I don't know why but the second I saw the 'Evil, Inc' I suddenly had the 'Doofenshmirtz evil incorporated' jingle sound off in my head. Now I'm imagining Max having an epic weekly duel with a bipedal animal secret agent. Probably a dog with Bitch as the leader of the government agency thwarting his evil plot of the week for taking over the city's big pharma industry.
Emma rolled her eyes. "Yes, I'm alright. When the hell did you turn into such a mother-hen?" She shifted, trying to get comfortable as the piece of plastic and nylon barely fit to be called a chair dug into her back and thighs. What was this thing made from, PVC and old 80s jackets?
"Around the time you told me your transport got hit, Emma! Holy shit, your dad lost his hand! Excuse me for being worried about my friend," Sophia huffed over the phone.
"Well you don't have to worry. I'm fine. It was scary but I'm alright. One of those weird capes dealt with the monster – I think they're calling her Owl? Isn't there already an Owl on PHO?"
"At least three," Sophia snorted, "but nobody's gonna claim copyright on her. Helped kill Nilbog, helped save a city, and she's personal friends with the woman who bitchslapped the Simurgh."
"Well don't worry. I'm okay, maybe we can get Panacea to help my dad – he works with her mom, after all – and I'll see you soon. Okay?" Emma had no idea how long the curfews and quarantine would last, how long until the militarized PRT patrols would stop rumbling down the main streets and tracing the Brockton Bay city limits. It already felt like days even though it'd only been hours at most: being told she couldn't leave only made her want to do so all the more, especially when she had plans to see to. She hadn't managed to acquire Annette's pistol yet, so this was setting her back even more.
The door squeaked open beside her. "Alright, sweetheart," her mother smiled down at her. "Your turn to sit with your dad while I call Anne and make sure she's not going spare."
Emma's older sister was off in Boston attending college, and if news about the carnage had gotten out then her fellow redhead had to be going nuts. She shouldn't worry, however: they were fine.
Emma stepped into the hospital room and pulled up another consummately uncomfortable chair. "Hey Daddy," she muttered, squirming to try and find a tolerable sitting position. The machines hissed and beeped as Alan Barnes remained unconscious, having fallen into shock and some level of catatonia upon the monster's attack – likely aggravated by the need to remove the mutilated forearm.
The beeps quickly grated on Emma as she tried to browse the internet on her phone. But she had nowhere else to go, so she was stuck there.
It was all going to be fine.
(BREAK)
Sophia Hess rolled her eyes. Emma could be incredibly stubborn and thick-headed when she wanted to be. It was her best friend's greatest strength and weakness: when the girl was set on a path, it took moving heaven and earth to divert her from it.
Tucking her phone into her pocket, she checked her other phone. Curfew still in effect, it read. Make the rounds with the Winslow evacuees, ensure there's no carnage. Can provide additional ammunition if needed.
The hardest part had been changing back out of her Shadow Stalker costume and stowing it away. Once they were free from the werewolves, any head-count of students would inevitably turn her up as missing. Sophia didn't know exactly how many teachers knew her secret – that was for her handler to track – but the student body was a cesspool of rumormongering. If the various counts all forgot to call for Sophia Hess, people would start to talk. That was shit she really couldn't afford.
And so it was in the guise of Winslow Riot badass Sophia Hess that she made the rounds to ensure nobody was causing trouble, rather than as dangerous Ward Shadow Stalker. As she approached a recognizable pair of chucklefucks, her lips curled in a gentle smile. "Sparks." She could take or leave Sparky: the guy was perpetually lost in a haze of his own mind. "Veder." And that was the one who caused her to smile unbidden. Somehow Greg Veder had become a trusted confidant...a friend.
Sparky muttered as he sketched in his notebook. Weird shit, but the art wasn't terrible. She just thought she'd need to drop acid or something to understand it.
Veder smiled back, not shying away in the least, as if he trusted her not to hit him. "Hey Sophia. How're you holding up?"
"Going a little stir-crazy stuck with all you holes rather than back home where at least I could be alone with my thoughts," she shrugged. "Nobody knows how long this curfew's gonna last: they might bring out some pods or something with cots for us."
Greg winced. "Better make sure they divide things along racial lines or we'll have stabbings, at least."
Sophia nodded assent. "So since there's basically no wi-fi out here and nothing to really keep me occupied, I've been looking for fights to break up so at least there'd be something to do. But it seems like werewolf attacks really dampen the gangland spirit. So instead I'm over here with you fuckwhistles."
"Well, not much to do, Sparky's lost in his drawing…" Greg gestured to the fading black eye that was a physical reminder of his only semi-successful contribution to the riot's conclusion. "If you're so bored, how about you teach me how to fight? I don't want to just be a black-eyed sack of potatoes next time."
"You think there'll be a next time?" Sophia prodded, trying to stall for time while she processed this request.
"It's Winslow," he replied flatly. "Not sure if there'll be another riot like that anytime soon, but you know shit'll go down. I want to be able to help, or at least keep myself alive, when it does."
Sophia sized him up. Gangly yet doughy, sandy-brown hair, green eyes. Greg was a schlub, easily forgettable, just another gawky teen in a sea of them. But he'd been the only other one to notice something was wrong with Taylor. He'd stuck it out with her all this time. He'd trusted her, stuck up for her…
She nodded and walked past him. Greg quickly caught up and fell into step with her, keeping even pace. It felt oddly comfortable, having him at her side. She hadn't even cried with Emma, her best friend: couldn't trust that Emma wouldn't suddenly fall out of love with their friendship if she showed weakness like that.
"Plus," he said under his breath, "we do still need to discuss what we're going to do about Taylor. This shit just keeps escalating and I'm feeling out of my depth. We need some sort of plan, some way we can get through to her and remind her who she is in case she starts to forget." Greg gestured toward the open space to which she was leading him. "We'll have some privacy to talk while you kick my ass."
"Alright," Sophia said to her friend as she set him up to face her, "the first rule is to keep your fists up and your chin down. Protect your face and your vitals…"
(BREAK)
It was surreal, for her hometown to have been the site of such an attack. Academically, Amy Dallon knew Brockton Bay was a hotbed of violence and always had been. The Teeth, the Marquis… That had been a tough bastard, ruling his section of the city like if Lung actually had scruples, a solo cape with the chops to chase off the Slaughterhouse 9. But she'd been far too young to remember when the supposed Bad Old Days had come to an end: she only knew the Bad New Days.
So many dead, and exponentially more injured. She'd set up and immediately started working when the transport dropped her off. For once, it was invigorating. Normally healing was drudgery, suffering through the same-old, same-old of ingratitude or misery as she fixed the same general problems. But this? It truly felt like she was making a difference as victims of the attacks left, whole once more. The horror in their eyes was a universal factor: they'd all stared into a nightmare and she was helping them move past it. Something in that made her feel good, made her feel like she was contributing to change – maybe even making things legitimately better.
An entire group clustered within Brockton General, tired and scruffy, looking like war veterans. Some still wore their jackets which identified them as the local Dockworkers' Union, the 128th as if that made a difference. Amy could see the way they watched everyone else, the skittishness. She'd seen it before, although rarely: these were people who had been through a traumatic experience as a group, and were behaving almost like a pack of animals more than individual humans. They kept their most injured toward the center, while triage doctors bustled around them for the more mutilated victims.
Something twinged at Amy, told her to go talk to them. With an armed PRT trooper at her back to ensure her safety, she approached. "Can I help you with anything?"
"O-oh," a bimbo-looking blonde startled. "You're Panacea!"
Yes, Amy didn't say, I'm Panacea. I'm glad you passed kindergarten. Your parents must be ever so proud.
Moments later she was glad she'd held her tongue. The blonde began rattling off injured parties from most to least wounded, pointing them out by name and even listing estimated blood lost. Some were relatively minor, like the stocky Kurt who only had some deep lacerations in areas that weren't immediately life-threatening ("Hey, chicks dig scars," he'd said with a smirk at the blonde, who rolled her eyes with a huff), while others like Alexander shocked Amy that they were even still alive.
"Why haven't you gotten him to a trauma team?" Amy gestured at the unconscious bearded man.
"Honestly?" the spindly latino – Frankie, she thought he was called – responded, "pure nerves. I'm worried if I let go this bungee cord he'll drop dead."
"Oh, for the love of–" She tapped one of Alexander's exposed arteries. "There, the blood vessels are sealed over. Pass him over to triage and if I have time I'll see if I can grow his leg back."
"We'd really appreciate it," the blonde smiled. "Us dockworkers make our living through hard labor. If he loses that leg, well, that's his livelihood gone too."
Amy sucked her teeth. Of course, guilt.
"Could I trouble you to look at one more of our people?"
One of the seated dockworkers waved Lacey off while the other hand held a blood-soaked rag to his mouth. He was tall and lanky, slightly balding, with a weak chin. His head was covered in bruises and obviously his mouth had been brutalized.
"Dan's trying to be stoic but he took a real beating and I'd appreciate it if you could at least make his mouth stop bleeding." The blonde took a moment to gaze deep into Amy's eyes and the parahuman healer could make out the subtext plain as day: make sure he's not going to die, please.
"Sure, it won't take long." Panacea didn't know why she agreed. It probably wasn't the feeling of guilt, nor was this man particularly tripping her new sense of making a difference. But something compelled her to take his hand and look him over.
Dan's head was in a bad way. She regrew his lost teeth but left the visible bruises to remind the doctors to do their jobs. She could work a bit with the blood vessels around his brain, help them to safely clot, but it was still worrying. He could suffer a hematoma or hemorrhage and drop dead, and the man was certainly concussed.
"I'll make sure some people see you all, alright?" Once she turned away, Amy ground her teeth. This Dan was now partly her responsibility, so she needed to remind a doctor to get him a bed and make sure he didn't die in his sleep.
Then she saw other people suffering from rather exotic wounds and felt that odd new giddiness return at the prospect of restoring them.
(BREAK)
Hours later, Danny Hebert drifted in and out of consciousness. He lay in a hospital bed beside the window, which was somehow cracked open. He wasn't even sure if hospital windows could do that. But the chill night air felt nice, despite his head throbbing in agony.
Then he heard something he'd long since believed himself to have accepted that he would never hear again. The most beautiful voice in the world, at least to his ears, singing something deeply personal to both of them. The rhythm and gentle voice had soothed Taylor to sleep many times during that first colicky year of their daughter's life.
So long ago I don't remember when, that's when they say I lost my only friend.
Well they said she died easy of a broken heart disease, as I listened through the cemetery trees.
It had to be a hallucination, brought on by his beaten skull. He tried to look out the window but from his position saw nothing. He tried to sit up but the world swam and he fell back into the bed and the papery pillow.
Almost failing to make sound past the lump in his throat, he answered with the next set of lyrics, and was rewarded by more of his wife's singing. Tears began to pour down his face as Danny sang, and wept, and remembered a time when he and Annette still held onto some hope that the world might be better for their daughter than it had been for them.
Outside, balanced on the narrow jut of concrete that made up a facsimile of windowsill, the woman known as Owl would not show up on any security cameras. But a few people, looking from just the right angle, saw her. And they saw tears spilling from her eyes down into the cloth that covered her face, as her voice echoed faintly with half the impromptu duet of the Wallflowers' One Headlight.
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A nice bittersweet moment in the middle of tragedy. Two lovers torn apart are able to be together again, but are unable to meet face to face. Hopefully, Owl will be able to take off her mask before more tragedy can unfolds.
I haven't written in this journal for a while.Trying to pretend none of this is real, or none of it bothers me. But I have to record this. Not only for my own sake, but to preserve her memory. People need to remember her, how good she was, everything she did and everything that was taken from her. And what was done to her.
––––––––––
I could wait no longer. Iosefka needed me. I needed to find a way out of this nightmare. I descended once more to the door that rasped for a password, Laurence's memory blazing to the forefront of my mind. "We are born of the Blood, made men by the Blood, undone by the Blood. Our eyes are yet to open." The voice on the other side of the door joined me in the final phrase, just as Laurence had joined Willem. "Fear the Old Blood," we said.
"Welcome home," the door whispered, and I heard heavy bolts turn within the door – accompanied by what sounded like a death rattle, a steady and ever-weakening exhalation.
I lunged through, hoping that I could save the man, and was confronted by a skeleton in rotting finery. A decaying suit rested on his bones, a worn top hat adorning his skull. This man had been dead for decades. Had it been his spirit guarding the door? I began to doubt the interpretation Alfred had offered: while possible, it was unlikely that someone would give his life to close a door out of simple pettiness. Perhaps there was greater reason for the animosity between Byrgenwerth and the Healing Church. And where did the Vilebloods factor in?
My journey through the tunnel was thankfully quiet, emerging into a stepped plain that descended into forest. The bright, pale moon shone down and this area just felt different from Yharnam or Hemwick. It felt wild, free...for both better and worse.
A handful of Yharnamite maniacs lurked around, most in brighter colors like yellow: probably actual hunters before their degeneration, wearing bright colors much like how modern hunters wear those orange vests. I split open those who got too close, then the commotion drew the rest and soon enough I had slaughtered them all.
I was growing used to it, desensitized to the carnage. I had to kill, so I killed. It reminded me of the casual manner in which the ancient epics spoke of war and killing – a way of life, simply how things were. Maybe, if I focused on those comparisons, I could convince myself I wasn't slowly losing my mind.
The small copses of trees on one side did not a forest make: the actual forest was on the other side of a ravine. It was broad enough that I questioned my ability to jump it, especially if there was some sort of magic barring my way. I really didn't fancy the idea of leaping across only to crash into an invisible wall halfway across and go plummeting down into the misty depths. On this side of the ravine was a small graveyard with a handful of headstones, adjacent to a little round structure barely a story tall. The door was a metal grate, and when I tried it the door was locked. I was about to try and give the door the sack-man jail treatment when a voice rang out from the other side.
"The huntsmen know well enough to stay away," drawled a rather deep baritone. A tall figure slunk into my field of vision, melting out of the darkness with a smooth and confident stride. His clothes reminded me of a classic British bobby. He didn't wear the typical bobby cap, however: what I initially mistook to be a helmet looked more like a repurposed bucket – well, it had clearly been transformed into a helmet, with layers of metal reinforcing the simple tin cylinder. A single eye gazed out at me from a cycloptic eyehole. "So what does that make you?"
"Someone who doesn't know well enough," I quipped back. "I'm looking for the tunnel back into Yharnam, the one under the blood ministration clinic."
"It would be a swifter journey to your destination were you to come through here and take this elevator," he replied.
I waited, and he didn't open the door. "...Well? Are you going to open up?"
"Not in the least," he chuckled. "I come here on occasion to check the integrity of the gate and the elevator mechanisms. This was once a shortcut for hunters, particularly before the schism between the Church and Byrgenwerth. I am Valtr, Master of the League. In the days when I actually had confederates, they used this convenience as well. But it has been many a year since the League's confederates have walked these halls – other than myself."
"And what does that have to do with me?" I pressed.
"Nothing and yet potentially everything." More cryptic shit, great. "To get to the point and do away with the drama, as you seem unappreciative of such – much to my own dismay – you can consider this an interview. I know not your capability as a hunter, and your emergence from the elevator would draw beasts' attention if you lack the ability to put them down. That would cause inconvenience for me. So if you can kill your way to the lower section of this elevator and take it up to meet me, I will welcome you to make use of this shortcut whenever you please – and offer you a place within the League, on top of that."
I paused to shoot a raven that had been sneaking up on me. "And what exactly is this League? Why would I want to join?"
"A prudent question." He leaned against the bars, eye blazing into my goggles. "The Forbidden Woods have long been an accursed place. Nightmares abound and animals behave wrongly. Serpents and insects, in particular, act as though imbued with evil. This is because they are. Impurity runs rampant within these woods, and can spread to others: parasites within the blood. I simply called them vermin when I discovered them, and the League adopted the terminology. I can teach you to detect vermin, to guard yourself against infestation by such, and how to stamp them out. Perhaps the woods can never be fully cured, but we can prevent the taint from spreading elsewhere.
"If the high-minded crusade interests you not, we have squirreled away numerous supply caches and I can provide you with their locations," he finished.
"And what's to stop me from just breaking the door down and making use of this elevator?" I challenged.
"Nothing except your own conscience," he replied smoothly. Too smoothly. This Valtr was confident in his skills, was likely at least as experience as Gascoigne… I would be risking my life and making a permanent enemy for potentially very little gain.
"...When I ride that elevator up, I'm gonna kick your ass," I grumbled.
He laughed. It was a pleasant sound. "Smart woman. What's your name, Lass? I want to greet you properly when you make it here."
"...I'm Taylor."
His single visible eye briefly looked past me, over my shoulder. "I'll remember that."
(BREAK)
After that, I made my way across the bridge, juking aside from a huntsman's shots. My foot came down on some detritus and I heard a click, then the rattle of chains from above. I threw myself down and to the side, and watched as a spike-filled log swung down to impale my opponent. "Traps," I muttered. "Good to know."
The typical huntsmen roamed the woods, many of them further degenerated into lanky abominations. They worked together in worrying concert, cooperating to bring me down. I barely survived a gauntlet in which some threw pots of oil at me, others hurled molotovs, and a huge bastard with some sort of grain thresher tried to grind me into chunklets.
The first collection of buildings almost made me sick. The entire thing was colored an odd, luminous red – so much so that I thought there must be some red light source. But no, it was torchlight illuminating thick coatings of blood. Whatever people had lived here, their bodies had been thrown into a pit in the center after exsanguinating slaughter. I found that pit the hard way, juking around the beastmen's attacks: like the trap pressure plate from before, the fragile boards were hidden under detritus and gave way under the weight of multiple bodies. I and several opponents fell into the pit and I impaled my thigh on a sharpened spike.
I fought like a trapped animal, ripping my enemies apart, then got the gunman above with a molotov before climbing up the ladder to finish him off after he was done burning. I focused on moving forward, pulling out Gehrman's crude map for advice on where to go. I didn't want to think about the rotting corpses in the pit, the faces twisted in despair as they died realizing there was no hope of rescue.
I found another group of buildings, these ones less densely populated and without the slathering of blood. Only a few huntsmen and some of those poor mutilated dogs lurked around. The kind from Hemwick, with blades and rakes attached to them. I gave them all death as a mercy, so they didn't have to suffer.
As I shot the last dog, however, a light flickered on in the building beside me. I could see the silhouette of a bald head, but couldn't make out anything more. The yellow light was oddly blinding. "That gunshot sounds unfamiliar from the usual residents. Come closer, friend. Let me have a look at you." His voice was soft, gentle. While not necessarily an indicator of peaceful intent, it at the very least wasn't immediately threatening.
I stepped a bit closer. "Hello there. How've you kept safe with those maniacs around?"
"Ah, old Patches knows many ways to go unnoticed by the more uncouth denizens of this forest," he spoke with a wry smile on his voice. "And look at you, a hunter of beasts? Glory be. You know not the value you possess. But more's the pity. The hours of the night are many, and the beasts more than I can count. A veritable hunt unending. Not even death offers solace, and the blood imbibes you…"
This man clearly knew something about hunters of the Dream. But more than that, he said the blood imbibes me. That should be the other way around, shouldn't it? "The blood imbibes me? What do you mean by that?"
He gave a wheezing half-laugh. "A most frightful fate, oh my. But I'm willing to do you a kindness. Step lightly round the right of the Great Cathedral and seek an ancient, shrouded church. The gift of the godhead will grant you strength. Yes," he hummed to himself, "I'm unquestionably certain…"
The window cracked open and something was pushed out. I glanced down to see a strange pitted stone hit the ground. When I looked up again, the light was out and the figure was gone from the window. The rock was some sort of exotic stone, maybe pumice. It made me uncomfortable, but I pocketed it anyway. In this bizarre place I could use any potential advantage.
I pushed past the dog cages and made my way into a cave. Gehrman's map indicated that a trapdoor had once been here, but his information was probably decades out of date. With the slope of the land, it seemed like this had been excavated: perhaps the trapdoor had become inconvenient. The interior of the cave reeked, the sickly-sweet of rotting fruit. Islands of pale sand rested few and far between, the majority of the cave was purplish water.
I pulled down my face covering, stooped down and took a whiff. I recoiled and almost retched. It smelled almost identical to the poison that the flayed beast in the Church of the Good Chalice had shed. I still had some antidote tablets just in case. I'd taken to bringing the threaded cane with me in case I needed to Indiana Jones my way across any more rafters, and there were some stalactites that looked viable.
The metal whip lashed out and latched around the stone, and I swung across as quickly as I could. The rock gave way partway across and I fell in the poison sea, scrambling out and popping an antidote before my veins burned too badly. All of the noise made something move, a monster I had previously mistaken for a rock from a distance: it was like one of the giants from Cathedral Ward, although without the attempt at clothing. It was wrapped in loose bandages like a ravaged, tomb-raided mummy. It clutched a curved blade in its hand, like a shotel or scimitar, and lunged at me.
The old giants were huge but slow, deadly if they caught you. This creature was fast and aggressive, kicking up clouds of sand. Its eye sockets glowed with an eerie light. I lashed the threaded-cane whip into its ankle, planting the blade like a grappling hook, then did everything I could to dodge. It came at me fast and furious, hacking into the beach and kicking up sparks when its blade crashed into the stone pillars at the center of the island. I clutched the cane's grip and did my utmost to stay one step ahead of the monster, whirling around it. I didn't even have time to line up a shot.
Thankfully, I didn't need to. I had hoped to channel The Empire Strikes Back and it seemed I would be successful. Every time I dodged, I did so in a counterclockwise direction, looping around the monster again and again. Finally I grabbed the whip's cable with my other hand and heaved with all my might, pulling the whip taut and yanking its legs together, then pulling it off its feet! The giant toppled into the poison water and struggled to right itself. Just as it got its arms under its body, I turned and heaved again, swinging it up and over through the air. I had aimed perfectly, and a stalagmite punched clean through the monster's chest. It spasmed and then fell still.
There were more islands, more giants, and my method became tried-and-true. Some islands didn't have suitable stalagmites so I had to swing the giants against the pillars until I bludgeoned them to death. It was slow and dangerous work, but I steadily made my way across to a different section of the cave, and from there to another tunnel.
Steadily the tunnel became less moist and more dry, stone and unworked earth giving way to tiled floor. I opened up a trapdoor, peeking out before forcing both doors wide. The classic Yharnam architecture greeted me. There was a ladder that led to the top of a nearby building, and from there I could see the back of Iosefka's clinic.
I swallowed hard, feeling the icy fear creep across my spine. I didn't know if I would be able to save the first person who'd been kind to me in Yharnam – the first person who'd been kind to me in years… But I would do everything in my power to try.
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I swallowed hard, feeling the icy fear creep across my spine. I didn't know if I would be able to save the first person who'd been kind to me in Yharnam – the first person who'd been kind to me in years… But I would do everything in my power to try.
I'd argue Bloodborne is notably less so than Worm. Bloodborne's misery is mostly limited to one city and its outlying provinces, and the Good Hunter was ultimately largely victorious. The beast plague persists, but it is mostly contained.
I'd argue Bloodborne is notably less so than Worm. Bloodborne's misery is mostly limited to one city and its outlying provinces, and the Good Hunter was ultimately largely victorious. The beast plague persists, but it is mostly contained.
I would make the exact opposite argument. Mostly because of Valtr, Yamamura and the constable armor set. Each of the men and the armor have descriptions stating that they come from far off foreign lands and were involved with fighting beasts in those regions. Which means that while Yharnam may be a source of the beast scourge it is likely not the only location on Bloodborne's world where the Great Ones have set up shop. They're just the only nutjobs dumb enough to drink/inject diluted 'blood' from the extra-dimensional beings as a healing remedy. Which made the city extremely vulnerable to dimensional crossover events. Especially with several groups actively trying to cause more of them. They are also dealing with at least 7 different entities if I'm not mistaken. All of whom have their own plans for the city and possibly the world.
Also not helping was building the city over the ruins of another corrupted dead civilization that also worshipped the entities.
Bloodborne is also a video game that can only focus on the area it is set in. It doesn't have the time or programming space to give an overview of the corruption status of the entire planet. Which means we have to look for clues in the lore given about how wide spread the scourge of beasts is.
Worm is a story that can show the situation across the globe and even across the other effected dimensions. Showing how Parahumans and the shards have effected everything.
Worm is also only dealing with one main entity. Even if it is composed of a lot of powerful sub units. However the entity is depressed and really doesn't give a shit about actually causing the apocalypse it had originally planned because its partner is dead so there's no point in it any more. There are also ways to get to and kill Scion's true body. Something not known to be possible with the Bloodborne entities. Sure you then have to deal with the shards no longer being under the control of a greater being but they're a bit easier to deal with than 7 active god like beings.
Worm is Grim-Dark light roast.
Bloodborne is Gothic Horror straight black dark roast no sugar or cream.
WormBorne is a specialty blend and when done right has all the best of both flavors blended to perfection.
I feel bloodborne is grim, but canon worm is grimderp. For all the horror of bloodborne, you are far from helpless. You do not merely steal the proverbial fire from the gods, you have the potential to usurp them outright. To a transhumanist the loss of your humanity to become more isn't a bad thing, and Ludvig is proof that you don't need to become a mindless beast. You can choose to be better, and protect those who cannot protect themselves.
Worm declares that humanity is nothing before it's idiot gods of malice, and argues we can't choose to be better because anybody who does dies at best and suffers a far worse fate most of the time. Humanity wins because it becomes crueler than its god and tortures them until they die, and this causes his slaves to rampage like never before. Everyone with power is awful, because if they weren't they would have none.
Most settings suffer when subjected to bloodborne in a crossover, but worm is blessed by it in a way even 40k can't be. For like the pithos bestowed upon Pandora, at the very bottom is something the world lacked. Hope.
The only creatures in my way were several groups of crows. I killed them with my cleaver, trying to off them before they could take flight and make a commotion, and I certainly didn't want to use my gun: the purpose of this rear entrance was stealth, after all.
I found a gap in the tall spikes that guarded the sides of this building's roof like lethal railings and dropped down, my landing muffled by the coating of fallen leaves. Tired old trees swayed lightly; more gravestones gathered here and there. The clinic's backyard had benches and other sections for relaxation, likely to give patients some time outside and away from the claustrophobic conditions of the same ceiling.
The rear door was much more elegant and fragile, much like the double-doors on the clinic's front exterior: beautifully carved wood fitted with some frosted glass, a polished brass handle permitting entry. I depressed the lever with my thumb and hoped to any god listening that the door would open – and do so quietly.
It did.
The clinic's halls were empty, my soft footsteps still echoing in the hollow void. It was a perfect Victorian or Edwardian building, painted or papered upper walls and wooden slats on the lower half of the wall, with a protruding chair rail running the length. The upper walls in the main hall were all a soft teal that looked almost gray in the washed-out lack of light. I switched on the tiny lantern at my belt.
The building split like a T: it went to the left and right, and forward led up a set of stairs. I opted to check the side corridors first. Turning left, I made my way past bookshelves and racks of equipment, test tubes and pipettes and beakers full of strange liquid. Calipers and pliers and less pleasant bronze constructs also decorated the various shelves.
Some of the doors were locked and I hesitated to force them open for fear of disturbing Iosefka's captor (or killer). Others opened into empty rooms, and only my sharpened senses told me that anything had happened. The rooms looked like the kind of creepy turn-of-the-century surgery rooms, with a table that had straps to restrain the patient and could pivot to allow easier access to different parts of the body. Whoever had been in here, I couldn't say – likely one of Iosefka's patients, and it disturbed me that he or she was gone, because it was certain that he hadn't departed pleasantly. I could smell potent cleaning detergents, but beneath that stench was the smell of shed blood.
I also smelled moonlight…
The other rooms in the leftward corridor were the same: either locked or empty and scrubbed, stinking of blood and cleaner and moonlight to my enhanced senses. I went to the right and found much of the same, until I rounded the corner: the right side bent further back, turning rightward more and more, either following some natural line in the land or just making the most use of the space available. And standing there, leaning against the wall and looking depressed, was one of the strangest creatures I'd ever seen.
I don't know if I could ever do it justice simply through description, but to try my best, it was varying shades of blue – not blue like paint, but blue like shimmering water or a starry night sky. Some parts were a pale periwinkle, others were almost black. I could almost make out a shimmering and starry texture on its skin. Its face was folded in on itself like a cartoonish pucker, somehow layers upon layers of excess skin concealing its barely-visible mouth and skeletal nose. Its eyes, sunken into its face, were pinpricks of light.
The thing was oddly shaped, like a jellybean, with gangly noodle arms and equally skinny legs that should have been too weak to hold it up. Its arms ended in lopsided hands far too large for those needle-thin arms: broad palms and bulbous knuckle joints, emaciated digits, and enlarged fingertips like a tree frog.
The top of its head was the worst part. I'd seen pictures of babies with water on the brain, where their heads were overfilled with liquid and sloshed around. This thing was even worse. I didn't know if it simply had no neck or if its deformed head took up the space where the neck should be, but the excess head hung back over its shoulders like some sort of hunch. It turned to look at me, audibly bobbing and sloshing as its head moved.
I gripped my saw tighter but it made no move to attack. I sidestepped around it and continued investigating the rooms. For all I knew this thing might have been Iosefka's pet, and I didn't want to hurt anything that was hers. The rightward corridor eventually proved to likewise be a dead-end, and I sidled around the blue thing again. It didn't pursue me, but I could swear it looked sad.
I grit my teeth and ascended the steps. I would find answers, no matter what, but those answers promised to be more and more grim by the second. At the top of the steps, I could see what looked like the reinforced clinic door at the end of a long hallway. Several doors were between me and there. The first door was locked, but the second – on my left – clicked open.
My world lurched. The layout, the chair, the table… My memories told me that this was where Wheelchair Man had met me, where the blood beast had taunted me and the Little Ones took me. Had I ended up here? Was this a common room design? And where – and who, or rather what – was Wheelchair Man?
A woman stood over the table, washing blood from the leather. She wore white robes, with sandy blonde hair, and hummed a tune to herself. It took me a moment to realize that she was humming Mergo's Lullaby, as Henryk had called it – the tune from Siobhan's music box. The woman sniffed at the air and turned to face me, her face a mix of confusion and consternation.
"Ah, moonlit scents… How did you worm your way in here? No matter. Taylor, I presume? I won't make any excuses. Would you mind leaving us alone? Things need not change: you do the rescuing, and I'll do the saving." She turned to face me, and withdrew a threaded cane and double-barreled pistol. "However, if you refuse to leave, well, I've always wanted to try my hand on a hunter…" She trailed off into throaty, almost taunting laughter.
"I'll only give you one chance to answer," I bit out. "Where is Iosefka?"
She spread her arms, "Why, I'm right here, dear," she replied in that same confident tone that I had instantly known to be an imposter.
"Don't bother trying to lie to me. I know what Iosefka sounds like. I know how she acts. You're not her." I began to stalk forward.
"The woman who used this name before me no longer has claim to it," she almost purred, sweeping around the table, keeping it between us. "Therefore, I am now Iosefka, and this is my clinic. It's all quite nice and logical, don't you think?"
I flicked open the cleaver.
She threw her hands to her sides, palms facing me. "We call the watchers to turn their gaze upon us," she intoned, as I lunged over the table. "Feel our sorrow...and weep with us!" She crossed her wrists above her head and the last thing I saw was a cascade of stars before my body was torn apart in the explosion.
I woke up at the lantern in the Forbidden Woods. It was too far to make that trek all over again, I was in no mood to do Indiana Jones acrobatics. I took the lantern back to the Dream and returned to the clinic's front room. Iosefka was dead, so there was no point in being subtle.
I stomped up to the reinforced door and grit my teeth, calling on every ounce of anger within me. I could smell ozone before I lashed out and kicked the door off its hinges! My knee ground in protest as I stomped inside, but it quickly healed.
"Oh my," the imposter cooed. "We have a visitor, and one in such a state!" She stepped out into the hall and brandished her cane. "Hush now, hush. We'll have you right as rain in no time. Just stay still: this won't hurt a bit," she purred, lunging toward me. I parried, slapping her cane against the wall and trapping her weapon. My pistol snapped up and fired, and she spun to plaster herself against the same wall. Hers came up and I slammed the barrel of my own gun into her wrist to knock it aside, the bullet embedding into the ceiling.
She released her cane and pointed her right palm at me. The woman made a strange whalesong sound, which I instinctively understood: "I call upon the memory of the Firstborn of the Formless, the Holy Medium. Ebrietas."
A rift opened in space before me, glowing brilliantly purple and blue and silver. Tentacles emerged and lashed against me, and I could feel my ribs and shoulders shatter. I flew backward and spilled down the steps to collapse through a few gurneys. She skipped after me, tapping her cane on the ground to disengage it into its whip form. "Now stop this, dear. I've had just enough of your combativeness," the bitch taunted.
"Fuck you," I snarled. I injected myself with two blood vials and holstered my pistol, drawing the flamesprayer instead. I juked to the side, brought up the fire weapon, and at the last second changed my angle of attack. In one smooth motion I dropped the flamesprayer, bridged my cleaver from my right hand to my left, and drew my saw spear with my right hand.
The imposter's eyes snapped wide: she had been in the middle of a swing and pirouette out of the way of the presumed spray of fire, and now my cleaver bit deep into her wrist. I added more leverage to wrench her backward, lining her torso up perfectly for a thrust from the spear. While her voluminous and thick robes certainly caught on the serrations, the spear still bore her to the ground and left a bleeding wound in her gut. I stomped on her chest, audibly and viscerally shattering several of her ribs. With my foot on her torso, I wrenched the spear free and drove it into her left wrist to nail her arm to the floor.
"You have two options," I snarled, my voice thick and guttural. "You die fast, or I kill you slow and painful. And it all hinges on your answer: what did you do to Iosefka? The original Iosefka."
She coughed, splattering blood on my shirt and face cover. "She, and her patients, were given the privilege of helping Choir research. All experiments, sadly, were failures. Though the poor dear came the closest to success."
I knelt down, making sure to keep up the pressure on her broken ribs, and to keep her right wrist pinned with my cleaver. I rested my hand on her face, gently at first, then firmly cupped her cheeks and squeezed with my long, strong fingers. "Iosefka was the first person to show me kindness in years. She sang me to sleep. She offered me everything she could and never asked for anything in return. She was a good person." I swallowed hard. "I lied, you know, when I said there were two options. You're going to die in agony."
She looked toward the ceiling, past my face. "C-curse this...oblivious fool," she mumbled past my hand.
I snarled, drawing on the injustice of what was done here, of what was done to me again and again. The injustice against all of Brockton Bay, all of Yharnam. The imposter's skin began to sizzle, turning red where my hand and fingers touched, then searing to black as she screamed. Electricity crackled from my hand, my eyes blazed red with my hatred. I let it all pour out, every ounce of rage and misplaced aggression, at this acceptable target. She screamed and screamed until her lungs popped. I stood and crushed her blackened sternum under my boot.
I headed deeper inside to find something that would count as a keepsake of Iosefka's. Preferably two: I wanted to make her a memorial before I left, and maybe I could keep something to remember her as well.
I was met by the sound of sloshing, the strange jelly-like bobbling noise as that blue thing approached ponderously, barely able to support its own unnatural body shape and weight. It stared at me and I began to feel uncomfortable. I moved to stalk past it and it grabbed at me – not suddenly, but gently, like a child tugging on her mother's skirt.
I looked at it again. "...What do you want?" I asked at length.
It held out its other hand, clutching a vial of deep-red blood. A type of vial I recognized. "That's one of Iosefka's blood vials," I said aloud.
The creature held the vial to its chest.
"Oh god," the words escaped me in a wheeze as I slumped to my haunches, staring into this thing's pinprick eyes. "...Iosefka?"
I can only presume that it – she – tried to nod, but that heavy sagging head proved too difficult. She bobbed slightly.
"No," I whispered. "Oh no… What did she do to you? H-how can I help? We have to turn you back!"
She slumped.
"Don't you dare say that," I growled. "There's a way! There has to be!"
Her gangly arm rose up, cupping my cheek. Her palm was so unnaturally warm, blood churning not in a pulsing flow but like waves in an ocean.
"I…" My voice was weak. I felt so small. "How can I help?"
She reached for the saw spear at my hip and gently tugged.
I shot backward out of her grip, covering several body lengths. She bobbled after me. "No! Don't ask me to do that! Don't you dare ask me for that!"
Iosefka placed her hand on mine, holding it with her far-too-warm grip.
"I can't do it," I pleaded. "Not to you."
Iosefka briefly closed her eyes, then slapped me. It didn't really hurt, but it shocked me. Then she slapped me again. Those narrow arms were surprisingly strong. She began to rain blows upon me, my shoulders and chest, slapping me across the face again and again. Somehow, in her body language, I knew she was crying.
"Stop!" I screamed, throwing my arms around her malformed body. Immediately she halted and her arms came up to embrace me. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I was too slow, too weak, too stupid. I'm pathetic, worthless! How did I ever think I–"
Another touch to my cheek brought me out of my self-abuse. Iosefka caressed my face, gazing into my eyes through my goggles. I lifted them up so she could see me directly. Even in this monstrous form, I could feel her kindness. She rested her bulbous forehead against mine.
I unholstered my saw spear and flicked it to full extension. I stood up, caressing Iosefka's sloshing head with my other hand. I couldn't remember enough of the lyrics to the lullaby she had sung me, but I remembered the tune. I held her tight and began to hum it.
Iosefka did the same to me, hugging me tight, shuddering. Whether in fear or thankfulness, I suppose I'll never know. I tightened my grip on the weapon and began to shake, my arm trembling. I forced it to stop, not for decorum's sake but so my aim wasn't off. Iosefka leaned against me, relaxing, trusting. Thankful.
I brought the spear down with all my might.
I don't know how long I sat there, rocking the corpse as milky, pink blood drooled from the single instantly-fatal wound. I lost myself in the grief, humming what I could remember of the lullaby on loop.
Then I sprang to my feet and began to scream. I screamed loud enough to rattle the walls, to shake books off the shelves. I screamed again and again, barely taking breaths between the wails. I screamed my hatred at the injustice of the world. I screamed my sorrow for Iosefka's fate. I screamed my self-loathing at my inability to save her, failing to make a difference yet again.
I tore out of the clinic and blazed a trail of destruction, screaming still as I ripped huntsmen and hounds asunder with my bare hands. I grabbed the massive assistant and beat it to death against the reinforced doors, then the other one I disarmed and killed with its own immense glaive.
It all turned into a haze of blood and gore, screaming so violently that blood flew from my throat.
When I came to, I was lying upon the chaise once more in the room that didn't always exist. Doll dabbed at my forehead with a damp cloth. "Your grief will break you, if you allow it," she cautioned. "It is no easy thing to set aside grief. Therefore, I will make a suggestion: before you continue your journey, and potentially make decisions colored by your despair, take time. Use the chalice, explore a dungeon, expend your passion upon the monsters therein. You will be better for it."
"How…" I croaked, my throat still in agony. "How did you bring me back here?"
"You are precious to me," she smiled. "How could I resist helping you?"
That may not have been a proper answer, but it still lifted my spirits just a tiny bit. And then I broke once again. No longer screaming, I fell into Doll's arms and cried quietly.
––––––––––
I don't know if anyone else will remember her. I'm not even sure if I should tell Gilbert, erode his hope in what he thinks to be the last days of his life. Iosefka is dead. She was a good person, a kind person, and her goodness was repaid with sadism. I will remember her, for the sake of everyone that should remember her. I know she wouldn't want me to say this, but Iosefka, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I was too slow to save you, too weak and ignorant to help bring you back. I'm sorry that the best I could offer was a release from pain.
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No, he kinda did. I'd bet this was one of the critical steps Taylor had to endure to reach the point she does by the time things wind forward to the infestation in Brockton Bay.
You know if one of those pod people had walked up to you and handed you one of those special blood veils then halting asked you to kill them… that would of been even more heart breaking in the game.
No, he kinda did. I'd bet this was one of the critical steps Taylor had to endure to reach the point she does by the time things wind forward to the infestation in Brockton Bay.
I'm sorry that I was too slow to save you, too weak and ignorant to help bring you back. I'm sorry that the best I could offer was a release from pain.
...And that looks to me a lot like the seed of a core of motivation to gain power and knowledge to use for good causes.
Past a certain point, if this Taylor is offered godhood at a price to herself, will she even see herself as, morally, having the option to refuse?
Trufla said:
I'd bet this was one of the critical steps Taylor had to endure to reach the point she does by the time things wind forward to the infestation in Brockton Bay.
The door creaked open and Gehrman awkwardly rolled inside. "Is Taylor doing better?" he asked Doll, looking directly at her. The porcelain woman nodded with a soft smile and Gehrman gave me his own smile, a bit self-effacing. "I've never been good with crying women, so I deferred to someone with better understanding. Now," he rolled a little closer, "you need to come to terms with what happened, but I doubt you want to be trapped here as you mentally convalesce – let alone what this pain might do to you when you waken.
"As such, I propose that you take a quick sojourn to a Chalice Dungeon. A hunter's greatest risk is losing himself – or herself – and hunting while emotionally compromised is one of the quickest ways to do just that. At best, you risk making bad decisions and hurting people. At worst, you could become a blood-drunken fiend with no anchors to help you claw your way back." Even the old veteran Gehrman had a tinge of respect in his voice there: coming back from madness, as I'd done previously, must have been an exceedingly rare feat. "Thus, the Chalice serves its second purpose. The primary is to loot the past, take from memories and make the objects real – or at least, real enough for our purposes. Feel free to collect any loot you find in there: you can indeed bring it back with you. But for you, the primary goal is to simply burn off your anger and pain. Kill monsters and the corrupted until you no longer feel the clenching pain behind your sternum."
Doll gently stood me up, then walked over to stand beside Gehrman so I could look at them both simultaneously. He didn't cringe away this time. "I agree with Gehrman. You have suffered significant loss and need more than my comfort to come to terms with it. It is somewhat unpleasant to admit that I cannot heal you entirely by myself, but I acknowledge my shortcomings. Likewise, I know little of the methodology by which hunters entreat the Chalices. Gehrman can teach you the ritual." She gently ushered us out of the side room, which once again disappeared.
"Why does it do that?" I asked. "Why not just keep the extra room?"
"This Dream was modeled after a real place," Doll responded. "While some areas can be changed to suit our needs, the greater the change, the more strain placed upon its anchor. A temporary addition is far less taxing than a permanent one."
Gehrman nodded solemnly and I fell into step beside him as he rolled downhill.
"So killing things is therapy for hunters?" I asked with a humorless chuckle.
"I said it from the beginning, lass," Gerhman replied with an actual little smirk, "killing beasts is good for you. Hunters face such mighty horrors, things we can barely comprehend: reasserting ourselves by slaying the chaff is good to keep from getting unmoored." We came to rest beside a collection of gravestones, each one with a strange little dais before it. "Pass me the Chalice, Taylor. I'll get the ritual ingredients together: you go see the doll and use your echoes. Leave a few, though – they're part of the toll. Once the rite is started, you can't go back and prepare, so make sure you're well-equipped."
I visited Doll nearby and further enhanced myself, then returned to Gehrman. He had two dishes of dark-red blood, rippling from even my light steps.
"Ritual blood," he gestured at the dishes. "Incoagulable, constant, only expended in events such as this to serve as a medium. The blood holds memories, like seeks like." His tone was severe, mysterious, almost reverent. "When all is melted in blood, all is reborn." Gehrman pointed at the Chalice, which seemed firmly mounted on the stone dais. "Pour the blood into the chalice, then offer of yourself. It is the payment to travel the toll road into history."
I took up the dishes and followed Gehrman's example, treating the blood with deferential reverence. I delicately poured it into the chalice, then rested my hand over it. The same way that I extended blood echoes to fortify my weapons, I felt something flow from me and into the Chalice.
"Let the chalice reveal the tomb of the gods," Gehrman intoned, "let blood be the hunter's nourishment."
I felt myself falling, flowing into the chalice, losing all sense of self.
"...And let ye partake in communion…"
(BREAK)
I awoke on a stone floor. Briefly I panicked, worried that I'd ended up back in that jail, but the colors were all wrong. Everything was pale blue and gray, torches in the wall burning with blue light. The entire place was...not necessarily better cared-for, but it had been built with so much initial care that it still looked better. Despite the dust and obvious wear, the walls were beautiful. So painstakingly crafted, it reminded me of photos I'd seen of ancient Greek structures. Each pillar was a work of art in itself, the walls covered in designs I couldn't begin to place: massive bas-reliefs and recessed panels that reminded me of Catholic saints. From the ceiling descended roots, having pushed through the roof.
This was Pthumeria, I was sure of it. It really was an underground society. I ran my fingers along the beautiful wall as I advanced. It was ancient, long since abandoned, but still held such beauty that I found a lump forming in my throat. At the end of the hall was some sort of door, a solid slab of bronze. Like the walls, the door was inlaid with carvings. A central figure, tall and long, stood proud. In recesses on either side were strange symbols. One looked like liquid, perhaps being poured into a dish, while the other was some sort of crystal. Blood and blood gems, maybe? I couldn't say. The figure reminded me of Doll, or Arianna: so long and elegant that it began to look inhuman in its beauty.
I pushed on the door, to no avail. It didn't seem to have any hinges, nor a handle to pull. I felt along its perimeter to find some sort of purchase, and discovered what seemed to be hand-slots at the bottom. Shit, I had to lift this thing? It was solid bronze! I knew I'd been getting stronger, but still…
Well, I had no alternative. There wasn't even a lantern to take me back. I slipped my fingers under the door, squatted, and began to lift. Once it ground out of its seating, I found it shockingly easy to lift the mass. I all but tossed the door up into the frame, where it locked into place. I had to pause after that (after stepping out of the doorframe, just in case) and feel my arms. Yes, I'd been getting harder, more defined. But I just lifted what had to be more than a ton of metal without too much effort.
The new chamber I'd entered into was massive, a square supported by arches and columns. Collected in the corners were rotting wood barrels and crates, rusting equipment. At the center, within a circle of tiles, was a lantern. The Little Ones moaned and waved enthusiastically to me, and I couldn't keep from smiling. They were always so happy to see me. Once you got past their disturbing looks and realized that they were basically children, or like puppies in the form of deformed little mummies, they became adorable.
"Are you doing alright?" I asked as I lit the lantern. One gave a thumbs-up as I'd showed it. "That's good."
I crossed the room to another door, shoving it up and open. The beautiful if decrepit chamber gave way to a cavern of dirt and roots without any transition. At this point I was getting used to weird shit in Yharnam, and Gehrman did call this place a memory. Likely it had the same issue. Gigantic scabrous rats and desiccated mummy-men confronted me and I fell easily into the behavior of a hunter. The creatures attacked, I juked around and cut them down.
This became my methodology for the entire Dungeon. I wandered, killed monsters, passed petrified bookshelves and weird leafless underground trees, flipped switches and climbed ladders and killed more monsters.
My strangest encounter was with a glowing man who seemed to chime. Dressed in robes, taller than me and lanky, he clasped his hands together as if in prayer. I had prepared to defend myself, but he walked on past me with nary a glance. He didn't look back; maybe he hadn't even noticed me. He just continued on his way and left me confused.
My journey reached its culmination in a massive room, two flights of stairs leading to a tiered platform and then an upper floor past that. Three enormous figures bobbled around, their bodies far beyond pear-shaped: they looked passably like the desiccated people and the glowing man, presumably some sort of Pthumerians, but they were hideously bloated and towered over me at somewhere around eight or nine feet tall. One lumbered about with a cleaver, one with a primitive shotgun, and one with a hefty club and a censer of incense.
I had relied on my cleaver for this Dungeon, enemies obviously not bestial and the teeth of my saw spear getting caught on their clothes. This fight was no different in that respect, but it quickly became a running battle as the trio chased me up and down the stairs. I continually juked past the cleaver and club, jabbing elbows and quick kicks at the two melee brutes. The scattergun bastard was my real threat: my first fight with them resulted in him staggering me and the other two beat me to death.
For the rematch, I holstered my pistol and gripped a firebomb. Shotgun was up at the top, ready to snipe at me – or at least as passably as he could with such an inaccurate weapon. I charged Cleaver and chucked the firebomb into his face: as he staggered, I shot past him and then doubled back: a shoulder buried into his fatty back sent him crashing down the stairs. I reached for another firebomb to blind Shotgun, but my fingers closed around something different. That femur bone that I'd retrieved from the old workshop… What good would that do me!? Shotgun raised his weapon and fired, and I tried to dodge.
I found myself several person-lengths to the side, having transformed into mist and shot near-instantaneously in the chosen direction. I could feel the old bone resonating with power, power that it offered freely. It took only a bit of effort on my part to tap into it. Shotgun fired again and I pulled on the bone's essence, turning to mist and flowing through the gunfire. It reminded me of a faster version of Shadow Stalker from the Wards. When I re-formed, my cleaver was already hurtling through the air and bit deep into the monstrosity's skull. He staggered back and I pressed my attack. I hacked at him, driving the blade into his elbow joint, and kicked the gun free from his hand. Grabbing his shirt with one hand and using the cleaver to guide him, I spun and hurled him from the upper platform to crash head-first into the tile. It shattered under his weight, and presumably either his spine or skull did the same, because he didn't rise.
With Shotgun dead, Club and Cleaver were a much simpler affair. I drew the flamesprayer and simply led them on a chase, dousing them in fire and occasionally chopping with my own cleaver when the opportunity arose. Eventually they both dropped dead.
I opened the sarcophagus they'd been guarding and found it filled with filth – mold heaped like folded cloth, eyes in jars of preservation fluid… Mist announced the Little Ones' presence, who collected all of the items. "Uh, if you little guys think they're important, have at it," I said, still a bit nonplussed by the discovery.
That fight had been...honestly, it had been rather fun. I figured one more adventure couldn't hurt, so I made use of the elevator that the thugs had also been guarding, taking it a floor lower.
(BREAK)
The next floor was more beautiful, better-preserved due to not being as close to the surface – at least, if that kind of logic even applied to this place. Gorgeous golden chandeliers hung, braziers burned with cloying gray smoke, everything was more elegant and worshipful. Traps abounded, floor panels that activated lethal devices like spear launchers and flamethrowers. I actually managed to use them against the Pthumerians, slaying them with their own traps.
I stepped smoothly through a doorway after dispatching the last mummy-man, and was promptly caught in the jaw by a vicious punch. I slammed into the wall, groaning in pain, and looked up at a black-robed sack man.
"No," I snarled, spitting out blood. "Fuck you." I was done being afraid of these things. I ducked under its next punch, then hacked into its knee when it kicked at me. It hefted that sack, I heard its fist clench the cloth, and I shot it in the chest. As it staggered, I drove my claw into its chest and tore out its innards. The blow caused its robe to billow, and I at last saw the face of my tormentor.
The creature was...in a way disappointing, and in a way exactly what I'd expected and feared. It was very nearly human, disturbingly closer to human than the church doctors, but it was slightly deformed. Its eye sockets were empty, its teeth as gray as its skin as if it was one solid color. The face was somehow both too long and too broad without simply being oversized as that would imply. It was in the uncanny valley, but the worst was the inescapable feeling that this had at one point been a person.
I felt the air ripple and leapt aside, hearing the tile shatter under another sack man's attack. He shouldered the bloody bag and prepared to carry on. Then I caught motion behind him and a massive spike impaled him through the skull. It was like if someone had enlarged a railroad spike to the size of a whiffle bat, almost as big as the creature's entire head.
The warrior ripped the weapon from her now-dead prey and stepped back, weapon at the ready like an odd combination of pick and scythe. She seemed older than me, dressed similarly. She was a bit taller and more developed (I was used to the latter, but why did so many women here have to be tall and beautiful?), and her pitch-black hair spilled down her back in gentle ringlets.
"First time I've seen another hunter here," she spoke. Her tone was cautiously optimistic. "What brings you to this lovely little hellhole?"
My voice wouldn't work. I croaked softly. I knew that voice. I hadn't heard it for three years. The tears started to flow.
"...Are you alright? Miss?" She stepped closer.
I finally managed to hiccup. "M...Mom?"
She recoiled as if shot. For a moment I felt an infinite well of pain, then I heard the worry in her voice, the fear and concern. "Oh god. Taylor!? No… No, not you!" She was growing frantic, brandishing her pistol. "No, they didn't take you! You can't be here! Show your face, imposter!"
I pulled off my goggles and yanked down the face covering, tears spilling from my hazel eyes. They poured like a faucet as my wide mouth, just like hers, tugged up and down at the same time unable to decide between a smile and a cataclysmic sob.
All of the fight left my mother. The pistol and scythe-pick thing fell from her hands and she slumped to her knees, crying as well. "No, not my baby," she whimpered, almost too quiet to hear. "Why did they take you…?"
I couldn't hold back. Dropping my own weapons, I leapt at her and buried my face in her chest. My sobs shook the chamber. "Mom… Mommy…" I wept incoherently into her coat.
Slowly she began to stroke my hair, just as she had when she was alive. "Oh sweetheart, Little Owl… I'm so sorry…"
––––––––––
I found my mother in the Chalice Dungeon. Or, well, it's not really her. It's a memory. Mom is long since dead, both in reality and in the Dream. But I found her memory from when she explored this dungeon too. I don't even know whether to be happy I found some echo of her, or to weep forever over the fact that she's not real, that we can't have a proper reunion. There's no happily ever after for us: I can't bring her back.
Why is Yharnam a place of such suffering? Why must I in particular be so tormented? Was Amelia right? Are we all cursed by their gods?
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It wasn't the mom that got me it was the mommy, that hit me in the feels… also how the fuck does all this work? Is Taylor's mom actually alive? Damn meta-physics can be confusing In worm.
Two things: I know I've said it before, but goddamn do I love your version of Gehrman. Annette being in the chalice dungeon was definitely a sort of surprise, though I thought that she'd likely turn up there or in one of the Nightmare Realms where time gets a little fucky.
I don't know how long we sat there, on the stone floor, crying. What finally jarred me out of my stupor was when I took a moment to sniffle and my ringing ears detected a different tone in my mother's sobs. I had been blubbering in a sort of distraught joy, but she sounded utterly broken.
I pawed awkwardly at her face, partly due to tears obscuring my vision and partly because at the moment I was barely a functional person. "You're crying," I at last managed to say, "and you're not happy. Why?"
"H-how can I be happy?" she stammered back. "My baby's trapped in this hell!"
"But you're here too," I protested. "Can't we go home?" How I managed to delude myself…
Tears welled again and the saddest smile I'd ever seen stretched across her face. "Taylor, sweetheart, if you're here then you've been in Yharnam for a time. I've never seen you there, never seen you in the Dream. The doll never spoke of you…" She swallowed hard. "These Dungeons, they're repositories of memory. So my best bet is that I'm… That I'm not real. That this me is a snapshot, a memory, of who I was when I entered this Dungeon."
I felt cold, colder than the cell phone I once held in my hands, my last sent message marked as 'Received'. "No," I squeaked, pleading. Pleading to her, to the Dream, to the gods of Yharnam, to whomever would hear me. My voice sounded so very small, even to me. "No, please, you can come home. We can be a family again…"
Now she was hugging me, resting her head on my shoulder. "Little Owl, what do you mean? What happened while I was gone?"
On some level I knew she was redirecting me. "I-I don't…"
She could tell it hurt, but she pushed regardless. "Please, sweetie. You've been bottling up all this pain. I can tell. I…" She grimaced. "I can smell it."
"Yeah," I chuckled, the sound hollow. "I got the sharpened senses too. At least the Bay smells better than Yharnam."
"So you go home?" I could feel her relax in my arms.
"Yeah, I come here when I sleep. I don't know the time conversion, because sometimes it feels like I'm here for days and then I wake up in the morning."
And from there, the floodgates opened. One admission turned into everything. I told my mother how long she'd been dead, how Dad had fallen apart and only barely put himself back together with help from his friends. How I'd fallen apart and Emma had put me back together. How we'd begun to drift apart, both hiding in our own little sarcophagi of pain.
Then I spoke of Emma, of what had happened. I don't know when, but at some point my voice rose to a level that I was screaming. I told of how my best friend, my sister in all but name, had suddenly turned against me. Resolved to make my life a living hell. How I'd been stupid enough to go to Winslow to be with Emma, and now my every day was torture. Her new friend Sophia was a monster, brutal and sadistic, and Emma seemed to be constantly trying to one-up her.
Insults, beatings, hate-mail. I knew one of them had gotten some of the jocks to try something: I'd escaped, but seeing as it was three thuggish boys with duct tape in Gangland, USA, I automatically presumed rape.
I settled down, my voice again becoming quiet. I wasn't calm, and my wide eyes confessed that I wanted anything else than to share this, but I couldn't stop myself. The words were coming and I was a prisoner in my own body. I told how over the fall and beginning of winter I'd met a new girl, Julie, how she'd been sweet and understanding, excited to know a fellow bookworm. She even comforted me after some of the insults, telling me I was better than them. She never visited over winter break, but our home wasn't in the best part of town so I didn't suspect anything.
It was something I'd honestly not thought about, perhaps I'd blocked it out because it hurt so much. But on the day when I came back from winter break Julie was there, with Emma. She told me we'd never been friends and she'd been looking forward to my face when she revealed it was all a lie. They all laughed, sniped a few more insults, and then when I trudged to my locker I was attacked and shoved inside. Into the filth and the darkness, where I first heard the Wheelchair Man's voice.
That made her start. She asked me to describe him, and I felt my mother growing progressively more rigid in my arms.
"I saw him too. After...the crash. Only once. He talked about a contract, and then I woke up in Yharnam."
I swallowed hard. "What've you had to face? I've… Almost everybody's turned into beasts. I even had to kill the Church's vicar, Amelia."
Her eyes lost their luster and she began to stare off into space.
"...Mom?"
She startled. "I...I'm not sure, honey. I can't remember." She sounded more confused than concerned.
"W-well, how did you get free? Both Doll and Gehrman say I can't even know before the time is right, whatever that means."
Her brows knitted together. "How did I-? I'm still…" Her eyes glimmered with understanding. "Ah. I think I get it now." A long, strong finger poked me in the chest. "You're of my blood. Blood can hold memories, echoes. Yours called out to mine, and somehow we converged. But, well, I'm a memory. And I think I'm not even a complete memory: some of what you remember of me, and some of what I was here. I...only exist here."
"I can find a way to bring you out!" I protested before she was even done speaking. "I'll find–"
My parents never struck me, not even spankings. Mom thought physical discipline was a barbaric act and Dad feared his wiry strength and temper might cause true damage. Instead they came up with different punishments, making me 'work off' any debts I accrued.
My mother slapped me across the face hard enough to snap my head to the side.
I looked back at her in shock and saw tears pouring from rage-filled eyes. "You'll do nothing of the fucking sort!" she bellowed at me. "You're going to find your way out of this endless nightmare and back to the real world forever! If I have to cut my own throat to ensure you save yourself, I will! You are not going to risk your safety, your soul, for a dead woman!"
She lunged forward and gathered me in her arms, her demeanor changing. She felt fragile, defeated, as if she was clinging to me for comfort just as much as she was offering the same. "Taylor, baby girl, Little Owl… Don't you dare try to save me. I died that day of the car crash: everything else has been an extended purgatory. If you don't focus everything you have on making sure that you get out of here, free from this place and as intact as you can manage, I'll never forgive you…"
I clung to her and cried. Once again my pain began to spill out. "I killed Iosefka," I stated, the words rising unbidden to my lips. The explanation tumbled forth like a waterfall. Iosefka was the first person to show me genuine kindness in so long: she felt almost like a mother figure, singing me to sleep. To find her turned into that thing, having to end her suffering at her behest…
By the time I finished talking, I'd screamed myself so hoarse that I could barely hear my own words rising up from my throat.
"I don't know if this is what you want to hear, or even what you need," my mother said softly, "but I'm so proud of you, Little Owl. You're a wonderful person, and a strong one. I wish so badly that you could've found a good ending to that horror. But you did everything you could manage, and you thought of nothing except for saving a good person. I love you so much, Taylor."
The room around us rippled like a pond's disturbed reflection. I was on my feet instantly, weapon in hand. Mom was only a split-second slower. "What's happening?" I asked.
"Nothing good. Come on, let's find you a lantern." As we walked, we saw more odd stutters in reality. "At a guess," she muttered, "somehow sharing these memories is disturbing the memories that hold this Dungeon intact. I don't fancy the idea of seeing what happens to you if you stay while it falls apart."
"You can at least try to come with me. I want to bring you with me, back to the Dream." I grabbed for her hand but didn't find it: her warmth was gone from my side. I spun and looked around, but she was nowhere to be seen. "Mom? Mom!?"
The room around me shuddered more violently, colors and patterns swirling on the walls, like a dreamer experiencing a psychotic break. The Little Ones waved their lantern frantically, getting my attention. I'd never seen them agitated like this before, and their fear at last spurred me to action. I touched the lantern and appeared in a heap before the headstone. My face was buried in the grass and I made no effort to get up. My chest heaved in forceful, wet sobs.
"Gods above, girl," Gehrman's voice met my ears. "What happened in there?"
I heard Doll's delicate footfalls approaching from the opposite side.
Sucking up my tears, and then spitting out dirt, I finally sat up. "I met my mom in there."
Gehrman's memory was clearly acting up again because he simply asked, "Your mother?" His tone was one of confusion, of the elderly who know they should recall something.
Doll's response was far more jarring for me. I heard a sharp intake of breath, or whatever passed for that in her artificial body. "Annette?" she asked in surprise. Gehrman's eyes widened when she spoke, recognizing the name and once again putting things together.
"She's… No, that's not right," he mumbled. "I freed her. She's gone." I could hear the desperation in his voice, the concern. Even in this time of pain, it warmed my heart. The thought that she was still here, still suffering, it terrified him.
"Sh-she thought she was a memory. Maybe me being her daughter let us meet up?"
"Memories are carried in blood," Doll said, almost as if reciting an adage with sagely certainty. "The echoes may have resonated within you. I have never heard of this occurring before, but you are a special girl, Taylor. I believe it may have."
"She said to find my way out of here, to get free. D-do you have any advice?"
"Aye," Gehrman nodded. "I'd tell you to head straight to Byrgenwerth, but I'm unsure how you'd fare. The woods are full of terrors the deeper you go, and the shadows of Yharnam yet lurk in the dark corners. You might be better off pursuing other ways to strengthen yourself before you go there."
"You will likely not wish to hear this, but I recommend you return to Iosefka's clinic and find things important to her, important to you. Honor her memory and make use of what gifts she would surely have given you in life."
(BREAK)
Once I'd gathered my wits and steeled myself, I returned to the clinic. The imposter was still dead, and Iosefka's body was thankfully gone. I don't think I could have survived having to see that again, to face what I'd had to do. I did a quick checklist of things that might help me. There was that stone in my pocket, given me by Patches – in hindsight I should have asked Doll about him, whether he was helpful or a dangerous maniac, but I had been too emotionally drained at the time. I could find my way around through the forest to Valtr, so-called Master of the League, and hopefully avail myself of his caches of resources – and perhaps his assistance, as well. A veteran hunter would be of great help.
I retrieved from the wall a proudly-displayed plaque, carved bronze mounted on a dark hardwood, proclaiming Sister Iosefka to be a curate of the Healing Church. That would be a good thing by which to remember her. I then broke a gurney apart and carved her name into one of the metal panels, intending to use it as a headstone to commemorate her here. I gathered a few of her books. She had no introductory texts on the Healing Church, but maybe I could try to parse these dry academic tomes to learn something.
The final thing I took, I overlooked several times. As I looked around the office, the small dark-red envelope seemed to blend in with the dark leather stools and overall dark atmosphere. But finally I looked down, the gold ink catching the light and reflecting into my eyes. It was a small, square letter, the type that held an invitation. On the back was a wax seal, stamped and everything, with a strange pattern I didn't recognize at all. It looked like several snakes converging on a sun, which was partly out of frame. On the front, in what seemed to be gold-laced ink, I found my name elegantly written: Taylor Hebert.
Already I was shaken. I couldn't remember having given my surname to Iosefka, and I'd quickly stopped doing so around Yharnam once I realized it wasn't how things were done. Biting my lip and preparing for something to jump out and bite my face, I broke the seal and opened the letter. The contents were short but confusing, but despite my confusion I felt a kind of fear settle into my stomach.
Mistress Taylor Hebert is cordially invited to attend Queen Annalise and her court at Castle Cainhurst. Present this invitation for safe transit. No guests permitted.
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