Note:

I love Bloodborne so much. This is a short chapter of something I might continue if people want me to. Leave a review. Maybe tell me what part of the Witcher timeline this should take place in.

The summary: The Good Hunter, Evelyn, didn't think her attempt in displacing the Moon Presence from the Dream would result in her own displacement into an unfamiliar world, one where hunters are called witchers and a Child of the Elder Blood has the potential to bring about an eldritch end to sanity. Features numerous characters from Bloodborne and Witcher. Possibly femslash for Evelyn.

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Evil's Soft First Touches

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Chapter One

What the Night Unfurls

She woke in the heat of a desert, blistering and jarring and oh-so-wonderful.

The Hunt had seemed eternal, the Nightmare never-ending, and it could have been months, years, maybe even decades since a sun had warmed her like this; so unlike the scorching of stars summoned from skies and space to slay her. She longed for the sting of sunburn. Fire was never a proper substitute. A part of her wished to stay here like this, lying in the hot sand, and to simply die.

If she even could.

Evelyn knew not if her accursed immortality reached her here, wherever here was. And she was not particularly curious to find out, so she focused in on the etched runes within her mind, ready to awaken afresh at the lamp in Byrgenwerth —

But she found she could not. For all the thought that she pushed toward the Hunter's Mark, nothing happened.

Evelyn pushed herself up on her elbows, scowling. So it seemed she was indeed far, far away from Yharnam. She would take this as a blessing, had she not come alone; had she come with those others remaining in Byrgenwerth with her, she'd have taken them and set up home somewhere near here — out of the desert — perhaps past the mountains she could see in the west, where the sun slowly slid downward.

She brought herself to her feet, took off her heavy coat, folded it, and placed it in one of her pockets, enchanted to hold a greater amount than one would expect. Rolling up her sleeves and tying her black hair back, she looked to the mountains.

Her discomfort was both pleasurable and not, contradictory, reminding her of both her humanity and beastly nature, displayed so blatantly here in the heat, where her pale skin stung but did not sweat. But for one who had been torn apart by many a beast, devoured, burnt to ash, all the sun could do was sting. Sting and nothing more.

So she walked, her mind full of thoughts, though none of them eye-opening. She had been in Byrgenwerth when it had happened, this eldritch transportation to the desert, and she had been working on a spell to displace the Moon Presence from the Dream (for only Ascension would allow her to defeat it otherwise, and such a thing was unacceptable to her; she would not lose the last of her humanity).

But it seemed she had only somehow displaced herself.

She supposed she should be used to this: the strange, the unexplainable, the unexpected, the terrifying. And because of the same kind of blood running through her veins, she ended up reaching the mountains without effort, surprise, or fear. Such was the endurance of hunters.

The climb up the mountains did offer up some challenge. Not much physically, for she could simply plunge her fingers into the stone to help herself up — such was the strength of hunters — but she had to make sure she didn't displace any large rocks above. It would likely not kill her, but she'd rather not have a boulder drop on top of her at any rate.

By the time she had reached what could be used as a pass through the mountains, for her at any rate, the sun had switched itself out for the moon. And this was how Evelyn really knew she was far from Yharnam. The moon was its simple, normal white. In fact, it seemed rather smaller than what she was used to.

Relief filled her, but also a tinge of regret. Relief at finally being away from Yharnam, but regret for leaving those she had begun to call friends behind. But her regret would not last long. That very night she settled herself on the mountain to think. She did not need sleep, ever, and she was torn on if she should build a new life for herself here, wherever here was, or find a way back to Byrgenwerth. It was in these moments when it became clear that not all was as it seemed, and that perhaps neither a new life nor Byrgenwerth were options for her.

It was far away, further than any normal human would be able to hear, when her ears had first picked it up. Laughter. Not laughter of joy, but insanity, and it cut through her musings abruptly. Fear for such a thing was beyond her now, so she didn't even bother getting up, but it was still odd to her that another would be so near such an inaccessible part of the mountain.

"No one can stop us now!" came the mad voice suddenly, disturbingly close. "The hunter, a failure! Oh, what a gift we have been given... a second chance..."

And up above her, on top a large rock, stood a man she had once killed. The cage upon his head was gone, and his eyes were all black. Yet Evelyn could still feel his heavy stare on her. A hint of fear at last crept along her neck.

"Micolash," she murmured. "But how?"

"How indeed, Good Hunter," said Micolash. "How indeed..."

Evelyn stood up slowly. "Since when did you know of my name, Micolash? I did not give it to you."

"Oh, but we do not know thy name. No, no. No indeed, but may thou give it to us?"

"I mean the name of Good Hunter."

"We know much that we did not before," said Micolash, a certain relish growing in his voice, "and in time so shall this world as its veil is torn down and the truth of all things is revealed!" And with a mad cackle he leapt off the boulder and into the darkness, his laughter fading away with his last words... "The Child of the Elder Blood will be ours!"

Evelyn leapt onto the rocks, climbing upward with swiftness, and then she gave a great punch and a kick to the stone, in such a place that the rocks above her came tumbling down toward the general direction Micolash had run off. She hoped it would crush him, but the hope was slim. She could probably throw a mountain on him and he would still find a way to be a nuisance. He was like that, it seemed.

His body had died; she had touched it, his rotting corpse, and then had gone and killed him after. Yet not even two deaths were enough to finish him. Had he created a Dream of his own, so that death was nothing but a small hindrance? Or perhaps, something more unnerving, something like interference — interference from the Great Ones.

She fucking hated Great Ones.

They never meant good news. They hadn't all necessarily meant bad news, as she regretfully discovered long after her slaying of Rom and Ebrietas, but generally their presence was to be dreaded. Generally. In this case, most likely.

"Fuck."