Quincy had once stumbled on Hemwick before he and Alfred had decided to travel through the forbidden woods together. The sun had still been up then, the sunset casting the thatched roofs and stone houses of the hilly village in a warm orange glow. It would have been pastoral, with the distant fields and rural surroundings, if not for the piles of corpses strewn about the village. Scarecrows dressed in the bloodied and torn clothes of the dead were propped up along fences and sticking up from odd angles along the walls. Women wielding sharpened farm-tools and red hot branding irons patrolled the streets or spun giddily in circles shouting nonsense. Quincy had taken that as his cue to return to Cathedral Ward. He would not enter a den of madness such as that unless he absolutely had to.
Which, unfortunately, he had.
His first thought as the Lantern transported him out of the dream was how much worse everything looked under the ghastly red moon. If anything, the shrieks and howls of the villagers below were louder, and he could only see the glow of torches and hot metal from his vantage point by the lantern.
"A hunter must hunt." Quincy said, trying to steel himself for what lay ahead, and jumped into the fray.
After a confused, bloody haze of fighting, running, screams, pain, and blood, Quincy emerged before an unusual vista as he caught his breath on the thatched roof of a long abandoned house. The first thing he saw, illuminated by the bloodied moon, was a vast castle in the distance, rising from the waters of the great lake below the village. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, making him wonder if this was the same lake he had killed the spider-monster on.
Back in Lordra, the ruins of castles were common sights, fallen walls and crumbled towers in the distance where imaginations went wild and only the bravest dare to tread. Unlike the ruins that dotted the moors and plains of his homeland, this castle was not only intact, but had inexplicable lights flickering in the windows, glimmering on the vast lake below. Stranger still, he had not noticed it before.
This must have been the castle of the Vilebloods that Alfred had told him about. Only that legendary castle could seem so desolate, and so eerie. But, if the Castle that Alfred desired to get to was visible so close to Yharnam, what was keeping Alfred from getting there? Quincy carefully hopped off the rooftop, and rounded the corner of the house to be greeted with what could only be Hemwick Crossing.
A vast stone crossroads stretched out at the edge of Hemwick Village, with a curious blue obelisk sprouting from the middle of it. The road that led to the castle led to a bridge that crossed the lake from Hemwick Village to Cainhurst castle, but a vast portion of it had been destroyed. Now, the ragged stones on either side dropped off into nothingness.
Pulling out the envelope to worry it in his hands, Quincy looked about the stagecoach he was promised. Loose stones that had flaked off the cobbles over the years crunched under his boots as he approached the blue obelisk. Everything was eerily quiet, considering the chaos he had just struggled through.
An ear piercing shriek pierced the air. Reaching for his axe, Quincy rushed to the nearest cover-the Blue Obelisk, and crouched behind it, watching the scene unfold.
"The Witch! The Witch is dead!" A bone old thin woman rushed from the stone house on the hilltop, grisly trophies held aloft in both her hands. Quincy covered his mouth to stop from gasping. Swinging from her grasp were the wizened, identical heads of two eye-less women, far more ancient then the woman who was swinging the heads about.
"Hemwick is free! Hemwick is free from the curse of the Witches! Free from the Vilebloods! Free from Yharnam!" She shrieked. Seeming to emerge from the very backdrop, she was joined by the jubilantly howling masses of Hemwick, thrusting their torches and pitchforks in the air with glee. Quincy, not for the first time, felt as if he had wandered into a play at the very moment of the ending, lacking any context for what had happened in the acts before.
A scoff sounded above him. Quincy started once more, raising his axe and peering upwards. Carefully perched at the top of the obelisk, positioned so to be only seen from one side, was a man. He looked down at Quincy with a rapid jerk of the head, his silver mask glinting in the red moonlight. It was a strange helmet, with no sign of eye slits or any openings to be able to see. The hinged top curved slightly up as it went over where the wearer's mouth would be, giving the mask a slight beak. Teeth and a skull's jawbone had been rendered in silver below the upper mask, combined with the Silver hair spilled out the back of the helmet gave the wearer a bizarre, otherworldly appearance.
"Ah, the new hunter. Caught alone, are we?" The stranger snickered. With the grace of a lizard, he crawled down the monument headfirst, his taloned gloves finding purchase in even the smallest cracks in the stone. Quincy backed up cautiously, caught between the stranger and the celebrating, murderous villagers.
"Oh, no need to worry about that lot." He slowly picked himself up, marionette-like. "They've all lost their minds, but they are far more focused on the dead Witches than you. Lucky you that some other bastard hunter took care of that mess."
Quincy stared at him, transfixed by the man's black feathered coat and familiar bell necklace. "Are you-" He started, before being interrupted.
"Bloody Crow. I know who you are, Quincy. I've seen you from the shadows as I stalk my own prey. Learned from the best, now. I'm sure you met her." There was a smirk in the Crow's voice. Quincy had. When he had first ran, lost and confused, but clear and energetic for the first time in who knows how long, he had tried to find a safe place in the warehouses in Yharnam. There, among the crates and the stench of the sewer, what was logically mere hours ago but felt like days, he had met The Crow. A woman clad in the same feathered cloak, topped with a beaked mask. Eileen had greeted him as a new hunter, the first one to do so. She had given him a few Hunter's marks, then warned him about the dangers of Yharnam. From what he had gleaned, she hunted those who became blood drunk by the hunt.
"Eileen never mentioned you." Not like that was a big surprise. He and the woman had only met twice. Once, to be welcomed to Yharnam, secondly, to be warned away from the place where he had fought a man turned beast, the Tomb of Oedon. Quincy had complied.
"Why bring up your failures to newcomers." Bloody Crow chuckled. "Now, I'm going to ask you once, nicely. Hand over that letter."
Quincy felt the letter in his pocket. He had a terrible feeling of dread about Cainhurst, but this was the greatest clue he had about ending the Hunt, as well as some new insight into Alfred. Anyway, he would never hand something over to a creepy stranger.
"I don't think so, pal. Why do you want it?"
"Homesickness. Nostalgia. The fact that the damn missing Castle re-appeared after a decade." Bloody Crow drew his sword-a curved, elegant blade-from his scabbard. "You don't know that Hunters always hunt in twos, do you? Now, here you are, alone without that damn wannabe Executioner."
"Wait-are you a Vileblood?" Quincy asked, startled. Alfred was certain that all but the Queen had died, but-
"One of the last, if it matters." The Crow interrupted sharply. "Not like anyone knows. You tend to keep that information to yourself if it would bring the entire church on your head." The Bloody Crow began to slowly approach Quincy, prompting the man to start stepping away at a similar pace.
"You must be wanting revenge." Quincy was stalling for time now, trying to get the Crow to keep talking. He was beginning to despair of the promised Coach ever coming.
"Revenge? Oh yeah, sure, get revenge, with the last one in Executioner colors being a fucking massive madman with a hammer. As the last of anything, one has to survive. So. I wait. I watch. The bigger they are, the harder they fall, and Alfred is a fool with a long and hard fall incoming." The Crow pointed the tip of his blade at Quincy's throat, then drew it back to do a strange thing. He sheathed it once more, but a wet squelch sounded the moment blade touched scabbard. The Bloody Crow drew his blade, inexplicably now soaked in blood and gore. Quincy's eyes widened as he saw the blade keep going past its usual length, the blood from the scabbard somehow forming another few inches of sword. The Crow continued to languidly pull it from the seathe, knowing damn well he was putting on a show of the gruesome act.
"What in tarnation?!" Quincy asked, his Axe raised without even the memory of him raising it. As if to respond to The Crow's blade transformation, he weakly pulled the mechanism that allowed his Hunter's axe to gain a few inches of handle. "Is that what you want? A 'weapon' measuring contest?"
The Bloody Crow seemed to be blind to any of the humor in the statement, and lunged at Quincy without a second taunt. Cursing the fact that his lengthened axe prevented him from using his pistol-not like that would stop a fellow Hunter on Blood, but causing a flinch or stagger might help him achieve the upper , like the answer to a prayer, he saw the stagecoach making its way towards them both over the old cobbles, behind the Bloody Crow.
Snow dusted, faded, and battered, the coach looked just as ancient as the road he was dodging the Crow on. Most worryingly, there was no driver on top to guide the horses, but they seemed to know what to do and Quincy had more pressing worries.
Quincy sprinted past the Crow, narrowly missing being swiped by the blood-enchanted blade. A vast arc of blood, thankfully not Quincy's, followed the Crow's wide thrust. The man gave a startled cry at the sight of stagecoach.
"No! That is for me, not some damn Outsider!" The doors swung open the second Quincy put hand on the door handle, and he practically jumped on to the worn red velvet seats.
"You'd keep me from my home?! Bastard!" The Crow shrieked, lunging at the open door only for it to shut curtly in his face. Menaced by Quincy's threatening Axe by the open window, the Crow decided to use his supernatural climbing abilities. The coach rocked and thuds echoed through the cabin as the man hastily clambered on top. A harsh, cawing laugh sounded the moment that the thuds stopped, and the sound of two boots mockingly battering against the front of the coach altered Quincy that his foe had perched on the Driver's seat. Quincy pressed himself against the plush back of the carriage, waiting for the Crow's next attack with pistol and axe ready.
"Just the two of us to Cainhurst, eh Quincy? Perhaps I'll get the chance to throw you off the Bridge, since it seems I will no longer need that letter!"
"Thou art not invited!" A harsh female shouted in response, seeming to come from all directions at once. "Leave, or be dismissed!"
"Annali-" The Bloody Crow asked, his voice a mix of shock and surprise. The next thing Quincy heard was a shriek and a loud thump. He poked his head out of the carriage to see the Bloody Crow laying in a heap on the road, picking himself up with none of the eerie grace he had shown before.
"Happy Trails, partner." Quincy called. The Bloody Crow's curses were left to the night air.
-Years ago-
Alfred had stumbled, slipped, and had spent more time losing his balance on the ice and snow in the constantly wet woods then he had running. No matter, he had to get as far away from the city as possible. Reality was starting to set in, and he had finally realized how much of a mess he was in.
The Forbidden Woods, decked with tombstones and crumbling monuments and haunted by folk even more rural then the villagers of Hemwick was well known to be populated with poisonous snakes and parasites that bred in the stagnant water. But, with a heavy blanket of snow that continued to fall, thankfully covering his tracks, the snakes would be sound asleep in their dens and the parasites and other foul creatures either dead or dormant.
While the woods was so named for the Church's mandate that none may enter it, the rule was not well enforced, and was thus not obeyed. Alfred knew his situation was grim. Brawling with a native Yharnamite and trouncing him-quite soundly, infact!-Would come with dire consequences to a near friendless, orphaned outsider, assuming that the threat of being sold as meat was just an empty threat and not, infact, something Yharnamites would do. Alfred had no plans for what to do, or where even to go, and elected to just keep running through the snow covered woods.
Of course, whatever meager luck he had with making it this far finally ran out as Alfred found that he had not taken a step onto another patch of snow covered ground, but had instead put his boot through a patch of thick ice. The rest of his body soon fell through what was a frozen, muddy pond up to his chin with a startled yelp, his bundle falling on the snowy ice behind him. He scrabbled at the edges of the ice in an animal panic as he felt the thick, icy mud begin to seep into his clothes and boots.
Dare he cry out for help? He wondered, trying to blink snowflakes out of his eyes as he struggled.
"Stop!" A rough voice called, and Alfred did, literally and figuratively freezing.
"Lad, you gotta pull yourself out. Slowly now. There." Alfred began the slow process of trying to haul himself out of the ice, managing to get out up to his waist, then high enough to swing a leg over. He then attempted to draw himself to his feet.
"No! Lay down on the ice!" The voice commanded. Alfred complied, feeling rather foolish with his cheek freezing against the ice, still having no idea where the owner of the voice was.
"What good will that do?" he yelled back, trying to reach his bag.
"Don't question me now, roll towards my voice. You don't want to fall through the ice. There we go. Good man!"
So Alfred rolled, seeing white ice, snow, then sky, snow, the sky, then the worn boots of his unknown savior.
One eye peered at him through a bucket-like helmet dusted in snow. A gloved hand roughly grabbed his face, as the man drew his helmeted head close, examining him closely. "Good, good. You are still human." The man said, seemingly satisfied by his rough examination. He drew out a long cane, which he used to push Alfred's bundle within reach. Alfred grabbed the bag and hugged the snowy, somewhat wet parcel to his chest like it was his returned child.
"Up on your feet now, the ground's safe." Every word the stranger said seemed like a command, and Alfred was a natural born follower. To refuse felt like going against his nature, so he followed the stranger's orders as they came. "Wet clothes are death, lad. I'll give you my coat." Valtr added, making Alfred balk at the suggestion to strip naked, but the man had already begun to remove his own great coat.
"I- I-" His teeth chattered furiously as he first began to fumble through his pack. Though rushed, he had packed another set of clothing. But his hands shook too fiercely to properly handle the pack. Understandingly, the man took the pack from his hands and began to rummage for the clothing briefly tossing the books flatly, yet carefully, to the ground. With his head turned so that he could not see Alfred as he stripped from his quickly freezing clothing, the man pulled out each garment and held them so that Alfred could dress in relative privacy. But even clad in dry clothing, Alfred's teeth chattered and limbs shook. Seeing this, the man swung his coat over Alfred's shoulders.
"Come now." The coat didn't quite fit Alfred, so he left it hanging over his back. Too cold to think properly and too deeply trained to follow orders, Alfred stepped behind him without a word. They tramped along the snowy woods, bracken and sticks crunching under their boots. In reality, the Forbidden Woods was no more ominous than any other wood, at least while it was lacking snakes, but in the snow, it felt sparse and bleak. Only the pines still held onto their leaves. The grand trees beyond them were naked and dormant as if dead and stripped of their worldly belongings. Like skeletons devoid of flesh. There were no delicate beech trees with their pale ghostly leaves that clung to the branches until new life brushed them away. There were no beautiful white birches in an open glade- no knight chasing the Questing Beast on horseback, like in some of Alfred's favorite tales. Alfred wanted to chuckle at the image of the bespeckled knight and his creature, but he was too cold and too miserable. It was then that the man broke the eerie, muffled silence that only falling snow could create.
"Terrible luck. What were you running from?"
"I'm in trouble." Alfred managed through chattering teeth. Even with the loaned coat, he couldn't really speak of it and seem ungrateful. But the stranger seemed satisfied by the answer and did not press. Though snow made the woods a conformist gray and any moonlight was hidden by the dark grey clouds the man knew his way. The trees gave way to a small clearing, and an old windmill came in sight, flanked by the dark snow covered trees. Long abandoned, the arms of the windmill were ragged and unrepaired. Despite the disrepair, there was no obvious sign of overgrowth. No plants had crumbled the foundation. There were dead vines, but not so many as to be a concern.
"There's blankets and such inside. I'll get a fire started." The stranger ushered him inside the rickety structure, which smelled of moldy old wood and smoke. For a moment, Alfred's heart stopped. The man had saved him, but he'd been too shocked to notice if the man had saved his books as well. He desperately tore open his pack only to find that his precious literature had been placed neatly on top of his wet clothes. Whatever was said fell on Alfred's deaf ears- most of the books were dry, but the one on the bottom had the misfortune of growing damp. He could wait as the fire grew warmer, but his book could not. Forgetting everything else, he began to fan the damp cover pages of Knight's Ladies.
The stranger glanced at this, whether quizzically or despairingly was hidden under his helm, then went back to stoking the smouldering fire outside the mill. An old wooden building with no ventilation or chimney was not a good place for a campfire, so with the use of the roof and a few stretched pieces of oilcloth ten feet or so above to keep the snow off the fire, the stranger had made do. Standing in the doorway of the structure, out of the wind but close enough to feel the growing warmth from the rejuvenating fire, Alfred's teeth stop chattering enough to speak.
"I cannot thank you enough, sir."
"One cannot leave a fellow human to suffer and die." The stranger said, tossing another log on the reviving fire. The stranger pulled an ornately carved chair-an odd thing to have in such rough surroundings-by the fire to sit and stare into the growing flames. Once at a decent temperature. Alfred joined him, sitting on an unused log to lay out his wet clothing with care.
"I suppose I ought to tell you about my mission." The stranger said, removing his helmet. Stringy blonde hair spilled out from it, revealing a man a decade older than Alfred, with the features of an obvious outsider. The most unusual feature of the man's face was his empty ragged looking eye socket. Alfred quickly looked away, trying to be polite and not stare.
"I am Valtr. Master of the League." Despite the grand sounding title, Valtr did not seem to expect Alfred to be impressed.
"That's nice." Alfred said, unable to think of anything else to say.
Valtr paused, then chuckled. "I can see you are a bit scrambled from what you have been through, lad. I will tell you the vital mission later. What brings you out here, now?"
"I got in a fight with another apprentice after I was thrown out of my place of employ."
Valtr looked bemused. "The way you were running, I had thought you had burned down Yharnam." Valtr paused. "It may be too early to joke about such things."
"I was sure they were to kill me, just for being an outsider! And-I did not have anywhere to go." Valtr nodded as he went on.
"I understand." Valtr said, leaning on his cane. "The League welcomes outcasts, those that disagree with the Healing Church."
"No-I don't-" Alfred started. How could he explain to this man that he technically was sworn to be part of the healing church, he wondered, before realizing that he certainly should not.
"The Healing Church is Yharnam, lad. If you disagree with how they treat you, you disagree with the Healing Church. The League fights against their filth." The man looked over at Alfred once more, and seemed to relent. "You've had a hard day. There's extra sleeping bags inside the windmill you may take. Take the cleanest smelling one. The Madras Twins, bless their hearts, seem to have creative views on hygiene"
Valtr was not a terrible companion to share a room with, heretical tendencies aside. He tended to keep by himself, and did not ask too many questions about what trouble Alfred had got himself into, or where he had come from. The Mill was a good distance from the rickety and dangerous looking settlement that Alfred could see at the base of the hill, but the people who lived there minded their own business and he and Valtr minded their own. Of course, as he was staying with Valtr for now, he was expected to pull his own weight.
"Do you know how to shoot?" Valtr had asked. Alfred frowned, closing his book. In the Executioners, the focus had been on the wheel and hand to hand combat. Marksmanship was taught after Alfred was removed from the main Executioner training, those learning it taken into a hidden shooting range in the woods lest anyone miss their mark and hit the Workshop.
"I'm afraid I never learned it." Alfred said solemnly. Valtr nodded.
"I'll need a hunting partner, since my confederates are unavailable." He explained, leaning on his cane.
"Where are these confederates?" Alfred asked, rising from his spot on his sleeping bag. Made from the tanned hide of some animal, it was the warmest place to sit in the windmill, which was only a bit warmer than the chilly outside.
"The Madras twins are hibernating." Valtr chuckled when Alfred shot him a strange look. "They were raised by a giant snake, and took on her habits."
"...A giant snake?!"
"Yes. Strange things happen in these woods, friend. Now, since you are technically a member of the League as long as you stay here, you are going to learn your way around a gun." Valtr produced a sinister looking blunderbuss. Nothing like the sleek, well made rifles that the hunter Ludwig had popularized in the Healing Church, it made Alfred jittery just by holding it. "It won't bite." Valtr remarked, as Alfred turned it over in his hand. "I've put my trust in that weapon. Now it's your turn to put your trust in me."
The target was a frozen crow of an alarming size, hung by its talons from a high branch. Alfred was unfamiliar with birds and nature in general, but was certain something was abnormal with the bird.
"Must we use such a grisly target?" Alfred asked. If Valtr made a face in response, it remained hidden under his bucket-like helmet.
After several failed attempts to get into the right stance and to properly shoot, Alfred finally discharged the gun at Valtr's command...only to find he had neglected to unlock the safety. Valtr laughed before enlightening him.
"What if I cannot hit it?" After several agonizingly wrong positions, each corrected by gentle prods of Valtr's cane, Alfred had seemed to take a stance that Valtr found passable.
"Move your elbow, lad. You will break your shoulder that way. Perfect. Focus on shooting." Valtr said. "Now, SHOOT!"
Alfred pulled the trigger, and suddenly the world was lost in a cloud of gunsmoke. With stinging eyes, he found that the target was riddled through with bullets...as was the tree it hung from, and Alfred was certain that he had killed the bushes by it as well. Valtr gave a shout of approval.
"No need to worry about missing with a blunderbuss, lad." Alfred gave a nervous chuckle.
"Goodness, suppose I was a worrywart."
"Now." Valtr said with vigor that filled Alfred with exhausted dread. "We are going to do that over and over, every day, until you are perfect."
It did not take long for Alfred to put his new skills to use.
"There's a beast about." Valtr had returned from his morning 'patrol' mere days later by throwing the door open, grim face illuminated by the weak winter daylight.
"A beast?" Alfred was aware that Vicar Laurence torching old Yharnam had not totally eradicated the beasts, but the idea of one of the monsters prowling around made his mouth go dry.
"Well, time for you to put that training to use. It's best for Hunters to work together, and put an end to the disgusting thing." Valtr snarled the last words, before marching out of the windmill. A strange, circular-saw was strapped to his back, and in his hand was a strange mace-like object. Alfred followed him, clutching the old machete that Valtr had given him. He had shown to Valtr that he knew his way around a blade, and their combined reasoning was what was a machete but a bigger knife? Alfred knew better than to question Valtr about the curious saw, as the man went from jovial to frothing when it came to exterminating beasts.
"There, see that? The foul creature passed this way." Valtr's voice was soft, but it carried all of his hatred and disgust. He pointed his boot's tip towards the tracks-lumbering, quaking footprints somewhere between that of a bare human foot and that of a dog's paw. Large handprints appeared in the snow around the track, as if the creature had been hobbling about trying to steady it's movement. As if it had suddenly gone from bipedal to quadrupedal.
Which, it certainly had.
"It's struggling. Must be newly turned. No blood, however...it's been a few hours since they transformed into this wretched state…" Valtr suddenly went stock still, obviously listening.
"That way." He said, taking off, leaving Alfred to rush behind him, wondering how and what he had heard.
They heard the monster long before they saw it. Raspy, heavy breathing and tearing sounds grew louder as Valtr slowed, motioning for Alfred to do the same. There, through the branches and the brush, was a wolf-like creature. Covered in stringy, matted fur more like human hair than that of an animal, it seemed somewhat unfinished in it's transformation. Anyone familiar with canine anatomy would have noticed that the beast's legs were still roughly human shaped, as if the hips and pelvis never changed fully to that of a wolf, making the beast shuffle about awkwardly. The creature was hunched over the carcass of a frozen deer, gnawing at the remains.
"Scourge Beast." Valtr muttered, pointing to it with his cane. Alfred watched as he quietly removed the circular saw blade from his back, and attached it to his mace. Valtr firmly handed Alfred the blunderbuss
"I'll make the first move. When you see an opening, shoot." Valtr whispered. "I'm putting my faith in you, Confederate." Alfred instinctively crouched, getting into position.
Without a second word, Valtr sprang forward. The saw roared to life with a shower of sparks, bright orange flashing against the white snow and gray trees. As the saw bit into the monster's flank in a shower of gore, a splash of red joined the palette. The beast whirled around, arms outstretched to retaliate. As if it was something he had been doing his whole life, Alfred pulled the trigger.
Valtr did not even flinch as the spray of bullets flew past him, squarely hitting the beast in the chest. The creature flinched back, and Valtr made his move. It was almost too quick to be seen in the gray light, but Valtr's hand seemed to warp and change under his stained glove. Quick as a flash, Valtr tore into the beast's chest with a spray of blood. Alfred could only watch slack jawed as the beast staggered back, to be dispatched with one last savage cut of the circular saw. The beast shrieked once, then went still. Valtr breathed hard, removing his helmet to reveal a sweat slicked face and flattened hair. His hand that had ripped into the beast was still clenched, as if keeping something inside of it.
"Good work not shooting me. We were very lucky today. Usually those creatures are in pairs. Now. Let's see if you are League Material." Valtr becocked him close, slowly opening his clenched, bloodied hand.
"I've told you, I am not joining-" Alfred peered in anyway, feeling sick at the sight. A red creature, like a writing centipede wriggled helplessly in Valtr's grasp.
"You see it? Good. Now, this is Vermin. Within every beast, one of these lurks. The healing Church, the howling lunatics, the mad doctors-they all know about these." Valtr tightened his grip on the creature.
"How do you know that? I've certainly never heard of one of these creatures." Alfred asked, wrinkling his nose.
"I'm no man of science. I know it has something to do with the plague. Humanity can only be free if all of these vermin are destroyed along with the beasts." Valtr tossed the insect down on the snow, almost casually. Before the thing could wiggle away, he slammed his boot down on it, grinding his heel and dyeing the snow red.
"How did you do that?" Alfred asked.
"What, kill a beast? Squash a bug?" Valtr disambled his saw with a fluid motion.
"No, I mean-that brutal attack-you tore into it with your bare hands!" Alfred said, realizing he had not lowered the blunderbuss. He did so, somewhat embarrassed.
"Old hunting trick." Valtr merely grinned. "You'll be able to viscerally attack soon. You will know when the time is right. Now, give me a hand." Valtr grabbed the monster's hind legs, meaning to drag it along.
"You mean to bury it?" Alfred asked, taking the other leg. Valtr chuckled grimly.
"And waste good meat?"
While his years in the Butchershop had given him a skilled hand, preparing a beast gave him some pause. But it had been a week without fresh meat, and the creature was not human anymore. Prepared with a hidden store of salt and root vegetable that Valtr produced, the thick 'beef' stew tasted rather good. The meal would be complete if he still had access to the scones or small cakes of the Bakery back in Yharnam he had grown to love, but that was not a luxury a fugitive could afford.
"Cooking it removes the impurities and we already squashed the vermin." Valtr said, pointing a spoon at Alfred when he first hesitated to try the stew.
"It's...not bad." Alfred removed a shard of metal-possibly part of a bullet from his bowl with a grimace.
"Trust me. I've had worse. If you've been living here and eating meat, you've certainly already tasted tainted flesh. It starts with the animals, like the crows and the pigs, then to humans. You've certainly had crow passed off a chicken, and the pigs grow massive-even better for meat, if you can kill one." Alfred remembered the eyes spilling out of the meat with a shudder.
"I worked as a Butcher, before I got into the altercation." Alfred started. Valtr snorted into his soup.
"Sometimes...the meat was somewhat curious." Alfred paused. "Erm, eyes came out of the flesh, once."
Valtr raised his eyebrows. "How did the others react?"
"They closed the shop and threw me out as it was a matter not to be discussed with an outsider such as myself."
"Sounds about right. I've got another theory. Sometimes, I find creatures with too many eyes near Byrgenwerth." Valtr said. Alfred perked up at the mention. This was something he knew! "I dare not go into that accursed place. But sometimes, I find fly-creatures wandering the woods near it. Like men, with bloated heads full of eyes. They are revolting." Valtr snarled.
"I heard it was abandoned years ago." Alfred said mildly. "I read and learned about how the Scholars there found the source of the Healing Blood in the tombs, and how they brought it back for all of Mankind's benefit-"
"Yes, it is abandoned." Valtr interrupted him. "But something remains, left behind by the twisted scholars." Valtr sneered. "The world would be better without that lot."
"They were seeking the ascension of man, surely-" Alfred started.
"Look around you, Alfred." Valtr said sharply. "Mankind is not ascending. If anything, we are closer to the dirt now then we were before the Healing Church started. Without their work, Vermin would not writhe about our world, Old Yharnam would still stand, and we would not have these beasts prowling about, filled with vermin. If there's old gods out there, the buggers are probably laughing at us fools and playing games with us like pawns."
Alfred looked down, ashamed. Well, the Executioners did not distribute the Holy Blood, or burn down old Yharnam. Their mission was holy and righteous, squashing corruption much like Valtr and his League was unfortunate that they were tied to such a tarnished institution as the Healing Church. His thoughts turned to Amelia once more. She was Vicar now, but after so long, Alfred was certain they were strangers. From what he knew, the Healing Church had tried to make amends, but how could anyone trust them as much as they did before people began to turn into beasts and Old Yharnam burned?
Valtr's expression softened. "Sorry Lad, you've been told lies your whole life by the Church. I suppose that the truth is quite a shock."
"No, I understand." Alfred said, taking another bite of the stew so not to answer.
"Well, rest easy." Valtr finished his stew, rising from his chair. "I have a feeling we are to see far more beasts and Vermin soon."
He was back in the Executioner's workshop, pacing endlessly. It had been weeks, where were they? Would he wait forever in these empty halls, forever wishing to return back to a time when he was loved and surrounded by his family?
Finally, a blessed knock rang through the halls, making Alfred spring for the door. As he ran down the hallway his gait turned involuntarily from an eager sprint to an impossible crawl, as if the floor had become a sea of quicksand. The familiar wood-paneled halls slowly turned from his recognizable home to unfamiliar cold stone bricks with his every slowed step. A faint whisper sounded, making his head swim as the sounds penetrated his head.
"Bearer of my Blood."
As he stumbled, trying to move faster, he saw the familiar golden glints in the distance. A cluster of Executioners, all wearing the Holy Ardeos stod in the distance, seeming to be moving towards him without moving themselves. The sight of his companions somehow filled Alfred with dread-somehow, he blinked, and they were upon him, ten Golden Ardeos surrounding him, towering over him, expressionless. The first thing he noticed was the stench, like rotting fish and brine. Each of the Executioner's robes was drenched in seawater and blood. Wounds gaped from rips in their uniform, but did not bleed out onto grayed skin. Ringed by the dead, Alfred was unable to escape. Eerie voices echoed from under the helmets.
"You were no help."
"It wasn't enough."
"Your blood was foul."
"We'll never be Martyrs now. Not while the Queen still lives."
The dead Executioners all looked upwards at once. Cracks formed on the arched ceiling, growing faster with each rhythmic pound. The walls and ceiling fell away, revealing a blood soaked moon in a turbulent purple sky. The floor and the ghostly Executioners fell away, but Alfred was grabbed-clenched tightly by a massive hand.
A monster clung to a castle roof, perched like a spider. It's form was that of a human, but it was supernaturally stretched, with arms and legs unnaturally long. It clutched Alfred tightly, bringing it up to it's Cadaver like-face.
Alfred recognized the golden robes, the rings on the hand that gripped him. He squirmed, desperately trying to free himself. He did not want to see the monster's face. Alfred already knew what it would be, but try as he might, closing his eyes hid nothing as his eyelids had become transparent.
Puffs of water vapor condensed on his face, reeking of the monster's foul breath as it puffed from between its exposed teeth set in a lipless mouth. Shrunken and withered, the skin on the monster's face was that of tanned leather, still holding on to the briskly remains of a long whte beard. Rotten as it was, it was still unmistakably, the face of Logarius.
"Master-Please, let me go!" Alfred begged, as the monster stared at him with empty eye sockets. Without even an expression change, the Logarius-thing slowly increased it's grip. Crushing him, crushing him, tighter. Lights forming a symbol flashed before Alfred's eyes-three holes and a curve, with three lines like claw marks dragging down.
"Alfred! Alfred! Wake up, Wake up!" Valtr was shaking him frantically, pulling him back to reality. Alfred launched himself forward, breathing hard.
Somehow, he had twisted himself enough in the sleeping bag to nearly constrict himself, but that revelation did nothing to steady his racing heartbeat or mop the sweat from his brow.
"A night terror?" Valtr asked, stepping back to give him some space. Somehow, even in his fear addled state, Alfred was unsurprised to see that Valtr had been sleeping in his old uniform, boots included.
"Yes. Yes it was." Alfred gasped out, extracting himself from the sleeping bag to attempt to cool himself off.
"Come with me outside in a moment. I'll get the fire started." Valtr was out the door before Alfred could protest, with the expectation that he would follow.
After getting his boots on and bundling up enough to go outside, Alfred found Valtr intently gazing at the newly revived fire. He quietly sat, scenes from the dream replaying in his head. Alfred fiddled with the hem of the undershirt that he wore along with his trousers as sleepwear.
Valtr broke the silence. "I had a dear friend, once. A fellow confederate." Alfred remained silent, pulling the blanket he brought with him closer against the winter chill.
"He was a great warrior, also foriegn to Yharnam. He was not from New Loran like myself, but was from a land to the east, over the sea. Somehow, a beast made it there and killed someone very dear to him." The fire flared as Valtr stirred it with a branch, reflecting in his good eye.
"I invited him to join the league, happy to meet a fellow outsider. Brave as he was...the sight of the writhing vermin in our first kill together was too much for him to take." Valtr looked at Alfred solemnly. "Tell me, lad. Did the Vermin sicken your heart?"
"No! Not at all-it was quite repulsive, but my nightmare was of a totally different matter." Alfred said. Valtr relaxed, giving Alfred a slight smile.
"Good. Good. You do not have to divulge the details of the dream. I understand. I often...remember a painful past in a similar way as well." Valtr stirred the fire once more. "I don't know how to deal with night terrors." He admitted. "Beasts, you can fight. Vermin, you can eradicate. What's in the head…"
Both men remained silent, listening to the fire crackle and the gentle sounds of the trees in the wind.
"I thank you, Valtr." Alfred said softly.
Valtr merely grunted in response, but Alfred took it well. Under the pretense of poking the fire with it, Alfred picked up a stick. When Valtr's back was turned, he drew the symbol on the snow.
It could have been a smiling face, bleeding from the eyes and nose, or perhaps a person with their arms outstretched with two candles behind them. It would have been a tower with the curve of a massive moon behind it. Either way, it chilled him deeper than the falling snow could.
-Present Day-
The carriages bumped and shook as the horses pulled it along the cobblestone bridge. Quincy stuck his head out the window to check if the Bloody Crow had followed, just in time to turn his head forward and see the horses begin to take a step right off the blasted remains of the bridge. Quincy yelped and struggled with the door, only to find that it had locked shut with no sign of a handle. Hoping he could perhaps escape through the window before the carriage plummeted to his death, he clutched the carriage window sill, ready to throw himself back on the bridge's stones. Just as Quincy shoved his head out the window again, trying to angle his shoulders to escape, he realized what was truly going on-
The horses and the carriage were not falling-instead, they were calmly walking along the massive gap as if it was a leisurely stroll. The carriage was gliding along nothingness, with the roiling sea hundreds of feet below. Quincy fell back into the carriage, trying to calm his racing heart. Yes, he would awaken from any death, but the fate of splattering upon the unyielding surface of the ocean from this height would be a horribly painful way to go, and he did not look forward to running into the Bloody Crow again.
What kind of magic allowed the carriage to fly across the gap from Hemwick Village to Castle Cainhurst was a mystery. Quincy reflected on tales from his home of trains in the night that howled through the hills and over broken rails. Some plunged into waters far below them re-enacting the deaths of their passengers over and over while others safely flew over the chasms or through collapsed tunnels to carry the souls aboard to some otherworldly destination. Perhaps it was some strange magic that allowed the horses and carriage to fly. He worried his fingers across the balding velvet seats, having nothing to do but wait for them to arrive.
The castle drew nearer and nearer. Lights, despite all logic, flickered in the windows.
"Once, a Scholar betrayed his fellows at Byrgenwerth and brought forbidden blood with him back to Cainhurst Castle…" Alfred had said.
Snow flurries danced about the carriages, blowing in through the windows and chilling Quincy's cheeks. His words continued to echo in Quincy's mind.
"It was there that the first of the inhuman Vilebloods was born- The Vilebloods are fiendish creatures who threaten the purity of the Church's blood healing."
The eerie walls and towers of the castle were all too familiar. Yharnam looked nothing like any of the old ruined cities and Castles in Lordra, but Cainhurst could have been transplanted from his home. Quincy's teeth chattered; whether it was from cold, fear, or anticipation, he was unsure.
"...The ruler of the Vilebloods is still alive today... and so, to honour my Master's wishes... I search for the path to Cainhurst Castle…"
"I found your path, Alfred." Quincy said aloud. The carriages touched down on the end of the bridge with a jolt that rattled Quincy to the very bones as the horses gave a pained cry. He waited a moment, trying to recover from the shock of the sudden landing.
Faint voices cried in the air. A loud, rhythmic pounding in time with many voices chanting and yelling. There was a loud crash, then a cheer.
"Executioners! This day, we breach the very gates of evil!" A deep voice came, carried over the wind and air, vanishing as quickly as it came. Quincy burst from the carriage, slamming the carriage door in his haste to see where the ruckus had come from only to find himself alone.
There, before the carriage, covered in deep drifts of snow, lay the horses that had carried him to Cainhurst. Kneeling to inspect them, Quincy shuddered. Much like the dead man before the woods, the horses looked as if they had inexplicably been dead for a long time. Half mummified by the cold and half rotten, Quincy felt his heart twinge at the sight. He had always loved horses and seeing two of the noble beasts dead alone uncared for in death drove home how much death and misery he had seen that night.
He had seen so many corpses in such a short amount of time that the sight of another dead person did not even distress him anymore. Steeling himself, Quincy gazed up at the castle. With the same magic that had brought him the letter and carriage, the gate opened, and Quincy stepped inside, unknowingly the first living person in Cainhurst in a decade.