I planned on waiting to publish another chapter until I was all settled in at the university, but writing is therapeutic in a sense. I couldn't stay away I guess. Keep an eye out for the literary references, I almost want to make a game of it. Waffling aside, here you go.
V
The music box was his. Gascoigne, not a cleric, a father in the literal sense. His stint of service for the church only solidified such a title. Now he was a monster, a warped facade of his former glory clad in tatters of bloody cloth and beastly fur. Where once there was a man of principle and duty, protecting his children, he was now the subject that others needed protecting from. He snarled and flung his broad arms in a frenzy of claws and teeth, grazing flesh and crumbling stone, searching for more delightful blood to satiate his need. The Hunter before him was no different.
The Hunter however, now had the gravity of the battle in his mind. This was no mad man, this was not just a corrupted beast without mind or soul. This was a man. A sick man whose daughter was in his acquaintance. The sentiment was not lost on the hunter, who considered for a moment in between parried claws and gunpowder clouds, the philosophy of his action. He was a protector, a doctor even. Just as the church physicians searched for a cure, he too, reduced the plague by silencing those beyond saving. He halted the spread of death by silencing the suffering souls who once were. Somber. Sobering even. The Hunter feels a wave of calm resignation wash over him. This is not a fight he can lose, this is a sacred duty for which he will never be thanked. He must put Gascoigne to rest.
He parries the first claw via a clean drag of his cane across Gascoigne's bicep, and sweeps an arc across his chest. Although shallow, there is a cut, but the Father does not slow. The man leaps into the sky with a roar, his claws marking a path of descent. The Hunter rolls forward, out of the path of the man who now crashes into a row of tombstones, tumbling over the fragments of stone he created. The Hunter rushes the recovering form, but miscalculates the speed of recovery as a great forearm slams into his ribs, lifting him from his feet and flinging now airborne body into the trunk of a tree. Knowing the ruthlessness of his adversary, beast or no, the Hunter fires off a round from his hip directly forward. Not expecting connection, he is surprised to find that the bullet grazed Gascoigne's cheek, and stunned him. He takes the initiative to release his blade into component parts, and flog the man in his stupor. The razors catch in his skin and tangle in his fur, and a harsh tug causes Gascoigne to howl in pain as entire sections of viscera are torn from his flesh, littering the floor.
The Hunter wants this to be swift, for Gascoigne's suffering to be brief. To Him, Gascoigne was an honored acquaintance, the father of one of the few things in the nightmare that didn't actively try and kill him. He switches back to a sword, and begins slashing and stabbing in precise arcs and pinpoints, aiming to finish off his adversary. The adversary is not making it easy though. For every drop of blood spilt, Gascoigne seems to be getting faster and more frenzied, his rage and bloodlust only growing. He now charges forward with his massive shoulders, attempting to knock any standing object off its base. He misses, and instead almost uproots a tree. The Hunter hesitates for a moment as he feels splinters from the impact embedded in his arms, but quickly regains his stance as he sees Gascoigne double forward for another strike. The first claw is avoided by leaning to the side, the second requires a lunge to the left. The third strike arcs a sharp claw directly into the Hunter's shoulder. The pain is intense for a moment, the burning sensation of muscle being rent from bone as the blood drains freely from the open gash. Then. Numbness. Partially because of the blood loss, then because of the next sensation, The second and final strike pinning the Hunter to the floor. Gascoigne bit him in the shoulder opposite the other.
He was stuck, impaled on a claw, and held down by the gnawing teeth of his adversary. One hand reached frantically for some means of escape, when suddenly a small metallic sound rang aloud in the tomb of Formless Oedeon. A segment from a small wooden box long forgotten by a young girl's father. Gascoigne stopped, and his free hand grasped for his head, his teeth freed the mangled extremity. Beastly clouded eyes glanced up at the wooden box, but his hand was lodged in something warm. He tasted iron, different warmth and flavours, but all iron. There was a rancid stench of blood in the air, and it was long past time for him to return home to his wife and children. "Where am I?" but there was no answer. Too many sensations and memories were flying around, some were not of him. There was a vision of his wife, bloodied and dying, her breast torn open by steel implements. He whispered questioningly "Where are my children?".
The Hunter thought not of the momentary peace. Instead he reached for a bottle secured at his waist. He grasped it tightly, and fired a single bullet through the cloth that bound the lip. The bullet hit Gascoigne in the arm with enough force to free the Hunter's shoulder, the bottle was hurled in an upward arc, smashing now burning glass fragments and oil into the face of his adversary. Then with cane in hand, the Hunter thrust his blade into the torso of Gascoigne. The Hunter stood without triumph or ceremony, clinging to his shoulder before walking to the twitching body of the defeated party. The beast looked up, and there was calmness, humanity. He raised the pistol to the man's temple, nodded with respect, and pulled the trigger. The Hunter nursed his wounds with excess blood vials, and waited to regain strength.
/
The Doll sat alone in the foyer of the workshop. In the reading of her serialisations, she began to understand more and more. Even in the absence of the literature she had been reading, it seemed as though she would awake with more knowledge than before. In the last moment alone she had been out in the garden, Gehrman sleeping, flowers in bloom as always, when a realisation hit. There was no world outside the gates of the Hunter's Workshop, how did she find a full water can every time she awoke? Even further, the flowers had been in bloom for about three months, and in the prior decades, years. Things in the reading did not adhere to the laws of the Dream. The fiction presented was a conundrum. Time was relative here, and regardless of reality, this place, existed separately. Concepts of Unheimlichkeit (as she read it) were evident in her reality. Her reality. Was it different than the waking world? Because her world was temporary, and fleeting with the power of the activity of the hunt, was it real?
Was she real? She loved the Hunters, desired to serve them and ease their pain through blood emboldening. She reveled in the times where Hunters would return to the dream strong and unscathed, was it genuine? Or was she a result of her creators? Without the presence of the Hunter as a distraction, who could ease her mind? Such a weight bore down on her skull, as greyish bangs swept over her eyes. A great sadness flooded her mind. She was a Doll, a thing. Not a being.
/
She chased the Yellow Hunter down alleyways and through clock towers. A tireless pursuit for the aging woman and the mad old man. She fires a round down a hallway, but misses. He throws two knives down the corridor, and they embed into a large rat lurking in the shadows. It is as if he is merely trying to slaughter all that he can before he is hunted down. Eileen is sick of this prey. He is no single battle, but a war of attrition. Days upon days of chasing the pest through dank sewers and infested alleyways only to lose him eventually in a brief duel with the taciturn old bastard, where he would harm her enough to slow her, then continue his mindless slaughter. She would always come close to finishing him before he managed another small feat that would ruin her effort. This would be different. Earlier she had fired a poisoned blood bullet into his side, and it was showing its wear.
Henryk dashed through the streets nonetheless, seeming to effortlessly hack and slash his way through to his destination. He would return to the tomb to rest and resume his duty. Now he would turn briefly to clash with Eileen, slashing away with his cleaver in an attempt to slow her down, she would dodge and take quick stabs with her akimbo blades. He would be in trouble, and then he would flee. The distance to the tomb was closing quickly. Eileen recalled telling her little friend to stay clear of the tomb until her prey was dead and gone. This one was hers. They reached a long sewer corridor, Henryk broke into a frustrated sprint, dashing full speed down the darkened corridor. She pauses a moment when she hears the scream of a pig, and feels the walls shake with the steps of the beast, then continues when she watches her prey simply slide under the charging abomination, disemboweling it lengthways with a single knife. She charges after him, to the tomb.
She walked to the largest of the tombstones, glancing all around. He had to be here, the entire area was drenched in viscera, and the corpse of some large beast was torn to bits by the stairs, and the upper stairwell was certain death for anyone being ambushed. She waited for a moment. Her mistake, considering the serrated blade that embedded in her back, inches from her spine. A sharp intake of breath made her realise that her lung had been punctured. Now she stood to face him. She separated her blades, and took a stance before him. He drew a knife, and extended his saw to its cleaver. Where he would swing an arc, she would lean to dodge and close the distance with a few quick stabs. She lunged in the gap, slashing wildly at his arms, managing to take a finger from his weapon, and completely slash his left tricep. Move in for the kill.
Her body did not comply. There was a second knife embedded in her side, piercing her upper breast into her midsection. He swung his cleaver horizontally. Her only option was to try and block it, and rather, the cleaver turned, and the broad sheet of metal pressed the knife further into her chest. She gasped at the searing pain of many hooked points tore into her skin. This was it. She would die here, and be taken by the nightmare forever. Such sweet freedom, she was getting old anyways. Maybe that sweet young man would pay her a visit, she inwardly chuckles at the thought. Henryk is not amused, rather occupied with the blade protruding from his chest. There is a tall bespectacled man standing behind her. "You really should be nicer to ladies you know". She really almost regretted not dying, being saved in her profession was highly dishonorable. She was the last hunter of hunters though, there was no one to judge her. She wastes no time in injecting new blood to speed her healing. She pulls the knives from her chest, and mutters "that wasn't necessary of ya". He laughs, "but you have my thanks". They chat in short tired spurts, coughing up blood and wrapping wounds. It was oddly intimate for Eileen. She had not experienced talking in years, no less with a man. He said that he would need to go back about his business, and offered his hand as parting. She took it, and he lifted her from the stairs. She savored the warmth of another human, not trying to kill her, and she looked at a face not smeared in gore, at eyes not filled with murderous rage. She wondered what ever happened to that one old hunter who retired. She sighs, savors the closeness of the contact, then walks off into the city to watch the moon once more. She thinks for a moment, even in a dream, her hair still continues to grey. She is forty three.
Oh how the time goes. I still have some lit references you guys should look for. I still crave your lovely lovely words of demeaning criticism (please be kind to my fragile ego). I look forward to what you guys have to say, and maybe I'll see about getting another chapter out before I move out to uni.