late afternoon light filtered down through the rooftops and spires of Yharnam, trickling through bare autumn branches of sparsely-planted trees by the roadside and coming to rest on the deserted cobblestone path. The place was deserted, but not empty. Abandoned carriages lined the street, hinges creaking as the wind blew unfastened doors to and fro. Festering bundles of clothing and possessions lay stranded in cluttered heaps across the walkway, interrupted every so often by scattered suitcases and bulky, chained-up trunks. Everything pointed to a hasty evacuation, a visceral response from an entire community that had befallen some great calamity.
The pilgrim nudged one of these trunks with their boot, and was met with a wet, squelching sound from within. From the crack of the lid a thin dribble of acrid, rust-tinged liquid seeped out and oozed lethargically over the cracked leather. It was undoubtedly biological in origin, the stench alone confirmed that. The spilt humours of a festering corpse, not even afforded a proper burial. A quick survey of the street showed other putrid bundles and darkroot coffins, some with bones protruding out at odd angles, shattered ivory and pale spears. All of them wore heavy chains and padlocks, They served some practical use, perhaps, or they were merely a testament to a lack of faith.
The pilgrim coughed, a long and drawn-out hacking that ended with a smattering of blood in their handkerchief. Not a reaction to the smell of decay, but the internal workings of the vile bloodborne affliction as it spread its way throughout their body and mind.
The scattered remains were left on the side of the road as they continued onwards, deeper into the city. In one hand they clasped a small slip of paper, their only weapon. They held it tight, as if it were a precious gift. A meagre talisman, but effective, as nothing, and no-one, barred their way into the city. It was as though the sea parted before them, the silence leading them on a holy pilgrimage to the source of quickly-scratched words on parchment carried close.
Seek Paleblood to transcend the hunt.
Their cough returned, stronger this time. A ragged lump deep down inside, stuck to their throat like a ball of hard, bubbling tar. No amount of coughing could dislodge it, and before they knew it they were down on their knees in rasping prayer, begging absolution with every wheezing breath. Their hands quivered against the flagstones as they fought to regain control, forehead pressed against the stone. It took them a while to notice the short, squat figure in front of them, their shadow long and strangely angular against the jumbled shapes on the road.
“Hm, well well. What brings an outsider here, to our fair city?”
The pilgrim could barely whisper a word as their lungs struggled to return to normal. Nevertheless, the stranger knew.
“Paleblood, eh?” His voice was rough but not unkind. Any human speech was a welcome sound after such a thankless journey.
“Well, you’ve come to the right place. Yharnam is the home of blood ministration.”
The Blood Minister had been waiting for them, as though he had known to expect their arrival. It was a miracle, really, that people even lived in this charnel house they called a city. The pilgrim followed where the minister led, the wheels of his chair squeaking as he rolled slowly ahead, through the winding lanes and back alleys towards a clinic right in the heart of Yharnam.
“Now, roll up your sleeve. Bring your arm up, that’s it.”
The old man was half blind but it was clear he was a skilled clinician, his wrinkled fingers nimble and precise as he measured out clots of fresh red blood into the glass infusion bottle. A small lantern hung from his wheelchair, casting more shadows than it did light across his creased face and oversized, wide-brimmed hat.
The room was a veritable treasure trove of medical instruments, tools and carefully labelled bottles. The walls were lined with bookshelves full of medical tomes and sheafs of bundled letters. The musk of old paper and bookbinding glue, the scent of wood varnish and dust, and overall the ever-present and pungent smell of old blood and bitter medicine. Cold air fluttered at the edges of long, sweeping curtains from cracked open windows high up near the ceiling. Taken as a whole it created a perfume that any patient fortunate enough to end up in such tender care would find intoxicating.
“To go any further, you must partake in communion.” His lips formed a grotesque smile, one that held silent secrets and a hint of longing.
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“But to partake in this communion, you must first join your quest to that of the Healing Church. Your purpose, your search, will depend upon your success during the night of the hunt. Your affliction will be healed, but your mind must be set fast.”
The pilgrim’s bare forearm lay exposed, ready for transfusion, as they sat stiff against the cool surface of the surgical table. Their heart pounded, sending unsullied blood throughout their body for the final time. They hadn’t flinched as the cannula entered the crook of their arm, being as they were desensitized to the smaller pains in life. Any remedy, however uncomfortable, was welcome at this late and ultimately final stage.
“The hunt?”
The old man chuckled.
“You’ll find out, soon enough. Ahh, but first, we’ll need to get you a contract…” He wheeled around to one of the many bookcases and rummaged through a seemingly disordered pile of papers, emerging with a quill and a single sheet of vellum.
“Now, sign there on the dotted line.” The Minister broke off into a hoarse laugh as the pilgrim’s fingers gripped the pen and made their mark.
“Good. Yes, very good. All signed and sealed.” A rich red fluid began to fill the tube that led to the pilgrim’s arm. A rolling wave of coldness spread throughout their veins, making them flinch, and wince, and blink, until all was darkness. They were engulfed in a pulsating feeling, as though they were hanging upside-down, thin rivers of blood rushing to their head.
“Oh don’t you worry, outsider. Whatever happens… You may think it all a mere bad dream.”
The pilgrim fell asleep, and woke up a hunter.
---
A silence, dripping. Coagulating. The careful quietness of rippling flesh and disembodied disturbance, stretching out across saw-cleaven boundaries and breaching the divide between wakefulness and the restless void. A rupture. The smell of damp fur and drool invading the tranquil hush.
A hunter opens their eyes and, in the dim hollow of recently-held conviction, they forget the face of their mother. Their home is a distant memory, a blur of colour and light. Only the faint image of the chandelier swaying above them is constant, flashes of gold catching the red rays of the setting sun.
From their left they hear a strange, animalistic sound. A wet and sickly growl. With great effort, they turn their head and lock eyes with a creature, wolflike and prowling, emerging from a slowly spreading pool of crimson gore. It was a tattered mess of sinew and ragged clumps of slough skin, haphazardly arranged into the image of a beast.
Tongue lolling, jaws dripping with cruor, it began to move towards the hunter, using it’s paws to pull itself out of the bloody mire. A thin line of pure fear went down their spine, but no amount of struggling made their body move. They were trapped, helpless upon the gurney. Even if they did manage to regain control, what hope did they have against such a monster?
They closed their eyes, and waited for the end to come.
From beyond their eyelids came a warm, deep orange glow, a shimmer that turned the darkness into haphazard golden sunshine. When they finally felt the courage to open them they beheld a scene that burned itself into their soul.
Above them crouched the beast, forearm extended and impossibly long claws reaching for their throat, its grip leaving long gashes in the wood. It’s jaw was wide, but not in preparation to strike. It was screaming, thrashing its head back and forth as flames licked up its side and singed the exposed flesh. The room was filled with the smell of charred animal. The hunter could taste the ash on their lips and the stifling heat as the bonfire swirled above them, before it gradually fell away and the darkness returned.
Darkness, and small fingers grasping, pallid and soft.
It was no hallucination. The beast had fled, flaming, down the clinic stairs, and in its wake came the tiny but tight grasps of little hands, pulling and clutching at the hunter’s clothes and hair. They did not close their eyes this time, could not, the adrenaline coursing through their system kept them from being able to turn to the dark for comfort, making them an unwilling spectator to the horror and wonders of the blood.
Attached to these hands were pallid, bony imps, reaching just as the beast had done towards the hunter’s face and pulling themselves up onto their prone body. Dark hollows stuck in various shapes of silent screams served as their mouths, their bodies small and skeletal and what little flesh remained was a pale, unnatural ivory that radiated beneath the skin like soft moonlight. Little hands tugged at their arms and clothes, as though offering some sort of guidance as the figures crowded upon the hunter. Their little bodies crept closer to their terrified and frozen face, tiny beings of light filling their vision and crawling across their body until it all became too much, too much.
The last thing they heard before they finally fainted was a voice. A new voice, smooth and toneless and utterly impenetrable.
“Ah, you’ve found yourself a hunter.”
Their consciousness flickered in the margins of darkness.
When they opened their eyes again, the room was quiet. No pale devils, no fiery beasts, and no sign of the Blood Minister. The air was clear of cinders and the hunter could breath easily. With some difficulty they got themselves standing, clutching their head in their hands. How long had it been since they lost consciousness?
They took a deep breath, and gasped in surprise.
The malignant mass at the base of their throat had vanished, and they savoured for a while the deep breaths that filled their chest fit to bursting.
“Minister?”
No response. From the entryway they heard the sound of something metallic, perhaps a surgeon’s tray, clattering to the floor. They had not come through the front, as the many stairs made navigation by wheelchair difficult. Instead, they had come up through a service elevator, one the minister had claimed was made just for him.
As they stood now at the top of these stairs, the bright light of the evening sun stood stark outside the window. All light was orange, and what was not orange was black and wreathed in shadow.
“Sir?”
They took a step downwards. The floorboards were long, ancient wooden beams cut from single lengths of old yew and every shift in weight made them creak across the entire building. There were no carpets to muffle the sound, and no possibility of moving silently across them. The gentle breeze was moaning through the room, sounding for all the world like distant cries and long-forgotten ghosts.
There was a light on downstairs. They could see it now, perhaps a lantern or a small chandelier. They pushed open the door, light glinting off of gilded gold as it swung open. This building, and every building they had seen so far, exuded such profuse opulence that they felt themselves drawn to examine every minute detail. Every door was carved, every house had it’s spire, and for every plinth a statue. Such grand magnificence had faded, however, and the city had fallen into neglect, left to rot as a monument to past glory. What had life been like, they thought, before the scourge befell them?
But the hunter did not have time to wonder about this for long.
There was another sound from the other end of the room. A wet and brittle gnawing, the twang of sinews breaking.
They pulled aside a curtain, heavy with dust, and saw the beast.
Perhaps it was the same creature as before, or perhaps it was different. It had the same ragged limbs and gaunt figure. It was hard to tell, and did not matter much to the exhilaration coursing through the hunter’s body. It was a threat, and it was real.
It was real.
They had hoped for a cure. Failing that, they had hoped for a merciful end. Of all the wretched outcomes they thought might happen, coming face to face with monsters straight out of myth and fancy was not one of them.
The moment passed, and what happened next was over in blinding speed.
The beast turned its head, and fixed a beady eye on the intruder. Dropping the body it had been chewing on, it pounced. The hunter threw back the curtain, and placed a pillar between themselves and the beast. Too slow, as before they had a chance to step sideways three massive claws tore into their shoulder and ripped off their arm. The wolf-like monster had been able to cross the room in half a bound, and when its paw met flesh it roared in frenzied glee.
They could only turn and stare at the tattered remains of their left shoulder, struck speechless with pain and fear, until the pain was gone and only the fear remained. An old fear, a mixture of primordial instinct and the futile knowledge that there was no way out.
It was that same fear that drove them forward, that lifted their right arm and clenched their fist as they swung it at the enemy, knuckles hitting flesh as it smacked into that grotesque, toothy grin. To their surprise, it seemed to work. The beast’s head snapped sideways and it let loose a gutteral snarl as a canine broke free and scattered across the floor in a spatter of fresh blood.
Perhaps there was a way out of this, after all.
Though their amputated arm held them back, the hunter used this opportunity to put more distance between them. Out of the corner of their eye, some barely functioning rational part of their brain spotted the front door. They ran for it, blood pumping through their temples and spurting from their severed shoulder, the thump-thump of their beating heart was all they could hear as they reached their good hand out towards the handle, fingers extended in a desperate plea. They could almost feel the cool metal in their grip, the door opening, closing and becoming a bulwark between themselves and certain death. They were this close to feeling the last rays of sunlight on their cheek and the cool evening breeze.
It was a dream so real that they could not bear to leave it as the stinking weight of canine claws bore down on them, pushing them to the ground.
To have come so close, only to have failed here… it was too much to bear. The hopes of their entire town had rested upon their shoulders, and now their family will never know what happened to them. Perhaps, in their final moments as the curse ravaged their dying bodies, they would think of their emissary, sent forth as a final beacon of hope. The hunter could only hope that if they did, that they knew they had not abandoned them, even though as the world went black they could barely remember their faces.
Jaws of steel held their head in a vice that would never again come loose. With a crack, a swift bite crushed the skull and severed the neck with ease. Gristle and bone fell from the beast’s hideous maw as it reared up on its hind legs and howled an undulating cry of victory.
You fool…
This final thought swirled in their head.
You died.