The Hunter stands at the door to the workshop, admiring his handiwork. Books lay scattered about the room, dozens and dozens lying in a disheveled mess. Satisfied, he walks to the the mensis gravestone, fading out of the dream.
The Hunter awakens at mergo's loft, prepared to test his brand new church pick.
He reaches to his back, finding the sheath empty, for he had placed it upon the floor while flinging books about. Sighing, the Hunter kneels at the lamp, once more fading into the dream.
He awakens at the gravestone to hear a fluttering of pages. Walking up to the workshop, he sees the Doll kneeling, picking up the books.
"What?" He gasps.
"Welcome home good Hunter," the Doll says tiredly.
The Hunter gawks. "You... You have to clean this?"
"Indeed."
"I thought... I thought the dream... reset," the Hunter finished lamely. He had never considered a mere dream would follow the same laws as the waking world. Besides; hunting beasts requires one's full attention.
"I... I'm so sorry," the hunter breathes. "I never thought... Why didn't you tell me?"
"I am a servant of the dream, here to aid hunters in any measure," she explains.
The Hunter frowns. That was one of her maddening traits; she equated her worth to that of a mere tool, undeserving of anything.
The Hunter unslings his rucksack, rummaging through it and procuring a beautiful satin dress. It was of Cainhurst craftsmanship, a mysterious red and laced with gold fabric about the edges. Wordlessly, the Hunter holds it out to the Doll. She takes it slowly, in disbelief that someone would treat her with such kindness, and oh! To present her with such a magnificent dress...
"Well?" The Hunter says. "Try it on!" He turns around, granting her privacy. She unlaced her corset, casting off her shawl and skirt. Pulling the dress on, she removes her hat, and her long white hair tumbles down past her shoulders. She taps the Hunter's shoulder.
The Hunter turns around, and his jaw drops.
She truly does look like a goddess now, with her dress flowing in the slight breeze, her face happy, content, grateful, and loving all at the same time.
She darts forward and embraces the Hunter, who has his breath squeezed out of him. "Thank you," she whispers. That such a simple act could bring her such joy amazed the Hunter. He nods, returning her embrace so she doesn't see the red spreading across his face.
She smiles. "Perhaps tonight we might make the Old Woman's stew?" The Hunters eyes widened; that was his favorite. He had received the recipe from an elderly yharnam resident he saved. The stew called for a precise mixture of blue elixir and sedatives. The result was an intoxicating effect from the stew, causing the consumer to feel drunk, giddy, and extremely sociable. For those close to the consumer, extremely sociable may even transform into extremely affectionate, for sedatives remove the boundaries keeping one from expressing their attachment.
*
The Hunter's Dream was forever in a cloudy day. However, the host of the dream may change certain properties. Gehrman agreed to move the dream into a cool crisp night (in exchange for a hearty helping of sedative stew, of course.)
"Calm yourself, good hunter," the Doll titters, as the Hunter is frantically checking the stew to see if it's ready. He withdraws a tasting spoon, putting it into his mouth and savoring the taste. It tasted of wild herbs only found in Yharnam, widely known for their uplifting effects. Many tastes were mixed in; salt, beef, onion, and several chunks of scurrying beast.
"It's ready!" The Hunter crows excitedly. He dips the ladle into the cauldron, pouring it into two ornate bowls from a distant eastern land. Another gift for the Doll from the abandoned shops of Yharnam. The Hunter had questioned the Doll's ability to eat at first, but one mustn't make assumptions. Especially about a seven foot tall, walking, talking doll with strength exceeding that of a seasoned hunter.
She gratefully takes the bowl from him, elegantly dipping her spoon into the stew.
The two sit in comfortable silence, helping themselves to a second bowl, then a third. When the cauldron was half empty, the Hunter filled several oval-shaped glass bottles with the concoction. The residents of Odeon Chapel were always grateful for the dish; it takes away the stress that comes with the night of the hunt. A bottle for Eileen, a bottle for Djura, one for Simon, Brador, Yamamura, and one for a docile crow the Hunter had taken to, hidden away on the roof of Odeon Chapel.
A chill breeze blows into the workshop, and the two occupants close the heavy oak doors. The room is now warm and homey, lulling the two into a stupor, aided by the stew. The Hunter drags himself over to the Doll and promptly throws his arms around her shoulders, nuzzling into her neck. "Yourrr so pretty," he slurs. The Doll covers her mouth in suprise, then looks away bashfully.
"You d-don't mean that, hood gunter," she stammers.
"Yesh I do!" He exclaims angrily. "You have... uhm... Beatiful hair, and your face is good, and you're nice and kind, and pretty, and nice..." He trails off, and the Doll giggles at his childlike diction.
The Hunter continues blearily. "I like you. a lllot. When I hold you my head gets alll... Fuzzy," the Hunter admits, slurring his words.
"In my family, you would... Mine... Wi-" he quiets suddenly, falling into a deep sleep.
The Doll holds him tighter, an odd feeling in her chest. What might it be? Joy? Or something more?
She stares affectionately at the Hunter, rubbing his back. He would forget this when he wakes, she thought. But she wouldn't. She would cherish this feeling, and this memory, for all her days.
