The Hunter rests on the roof of Odeon chapel, a crow drinking sedative soup from a tin next to him.

He pulls off one of his greaves and runs a hand through the feathers atop it's head.

The crow shifts it's head, guiding the hand towards the spot it wants scratched.

How long would it take to end the nightmare? The Hunter ponders. And if he truly could manage it, what then? He had met many former hunters in his trudge across Yharnam. They all left the hunter's dream behind. Could he do the same? Could he leave her? No, he thought. He was already...

"What do I do?" He says aloud. The crow cocks it's head. Had any other hunters experienced this? What then? Could she even truly feel the same way about him?

His thoughts are stuck in a loop, and he can't stop doubting himself.

He turns to the crow. "What a mess, huh?"

"Quork!"

The Hunter chuckles. "You can say that again."

"Quork!"

*

"Welcome home, good hun- EEP!" The Doll squeaks in surprise as the Hunter's form becomes clearer, and with him, a guest.

"Good Hunter..." She says dangerously. "What is this creature..." She pauses to calm herself.

"Haven't you ever seen a crow before?"

"I know what a crow is," she snaps. "But what I do not know is what a crow is doing here."

"She doesn't do much of anything, really. She just kind of sits there." He replies, puzzled.

"Don't play your word games with me. This is a sacred sanctuary that exists out of time. It is not for pet ravens."

"She's a crow."

The Doll glowers at him, fuming. He hunches his shoulders, suprised at the Doll's reaction. Normally he couldn't get her to even express an opinion, so this deluge of anger was frighteningly uncharacteristic for her.

"She's docile! Look, see?" He rubs the crow's head affectionately. Perhaps it was his imagination, but it almost looked as if the Doll's eye twitched.

"Is it sedated? Most all beasts would become docile while under the effects of sedative stew," she says coldly.

"Well-"

"Well?" She crosses her arms.

"She is, but she was docile to begin with. That's why I gave her the stew!" The Hunter says, becoming frustrated.

"It's diseased."

"No, she isn't. Even if she was, Neither of us can get sick!" The Hunter draws himself to his full height, crossing his arms as well. Her eyes seems to twitch once more as he insists on using the crow's proper pronoun.

They stare each other down, the Hunter fighting not to cower in fear and hurt. The Doll surpasses him in both height and strength, and he knew he could not bring himself to fight her. Even if he could, he has a sinking feeling that he would lose.

The crow looks at them both, wondering what their dreadful squawking was about.

The Hunter had unsettled her at first, what with his oddly shaped shiny claws and plumage. Over time, though, she grew used to him. This new one, though...

The Doll did have what looked suspiciously like flat black feathers around her lower half,

And she looked to have brown wings! Surely she couldn't mean the crow any Ill intent, and that smell... It was similar to the smell of the tree she grew up in, though another, slightly metallic was mixed with it.

Perhaps she was hungry? The crow inches it's way towards the nearest gravestone, all while the two giants continued their squawking. She darts her beak out and seizes a lone Messenger by the scruff of its head covering, ambling towards the Doll with her prey.

The Messenger gives a groan of indignation.

"And now look!" The Doll cries. "It sees the poor Messengers as prey!"

The crow places the Messenger at the Doll's feet, pecking at her bootlace to draw her attention to it.

"Ah," the Doll says, realization sinking in.

The Hunter beams. "See she brought you a gift!"

The Doll kneels, guarding the Messenger. "Not food," she says sternly to the crow.

The crow cocks her head. Perhaps this large bird was herbivorous? The crow Quorks softly. Suddenly she seizes the Messenger again-

"No!" The Doll cries.

-Only to place it gently across her back feathers, ferrying it back to it's tombstone.

The Doll stares, mouth agape.

"Well? I told you," the Hunter chides. "I'm a good judge of personality, even if a being seems dangerous. I took a chance on you, didn't I?"

The Doll softly smacks him, still looking at the crow. Finally, after a long silence, she speaks. "It- she must stay in the field of the great tree. The Messengers might fear her."

The Hunter grins widely, hugging the Doll.

After a few seconds, they both realize what they are doing, pulling away quickly. The Hunter blushes, and if the Doll could, she would as well.

The Hunter shakes his head, girding himself before embracing her once more. He could stand it no longer; his desire and weariness had won against his apprehension and embarrassment.

He holds his breath, his face pressed against her cravat. After a moment, he feels her wrap her arms tenderly around him, holding him firm. She turns gently and sits down on the stone and dirt ledge she stands vigil at.

Shifting the Hunter, she holds her arm across his back so that he may recline. She adjust her shawl, enveloping the Hunter in it to shelter him from the slightly chill breeze. He sighs, throwing his ego to the wind and pressing close to her. Though she was a doll, her clothes, and her, by extension, were mysteriously warm.

And, ever so slightly, they grew warmer.

*

The Doll gazes at him, adjusting her arm whenever he shifts in his sleep. She hopes that his true dreams are pleasant; there is enough distress in the rest of the sleeping realms.

The crow looks at the Hunter curiously.

"So peaceful, is he not?" The Doll sighs.

"Quork," The crow says in agreement.

She giggles. "Quork indeed." She strokes the Hunter's hair, smiling.

"Quork indeed."