I'm still astounded by the fact that people liked what I wrote. Thank you to those who review and criticize, my work will (hopefully) improve accordingly. A special shout out to Got mercy for the criticism, it completely emboldened my work.
II
The Hunter walked the lonesome road up to the cathedral ward, taking great care to be discreet. In times where the blood of man and beast becomes indistinguishable, the hunters experience unknown euphoria. The warmth of blood and fire and gunpowder permeates the senses, and even the old hunter Gascoigne was rumored to have succumb to the bloodlust. The hunter heard this rumor from a crow, perched on an overlook near the sewers. Quite the pleasant woman, "It's comforting to know there are things that won't kill me here" intones the Hunter as he runs the golden marks through his fingers. They were cold to the touch, odd considering the soft glow they emanated in one's palm. She spoke with the wisdom and severity of one older than himself, but for a woman both small and older, she radiated an aura of fear. The wicked blades hanging beneath her breast made the hunters breast tighten, the blades were not made for beasts. The rapture of the hunt never reached this one. Truly, Eileen the crow did not participate in the warmth of beast blood. She spilled cold and still human blood. The hunter realised the source of his fear. "She is not a hunter, she is a murderer. Stopping the ravenous and the enraged hunters from becoming dangerous beasts".
The hunter loaded his pistol and ran the blade of his cane over his shoulder cape to cleanse the steel of fetid beast's blood. He crossed the bridge, passing spattered stagecoaches and hastily chained boxes to an iron gate, no mechanism in sight. He heard the beast before he saw it. Akin to the wolf like beasts he flayed to get to the bridge, this one stood with its head at least three meters above the ground, antlers protruding from bloody sores in it's skull. The great arms it had were asymmetrical, one being hulking and covered in fur, the other being smooth with curved wicked claws. Seeing the great form above him made the hunters knees buckle.
"I see now the extent of the plague. The scourge that the church hoped to burn away stands before me". The Hunter looked upon the brute with no fear, a sense of realisation eclipsed him, but it was quickly overshadowed by a bone crushing swipe from the great creatures furred arm. The beast threw the Hunter across the bridge, the only thing stopping the airborne man was a pile of crates, which fragmented under the pressure. With blood literally running his vision red, the hunter stood to face his opponent. His body screamed for respite, wood fragments and stones lodged in his body only negated by the wave of rage and pure aggression that pushed the man forward. Not even noticing the ringing in his ears caused by an inhuman screech, an arm not feeling like his own fired a pistol. The bullet met its mark in the creature's face, where stunned, the beast fell forward. Acting on anger and lust for more blood, the Hunter threw his cane as a javelin, and charged after it. The beast was recovering when the cane struck its neck, not soon after the beast felt the blade free itself. A flurry of razors and bloody spray covered the ground beneath the creature as it's legs were shredded to loose strands of tissue. Keen to bathe in the strength of his adversary, he collapses his cane and strikes at the clawed arm. Even as the larger arm swipes him off his feet and into the air, the Hunter fires off another pistol cartridge, this time missing the beast's eye, and instead causes a gasp of air to leave a newly made hole in it's throat. A now bloody and suffocating monster stumbles to the ground, where the Hunter runs forward in a blinding series of slashes, the last embedding the blade in the skull of his adversary.
The fight is won, but walking to the lantern the thought crosses his mind "I became Gascoigne". Fear and despair wash over the sobered man as the messengers take him home.
/
She whispers softly to herself the word "paralysis", with it, her lips move. The Doll shifts her legs to stand. She stumbles for a moment, her hands catching the wall she was perched on a moment ago. A small victory in not sullying her dress aside, the woman stood erect, and dusted her garments. "How long have I been asleep?" she wanders through the eternal dream, for a moment waltzing up and down the path bordering the workshop. "Foolish doll" Gehrman croaks in a series of wheezing coughs, "our new hunter approaches, and you dance about in your own grime like a young woman? Get yourself clean for our newest failure, we haven't entertained anyone in almost two decades". She stood for a moment with a sense of emptiness. It had not been days, or weeks, even years. It had been decades since the last hunter entered the dream, decades since the insight of those stalwart professionals graced her with any insight or power. The Doll suddenly became acutely aware of how weak she was, no eldritch wisdom had bound her consciousness in over twenty years, nary a single morsel of insight to hold together her being.
The Doll remembered her position, channeling the echoes of fallen blood into new strength for the dreamers. She would hold their hands, rough and calloused, and watch before her eyes as men and beast blood was shed and savored by man. She would grimace as the men she was designed to love would exact harsh judgement on creatures that felt, that still had traces of humanity. She would feel the poison of hatred, rage, and suffering flow like the blood through her and into the hunters, emboldening their spirits and strengthening their bodies. After decades of devout service to the workshop hunters, the Doll was numb to such violence. Still she pitied the poor creatures that were torn to bits by her masters. They were once people.
The Doll, stung by the harsh words of her only consistent company in the dream, and the length of her absence, walked over to the large basin near her post. A single messenger rose from the misty water and handed her a damp handkerchief. With appropriate thanks, the Doll washed the grime from her dusty joints and prayed hushed prayers for her new hunter. Thinking all the time of her new Hunter.
He arrived not a second after the Doll placed the cloth back in the basin. She walked briskly to her guest, speaking "Hello, good hunter. I am a doll, here in this dream to look after you. Honorable hunter, pursue the echoes of blood, and I will channel them into your strength. You will hunt beasts. And I will be here for you, to embolden your sickly spirit.". The warmth and fondness of finally speaking to another being flooded her senses. The man stared for a moment, and then another. He was taken aback, then nothing. He walked past young woman with the utterance "thank you friend". His eyes were not as they were when he returned in past times. When she glanced from her unmoving position she saw the aching young man walk about with inquisitive eyes. He would speak with Gehrman, clean his weapons, write in a small journal, even tinker with gears on the threshold of the workshop. Now he walked with deadened eyes, a part of her cracked in focus, her strength was faltering with her dear Hunter. When he returned, he was seemingly more focused. They talked briefly of Gehrman and the messengers when he asked in a hushed tone "will you grant me more power?". In all her years of service, never had anyone asked to be emboldened, always barking orders at her, shouting and demanding immediate strength to fight. The Doll felt a tinge of heat at the courtesy rise in her chest, and a small smile creep upon her. "My good Hunter, it would be my duty to embolden you. Please, place your hand in my own and sit". he sat at her feet looking her in the eyes, her green eyes glanced away from his grey ones as she felt warm hands take hers. "Now close your eyes".
The sight of a great and lithe figure filled her vision, this creature sent a storm of razors and lead upon infected people. It flayed the bodies and pulled a long blade from corpses, it stood as death stood, all in its way was cut to shreds, painting the figure in blood. Such macabre sport this man participated in as he walked the streets cutting and shooting and burning his adversaries, though there was always a hesitance, as if the hunt was not pleasing the Hunter. Strange. It was in these moments where axes would fall, guns would fire, and beasts would tear this man apart. These moments always blurred into a new series of murder, until she saw the beast she heard of so long ago, the one of the infected church. It was a church hunter years ago who spoke of high clergymen becoming great and terrible beasts, rampaging through the streets. They all spoke fondly of their bloody sport. She saw the Hunter's joy as he battled the mammoth, his sweat noble with effort as he charged what seemed to be a castle to him. She feared the feeling of infection spreading in his bloodlust. Was this the feeling that killed off the last hunters she had seen? She felt the anguish in his thoughts, and the emboldening was finished.
Hands untangled, the Hunter spoke softly "thank you, I feel my strength return tenfold" his breath touching her warmed hands, though there was no happiness, only hollow weariness. The Doll thought of the weight of what she saw, how his duty crushed his spirit. Such was the inevitability of the hunt. It tears and gnaws at the humanity of the professionals who participate, until either they are killed, or the bloodlust turns them into the beasts they once hunted. As the bold man walked away, she called out "My Hunter?". He turned to face her, his eyes showing curiosity. "The hunt was once a popular event, dozens of hunters would grace me with the fruits of their duty, share with me the strength they gained. I saw most of them only once before they were bested in spirit and strength. You have come back to me ten times. You are different, do not enjoy the battle, come back to me". He stopped for a moment and slowly walked over to her, removed his cap and scarf, and bowed low. Taking her hand in his, he spoke "The hunt has not broken me yet". Then he disappeared. Back into the dream. Back into the danger.
"Come back to me"
Never tried to write a fight scene before, how did I do? I know I suck, but please keep helping me with your input. Special thanks to those who followed/favourited/reviewed my story, you guys really help. I'll try to be quick with the next chapter, should it please you.