The moon shone down silver, the distant water glittered over deep navy, and the red-hot poker slotted between the hunter's ribs with the intent to kebab their lungs. A frustrated cry tore out of them at the pain, rising in pitch at the hiss of searing flesh. The hunter's weapon unfolded and flew wide in retaliation. Blood followed the arc of the blade.
The fight ended. Bodies were strewn across hard-packed dirt on the path to the witches' abode. The hunter paused, wiped at their face, and realized the effort was useless when their gloves and sleeves and whole damned arm were painted with red. They sighed and looked up at the decrepit yet imposing structure ahead of them.
The back of the hunter's neck prickled. They turned on their heel and stared down the slope of the path. A wandering madwoman? A remnant dog? Another ploddingly massive executioner that had emerged from the carnage?
The hunter squinted and flitted their gaze from the slight wavering of the tall weeds to the dim windows of the surrounding shanties. Nothing moved. Nothing matched their gaze.
Why, then, had they felt so seen since venturing out of the cathedral?
An experience in Old Yharnam had left them with claws in their guts and a new instinct to look up . The hunter glanced across the rooftops.
There— distant and small, but something oily-dark and rustling in the coastal breeze. The hunter's shoulders slumped. Nothing but a crow. Not worth their time.
The hunter turned and slunk inside the building, disappearing into the hazy dark within.
When the feathers parted, a head donned in silver glinted in the moonlight.
The hunter pushed their palm against a gouged socket as they fumbled through their belt for a vial. The witches were dead, as were their shadowy servants. They had been easy enough to dispatch— except for the binding arcane grip that had left the hunter wriggling as their eyes were scooped from their head.
The blessed blood helped. The hunter blinked. They glanced at the soft glow of the lantern, then off to the dim stairwell on the far wall. They stood still.
They turned on their heel and caught their pursuer taking the final step down the entrance stairs.
The hunter gripped the handle of their blade and eyed the strange figure warily. The last crow had been kind enough, with roughly encouraging words and a few slips of rune-marked paper, but one could never be too careful. This one held a different air; there was a smell, metallic and sharp, that grew as the crow approached with long and easy strides.
The crow stopped a few paces away from the lantern. The hunter peered at the helm: there were intricate designs embossed upon it, but in the murky interior of the chamber it was impossible to tell what they were.
The crow bowed deeply, enough that one knee dropped to the stone floor, and one arm was thrown out wide. The hunter noticed that beneath the cloth and feather cloak was more of that fine silvery plate.
The hunter pursed their lips. A knight? A crow? Both, or neither? They jolted from their thoughts when they realized that they must return the politeness. What would be best? To mirror the gesture? They remembered, dimly, the Doll bowing forward in simple greeting. The hunter pressed their hands to their thighs as they bent and inclined their head, though not far enough to ever lose sight of the stranger.
The crow knight stood and sorted through the contents of some hidden pocket. A thin envelope, aged and faintly spattered with blood, was held out towards the hunter in offering.
The hunter could not resist their curiosity. They dug a nail beneath the wax seal and pulled the envelope open.
"... A banquet," they read in disbelief.
The crow knight did not respond.
"To celebrate the dawn," they continued, and they only barely managed to hold back a laugh. "The dawn? When?" They held the letter close to their eyes and searched the remaining text. "To be held at…" they said, and they tilted their head. "Cainhurst Castle."
They could not hide the alarm in their expression as they shot a glance at the crow knight; the only information they had about the isolated kingdom was both obscure and lurid— and entirely from that Alfred, they reminded themself, who quite frankly seemed a little obsessed.
"The stagecoach leaves from Hemwick crossing," they read, their tone now far more sober.
The crow knight nodded and then lifted a hand; the gauntleted fingers curled in towards the palm, beckoning the hunter to come along. The crow knight was halfway up the stairs when the hunter finally found the wits to follow.
The stagecoach was already waiting near the central statuary of the ramshackle village; two tall and handsomely tacked horses snorted and stamped the ground impatiently as the crow knight pulled the door open. The reins clacked against the vacant driver's box. The hunter stared at the golden lions rearing within the castle's seal upon the door before taking a deep breath and climbing inside.
The interior was lavish, upholstered with rich red fabric, draped in velvet curtains, and lit with softly sputtering lanterns. The hunter took a seat upon the left bench. The crow knight followed behind and pulled the door shut before settling down on the right. The two benches were close enough that their knees could knock together if the hunter wasn't careful.
There were a few short moments of silence before the horses lurched the coach into motion. The plushness of the cushions mostly disguised the hard wood of the seat but when the carriage jostled the hunter could feel the impact ding up from their tailbone. They winced and shifted. The crow knight seemed unbothered, sitting at ease with legs lounging wide and an arm thrown across the cushioned backing.
The rough roads of Hemwick gave way to something smoother; the hunter settled back into their seat. There was some distant thought nagging them, worming into their awareness— what was it? A growing urgency to trade collected echoes with the dear Doll? That didn't seem quite right. Something they had forgotten? (They had forgotten, too much and too quickly to even be mourned, diluted to nothing in the new blood, but they had already contended with that in their own time.)
Something, then, that they had failed to notice?
Wind whistled past the door as the carriage picked up speed. The air of the night had a pervasive autumnal chill, but within the carriage the flame of the lamplights created a stuffiness. The hunter pulled at the cloth mask tied taut over their nose and dropped it to rest loosely around their neck.
They knew the knight wasn't much of a talker but their only other substantial conversations had been brief and nervous exchanges with the dweller in the chapel. When they opened their mouth to speak, the crow knight held up a hand. The hunter frowned and their eyebrows furrowed.
The crow knight leaned forward and tapped an armored fingertip against the invitation. After a pointed pause, a hand swung forward with a flourish; the knight held up an embroidered handkerchief, impeccably laundered, as white as moonlight on fresh snow. The knight pantomimed wiping the cloth across the hunter's face.
The hunter hesitated to reach for it. "Are you sure?" they asked. "It's, er, nice. I'd hate to—"
The knight leaned over them and cloth pressed against their temple. When it dragged against stiff flakes of dried blood, the knight drew back and rummaged through a belt; a small flask was tucked among the various supplies kept under the feathered coat. Once the handkerchief was damp it swept along the hunter's face with ease. Their cloth mask had saved half of their face from the carnage but everything above the nose was streaked with dull red. The hunter was sure that most of the blood was even their own— remnants of the outpouring caused by the fight with the witches.
The hunter held very still as the gauntlet gently dragged along their cheekbone, over the bridge of their nose, and then up to the slope of their brow. When they caught glimpses of the cloth they saw that it had been stained to a rusty mottle.
The handkerchief was folded and tucked away; the crow knight cupped a hand to the hunter's cheek and tilted their head left, then right. The hunter must have been tidied to some level of satisfaction, for the knight did not retrieve the cloth again— but neither did the hand pull away.
The steel edge of the knight's thumb traced along the lower arc of the hunter's eye socket. The chill of the metal nipped at the thin and delicate skin beneath the hunter's eyelashes. The carriage was moving so smoothly. If the pressure were to increase, if the sharp point of the gauntlet were to dig into sclera, if the knight plucked out the inexplicably precious eye that the witches had sought out so viciously—
It would not be an accident.
The pistol was a familiar weight at their hip. The hunter knew they could retrieve it and have deterrent or at least retaliation against an attack, but their instincts had gone to slush; they felt only a pervasive stillness as they stared up at the expressionless silver helm. Their pulse thudded deep in their ears.
But the sharp fingers only slid back down their cheek and patted them with an abrupt fondness that made the hunter blink. The crow knight leaned back against the opposite seat and the hunter could sense by the relaxed posture and slight tilt of the head that the knight was amused.
The stagecoach slowed. The hunter steadied themself. As they rolled to a stop, the crow knight pushed at the latch of the door.
The hunter lifted a hand to shade their brow and squinted against the pale gray and pink light of the early dawn.
