"Bunch together a group of people deliberately chosen for strong religious feelings, and you have a practical guarantee of dark morbidities expressed in crime, perversion, and insanity."― H.P. Lovecraft, The Call of Cthulhu


Chapter Nine: Bloodline

- Two Years Later -

"Fear the Old Blood."

The towering stone doors creaked and swung open with a gush of stale air. Caryll wheeled himself back, and then froze. Provost Willem was standing on the other side of the arch, for once pictured without his beloved blindfold. His dark eyes landed on Caryll, and a soft smile slid up his face.

"Good evening, my friend."

"Good evening to you also," Caryll replied. "Master, if I might pry, what brings you out to the forest at this time of night?"

Willem let out a quiet grunt. "Mmm… I can't sleep. Too many ideas whizzing around in that old noggin of mine… I thought the fresh air might do me some good."

"Oh, but you can't go to Yharnam, Master…" Caryll interjected, an uncharacteristic flourish of anxiety in his tone. "It is a night of the hunt. Those death-crazed fiends can scarcely tell friend from foe in the midst of their bloodletting."

"Quite right," Willem replied, nodding. "But I will be fine."

"Master, I hardly think that I-"

"I have you, don't I?"

An uncomfortable silence filled the rift between the pair as the realisation quickly, and sharply hit Caryll.

"Ah… Well, I might have a thing or two to say about-"

"No time for that now my boy," Willem cut in, already walking up the hill behind Caryll. "There is safety in numbers. Come, the night waits for none."

Caryll sighed, and gave chase. Willem started to hum softly as the pair crossed through the gate at the top of the hill that led into Cathedral Ward. The pavilion was bathed in soft white moonlight, and Willem seemed to relax as his purple cloak soaked it up like the backdrop of a starry sky. As the duo passed a small stone statue depicting the insect-like Great One Amygdala, Willem broke his self-imposed meditation rather suddenly, remarking upon a memory of the day just gone.

"The prophet told me something most interesting today, Caryll."

Caryll looked over at Willem, hoping that his eyes would not betray his despair. "The prophet spoke? It has been months."

"The prophet speaks when he deems fit. He is a host of many churning thoughts and ideas, none of which are his own – it is natural that he should be isolated for most of his hours."

"Of course," Caryll nodded. "What did he tell you, Master?"

Willem stuck out his lower lip, pondering the meaning of his own words as they left his lips.

"He has foreseen the coming of a new child of the cosmos."

Caryll's stomach suddenly frothed with unease, and his rolling came to a sharp halt. "You speak true?"

Willem cast him a dark look. "Do I make a habit of divulging lies, Runesmith?"

Caryll's eyelids flickered, and he bowed his head. "Of course not. Accept my apology, master. Only… I could not imagine such a thing… After Ebrietas…. And that thing from the hamlet…"

"And yet, it will be so," Willem replied ominously.

He came to a stop outside a nursery building, and sat down upon a nearby bench. Caryll set himself beside his master. The balcony overlooked a mass of darkened streets below, and from somewhere in the distance, the dulled bangs of gunpowder were audible. Tomorrow, the people of Yharnam that lived in those houses – the ones that were not stricken with plague or cut down in the carnage of the crossfire - would wake up to a river of blood, and the eviscerated, unrecognisable corpses of their former neighbours and friends. Just the thought of such turmoil on a weekly basis was enough to send nausea riveting through Caryll's whole body. He had been wise to cut all ties with the city once the hunts began, but thoughts of family were never far away – only throwing himself into the thrall of a good book or stack of research papers could temporarily focus his ailing mind.

As a guttural roar echoed from a few blocks over, Willem let out a sigh, and took his white blindfold from his coat pocket, wrapping it around his head. Caryll watched, longing not for one of his own but a pair of earplugs so that he might drown out the sounds of slaughter.

"The whole world has gone blind, Caryll," Willem whispered. "They have been blinded by the Healing Church, and Laurence."

"Perhaps that is preferable," Caryll conceded half-heartedly. "There is naught but fire and brimstone left to see."


The half-gloom, where the light dared not reach.

The ricochet as the metal tumbled down the stone.

The splash.

Thoughts of the well were quickly dissipated as another stretcher was brought before her. Maria quickly pulled on a clean set of surgical gloves, collecting her syringe from its rest, and tied her plague mask.

"Subject's name?" she asked, gesturing to one of her bumbling attendants.

"Arthur Smith," he replied, pretending to scribble on his notes. "He's from Central Yharnam."

"Middle class, eh?" Maria said, before jabbing the man in the side with her syringe. "Seems nobody is immune to the scourge, regardless of where you live."

"I thought that we had ruled out airborne infections long ago, doctor?" the attendant queried.

"We've ruled out everything," Maria shot back. "If only there was something we could rule in."

Arthur Smith started to convulse as the effects of the injection started to take hold. Green mucus ran down his nostrils, his eyes pulsing red. His veins started to protrude from his neck and face, the blood pumping faster as though attempting to free itself from his flesh. His restraints started to quiver, and for a second Maria was convinced that they would not be able to hold the patient down.

Then, he fell still, a deep growl emanating from his throat just seconds before he lost consciousness.

"The infection has spread through his whole body," Maria noted. "First, it crept up his right leg, before burning through his whole lower half, and finally spilling through to his brain."

"Would the application of incense be of any use?" the attendant questioned.

Unseen beneath the table, Maria curled a fist.

"Would the application of your brain be of any use?" she asked. Her voice was soft, but was filled with venom, like a viper sweet-talking its prey.

"Yes, doctor," the attendant muttered, before quickly scurrying off.

Maria sagged, reaching around and stabbing Arthur through his skull with a surgical knife before practically collapsing into the chair that lay by her side. Her distraught gaze landed on the ultimatum stacked neatly upon her desk.

'Find a cure for the plague.'

Laurence had not been quite so direct in his words, but his meaning was nonetheless, crystal clear. Unfortunately, it was easier said than done to find a treatment for a condition that ravaged the human body from the inside out and unleashed its dormant bestial tendency. Simply burning the city to the ground seemed like a more realistic option at this point. There were only so many Arthur Smiths to dissect.

Maria started as a fist was volleyed hard into her door. For a second, her heart lifted, picturing Gehrman crossing the threshold with a roguish smile on his face. Once, it had always been him knocking upon her door, and always with something humorous or insightful to impart.

Not anymore, though.

Instead, it was Ludwig who entered her office, his scholarly face lit up by the maniacal moonlight that had thoroughly consumed him.

"Lady Maria," he greeted. "You needn't look so dismayed. I am not the bringer of bad news today."

"Then have you come to recite more of Laurence's preaching in my face?" Maria asked at the hunter.

"No," Ludwig replied, eyes betraying the hurt he felt at the retort. He distracted himself with a row of blue vials that adorned the wall, and barely paid his colleague any attention. "You know, this really is a beautiful place. I was thinking about it as I rode the elevator. The Astral Clocktower, a place befitting of a truly important cause. The work you do here may yet bring salvation to our town."

Maria sighed. The guilt of snapping at her associate was starting to set in fast, and her stomach felt like churning tar. "That's the hope at least. I hate to be rude, but have you any pressing business? I'm rather busy as of late."

Ludwig's head slowly turned back to face Maria.

"I thought you might be interested in hearing how I plan to honor Gehrman's legacy in my reforms of the Workshop Hunters – excuse me, the Church Hunters – after the... eh, unfortunate incident. Forgive me if I am prying too deeply, but I haven't seen you two together since that day at the hamlet…. Your companionship was once a powerful thing. You shouldn't be too hasty to give up on him. Time heals all wounds, after all..."

Maria resisted the temptation to spill her inner agonies. "You said you intend to honor him? How?"

Ludwig smiled, pleased to have caught her interest.

"It has always been my intention to bring back the old customs. Chivalry, honor. The tasks we perform as blades of the church are gruesome, but we needn't be outcasts. The Church Hunters may become an order of knights... righteous warriors... And all inspired by Gehrman, and the nobility that first compelled him to leave the safety of his home, for the benefit of others."

Maria gave a dismissive chuckle. "You sound like a zealot, Ludwig. All this talk of honor and conviction - Gehrman was none of these. He's a flawed human being."

"As are we all," Ludwig nodded. "But I believe that the values of the Healing Church elevate us above our petty human concerns. We fight for a noble cause, to better ourselves and our race. Why can't we hunters be champions? Heroes, in the eys of the people? Were you not raised on stories of heroes? How do you feel about becoming one?"

Maria shook her head. "My upbringing was far from conventional. There were no heroes in my bedtime tales."

Ludwig shrugged. "Forgive me. I have blathered long enough. My guiding moonlight beckons. Farewell, Lady Maria."

As the Holy Blade left her chambers, and the sound of his footfalls softened into the distance, Maria sat quietly at her desk, her thoughts caught in a swirling maelstrom.

Her childhood. It was something she had not thought about in many years – and for good reason.

After nearly half an hour had passed, she drew open her desk, hand feeling inside for the rolled up piece of parchment that she knew was concealed inside. Once she found it, she pulled it out, and started to unfurl it.


"You needed to see me, sire?" Ludwig asked, standing even more upright than usual as he faced his master.

"Just checking in with you, Ludwig," Laurence replied matter-of-factly, taking off his reading glasses and settling back in his chair. "I assume you have sent the Choir Intelligence to investigate the doings of Mensis?"

"Yes, sire," Ludwig nodded. "Edgar led the party. On account of the reports that locals gave - mass kidnappings and violent altercations in the streets - the group was well-armed."

"Good," Laurence said, stretching out his palms across the desk. "I have lost my faith in Micolash's… experiments. Cutting him off from his college of fantasists should resolve the issue."

"From what I'm told, the corruption runs deeper than that, sire."

Ludwig took a seat opposite Laurence. From the intonation of his words, it was clear he was reluctant to part with such information, and Laurence's own expression made it clear that he was reluctant to receive it.

"Old Yharnam's citizens are running amok. On the encouragement of the School of Mensis, they have decided to cut their ties to the Church. They are destroying Church property with abandon – idols, tapestries; even the homes of blood ministers. They have destroyed the supply of old blood in the cathedral, and are refusing to take any more… This is… bad, sire."

"You don't say?" Laurence snapped. Suddenly he didn't seem so content. "And what have you, as Captain of the Hunters, done to rectify this issue?"

Ludwig gulped. "Sire, with all respect, I don't think it is wise to apply force to resolve this issue. If handled incorrectly, we could have civil war on our hands."

"I see," Laurence murmured, mulling over solutions as he took a swig from the red-tinted flagon on his desk. "As I have lost faith in Micolash, his disciples have lost faith in the Church."

Ludwig was about to contribute to the debate when the doors of Laurence's chamber were thrown open, and a duo of enhanced Church giants lumbered inside. Laurence stood up abruptly, scorn lighting up across his cheekbones and brow like a blast of flame. One of the giants held a struggling figure in their powerful grasp, and as Laurence quickly reacted to the proceedings, and the figure was thrown onto the carpeted ground, the vicar quickly recognised them.

"Gehrman," Laurence said disdainfully. "What is the meaning of bringing him here, you towering brutes?"

One of the church giants responded in a slow, emphatic and unintelligent inflection. "He was found during hunt yesterday. When we challenged him what he was doing breaking Ludwig's rules, he attacked several men, and was brought down with a net."

Gehrman got up onto his knees, his wooden peg leg straining underneath the weight of his gangly, yet powerful form. He kept his head low to the ground, refusing either Laurence or Ludwig the dignity of eye contact. Laurence grunted, stepping out from behind his desk towards the exiled hunter.

"I thought we made it very clear to you," Laurence said, tone so cold that he may as well have been breathing icicles. "Your services are no longer required. You are no longer required. We gave you a very generous retirement offer – you should have taken it."

Head remained low, Gehrman retorted. "A hunter must hunt, Laurence."

"You are not a hunter," Laurence spat. "You are a traitor to our cause. You made that very clear."

The ghost of a smile crossed the old hunter's face, as he remembered the ransacking of the Church's private laboratories, and the bounty that he had claimed for moral justice. "Your cause is lost, Laurence. You have become so blinded by beasts that you can no longer tell yourself apart from them."

"You have idea what you're talking about," Laurence growled. "How easily you forget that we started all of this together. None of it would be possible without you! And you talk of me as a monster, when you have shed more blood than I?"

"What would you call these?" Gehrman yelled, indicating the pair of giants that continued to watch him vacantly. "Ordinary men, pumped full of chemicals… You're creating your own beasts!"

Laurence let the hail of malice rain down upon him, barely a flicker of emotion in his empty eyes. Then, he waved a hand at his oversized sentries.

"I've heard enough. Take him into custody."

The giant who had previously spoken again piped up. "Hypogean Gaol?"

"No," Laurence shot back. "Hypogean is compromised – the residents of Old Yharnam would unlock him in an instant if they thought it would be going against the Church's wishes. No, lock him up at the top of the Cathedral Ward."

Gehrman was hoisted off of his feet by the giants, but before he could be hoisted from sight, he called out to Laurence.

"Willem was right about all this, you know. Your ego has blinded you!"

Laurence considered the parting remark for all of two seconds before returning to his seat, and the comfort that the silence would bring.


Gehrman had seen very little of the Choir since his tenure as a hunter began, but it was a far cry from the old, likely-haunted abandoned property that he and his fellow Byrgenwerth pilgrims had bought all those years ago.

The place was full of arcane researchers – loyal devotees to Laurence and the pursuit of otherworldly knowledge – dressed in white garbs adorned with tassels and gold belts. The way they walked about the halls was near-robotic, and would have been sinister enough on its own if it weren't for the blindfolded caps that they wore over their faces to disguise their identities. Being a part of the Healing Church's upper circle led to a certain amount of suspicion and fear from local townsfolk, who had heard whispers of the mind-warping research that the sect carried out. It was enough to send an ordinary man into a frenzied state, and, as such, for their own safety every Choir member had to remain anonymous. Faceless.

As such, most church ministers dreaded having to pay a visit to the towering fortress, or worse, the day when they would be promoted, sent up the elevator from the old hunter's workshop to join the ranks of the white-robed emissaries.

All except one, that is.

Choir Master Zephyr.

As Gehrman was taken swiftly through the stone foyer of the Upper Cathedral Ward, he caught glimpses of Zephyr's experiments, worked on by huddles of white-cloaked doctors.

A pale grey slug, strapped to a table and prodded with syringes.

A strange, misshapen blue imp, born from a zealous over-indulgence in brain fluid, and said to be able to interpret the alien language of the Great Ones, bashed its mushroom-shaped head against the bars of its cage.

And, lined up in a row just like the old groups from which the Choir got its namesake, a collection of researchers, eyes fixed on the star-strewn skies above and arms posed like the frail arms of a clock; all part of a horribly-misguided attempt to communicate with the cosmos.

Truly a madhouse, run by a madman.

Zephyr came out to greet Gehrman as he was dragged into one of the holding cells normally reserved for the twisted creatures of the night. He was dressed up in his Choir Master attire as usual, and he was practically skipped over to Gehrman's cell, the old hunter was overwhelmed by the man's mania.

"You're very far from home now little sheep," he chuckled, poking a finger through the bars at Gehrman like a child at a zoo. "Where is your flock?"

"Better to be homeless than live in a place like this," Gehrman replied, eyeing the golden pendant that hung around Zephyr's neck. "New trinket?"

Zephyr clutched the treasure between two quivering hands. "My wife is pregnant. A little girl, blessed by the cosmos! I shall make a gift of it to her, as my father once did to me. Ah… what a world to raise a child in."

Gehrman snorted. "You could say that."

"Anyhow old boy, I thought you might be interested in paying your old friend in the dungeons a visit. After all, it was you who brought her to us, and it's been such a long, long time since you two saw each other…"

"I'd rather not," Gehrman said, turning away from the bars.

Zephyr laughed.

"Oh, my poor little lamb… What gave you the impression that you had a choice?"


It wasn't a long thought process that led Maria out to the barren district of Hemwick that evening. It had been a long time since she had really felt at home anywhere – where the dreams of flame, screaming hamlet children and bottomless wells could not reach her at the darkest hours of the morning.

There was nothing left in Yharnam. Not since Laurence had bundled her off to the Clocktower in the hopes of burying her and the guilt with which she was associated.

Not since Gehrman had lost the willpower to so much as look at her, let alone shower her with his gruff adoration.

The road ahead would be treacherous at this time of year, but that was why she had decided to take a carriage. Soon enough, the autumnal-hued leaves and ankle-deep mud of Hemwick's grassy banks was replaced with the hard and icy gravel of the Great Crossing. The tall spires of Yharnam slowly receding into the darkness of the night, Maria allowed her eyes to flutter, her sleep-deprived mind at ease with the gentle clopping of hooves on pavement.

She awoke soon enough, as the air in the carriage grew bitterly cold, and the grey wisps of her own breath filled the enclosed space. Tugging her coat closer to her shaking body, she raised her hood and prepared for the tundra to bring its worst. The outsides of the carriage started to frost over, and in time, little icicles protruded through the spaces in the open window. The wind picked up outside, starting from a feeble cry and rising to a feral wail, battering the outsides of the carriage and slowing the horse to a near-freeze.

Just when the conditions were more than Maria could endure, the carriage came to a halt. Fearing the worst, she threw open the carriage doors, expecting to find her steed collapsed in the snow. Instead, she found herself in the shadow of an enormous gate, turrets and flags taller than oak trees jutting out into the night. Across the icy plane that led up to the castle, a pair of armoured guards took notice of her arrival, and approached the carriage cautiously, swords thinner than bones at their side and ready at all times in the event of attack.

"Halt," one of them called, raising a burning wick to the freezing night air to illuminate the Maria's approaching form. "State your business."

Maria stepped into the full reach of the torch's light, and the guard stopped, dropping to one knee. His partner almost immediately mirrored the gesture, both men dropping their weapons in the snow.

"Forgive me, your highness," the first guard said softly. "If I had known you were coming…"

"It's not important," Maria assured him, voice quiet and more isolated than the glacial grounds of the castle spread out as far as the eye could see. "I have been long away, but I have returned. Will you let the King and Queen know?"

"Of course, my lady," the guard replied, standing up straight and outstretching a gauntleted hand for Maria to take.

"And, may I be the first to say...welcome back to Cainhurst."