Afternoon
A bucket of filthy, stinking water brought Debastien back from the brooding, painless dark of unconsciousness. As he coughed out water and the taste of rot, he slowly gathered that he had been hung upside down from the rafters of a small, derelict hut. Three men in shabby, white coats stood around him. They had the Yharnam look about them, alright: Tall and gangly, with overly hairy faces and arms. One leaned on a cutlass, another one had a rifle shouldered, the third one gestured with a sickle.
"Trespasser", the latter hissed and raised his blade. "How did you get here?!"
Debastien took a moment to realise that his hands were bound above his head. They had taken his crossbow, his hatchet, his hunting knife and his pack. "I walked right in. It's just a forest. A big forest. Look, boys, if I wandered into your…", he gestured dismissively with his bound hands, indicating the downtrodden interior of this hut, "…home, I'm terribly sorry, but is that a reason to hang a fellow upside down?"
"You're an outsider", the gunman observed calmly and tried to right his slumped, white top hat. "Outsiders are cursed. They brought the scourge, and they'll bring it with them, whenever they come."
"What scourge?", Debastien asked. "What curse?" He was quite busy cursing himself internally. There had always been stories about Yharnam, aye, stories told around dying campfires and in the darkest corners of taverns, stories to scare children and rail against the pompous and solitary people of mighty Yharnam. While he would never have dreamed of going to the spiteful city of Blood Healing, he had always thought these stories to be somewhat exaggerated. If only the townsfolk ever went into the woods around Yharnam, they had to be teeming with game and Debastien was not one to let a good opportunity like that go to waste. Besides, the gamekeepers and woodsmen back home were making it quite difficult for him to access his usual hunting grounds, lest he lose a hand.
"Yeah, just play dumb", the man with the sickle yelled. His eyes were yellow, and his wild beard and hair were sticking out in every direction. "We know what you are! An intruder, a trespasser, a spy and a thief! This is forbidden ground and only the chosen of the Church may walk and protect it!"
"So I take it you are the chosen of the Church?" Debastien was keeping a close eye on the man with the cutlass. He was swaying on his feet, as if he had forgotten how to stand still and leaned more heavily on his weapon than had been obvious at first. The point was driven into the wooden floorboards to steady him somewhat. An argument could have been made for him actually being asleep, especially, since Debastien couldn't see his eyes beneath the flat, greasy cap.
"That's right!", the hairy one roared and waved his blade threateningly. "So, you answer to us, and answer as truthfully as you can, being a lying outsider and all! Why are you here?"
"I was following a buck", Debastien explained calmly, while starting to build momentum, swinging slowly back and forth. "I was quite certain I already wounded it. Must have wandered into your part of the forest, apologies."
"Lies!", the Yharnamite bellowed.
"Easy", the gunman said. "We expected as much. Maybe cut him…"
With one mighty effort, Debastien threw his whole body forward and reached just far enough to rip the cutlass out of the sleeping man's grip, who staggered back with a yelp. On his next, violent swing, Debastien slashed out, catching the hairy, loud Yharnamite in the leg, sending him crashing to the ground with a foul curse, but when the movement carried him backwards, he saw with horror, how the gunman readied his rifle.
"Bravo!", a new voice shouted. "Very well done!"
Completely hood-winked, the men in the hut lowered their weapons and ceased hostilities. A burly, broad-chested man had entered, wearing a uniform of the Imperial Constabulary of all things. He was clean shaven, except for his moustache, and his blond, shoulder-long hair was combed and parted in the middle, a crass contrast to the shaggy, almost wolf-like Yharnamites. His eyes sparkled with adventurous glee and no small amount of mania. He was leaning on a sturdy stave, with a heavy, iron-shod tip. The more Debastien looked at it, the more it looked like a rudimentary mace.
"Valtr!", the hairy man hissed. "Get yourself gone! At the double! This is none of your business."
"Ah, but I think it is." The newcomer already looked somewhat unsettled, but as he got closer, Debastien caught sight of his too-wide grin. "I think, what you have caught here, is a hunter. A tracker. A resourceful man. After all, he managed to sneak into these woods without getting eaten by snakes or impaling himself in one of your foolish pitfalls."
"Outsiders!", the leader spat. "You and your League might have made friendly with the Vicar, but deep inside, you're still…"
"An outsider, and I'll wear that badge with honour", Valtr announced and drew himself up to his full height. It would have been impressive, had he not been up against three gangly Yharnamites. "All the great Hunters were outsiders, is that not true? Did Lady Maria hail from Yharnam? Yamamura? Pavel, to name someone from recent memory? The Church has need of outsiders, particularly if they're as crafty as this man. Who, by the way, you really should cut lose."
"You wouldn't dare go against men of the Church!", the man with the sickle screamed, spittle spraying from his mouth.
"And you lot wouldn't dare go against me, so we're at an impasse." Valtr fearlessly stared at the rifleman who had raised his weapon again, training it somewhat tentatively on the newcomer. "Tell you what, let's suppose this man has sinned by treading on forbidden ground. Then he must repent to wash his soul clean again…"
"And we'll wash it clean with blood, alright!", the Yharnamite cut the stranger off. "Seek the Old Blood, amen…"
"I doubt that you'll find Old Blood in this poor fool", Valtr in turn cut the rambling off dismissively. "I'd say, leave him to me. Let him do his part in the Hunt, for the glory of the Church and Yharnam et cetera. Wouldn't you agree that the Gods would be sufficiently placated by that gesture? It's no different to what the ministers do up in the city."
The hairy sickle-wielder was still foaming at the mouth, but the gunman had lowered his weapon. "If he comes back into these woods without a clear indication that he belongs to the League, we'll feed him to the vipers. Deal?"
"Fine by me", Valtr said cheerfully. "Cut him down, now."
"And I don't get a say?", Debastien dared ask.
"I'm saving your life", Valtr explained casually, while the gunman and his disarmed companion slowly lowered their prey to the ground and cut the bonds on his hands. "You could be a bit more grateful."
"I am. But what is all this talk about a hunt and a league and…?"
"We'll clear out the details later." Valtr, after a quick look around, grabbed Debastien's pack with the assorted weaponry, before helping the man himself to his feet, and guiding him outside with a firm hand on his shoulder. "Let's leave this inhospitable place first, shall we?"
They walked in silence, out of the hut, down the pot-holed street of a small village. More Yharnamites in white garb were out and about, all of them armed. Their reactions to the unlikely pair ranged from baring their teeth and muttering curses to spitting on the ground.
Eventually, the two men reached the woods proper. The late afternoon sun filtered through the dense leafage above. Songbirds chirped and warbled.
"What's your name, poacher?", Valtr asked conversationally.
Debastien almost missed a step. "I… how did you…?"
"Figure it out? I had enough to do with people like you before I opened my eyes to the true evils of this world and my sight has only become clearer since. You're a poacher? I don't care. You're a murderer? I care even less. I need Hunters and you seem to fit the bill, although I doubt you ever hunted what I will pit you against."
"Why do I have the feeling you're not going to hunt for deer or boar?"
"Because you're an observant individual, I daresay." Valtr rounded so suddenly on him, that they stood almost nose to nose. His grin was gone suddenly. He looked dead serious, and a fire was burning in his eyes. "There is an evil writhing in the streets. I can see it clear as day, and so will you, before the night falls and the Hunt begins. There are vermin crawling in the blood and the filth, the root cause of everything wrong and savage about humanity. It has to be wiped out. If that's not a worthy cause, what could possibly be one?"
"Vermin?" Debastien tried to withdraw, but Valtr's hand on his shoulder suddenly clamped down like a vice.
"You'll see." The grin was back, as Valtr reached into the pocket of his uniform and held up a piece of blueish parchment. A symbol was drawn on it, in thick, black lines and dots, a symbol that Debastien had never seen before. "Once you're a confederate of the League, you'll see clear as day."
Valtr slammed the symbol against Debastien's forehead, and the world started to stir and ripple.
"Name?", the serjeant barked.
"Harrold Carman."
"Armed?"
"Sure are." Harry raised his axe.
"Been on a Hunt before?"
"What kind of question is that? I stopped counting, honestly."
"A veteran, then!" The serjeant looked up from his list, having noted the name and the armament of the newest recruit down on the lists. "Well, welcome back. Group Seven. Have a seat. Dinner has been prepared."
"Is there Blood?", Harry asked and didn't bother hiding the hunger.
"Not yet, not until the Blessing", the serjeant replied and there was understanding in his bloodshot, hard eyes. "Another hour or so."
"Shame", Harry grumbled and slouched into the mess hall of the city barracks.
The room was big and oppressive. The open roof framework of soot-blackened, mighty beams hung low over the expanse of long trestle tables and benches. Three hearths were spewing warmth. Dozens of candlesticks on the tables and the wooden support beams lit the place. Around a dozen Huntsmen had already gathered, some smoked, others ate, a few were dozing, with their heads on the tables. They carried axes, cutlasses and cleavers, spears and sharpened pitchforks, the riflemen were marked as such by the powder-horns and bullet pouches they carried on their belts, while their weapons leaned against the wall. A few men grunted greetings, as Harry passed them by. They were stevedores and students, bourgeois and beggars, mill workers and manufacturers. Their background didn't matter. In the Hunt, Yharnam came together as a solid, united front against the Scourge.
Harry walked over to one of the hearths, were a potbellied cook and two assistants handed out the food. Ham and sausages, bread buns and tankards of fine ale. The militiaman ordered a helping and sat down to dutifully devour it, because he knew he needed a full belly for the coming night. What he craved was the Blood. Through his nights of the Hunt, he had had more than his fill of pure, rapturous Healing Blood from the Church and it had taken just one vial for him to understand, why something as mundane as Blood deserved worship. He felt its pull and heard its call. It had become so powerful that hardly anything else could satisfy him. His wife had taken to give blood and store the vials, knowing it was necessary to get him in the mood for intercourse.
"Excuse me, sir?", someone called timidly.
Looking up, Harry saw a young, beardless man in a clean, well-fitting Hunter's uniform. He had taken off the cap and was nervously fiddling with it. A cavalry sword in a leather scabbard hung from his belt.
"Let me guess", Harry said, and a grin split his wild, greying beard in half. "First Hunt and the serjeant was too busy to show you the ropes?"
"Yes, sir", the youth said. "Would you mind if I sit down?"
"Not the least." Harry gestured with his eating-knife. "Are you from the Ward?"
"No, but my family's business supplies the Holy Church with candles, and I have had the pleasure to visit the Cathedral Ward quite often." The new recruit eyed the veteran carefully. Harry briefly thought about what he would see: the rumpled flat cap, the long, stringy hair, the sailcloth jacket with the rolled in sleeves, the latter marking him as a steel worker who had just hurried over from the end of his shift.
"What's your name, son?"
"Aaron, sir. And you?"
"I'm no Sir of any kind, just Harry. The Hunt conflates us all to one, a bristling wall of steel and fire to stand against the sinful scourge and light the ever-hungry pyre. And no", he added, as he saw Aaron gawk, "that's not something I thought up. A poet from Grey Hook wrote a ballad on the Hunt and I liked it enough to learn it by heart."
"You… you're interested in poetry, sir?", the young man asked cautiously.
"Sure. I forced myself through evening school to read Javonius and Charlton by myself. They're absolute masters of their craft. But that's quite beside the point. You want to hear about the Hunt, right?"
Aaron nodded slowly.
"Well, we've been assigned group numbers. When we move out, the group stays together. We hunt in a pack. When we find a beast, we swarm it. Our strength is in our numbers. If you get the chance, get in close, hit and retreat. No one cares if you just slash through the fur or shred a tendon, you just hit it, that's what matters, you make it bleed, you sap its strength. As a single member of the Hunt, you do not fight to kill. You fight to wound and stay alive to wound again. The beast will go down in due time, alright?"
"But… aren't we… aren't we supposed to be… Hunters?"
Harry laughed heartily. "You want to become a Hunter, eh? A real hero, like Ludwig?"
"I want to help and do my part for my city", Aaron said indignantly and with a hint of defiance that was more to Harry's liking than the constant nervousness. "That's my foremost concern, alright? I was just wondering… if the Hunters can take out beasts on their lonesome, why do we have to go out on the streets, too?"
Harry sighed. "You might just be too young to remember Old Yharnam, so let me tell you a story: The Hunters are great at containing single cases. If they are confronted with a massive outbreak, things tend to get messy. When Old Yharnam was ransacked by the Ashen Blood, they saw no other way than to burn the whole damn town to the ground."
"I know", Aaron said. "There is the Chapel of Remembrance in the Cathedral Ward, to honour the fallen. There is a single sarcophagus in the middle of the nave, dedicated to the unknown inhabitant of Old Yharnam."
"See, that's something I wouldn't know about. In any case, a Hunter is specially trained, specially equipped and has special Blood administered. Have you ever met a Hunter?"
"No."
"You can smell them. People murmur that they are not entirely human. And more than enough Hunters are outsiders, so you can never completely trust them." Harry casually spit onto the cobbled floor of the mess hall. "Now, I will not talk down the great help the Holy Blades and the other Church Hunters are. I might always view them as outsiders, but there is no denying the great services people like Gascoigne, Pavel or Yamamura are doing for this town. Yet if Old Yharnam has taught us anything it's that we cannot rely on the Hunters anymore. Lest Yharnam itself burn one moonlit night or another, we have to pitch in. We have to flush out the beasts, cut them down, burn the scourge out of the streets. Better to have one intense night of horror than have the Hunters get slowly overwhelmed, until they are forced to immolate another part of the city."
Aaron seemed content with that answer. "Are we going to see Hunters tonight?"
"Sure. They will come down with the delegation of the Church that will bring the Blood." The mere thought made Harry involuntarily lick his lips. "And that's another important part of the Hunt: You might be mauled, you might have your limbs broken, you might get hurt. It doesn't matter. The Church provides for us. Whoever joins the Hunt gets his fair share of Healing Blood. It takes away the pain, it heals your wounds, it lifts you up and sharpens your senses, it…" Harry stopped himself and noisily cleared his throat.
"I've never taken Blood", Aaron admitted.
"Well, son, then you're in for a treat", Harry said with a wistful, toothy grin.
Annette felt very proud, as she followed High Sacristan Dario down the steps, out of the Cathedral Ward. Of all the militia members in the Ward, the Vicar had picked her and only half a dozen others for a special mission in the express service of the Church. They were to join with two Hunters, true and tested veterans of many a skirmish against the heretic plague.
"We take only the best", Vicar Samuel had announced loud and clear in the middle of the Grand Plaza. "Who so ever believes to be a fighter worthy of the Church, step forward."
Naturally, Annette had volunteered. Partly, because she was a devout and faithful citizen of Cathedral Ward. Partly, because she was a fencing instructor of such skill that she had been called to the Imperial Court to train the sons of noblemen and dukes. Whenever her duties allowed, she returned home, though, and whenever she could, she participated in the Hunt. She was one of the few non-Hunters who had a one-on-one beast-kill to her name.
The party of eager volunteers entered the Tomb of Oedon from Central Yharnam. Masked Gravekeepers in their white garb stood at attention on each side of the gateway, war-scythes in their hands. "May the Good Blood guide your way", both intoned in unison and bowed before the High Sacristan.
The wide-open plaza of the Tomb of Oedon was slowly turning into a dense graveyard, with headstones commemorating all those who had died in the service of the Church while out on the Hunt. They deserved to rest next to the Gods themselves. A great cenotaph stood in the middle of the plaza. The Hunters were waiting there, one leaning against the grand stone monument, the other pacing. Both turned abruptly, as Dario led his group towards them.
"Salutations", the High Sacristan greeted and performed the proper bow. "You asked for men. The Church provided, as it always does."
The Hunters shared a bewildered look. Both were dressed in similar, grey coats, belted at the waist, with high collars, dark hoods and long, black gloves. Belatedly, Annette recognised that the one carrying the great sword over her back was a woman. Her male companion carried his sword at his side, but on his back was the mighty, rune-inscribed hammerhead of a Kirkhammer.
"We asked for Hunters", the man specified testily. "Not for un-blooded volunteers, damn it."
"Alas, even the Church, mighty that it is, may be hard pressed for resources at times", Dario sighed melodramatically. "Yet the ministers took great pains to select only people of considerable skill at arms and experience on the Hunt…"
"Blah, blah, blah", the woman cut him off, mockingly. "If you ask the barmaid for a fine whiskey, she will not provide you with a tankard of watered wine, will she? And same as I would not pay my barmaid in such a case, I will refuse to work in this case."
"Well said", the man agreed and took position next to his partner. The two Hunters were a formidable duo, towering over the High Sacristan who looked quite unperturbed.
"Refuse to work?", he mused. "But good Hunters, the Choir insists and depends…"
"Well then it better bloody shake some Hunters out of its hat!", the woman shouted. "Either that or it wind down its expectations on what we bring back. If we run, we can just about reach the Hintertombs. If we fight, we won't get farther down than Central Pthumeru. And we're the bloody experts! This lot… it would just about enable us to peek into Lower Pthumeru, and that is if we're lucky. Your assessment, Olek?", she added, briefly turning to her companion.
"I quite agree", Olek said. "And there are few things in the Upper Layers that the Choir wouldn't already know about."
"The Church needs you….", Dario tried again.
"And we need Hunters!", Olek roared. "Without proper support it is simply impossible to reach the deeper Layers. You want artefacts from Old Pthumeru? Send in teams of Hunters and Scholars and lots and lots of fire. We do what we can, but you cannot force us to do more. Besides, your meddling with the chalices has truly stirred up the trouble below."
"You are Hunters of the Church!", Dario shouted back, with icy cold steel in his voice. "You are born of the Blood, made men by the Blood, uplifted by the Blood! You swore oaths and shared in communion. The Choir itself granted you insight into its most sacred rites. So, fulfil your duties, lest it all be taken away from you!"
Neither Olek nor his companion looked particularly worried by that tirade. Annette felt increasingly uncomfortable and glancing around, her comrades seemed to share in that feeling.
"What are you going to take away, huh?", the woman hissed taking a step towards the High Sacristan. "The Blood? Well, we know where to get it and the Church seems too craven to follow us to the source. Money? As if we couldn't sell our trophies from the depths in any other town for a fortune. Our lives? How many Tomb Prospectors are left that know what they are doing? That have the insight and the sanity to navigate the Labyrinth and bring back results? Oh no, you need us far more than we need you!"
"Blasphemy!", Dario stammered. "How dare you…"
"We dare", Olek stated firmly. "We know who is hidden away beneath the Astral Clocktower, but we do not fear him. What else has the Church that could threaten us?"
Annette only understood half of what the Hunters were talking about, but she understood enough to figure out the mission the Choir wanted done. "Beg pardon", she said carefully, "why do you dismiss us, without a second thought? All of us have participated in the Hunt numerous times. All of has have killed beasts before. We know what we are doing. You want to enter the Tomb of the Gods, do you not? We are ready to serve the Church and…"
"That, I never doubted", the female Hunter barked derisively, "why else would you even stand here? But you are not ready."
"We will face a damp Labyrinth, long since abandoned and forgotten", Bennet added his voice. He was a large, burly man from the erstwhile city watch, almost as imposing as the Hunters, armed with a long halberd. "We have slain slavering beasts, even after they tore our comrades limb from limb. I say we got a pleasant job tonight, compared to the other Huntsmen."
"Where do you think the Beasts come from?", Olek replied. "The Church keeps the upper Layers of the Labyrinth quite clear, but the lower you descend, the more horrifying the local abominations become."
"We're not afraid!", a third volunteer shouted, raising his blunderbuss.
The Hunters paused for a moment and exchanged a grim look. "Are you ready to die for the Church?", the woman asked bluntly.
"Why else would we even stand here?", Annette said with her head held high and she even earned a smirk from the two Tomb Prospectors.
"It is quite certain you will, if you follow us", Olek said. "Understand that you will lay down your life for some trinket from the Tomb of the Gods that might prove to be meaningless in the end. If you are fine with that… we should be able to start a thorough investigation into the Hintertombs with your support. Chances are we will find something worth our while."
The volunteers exchanged uncomfortable glances, yet none of them backed down. "Glory to the Church!", the former watchman shouted and the others joined him in that cry. The female Hunter sighed and mouthed something, undoubtedly something unflattering.
Dario smiled broadly. "I am glad we were able to…"
"Not so fast!", the woman said with a smile of her own. "The Church has sent us men and we are very grateful for everything it has to offer. Why would we leave such generous displays of goodwill topside?" She firmly grasped Dario by the scruff of his neck before he could retreat. "You are coming with us."
"What?", the Sacristan sputtered. "I am a High Official of the Healing Church and unarmed to boot, I have no business…"
"Judging by your attire", Olek said loudly, "you are a member of the Choir. You do not need arms anymore, do you? Besides, it is your lot that wants to see the mysteries and wonders of the deeper Tombs. Why would you balk at a chance to see them up close in all their glory?"
Dario was too stunned to answer, as he was pushed forwards by the Hunters.
"Last chance", the woman shouted. "I would not hold it against you, were you to go back now and if the Church would, tell me, so I can clear it up with them."
Annette looked around at the grim and determined faces of her comrades, clasped the hilt of her rapier and then followed the Tomb Prospectors.
Author's Note:
I will never monetise nor try to profit from this story in any way, shape or form. All rights belong to Miyazaki and the other genius sadists (or sadistic geniuses) at FromSoftware.
More chapters to come on a regular basis. Glory be unto those that favor, follow or review.