The continued support I get on this story is almost unprecedented. Really it is incredible to hear people not only follow and review, but even favourite my writing. It almost feels wrong to base my interpretations and plots in the IP of other people.
Quatre
Gehrman thinks from his post of the days before the endless dream. The days where he and Laurence would debate and hunt and laugh as comrades. He even remembers his love for his Doll. Not his Doll, his wife's Doll. He loves the Doll because his wife loved the Doll. She would sit by the fire combing "my young lady's hair" and mumbling prayers for the safety of Gehrman and the hunters. She did this twice a day. In the morning when Gehrman would work in the shop, and when he returned from a hunt in the dawn. The times were good. She would do this for thirty years, before she was taken by the plague.
When his dear Aemelia was taken, Gehrman personally brought her before the church, asking the good vicar if she could ease her suffering. Ludwig, the great church hunter, denied her salvation, and left Gehrman to end his own wife. The Doll in the workshop stayed as a mockery of his former love. He would comb her hair twice a day, counting to a hundred with the ivory comb, and sweeping the grey hair from her eyes. Laurence understood, and would sit outside the workshop, toying with his cleaver, watching his teacher venerate his anchor to humanity. With the Church, the Powder Kegs, the enigmatic Vilebloods, and the Workshop acting to cleanse the beasts, the nights were calm, and the dreams were short and sweet. Gehrman remembers the scores of hunters that would visit, seeking training, donating texts, bringing thanks, and sometimes condolences. Halcylon. Sad, but absolutely splendid. He would leave with Laurence, patrol the streets, cut down a beast or two, then return.
It was not to last though. Promptly five years after Aemelia's death, Yharnam collapsed into chaos. The church began reporting great and powerful beasts coming from Byrgenwerth, the sewers became breeding grounds for diseased creatures to spread the plague, the old forest was deemed a death zone, and the lower wards of the city became infested with hordes of infected. The Church blamed the Vileblood's dark rituals, the Vilebloods blamed the Church's prospecting in the tombs, and the citizens became few, and guarded. The hunters became few. They would leave into the city, and return scarred, battered, mad, or not return at all. Gehrman, now aged and feeble, coordinated alone in his workshop, where Laurence had forsaken him in the pursuit of Byrgenwerth secrets. Hunters became an endangered breed, and they stopped coming to the workshop. The Healing Church sent their holy executioners to purge the Cainhurst Vilebloods. The Powder Kegs disbanded with the destruction of their workshop, and Gehrman was alone.
It was in this loneliness Gehrman began hearing the voices. Great whispers from the walls of the old walls of his home, telling him secrets in languages that had never been heard by mortal men. He awoke one morning to find the moon hanging impossibly close in the sky, and his beloved Doll, walking in the garden, the garden that went on into an endless mist. The Hunters disappeared one by one. Starting in the dream, numbering exactly forty-seven. Year after year, vanishing. Every so often the young crow would return their defiled weapons, or broken bodies. Even she would disappear. Ten years after Aemelia, there were no more hunters, the doll slept, and Gehrman was truly alone. That was twenty years ago. Gehrman now sits with the company of the bitter reminder of his golden years, the voices, and a young man with no hope of a peaceful death.
/
Gascoigne stood impossibly tall. He loomed over the Hunter, who was by no means small. The first observation made was the stench of his breath, which became close impossibly fast. Raising his cane to block an oncoming axe, the second observation was made. He was stronger than any man. The axe bore down on the steel blade with enough force to knock the hunter over a tombstone underfoot, the blade went further and lodged into the stone face. The Hunter rolled back to distance himself from this devil, loaded his pistol, thinking "If I can't overwhelm his strength, I'll simply have to be faster". The old man, breathing heavily, drew his axe from the tombstone, bringing a large chunk of the grave with him. There is a loud groan, and in a wide arc, Gascoigne waves an arc with his weapon, flinging the fragment of stone at his opponent. The Hunter sidesteps the flying stone, and is met with a blast from the blunderbuss, just far enough to not inflict any real damage, but enough to break his focus. He raises his blade to block, and the axe misses its target. Taking the opportunity, the Hunter folds in his arm, and draws an arc perpendicular to the axe, slicing the opposite arm holding the gun. Gascoigne doesn't even flinch as his muscle is severed, and he thrusts his knee forward like a battering ram, hitting the Hunter in the chest. The air is forced from his lungs, and the Hunter is thrown back by the force.
The axe falls at an alarming speed towards the young man on the ground, the cane only catching the blow at the hilt, and restraining the force enough for the Hunter to raise his pistol and fire point blank into Gascoigne's pelvis. The old man screams in agony as he feels the bullet graze his bones, and then screams again as the young man before him drives his blade through his already crippled shoulder. Falling backwards, Gascoigne feels the warmth of his own festering blood run down his chest, he can taste it. He can smell it. He can see it. The blood of beasts fills his vision as he rises to his feet. "Beasts all over the shop" he laughs as he brings his axe to its full length. The Hunter jumps to his right as the halberd like blade crashes through a row of gravestones uninterrupted. He then dodges and weaves side to side, up and down, parry and strike and stab in an attempt to counter the blinding flurry of crescent slashes from his inhuman adversary. The man is giggling as he fights, bleeding profusely upon the floor. Gascoigne turns his torso to wind up a powerful strike with his axe. "My turn" thinks the Hunter as he runs forward, slashing at the arms of Gascoigne. He cuts the arm closest to him, then stabs the shoulderblade, quickly and furiously cuts arcs up and down Gascoigne's torso and legs. He ducks and with a quick twist, cuts deeply into the ribcage of the man.
This does not stop Gascoigne, who laughingly swings his axe in a wide circle. Though the blade misses, the shaft of the axe catches the bastard in the chest and sends him flying through the air. He lands in a heap by the stairs. He begins to walk towards the twitching mass of coat and cloth, but his legs have no strength, and his arms can not grasp weapons firmly. He laughs "my blood is more on the outside then in" and he begins to feel a chill climb up his back, and his bandages fall, and his mind goes blank as his bones splinter and grow.
The Hunter looks about. There was a monstrous screech, but no monster. Did Gascoigne flee? Am I safe? Have I won? All is quickly answered as he begins to look to the top of the stairs. A greying flash of torn cloth and fur collides with him as he feels claws and teeth embed into his respective arms and neck. The Hunter is then disemboweled, decapitated, and eviscerated. He wonders what the Doll is doing.
/
The Doll is reading. More precisely, the Doll is reading newsbooks dating through the past three decades. She had never known the outside world, and has never been permitted to even enter the building. "Good Hunter?" She asks. "Would you be displeased should I desire to read in the workshop?". "Absurd". She begins to feel the same disappointment she feels when Gehrman is with her. "What is stopping you from entering? Do what pleases you". She feels the same warmth climb from her feet up as he walks into the mist. The warmth tinges her cheeks, and her face is mysteriously heated for the coming hours. She read all about the first hunter's crusade against the abominations, the research in Byrgenwerth, the mysterious knights of Cainhurst kidnapping hunters, all up to the church closing its doors to the people and the outbreak of the great plague in old Yharnam. She had not seen her Hunter in days, but he was alive, she would not be if he wasn't. As long as he was, she was too. "Romantic" is what Gehrman called the sentiment while she checked on him in the garden. The concept of romance eluded the Doll. It was curious the feelings that mortals felt, the love they could share and express. She did not understand. When the Hunters fight the beasts, or when the people are being killed, who feels an attraction to anything other than their calling.
She is to care for the workshop and it's residents, that is her purpose. To love and care for her home. Yet, she yearns for that heat that comes when she speaks with this man. She counts the seconds when he is in the dream working. It is her own little dream, he delight in the company of one who seems to take interest in her. Not to say it hasn't happened before. The hunters in the past paid attention so long as she held their hands and strengthened them, but that was their business. Their authority to exercise her use. She thinks back to a dialogue she had with the Hunter.
"So you never have seen the outside world?". She raises her head and moves it side to side. "To be honest, this is the best part of the world for me. The city, even clear of beasts was too busy and cramped. There was a stench in the streets, and there were too many people to really even speak to. I much prefer the morning dew, the flowers, and the company here". She asks "I know little of the peace before the hunt, and little of the hunt in progress, I only see the blood and the hunters. Is there really no goodness in the waking world?". He explains that in times of such despair, "It is the smallest of things that keep us sane. The smell of fire, or the smoothness of stone, even the ringing of a clock tower. It tells us that we are alive, and that eventually the night ends". She does not understand. "Perhaps when I return I will bring something to demonstrate".
She has finished the newspapers, and goes to the garden to make sure Gehrman is still there. He is still asleep, his head in his hands, and his breathing shallow. Though next to him is the Hunter, sitting on the ground, in the same position, seemingly asleep. The Doll places her hand on his shoulder, and he looks up. Spectacles. Spectacles and a scar above his eyebrow. "You should come and lay by the fire, the ground is cold, and the workshop is warm". He stands, places a hand on her shoulder, and walks with her to the threshold. "He is so warm". The good Hunter walks with a limp as he makes his way to the small cot in the corner of the workshop. "Would you care to chat?". She is taken for a moment by a wave of vertigo, and sits by him in a wooden chair. They speak of his travels, and his battle. He is visibly tired and within minutes of their conversation, he nods off. She smiles, and sits with him for a moment. His chest rises and falls slightly as he breathes, and his outerwear is hung by the fire to dry. The Doll considers his scar, then his glasses. She does not want him to crush his spectacles, and so she tenderly reaches to take them from his face.
She touches the bridge of the frame, and his hand lightly grasps hers. She withholds a gasp, as he is still resting. His hand is warm against hers, and she is aware of a heat enveloping her face as his lips graze her hand slightly, dragging her hand (and his eyewear) down his face. He releases his grasp, and she quickly places the article on the nearest shelf, and takes her leave to the garden. He awakens many hours later, and sits by her in the garden. "I had brought you something to demonstrate my point. From our last real discourse. A young girl had given this to me" he speaks as he removes a small wooden box from behind his back. He opens it, and a small series of bell chimes fill the air. Cheerful and fragile. The Doll stared fixedly at the clockwork mechanisms in the box. The copper gears turn on a dial, a tumbler swings, and a arm seems to gyrate as iron and steel and aluminum seem to blend into cogs, turning small panels of metal over bumps, creating the ringing. For a moment she is unaware that she has leaned into the Hunter's shoulder, and her hand has enclosed his in an attempt to feel the wood of the box. The realisation hits her and she pulls back sharply, "how indecorous of me my good Hunter. Please forgive such a violation so that I may-". "Oh my dear friend, it is nothing but curiosity. I. er. Think nothing of this incident, though now I must take my leave". He quickly stands, glancing at an inscription on the box. Eyes widening, muscles tightening, legs moving quickly. "I must go". He is wearing his coat, his blade is sharp, and his eyes narrowed. "I will be home soon".
His face was reddening as hers does on her own. The Doll sits at her post, thinking of the softness in her features. She wonders the meaning of yes. She thinks about the romance yes. She gets up, and walks to the newspapers, begins reading a serialisation of a romance story, muttering all the time "yes". She learns now of femininity, and of her sensation. Frightening as it is. The Doll puts such in the back of her mind, and she waits.
So Concludes another chapter of Dreamscape. Not as long as I had hoped, though I make this up as I go along. I'm going to uni soon for the first time, and I am remarkably nervous. I hope it will not put any hold on the story. I had another literary reference in this chapter, if you know where it is from, post it in a review. As always, I am so flattered that people read my work, and like it even. Thank you for your continued attention, it means a lot to an aspiring writer. Till next chapter.