It was easy enough to flit unseen across slanted slates, taking leaping strides from eave to eave. Darkness had not yet fallen but the oil gloss of black feathers caught no eyes from such a high perch. There was the risk of disturbing the rooftop carrion and alerting all around by the resulting loud and indignant squawking, but the fluttering coat disguised the interloper by scent and allowed passage with nary a peep from the crows.
The figure ascended further. There was a smell here, acrid with an electric sting, and there was far more danger of being seen; the night was young and the various officials of the Church could still be at work outdoors. The upper ward seemed empty, with its narrow paths scrubbed out in harsh yellows and oranges by the setting sun. As the figure approached a vast window near a pale garden, there was a peripheral glimpse of something blue, blobby— and better left alone. That sort of blood held no promise.
With additional exploration, a more subtle entrance to the cathedral was found. There was no crash of broken glass to alert those taking solace within. The paper-thin armor glided at the joints and was light enough not to clank as the figure approached the edge of the balcony. A keenly observant gaze traveled down the apse; a headless woman poured a jar of the divine over enthroned ostentation and statuary supplication. At the bottom of the display rested a beastly skull on top of folded, bloody rags. A few paces away, crouched in reverence and repeating a whispered mantra, was a woman. Her robes were dingy and stained but the cut of the fabric stirred recognition— she must be the Vicar.
What an auspicious beginning to the night! There wasn't a better body around to gut and claim bounty from. It would be easy enough to approach silently from this vantage point—a good length of rope was stowed carefully beneath the skirt plate, used mostly for these high-altitude endeavors— and then the Vicar could be searched for dregs. The Church had always been more decadent than they cared to let on, indulgent in ways invisible to their own insight—
When it came to Cainhurst, how could they possibly pass judgement?
The sword at the Bloody Crow's side ached for blood.
The quiet echo of the prayer below shifted in tone. The Vicar's breathing grew harsh and ragged. The hood of the robe reared back.
The Bloody Crow was not one oft taken aback, but where a woman had once been there was now a rupture. A gout of blood spurted far enough to mar the highest marble of the altar. A long line of sharp and messily interlocked teeth lifted. The mouth fell open, panting. One clutched hand lifted to the beast's chest as if still in prayer.
It was both a disappointment and a delight to see that the Church had festered so completely. What was once the Vicar turned on her haunches. Her own robes were ensnared on twisting antlers and draped loosely across her eyes. She had been embraced by beasthood and thus was of no more use to the errant Crow's cause.
The narrow snout lifted. Two obscured gazes locked together. The Crow had been impeccably silent, but the beast could likely sense the feather-coat scent— if she were to throw herself into the motion, her claws would easily be able to reach up and sweep across the high balcony.
The Vicar rose up and bristled with a low, bone-chilling growl.
A retreat would be wise. To leap down and plunge a blade directly into the Vicar's skull would be satisfying.
The Crow had the chance to do neither; the beast's attention was drawn by a serrated blade cutting at her side. The vast interior of the cathedral resounded with a guttural shrieking. Claws sparked against the stone floor in a wide arc but a hunter dashed through them and struck at her forearm.
So there was worthy prey within the husk of the Healing Church yet. The Crow set armored elbows against the balustrade and observed. This new body could be investigated if the Vicar didn't mash it to a pulp first. The hunter ducked beneath thrashing limbs as the Vicar sent her fists crashing into stone. The blade snapped open and elongated before carving a deep red streak into white fur.
The Crow's silver helm tilted. Beyond the iron richness of blood, beyond the incendiary snap and smoke of gunpowder, beyond the warning stench of beasthood— there was another smell, subtle but insistent like a fine perfume.
The Crow noticed that the light beaming in from the uppermost windows had gone from the smoldering hues of the long sunset to the sudden paleness of the moon.
The little war below continued. The Vicar retreated to a far corner of the cathedral and clasped her claws together. There was some remnant blessing at work as her torn flesh struggled back together under a golden, ethereal glow. It was a miracle that she could focus upon its use in her state— and an annoyance, the Crow judged: just a way to fleetingly put off the inevitable with this strangely scented hunter.
Leave it to the tireless figure below to out-bite a beast. The Vicar's jaws snapped once, twice, at the air where the hunter had just been. The folding blade snapped back and tore through her ribs. When the beast folded with the impact, the hunter drove a damned hand through the fabric over her eye socket. The clenched fist tore back out in a torrent of blood.
The last Vicar of the Healing Church collapsed, her claws scrabbling for the altar, and with one final sob of a bark, she was no more.
Good riddance, the Crow thought. Someone else could afford the Vicar her due reverence, if any with faith still remained in the night.
The hunter below was standing still, chest heaving, leathers completely slicked with blood. With a slide of their glove across their face, they began to approach the tall altar. They were entirely unaware of the curious gaze tracking them from the balcony.
A thin envelope sealed with wax weighed at the Crow's side like a stone.
More time was needed to observe, to decide. Surely this hunter would be easy enough to follow just by the path they would slice through the city.
The hunter rolled their shoulders and shook their head as they stumbled away from the skull upon the altar. Their arms were tense at their sides as they took hurried strides back out to the Cathedral Ward.
From above, the Bloody Crow of Cainhurst followed.
