Holding up a glass beaker of some sort up against the moonlight, all Jaune could do was sigh at the depravity that had taken hold of Yharnam. A single bloodshot eyeball staring back at him. In the moonlight it looked yearning, longing, pleading with him for something he just couldn't understand. Revenge for his unjustly murder, to be granted mercy, or it was just his mind playing tricks. The eye wanting for nothing. The eye wanted for everything.
He knew better than most just how depraved some ritual materials could be. Hair, slugs, specially prepared ritual blood, different kinds of organs for different kinds of rituals. Even something as 'mundane' as mold were used in some specific rituals.
Ringing his bell, Isolde spirited it into the dream before more blood could stain the beaker. Exhaling, a puff of mist escaped, blood dripping onto the stones underneath him as it travelled down his greatcoat. His top hat already wearing a new, darker, colour and his gloves where thankfully made with great leather. While blood trailed down his cheeks, he rather not have his hands be wet with blood.
He already washed his hands a good five minutes too long each time he went to the bathroom. Even if it was imaginary, he wanted to keep a line between Jaune the student and Jaune the hunter. If only for the peace of mind he felt when hugging his friends, he didn't want to stain them with his blood-soaked hands.
Walking down the staircase a familiar apathy settled over him. It was a gentle sort of apathy. Far from what had made Gehrman a shell. It was the type of apathy doctors developed after telling the nth patient they had little time left to live. An apathy shared by firefighters and EMC personnel, having had one to many die in their arms.
But while their jobs were saving lives', Jaune's duty was taking them. He never took any pleasure in what he did, and he hopefully never would.
The crunch of gravel sounded out from under his boots. Tall weeds ran lovingly around his legs.
It was only thanks to his height that he spotted another floating ghost orb. With well practiced motions, he bent down and searched through the corpse. Ignoring the overpowering scent wafting from the weeds, he fished out some hunter's marks from a pocket. Cringing when he saw some weeds growing out from the corpses legs. Some beautiful crimson flowers blooming out from his chest.
With a sigh, Jaune drew his sacrificial dagger. Carefully cutting of the head of the flowers. Only looking down with indifference when crimson sap spilled from the cut. He didn't know what he would use them for, only some choice rituals required them. But they were good to have, and he didn't want someone else to get their hands on them. The rituals were cruel, to say the least. There were some fates worse than death after all.
Spiriting the flower buds away, he continued making his way down the beaten path. Making sure to always keep his aura up. He wouldn't be surprised in the slightest if there were any traps hidden in the weeds.
Large headstones decorated the path, names barely discernible. Frowning he drew Crocea Mors, feeling his heartbeat quicken as the path led down into a cave. Leading further and further down. His lantern the only source of light.
Snapping his fingers, the light from the lantern grew stronger. Pushing away the darkness as he descended deeper into an uncaring darkness. Walking for what felt like hours but could only be minutes before he saw a soft light in the distance. The cave opening more and more until soft moonlight fell from the sky as he sat foot in a forest.
Ferns grew along the roots of towering trees. Clusters of headstones scattered about. Torches casting light as riflemen patrolled, loyal hounds following by their deranged masters side.
"What kind of mess have you found yourself in now, Jaune." He muttered, hearing the all too familiar crackling of fire and chattering off in the distance. Carefully making his way over, a trio of riflemen stood and stared longingly into the fire.
Instincts blaring, sidestepping to the sound of gunfire in the distance. Two rounds whiffing past him. The squelching of paws kicking up dirt growing closer and closer.
'And do try to incorporate more of your Arcana abilities into your fighting style. You want to be familiar with them, and not throwing them out willy-nilly when you panic.' Gehrman's dry voice echoed out in his mind, bringing with it sound advice he had mostly ignored. 'But the best time to start was yesterday, and the second-best time is now.' He mussed, some cards already up his sleeve. It wasn't that he didn't have some poems on the ready, but more that he always to forgot to use them.
"In the stillness of the night, the moons allure,"
"A mirror on the lake, serene and pure."
"It's radiant glow, a whispered dream,"
"Reflecting perfection in the moonlit stream."
Instead of the grand spectacle his other 'spell' had caused, nothing of the sort happened now. A soft film enveloped him, a perfect copy of him throwing itself to the side. Drawing all the attention while he carefully made his way behind a rifleman, idly noting how his steps made no sound.
A round tore through his reflection, making it shimmer and disappear. Instantly the rifleman called out, vitriol on their tongues.
"Witchcraft! Heretic!"
"Tainting his soul, no good man ever does that I say."
Cautiously the riflemen scouted around, looking for him while he carefully hid himself. Seeing the alertness leaving them as they found nothing but empty air. Harsh chuckles ringing trough the night as they huddled around and slapped each other good naturally on their backs. Salvia and spittle twinkling in mangy beards.
"See that? Ran with 'is tail between his legs lads."
"No heretic can stand up to us proper huntsmen. None I say."
"Ay!"
"Ai!"
"Shame… Fido was looking forward to something to snack on."
That got another round of cackling from the riflemen.
A cackling laughter that was silenced as Crocea Mors burst through a rifleman's chest. A flower of blood appearing briefly before the sword was pulled back. The rifleman's skull splitting open as the head crashed into a headstone. Blood, guts and brain matter spilling out over the forest floor.
Softly chanting the poem again, Jaune vaulted over a headstone, his reflection charging into the fray. Giving him half a second to swing his sword. The film around him tearing as his violet movements broke it apart. His reflection shattering just when the film gave out.
Bullets pelted into some headstones, mutilated dogs with spikes and bone spurs growing throwing themselves at him. Head after head were sent flying by momentum, a mongrel, either out of skill, or bloodlust caught Crocea Mors on one of its tusks.
Like always, Crocea Mors proved herself worthy of his trust. Effortlessly cutting through the mongrels neck like chaff. Seven bullet's slamming into his back.
An exhale sounding closer to a growl escaped Jaune as he ducked behind a large tree. Bark exploding out as another volley of bullets were fired at him.
Mumbling the chant again, Jaune felt a twinge in his spirituality. 'Seven casts left before my Spirituality grow restless. Five more if I want to risk it. More than enough.' Jaune thought to himself. A miniscule price in the grand scheme of things. He could just as easily charge them recklessly with his shield as well. But aura had its weight in gold. The night had just begun after all, and spirituality 'refreshed' faster than aura, so it wasn't as much as a waste.
'Why did no one ever tell me that combat was just resource management?' A stray thought popped into his mind. His reflection buying him just the second he needed. And then he was in their midst. Crocea Mors glinting in the moonlight as lives were cut short.
Their ranged advantage amounting to nothing when he was upon them like a bat from hell. Aura flaring briefly when he ate a gunstock to the face. A chunk of his aura gave, less than before. The victorious look in the rifleman's eyes quickly disappearing when he didn't falter. Cleaving him almost in two. A quick follow up cut to his neck a mercy.
Bark exploded right beside him. Throwing his head to the right, he saw another rifleman preparing another shot, a mongrel already dashing towards him in a mad sprint. Unfortunately, Jaune was ready for it. Meeting it's charge with a quick trust, spearing it down its mouth. It was dead before it knew what had happened.
Tilting his weapon up, gritting his teeth at the weight, a bullet slammed into the mongrel's corpse. Ripping his sword out, Jaune quickly dashed up at the last remaining riffle man. Mortem Ignis, coming up at moving the rifle just enough so the bullet grazed by his ear. A powerful slash ending the fight.
Blood still churning in his veins, he felt the all too familiar bloodlust and fetid anger try and slither out their cages. With a mangy shake of his head they were safely pushed down, allowing a soft exhale to leave him.
Letting his gaze wander along the treeline, Jaune felt the all too familiar rising sense of dread. Something was out there, watching him, hunting him.
A twig snaped over to the side, something moved through the bushes, the fire died down.
On quick feet he searched through every corpse with a ghost flame around it. Quickly pocketing all the extra bullets. Almost doubling his current inventory in one go. He still had some hundred bullets stored away in a dream. He could always help himself too Violet's stash, but he could never see himself growing that desperate. He wanted to be able to look his apprentice in the eyes when the night was over. He would never steal from her.
Pocketing some coldblood he frowned, running the clump of blood trough his fingers. There was a distinct heaviness to it, a spiritual weight as well. "Huh, so there really are different types of coldblood and not me just imagining things. Good to know I suppose."
Finding some more bone marrow ash on another corpse, Jaune felt the familiar 'what if's' grow in his head. 'A bullet, a single horn of bone marrow ash, and a fire dust bullet created an exploding bullet. What happens if I combine tree of those bullets? What if I 'improve' the ash and then merge it?'
"I really shouldn't have created that ritual." Jaune mumbled under his breath, pocketing the three horns filled with ash. Back then it had seemed like a good thing to set his mind on, more of a test than a wish to create anything substantial. While it was still a wonderous ritual, and one he would teach his apprentice when she got older. It was also the potential to merge anything with anything. The only limits what you could get your hands on and how many echoes you were willing to use as fuel.
'But still, it was playing god no more than when parents decided to try for children.' Jaune mussed. 'But it's not that that matters now.'
Pushing all stray thoughts away, he did his best to focus back on task. Throwing a cautionary look deeper into the woods. From where a creeping mist slowly crawled along the forest floor.
The pitter patter of soft feet squelching through mud and dirt echoed out from the mist. A mist the path led deeper into.
"Well that's not ominous in the slightest." Jaune mumbled. With a sigh he rolled his shoulder. Stepping over the corpses and delving deeper into the forest. Ignoring how the mist welcomed him in.
###
"Got you now beast!" A heated voice called out with fervour, a gunshot echoing through the trees. Sparks briefly lighting up the mist as metal met metal. The sickening sound of a sword tearing through flesh rang out.
Silence returned to the woods with the sound of a corpse splattering against the forest floor.
Only the soft echo of boots on gravel breaking the silence. Traveling deeper into the mist.
###
"Heretic!" A shout of fear and fury both, a gunshot followed.
Bullet passing harmlessly trough the ghostly form. A soft gasp rang out, rifle falling to the forest floor as a sword sprouted from his chest. The metal catching the rays of the moon, reflecting eyes forever frozen in horror.
With a soft thud the forests silence was returned. Mist enveloping them both.
####
"-peace eternally sings." A soft voice whispered; each word spoken as if woven from silk.
"What… what witchcraft did you cast on me you- you monster." A hysterical voice called out, rifle falling harmlessly onto the forest floor.
Two broken eyes looked up at the uncaring heaven, a sob escaping, quickly growing into mad, hysterical laughter.
"We were killing beasts we were told… We were killing our fellow man. What more lies have the church told me? Told… us?" Tears fell freely, black, tar like things. The executioner said nothing, only staring impassively at him.
"Let me spare you the trouble." A broken sob, followed by the rustling of a breast pocket. An old timey pinfire pistol twinkling under the moonlight. "I don't want to be awake anymore."
A single gunshot broke the silence of the woods.
####
"How large is this forest?" Jaune mumbled, looking up. The moon his only companion. And even its light had a hard time piercing trough the thick canopy. It was almost as if the woods were alive, trying their very best to choke the life out of everything within.
That his spell had taken a larger chunk out of his spirituality than intended just the icing on the cake. It wasn't dangerously unbalanced, he hadn't begun to see or hear more than usual, but he felt sick and tired in a way only sitting down and resting could heal.
Unfortunately rest was a luxury that was in short supply. While the moonlight was a welcome companion, his lantern was his only consistent source of light. But if he were to stop channelling his spirituality into it, he would be left in total darkness. So he found himself in a bit of a dilemma, stop channelling his spirituality, allow it to recover, but find himself in total darkness. Or push on while ignoring it.
Walking past another bone effigy, Jaune froze. A self-deprecating laugh escaping him. "I'm an idiot." He huffed.
Crocea Mors instantly severing a low hanging branch. Cutting more branches from a particularly good stick. Fishing out an oil-soaked cloth he wrapped it tightly around one end, snapping his fingers. Fire burning slowly up his make-shift torch. Having another light source he stopped channelling his spirituality into his lantern. Instantly a weight was lifted from his shoulder. It wasn't large, neither was it crushing, but it filled his lunges with clean air.
"Really… I really need to get my head out of the clouds. Just because something can be done with the supernatural, that doesn't mean it should." Jaune mumbled to himself. "But… note to self, never let spirituality stay unbalanced. It clouds judgment. Still… it was a success, kind of."
It had been a success, just not in the way he intended. The spirituality cost was also far more than he intended.
"But I guess someone is pacified if they are completely stripped of their will to live… Just in a more extreme sense." Jaune murmured, eyes gaze scanning the tree line. His torch's brighter light reflecting in beady eyes filled with ravenous hunger. The soft pitter patter of feet in mud still following him. Never having left in the first place.
The woods were hungry after all. It's many denizens scouring after him. Anxiously waiting for when he would drop dead so they could feast.
'Jokes on them, my endurance is better than theirs.' Jaune chuckled darkly to himself. Needing some silver lining to cling to.
The dark woods swallowed everything, every drop of life, every morsel of hope. Everything was nutrients for the woods.
Looking up at the sky, a deep sigh escaped Jaune as he walked deeper into the mist. A 'what if' he wanted to deny had become more and more plausible the more he tried his spells. A dark truth he had tried ignoring, wanting to bury his face in the dirt and wait for the thought to pass.
"And maybe my spells aren't as much spells as they are prayers…"
The whisper disappeared into the wind, swallowed by the mist.
#####
"I need a compass." Jaune mumbled, fishing out the molotov from earlier and pouring some more oil on his torch. The fire having started to weaken. He couldn't let it die. It helped holding the shadows in the woods and in his mind at bay.
He had grown up among tall oak's and pines, with the rare birch or aspen scattered about. Yet even if grimm had inhabited them, the woods had been tranquil, large but inviting. There was a sinister darkness to these woods. The mist not helping either. Again he heard the pitter patter of feet or paws running through mud. Twigs snapped, bushes dead bushes rustled, and heavy panting echoed tough the mist.
Moving his torch he saw the ravenous hunger shine in beady eyes before they retreated deeper into the mist.
Taking a step towards them the shadows retreated even further into the mist.
"I need to get out. Now. I can't stay." Jaune mumbled, picking up the pace. Long steps striding over small streams and mossy rocks.
Bloodlust had turned the folk of Yharnam into bloodthirsty beasts. Jaune had no desire whatsoever to find out what hunger had transformed the denizens of the forest into.
"It would seem anyone tainted by the blood is condemned to a cruel fate." Jaune mumbled, throwing another look into the deep woods. "Not that we deserve anything less."
Walking deeper into the mist, twigs snapped behind him, echoing his every step.
####
"Well… that's not comforting at all." Jaune mumbled, a bold hunters mark burning away in his fingers. It's effect nowhere to be seen. "But it does confirm… either the forest is cursed, or something is wrong with this mist."
Taking a deep breath he tasted the mist in hist lungs. Breaking out in a coughing fit. His lungs burning in a way they never had before.
"Of course, it couldn't be one or the other could it." Jaune coughed out, eyebrow twitching. Spirituality churning as he recognised the taste of multiple hallucinogens the mist was laced with.
Popping an antidote tablet, Jaune felt the irritation in his lungs recede. It wasn't an immediate effect, but a sigh of relief washed over him. The snapping of twigs and the pitter patter sounds retreating slowly. Allowing him to ease the tension in his shoulders slightly.
Looking around him, he saw religious fetishes decorate old headstones, making mockeries of those who had died.
"Still… whoever enchanted the forest deserves a slow death." Jaune uttered, delving deeper into the woods. Mist receding around him, giving him a clearer view of gnarly trees with human faces screaming out of the bark.
Jaune knew he could be marching towards certain death, but that was nothing new. It didn't bother him now as it had his first weeks in Yharnam. The city just had that effect on people. Cutting away any good, any sane aspects, while happily nurturing everything else. Good people fell from grace, any kindness and hope tainted and twisted under bloody debauchery. While the bad just became worse, lines suddenly meaning nothing.
He could starkly recognise himself in the mirror sometimes. Maybe he had cried for who he had been, the stary eyed boy within nothing but a dream and his ancestors sword.
But if so, he had never felt those tears.
#####
Stepping over a beartrap Jaune felt his eyebrow twitch. An all too familiar frustration churning inside.
"Forget a compass. I need a clock." Jaune mumbled. It felt like he had spent days trudging through the forest.
Yet that couldn't be true, he would have woken up otherwise. And he wasn't walking in circles either. He had made sure to mark the trees he passed, and the canopy was breaking. So he was making some progress in the right direction. It was just that the forest was massive.
Popping another antidote tablet he felt the irritation in his lungs ease again. The fire from his troch was dying, eyebrow twitching he poured the last oil from his second urn onto his torch.
The woods were really starting to get on his nerves. Every step forward felt like ten steps back.
But looking up he saw the canopy breaking more and more. The trees around him were less gnarly, even if they were bone fetishes had evolved into totems. They, together with the traps, had grown more numerous. So he was sure he was closing in on Hemwick Lane.
"First thing I'm doing when I'm back to the dream is finding out how to create my own 'Lamps'. I swear I will kill someone if I have to trudge through this god forsaken forest one more time." Jaune swore under his breath. Brushing away some black blood that had gotten into his eye. A parting gift from an eight-legged wolf. One of the woods lovely monsters.
From the corner of his eye he saw hunched creatures that had been human once gorge themselves on its corpse. They moved on all fours and were dressed in tattered loincloths and decorated with bones. A hunched back with elongated beastlike limbs. Sporting large bulbous stomachs sploshing with blood. Maws filled with razor sharp teeth protruding out.
They had been human once, but now they were nothing but beasts. Or maybe spirits of hunger were more accurate.
Snorting, a cruel glint shone in his eyes. Even saints and sages could run out of patience, to say nothing about Jaune. Grabbing a pungent blood cocktail he threw it with all his might towards the creatures.
Guttural roars of hunger rang out as they threw themselves at each other. Ripping and tearing and doing everything in their power to gorge themselves on another. Fuelled only ravenous hunger.
"Heh" Jaune smirked, turning his back to them and marching down the path. Feeling lighter than he had during all his time in the forest. It was just something in the woods. The mist was laced with hallucinogens, and he was sure the woods were cursed.
Jaune wanted out. And he was almost out. He could feel it.
More and more rays of soft moonlight shone through the canopy. The trees were opening up, the mist was receding, and he saw headstoned covered in ivy and moss.
Everything was beginning to look up.
Stepping over a little stream he felt the path begun ever so slightly to slope down. With more headstones and more fetishes replacing the trees. And not before long he was walking down a little valley. Trees and mist nowhere in sight.
A wall appeared further down, made of cobbled stone and overgrown with moss and vine. Barring everything from the forest. Only an old, decrepit wooden door the only thing breaking open the wall.
Carefully brushing away some ivy, he pushed. Part of him almost afraid the wall would fall. Ruby's card towers felt sturdier than the wall. The hinges cried as he showed, a horrifying screech escaping as the rust eaten hinges were forced to move.
"It… it can't be." Jaune whisper, having to catch his jaw at the sight before him. Taking a hesitant step forward, not believing his eyes.
A sprawling little hamlet filled with homely cottages laid neatly tucked between two mountains. Cradled in a gentle valley. Moonlighting bathing it in a gentle glow. Smoke rose from chimneys and lanterns hung outside bathed the hamlet in soft yellow light. It felt homely, inviting.
Carefully making his way down the side path, he found no headstoned desecrating the landscape. And, it made him hope, dream. That there was a place the hunt was yet to reach.
"No, don't go there. Don't hope." Shaking his head, he ruthlessly crushed the bud of hope in his chest. Not daring to hope.
He had hoped, wished, prayed, that he would wake up from this depraved dream time and time again. Yet nothing of that sort had happened. Maybe it would be true, maybe the hunt hadn't reached here. But he needed to confirm it with his own two eyes before jumping to conclusions. Nothing good ever came from that.
Out of paranoia or habit, he didn't sheet his sword. Black blood dripping onto the paved way. He moved carefully, cautiously. Scared that this was just some twisted hallucination. That he really lied sprawled out in the woods, high out of his mind. Dreaming up wonderful 'what if's' all the while the forest feasted on him.
Heads popped out of windows, ranging from old women with hair of grey with warmth in their eyes. middle aged women who looked him up and down in curiosity. Too young women with cute smiles looking at him, flickering their eyes at him and disappearing back into their cottages with rosy blushes and pearl like laughter when he looked their way.
And Jaune let himself hope, that just maybe, that the hunt hadn't reached Hemwick. Because even if it was fantasy, even if it was a lie, he wanted to believe, if just for a little while. Pretend he was just Jaune, that he was just a normal huntsman hunting elk and deer.
"Oh dear, oh dear." An old crone dressed in black robes wearing a flower wreath called out. Leaning on a cane as she stepped out with a kind and familiar motherly smile. "Come in, come in. You look dead on your feet. We might not get many visitors here, but let it not be known that we aren't a generous bunch. Come in, Old Annie already has a pot of stew over the fire."
"While it sounds lovely. I wouldn't want to impose." Jaune answered, shoulders falling as he shook his head good naturally. 'Maybe, maybe the hunt hasn't reached here.'
"Rubish." Annie called out, looking over him with a look only old grandmothers were capable of. Full of love and appreciation, while also briming with the unsaid threat that he wasn't going hungry. "You are nothing but flesh and bone. We can't have that. Come in."
Before he could as much get a word in, a ravenous growl escaped his stomach. Soft giggling enveloping the avenue as he fought down a furious blush. The hamlet's homely atmosphere making his shoulders ease. Sheeting his sword, he smiled good naturally. Walking up the little staircase, ignoring the little tingling in the back of his head. 'But I hadn't been hungry earlier, had I?'
Stepping inside the warm cottage, Jaune took a moment to look over the homely cottage. It was homely. A sturdy wooden table in the middle with some extra chairs for guests. A kitchen, even if cooking area would be appropriate. Spice racks filled to the brim with herbs and other wildflowers, a wooden bucket filled with water. A dear hung from a meat hock further in. Half dried, yet surprisingly not smelling of rot.
Taking a chair, Jaune felt tired. His shoulders were heavy, his feet ached. His calf's burned and sweat raced down his backs as he breathed heavily out.
It was surprisingly pleasant having mundane aches. Mundane ordinary aches that would just need time to heal.
It made him feel human.
The worst thing about dying again and again wasn't the toll. While he could never put the feeling of losing memories, bits and pieces of himself, properly into words. He rather preferred it over the apathy and nihilism he had felt growing in himself. A self-destructive way of thinking only Yharnam's tender caresses could cultivate.
Yet, thanks to the dream, and his many repeated death's, death just feel so meaningless. The next grand adventure reduced to meaningless drivel. Death turned into something mundane, instead of the natural conclusion of life it was.
Each death hurt. Each death sent him spiralling. And each time he died, he felt invisible walls grow around him and his friends.
Because he had died. He didn't belong amongst the living. He should meet his ancestors in the ever after, he should burn in the deepest pit for his sins. Yet instead he was sitting, chatting amiably with his friends about anything and nothing at all.
Sitting on a chair, with just mundane aches plaguing him. It made him feel human.
"The stew should be ready soon." Annie called out, moving around in her kitchen with a spryness he never thought her capable off. Some bits of cured deer meat were added together with a handful of other herbs. Stirring the stew a bit more, Annie ladled some into a bowl before pushing it towards him.
Looking down into the stew, Jaune felt his stomach let out another inhuman growl. A tantalising smell wafting up, almost spellbinding in it's wonderful aroma.
Grabbing his spoon, he idly stirred the stew. Sighing as his shoulder's fell along with his hopes. Some all too familiar fragrances buried under all the spices and herbs making themselves known.
"This… farce… has gone on for far too long." Jaune sighed tiredly, heat seeping into his tongue. He liked to consider himself a merciful man, prone to giving second chances. Wanting to see the best in people. Yet, for the first time, Jaune let the chains around his anger go. His mercy for these monsters nowhere to be found.
A human eye staring innocently up at him from the stew.
Anger let loose churning inside him, bringing with it cruel clarity as his blood boiled in his veins. His spirituality churning, growing restless. His lips quirking up in a cruel little smile, an even crueller prayer brewing on his tongue. 'A cruel prayer for cruel monsters. Poetic justice, really.'
"Now you are just being dramatic dear. It's just good stew." Annie chuckled, something dark briefly flickering in her eyes as she hobbled her way over to him. Gently laying a bony hand on his shoulder, squeezing it with enough strength to make it feel uncomfortable. "Are you not hungry, son? You are but skin and bone, you really should eat up. Eat. It will be good for you."
A festering finger floating to the top said otherwise.
Ignoring Annie, Jaune instead hummed softly to himself. Anger burning bright, feasting on the embers of hope he laid to rest with a deep sigh.
Annie easing her grip on his shoulder, taking his sighing as acceptance.
Looking out of the window, the soft and melodious giggling took on a more insidious glee. A delightfully cruel melody that let him know it wasn't just Annie. It was everyone.
"This have gone on long enough." Jaune sighed wistfully. "It was nice while it lasted, but… it is time to wake up to reality."
"What are you talking about, dear." A cruel unsaid edge that promised something worse than death appeared in her voice. Her grip on his shoulder strengthening as she squeezed harder. "Eat." A guttural whisper, her breath filled with rot and decay.
Instead of giving her the satisfaction of answering her, Jaune instead uttered the first line. A curse, a prayer meant to hurt and torment. His anger and bloodlust making the moon bleed red in his eyes.
"Oh, the threat of horror, the hope of crimson cries."
It might have been no more than a whisper, but it was enough to herald what his anger would wrought.
Crocea Mors began rattling in her scabbard. Muted screams of slain souls trying to escape.
A rusty cleaver slammed into his neck, the soft glove of his aura making it harmlessly bounce back. A deranged hiss escaped Annie, blood seeping as the bounce back of the cleaver tore open skin.
His blood boiled in his veins, his spirit howling in excitement. Jaune spoke with passion turned fervour. Putting his very being into his prayer. And deep down, part of him knew he was going to enjoy what he was going to do to these monsters. Not for himself, never for himself, but for the countless others who had died by their hand.
"One thing at least is certain – that this life flies."
Blinking, he opened his eyes to a new world. A sadness setting in, quickly serving to fuel his anger to new heights. The homely cottage bled away, replaced with a gnarly house, missing half it windows and a caved in roof. The hanged deer transformed into a rifleman, hung from the shoulder on a meat hook. A soft moan escaped him as empty sockets looked hopelessly around. Arms and legs cut away. A large metal bowl under him collecting his blood.
His liver lying ready on the chopping block together with half a lung. His eyes and pieces of his stomach floating in the stew together with leaves from a hemlock, multiple roots of nightshade and some crumbled leaves of foxgloves. A cruel concoction only the deranged could think up, let alone serve.
Annie, once the kind and inviting grandmother turned into a gaunt thing with cruelty and hunger in her eyes that glowed crimson. Her flower wreath made up of hemlock and other poisonous plants. Clean robes replaced with a tattered dress with a blood splattered apron over it. Soft hair replaced with greasy strands and a mouth half full of blackened and rotten teeth.
"Such a shame." Annie whispered with a twisted smile. "It's fine if you are just meat and bone. You are a hunter after all. Your kind is always pumped full of such delicious blood."
With renewed determination, Annie went back to hacking at him with her cleaver. Aura shining with each hack. Only fuelling her determination more and more. "Such a wonderful blessing. You must be one of a kind. I can't wait to taste you."
"One thing is certain, and the rest is lies,"
Annie hacked at him with renewed vigour, fuelled partly by desperation. Crocea Mors rattled more and more, almost leaping out of her scabbard.
His spirituality churned with relentless glee.
The wind picked up, gently ruffling his hair and bringing with it softly whispered words.
"O Flora, of the Moon, of the Dream." The wind prayed. "O little ones, O fleeting will of the ancients. Let the kind hunter be safe. Let him find comfort. Let his kindness be returned with kindness. Let not the depravity of others stain the purity of his soul. Let him come home to us safe."
Calmly standing up, Jaune towered over Annie. Rewarding her desperate attacks with a look of apathic indifference. His aura lighting up the cottage again and again as she hacked away. Something sharp slamming into his back, his aura holding firmly.
"What sorcery is this!" Annie roared out, black spittle flying out and coating his face. "Why won't you die!"
Looking over his shoulder he saw another deranged madwoman holding a long stick with a sickle at the end. Raising it back over her head to slam it into him.
Yet Jaune didn't answer her question, neither caring as more madwomen piled out from their cottages. Cruelty in their eyes, hunger in their minds. After all, it only made it easier for him to hunt them down when his prayer was finished. They acted like beasts; they would die like beasts. His kindness and mercy for them long since dried up, only wrath remained.
"The flower that once has bloomed forever dies."
The wind died down, and so did Crocea Mors. An eerie silence settled around them. Annie shooting nervous glances to the other madwomen before beginning to cackle madly.
"It would seem your spell failed, no surprise really. Hunter or not, you are no witch." Annie cackled, raising her cleaver, slamming it into him. His aura lighting up briefly as he looked impassively down at her.
"How would you like to be buried?" Jaune started, feeling how an entire fifth of his spirituality was set aside. Keeping the enchantment up for as long as he wanted. Completely ignoring what Annie had said earlier. Before she could answer, he chuckled with a good-natured quirk of his lips. "Forget I asked. Beast's like you don't deserves graves."
Cackling madly Annie and the madwomen charged at him, intent to burry him under an avalanche of steel and blades. Yet the simple fact of the matter was that he was stronger than them. While they were strong, physiques enchanted by rituals no doubt, they still fell short when it came to him.
Grabbing Crocea Mors's handle, he felt how she began to rattle. Eager, hungry to be used. She didn't scream as he drew her, neither did her edge keen. She didn't make a sound, wrapped in black and red miasma as she was. Even when damned souls of those she had killed screamed soundlessly from the miasma, she was silent. Crocea Mors was at peace, her hunger about to be sated, and her purpose about to be fulfilled.
For what use was a sword hanging over a mantle?
Swords were weapons, tools of war. They should be used. And Crocea Mors had never been happier than when her true master picked her down from the mantle and ran away from home.
"Take care of her now, son. She's yours. She might not be the fanciest of gals, but she gets the job done." A masculine voice whispered, a warm smile, hard blue eyes filled with kindness and a golden mane of hair. Dressed in knightly armour, the shimmering from of his great-great- grandfather smiled down at him. Banging an armoured fist against his chest before shimmering out of existence.
Taking a deep breath, Jaune sidestepped the sickle-spear. Crocea Mors singing trough the air as he buried her into Annie's gut. Twisted hands and hungry skulls materialised from the miasma, tearing and biting into her. An inhuman wail escaped her as she pushed herself of Crocea Mors. One of her eyes having lost it's light, her right arm hanging limply by the side.
"You! You wretched beast! My eyes! You destroyed my eyes!" Annie wailed, scrambling to get up. But Jaune didn't let her, instead brining his blade down. Cracking her skull open. Absolutely disgusted at the writhing black mess she had for a brain. Half lidden eyes covered in grey goo stared at him in anger. Making him that more certain that this had to be done.
"Your turn." Jaune said simply, pointing his miasma clad sword at the other madwoman.
And for the first time since waking up in Yharnam.
Jaune saw fear.
Whatever it was these madwomen treasured as sacred, that he could destroy it, trample over years of effort and dedicated study and worship.
It scared them.
Sidestepping a ball of sinister red energy, he launched himself towards the sickle-spear wielder. His trusty sword coming up at cutting through the wooden shaft, the sickle end clanking against the wooden floor. The hag's head following soon after.
A gunshot rang trough the air, catching him unaware in the shoulder. A solid chunk of his aura simply gone. Thunder cracked as a single shot was fired. Holstering his revolver he threw himself over the table, launching himself out of the cottage. Sinister rusted weapons wailing towards him.
Jaune met them with greater fervour. Recklessly throwing himself at them with cold cruelty in his eyes. Aura tanking the hits, allowing him to quickly close the distance. Much to the hag's ever-growing horror. Crocea Mors tearing through the air, leaving blood and ghastly wails in her trail.
It was a slaughter. It was carnage.
Jaune dodged under another orb of red, grabbing a hag and throwing her into it. Absentmindedly noting as she began convulsing and shrieking in pain, bending over and retching. Blackened organs falling out from her mouth. Twirling around another hag, he quickly rushed over to her. Taking a deep breath as he brought his right leg back, smashing a football kick into her skull. Cracking it open, black grey-matter seeping onto the paved stone road with lumps in the form of eyes scatted about.
Carelessly throwing an oil pot over his shoulder, he didn't bother with aiming. It felt like he had pocked a beehive. More and more hag's coming crawling out of their hidey holes. They felt never-ending. For each hag he killed another would take her place. For each one he killed, the others would come at him with a fervour that matched his own.
Jaune relished in every second of the slaughter.
These weren't some beasts who hid their young when he came knocking. These weren't some beasts who shed tears after he slaughtered them into near oblivion.
He might be recreating what he did in Old Yharnam, but his soul felt lighter, fuelled by righteous indignation. Not shackled down by guilt and the weight of sins that threatened to crush him.
These weren't some women transformed into monsters by blood offered as healing. They weren't innocent. They were monsters luring in travellers before feasting on their flesh, not allowing them to die before they chose.
Never in his short life had Jaune met a group of more disgusting and degenerated group of people.
Dodging under a sharp and rusted scythe, Jaune quickly retaliated, brining his sword up and cutting her stomach open. Crocea Mor's miasma growing as it feasted on their spirits. The woman fell down screaming as Jaune was forced to disengage lest he wanted to be hit by a red orb.
Leaving the hag to her death cries, he threw himself into the fray. Deafened by his blood churning in his veins. Burning. Pushing him on.
Well-tuned instincts screamed at him to dodge, so he dodged. Abruptly throwing himself to the left, cleaving down through a shodden guard a hag put up. Quickly throwing his last molotov and oil urn over his shoulders, he ignored the sound of retching. The hag was dead either way. He wouldn't bother to waste some of his precious stamina on freeing her from her torment. Everyone in the lane was guilty by association.
Taking half a moment to catch his breath, Jaune saw black blood run like tar over paved stones. All he heard was churning blood, drowning him. All he felt was boiling anger at the injustice and debauchery.
Throwing himself at his next victim, a wicked howl momentarily deafened him. Yet he paid it no mind. Only pushing forward. The monster inside, howling with glee. For the first time in full agreement with his actions.
Black blood splattered over his face. Eyes scanning over the hamlet. With a soundless battle cry, Crocea Mors tore trough the night.
#####
Note: I lied when it came to Arcana. The books in the dream are right, but in the wrong way. Blood Magic will be what it is, only being more fleshed out. But Arcana will be 'recreated', it will still have aspects of the first I wrote, but it is more to Arcana than just what the Scholars tried forcing to be the truth.
Note: I hoped I managed to sell the forest in a good way. It's a little part of the game, but it's perfect to show of some other monsters and terrors that surround Yharnam. I may also have played to much Grim Dawn, taking a bit of inspiration from Barrowholm. Cosy place, filled with your happy next door monstrous god worshiping cannibal neighbours.
Note: The last poem is a homage to Lord of the Mysteries. One of my all-time favourite web novels. If you haven't read it, but are interested in Bloodborne~ish mysticality, you should read them. And for the poem, it's a buff that gives frenzy, while also directly attack the spirit(the thing Jaune can see), ripping out pieces of it. A cruel spell, served for cruel people.