Kevin magnum- I cannot give you any details about that right now. If you're interested in what happened in the Fishing Hamlet, I'd recommend keeping up with the main story. I'll be revealing what really happened in the hamlet very soon. For now though, I'm finally done with the next chapter! Hope you enjoy all the development Elizabeth is getting. I know I do!
It was nearly midnight on a cold autumn evening. The moon shone down like a beacon upon the city, illuminating the city streets, and the carnage that had just taken place. Hunts were always brutal, but this one had been particularly bloody, or so Bentley claimed. Alfred wouldn't know, but he was proud to call this one his first.
Autumn in Yharnam was always particularly chilly. The north winds carried a bitter nip, and Alfred had to wear a frankly ridiculous scarf to avoid chapped lips.
The grand cathedral loomed above them, warm firelight flooding from the stained glass windows. No matter how much Yharnam may have changed, the one thing that always remained the same was the church. Buildings rose, fell, and were replaced, and watching over all of it was the church, providing safety and security to the impoverished citizens. Really, it was the only home Alfred had ever known. And he was proud to call it home.
"Keep up, Alfred," Bentley's gentle yet firm voice sounded from a little ways up the street. Alfred hurried after his brother, tightening his scarf around his face as he did so.
Bentley was an impossibly tall, broad shouldered man with a meticulously trimmed beard and dirty blonde hair that fell past his shoulders. On nights of the hunt, he kept it in a bun so as not to be distracted during a fight. Tonight, he wore a white shawl to keep warm, and a feathered tricorn for style's sake. Alfred had always thought it unfair how he could barely scrape 170 centimeters, whereas Bentley towered over nearly everyone he came across. Though in fairness, they were half-brothers. All it meant was that Alfred had to try that much harder during their sparring sessions.
"You handled yourself well," his brother complimented. "You're a true hunter of the church now, worthy of partaking in communion with the rest of your brothers. You're not too sore, are you?"
Alfred chuckled in response.
"Don't worry about me. I'll recover."
"Good man."
The two brothers rounded the corner onto an empty street. At midnight, Cathedral Ward was as peaceful as could be. Most of the upper class residents were in bed, and those who weren't stayed indoors nonetheless. On a night of the hunt, civilians always remained indoors, even in the safest parts of town. There should have been no one about, only…
"Bentley," Alfred suddenly said, coming to a halt. "Do you hear something?"
Bentley gave his brother a quizzical expression.
But sure enough, the sound of armored boots against pavement broke the night's silence. Alfred and Bentley turned to see a figure standing in the road not twenty paces behind them.
It was another hunter, but like no other hunter Alfred had seen. He wore form-fitting silver armor that enveloped his entire body, complete with a crow-feather cape that fell just below his waistline. A beaked helm obscured the strange hunter's face, and he wore an outlandish curved sword at his belt.
"That armor… is it Cainhurstian?" Alfred whispered to his brother.
"No Vilebloods remain. They were stamped out by our father thirty years ago," Bentley whispered back. "Good evening sir!" he called to the crowfeather knight. "Are you by chance a hunter of hunters? How goes your nightly hunt?"
The man in the silver armor didn't respond. He merely placed his hand upon the pommel of his sword in preparation to draw.
"Wait a minute," Bentley exclaimed, his eyes going wide. "Could it be... the Bloody Crow of Cainhurst? Here!?"
As if to answer, the crowfeather knight lunged forwards with the inhuman speed that only a Vileblood could muster. Bentley drew his own blade just in time to deflect a sheathed blow that Alfred hadn't even seen coming.
"Alfred, with me! We fight together!" Bentley shouted.
Alfred drew his blade, and moved to flank the bloody crow. He and Bentley were accustomed to fighting side-by-side, for hunters hunted together, after all.
Alfred approached form the side, attempting to get in the crow's blind spot. The silver-clad knight noticed, however, and shoved Bentley away in time to bring up his sword. Alfred hacked at the bloody crow again and again, but no amount of brute force could pierce the crow's guard. The crow's blade traced the air like water, effortlessly turning aside each of Alfred's furious strikes.
"Bentley, you take him!" Alfred shouted, suddenly acutely aware that he was in over his head.
Bentley heeded his call, engaging the bloody crow while Alfred took a moment to catch his breath before jumping back into the fray.
Though the bloody crow was nearly a foot shorter than Bentley, it quickly became apparent that he was more than a match for him. The bloody crow fought with the precision of a surgeon, and the pity of a mamba. Bentley was strong, and proficient with the sword, but his slow, steady onslaught proved ineffective at neutralizing the crow, whose serpentine swordmanship effortlessly combined defense and offense into a seamless whole. As the fight dragged on, the crow began inflicting shallow cuts left and right, whereas Bentley and Alfred failed to tag him even once.
Alfred quickly became overzealous, eager to down their foe as quickly as possible. He darted forward, swinging his blade in an attempt to catch the crow off guard. The crow batted his sword aside effortlessly, and a lightning-fast counterattack caught Alfred right in his unexposed chest, parting both the cloth of his shawl, and the tender skin beneath.
Alfred hissed in agony as the crow's sword glided painfully across his ribs. He tried to riposte, but he was too slow. The crow pivoted, and kicked him square in the chest, right on the wound that had just been opened. Alfred yelled in pain as he fell to the ground, scrambling to get away from the crow.
Bentley threw himself at the crow with a shout, hoping to buy Alfred some time to recover. He connected his sword with its sheath, turning his simple longsword into a massive silver greatsword. This mistake would prove fatal.
Bentley fought with zeal, but the crow was too nimble. Bentley swung his greatsword again and again, and the blade passed through air again and again. Furious at his inability to land a single hit, Bentley lunged with all his might, swinging his sword in a wide arc that no ordinary man could reasonably hope to dodge. But the bloody crow was no ordinary man.
The blessed sword whistled through the air, and the crow ducked, so low to the ground that his beak nearly kissed the pavement. He lunged in return, and the tip of his curved blade sunk deep into Bentley's thigh and out the other side.
Bentley howled in pain, and attempted to back away. But any attempt to move his legs would only make the injury worse. He opted to grapple with the crow, hoping to use his superior size to inflict as much damage as possible. He grabbed the crow by the cape, intending to slam him to the ground, but no matter how hard he pulled, the crow would not lose balance.
Any further attempt at resistance was quashed as one silver gauntlet slammed into Bentley's face, drawing blood and breaking the nose.
Bentley fought through the pain and attempted to reorient himself, but a sharp twist of the crow's blade sent a fresh wave of pain racing through his body, forcing him to his knees.
To finish, the crow kicked Bentley's sword away, leaving him weakened, bleeding, and utterly defenseless.
"Alfred," Bentley wheezed. "Do something."
But Alfred's limbs were frozen in place. He had stared down horrific beasts, but this foe was so alien, so thoroughly disconnected from common understandings of right and wrong. He was detached, sociopathic, and there was no telling what he could do next. Could Alfred really kill an opponent like that? Could Alfred even hurt an opponent like that?!
"Alfred. Please," Bentley begged. The crow paused, watching his victim's final throes with what appeared to be curiosity.
"I'm- I'm not- Bentley, I'm-" Alfred stammered, trying to keep his knees from shaking. He could fight, or he could run. If he ran, he might live, but if he fought, he'd die. Running it is. But if he ran, Bentley would certainly die! Run or fight? He had only seconds to decide. Run or fight or run or fight or-
"Alfred!" Bentley screamed in desperation. "He's going to-"
The crow's blade fell upon Bentley's neck midsentence.
Bentley's head fell to the pavement below, his final moments of fear and anguish still etched across his features. His brow was furrowed, and his mouth locked in a perpetual scream, a silent call for help from the only man who could have saved him.
Alfred stared incredulously at his dead brother's head rolling down the street towards him. Any emotional response he might have had was delayed by the feeling of sheer disbelief at what had just transpired. He… had hesitated, hadn't he? Why had he hesitated?!
The bloody crow knelt, and appeared to pluck something out of the expanding pool of blood. It looked like a glowing red mote with tadpole-like creatures swimming within it. Blood dreg, some frazzled part of Alfred's mind declared. He's collecting blood dregs. From my brother. Who I couldn't save.
The bloody crow gave him one last fleeting glance, and then turned, and walked away. The message was clear; 'You aren't worth my time'.
Alfred shakily got to his feet, and stared off into the darkness where the crow had disappeared. 'You won't get away with this!' he screamed internally. 'I'll find you, and gut you like the pig you are! I am an Executioner of Logarius, and you will fall beneath my righteousness!' but had the words been spoken aloud, they would have been lies. How could justice prevail if its defenders were so easily dispatched by the corrupt? How could the Executioners prevail if their future rested upon the shoulders of men like him? Never in his life had Alfred felt so powerless. He couldn't fight this problem away, he couldn't bring his brother back, he couldn't even have his revenge. All he could do was pray that his brother's soul may find absolution, and weep for his passing.
"I'm sorry, father. I'll be better. I promise."
Castle Cainhurst had been built with utter supremacy in mind. The rocky bluff that housed the castle was taller than any of the surrounding outcroppings even without the addition of Cainhurst's soaring battlements. As such, the Cainhurst royalty had an unparalleled panoramic view of the surrounding countryside. The tallest spires of Cainhurst could be seen peeking over the hills from from as far away as Hemwick, watching over House Cain's trade routes like the unblinking eyes of a great owl.
But for as much praise as was given to Cainhurst's towers, little mind was payed to its base, to the rocky hill upon which the castle was built. Unbeknownst to many, the roots of House Cain spread out farther than its branches- quite literally. Beneath the towers and banquet halls of Castle Cainhurst, a vast network of tunnels and cellars had been carved out, encompassing nearly a quarter-mile radius beneath the castle proper. Dungeons, wine cellars, storehouses, cisterns, as well as a half-dozen secret passageways all interconnected like a sinister spiderweb unfurling from the underside of old Cainhurst.
Elizabeth had always liked the downstairs parts of the castle. They were a reminder to her that no matter the extravagance of the upper stories, the bones of the castle were here and here alone. It was a convenient reminder to not let worldly pleasures get the best of her- to remain true to herself, for only with a strong foundation can you grow to claim the skies and mountains as your own. After all, when the Executioners attacked, the archives and dining hall fell to Logarius immediately. It was the cellars that had held.
Elizabeth reached the bottom of the stairs, and was greeted by a spacious cylindrical room with prison cells lining the walls. In the center of the room was a tall, slender tower from which the numerous prison cells could be monitored all at once. In the castle's hay day, this royal panopticon would have been used to imprison would-be assassins, spies, thieves, and the occasional criminal from Hemwick. Some of the worst enemies of House Cain would have dwelt within these cells, and as such the panopticon was designed to be impregnable. Today however, the dungeon's only prisoners were Executioners, and nearly a hundred of them at that.
Elizabeth followed the sounds of shouting to the cell that housed the newest prisoner. Alfred was currently in a fit of rage, rattling on the bars of his cell and screaming obscenities at the the trio of red-clad guards stationed outside. Elizabeth approached with a purposeful stride. Though the guards likely didn't know her face, they stepped aside nonetheless. One could tell at a glance that Elizabeth was an aristocrat, and not one to be trifled with at that. Alfred's expression soured when he laid eyes upon her.
"Causing quite the ruckus, aren't we?" Elizabeth greeted.
"Hello, viper," Alfred responded, his voice dripping with hatred. "Come to gloat, have we?"
Ignoring the question, Elizabeth motioned to one of the guards.
"Open this door. Then leave us," she commanded. Though it was technically a breach of protocol, no lowly guard would dare disobey a member of the aristocracy. Should any of the prison's overseers take issue, they would have to take it up with her. The fresh-faced young guards unlocked the door without protest, and hurried off to some other part of the prison.
Elizabeth glided into Alfred's cell, shutting the door behind her. Alfred's face was a mask of indifference, but his defensive body language betrayed him. Elizabeth stood there for a moment, allowing a sense of dread to grasp at the Executioner. Then she drew her sword, delighting at the brief moment of panic that crossed Alfred's face. Wordlessly, she held the blade to Alfred's head, ready to make the cut.
Alfred audibly gulped, but he didn't shy away from the blade.
"Maria will have your head if you kill me."
"Maria doesn't need to know. Besides," Elizabeth purred, opening a thin cut along Alfred's cheek. "I'm only going to have a little taste. Wouldn't want to spoil my appetite."
Then she leaned in close, and ran the tip of her tongue across Alfred's wound. Alfred shivered, but still refused to pull away.
His blood didn't carry as much flavor as others she had sampled. Less iron, metaphorically and literally. Maria was right- his blood was thin. Thin, and watery, and weak, just like him. Fighting the urge to spit it out, Elizabeth forced herself to swallow.
Sampling the blood of those she had defeated was a habit Elizabeth had picked up after the sacking of Cainhurst. It was amazing how much you could tell about someone just from the taste of their blood. Though a layperson would taste only rust, Elizabeth's discerning palate could pick out the finer details- how much iron was in the blood, and how much alcohol. Whether or not the victim had a transfusion recently, and whether or not they were sexually active. A hunter's blood told stories, stories that would only be known after death, and only by the woman who had taken their life. It was appealing to Elizabeth's cruelly poetic sensibilities.
Elizabeth withdrew, wiping her mouth on a cloth handkerchief.
"Such dilute blood," she muttered. "It's practically water."
Alfred gawked at her, still bleeding from his injury.
"You aren't going to kill me?" he asked, his voice steady. "I can promise you'll regret that."
"This blade is quite keen, and she has taken the lives of some of Cainhurst's greatest foes," Elizabeth explained. "You think that I would dishonor her by giving her yours?"
Alfred didn't have a retort ready, so Elizabeth continued.
"You are weak, and you have demonstrated as such tenfold. You are beneath our notice now, even your blood unfit for consumption," she turned, and strode towards the door. "Be good, and we'll keep you alive. That's the best you can hope for now."
"Wait!" Alfred interjected. "I have just one question, crow. Answer it, and I'll never bother you again."
Too good to be true, was the first thought that went through Elizabeth's head. Nevertheless, it would be cruel not to entertain her guest somewhat.
"Okay, I'll bite. Ask your question," Elizabeth responded.
"Do you remember Bentley? My brother?"
"I can't say that I do. Should I?"
Alfred's face contorted with poorly concealed anger.
"You killed him, you little wretch! You killed a man, and you couldn't even bother to remember his name?"
Elizabeth was quickly becoming irritated.
"I don't often take the names of the men I kill. If you were truly a hunter, I'd expect you to understand that."
Alfred's gaze turned dark.
"Do you remember anyone you've killed? Or do they all blend together?"
"I remember those who fought bravely, and those who gave me a challenge," Elizabeth explained curtly. "Evidently, your brother was neither." She turned, and strode towards the door, intent to leave the conversation at that.
"By what right?"
Alfred's voice was steady, but an edge of cold malice was clear as day to anyone paying attention.
"What right did you have to take my brother from me? What right do you have to dictate the fates of so many warriors of the church? Why must innocents die so that you can fulfil your sick satisfactions!?"
Elizabeth's anger boiled over.
"My home was taken from me when I was little more than a girl! My people were burned, beaten, and murdered before my eyes. So yes, I killed your brother, and scores more just like him. Do you know why? Because my wrath and indignation are beyond the need for justification, especially to a slovenly, sniveling degenerate like yourself! You took everything from us, so now I will take everything from you. If you wanted to stop me, you need only draw your sword, and kill me!"
Elizabeth grabbed Alfred by the chin with one armored hand, forcing him to look at her.
"But you couldn't do that, could you? Because you're a coward. When my family was under attack, I fought like a lioness until there was nothing left to defend. When your family was under attack, you sat there like a fool, and allowed your brother to be slaughtered. That is my right. Not blood. Not justice. Just cold hard steel."
Elizabeth pulled away, her anger receding.
"Surely you can understand that, at least in part?"
Alfred held the gaze of his captor. And then he spoke, his voice startlingly calm.
"You are a monster. I swear by my father's name that for as long as I live, I will work to undo you, and all your ilk. What you build, I will bring to the ground. What you grow, I will uproot. I will grind you and your edifices to dust, and salt the ground that your heathenly ghosts may never return," Alfred held out his hand, and dug his nails into his palm as hard as he could, marking the palm and drawing blood. "I hearby seal this solemn oath. Bound in blood till the day I stand before the gates of Heaven. Elizabeth Cain, you are my enemy, and your breaths are numbered."
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows, scanning Alfred's face for any sign of weakness. She found none, only intensity, and fiery determination.
"If only your swordplay matched your theatrics," she finally responded, before striding out of the cell, and shutting the door behind her. The three guards she had sent away were waiting right outside the cell, most likely eavesdropping on their conversation. Not that Elizabeth cared.
The lead guard locked the cell door, and moved to return the key to his ring.
"Wait. Give me that key," Elizabeth commanded, holding out her hand.
The guard hesitated, looking to his companions for help. Neither seemed interested in arguing with her at the moment, and both offered shrugs in response.
"The key. Now," Elizabeth warned.
Detecting the edge in her voice, the guard dropped the ring into the palm of her outstretched hand. Elizabeth nodded in thanks, and tucked the key into her beltpouch.
The young guards seemed trustworthy enough, and God knew they were loyal. But loyalty could be bribed, and cooperation coerced. The key to Alfred's cell would be safer with her. No doubt Maria would try to spring him at some point or another.
Besides, Elizabeth had other things to see to at the moment. The blood dregs were calling to her, their soft voices muffled by fifty feet of stone. You could never have enough. If Mensis' plan was to succeed, there could never be enough. Elizabeth ascended the prison stairs, her nose filled with the sweet scent of blood.