The nightmare was undreamlike, so much to the point that they thought, for a moment before pain and fire took their thoughts, that they might wake up and find things were no different and that teeth and eyes would in fact line the walls and open undending in vertigo-inducing spirals. The smell of smoke scorched their lungs—and it felt as though the smell was directly a result of the limb-locking burning in every vein, every muscle of their body.
It felt as though millions of hands, clawed and gruesome reached out to touch a living being—albeit a dying one— were dragging across their skin, leaving welts and thin freckle like trails of blood. They closed their eyes, no longer able to follow any train of thought at all, only a short-lived prayer to wake up and forget this entire horrid, horrid dream that was quickly stamped out by a fresh wave of body-numbing agony. And, as though hearing that prayer, a subtle sensation of cool light washed over them.
Soft and soothing, a pale glow settled on the back of their eyelids, easing away the itch of smoke and dust. The nightmare—or, whatever it had been—slowly gave away its grip on their body, each limb relaxing almost cautiously. Their chest rose again, slow and steady, as their mind drifted away from a nightmare of fire and teeth and blood and eyes, following instead a symbol defiant of description, elusive, as a dream ought to be.
They awoke with a jolt, cool grey eyes wide as they took in an unfamiliar room. It was sparsely decorated with some overflowing bookshelves and a coffee table—smelling mostly of dust and acrid tea— dimly lit by a few warm old lamps leaving fat orange starbursts across their vision. Their hands pressed onto what had to be some sort of cot, the fabric vinyl coated and cool against dry skin, and with an unsteady breath they heaved themselves around so the soles of their shoes touched the floor with an ungraceful clattering.
"Ah-hah…don't sit up too fast, now. You were in a nasty accident."
A man in a wheelchair sat by the coffee table, a cup of tea resting in his worn hands. He wore a suit that they imagined might have once been fine, although now it seemed to bear its age as poorly as the old man, wrinkled, ragged and faded as it was.
"You're sure to be in a fine haze right about now, but don't think too hard about all this. Why don't we start with your name…?"
"My…name." They blink, fingers brushing against a temple that feels almost far away. A name, a name…a creeping sensation of memory, just out of reach and frustratingly taunting left their mouth curled up—they didn't have a name! And where were they—who were they?
And yet…that cool feeling fluttered softly in the back of their mind, that indescribable symbol whispering a single word, clear as day:
"Hunter. My name is Hunter."
The old man's withered face broke into a smile that, as wide and toothy as it was, looked beastly in the bleeding orange light. Hunter felt their body tense. If this man thought trying to soothe them would make everything magically better, well, he had another thing coming!
"Now, now, don't give me that look," He leaned forward with a conversational air, "I'm Gerhman…a friend to you, Hunter." As his weight shifted in his chair, Hunter glanced down at the sound of wood—ah, a wooden prosthetic! —striking the wheelchair, before cautiously meeting Gerhman's lidded eyes. He ventured another question:
"Do you remember where you came from?"
Hunter looked down at their clothes. The dark denim pants were worn and spattered with a rusty darkness all down to the hem, where similarly plain and dark shoes dully caught the light (had they never bothered to polish them? Tacky.) Their shirt was in equal tatters, the plain white cotton dingy as though it had never been through a wash cycle with bleach. A tattered hoodie jacket offered little comfort to the chill creeping down their spine.
None of these items provided any memory or purpose other than simmering frustration and chilling alien-ness. In fact, Hunter could scarcely recall being the type to own these clothes, much less understand where on earth they would've originated—and since the old man dressed a few time periods shy of modernity they had no help through comparison.
"I don't. Remember, that is." Hunter's voice even felt far away now. "Am I not…from…whatever this place is called?"
Gerhman laughed, an ugly sound that carried on far too long. It was a typical old man's laugh, sounding just like the "haw" of an ass on a farm mixed with the rough, grating croaks of a dying old crow. Hunter found themselves hating the sound.
"You were certainly not from Yharnam…although now, I'd say you've not much of a choice."
Hunter tilted their head to the side—and then had the brilliant idea of patting their pockets. Nothing. No wallet, no ID.
"You didn't have any belongings on you when they found you." Gerhman said.
"Who found me?"
"Doctor Iosefka, of course." As if that name would ring a bell!
Hunter pinched the bridge of their nose, speaking through gritted teeth, "So…why am I in…this place…instead of a hospital?"
"No ID, and…well, let's just say you're safer here. Yharnamites are a…bit touchy about strangers."
That sounded like a flimsy excuse—the old man was hiding something—but Hunter's mind was in no condition to push the argument. With a defensive sigh they dropped their hands into their lap and surveyed the room again, looking everywhere but at Gerhman. None of this made sense! No one just…didn't have an identity. It was the stuff of bad B-movies and if Hunter had to be stuck with the memory that those existed there had to be something left in their brain that could help them out here.
A tiny, bright thought resonated in their entire mind, almost a compulsion. Another word. If Hunter had hackles they would've been standing straight up at the feeling.
"…Do you know what Paleblood means, Gerhman?"
The room settled into an uncomfortable silence. Finally, Gerhman smiled.
"Is that all you recall?"
Hunter looked down at their hands, long and pale fingers curled into each other with nervous magnetism. "…Yes."
Gerhman rolled forward in his chair. "Then we have much to discuss. Not many people just know about… Hunter. Come with me."
Hunter narrowed their eyes, "And where would we be going?" The accusatory lack of trust was, they hoped, evident in the sting of their voice.
The old man said nothing for a moment before cautiously offering Hunter the most valuable piece of information they'd heard since they woke up:
"You're in the Dream, one of the oldest pubs in the city of Yharnam. Now, come along and I'll try to explain more—although I'm not sure how much good it will do."
They watched with feigned disinterest in his sudden attitude of engagement. The old man's façade of patronization had faded into something rather serious, judging by the way his jaw went from slack and pleasant to something entirely different. Gerhman had a hardness to him that Hunter hadn't noticed in their dazed state, something that left them feeling a sense of unease deep in their chest. And then that soft light again flashed underneath their eyes, this time urgent, commanding. It was bossy.
But Hunter felt the compulsion to rise and obey Gerhman's requests well up from that soothing light that had gotten them this far—a name, a word, and a way to perhaps discover what they meant. It would have to do for now—and besides, what would it matter if it got worse from here? A name and a sense of confusion weren't much to lose if they died.
And still, as they followed Gerhman into a cobweb-ridden hallway, lit only by the dim ripples of light coming from the door behind them, they wondered if their nightmare had ever ended, or if in fact they were still somewhere far away, nestled in a bed and merely dreaming and would at any moment wake up, find that they had hours left to sleep and drift off into some other dreamworld, where their memories and mind were intact and dark, free from the full-moon glow of the light in their mind's eye.