Mergo was stillborn. The Queen wept, for Oedon had abandoned her.
The end of the Empire was swift. The castle was stormed, and the Queen dragged away in manacles. Her most loyal subject, the Captain of the Guard, was entombed alive by the Cainhurst Royalty and the soldiers that had once served under him, doomed to wither to a corpse. There he would wait, aware, alone with his own thoughts, entombed next to his Queen's corpse.
Finally, the last tragedy occurred. In a vast earthquake, all of Pthumeria slid below the ground, turning lavish palaces and stone cathedrals into sunken, miserable catacombs. Oedon's vengeance on the people who had turned against his Queen.
The steps that led to the snowy courtyard had been blanketed in clean, fresh snow, undisturbed by footsteps. But once Quincy took a step through the gate, he saw that the statue littered courtyard inside had been trodden by many feet and limbs. Not human feet. Not anymore.
The Messenger circled lantern was a welcome sight as Quincy lit it, thankful that he would not have to hope for a second miracle carriage ride. The gray skinned, bloated monsters that hobbled and scampered about the courtyard, were not as welcome.
Having grown up on a farm, Quincy was familiar with fleas. Tiny bugs that swam as easily through his family's dogs's fur as easily as a fish through water. These creatures looked like some maddened god attempted to make a flea from a human. Covered in coarse hairs with obscenely bloated middles, they turned their skull-like heads this way and that, their foot long tongues wagging about. Thankfully, they had yet to notice Quincy, instead lazily hopping about the place.
Taking refuge behind a statue, Quincy assessed the best route to run past the flea-creatures into the slightly ajar castle doors. Yes, he was a Hunter, and a Hunter must hunt, as Eileen had told him, but he had never asked to be a Hunter, and being sucked dry by the flea-beasts seemed a very unpleasant way to die.
The statues that were strewn about the courtyard depicted a benevolent looking monarchy carved in white stone-a round faced king and queen, proudly holding aloft a child. It did not fit the image that Quincy had in his mind from Alfred's stories, but surely no one would portray themselves as monstrous heretics.
Quincy took a cautious step forward, feeling something squish under his boot. Looking down, he saw the remains of a large, maggot-like worm-and even worse, one of it's fellows besides its mid-leap, manibles outstretched, on its planned trajectory to his face.
On pure instinct, Quincy ran to the Castle doors, fears about flea-monsters forgotten, kicking up the powdery snow underfoot as he ran. He realized his mistake the moment he heard the heavy leaping and falling of the flea monsters, his sudden movement having attracted their attention.
"Shit, shit, shit!" Quincy yelled as one of the creatures lept in front of him, lashing out with it's massively long tongue. Without thinking, Quincy's pistol was in his hand and firing, the beast wincing back as the bullets penetrated it's bloated abdomen. Taking the opening, Quincy sliced down with his axe. Hardly able to celebrate having taken down one of the beasts, Quincy continued running, ducking in between the doors moments before the other pursuing monster could grab him.
Despite the door being wide enough, the flea-creature lost interest in him the moment he had passed through. The beast stared forward for a moment with it's empty, black eyes, before turning to go about it's business of wandering about the courtyard. As the sound of the creature's hops faded, Quincy heard something new. Sobbing.
He had entered into a small room that opened up to an impressive staircase and landing, the stairs and floor leading to them once richly carpeted, now sadly worn and faded. A massive chandelier hung from the ceiling, winking in the red moonlight that spilled through the windows.
It was breathtakingly beautiful, and very empty-except for a wizened old man that knelt on the ground facing away from Quincy and scrubbing the immaculately kept stone floor. Quincy knit his brows. Alfred had said all the Vilebloods, save the Queen, were killed-then how was there an old man here?
Quincy approached him, hands up to show he meant no harm. Oblivious to his tapping footsteps that echoed loudly through the high ceilings, the man kept scrubbing, muttering to himself.
"Oh yes, full moon, castle shows tonight. Tonight, special night. Castle will be visible. Mistress up there, all alone."
"Pardon me, sir." Quincy said, drawing closer.
"A shame, a shame it is. Ten years since the massacre, living off rats. Poor Mistress! Naught but the ghosts!"
"Sir?" It was obvious now that the little man before him was not quite human anymore. Wizened and shrunken with a pallor like a corpse, the little man kept scrubbing at the same spot on the floor with his bone thin arms. Quincy was close enough to tap the man's shoulder when he heard shaky breathing in his ear. A wail shook the air as a sharp pain embedded itself in his side. Quincy hissed in pain, now seeing his attacker.
Flickering transparent in the moonlight, scarlet trickling from her throat, was a paper-pale woman in a lavishly decorated white dress. In her tightly bound hands was a dagger, dripping Quincy's own blood. As Quincy frantically jumped back, preparing a blood vial to heal his leaking wound, voices echoed on the air.
"Bind the woman and children. The men will be cleansed." A deep voice ordered. The ghostly woman gave a strangled sob, lashing out clumsily with her dagger.
"Belay that!" A woman's voice echoed in the air sharply. "We are here to kill King Cain, not the maids and children!" Quincy would have looked around, seeking to find the source of these bodiless voices, but at the moment, his entire focus was on not letting the ghost kill him.
"You defy me, Bernice?" The first voice roared. "They will be spared the Wheel, but we will not suffer the Vilebloods to live! Slit their throats!"
A chorus of ghostly voices blocked out what happened next, only a few phrases clear.
"Monster!"
"Kill the Vilebloods!"
"No! Only overthrow the King and Court!"
"Traitors! You stand with the Vilebloods!"
Quincy's axe cleft through the ghostly woman. With a scream, she collapsed into dust, the phantom voices vanishing with her.
The little man continued scrubbing, oblivious to the slaughter.
-Years ago-
Days passed, then weeks. At first, a sighting of beasts and a subsequent hunt was once a week, but as time passed, the monsters became more common. On the day that Alfred was almost certain was New year's, he and Valtr drug back the bodies of two Scourge Beasts-one to bury, one to...prepare. The trepidation of eating the flesh of the Monsters waned, but Alfred would disguise the truth in metaphors and outright lies to make it through each day.
"We are almost out of supplies." Valtr remarked as they neared the windmill. "Henryk will be along soon, Gods willing."
"One of your companions?" Alfred asked, grunting with exertion. The difficulty of dragging one of their kills back home was almost harder than the hunt itself.
"Yes. He's a proper church hunter, but moonlights with us. He was there when Old Yharnam burned, so he sees the Church a bit differently."
"I suppose not many people are very happy with the church these days." Alfred responded. He mentally prepared himself for Valtr to elaborate on why exactly the Church had made many people unhappy, but Valtr went on an equally unpleasant line of questioning.
"What are you planning to do when we part ways, come spring?" Valtr asked. Alfred furrowed his brow, letting go of the beast just outside the Windmill.
"I...well, once the weather is warm again, I suppose I could go back to Yharnam. I'll just avoid the area around the Butchershop."
"Where will you find work? Where will you live?" Valtr asked, stopping as well. Alfred wondered why Valtr carried around the cane if he obviously had no need of it before wondering what he should exactly say.
"I'm certain I'll figure something out." At the moment, he was just trying to get through the dull and dim winter days with brief interludes of heart pounding hunts of monsters.
Monsters that he ate, even if the sight of the cooking pot no longer made his stomach churn.
"So you have no idea. I don't want you to feel like you have no other choice, but the League would be happy to welcome you along."
"Well...no, I…give me some more time to think." Alfred said lamely. "I will have an answer by the end of winter."
Valtr removed his helmet, seemingly pleased with the answer. He studied Alfred's face for a moment, as if seeing he had been sincere.
"You need a shave, lad."
Alfred touched his patchy stubble, raising an eyebrow at Valtr and his seemingly permanent 5'oclock shadow. "You are in a chronic need of one yourself."
Valtr laughed. "There's a shaving kit inside. I trust you can handle a razor if you can handle a machete."
It seemed a shame to shave off what might have been the most impressive facial hair that he had grown, but the look he wanted was sophisticated and cultured, not 'scruffy fugitive in the woods'. Despite the very real fact he was, indeed, a scruffy fugitive in the woods.
Alfred peered into the mirror, smoothly running the razor (kept perfectly sharpened by the ever careful Valtr) over his face, watching the stubble come off in the chill foam. His inspiration had been the Well-to-do folks in Yharnam, often visiting from the high Cathedral Ward that would sometimes visit the butcher shops of Yharnam. Not like he ever dreamed of occupying that world-life in a mansion, waited on by servants without any care of his own was as alien as the surface of the moon. At the moment, living somewhere with a warm bed and an expectation of regular meals with meat that he wouldn't have to kill and fight for seemed more like a dream then anything else. He just wanted to feel stylish for once.
"You missed two spots." Valtr remarked when Alfred finished, washing off the hair and foam with bone chilling water. Alfred only smiled, touching the stubbly outline of what would hopefully turn into an impressive set of sideburns.
Soft voices awoke Alfred. Curious but unwilling to truly wake up, he cracked one eye open. Valtr sat on the chair by mill's weathered grindstone, head in hands. A new figure stood in the room a few feet away, more shadow then person and garbed in a heavy cloak. Where a human face should have been, a bird-like beak protruded from under a hat. In his tired state and squinting in the low candlelight, it took Alfred longer than it should have to realize that it must have been a mask. He continued to feign sleep.
"I couldn't find him." Her voice was mature and low, with a thick Yharnam accent. "I'm afraid I'll have to move on."
"There's been no trace of him at all, then?" Valtr asked. His voice was tired and heavy.
"The poor man's gone and vanished. There's nothing more I can do. No hunters have been killed. He did not take on the madness of the Hunt, but only the horror of the unseen. Yanamura is not my prey."
"Very well. I'll leave you to your crusade, and return to mine." Valtr rose from his seat, possibly to show her out. Alfred, through barely cracked eyelids, saw the beaked face turn to him. He rapidly shut them.
"A new confederate?" She asked. Wood creaked underfoot, and Alfred felt the uncanny sensation of someone examining him.
"Merely temporarily. Lad got in trouble in Yharnam, and I thought I'd help a fellow outsider. He's not a bad hunter."
"So, I'm not the only one who picked up a stray after all. I won't wake him up."
"Give the boy my best, Eileen. And, if you could find Henryk for me, I have something to tell him."
"What about?"
"About this boy, Alfred. He has his own cause. I can recognize that, so unfortunately, he doesn't wish to perform the vital work of squelching the sickening corruption. But his purpose might be with the Church Hunters."
"You hate the church." Eileen said flatly.
"I do." Valtr seemed to force the next words out. "I hate the wretched institution. But at the moment, our goals are aligned. The Plague will never end if no one slays the beasts. And they have the numbers."
"He will become my mark if he falls into madness."
"That is our lot as Hunters, and your lot as a Hunter of them." Valtr said evenly.
"Very well. I am not troubled, now that I have a protege." Alfred clenched his fist under the sleeping bag. He hated that word and the memories it dragged up, but there was no way for this stranger to know this. "I'm not as young as I used to be. Take care, the both of you." The emphasis on 'the both of' made Alfred realize that Eileen knew he had been awake all along. Without another word, Eileen made for the door, he feathered cape rustling mere inches from Alfred's face.
"Good night, Eileen." Valtr gave her a salute with his cane.
"Good Night, Master of the League." There was a wry smile in Eileen's voice as she stepped out.
Valtr was already awake or perhaps was still awake when Alfred awoke to the smell of breakfast. The man was staring intently at the pot of reheating 'beef' from last night's dinner, his thoughts obviously elsewhere.
"Good morning." Alfred said pleasantly. He wished he could comfort or reassure Valtr, who was obviously grieving a lost friend, but that would reveal that the conversation that he probably thought was private was something he had inadvertently snooped on. Putting two and two together, Yanamura was probably the comrade that had gone mad at the sight of the writhing vermin. Valtr grunted in response.
"Will Henryk be along today?" Alfred asked, dying for any sort of conversation. Valtr never asking questions was a double edged sword, as Alfred needed to talk and be talked to.
"Should be."
"Rough night?" Alfred ventured. Valtr merely nodded. They sat together in silence for a few uncomfortable minutes before Valtr seemed to shake himself out of it.
"I'm only going to ask one more time." Valtr said. "Would you like to join the League."
Alfred looked down at his battered boots, scuffing the mud. "I...have a mission elsewhere."
"Alright. I won't trouble you with the question again." Valtr put his hands on his cane, and propped his chin up on them thoughtfully.
"If that is so, have you considered becoming a church hunter?" Valtr asked. Alfred blinked a few times, trying to feign surprise.
"You hate-" Alfred started, only for Valtr to hold up a hand to stop him.
"The Church. Yes. But they accept outsiders to hunt, you have talent in slaughtering these creatures, and they provide a warm bed, a roof, and food. Henryk can get your foot in the door, at least."
"I see." Alfred said. He missed civilization, even if said civilization was Yharnam. But the chance of someone recognizing him...especially in Cathedral Ward. Well, he certainly looked different now, so he could play any recognition off.
"And I can tell you don't particularly like this life." Valtr said, gesturing the fire, the abandoned windmill, the snowy woods.
"I'm sorry if I have grumbled or acted distatified." Alfred apologized humbly.
"Not at all, lad, but I can tell you'd rather be around people. And your books." Valtr gestured. "Not many historical romances in the woods."
He laughed as Alfred blushed. "Yes, I took a look. I'm not judging you. Two of my comrades act like snakes, and reading about knights and their ladys is hardly strange." Valtr paused, angling his head strangely. He rose from his seat, and saluted with his cane.
A person emerged from between the trees, garbed from head to toe in a yellow dyed leather coat topped with a jaunty hat, a hue that made him difficult to see in the pale morning light. He raised his own cane to mirror Valtr's salute, then raised a heavy bag.
"That is Henryk."
Alfred had never been happier to see a stranger. Once Henryk opened the bag, he took out what seemed to Alfred after a while on a limited yet livable diet, the ingredients for a veritable feast. Valtr immediately squirreled away the root vegetables in the windmill where the cold and damp would not ruin them while Alfred stared longingly at the loaves of bread.
"Uh, may I…?" Alfred asked, already hovering a hand over one of the loaves. Henryk nodded, giving Alfred the permission needed to try to eat it as politely as possible while lacking any utensils. It had been a month since he had anything other than dubious meat and the remaining vegetables thrown into the pot.
"Eileen told me that you were thinking about becoming a church hunter." Henryk removed his hat and lowered his collar. He was well in his years, his thickly curled dark hair peppered with grey and his face lined, but there was a determined set to his bearded jaw combined with a strong glint in eyes. Age had not hindered or slowed him.
Alfred awkwardly attempted to swallow the bite of bread he had ripped off so he could respond quickly, but nearly choked himself in the process. The true response to the question in his head was as follows: Oh, I've hardly considered it, it seems that everyone has made the choice for me, but what can I do? I really kerfuffled my last job and I can't live in these dreadful woods forever. The snakes will be awake any day now and I do not have a light step, meaning that one misplaced tread and a damn adder is going to get me right in the calf and I'll turn purple and die. My coat is threadbare and my soles are about to succeed from my boots and I've been in the same shirt for a week without a bath due to liquid water being lacking so I'm sure I reek more than the swamp did. I'm freezing all the damn time unless I'm right up on the fire and then I have to worry about this wretched coat setting ablaze. I need company and Valtr never talks that much which is fine as I can't exactly explain my whole situation as it sounds rather preposterous and I don't want anyone to know that I used to be a living holy blood bag for the church. I think I have enough coins left from the butcher job to maybe survive in Yharnam for a week by myself but the truth is I need money, a real roof over my head and a paying job even if that means fighting more beasts but at least I won't have to eat the damn stringy things in my dinner any more. The sight of a real ham from an actual pig and not some shrieking once-man could bring me to my knees right now. So if this is the way my cart seems to be shoved in I might as well just go along with it. But what actually came out was a rather weak "Ah, well, I've been considering it." He said with a cough.
Henryk nodded, and seemed to be in no hurry to explain what exactly the job of a Church Hunter entailed, warming himself by the fire. Alfred shifted in his seat, trying to drum up the courage.
"Um, could you perhaps explain a bit more, perchance."
"It's self evident. You hunt beasts for the Church." Henryk said, his voice neither impatient nor chiding.
"Yes, but, will there be room and board?"
"Yes." Came the short reply. Alfred turned from the man away to privately make a face. Henryk seemed to greatly dislike the concept of conversation.
"Are the beasts in Yharnam, then?" Alfred asked, fishing for any information.
Henryk reached into his yellow coat casually, as if he had not heard Alfred at all. He drew out an old long stemmed pipe, which he then, with infuriating, careful slowness, filled with tobacco. Alfred sat there, fists discreetly clenched, a prisoner of own his politeness.
Henryk lit the pipe and took a drag. Then, he spoke.
"Yes. They are."
Alfred smiled mirthlessly. "Could you elaborate, my good sir?"
"The beast plague reached Yharnam, and people are turning into beasts regularly. They are most active at night, so that is when we hunt." Henryk exhaled smoke, politely turning away from Alfred. "I'll help you get your start."
"In the Church Hunters?"
"What else?" Henryk gestured with the pipe stem.
"Well, it was nice meeting you, Henryk." Alfred stuck out a hand, now just wanting the baffling conversation over with. Henryk stuck the pipe stem back between his teeth and shook Alfred's hand with a nod. Without another word, he left.
Valtr returned, spreading butter on a roll. Seeing Alfred's baffled frustration, he grinned.
"Does he dislike me? Is every Church Hunter a malcontent?" Alfred asked, genuinely worried.
"Don't take it personally. Henryk doesn't like to talk, but he's a valuable hunter. I think he likes you, actually." Valtr took a bite of the roll.
"Really?"
"He said more then two sentences." Valtr chuckled. "His hunting partner is Father Gascoigne, and he doesn't mince words either."
"Well, I suppose now I have to worry about a Hunting partner when I leave." Alfred sighed, grabbing another piece of bread.
"Cross that bridge when you get to it." Valtr advised.
Spring was drawing near. The woods went from snowcovered to thawing- everything seeming to squish underfoot as snow turned to rain. It was a time of perpetual wetness, the campfire struggling to survive as dry wood became scarce. The temperatures rose, and birds returned to the woods. Crocuses sprouted through the remaining patches of snow, adding pops of color to the once monochrome wilderness.
Despite the slow rebirth of nature, the beasts kept coming.
The coming of spring brought joys that Alfred had not expected. His old coat had been wet and then dried so many times that it had stiffened like leather and bore an interesting arrangement of stains. He would have ran back into the old butcher shop just for the promise of a new coat by this point if not for his sense, and at the worst of times he miserably wished for the soft white robes of a blood saint. But with the raising of temperatures, he could leave the miserable garment flung into the corner of the windmill, although the wind brought goosebumps on his bare forearms.
He had started wandering the woods alone-never too far. Hunters were supposed to work in pairs, but Valtr seemed to become more distant as the date of his return to Yharnam came close. Alfred had brushed it off as the older man being disappointed in his refusal to join. He had the thought that Valtr might be distancing himself so he would miss him less, but Alfred knew better. At least now it was a rare sunny day with the birds singing happily in the trees and the soft green buds sprouting on the branches he ducked under. Everything seemed a picture of normality until Alfred noticed splashes of blood on the few patches of stubbornly remaining snow.
Valtr had warned him that as things grew warmer, he should always have an eye on the ground-but Valtr said he should have an eye behind and an eye to the side and an eye to the front, and Alfred only had two and he was far too polite to mention that Valtr only had one. But even Alfred- who admittedly had his head in the clouds rather often-would have trouble not noticing the splashes and marks of gore. Scored deeply into the mud, making a chaotic but traceable trail was a tangled mishmash of writing claw and footprints. Whatever had passed this way was a beast-one that was clearly in pain. Alfred turned his head back towards the direction of the mill-a good walk away-and then up at the sky. The sun was still shining, but the clouds were edging in. A good rain would wash away the evidence and direction, and if the beast was in a terribly wounded state, it should not put up much of a fight. Readying his machete, Alfred crept forward, following the tracks.
The brush had died back during the harsh winter, but there was enough dead tangle to make a racket as Alfred tried his best at stealthy tracking. Not that it mattered, as the beast was making more noise then it's hunter, loud whimpering wheezes. Finally Alfred found the creature hunched in the midst of a patch of brush, tearing at the bandages wrapped tightly around it's skull. Despite the sunshine, Alfred felt his blood run cold.
Every beast that Valtr and himself had fought had been more monster than man. Sure, there were traces of humanity, like tattered clothing or bandages wrapped around grotesque limbs, but they had been comfortably inhuman. This creature still had a man's body, skinny and frail, something that the wiry fur it had could not disguise. It coughed and wheezed, continuing to dig at it's head, failing to dislodged the wrapped bandages, but instead cutting into its own flesh, dripping blood. The machete was slack in his hand. The poor creature evoked revolusion like the other beasts, but also pity. The thing was too out of its mind to even realize that it was hurting itself. Killing it would be a mercy, but Alfred could not will himself to strike.
Either the creature heard Alfred's troubled breathing, or perhaps he had made a noise without noticing it, but the creature also went very, very still. With a sharp jerk, it turned its head, revealing a broken, smushed face of crooked teeth and glazed, watery eyes, spattered with blood. The thing leered a snarl at him, and Alfred suddenly felt very, very foolish for his moment of pity. The thing bunched up like a spring, then lept with hardly enough time for Alfred to spare in getting out of the way, wildly waving about his machete in hope of hitting some part of his attacker.
Having missed its target, the thing bunched up again, panting hard before raising up on it's two legs. Alfred gritted his teeth.
Vilebloods wear a human guise. I won't be tricked into folly by this beast.
How he wished he had taken Valtr's blunderbuss, but the monster seemed winded. Boldness was key to victory as a hunter, so Alfred struck. Leaping forward, he aimed a blow at the creature's head. Sensing a chance, the creature shot forward to snap it's jaws on his forearm like a bear trap. Alfred screamed, dropping the machete. In a flash of barbarism conjured up by the hunt and the pain, he realized he wouldn't need it. It was a terribly scrawny, skinny little creature, already terribly wounded, and he was in his prime, stronger than ever, and already had the little bugger in his fists.
He gripped the little monster by the throat, making it release its jaws with a strangled scream. Gripping it with both hands, Alfred could feel the twisted thing's windpipe pulsate, trying desperately to find any air. With one rapid motion, he brained the creature against the nearest tree, and slit its throat with one strike of the machete. The creature slumped over, dead.
Staring down at the body, remembering Valtr usual practice after a successful hunt, a chill ran up his spine. Alfred would leave the beast to the woods to rot. It was too close to human, and his denial could only stretch so far.
On the way back to the windmill, clutching his forearm to prevent himself from bleeding all over the forest and attracting more monsters, a fit of shudders overtook him.
It was a person like me .
Not me. I'm not turned.
It can happen to anyone .
Not to me.
Who eats beasts every day?
Only because I have to. I won't be here forever.
You know who also eats beasts?
Alfred clutched his machete, knuckles white.
"I'm proud of you, lad. Even though you should never hunt alone."
"I came across it. I couldn't just leave it there, I could have lost the trail, and it could have made its way to Yharnam." Alfred argued. Valtr only nodded as if not feeling like arguing, turning back to the fire. Despite the hunt having happened hours ago, Alfred's nerves still felt aflame.
Valtr was wearing his blue uniform over his shoulders like a cape, letting the sleeves dangle. Alfred did not think it was quite warm enough for that, but Valtr had been out in the elements for far longer then he had. It was a surprisingly casual act from the man. Alfred was certain that he slept in his uniform, but Valtr also managed to keep it rather clean, considering the circumstances. Alfred was quite jealous, as he himself was unable to keep his own garments half as clean. There was more water now, but everytime he attempted laundry in the nearby creek, he would end up getting twice as muddy the next day
"I'll be leaving in a week." Alfred said.
"I'll walk with you to Yharnam." Valtr said, his response sounding automatic.
"Well-Thank you, but I wanted to ask you something."
"You have never been one for questions." Valtr went to inspect the logs-soaked from the rainshower that Alfred had predicted earlier.
"You seemed...private." Alfred said lamely. "But, well, I...I'd heard stories, and-"
"Stories?" Valtr asked, turning from the firewood. The firelight did strange things to the shadows of his face, making it seem mask-like.
"Yes-but they seemed very...impossible!" Alfred managed out. Of course he'd go and mess this up.
"Yharnamites are cruel, are they not?" Valtr asked, returning to his seat by the fire. Alfred noticed he was without his cane, a detail that he wondered why his brain would pick up in such a panic. "Rumors whispered about foolish, foriegn constables chasing a monster over the mountains. Being picked off one by one, as they lack the native knowledge in dealing with beasts."
Alfred nodded shallowly. Valtr continued.
"Finally, there's only one left, only one so brutal and monstrous himself that instead of beast eating man, man eats beast. Whole." Valtr turned to Alfred, empty eye socket first.
"Is that the story you heard, lad?"
"-Yes. But it was from the fellow butcher's apprentices, and they were, well, full of shit, to put it quite plainly-"
"The story is true." Valtr said casually.
"You ate a beast whole?" Alfred gasped.
"By the Gods, lad, that is physically impossible!" Valtr said crossly. "One man, so enraged by the brutal death of his comrades managing down an entire beast? It is a story concocted by a wretched population with polluted hearts. But...a man far from home, mourning the loss of dear friends in a cold, lonely forest with no food or resources?" Valtr gestured to the cooked pot. "This was a luxury I did not have back then."
"Of course, having to live off a half frozen, raw carcass of such a thing leads to consequences." Valtr tapped his face, under his empty eye socket. "Ones I never thought could happen. I had no idea about the vermin infesting the monster. But they made themselves known, and I wasn't going to play a happy host to filthy, disgusting parasites. Thankfully, they choose an easily accessible organ."
Alfred swallowed hard at this. Valtr smirked slightly, half in amusement, half in sympathy at the discomfort he had caused Alfred.
"There you go. The true story of the Beast Eater. Far less sordid, don't you think?"
"It's...still rather dramatic." Alfred admitted. "But I can see why that version is not passed along."
"Well, I found a new purpose. There was no way I could return to my home with the problem raging here. I miss New Loran, but I would fail my lost companions if I just went home."
"What is New Loran like?" Alfred asked, jumping in before Valtr went silent once more. He had read about New Loran in some of the history books, but it being Yharnam the neighboring countries were usually glossed over.
"It's just over the western mountains." Valtr pointed west, towards the distant black ridges peeking over the trees. "I was certain you were from there. Many of the people from the north western ridges look very much like you do."
"People there that look like me?"
"Well, everyone outside of Yharnam has level eyes and a mostly straight nose, lad. I meant blonde, tall, broad. Sturdy mountain folk. Did you not know your parents?"
Alfred stayed silent. Valtr gave a quick nod.
"I see." He said, getting up. "When you finish that mission of yours, travel there sometime. New Loran is far friendlier than this wretched place."
Alfred gazed west long after Valtr went back inside, staring at the distant peaks. He had never given too much thought to where he came from. His family was the executioners, his parents were just people that had produced him. Anything of his life before coming into the Church's care was a ragged hole, but perhaps, someday he would try to stitch together the pieces.
Valtr helped him pack his meagre belongings and walked with him to the edge of the forest. As soon as the pointed roofs and distant towers of Yharnam came into sight, Valtr stopped.
"Well, Lad. I'm glad to have had you."
Alfred nodded, unsure of what to say. "I...am glad to have been here. Thank you. Again. You really saved me back there."
"You made it a less lonely winter." Valtr shrugged. "I would have loved to have had you as one of my Confederates, but it is not to be."
They both stared at each other for a moment, green eyes to one-holed helmet.
"Farewell." Alfred said, feeling massively awkward.
Valtr merely nodded, before disappearing into the brush and trees. Alfred steeled himself, gazing up at the Yharnam skyline.
He was coming home.
-present day-
The ghostly woman seemed content to stand and loudly mourn if left undisturbed, slowly appearing when approached, giving Quincy ample warning to avoid them. Each mourning woman was identical in both stature and attire; blood from the oozing wound on their necks had splattered about the dresses' collars, their hands had been tightly bound with ribbons, and their eyes blindfolded. Looking at them with the knowledge he had cut down one of their numbers made Quincy sick. He'd never seen a ghost- not in person, but he knew they haunted after a tragedy. Everything else in Yharnam had been twisted and horrific, but this wasn't blood and old gods. This was pain, and the people here were prisoners.
These were courtiers and nobles with no knowledge of fighting. The ghostly woman's clumsy swipes and desperate lungers with her dagger had been proof enough of that, and the ghostly dialogues had given a clue. Perhaps the ghosts and the words on the air was the very castle itself replaying the night of the Executioner's massacre. He wondered if the people on the locomotives, much like the ones that had brought him across the continent to Yharnam, were held in their last moments just the same. The stories had been enough to make him fear, whenever the train bumped or rattled, that he was to become a ghost, only known to the travelers who would watch his demise each night. Stories told under covers and around campfires meant to delightfully spook him as a child began to take a more menacing reality as he contemplated how the women had their throats slit, and were forced to live out the torment of their last moments as twisted spirits forever. Quincy leaned on the stair as he felt the world seem to jolt from under him. Ghost stories didn't seem like much fun anymore.
From the very foreboding name, the Executioners had seemed a terrifying lot. But Alfred had been so friendly, so kind.
The gentle hand touches, the companionship, their embrace, the terrible, needing kiss in that miserably lonely room. Alfred's warmth.
The vicious slavering tone wheneven he spoke of the Vilebloods. The maddened glint in Alfred's eyes whenever the castle was mentioned, the obsessive devotion to Logarius.
Quincy's own deepening devotion to a stranger he knew so very little about.
He was hardly getting the whole story. Or perhaps he didn't want the whole story. Quincy pounded a fist against the wall as he got up, but he still felt weakness in his knees and legs as he continued onwards.