Under the False Moonlight

The awakening was neither swift nor pleasant, a marvelously painful and gradual come about that might've taken hours, years, or mere seconds. Her body pulsed with the memory of pain, her nerves unable to rid themselves of the sensation of the beast's hand in her chest despite her being reasonably certain, as she awoke, that no such hand was present. With one shaking arm, she lifted herself from the cool stone, upon which she'd been lying so very still until this particular moment, or series of moments.

She had only lifted herself enough to glimpse more of the stone path before she seized, convulsing in half-imagined agony, a type of ghostly pain the likes of which she'd never thought reasonably possible. Vivid red hair splayed out beneath her as she thrashed about, pale, elegant hands clutching at her intact chest. Her back arched, silent screams of agony leaving her open mouth. A few more moments of unwarranted suffering, and the pain had passed near-instantly, leaving her panting, laid out on the path, brow coated in sweat.

Flexing her unsure, shaking hands, the Hunter roused herself, still greedily sucking in air from her time unable to breathe. Quivering legs stood, those same unsure hands patting herself up and down, affirming that she was indeed whole once more. With a sigh of confused relief, she turned, wide green eyes surveying the scene before her.

An old workshop, she supposed the building was, and surrounded by graves. Most of them were worn too much to be read, but she was able to decipher a few names; Maria, Logarius, Ludwig, and a few others. A mist hung about the place, lending it an ethereal glow, an otherworldliness that was only furthered by the fact that she could not see beyond the gates of its grounds; the terrain seemed to simply stop existing, dissipating into the thick mist. She ran a hand down the cold iron bars separating her from the emptiness, coming away with a slick palm from the condensation that had gathered on it, then turned back towards the workshop, treading carefully up the path. An old, life-sized doll with stunningly silver hair lay on a ledge near the entrance, its lifeless eyes staring hauntingly into her own. The Hunter shivered. She had never been one to like dolls.

Still…

Even she had to admit that a remarkable amount of work had been put into this one. Were it not for the visible joints in its limp hands, she would have mistaken it for a corpse. Which would not have been out of place, she supposed, given the graves all around.

The Hunter blinked as she surveyed the doll's face. Somebody had taken the time to tinge the doll's lips a faint red with lipstick. Perhaps painted on…?

She reached out with a tentative hand, hesitating once before brushing a finger along the aforementioned lips. She recoiled immediately; not only were they warm, they were soft, too soft not to belong to a living person. And yet, it was still clearly a doll.

Hhhh…

Or so it seemed.

The doll shuddered once, and the Hunter took a few hurried steps back, nearly tripping over herself as she watched the doll sit up, then stand. Her hands balled into fists, eyes narrowed as she crouched ever so slightly, not sure if this apparently quite living doll was friend or foe.

"Hello, Good Hunter," said the doll, her previously lifeless eyes now alight with intelligence, gazing impassively at the crouched form of the Hunter. "I am a Doll, here in this dream to look after you."

The Hunter's eyes narrowed, but still she said nothing. Her lips pursed in a thin line, she stood up straight. This Doll meant her no harm, it seemed, for the time being.

Unfazed, the Doll continued; "Honorable Hunter, pursue the echoes of blood, and I will channel them into your strength. You will hunt beasts, and I will be here for you, to embolden your sickly spirit."

A flash of recognition, the Hunter thought, at those words. She felt she'd heard them before, perhaps once and perhaps countless times, but she could not recall where. Suddenly overcome by curiosity, she spoke at last.

"Have we met?"

The Doll's gaze remained level, but she blinked. "I do not believe so, Good Hunter. I should remember someone with a presence so… vivid."

The Hunter's hands went to her hair, fingers threading through the crimson locks somewhat nervously. Old habits, she supposed, though she realised now that she could not remember when this habit had started… or having it in the first place. Not much of anything was clear to her anymore, which had led her to seek the blood ministration in the first place. Or had it?

"Vivid?" she echoed, eyes turning upward to the misty sky.

"Your presence, Good Hunter. It sings to me. And of course, such deeply crimson hair… the same colour as blood."

The Hunter said nothing, feeling that she'd heard this particular comparison before. More than once, at that. And yet, such a memory was not forthcoming…

"Good Hunter?" asked the Doll, after a considerable and heavy silence. "Have I offended you in some way?"

"No," answered the Hunter quickly, gaze turning upward, into the mist-filled sky. It was night, she realised, though the light from the moon was so bright that it bathed the entirety of the workshop's surroundings in a gentle light reminiscent of a particularly foggy day. Her gaze slowly drifted back earthwards, settling upon the still-neutral face of the Doll. "Tell me, Doll; have you any knowledge of my past? Perhaps a name, or a place?"

"I am afraid that such knowledge is not my domain, Good Hunter. However, if you have forgotten your name, I believe it may be 'Elizabeth.'" The Doll's eyes traced up the coat the Hunter was wearing, to her breast pocket, where a small piece of paper was just barely sticking out. Upon this bit of paper, predictably, the name 'Elizabeth' was visible. Blinking, the Hunter reached into the pocket, drawing forth a small, folded letter, addressed to 'Elizabeth Levona' and sealed with… blood?

Eyes flicking hesitantly to the Doll, then back to the scrap in her hands, the Hunter gingerly broke the seal, gloved hands trembling for reasons unknown to her.

'Dearest Elizabeth,' it read, the handwriting on the paper a spidery cursive that she had to squint to read at first, despite feeling she'd seen it before. 'This letter will find its way to you when next you find yourself entrapped within the Dream. I suspect that that may not be too long from now, but one can never know. It will not be long for me, certainly; I hear you now, in the floors below, the screams of the hunted and the ring of your pistol. Your cries of pain and screams of rage. I see you ascend the staircases, shift them about. Ascend.

'Not long now.

'Your eyes shine, even from here, it seems to me. So determined. I've missed that. Of course, you will not recall me. You never do, not until you escape this wretched Nightmare and the memories of all that was flood your mind. You will end me, or this iteration of what was once me, and move on, and think little of it until the Orphan lies slain at your feet. You will ascend, and the cycle will repeat.

'The Messengers are kind, however. They have promised me to bear this letter to you when next you awaken. A level above, and with a clean conscience. Perhaps for once, we may speak before your slaughter of everything you once held dear continues. Perhaps for once, you may choose to simply leave the secrets where they may lie.

'I, however, doubt it.

'I await your next visit, my love,

'Lady Maria of the Astral Clocktower.'

The Hunter stared at the page, hands now shaking violently. Her vision blurred, hot tears cascading down her alabaster cheeks as she tried to rein in the immense, crushing weight of the sadness suddenly bearing down on her. A choked sob escaped her throat, then another, and another, until at last the Hunter could bear it no longer, and, clutching the letter to her chest, finally collapsed in a miserable heap and wept. The more she cried, the more the name "Maria" seemed to burn itself into her mind, along with an immeasurable guilt and an inconsolable despair.

"Maria…" she whispered, the very utterance of the name tearing through her like the beasts she so often—

Murdered.

That was right, wasn't it? She was a Hunter, a warrior, a noble soul sworn to keep the scourge of beasts at bay, and she—

Murdered.

A memory graced her mind, or a fragment of one. One of silver hair, gunshots, fire, cries of pain, and kind eyes. Kind eyes, but empty…

"Oh gods, what have I done?"

And then… tears, and guilt. So much guilt.

"Good Hunter?"

The Doll seemed curious, if not concerned, her porcelain features holding a wary expression. The Hunter held up a hand, her chest heaving with sobs for a few moments more before she composed herself. Rising to her feet, the Hunter clenched her shaking hands into fists, tucking the letter away, back into her breast pocket.

"Tell me, Doll," she said quietly. "Have you any weapons?"

The Doll's head tilted, and she lifted one carefully-crafted hand to point at the workshop. "Ordinarily, the Messengers would offer you one, Good Hunter, but it seems they have elected to let you choose from what you may find."

Blinking once, twice, and thrice, the Hunter extended her hand. "Your assumption was correct, I might add. My name, as I recall, is Elizabeth. And yours?"

The Doll mimicked her action from a few moments earlier as she regarded the outstretched hand in confusion. "I am but a Doll, Good Hunter. A tool. You would not name a tool, and thus, I have no name."

"But you draw breath and you feel, as surely as I do, do you not?" pressed Elizabeth, hand returning to her side as it became clear that it would not be taken. "You seem too important to go unnamed. Should you lack one… perhaps I should have the pleasure of gifting you with one, to commemorate our meeting?"

For a moment, the Doll's face seemed to twist before her eyes. A less timeless countenance, something more human, briefly flashed in front of her, before a smile blessed the Doll's features. "If that would please you, Good Hunter, you may call me what you wish."

"Then… Celeste," Elizabeth uttered after a pause. "For as sure as the heavens hold the light of the stars, you hold the light of my hope."

The Doll (or Celeste, now) considered this for a few moments, before nodding once, deeming the moniker acceptable. "Thank you, Good Hunter. I shall treasure this as a token of our partnership."

"Elizabeth," corrected the shorter of the two, the difference in their height becoming readily apparent as she stood beside the Doll to look at the workshop. Celeste was tall, taller than most normal people, standing at almost seven feet. The height reminded Elizabeth of someone, but she couldn't place who, presently. "Call me Elizabeth. I shall head inside, then."

"I shall remain here, Good Hunt—" Celeste paused, then corrected herself. "I shall remain here, Elizabeth. It is not my place to enter the workshop."

Casting a curious glance at her, Elizabeth ascended the small set of stairs before her nonetheless, reaching a pair of solid oak doors before too long. Pressing against them with gloved hands, they opened relatively easily, revealing a small, cozy home. Bookshelves lined the walls, several workbenches of different design standing out between them, as well as an altar of some sort at the far end of the single room, and a hearth that was currently ablaze on the left wall. A figure sat in a wheelchair was sitting with its back turned to her, hunched over what she presumed to be a book in its lap. A wide-brimmed black cap sat atop their head, only slightly obscuring thinning locks of grey hair.

Approaching the figure, Elizabeth was greeted by the sight of an impossibly old man, stroking his chin as he pored over the text before him. Her eyes drifting down his form, she noticed that one of his feet was missing, replaced by a simple wooden peg.

Before she could speak, he snapped the tome shut, looking at her with a yellow-toothed grin. "Ah-ha, you must be the new Hunter… Welcome to the Hunter's Dream. This will be your home, for now. I am Gehrman, friend to you hunters. You're sure to be in a fine haze about now, but don't think too hard about all of this. Just go out and kill a few beasts. It's for your own good. You know, it's just what hunters do! You'll get used to it…"

Elizabeth simply stared. Much like Celeste's first words, these words seemed familiar, rehearsed, as if she'd heard them many times before. The man's words seemed well-intended, but his eyes held nothing, not like Celeste's had. They were empty, dead. Though his smile was wide, his eyes remained lifeless.

"A thousand pardons, Gehrman," she said at last, eyeing a nearby mannequin that bore a set of clothing that seemed most familiar. "But I haven't the attire nor the equipment for such a task."

"Fret not, my new friend," said the old man, inclining his head at the mannequin. "You'll find them quite well-fitting, I assure you. And there are plenty of weapons by the toolbox, near the door. Just use whichever suits your fancy."

Elizabeth clicked her tongue, but moved to the mannequin nonetheless and took the clothes from it. Glancing at Gehrman, who once again seemed absorbed in his text, she disrobed.

Her body was scarred, quite badly in some places, though not as much as she would have thought, given her apparent occupation of choice. Tracing her fingers lightly across a particularly prominent one on her thigh, another fragment of memory graced her mind.

The same silver hair, the same kind eyes, but with concern in them. Pain, inconceivable amounts of it, as well as blood, far too much of it her own.

Shaking her head to clear it, Elizabeth donned the clothes. They were warm and comfortable, tight in all the correct places while still allowing her considerable freedom of movement. She felt… at home.

As she pulled the mask over her face, acclimating to the feeling of breathing through it, she turned, to see Gehrman regarding her with an interested look.

"They suit you rather well, I'd say."

Placing the cap on her head, Elizabeth nodded wordlessly. As she approached the toolbox he had mentioned, she was greeted by the sight of a weapon rack she had apparently glossed over in her initial survey of the room, upon which hung a variety of weapons; hammers, swords, whips, chains, knives, cleavers, and so many more. One weapon that caught her eye in particular was a large wheel, though looking at it caused some amount of discomfort for her, despite her inability to place why.

After a time, she selected what she felt suited her; an elegantly-designed épée, its sides honed to an edge that would allow for sweeping attacks as well as stabs. Affixed to the grip was a small rifle, seemingly self-loading. In addition, she found her herself holding a single-shot pistol, the worn but solid firing mechanism speaking of years of use.

"Strange choices for a new Hunter," mused Gehrman from his seat, having turned his chair to observe. "Bold, perhaps foolish, but interesting."

Once again, Elizabeth elected not to reply. The longer she stayed in the man's presence, the more discomfort it brought her. Giving him a nod in parting, she made her egress from the workshop, finding herself outside in the light of the moon once more.

"Tell me, Celeste," she said, as she approached the Doll. "Should I wish to begin my hunt, where would I go?"

"Approach one of the markers," instructed Celeste in a gentle tone, walking over to stand beside the marker in particular. As Elizabeth followed, the dirt in front of the grave shifted, and suddenly, a mass of tiny, writhing ghouls erupted from the earth. Startled at first, the fiery-haired woman kneeled down to inspect them.

They were certainly ghoulish, but no more sinister than an infant. The blackness of their eyes seemed warm, holding more soul than Gehrman's had. Their small mouths moaned and cried out strangely, weak arms outstretched at her. Offering her hand to them, Elizabeth looked to Celeste, who nodded approval.

As the tiny ghouls wrapped their hands around her arm, a rush of cold filled her all at once, and without any warning, Elizabeth found herself sinking into a void.

Moments later, she awoke with her back on a wooden floor, beneath the shining light of a small lantern, with the growl of a beast in the next room the only sound to be heard.

Rising and gripping her weapons tightly, Elizabeth inhaled once, then stepped through the door.