//------------------------------// // Chapter XII // Story: Papa Gehrman // by SolidArc5542 //------------------------------// Love can be such a pleasant thing. Even if the nightly hunt was long and tiresome, hunters always had someone to return to. Many hunters had a wife, or someone else they could cherish. It’s what kept them sane. It’s what helped them get through the night. It’s what they needed. Nights were known to be long, but they eventually ended; one way or another. However, very soon the moon rose anew full and bright, causing not just beasts to rise, but causing all of Yharnam to go mad. The hunt was something to be feared by many. It was not something that anyone could just ‘partake in’, even if the Vicars said so. Hunters trained to be hunters should hunt beasts. Yharnamites were no hunters, they were just normal townsfolk. They had no idea what they were getting themselves into. ‘Let us partake in communion.’ What a bunch of nonsense. The night had already begun, thus meaning the hunt would be on very soon. Many hunter already went out to hunt. Eileen. Djura. Alfred. All of them were hunters, so too should hunt. Families had to be protected, the streets had to be cleansed, and blood had to be spilled. Beast blood, that is. A hunter of the Healing Church Gascoigne had never seen such a night as this, or a moon so close. He watched from a safe vantage point as people set fire to beasts; crucifying them on beams of wood as the pale embers sung through their flesh. The townspeople, so far gone, now attacked hunters, believing them to be the cause of this unstoppable disease, labelling them a curse. What fools. Hunters did the rightful thing, protecting and serving. Upholding the law. Even if that law meant that the hunt had now become a survival of the fittest But Gascoigne knew differently. Blood – healing blood that supposedly cured all illnesses– came from the Healing Church. It was the ministers and its founders that knew of this curse, yet did little as the people in Yharnam died. Gascoigne had tried to expose the truth, but it had been too late, and so he had left them to protect his family. There were no humans left. And he himself had taken the blood like everyone else. It was only a matter of time until he himself started showing signs of the beast. An aching head, chest pains, stomach aches. All of these signs meant one thing: Thou art beasts, and thou must be cleansed from thine illness. The Black Church and White Church hunters. Some of them still wandered the streets of Yharnam… while the bodies of many fallen hunters painted the upper levels of Cathedral Ward. The rally of hunters that came to purge the streets of beast every night were impossibly rare. Most were now corrupted, choosing to live like beasts, or even siding with them completely. Others had left Yharnam to undertake that long journey into the wild, hoping to find a better world. No doubt they would carry the rancid sickness with them. And so the death toll started rising. Mourners came and built statues to honor the dead. Bodies filled the church's grave and soon there were so much death that coffins were left on the streets, some padlocked to keep the beast-carcass within. For superstition grew as much as did fear. People blamed almost anything on this plague, but hardly anyone took note of the blood they injected into themselves to stave off illness and injury. Blaming the higher cause for their own misdeeds. The Church was doing the rightful thing here. How could anyone have known that things got out of hand so fast? Did the townsfolk think that the church wanted this to happen? That many of its own members were slaughtered? Their throats either cut open or their bodies maimed by beasts? Ludwig of the Healing Church tried to purge the scourge of beasts himself; by rallying the Yharnam people. But that quickly failed. Man was easy prey, and many locked themselves away, only to turn slowly mad while the others outside turned beast to further ignite the conflict. Many brave Yharnamites tried fighting them. They tried. But eventually all failed. The fall of Ludwig's sanity and humanity was perhaps the greatest catastrophe Gascoigne had had in a while. Those close to the church turned into hideous things as they all partook in the richest blood. But was it really the richest? Blood is blood, nothing more. The Old Blood might have been different, but it too was just blood. Gascoigne remembered that long ago, when the blood was still young, Vicars would argue amongst each other who could take the most pure blood. The blood of the gods. Blood is just blood. Nothing more, nothing less. The streets were curdled into restless moaning as the Yharnam people sought bloodlust, half forgetting what they were meant to do; so half-turned were they by the blood they took. And so Gascoigne started what Ludwig had left half finished. He leapt from his safe spot and spilled down into the musty streets where coffins stood up against rails and where crows sucked down on contaminated corpses. Absolutely disgusting. Crows. Regular crows turning into to these obese creatures, not even capable of flying for ten seconds before falling to the ground again. The blood was a thing to be feared, and the crows were a prime example. It wasn't long before dingy eyes full of disease spotted him. “Foul beast!” A Yharnamite, holding a cutlass exclaimed. Gascoigne knew them all once upon a time when they were human, and the streets were clean and cluttered by busy horse and carriage. Now to him they were nothing but hellish half monsters, desperately seeking redemption. He brought his axe down on the Yharnamite’s skull, splitting it in half as he felt the force go up his arm. Blood slapped onto his cape and sleeves, but it didn't bother him. Someone else was coming up behind him. He sprung around with incredible speed that could match a beast, and brought his axe down onto the Yharnamite’s shoulder, severing the aorta, preventing any more wretched blood to flow into his heart. “Gascoigne.” Said an old voice he knew well. Snarling at being disturbed, he gazed upwards, the brightness of the moon skewering his sight. Eileen sat on the perch he had not long ago left to deal with these blood curdling townspeople. Her feathery cape trailed about her like darkness, and her beak mask stared down at him, revealing nothing of her intentions, or his emotions. Gascoigne had known her since he had entered the Healing Church. Even then she had been a skilled and (sometimes) caring hunter; capable of slaughtering beasts that other hunters were no match for. But she was getting old. Sooner or later she would fall into a grave of her own. “What can I do you for? Eileen?” Gascoigne asked rather politely. The crow mask stared him. “Don't let it all go to your head. It's just a job. Nothing more.” She warned. “A job? You take it this lightly? Families must be protected! The streets must be cleansed!” Gascoigne exclaimed in anger, the grip around his axe tightening. Just a job? What the hell was she talking about? Beasts were no laughing matter, they never were. “You are getting old, Eileen. It is blurring your vision and reasoning.” She seemed to ruffle the feathers about her cloak as she stood up. “My family is dead, Gascoigne. But even so, I try not to take it personally. Sooner or later this frenzy of yours will be your downfall.” She warned him again. He hated it when she did that. “Isolation and fighting unaided will be your downfall, Eileen.” Gascoigne retorted. “And you? I suppose you find it heroic? To wipe the townsfolk aside with so much hatred inside you? I don't want to lose you, but your hatred and bitterness is very profound. You should return to your family. Cherish them.” Eileen said, shuffling her feathers. “We are hunters, Eileen. We do not shirk. I'm going to head on now. Doing my work.” He didn't look at her again as he headed on, the axe head resting on his shoulder as he walked through the blood of his slayed corpses. He wanted to move on. He wanted to get through Cathedral Ward and get to the heart of the nightmare just as Eileen did. But the Cleric Beast had scored a lucky blow against him. It wasn't much, and it would hopefully heal in time, but the wound went deep into his side. The only way round was going to the other side of town, where the sewers were. There he'd find Oedon Grave, and a little beyond that, Oedon Chapel. It meant leaving his family. But to truly save them, he had to stop this disease before it took them too. If he lost his family, he would truly go mad. Perhaps Eileen was right. Perhaps he was too obsessed with the hunt. Even when he got home, it was all he could think about, all he cared about. Trained hunters were often left with this curse; to fight and fight until they were exhausted. So his family would play the musical box for him, to help him remember. And he'd walk through his ugly obsession and be the father they needed. It was hard to count the days and keep track of time when it was never daylight. Gascoigne had reached Oedon, and the grave was as messy as he remembered it. Bodies had been buried on top of bodies in the earlier days of the plague when there had been more hunters. Now this place was eerie, dark and haunted. The great marker in the center stood tall and somehow noble in a place of visceral death. He had come here in the hopes of finding a way around the gate blocking him to the Cathedral Ward, and in a way he was avoiding another bite from Ludwig: now a beast himself. The wound hurt deep and he knew he would not return to his family again. He would leave Yharnam but first he had to rest. He felt dizzy, and often more than ever he felt great blood urges that even the vials could not sedate. The stench of Yharnam was sickening. He wondered for a brief moment whatever happened to Vicar Amelia. For all he knew, she was still inside the Great Cathedral, praying to the skull of Master Laurence. He remembered her prayers, because she once visited his home. She played with the children, and when they were asleep, she would talk to Gascoigne and Viola about—well, she mostly talked with Viola. Mostly girly talks about hair and all that bollock. Of course that was when there were no beast. But there are now, and the good Vicar prayed for everyone. “Seek the Old Blood. Let us pray... let us wish... to partake in communion. Let us partake in communion... and feast upon the Old Blood. Our thirst for blood satiates us, soothes our fears. Seek the Old Blood... but beware the frailty of men. Their wills are weak, minds young. The foul beasts will dangle nectar and lure the meek into the depths. Remain wary of the frailty of men. Their wills are weak, minds young. Were it not for fear, death would go unlamented.” Fear the Old Blood. Master Laurence once told him that. As he explored the grave, he smelt blood. A young Yharnam man, turned by the plague, was feasting on a corpse. Hatred raged within him, and he clubbed him to death with his axe. Each hack of the blade gave him pleasure and disgust combined. Meat sprayed in every direction, and the coppery stench flayed into his hair and face. But the bandages there stopped the spray from getting into his eyes. “Umbasa.” He ruminated quietly at the bloodied pieces. Perhaps he had stayed there too long as he wandered about the gravestones, reminiscing about blood. The wound only festered until it made him impatient and short-sighted. Stray creatures came, and he tore into them with his axe, thinking of his failure in the shadow of Ludwig as he hacked into flesh, turning their limbs into chunks. “Gascoigne! No!” The voice was too soft, too silky to belong. He looked up through the thick bandaging masking his sight to see her running across a corpse-ridden grave. On her chest was that red brooch that he had given her one birthday many nights ago. That brooch. That damned brooch. He stood over the latest abomination he had killed, relishing the scent of its spilled blood. It gave him adrenaline. It owned him. Ruled him. He was fueled by the blood, manipulated by the blood, savaged by the blood. There would be no turning back now. Not for him. He turned to Viola slowly, hate and madness in his dark eyes. She stood at a distance, dragging herself to a halt from her once-fierce run here. The bottom of her dress was dirty with sludge and blood. She had come all the way from the stinking streets and through the sewers for him. Now she stood uncertainly, unsure. He did not look as she remembered him. He snorted at her, and readied the axe. “Gascoigne!” Her voice, cool and fragile in the mist, came to him, helping him clear his insatiable mind from his blood frenzy. “Come home! Look at what the hunt is doing to you! You'll go mad! Your girls miss you!” “What are you doing here, woman? This is no place for you! Go home!” he shouted to her, waving his axe at her. “Not without you! We'll endure this terror together! You're coming home!” she retorted, her hand grasping around her Red Jeweled brooch. “Home? Not while I have beasts to slay!” “You're half mad with the hunt! Come with me! Think of your family!” his wife exclaimed in utter fear and desperation, trying to get her beloved husband to return home. Viola was out of options. He could not be reasoned with. Talking to him was no use. Viola looked behind him, and saw creatures unfold from the mist. The grave, he found too late, was a gathering ground for half-turned Yharnamites as they travelled from their chaotic town to revel in the musk of the dead. They came in their burbling herds with their tools and rusty weapons. Gascoigne knew the drill. He had killed dozens all in one sitting, but he had always been alone, with no one to protect or to distract him. “Run!” He growled at her. “Get out of here, woman!” Viola saw that her retreat was blocked by shuffling townspeople, townspeople who were quick when they scented prey. So she took off for the long stairs leading up to Oedon Chapel. But she was not as quick. And Gascoigne overestimated his own abilities. Inflected with the wound, Gascoigne could not topple them as quickly as he thought he could. And he saw her run into two Yharnamites. With his elongated trick-axe he pushed back the group who sneered and wailed on him, and the blade cut through their chests, opening up ribs. Just as he cleared them, cursing and shouting, he sprinted after her. Viola was brought down by claws and teeth as she tried to escape them. Gascoigne hurtled into them, clipping them back with his weapon and blowing two away with his blunderbuss. He grabbed her and bore her easily, running up the stairs and along the paving along the high railing. From there he jumped down onto the roof to get away, only to be followed by more abominations. Hot with rage and hate, he hacked them back, but they were strong in numbers. He wondered if this was what Eileen was warning him about, and figured in the same instant that it was too late to dwell on it now. All men were beasts. And if they were still sane, it was only a matter of time until they too became something they were never supposed to be. Hunters were easily corrupted by this evil. And in time, even they would be unrecognizable under the guise of the beast. Leaving Viola dying on the rooftop, he jumped down and started hacking away at the last survivor, his blade hot with death. His arm, heavy with exertion, kept bringing his weapon down until he severed the neck from the torso. The Grave was riddled with his carnage. He would slaughter them all. Wipe them out, all of them. His wife’s killer was dead, his body dismembered and his blood splattered over the many tombstones and ground. His nose was filled with the filthy stench of blood, and yet, there was a smell he recognized. A smell he had smelled many times before. It was the smell of another hunter. Gazing down at the lifeless body of his wife’s killer, he breathed, “...Beasts all over the shop... You'll be one of them, sooner or later...” Viola raised her head. Blood was oozing out of her wounds, the wound on her back being her number one problem. She peeked her eyes as she watched her husband run towards an unfamiliar figure. What had she done? Her children, they were all alone now. Their father completely mad with the hunt. Obsessed with slaughtering the guilty and innocent. This wasn’t the man she married so long ago. That man died when he returned from his first hunt. “Agrus Bertadinus Gascoigne, wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?” Gascoigne looked at his bride. She looked stunning. Her dress, her body, her tits face. Everything about her was beautiful. “I will,” Gascoigne replied, looking at his wife and smiling at her. The minister turned to Viola. “Viola, Wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love him, comfort him, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?” Viola smiled at her husband, her cheeks reddening. “I will,” “Who giveth this Woman to be married to this Man?” The minister asked. “I do,” said a man in his mid-fifties. Taking his daughter by hand and handing her over to the priest, he looked at Gascoigne. “Take good care of her, lass.” Gascoigne nodded. The minister could not help but smile at the young couple, before he spoke up. “ I, Agrus, take thee Viola to be my wedded Wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, ‘till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.” Gascoigne repeated the sentence. Viola took Gascoigne’s right hand with her right hand, smiling brightly at him. She didn’t care about the warmth she was feeling on her cheeks. She was happy. Happy that she could finally be with the man she loved so very much. “I Viola take thee Gascoigne to be my wedded Husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, 'till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.” Gascoigne held out the ring he had spent so much money on. Happy it could finally be on his—soon to be wife’ finger. Sliding it around her ring finger, he smiled. “WITH this Ring I thee wed: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.” The priest spoke in a regal, yet soothing tone. And, before delivering the Ring to the Man, the Minister spoke up once again; “BLESS, O Lord, this Ring, that he who gives it and she who wears it may abide in thy peace, and continue in they favor, unto their life's end; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.” Gascoigne, leaving the Ring upon the fourth finger of his wife’s left hand, smiled even brighter. “Let us pray.” Her vision became blurry. She was cold, oh so cold. She wanted to rest. To go to sleep. She wanted to go home. “Gascoigne,” Viola whispered, her voice light and pitchy. “I loved you always, I always will.” And with that, she closed her eyes, never for them to be reopened. Gascoigne kept walking through the Crystal outskirts. His back was starting to ache and his vision started to get blurry. Perhaps if removed the bandages covering his eyes, would he be able to see more clearly. No, he couldn’t. If he did that, the amount of insight he had gained would make him see horrible, sickening things. He remembered, long ago, when the hunt was still young, that hunters who had slayed many beasts started ‘seeing things’. Things that other hunters could not. It didn’t come as a surprise that those hunters were the first to lose their sanity and humanity. Gascoigne wondered how his wife and daughters were doing. He remembered that beautiful white ribbon his younger daughter used to wear. He wondered if they were playing that silly game of hide and tag, in which he used to partake. Every night he’d let his daughters pray to the church, to the good blood. Henryk. He really wondered how he was doing. The only thing that really kept him going was Gascoigne. Henryk’s family had already been slaughtered. Some of them by hunters, others by beasts. When his own daughter was taken from him, he went on a rampage. He hunted and slaughtered. Killed and bathed in the blood of beasts. His Saw Cleaver became a thing to be feared. Even the church had doubts about him. Henryk turning beast? No, that would never happen. If there is anyone who can resist the beast within him, it’s Henryk. He would never become one of them. He would never lose his sanity and go mad. He would never betray the church, by turning into a wretched beast. Henryk visited the grave of his daughter every day, before he would go out and hunt. His daughter, take from him. No parent should have to bury their own child. Gascoigne felt the heat rising to his head. He needed to return, for Henryk. For his family. For other hunters. Looking up at the snow-blocked sky, Gascoigne roared. He roared because he needed to. He roared because that is what he always did. He roared… because in the far distance, a kingdom could be seen. “Hide your woman and children,” he roared. “The hunt is on tonight!”