Note from the author: Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to my first foray into the bizarre and macabre world of Bloodborne. This story of mine sprang from an idea that I had whilst watching a walkthrough done by the Youtuber Tear Of Grace; If you are easily amused by bad jokes, good editing and epic fails, I suggest you look him up. This story will star an OC of mine who is on partial loan to my good friend ColetteJH, although he will take second place in terms of importance next to the character that inspired this story. This will largely stick to the important events of the game but will feature several diversions from the normal chain of events. In addition, I will be taking major liberties with the personality and backstory of a cannon character (since said character ever only appears as a boss and has no backstory that I've found in the lore, this was not difficult). Without further ado, let the story begin.

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Bloodborne: Blood of the Wolf

First Moon: The Endless Hunt

As a last line of defense against the madness that erodes my mind, I am writing this series of memoirs. The activity may yet serve to lend clarity to my thoughts, to crystalize my state of lucidity and sanity that I might look back upon them as one does an insect trapped in amber, and by so doing return to such a state. Should that fail, then perhaps these memoirs shall serve a very different - but still vital - purpose: a cautionary tale.

I am a Hunter. That should be obvious to any who finds this long after my permanent demise (if such a thing even exists) as I plan to store these manuscripts of mine here, in the Hunter's Dream. Considering that only Hunters can tread here, it would ergo follow that a Hunter wrote this.

But I was not always a Hunter. Even now as I try to recall the before, I find my mind strain from the effort, threatening to splinter here and there. Once I came from a world so very different from this black nightmare I find myself trapped in. Yet at the same time I do come from this world, someplace outside of Yharnam (God curse the name! May the city be swallowed up by the earth!). I find myself struggling with the burden of two memories, two sets of recollections, two different lives lived. I can only draw this conclusion: my soul was born in one world, a world with glass buildings that pierce the clouds and fantastic machines that fly through the air and do other marvelous things. My body was born in this world, this realm which bears a festering, rotting wound named Yharnam.

In the birth world of my soul I was a normal man. I studied for all of my childhood and well into my adolescence as is customary, and my life was full of joy and love and light. I had two loving parents and was the eldest of three adventurous sons.

In this world in which my body was born, I was abandoned from birth. In fact, my body was never supposed to be born: he was a mistake. My body's father was a noble who got drunk and was with a prostitute who forgot to take her contraceptives. She even tried to abort my body, but it was born anyway, and was quickly abandoned in the woods. I don't know how I know some of these things; perhaps in my growing madness I have gained enough Insight to see glimpses of the past? Regardless, my body was once again supposed to die, but a passing traveler heard its cries and took him to an orphanage. My body was never adopted, and the other children in the orphanage were unmercifully cruel to him. He left the orphanage when he was nine, running after a caravan of woodcutters. My body in this world grew up with no permanent home, going from job to job and starting more fights than can be counted. As time passed, his anger at the injustice and cruelty of the world grew and grew, and he learned how to turn his anger into a weapon. Even now the anger that this body fed fuels my strength and stubborn will to continue, to persevere.

One year my body was a woodcutter employed on a nobleman's estate. The nobleman's eldest daughter and heir, the beautiful Selene, saw my body and fell in love with him. My body remained ignorant of this affection, though she dropped subtle hints such as bringing him water and sneaking him food from the kitchen. Selene refused to see that her love was unrequited, or that her father would never allow such a union. Then her father learned of her feelings for my body, after all of his scheming and attempts to find her a marriage alliance. Enraged, he attempted to murder my body by stabbing a rapier through his throat. In a fit of fear and rage Selene stabbed her father with a knife, killing him. Miraculously my body had cheated death once again, but would not last long.

Selene had heard of Yharnam's miraculous blood healing, and took my body there guarded by her most trusted servants. Unbeknownst to her, my body also knew of Yharnam's blood healing, but he had also heard rumors of the consequences that came with it and the hunts, and was vehemently opposed to it. With most of her servants killed by crazed citizens, Selene barricaded herself and my body inside a clinic.

From there it is obvious as to what happened next: Selene found someone to give my body an infusion of blood. Paleblood to be precise, and then my body awoke in the Hunter's Dream, just in time to receive my soul.

In the world that my soul was born in, there are devices that allow one to view moving images and hear recorded sounds. There are other devices which, in conjunction with the first, allow one to play a make believe game. A sort of interactive story or grand play, in which the viewer is the 'player' who controls the star of the story and must triumph over many obstacles in order to win the day and the game.

One such game was known as Bloodborne, and it is set here, in this world, in this accursed city, where the player controls a Hunter and takes on the nightmares that live here. That is why when my soul awoke in my new body, I at first thought that I was having a horrible dream, or had somehow been trapped inside the game and needed to win in order to escape. Odd, seeing as my soul never played the game but had heard much of it.

I am certain that if anyone has found this, they shall think me quite mad. And this is true, of course. After all, I have completed this hunt so many times I have lost count, and each time I have simply been sent back to the beginning. A scenario that would be called "New Game +" were this all a harmless game. Oh, how my soul writhes in agony and wishes this were so!

As it stands, I have been on this same Hunt over and over and over and over and over again, until I lost count of how many times I've been sent back to perform the same hunt all over again.

So yes, I am a mad Hunter. For I am trapped in an endless hunt, eternally hunting foul beasts and even Great Ones occasionally, growing stronger and stronger and gaining more and more Insight. I stopped feeling human a long time ago, for my strength speed and skill are far above that of even veteran Hunters, and with the Insight I have gained my thoughts are constantly teetering between divine brilliance and absolute madness. Being trapped in this city, in this time loop, in this Hunter's Dream isn't helping my sanity either.

I wonder, am I merely an avatar? A player character that someone from my old world is controlling even now with a plastic controller? Am I just a figure of amusement for beings of greater power and influence than myself!? Am I a mere entertainer killing, dying and suffering to alleviate the sheer boredom of others?! DAMN YOU ALL, LET ME OUT!

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...I had to take quite a bit of time in silence before attempting to write again. My temper… that is, the temper of my body was never what one might consider restrained. My soul boasts far greater self-control, but I am at my wits end. I have tried everything I can think of to escape this madness. I have tried fighting and killing my mentor, the first Hunter Gehrman, just as I have also allowed him to execute me and release me from the Hunter's Dream. I have even fought against the Moon Presence that had taken him as its surrogate child, but every time I have the monster half-dead or wake up after being released from the Hunter's Dream, the time loop resets, and the Hunt begins anew all over again. I've saved every survivor of this terrible Hunt that can be saved, and sent them to the clinic, the sanctuary, or a combination of the two, but still I am trapped. I've even been to Old Yharnam and fought the echo of Maria in the Dreamlands. Nothing, nothing, nothing… No way out. "Seek Paleblood to transcend the Hunt," that is what I was told. Have I not done this? Have I not done this so many times? I… I need to rest. Sleep is so hard for me to capture these days… or perhaps nights is more accurate. I haven't seen any sunlight save for the setting light of dusk in what seems like a century. For now I shall end my memoir by signing my name. It is not the name of my soul or the name of my body. Rather, it is a new name that I took for myself at some point in my long watch, a new moniker with which to bind myself to a new identity, this blending of a body and soul born in different worlds.

My name is Draven Jaeger, and I am a Hunter.

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The doll smiled gently and placed a blanket over the man's sleeping form. The good Hunter stirred in his fitful sleep for a moment before relaxing again. He was sleeping in his favorite spot, a particular tree next to the field of Paleblood flowers, his back propped against the trunk with his tricorn cap pulled down to shield his face. Still she could make out his shoulder length dirty blond hair and his sunken face that must have been quite handsome once. The long Hunt had taken a great toll on his features; he bore scars and his eyes had dark bags beneath them, adding to his worn appearance.

Despite his worn body the Hunter's gear attested to his great prowess. On his chest he wore a solid steel plated vest that somehow did not slow him despite its weight, and upon his broad shoulders he wore black boiled leather pauldrons that like the rest of his gear was reinforced by many bloodstones. Curious black leather and steel laced gauntlets of the Hunter's own design adorned his arms, with small metal plates sewn onto the fingers, fingertips, and even parts of the palms. An elaborate belt hung about his waist and sported many pouches and sheaths for the Hunter's weapons and tools, and the black breeches he wore also contained pouches for storing items. His black boots had metal plates affixed to the top of the toes and came with matching steel shin guards, and lastly the Hunter wore around his neck a long scarf colored a brilliant crimson; it protected the Hunter's mouth while allowing the two ends to trail out behind him when he walked.

However it was the Hunter's weapons that spoke the most of his skill. His pistol was unassuming but had been modified extensively to increase his power, but his main weapon was a sword, an elegant rapier. The long blade was far thicker than was normal for swords of its like, and was colored a peculiar shade of deep blue. The hilt was made of platinum and bore a twisting, flowing design like water that appeared to wrap around the handle and the hand holding it. It gave off a chilling aura, as if it had been made from the coldest of ice and was bewitched to never melt. No Hunter had ever carried such a weapon, of that the doll was certain. But it was all the Hunter would ever use, and since he rarely entered the Hunter's Dream due to being slain, it was safe to assume that the sword served him well.

The doll stood from where she had been observing the Hunter and slowly made her way towards the workshop. She had graves to visit, even if she couldn't recall whose graves they were and why she had to visit them. She did not know if the Hunter would be angry with her for reading his memoirs, but she had felt drawn to know what it was that the Hunter had been writing so feverishly. She was concerned by the Hunter's belief that he had been on the same hunt an uncountable number of times, especially since she was quite certain she had only ever known him for this particular hunt. Still, she believed that what he had written was indeed true, even the part about his soul coming from another world: it would explain why he had such incredible Insight for a human. Even so, if the good Hunter really was trapped in a time loop as he claimed to be, she hoped that he would find a way to escape from it soon. Even though this meant that she would never see him again, she did not wish to see him lose himself.

The sound of a small bell chiming reached the doll's ears. Pausing, she turned her head towards a nearby tombstone and observed a small butterfly with bright blue wings that seemed to glow with soft light. It alighted upon the tombstone and slowly flexed its wings, keeping perfectly still. The doll was certain that it was observing her, and sensed that it was far more than it appeared to be.

"Greetings little one," the doll said with a small curtsey. "Where did you come from?"

"From a place between this dream and others," a warm velvet voice replied. "A place betwixt dreaming and awakening, which mortals sometimes glimpse at dawn's first light. I have come here to fulfill the pact I made with the good Hunter many dreams ago. But for this, I will require your assistance, little doll given life through dreams."

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At the center of Yharnam's Cathedral Ward, the Grand Cathedral stood silent and still. Within it, many candles were lit, their feeble lights trying in vain to hold back the dark night in their multitude.

And before the great altar, she knelt shivering. Not from the cold, not from the fear of the howling man beasts beyond the cathedral walls. No, she clasped her grandfather's golden amulet in her hands that were uncomfortably like claws and prayed fervently to the gods that she would die.

She'd lost count of how many times it had happened now. She awoke so often from the nightmare that she could no longer tell if she was still experiencing the night terror, or if it was all real. Again and again, she had changed into that… that terrible beast, and had spent the long night in a state of fever and perverse sinful pleasure, hunting and feasting and descending into madness. Then the red moon would rise… oh gods yes the moon would rise, and her nightmare would reach terrible new heights as many beasts joined her in the hunt, only to be devoured by her as she grew bigger and stronger. And when she finally lost all reason and her mind became devoid of thought, the sun would rise, her flesh would burn… and she'd find herself back in the cathedral, human again as if she'd merely dozed off.

She had no idea how long this had been going on for, but she desperately wished it would end. Once, before she could change, she'd even found a dagger at the altar and slit her own throat in a desperate attempt to escape the endless cycle of nightmares and blood and madness, only to awake once again kneeling and praying.

Tears fell from her eyes as she silently wept, but she did not dare cease her pleas to the gods. Perhaps this time she wouldn't change. Or perhaps this time she would die, and be welcomed into the gods' warm embrace in the hereafter. Or maybe… maybe a Hunter would come. Yes… surely the Hunters of the Healing Church were watching? Could they not see that she was succumbing to the scourge? Why did they not end her suffering?!

She stiffened when a low, feral growl reached her ears. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as she paused in her prayers to glance about for the source of the noise, her heart beating painfully within her chest. Then a cold chill of dread ran down her spine as she realized that the growl had come from her own throat.

"Why?" She whimpered. "Why did we dare so much? How could we ever presume to become..?" She shrieked in pain as a now familiar ache in her bones began to announce itself, her blood beginning to boil as strange desires sought to devour her sane thoughts. She moaned and screamed as pain began to mingle with a perverse and unnatural pleasure, her body twisting and warping along with her mind. She grit her teeth, trying to ignore the way they were elongating into fangs, and drew back her hand that now bore claws instead of fingers. A moment's hesitance as she remembered the holy teachings, but then her mind began to slip again, and she plunged her claws into her own throat, gurgling as the pain-

She gasped as she came back to herself. She was kneeling before the altar, shivering in cold and terror. She mutely felt her body with her hands, confirming that while somewhat thin and boney due to lack of nutrition, she was human again. The bottom of her lip trembled for a moment before she fell forward onto her hands and knees, heart wrenching sobs wracking her tiny frame. She did not hear the soft chiming of a tiny bell, nor did she see the butterfly that alighted upon the altar.

Her name was Amelia, Vicar of the Healing Church, and she was cursed.