Chapter Five: The Praise

"How fascinating!"

Paarl set his eyes upon the large, ovular vial of which Archibald was referring. It did not immediately strike him as a very interesting specimen, although the deep black liquid that lay dormant inside of it was enough to raise an eyebrow.

"What is this, Dr. Archibald?" he asked, mildly concerned that the answer might not be something he truly wanted to hear.

The Healing Church's head researcher turned to his laboratory assistant and smiled broadly, teeth and all, with a frightful glee that immediately put Paarl on edge.

"Blood, my boy. And not just any blood, either. This blood has mutated. Horrifically so. And I've been tasked with finding out why."

Paarl took another look at the viscous, oil-like fluid in the vial. "That's blood? Human blood?"

Archibald laughed. "Once, maybe. But not anymore."

"May I ask where you got it from?"

"You may," Archibald replied, casually pointing Paarl at a table in the far corner of the room. "But don't look if you're going to get sick on my laboratory floor."

The lab assistant had crossed the room to the table and was staring, dumfoundedly, at the sight that lay before him. He had to clasp his hand over his mouth to stop himself from crying out. "God… That's… real, isn't it?"

Archibald snorted. "I surely hope so. I wouldn't want to believe that I have been wasting two days of my life studying it for naught."

Paarl felt a vile, acidic dread rising to his mouth, and swallowed it quickly, turning back to face his superior.

"And? Have you found anything?"

Archibald tentatively tapped the vial with the edge of an empty syringe, smiling giddily, as though a child prodding a curiosity at a marketplace.

"You can't rush progress, my boy. But I can assure you, we are in for an extraordinary workload."

Paarl sagged, trying hard to resist the temptation to gaze back at the obscenity that lay on the lab table.

"Oh... good."


Willem leant forward in his chair, and Rom heard the front hinges audibly creak under the brunt of his weight. The expression on the college master's face told him everything he needed to know about Willem's reaction to the story he had just breathlessly related.

"This could be the discovery of a lifetime," Willem cried. "And just the sort of thing that could put us ahead of Laurence and his… establishment."

Rom heard the distaste in his master's voice, but did not question it. The widespread appeal of Laurence's sect and subsequent overshadowing of his Byrgenwerth origins and the work of his old colleagues was a pain that all students of Willem's felt. It was not a sentiment that needed to be voiced.

"How soon do you think you can put together a party and research this?" Willem asked excitedly.

Rom gave it some thought. "Perhaps by nightfall tomorrow. We will require provisions, equipment. The horses will need to be prepped-"

"Consider it done," Willem cut in. "You have my permission to use Byrgenwerth's resources to whatever end you may require… However few and far between they may be…"

Rom nodded. "Thank you, master. I believe we shall all reap the rewards soon enough."


Gehrman flinched as he put his foot down hard in a puddle. The muddy rainwater spattered his jacket and overalls, and he swore at the freezing touch.

The rainfall had been hard this past week – near torrential in the early hours - but at 3 a.m. in the morning, when one's consciousness is fragile and unbraced, meteorology is not at the forefront of the sleep-addled mind. Certainly, Gehrman had not dressed for the occasion. He had not bothered to throw on anything but a pair of boots, and was still dressed head-to-toe in his gown. This oversight, he too attributed to the time of night – and to his own poor state of mind.

"What am I doing out here?" he wondered. "It's clear that the fresh air has done me no good. I'd have been better to stay under my covers. Sleep or no sleep."

Central Yharnam was hardly one of the prettier districts of the city, either. Even at night the putrid green running down the walls and across the pavement was visible. The pale, lifeless blades of grass whooshed in the night breeze but did little to brighten up the night, and the fetid stench of cheap gin and blood smothered the air.

"I'm going to turn back," Gehrman decided.

However, it didn't take him long to realise that he didn't know exactly which way 'back' was. The darkened streets entwined, looping back and forth around each other like a labyrinth, and the only light to be seen for miles came from the streetlamps that dotted every other corner.

In light, and with an unburdened mind, navigation would have been easy enough. But under such circumstances as these they were all-but impossible.

"Fuck," Gehrman muttered, sinking his hands deep in his pockets and leaning back against the nearest wall.

At the very least, the silence was tranquil. There was nothing to fear out here – not since the gifts made by Healing Church had single-handedly decimated the city's crime rates. When the sun rose he would find his way back home.

Easy enough.

But as his thoughts started to melt away and his eyes began to droop, a quiet clinking from just around the corner shook him to attention.

Immediately, Gehrman felt his nerves start to grate. The thought of encountering another human being out in the dark like this brought out the cold sweats in him, and he was nearly ready to turn and run.

But when the source of the commotion – a figure dressed in a long black garb and tattered hat – stumbled past Gehrman, bottle of brandy in hand, such fears were allayed. It was just a friendly neighbour drunk.

Not a silver-maned monster that wanted to tear off his head.

The man stopped his ambling, seeming to sense Gehrman's presence. He turned his head, and Gehrman saw his face. His eyes were brown, and seemed somewhat at odds with the rest of his features, which were greyed and faded, much like the clothes that he was wearing. Despite this, he had kind features – laugh lines ran down from the corner of his eyes and mouth, and as his eyes met with Gehrman's he smiled briefly.

"Huh, I thought I was the only one who walked these streets at night," he said, voice grizzled and weary. Gehrman estimated him to be at least fifty, based on this alone.

The man took a swig from his bottle, before tossing it away. "I didn't think anyone else could stand the stench. This city is squalor. If my wife hadn't got family here, I'd never have agreed to move."

"It has its charms, I suppose," Gehrman mumbled. He was hardly feeling in the mood for small talk with a stranger – a drunk one at that – but at least it was a distraction.

The man chuckled drily. "You sound just like her, actually. Always trying to find the bright side. Honestly, can you give me one legitimate reason to like this place?"

"What about the Healing Church?" Gehrman replied. "Have you seen the work they've done here?"

"Oh, you're one of them…." The man sighed. His tone had shifted noticeably, and almost seemed despairing now. "Geez. I thought that the folks back home had a problem. Y'know, with tobacco? But this city takes the biscuit. I don't care what they tell you, nothing that's any good for you comes in a bottle."

"Says you," Gehrman retorted.

The man gazed at the broken shards of glass against the wall and shrugged. "What doesn't kill you… But this isn't me. It's my daughter. My eldest. She's been waltzing off with this… character. Typically, she won't tell her old man thing about him. But I'm a good father. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. I look out for her. So… I followed this guy for a time. Found out that he's a vicar for your damn Healing Church!"

Gehrman stayed quiet. The man let out a throaty cough, and continued.

"But it ain't end there. Guy's a lunatic. Downs blood like brandy. He's been beating my girl. Trying to turn her into one of them… But I won't have that. I won't."

The man drew back his coat, and Gehrman saw a pistol tucked into his belt. Once he was sure Gehrman had seen it, the man tugged his coat back across, almost guiltily.

"This is his house," the man declared, pointing at a ramshackle cottage next to the Old Brewery.

Gehrman felt a chill run right through his body. It wasn't like he was committing a crime by hearing about it, and yet, by affiliation, he now felt responsible for it.

"Why not tell the constabulary?" Gehrman found himself asking. "Get them to deal with it?"

The man rounded on Gehrman, fists bunched. "Do you really think they'd listen to a 'destitute alien' like me? A social deviant? They'd never. No, the only justice in this city is that which we take with our own hands!"

Gehrman watched as the man's shoulders heaved angrily. For a second, it seemed like he had lost control, so succumbed to his anger as he appeared to be. His hot breath stank like a gutter, but Gehrman tried not to display his repulsion, for fear of retaliation by firearm.

The man drew out his gun and studied it, a glimmer of reverence in his eyes.

"Don't worry, I ain't gonna kill you," he said. "Like I said, I'm just being a good father. Nobody hurts one of my girls."

His prior demeanour seemingly sobered by his resolve, the man began to stride towards the cottage, gun in hand. Gehrman froze, caught by indecision.

"This has nothing to do with me," he assured himself. "Don't get involved. Don't be foolish."

And yet, the whole encounter had left him feeling something. Something primal.

Fury. Anger like nothing he had ever experienced before in his life; it was swelling up inside of him like a balloon.

"This man, this NOBODY… Drew a gun and threatened me!"

He was pursuing the man before he could even register the blood rush to his legs. His siderite blade, once concealed in a sheath upon his back, was now in his hand.

The man was just ahead of him. It would be over in a matter of seconds. He wouldn't even see it coming.

Gehrman's hand tightened on the blade, his knuckles whitening. It was comforting to the touch, even though it was still stained with the blood of the silverbeasts.

He raised the blade, just inches behind the man's neck.

But then he heard something that made him stop. The man stopped walking too. The whole world seemed to stop, nothing existing but a single, solitary sound.

A howl.


A thick white fog had rolled in. Visibility was at an extreme low, even for Yharnam and its borders, and the horses slowed to a glacial pace, perhaps more spooked than their owners.

Rom, who rode at the head of the party, had come prepared for the occasion. It was not unheard of to see great mists near the coastline – especially at this time of year. As his company slowed to a near-halt in his wake, he felt inside his bag for his oil lantern.

The party had been crossing the marshlands for hours now, and it showed. Spirits were lower than the temperature of the air, and all of the hot water pouches had cooled. Despite wearing winter coats, it was impossible to beat back the cold. The fog was literally just the icing on the cake for a thoroughly-fed up company.

By the light of the lantern, the group was able to roll into Yearnsmouth by evening. From there, it was only a short trek to their destination. Depending on whether the group got an early rise – which seemed painfully unlikely – they could be there by late morning.

The Morning Sun, the local inn was nearly empty, which struck Rom as strange for Yearnsmouth. Although the season meant that tourism was at a low, there was still a considerable local population.

Few of which could be accounted for.

The innkeeper's face lit up as soon as he laid eyes on Rom and his party. Immediately, he pulled them each a pint.

"I was starting to think that the whole town had just got up and left," he chuckled. "First round's on me, gentlemen."

A cheer bustled through the crowd. With a warm hearth and a tankard of ale now at their leisure, it seemed group spirits had revived quickly. The only other customer in the inn, a middle-aged, bearded rogue-type who had been sat on a barstool near the front with a tall glass of bitter, had gotten up quickly as Rom's party had entered, and was now sitting in an armchair next to the fireplace. As his men drank, Rom left his stool and sat opposite the man in front of the flames.

Before Rom could even open his mouth, the man had shut it for him. "I don't want to talk, boy," he grumbled, looking away from the Byrgenwerth scholar with something akin to disgust.

"I was just hoping to find some answers," Rom replied, taken aback by the man's rudeness.

"Well, you won't get any here," the man snapped. "The lot of you are better off packing your bags and going back to wherever ya came from."

"We've travelled too far for that," Rom shot back. "Listen, I don't want any trouble. We're just passing through."

The man grunted, readjusting his body in the chair. "I know where you're going. If you had any sense, you'd turn back. It's a bad place."

Rom raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Since when?"

The man was silent for a few moments, and Rom saw the slightest flicker of fear in the man's eyes before it sunk below the surface once more.

"Since last month. I'm telling you, turn back. No good can come from this. You're putting your men in grave danger."

The chill of the night air seemed to be sweeping in from somewhere. Rom sat forward in his chair, trying to edge closer to the warmth of the hearthstone. "How's that, then? If you tell me what's happening, I'll get right out of your way, I swear."

The man sighed. "I used to hail from down there. Went out on the boats with my brother and my son. But… Oh god…then came those filthy things..."

Rom blinked, his thoughts immediately turning to cosmic matters. "What things? What do you mean?"

The man took a long sip from his drink. Rom was surprised to see his hand was shaking, and the black hairs along his arm standing on edge.

"I've said too much already, I wasn't supposed to get involved," the man returned, standing up hurriedly and putting on a raincoat.

"Wait, don't go!" Rom got up and followed him to the door, but the man slammed it behind him, disappearing into the rain. When Rom came outside, there was nobody in sight.

After a few moments, the innkeeper barked at Rom. "Shut that door, would yer? It's bloody freezing!"

Rom rejoined his group at the bar, but his mind was no longer rooted in one place. His thoughts, like a horrid frenzy, would not stop wriggling about.

"Don't mind him, he's been a regular here since his family chucked him out," the innkeeper chuckled. "Poor chap. But, if I were him, I wouldn't be so upset. There's something about that hamlet that gives me the shivers…"

Rom nodded silently, picking up his glass again.

Most of the party slept well that night.


Gehrman had stopped dead in his tracks. The man had stopped too, head craning about wildly, searching for the source of the blood-curdling sound.

It didn't take him long to find it.

Crawling towards the pair from the shadows across the other side of the street, was an enormous, quadrupedal creature. At first, all that was visible of its monstrous form was the vague outline of a great, black wolf, and a pair of luminous, empty yellow eyes. However, as the creature slowly crept from the darkness into the light, watching the pair closely like a hunter observing its prey, more of its features became visible.

Enormous, curved fangs protruded from its contorted jaws. Its body was covered entirely in deep, shaggy black fur. At the end of each of its four, muscular legs were beastly claws, not unlike that of a dog, but horribly malformed and much, much larger.

It was clear, however, that in spite of the creature's looks, this was no animal.

At least, not a naturally-occurring one.

Its limbs were far too long and gangly to have been the product of natural selection; its body too contorted and rough to have been born from a mother.

All of these factors, and then the observation that there were remnants of torn clothing wrapped around the creature's hind legs.

"Stay back," Gehrman barked, lowering his blade from the man's neck to his side. In spite of the frigid cold of his blood and the paralysing stiffness of his body, there was something approaching steely resolve in Gehrman's bones. Perhaps he had finally reached the point where fighting off inhuman creatures from the pits of hell was just a normal daily occurrence.

"Not bloody likely," the man retorted, aiming his pistol at the creature and waving it frantically. "Come on then, Fido! Let's 'ave ya then!"

The beast continued to skirt against the edge of the opposite street wall, edging closer to the pair but taking time to size them up. For the briefest of seconds, Gehrman's eyes met with the creature's yellow headlamps, and there was a flicker of hunger exchanged between both parties.

And then, the man fired his gun, and the world was set alight.

Gehrman's vision was a blaze of red, yellow, and black. He saw the creature recoil as the bullet glanced its flesh, then leap forward at the pair. Then he saw splashes of crimson that splattered against the wall and his coat.

At one point, there was an acute agony in his arm, and he could vaguely recall the sight of the beast's jaws locked around his elbow, but it was quickly replaced with dizzy adrenaline.

Eventually, the world returned to normal. Gehrman came to with his blade stuck halfway down the beast's throat, blood pouring down every conceivable part of his body. It was in his hair, down the back of his collar and in his eyes.

The stench was indescribably terrible, and yet, there was something invigorating about it.

Gehrman slid his blade out of the creature, which slumped onto the ground lifelessly. Its piercing yellow peepers had gone dim, its gnashing jaws flopping against the cobblestones. After, he just stood there, panting, and feeling the dull weight of the blood on his clothes, that seemed closer and closer every passing second to seeping through to his skin.

Then, the man with the pistol spoke, which nearly shook Gehrman silly.

"Yer all right?"

The Church Scholar started to chuckle. "I had quite forgotten you were even there…"

The man returned the smile, but it quickly faded. "What the heck is wrong with this damn town?" he grumbled. "Can't even go for a midnight stroll without being set upon by someone's oversized puppy!"

Gehrman gave the man a disparaging glare. "A puppy?"

"I'm kidding of course," the man replied. "D'yer see now what this place has devolved into? What that damn Church has done?"

"What has you so convinced that the Church did this?" Gehrman shot back. The bloodlust had not quite dissipated, and he felt himself slowly losing his conviction, hand already reaching for his blade once more.

However, his fingers stopped twitching immediately, as the man pointed at the cottage he had previously been trying to break into – the house belonging to a church vicar. In particular, at the front window - which had, from the looks of it, literally exploded from the inside.

"Yer all right, stranger," the man continued. "It helps to have a friend in crazy times. The name's Henryk. I'll be seeing ya, I think."

He started to walk, but stopped suddenly, looking back.

"Don't believe everything they tell ya. Praise never helped anyone. Ya got to watch out for these church types. They're rotten to the core."

Gehrman waited until the man was out of sight, before slowly sinking to the ground, and tried very hard to wake up from whatever nightmare he was having.


Several hours after Gehrman had dispatched the shapeshifting beast, Rom's party arrived at the fishing hamlet. The party was in higher spirits than the previous day – most likely because of the ale that slept happily and warmly in their bellies. Even the weather seemed improved, the fog replaced with the clear white sky, and the cold, if not dispelled, was certainly weakened.

The first member of the town to greet them was the putrefying stench of fish, some half a mile out from the first row of buildings, which was hardly a surprise, considering the location of the village and its purpose. Several of the men started to bellow and jeer, and the merriness of the inn came rushing back throughout the party. However, the jollying did little to alleviate the heaviness that Rom was feeling throughout his body, ever since he had woken up.

There was something about the warnings that he had been given that made him want to turn tail and run. Such sensations were only strengthened as the group finally reached the outskirts of town, and were greeted by the skeletal remains of several marine animals. Most were tiny, coming from haddock, bass and other small fish, but some of them were much larger. Ominously so, in fact.

Rom could not recall having ever seen such large fish in his life.

As they approached the first set of housing – rickety, wood-built shacks covered in rope and algae – a greying, fifty-so man in a bright blue coat and black trousers stood up from his stool, dropped the fish that he had been gutting, and started to walk towards the oncoming party. Rom saw his blood-stained hands and immediately wanted to put as much distance between himself and the man as possible.

"You folks lost?" the man called out, voice rougher than the waves that he clearly sailed upon regularly.

"No," Rom replied, studying himself, and hoping he sounded braver than he felt. "We're here to see Kos."

The man pocketed the bloodied fillet knife he had been using and produced a tobacco pipe, lighting and propping it in his mouth without saying a word. He barely seemed to react to Rom, and it was several moments before he spoke again.

"I don't know what that is, but you sure have come a long way for nothing. Why don't ya just turn around?"

"Is that a threat?" Rom responded. He could literally feel the tension in the air; it was nearly tangible enough to be seized.

The man blew out a ring of smoke, and pointed to the ground. "Are these fish bones at my feet?"

Rom balled his fist and stepped forward. "We are under authority from the district of Yharnam to carry out our research here. I suggest you step aside, unless you wish to face prosecution."

The man let out a hacking cough. "Now look's who's doing the threatening!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Rom could see several men crouched behind the wooden shacks. Instinctively, he reached for the blunderbuss he had concealed in his trenchcoat.

"I'm warning you," Rom growled. "This is a fishing village. Not a munitions workshop. You stand no chance against an armed patrol. Stand down now. Tell your men to back out of the way, and we can be done with our business as soon as possible."

The man did not respond. He barely seemed phased by the possibility of a violent response.

"We don't need guns, boy," he retorted. "We have the praise of Mother Kos."

Before anyone in the group could react, one of the crouched men tossed a large projectile at the group. Upon impact with the ground, the object, which was made of glass and filled to the brim with an unknown liquid, exploded violently, and flames were sent pirouetting in all directions.

Most men in the proximity of the blast radius were incinerated and killed instantly, but the others were set alight, and their screams of agony wrenched at Rom's ears. In the chaos, the Byrgenwerth scholar fell flat onto the wet ground, the embers scattered across his coat fizzling out, but a searing pain across his back indicating that he hardly gotten away unscathed.

The pain was raw and unrestrained; Rom barely heard the dying of his men. It was over in about five minutes, which he only realised when he was hoisted to his feet by an enormous, hulking sailor, and he saw the charred bodies lying all about him.

"Well, our Mother has chosen you to live," the original sailor declared, glowering at Rom as the struggling scholar was forced around to look at him. At such close range, Rom could see the man properly, and he was horrified at the sight of what appeared to be gills upon the man's exposed neck, just below his collar.

As he looked about him, still trying to kick out and be freed from the enormous man's grip, he saw similar markings on the other sailor's skin. Some also seemed to have the faint beginnings of scales upon their bare arms. The numerous eyes that were lain upon him were all green, an icy coldness in them that rivalled the sea itself.

Rom started to splutter, bile dripping from the corner of his mouth. His gaze fell, unable to look at the deformed fishermen any longer. He was only able to muster a weak response of "What are you…", and all it evoked was cruel laughter from the assembled freak show.

"We are blessed by the Mother Kos," the first sailor responded. "She has given us so many gifts. Lifted us above what we were. Now, you too will meet her discerning eye. She will show you your worth too. It is her will."

"You… people… are monsters…" Rom whispered. He was not granted a response, as he was hefted onto the shoulder of the brutish sailor, and his face pressed against the hard bone.

He was carried for a long time, but there was only darkness. He heard many terrifying sounds along the way. Mostly there was demonic chanting, which sounded as though it were being said by every single person in the town, judging by its volume. Occasionally, he also heard strange and disgusting noises, like slithering and slurping, which he decided he was better off not seeing.

When he was finally released from the grasp of the monstrous sailor, he was thrown onto a large patch of cold, wet soil. Upon lifting his face from the ground, he quickly realised that it was actually sand. He was on a beach looking onto the coast, and the endless, boundless seas.

As soon as he was able he tried to get to his feet and run, but before the strength came he was quickly and brutally cut off, as a huge, rusted anchor was repeatedly slammed onto his legs by the hulking sailor that had previously carried him. There was no pain, which would've seemed strange on any other day, but not after everything he had already seen and witnessed.

There was light.

Across the beach, near to where the tide was currently drifting inward, was the brightest light that Rom had ever seen in his life.

He started to walk towards it.

"Oh yes…He will see…"

Closer now. And closer.

"As we have seen…"

Nearly there.

"Grant us eyes, Mother Kos."

So close.

"Grant us eyes…"