Chapter Sixteen: The Waking Hour

"That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange aeons even death may die..." – H.P. Lovecraft, The Nameless City

The hunter falls into the grass in a thick column of white haze. Their clothes, steeped with the scent of blood, flesh and other foul things are enveloped within the damp foliage. Seconds later, they clamber to their feet, and stagger up the craggy hillside.

The doll watches them climb. It feels their incomprehensible strength - a wavering aura of carnage and chaos - radiating off of them in brief flashes.

The hunter, a young female with wavy hazelnut hair, reaches the doll, and falls to one knee, the doll outstretching its gummy fingers as though to embrace her.

"Welcome home, good hunter," the doll recites, ever elegant and cheerful, even in the face of abhorrence.

Rising, the woman nods courteously to the doll. "Where is Gehrman?"

Expression intact, the doll's eyes flit away from the woman and up one of the passages adorned with flora. "He is resting. His dreams are restless."

The hunter looks out across the hillside, past the meadows and up a winding path that lead to a small tree. Beneath its swaying branches is an old man. He's resting in a wheelchair overlooking a section of the iron-wrought fence that surrounds the confines of the dream world.

"He sleeps often, doesn't he?"

The doll bows its head slightly, as though consumed by a thought. Its eyes remain tender, and motherly, and it quickly returns its focus to the hunter at her side.

"He dreams, but he never sleeps," it says, voice nearly a whisper, and soothing to the very bones. "It is beyond him. It is forbidden."

Confused, the woman leans against the mossy stone wall at her heels. She removes her hat, placing it gently upon the cobblestones, and looks up at the slumbering Gehrman, trying to imagine what a sleepless dream must feel like.

"Does he suffer?" she asks.

"Not without reprieve," the doll explains, glassy eyes shimmering by the light of the brilliant full moon up above. "But he is restless. He has a task. It keeps him occupied."

The woman nods again, understanding. How could she not relate – without her own task at hand, she would have succumbed to the crushing grip of the beastly scourge long ago.

"Good hunter, you should rest," the doll insists. "Let the echoes soothe you, as they have many others."

Many others. The doll is referring to the multitude of unmarked gravestones scattered throughout the dreamscape. From the moment she had arrived in the dream, the hunter had tried hard to ignore them – the grey slates are an omen of darkness, and one of the few things in the humdrum comfort of the Hunter's Dream that puts her ill at ease.

'Is one of those waiting for me?' the woman thinks, but soon dismisses the idea.

It is pointless – foolish even, for her to consider her mortality. Not when every mortal blow she sustains would bring her hurtling back to consciousness by the side of a lantern, basking in its warm blue glow.

And yet, every dream must end. And the young woman knows, somehow, that her time is soon to come. The moon grows brighter with every passing moment, every drop of blood.

Soon, she will awake. And what awaits her is a mystery.

The beast brought its claws smashing down onto the ground, the tiles splitting and wrenching out of their rest under the force. Gehrman, who had leapt away to evade the attack, came rushing forwards again, swinging his scythe in one, clean arc, and tearing straight through the towering behemoth's leathery hide.

Laurence screeched in agony, sweeping Gehrman aside with an agile swing from his right arm. The hunter sprawled out onto his back, but rose quickly, rolling lightly across the tiles as Laurence again brought his claws crashing down onto the earth.

Reaching a safe distance, Gehrman took a glance at the beast's wound. It was deep, and before his eyes coarse black blood was seeping out at a quickening pace. But it wasn't enough to bring him down.

Not nearly enough.

Cradling his wounded hip, Laurence started to lumber to the side, skirting back and forth and watching Gehrman with dark, cunning eyes. Gehrman tried to hold the beast's gaze, but the intensity of its glare, combined with the hideous gnashing of its jaws, proved too much to handle, and he pulled back. Nothing could have prepared him for this. Laurence was malformed, deformed beyond recognition, and yet, he retained every ounce of his intelligence, which was now bolstered by a primal, bestial instinct.

There was no doubt about it. This was his most formidable opponent.

The former vicar hissed, pure malice and loathing contained in each gust of simmering breath he exhaled. The image was frightful; nigh-on overpowering. But Gehrman was no ordinary man. Even the night trembled before him.

The hunter reached for his jacket, Laurence's piercing eyes following every twitch of his fingers. As the gangly brute started to lumber forwards, Gehrman's hand was withdrawn, producing a small glass vial filled with viscous black oil. With a mighty heave, he threw the vial, and it shattered against Laurence with a large crash, spilling across the top half of his hairy torso.

Snarling, Laurence came charging forwards. As he descended upon Gehrman, he drew out his clawed hands, and swiped, relishing the idea of tearing the troublesome hunter into ribbons. Only, he never made contact, Gehrman sliding beneath his attack and hurling another vial of oil at his legs.

Now dripping from head-to-toe in the coarse, sticky gunge, Laurence turned, arms outstretched in a feverish flurry of strikes. Gehrman jumped back, each successive attack bringing Laurence closer, and then farther away, from his evasive target. Now seething with rage, the frustrated beast leant back on the elongated heels of his feet, and launched himself forwards, arms flailing in a windmill of pounding blows. The ground splintered at his very touch, but Gehrman continued backwards, unscathed by the blows.

"Coward!" Laurence fumed, falling forward on the backs of his hands. "You hunters are all alike. Cowards, the lot of you!"

Gehrman, somewhat enraptured by the success of his strategies, called back. "There is no cowardice in facing the perils of the night, Laurence. The only cowardice is in hiding back and letting others do your work for you."

"You filthy swine!" The beast screeched, ambling forwards towards the stationary Gehrman. "You hide behind your blades and your pistols, too fixated on the beauty of your slaughter to see your true face. We are all the same! Beasts, the lot of us!"

His claws tore up the stonework, but Gehrman dodged away, pelting him with yet another oil urn.

"Willem was right about you," Gehrman proclaimed. "You are completely deluded."

Laurence's jaws shot open, a deafening roar exploding from the back of his throat. He leapt forwards, arms swinging after Gehrman. The hunter slid away, his body disappearing in a haze of white fog only to appear again, several metres away.

This time however, Laurence was prepared. Halfway through the charge, he put one arm out, stopping him dead in his tracks. Then, with a surge of murderous energy, he pushed in the opposite direction, his other arm smashing against the fleeing Gehrman as he tore backwards.

Gehrman saw nothing. His vision was pitch black, his ears flooded with a booming shockwave. He hit the ground rolling, his limp form pirouetting across the ground before coming to a halt just before the stone altar at the head of the cathedral.

Slowly, the world started to come back into focus. His eyelids cracked open, the white noise in his ears gradually receding. A trickle of blood ran down across his left eye as he sluggishly clambered to his feet, just in time to be snared by a gnarled, leathery fist and brought up into the air.

Laurence's visage – a twisted and unrecognisable reflection of the vicar's scholarly features – flickered before his eyes, and the beastly clergyman imparted an inaudible, hateful sentiment, before slamming his palm, Gehrman and all, into the ground at his feet.

This time, he felt everything. He felt his nose break, as flimsy and insignificant as a china plate, and a gush of fresh, tepid blood run down his cheeks. He felt his skull rattle, several of his teeth splintering on impact with the tiles. He felt his collarbone shatter like a wine glass. But he felt little pain. Even less the second time, as Laurence lifted him into the air and pounded him against the ground once more.

Laurence smashed the limp body against the ground a third and, decisively harder, time, before tossing him against the far wall, and leering back, his jaws parting in a guttural, and victorious gloat.

Gehrman saw the stone rushing to meet him, but his descent was somewhat peaceful – floaty, like a dancing feather caught in an updraft, spiralling back towards the earth. His body was broken, but in his mind, he was free from it.

Free from the pain.

Free from everything.

Maria was there, clutching his hand, her fingers warm between his.

"It's okay to give up," she whispered. "This isn't your fight anymore. Find your peace."

"I can't," Gehrman said back, his grip on her hand tightening. "I have to be with you."

Maria's eyes were sad, glossy with tears and something else – something he couldn't quite decipher. Seeing her sob at the notion of him fighting for his life was an unearthly sensation - like a piece of a broken mirror, it just didn't fit together in his head. It was like some cruel reflection of reality, created to torment him.

"I won't give in," Gehrman insisted. "You're worth fighting for."

Maria just shook her head. Gehrman ignored her – she wasn't real, anyhow. She was just a fragment of his own mind, a part of him that despised the pain, and wouldn't allow it to be inflicted upon him any longer.

Somewhere amidst the mess of flashing images, Gehrman felt his hand twitch. It crept across the ground, feeling blindly for his fallen blood vials, scratching at the cobbles until it found one and clutching it tightly.

Across the room, Laurence had finished his celebrations, and had returned to the foot of the cathedral's altar, where, instead of a holy prayer book, or some kind of incense, the old, bloodied umbilical cord was spread out.

The beastly vicar raised his clawed hands into the air above the altar, positioning them carefully and forming a pair of clock arms. One jutted upward, as though a hand reaching out for the cosmos themselves; the other, he held out to his left.

He began to recite.

"O flora of the moon, hear my voice," he started. "I have been granted eyes for the purpose of communion with you. Hear my voice, accept my offering. Come to me now."

The room shook under the authority of his voice. Cold wind flooded the empty cathedral hallway, the very air seeming to shiver, as though it were afraid of the forces that the vicar was playing with.

"O flora of the moon, bringer of compassion," he continued. "Let me recompense for our sin. Blood for blood."

For a few seconds, the beast's deep, raspy voice was gone, replaced by the calm, reserved intelligence of the old Laurence. He continued to recite, recalling the passages from memory, and stamping them on history with his dulcet, yet commanding tone.

But then, he stopped. The hairs on the back of his neck were rigid, standing tall like little soldiers. Baring his teeth, he turned around just in time to see Gehrman, on his feet, before the hunter swung the rope he held in his hands outwards, and the glass shattered against Laurence's back.

The vicar screamed, flailing his arms about wildly as the flames ignited upon his flesh. The fire, a bloody orange, spread with frightening speed, licking every corner of Laurence's flesh until it had consumed his entire body in a fine coat of flame.

Gehrman stood back; he watched through heavy breaths as Laurence stumbled back and forth, blindly reaching for something that would remain forever out of his reach. With a heavy thud, the vicar slumped against the altar, his beloved umbilical cord sharing in the passion of the flame as it was quickly set alight. Gehrman covered his mouth with a handkerchief from his jacket pocket as the pungent scent of roasting flesh, both beastly and celestial, filled the air.

He was about to toss another Molotov when Laurence suddenly drew up again, eyes blazing with near-catatonic fury. He started to run at Gehrman, agility seemingly-unfaltering even as the inferno continued to rage all over his body.

Gehrman sprinted aside as the cindering beast bounded past, arms flailing. To his surprise, Laurence continued straight on, down the stone steps and through the open Cathedral doors, all the while screaming bloody murder whilst his blackened flesh slowly peeled off.

Outside, dark clouds were gathering, a light drizzle cascading in the air. Laurence snarled as the droplets of rain sizzled against his charcoaled skin, steam rising off of the blackening coat as the flames on his body slowly started to dissipate. In a state of hysteria, the beastly vicar stumbled against adjacent buildings, his claws raking apart their weathered brickwork. His legs, propelled by little more than adrenaline, slipped, and he fell to the ground, arms sprawled outwards.

Beyond the perimeter of the courtyard, the group of riled citizens watched the vicar's downfall with renewed interest. Many of them had been about to turn around and head home, but seeing Laurence's unfortunate predicament, they started to get excited, ramming the locked iron gates with their homemade weapons – knives, spears and hammers.

Laurence's head snapped around, hearing the iron creak and start to give way. With a roar, the fallen vicar cried out to his ireful congregation. "Help me, you imbeciles! I am your leader! Your guiding light!"

His words did nothing to pacify the angered citizens, only provoking them further, and strengthening their blows against the weakening gate.

Panic started to flood Laurence. He tried to prise himself off of the ground using his left arm, but quickly realised that he would be unable to do so. Flexing his fingers limply, it was clear that Gehrman's flaming assault had left him with severe nerve damage.

He struggled to even raise his head as the metal gate finally caved, and the mob broke through his walls, spilling out into the courtyard and brandishing their weapons at him hatefully. Laurence tried to pull back, but managed only a slight flop.

"You worship me…" he hissed breathlessly, swiping weakly at the crowd around him. "I… am… your salvation…"

Gehrman came charging out of the Cathedral just in time to see the first Yharnamite bring their axe down on Laurence's wrist. The vicar screeched in pain as his blood shot out across the ground, pooling with the rainwater into a crimson puddle beneath him. More soon followed, smashing their blunt instruments and polearms into Laurence's hide; gradually bleeding him out. With every successive strike, the vicar's pleas grew steadily feebler, until he was simply unable to speak at all, his captivating, learned voice buried forever under the tide of cheering townsfolk.

"Goodbye Laurence," Gehrman whispered, jacket already dampening in the rainfall.

The hunter had to look away as the mob tore off his head, hefting it above them as a token of their victory. Even as he retreated into the distance, turning down a winding alleyway just to escape the noise, he could hear their jeers. The scent of burnt flesh seemed to be clung to the entirety of Yharnam, every street sign and lamppost infected by the stench. The odour recalled the hamlet, and the scent of death that permeated on the coastline the entirety of the return trip.

Gehrman quickly found his resolve draining away, resignation and trauma creeping in.

There was nowhere in the city that he could escape the frenzied thoughts that were flying into his head, the memories reaching out with gnarled fingers to pull him down and consume him - nowhere he could go to forget all of the lives he had taken. The blood he had spilt, all in the name of some mythic better world.

And that was what led him to the workshop. To where it had begun.

Their interest piqued, the eyes of the moon followed suit.

He sat down in the overgrown foliage at the foot of the hill, the damp soil cushioning his aching bones. The shadow of the old wooden workshop loomed across the entire outcrop, bathing it in the dark glow of its murky and ominous past.

As the weary hunter lay back on the ground, he recalled the many times he had walked these very grounds.

The workbench, where he had sharpened his siderite blade until it gleamed, eager to expunge the brown, rusted bloodstains that coated its surface.

The backlot where he had practised combat arts with his apprentices, showing them the best way to carve up a beast's flesh, or gouge out its glowing yellow eyes.

The workshop was long abandoned now, but the memories that had been forged there clung on, like phantoms, to their native soil. Spectres of hunters long gone walked these grounds nightly, dripping with ectoplasmic blood. Their bones, withered away by the great battles they had seen, lay beneath the earth, still trembling with the unreleased powers of their old bodies.

It was in that moment, picturing all of this, that Gehrman decided that he would burn the old place down.

The decrepit workshop was a shade of a past he intended to forget all about. Whilst it still stood on these hollow grounds, he could never truly be free, and he knew it.

He reached into his jacket pocket, the last of his Molotov cocktails leaning against the soggy fabric of the coat. Wrapping his fingers around it, and feeling the odd comfort of the cold glass on his weary flesh, he pulled it out, and turned to face the workshop.

And stopped.

Stared.

Gehrman had seen many things in his life. There were things that would haunt him for all of time, lurking in the darkest recesses of his worst nightmares. There were things that had mortified, baffled and confounded him, gnawing at his uncomprehending mind and taunting him.

But there was nothing – nothing - that could compare to this.

The workshop had taken on a hellish orange glow, which Gehrman quickly realised was a reflection of the sky behind. The cosmos were blazing with a bloody glow more intense than he had ever seen, even with his unfortunate history and affinity with blood. Strangely, it all seemed localized to his peripheral vision – behind it all, he could even see strands of a darker sky, obscured behind this peculiar veil. But he wasn't focused on the skyline at all.

Descending from the churning maelstrom of red, swathed in distinctive, angelic white hues, was a nightmare. A living nightmare.

The thing was roughly fourteen feet in length. Despite being draped in leathery, silver tentacles that stemmed from its head all the way down to its torso, it had a vaguely human shape. Its limbs – two arms and legs – were bony, but proportional to the rest of its body.

However, most comparisons ended there.

The thing was truly grotesque. Gehrman's eyes fell on its chest – a writhing, gnashing set of teeth-like bones that resembled a ribcage – and the pair of snaking, contorting tails that trailed out behind it. A scream rose up his throat, ending up trapped behind his tightly-shut lips, whilst nausea akin to a wailing storm shook him from his core, stemming out to every cell in his quivering body.

He caught sight of its 'face' – a flat, empty slab of flesh parting in the centre to reveal a single, cavernous eye, which stared at Gehrman intently. Desperately, he clawed at his eyes, trying to shut out the thing's visage, but failed. The abyssal, cyclops eye could not be evaded; neither could the dissonant sensations of satiety and emptiness that it emanated, flooding Gehrman's fleshy shell and coursing throughout his blood.

The hunter barely felt himself fall onto his knees as the thing – birthed from the blood of the moon, and cloaked in its luminescence – landed softly in the grass in front of him.

Many minutes passed. Gehrman couldn't even find the willpower to breathe, his chest burning with agony as he shook violently, paralysed by the Moon Presence's gaze.

Finally, when it seemed he could not hold out any longer, the thing silently raised both its emaciated arms into the air, fingers creeping outward, and slowly released a fountain of bright white orbs into the air.

The luminous rays glided gracefully through the air, splintering into thousands of smaller, branching lights and sweeping outwards into the night sky, before finally beginning their descent, and coming to rest on the ground.

On contact, they exploded, their alien white glow flowing forcefully across the earth, and as, they brushed against Gehrman, turning the hunter's whole world into a blank, empty canvas.

The hunter distinctly recalls her first meeting with Gehrman.

After she had met with the mysterious wheelchair-bound doctor at Iosefka's clinic ministration, she had awoken in the dream, head weighted like butter and memories practically extinguished. Only one, singular thought seemed to exist in her entire mind, flooding it like a plague.

'Seek Paleblood to transcend the hunt.'

Shortly after her confused awakening, she had stumbled up the hill, past the inanimate porcelain doll on the steps and into the old, raggedy shack, where she quickly encountered the old hunter. He was sitting in his creaky chair facing the door when she entered, and he managed a flicker of a smile as he welcomed her in.

"Ah-hah, you must be the new hunter. Welcome to the Hunter's Dream. This will be your home, for now. I am Gehrman, friend to you hunters. You're sure to be in a fine haze about now, but don't think too hard about all of this. Just go out and kill a few beasts. It's for your own good. You know, it's just what hunters do! You'll get used to it..."

He wasn't wrong. The allure of blood was inescapable, the primal lust singing to her like a lullaby to a new-born babe. The hunt drew her in; captivated her, which only seemed to please the old man.

"You remind me a lot of someone I used to know," he had told her once, after she had returned from a fateful trip to the old lecture hall of Byrgenwerth.

"Oh?" the hunter had replied, curious. "Tell me about her."

Gehrman had seemed saddened by this, and he quickly tore away from her, wheeling himself out into the gardens and perching atop his favourite outcrop. The hunter didn't try to follow – she sensed that the old man was content in his solitude, and didn't wish to impose on him.

And yet, she was entranced by his mysteries. The impulse to discover all there was to know about this downtrodden, ancient hunter was nearly more compelling than the hunt. Her interest didn't go unnoticed by Gehrman, but despite his respect for her abilities, she was unable to leverage anything from him.

Not directly, that is.

One time she had found him lost in a dream at the outcrop, his head laid back peacefully in his chair. He had been muttering in his sleep before she drew closer, but when she did, he seemed to become even more feverish, his whisperings taking on a remorseful, even upsetting quality.

The hunter never forgot the words Gehrman spoke. They haunted her somewhat; as though she should she should know more about their meaning.

"Oh, Laurence..." he had said, tossing to the side restlessly. "Master Willem... Somebody help me... Unshackle me please, anybody... I've had enough of this dream... The night blocks all sight... Oh, somebody, please... "

The hunter had been taken aback. The old man rarely showed any emotion other than subtle pleasure at her progress, but now, he was pouring out his soul. Every word felt broken somehow, torn from the recesses of his mind in desperation to escape.

She had felt old Gehrman's sorrow that day. His agony.

It was heart-breaking.

But not nearly so much as what is to come.

Gehrman awoke in an unfamiliar place.

Only, at first glance, it wasn't unfamiliar at all. The surroundings he had found himself in were instantly recognisable as the interior of his old workshop, complete in every detail from the rows of extendable trick weapons on the wall, to the rack of blood vials stored in the apothecary cabinet.

But Gehrman knew at once that he was not at home. It was a creeping feeling, easily inadmissible as an imagining of the mind, but in this case, it was completely true. Subtle details gave it away – anyone who wasn't as familiar with the place as Gehrman would never know it.

A misplaced floorboard; a journal set down where it doesn't belong.

On a purely instinctual level, Gehrman knew that the workshop was an imitation. It was a near-perfect copy, but it lacked the soul of the real thing. It felt vacant, lifeless and plastic.

As his eyes ran along the walls, seeking out every single papered crack and blemish from memory, he caught sight of his reflection in a mirror, and froze. As he watched, his reflection tilted its head, and smiled, and Gehrman took a frightened step backwards, his thoughts scattering like a flock of birds in a cornfield.

"You're… not me..." he managed, instantly irritated by the witlessness of his words.

The reflection grinned even wider, ruffled its coat, and took a step closer to the mirror, growing several inches in size as it did.

"I would have thought that would be obvious," it spoke in Gehrman's voice. "I chose an appropriate form in order to converse with you. Have you figured out where you are?"

The frazzled hunter shook his head limply, and the reflection sighed.

"You're in a pocket dimension; a refraction of reality. Oh, and before you ask, I didn't give it that name. That was a human philosopher on the verge of madness. I liked it, though. It was cute."

Noticing Gehrman's expression, the reflection started to laugh. "The look on your face is priceless. I wish I could frame it but, alas, I have no hands…"

Gehrman grit his teeth together, determined not to relinquish any more of his dignity to this strange apparition. "What are you?"

"I thought you would ask me that," the reflection said, calmly. "I am, as the Pthumerians called me, Flora, the Moon Presence, and one of the Great Old Ones. Of course, Flora is not my true name; just a fabrication, based on the Pthumerian word for 'compassion.'"

Gehrman swallowed, trying to keep his composure. "Well… what is your real name?"

The reflection shook its head. "If I told you then your brain would melt out of your ears, and I'm afraid I need you all in one piece."

"That thing outside the workshop…. That was you?"

"Yes, that 'thing' is me," Flora grinned. "But even that is not my true form. There are some things that were never meant for unworthy eyes, like your own."

Gehrman balled a fist at his side. "I've killed a Great One," he said. "Few other humans can say that."

"No other human can say that," Flora replied. "At least, not yet. But if you think killing Kos' deformed wretch impresses me, I'm afraid you are mistaken."

"Well, what do you want with me, then?" Gehrman asked. "Why didn't you commune with Laurence? He was the one that wanted your audience, after all."

"That blind old bat could offer very little service to me," Flora said. "Although, I admit, his offering was most amusing. You, on the other hand, are different. I sense the ancient echoes coursing through your veins. You will make a worthy servant."

"That's not going to happen," Gehrman shot back.

Flora burst out laughing. "Oh, aren't you adorable? You think you have a choice. You don't."

Gehrman reeled backwards as a surge of immense energy struck him. He screamed, feeling his flesh rupture, and his bones peel away into dust. Then, it stopped, and he opened his eyes. He was down on his knees, hand outstretched towards the subservient reflection. He was physically unharmed in spite of how real all of the pain had felt, although he quickly realised he was no longer in control of any of his bodily functions. Slowly, his head raised all of its own accord, to face Flora.

"You humans confuse me," the Great One announced, the reflection in the mirror crossing its arms. "You involve yourself with concerns of morality and charity almost as a way of life. You let your emotions rule you. It is, frankly, a wasted application of brainpower."

"Emotions are what make us alive," Gehrman retorted, seething. "They define the quality of our living. I wouldn't expect an outsider like you to understand."

Flora cocked its head, considering. "You're right. I don't comprehend it at all. I find your way of thinking to be suffocating. But that's quite enough socialising. I didn't bring you here just to chat. I have a proposition for you."

"And what happens if I refuse?" Gehrman hissed, contempt for the Great One quite apparent in his tone of voice.

"Then I will destroy everything you have ever known," Flora answered, without even a second's pause for thought. "My reach is limitless. This dimension is but one of millions that I can traverse. I can reach into the worlds of the living, the dead, and the dreaming. I can pluck out their hearts, and burn their souls to cinders. I can take every experience you have ever shared; each and every one of your memories. Every soul you have ever loved. There would be nothing but ash. I would leave you empty. Barren; a shell. And you would be my prisoner for all of eternity."

Gehrman's head drooped, his breath caught in his throat. Flora beamed, seeing the hunter break like a corroded toy before its eyes.

"Of course, I could always assume control of your body and force you to do it all anyway. But I prefer to keep my hands clean. With a little persuasion, I expect you'll even want to do it for me. Anyway, now that refusal is no longer an option, it's time for you to hear what I have to say."

"The first thing you should know is that I am not heartless. I am not cruel simply because I enjoy it. Obedience is best earned through a perfect harmony of fear and respect. That is why I will grant you your most desired wish."

Gehrman found the doll sitting on the stone steps outside the fake workshop. He lifted it off of the ground, feeling peculiar yet comforting warmth emanating from deep inside its porcelain chest.

The resemblance was uncanny. From its luscious blonde hair to its thin, elegant nose, it was a perfect replica of Lady Maria. Even the dress it wore was somewhat similar to the clothes she had worn on their last night together.

But it wasn't what he had asked for.

"Flora!" Gehrman shouted, gripping the doll tightly whilst his eyebrows knitted furiously. "This isn't what we agreed!"

Instantly, the Great One replied, its voice echoing inside of his head.

"I don't recall agreeing to anything."

"I asked you to bring me Maria, not this cheap imitation!"

Flora didn't seem to appreciate his tone. The hunter fell to his knees as pain ricocheted through his body like shockwaves, every nerve in his flesh screaming in agony as they were lit up with sparks.

"Don't mistake this for charity, hunter. I gave you what you need, not what you want."

And then they were gone, leaving Gehrman on his hands and knees, glowering with rage and humiliation. He scooped the doll off the ground, intending to throw it across the balcony into the endless chasm of white nothing that surrounded the workshop, but stopped, screaming as the doll looked back at him, its glassy eyes blinking.

"Now that we've got the niceties out of the way, it's time to explain the terms of your service."

Gehrman pressed the barrel of the pistol to the side of his head. The chilling metal felt strangely pleasant against his flesh, in spite of what he intended to do with it.

He glanced around the deserted dream, half-expecting to see Flora watching closely from somewhere concealed. But, seeing nothing besides the barren dreamscape and the endless void that surrounded it he closed his eyes, whispered a silent apology to Maria, and pulled the trigger.

But there was no shot. The bullet never left its chamber, and the only sound that greeted Gehrman was the empty click as the gun stalled.

Again, and again.

He dropped the pistol in the grass, his first real tears pouring down his cheeks as he realised that everything Flora had told him was true.

He was a prisoner of the dream.

"Let me tell you about your new position, as sentinel of the dream. I need someone to watch over this place in my stead, bringing me new blood in service of the hunt. Oh, what's that you say? A Great One, in favour of the hunt? Well, this is no ordinary hunt we will be conducting. This hunt… is different."

The workshop went up in flames quickly.

Gehrman appreciated that even a Great One can make mistakes, and indeed, it seemed that leaving lighter fuel in the storeroom cupboards had been a decisive error on Flora's part.

The hunter grinned as the rich, earthy scent of smouldering wood filled his nostrils, and the endless white sky was strewn with billowing black smoke.

Then, his smile faded completely, as the flames were suddenly and completely dissipated, as though doused with an invisible pail of water. As the smoke cleared, Gehrman saw the shack, completely unscathed by the flames, standing in its place, and with a soft, sombre moan, he fell to his knees on the ground.

"I need people like you, whose lust for blood is more meaningful than barbaric slaughter for barbaric slaughter's sake. To this end, I will need your blood. Lots of it."

After the floorboards had cooled down, Gehrman trudged into the workshop, and stopped by the door as he noticed a small silhouette in the corner of the room. He drew closer, warily, until the light from the candle on the desk illuminated the form of a rusty wheelchair, rolled against the back wall.

Flora's voice came at him like a gust of wind.

"That's quite enough trouble from you, hunter. How about you take a seat?"

Gehrman sneered. "I don't think so…"

But he soon changed his mind as the Great One sent great bolts of lightning to crash down on his mind, and with quivering hands and trembling legs, he settled into the chair.

"This work is going to be very straining on your legs. I would stay in the chair, if I were you. It'll be better for your back."

"The art of blood ministration is an avenue which the Healing Church only briefly explored, but it is by far the most effective way to utilise the old blood. Believe me; I have some idea about these things. Yes, with the blood of Yharnam's finest hunter, we have the ability to craft the perfect hunter out of any potential subject. We just need them to come to us, under the guise of treatment. That's why we're going to open a clinic."

The first one they sent him was young. Far, far too young.

Gehrman could see that the strength of the ancient echoes was too overpowering for the young man to master. He had already been weakened by his exposure to the beastly plague, travelling all the way from an eastern land on the word of a storyteller to be treated at Iosefka's Clinic.

But, to his credit, Yamamura was a willing pupil, and eager to learn from Gehrman, once his predicament had been fully explained. The budding hunter wielded an old Cainhurst weapon, the Chikage, and as Gehrman watched Yamamura tempering the blade at the workshop's blacksmithing bench, memories of the battle of Cainhurst came flooding back.

Bloodied ice. Corpses pounded into mush.

"Where did you get your sword?" Gehrman asked, leaning forward in his chair.

Yamamura turned round to face his mentor. "After the fall of Cainhurst, several black market merchants were able, through other parties, to obtain a small collection of the blades with the intention of high-price sale bidding. My father was one of the first to own one."

Gehrman nodded, thoughtful. "So, you yourself have never been to that forsaken castle..?"

Yamamura shrugged.

"That is good," Gehrman said. "Promise that you will never go there. Some things are meant to be left in the past."

The young hunter smiled. "Of course, master," he said, before returning to his forge.

"Your job is to provide guidance to these hunters. Believe it or not, few men are willing to work if they believe that their employers are manipulating them. That is why we must spin a fantastical web of deception. By spilling paleblood, they could be brought closer to a cure to their affliction."

Yamamura grew steadily into a fine hunter. Gehrman started to see less and less of his young prodigy, and eventually, he stopped seeing him at all. Of course, this led to a fair bit of concern for the older hunter, and so he decided to investigate.

He ventured out of his usual resting spot inside the workshop, and saw Yamamura at the foot of the stairs, conversing with a hooded figure.

The Doll.

"Yamamura," he called out. "Stay away from that thing."

The young hunter looked puzzled. "But master, the doll has provided me with much support. She is a great comfort in these dark times."

Gehrman felt his fist curling. "I cannot believe you of all people have allowed yourself to be drawn into her deception. She is a fraudulent demon, put in this dream to sway our minds. Keep away from her, or else!"

He saw the hurt in his pupil's eyes, but chose to ignore it. As he rolled back inside, he tried to figure out why seeing Yamamura with the doll had provoked such a violent reaction from him. He knew it wasn't out of fear for the young hunter – he knew that Yamamura could handle himself by now. No, it wasn't about him at all. It was about the doll.

It was about him, and how he couldn't bear the thought of anyone else loving Maria – even it was just an effigy, and poor reflection, of her.

He resolved right there and then to slaughter that doll.

"We will need to shepherd them to our goals. To this end, I suggest using a series of lanterns, spread throughout Yharnam and its territories. You may feel guilt over using people this way - I urge you not to dwell on it. But of course, once they have outlived their practicality, you may do with them as you wish."

And yet, he couldn't do it.

It wasn't that the Doll resembled Maria. In fact, its theft of her identity was one of the driving thoughts that satiated his raging bloodlust. Nor was it her resilience, always rising again after being knocked to the ground by an enraged swipe of his scythe, or a close-range blast from his pistol.

It was something about her eyes. Those dull, green globes radiated life from them like something from one of Laurence's old holy hymns. Every time he found himself caught up in their glare, his will flooded away, and his scythe fell from between his fingers.

One day, when he had resolved to keep his eyes fixed firmly upon the ground, he found himself instead affixed by the thing's eternally-adoring gaze. Before he could register it in his mind, he had wrapped his arms around the thing, and planted his mouth firmly upon its porcelain lips.

The Doll did not reciprocate; but neither did it resist. When Gehrman pulled back, and started to tear off the thing's clothes with the hunger of a starved beast, it just watched him plainly, eyes glistening, wondering whether Gehrman's actions were a sign of love for his creation, or merely the desire of a desperate, lonely man.

"Certainly, you should avoid becoming attached to them. They serve a purpose, and then they die. They are bound by the cycle, and exist merely as a spoke in the great wheel of fate."

Yamamura died not long after his previous encounter with Gehrman.

Once he reached the age of thirty, Flora decided that he was no longer of use to it, and since he seemed reluctant to abandon his new role in the Dream, the Great One ordered Gehrman to do away with him. And so it was that Gehrman led his pupil out into the grove just beyond the workshop, where the enormous oak tree overlooked.

"Master, this silence is worrying," Yamamura said, as he followed Gehrman out into the centre of the grassy bank. "Is something concerning you?

"No," Gehrman replied, stopping very suddenly in his tracks, and turning to face Yamamura. The young hunter's eyes lit up with fear as he saw the siderite blade in Gehrman's twitching hands, and started to back up.

"Forgive me," Gehrman expressed, before leaping forwards and stabbing Yamamura straight through his neck. As the hunter fell, his old master caught him with his free arm, and held him close, cradling his body as it slowly grew colder, and his heartbeat fell to a crawl.

"I hope you will understand one day," Gehrman whispered, as a solitary tear ran down his cheek. "Death is a release. It is a blessing to reach the waking hour."

And with that, he laid the hunter softly in the grass.

"Now, you may be wondering… what is the purpose of this hunt? What is 'paleblood'? Now, remember, being granted such knowledge is a privilege, not a right. To be completely transparent with you, this is not a hunt that man should ever undertake. It is a hunt to rid the world of the forces which unbalance it. It is a hunt for the Great Ones – my brethren. Why do I want to kill my own kind? That's simple – it's because I am the alpha being, and they have no place in my world. Scattering paleblood ensures my dominance over this realm, and all realms."

The next one he was sent didn't last nearly as long. But that wasn't surprising, considering his choice of arms.

Simon was an unusual hunter in that he seemed to regret killing beasts. Not enough to actually stop his hand, but enough to give him something of a divided conscience. On the few occasions that Gehrman spoke with him, he discovered that the young hunter had a different path in mind.

"Don't you think it fascinating?" he asked, drawing back his bowstring until it was parallel with his mouth. "A whole town, burnt to cinders, just disappears overnight? That's no illusion. Something happened there that people don't want us to know about."

Gehrman knew at once that Simon was referring to the Fishing Hamlet, and a cold dread, just like the waters from that fateful day, started to clamber through his guts.

"Perhaps some secrets are best left undiscovered," Gehrman offered, flinching slightly as Simon suddenly fired his arrow, the bow-blade twanging as it soared across the field and struck the great tree in its centre.

"You can't truly believe that," Simon said, eyebrow curving up his brow. "I mean, look about you. Does it not strike you with awe to see that a place like the dream could exist around us at any moment in time? A whole other realm of existence beyond our eyes? It's fascinating."

"Aye," Gehrman replied warily. "But you are a hunter, not a magician."

"There's always the future to look forward to, Gehrman," Simon smiled, nocking another of his luminous silver arrows. "You must know that, right?"

The older hunter sighed, glancing at his feet. "I know very little of the future these days…"

"Yes, it was I that brought Kos to the brink of extinction. Although I have you to thank for slaying her demented offspring; I knew you were destined for greatness from that very first second I saw you, deep in the Pthumerian labyrinth. Oh yes, I have been watching you and your kin for a very, very long time, waiting for you to fulfil your true potential. That day has now come."

Simon fell onto his knees, bowing his head and unfurling the garbs that obfuscated his neck. Gehrman raised his scythe hesitantly.

"And this will grant me freedom from the dream?" Simon asked, eyeing Gehrman.

The older hunter nodded solemnly. "Death is the only freedom you will ever be offered."

"Then I will take it without hesitation," Simon stated.

Gehrman drew back his scythe, and swung forwards, cleaving straight through the base of Simon's neck. The hunter's headless torso fell to the ground, and Gehrman felt the tremor erupt throughout the dreamscape, the grass wavering and iron convulsing.

Flora's voice invaded his thoughts. "You seem to be getting quite fond of slaughtering your kin, don't you?"

"Don't patronise me," Gehrman snarled. "You know exactly why I have to do this."

"Of course," Flora barked. "It is as I told you."

"With the spillage of paleblood comes a great risk. Hunters who channel too many of the ancient echoes may become one themselves. A Great One. This is an unacceptable risk. Any hunter who refuses their right to execution must be granted it by force. But, it is a strange thought. Who would be foolish enough to deny their own freedom?"

Eileen was a strange young girl - that was for certain. Her loyalty to Gehrman was unwavering, bordering on adoration, and it unnerved him slightly. He wasn't sure he wanted it.

What was more, she seemed to embrace the hunt far more quickly than most of his previous protégés. She saw it as some kind of game, and viewed hunters as rivals, often butchering them if they crossed her path in the waking world.

Gehrman watched her one day as she practised in the old meadow beneath the tree. Her Blades of Mercy, glistening in the twilight, were a whirlwind, arcing around her as she pirouetted through the glade, leaves fluttering about in her wake as though caught in her pull.

"Impressive."

Eileen spun around, her blades aimed at the older hunter. Upon recognising him, she lowered them instantly, clutching sheepishly at her arm.

"Master," she acknowledged. "I… am thankful that you think so."

Gehrman chuckled, somewhat endeared by her nervous energy. "No need to be thankful. Your training is something to behold. You remind me a lot of me in my championing days."

"That is a true compliment, master," Eileen stammered.

Her fingers trailed through her hair, Gehrman recognising the motion immediately, and bracing as a sharp pang of loneliness shook him down.

"Eileen," he began. "You should forget about me."

The young hunter blushed wildly, realising that Gehrman knew exactly what she had been thinking. "Master, I-"

"I am humbled – flattered, even – by your affections, but I'm afraid that I could never return them."

Eileen's gaze fell. "Do you think me unattractive?"

"Absolutely not," Gehrman insisted. "But my heart belongs to her another. She is lost, but I will find her… one day."

Eileen's head stayed bowed for a few moments, before raising again, a forced smile on her lips. "I hope you find her," she said, before returning swiftly to her training.

"Well, anyway. If one should refuse, you know what to do."

There was something about this recruit that made Gehrman pause. He seemed familiar, in a distant but endearing kind of way. Ultimately, his suspicions about Djura were seemingly confirmed when he confronted the hunter about his past.

"My mother and father were lost in the flames of Old Yharnam," he explained. "I was raised by my uncle. It was a... tumultuous childhood, to be sure."

Gehrman noticed the man's eyes welling up with tears at the thought of his parents, but decided not to press further. The concept of time didn't seem to exist in the dream, and although he knew that his hair was starting to grey, and his bones ached after a lifetime of confinement to his chair, he wasn't entirely certain how long he had been a prisoner of the dream.

"Old Yharnam," he said. "How long ago was that?"

Djura looked at Gehrman, trying to decide if his master was teasing him. "It has been nearly twenty years since the death of Laurence; when my parents were finally avenged. So, it has likely been twenty-one years since that terrible atrocity."

Twenty-one years.

Gehrman knew he had been in the dream for far, far too long, but he hadn't realised quite the extent of his confinement. As his eyes traced the walls of the cemetery, and the heads of hundreds of tombstones jutted out at him, he realised that such ignorance had been utterly foolish.

"I should like to return there," Djura continued. "Old Yharnam, that is. The district was flooded with flame, but some still remains. Perhaps I might find some closure there."

Gehrman nodded, only half-listening. "You can accomplish anything… once you awaken..."

"By this point, I'm assuming you have a pretty solid grasp of what it is I am asking you to do. You are to remain here in the dream for as long as you are required. If you remain devoted to my will, when the time comes, I will set you free. How long, you ask? Well, it could be as soon as a year's time… It will not last forever, I assure you."

Gehrman sits beneath the old tree.

Beside him, the workshop is consumed by flames. The scent of cindering wood floods the old hunter's nostrils; the hazy smoke clings to his old, tattered coat. His aging, withering fingers grasp the rests of his wheelchair tight as he sees the hunter. She enters the meadow through the rusty iron gate, and gazes up the hillside towards him.

Gehrman inhales deeply, savouring the moment. Tangled within the ever-familiar stench of flame was a subtler scent – the aroma of flowers in bloom. His eyes briefly well up with tears.

The floral scent reminds him of Maria.

The hunter watches him closely for a few passing seconds, before she slowly treks up the slope, her feet trawling through the multi-coloured clusters comprising the nursery. She wonders how the flowerbeds are so pristinely-kept. Realises that the details are not important.

Nor ever have been.

"Good hunter," Gehrman calls out as she approaches. "You have done well. The night is near its end."

The hunter stops just a few metres short of the old man. Her eyes lock with his.

"Gehrman, what's happening?" she asks, confused and more than a little frightened by the blazing spectacle unfolding beside them. "The Doll told me to meet you here."

Gehrman nods, a sage-like wisdom about him. "The time has come, good hunter. Now, I will show you mercy."

"What?" the hunter replies, her expression ambivalent.

"You will die, forget the dream, and awake under the morning sun." Gehrman leant forwards lightly, his weathered cap sliding down his head. "You will be freed, from this terrible hunter's dream."

The hunter takes a nervous step away. She looks greener; as though she might throw up. "Are you going to kill me?"

Gehrman shakes his head, smiling softly. "I am going to set you free."

"I… I can't let you do that," the hunter stammers, readying her cleaver. "I'm sorry, Gehrman."

The wizened hunter freezes, his expression betraying his disbelief. Then, he laughs –a cold, harrowing sound that gives the younger hunter a jolt of liquid terror.

"Dear, oh dear…" Gehrman jeers. "What was it? The hunt? The blood? Or the horrible dream? Oh, no matter."

The hunter begins to back away, her feet heavier than blocks of concrete as Gehrman rises from his chair, his bones audibly creaking as they shift and bend for the first time in countless long years. Her eyes grow wide as he slowly produces a gleaming curved blade from beneath his chair.

"It always comes down to the hunter's helper to clean up after these sorts of messes," he says, violently ramming the hilt of the blade into a shaft slotted into his back. As the metal groans, and the newly-formed scythe extends to full length, the hunter tightens her grip on her cleaver.

Gehrman's eyes fall on her, bloodthirsty mania blazing in the old man's haunted corneas.

"Tonight, Gehrman joins the hunt," he whispers.

He starts to walk down the hill towards her. She takes a fearful step back, raising her flintlock pistol in his direction, barrel aimed at his gently-heaving chest.

"Don't make me do this," she warns. "You don't stand a chance against me, Gehrman."

But even as she says it, she knows there is no truth in it at all. She sees Gehrman's will, a fiery, tempered determination that has never petered out, even over the course of his lifetime. A strength that he has carried from his very first hunt, and will continue to do so, right up to his very last.

He suddenly leaps forward, the blade of his scythe dancing through the air as he spins through the air, just like the many flower petals that his movement has shaken up. She dodges underneath the swipe, narrowly avoiding decapitation, and turns sharply, slicing her cleaver through the back of the old hunter's raggedy jacket.

Gehrman grimaces as he lands, but doesn't falter in the slightest. He turns back around, holds his scythe up high, and channels energy directly from his blood. The aura surrounds him like a protective cloak as he rises into the air, and volleys a huge wave of energy at the hunter, whose dodge only takes her out of its epicentre. As the energy dissipates, the flowers rippling as though caught in a strong wind, the hunter is caught by a blast, and sent spiralling onto her back on the earth.

The first hunter wastes no time, charging forward with a downward slash, fully intent on ending it right there and then. But the hunter is too quick, rolling aside as Gehrman's blade cleaves the soil bed open. He quickly tries again, this time aiming for the hunter's midsection. Again, she dodges, this time retaliating with a well-aimed blow from her elongated cleaver.

Gehrman staggers back, smelling the foul scent of his own tainted blood for the first time in decades. He stares at the hunter as she crushes a blood vial, her vigour fully restored by its mystical powers, and runs at him again. This time, their blades connect in the middle, both combatants reeling back against the force of the blow. Gehrman feels his feet slipping in the earth, and leaps away, just as the hunter fires a bullet ascribed with his name in his direction.

Both hunters stop for breath under the glow of the moonlight. Gehrman gazes up, briefly wondering if Flora is watching the battle, and swiftly realising that the Great One is always watching.

"Why fight?" the hunter calls out to him. "Have we not both bled enough in the name of this hunt?"

"For the dawn," Gehrman replies, composing himself. "For the sunrise…"

Whilst his opponent considers his response, Gehrman suddenly splits his scythe, holding his treasured siderite blade in his right hand and taking out his aged pistol in the other. He lunges for the hunter, his blade carving through the front of her armour as she dives away. Before she can recover, Gehrman loads his pistol, and shoots her in the torso, causing her to fall back. He leaps forward, grabbing her by the throat, and piercing her stomach with his blade.

The hunter's eyes close as Gehrman retrieves his blade, her blood spilling out over the hillside. She lands, and starts to crawl limply across the ground towards her discarded satchel. Gehrman watches her, pitying.

"You must accept your death," he whispers. "Be freed from the night."

He jumps up, curving his blade in a downwards arc as he plummets to the earth. But suddenly, she is gone, body disappearing in a haze of white mist that Gehrman recognises instantly. As he surveys the battlefield for his missing opponent, he can't help but feel respect for their proven ability.

"You are a fine hunter," he says, calmly watching for any sign of her reappearance. "You are wasted in the clutches of this terrible dream."

"I know." The hunter's breath comes warmly in his ear, and as he pivots she plunges her cleaver through his ribcage, and sends him sprawling to the ground in an explosion of blood.

Gehrman's face hits the flowerbed. His nostrils part as he breathes, pain momentarily forgotten as the sweet aroma of a fresh garden fills him. Not for the first time in the fight, his thoughts return to his beloved Maria. With his life slowing ebbing away, he endeavours to join her.

"Not yet."

Flora's voice batters down his ears and cold dread seeps through the last parts of his body that still feel. A single tear rolls down his withered cheek.

"You want to be free? You must kill her."

Gehrman's fingers weakly grasp a cluster of nearby flowers by their stems as he struggles to rise. He feels Flora's will flooding through him, granting new life to his failing flesh. Across the way, the hunter watches, terrified, as the first hunter climbs to his feet, and disappears in a cloud of smoke.

Gehrman sees the hunter standing before him. Knows what his death will mean for her. For the dream.

He vows not to allow it.

She hears his harrowed cry echo across the meadow, loading another bullet in the chamber of her pistol as the outline of his body begin to reform itself just a few metres in front of her. The gun goes off. She sees Gehrman's face, forever twisted in scream of torture, and then she impales him with her saw blade, and he falls onto his knees before her.

His head is bowed. Blood has completely covered his shirt, its silvery scent drifting on the wind. Slowly, he slumps forward, imparting one last remark.

"The night and the dream were long…"

His face crashes into the soil and his body goes limp. The hunter shields her eyes as he vanishes, exploding into a white mist before disappearing entirely.

As he is dying, Gehrman's last thoughts are of the morning, and the sunrise he would never see.

To his surprise, Gehrman wakes up.

Beneath his blood-stained jacket, he feels the cold damp of rain-spattered tiles, and is instantly reminded of the cobbled streets of Yharnam. The time when he was awake.

When he was free.

To his further astonishment, despite the gory mess coating his clothes and the surge of adrenaline that was still coursing through his veins, he is physically unharmed. The wounds he sustained in battle with the young hunter are gone. As he slowly lifts his head from the ground, he inhales deeply, breathing in the soothing scent of industry and canals, and recalls what it means to be truly alive.

'How appropriate," he thinks. "Now that I am dead."

He climbs to his feet, the shackles placed upon him by the dream shattered, and his will finally limitless for the first time in countless years. At first, he feels tremors of sorrow, knowing that his defeat will have left his prodigy at the mercy of Flora. The guilt is nearly enough to send him crashing to his knees once more.

But then, he freezes, heart caught in his mouth.

Before him is the city of Yharnam, and it has never looked so beautiful. Once a winding labyrinth of beast-infested squalor, the city is reborn a wondrous, picturesque scene. Between the looming spires of the cathedrals and chimneys are brilliant, golden streaks of yellow. The morning sun.

To be sure, the city is unchanged since he had left, but in the absence of any other environment but the suffocating lethargy of the dream, he might as well have stumbled through the gates of paradise. And perhaps, in his own way, he has.

Above him, the great clock tower looms, its great peak nearly piercing the sun. As he gazes up at it, he allows a smile to creep onto his lips. He doesn't know whether Maria will be inside. He doesn't even know if she shares this world with him. But he won't rest until he knows. And perhaps, not even once he does.

After all, he has the whole world in the palm of his hand. He has endured through the dream to live another day.

He has finally awoken, and the nightmare is over.

*Cue the music!*

watch?v=2COYyuNMOkM

And thusly ends 'The Origin of Dreams', my all-time favourite work of fanfiction. I would just like to wholeheartedly thank every last person who stuck with me in the writing of this story. It has been a pleasure to write this, and an even greater joy to see that so many have enjoyed it. In particular, I would like to thank my good ole buddy Leider Hosen for his invaluable contributions throughout the tale, as well as the many others who have offered me criticism upon which to improve the story. I couldn't have done it without y'all J

Oh, and of course, a most courteous 'Hunter's Salutation' to Mr. H.P. Lovecraft, to whom we are owed Bloodborne, and its dark, enticing story.

Praise that goddamn, bloody moon.