Sooner or Later
Slice…hack…crunch…grind…splash…
Sweat rained down his face as he tended to his prey. Every swing of his axe cleft through bone with the most sickening of cracks, and great meaty globs of entrails burst out of the body like quicksilver from a gun. The courtyard in which he stood displayed many a similar scene, a field of corpses splayed and mashed beyond recognition; in this godforsaken town, it was, after all, better to be safe than sorry. But no longer did such brutality faze him, and quite right, too. For the hunt was on tonight – and a hunter must hunt.
Another strike; the haggard blade shattered the victim's ribcage, sinking deep and firm into the moist viscera inside. Spurts of warm blood met his skin, a familiar sensation – and often the only one his delicate psyche could make sense of – that he both adored and despised. A rank odour, thick and unyielding with all manner of foetid impurity thrown in. Hunters carried the stink with them, ingrained like a balm into their weapons and clothing, so perhaps it was no wonder their kind were feared so. Used to it though he may have been, he could not imagine a stench more heinous in this life or the next. And yet, with every fibre of his being, he craved it. The temptation to lick his lips and take that sweet liquid into his mouth was unspeakable, and every splash of that sanguine nectar upon his flesh made him shiver with ecstasy. He could taste its silky viscosity, its metallic bite, its stimulating putrefaction…oh, how it teased him, seduced him like a wanton whore. It would not be long now, he thought, until the lure of beasthood became impossible to resist. But with whatever paltry scraps of humanity still lingered within his fractured mind, he knew he would hold on until the very last second.
He stood tall, and a faint wisp of music found its way to his ears. A mere four notes, tinny and meagre, likely the plaything of a child. But he recognised the pattern, ephemeral though it was; and, with a sharp pain in his head, he remembered.
Gascoigne: that was his name. Father Gascoigne – not that his title carried any weight around here. Once a hunter of the Healing Church, the stoic man had left to tackle the beast plague alone, as so many before him had done. The higher-ups knew nothing of the hunt, or the Old Blood they so inconsistently administered to the townsfolk of Yharnam. He still wore the garb of the church hunters, however, with a few slight modifications of his own; a symbol of his undying faith, in spite of its many perversions.
They were a superstitious lot, for certain. These grounds were known as the Tomb of Oedon – named, to his knowledge, for a formless Great One, a being beyond human comprehension that hailed from the very cosmos itself. He wasn't sure if he truly believed in this sort of thing, despite the teachings of the Church. But even he, with his humble and grounded view of the world, was aware that there were far more horrifying things than beasts lurking in the shadows. He'd heard the stories, witnessed the madness they inspired, and as a lowly hunter walking an endless night, he knew all too well the dangers of being too enlightened. What better than a simple bandage over his eyes to let the unseen remain the unseen? In his condition, there was little need for eyesight, anyway – his animal instincts were more than enough to guide him…
"Shrouded by night, but with steady stride," went the oath of the Healing Church hunters. "Coloured by blood, but always clear of mind." The words were, of course, meant to invigorate and empower, yet Gascoigne had always found them excruciatingly lacking. Beast hunting was a necessity, plain and simple. It was not to be celebrated or romanticised, and the likes of Laurence and his clerics could never understand the sheer atrocities encountered out in Yharnam's streets. As such, he had come up with an adage of his own, one that portrayed his duties in a much more realistic light:
Blood by twilight, blood from stone
Piling sins we can't atone
Tempered steel to break their bones
Till the night is done.
Stay the scourge and brave the scorn
"Curse the hunters, curse their spawn"
Burn the dead 'fore break of dawn
Yharnam wakes to the sun.
Only the first two stanzas had survived his waning memory, it seemed. He did recall, however, that the rhythm had come from an existing melody, not dissimilar from that he had heard just moments ago. Its origin escaped him; was it an old church hymn? A street ballad from his hometown? Whatever the case, there existed a certain nostalgia about it, albeit not in an altogether pleasant way. For this particular tune was ominous, haunting, with a twinkling timbre paradoxically suggesting youthful innocence. Why, then, did it suddenly remind him of his children?
Yharnam was no place to raise a family. The subject had caused quite a stir in the Healing Church, and was ultimately a deciding factor in his decision to leave. But when opportunity had come knocking, who was he to deny himself a life of happiness in this otherwise bleak existence? His two young daughters were his whole world, a true representation of his humanity…whatever remained of it. How he feared for them whenever he went out to hunt, barred inside with but a lantern of incense to protect them. They were strong, though. And should he one day not return, he knew that Henryk would always be there to watch over them.
Ah, Henryk: his mentor and one true friend in this line of work. Back in the day, they fought side by side, faithful blades of the church held back by neither fear nor mercy. The old boy had battled alongside the first hunters – and outlived them all by a shocking amount, he should add. His children even called him Granddad – where, indeed, would he be had they not met all those years ago? If there was one thing in this life he was certain of, it was that he could truly count on Henryk. He'd seen beasts cower at the sight of him, virtually offer themselves up to his blade and spill their innards upon his striking yellow garb. Nothing would ever send that old duffer over the edge, least of all the bloodlust. If he remembered correctly, it was Henryk who had also introduced him to Viola…
Viola…
With agonising quickness, an ice-cold ache came upon him. Like the flicking of a switch, he remembered everything, and, for but a dark, dreadful moment, he understood. The beings lying mangled and mutilated in this courtyard were not beasts; they were people, sick, deformed people in need of treatment. Some were barely even showing symptoms. And though he could not see, his keen sense of smell picked out among the dizzying stench of blood something far more unique: a bright, floral whiff of perfume, and the metallic tang of a red-jewelled brooch…
His Viola – his dear, sweet, beautiful Viola – was dead by his hand.
"RAAAAAAAARRRGGGHHHHH!" he screamed, guttural and laboured, laden with a pain that contained the last vital vestiges of his humanity. As quickly as they had appeared, the scents vanished, and now he could only smell blood. Thick, mottled, abhorrent; he wanted it, he needed it – and, to sate the mania that bubbled furiously within his chest, he would be sure to get it.
Father Gascoigne's fingers tightened around the axe, and with a violent one-armed swing, the blade buried itself in the corpse at his feet. Blood sloshed out of the wound like a fountain, and he cackled wickedly as he basked in its gut-wrenching splendour. The man was broken, spent, threadbare, allowing that which he'd had the resolve to resist all this time to consume him entirely. His wife was dead, his children sure to follow, and he no longer cared. For the call of the Old Blood was his to answer.
The steps at the end of the courtyard echoed with nimble footfalls. Still hacking away, he inhaled hungrily. Just what he needed: fresh meat. He knew them by their pungency to be a hunter, and in their hands he could smell a tiny object crafted of fine wood and metal. A music box, perhaps? The man he once was may have found a certain comfort in this peculiar little trinket. As it was, his current self lusted only for death. Both to give, and to receive.
"Beasts all over the shop," he grunted, standing to a formidable seven feet. His hands trembled around the instrument of this fool's demise. "You'll be one of them…sooner or later."