||| Night To Dismember |||
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Grinjer Dverk, long before the outbreak, was the simplest of family men. He, like most proper men, once had a wife who birthed her wondrous children into this world. The man, despite his life of honest labor, never made an envious fortune. This never sat well with his in-laws, his dearly beloved always swift to assure she felt love for him, not his sparse riches. Grinjer always relented, preferring the treasures of the soul that only a warm and loving family, his family, could ever bear.
Together they lived a cheery yet humbler life, though the Dverks were by no means scrapping for money. But that had been so long ago… Now, Grinjer was passed along as a simple pile of discarded afflicted, a beastly transformation only waiting to happen. In a single strike, the serrated teeth to a most unsettling trick weapon burrowed their way into the man's skull. A wet, dripping, repulsive shattering of exposed bone filled the foreboding air. Pavement from below quenched itself further from the thick sanguine fluid, eager to rinse away the gentle rain with the thunderous blood.
Without the slightest of pause, the toothed fixture was torn free; Grinjer's now lifeless body crumpling to the entrail-decorated pavement. The hunter stepped over the fallen man's corpse with a sneer. 'Blissfully ignorant bloke…' He internally cursed.
The echos of blood, damn their insulting trickles of nostalgia.
Memories, much like a sleeping corpse, oft be left well alone, more so those that which do not claim themselves as your own. A foolish, unkempt breach of privacy the sapping of blood echos is.
"Thirty-five." The good hunter, Voltaire, bitterly hissed into the equally biting air.
Had he felt remorse, for this sodding nobody? No, that… that simply couldn't be. Voltaire was long since desensitized to this trivial affair. Everyone had a story, everyone loved someone they lost, through a falling out or other natural means. This peasant was just another face, someone with an often sung song. Yet even so…
Was this truly a good man's last reward? How cruel. He pitied the sorry soul…
Thoughts of trivial affairs were pushed aside. There was a task at hand, a hunter's task no less. His hardened boots clacked against the slick pavement, the droplets of yearning rain rippling the countless puddles of the dilapidated city. Voltaire strode as if he were in a hurry, impatient to an onlooker. On the topic of onlookers, a crazed pair of eyes sluggishly tripped from behind the corner. Quickly, the bloodshot and sickly amber eyes widened, a rapturous boom mercilessly severing their newly accursed life short.
"Thirty-six." The good hunter mumbled, rounding the strip of cement the infected victim came from.
His footsteps, though he walked with great speed, were almost nonexistent.
More unmerited recollections, how sickening…
Scattered throughout the dilapidated pathways lie frayed heaps of flesh, scorching at soldering pyres along the former walkways. Inhumane bodies coated in damp fur were hung, pierced, and stake-driven from crucifixes. Discarded bodies of both the afflicted and once lively inhabitants also littered the crumbling curbsides, what little was left of them at the very least.
Through it all, there had been a set of violet eyes, stalking the shambling inhabitants as if they themself were a beast among the many beasts. From the alleys, the predatory sigils etched every imaginable detail of the scene into their mind.
The limp in some of the mad mens' stride. A swollen joint in varying places of the arms from others. Dripping, oil-coated fur of the Scourge Beasts: werewolf-like monsters similar to those found in Yharnam. Even the withered flesh of the malformed hounds failed to be lost upon the keen hunter.
With their weakened joints, sluggish dragging of feet, and piss poor coordination, the hunter could easily outmaneuver the afflicted. No effort would be required to set the Scourge Beasts ablaze, forcing the monsters a delay in joining the impending slaughter. From there, the charred remains of their musculature would crumble under the simplest of blows. The saw spear, with its serrated teeth, would easily shred through the already deteriorated flesh of the hounds. If all else failed, a fair amount of gunpowder and quicksilver went a long way.
He would never join the powder kegs of course, but Voltaire would doubly not deny their effectiveness. The old hunter of Old Yhanram, Djura was a testament to that. How many times had that Gatling gun delivered Voltaire to the hunter's dream?
Oh, once was enough to lose track. A proper guess would warrant… thirty, no, forty separate occasions. That was neglecting to count the times Djura proved himself in combat face to face. What a shame Voltaire had yet to find his beloved Evelyn.
A smile graced his cracked lips, scrapping against the near-frozen stiff cloth around his lower face. The Evelyn was a masterpiece indeed; one the powder keg hunters could only "dream" of recreating. In a display that surprised even himself, the good hunter elicited a small, faint, and vulnerable display of a stifled chuckle.
His eyes blinked once, a hand reached to feel the skin behind his half-mask. Had he, the keen hunter, really made a pun…?
Right hand met right temple, a stationary display of either comfort or stress. First, it was the dabbling in mediocre pastimes, then a recurring desire to further his intellect beyond what was necessary, and now, humor (as distant and negligible it may be) had slowly graced its invasive way into the man. In the end, it may only be the result of an outbreak of such insulting proportion; or perhaps the afforded time allowed due to the failure of slain beasts returning. Either way, the good hunter shook the thoughts away. A hunt, no matter the caliber, was still yet a hunt.
Hunt… dreams… hunters… beasts.
His hand twitched, grasping the handle of the concealed weapon at his back.
Voltaire, the owner of two violet eyes, stole a glance at the half-covered blade strapped to his back. Perhaps another time, the Burial Blade would shine. Today though was not that day. Only the fiercest of beasts merited the gruesome sight, only the most abhorrent deserved its unsavory trick form. Besides, would it not be insulting to waste such a weapon on any manner of foe below a great one?
Assuming he could find another great one, that is.
Voltaire's lips strained into a harsh scowl. The lack of any great ones was beyond unsettling. Even with his mind restored from the lack of the wisdom garnered by the hunt in Yharnam, he as a hunter should have felt their presence; seen their abominations, witnessed their influence. But there was nothing. No stray Amygdalas snatching and promptly sanity depriving any sorry soul. Mo culminations of brain matter inciting widespread frenzy. No trace of Winter Lanterns, Brain Suckers, any strain of those who were birthed from more direct eldritch corruption.
Pecking, gnawing, and the shredding of carrion birds drew the hunter's attention once more. He, without another delay, returned his attention to the task at hand. The flocks of the carrion birds were small, ordinary, and an all too common sight; as disturbing it was. Ravens were frighteningly perceptive and intelligent. This specific flock had trailed the hunter for nearly three weeks now, the longest a flock had done thus far. Where he dare tread, a buffet of the dead soon followed.
Even at his chilling gaze, the birds paid him no heed; they were not ones to complain of their repulsive yet filling feast. The conspiracy of ravens had been written off as unwelcomed guests upon the first crossing of paths. They offered no advantage aside from gorging on Voltaire's fallen prey, nor did they offer much in the way of comfort… at first. His annoyance in the birds quickly blossomed into familiarity, later morphing into gratitude when the birds began delivering small, often shiny, trinkets.
Despite their horrid nature, the good hunter was joyous for their presence.
The unkindness of ravens could wait. He marched onward, delving deeper into the heart of the city. As the crowd of the diseased lulled onward, the good hunter slithered into the shadows, picking off any stragglers that were foolish enough to wander into the isolated alleyways.
Each yard covered by the shambling horde became matched, a new, uninvited, yet near nonexistent tread of footsteps joining the grim chorus. The disheveled crazed ones, who were still largely human despite their crude disfigurement, heard nor sensed the danger that lurked from the abysmal gaps of the surrounding buildings. The malformed and rotting hounds, however, with their still surprising sense of smell, departed from the crowd.
They smelt blood. Clean blood.
The state of the walking carcasses alone effortlessly left one nauseous. A sickly rotting stench that stained the deepest parts of the lungs, exposed tissue of muscle to tease the fear of man, the dripping of murky crimson to satiate the dread in one's eyes, and that gruesome hint of writhing maggots beneath to seal away the despair. A shudder from the souls itself would pass by those who could see the sight, save for those already desensitized of such views; most notably, those already born of blood.
A burdened sniffing filled the damp corridor. The desecrated mutt clambered further into the stretch of darkness. Scent…yes, oh that sweet scent. Drool pooled from its near gaping muzzle. The jaw, holding the noxious jagged fangs, snarled. There, behind a pile of soaked rubbish, was the source of the scent. Claws clattered against the slick cement, splashing as deeper crevices were walked over. And soon, it began greedily licking away at the pool of crimson liquid. Its rotten brain had no room to ponder why a bottle leaked this intoxicating substance, nor would it have cared.
Blood, above all else, was but compelling blood…
Again and again, it greedily consumed the red fluid. Whoever was the progenitor of this blood, was clearly one of good taste. The hound had become so infatuated with the seemingly innocent gift, it barely had the time to yelp as a larger, more furious set of teeth thrust itself upon its neck. In one fell swoop, the serrated edges of the Saw Spear tore open the throat, neck, and skull of the dog.
A third hound lept from the shadowy crevice it stalked from. Jaws, as sharp yer far more rotten than the blades of the saw spear, lurched forward. The tongue, also corroded away, lapped with noxious saliva. Voltaire swept his gaze to the monster... the disheveled canine was swift, though not nearly swift enough.
The Good Hunter bent a knee, pushing the might of his body to the side. And much like a torrent, the comparatively sluggish canine crumpled against the mason-worked wall. Tearing flesh and shredded sinew greeted the lightly occupied fiend from across its ribs and abdomen both. A yelp of pain left its rigid chords, bellowing an unheard warning to the two final hounds trudging from the alley's opening.
Whether it was out of an innate sense to come to the aid of their wounded ally, or out of their own bloodlust, the two canines dripped with their acidic enzymes. With a greater speed, they surged onward to the offender, just as the nightmarish weapon decollated the injured dog of its head. The quicker of the two was met with a blast of quicksilver, blown backward to roll against the murky alley floor. As for the remaining beast, it slithered under the swing of the hunter's blade, cautious of the equally fiendish sawblade.
The jaws of the beast began to encapsulate the clothed shin of the intruder, just as the first of the two recovered from the shock of the earlier gunshot. Unfortunately, much time had passed since the scourge settled. With a bone-shattering swing, the hunter arched forward his greave leg. What became left of the dog's own fangs was much akin to the aftermath of tossing aside a porcelain platter.
Soon the first of the duo joined the fray, set to release the tyrannical boot that had clambered itself on the fellow (though now defanged) abomination's throat. Blinded by its ravenous hunger, the mindless creature took no heed against the snapping of the weapon's mechanism. With a greater reach in tow, the hunter reeled the Saw Spear, soon splitting the very air to imbed the oversized arrow within the skull of the final hound.
Voltaire retracted the weapon, rapping the side against the chilling ground to clear away excess blood. Despite his efforts, blood tends to stain, stick, and ferment itself easily. With a bit of patience, the gentle rain might very well wash away the rest before the next approaching encounter.
Still trapped under the hunter's weight, the true final monstrosity sounded a faint collection of empty whimpering. Promptly so, the heel of the good hunter drove force through the windpipe of the hound, allowing the corrupted creature to succumb to the inflicted wounds.
Foolish lads, the bunch really were; listening so keenly to their fractured senses, only rejecting the single fated pretense of defeat from their second-fallen compeer. Yet still, even with their faded minds, they were but mindless beasts…
Beasts, above all else, were merely unruly beasts…
"Here's to a score of forty." He absently commented, scrawling the number into his mind.
Before a final departure of the vicinity, Voltaire stooped over the corpses to the hounds. Rotted beyond recognition they were, yes, but fragments of the old blood they still carried. From a strap beneath his overcoat, he withdrew several minuscule transparent bottles; each fitted with a proportionately sized cork. Vials: vials intended to keep and preserve similar blood. Following this, Voltaire went through the arduous process of collecting the more savory droplets of blood.
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
It was a grueling task; one that strained the deepest reaches of Voltaire's patience. Tedious and time-consuming, something best used to occupy one's mind during fits of inactivity. Generally, this process would be over in seconds, minutes at the most. This time though, it had taken nearly a quarter of an hour; dried bodies were far more strenuous to siphon from.
Eventually, he had collected a proper share, six vials worth. Voltaire spared a single moment to admire his handiwork, stowing the bottle away before he had the chance to either dop or fumble them. Soon, he parted ways.
In very little time he reached the town square, the gathering of madmen idly shuffling in no particular direction. Bloodshot eyes of man and beast both, marching nearly hand-in-hand. Their camaraderie was uncanny and sickening, delimbing one another at the slightest transgression and disemboweling any other who dared to fall unto their gaze. A shaky, mindless, often treacherous alliance, not unlike the nations of more sane folk. The pack he had trailed paid off in the end, more so as he heard the beating of wings above. Lining the eroded shinglings of rooftops and streetlamps were the insidious flocks of ravens. Hunger, eagerly awaiting the approaching gorge their keen hunter would surely bring.
'Those impatient bastards. Seems as if manners are lost on the poor sods.' Voltaire absently thought. 'Then again, with a stage like this, who could blame them?' He continued, a thin murderous grin forming under his cloth mask.
The keen hunter braved past the alley, now rearmed with an adequate supply of blood vials and an adoring audience cawing at his entrance. How lovely, for he to be finally receiving some praise for a change. His smirk soon turned sour 'Damn Yharnamites.' Ungratefulness, in regards to Yharnam, was a disease that rivaled the rampant scourge of the city that spurred every following event, this ongoing hunt through the current dream as well...
Tonight, as a result, he reasoned it only fair to repay his own strain of kindness, sickening it initially appears. Voltaire swore himself to the dream, to the brave pestilence slayers of ages long passed, allowing himself to be meld into the ideal tool against the scourge. He was, no, is a hunter. The Good Hunter, Gehrman's final Keen Hunter.
…and hunters, above all else, must ever dutifully hunt.
His steps were steeped with formality, mutely sounding like the doldrums of death incarnate. He produced a single, small, throwing-knife, using the blade to slice the throats of two turned madmen. As he did so, his speed not once wavered. Upon the crumple of the second victim of the crowd, he roared his arm backward, heaving the small blade to soar through the frigid air, imbedding itself within the mushy skull of a third victim.
By now the crowd had noticed the trespasser, one dressed in the strangest garbs, approaching from the furthest road. Even with their poisoned minds, they knew it to be true that the intruder had not belonged; within the settlement and the very world both. The stench of his particular blood, seeping through the thin curtain of limiting flesh and grimy air, was of an old strain. One long forgotten, yet faintly recognizable to those who ingested the flakes of the sullied rain from weeks prior. It was, to those fated souls, like a distant memory from one's earliest childhood.
"Beasts all over the shop…"
The first to fall next held no time to process the swing of the Saw Spear, even less as their hollow knees buckled from the blow. Three more blindly charged the hunter, groaning their incomprehensible slurs. Another round of gunfire resulted in the dropping of the two leftward madmen, the last of the trio tripping over an earlier body. In the final moments of their wretched existence, the grace of a descending set of serrated teeth met their eyes. In only a moment, the deed was done. The hunter's task, though, was far from it.
Voltaire lowered his stance, breaking into a sprint at the oncoming mob. The blade of a rusted ax and thrust of a sludge-covered pitchfork bore down, the hunter dropping further to the ground; spinning to strike in a hefty yet sweeping motion. Unlike the weapons of the ghoul-like settlers, Voltaire struck true. Three limbs were severed, one from a separate figure in addition to the embedding of the abdomen to a fourth. In another motion, the hunter rolled forward, further into the crowd of crazed villagers, taking his Saw Spear and the entrails of the victim alongside him.
As he sprang upright, another round burst from the Evelyn, a gaping crevice now visible upon the forehead of its target. Like a leaf in the gust of the autumn air, the keen hunter bound past the blows; weaving, back and sidestepping, ducking, and so forth. Swings on his part were deliberate and precise, striking at the most vulnerable of joints, severing the weakest of tendons, cleaving the softest of flesh, and maiming the slowest of limbs. Quicksilver bullets struck true, aided by the occasional Molotov cocktail and the far more elegant piercing of throwing knives.
They were similar to the crudest of exhibitions. Corpses littered with the silver handles of the sleek, slender, silver-painted blades resembled the dartboards found within pubs and festival gatherings. Bodies lined with empty holes where quicksilver burrowed much like the gapes on a pool table. The scorched carrions almost synonyms with charred remains of still edible, yet burnt poultry and questionably stained floorboards.
"You'll be one of them…"
Rouge ichor crept past the faded attire, painting the grey cobblestone a new nauseating color. Licker of Cainhurst, oh how envious those fends would be at present. Still, gluttonous greed sewed in their hearts or naught, they too would be deftly slain should they join the ranks of this fresh scourge.
The massacre carried along with the littered streets. Bodies that were once frothing with lively pigmentation and comforting warm blood now strewed their cold, lifeless, grotesque selves on the marshy ilk-ridden curbsides; nestling into the gathering pools of mahogany liquid. On more than one occasion, the gradually exhausted horde would halt to gander at the sickly masterwork of their hunter.
Hunters though, by all accounts, are not ones to allow a space of time in the midst of a hunt. As such, the good hunter dove under another barbarous swing, carrying a rising counterattack in kind. He, unlike his earlier assailant, struck true. With a display of finesse not akin to the shuffling crowds, the good hunter pivoted to the backside of the madman, dislodging the Saw Spear. Keeping with the momentum of the blade was a trivial matter, all the more apparent when two more sanity-ridden townsfolk were quite literally disarmed. He, Voltaire, spun at the instantaneous delimbing, kicking off of the closer of the two, blitzing the sizable gathering cattycorner of himself. The second armless man buckled under the force of his compeer crashing into him, the duo lacking the mind and gall to recuperate from their wounds. As the butcher continued to cleave away, more and more corpses littered the gravel and segments of cement both, Those that were still functioning were soundly left to their grievous wounds.
The bellowing of gunfire, the rapturing chorus of Molotov cocktails, and the piercing shriek of archaic arts composed the night's bloody sonnet. The conductor, the keenest of the now-abandoned Yharnam, tallied onward, drawing more and more beasts to his thunderous performance. Even as the hours waned, as he drenched himself in rain and crimson, the hunter showed no sign of fatigue. Festering and ravenous at the grand display, the ravens swooped in as he strutted street to street. Little was left, even less as more feeders of carrion joined the fray. All the while, the good hunter danced away the night.
"Sooner or later…"
It was a night fit to dismember, a hunt suited for disaster wrought by the dull axes and knives of a slayer from the dream. The hapless bastards were more than carved, and soon, far sooner than most, more than mere flesh became slashed away.
The hours seemed to drone on, though the hunter knew it to be a blessing. More blood, more prey, more fuel, more beasts. Elongated moments were welcomed merrily, offering a better chance to ensure the complete eradication of the plague. Pile after pile formed and soon, there was no more prey to account for. A small gathering became two or four stragglers, those same stragglers becoming an individual wanderer, and soon, that lonesome drifter became none at all.
One final body dropped. After circling the town's roads a final time, Voltaire had returned to the Townsquare. He released his hold over the carcass he had dragged, pulling the disembodied figure to a somewhat seated position on the heap of carcasses he had grown through the earlier hours of the night. "Somber ode to twin eights." He lamented at the mountain of rotting flesh and frayed cloth. As he lay around the mass of slaughtered bodies, Voltaire took in the local sight. Soon, he felt his eyes become sealed shut, a pained furrow of the brow accompanied by his collapse of the knees.
"...Forgive me!" The final fragmented memory sounded.
Voltaire held a palm to his left temple, caring little for the stench-ridden filth that now painted his left profile. He gasped for air between his grinding teeth, the agonizing breath of his colliding with the biting evening wind. The lungs beneath his ribcage screamed for more of the bitter air, though he fought back with a folly attempt of steadying his inhaling.
In from the nose, out through the mouth; mind little of that layer of frost from the facemask.
The drilling of his mind slowed considerably, though it was far from lessening on its debilitating nature. He resumed his hasty meditation, seeking a way to avert his mind from wandering back into those treacherous corners. 'The cost of siphoned insight.' he bitterly hypothesized. Eventually, his breathing slowed, and his mind resumed a steady pace. His duty from prior escaped, as did the infernal sights he fell victim to. Now though, he had a new problem.
He heard the groaning of a behemoth. His head whipped to the treading from behind him, a poor mistake, he soon later noted. Before he had time to perceive what transpired, his head was jerked to the side from the thunderous force. The hunter's body quickly crumpled. Hued and basked in a visage of drunken like haze, Voltaire bolted to his feet; aptly falling to his bottom. A guttural roar pierced through his own ringing ears and for the briefest moments, he came to witness the sight.
A brick troll had taken him by surprise, all due to his inner thoughts tugging away his dire attention. Had he not instructed himself this was a hunt? Are hunts not the essence of what a hunter took on? This would be the final time he allowed his attentive focus to privy off into obscure reflections. One was bad enough, but this "slip up" had marked a number of separate accounts. An error he would not relapse any time soon; if he would get the chance to make good on that, of course. And, provided he would finally heed his own inner berating.
As he rose to a right posture, still stumbling from delirious after-effects, the behemoth groaned in a drum-shattering cry. Another gruesome blow met skull; more aptly, the hunter's own. Yet again he had wasted time with his own mind instead of acting and taking a much-needed moment to recollect himself.
'How utterly foolish…' His conscious trailed, losing itself unto the void of temporary slumber.
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||| Meanwhile… |||
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"Then all went well. I'll inform the contractors the family has been taken care of." An assertive voice rang. From the seat of the makeshift gathering room, the owner of the voice sat, a cigar in hand. Smoke billowed from their mouth, obscuring the sharp and intuitive features of their face. "Now, be sure you take it easy on the newbie. We were all in his shoes at some point." The one-eyed woman, Najenda, added. By this time, their news addition was likely fast asleep, currently unaware of the subtle mistrust placed upon them.
"What about the other issue you called us for?" A deep and enchantingly loving voice answered back. This sound belonged to the largest figure present, the pompadour-loving Bulat; owner of Incursio. "You mentioned it had something to do with The Empire's new branch." He continued, crossing his arms whilst the fabric to his leather jacket stretched over his iron-chiseled proportions.
"Let me guess, it's got something to do with all the recent outbreaks or something, right?" A man, much smaller than Bulat, with a green-colored fringe added. "The city guards wouldn't stop yapping about it yesterday."
Najenda took a deep drag from her poisonous substance. Right you are, Lubbock. She thought. The boss, her of course, had mulled this exact conversion for several hours by now. Night Raid, their small sickly family, would need the details sooner rather than later. An additional member had only sped this inevitable confrontation forward. Now, however, she had no time to practice her facade or lines. The leader would be blunt, direct, and entirely transparent; for no over visage was premeditated beforehand.
This time, the puff was much denser; nearly covering the mechanical olive-drab arm of hers.
As her mouth opened, another began to form words; interrupting their leader. "New subsect fighting back the plague and an unknown rogue picking up the slack on the outskirts. Leone was able to squeeze some more information at an isolated checkpoint." The female blade master, Akame, interrupted. She, as always, was clad in a mixture of formal schoolwear attire with pieces of traditional karuta armor; each holding the hues of crimson and onyx.
Najenda paused. 'Oh typical Akame, always so astute'. The boss stifled a warm chuckle, trading it with an equally vibrant thin smile.
"You're correct, all of you. News and information regarding the plague is all the rage right now." She lamented, scattering the accumulated ashed into a nearby tray. "Fortunately, the revolution doesn't seem too fazed. They have a fine time avoiding any hot zones so far. Our duties and role in the rebellion will mostly remain the same."
This time, a pink-themed individual stepped forward. She wore a lavish dress, accented further by her atrociously long and styled pink hair. She walked with an air of fashionable arrogance as if her own pride was at the offering table of every waking second. "But there's bound to be a few major changes. Why else would we even be here?" Mine, the sniper of Night Raid quipped.
Najenda held her warm and natural hand to her brow. Her shoulders sunk for but a moment as she desperately exhaled; only to correct her posture. The leader held her back upright, affirmative, and commanding in gentle accordance to her ever-steady demeanor. "Yes, the Empire has formed a new branch in their army. This new subsect is entirely dedicated to preventing and putting down any and all local instances of the scourge. Our inner moles have made reports this arrangement was made not too long ago."
She took another drag. Her cigarette was down to the final lining, signaled further by the much harsher cloud of ash in her throat. Najenda dropped the bud into the tray and for a moment, debated if she would need the comfort of another.
In the end, she stole another black cigar from the pack at her side, adjacent to the ashtray. No member dared to interrupt, she was clearly not done speaking her mind. And so they waited, going as far as to allow their dearest leader to have not one, but two full intakes of her newly ignited cancer stick. "The members of this new unit are estimated to number in the thousands currently. A negligible force compared to even the smallest regiments of the Emperor's, but large scale enough to operate throughout the Capital City and its immediate outskirts. Every case of the infection outside though is another matter entirely…"
The one-eyed assassin tipped the edge of her cigar against the rim of the glass platter. A considerable amount of ash was added to the already dangerously high pile, though no one seemed the least bit worried. With a single tightening of the throat, she cleared her charred windpipe; carrying her words further. "The empire doesn't care about the small sparse villages outside their direct grasps. As long as they pay their taxes and listen like good children, they won't prude too much. Just enough force to keep them in line."
"Which means the outside outbreaks are rampant," Lubbock muttered. The green-haired boy shook his head, discarding the straw from his mouth to the floor. This did not go unnoticed by the eyepatch wearer, commenting on his obvious mimicry of her dangerous habit. An empire as cruel as this always held a grim surprise for him, even as much as he had already witnessed. "Damn…Heartless bastards aren't they?"
"Another example of the Empire's greed and selfishness," Akame interjected, her scarlet eyes seemingly neutral.
"Exactly," Njenda replied to no specific individual. The one-eyed leader flicked the ashes from her cigarette, letting out an exasperated sigh before she began intaking her fix of nicotine. "However, there is another figure in this war now. Willingly or not, some crazed fool has been spotted at nearly every instance the scourge pops up. They butcher the infected raze the villages and point the healthy survivors to the nearest safe haven. Due to this, a large influx of domestic refugees flocks to the capital, adding more to the tales and detail of the mysterious figure's exploits."
"No one knows his or her motive, reasons, or justifications behind the actions. Both sides agree it helps keep the pressure off their backs though. Refugees take up jobs in the city, provide labor, and so forth, another bonus of the scourge. There are obviously some drawbacks, but nothing either side hasn't gotten used to already. No official name has been given to this mysterious friend of ours. A few monikers have popped up here and now, but nothing has stuck. Except for one name."
The members of Night Raid eyed each other. Bulat halted with attending to his mess of hair. Lubbock stopped tracing the lining to his wires. Mine crossed her arms, pretending to only half-hear. Leone, who remained quite alongside the purple-themed Sheele, lurched her body forward. Akame though gazed on with little in the ways of emotion. And Tatsumi, who had snuck from his bed, perched his body behind the entrance door to the meeting room.
"The media, governments, and survivors have all taken a fondness for calling this stranger…" Najenda's voice trailed. "...The Moon-Scented Hunter."
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||| Farewell, My Keen Hunter...Fear The Blood |||
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