The Dream.

Sanctuary, safety, home.

The Good Hunter tilted her head towards the starless heavens, exulted. The slick slide of warmth that seeped into every fiber of clothing as though seeking skin was finally, finally gone.

Undeserved benediction.

The moon, full and golden and glorious, lit the darkness behind her eyelids and chased away, if only for a moment, the memory of crazed eyes and gore soaked streets.

Contentment coiled in her breast, breathing in time with the faint whisper of flowers nodding over forgotten graves. The memory of screaming that echoed always in her mind faded, lulled despite itself.

The Good Hunter opened her eyes and fell in love, as she always did, with the blanket of clouds that lowered the sky and cradled slivers of moonlight.

Here the sky was perfect and close and so very hungry. The city was forever clawing at a sky that gaped above it like an infected wound but here—ah, here all was close and muffled and perfectly, wondrously still.

Colors in the dream were soft, decaying things. So entirely different from the sharp-edged torments of Yharnam where every sight burrowed into her eyes like ticks. The sky would allow little else. It devoured color as it did sound, as it did blood and pain and memories.

The Good Hunter let her hammer, her companion, fall. The heavy head should have split the moldering cobblestones upon which she stood but it fell with only the lightest of thumps to testify it's landing. It would be safe there and she was safe here. Safe and quiet and-

-she could still feel the blood on her skin.

Sliding down her arm to drip from her fingertips. Pooling at her feet and so hot it steamed. The smell was—the smell was

Gods but she ached with hunger. Her stomach cramped with it. The pain of it stole her breath like something was-like something was trying to claw its way out of her.

She wanted.

She wanted.

The Good Hunter moved. Lurching and sick and dripping. She would not-so sweet and so bright —she would not-sliding down her throat and smothering the burning inside-she would not give in.

The cold iron of the fence sent a shock through her system. It steadied her. There was no blood. There was never any blood here. She was safe. She was safe here. There was no hunger there was no want.

She stared out, past the edge of the land and into the mist that enveloped the world. The mist moved. Curled and twined and made hazy shapes that almost seemed… alive.

Calm. Slow and easy and watch. Just watch. All would be well. There was no need, no want. Only the Dream and only the hunt. She could rest here. The mist would soothe her and the moon would sing to her. All was well.

The Good Hunter's eyes slid closed. But that was fine, that was good. She could still see the mist and the moon was watching. All was sweet and all was calm.

She would return to the hunt soon. She would taste blood again soon. But now-now mist danced behind her eyes. And the moon sang to her.

It sang to her of things slick and bright and red.