The decrepit old windmill was still and quiet. Not even the wind outside made a sound, nor was there a creak from its sagging timbers.

The man in the constable's uniform was nowhere in sight. A strange fellow, Valtr. A little too bloodthirsty for Balyn's taste, but he figured that the League master had kind of had a point about the general nonsense running around Yharnam. Between the beasts and the Kin and the mad doctors and the not-very-holy clergy, there really wasn't much argument that this place didn't need a thorough cleansing. Balyn just wasn't sure that a man carrying a giant spinning saw on a stick was the right person for the job.

He glanced down at the weapon he held in his right hand and had the decency to look embarrassed. (Besides, he was wearing a cloth mask over his lower face, allowing himself to preserve his dignity even if he was, as he suspected, blushing like a schoolgirl.)

"It's the spinning!" he said aloud. "Fixed saws on a stick are perfectly reasonable!" The crows outside didn't react, so apparently they bought it. Or did not particularly care, being man-eating crows.

It was probably for the best that the whole line of thought was cut off when Balyn caught sight of an item lying in a shadowed corner. He crouched down and picked it up.

I guess he meant it when he said it was his last job as Master of the League.

~X X X~

The Plain Doll was not a particularly expressive person. Apart from one time when she had, somehow, cried at being given a gift, she had never shown any strong emotion to Balyn. He figured that he could probably set the Hunter's Dream on fire and she would react only with mild bemusement. Which, in all fairness, was actually extremely expressive when compared to the average doll.

It was really quite remarkable, then, for her to openly boggle at the figure that had suddenly appeared before her, a figure dressed in a uniform of blue fabric, with gold braid and brass buttons, brandishing a torch like a beacon and wearing on its head what looked like a battered, round pout with a single hole at about eye level.

"Behold!" it bellowed, its voice tinny from beneath the pot. "Come unto me, confederates of the League, and join me in the Hunt! We shall stalk the foulness that haunts the night, and crush vermin until they have to ask us to wipe our boots before we go into the sewers! Rally to my side, o confederates!"

"Good…hunter?"

Balyn was not precisely sure how it was that someone with a face made of porcelain could look like someone had smacked her with a trout, but the Doll somehow pulled it off.

Sighing heavily, he yanked off the Master's Iron Helm.

"I guess that's just not for me."

"What were you doing, good hunter?" the Doll asked.

"Valtr left me this helm. It's the symbol of the master of the League. They're a society of hunters who help one another hunt down and crush vermin, the root of human foulness and impurity that corrupt the blood. Or possibly a society of delusional madmen who hallucinate creepy bugs in the blood of maddened beasts. I'm not sure which, exactly. I don't think they are, either."

"I…begin to see why this person thought you would be a good leader of this group."

Balyn had the sneaking suspicion that the Doll had not been complimenting him.

"Truthfully, I don't think being the leader of the League confederates is for me, though. We differ fundamentally in our labor principles."

"Labor principles?"

"Yeah, I've always been a union man."

~X X X~

A/N: I originally gave this particular omake to my wife, Tarma Hartley, on her birthday. The U.S. Civil War has always been one of her areas of interest, so the closing pun was holiday-appropriate!