Much like the legend of the draconic duke, another old story stirred in Quincy's mind. The Sun God of Lordra, having given his very life to extend the age of his regime, had been reanimated as a vile cadaver to challenge any who dared follow in his footsteps. Perhaps the heroes of old felt the same spine chilling dread as the massive reanimated corpse stepped forward from his seat, searching for his challenger.
A low guttural rasp came from Logarius's lips as he looked about, Quincy creeping around the throne as the giant continued searching. Taking slow, pained steps around the snowy rooftop, still leaning on the staff, the undead monster seemed in no condition to fight, but Quincy had enough surprises that night to believe that this was going to be an easy battle.
The giant had made his way to the other side of the throne, all the while giving out gasping, weak breaths. Quincy hopped up on the seat and crouched down behind the chair's back, just barely out of sight of the being. He would rather give Logarius the run around, rather than engage with the colossus.
Quincy's scheme only worked for a mere moment-cutting Quincy's evasive maneuvers short, Logarius slammed his staff against the roof, causing an explosion of shingles and snow, sending shockwaves through the stone chair, and rattling Quincy's bones. In a blast of red light, a bright blade formed on the staff. With grace and dexterity that Loagrius had lacked before, the colossus drew back the now-scythe, taking the position of a reaper ready to cut the chaff. Quincy, knowing the jig was up, threw himself off the throne, rolling in the snow as shattered bits and pieces of the stone seat flew past him.
The giant walked agonizingly slowly towards him, and as Quincy struggled to get up, his boots slipped on the exposed ice. Cursing, and sweating despite the brutal chill, Quincy finally managed to stand and ready himself.
Logarius raised his scythe once more, and with reflexes honed by a night of brutal combat, Quincy fired his pistol, just at the right moment.
Getting shot point blank would be the end of most fights in the waking world, but in Yharnam, bullets seemed to be as harmful as a tossed stone. But with the right timing, a well aimed shot could turn the tide of the battle, and Quincy intended to make good on the hard earned knowledge the imposter Iosfeka had taught him back in the Clinic.
The bullet made Logarius stumble as it lodged into his decaying chest, and Quincy closed in on the opening. Just like the Imposter had done to poor Alfred, Quincy tore into the giant and ripped out a hunk of decaying abdominal flesh and muscle.
Logarius fell back gracelessly, and so did Quincy, quite sure he would not be able to replicate the deadly riposte again. His hand itched, and he shook off the gruesome matter that had stuck to his glove.
Wordlessly, his foe rose, and, defying gravity and sense, shot backwards through the air with a wave of his scythe. Quincy dodged and rolled as Logarius sent a wave of blood red skulls screaming through the air, the wind from them knocking him backwards on the snowy roof painfully.
A slick, ancient castle roof, slippery with ice and decaying shingles- it would be a miracle if he did not fall off before the giant killed him. As a rain of crimson skulls rushed towards him before he could rise, Quincy grimaced, accepting his latest death.
"Heaven's sakes, when will it all end?"
-Years ago-
The amount of beasts swelled with the moon-hardly any when it was new, the most appearing when it was full and bright. Yharnam was ruled by this forced lunar calendar now-nights when the sky was dark were the safest. As the moon waned, everyone could breathe a sigh of relief, bury the dead, mourn for loved ones who had died or turned, but as the lunar body waxed, dread and paranoia took hold in the city.
Tonight, a waxing gibbous hung low over the pointy Yharnam skyline, and every church Hunter waited on the stairs before the Cathedral Ward's ornate gates.
Alfred rocked on his heels impatiently before Philip put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a stern glance. Alfred stilled, thankful to see Henriett take her place at the head of the hunters.
"Is everyone fully prepared?" She asked. Various replies of agreement rippled through the assembled crowd. Henriett surveyed those before her with sharp eyes, looking for any weaknesses in her assembled hunters. Seeming to find none, she nodded.
"Very well. Cleanse these fouls streets of corruption." Henriett held aloft the Hunter Chief Emblem-a lavishly embroidered Handkerchief tied into a knot. Only once the Emblem was presented at the end of the hunt would the gates open once more to allow the hunters back in. The gates opened behind her, and she led the procession of Hunters out. From there, each hunting pair would take their own route past Odeon chapel, winding into the alleyways and narrow streets of the Cathedral Ward, hunting for Beasts.
"Isn't this wonderful? We get to hunt together now!" Alfred whispered to Philip. Philip nodded, smiling grimly as they stepped into the night.
Philip had not expected his first hunt with Alfred to be easy. Few hunts ever were, but he did not think that he and his friend would round a corner and walk right into a pack of savagely mutated hunting hounds, still standing above the mangled corpses of their former masters.
Philip froze, but Alfred charged forward without a thought, hammer swinging. It collided solidly with the emaciated bodies of the maddened creatures as they lept forward to maul him. Snapping himself out of it, Philip fired his pistol at a leaping hound, making the creature fall to the cobbles. Taking advantage of the winded creature, Alfred brought down his hammer, causing an explosion of gore.
"Good work!" Philip pulled his mask down, giving Alfred a smile. Alfred did the same, beaming radiantly for someone splattered in blood and muck.
"I believe that we make quite the team." He said cheerfully, shaking some gore off his hammer. Philip feigned indecision.
"Hmm...I'm not quite sure about that yet." Philip said, deliberately stony faced, before laughing at Alfred's crestfallen expression.
"Of course we make a good team!" Philip clapped him on the back. "Why wouldn't we?"
"Well, none of my hunting partners before had liked me very much." Alfred admitted, growing bashful.
"That's because you got assigned to an old grouch before you got me." Philip reassured. "All you need to tone down the enthusiasm a bit. Let's just keep going."
The pack of feral hounds seemed to thankfully be the only beasts in that small quadrant of the Cathedral ward, so the two men began making their way to central Yharnam, following the distant shouts and gunfire from their fellows. Thei progress was slowed by Alfred's insistence to check in to every alleyway they passed
A loud bang of wood on stone and the sudden light from an opened window startled both men. With some buried sixth sense detecting danger, Alfred suddenly sprang to the left, seconds before a bottle shattered on the cobblestones where he stood moments before. Both men looked up to see the thrower of the missile, a tiny old woman practically hanging out of her window, intensely backlit by candle light, and worse of all, shaking with rage.
"Oh no-" Philip started, before being cut off by the old woman's tirade.
"Lousy hunters! If you'd do your damn jobs, we wouldn't be in this mess!" She shrieked, shaking a boney fist. The Battleaxe of central Yharnam was infamous among the hunters-she'd shout abuse and insults at them while they went about their duties. Most hunters knew to ignore her, but Alfred, young and naive, scowled.
"We are trying to help you, madam!" He yelled up at her. Philip grabbed the back of Alfred's coat, dragging him back.
"Don't talk back to her." He whispered urgently. "You'll make her angrier!"
"She's ungrateful! We are out here risking our necks, and she's throwing bottles at me!" Alfred argued. The old woman scowled, straightening her mobcap.
"Help me? Hah! All you two are doing is loiterin' in the damn street!" She sneered.
Alfred opened his mouth, probably to say that he and Philip were on their way before she threw the bottle, but Philip grabbed his arm, pulling him away.
"Damn it, Alfred. You can't let them get to you! Everyone in Yharnam hates the hunters." Philip chided him once they were safely tucked away in a nearby alleyway, out of view of the old harpy and her projectiles.
"But we are all that stands between them and the beasts!" Alfred pulled down his mask, frowning deeply.
"Well, Yharnamites are hardly known for their sense and reason." Philip sighed. "They want a scapegoat, so they point the fingers to us. Besides, the original hunters were terrible. They burned down Old Yharnam on a hunch, and all that led to was a brief reprieve from the beasts and the population hating the Healing Church and everything they stand for."
"It's hardly fair…"
"Nothing is fair, Alfred." Philip patted his arm. "You did well with the dog-beasts."
Alfred perked up immediately. "Truly? Did I?" Alfred asked.
"Of course. Don't doubt yourself." Philip reassured him as they left the dark alley.
The bright gibbous moon was almost enough to illuminate the cobbled streets without the help of the gas lamps, but the eerie shadows still ruled Yharnam's streets. Wrought iron fences cast twisted stripes over the men as they passed, and the dark shapes of the many statues that lined Yharnam's streets kept the two men guessing at what they really were seeing ahead. Philip could feel Alfred's nervous energy growing behind him. It had been too quiet for far too long, with nary a peep from a beast or hunter, and they both were feeling unsure about the sudden peace.
"Do you think-" Alfred said, stopping himself briefly before continuing, "Well, it's quite silly, but…maybe we've cleared out all the beasts in the city for the night?"
"That's very optimistic of you." Philip saiding, turning around to check behind them.
'Well, it's been awfully quiet, and with everyone locked away in their homes, any one unfortunate enough to turn would probably be stuck in their house. Surely there must be some end to the beasts?"
"I don't think they'd be trapped for long. Besides, some of our own hunters might turn."
"Oh dear. I guess there is no end to them."
"Someday, there will be-ooof!" Looking backwards while speaking to Alfred, Philip walked straight into the massive form of Father Gascoigne.
"Sorry-"
The giant of a man did not ever start or exclaim, merely instinctively righting Philip as he stumbled from the sudden impact. He put a finger to his lips, gesturing down the road, towards one of Yharnam's many warehouses. Half hidden by a few small trees, a figure even taller than Gascoigne stalked, dragging a bag behind it. Even in the dimness of the night and the great distance, Philip could see it's unnaturally long arms poking out from under it's tattered robes.
"What is it-" Alfred started, only to be hushed by the same finger.
"One of Mensis's Pthumerians." Father Gascoinge whispered lowly.
"Why don't we rush it?" Alfred whispered. Gascoigne shook his head, pointing once more. Looking closer, it was now obvious the sack it was dragging was moving-something, no, someone inside was thrashing about.
"Can't hurt whoever's in the bag." He gestured his head towards one of the nearby roofs. Just a barely visible yellow clad shape in the darkness, Henryk had lain across the shingles, aiming his gun towards the giant.
"But-Quicksilver bullets won't be enough to kill it-they can only stagger or stun-" Alfred was interrupted once more by Gascoinge's hand.
"We know that. That's why you two are going to rush in once it's stunned. Quick and fast." Gascoigne readied his own pistol-practically a blunderbuss with its size.
Following suit, Philip and Alfred prepared their weapons to strike, never taking their eyes off the emaciated giant before them.
"Charge in once we shoot." Gascoinge drew back into the shadows, taking his position.
The hooded giant took a step into a patch of moonlight only to be greeted by a flash of gunpowder. It staggered, as expected, and Philip and Alfred charged in. A swift attack with the kirkhammer, a few deft swipes with the saw cleaver, and the monster lay dead on the cobbles.
Henryk lept from the roof with a deftness unexpected for his age, and immediately went to open the sack, releasing a gasping Healing Church Priest from it's confines.
"Thank the Gods!" The man managed out, replacing his spectacles. "I had only nipped out of the cathedral for a moment, and the brute grabbed me!" Henryk helped the man to his feet.
"You are safe now, sir. My partner and I could escort you back to the ward?" Philip asked, looking at Henryk for permission.
"Gascoigne and I will do it." Henryk pointed to the lightening sky. "It's almost time."
As Gascoigne and Henryk left with the priest, Alfred and Philip were left to ponder the strange monster left behind.
"It...does look like a Pthumerian in proportions." Alfred nudged its clawed hand with his foot. "But what could it have possibly wanted with the priest?"
"They say the School of Mensis has been kidnapping Yharnam Citizens. Yhar'Gul is home to some Pthumerian tombs. They could have got the service of the Pthumerians they dug up there. This one does look fresh out of torpor."
"He didn't look much like Master Logarius." Alfred said wonderingly. Philip gritted his teeth.
"No, he did not."
When Alfred went to bed as the sun rose, he dreamed of horrible clawed hands, dogs with the faces of men, and the looming form of the snatcher.
The communion ceremony for the Hunters would take place on every full moon, just before the Hunt. Alfred stood in the assembly of the other hunters-organized in two straight lines, a bundle of nerves.
The last time he had stood in the Cathedral had been his Sainting ceremony. The memory gave him a feeling of unpleasant Deja vu as he glanced up at the impossibly high ceiling. A cracked skull of a beast grinned at him from the altar, sending a chill down his spine. Such a horrible sight among the scared statuary, no doubt a reminder of the dangers of communion.
Alfred had to remind himself he was no longer a helpless boy, but a man-a Hunter!-here to receive communion, not give it. However, his greatest shock was yet to come-as Amelia emerged from behind the Altar, garbed in the white robes of a Vicar.
Alfred knew that it would be Amelia's duty as the Vicar to give communion, but nothing would have been able to prepare him for the sight of his old friend. Amelia has taken her place before the altar, slightly taller and older, but her most shocking change was the ravages of Sainthood on her body.
Vicars gave communion, and Amelia did so faithfully, giving the Good Blood from her own veins, but the blood had many prices for the devout to pay. She was white as snow, her eyes sunken and tired. Her pale blonde hair was still long and braided intricately, but Alfred could see it was wispy and thin. Despite her exhaustion, Amelia carried herself regally, holding the chalice aloft. Two other Blood Saints in a similar condition flanked her, seemingly appearing from the woodwork, a man and a woman, also in white.
Amelia passed along the blood filled Chalice, going from hunter to hunter. Alfred kept his head up, staring straight ahead. There was no way Amelia would know who he was. It would ruin everything if she recognized him, but part of him wanted to embrace her, to call her name, to apologize to the pale, thin phantom that was his first friend.
As Amelia came closer and closer, Alfred feeling himself tremble slightly from the potent mix of emotions. Finally, he felt the Chalice being pushed in his hand, and looked down into Amelia's bright blue eyes.
"Partake in communion, brother-" She began her prayer, before recognition dawned on her face. Her eyes widened, and she paled further, the two silent Saints taking her shoulders to steady her. The other hunters turned heads and gawked, confused about the sudden interruption.
"Alfred?" She whispered, shocked. Alfred lifted the chalice to his lips rather than answer, but gave the slightest nervous was he, the Good Blood had turned tasteless in his mouth as he gulped his portion down. Amelia, composing herself, took the Chalice back with a bow, returning to her duties.
Alfred returned to staring straight ahead, eyes gazing past the wooden pews and stone walls of the Cathedral, dread bubbling in his stomach.
"Amelia wishes to see you." Henriett approached him as the Hunters filed out. Alfred had spent the rest of the ceremony in a panicked haze, letting the words and prayers slip past as he tried to figure out how to avoid the fate of becoming a Blood Saint once more.
"In trouble again, Alfred?" Philip chuckled as he went past, clapping Alfred's shoulder. "I'll see you in the barracks."
"No-I don't think so-" Alfred called after him, trying to keep his voice from shaking.
"You are not in trouble. This time, that is." Henriett assured him. "Amelia very much wants to speak to you."
The walk to the Vicar's office reawakened old memories. The misery of his lonely childhood, being made to agree to the terribly unfair terms of Sainthood, the inhuman Choir's poking and prodding. Sure, he had ended up with the Executioners, but Alfred was aware that if Vicar Laurence had willed it, his life would have gone far differently and far worse. He wasn't a helpless boy anymore, but the old fears still lurked.
Amelia rose from her desk as they entered, bow gracefully. A warm smile appeared on her gaunt face. "Alfred."
"Vicar." Alfred bowed back. Henriett withdrew silently, shutting the door behind her.
They both stood quiet for an uncomfortable moment. The Vicar's office was largely the same-the desk still in the same place, the curtains still still the same color-but flowers were arranged on the desk, adding a pop of life into the cold room that Alfred remembered meeting Laurence in.
"I was certain you were dead. Doctor Camillia reported thus." Amelia said softly.
"She offered to report that news-I had no idea it would reach you."
"I keep track of every Blood Saint. I am one myself." Amelia steepled her fingers, sitting elegantly at the desk. Unsure of what to say, Alfred continued to stand awkwardly. He felt out of place in his Hunter's attire, somehow. His hands twitched and curled and uncurled, in desperate need to worry at something, but he stilled them forcefully.
"I am glad to see you well." She said, breaking the awkward silence.
"You as, ah, well..." Alfred trailed off.
"I am aware I am not quite well myself." Amelia said, sparing Alfred further embarrassment. "Our remaining Blood Saints and I have been stretched rather thin by demand for blood.
"You see, we are in dire need of Blood Saints." Amelia stated. Alfred could not read Amelia's expression. Here she was, weak and sickly, while he was in the peak of health and vitality, holding on to his blood. How could he convince her it was not greed?
"I'm sorry, but I will not be a Blood Saint again." Alfred remembered his original fire and conviction, fueled by grief. Now, his objection was gentler, softened by Amelia, but made stronger by the living proof of what the prolonged process Sainthood did to a person. "I gave everything I could to the Executioners, everything I was allowed to give. Now I serve Yharnam by hunting the beasts. But I will not allow my blood to be taken again."
Amelia's face remained perfectly placid. Her pause made Alfred fear that he had made a grave error.
"Your blood is your own." She finally said, folding her slender hands. "What Laurence made you agree to was not fair. You were a boy, without any real options. I only wished to ask you once, as a man with viable alternatives."
"What would have happened to me if I did not agree to Sainthood?" Alfred asked. Amelia thinned her lips, looking down.
"He would have sent you to the Choir's Orphanage...or perhaps, merely had you sent back to their clutches." Her words became sharp on 'Choir', her eyes hardening. Alfred remembered his terror of the Choir as a child-well deserved fear, perhaps.
"If you do not wish to return to sainthood, then you are free to continue as a Hunter. You have made a clean break of it. Everyone...aware of your blessing is no longer here to tell of it." Amelia rose with a slight waver.
"Amelia-" Alfred stepped forwards to help her up, but Amelia waved him away.
"Vicar." Amelia said firmly, clutching the back of her chair.
"Vicar Amelia. Could you ever forgive me for never coming back to see you?" Alfred asked. Amelia smiled wanly.
"The protege of the Vicar had no time for friends, Alfred, and I'm certain the Executioner's Blood Saint had no time for travel to Yharnam." She said sadly. "But the time I spent with you are some of my most treasured memories. I thank the gods you did not die in Cainhurst, but I am afraid we must return to our separate paths." Amelia bowed gracefully, and Alfred mirrored the gesture.
When Henriett reentered the room after Alfred left, she found the Vicar standing at the window, gazing out onto the Cathedral Ward.
"What was that about?" She asked, slipping an arm around Amelia's waist.
"Just an old friend, from another lifetime ago."
Philip had been working diligently in the Hunter's workshop, sharpening his blade. Tonight was a full moon, and if last night's hunt had been difficult, tonight would indeed be chaotic.
The old Workshop that the Old Hunters had built for Gherman had long been closed up, leaving the newer hunters content with the tower that led to the Upper Cathedral Ward, placing their tools and weapons there. Yharnam was a city built into the mountains, making it a city of reaching heights and deep valleys, the Hunter's Workshop having been built around one of the small peaks. Philip enjoyed the high vantage point of the Workshop, and had moved a seat and a whetstone on one of the open ledges so he could gaze down at the Cathedral Ward while he worked.
Hunters milled about the square below, mingling with the Brothers and Sisters of the church. Rarely, one would see a member of the Choir pass, their frilled white robes trailing in the breeze. A familiar figure caught his eye-a blonde head drew close to one of the other hunters, bearing...flowers?
Philip watched as Alfred bowed humbly to the other hunter, holding out the bouquet-and had to look away to respect his friend's privacy, focusing intently instead on the whetstone. When he looked back up, Alfred was alone, dejectedly clutching the flowers. Philip frowned at the sorry sight, watching the man trudge off.
When Philip returned to the Hunter's dorms, Alfred acted as if nothing had happened, but later, Philip found the bouquet kicked under his cot.
Philip would never bring it up.
It was as hot as it could be in Yharnam that summer, amplifying the City's wretched stench-one that grew more fouls as Alfred approached his old lodgings. Despite the heat, Alfred had been restless to escape the confines of the Cathedral Ward, leaving it with the sword of his Kirkhammer and the most summer friendly arrangement of his hunter's garb he could come up with, with the overcoat was open over a cotton shirt, his hat left in the barracks. Just enough to show that he was a Hunter, but not enough to make him fall to heatstroke before he reached his destination. Alfred would need to show that he was a Hunter, as he was returning to the street of the old Butchershop. The Hunters may be unpopular, but they commanded at least some respect with the citizens of Yharnam.
Heat waves radiated off the cobbles, and Alfred wished he had brought the kerchief from his mask to block out the scent of horse dung roasting in the sun. Even worse, abandoned bodies of slain beasts lay here and there, left to rot. Cathedral Ward cleaned up the bodies of human and beast alike after each hunt, but it seemed the rougher parts of the city were content to let the scavengers and rot take care of the carcasses of the beasts. Hopefully, the deceased men and women were treated with more care.
Alfred had read about distant cities where things were kept sanitary, where waste was not dumped into the streets, where garbage and refuse were carted off each night instead of left to fester. Perhaps, once the plague of Beasts was over, Yharnam could be like one of those ideal unbuttoned the top of his shirt, desperate to receive some much needed ventilation. Otherwise, sweat was beginning to soak through his cotton shirt's sleeves, sticking miserably against his coat. Sometimes, he missed that chilly winter in the Forbidden Woods.
Alfred wondered idly how Valtr was doing as the sudden familiarity of his surroundings brought him out of his daydreaming. Here he was, his feet having brought him back to the street of the Butcher, and now, he could feel the old misery he had felt during his tenure at the butchershop returning stronger with each step.
Alfred grimaced, swiping his sweat soaked curls out of his eyes, taking in the old street. The street was rougher then it had been a year ago, more shops closed, more houses with boarded up or shattered windows. The stench of urine still clung to the now closed tanneries, stinging his nose as he dodged the carelessly spread horse dung. There was a pang of disappointment when the familiar bakery was shuttered, a scrawled note on the once open door apologizing heartily for the owner's fleeing the scourge of beasts.
Alfred was not here for day-old discounted baked goods, he was here to visit his other escape from the grimness of butchery-the bookstore. Hopefully, Charles had not left yet-granted the fact the man seemed very sensible and had no ties to Yharnam that he could tell, Charles might have left ages ago.
Despite everything, the Butchershop was still open, looking more foul and worn than he remembered. Alfred paused, a few hundred feet from it, finding himself unable to move for a moment. Damnit, I'm a man now. I'm allowed to walk down the street unbothered. I'm a Hunter. I have nothing to fear in broad daylight.
"Hey! Outsider!" A familiar voice made him turn, feeling his muscles clench. The ringleader of the butcher's boys sneered at him from across the street.
"Slunk back, did ya?" He crowed. "I've been itching for a rematch." Alfred merely drew himself up to his full height, slowly turning to face his old nemesis as his fear and worry turned to indigent fury. The strong sunlight glinted off the Kirkhammer's sword at his waist, revealing to the other man not only was his favorite target now a hunter, but was very much armed.
"I should not reflect too badly on my employers." Alfred made a show of dusting off the elegant Hunter's coat. "However…"He said softly, placing a gloved hand on his sword handle. "If you do so insist." The man slunk back as Alfred strode across the street, until he was looming above his former tormentor.
"I'll be gettin' along, then." The man said weakly, scurrying off.
Alfred nodded sharply, grinning from ear to ear the second the other man was past. He was not used to having any sort of power at all, and being able to cow his old bully without lifting a finger was truly grand. Master Logarius would have told him to be careful with throwing his weight around, of course, but surely even the Master would allow him to at least have this little victory?
The street no longer seemed so gloomy now, and his heart was quite light by the time he reached the old familiar bookshop-only to sink again to find it in a state of disarray.
Books were everywhere, stacked on crates, haphazardly thrown onto the shelves, and in the middle of it was Charles, packing his personal things into a briefcase.
"Charles?" Alfred asked. The man turned, smiling as if he had been expecting him. Other than looking more grey and worn, Charles looked to be in decent spirits.
"Ah, Alfred. Good to see you well, especially after all those stories that the Butcher's lads chased you into the woods after you tried to murder one of them."
"That...was not the case." Alfred said, worried.
"Of course not." Charles waved a hand. "The story got even more ridiculous each time the brats told it. I'm happy to see you out of there," Charle's eyes darted to his sword. "-even if you are now a hunter, I am assuming."
"It's my civic duty."
"I see. It's a noble thing to want to protect your home. But as for me, I am returning homeward." Charles returned to busying himself with packing. "I've learned all I could about the Plague of Beasts and Yharnam. I've already booked passage on the next ship back to the East, a miracle in itself, there has hardly been any ships travelling there since, well." Charles gestured about. "Anyway, I am glad you stopped by, I have something for you."
Alfred's jaw dropped as Charles hefted up a good sized box of books.
"Charles-there's no way I can take this-"
"You can. I can't take this with me, and I know that it's better than me leaving them in this decaying storefront. See, look, history books, novels, historical romances." Charles smiled at Alfred's blush as he accepted the gift.
"It's honorable that you would stay here and fight the beasts, but think of your own safety too." Charles had turned serious once more. "You only have one life."
"I don't have anywhere else to go." Alfred explained. Charles shook his head.
"That can't be the case. You are young. There's a whole world out there beyond Yharnam, as much as the people here try to deny it, full of opportunities for a young person."
"Not if the Beasts are allowed to run amok."
"Ah, well, I believe that if Yharnam would accept help from the outside world, the problem would be squashed easily." Charles closed his luggage. "This whole crisis is brought about by Yharnam's xenophobia and stubbornness."
"Some help would be nice…" Alfred pondered. "Perhaps from New Loran, or from over the mountains."
"Or from my homeland. Although, I'm afraid we are not on very good terms with Yharnam at the moment." Charles paused, thinking. "Oh, I was unable to find anyone willing to buy the shop. You could store any books you can't carry here. I'll be leaving them all here, anyway."
Gathering up his books, Alfred prepared to leave. "I'll miss you, Charles."
Charles smiled. "And I you. We aren't likely to meet again. My traveling days are over after this, I think, but if you ever sail eastwards, well, unlikely things have happened."
Hands full of books and heart light, Alfred made his way back to the Cathedral Ward. The summer twilight was slow in coming, but it was falling, turning everything a glazed orange. Thankfully, the wretched heat was slowly dissipating as well, and the errant breeze chilled and dried his cotton shirt.
The moon would be a thin crescent tonight, Alfred knew that, not the night of a hunt. There was always danger in the Yharnam night, often from the citizens of the town themselves, but beasts would be thankfully scarce.
As he approached the Ward, Alfred came across a strange sight. Huddled on the ground was a Nun of the church-glowing white in her robes. Alfred quickened his step.
"Are you alright, ma'am?" The woman twitched slightly, shuddering. Alfred frowned, worried. He tucked his books under one arm, and offered a hand to the Nun. "Madame, allow me to escort you back to Cathedral Ward."
The nun rose unsteadily. "Oh, thank the gods. A hunter." She reached out a trembling hand, and Alfred took it, helping her to her feet. The nun swayed unsteadily, but Alfred caught her, feeling her frail, shaking body. The gaslight above cast shadows over the hollows of her cheeks, and her sunken eyes. A Blood Saint, drained dry.
"Do you have any blood?" She rasped, clutching his arm weakly.
"I do not, sorry." He should have. It would have been smarter to never leave the safety of Cathedral Ward without a few vials, but it was the wrong night for beasts, and surely the Blood should be kept for dire circumstances - circumstances such as this. "Once we make it to the Cathedral Ward, I will make sure you get what you need." Alfred assured, placing an arm around her to steady her.
"I'm afraid I've gotten lost." She leaned heavily against him. "I...I do not remember how I got out here."
They walked in silence, passing under rows of gaslights along Yharnam's narrow streets. Alfred was hyper-aware of her laboured breathing and the shivers that passed through her body. Would she collapse before they reached the Cathedral? Would it be too forward to offer to carry her? He would happily do so if asked, or if she-heavens forbid!-collapsed.
"What is your name, madame?" He asked, hoping to break the silence.
"Arabelle. I had another name, before." She gave a quiet, rueful laugh. "The church takes everything from you, does it not?" Alfred said nothing in response.
Arabelle leaned her head against his neck, Alfred feeling a tingle run down his spine at the sensation of her hair against his nape.
Arabelle leaned her head in closer, her cheek to his chest. The closeness of another person would have been welcome under different circumstances. Her breathing slowed, and Alfred felt her relax. Her hand touched the base of his neck, then trailed downward, past his collarbones, her finger tips just above his now racing heart. Heat rushing to his cheeks, Alfred opened his mouth to ask exactly what Arabelle was doing.
"You have something I need." She interrupted, clutching his shirt.
"What do you need?" Alfred asked.
As an answer, Arabelle tore into his shoulder with her teeth. He cried out in surprise in pain, shoving her away from him in shock. Alfred clutched his shoulder, teeth clenched with pain.
"You...you have sainted blood." She bared her teeth-they had become irregular, crooked and pointed. "I need it." Blood-by the gods, HIS blood-dripped down her chin, staining her foul teeth. Arabelle wiped the mess up with her hands, licking at each drop desperately.
"You are afflicted." Alfred said, unable to stop his voice from shaking in pain-why did he leave his lead elixir and blood vials at home? He was a fool-a fool to think that he would be safe. Adrenaline was enough for him to draw his sword-but with his mangled right shoulder, he doubted he would be able to produce much in the way of sword attacks.
"I'll die without your blood!" She shrieked. "Saints are supposed to share their gifts! I've shared mine-save me!"
"My blood is my own! I was taking you to get what you needed!"
"Greedy! You are greedy! All of you hunters! I'm damn bled dry!" She threw her head back with an inhuman scream. The skin on her face split, revealing a glistening skull, baring twisted fangs that grew past the monster's chin. She dropped to all floors, writhing as its legs lengthened and hair sprouted through Anna's white robes.
Alfred was frozen in place as the transformation occurred. He had never seen it for himself-he had heard tales from the other Hunters who had witnessed other people turn, worst of all, their hunting partners, but none of those stories had prepared him for the hideous sight. The woman was unrecognizable as her emaciated form was stretched out and lengthened, towering over him. The beast shook her head, the useless flaps of skin framing her exposed skull ripping further down her back. Before his very eyes, the monster was flaying herself.
An acrid smell filled the air, making his eyes water and his shoulder wound sting further.
Alfred steeled his resolve-he was a hunter, after all. It would be his duty, after all! He would have to put Arabelle out of her misery-even if he had never seen a beast like this before. Gripping his sword with both hands, he charged at the monster while she-no, it, it was certainly not a human anymore- was still in the last throes of the transformation.
Quick as lightning, the beast jumped aside from his thrusting blade-his reactions slowed by pain, Alfred tried to readjust-only for the monster to pounce, slamming him into the ground, his sword clattering uselessly against the cobblestones. The wind knocked out of him, Alfred lay there, stunned.
That horrible, naked skull leared down at him before it swooped in to attack. Desperately, Alfred grasped the skull with his hands, trying to force it back. The beast strained against him, horrifically strong, coming ever closer to his neck. Injured and quickly tiring, Alfred screamed for help, prayed aloud to the gods, kicked against the emaciated form of the monster, doing anything he could to keep the beast's snapping jaws away from his neck.
Fluid leaked onto Alfred's hands where he gripped the beast's skull, burning his hands and arms as it dripped down. The acrid smell was overpowering, but he could not let go. He could not let go.
The monster powerfully lunged forward, sensing Alfred's failing strength, breaking free from Alfred's grip, and tore greedily into his chest. The whole world erupted into red, screaming pain. Just as everything began to fade and slip away, Alfred heard rapid approaching footsteps and shouts.
'Thank heavens. But it's too late now.' Came Alfred's last thoughts, before he finally blacked out.
Death after death. Quincy had become numb, merely rushing from the lamp to face the giant once more. His supplies waned, as did his patience. Should he give up? Turn back? No. He would figure out the secrets of Cainhurst and the Executioners.
So numb was he, that when Quincy struck at Logarius once more and the giant collapsed, Quincy jumped back, expecting a trick. Instead, Logarius reached upwards, beforeike dust in the wind, the giant crumbled away like a mummified body exposed to air. His corpse-thin frame juttered and shook as he crumbled. The crown fell against the snowy-rooftop with a snow-muffled clang amongst the decaying remains of the giant's golden robes. With a soft rattle of jewelry clinking against the roof and crown as they fell, what remained of the giant danced in the air, mingling with the falling snow.
Just as Quincy approached the crown, the wind picked up, whipping the falling snow and the ash-like remains into strange shapes. Painted by the red moonlight and snow, stood two figures. A tall man in ancient looking armor, and startlingly, the woman that Quincy had seen on the lake. The woman cradled her pregnant belly, seeming to be peering out an unseen window.
" My lady ." The same deep voice that Quincy had heard since arriving came from the tall figure, who moved to comfort the lady.
" Queen Yharnam, I assure you, Cainhurst's revolt will be put down quickly ."
" So, Cainhurst has betrayed us, then. First Oedon, then our oldest allies ." A tear, rendered with shadow and snow, rolled down her cheek.
" Oedon has not abandoned you, Queen Yharnam ."
" He will not speak to me. He knows-I know-that Mergo will be stillborn. I was unfit ."
"No one was more capable of bearing a child of the gods then you, my Queen. Mergo lives. Oedon wishes to test you."
"She is dead. I know it."
"Do not believe Cainhurst's lies!-"
A loud thud echoed distantly, the two shapes turning to see where the sound came from. Queen Yharnam stod from her invisible seat, pointing a finger at the man.
"Captain Logarius, as your Queen, I order you to retreat." Her voice was now firm, with no sign of her previous sorrow. Quincy gave a soft gasp, afraid that any sound would disrupt the ghostly scene.
"I have served you faithfully since you were but a girl-but that is an order I will not follow." Logarius bowed
"You know what they will do to you. They will imprison you in the tombs to rot and waste away. You are Pthumerian, as am I. Death does not come easy to us. An eternity spent with nothing but your own thoughts." The Queen smoothed her skirts, standing tall, her head held high. Quincy realized she was preparing to face her end with dignity.
"I shall rest easy, as my thoughts will be of how I served my Queen and her family before her with loyalty."
A loud crash echoed. The phantom Logarious drew forth a scythe-the same weapon the giant had fought Quincy with-a sight that made Quincy sick to his stomach. He had come here to try to find a way to end the night, and to understand Alfred-but instead, he had slain the man that Alfred idolized. The murderous, vindictive monster that Alfred idolized.
"I shall think of nothing but that and revenge on those who betrayed you!" Logarius roared and charged forward at the phantom sound before being blown away by the wind mere seconds later.
Quincy stood breathing hard from both the battle and from what he just witnessed. He picked up the Crown, and gazed up at the Red Moon.