He had been able to avoid the sobbing phantoms in the stair landing, but once Quincy stepped foot into the once-sumptuous dining room, nearly ten of the ghostly women slowly faded into view. Gritting his teeth, Quincy mentally planned out the best route through the open doorway that led back outside onto the Castle walls.
The most eerie thing was how clean everything was. The tables had nary a speck of dust-courtesy of the shriveled, miserable servants, no doubt. The floors were old and worn but they shone with new polish. The servants were unable to repair or replace anything, but they obsessively kept everything clean.
Quincy slowly edged along one of the tables, taking short careful steps, making sure to avoid the distracted, crying ghosts. Something gave him pause however. Hanging on the wall was a series of portraits. Sharp faced nobles with little resemblance to the statues in the courtyard, but dressed in similarly regal garb. A portrait of a dark haired woman caught his eye. Staring into the distance, she cradled a blonde-haired baby in her arms. Sickened, though not by the smell, Quincy covered his mouth. None but the Vileblood Queen survived. Surely, the Executioners would not…?
A shriek sounded behind him, and Quincy tore forward towards the door, scattering dishes in his haste as one of the specters took a swing at him with a ghostly blade. This was not a place to linger and think. The second he rushed through the open doorway, the sounds of the tortured spirits faded.
The ghost women seemed to be unable to pass through the same doorway as Quincy, and he found himself on the ramparts of the castle roof. Despite the Castle seeming massive and maze-like, the path that lay ahead of him had always been abundantly clear. The stone roof above the walkway vanished, leaving Quincy once again under the stars and engorged moon.
The Castle still had plenty of shocks and surprises. A grotesque statue with the body of a bat and the head of an old man turned out to be another wretched guardian of the place, nearly taking Quincy's head off before it was dispatched by a few careful swipes of his axe. Nothing too dissimilar from the Beasts in Yharnam, but there was far worse ahead. Just before the stone archway over the bridge, Quincy felt an unnatural chill.
A blue shape was unceremoniously flung over one of the stone railings, half covered in powdery snow. Quincy had thought it to be a discarded cloak at first, until he saw the dangling skeletal hand that poked out from a moth eaten sleeve. The head of the cadaver faced down towards the roiling ocean below, the remains of a long, dark brown braid still swaying.
"Disgusting heretic! You stand with the Vilebloods!" The all too familiar deep voice echoed on the wind as he drew closer.
"I stand with justice!" A woman yelled. "I have killed Cain by my own hand. Hemwick is avenged. We have no more need for walking, monstrous fossils like yourself!"
"My own left hand seeks to destroy her Master? Very well. You will be cleansed, just like the rest of the wretches that betrayed me."
Quincy shuddered, leaving the body to its rest, trying to escape the repeating echoes of steel against wood, and the inevitable scream.
Alfred paced outside the Chapel, every once in a while glancing up at the red moon like an impatient man would check a clock. Of course, he had stolen a glance at the clocktower that loomed over the city, only to find that the hands had stopped at exactly 9:35. This had made him scowl at the whole situation as the passage of time-or the lack of it-had his nerves feel ready to rattle out of his body.
Sure, he could have just waited in the chapel, but being around strangers after having been so isolated made him even more agitated. The pained groans from the woman hunched over in the chair, the nervous yet eerie grin on the blind beggar's face, and worst of all, the strangely docile old lady was enough to make him walk out of the chapel as quickly as he could, but worst of all was the Blood Saint.
Adella's eyes were downcast, and Alfred was certain she had never even looked at him. Her soft giggles managed to penetrate the silence even outside the chapel, making Alfred reluctantly take his second lead elixir to calm his nerves.
She was a blood saint just as he once was, although one trained and educated more 'properly'. He knew it was foolish, but would she be able to sense a kinship between their holy blood? Would he be called selfish for not letting others take what was rightfully his? Or would she continue madly staring and giggling the whole night through?
Either way, being under the churning, storming sky and alien moon felt safer, despite the fact Alfred could feel his gaze traveling upwards to an empty spot on the church roof.
Despite the lead elixir, Alfred felt an ages-old tingle just below his skull as he remembered one of his most solidly unexplainable encounters with the arcane.
-years ago-
Patches had many names. The Good Luck, The Hyena, Trusty, and The Unbreakable. Always an opportunist, he had lived in and traveled to many places, usually leaving by way of being chased out. Just the risks of his profession. After needing to flee across the Eastern Mountains, he had settled in Yharnam, a wretched city controlled by a powerful church of Blood. A miserable place, sure, but Patches fit in just fine with the dirt, death and general chaos.
So here he was, leaning against a streetlamp, collar pulled up tightly to ward off the persistent Yharnam chill, bald head gleaming in the gaslight, waiting for a sucker. Liberating fools from their money, and sometimes their lives, was Patches' profession.
Yharnam was a rough place, but that suited Patches. A city where a robbed body hardly raised eyebrows was just perfect for him, especially with the worsening beast plague. Sure, he was pushing it by hanging outside this late, but no beasts would dare appear this close to Cathedral ward. He could practically feel the incense burning his nose from where he stood.
Of course, the average citizen tended to be mistrustful of outsiders, so he had been having trouble finding marks in the general populace. Thus, his prey tended to be foreigners and outcasts, desperate for help.
Peeking up from his watch, Patches could hardly believe his luck when he spotted a round faced young gent appear down the road. A real bumpkin by the look of him, hardly a sly Yharnam native, by his rather threadbare brown coat and ragged scarf. He was quite tall and broad, which was somewhat troubling, but Patches' method for robbery worked on all, regardless of strength. A predatory grin flashed on his narrow face before he looked down, pretending to be checking his watch once more. He heard the man's footsteps approach as he thought of the best way to get the stranger's attention.
To his shock, he heard a soft voice call out.
"Excuse me, sir, do you know how best to get to Cathedral Ward?" Patches looked up to see the stranger standing before him, hardly veiling his shock. What luck! He had found a natural born sucker!
"Hello there, lad! Are you new here? I can tell. You aren't a city boy at all, are ya?" Patches put away the watch, taking on the expression of amiability. The younger man smiled at him docily.
"Well, I lived here a long time ago, but I'm afraid I'm all turned around. If you could just direct me to Cathedral Ward, I would be quite grateful." He said, nervously scratching at his cheek.
Patches kept his expression of distaste to himself when he noticed the stubbly start of Sideburns-no, even worse, mutton chops on the man's face. Someday, people would realize that clean shaven and bald-by choice- was the most stylish, practical, and intelligent of hairstyles, but until that day, Patches would simply have to deal with trend-following sheep like the man before him. Or perhaps the man was trying to hide his baby face, something his patchy stubble was too short to fully disguise.
"I can show you where to go-but I'll do you one better. How about a shortcut, eh?" Patches offered. The man tilted his head, confused.
"A shortcut? Oh no need, just show me where the bridge is."
"Look, lad. It's awfully late, and night is when the beasts come out. Big, nasty thing, they'd make short work of one lone man. The quicker you get to the Cathedral, the safer, eh?"
The man pondered this. Patches rolled his eyes. Good heavens, this was going to be an interesting mark. Perhaps he ought to just leave him here and come back in the morning to see if he had foolishly wandered into the jaws of a beast.
"Alright then. I thank you." The man bowed-a church bow, at that. Fantastic. A cleric. Holier than thou types boiled Patches' blood, and the Church of Yharnam was especially foul. From his view outside, it seemed that all the trouble stemmed from the Healing Church, but he had to owe it to them. If they had not sown all this chaos, he would have to go and find marks elsewhere.
"Follow me, my friend. Your pal Patches will show you the way." Patches turned with a dramatic flutter of his thick black coat, grinning once out of sight. His only worry was that the man might not be carrying much money, but the satisfaction of killing or at least inconveniencing a Cleric was delicious.
The man happily followed. Nothing but fluff between this man's ears, for sure.
Patches had familiarized himself with the city during his tenure. Yharnam was blessedly home to a very large, very open and very dangerous sewer. Just one careful push, a day's wait for the body to get caught on something for him to loot, and the robbery would be done. No one seemed to care about another disappearance with the beasts, and the city guards would not even bother to investigate.
The man hummed cheerfully behind him, irritatingly.
"So, what brings you to the city, friend?" Patches asked.
"I intend to become a church hunter. The beasts were becoming troublesome back home, so I wish to do some good and help cleanse the streets of the creatures."
"A lofty goal!" Patches said, rolling his eyes once more. The windows on each side of the narrow streets were shuttered tightly. No witnesses. Perfect. He could smell the foul odor of the sewer already. His companion coughed.
"Um, sir? I fear that we may have taken a wrong turn." Patches looked back, seeing his companion had pressed his scarf to his nose in an attempt to block out the odor seeping from the nearby sewer.
"No, not at all. The walkway over the sewer leads to Cathedral Ward." Patches gestured to the warehouse. "Much faster than the bridge. Here, step in front for a moment, yeah?" Patches graciously stepped aside. His companion hesitated, before taking a step forward. Patches grinned widely as he saw the coin purse that the man had foolishly tied to the belt at his waist. Well, that certainly simplified things. Just a quick grab before the shove, and he would not have to climb down to loot the corpse and fend off the rats. Perfect!
Patches followed the man down the stairs, the lad often looking back at him, nervous about the right way to continue. Patches would nod encouragingly, seeming to calm the man's nerves. What a trusting life this stranger must have led, to rely so on strangers.
Finally, they reached the sewer walkway. The man looked down into the depths, hearing the rats scurrying about below with a concerned expression.
"Nothing to worry about, yeah? We are up here, they are down there." Patches said. "Keep going, we will take the ladder up outside."
"Of course!" The man said nervously, continuing. The warehouse's ceiling ended, opening to the uncovered part of the sewer. Blinking in the bright gaslight, the stranger peered down once more at the depths of the sewer.
"Quite the drop, eh?" Patches remarked, creeping up behind his companion. He was unsure that the drop would be high enough at this location, but a chance like this was rare to come by. He did not even have to direct the man's attention to the depths with a promise of treasure!
"Yes, quite. It makes my head spin." The man replied. Patches grinned widely and aimed a sound kick at the man's lower back. Patches landed a solid blow in the center of the stranger's broad back and snatched his coin purse in the same fluid motion. Artfully done, indeed!
The stranger yelped as he lost his balance, pitching forward into the sewer with a scream. Patches cackled when he heard the splash.
Patches crept close to the edge, looking down at the man, face up in the muck, illuminated by the faint gaslight and the waning moon above. The look on the man's face was delicious-confusion turning to betrayal and finally, fury.
"Ehe Heh heh! this is what I do, my friend! It's what you deserve, of course, you damn wannabe for saving me the trouble of having to climb down there once the rats are done with you. The only miracle here is your wits are as fat as you are! Nyah hah hah hah!" Patches crowed, watching the man struggle to right himself in the muck.
Patches strode off, happily tossing the coin purse up and down. Well, it was not very heavy, but it was money, and the fact that he had inconvenienced and robbed some idiot cleric made his victory all the more sweet.
Of course, it would have been better if the fall killed him, but the fool would soon be torn apart by the giant rats or whatever abominations lurked in the sewers.
Alfred struggled to stand, unable to find firm footing in the quagmire he had been cruelly thrown into. Finally righting himself, he took a step forward, joints and bruised muscles screaming, to only slip and fall again. He lay in the muck, wheezing as every breath made his right lung feel like it had been lit aflame, trying to process what had just happened. Alfred forced himself to not cry out in horror when he realized what he had been kicked into. No doubt the pathetic little bastard was listening, and he would not give the worm the satisfaction. His pal Patches, indeed! Shame on himself for believing in human kindness and generosity! Not every outsider was as noble as Valtr, it seemed.
The last few years had been a miserable march of tragedies, slights, indignities, and now here he was, literally in the gutter, covered in the unspeakable, and Alfred knew that he had finally had enough.
Blessed adrenaline finally kicked in, the remains of his pain turning into fuel for the righteous fury burning in his heart. He forced himself up, looking around furiously. There had to be a way back up and out, Alfred thought as he stomped along the sewer way, keeping his eyes upwards so as not to see the filth beneath that spattered on his boots and his coat. Alfred slowly put his hands to his face and hair to check if they had remained clean, only to find splattered muck drying. He bristled with rage, finally spotting a ladder.
That wretch was going to die.
Patches hummed joyfully, counting the coins in an alleyway. He sniffed, wrinkling his nose. Strange, he had left the sewers behind streets ago, why did he smell that foul stench-
He shrieked as a massive hand clutched his throat, seeing the face of a man contorted in fury inches from his own. Oh Gods! The stranger from before, splattered in muck! How the hell did he manage to get out?
Alfred snarled as he lifted Patches up by the collar off the ground, ignoring the screaming pain in his shoulder. Patches' dagger clattered to the cobbles uselessly.
"H-hold on there, friend! I get these urges see? I can hardly help it now, can I?" Patches wheezed, kicking his feet uselessly. "I didn't mean it, you aren't stupid-or fat! You just look very healthy, excessively so-grk!"
"You tried to kill me by kicking me into a foul sewer, you stole my money, and you think that's what I took offense too, you pathetic bastard?!" Alfred hissed in his face. Patches winced at the spittle.
"Aren't you clerics supposed to be peaceful, yeah? Men of the church and all that?" He whimpered.
Alfred laughed mirthlessly, pulling Patches' face close to his own.
"I'm not a cleric, you bloody fool. I'm an Executioner." He declared, cold green eyes boring into Patch's terrified face. The man did not grasp the significance.
"You're a hangman?" Patches managed out. Alfred sighed, and threw him bodily against a wall. The man gathered himself up and groveled pathetically at Alfred's worn boots.
"Come on, mate. Have some mercy, yeah? Let the judge and jury have their say?"
Alfred kicked him in the ribs in response, making Patches fly back from force of the blow.
"Alright, alright! How about this, I give you a cut of my coin, and we put this behind us, yeah? You don't want a murder staining your career as a Hunter and Hangman, right?"
"I'm not a damned hangman, you idiot!" Alfred roared. Patches shrank back.
"Okay, but riddle me this-the city police goes out tomorrow, and finds yours truly's body, yeah? Then what?" Patches bargained. Surely the fool had no idea that the city guard would probably be happy to find his corpse.
Alfred picked up the man's dagger, turning it this way and that in the gaslight to examine it. Patches whimpered as he realized the man had a practiced hand.
"I don't think there is going to be a body to be found." he whispered darkly, the gleam of the dagger reflected in his wild green eyes. He had fled the city in the first place in fear of what the city guard would do to an outsider, but now? Rage had cleared Alfred's head of all possible consequences.
Something in Patches snapped. Grabbing his backup knife from his boot, he swiped wildly at Alfred, taking advantage of the man flinching back to flee. He ran, cursing his luck as he heard the heavy footfalls of his pursuer behind him. Patches had to get out of this city, out of this country where the average citizen was aware of his game and plump, mild mannered, foolish clerics transformed into knife wielding madmen.
Patches, untrusty, unlucky, and very breakable, fled, looking behind him to see Alfred keeping pace, his ruined coat flapping behind him. Ironically, the pursuit had led them both to Cathedral Ward with the Cathedral coming into sight.
Patches stumbled. If he could get to the Chapel of Oedon, he could spin a story about a wicked stranger trying to gut him. They'd believe him, looking so roughed up, and who would listen to the wild eyed, terrifying young maniac covered in offal? He would get out of this mess, he always did. He turned back, only a few hundred feet from the Chapel to see his pursuer starting to lag behind him, a valiant effort for a man who had fallen so far.
"Hah! Can hardly keep up, can ya? I'll be keeping your coin, too! Nyahahahah-" Patches was interrupted by a sudden explosion of sparks before his eyes. He faltered, stumbling once more. Something grabbed his body like a child picking up a doll, and pulled him forcefully upwards.
The last anyone saw of Patches the man was the scoundrel suddenly being yanked up in the air by an unseen force. Alfred stopped short as he saw the thief screaming and writhing in an invisible grip. A sensation of pins and needles rattled on his frontal lobe at the sight, making the space between his ears seem too tight for a second. As Alfred staggered, he heard the clunk of his own coin purse, along with a larger, heavier bag that jangled loudly as it hit the stones. Forcing himself to look upwards, Alfred's eyes went wide as he saw hapless Patches carried higher and higher before vanishing in an explosion of sparks with a final screech.
Breathing hard from the exertion as well at the sudden metal abuse, and doubting what he had just seen, he approached the two fallen bags cautiously. Alfred looked up at the seemingly normal Chapel roof, before looking at the two coin purses. He picked up his own, and with some thought, also took the heavier bag.
"Well, he will hardly be needing it anymore. Bastard." He spat, catching his breath. Alfred placed a hand on his side, realizing that maybe he had not been so lucky in his fall as he had thought. With the rage's adrenaline wearing off, his right side felt like it had been trod on by a particularly heavy and foul tempered horse. What a miserable return to Cathedral Ward! Injured, nearly robbed, out of breath and covered in muck.
A massive, unseen creature blinked her multiple eyes, adjusting her many armed grip on the building. She cleaned an eye with a tendril as she watched the mortal leave, reflecting on the entertaining shows the ants put on for them. The bald headed mortal would make an entertaining apostle for their youngest in the Nightmare, but she would let the larger one go. One of the greater ones had already laid his claim on it, and she would not interfere with the Formless one's plans.
"You are very lucky indeed. No broken bones, only sprains, the expected bruising, a few cuts, albeit with a partially collapsed lung. I suppose you landed on your right side." The doctor said. Alfred nodded, clutching his side.
"Watch your step in the future." The Doctor added, jabbing the blood filled syringe in Alfred's leg. Alfred reflected on the fact that it felt strange to be the one receiving the blood, not giving it. It was not his first time-he had been hurt in the woods, and had been clumsy in the butchershop, but it would always feel odd.
"Take blood, as usual, but I also suggest you take this for the pain." The doctor said, handing Alfred a small bottle.
"It looks rather odd. What is it?" Alfred asked, turning the small clay vial in his fingers. The vitalizing flow of the Good Blood tingled in his veins, making his fingers twitch slightly around the bottle. Did his own blood once make people feel this way?
"Lead elixir. It can dull any pain, helps with sleep, calms the mind and nerves. Scholars delving into the Eldritch Truth discovered it, another gift to mankind from the arcane. They keep the recipe secret, but it certainly contains the Blood, of course. I'd suggest you take that now."
Alfred tipped the small vial back, tasting the oddly sweet liquid. It was thick like syrup, with the faint taste of the Blood, but it was overpowered by a different, indescribable flavor. The throbbing ache in his ribs and shoulder began to slowly dull, his whole body becoming numb in a rather extraordinary way. He sighed with relief.
"Thank you." Alfred said gratefully. His head was swimming in the most pleasant way possible.
"It's easy to get a hold of for the Hunters. It's quite necessary to those on the Hunt as it lets them fight on without worrying about the pain. With that in your veins, you won't even flinch when a beast bears down on you. Now, I'd get to the Cathedral and see if they'll let you in the Hunter's showers." The Doctor wrinkled his nose.
-Present day-
The cold was biting. Quincy had not noticed it at first, but as he ascended the stone ramparts and hallways, the temperature dropped accordingly. The wind whipped his coat against his legs remorselessly, and he held onto his hat with both hands. He was relieved when a doorway opened up, promising relief from the stinging snowflakes and fanged wind.
If the entrance hall had been impressive, then this new room was doubly so. Bookshelves on each wall, groaning under the weight of the hundreds of leather bound tomes neatly placed on each shelf.
The castle reminded him of the ruins from his homeland, but the vast number of books brought to mind a darker fable. Lordra was a land of ghosts in the people's memories, the strangest of which being the maddened crystal dragon. The creature had lurked in a tower full of books, performing wicked and cruel experiments while its own mind ebbed away. The dragon's lair must have looked similar to the vast library he was now creeping through.
Unfortunately, the library was not only packed with books, but also home to more of the sobbing spirits and oblivious servants. At least, that had been what Quincy had hoped, as he carefully edged his way around a bookshelf. One of the shriveled little men looked down at him from it's perch on a moveable stairset, and gave him a yellow toothed grin before raising a blow gun to its mouth. Darts flew at him from all angles, too fast to possibly be dodged. The needles stung, but they were hardly deadly. Quincy knew what being poisoned felt like (thanks to that time in the miserable swamp), and was certain that the darts were not venomous. He was ready to write off the projectiles all together, until the previously uninterested ghosts gathered in the center of the vast library suddenly became very interested indeed.
It was now that Quincy realized that these blindfolded phantoms were cradling their own severed heads in their arms-which they now rose with an ear shattering shriek. Blood sprayed from their gaping neck-holes in a spectral shower. Quincy covered his ears, paralyzed at the agony going on inside his head. Barely audible above the tortured screams were the horrible, intangagle voices.
"Cut it's heads off, it's quicker…"
"Logarius said to just slit the throat."
"Just kill the bitches, who cares? At least we don't have to smash them to a pulp too."
One of the intact spirits was stalking him, her silver dagger held aloft. Unable to move as her sisters split his head open with their screams, Quincy shut his eyes, accepting his upcoming and soon to be most recent death.
As the library faded, a regal, soft voice echoed in his mind.
"My beloved, I cannot return to you. I will stay here, haunting the place where we were so unjustly murdered, until justice is finally wrought."
Philip slammed his axe into the skull of the monster, fur, tattered bandages, and gore flying. When he had first started hunting, he had not been prepared for the sheer amount of blood and viscera the job entailed. He removed the blade with a grunt, avoiding looking at what remained of the creature's face. There would always be slight traces of humanity in the beast's eyes, and he would lose his stomach for the job altogether.
"Every night, there's more." Constance hissed behind him, whipping her threaded cane back into shape and fixing her top hat atop her close cropped dark hair. Hunters always hunted in duos. The church claimed it was for teamwork, but Philip knew it was insurance if one turned, as hunters often did during the blood lust and heat of battle. The agreement with cooperation was to dispatch their one time comrades if they turned into monsters.
Constance was a dependable partner, a true Yharnumite, as her mitchmached features proclaimed. She wore it well somehow, making an oddly shaped nose and a slightly higher left eye a proud quirk. She refused to wear a mask, donning a top hat on the night of the hunt. It seemed foolish to Philip, but he understood why. Elegance was another way to proclaim one's remaining humanity, and going maskless showed the world that Constance was not hiding any beastly affliction under her mask, only Yharnum's twisted features.
She reminded him, in a heartrending way, of Bernice.
"The entire city stays barricaded all night, people are too scared to even walk in daylight, and the nights seem to only get longer, despite it being nearly the end of spring..." Philip sighed, leaning against a blood splattered wall. He lowered his mask, listening for any shrieks or howls.
"-And the damned Vicar stays hidden in Chapal Ward." Constance spat. "Dawn's comin." She glanced up at the greying sky furiously. "Ought to head back. Bet Father Gasc' and Henryk have already presented the hanky to end the Hunt. Keep an eye out for the new hunters-If they lived, that is."
"New hunters?" Philip asked, heaving himself up from the wall, woolen gloves snagging on dirty brick.
"The church is strugglin', Phil. They'll hire any maniac that can hold a blade and pistol." She slammed her cane on the uneven cobbles, scowling.
A shriek sounded in the distance, putting both hunters on alert instantly. Without needing to speak, they rushed down dirty alleys, jumped over knocked down wrought iron fences, and stumbled on cobbles, in Philip's case, towards the source of the scream.
A second scream sounded, only to be cut short with the painful whack of a Kirkhammer. A large, powerful figure pounded the creature, a snarling monster caught somewhere between man and shaggy furred wolf, mercilessly, splattering blood and gore all over his black hunter's coat.
The standard issue they give new hunters, Philip noticed, hat and collar covering the face to prevent possible infection. Despite having no partner in sight, it did not seem like the lone hunter was facing any issues, as the wolfish Scourge Beast soon lay dead at his boots. He panted, wide shoulders rising and falling. Must be an outsider, like Father Gascoigne, or someone with a family not native to Yharnum, as the citizens of the city tended to be lanky skin and bones.
Where did they find this oxen? Philip wondered
The stranger sighed wearily, dropping the now bloody hammer with a heavy thunk on the cobbles, and pulled off the mask and hat, and shook out a mane of sweaty and compressed, but still recognizably blonde hair.
Philip gasped as he turned his head, showing his face in profile. A familiar aquiline nose, weary eyes...could it be?
"Alfred?" He breathed, unable to believe what he was seeing.
The stranger-no, his old friend-looked around confused, trying to find where the voice had come from before turning fully around. His face lit up like a sunbeam, his green eyes instantly brightening. He pulled down the high collar of the hunter's coat, revealing a wide grin.
"Philip!" Without a trace of weariness of before, Alfred practically charged towards Philip, making the man take a step back instinctively, and enveloped him in a crushing hug. Philip laughed, uncaring of the blood and gore splattered on both their coats.
"My little brother, all grown up!" Philip chuckled, holding Alfred at arm's length. "Heavens, you really have grown up."
Alfred was a far cry from the sickly, anemic young man that he saw last. He must have shot up another six inches, at least, making him officially a head taller than Philip. He looked, and must have, truly be strong as an ox to wield such a hammer, and heavens he looked like it, his bulk that of true strength, a thick, albeit soft, core and strong arms. He had happily, ethustically trained alongside Philip and the others, but without the demands of Blood Sainthood, Alfred had been able to reach his true potential. Philip had guessed that his friend was native to the western lands just over the mountains, where the people grew strong and tall compared to the willowy, scrawny Yharnamites.
Despite these changes, Philip braced himself for the inevitable flood of words. Alfred would no doubt remain a chatterbox, even after all these years.
"I have been training! I remembered all the old executioner regimes, and I have been hunting foul beasts-"
"Hold up, this man is your brother? You look nothing alike. He's twice your size, for one." Constance interrupted. Alfred looked miffed, glancing at Philip, but Philip merely laughed again, unbothered.
"It's...sort of an adoptive thing. We were both members of the Executioners, and I took him under my wing. Alfred, this is Constance, my hunting partner." Philip explained. Philip wished he did not see the joyful grin on Alfred's face as he lied about him being a true executioner. After all these years, he still held on to that toxic dream?
"Where is your partner, Blondie." Constance crossed her arms.
"Ah. Well. it seems that in my eagerness to cleanse the streets of beasts, he seems to have been left behind." Alfred looked over his shoulder, frowning. Heavens, were those mutton chops? Philip shook his head, smiling. At least he had the proper face for them, framing his still boyish face well. Unlike some of the folks in Yharnam he saw sporting such facial hair, Alfred must take great care maintaining the sideburns if they looked passable after a night of hunting.
"You abandoned your partner?" Constance hissed and grabbed Alfred by the collar, yanking him down to her level. Alfred shot Philip a shocked, hurt look. 'What did I do?' his eyes asked, looking to Philip for help. Philip shook his head. Hunters were never to leave their partners behind.
"You damned idiot! Only an outsider would be so stupid!" Constance spat furiously. "What happens if one of you is overwhelmed! What happens if one of you turns!"
"That won't happen-" Alfred started, only for Constance to roughly push him back, unable to shove him off balance.
"It can, and it will, and it has happened before! The way you were fighting, I'd say you are half blood drunk already!"
"Constance." Philip tried.
"We are not heading back to the cathedral until we find your partner. If anythin' happened to them, you'll never go on another hunt, unless the church is that desperate to keep on someone so foolish!" Constance strood off, whipping her head back to make sure the men would follow.
"Damn beast." She hissed under her breath.
Alfred stared at the cobbles ashamed, his ears bright red from embarrassment. Philip put a comforting hand on his shoulder.
"I'm sorry to say it, but she's right. You are never supposed to leave your partner behind on the night of the hunt. The church might punish you."
"I was only trying to help...Justin was doing fine, I saw the creature, and I had to give chase." Alfred mumbled, fiddling with his rifle.
"Come on, let's follow her. I don't want you in any more trouble."
"Will you vouch for me?" Alfred asked, a note of hope in his voice. Philip sighed. "I will report what happened. I can't lie for you." Alfred hung his head, and miserably followed Constance like a shamed dog.
Most beasts roaming the streets had been dispatched, and if Justin was alive and well after Alfred ran off in excitement, well, he would have little more to fear than a slap on the wrist and a chewing out from Henriett and Henryk. And Father Gascoigne, but the man was never much for speaking. He would probably receive a stern stare Gascoigne, at most.
Hopefully Justin would be fine, and Alfred would be excused for being so excitable. Alfred was a talented hunter. He just needed a more experienced and careful hand to reign him in. Philip set his face, determined. He could be that guiding hand for his brother.
Thankfully, they ran into Justin on the way back to the cathedral. Philip soon realized that the price of this good fortune was to listen to the old man rant at poor Alfred the whole way back.
"Heavens! You should not be leaving folks behind like that, now!" Justin berated. Rail thin and clad in white Church hunting robes, Justin could have not seemed more different then his assigned hunting partner. Alfred's stare was boring a hole into the ground at his feet as he shuffled along, looking quite miserable as Justin continued, his lined face red behind his thick spectacles.
"I've been running a-hither and yon to keep up with you! These old legs hardly work as well as they used to, you know! Honestly, I try to do my civic duty, and I get set up with some spring chicken rushing all about the place, charging after every beast he sees."
"I apologize-"
"I understand that you are young and chock full of vigor, but spare a thought for an old man, yes?"
"Yes, sir." Alfred mumbled. Philip smiled as Justin's rant continued. Between his experience with Logarius and Father Gascoigne on the battlefield and hunt, it was possible that Alfred had no idea that the usual old man would have difficulties in keeping with someone decades (or in Logarius's circumstances, centuries) younger.
"Now, I'm sure you are to get an earful from the Hunt's leaders. They won't be as kind as I am, no sir!" Justin crowed.
"Oh dear...will they? You were found safe and sound!" Alfred bargained, a hint of worry edging his voice.
"Hmmf. Back in my day, they'd have you scrubbing chamber pots!" Justin huffed.
"No one uses those anymore, Justin." Philip said, patting Alfred's shoulder. "I'm sure there might be a penalty, though." Alfred merely gave him a defeated look.
"Damn water closets." Justin grumbled, to no one in particular. Philip looked ahead at Constance, who was still furiously striding ahead of them.
"You alright, Connie?" He asked gently, attempting to catch up. Constance merely grunted in response.
"Your brother is a right idiot." She muttered as Philip caught up to her furious stride.
"He's new. He's always been eager."
"He's a meathead."
"He's quite educated-'' Philip started in defense.
"A church education is not common sense."
"Alright. Yes, he lacks that."
Constance grunted.
"I thought you were the last of those fanatics."
"Of the Executioners? Well, Alfred is a special case." Philip admitted.
"Oh, is he now?"
"He was too young to go on siege." Well, that was not really a lie. Even though that was only part of the story.
"Ugh. Well, he was not kicked out for being sensible like you, obviously." Constance chuckled, looking back at Alfred. "Look at him, tail between his legs. Henriett might go easy on him 'cause he looks so pathetic."
Unfortunately, Henriett was not swayed.
"Ever since the time of the Old Hunters, the hunting of Beasts has always been done in groups." Henriett stated. She stood in front of the ornate Church window, illuminated by the rising morning sun. Despite the sunlight, the cathedral's sideroom felt rather chilly. Alfred wanted to sink into the pew with shame.
"Ludwig had his Blades." Henriett touched a shining pendant around her neck. "The Old Hunters worked in groups. The Kegs had each other. Only the fabled Hunter of Hunters worked alone, and they stalk a different prey."
"I apologise-" Alfred started, trying to cut the lecture short. Henriett ignored him and continued.
"These days, we can only manage a partner system. We lack their resources, workshop, and numbers, and we are not scouring the Yharnam populace for hunters again. Do you know why Hunters always hunt together, Alfred?" Henritt asked, fixing him with her stern gaze. Alfred looked down at his scuffed boots.
"Because one of us could be overwhelmed by beasts, or possibly turn." Alfred answered quietly.
"Exactly. I understand the eagerness on the hunt. Every hunter feels it. That excitement is the gateway to beast-hood. When the hunt takes hold of you, you lose your humanity. Hold yourself back, and for heaven's sake, keep close to your partner, especially someone as elderly as Julien."
Henriett sighed, walking to her makeshift desk.
"I thought that with his wisdom of age and your...boyish exuberance, you could perhaps balance each other out." Alfred frowned slightly. Henriett looked hardly older than himself!
She shifted through papers. "Julien has requested for a different partner."
"Could, could I perhaps hunt with Philip? I know him, and-" Alfred started before trailing off nervously. He went back to picking at his gloves.
"Philip suggested that to me the moment you returned." Henriett said, leaning against the window sill with a sigh. "Alfred, we are truly, truly lacking in hunters right now. You have the combat skills, but you lack discipline. I don't want to have another promising young hunter buried."
"I….I apologize."
"I suppose, as your first offense, we can let this slide. Consider yourself on probation. If you slip up again, we will have to send you home."
Alfred stared down silently. Henriett furrowed her brows.
"Do you not have a home to go to?"
"I...I live in the hunter barracks, near Oedon chapel."
"Many Hunters do. Do you have family nearby?" Henriett asked. Alfred renewed picking at his gloves with vigor.
"No. I-I am saving up my pay. I could rent a room, perhaps. Of course, I won't need to. It won't happen again!"
The silence made Alfred squirm. Why did she need to pry?
"Very well. See Philip as soon as you can to discuss tactics." Henriett said, gazing out the window. "Remember what I said."
"Yes ma'am." Alfred bowed, and quickly made his way out of the room, ears red.
"You took another shower lad? Saw you heading in here yesterday." A fellow hunter, a common Yharnamite remarked as he peered over the bathhouse stall. The communal showers for the Hunters did not trouble Alfred, as the Executioners had a similar arrangement. This one was smaller, and somewhat worn, despite its newness. The tiles were already cracked and the white plaster ceiling was stained from moisture.
"Well, yes. I needed to wash off the dirt and grime from the hunt." Alfred responded, concentrating greatly on shaving. He was still feeling rather shamed from earlier, he did not need his cleaning habits picked at as well. Aware of the fact he was possibly being watched, he attempted to casually secure the towel tighter.
"That's not good for health, you know. Opening the pores and all to dirt 'n disease." The man continued. Alfred heard the shower head squeak to life.
"This is me weekly shower. Used to do monthly, afore I got into the hunting business. I get grimy rather quick, now."
"Well, that's wise. Seven days without a wash makes one week." Alfred responded, carefully navigating the razor an inch from his jaw, keeping his face close to the mirror. The catastrophe months before where he had accidently shaved one chop down to the sideburn and needed to even them both out still haunted him.
"Huh? Why would that make me weak?" The man asked, confused. Alfred sighed.
"Just a play on words. Pay it no mind." Alfred rinsed off the foam, smiling at his work. Nothing like a wash and a shave to start feeling better again. His mood was turning lighter at the thought of speaking to his old friend. Philip's heresy had been nearly forgotten in his lonely years, and surely Philip would have changed his mind after the horrible tragedy. Alfred frowned. Would Philip know? He would not spring it on him immediately.
The traitorous thought "Would he even care?" was quickly squashed. What a horrible thing to consider. Even if Philip fell prey to heresy, something surely brought about by possible bewitchment, he would still care deeply about their family.
The fact that he was sitting in the public shower room, clad in nothing but a towel hit him the second the heavy door was opened by another hunter, freezing him with a relentless draft. Alfred resolved to think in less vulnerable places from then on.
Despite the danger in the rest of the city, Cathedral Ward remained relatively safe and lively. The Hunter's nocturnal lifestyle turned the usual drinking times on their head, but the bars and taverns in Cathedral Ward were happy to serve the crowd of Hunters who would show up in the early morning before they would head off to their rest. Philip nodded to Alfred as the man tried to sidle into the tavern as inconspicuous as his height and bulk would allow, just in time to catch the end of a conversation of barmaids loitering nearby.
"Well, you know what they say about men with big noses." One said, chuckling.
Alfred perked up, suddenly interested in the conversation as he sat next to Philip.
"What? What do they say?" He asked Philip, loud enough for the two to hear. Philip merely chuckled and shook his head.
"You aren't going to enlighten me?" Alfred asked, as Philip swiftly took a drink rather than respond, a heady cocktail of traditional spirits and Good Blood. The two maids tittered in response to Alfred's question before busying themselves.
"Nevermind that, let's talk about earlier." Philip said, withholding a laugh.
"Oh, heavens. This again? I am truly, dearly sorry." Alfred looked the very picture of sincerity, still carrying the wounded puppy-dog look in his eyes. "I-I came here because Henriett said you are to be my partner from now on. I promise I won't be so reckless!"
"Spectacular!" Philip could not help but smile. Having Alfred at his side again sounded wonderful. Surely, he could be the firm yet guiding hand that would keep him from dashing off like an excited hound once again.
"I thought I'd never see you again." Alfred said, obviously desperate to change the subject from his mistakes.
"I did, too." Philip admitted. ' Why didn't you come with me? ' he wanted to ask. "I thought…"
" That you died with the rest ." hung in the air, looked down at the table sadly, not responding. Philip clapped his shoulder.
"I'm sorry. The memories must still be fresh." Philip last thing he wanted to do was dredge up their fight during their last meeting, and there was still so much of the boy who had begged him not to leave in Alfred's face, something that time nor questionable facial hair could obscure.
"Where have you been?" Alfred asked, the question sounding almost like an accusation.
"I left Yharnam totally." Alfred's eyes went wide. "I went over the mountains. To travel, doing odd jobs here and there. I thought I'd never come back." Philip took another gulp of his drink, leaving Alfred waiting in rapt silence. "It's hardly that interesting."
"It is to me! I have never traveled out of Yharnam before!" Alfred argued. "Why did you come back?"
"I heard about the beasts, and I wanted to help. Besides, if I ignored it, well, all the towns, lands, places I'd been to outside of Yharnam would end up having beasts appear there eventually." Philip shrugged. Alfred looked at him with admiration.
"I felt the same way. Like it was my duty!"
"Well, where have you been all this time?" Philip asked. ' And when did you get legs like tree trunks and arms that can swing a kirkhammer one-handed when the last time I saw you, you looked like death? ', was the unsaid question.
"Ah." Alfred put a finger to his lips in thought, trying to find the best way to tell a long story. "Well, Doctor Camilla found a job for me, after the Executioners...left…which was all well, until I got in some trouble."
"Some trouble?"
"I...well. I may have swung at a fellow apprentice."
" Alfred ."
"He and the rest had been goading me for quite some time! Was I to stand there and let myself be stabbed like a good little outsider?" Alfred defended himself, leaving hundreds of questions in his wake.
"Stabbed? What kind of job was this?!"
"Oh, butchery." Alfred said flatly, as if that answered anything. Philip blinked a few times.
"The other apprentices were not keen on me." He said, giving some explanation.
"Obviously." Philip said, taking another sip.
"It was not as bad as when I was robbed and thrown into the sewer. Of course, well, it was me who drew the knife that time, but it wasn't my knife, see, it was his. He had another knife, unfortunately, but he missed."
Philip choked on his drink. His Alfred getting into knife fights was something he would have trouble reconciling with his image of the man.
"So, I had to flee for some time. Er, this was before being robbed. That was months ago, this was a year ago. So, I fled far into the woods."
"Hemwick Woods?"
"Yes, but it was winter, so all the snakes were asleep. Then I fell into a frozen pond, but a gentleman with one eye helped me out. So I lived with him in the windmill for sometime, for his companions were hibernating, except for the one who went mad and vanished, so he was rather lonesome."
"Hibernating?" Philip asked. Alfred nodded.
"They were raised and nurtured by a snake, see."
"I'm afraid I do not, but continue."
"After that, he asked me if I would join his cause in killing these pests, but I already had a cause in my heart that I could not turn away from, so once spring came I returned to Yharnam, and here I am!"
Philip was silent, letting the everyday sounds and noise of the crowded tavern wash over him. Alfred smiled expectantly.
"Quite the story." He said.
"It is! Quite!" Alfred beamed, sticking out his hand to Philip. "I am excited to embark on our new partnership."
Philip took it, smiling.
"As am I."
That night, tucked cozily in his cot in the Hunter's barracks, Alfred had a pleasant dream. Standing in the Executioner's Workshop's lush garden, Alfred leaned against a tree, watching his friends play a game. Bernice, Philip, Colin, and a few Executioners who's faces he could not see were tossing a ball along. Alfred wanted to join, but was made reluctant by politeness, so he stood there, enjoying the warmth of the way and the company of his friends. Suddenly, Philip moved away from the game, walking off.
The ball was tossed to him by Bernice. She smiled at him. "It's your turn, now, Alfred. It's all up to you."
Alfred awoke, his pillow wet from tears.
It had been a frustrating process. Quincy had rushed through the entrance hall, the dining room, the winding parapets, fighting, sprinting, and sneaking his way through. The library had been his death several times, but eventually he reached the point where he could slay the twisted little man before he could even loose a dart. Finally, through effort and practice, Quincy had found his way to the roof of the castle.
No longer tormented by the past visions, Quincy clutched his axe. Everything had led him to this point, but what could possibly be on the roof of the castle that could explain the bloody event that had taken place here. The snow made it difficult to see more then a few feet ahead, and his teeth clattered.
He might have tripped on the throne if the snow did not mysteriously cease but a few feet from it, like the placid eye of a storm, and if the weak light did not glint on the crown of the frozen, withered giant that wore it. The giant's weathered golden robes flapped in the wind along with it's ragged beard and thin hair, it's position somewhere between relaxed and unnatural in the stillness of death.
Quincy could not help but stare in awe at the sight. Was this the king of the forsaken castle, keeping a vigil over his ruined home in death, still crowned and bedazzled with golden rings and amulets. Was this what he was meant to find here at Castle Cainhurst? Alfred had spoken of the last of the Vilebloods, but in such a miserably ruined castle, Quincy was unsure that anyone could live here. Perhaps the last Vileblood, the king on this lonely throne, had decided to succumb to the elements, trapped in his own ghostly castle.
Quincy worried his lip. It made no sense. The invitation and the phantom coach were baffling enough on their own, but was this entire quest just so he could come face to face with a gargantuan specter of the Castle's past?
What would he tell Alfred? Well, he had not been given enough time to think on his friend's mission, but the whole thing was making him sick. From what he could tell, years ago, the Executioners had slaughtered a castle of nobles, leaving behind a ruined shell inhabited by ghosts and twisted servants. The Bloody Crow was one of the few survivors, and was driven mad by it. The siege had gone horribly wrong when some of the Executioners rebelled against their own master.
"Master Logarius became a blessed anchor, guarding us from evil. Tragic, tragic times... That Master Logarius should be abandoned in the accursed domain of the Vilebloods."
Quincy bit his lip hard, drawing blood as he remembered what Alfred had told him about Cainhurst. This was no Vileblood King, but Master Logarius himself.
"What in tarnation?" He mumbled, circling the figure. This was the man that Alfred thought so highly of? A rotting, giant skeleton? Surely Alfred would have mentioned that. Quincy began to step foot just behind the chair-and then heard a series of bony cracks.
It could have been the Castle's unkempt artichture crumbling. It could have been the ice underfoot. It could have been any number of things-but in truth, it was the seemingly inanimate carcass beginning to stir the second Quincy stepped just beyond the throne. Quincy crouched behind the stone throne, praying that the sounds were not what he thought they were.
Unseen by Quincy, the giant twitched a frozen hand, blacked and shriveled fingers cracking like twigs with the movement. The action moved like a collapsing set of dominos-from the left hand to the shoulder, which moved spontaneously in a shower of ice and rime. The ancient, frozen head jerked, snow falling from it's thin, ragged hair and beard. The right hand laboriously reached forward-mummified fingers struggling to move and grasp-towards the ancient staff the frozen giant had been leaning on. With a sickening crunch of neglected bones and tendons, the hand closed around it. Leaning heavily upon the staff, the giant launched forward-head jerked back to the heavens, empty eye sockets staring at the sky's zenith. The giant groaned and gasped like the grating of a crypt door, like the rasping of a coffin's hinges. By all rights, the shape-the giant-Master Logarius- should have been dead, but here Quincy was, watching the giant slowly rise and rise from his hiding place behind the frosted seat, sleet crumbling away from his robes and hair.
Master Logarius had awoken.