Bloodborne is a Action-Role Playing game developed by FromSoftware and published by Sony Computer Entertainment. I do not own the game, aside a copy of it and I love this game!
RWBY is a American 3D Web Series, created by Monty Oum, bless his soul and may he rest in peace. He developed the series for Rooster Teeth, so nothing of it belongs to me.
There are some OC's and own ideas within this story, all of them are mine in some regard.
Without further due, enjoy the story!
Chapter 3
Friend or Foe?
Sliding down was easier and all the more fun, as the hunter descended the long ladder, feeling his glove starting to heat up from the friction, until his boots touched the ground, soaked in a small layer of water, dirt and, well, the innards of corpses. Some died from the height of the ladder, while others were too eager to enter the sanctuary which he called his home. Thankfully, the incense left by the…previous owner, keeps them away from, but the hunter too felt the nauseating effects befalling him, same effects which would apply to the beasts he stalked. The mere smell of it caused him to retch, the fear of emptying his stomach once more and then filling him with a ravenous hunger.
Another sign.
How long would it take, he thought, as he walked through the gates and entered the Tomb of Oedon, the monument shining in the flickers of the moonlight, surrounded by a forest of smaller tomb stones, scattered across the plaza. The other entrance was open wide, inviting all kinds of beasts, desperate to dig up the graves and feast on the bodies below the dirt. But the hunter foresaw that, so he dug the graves up first and burned whatever remains were left. It was a feat which lasted two days and nights, the latter being filled with hungry beasts, adding more bodies to his pile. It wasn't only beasts though.
Some dubious shades, who tried to extract the bodies for research, definetly former church hunters, still seeking "ascendance" by cutting up the bodies of those below. He didn't understand the logic and neither did he care.
The hunter made them descend into death, if they were too eager. The crude irony made him chuckle several times.
After said feat was done, he layered the entire place with vicious replacements, empty coffins with shrapnel bombs, detonate when the lid was removed or destroyed. It was a hassle to replace them and burning the remains to ensure no beasts in the daylight approached the blood.
The hunter descended down the stairs, his eyes glancing through the crude forest of stone, until they halted before a pair of makeshift graves. The sight of them always caused him to grip his chest, as if he was bludgeoned by a church giant and he'd prefer that over the feeling he felt.
A hunters axe, along with a scarf around the blade, which was suited by a black hat, edges faded to the corruption of blood and the interior was open, as if something popped from the inside. Next to the hunting tool was a old-fashioned flintlock gun, embedded like the axe into the ground, but with a golden pendant devoid of a familiar gemstone within hanging from the holster.
Both weapons had one ring cup of iron before them, the left one tipped over, something which the hunter corrected with gentleness.
In his hand was a bottle of fine whiskey, untouched by the air and blood. When he popped the cork, he poured some into the cups before him, before pulling out his own from his pocket and filling it with the life bringing elixir.
"To your health, fortune and peace in the other world. Cheers, Gascoigne and Viola" the hunter said and placed the cup to his lips, but halted, his free hand reaching for his gun in his jacket.
Footsteps.
Evenly ones, not like those of the frenzied horde or weight of the beast. But those of one who was sane. He hoped.
The hunter turned slowly, fingers around the revolver and the trigger, ready to intercept the next assault. If it was a blood addled hunter, then he was ready, but he wished not to fight upon the graves of friends. But he would've if he had to.
Trigger held, the hammer held with the thumb and his body ready to strike, his aim for the next vitals he saw. The hunter was slightly annoyed, nay, furious, to be disturbed and would set an example for the rest if he was disturbed by his toast.
His human mind hoped it was a sane one, one he could reason with and just simply shoo away. But his deranged, primal side hoped for a confrontation, to be splattered in claret and end the life of another, while devouring their life essence and add it to is own.
Another sign that he was approaching the embrace.
His eyes landed on a very familiar sight, one he hasn't seen in a long time, but his grip didn't lessen, but tightened instead.
As he saw the figure of Henryk, his unique garb of yellow shining past the blood and the Saw Cleaver addled with warm blood, dripping onto the ground.
"Good evening, Siliath. Has been some time." The old hunter said behind his collar, eyes filled with fire and entered the graveyard. The hunter kept his gun trained upon the visitor.
Despite being on familiar terms and first name base, he wasn't certain of Henryk's intention.
Was he here to fight? The blood on his weapon might have been due to self-defense, stray beasts lurk within the tiniest gaps of the city and await a unsuspecting prey to walk their way. If so, they were most unfortunate to have met Henryk.
Or did Henryk fall to the same bestial frenzy that cursed many hunters? Was he the next prey?
Henryk took another step towards him.
_
AUTHOR NOTES
A redo of my chapter(s)
I write slow. Process takes time. But I still write.
Slowly.
I'm not dead. Yet.