"The… Pthumerian Queen…"
"God, Lawrence, don't cream yourself."
"Can I not hold appropriate reverence for my spiritual forebear, or is nothing sacred to a deicide?"
"Absolutely nothing. We're literally using a copy of the source of all life to heat our jacuzzi."
The two Old Lords and the two Vicars of the Healing Church which venerated their kind had at last reached the heart of the Labyrinth beneath Yharnam, the cold bottommost chamber of Pthumeru Ihyll. There, a grand tombstone was erected to honor the dead gods below. Before it knelt a tall, pale woman in a wedding dress, stained crimson across her distended belly. Her hands were bound together with manacles of wood long petrified, and a veil covered her face. The four intruders had hardly entered the room before she had risen to attack.
Jets of blood gushed from her wrists, shooting toward the doorway like javelins. The hunters scattered. The married couple strafed wide while the first and final vicars simply dodged, then took off running. Their loose clerical robes bulged, and their teeth grew long as they tapped the beast blood inside them, falling to all fours. Laurence rushed right ahead with Amelia following cautiously.
"No!" the ravenous scholar snarled.
His left sleeve exploded with fur and flame. His arm grew to its full monstrous size for a moment as he dragged the Pthumerian Queen away from the other hunters.
"What the hell, man?" the foreign priest complained as his claymore ate dirt.
"He's gotten greedy," his wife said. "So much for our goodwill."
Before Laurence could justify his actions, the Pthumerian Queen said something low, scowling. She raised her hands high, showering all of them in a spurt of her tainted blood. The Vicars crumpled in pain, but the foreigners only seemed annoyed.
"We're not here for your blood, you fool!" the huntress roared. "Is the world so fallen that a pyromancer cannot recognize a Daughter of Chaos?"
Ancient Yharnam gasped slightly. Her eyes, forever half-closed from dreaming and from weeping, opened wide in astonishment. She spoke again in the language of Pthumeru.
"The root of Chaos is Life," the huntress replied. "How can one rule all that lives if one cannot understand their languages? All the nobility of Izalith bear rings of translation. I speak your language no more than I speak the language of these petty men… least of all, my husband."
"You're just jealous that my reference game is on point."
"Thank you for illustrating my point. Now, Yharnam, hold your peace, and we shall discuss the reason for our presence as soon as we resolve the issue of this interruption. Laurence, you had best have ample reason for disobeying orders."
The First Vicar spat.
"You failed to mention the Pthumerian Queen was with child. I will not risk damaging it. You witnessed what Master Willem and I created with only corpses. Imagine what we could do if we could study a live Pthumerian! One of the race which had gone before us!"
"Treating your forebear as a test subject and her child an object –" the huntress said, sneering, "– truly, you have inherited the moonlight."
"Is there an insult in there? Because now you're the one speaking in a foreign language."
The younger priest simply watched, amused, while Amelia followed every word. To her credit, the Pthumerian Queen did much the same. An intense battle with the high priestess and queen of an ancient race had devolved into an argument between a high priest and a queen of an ancient race. While the banter continued, the foreign priest and the last Vicar quietly slipped away with the Pthumerian.
"Right, so, long story short, I'm a real cleric. It took some time, but I have the single most important power and iconic power of a healer, the envy of necromancers everywhere. I know the countersign of the Sixth Saint, Astraea. If I encounter a spirit, I can restore its body to life."
The Pthumerian's withered lips curled into a snarl. In a rage, she snapped the stone wood of her manacles and lunged toward the hunter. Amelia snarled, her face elongating as she opened wide to crush the ghastly Queen's arm with flesh-rending fangs. The ancient tainted blood gushed out into the Vicar's mouth, causing her to yelp and fall away just as quickly. However, the hunter was still in no danger.
The divine blood, purer in the Pthumerian Queen than anything ministered by the Healing Church, healed her wounds almost instantly. Only, the stone floor erupted with the footfalls of a monster, and an arc of flame rose with such ferocity as to strike at the ceiling. In a flash, the huntress had closed the gap and swung her burning sword. Only, the trick weapon was a mere replica. It couldn't bear the heat of the concealed deity's rage and fell to cinders.
So too did the Pthumerian Queen's scorched hands fall to the floor, sizzling and popping with the scent of burnt meat. Already in a fugue state, Yharnam's reaction was subdued, but her own rage subsided at seeing pyromancy greater than her own. A faint look of disbelief had settled upon her brow.
"Do not touch-!"
"I'm fine. To be fair, it's a pretty big claim, even for me. The hormones are getting to you. Here, Yharnam, let's start with a bit of regular healing."
Laurence growled in the back of his throat, impotent rage simmering. He had reacted to the attack but had been far too slow to stop it. He retrieved Yharnam's severed hands and gave one to Amelia. Each Vicar held one against its severed stump while the Pthumerian Queen looked on skeptically. The foreign priest started to reach for a pouch on his belt, then thought better of it, wagging a finger.
"If you don't mind, dear…"
The huntress scoffed and crossed her arms but didn't resist as he stroked her hair. The golden light of a miracle streamed along the priest's fingers, using the magic-endowed hair as a vehicle for faith and primal instinct. Soothing rays of light pulsed outward, humming as they did so. The holy pyromancy restored the severed flesh and cured the blood-caused wounds of the Vicars, but by effect of the spell or of the romantic scene, also calmed the whole group.
"So," the priest said at last. "This is the deal. I'll resurrect Mergo regardless, but we can't exactly let someone like you go free. You will become one of our citizens whether you like it or not. It's your choice as to whether we confine you for your crimes or you work to redeem yourself."
"Thou art as much a slaver as I was," Yharnam said flatly.
"You'll be given a trial, but the evidence will extracted from your own memories. I think we both know what the sentence will be."
Her lips wrinkled.
"So be it."
Gehrman moaned in his sleep. He too was trapped in a realm between dreams and reality. While he woke, he was trapped upon an illusory island of his own making, an eternal reminder of what he had lost. When he fell into slumber, though, he entered a dream within a dream, a nightmare where his sins hunted him as he had hunted the victims of the scourge he held part in unleashing. But tonight's Dream was quickly coming to an end.
The Workshop was burning, as he had burned so many beasts in his time. The sharp scent of the smoke, of burning paper and iron, always snapped him awake again. The nightmares had mercifully subsided already, but now he had to face the waking nightmare of the Dream ending. It would soon come time to put the young hunters to rest. With great effort, he wheeled himself through the burning shop.
He unlocked the gate to the memorial field and grit his teeth as he forced the wheelchair uphill, over the uneven terrain. He settled beneath the old tree to await the foolish pair of hunters who thought romance had any place in their profession. He waited silently for a time, wishing he could fall asleep. The acrid scent of the smoke simply wouldn't let him. So he waited.
Instead of the hunters, it was the moon which stirred him from his quiet contemplation. It hung low in the sky, blazing brightly. Only, it did not burn the umber red of paleblood. The silhouette of the tendrilled deity descended from its light, beckoning him. Instinctively, he sprung from his chair, kneeling low.
"Nameless lord, the night is short, but I will not fail to claim your echoes."
"The nameless lord was my brother. Heedest first the words of mineself, Gwyndolin."
The first hunter realized too late that the usual sensation of divine communion was absent. Nevertheless, the scent of moonlight and the tidal pull emanated from this other creature. If it was a god, it wore the face of a man, eyes covered as any scholar of Byrgenwerth or the Healing Church. From beneath his white gown and golden chimes, however, a tangle of vicious snakes writhed like the monsters of the forbidden woods.
"If thou seekest atonement for thy sins, thou shalt findest mine judgment merciful. Hunter Gehrman, ignorant of thy pedigree, renouncest thine false deity and findest service among the Blades of the Darkmoon."
The old hunter smiled assuredly.
"Well, I don't know about that. I've seen madmen that look more divine than you."
"Appearances canneth deceive."
"Then let these old eyes have a closer gander."
The ancient lunar deity descended, snakes writhing upon the ground. In his hands, he held a golden scepter but was otherwise unarmed. Easy prey. The Burial Blade whipped around, ratcheting out to its full length in a flash as it clove through the god's thin neck. The body and all its snakes fell limp, and the head became stuck in the ground by one of the spines on the crown.
The First Hunter sniffed, then spat on the body.
"What a god. Put up less of a fight than the babe."
Moonlight lanced through his side. The hunter vanished, reappearing some distance away while he quickly looked one way and the other. He folded the blade to its short form so he could clutch his side. He held up his palm, rubbing his fingers together. No blood. Then why did it hurt so?
"Thou heedest not mine warning. Appearances art oft false."
The corpse glimmered into nothingness.
"Surrenderest thineself to the gods if thou wishest true insight into the world. If thou fearest reprisal for thine sins, the power of the Darkmoon shall safeguard thee."
"Well, I might be more inclined to believe you're a god now."
Gehrman kept his guard up, turning about with legs tensed for a quick evasion. Moonlight struck him again, piercing through his back without resistance. He stumbled forward before whirling around to find nothing.
"I shall ask one final time. Willest thou not serve mineself as a Blade of the Darkmoon?"
The First Hunter only smiled darkly. Chasing a whiff of moonlight, he sprinted straight ahead, leaping through the air and unfolding his scythe. Steel struck against tin, and the weaker metal gave way. The Burial Blade cut through the divine scepter, then bit into the flesh of a god yet again. Holy blood rained over the moonflowers as Gwyndolin stumbled backward, his snakes drunkenly trying to balance him.
"Then perish in this forsaken twilight."
For the third time, a moonlight arrow twisted through the old hunter's body, this one cutting through the back of his neck and emerging through his mouth. He fell to his knees. Dying, the fire began to die with him. The Dream had been his, but it had been shared by many and would endure his passing. Of course, such a change would indelibly attract the attention of its prime architect.
The paleblood hue returned to the moon, and its full disc overtook most of the sky. Out of the shadows of a maria, a hideous thing crept. Its body was deformed and incomplete, exposed ribs writhing just as much as its countless tendrils. It landed amidst the flowers on all fours like mere beast, searching like a dog for the concealed killer.
The nameless moon presence beckoned by Laurence and his associates. Paleblood.
"Wretch of the Abyss, have your pretensions of divinity eased the pain of your deformity?"
The thing hissed and gurgled, but it could find the god no more easily than the hunter had been able to. A beam of blue moonlight shot cleanly through its crude, ever-gaping mouth. It howled, slamming its claws into the earth before plowing through the flowers in a frenzy. It slashed hither and thither, intent on destroying absolutely everything. When that too proved fruitless, it reared up on its hind legs, covering its face.
Abruptly, it tore its hand free, unleashing a red shockwave from one eye which shuddered through the air, shredding the flowers as effectively as anything else. Panting from the exertion, it at last paused.
"You are unworthy of this honor, but an example must be made. Behold, I am the Dark Sun Gwyndolin, King of Anor Londo and Lord of Sunlight!"
The deity hovered again in the light of the moon, which had been restored to its natural blue shade. He drew up his golden-lacquered yew and reached through the empty air. Sparks flitted across his gloved fingertips, and for a brief moment, the roaring burnt gold of Sunlight appeared, but it was quickly tainted by the god's warped nature. As he drew the Sunlight Spear back along his bow, a shadow passed over it. It became a pulsing, silent bolt of eclipsed light, barely visible as he held it.
He let it fly without sound. So too did the creature perish, its body devoured by occult power. With that, the Dream calmed and returned to its normal state, the damages of the battle undone. Only, the moon continued to loom over the field of flowers.
"Now, to claim my birthright…"